Stories Fiction & True of People Around the World

STORIES FICTION & TRUE

OF PEOPLE

AROUND THE WORLD

JAMES GOULD

© 2013 James Gould

Smashwords Edition

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

(No need to scroll - just click on a story.)

ABOUT THE STORIES

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FICTION

IRELAND

THE DEAF WIDOW DUNPHY

SCARED SOBER

THE LOVE LAMB

THE CARIBBEAN

FOR LOVE OF A BOAT

REBECCA’S CAVE

MOROCCO

BERBER BOY SEEKS FIRST WIFE, MUST LIKE CAMELS

CROATIA

THE WATCHMAKER AND THE SOCCER PLAYER

MEXICO

STREET OF BLOOD

WISCONSIN

GRANDMA AND THE RAINMAKER

PENNSYLVANIA

THE LADY OF THE LAKE

ANYWHERE, U.S.A.

A ROMANCE WITH DIRECTIONS

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NONFICTION

HAWAII - THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE OF KAUAI

Veronica the Jewelry Maker

Matt the Surfer Dude

Sipa the Warrior-Hunter-Gatherer

The War Widow of Prince Kuhio Park

The Great-Great-Grandmother Hula Dancer

Two Tourists

ISRAEL & NEW YORK CITY

THE PIONEER PIANO PLAYER

ON A PLANE TO NEW YORK

AFGHANISTAN LEAVE

MASSACHUSETTS

A WARRIOR AND HIS MOTHER

TEXAS

UNCERTAIN, TEXAS

PARIS & MOROCCO

THE INCREDIBLE LIGHTNESS OF LOST LUGGAGE

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ABOUT THE STORIES

These are stories about people around the world, some fictional, some real. The fiction starts in Ireland. The Deaf Widow Dunphy is a woman in the town of Ballybrook whose sharp tongued, gossiping neighbor has designs on the Widow’s house until she finally gets her comeuppance. In Scared Sober a world class drinker is, well, scared sober. The Love Lamb is a love story about two shepherds who are pushed apart by a bet over sheep, but come together over a lamb.

In the Caribbean, For Love of a Boat is about a woman’s intense bonding with the charter sailboat she and her husband crew, and how her love is tested. In Rebecca’s Cave, the ghost of a little girl is stuck alone in a cave on an island until a bereft grandfather comes to visit.

In Berber Boy Seeks First Wife, Must Like Camels, a Moroccan camel herder presses his Mother to arrange a marriage for him, and tastes his first love.

In The Watchmaker and the Soccer Player an old man and a young boy in Dubrovnic, Croatia find a way for both to benefit.

The Street of Blood tells the story of a Texan’s visit to a Mexican village while on the run.

In Grandma and the Rainmaker, set in a dairy farm in Wisconsin, Grandma tries to resolve her conflict between being a teetotaler and her desire to look her best for the social event of the year.

In The Lady of the Lake, set in Pennsylvania, a divorcee devises a novel way to drive away prospective vacation house buyers after her divorce.

In A Romance With Directions, which could be anywhere in the U.S., a man falls in love with Mona, his car’s GPS. Then she turned to the dark side.

Turning to non-fiction, in The Beautiful People of Kauai we meet an expat surfer dudette, a Zodiac captain, a modern version of the ancient Kauai warriors, a war widow and a great-great-grandmother hula dance. Two tourists are also included to illustrate that family and spirit are not limited to any one place.

The Pioneer Piano Player tells the life story of Aria Sachs, a musician famous in Israel, heard in New York City.

A soldier in transit on a plane delayed in the U.S.A. told me his story in Afghanistan Leave.

A mother in Massachusetts told me the story of her son Glenn Doherty in A Warrior and His Mother. Glen was killed defending the Ambassador in Benghazi.

Uncertain, Texas is about an uncertain town and how it got its name.

Finally, since travel inspired many of the stories in this book the last story, The Incredible Lightness of Lost Luggage, is about learning from lost luggage on a trip to Morocco via Paris.

FICTION

***~~~***

IRELAND

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THE DEAF WIDOW DUNPHY

On this rare Irish day, blue of sky and bright of sun, in the village of Ballybrook the Deaf Widow Dunphy sat looking out her front window on the narrow cobblestoned main street. In truth, having less than 1,000 souls, Ballybrook was officially a small village or hamlet, according to the Northern Ireland Statistics and Research Agency, though the residents defiantly refused to call their home aught but a proper village, despite the HAMLET sign the county had erected at the outskirts. And actually this day was more like any other day than different, as the Widow Dunphy was waiting for her next door neighbor Mrs. Blake to arrive, as she did most mornings, excepting holidays.

Though Widow Dunphy dwelt on it not much at all, in Ireland names have much importance. Dunphy derived from the O’Donoghues who had spread from Cork and Kerry and their fortress of Ross Castle on Lough Lene. The Widow’s first name of Kyna, which meant wise, was apt. Her deafness had given her a quietness that saw and sensed more than others. She was of an age, with white hair pulled into a sensible bun and the usual accumulation of wrinkles, but unlike most women, this bothered Widow Dunphy not a whit. What did bother her at times were people thinking that because she was deaf and her speech was not always properly articulated, she was also a little slow. Quite to the contrary, she was one of the smartest people for miles about, reading what some others would say inordinately. She generally did not try to talk too much, preferring to write on a small notepad to convey her thoughts. She was careful to use a simple vocabulary so as not to be seen as putting on airs.

Her neighbor’s names were a tad redundant but apt. The family name Blake came from one early member so dangerous that he was called Black. As if to underscore this, her given name of Ciara meant dark. Ciara was younger than the Widow, but the features on her face were as sharp as her tongue, making an otherwise serviceably handsome face somewhat unattractive. Her mood this morning, like most mornings, was also unattractive. It was midmorning and this being washday, the women of Ballybrook had competed as usual to be the first to hang out their wash to dry. Mrs. Blake looked out at her laundry line, muttering,

That Mrs. Connelly, she must have started her wash up at 4 A.M. Who does she think she is?

Mrs. Blake had started at 5 A.M., sure she would win the right to lord it over the others the rest of the day by saying,

A little late with your wash today, are you?

The thought that Mrs. Connelly might say the same to her could lead to only one decision, to avoid her at all costs today. And the best first step to that plan was to go next door to visit with the Deaf Widow Dunphy. Mrs. Blake opened her front door just a little bit and peered through the slit both ways, looking as ever for any morsels of gossip on which she could chew obsessively, as a dog with an old bone. She saw the electric company repair truck parked up the street and immediately thought that they were once again repairing a power line that Sean had once again carelessly cut when trimming the hedges and trees. Sean and the power company repairmen have what scientists call a symbiotic relationship. Sean used an electric trimmer, always in a rush so as not to miss the pub opening. The result was often a shower of sparks and a severing of that stream of electrons that people think not about until it ceases to flow. Then in came the repairmen and the cycle continued.

But this time she saw Sean and the repairman chattering amiably, as on this day the electric lines had miraculously survived and the repairman had naught to do but park and block the street for some palaver. Finally, they all packed up and left after some waiting cars began honking.

There is a worthless pair for you, muttered Mrs. Blake.

All being finally clear, Mrs. Blake scuttled out, turned right and in seven steps was next door, the houses being on the diminutive end of the range of Irish dwellings. She opened the door herself, it being daft to knock on the door of a deaf person.

Now before the entry of Mrs. Blake, one other thing you should know about her (if not already clear) was that she was a talker. Not just your average Irish blarney, story spinning talker. No, Mrs. B. was a world class talker. Once she began, the other person or persons present could hardly get a syllable in edgewise; let alone a word or a full sentence. Her talk was also uniformly negative, at least when talking about others. To her eyes, no one but herself lived up to her standards, but that was an opinion shared by few or none for miles. All of Ballybrook shared the gossip of wondering how her husband could stand it. The consensus was that he was wise in choosing to spend as little time at home as possible, at least until last call at the pub.

Sure, she would drive any man to drink, even a saint, they said, each retelling evoking a chuckle as if it were a new joke. For that is the nature of small towns and villages and hamlets even more. The repeated sharing of stories about each other both defined their respective places in the firmament and acted as the adhesive holding them together.

The Ballybrook folk also easily understood why Mrs. Blake was the best friend of