Odd Ends

Odd Ends

By G. Russell Peterman

Published by G. Russell Peterman at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 G. Russell Peterman

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retail and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

This one is for my grandson Kai.

Preface

As a carpenter works, he is left with numerous little end pieces of boards and since the 1500s this collection, this pile of end pieces, has been referred to as odd ends. Like any carpenter worth his salt, I am trying to find some use for as many of my odd ends as possible before hitting the delete button.

This expression has slipped out of the builder’s trade into general use. Today, one might look at the clutter in the bottom of a desk drawer or in the garage corner or in a closet as odds and ends. As a writer, my disk box and hard drive has a collection of odd ends and during my cleaning, I offer some of these to you.

Table of Contents

Part one: folktale and fantasy

One: Bayamon the Great [folktale]

Two: The letter [fantasy]

Part two: free verse poetry

Three: in lilac time

Four: Memories of Old Dun [four poems]

Five: stopping along the way

Part three: science fiction

Six: Dark of the Moon

Seven: the Turver Run

Part four: historical fiction

Eight: Whiteout [short story]

Nine: The arrival [novella]

Part five: youth fiction ages 9-14

Ten: New Glove

Eleven: Crazy Jane

Twelve: Joe Von

Part six: Personal narrative

Thirteen: Rabbit Run Road

Part seven: Grandpa Stories

Fourteen: Eight Grandpa Stories

About the author

Other books by the author

A sample short story from Western Heart Stories

Part one

Folktale and fantasy

One

Folktale: My grandson at age five noticed the moon was a different shape than the last time he looked at it and wanted to know Why? I wrote Bayamon the Great to explain the phases of the moon to him.

Bayamon the Great

Bayamon [Bay-a-mon], the greatest of hunters, hunted successfully all kinds of game, large and small. Brighter moonlight made hunting at night more difficult. Bayamon the Great had one real strong dislike. He hates everything about a full Moon.

One night, years and years ago when all full moons were extra bright, while hunting for the hundredth firefly to fill a record fourteenth glass jar, Bayamon thinks about getting rid of troublesome moonlight. The thought made him grin and Bayamon decides to hunt and capture Moonbeams.

Chuckling Bayamon develops a clever plan. Smiling his skillful fingers happily fashion a huge heavy black sack with a strong gripping drawstring and a second smaller one. When finished before the first hint of dawn Bayamon nods his approval, grins, closes his eyes to rest, and waits for night.

Hidden in the deepest and darkest night shadows Bayamon is as silent as a falling snow flake. Suddenly, out leaps Bayamon quicker than a lightning bolt. One fast swoop of his open small sack captures two surprised Moonbeams, frolicking twins. All night Bayamon the Great hunts, emptying many times his small sack into his large one. His first night’s greatest catch was a group of seven cousins playing leap frog on the roof of a wishing well. At his hunt’s end with the graying before dawn a tiny part of the full Moon overhead is dark.

Every night his small sack empties many times. His large sack fills. The Moon shrinks to three-quarter, half, one-quarter, a thin crescent, and finally almost nothing at all.

Looking up at his growing success Bayamon laughs. One more night, he brags to the whispering wind and wise old Papa Owl. Claims to have captured in one quick swoop nine giggling Moonbeams playing leapfrog on a mailbox, and last night caught four brothers racing on a dewy petal of an extra-large red rose.

Great pleasure Bayamon takes from each night’s hunt. He smiles at the thin curving silvery sliver of Moon remaining.

One more night and Bayamon’s hunt will be done. His large bulging black sack is so full its seams strain against a heavy load. Just before dawn on the last night his sack burst. All captured Moonbeams escape.

The next night a round full golden Moon shines brightly again.

A scowling Bayamon the Great sits on his favorite flat rock repairing ripped seams. While sewing on patches Bayamon promises all that will listen that he will hunt again. And, Bayamon the Great is a man of his word.

On any clear night admirers of Bayamon the Great have only to step outside, look up at the Moon, and see how his newest hunt goes.

Two

Fantasy: While my grandson was learning his colors, I wrote this about colors and decided to use the letter as the fictional form.

The letter

October 31, 2006

Dear Allan,

You are aware, I am sure, of an unusual happening eleven years ago. Remember Georganna May Grimwright’s interview that became a You Tube and media sensation.

Georganna May was in the middle of a Fairytale Review download. Suddenly in her living room in Golden Aster, Wyoming, there appeared thirteen people claiming to be from Fairy Land. They told Georganna that the Fairy Godmother had again protected Sleeping Beauty from the Wicked Witch. The deflected evil spell hit a stone wall in their village and opened a portal. A few curious villagers stepped through.

Before the Wyoming authorities arrived, they all ran away and the portal closed. None were ever found because it happened in a sparsely populated rural area.

When Georganna May told what happened it was treated as the ramblings of an unbalanced mind? After Georganna May’s treatment, I am not sure it is wise for me to tell you about the birth of an unusual child at Mount Killen Hospital in Story Creek.

Last week Nurse Nancy Brown took a child born at four minutes after four off to weigh and measure. He weighed eight pounds and seven ounces. He was nineteen inches tall.

As Nurse Nancy Brown placed him back in his cart, the baby hiccupped and turned a bright Fire engine red.

Strange, Nurse Nancy Brown's pencil wrote on his chart and hurried off to tell Head Nurse Ruth Matthews.

As Head Nurse Ruth Matthews looked, the baby hiccupped and turned yellow green. Head Nurse Matthews erased the word strange on his chart and wrote, Most unusual.

Doctor Alfred Wiseman came by to join the crowd and looked as the baby hiccupped and turned light purple. Most irregular, Doctor Wiseman wrote on his chart.

Head Doctor Joe Landli came to see what the fuss was about. Nurses and doctors crowded around to watch the baby hiccup thorough pink, red orange, yellow green, yellow, and violet. With each new color, the people gasped, Oh! Doctor Landli wrote, Different.

Floor Administer Joan Corland watching an orange hiccup exclaimed, Oh my, and wrote, Out of the ordinary.

That is rare, wrote Hospital Administer Davis Jones after the baby hiccupped through sky blue, yellow orange, and light violet.

Let me take the child back to his mother, Nurse Nancy Brown said. As she started pushing his cart through the crowd a hiccup changed the baby's color to a light rose.

The crowd followed Nurse Brown and the child down the hall. Along the way three hiccups changed the baby to reddish pink, golden orange, and finally to a normal and pleasant pink.

Nurse Brown erased all other comments and printed, Pink, on his chart and handed the baby to his mother. The child clutched tight his mother's finger, smiled, and those in the crowd all said, Ah.

Then, still clutching his mother’s finger the boy child had three quick hiccups and stayed a soft pleasant unchanging pink.

Three days later Timothy Neon Alden went home with his mother and father. All of the hospital staff came to watch.

Later, I heard that Timothy Neon Alden was given the nickname Timmy by his two proud older brothers.

Yours truly,

Garen

Part two

Free verse poetry

Three

Poem: in lilac time was written after my grandson discovered the delicious smell of our row of lilac bushes in bloom. The lilacs we got from his grandmother’s mother.

in lilac time

ready

Ben

places everyone

third act sound track

play the love scene

warm up the band

Ben

and quiet that blue jay

don’t stare at me

I’m no dandelion in the snow

get your marigolds ready

do this one in lilac time

so low, I hear bees

play it

Ben

no

slow the tempo

its not the courtship

of a dogtooth violet

that tempo is forsythian

nearly a jonquil dance tune

a joe-pye weed wind waving

make it crocus shy

and hydrangea proud

not tiger lily brash

that’s better

Ben

more rose buds to blossoms

pop a few bowing white checkerberries

mint scented bubbles

play as soft as sunrise dew

on reddish-pink petals

of a trumpet vine

yes

Ben

that’s it

low enough

to inhale the essence

softly play in lilac time

mock orange delicate

dance fleabanes

listen to those bees

breathe airy purple

swaying red dewy tulips

play spring

my marigolds

in lilac time

thanks

Benjamin

Four

Poems: I wrote these poems while writing the novelette Showdown at Ribbon Rock and thinking about the main character spending his life with his mustang dun he named Dancer.

Memories of Old Dun

Found

Luggin’ my saddle, I sore-footed it into Boxed R,

A two-horse spread, two ramshackle buildings,

And saw the ranahan totin’ horse-trough water.

How much, I pointed, for the claybank?

That long-legged dun’s only seven.

Then, how much for the old dun?

Foster gets eighteen in town.

How much for the pie-eater?

Eighteen and toss a hungry loop.

Mister, I’m whipped. I’ll take ‘em.

You’ll be needin’ a bill of sale.

Laid down two wrinkled greens and three silvers

For a sheriff-paper. His nod gave me corral-rights.

I caught and saddled Old Dun for a Sunday ride.

Ridin’ drag

headed up the Texas Trail

chasing ornery bunch quitters

dust thick enough for biscuit-jam

gully-riders foggin’ leather

yelling and guns a popin’

tried for my Winchester

a quick thump in my side

warm blood on my hand

jammed spurs to Old Dun

another thump in my shoulder

turned me and missed the apple

to slide down a long darkness

overhead a blurry Cookie yelling

tried to ask him who found me

Old Dun I croaked. Cookie nods.

High meadow

growin’ cooler

brownin’ grass

breathin’ smoke

bucket ice

gray skies

drift ‘em

on down

Old Dun

Call to mind

Riding Old Dun south in Wyoming flower-time,

Red and yellow hawkweeds grace meadows,

Delicate purple daisies in high forest clearings,

And eyeful joys midst silvery sage and grasses.

Through this rainbow Old Dun and I meander

While rock doves feed and flycatchers flit about,

Shy black crows gaze from nearby branch or rock,

Overhead hawks soar as grouse puff and thump.

Old Dun dances nervously around a prairie dog town,

Outruns a black bear, mountain goats bump heads,

Startle busy chipmunks and chubby marmots,

And passing parades of antelopes in everyday finery.

Old Dun fills his belly on Little Bluestem and Grama.

I toss my plunder inside a rock-overhang cowboy hotel,

Inside I scrap up a quart-sized fire for coffee and jerky.

In starry outer parlor yelping prairie lawyers plead a case.

Five

Poem: Wrote this poem after watching an unusual number of cars and pick-ups pulling boats and campers going west away from towns and cities in front of my house one warm clear sky spring Saturday morning.

stopping along the way

friend come with me

away from all this sameness

away from neighbors and overtime

endless sales and tempting credit

petty lawn competitions

and feel unchained

leave this concrete puddle

glide down asphalt ribbons to gravel

stop halfway in neither town nor camp

pick a place where dust clouds grab bumpers

and enjoy being dragged along

and feel unrestrained

take time to explore cottony clouds

floating around in their elephantine blue tub

marred by ribbons of crisscrossing vapor trails

see a late to bed silvery morning moon

revel in this spring day

and feel liberated

mother plays her anxious tune

watch angry black clouds charge over treetops

natural lights blink midst active drums rolls

so, catch raindrops in a glass

drink a thunderstorm

and taste what is

see the first struggling living greens

burst outward before hopeful winter eyes

change the world to warm expanding green

sipping glasses of gentle cool rains

in showy flower time

and feel renewed

study busy tractors moving

down long rows and returning

noisy passing trucks changing gears

planting time for a grand banquet

for our fine tabletop

and feel contentment

stand quietly with eyes closed

inhale a gentle passing breeze

breathe fragrances in blossom time

smell sweet new mown hay

listen to bees work overtime

and feel absolved

relish this day without questions

stand patiently waiting your turn

next after the bumblebee

to smell a delicious flower

sniff deep a sweet fragrance

and feel energized

walk along a gravel roll

experience a joyful berry time breeze

hot melting sun on a road ditch briar patch

tempting lure of shade for a sampling

chew and swallow a bit of sun

and feel invigorated

watch parading trucks and combines

like busy beavers leaving and returning

head bursting fits of sneezes

gulping daily dirty air tablets

watery eyes at banquet time

and feel toleration

each arriving drags a dust cloud

down into long rows of campers or tents

after green or silver or plastic outlay

sneak away for a walk in the woods

along a creek or wooded path

and feel free

Part three Science fiction

Six

Science Fiction: One day on the evening news the talking heads were going on about other planets being found by studying gravitational wobbles. It made me think about the only real proof of life on other planets would be for a visitor from or to visit another planet and wrote that.

Dark of the Moon

A shadowy figure slips out of a staff-entry door to lean against the darkened doorframe of a thick stone wall looking furtively both ways. His eyes take in a dark overcast night with a large black wall of clouds slowly moving above his position. For a moment he studies empty streets and the jagged tall building skyline of Appros, the Capitol city, for unusual activity. Does not see or hear any signs of being discovered. Darting eyes glance both ways along wide Founders Way running along the west side of the main Appros Museum building, pleased that the building casts a deep shadow. Toward the next shadow a tall slender wide-shouldered hooded figure wearing black with a backpack noiselessly slips across the lighted street. Under overcast skies threatening rain the figure in black slowly walks along the western face of the other smaller Appros Museum building down to and crosses 89th street just like he is just out for a stroll.

Halfway past the crossroads he starts placing a force field barrier at a dim streetlight and in his ear, he hears, Dact, did you get it?

Instantly the street shadow named Dact is on everyone’s security channel.

Dact takes off running a zigzagging course for the first barrier thirty meters away, knows a Museum monitor speaker has already blared Maton’s sentence out over a guardroom, and somewhere in the building a guard follows procedure and touches off defensive measures.

Shut up, Maton! Dact yells returning the name-dropping favor. Even running as fast as he can make his feet go for the next streetlight pole it seems much too slow.

Suddenly, sirens wail from all four corners of both Museum buildings behind him and spotlights all around flood the area and sidewalk with light. Automatic weapons whine as they activate on every corner, scanners hunt movement, locate him, and send angry green energy bolts at a zigzagging target. All around him like hail angry green energy flashes. Each hit explodes showers of paving brick bits that sting, and only his constant changing directions keeps him from being hit. One running steps past the next barrier his finger taps a console on his wrist and a pale flickering green shield blinks on between the Appros Foreign Ministry building and the streetlight pole. Buzzing red and yellow flashes as energy bolts slam into the energy barrier, are absorbed, and protect briefly the black figure now running straight down the sidewalk counting out the short life of the shield.

One, two, three, four, five, six, and Dact yells, second barrier, just as an energy bolt strikes a half meter to his left showering him with hot air and sharp red brick chips. Behind him a frizzing sound as another barrier pops into place. In the center of wide South Zornax Way with a swarm of hovercrafts headed his way along streets from all four directions like a hive empting angry bees, the black figure slips down into an already open manhole as the shield behind him fails. A green energy bolt splashes down on the manhole cover to his left making a red circle. Quickly, he climbs down without time to worry about replacing the manhole lid for overhead monitors saw he go to ground and computers direct all forces to this and other manholes to encircle him. Underground in a city service tunnel his fingers touch his wrist to switch to frequency two.

Dact Tarky shouts into his mouthpiece, Direct me!

Go left three junctions and then right.

The black figure does not have time to do anything but run splashing though an occasional puddle and gets extra speed from his anger at his partner’s impatience. At the third junction of tunnels, Dact turns right, almost slips in a slimy puddle turning, makes the corner, and runs for all he’s worth. Now, every searcher knew where he went to ground and is spreading out to cover all manholes in a wide circle. On each street access they will send down squads to search each tunnel, encircle him, trap him, and Dact’s only hope is to find his exit shaft up into the Krader Building. Dact taps a spot on his wrist-console and a light flares forty feet further on. Putting his head down Dact forces his tiring feet to churn on for the light.

Now, every moment counts. Dact yanks back his hood for more air. His only hope is to go up and out before they stop to think. At the light Dact jumps up, grabs the ladder, yanks it down, scrambles up, and shouts, Light. Quickly he scrambles upward gulping air as the light below him blinks out.

Breathing huge gulping open-mouth breaths trying to get more energy into his tired legs, Dact scampers up and out of an open manhole into the Krader Building basement as the ladder-spring lifts it. Trotting across the basement in dim safety lighting Dact touches his wrist. The basement access closes behind him, steps into an automated cargo-lift, and Dact frets over its slow rise to the first floor.

When the freight-door opens Dact steps nine steps left to get his first break. The elevator is still stopped on the first level where he left it and sensors open the doors. His finger hits Level 6, his feet feel the floor rising, and even its faster speed seems slow to Dact who has had only one possible protection since the moment of discovery—speed.

On Level 6 Dact steps over and sits down in a back-row hovercraft