A & K: Short Stories for Adults and Kids Plus Poetry

Copyright © 2012 by Helen Breedlove.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-6065-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6076-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6075-4 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921005

iUniverse rev. date: 11/15/2012

Table of Contents

Just For Adult

Memorial Day Flowers

Little Man

My Amish Amy

Me And The Goon

The Greatest Teacher

The Confrontation

Queenie

The Tango

The Party Crashers

Telemarketers

Heirlooms

Sharing The Bounty

Settin’ Things Straight

The Mediaologist

A Bear From The Past

Remembering

Maude

It Stings For A Little While

A Proper Dress

Right There In Your Heart

The Zenith

A Gift Of A Frog

The Divorce

Just For Kids

Dirk The Donkey

Little Lost Tippie

A Sparrow That Was Afraid To Fly

Little B’s Grouchy Neighborhood

Barkley Beaver, The Third

A Christmas Dilemma

Double Trouble On The Farm

The Spooky Old House

A Call For Help

Mystery In The Hayloft

The Secret Journal

The Case Of The Hollow Log

To The Rescue

Poetry

The Final Rest

Waves Swept

First Crocus

Leaves Of Youth

The Food Chain

Remember How It Was

Youth Elusive

A Kind, Loving Friend

Important Matters

Spring Rain

Raindrops On The Eave

Bird’s Foot Violet

The Lightning Bug

The Tulip And The Tot

A Kite

Winter’s Gloom

Parade To Death

Little Lady

Haiku

Tears

I Believe

The Girl In The Attic

God’s Realm

One Last Plea

Verdant Youth

Keeping House

Snickers And Smiles

Ambition

Youth

Ice Storm

Insight

Autumn Drive On Y

Double Rainbow

God’s Great Lesson

My Dust

Whispers Of Frost

Leaves

Old Dog

The Scrub

The Sawdust Pile

Solitude

To Youth

Flags

Wonders—That Breath Of Life

Hate Or Loathe

Until I Was Told

Life

I Wonder

Snowflakes

Her True Soul

Time To Be Young Again

A Stone Wall

Not A Choice

Reflections

Just You Wait

The Death Of Sunny Dusk

Sunday Morning

The Oak And The Acorn

The End

JUST

FOR

ADULT

MEMORIAL DAY FLOWERS

The steady click of the windshield wipers, their rhythmic movement, and the heavy rain pelting down on the car made concentrating on the road ahead even more difficult than usual. For Janet Matlowski, the annual pilgrimage to a cemetery five miles away was formidable at best. Too many memories, too many regrets. Those memories, those regrets were constant companions, but Memorial Day punctuated them, sent them flashing through her body almost as clearly as they had five years earlier, five years ago this month. The ominous spring thunderstorm and the flashes of lightning splintered her thoughts. It had been raining that day too.

She had replayed the scene in her mind hundreds of times. If only she had listened to her son, been more open, more tolerant, Chad, her only child, would be alive today. That day, he had walked across the room and switched off the television. Mom, he had said, I need to talk to you.

Suddenly she had felt perplexed, wary. Teenagers didn’t just decide to communicate with parents. They certainly didn’t find talking a necessity. Janet’s apprehension put her on guard. She looked at her eighteen-year-old son, who now sat next to her on the sofa, and waited for him to explain. The grandfather clock seemed to tick more loudly than usual.

He hesitated. I’m listening, she said. She well remembered those words, the irony of them.

Mom, I . . . well, I just might as well come right out and say it. His jaw muscles tightened repeatedly. I’m going to get married after school’s out—four weeks from now.

You’re what! She put up a hand to create a barrier between the two of them, to ward off what she had just heard. No, don’t say it. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. When did all this come about? And who is it you’re supposed to be marrying—that nobody girl from Podunk City? With each word her voice rose, becoming more shrill, more strident, until the last words came out as a shriek, her confusion mounting.

Her name’s Kathy, and she’s not a nobody, and what difference does it make where she’s from? His green eyes turned cold; his teeth clenched.

Janet took a deep breath to control herself. She had never met this Kathy, but she had not been happy when Chad had announced he was dating a girl whom he had met at McDonald’s during a Saturday night of cruising. The girl lived on a farm near Brownsberg, fifteen miles away, a little hick town of no more than two hundred people. Podunk, Janet had called the place, nothing but a bunch of rednecks. All the popular, intelligent girls in his own school in Jacksonville, and Chad had to find his dates in Brownsberg. Janet never considered herself a snob. Jacksonville certainly wasn’t a metropolis with a population of only twenty thousand, but at least she knew the people, the families.

Just four months earlier Chad hadn’t even known this girl existed. And now he wanted to marry her and throw his future away. Janet had struggled to make a life for her son after his father had left. She had emphasized education. She took pride in Chad’s scholastic achievements, his athletic prowess, his affable personality, his good looks. He had been her source of renewal and joy.

"I can’t believe this. You want to throw away everything you’ve worked for, I’ve worked for? A scholarship, a college education, a chance to be somebody?"

For chrissake, Mom, I am somebody—now! he yelled. I don’t have to have a college degree to be somebody. Besides, just because I’m married, it doesn’t mean I can’t go to college. I’ll work and go to school at night. Lots of people do.

You will not get married! I forbid it! Do you understand that? Do you?

You can’t stop me. I’m eighteen, and whether you like it or not, I’m getting married. I love Kathy, and I’m getting married. Do you understand that? Do you?

If you cross me on this, I’ll not give you a cent for college. I’ve worked hard for every dime, and I’ll not throw it away on some slim chance you’d ever finish college with that albatross of a wife to support. Do you hear me, young man?

Then fine. I’ll support myself. Kathy and I will both get jobs. I’ll go to college part-time. It’ll take longer, but I guarantee I’ll finish. And you can just keep your hard-earned money. I don’t want it! The determination and anger in his green eyes were chilling. But with or without your blessings, I’m getting married! Do you understand? Do ya, huh? He belted off the sofa. So much for talking to you!

And with that scathing indictment, he had stormed out of the house into the boom of thunder and the flash of lightning.

That was the last time Janet ever saw her son alive. Traveling too fast on a rain-slick curvy highway to Brownsberg, he lost control of his car and slammed into a tree. Troopers said he had died instantly.

With the help of her younger sister and her parents who lived two hundred miles away, Janet muddled through the sorrowful funeral arrangements. She wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. She wanted to collapse somewhere and die. Losing her son, the only real joy in her life, was devastating. The guilt of knowing her own words, her own intolerance and bigotry had caused his death closed in on her, haunting her every thought. If only she had listened. If only they hadn’t parted with such hostility. If only their final words had been pleasant, full of love and understanding.

Even now in her sorrow and desolation, the funeral was indelibly printed on her mind: Flowers everywhere, their fragrance suffocating her. Her friends and family trying to comfort her with hollow platitudes and with well-intentioned but misdirected, even offensive words: It’ll all work out for the best. It’s God’s plan. It was meant to be. Some good will come out of it. I know what you’re going through. But nobody could know what she was going through. No one could possibly understand her torment and sorrow and loss. She wanted to scream, but she nodded her head graciously, numb to their handshakes and hugs. Tears seemed to drip from her crushed heart ever so slowly.

Teenagers were everywhere, crying, trying to comfort one another. A girl Janet didn’t know, presumably Kathy, sobbed uncontrollably as she passed the coffin, with a man and woman, probably her parents, trying to console her in their own grief.

The warm sunshine, the moist ground, the fragrance of blossoms had mocked the irony of the spring day as her only child was lowered into his grave. Kathy wept, clutching a class ring that hung from a gold chain around her neck. With swollen eyes and leaden face, she approached Janet. Mrs. Matlowski, I’m Kathy. I’d . . . I’d like to be your . . . your friend. I’m sure Chad told you about me. We loved each other so much.

Yes, Janet snapped. Her heart filled with hate. Yes, he told me about you, and I have absolutely no desire to be your friend. If it hadn’t been for you, my son would still be alive. Don’t ever let me see your wretched face again. She hadn’t raised her voice, but the words spat out spitefully between her teeth.

Kathy gasped, a great sob shaking her body. Janet stalked menacingly away. She never wanted to lay eyes on that girl ever again, never wanted a reminder of this girl who had taken her son. If he hadn’t been going to see her, he would still be alive.

The endless days and sleepless nights that followed haunted her. His words, her words echoed in her pounding head, his anger, her anger reverberating. Like clips of a movie, pieces of their shouting match flashed on and off in her mind. If only—such feeble words—if only she had listened. He had been right of course. Marriage wouldn’t have meant the end of his promising future, but death had ended it. With her help, he could have even graduated in four years. A college education, success, whatever that is, were nothing compared to a human being. Marriage paled, inconsequential. How misplaced her priorities had been. Every waking moment, even her dreams, were dominated by the realization that her son’s life had been snuffed out because of her own pride, her own biases, and her own lofty visions she had created for him.

He had been so young, so full of life and promise. She tried to cling to the happy times—his birth, his childhood, his beautiful fair face peeking through dark hair, his twinkling green eyes, his favorite foods, trips to the zoo, playing in the park, his Little League games, his delight in discovering new things, his hurts and disappointments.

Soon after the funeral, friends had quit coming around, leaving her to mourn alone. And now she had nothing but her own loneliness and over-powering guilt. At forty-two, she was left to wallow in her own self-pity and self-hate.

In spite of it all, she had endured the past five years, at first for her parents’ sake. She knew all too well how devastating losing a child was. She had to live because of them. They had lost their only grandchild; they couldn’t stand another loss. The song was gone from her life, her soul stolen, at least irreparably damaged. But she had survived. Gradually, she had learned to cope.

She was brought back to the present by the screech of the wiper blades on the dry windshield. The rain had stopped. The sun shined brightly, reflecting off the blue hood of her car. Automatically, she turned into the cemetery, stopped her car near her son’s burial site, gathered the red wreath in her arms, and walked to the grave—her son’s final resting place. That’s what people called it, but Janet wondered if there was ever a final resting place either physically or spiritually. The marble stone bore the inscription of Chad Eugene Matlowski, Beloved Son of Janet Matlowski, March 12, 1972—May 9, 1990. It was the only reminder for posterity that her child ever existed. What a waste. She fought back the tears, too many of which had already been shed, but they did no good, nor did they wash away the pain. I’m coping, I’m coping. I love you, son, but now I can make it. I know I can make it. And I’m so sorry. If only . . . .

She was oblivious to everything around her—the dampness and the chill, the bright sun, the burial taking place in another part of the cemetery—oblivious to everything except the bouquet of yellow roses that had already been placed on Chad’s grave.

Each Memorial Day the mystery flowers were there. Janet could only speculate about who had put them there, for they were always next to the headstone by the time she came. She resented them. She thought that surely after five years, the bearer of those flowers would move on to other things in her life. And she thought surely this year, she wouldn’t have to see them at all. This time she had come two days before Memorial Day. She would be leaving for Kansas City to be with her parents for the weekend. But there the roses were—just as they had been in past years. Janet leaned over to place the red wreath of carnations against the marble slate.

Why are you putting flowers on my daddy’s grave?

Janet looked in the direction of the small voice. It belonged to a dark-haired little boy of about four. His mother came scurrying to retrieve him.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Matlowski, the mother said, her face filled with apprehension. He just slipped away from me.

Janet looked into the eyes of a girl she could never forget. Kathy! Her heart pounded wildly, with realization coming slowly.

Janet knelt down to gaze kindly, disbelievingly into the child’s bright green twinkling eyes. When the words came, they were barely a whisper. Your daddy? she asked, and she could feel the bitterness dissolve and the wasted years of loneliness melt away.

LITTLE MAN

Son, it’s time to get up. David stirred and moaned in his sleep. Shh. Quiet. We don’t want to wake up your mother. John nudged his son’s shoulder to arouse him from a deep sleep. David struggled to open his eyes and struggled even harder to keep them open. It was still pitch dark.

Is my little man ready to catch some big ones? Suddenly David remembered. He quickly threw back the warm covers in all their cozy comfort. This was his big day. After numerous pleadings, he had finally convinced his dad that he was old enough to be out on the lake fishing, just like the big guys. After all, he wasn’t a baby any more; he was six years old.

Soon John and David were bouncing along the dirt road in the old Jeep pickup, pulling an even older aluminum fishing boat behind them. Forty minutes later, when John shoved the boat into the water, only an occasional crow’s caw broke the silence. No one else was in sight. Dawn was just beginning to break, and the fog hovered over the lake, the water still warm from yesterday’s hot sun. David shivered from the chill of the crisp, sweet-smelling air.

Do you need a swig of coffee, little man? John poured a few drops into the lid of the thermos and handed it to David, whose eyes grew wide at the thought of being big enough for a swig of coffee. He sipped the hot liquid carefully, imitating his dad.

Ahh, that was good! he exclaimed, feeling very much a man as he handed the lid back.

John smeared sunscreen on David’s fair face and instructed him to put on his life jacket. He then retrieved his own from the bottom of the boat and slipped into it. He cranked the engine of the outboard motor, and after a few sputters, it puttered loudly but smoothly, and they headed across the lake, the still of the morning broken only by the roar of the motor. They plowed through the low fog toward the rising sun. David’s teeth chattered. Even the hot coffee hadn’t helped. Things will warm up in a hurry once that sun gets up a ways, yelled his dad above the clip of the motor.

After a few minutes, John slowed the motor to a soft purr. We’ll just creep along here and see if we can spot some shad for bait. Catfish love those little rascals. See how the water’s breaking over there. See the ripples. Those are shad. John shut off the motor and walked to the front of the boat, dropped the blades of the trolling motor into the water, started the motor, and let the boat move ever so slowly toward the school of shad. Most of the fog had suddenly lifted, and David could see the tiny fish, hundreds of them, around the boat, swimming in swarms, churning the water.

David watched in awe as his dad took a shad net from a plastic bag, carefully gathered up selected outside edges, and with a mighty thrust unfurled it into the water over the ripples of shad. How’s my man doing? he asked, glancing back at his observant son. He yanked the net by a rope and pulled in the empty net.

Great, just great, Dad. He swiveled in first one direction and then another, taking in the blue sky, the rocky bluffs, and the green of the trees that surrounded the lake. He was mesmerized by a great blue heron swooping down to the surface of the water for its breakfast. Isn’t this great, Dad? He felt all grown up.

No better life than this, son. We’ll try for those old shad again. Maybe we’ll get some this time. John stood on the end of the boat, holding the shad net in his left hand, and gathered up a few lengths of the net, which looked more like a woman’s full skirt to David. David couldn’t hide his admiration for his slim, jean-clad father, who was silhouetted against the rising sun with the remaining wisps of low-lying fog at his feet. He watched him skillfully operate the trolling motor with his foot while remaining poised, waiting for just the right moment. Suddenly, he flung the net, let it sink a few seconds, and then yanked the rope in. The net surfaced, revealing a net full of trapped shad. His father emptied the silvery two-to-three inch fish into a bucket of water.

Hey, little man, help me pull these stragglers out of the net. David observed his father pulling the trapped fish through the openings in the net and picking up some from the bottom of the boat where they had plopped out. David’s small fingers wrapped around the slimy creatures struggling for life and dropped them one by one into the bucket where a few of the shad were already lifeless, their tiny bodies turned on their sides. His narrowed eyes noticed the residue of tiny silver scales on his hands. He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans where a few sparkles of silver remained. Yuck, he said, my hands are slimy.

He leaned over the side of the boat and rubbed his hands together in the warm water of the lake, but his hands still felt slimy, yucky. They’re pretty little critters, aren’t they, Dad?

John laughed. That’s what the catfish think.

The process of netting shad was repeated a few times until John announced that they would have plenty to snag those old catfish. The shad bucket was now full of the tiny fish, many of them lifeless at the bottom.

Restlessly, David wiggled on the boat bench. Dad, I’ve got to pee.

Well, so do I. Nobody’s around. We’ll just pee over the side of the boat.

David was impressed with the loud splash his dad made as he relieved himself and tried to create the same loud splash but failed dismally, but that somehow didn’t diminish his self-importance at being treated like a man.

Well, little man, we’re ready to get down to serious business now. We ought to catch a bunch of those old channel cats with all this good bait. David could tell his dad was proud of the shad he had netted. Heck, some mornings you can’t even find the shad, let alone net any. You must bring good luck. Now let’s see what direction the wind’s coming from. We’ll start over there in that cove and drift back. Drift fishing, now that’s relaxing. You’ll like it a lot.

John put a sinker and a big hook on David’s fishing line and on his own. He handed the rod and reel to his son, admonishing him to be careful of the hook. Now watch this, he said. After selecting two live shad, he threaded the hook through their mouths and out their gills, giving the shad a careful twist to secure them. Now, my little man, you try it.

David fingered a wiggly shad in his tiny hand, closed his eyes, grimaced, opened his eyes, and then did as his father had instructed. He repeated the process with another shad, this time selecting a dead one.

Now, toss that line into the water and give it lots of slack, like this, John said, putting his arms around his son from behind to grasp the smaller hands in his own. He flung the baited hook into the water and showed David how to let out more line and set the hook.

They drifted along, the sun removing all traces of chill in the air. It was a beautiful morning, and David tried not to look at the dying shad in the bucket. Look, Dad! he exclaimed as a big fish suddenly jumped up and just as suddenly splashed back into the water. What kind was it, Dad?

Oh, probably a carp or a gar.

Wow, it was almost as big as a whale!

John smiled. He was a big one all right.

Just then David felt a tremendous tug on his line. Set the hook, John said. Give your pole a yank. He was instantly beside his son, helping him reel in his catch. Just take it easy. Just let that old fish fight it for a while. You got a good one, son, a real dandy. Now that’s what I call a man-sized fish.

Together they reeled in the channel cat, and John showed David how to take it off the hook. Now watch those whiskers; they can stick you real bad, John said. After struggling unsuccessfully to get the fish off the hook, David handed it over to his dad, who had to use pliers to get the hook out while the restrained fish plopped about, the silver of his fins catching the full sun to created pale rainbow hues. The fish grunted, and blood oozed from its gills as the hook pulled free with a crunching sound. Tears surfaced in David’s eyes as he looked away.

John deposited the catfish in a cooler of ice, but even with the lid closed, David could hear the big channel cat thumping inside. Can’t we just let it go? he asked.

Oh, he’s a keeper, a real big keeper. We’ll have him for supper if we can talk your mom into cooking him for us. You caught a whopper—something to tell your friends about. David could tell his dad was proud.

An hour later, John had caught two good-sized catfish, but not as big as David’s, and together they had caught several drums, which they released when John explained that they weren’t very good to eat. John had to cut the line on one of them because the hook wouldn’t come out, and David worried as the drum swam off with the big hook in its mouth, all the way down to his gills. It also bothered David when the hooks had to be rebaited. Sometimes the shad were gone, sometimes their tails had been nibbled away.

For lunch John and David ate ham sandwiches and drank bottles of Pepsi from a cooler they had brought along. By then, the lake was busy. David was distracted as he watched speed boats pass by with skiers behind. He was especially fascinated by a private dock where kids splashed in the water and rode jet skis.

By early afternoon, the breeze shifted and died down, bringing drifting to almost a standstill. The fish quit biting, and David put down his fishing pole, stretched out on the hard bench seat in the middle of the aluminum boat, and was lulled off to sleep by the krr-plop of the water against the boat.

That evening, David showed his mother the fish he had caught and bragged about what us men caught. John fillet the fish, and Mom fried what us men caught. By supper time, David wasn’t all that hungry, and John figured he was just too tired to eat. It had been a long day.

Late that evening, David’s mom came to his room to tuck him in for the night. She stroked his light brown hair and kissed his cheek. Are you and Dad planning another fishing trip any time soon? she asked softly.

David hugged her close. Naw, he whispered in her ear, I think I’ll wait awhile to be a man.

MY AMISH AMY

The cold spring rain beat down on the tin roof, gusting in bursts of angry winds. The overcast skies outside matched the gloominess inside the plain, modest Amish house with its austere hand-made furniture.

Michael’s labored breaths came in sporadic gasps as he fluttered in and out of consciousness. Amy sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the paramedics to arrive while she alternately prayed for her husband’s life and cursed their remote location. She smoothed his flaxen hair from his forehead and lightly stroked his sandy beard. With her other hand, she held tightly to his