For Heaven’S Sake!

Copyright © 2012 F. Davis James

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-0697-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0698-5 (e)

Abbott Press rev. date: 12/06/2012

Contents

A Fish Called Wander

A Wail of a Tale

Fingerprint

Sour Swirlies

The Calling

Dance Dance

Go with God

The Walk of Life

The Dilemma

Fire!

Hindu Heaven

Buddha’s Bread

David’s House

Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Ehad

Naturally, Selection

As-Salam Alaykum, My Brotha

Paddy’s Day

Expectations?

The Conversation.

Walleye’s Heaven!

For my Pop, who taught me how to live, and for Melissa, who taught me how to love!

PREFACE

This is a work of fiction that comes from my life and travels. I have had the opportunity to meet many loving, caring, pious people from across the globe. The question always remained whose religious beliefs were correct. Hopefully this parable helps to answer the question for some of you, as it did me.

I realize some of you might not agree with my supposition. The beauty of this endeavor is that whether you agree or not, you are still correct.

May God, by whatever name, Bless you.

-F. Davis James

CHAPTER 1

A Fish Called Wander

Nothing but heaven itself is better than a friend who is really a friend.

-Plautus

W alleye are, by nature, a curious fish, as are most fish. But this particular fish was most curious. You see this western Minnesota Walleye had an itch that just could not be scratched in any of the 10,000 lakes of the wo-be-gone state. This fish had a hankering to travel, to see where those darn salmon were coming from anyway. Not that he had met any salmon, just heard the tails of their journeys. He wanted to journey, to take an adventure to relay to his children. He wanted the women to whisper as he swam by, there goes the one that got away and came back! So he did. One day he just up and swam out of school, left his poor old mother teary eyed and headed down stream. Down the mighty Mississippi he floated. In St. Paul, he snuck through a lock just casual as you can. In Burlington, Iowa he thought about heading up the Skunk River, but something about that smelled worse than fishy, so he kept on his southerly route.

Just outside St. Louis he met a catfish. That ole walleye had gone to the bottom to rest a bit, after all he had come over 500 miles. His fins were barking. As he settled in to catch a few winks this surly catfish rolled up on him. Who was this little mess of a fish to think about sleeping on his shoal anyhow? Boy, what do you think you are doing? Walleye opened his eyes to see the biggest fish he had ever seen. He weighed every bit of 500 pounds! Hell he could have eaten that skinny little walleye whole!

That little walleye, having travelled over 500 miles was tired and in no mood. Guts over brains is a real poor mixer, just gonna rest a bit here on this sandy bit, if you don’t mind?

Catfish was taken aback, he had never been rebuked. His ancestors were the stuff of legends, hell, he was the stuff of legends. At 45 years old, humans had been after him for longer than he cared to remember. He teased them too. He would roll up on a john boat, give it a nudge and listen to them scream. He would take a hook, give it a tug, and then spit it out. The humans had even tried to shoot him with buckshot a time or two, that just pissed him off, and here sat this little, strange uppity child of a fish, fins behind his head, sassin’ him. But that gruff son of a bitch, Catfish enjoyed the audacity! So he sat on him!

Now listen here child, he said matter of factly. I’m the biggest baddest, Mutha you ever gonna meet. Hell boy! His voice was deep and menacing. I’ve taken dumps bigger than you! How you gonna sit there and back talk me? He laid a little more belly on the walleye to emphasize his point.

The walleye was wide awake and no longer tired. He tried to wiggle away, but there was absolutely no way he was slipping free. S- s- sorry Mister. I didin’ mean nothin’. The catfish looked at the walleye and nodded indicating the younger fish should continue. The walleye looked into the massive eyes of the catfish. It’s just that I been swimmin’ for a long time and I’m just plum wore out, he pleaded.

Where you coming from? The catfish was curious, "and what kind of fish are you anyway? The catfish let up and the walleye slipped away.

Minnesota and I, he said as he straightened up to his full length am a WALLEYE!’ He looked straight at the catfish. Nice to meet you! he proclaimed. With that they became fast friends. Catfish taught Walleye how to laze properly, how to spit a hook and how to talk to the ladies, although neither was ever very successful with the ladies that is. They were a proper Mutt and Jeff, and became inseparable. Life was easy breezy. They wallowed in the sandy shoals, they would swim along the shores and munch on crickets. One night they swam up to St. Genevieve and hung out under the deck at Poteaux Sur Solle, a well hid dive and listened to some Zydeco music and ate crawdad heads that made their way through the cracks in the rickety old joint. Some folks ate crawdads, some sucked the brains right out their heads. The fish down in the water waited for those of less fortitude unwilling to suck the heads. Crawdads son, decried the Catfish in his melodious voice are one of the finest things in life. And good for the old pole, and I ain’t talking about what these stupid humans use. HA!"

Yes Sir replied the Walleye in between bites or gulps as he swam happily around his giant mentor. They were happy those two. Life was good in the mighty Mississip. When not on adventure the Catfish would regale his younger finned friend with a story or two ‘bout the great floods and the gems the Catfish had found. Once he had ate off a cow who had been stuck under a log. He ate on that cow for nigh on three weeks. Must have gained twenty pounds during that flood season. He could barely swim; it was months before he could toy with the fisherman again. Told him ‘bout nudging a boat and making folks fall into the water. Then he would rub up on their legs and watch them actually pee their pants. Ain’t nothin’ more fun than watchin’ a human pee their pants! That old Catfish would laugh and laugh, rolling his big body around on the bottom of the Old Man River. The Walleye couldn’t help but join in.

But life does what it does, throws curve balls, screw balls, even a spit ball or two. The fish buddies had headed south for a visit to the confluence of the Ohio and the Mississippi Rivers. There were some deep eddies and cool water to be found as well as a sweet young catfish the elder had had his eye on. The trip was uneventful and they lazed in the slow moving current. The Catfish commented on points of interest as the Walleye darted around him, poking the old fish and laughing at his half-hearted attempts to swish him with his massive tail.

The confluence of these two ancient waterways had created a deep chasm and was a popular meeting spot for catfish from far and wide. Half place of worship and half pick up spot the catfish were there by the hundreds. Our legend floated on in with all the confidence of a swash buckling pirate ready to plunder, and the booty was sweet. He caught her eye as soon as he came into view. She had known he would be here this day. The sun was high and had warmed the waters causing the big boys to seek cooler deeper waters. The Walleye was soon forgotten and was left to his own regards. He circled the area investigating the deep bottom. Here he found an old 1950 Studebaker Starlight Champion Coupe, the cold water had somehow kept the wonderful riding machine intact. Curious the Walleye crept inside and marveled at the craftsmanship. Humans would never cease to amaze him.

BOOM! The sound and the shockwave hit him at the same time. He rolled over and over, ending up in the back seat of the Studebaker. The roof creaked as the concussion caused it to fold in. The bent metal pushed the Walleye to the floorboard. What the hell! he exclaimed as he attempted to orient himself. Dazed and confused he quickly regained his equilibrium and found a slot from which he could escape his would-be rusting resting place. He looked up but the darkness from the depth and swirling muck made sight a difficult proposition. Slowly he crept towards the surface until he was stopped by the first of many bodies that formed a maze from which he would have to navigate. His skin crawled, his mind a blaze at the destruction, so much death, the bodies littered the water, each of them slowly floating to the surface. His thoughts quickened as he searched for his friend, his mentor…his pro-tem pop. He surged forward now pushing bodies aside, his desperation screaming seeming to attenuate his own existence. He sensed the surface, the pressure on his body now light. He broached the top, the smell of burnt flesh and dynamite encircled him and he watched as his beloved Catfish was being hauled into a large camouflaged flat bottom boat. Three greasy fat men adorned in overalls were hooting as they pulled his massive lifeless corpse aboard. No one knows if fish cry, but the water level rose that day.

The Walleye snuck off not wishing to observe anymore. He wandered back to the waiting arms of the Grand Old Man. Floating on his side making no effort to right himself he let the gentle current carry him downstream. Time ceased to have meaning, marked only in gasps and feeling of grief. He would never know how long he floated, he did not eat or sleep, he just floated. So much so that he floated one evening right up on a bullfrog on the edge of the waters.

The bullfrog, a prying soul, not sure if the fish lived and breathed reached out with his distinguished tongue and smacked the Walleye on the side of the head. The Walleye had never been tongued before and snapped back to life instantaneously. Righteously self-assured he searched for the bullfrog’s meaning of this most invasive intrusion. The Bullfrog stared back, noncommittal in a bullfrog way. Locked this way, the Walleye looked back at the events that brought him here. Leaving Minnesota, travelling down the Mississippi, meeting the Catfish, losing a friend, floating meaninglessly, and now licked by a frog. He had had a dream, a dream to see and do new things, not just like all the other walleyes. He was gonna be different, he was a dreamer, but dreams have a way of getting in the way of life. Living was the challenge to be overcome to achieve your dreams. He hardened his stare at the Bullfrog, set his jaw, determined to not be outdone. If it was a fight he wanted, then bring it on. He was gonna live. The Bullfrog blinked. The Walleye now full of spirit twisted and slapped the bullfrog with a whip of his tail and cheerfully swam away.

Now he moved with purpose. He filled his belly and navigated the ever widening river. Summer was in full swing and the waters became warmer and warmer. He wondered how the salmon did it. How did they deal with the heat? He knew that soon he would have to change course and head back north, but where? He had learned from the Catfish to trust his inner compass, he would know when to change direction. He stayed on course until he could feel the first tinge of either sun burn or brackishness when he decided that was a sign to head north. He soon found a cooler flow of reddish water and decided that was the best course for him to take. So he headed up the River Rouge as the French had called it or the Red River that had come to symbolize the rivalry between the great state of Texas and their hated neighbors to the north in the equally great state of Oklahoma. Boomer Sooner or Hook ‘em Horns it did not matter to a walleye.

The river teamed with life, the red water provided camouflage for a variety of creatures in the muddy waters. The Walleye ate well, but rested little, a need to find something greater pushed him on. Day after day he swam upstream. His strength and endurance had become a thing of wonder. He flexed with pride. He like his mentor had become one bad Mutha. His olive gold skin warned those around him that he was not to be screwed with. He had grown to over 23 inches long and weighed in at about 25 pounds. Not a legendary 500 pound catfish, but not to be toyed with neither. He swam the swim and all he passed moved aside. His blue eyes would stare down anyone contemplating getting in his way. Still he was always polite, never rude, but maintained an air of contempt. He was on a mission, one he could not explain, just something he felt in his bones.

He passed through Shreveport in the middle of the night well aware of the sights and sounds of the would-be Las Vegas. How he longed for crawdad heads and the company of his long lost friend. Passed the flashing lights and back into nature he could feel the coming winter months as the multi-colored leafs played with the surface of the water. Still the redness of the aptly named river kept him hidden. He moved silently and entered the border waters of Texas and Oklahoma. It became cooler and cooler and his body adjusted as he added fat to protect him. Still a full winter was some weeks off.

Lost in his thoughts of his friend, his Mother, and his journeys he glided by the silvery object. It caught his eye, he wondered if there might be a Studebaker hidden somewhere near. He turned to get a closer look at the object. He did not fear humans any more having seen so much of them. He did fear dynamite, but had not encountered it since that sad day. This silver object shone in the bright light of day. What was it? He neared for a closer look still. He swam alongside it, his full length and girth on display. Still he was intrigued. One more pass should solve the mystery. He made a long lazy turn and approached again. Then without advanced notice the silver demon jerked and leapt at him. His added fat slowed his maneuverability and the shiny bastard stuck him in the eye. The hook dug in deep and he could not pull off it. The harder he jerked the deeper the hook set. He had been caught, after all he had travelled he had been stuck in the eye somewhere between Texas and Oklahoma in the muddy water of the Red River.

For Heaven’s sake, he uttered, resigned to the hand life had dealt him. Time to see my old friend. The fight left him as he gave over to fate to see what lie on the other side.

CHAPTER 2

A Wail of a Tale

Many go fishing without knowing it is fish they are after.

-Henry David Thoreau

B oys have been boys since Adam and Eve made Cain and Abel. These boys had a date with a fishin’ pole. It was all they had talked about for two weeks. Ben’s Dad was gonna drop the boys off at the river and come pick them up the next morning. 12 years old, it was a stretch for boys to be on their own, especially for Ben’s Mom, but the parents had planned to sneak up and spy on the boys in the middle of the night. Plus long range walkie talkies gave Mom a sense of security. The boys packed all their own stuff, moms weren’t allowed to help, still Ben’s Pop had slipped in some jerky and such for the boys to munch on.

They piled in the back of Ben’s Dad’s dark green ’76 step side pick-up with the shift on the fly. Ben adored this pick up, it had been promised to him when he was old enough to drive, which in rural north Texas meant anywhere from now to the actual driving age. Wichita Falls was a sleepy town on the southern edge of the great prairie and the northern edge of the Lone Star State where driving laws were a little relaxed, most folk knew the sheriff on a first name basis.

They were the three amigos, musketeers, and stooges all rolled up into one, a regular Wynken, Blyken, and Nod. Kevin was the proverbial heavy set asthmatic kid who carried his puffer in a zip-loc bag, the difference was that he refused to let his asthma keep him down. He always wore Wranglers that he pulled up a little too far. He never wore shorts, his legs were fat and white and it was more than he could bear. He did well in school but would rather read than study. J.R.R. Tolkien had opened a whole new world for him. How he craved to move to Hobbiton and live in a hobbit house with a round door. He loved to fish and the thought of sleeping outside was as close to Hobbiton as he reckoned he could get for now.

Darryl was the perpetually physically smaller kid who was timid until he was cornered, and nobody put Darryl in corner. Darryl saw the world in a different manner. For instance he had calculated his chances of catching a fish on this trip. He had conducted research at the bait shop and had brought three lures, including one shiny silver spinner. Numbers were his friends and brought him a weird sense of comfort, like slipping under several blankets on a cool winter night. He wore glasses that were always too big for his face. His Mother figured that if she bought them big they would last until his face grew into them. Darryl knew enough not to wear a pocket protector but his lucky matching ink pen and mechanical pencil went everywhere with him. His grandfather, an accountant and personal hero had given it to him. He said it was the next best thing to a Montblanc. Darryl wasn’t quite sure what a Montblanc was but if his Grandpa spoke the name in hushed tones he knew it was something special and that was good enough for him.

Ben Watkins was a boy’s boy, the kid everyone loved. He was charming, smart, good looking, despite the bright red hair he felt was a hurdle to overcome. He could converse with everyone, at the barbershop, with his teacher and his preacher, and with everyone in school. Kevin and Darryl were his closest friends but all the kids in