The Last One

My picture folder was stuffed with photos of Little Bit. Too full as a matter of fact, and I decided it was time to clean house. It hurt, but never the less the time had arrived for me to delete.

This will be the last I'll ever post.

Stephen

Just Stuff

Our hickory tree sheds its yellow leaves and it's warm here, fog rolls off the river like smoke and I've a headache, so there.

The television streams soft music. Herself roams room to room in search of lost sweaters. She hid them last year and now wants them restored to her deeply packed walk-in closet - an area most inaccessible because the clutter of shoe boxes and miscellaneous stuff bars the door, and above all hangs three of my rifles on homemade pegs. I'm sneaky that way...headache and all.

I just came back inside from a task in the garage. I thought if I puttered around out there this pain would vanish. What a joke of an idea. So, I continue to suck down ice water and wait.

Late yesterday, in southern Georgia, I held children, sweet little boogers, and accepted their kisses and hugs, and for the first time in months felt love and warmth. Nieces and nephews are worth their weight in gold. Their grandmother, my baby sister, has cancer. Stage four. Even so she smiled and glowed in their warmth. She is so frail.

I tried to stay outdoors with the other men. 

Like country boys everywhere, we talked, smoked, and told grand lies. It was nice under the clear sky of stars and cool wind. I did try and listen. But with the trees and moss and the faint scent of wood smoke and the whistle of trains, I was just too damn distracted to listen to stories of missed shots and local sightings of turkey and deer. There were endless questions of, 'Is this a good caliber for deer,' or 'Stephen what is this rifle worth.'

I'm sick of it. All of it. My soul needs a vacation.

Hence, my four month absence from this blog. And, yours.

*****

The text came late Christmas night. It read in part, 'Thank you for their Christmas gifts. This is killing me too, so I think we'll try and find a local park for a visit. I want my children to know their grandmother again....if it's okay with you...'

As per the norm of the last three years we'd bagged the grandchildren's gifts, drove to their home and I slipped from the car and, like a thief in the night, sat the bag on their front porch. I knocked and we drove away. Sad to our bones.

The text gave hope.

I told her, "Do it."

We wait. If it happens I'll stand in the background and pray.

Stephen

Little Bit

First I must apologize to the nice readers that commented on my post, 'I'll Catch You.' Today I goofed and deleted the post. Total accident, but no big deal. I'll live. Unfortunately all your nice comments went unanswered. Sorry, and thank you for your time.

Now, as you know our granddaughter recently had her ninth birthday. Here's a picture Sweet Wife received this evening from our son. She holds one of our gifts....just wanted to share.

My goodness, it appears my Heart will be a tall slim young lady.

Stephen

Little Bit

I wish you a wonderful and happy ninth birthday. Papa misses you.

Maybe one day soon.

All my love,

Papa

Silly Little Thing

I make the walk every Sunday morning. Out the door and down the walkway to the driveway where I find the Sunday morning paper, whereupon I reverse my course. Total time, maybe two minutes. It's my routine and I enjoy it. I dress for the walk, too. Usually I'm dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt, class don't 'ya know.

If the morning is exceptional the time outdoors is delayed with deep breaths of clean air, a long look at the river as bird song and leaf color are cataloged.

Sunday is special, both the day and the almost extinct print edition of our nation's newspapers.

Here's the silly little thing about my Sunday mornings. After the two page comic section has been read I determine if it's worth saving for my Little Bit - today's copy made the grade. It's Super Bowl Sunday and Ground Hog Day. The section is folded, just so, and with ink I inscribe, to her, a note along the top of the page. I write; for Little Bit from Papa. I note the occasion why I've chosen this particular edition of the comics then end with, love.

There isn't a doubt in my mind newspapers, by the time she is an adult, will have long since taken the path of dinosaurs and ten cent loaves of bread. She turns nine this month. I want her to know and experience what she'll have missed. Like this:

I know, silly isn't it. Yet I feel it's the least I can do.

p.s., sorry it won't enlarge, deal with it.


Stephen
 

Just for Little Bit

It is with considerable difficulty I write this piece. Yet, it's time. Bare with me.

Allow me please to step back in time. Years ago I decided to carry a piece of silver in my pocket. Silver, in whatever form, has been my luck, always.

A few months back, early of a morning, as I went about the routine of pants rotation, as is a man's way, I removed all the bits and pieces from my trouser pockets. Off came the belt, out came the Benchmade, the Surefire, all the loose change, wallet, and well you get the picture. Among these items was my 1880 Morgan silver dollar. (Remember I recently mentioned it.)

For some odd reason I placed it on my bedside table where it was forgotten. I had set aside my luck. Sadly, too, my luck forgot about me. Perhaps my subconscious substituted my silly dependance upon luck to the vintage silver bracelet and Navajo ring I wear daily. Anyway my luck didn't hold. Shortly afterwards my heart was taken from our lives.

Late last year, a few days prior to Christmas, I was piddling in the bedroom in search for something or the other when I brushed aside a loose piece of paper and found my Morgan. I gave it a flip and absently returned the old coin to my pocket. My luck came home.

To those long time followers of this blog you well know my dear wife hasn't seen, nor heard, and certainly hasn't held our grandchildren in almost two years. I'll not repeat the details of how they were ripped from our lives. If you have half a heart you truly understand the sorrow and pain.

She's prayed. Hard. I'm certain her pattela has formed a deep hard callus.

I'll always give credit where due. Certainly our dear Lord heard her prayers but I'd like to believe my old shiny and worn coin, the token of my superstitious luck, played a small part of what I'm about to relate to you.

My lovely wife spent hours in the selection of Christmas gifts for grandchildren she was certain she'd never again visit or allowed her love's expression. Even denied the pleasure of personal delivery of these Christmas gifts she spent hours at our kitchen table and wrapped the boxes with love and care. Out of her sight I'd stand silent and watch as she carefully dressed each gift. Sadly her labor fueled my quiet anger.

As deeply as she felt personal hurt and pain I was the same but with anger.Time developed within me a cold heart of stone. Prayer seldom if ever escaped my lips. I was yin to my wife's yang. I wished to hurt. They, had taken my love, my Little Bit. They, had refused to allow us to know and love our grandson. Many an hour I had sat and caressed my chosen tool of punishment. Wisdom held. Patience is a virtue.

(I guess by now you understand why this is difficult for me, this glance into my soul.)

Then came the eve of Christmas.

She asked if I'd attend the candle light service at her church. Her request came tender with big sad eyes. She knows me well. I am not of her faith but I do respect and believe in Him.

Allow me please another step back. Without the grandchildren in our lives we had settled into a comfortable routine, our daily lives became fairly normal in their absence. As husband and wife our love and respect for each the other grew. When the calendar flipped to December we agreed, silently, to place a hold on Christmas festivities. For the first time since I'd left the service of my country I did not purchase nor decorate a Christmas tree. Outside lights were banned. It was business as normal. After all, other than the birth of our Lord, we had nothing to celebrate. They were absent.

The holidays were, for us, dark and filled with depression. Any hope of a surprise visit from grandchildren was completely out of the question. With this in mind and with my knowledge of her depression I agreed to attend the candle light service. The peace of it was welcomed, and I do tend towards periods of moodiness and to see her smile and laugh would surely dispel my dulled anger.

Along towards sunset on Christmas Eve we loaded the children's gifts. As I drove towards church she said we should wait until after the service to deliver the presents. I absently reached into my pocket and touched the old silver coin, and said, "Let's do it before the service." She agreed. Just like that....

Luck and prayer took hold.

If we'd arrived a minute later we'd have missed them. My son had just, seconds prior to our arrival, returned home from work. He stood in the middle of his driveway and his wife was bent at the back door of her car securing our grandson into his car seat. Our son put on a face not unfamiliar to a deer caught in the hunter's headlight. Sweet Wife asked, "Now what?"  

"Be still and wait," I said.

I stepped from our car and opened the rear and took a armload of gifts and turned towards him and said, "Merry Christmas." He stood gap-mouthed. Then, I glanced over and there sat my Little Bit. She was in the back seat of her step-mother's car. She'd twisted around with only her big brown eyes visible and waved frantically. I waved back.

Sweet Wife appeared at my side and to our surprise and shock our daughter-in-law (She, the one person responsible for all this turmoil.) approached and threw a hug on Sweet Wife. Tears streamed down her face. Then Sweet Wife's dam of sorrow broke and there stood two women in a hard hug and then I felt my heart wrap her arms around my waist. So long, it had been so very long.

Little Bit released me and went to her Nana and gave her grandmother the first hug and kiss either had had in almost two years. My son still had not said a word. He had not moved. Our daughter-in-law then gave permission for us to visit our grand-son, Sport Model. She reached and took us both in her arms, an embrace that so shocked me I didn't know how to react. Then she said, "It isn't right for a family to go so long without speaking to each other."

As Little Bit held my hand we walked to their car and bent to visit our grandson. The little fella looked at me and pointed towards my face. Sweet Wife gave him a kiss and hug and then he pointed at his shoes, turned to her, and spoke the very first word ever uttered in her presence....he said, "Spiderman."

Every second or two I'd bend and give Little Bit kisses. I whispered over and over how much we loved and missed her. She's grown tall and thin. She seemed to me a frail and tiny bundle yet her pretty brown eyes flickered with joy. My last words to her, "You are the light of my life," I pray she remembers.  

Then it was over. They too were to attend a candle light service at their church. Then came another shock. Just before we departed my son shook my hand, hugged me and said, "I'm sorry about all this, Dad."  I replied, "Me too."

I extended a welcome for a visit. Told him we'd be home all of Christmas day. They were invited anytime even if for just a few minutes. He smiled and said, "Maybe."

On our drive to the candle light service Sweet Wife repeated, over and over, "Thank you, Jesus, oh thank you." Her face was a study in tears and joy.

Later, the lights dimmed and hundreds of candles flickered, held high, and I smiled. It was beautiful.

They say God works in mysterious ways. I'm but a mere mortal man so my thoughts on the subject of His actions are not important and still a mystery to me. Perhaps it was my new found coin of luck, or the Good Lord himself, or a combination of both, either way a crack has appeared in the dam, and my wish is for this flaw to deepen and grow and allow our family once again unity, and love.

Until that day we wait. Since the eve of Christmas we haven't a word.

(I post this piece without the effort of edit. Please forgive me any mistakes.)

Stephen










 
 

Bits & Pieces

There is a nice chill in the air and the sun is bright and the live oaks dance with the mornings breeze. I love it.

On last evenings forecast the weather critter made a comment of possible snow flurries in the early hours of today. Sweet Wife turns to me and in a voice filled with little girl wonderment said, "Oh, I'd love to see snow." She's girly that way...

I smiled, replied, "It'll never happen. Besides, you'd need to wake awful early."

"Then wake me."

So this morning after my shower I sneaked a peek outside. Noted the temp. It was kinda dark so any trace of tiny ice particles were impossible to find. I turned back towards the bed and gently traced a finger down the side of her face. I gently bent and placed a soft kiss to my lovely wife's forehead and said, "Honey, come on or you'll miss the snow." 

She moaned, shifted slightly and softly said, "Leave me alone or I'll smash your face with the stupid alarm clock."

*****

Had all the guys over to the shop last night. Well, almost all of them. Couple of our friends wussied out and stayed home under their wives protection. Senior arrived with a new AR build, a pistol version of high quality. Pirate Jim flipped out his new movie carry piece, a five shot .38 by Ruger. The little sucker was as light as a feather. (BTW, when ever you attend a theater pack heat, shut down your cell phone, and for goodness sake mind your manners. Here in the deep South rules are important, otherwise you're likely to find yourself with a pistol stuck in your nose. If you don't believe me just read the Tampa newspaper.)

Now, where did I leave off....oh, Duke arrived early and we sat and chatted about all things food related. I like to cook and he loves to eat. I still need his mother's fresh beet recipe.We spent a pleasant hour in quiet conversation. All of us had hoped we'd have another drive-by. I noticed the guys frequently checked their handgun loads. Senior smacked home a full magazine, Pirate Jim, ever so often, would spin the cylinder on his little Ruger and I made sure my Para was close to hand. Duke pulled and laid several handguns within easy reach.



The boogers failed us. Maybe next month.

*****

Guess who I was able to hug for just a few minutes early Christmas Eve?

I'll tell you all about it...

Later.

Stephen

A Piece of My Heart

It had been stored in our attic, the red tricycle - Little Bit's ride when she was still ours to love. It was, in those days, parked in our garage in wait of her visits, and I can still see her tiny legs pump the red Flyer down our driveway and her screams of joy linger still.

Yesterday Sweet Wife came to me and said, "Get it down so I can clean it."

"Why?"

"I want it posted on Craigslist and sold."

Again, I asked, "Why?"

Her eyes were set to determination. I knew it best to drop the subject. I complied.

She took it from my arms and wiped away the dust, gave it a coat of wax. It shines. A pretty little red Radio Flyer - a tiny piece of Little Bit. I still remember her third birthday when it was presented to her. It had a big pink bow tied to the seat. Now, sadly, all that remains are the memories and three light scratches.

How does one price a piece of your heart.

Stephen

Sunday

In this rare quiet moment I'm relaxed and at peace. Last evening, or I should write, early this morning, she stepped into the family room with her arms filled with picture frames. She had a shy smile on her face, then, "Is it okay with you if I put the grand children's pictures back on display?"

Time indeed heals all wounds. Back then, the very sight of the photographs dropped her to the floor in pain, and tears of grief. Several days later I arrived home to find all the pictures, those little frozen moments framed in gold and wood, gone. She'd bundled and hidden them out of sight. I never said a word or complained. Our house was empty of memories.

This morning I awoke and when I stepped into our living room the piano top was lined with pictures of Little Bit and Sport Model. The family room bookcases held their smiling faces. It's been far too long.

Her heart mends, and I owe and credit this change to a little six year old girl.

This, is a good thing.

We have a busy day scheduled. Sweet Wife has tapped me to prepare a dinner for guests. She recently met and made a new best friend. Her new best friend is from Trinidad, a registered nurse and grandmother and member of Sweet Wife's church. Her new friend has custody of her six year old granddaughter, a pixie of pure delight. The pixies name is Ariana. Ariana has hair like spun silk that falls in ringlets and a thousand watt smile. I must be careful of my heart.

My job is to cook. They arrive at 1600, and it's been made clear I had better be on my best behavior and to please secure our home of all lose firearms. I shall comply. If this minor chore will further her hearts healing - I'm all in.

Later,

Stephen

Adrift In a Sea of Books

Awoke with a sore throat, slight cough. Feel lousy. Self prescribed a day off and since I have a day to myself decided it was time to dust my books and the shelves upon which they rest and update my insurance digital files.

I own too many books. There, I've said it. I've an addiction. Spent most of this morning dusting the old tomes and wiping clean the woodwork. After each section was completed I took photos for our insurance files.  (Trust me on this. Snap pictures of all your household items, especially artwork. If you've ever experienced a fire you will understand. If not, you will thank me for this advice.)

Fifteen years ago my shop burned. Arson, set by a couple of lowlifes that owned a business next to my mine. Worst three months of my life. Record you assets.

Anyhow, back to books. Even though the internet and online retailers have killed, for the most part, the value of first editions I still own a few worth several thousand dollars. Rare pieces. If, God forbid, a natural disaster befalls our lives I want a solid record, digital, stored in various locations. This computer but one.

It's taken me most of the day and I was only able to complete our family room but I've at least a start. Here are a few examples.

Oh, and for my nice reader with the request - there are several photos of yours truly throughout these images.

As you well know I'm not the best photographer in the world...just a warning.

Above, built in cases next to our family room fireplace.

The mantle and my old friend, Hemingway.

I am a very eclectic reader.

Two very poor shots of a very rare first. This is Joseph Lippincott's, The Wahoo Bobcat. I first read this novel in the second grade. Took me thirty years to find a copy, a first edition in nice shape. Lippincott was Hemingway's publisher.

Above, couple of family snapshots. Sweet Wife and yours truly. Lower picture of me trolling for trout with a smoke pinched in my lips and hair down to my shoulders.

Want a challenge? Find a copy of Mink, Mary and Me.

The baby boy in the photo above is me with my first whitetail. Not sure if it's clearly visible but I'm holding the deers antlers with my right hand. If I remember correctly it was a one shot kill. Later that year I took up chewing tobacco. I understand male children of the Midwest were required by law to wait until they were twenty to enjoy the bliss of ripe sweet tobacco.

As I wiped each book free of its dust I gathered a score of long lost bookmarks. I suppose my Little Bit will be set for life when it comes to dusty old books and bookmarks.

I hope State Farm is happy. To be continued.

Stephen


   

Just An Old Pair of Boots (Repost, as requested.)

I'm uncertain what it was that attracted her to our travel trailer. Perhaps it was, in her little mind, a big life-sized doll house. Maybe it was the fact it was locked and not easy for her to open and play inside. Either way, she loved it.

I was never surprised when I'd hear, "Papa, can we please play in the camper?"  By 'play' she meant I'd escort her and she'd tell me what to do and when to do it. It wasn't always convenient and many days I just didn't need nor want the hassle. Never the less, I'd play.

I do not remember the last time she asked me to open the trailer - but I still remember her as she stood, pretending as she did, to cook breakfast. I was placed on the bed, just so, and given orders to not move. She stood by the stove and made pretend noise, "Whoosh,  there goes the eggs, Papa. They'll be good just like yours, Papa, but I don't have milk stuff or that green stuff like you put in yours, Papa, but you'll like my eggs cause I'm gonna scramble 'em, Papa. Papa, what's that green stuff you put in your eggs?"

"Chives, Honey."

Her little arms swirl and swish as she cooks and then she puts a funny smile on her face as she grabs her imaginary plates and spatula and prepares to serve Papa breakfast in bed at four in the afternoon.  With her 'meal' in hand she walks over and climbs into bed, sits and serves me. I liked her eggs. Then,
"Papa."

"Yes."

"See them old boots on the floor. They sure are old, and ugly. Are them your boots, Papa?"

"Yes, Honey, those are Papa's boots."

"Why don't you wear them, Papa? I bet you don't wear them because you have other boots, huh, and cause they're so ugly."

Just an old ugly pair of boots. Purchased so many, many years ago in Long Beach, California when twenty dollars was a huge sum of money and I was young and freshly married and still making adjustments to the real world.

My then love and I had taken a walk. I'm sure the day was sunny, and warm as is normal for southern California, I really can't remember. I do remember the old wooden pier was just a couple blocks away when I noticed the shoe store. It was the Red Wing sign that caught my attention, the dog. An Irish Setter - a Big Red touting boots.

I was in need of boots. A good civilian pair of hunting and work boots. I asked if we could afford a nice set of boots and she replied, yes. She was sweet that way.

"Papa."

I look over and she's sitting with her hands in her lap, a tiny concerned lip-set to her face. "What, Sweetheart."

"Are you okay, Papa?"  I said yes. Just thinking. Then, "Papa, do you still wear those ugly boots?"

"Honey, the boots aren't ugly, they're just well used. They've traveled many miles and been worn all over the world. Papa loves those boots, Honey, and I guess I do need to oil them."

For much of the first year the boots were worn only in California. Weekends they accompanied us up into the foothills to places like Arrow Head, or our favorite, Ojai, where we'd spend time in the old bookstore located in an open air market under ancient oaks, the book shelves built for support tree to tree, and just down the street an old Indian sold fresh pine nuts from his roadside stand, and where just around the corner the hippies sold the best homemade oatmeal cookies west of the Divide. 

She liked it all, too, and wherever she wanted to walk and shop I went along just to be near her side, to be able to reach over and smell her, to hold her hand. We'd been apart for so long.

"Papa, you're ignoring me. I don't like it when you do that, Papa." I said I was sorry, and we played.

The boots were worn to other places, afterwards. They took me to Idaho on a few bird hunting trips, were scraped and scrubbed by sage and lightly ripped by rocks and brambles. A few times small drips of grouse or quail blood stained their toes but I cared less - added character.

The boots were worn on a few cross country trips. The Irish Setters stepped inside Judge Roy Bean's old store. Splashed along the Pecos river and were soaked in Mississippi mud. Once, in a fit of stupidity we took out across the sands of some Arizona desert. Two hours later they found their way back to my truck. That night in my motel room I spent quite a long time banging sand from my leather friends.

A few months later they took me to Canada where I fought huge stocked rainbow trout in the most beautiful lake I'd yet seen. Then to Alaska where God certainly finished His creations in style. They tracked Elk in fresh snow. Walked behind my old dog, Dixie, as we searched for Ruffed Grouse. My old boots liked to hunt.

"Papa, do you like them old boots more than me?"  I remember I reached and took her into my arms. She is so little. I hugged her and told her no, Papa loved her more than anything in the world. Still do.

"Then why are you looking at those ugly old boots and not playing with me?"

"Tell 'ya what. Let's step outside a moment while Papa takes a couple of pictures." She said, "Fine, but then you're playing with me. We're gonna play 'dead woman,' okay...."

For several years the boots helped me climb Six Mile Ridge over on the eastern side of Washington State just outside Winthrop. We'd camp at a local lake where I'd rise just before dawn and pouch trout for breakfast then set out for the ridge as the cry of coyotes bounced thru the thin air. It was always cold. I'd begin my climb to the plateau and reach the top just as the sun peaked its bright light on the far horizon.

I'd take a few minutes to recover at the top. I'd place my pack and rifle aside and sit to sip coffee from my thermos. The view was wonderful. Later, on the far side of the ridge the boots would begin the descent. Two, maybe three soft steps then to stop and listen and watch. Always, we'd finish with a mule deer, quartered, and hung for our return climb.

On our way back to camp we'd stop at the old barn where one was able to drive close and reach and drop a dollar in a box and take a gallon glass jug of freshly pressed apple cider. The cider cold and sweet with bits and pieces of apple-flesh loose inside. Resistance was futile and half would be gone before we'd reach camp and the old canvas tent.

We were so young, so very young.

Not long afterwards my young wife asked if I'd take her to the Badlands. She wanted Black Hills gold. So the boots were tied and they took us to the Dakotas. That was the year we found St. Maries. Afterwards I wanted to move, lock stock and barrel, to Idaho. The boots didn't want to leave. She said no, just like that.

So, the boots walked. They strode Montana. Ambled around Rushmore. Stood silent where Custer killed his men. She got her gold, but the boots remembered and were sad. They never fully recovered.

"Papa."

"Yes, Sweetheart."

"Papa, please can we go back inside and play. Are you okay, cause you seem sad." I told her I was fine. How does one explain.

Time passed. The young wife, and a child, were lost. I wore the boots aimlessly for a few years. Then one morning I rose and made a few calls and placed my home on the market, sold my business then laced up my boots. I packed a few items, mostly firearms and books, and me and my boots drove away.

We drove without destination in mind. Sometimes for hours, or days. We'd stop and walk many paths. I can remember a rocking chair in Montana where I took a seat and propped the boots on a rail and just stared for hours at the mountains. I'd ask, 'should we stay here, or travel.' The boots wanted to leave. In Minnesota they walked away from a campground and a beautiful lady, just kicked sand on the fire and said goodbye.

The boots turned south and then west again and one morning, as they were laced, I watched rabbits nibble grass along a set of railroad tracks outside my motel in Sheridan. The evening before the boots asked me to put the handgun back into its leather. I complied. The boots were restless, so we drove east.

Days later we entered the great state of Tennessee. The nose of my truck insisted we drive further south....the boots, never at rest, wanted to go home. There is life after death.

"Papa."

"Yes, My Love."

"Do you think we should oil the old boots?" She was always able to read my mind. "Yes, Honey, let me find my mink oil."

We sat and gently rubbed the oil into the old dried leather, her little hands a blur. She pushes mine away as I try to help. "I can do it, Papa. You just watch." After a few minutes she asked, "Papa, did you buy these when I was a baby?"

"No, Honey, Papa bought these boots long ago."

"Are they special, Papa?"

I thought about it for a while. Considered my answer. Then, "No, Honey. You are special. They're just a pair of old boots."

We sat them aside.

"I love you, Papa."

I'm sure I answered her with the same. I can't remember for sure, it was a long time ago, now. I haven't unlocked the trailer since.

The old boots sit and wait. 


Stephen

My Little Bit

I recently found this video hidden away and forgotten on my Blackberry. I'd like to share it with you.

She loved to Hula Hoop. I miss her so very much...

 

I sure hope this works.

Stephen

Little Bit & Pieces

A few days ago, "Honey, next Saturday I'm driving north and will bring my mother here. She plans to stay for a week."

"Really....ah, okay."

Just like that...

When she arrived I stood and gave the 'ole reach out my hand routine. She gently slapped it aside and instead gave me a hug.

Shucks...felt so loved I had a cup of coffee ready when she came out this morning, dressed in black, ready for church.

She likes to stay in character.

*****

(Late afternoon, June 12th)

When I'd reached the main isle of the market I began the search for the frozen section with my focus on the overhead signs in search for icecream. I found my target and was about to make the turn when this flash of red, low down, caught my attention and I immediately tried to step aside in order to avoid a collision.

Instead, the little girl wrapped her arms around my waste. Total and complete shock. I looked down and realized the tiny girl in the red dress was my Little Bit and behind her was a shopping cart held by her father.

So many thoughts and emotions ripped through my mind and I knew I had but milliseconds to react. I reached down and took her and kissed and hugged and kissed again and tried to soak/absorb as much of her as I could because I knew or thought for certain he'd jerk her away and run.

She hadn't said a word. She just held me tight. After a few seconds she looked up into my face with the most wonderful smile and I again bent and whispered into her ear, "I love you. Nana loves you," and then, "Are you happy?"

She smiled and said, "Yes, Papa. I'm okay." She released me and took a step back and in a happy kind of way said, "Now, Papa, take a picture for Nana."

I reached, in desperation, and took her back into my arms, hugged her again, and took the first photo. For the second picture, she stepped back, and I took a full body shot. Her father remained still, head down, almost as if he were embarrassed.

With Little Bit back in my arms I turned to him and extended my hand. We shook. I asked after his welfare, life, work and he shyly answered. Things weren't good. Money is tight. He'd asked for a raise and was refused. His company (Acura) had even cut vacation pay. His wife, Little Bit's step-mother, refused full time work. Same old story.

I reminded him he needed to visit his mother and expressed her love of him. Only a nod in return.

As we spoke I gave kisses to Little Bit. As the old saying goes, I had eyes only for her. She told me she'd graduated to third grade and I replied of course you did, Honey. Then I turned back to her father, my son, and said, with care, "She's awful thin."

"She eats like a horse. Can't put weight on her." I smiled and said, "Yeah....she is her father's child, after all."

He has rules. His rules exclude sweets, any fats, and starches.

Little Bit, during this brief and unexpected encounter remained fairly reserved. She held me during the entire visit. When I'd ask a question she'd quickly cut her eyes in his direction, but she'd answer, in each instance, all of my questions, in a tiny whisper. I wanted so badly to take her in my arms and walk out, to take her home to her Nana. To protect her and feed her and love her. But, the law is on her father's side. I'm just her grandfather, a void in the legal system, and his wife is the law in their home.

Bitter, aren't I. Such is life.

Twice I asked if he'd please visit his mother and try and restore life back to normal, for all of us. My queries were answered only in nods. Never a vocal affirmative.  

And then, she was gone.

We had all of five minutes.

*****

As you may have noticed I haven't written much of late. There is a reason. First, business has increased, and secondly I have been slowly weaning, ever so carefully, myself off most of my heart medications. The side effects of all these medications are awful. Muscle problems, cramps, lack of sleep, fatigue.  Before the doctors saddled me with all these pills I was a fairly active dude...now, I feel like a piece of, well, crap. Unfortunately there is a price when you begin to drop medication from your daily routine. I understand and will take precautions, but why on earth should a person need two cholesterol drugs when one should suffice.

It'll work out in the long run.

*****

Take care out there.

Stephen

A Little Red Dress

On my way to the ice cream isle I almost collided with a little girl in a red dress. I stepped aside to allow her to pass but the little girl in the red dress instead wrapped her arms around my waste.

I felt love, once again.

We had all of five minutes.

She's so very thin and tiny. And, to me so very beautiful.

When I have composed myself I'll relate the story.

Stephen

Good Morning

Here's a big hello and welcome to two new followers, SteveierayV and Joe Schmo. Gentlemen, I promise to always reply to your comments.

Please, drop by and say hello. Each have very unique blogs.

*****

Tropical storm Andrea seems determined to wash our area out to sea. I awoke to pounding rain which I'm sure has my old cat in a tissy. I actually used my worn yellow slicker, for the first in many years, for the walk to my truck.

Suffice it to say, I'm still wet, and get this...arrived to work to find my coffee mess absent cream for my morning brew. Long day ahead.

*****

Today marks one year since I've held my Little Bit. One freaking lousy year.

I'd planned to write a longer piece, to her. It isn't possible. I haven't the mindset at this time. I'm sure I'd break down, and the urge for a kill shot is just too great. Maybe tomorrow.





Stephen

Anger Management

I hit the new post button and then sit here like a stump on a log with a blank expression on my face, mind numb. I need to write, something. Perhaps I'll give you a local weather report, ready. It's hot.

Before bed, last evening, our temperature thingamabob reflected seventy-two degrees. It's gonna be a long summer. Yet, this morning just as the sun peeked hello, I stepped outside to a fairly cool breeze loaded with the refreshing scent of salt and marsh and pine mast.

I need a vacation. We have, as it stands, set aside the last week of June for our time away from our busy lives. We'll drive over to the Gulf and take a seat next to the water. I'll pretend to read, maybe set out a fishing pole, but in all honesty, it'll be nap time. A whole friggin week.

So far this morning the shop has been very quiet. I've had a chance to walk around the parking lot and gather all the democrat tracks. Only two beer cans and one plastic bag. Must have been a quiet night, even the moon fleas took a break.

I had planned a range day for tomorrow....what's that old adage, 'the best laid plans....' Seems all my close friends have met resistance. Probably for the best as ammo isn't cheap and the supply is low.

QUIT BUYING AMMO.

Bunch of dumba$$eS.

Supply and demand, think about it. It's a tricky business. Allow the market to cool. Then, watch as the shelves restock and then, and only then, reach over and grab your need and stack it deep...but, slowly. It'll also cost less.

End of sermon.

Sorry. I'm not in a great frame of mind.

Late yesterday as I walked from the market back to my truck I found a penny. I bent, grabbed and stuffed it in my pocket. Seconds later as droll seeped from my open mouth I came back to reality. Seems I'd lost myself to the memory of my Little Bit. Penny hunting was our thing....our fun activity as we ran errands. She'd squeal in delight with every hint of copper.

After I'd reached for the coin and stood in place like an idiot at a liberal convention, lost in the thought of her, horns tooting me back to awareness, I damn near lost it...white hot anger took control of my otherwise calm controlled demeanor.

I must confess, and this isn't easy for me....but I wanted to beat, someone. I had such an urge to reach out and just choke the first person within range. I literately shook.

It's taken a great deal of self control on my part to not drive to her home and kick the door down. I'm not a violent man. Yes, I carry a firearm. Yes, I've been in the crap, but since....I've tried to live in peace. The evidence of such is my restraint and unwillingness to write of my military days, as you might of noticed.  I've worked very hard to control my emotions of which my Little Bit and my Sweet Wife played huge parts. When that little girl came into my life she changed me. I became a better man and now she's gone.

In slightly less than two weeks it will be one year since I've held her in my arms.

I hate I've written of this pain. To allow my emotions laid bare, yet this is my journal, my testimony to her. Hopefully one day far in the future she will read this and understand her Papa tried.

Stephen