Winter 2

Chapter Two    

"But Dad, there's something I wanted to tell you, though not over the air 'cause of the snoopers. It's really good news. Our whole constabulary has been offered jobs by the Displaced Persons Authority in Algiers to help supervise the British camp outside Tobruk.

"So that's where Di has gone!" exclaimed Gordon, smiling. "And that's where you're headed."

"DPA figured since our men had worked together they'd hire us as a team. One of our guys who has been keeping up with climate changes for years worked it out in advance as soon as he saw which way the chips would fall. They want us to come down and join their guys with whatever of our equipment we can bring. Everyone's on his own, but they sent us rail passes that include our bikes. All the heavy stuff is there already, and the women and small children. We're going to bivouac with the DPA at the army museum where they keep the relics of Rommel's and Monty's armies from WW II, which is still fenced. It's been in the hands of their National Guard for years. Now they've been telling our people the old barracks have been repaired and converted to family housing. They are almost ready for us now. We're going to live and work right out of them."

"D'you know what they're like?"

"Di showed them to me as if she was just panning the local scenery, then dipped her phone over the one we'll be in. It's three stories high, concrete block with small windows and well inside the fence." 

His father whistled. "You're landing on your feet again! And of course, Tobruk's on the railroad, if I remember. Across the railroad is a highway, then the sand dunes and the beach. How did you say you fell into that one?"

"One of our deputies who had actually been down there as a sort of premature task force heard about the riots in Marseilles and got hold of his contact again. DPA jumped at the idea of acquiring a whole department of trained personnel as a functioning unit with a command structure and years of field experience."

“And how about the town? Is there still a military base as well as a museum?" asked Gordon.

Dan was reassuring. "Yes. They're next to each other. You have to go through the base to get to the museum and there's only one way into the base. It's gated and guarded. The base perimeter fence is patrolled twenty-four seven. I think it's going to be headquarters and living quarters for the Guard as well as DPA law enforcement."  They both understood the need for security given the floods of refugees from the north and the mountains. Logistics were already nightmarish: totally insufficient housing, transport, food, water, and sewage.

The children had been listening in the doorway to their bedroom, and the older boy, Nicky, a serious fourteen year old, addressed his father. "Dad, Tobruk sounds like some sort of prison. I mean, living in barracks inside an old army base, guards day and night? For real? Will we be allowed out?" 

Quietly his father answered him, 'Nicky, you may not want to go beyond the fence when you know what's out there. You saw those vigilantes we passed on the way down. If there'd been fewer families in our caravan d'you think they would have let us go by without trying something? They surely knew someone in such a large group would be armed. And those guys were tame compared to what's going to be prowling around outside the fence in Tobruk.

"So we're going to a war zone?" the boy asked.

"From what I can find out probably something like that though those kinds of people will be outnumbered. There will be officers like me keeping the peace." His father looked him straight in the eyes, nodding his head slightly. "The hard thing is going to be getting there. I've a feeling we have a difficult road ahead unless we're lucky enough to be allowed on the train when it gets to Tobruk.”

“Why wouldn't we?' asked Tom, his other son. "'We have passes."

"I imagine, so do hundreds of others," answered his father. "And even if we get on, will they let the bikes on too? If they don't, how will we get around at the other end? We just don't know. You saw how it was for your mom with all those people milling around when she was trying to get from the train depot to the Fort and held her phone above her head. But you heard her. Didn't she sound relieved that we'd be getting a safe place to live?"

His sons both nodded while Nicky looked quickly from his father to his grand dad. The adults wore expressions that gave nothing away. 

"Let's go in and have a bite to eat" urged Gordon breaking the silence. Your lot must be hungry and there's delicious smoked salmon and mashed potatoes and carrot and chard waiting for us. The stove's roaring and it'll only take ten minutes for dinner to be ready." The old man shepherded the family toward the dining room knowing that the fresh food would be a treat for them all.

There was not much to stand between a full belly and a bed for the saddle-sore, weary children and they were out cold before the dishes were washed. Father and son would have a little time to share.

EDITOR'S NOTE:  Chapter Three will be published:  January 24, 2014; Chapter Four: January 31, 2014

Michael James-Mined in England. There thrown on the wheel for impress of first hands.

Turned and shaped in Berkeley.

Fired and painted by students of Tamalpais district which he left in 1993. 

Writes essays, stories, and poetry. 

Rules

The Rules – that’s what my daughter told me she liked best after her first day of kindergarten. I stared at her blankly and repeated, “The Rules – what rules?” And I can honestly say I didn’t know what she was talking about.

Caroline was an “afternoon kid,” so she didn’t arrive home until nearly 3 o’clock. She had been apprehensive at noon as she waited for the bus; her dad waited with her to allay her newly developed fear of the neighborhood dogs. She looked like Heidi that day with her blond pig tails and, though she might be getting off to a shaky start, I knew this was a child who was going to love school. She had already mastered her numbers and letters and was hoping to learn to read as she set off that first day.

As she bounded from the bus with her sheaf of papers in hand and a grin on her face, I knew I wasn’t wrong. And, then, with her sister waiting anxiously to hear, I asked my question: What had she liked best about school? I had thought it might be the walk-in doll house that we had seen at kindergarten round-up. Or maybe it was the puzzle-like dinosaurs that were displayed on the bookshelves. No, it was none of those things. What she had liked best about school was:  THE RULES.

Then, in response to my puzzled look and, as if giving directions to a small child, she began to explain: “Oh, Mom,” she said, “It’s so wonderful; they have rules about everything: Where to hang your coat; where to put your shoes when they are wet, and where to put them when they are dry; where to put papers to take home and where to put the ones you are still working on.”

In response to her obvious delight, I asked: “And, don’t we have any rules around here?”

She never hesitated. “Oh, no, Mom,” she said, “we don’t have any rules.” And I expected her to go on, but it was not for her little mind to tell me why we didn’t have rules or what rules we didn’t have. She only knew rules when she saw them, and it was apparent she hadn’t been exposed to such rules before that first day of kindergarten. I could see it gave her a whole new sense of well-being. I could have cried.

Here was a child who had lived for five years in a house run by the mad hatter – looking everywhere for a rule to hang on to, and there were none to be found.

When I eventually picked myself up from my failed first five years of motherhood, which had passed before my eyes in the flash of this beaming face, I sought to correct my error immediately. I asked her if we should make up rules for our house – and she jumped at the chance and involved her three year old sister, as well.

“So,” I asked, “what kind of rules should there be.” Using her model from school, Caroline started with physical things: like where to put toys; rules for cleaning up rooms and not bringing sand in the house, etc. Then, she hesitated: there were the different rules and her mind struggled to give these a name. She described them: “Rules about sharing some toys (and putting away those you didn’t want to share); and “No ‘ha-ha-ing’ when somebody does something wrong.” She and her sister agreed in unison on this last one.

They also agreed they didn’t really want to have to tell their friends the rules when they came over. We finally decided on “house rules” - an important part being that they were not to be directed at a person but were said as: “In our house there is no ha-ha ing”; “In our house there is no pushing off the swings”, etc. Like the rules were parts of the structure. We may all have thought that if they became part of the house, there would be a sense of permanence to them. That was to be most important for me if I were to be the enforcer of the rules.

As I looked back on it, I grew up in a house without many rules: no curfews, no allowances, no attention paid to report cards. Living with seven other people, however, we were frequently reminded to be good citizens but there were few actual rules. So, it wasn’t surprising that I hadn’t instituted many rules in my own house. My father had actually described me as someone who thought rules were meant to be broken; now I was dealing with a small child who was delighted by rules.

Though I always felt bad that my oldest daughter had had to grow up with someone who didn’t play by the rules, we’ve made our adjustments. Now Caroline and I talk openly about our different styles and how my lack of attention to detail drives her crazy. When I tell a story and I mention driving through a Burger King and she knows it was a McDonalds, she is beside herself. She wants me to pay her to keep my checkbook and I want to do it. In our complementary positions, we’ve come to a working relationship. When she babysits for my sisters, they often tell us how much alike we are, and we’re both pleased. She’s learned to take the things she can live with, meticulously enter them on her internal balance sheet, and make rules of her own.

Maureen Bruce -Maureen is the newest member of the SONOMA WRITER'S ALLIANCE and you will be seeing more of her work.

WINTER

To the old man in the rocking chair under a down comforter, the profound silence of the fading afternoon brought back memories of a time at the other end of his life when only the wealthy could afford the cost of quiet and peaceful retreats. Others had to put up with the noises of consumers, arrogant in the assumption that their wasteful lifestyles could continue indefinitely.

Today there was no sound other than the susurration of the sea breeze, tame on this clear day in early October, containing few scents, and carrying a chill it had rarely borne during the first decade of twenty-first century global warming. However, as traumatic as it had proved to be, the rapid warming had been short-lived in this part of the world. Everyone in England had been surprised by the speed of its fading, particularly the people who had studied in school the history of the glacial periods and of variations in earth's climate. There had been rapid climate changes in the past such as those that occurred 11,000 years ago, but nothing like the changes that had brought on the prolonged warm period, then suddenly ended it in Northern Europe.

Gordon Heatherton had been making kindling wood by splitting short pieces of fir. He could peel off pieces one growth ring thick like a chef making celery sticks for very small people, his cleaver rising and falling in rapid succession that told of his still firm grip and his concentration. Now he wanted to bask in what was left of the sun's rays and let his eyes rest on the distant undulating landscape as it fell gently towards the sea that formed the horizon, stretched across his vision in a more or less straight line.

The river, winding through the folded land, glinted here and there where the westering sun was reflected as if someone had struck arcs for tiny lamps. And as the sun moved the lights winked out then came on further downstream. On clear days he loved seeing the red orb slide into the sea and sometimes couldn't help wondering if parents still told their curious children how the light was extinguished by the water only to be miraculously rekindled the following morning. But he suspected few watched sunsets any longer, and fewer thought in terms of miracles. However, something in the order of a miracle was going to be needed if his son and his two boys were going arrive safely in Marseille for the trip to the warm lands across the Mediterranean.

In Gordon's boyhood in the village, down a thread of a road as remote as anything could be in Dorset there used to be very few seconds of silence between man-made sounds that intruded themselves into one's consciousness all day long. The beep of a video-phone, the whir of wind generators, children’s voices in play or argument were part of the normal background. Now he waited in silence in the afternoon sun for the crunch of rubber tires forcing little rocks against each other to announce the arrival of his son and two grandchildren.

At last the excited voices of children, then the repeated ringing of their bells announced their presence before Gordon could see them pedaling slowly up the path, each bike with its trailer of precious possessions in tow. He'd been expecting them any day now and was eager to see them. He threw off the comforter and stood up.a little stiffly, using the handrail to negotiate the porch steps. It wasn’t only his infirmity that kept Gordon from striding down the steps; his level of energy was not as high as it used to be when there were more calories in his diet.

The two youngsters, who had sprinted along the flat before the house, dismounted gingerly, stretching their legs, and rubbing sore backsides. The younger was full of information and chatter. “It’s warmer here than at home, Grandpa" said Tom, as he squatted to ease his muscles. “Can we go fishing tomorrow?"  When he rose he hugged his grandfather quickly; his brother gave the old man a longer hug in silence, a slightly rueful look on his face. Though he smiled, he was obviously in pain.

"There's hot water ready for you two," offered Gordon to his grandsons. Then, “Go soak those sore legs!"  As they hobbled into the house, he watched his son get out of his bike and close the plastic canopy. The younger man shook out his legs as if they were trousers, and pulled his father to him with wide open arms.  Both were watery eyed while his son patted the old man's back reassuringly.

"Have a good trip?" enquired Gordon stretching his arms so he could look into his son’s eyes.

"Pretty good, Dad," he replied. "Couldn't find much to eat on the last leg of the trip, though. Sure hope you've got enough here!”

"I do, Son. The fish have been plentiful, and people have left crops and cattle in the fields. How were things looking in the Midlands when you went through?”

"Empty," was the single word reply. His son paused. "There's a big difference since I came last May. Junk all over the place; not much sign of people working; very few places to eat  and those only carrying local harvest food. No long haulers. There were farm tractors on the roads, a few motorcycles and of course, bicycles. What did you think of that long line of  bikes I showed you yesterday on the phone?”

“They looked pretty ragged. Must have been on the road for weeks.” Gordon paused.

“Son, it would have been a tough winter for you this year up north. Who’s running the show now that the department is closed down?”

“A bad lot of vigilante hoodlums!” answered Dan disgustedly. “They have no more idea of how to run a country than I’d know how to run a school. It’s all over up there.” His father nodded gravely.

EDITOR'S NOTE: This story will be published in FOUR CHAPTERS. Chapter Two: January 17 2014;  

                             Chapter Three: January 24 2014;  Chapter Four: January 31, 2014   

Michael James-Mined in England. There thrown on the wheel for impress of first hands.

Turned and shaped in Berkeley.

Fired and painted by students of Tamalpais district which he left in 1993. 

Writes essays, stories, and poetry. 

It's About Time

by JEAN WONG

This is the tale of a man named Jim

who lived alone in pleasure and sin.

The pleasure was the house he lived

with all the trappings only his.

His stark and simple black and whites,

his multi electronics quite

the latest in expense and taste,

his high security systems placed,

his world intact and insulated,

his life insured and triple rated.

His sin was pride and self-absorption.

His plate was full and all the portions

belonged to him, never his brother,

neighbor, family or any other.

Wives he’d had and girl friends too

like bowling pins lined up in queue,

he threw the ball and knocked them all,

scattered, left, bereft, and bruised.

Jim had a cat named Sebastian,

a beautiful Siamese exquisitely fashioned.

Jim fed Sebastian that is true,

but other than that the separate two

with one another had nothing to do,

not even a meow or a howdy-do.

They were unburdened with feeling or care,

the convenient arrangement, the exquisite pair.

One afternoon, Jim went for a walk,

and cat happened to follow him up the block.

They walked up a hill and saw a sign

that said, Magic Mountain--it’s About Time.

“What nonsense,” Jim thought as he turned around,

“someone’s been reading Thomas Mann.

This isn’t a mountain it’s just a hill.

These kids should find work and do something real.”

But as he went down his familiar way,

something felt strange and slightly fey.

There seemed less houses and few trees,

sidewalks were gone and so was the breeze.

Familiar landmarks had disappeared,

no horn nor motor could he hear,

only a slight ringing of various tones

like Sirens in Ulysses’ poem.

He simply couldn't get his bearings,

lost he was, his house un-nearing.

And darkness fell and covered the land,

not the darkness most of us understand,

no tiny gleams of electric lights

or beams from stars that make things bright.

The darkness was black, he was blind as a bat,

but still he could hear the dim pad of his cat.

For hours and hours he went every which way,

but each step took him further astray.

Finally exhausted, he collapsed in a heap,

cold and hungry he fell asleep.

His dreams were haunting, disturbing, and grim.

What in the world was happening to him?

This was a nightmare--was there no escape?

Suddenly he felt a comforting weight.

Sebastian had silently climbed on his chest.

Jim finally was able to take a deep breath.

He felt the warmth and the weight and the fur,

the steady heart beating, the occasional purr.

His panic subsided, he endured the night,

finally the morning brought back the light.

Jim made it home and from that day on,

once in a while a routine was born.

For there would be times on a cold, crisp night,

Sebastian by Jim would softly alight,

together they slept in deep embrace.

You’d think Jim joined the human race.

Did he become a more caring man?

Did he share and trouble to give others a chance?

Did he smile and laugh and tell a joke,

and sing and open his heart out to folks?

No, not at all, I’m sorry to tell

Jim died just as cranky and selfish as hell.

But please don’t feel disappointed in Jim.

His story’s the same for you and for him.

For each life that’s lived grows like a tree.

Some grow tall and just beautifully.

Some turn bent, or die prematurely.

The sum is measured not by the distance,

but what goes on in every instance.

Jim had a heart covered up good.

He kept people out as much as he could.

But something connected and something healed,

when his hand through Sebastian’s fur he could feel,

another heart beating a being like him,

and that was a breakthrough for unlikely Jim.

For once in a while, a moment or two,

the magic though short, and quite minuscule,

gave Jim a chance, though he didn’t know,

just for an inch, Jim managed to grow.

2912

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR:

Jean was born in the mid-Pacific

And is a hell of a writer -to be specific

She has recently published a book

And even the cover merits a look

"Sleeping with the Gods" is the title to seek

Order  ISBN 978-9-9892384-0-3

Check with her blog, or wait an Amazon week.

Dancing

                             
                                                            by  LUCILLE HAMILTON

I didn't know what to do with them, 

my legs -

they were the longest part of me

when I was in my teens.

Looking back, 

I thought of myself as

having the awkwardness of a camel getting up,

trying to unfold all that boney length

neatly and quickly

so no one would notice my ungainly movements.

I couldn't get away with it in dancing class.

No boy wanted to dance with me,

so I was always "stuck" with the short, fat boy,

equally unhappy being there and stuck with me.

Neither of us had any sense of rhythm,

and he would pump his - and consequently, my -

arm up and down 

with all the vigor of a windmill in a high wind.

A circle of wariness would rapidly form around us.

But I must say, he always had salted peanuts in his pocket,

so we always ate well, and I learned a lot about goobers

so there would be something of interest to talk about.

I underestimated Sammy.  He was a standby, Something

I had yet to value.  He was a good sport, what with my stepping

on his always polished shoes.  I came to really like him, as time

went by and now I wonder if he, like me, has come to terms

with that kind of dancing, 

being more in favor these days of spontaneously lighting out 

across the dance floor,

as the mood sees fit.

2014

Help Wanted

Sometimes the only poet around

Is a dog barking at the moon. 

It's eleven p.m., time to dismantle the silence 

And dash off a stanza or two 

For my Friday morning’s writers' group 

But each time I beg my little red schoolhouse 

For a rhyme 

It erases the blackboard and slams the door.

Soaked in midnight's pitch an hour later 

The inside of my head is sticky black 

As I contemplate white canes 

And seeing-eye dogs,

Miners' canaries, rusty scalpels, 

Shooting galleries, gutted limousines 

And fighting cocks, but all I've got 

Is a sheet of notebook paper squeaky clean 

Except for all of those empty blue lines 

Which remind me of prison bars 

And the birdlike shadow of my bony knuckles 

Perched on a ballpoint pen.

Whenever I play games with myself 

It's always my move 

So I spend the next half-hour 

Chasing ghosts around the room. 

Prefer the Japanese technique of catching them 

With chopsticks instead of nets

But hate their high-pitched squeal 

Each time I pluck one out of the air. 

When I finally go to bed I feel like a dead man 

In a silent movie who is having a difficult time 

Learning his lines. Then fall asleep 

And dream l've turned into a falcon 

Tethered to the devil's wrist. 

Wake up and wonder 

What I'll do when Lucifer removes my little hood. 

Bring down butterflies or baby birds?

Never go to bed before dawn, 

I tell myself as I pop a pill 

Because there are so many crutches 

But never an artificial leg to stand on 

At the end of a dead-end morning.

REQUIEM FOR LIGHTHOUSE

BY MICHAEL JAMES

Lighthouse I am and I do stand alone; 

I hold up the lamp,

That guides mariners home. 

Rain clouds press down on me; 

Storm waves crash over me; 

Lightning bolts hiss down my long copper rods. 

As crazy as Lear I am, 

Sans hat and sans coat. 

Abandoned, bareheaded, 

Yet one solemn note: 

ln the storm, my horn!

One form I have taken 

On coasts far and wide, 

Since Pharos Alexandria, 

Brought down by the tide. 

Still I hold high man's hope  

ln the fierce ocean storm, 

Where seamen fight hard 

To hold on to their own,  

To steer little ships for Haven and home. 

Man versus the elements, 

Erect, past his prime,

Bearing his light, 

Though just for a time.

That light, yes that one being doused by the rising seas, the eternal feminine of earth's waters aroused at last to subjugate and quell, to drown the errant male who, from his stand on land, seeks to challenge Jahweh with his persistent "Why?'  Enraged seas, enlist against men for daring to be counted before the usurper-God, betray their mates to lie with Him.

Man's lamp is doused, his towers laid low, 

On coastal cliffs now no more lights do show.

2013

Michael James-Mined in England. There thrown on the wheel for impress of first hands.

Turned and shaped in Berkeley.

Fired and painted by students of Tamalpais district which he left in 1993. 

Writes essays, stories, and poetry.