31 Croft Road

It came in the form of a text, from my friend ministering in Sweden. He had been part of the story though perhaps more on the fringe. It was surreal…back then. It seems never to have happened. But, as best as I can remember, it did.

At least Shooter existed. This I know. But how he existed, lived, was part of the mystery. I lived with him for some months. I cannot remember how long. Less than a year. Long enough to have him embedded in my memory bank.

His name was Ted. Cardelli. I, we, my mates and I, hooked up with him when one summer in a bar while “sudsing down.” He knew our first baseman. (If I once knew how, I have forgotten.) The chain of events of his involvement with our misbegotten tribe matters little, for he became established as a person who we could “ride” to laughter on a wave and surf that persona to the limit. He liked beer. And Camel unfiltered cigarettes. Or was it Lucky Strikes? I think the latter, but definitely no filter. Real men don’t use filters. And Ted wanted to be the real deal, the American Cowboy, the essence of an American Man. One would think that it was a staged chupatz, a made personae. Aren’t we all? But that is one-sided.

I haven’t a clue if he was athletic. That he knew sports was certain. That he knew much about many things was clear. One might say his formal education took place in the United States Air Force. But It really, I believe, took “flight” in the back room of the shoe store in downtown St.Paul, Minnesota. Kelly’s Shoes, a store front facing west toward the old Civic Center, the home of the former Fighting Saints. It was between sizing middle and old ladys’ feet for their biannual or annual replacements that he read and read, anything and everything. He engulfed writing, fiction and Non. You had to credit his memory, or if not that, his imagination!

He did referee hockey. Not a good skater, he was authoritarian in his decisions. He leveled out at the high school level, mostly “b” rated teams. It did not matter to him. He liked the attention and authority. Wherever they could be found, but on his terms, meaning when he needed their “high.” He would go to his Walter Mitty “real” world in between fixes.

I did not hang with Ted. The town bar where we congregated after summer softball games was the occasional meeting place, as it was the casual congregational drinking hole. After some years, necessity poked through. My roommate for years headed North to seek his star (he found it and more!) Ted was somewhere in the never never land of a divorce and needed a place. I needed money. Seemed like a good fit. We continued to see each other as if we did not live in the same house. Our paths just seemed to cross at the watering hole. On the occasion we settled in and talked, he was a person who I found had “lived.” Though Ted was not a main component, he was always accepted. What he was going through with the demise of his marriage none of us truly knew. After “The Event,” concern placed us together, but only in small doses. And then we connected but a few times until he was gone.

He was an “expert” on everything, with knowledge contributable to any discussion. Whatever the platform he could add intriguing foundation. How much was from his daily dosage of non-stop reading in between finding the right shoe for “Mrs. Hitchcock,” who came only to Kelly’s to get her annual fitting, I could not tell you. He was a sponge for any type of information and I say this because he was never left out of a conversation. I don’t think he allowed it. He just had too much to “add.” He was more than street smart, though he had a sense of this too.

I never really knew if he was connected with long time friends. I did know that he had a healthy respect for his Father, stoked from witnessing his Dad’s work ethic and stern desire to do the right thing. I hesitate to go down this track too far. In fact, in fairness to Ted, he was an enlightened enigma to me who drank too much in a time where drinking was a staple of general activity adding mirth. There are others more capable to stitch together a much greater life story than I.

He was 74 years old at death. His obituary mentions “father, legend, husband, son, friend, loved and bravely fought.” It is spartan beyond any particular accomplishments. I like it as such. Where in life he was all about words and stories, his obituary is a tidy eulogy of love. The online legacy had six entries which, with imagination, you can place Ted in time and space otherwise unknown. What I liked about Ted was his learned aptitude. It mattered not to me how he came across to others. I learned to listen to him. He was also true to his word and, if it came to pass, a friend.

His son is a Doctor, surgeon if memory serves me correctly. Both Ted and his son loved to fish. And hunt. And that is where Ted found his last earthly sojourn. Life long resident of Minnesota, a great outdoor state made middling with the umbrage of regulations, Ted seemed to have followed his son out West near his end. Montana. I read he left behind a wife as well as his two daughters ( of whom he spoke admiringly of) and a son who brought much pride. There is a V.A. hospital there in Columbia Falls. I am guessing it was here that he passed. I hope that he was outside. But he was in the Big Sky Country, where one could be who you wanted to be. A.B. Guthrie could have made a great novel out of Ted!!

Where had he developed this passion for outdoor activity? My understanding was that his father would rather wear a shirt/tie and run his business, placing the right shoes on women. He had learned to find an end to a means. For Ted, it was the beginning to get to his “end.” Out in the open country, free from stilted bias and charging windmills, to becoming who one wanted to be. A proper place to hit the bottom of the slide.

Ted died in the small town of Columbia Falls, Montana, gateway to Glacier National Park. I believe his son, Dominic, went to school in the state. Ted must have followed sometime after getting out of the main brig. Perhaps it was his time behind bars that cemented for me that no matter what impression Theodore “Ted” Cardelli gave you, it was, at that particular time, who he was. He entered prison guilty of manslaughter, having killed in a drunken passion. He left the facility, married one of the guards, and then, for me, vanished. He demonstrated much courage when he entered, not knowing his destiny, both in prison and for future years. I believe he took it with him.

The obituary on-line said he fought cancer bravely. I would say he managed prison with the same spirit. Though designated as the gateway of the Glacier Mts, the year round residents are not in the one percent. A great leap away I am afraid. But Ted made it West, and now rests there. I imagine that he made some pretty good friends. He had the stories to entertain, a twinkle of eye that brought them to life, and the guts to make them real.

And Shooter? Well, a story about the name. Before he was going to have the door closed behind him for who knew how long, he came with three of us to visit the then Hartford Whalers. Ted had asked if he could go. We asked our friends to clear it with Gordie Howe and a few of the other players to make sure they understood and would not object to Ted being there. I think they were actually kind of excited to meet him!! I mean it was “rock star” acceptance. A real life “killer?!” Just before a pre game skate, on a Saturday morning, we were introduced to several of the players. We knew a handful already, that is all of us but Ted. When Butsy introduced Ted, Ted proceeds to point a finger and pretend to shoot the player, while smiling broadly. They were “blown away!!!” Ted was on top of his world, accepted by idols and spending time with them prior to imprisonment. One started calling him Shooter, and so he was, for that weekend. I can just imagine the stories regaled at mess behind bars!!

That he made it through prison on his wits and mind is no doubt. That he loved his children is beyond question. That I cannot but remember him without making a light smile is true. He was a legend, beyond his own mind. It is just hard to remember all of the components.

She sat in her chair, a rocker in the southeast corner, where she could look out the window. The view was not dynamic, but it gave a certain freedom. It was home. An apartment in assisted living. She had spent time in 24 hour care and was not happy about it but faced it with her usual mirth. Age had grabbed her and begun its steep decline. One eye was totally blind, preventing simple actions such as taking hold of a cup causally. She had to relearn her eye-sight. The walker had come a few years earlier, as the falls with their blue-tinted bruises were too much. The last one she had landed her head first and yellow adorned the blue.
But she righted ship and began to take to the walker. The head first landing, which she did not even remember, had shook her to take her children’s advise. The causes of the falls were due to age. But the mixing of medications had added to complexity of faculty. This was what her middle daughter had discovered. Again, she promised to be better at taking her meds and keeping them organized. And she did.
She did what she knew she had to do to keep from becoming a complete ward of the system. This she dreaded and worked hard to “keep the wolf from the door.” And as various other functions began to go amiss, she “soldiered” on to make the best of what she could do.
Reaching the age of 97 was not what she had wanted. She had wanted to go out at 93. She was a “believer.” She knew where she was going. Oh, that others did not agree with her Faith bothered her not a twit. She just kept centered on her Lord and proved positive that she could continue to be a welcomed hostess to numerous friends and family no matter what their advocation to the next life was.
She was under no illusion that she would be missed beyond the usual “time table.” Life did go one for all. She knew she was loved. And appreciated it. She also knew what it was like to lose a child when she had five others to care for. She buried her husband when he could not recognize her. With both, the wounding was severe and deep. She held fast to those of her loved circle, both friends and family. She understood that love was the central ticket to moving through each day. She accepted what came her way and tried to adjust to the negatives the best way that she could.
She had made her peace with her God when she was preparing for the last heart surgery. It was during this when the surgeons had found that her heart was missing a major artery! Yet, if any heart harbored more love than hers, it would be difficult to find!
So she waggled on and kept up with her correspondence and forwarding of materials that would lighten other’s days, make heart’s warm and smiles to erase concerns. She was purposed for being a complete embracement of what a person could do at any age, to love unceremonious and completely, and divine this to others in her own special way.
She had notified family at 93 she was not willing to go through any attempt to keep her alive, that she would not be subjected involuntarily to any hospital stay or resuscitation. She wanted to go home to her Lord and Savior and see her daughter and husband.
“I saw Cindy in a dream. It was on her 50th birthday. She was all grown up.”
“What was she like Mom?
“Oh, she was beautiful!”
“Can you describe her??
“No, I can’t.”
She had grown weary of people in the assisted living facility dying and leaving her. Evelyn, her favorite friend had “left” two weeks earlier. She did not want to will herself to be gone. That never entered her mind.
“You know Mom, you are still here because God is still desiring to use you.”
“I believe that.”
“It is not because we want you to stay, though we do, it is because He has you where you are blessing others.”
“Well, I hope that is right. I try.”
She did try. In a shaved off community of elderly people, all with ailments or disabilities that required assistance, there were always those who grated. She might briefly talk of one, but just as quickly said she understood. And if family or friends visited, they had better be ready to be introduced to even the grating ones; even if it was the third or perhaps fourth time.
Her oldest son had established a connection to an audio book program to help continue her relationship to a source that she loved, books. Her appetite for reading had escalated as she became single in her living arrangements. She did watch T.V., but deep down she needed the accume of a good author to satisfy her active mind. Long ago she had seen how T.V. had been whittled down to an eighth grade mentality.
She was content. Yet she also was tired. Her family all secretly hoped that she would just go to sleep and not wake up. Like in a fairy tale. They also harbored deep seeded sentiment that “Mom” would always be there, knowing this to be untrue. Duplicity at work on their collective minds.
So it was never really believed that she would go. The prevailing attitudes were “should I call Mom today?” They all had their ways of staying in contact. One would write lovely long, hand written letters. Another would take her to church. Her baby girl was always available for the little crisis that occurred as well as the oldest boy to fix all the physical repair needs. And the extended family also had their communicative ways; pictures and phone calls the norm. Her web of love went out beyond what one normally saw at this junction of life.
She had taken to sleeping for many hours of the day, with the blessings of her children. Their only real concern was that the multiple medicines were being taken and she was eating enough. And to these concerns she put herself to task, more to keep them happy but also because it was expected of her. She took simple pride in doing what was expected. This demonstrated that she still could function in a lifestyle of achievement, not placed upon the shoulders of her children or the State. This was important to her.

The summer evening dusk had arrived that Tuesday. She had grown weary from the day’s activities. Her walker escorted her to the bathroom door where she relinquished hold and used the rails and sink for balance. She proceeded to ready herself in her usual manner, the method rote. Concluding, she worked her way back to the walker, moving to the bedroom. She proceeded to undress, folding her clothes as if they had come straight off the mangle she had used 60 years ago to prepare the family’s clothing for the next day. She placed them on the clothes rack. The nightgown was neatly waiting by her favorite pillow. She slipped it on and lay down with a sigh. Living was not easy. She remembered much, but there were huge gaps in the tidings of the past of which she did not connect to. She was fine with this, but oh how she tired so easily.
Bed reading at ceased when the one eye had shut down. Now when she lay, it was purposed to sleep. But the evening never was completed without prayers. She recited the prayer that she and her husband had shared for over 50 years, the one she said before her family as he had lain dead at the nursing home. She never missed saying it.
This night she felt compelled to say something to each of her children, though they would never know. They were kind words, loving thoughts, and divine hope for each. As she shut her eyes, a peace swept over her and her breathing, though shallow, was even and nursing. The darkness began to replace dusk and the apartment became “empty.” The small figure on the bed, no more than 95 pounds, curled up on its side. Her white hair, wrapped in a net to preserve it for the next day, now became invisible. Her soft skin, never having left her through all the years, shadowed away. An outsider looking at the scene would have seen loneliness in a serene fashion. But this was not true. She had never been alone.
“Mom??”

Wednesday morning, the humidity was thick by the 7:00 a.m. Ed and Ernie stowed their red and white lunch coolers in the back room. Ed was twelve years older. Both had been working at the sign manufacturer for twenty plus years, producing sign plates in a basement foundry. They teamed well and kept product to standard. It was a non union shop, family owned. While they worked the foundry Jimmy supervised the painting of each order. The plates went from the basement upstairs to be painted. Dave handled shipping orders at the bay door where product exited. Every summer, during the busy months, two part time employees were added, one down deck to help Ed and Ernie and one upstairs on the paint line.

Ernie never enjoyed Wednesdays. It was the day after his softball night. He loved playing. He also loved drinking beer. The Union, a local tavern, sponsored the team. Ernie was the player/manager. This way he got to play. The “Union Jacks” they called themselves and even had an English flag on their right sleeve. Ernie had ordered them. He thought it was genius fun, the owner being Irish.

Ernie loved competition. He loved to play almost anything. City maintained recreational sports were an outlet for ex jocks and wannabes. Softball and volleyball were the King and Queen, with the local bars sponsoring
events, teams, or both. Ernie fell into the second category, but he tried mightily.

That Tuesday night Ernie had fulfilled his obligatory seat in the Union shortly after the game. They had lost,
a fairly common occurrence. The Jacks were better at drinking beer than playing softball. No trophies adorned the Union. Only team pictures from different years hung on the walls with no sequential spacing.

Ed was the side-car to Ernie. He liked to watch sports. But mainly he loved to play cards. Any game that took an amount of calculated skill sprinkled with brazen chaptuz and bluff. The nights Ernie was focusing on a white, red stitched softball, Ed could be found playing poker with the usual group at the Table Bar. Ed loved pushing players to fold. Bluffing was a means to win, which he loved. He expected to win. Yet, he did not live by the bluff. He maintained discipline with the cards he was dealt. Most nights he deposited the money he won in a pig kept on the kitchen counter. The pig was always full.

Ed was not restricted to just poker. Five hundred, Spades, Hearts, Cribbage…anything but the elitist game, Bridge. He loved them all, but by far the game of Cribbage was his favorite. Fascinating combinations with calculated decisions to split hands, go on the offensive, sit back on defense, go for peggs or high hand counts satisfied his inner desire to outwit. The pegging game replaced the bluff of poker, with more bluntness with its suddenness. A crescendo of pegging brought him satisfaction and angst to his opponent.

They were working class men. Ed had grown children and lived in a rambler five miles from the plant. He had no root desire to enhance his life. He liked his job and the obligation of skill it asked. He and his wife had matching chairs set in the living room facing a T.V. A lamp stand separated the two chairs.

Ernie was divorced. His kids were half way up the school ladder and all his ex expected was the full amount of child care due each month. She had remarried shortly after the divorce. Ernie faded out of their lives. He was “friends” with several ladies at the Union but his “steady” was his sports. Home was rent in a fourplex ten blocks from the plant.

Every summer Neil, the third generation owner, brought in two college students for three months. Summer was the busy time and additional help was warranted. Neil wanted to give college kids opportunity. He attended an Episcopal church in GraceTown, twenty miles from suburbia. Most kids he hired came from the church. This year he had two new ones, Steve and Max.

Steve was an extrovert. He was a decent athlete and participated in intramural sports at the University. He was placed downstairs with Ernie and Ed. Steve’s presence stimulated Ernie’s ego. This made Steve illuminate his achievements even more, to goad. Ed just shuffled about listening to the two of them trump each other with fabricated accomplishments or drafted knowledge from the internet (Steve) or the newspaper (Ernie.) The banter was good entertainment, for the most part.

Max would be a freshman at a college two states away that coming Fall. He loved music. He was put on the paint line upstairs.

Ed and Earl had played Cribbage at lunch for as long as could be remembered. Dollar a game, penny a point. Ed usually came out top. No score was kept. The money exchanged was the score counter.

When Steve came on board he asked if he could join in. Ed suggested that Steve ask Max to play. That way they could play as teams rather than a threesome. When he was asked, Max simply replied ‘sure.’ The stakes remained the same, dollar a game and penny a point.

They began the competition that Tuesday. Steve could see Max knew the game, but he seemed to make critical errors pegging. That first day made Steve uncertain. They had lost two out of three, with one game a skunk (which doubled the money.) What if they got waxed continually? He did not want Ernie chirping at him, nor did he want to be losing money consistently. Steve mentioned the money issue to Max.

“Why don’t we see if they would just play for fun? Or cut the stakes,” suggested Max

“Yeah, that would be good. At least until such time we can see how the teams fare.”

Steve offered the changes. He cited Max’s reluctance, which of course was not true. But he was not going to own it. Ernie was all over them in a light but clawing way. It was Ed who seemed annoyingly superior in response. .

“Really? Why not? Seems like a trifling matter don’t you think?”

“It’s just a little money,” included Ernie

Steve couldn’t get himself to say anything. Ed’s response dug on him harder than he thought. Tuesday wound down. He let Max know on an upstairs errand. Quitting time came. When Steve came up to clean up, he heard a voice behind him.

“We play. On one condition.”

Steve turned and looked at Max standing there. “What condition?”

“We up the stakes. A team has the option to double down at any time during a game. The other team must accept or fold.”

Steve just looked at Max. “Are you kidding? They already skunked for one double. Why would you want to play for more money? And I’m not so sure you can hold up your end of the partnership.”

“That’s the option. Otherwise I am out.”

Steve continued to look at Max and then watched him turn and walk away. He shook his head and tried to wrap his mind around the possible consequences. Three handed seemed more attractive. Perhaps Ed and Ernie would comply.

“What about just not playing,” he yelled after Max? Max’s body was out the door.

As the humidity increased Wednesday, Steve watched Ernie’s shirt become a wet dishrag. Ed kept to himself. Max was on the paint line in silence. Steve considered their conversation, or rather Max’s dictum. He felt a lions den stench. His competitive nature wanted in. His wallet said no. As lunch break neared, he sauntered up to Max and qualified yesterday’s comment.

“You are in as long as the stakes can be doubled, right?’

“Yes,” answered Max

“O.k., but once we start we cannot back out. It will be for the whole ten weeks we have left.”

“Yep.”

Steve looked up and watched as the “Wet Rag” and the lump, Ed, came up the stairs and headed for the “dock.”

“Alright, what the crap,” he stated and grabbed his thermos and brown sack-lunch. Max went to the soda machine and payed for a Mountain Dew.

Ernie had plunked down and had half of his sandwich eaten by the time the boys had reached the landing. Ed was just starting on his lunch while preparing the cribbage board. The cards were waiting to be shuffled.

“We’ll play,” stated Steve in a flat voice. “But we would like to add a condition.”

Ernie chomped on the second half of his sandwich. “What?”

Steve shot a quick look at Max. “Max here wants either of the teams to be able to double down on a game at any time.”

Ed briefly stopped his reach for the cards, then continued and picked up the deck. “You a backgammon player Max?”

“Yeah, play alot with my dad,” replied Max

Ernie whipped his face and grinned. “I knew you boys wouldn’t go away with your tails tucked! But doubling down? Mighty generous of you!”

Ed launched back, “seeing how you like betting backgammon style, what if the other team doubles back?” Ed’s mouth was not grinning, playing more to a smirk.

“That’s fine,” stated Max, before Steve could heave out an answer.

“We’ll be tolerant, boys,’ stated Ed. “Remember, I still have Ernie as a partner. He gives you some chance,” and chortled.

Steve was in no man’s land. He said nothing but grabbed his lunch and began to eat.

Ed shuffled the deck three times and placed it down to cut for deal. Low card won the deal and therefore the crib. The crib was an extra hand merited to the dealer and provided an extra hand for points. It was made from each player discarding one card from the five dealt to each. It would be counted and the points added after all players’ had finished their counts.

The game could actually be played at a fast pace when the players understand the nuances and point tallies. A fifteen and thirty-one count is worth two points (thirty-one is the last peg point.) Pairing a card is worth two points and adding a third of the same is six. Seldom seen is the fourth played. A four of a kind was worth twelve points. Runs are worth the number of cards that are played in them, not exceeding thirty one. One did not want to play into a run and or a flush, four of the same suit. Cutting a Jack gave the dealer two additional points. A go, with no one able to tally thirty one, was worth one point to the last card played.

After pegging is completed and all cards played, the hands are counted. The same counting applies with players using the cut card as part of their hand to configure points.

The first deal went to Steve. Dealing first meant that the other team needed to make up, on the average, ten points, as Max and Steve would have the first extra hand. The one advantage the non dealing team had was that the player to the left of the dealer counted their hand points first. Ernie, who sat to his left played first, went conservative, playing a four thus allowing Max no chance to play to fifteen. He threw a king and Ed matched it for two points. He grinned. Steve could not play and said,’go.’ Ernie dropped a six on the twenty five that was showing for thirty one and two more points.

The two youngsters found themselves falling behind slowly. Ed and Ernie began to stretch out the distance between their red pegs and the boy’s blue ones. As they headed for “home,” Ernie shuffled the deck and looked at the board.

“You boys are going to have to have a monster hand to track us down,” His shirt was soaked.

Ed’s armpits looked like dark saucers. He removed his glasses and wiped them with his shirt. Steve and Max looked to the board. They sat about seventeen pegs behind Ed and Ernie with twenty eight points needed to win. Ed and Ernie were within eleven holes to peg out. The pegging game now became the focal point. They had to prevent any pegging and hope that Ernie had a “wash out” hand (not enough to win) as he would count first as Steve had the deal. Then, if they both had high point hands, they had chance. They needed twenty eight points between them. The odds were not good.

Just as Erne stopped shuffling, Ed quietly said, “double,” and looked at Max.

“Crap,” said Steve. He knew what the odds were. The heat played on him as he looked at Ed, then Ernie. He felt resigned, the double catching him off guard. “O.K., your game.” He did not want another double.

“Wait,” said Max. The other three looked at him and postured, ‘really??’

“Steve, let’s play this out. There’s no guarantee.”

“Deal the cards,” murmured Steve.

There was no miracle, and the boys lost by twenty-four points. Two dollars and forty eight cents because of the double. The only grace being no skunk involved.

“Well now, that was fun. I have one question though,” said Ernie. “is there a limit on how much we can double?” He was perkier now even in his soaked shirt.

“I would think that one can double anytime,” said Ed. “Makes the ending that much more fun, especially if both teams have some good cards and pegging is to the wire. What say you Max, your the one who suggested the additional stakes?”

Steve peered at Max with a fallow look which suggested that the simple cribbage game at lunch had just entered a whole different universe than he was accustomed to. He felt nauseous. He had always relied on his gamesmanship to be competitive, but this “arrangement” Max had purposed swallowed him up. Sure it was just two dollars and change. But it was the FIRST GAME. Max had made lunchtime a possible financial mudhole. Why had he allowed himself to be a part this arrangement? What the hell was Max thinking, that by some miracle the game would turn into a Backgammon game?? Damn, damn, damn.

“Sure, why not,” answered Max.

“Alright!” lilted Ernie, “alright alright!!”

Steve stared at his hands. He had disconnected to the rhythm of the cards. What had he allowed himself to be part of?

“Well, I don’t think anyone is going to go crazy on this doubling option.” Ed had taken on a harder look, touched with coyness. He had no idea why Max had suggested the increase in stakes, but he believed Max was taking a “shot” at him if not Ernie. The kid needed a life lesson in cards.

“That is fine by me. What do you think Steve?” He did not want to leave Steve out of this anymore. He saw the downtrodden posture and felt obligatory to it. But Max knew Steve was disconnected.

Steve pushed past his chagrin, “I don’t care.”

As Ed dealt the cards, Steve looked straight at Max. Max was watching the cards leave Ed’s hands so did not notice the look. As the last card was dealt, Max looked up and smiled. Steve looked away.

The second game went down to the wire, with neither team doubling. The skunk hole is so named as many a player has landed in the last hole only to have the other person or team pass by and win. It “stunk.”

Ed and Ernie were five pegs out. Steve and Max were two to the skunk, three to win. The game would come down to pegging. The hand started with Ernie playing a four. Steve quickly paired him with another four and slipped the back blue peg into their skunk hole. Max watched the play and felt a pinch of regret. Ed slowly played a third four making the count six points. Ballgame. Another dollar, but more specific, a mental mistake that sent electrodes cursing through Steve’s head. Max looked at Steve and now could see resignation.

“Well, that was a close one,” chimed Ed. “Good game boys.” He pushed the cards toward Max. Max shuffled. He gave Steve a quick look. It was not returned. One more dollar.

In the third game Ernie and Ed not only jumped out quickly, but they jumped out to a distance that gave the look of a skunk game against the boys. Ernie galloped his peg ahead and passed the skunk line. The blue pegs were not even in red’s rearview mirror.

“Double” he exclaimed!

“o.k.” Max noted.

Steve was riding along now. He played passively, hoping the game would be soon over. He just nodded.

They played on. Max and Steve played o.k but after Ernie had counted the crib hand red stood erect in the skunk hole with blue mired twenty-two points behind.

“Your game,” said Steve thankful again that they had not been skunked or double skunked. That was the part of the scoring in the game which made Max’s “condition” that much harder to swallow. What was this Joker even thinking about!? Two dollars and change. ‘Thanks Max!’ Jeeze, what crap. He smoldered.

“No,” countered Max. “We make them win.”

Both Ed and Ernie chuckled.

“Come on, it’s over,” state Ernie.

“Let’s play it out,” Max continued.

“Well, then Max, your deal,” needled Ed. Now more than ever he wanted to bury this kid.

As Max shuffled, the sun was just beginning to slip in over their shade. It now was directly on Ernie. Steve moved to his right a little in a resigned fashion. Max sat crosslegged looking at the cards as he shuffled. Ed leaned on his left elbow with his hands loosely clasped, his left leg laying straight out and his right bent at the knee. His languid eyelids closed half down his orbs as he watched Max.

“Your kind of a quirky guy, hey Max?”

“Thanks” Max finished shuffling.

“Why would you play this out? Its impossible to win”

Steve put his chin in his hand waiting reluctantly for the cards. Ernie was feeling a little woozy as the excitement had gone out of the game and they had half a day’s work left. The after taste of cheap beer was terrible the next day.

“Not quite impossible,” noted Max as he dealt five cards to each.

Max quickly threw his crib card down and waited for the others to do likewise. Steve was almost as quick, but Max wasn’t so sure he even looked at the cards. Ernie discarded and then Ed . The crib filled, Ernie offered the cut. The cut card was an eight.

Ed had first play. He had kept one nine, one five, and a seven and a six. He had thrown a king in the crib. Pegging cards with points in hand. He played the seven. A trap card. He was looking for Steve to play into a possible run. Instead, Steve played a king. Max smiled. It was a good play. Steve was either playing rote or had not given up entirely. Seventeen. Ernie followed with a ten, making the score twenty seven. Ernie held another ten, a jack and a queen. He had tossed a nine in the crib. He rubbed his eyes with his shirt sleeve.

At Twenty seven Max played an ace. “Twenty eight.”

Steve could not play, so he passed.

Ed had the four low so passed as well.

Ernie followed with his pass.

Max played another ace, “twenty nine for two.”

He reached to the board and moved the back blue peg two holes ahead. He showed no expression.

Steve shrugged, “well partner, you saved us a few cents there.”

Max took his hand off the peg and said, “double.”

Ernie tilted his head, “really?? Accept.”

Ed’s short smile neutralized. He too wanted to get this over with and here was this kid playing with them while holding an impossible position.

“We will redouble you.” Ed prepared to play the next card.

“Alright” Max acknowledged.

Steve felt some bile moving up his throat. He had lost track of all the doubles. He stared at Max. Now he was pushing past angry. Max was playing with his money and it wasn’t funny. Did he really think these guys would say “uncle?” My gosh but what stupidity or ignorance!

Max laid the third ace on the others.

“Thirty for six.” He again took the back blue peg and moved it six more holes closer.

Ed sat up and looked at the board. Ernie was looking intently also. Steve was trying to comprehend what just had happened. His gaze went from angry to quizzical.

Max had counted to thirty. If he had one more ace, playing it would give him another twelve points. And then the last peg would be thirty one giving him an additional two points. That would be fourteen points and the game.

Without looking up, Max offered another ‘double.’

Ed now took his eyes of the board and looked hard at Max. Max had brought their team from twenty two points behind to an unfathomable but conceivable fourteen points to win. IF he had the fourth ace it was over. Ernie was squirming now with the sun totally immersing him. Steve sat slack jawed and waited. It was quiet, like a western movie playing up to the gunfight scene. Tension actually gripped the air.

“Tell you what, Ed and Ernie. We call this day even and walk away. I think that would be good.”

“Do you have an ace? Do you?” Ernie was getting worked up. ” Do you have the fourth ace? Let’s see, four would be worth twelve and thirty one for two. Crap, they would be out Ed!!”

Ed kept looking at Max. Yes some money was at stake, but that was not what Ed was thinking about. He was the pegging King. He was the one that knocked the air out of the other players by pegging them to death. And winning. Here was this nondescript youngster, pegging from twenty two holes behind and if he had the last ace, a huge if, he would peg out and win. Ed took his handkerchief out and removed his glasses.

“O.k. The first double made the game worth two dollars. You doubled which makes it four. Ernie and I redoubled up making it eight and now you go and double to make the game worth sixteen dollars.”

“Or we call the day even and walk away. With one condition.”

“You and all your conditions,” yelped Ernie, “He doesn’t have that ace Ed!!”

Ed cleaned his glasses and replaced them. He looked again at Max who sat quietly in his crosslegged position. Steve swiveled his head fighting the tension in his neck. Ed took a sip of beverage, ignored Ernie, sat up and opened his hands by his side, palms up.

“I agree with Ernie, you don’t have it.” But what is your condition, Max??

“We walk away square, but you don’t get to see the card.”

“Crap with that Ed!! Call him!” Ernie had relinquished control to Ed.

“Accept the double…now, kiddo, play your damn card.” Cordiality had been tossed.

“I played backgammon with my dad and cribbage with my grandfather. They were both good,” and Max laid the fourth ace down.

An ashen look came over Ernie. Now the sun was bearing through his first layer of skin and skewered his good nature. Ed just looked at the card and began to stand up. Neither said anything.

“Holy Crap,” yelled Steve. “What the hell! That is unbelievable!!”

Max did not ask for any money nor was any offered. They gathered their lunch items and all shuffled back to the work stations.

The afternoon went by quickly, as the game played on their minds. Ernie shot profane comments at Steve who tried to defend his position of having done nothing. Ed was quiet. Around two o’clock, James asked Max to retrieve a new color from the paint storage area. Max walked to the door and entered. He was still wondering how the game’s result would play out. He picked out the paint and went to the door. As he turned the knob it would not move. He wiggled it but could tell it had been locked. Max smiled to himself and set the paint down. The room was stifling hot. Taking off his shirt, he sat down and waited.

The cold wind came out of the west, surrounding the sod house. Susanna sat in the northeast corner attempting to gather as much warmth possible from a small fire flickering at the base of a earthen chimney. Though she had expected the cold, it still set her nerves on edge. Spring was due. She had hoped that it would have arrived now instead of this falling piece of winter. The year was 1856.

It was not a harsh storm but it was more than inconvenient to strike deep into her soul, touching nerves thought hardened by the recent survived winter and a recent warming trend. Now she found her trembles returned with the cold. The friendship she had begun with exhaustion and monotony as Spring dangled close now withered.

They had come West to begin self-sufficient lives. The chance to make their own destinies. The promise far exceeded the expectations. It took hardscrabble people to know that opportunity had small windows. They ventured to the plains to seek freedom, understanding simply that it was a way of life worth the challenge. This prospect and standing to themselves beat the warm broth and cold porridge consistent in servitude. The populations of the cities and the obstacle of being poor brightened hope with the opportunity to make their way West and live, not a dream but a cold sought destiny. The population of the country had grown from 17 million to almost 30 million in a little over a decade. The potato famine had brought scores of Irish Catholic to the shores. Movement of the “missing” was west-bound.

Denys was 29 and Susanna 26. They had married in a village outside of Boston and crossed over the mountains where he took labor in a buggy shop. That move brought them out of “bondage” but not independence. It was, however, a minor change to where they truly wanted to be, on their own. And that is what the West promised to the young country and the incoming immigrants. They all were lured to the territory marked Nebraska after the Kansas-Nebraska act of 1854 had been rammed through Congress by Stephen Douglas to begin the establishment of rail transport. This to bring more commerce to his native state of Illinois and the city of Chicago. Illinois was an older state, marked by a mix of country and city, south and north with alliances true to many political factions. Denys and Susanna were non political, though they supported the anti-slavery sentiment. This issue would be the flame that engulfed the region and progress as the lynchpin to “keep” the Union in the War between the States.

The Kansas-Nebraska act brought many, “natives” and the immigrants running from oppression and famine. While towns were established, the small farm operations were sprouting up on the prairie. Others came to help “tip” balance toward political ambitions with varied prospects.

Susanna and Denys courted no trouble but the swirling political tornado, which culminated with the election of James Buchanan as President, funneled around Kansas, Missouri and the Nebraska territories. That election aligned new allegiances and brought the demise of some of the old established political parties. The Whig party collapsed, the members turning to the Free-soil and the newly created Republican parties, each with their own champion. And the push back against Irish – German immigration gave rise to the Know-Nothing party and a former President to carry their standard, Millard Fillmore. The Democrats stood solidly behind the elected Buchanan. Their unification against their fractured opponents bolstered separation sentiment.

To Denys and Susana, the political climate did not have anything to do with their efforts. They had set out that early 1856 to pursue their 160 acre purchase and get started with the necessary building and plowing. They had joined a party of 60 led by a priest named Father Tracy. Most were Irish Catholics looking to settle and build a town. They hailed from near the town of Dubuque Iowa, were caught in the political upheaval and sought new roots. This group brought travel security. Susanna and Denys being Protestant was not a factor with the Papists. That long held enmity had turned more inward to strike mischief in the political factions. The little wagon train was pulled by oxen with bells dangling, chiming their songs rethemed to the landscape they crossed. The long grass which had been plowed up for cropland by earlier settlers now well established began to make way to the short grass area of the prairie, the land of the buffalo.

The train was friendly enough, knowing the satisfaction of community, but fell short of personal warmth. Their faiths were too diametrical. For Denys, he did not care, only to hold up his part of the train’s tasks. Susanna had hoped for a more social journey. She took umbrage with the fact that they were part of the collective. They moved all day and only made camp as the setting sun promised diminishing light. Around the varied campfires each family prepared supper and cleaned up. Time for chatting was limited, if it was even desired or attempted. Tiredness encroached quickly.

The town Father Tracy founded was platted and set near the Missouri river and named after John the Baptist. St. Johns town. The 60 settlers settled on ownership details and immediately began to build. Susanna might have desired to stay with the town element but it was not what they had set out to do. They moved farther west to establish their farm. Denys wanted to stay a days wagon ride of the new town, near a stream. Water was a necessity, especially until a well could be dug. His search took them two days out, but the site was promising. A small but deep stream wormed its way through undulating flatness. It began somewhere north, connected to the Platte River. The view was grass waving with the prevailing wind in jerky salute, the sky meeting it with a blueness broken by few clouds. Such vastness of beauty and solitude was new to both. Densy began the process of claim. Two souls in the vastness of newness.

Their worldly possessions were all in the wagon pulled by the engine of necessity, their oxen. One would be called upon to be the major muscle in their new lives. The other’s intent was for bartering for a milk cow and other needs. A cook stove, mattress, clothes, food stuffs, seed and the necessary implements all filled the interior of the wagon. They continued to live in it until a dugout was completed. Plowing began the following day.

There had been no children to make the journey. Two had died young, one of whooping cough and the other of an unknown malady. They had the benefit of a doctor, but the remedies fell short. It was hoped that children would be forthcoming once the farm became a reality. To make sure Susanna stayed baron until the completion of the dugout and plowing was well advanced, Denys and Brett did not come together. Birthing here was similar with that of the cycle of nature, with the Spring giving better chance of survival. They had a hard summer ahead of them. Security of home was paramount and they structured all activity toward that goal.

The first year found them daily fatigued from their work to get the dugout completed and acreage plowed. They chose a small undulated hill with a southern exposure. A hollow was carved which allowed their home to be transferred from the wagon. It was larger but the dirt was troubling to begin with. Susanna swept the floor constantly and it gradually began to firm up. She took command of the dugout and Denys concentrated on the crop. A well was needed and they were thankful the depth was shallow enough to make methane gas a non factor. It was deep enough, eight feet down, to stay open year round. By the end of June, he had 20 acres planted. The summer progressed well.

The first trip to St. Johns both had traveled to bring their first crop and procure next year’s needs. They were impressed at the progress made by the colony and were happy to once again engage in a little human communion, even if it was minimal. They traded the one ox for the milk cow as planed and procured what necessities they could. They stayed but a short time and moved out with the topping of the mid day sun. As evening approached, camp was easily made, the cook stove fueled by buffalo chips. (The “war” against the great beasts not yet commenced.) They re-embarked the next day and arrived home late the second.

.

Living and working the farm was extremely difficult given all of the contrary elements opposed to success; the virgin grass had to be plowed while the ground was moist or the roots would be too strong to overcome. This meant much mud. The wind seemed to blow forever. Summer brought periods of drought but there were times of great thunderstorms and tornados too. The sky went on forever and isolated emotions. Grasshoppers in biblical proportions whipped out many small farms. It was difficult to not only establish a farm but also to maintain one. To offset the summer challenges and the bitter winter was the rich soil to which crops did prosper when “outside” forces did not wreck havoc. And much wildlife was present. It was a hard chance to farm this virgin land, but it was also freeing. It was just that this freedom came at a cost.

After the first year they had come together to begin building a family. Susanna did not conceive. The idea that conception was a simple process vanished and it soured her on the farm. Children were a necessity. Their absence was profound. Now loneliness became more internal than external.

Denys had left six days ago and was due back two nights earlier. Susanna had never really acquainted herself with his absences. She knew that he made the journey to St. Johns twice each year. She steeled herself against them. The Fall trip was the “survival” trip as crop was taken to market. She found anxiety forming as the readying for the journey commenced. However it was the Spring trip where anxiety sucommbed to depression, which came in jerks and fits. Its cure so much dependent on Spring’s breath. She was reminded in her daily Bible reading of the seasons and their purpose of life, reading in Genesis 8:21-22 “as long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease.” It was all part of the cycle. But she admitted that on the back of bleakness, being alone, she was stirred with trembling thoughts.

Denys had been Susanna’s lone connection to human activity, excepting the occasional group of travelers. But their stays were brief, the desire or need to move on making interaction loose and non binding. She had not been to town since the farm had been established, to protect their livelihood. Learning to cope with isolation was no easy task. Her hopes and yearning for children falling deafeningly unfulfilled.

The farm had grown. Chickens were added for eggs and meat. At first they were free ranged, but the coyotes and fox dined repeatedly so that Denys built a small earthen coop for protection. There was still attrition, but it slowed down. New hatchlings helped to compensate while enough eggs were gathered for cooking and eating.

The milk cow produced good milk and she was joined by a partner, the pig. Denys had brought it back the third year. A sow. She was pregnant and produced a litter of which five survived. The sow was butchered that Fall and all but one young sow were taken to market where they were sold. The meat was heavily salted and tucked away in the old dugout for coolness. It as the “root’ cellar for their food.

Susanna had held firm to her faith, grown from the addiction of something to be hoped for. Her Faith was the lumen that kept her from unraveling in times of uncertainty and misadventure. But even her faith had to fight through the unrivaled atmosphere of loneliness. She loved the Spring flowers that bloomed in the meadow near the creek and looked daily for their color to arrive.

This storm whipped out any fantasy of them arriving anytime soon. Her weariness exacerbated the situation. Darkness crept in to replace her faith light.

Denys was long due. Susanna had attended the chores with a woolen wrap tucked over her bonnet and upper body. She wore leggings underneath her skirt and leather shoes tucked with woolen socks. The wind pierced the protection with bitterness, but she was able to get all animals cared for and secured water for the house. She kept the fire going but the wind battled the sod for rights. It was a chilling kind of deluge and caustic in nature. Susanna felt herself moving to an attitude of indifference. With dull eyes, she looked out the framed window and looked at the field void of color, color of any brightness or joy. Brown and Grey. she swept the horizon for any sign of the wagon. Nothing.

It was not as if periods of melancholy had not swept over her in the past. When needed she had allowed a good cry to occur just as she allowed songs of joy to be sung when her heart was full. This “storm” had a weeping feeling but would not allow tears to form. Instead, she tranced into a shell and ached at the lost feeling that crept to her. Five years, no children, closest neighbors five miles if not more; the quiet unbroken with laughter from young ones. And now Denys was overdue. He was always punctual for her sake when taking his bi-annual trips.

History swirled all around her. Yet she was caught in this cocoon of isolated fear, incubating under the heat of loneliness. She believed she was alone, completely. Any number of events could have taken Denys, the least being sickness and the most severe a confrontation of sorts. Denys knew how to care for himself, but that did not make him immune to misfortune, any which could cost him his life. She understood Death’s shadow. Lived in it. But she never quite felt that it blocked the sunshine of hope completely.

Sitting in that corner, wrapped in a homespun quilt, still damp from the chores done in the storm, ‘Anna’s soul felt the dark shadow taking root and erasing such hope. She laid her head against the cool sod and looked at the floor. How long she was in that postion could only be told by the darkness outside and the cold that had replaced any of the now extinguised fire. Susanna shivered to her depth.

The wind had silenced with the dark. The cloud cover shielded any moon light. The blackness meant nothing to ‘Anna. She sat shivering, preventing any stiffness from completely overwhelming her. Her joints suffered a dull ache, pain that was agitated by the shaking. There was a nothingness all about her. She closed her eyes and wondered if she would be willing to go on.

Morning was stingy in taking its position. Yet it pushed through the clouds with a light grey. Susanna’s eye lids slowly opened and she succored to focus on the lightness of the day. Her eyes slowly moved across the landscape. Alive but staring. A crack in the morning grey dribbled a yellowish smear. It seemed to startle the morning. ‘Anna pulled the quilt around her with veiny hands, stiff from the cold. This action shifted her gaze to the hill to the southwest. There was a dark form lumped on its top. Like a small box. Susanna’s eyes began to follow the box.

Denys broached the rise to the farm just as the sun broke between the sky. He knew he was behind schedule. He was concerned for his wife. At the sight of the farm fatigue dripped from him. Adrenaline began to accelerate. He noticed that the chimney was smokeless. The chickens were not in the yard. Nothing moved. It was a picture tinted in brown dappled with yellow light. Silent as if hung on a wall. He wanted to ride down on the purchased horse but needed to stay with the wagon and the speed produced by the reliable ox. They made their way slow but steady, inching down the incline.

Susanna watched the box coming closer and examined the features. It had a stick standing off to the side, higher than the wagon. Funny, what was that stick? This vision that she watched slowly brought her to a thought process of inquisition. She sat straighter in the chair and looked a little more intently. The box stayed somewhat the same excepting there was an animal in front of it. The stick sat on another animal. She did not connect to any possibility that it was Denys. He had no horse.

Denys decided to let the ox take its own lead. He asked his mount for a cantor. It was an ordinary horse of unknown origin. But it was sturdy and responded to his prompts. He closed on home.

‘Anna saw him coming closer, leaving the box behind. The stick was a rider. Who? The action prevailed upon her to stand. She still wore the damp clothing of the previous day and shook with chills. Then the rider was to the house and getting off the animal. A horse. She knew few people who had a horse, so she was not aware of who the person was. She quickly looked back up the ridge and saw that the box was still coming. Who was in it? Then the front door opened.

Denys looked at his wife standing by the window, shivering. The darkness of the room hid her features. He called to her, “Susanna?” She did not answer. Slowly he moved to her and as he did she backed with shuffling feet. “Anna?” he spoke softer. Somewhere she heard him and quit moving. Denys moved deliberately but slowly to her. When he was within arms reach he said easily but quietly, “Anna, its me, Denys.” Susanna blinked. Denys ever so slowly reached and touched her wrist. She did not move. He moved his fingers lightly and then slowly down to her hand. With slight movement, he tightened his fingers and felt a response. “Anna… Anna, its me Denys. I am home.”

Susanna sat next to him with her head nestled to his shoulder. They sat as such until Denys gently and slowly moved upward and brought here with him. “I must get a fire going and get the chill out of you.” Susanna stood still. He guided her to a chair by the fireplace. Before he sat her down, he gently but quickly took of her damp clothing and threw on a wool night gown. When he sat her down he covered her with two wool blankets and footwear. It was not long to get the fire going as the bed of coals was sufficient to help produce the draft needed. Once the smoke was working its way up the chimney he added more fuel and the fire leaped to life. Denys looked at ‘Anna and saw she was watching. She had not said anything up to this time. “Wait right here. I will be back in a moment.” He slipped out the door.

Susanna felt the fire on her feet and curled them back under her. The warmth from the flames swept over and she melted in exhausted relief. Suddenly Denys was standing by her side, with something shrouded in a canvas cover. “Anna, I brought you a present.” With those words, Denys pulled the canvas away and revealed a cage. Inside the cage were two birds, colored in brilliance. Susanna blinked. “For you, hon. I thought they would bring some brightness for you. It is said that they are pretty hardy!” Susanna slowly stood and looked at the birds. They were mulit colored in yellow, brown and red. She had not seen such before. Their colors contrasted to the bleakness which surrounded her. The dark veil wrenched free from her mind. She smiled, slowly.

“I am going to go out and take care of our animals. You just stay with the birds and keep them company.”

Anna slowly moved her gaze from the birds to Denys. “Thank you.”

Denys moved the her chair a little further from the fire. He pulled up a stool and placed the birds. She sat and watched them swing on the stick hung in the middle. The fire played in the back ground.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Susanna again broke her gaze and looked at Denys, this time with more substance. “Thank you.”

Denys moved out the door and to the horse. He gathered the reins and began leading it to the stock pen. His left hand moved down to the growing red stain on his shirt.

where is my hammer?

I freely admit that I have retreated. Not routed mind you, but drawn back to more defensible lines. These are shorter and buffered with greater quantities of sandbags. There is no relief, for I had barely secured these lines when Weather pounded its assault in a frontal attack. There is no feinting. Yes, the pounding seems seamless and when I look to see if there is relief in front of me, the grey color of the offense marks no let up. I have called for “reinforcements,” and help has arrived if only to help succor my defenses for a moment, but I know that I will be called soon to man the defenses more ardently than in the past. So I conclude that there is but one tactic left to me.
Build an Ark.
I realize that the Bible does not specifically state how long it took Noah to build his Ark, but I am guessing it was considerable. However long it took, I don’t believe my nerves can stand up to much more. Call it shell shock or battle fatigue. Or the newer modern phrasing post trauma affect disorder. It matters only that it has strengthened its grip on me. I lash out at my foot soldiers, yelling at the dogs because they are acting like dogs. Or roughly displaying unwarranted activity upon my Calvary, throwing their hay in the muck without regard to the that unpleasant motive.
No, I am going with the time line of Russell Crowe, or at least of how long it took to watch the movie. (Here I freely admit that I walked out of the movie shortly after they closed up the ark and the waters came roaring in! So I will take the reviewer’s word that it took roughly two plus hours to watch.) I think I can get it done in that time frame provided I get the help that he and his family secured from the “Creator,” whomever that is referenced to. So I believe that I can get this Ark done. And I am not bringing all the animals of the world. Just my soldiers and Cavaliers! And of course my girls. This is my isolated project and I give no thought as to how others may or may not be coping.
It seems so selfish this pity I am experiencing. With the southern lines getting blasted with tornadoes, leaving casualties in bodies and minds, we have not lost any to death. And where tremors of earthquakes are startling the western boundaries, we have not yet had any such terrifying loosening of underpinning. But I freely admit I cannot take the constant barrage of the grey clad enemies attacks of rain, sleet and snow. There is no let up and sitting in the cold wet trenches beckons my distraught anguish. I grow irritated at my adulterer mind condition. I must take action if only to neutralize the enemies attack.
It is once again 35 degrees with a light sleet attacking from the north. I will have to work on the ark while the enemy continues the onslaught. But though my resources are limited, I cannot even begin to build without my hammer.
Where did I put it?

He had the job of getting the four of them to church, his youngest daughter and the neighbor’s two. They were all about six. Semi-controllable. Or at least controllable by a Dad “look.” However control was not necessary as the event that morning converted the children from floor surfers to complying urchins. But not Ellen.

She held center stage.

They were busy sliding on the kitchen floor in their socks; the children not the Dad. The four of them were heading to Church, his wife and eldest already having left for commitment reasons. He was on time as his coffee was still hot and had just given the “all aboard” command as the children began their final slides. Two completed their slides using the counter to brake. One did not. While hurrying her slide, Ellen’s speed had accelerated too fast and her balance was sidelined. She was not going to reach the safety of the counter before losing control. All contact, for the moment, vaporized. Then her chin met the hardwood floor.

His coffee became cold and tasteless as he whipped his head around. He saw a gash emerge red, just below Ellen’s chin. She sat silent as the blood started to geyser. He quickly examined the blood flow and grabbed a couple of kitchen towels. He knew only stitches would close the wound. He applied a towel which instantly soaked red. Gathering Ellen in his arms, he gave totalitarian directives to the two stage-struck observers. The children behaved handsomely and were soon ready. He set Ellen on the table steadying her with one hand and picked up the phone. He called the friend’s Mom and advised her that he was heading to the hospital. She would have to collect her own there.

Ellen’s blood kept coming, oozing rapidly, and he was growing concerned. Slipping on his boots, he took up his position at the back of the quickly formed Que and ushered it outside, stepping through the Spring mud toward the cold car sitting in the drive. The friends were ushered into the backseat. Ellen was deposited in the passenger seat and given the clean towel. He showed her how to hold it and discarded the stained one in the mud. After the initial yell of surprise, Ellen had remained mute. He affirmed to all listening ears that “it would be alright” while glancing quickly at his daughter. She stared ahead, holding the towel in place. Buckling as he drove he left the dirt driveway, hit the black-top, and sped toward town. The normal travel time to the hospital was ten minutes. Five minutes later he shut the car off and hurried Ellen into the emergency room, the two friends following.

Ellen was somber and scared, seemingly dazed. She had not cried nor complained. But she also had not spoken. She kept her gaze forward while keeping the towel pressed on here chin. The towel was as the other now, more red than the original white. He told her it was going to alright. But the blood flow suggested urgency.

They grouped in front of the desk. The hospital protocol was engaged, following which they were taken immediately to a waiting room. The “troops” came close behind. Not long after a nurse dressed in blue hospital fatigues entered and chartered them to an examining room. She had Ellen lay on nearby table and applied a sanitized compress. She had him hold it to Ellen’s chin. Just then the “troops” Mom came and took charge of her young ones. She promised to let his wife know that Ellen was o.k. and that they would be home as soon as possible. The two friends had wanted to stay, but he was relieved.

The nurse, in a matter of fact way, offered practical encouragement. The words did not salve his frayed nerves. Yes, the cut would be fine. What bothered him were the large brown eyes that were riveted at nothing. He could feel that Ellen needed him to fix this situation and all he could do was press towels. She had no idea what hospitals did or would do. She just knew what her daddy could or would do. She was six years old. Daddy’s fixed everything, yet all he could do was be a bystander who employed soothing. The compress was changed as they waited for the doctor. The wait aged.

A century later a Doctor quietly eased his way into the room. He nicely said hello and scrutinized the cut. Her chin had hit the floor hard enough to cause a split that was uniform in its straightness but deep, which explained the constant flow of blood. Stitches were confirmed. As the nurse prepared the utensils the Dr. scrubbed his hands. Turning from the sink, he bent low to speak to Ellen.

“I am going to give you a shot which contains Novocaine. This will hurt for just a minute and then your chin will feel funny. Numb. This is so you won’t feel anything as I take care of your cut. Is that o.k.?” Ellen just looked at him with her huge brown eyes, acknowledging nothing.

“O.K. now this will sting for just a short time as I said, but very quickly you won’t feel a thing. All right?” He was trying to be nice and comforting. He looked for some acknowledgement of “all’s well” in her little head. But Ellen continued to maintain her direct if not questioning gaze.

Her silence gave him no comfort. He was churning inside. The nurse gently placed a towel-mask over Ellen’s face with holes for eyes and nose. The chin area of the mask was exposed as well. The mask unsettled him for some reason and he looked for a chair to sit down next to her. He placed one by the table and placed her left hand between both of his. Her hand felt so small and cold. He offered some more soft words of encouragement.

The Doctor spoke, “all right, this will sting, but just for a moment.” The needle descended to the gash.

That was when time stopped. He knew that everything would be o.k. The cut was clean. The scar would be small. All that was elementary. What he could not shake was the useless feeling that had descended on him. In some silly way the Protector had not protected. This smothered and choked him. Unmerited guilt, but guilt just the same.

With the mask in place he could only see her left eye. That is where he kept his attention. It was focused straight ahead. Though he softly reassured, his words trailed into the nether of meaningless. She was safe. The doctor was in control. There was nothing to fret about. Yet her attitude of chilling quiet was telling him that her six years of life was not understanding. She had been hurt and her dad had not fixed it. He felt like crap.

As the needle entered her skin she did not wince or tense. She slowly turned her eye to his face. Her hand moved and tightened on his. He moved closer. He looked straight into her eye imploring her to know he was taking care of her.

Water formed on the outside of the orb and proceeded to well up. A tear. And as it welled up he could feel his heart beating a little faster. And now, focused on his face, the beautiful brown eye let loose that one tear to trickle slowly down her cheek. The tear shattered his emotional equilibrium. One tear from his little girl’s eye. Behind the tear he could see that she was afraid, but he also saw that she knew he was there. She knew he was doing right. She had not lost her trust in him. He was her daddy. And he was there.

Later, as she told her mother the whole story, he sat close by and thought of that tear. She never mentioned it in the retelling. Yet it was the whole story to him.

Ten years later he broke her arm. That day he threw up.

It was a harsh snow, coming on the heels of a spoof of spring. I had gone out to begin plowing early, but not early enough. The accumulation had already topped half a ruler and was gaining the top. Removal would be tedious. But the greater concern was the ice forming underneath. It was not a kind snow. It stung on contact.

We knew the snow was coming. My goodness, you can see what the weather is going to be like a year in advance! So most of us make plans, a bottle of whiskey not the best option until plowing is done. However, like the infamous philosopher Mike Tyson said, “everyone has a plan, until they get punched in the mouth.” We got punched! Just two days earlier the sun had soaked the snow enshrined ground and made headway into its distillation. Not this day. And I had forgotten what the prediction had said a year ago! When the dark clouds began forming, my preparations began. Gas the tractor. Secure the snow gear from the closet (the closet floor) where they had been placed two days earlier. Bother.

My Oldest daughter works at a day care facility. She, being reliable like her mother, gets the early morning shift so to smile at crying children. This means she deploys from the house around 5:15 to be at the shop by 5:30 a.m. She drives a Buick Grand Am with a floor clearance of about 1/2 inch! My task is to get the driveway cleared to access the county road. Most days we get the job done. Some times we use Mom’s Expedition with its 5 feet of clearance and drive her. We have plans C and D but the best way is to man up and get her path “cleared.” Crap.

I had plowed enough by the time she needed to be off. Enough for her to make the road. Our house sits on a hill so I suspected her vehicle would be alright once nosed down and on its way. I offered to have her follow me as insurance. (She needs to go to school right after she gets off work.) She accepted my offer and we lined the cars. As I moved down the drive all seemed good. Presumptuous! I thought she would wait until I bottomed the asphalt before following. I therefore stopped 2/3 of the way down to pour a cup of coffee. Mistake. She had started down before the coffee hit the bottom of the cup. My bad! I watched her coming and quickly released myself to the road. She had already touched the brake and put the car into an “automatic” slide. She came to rest against the snowbank. We both knew that the Grand AM was not going to go anywhere. She jumped in and off we went settling on plan C, my driving her in my car. (The rest of the alphabet plans were geared for when I was 30.)

I dropped her off and promised to be back to pick her up for school. I EVEN said that I would not try the driveway but park down at the bottom of the drive. But when I arrived back at the house, a little voice cheered in my head, “ah, you can do it!” I proceeded to accelerate up the drive. The spinning began half way up and the complete stoppage and tire burning at the 2/3 marker. Uh oh. I came to full rest just below the crest of the flat upper part. I had gotten the car to the side, just up from where the hip hugging Buick had secured itself. Now two cars were staring at me saying, “Ya think??!!”

Exiting the car and clamoring back onto the tractor, I began pushing snow again, maintaining the top and staying away from the cars. The weather was to warm up and the snow to melt by afternoon. But it was still coming down at Clipper speed and if I did not want a swimming pool I had to get it off the pavement. I actually was calm, but then again there was no one around to yell at! And then that little voice chirped again. “Go down alongside the cars so there will be a path up and down the drive.” There WAS a path, but ice was beginning to build up. Rationalizing! It would probably be fine by pickup time, but I listened anyway. (Before you think that I listen to that voice all the time, I don’t, but I am stubborn my daughter’s tell me.)

I lowered the front bucket to scrape the forming ice and began to descend. Oops. I instantly began following the “grade” which pointed toward the cars instead of the intended path. My car was getting closer. I lifted the bucket off the cement and cranked the front tires away. “Forget about it!” You got it, right?! I had one option that boycotted panic. That was to tilt the bucket so that it would “cup” the front end of the car and do minimal damage. Minimal in that perhaps I could keep the damage under $1000. Whump! What, not Crash and Gouge? I turned off the green machine and slid off the seat, settled on the ground and held on to the tractor so I would not end up splayed at the end of the driveway. Making my way to the bucket, I wondered if one or both headlights were sightless. Peering around I noticed two distinct images; that the car was uninjured and that the bucket was full of sticky snow that had remained in the bucket after the last dump. Hey, hey, hey! I then looked at the position of my car and saw that it had been moved back about two feet. It now was sitting quite plainly on level ground out of the ice grooves. “Try and drive it down.” Oh no, that familiar voice. But I was “feeling it!” Why not? I clambered in and started it up. The other car was dead behind about 30 feet away. Just needed the tires to grip. If the tires did not grip, I, or rather my KIA would be kissing the Grand Am; a kiss which would cost a bit more than a Red Light Lady! Test my luck?!

I put my car in reverse.

Late that afternoon a friend stopped over for coffee. Daughter had made school, the snow on the drive was melting nicely, and I was applying heat to my leg. As we looked out on the open deck, sun splashed now, we were pleasantly amazed. It was covered with Bluebirds!! Hundreds more were scattered over the grounds. They were brilliant in their blue and offsetting white patched with red. Spring. It was a beautiful visage. Most likely they had been driven south by the now dead storm and were regrouping to begin their offense back north. Their colors strikingly offset the whiteness now draining slowly away. Spring was trumping winter. The coffee tasted so good.

Oh, sorry, I did miss her car! Maybe by four inches??!

A week later we received 17 inches of snow over the course of a night and a day. I had to pry my wet ass off the tractor seat and lay in a tub of hot water. I guess winter had some reserves.

I did not see any Bluebirds.

I think they are in Mexico.

The Band quit playing in 1978. The University cut the heart out of a young coach, just as the season was coming to an end. It was a done deal, sealed and packed away where it could not be revealed or opened. D1 Hockey was done, finished, kicked in the ass out the door. Oh, there were other sports added to the list. They were pinned to the bulletin board for anyone to see. Cost savings was the mantra. But hockey, that demon that always festered those die hard basketball fans who lived and died for Penn basketball and football success, had to be terminated. It was intolerable that this sport, let alone any sport, have attendance at full capacity and the basketball team come up short. Had to take that probability away.

Money. The University was up against it for money. Who would have guessed? And dropping D1 sports such as badminton, tennis, gymnastics and hockey was going to put it back in the black. Right. Students rose up and marched on the Presidents office (students always like to rise up for something.) “Give us our sports back or we are going to park ourselves in your hallway.” Whatever. The University “gave in” and put back in play all of the sports pinned to the wall. That bad boy stayed locked away.

This was untouchable said the University. The decision could not be reversed. “In its current capacity hockey draws down too much liquid capital from our sports programs. You can have the cheap ones back.” (Well, hockey players have never shied away from drawing down real liquids.) But the students did not see the difference. They had a hard enough time passing Econ-1 and Stat-1. At least they got back the much attended “other” sports. There was the caveat of the administration looking at possibly renewing the program, in the future. They just failed to enunciate what it would look like.

It had been a backroom sell out. Perhaps the regents wanted some head on the platter from the athletic department to show how serious they were to the alumni. That head wasn’t going to be football or basketball. Wouldn’t look like a real Ivy League school then. Except they never told anyone of possible interest about the decision. Not even the hockey program, friends or boosters. There was no time to organize and see about financial support outside the Ivy walls. The program had unknowingly eaten its last meal.

So it was left to a cop’s kid from Minneapolis; a Penn grad and certified Physical Therapist, whose integrity, hard work and passion had drawn kids with aptitude, attitude and skills to once again compete at the top-level. He was on his own to try and get to that sealed envelope. Didn’t even get a “sniff.” No one inside the University had his back. So he made sure he had the back of his players and found them places at other Ivies and colleges. He left no one behind who wanted to continue to play while securing a coveted degree. Once he had placements adjudicated, he walked away from 1923, she who he had helped inaugurate while a senior captain.

The memories of all the time committed to make D1 real, practicing and playing in Cheery Hill New Jersey had their moments, but it was in the 1923 Rink under another young passionate coach that Penn had pushed the envelope of excellence. Now that envelope was sealed and hidden.

It was a brutal ending. Players who had been part of the legacy were off making lives and families. Ones from eras before were never contacted personally as the moorings had been cut with only slight mention. They would read snippets about what occurred in the back pages of the Daily Pennsylvanian and local papers. And the next week those papers would be used to wrap fish on Market Street.

The resumption of hockey came in the way of pay your own way, Mate. Club hockey. And come they did. Friendships were made. Memories developed and “lied” about. Beer still sampled in unmeasured quantities. 1923 was still there. The sacrifices resurfaced but this time instead of spatial it was financial (the players not the U/P.) In Philadelphia hockey is loved. People are passionate for the game.

The years clicked by. Careers were established. Children sprouted and grew. Players from the silk days began to look over their shoulders. How were things at Penn? What had transpired for old teammates? A slow trickle of interest started to accrue; enough to generate a gathering. And a game, of course. Older bodies and minds reverted to younger days and the thrill of Never Never Land. But now maturity was articulated and the thoughtful acknowledgement that D1 hockey has a place still available at 1923.

When Ernest Shackleton needed an additional 24,000 pds to meet the required 60,000 to make his historic journey, he turned to a philanthropist in Scotland, Sir James Key Caird. He was not optimistic, but time was dwindling down and resources run dry. Shackleton was about to leave without one quid when Sir James told him to hold on. He produced a pen and wrote a check in the amount of 24,000 pds. “I like passion and I think one’s talent should be used where it is best,” he said. And Shackleton became one of the world’s greatest leaders.

Frank Hurley was the famed photographer on the voyage. When he signed on, he did not know that Shackleton had sold the film rights, story rights, in fact every “right” to help finance the “run across Antarctica.” When he told Hurley that he would have to give up his rights to is pictures, Hurley still decided to go. Sir Ernest asked him why? “My dad said there is always a way and if not find one,” said Hurley. And his pictures along with the story have made riveting history.

The Imperial Trans-Antarctica Expedition was considered in severe trouble when a committee was drawn up to discuss the chance of organizing relief. (money hard to come by in the middle of a war.) It was still meeting when Shackleton arrived in Chile safely with his full compliment of crew.

Whatever or whomever decides to make the Band play again at 1923, there will need to be passion and willingness to find or make the way.

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