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Why am I not ‘Merry’ as the Christmas season has begun? And why do I ask questions that I already know the answer to?

I’ll start with the favorite holiday of my family while growing up. Thanksgiven for most seems to have become preparation for ‘Black Friday’.

Despite my reluctance, I’m frazzled by all the shopping. We’re told “get it now or it will no longer be available in another week or two. I got caught in that trap.

All of my Christmas decoration stuff (mostly religious) remains in storage in Florida.

The spirit of olden times is buried in the back of my mind somewhere.

Commerce has overwhelmed Christianity.

All sorts of these things give me heartache and headache..

My aching back amplifies all of the above. Fusion surgery is still two weeks away. I’ve come to believe that when you are experiencing great pain everything else in your world suffers. I’m thankful to Gail for her every assistance, especially when I can’t walk.

Despite all . . . my spirituality does not suffer. I was truly thankful on Thanksgiving and will be uplifted as always by the birth of my Savior.

As I send this message out, I pray that all who read it will feel the love of God.

It’s still a bit early, but my wishes for a Merry Christmas

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Yesterday was my first ‘major’ sales event of this year. It was hosted by the women of the ADK Fraternity. I’ve always counted on my sales at this craft fair to cover expenses for my next book. My sales were considerably below my expectations. Still, I’m grateful. I’m thinking that this will be my last craft show, and my next book will also be my last.

I’ve already posted a blog on my stroke and its aftermath symptoms continuing.. Simply stated, I can’t do any major writing any longer. (It’s taken me 15 minutes to write a paragraph and a half so far). Add to the circumstance that I have two worn-out disks in my back and the pain has been almost debilitating. Don’t get the idea that I’m to the point of: “Alas, woe is me.” I can still celebrate every new day and thank God for all my blessings in life.

So, in order to keep my brain healthy, I’ll continue to write. This website will be my outlet. I can still blog every day . . . and I hope to do so. I hope that many of you will take a minute or two to check my blogs, and give me feedback. Your comments are golden inspirations — sometimes they will give me an idea to write about the next day.

I still have ‘Joe’ to keep me occupied. ‘Joe’ is my next and last book. Luckily, I was able to finish the story before my stroke in July. I’d hoped to give the story one more rewrite, but that didn’t happen. I am convinced that the Lord didn’t want me to make any changes, so it will be published — hopefully before Christmas.

Today will be a family day. My son Chris (Tiffer) his lovely wife, Susan, and three of my six grandchildren. It’s going to be a lovely day. If you’ve got grandchildren, you know how wonderful it is to be ‘grampa’ or ‘gramma’ — nothing is sweeter. Braden, Noah, and Madeline always bring joy to my life.

Next, I’ll blog about Christmas . . . and maybe step on some toes.

The idea wandered through my mind in late summer. Sadly I wasn’t going to be able to write any more novels. But I found something I’d forgotten about that gave me inspiration. Years and years ago I dabbled with writing short stories. I chose the first one I’d ever written — something I had titled ‘Beanpole and the Brute.’ I believed if I posted the story as a whole, very few would take the time to read it. So I decided to post it in small segments that could be read in just a few minutes. I came up with eight short episodes.

To make a long story short . . . the effort was a failure. Add to that I’m coming to believe the same is true with my website. A lot of Russian (presumably) send comments almost daily. Hackers.

It would be too hard to quit. I’m considering political blogs. Naturally, that would get some angry reactions. But, as ‘they’ say, “words will never hurt you . . .” Another idea is posting a joke every morning. Something that might raise a smile to start the day with. Or a combination of things, I love quotes of thought or inspiration. Maybe even some religious thoughts — I have a serious spiritual side, too.

If you have any ideas please let me know. I love my website but I will need to get a readership going . . . if I sell a book or two that’s fine as well. I hoe to get five comments on this blog. Thanks.

Three years in the military will change any man or woman in ways they might not truly understand until later in life. Tommy had changed in dramatic ways. . . . nobody, absolutely nobody, would ever think of calling him beanpole at six-five and 220 pounds. Pounds of pure muscle.

It was early June when Mick heard the car screech to a stop in front of his house. He peered curiously through the open draped window and saw a man he hadn’t seen in years . . . or was it? “Oh my God it is him – Tommy! Mick dropped his book, rushed to the door, and stepped onto the porch in stunned disbelief. “Look at you, Tommy! You look like a tight end on a pro football team, or the guy who kicked sand in the face of skinny kids on the beach. “We grew up with those ads, didn’t we Beanpole?” Mick couldn’t keep from laughing — Beanpole omore.

“Thanks, Mick. So good to see you and Valley View, its been a long time. You haven’t changed much,” he gave his friend a hug. Stepping back Tommy added , , , “nor has Cougartown for that matter,” He knew that prairie towns tend to wear the same suit of clothes one year after the other. The two young men chatted for nearly an hour with0ut bringing to mind Tommy’s humiliation. Mick had found his high school yearbook and lots of memories were shared. There was a long pause before Tommy said “I’ll only be in town for a few days . . . you know why I’m here, don’t you Mick.” Tommy’s eyes seemed to noticely slip into a steel gray.

“We’ve been beating around the bush long enough, Mick. Now . . . where in hell is Freddy Trainor? I have a gut feeling that he’s still here in Valley view pushing his weight around.” Mick felt that the question needed an honest answer. “He’s in town but I’ve been off to college for the most part so I haven’t seen . . .”

“Call the local bar for me, Mick. My knuckles are getting so hot they’re almost on fire. .

“Okay, Tom. .Btt carrying a grudge for so long isn’t right. After all lots of kids got bloodied up by that bully. Don’t you think that’s just a part of growing up?”

“Not with me it ain’t. You don’t have a clue about what that incident haa grown in my stomach for three years, Mick. The bar still called Brewsters?

He dialed, then looked up grimly from the phone. “No just an old classmatr’s visiting town and wants to say hello,” Rod said that he’s there, Tommy..”

Tommy’s grinwas lethal. “Lets go, there’s no time like the present. And I’d appreciate if you joined me, Mick. You were there when it happened that Friday long ago. . . you saw how I went into a shell after the humiliation.” Tommy laughed as he went in the door. Today you will see an entirely different outcome,.

The walked down the main street toward Brewsters without a word spoken between them. Both we posssesswd of their own thoughts, and apprehensions.

Inside the local bar was boisterous. yet above the noise one could hear the twang lonesome twang of an old country song by Willy. On the far side of the bar was Freddy Trainor talking with a wild head of blond hair and lipstick that any man would want to kiss, Tommy thought of the unraveling of fate . . . and the irony of this being a Friday. Revenge. Yes, sweet revenge. man’s eternal folly.

THE CONCLUDING CHAPTER

Somebody once said that revenge can only be found on the road to self-destruction.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, Mick.” Tommy’s voice was almost a whisper. Mick touched his elbow before opening the door. “Good luck my friend . . .” his bidding was feeble, but sincere. He didn’t want to watch.

Tommy stepped inside the door, then paused momentarily to allow his eyes to adjust to the shadowy room. His trained gaze moved slowly through the cigarette smoke meeting every face in the large room.

Freddie Trainor was standing with a heavy-set girl at the far end of the long oak bar. His head was facing the girl as he lifted a half-empty mug of beer, then. he looked toward the shaft of light from the open doorway. He saw a stranger standing there . . . eyes focused on him. Trainor looked away, trying to place the face. The man was familiar but very different at the same time.

Tommy’s recognition, however, was immediate. Trainor was still as square as a block. But . . .before Tommy could call him out, Freddy was stepping away from the bar. From out of a foggy past, Freddy finally put a name to the face. As Tommy stood in place, Freddy the Brute approached. Tommy stood with his feet firmly set and his fists in the ready at his side. Freddy’s approach, however, was open-armed — as if he were expecting to hug an old friend. Unexpectedly, Freddy’s face creased into a wide smile. “Tommy! I hardly recognized you . . ,” He laughed, the ‘Beanpole’ sure has disappeared.”

Tommy wasn’t ready for even the slightest display of friendship . . . but before he could react Freddy’s arms were around his chest. “I’ll be darned, sun-of-a- gun, how long has it been? My God, Tom, you been playin’ football or somethin’ these past few years. You’re like hugging a tree. How the heck have you been since graduation to become like an Adonis?

Tommy was speechless. This was all wrong . . . his script, written in hatred, made no sense under these circumstances. All he could muster was, “I’m fine . . . how about yourself? Now Trainor had tears in his eyes, “Let me buy you a drink or soda or somtthin’. A toast to the good ole days.

The astonishment melted the scowl off Tommy’s face. He smiled as he looked down at his beer-bellied nemesis, and lifted him gently off of the floor. It’s been a long time hasn’t it Freddy. But I’ve thought of you more often than you can imagine. The venom in his voice was gone, the hate in his heart was gone, too. Tommy had his revenge on this afternoon. Strangely, he had learned that there is no revenge as complete as forgiveness.

“Time is a thief . . .” Perkins had told his class years before. Tommy realized that sometimes what it steals is for the best.

THE END

Three years can slip by almost without notice in Vally View , the lazy town on the Iowa prairie. It might be noted that rural places seem to wear the same old suit of clothes one year after another. And lost in the passage of time was the once close relationship between the two former Cougar basketballers. Each had gong their separate ways; neither young man had heard a thing from the other since the night of the Valley View’s Senior Class Commemncement. Yet both of their lives were moving inexorably toward their chosen goals.

In the fall Mick would be a junior on his pre-law studies at the State Universi\ty[. Still thin and gangly; the young scholar seemed to cling to the dreams of his freshman year. Tall and still as lean as he was as a senior, still freckle-faced, and nearly every feature unchanged from the graduation photographs in the Yearbook.. Only the receding hairline and thinning hair were noticeable.. Yet Mick seemed to flowing as gently as a prairie stream making it’s way to the Mississippi.

Tom’s course was different, but equally governed by purpose and direction. Fot Tommy, the former Beanpole, the U,S. Marine Corps was a means to an end, kept alive in his mind every day. Those same three years that had treated Mick so kindly brought profound changes to Tommy. Tommy’s goal never changed because the memory of that drizzly March Friday would never be forgotten, nor was the SOB who pounded lumps o\n his face, broke his ribs, and left hin groveling in the mud before being taken to the hospital.

Every hour of every day for three years, Tom remembered how changed his life was after the brawl. Trainor the brute remained a vivid picture in his mind. During those years, former girlfriend Sally Jean had married and moved to the neighboring town of Wellington; So, During those years Tommy worked tirelessly, building his body and mastering every tactical military skill that would render his body as a lethal weapon. Beanpole no longer existed. Tommy could press more weight than any man in his company, In the boxing ring he achieved a far more appropriate nickname– ‘The Mauler’

Tom’s inspiration was unique and personal. Three years had passed and Tommy was due for a long-delayed leave. He’d make one final trip to Valley View.. He would say hello to his former teacher, Mister Perkins , , , and say ‘goodbye’ to the so-called ‘Brute’. .