F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

family

All Around The Fire Pit

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Dad's Fire Pit. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 13, 2016)
Dad’s Fire Pit. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 13, 2016)

What is it about fire that we so love?

I don’t mean all those massively destructive ones that ruin lives, but the far smaller, controllable ones that we love to sit or stand around and stare into.

The ones that seem to enrich our lives.

The ones around which we talk and weave stories and take in the crackling wood, dancing flames, and shooting sparks that fly off into the night?

I’ve read that fires bestow healing qualities to those who stare into them, and I do believe that must be the case. Maybe not so much a physically healing quality—but maybe so, who knows?—but certainly emotional and psychic healing. I love to hang around those kinds of fires. The fire pits…the camp fires. And my dad having one of these (I have to get one!) was really neat.

As the lot of us converged at my dad and stepmom’s place for our summer vacation and my dad’s 80th birthday, we hung out at the fire pit. Standing…sitting…trading stories. Conversation. Enjoying the night and the company (and Alek, Greg’s son, did a fine job of getting it started and keep it running—thanks, Alek!). On one of those nights, I stood and conversed with a friend of my dad’s who’s had a fair amount of paranormal experiences that he’d been wanting to talk about with me for some time. Every time we’d met, over the past few years, he’d bring up some really weird stuff…about how doors open or close without people doing it…or hearing footsteps in hallways while no one was there. That kind of thing. But he’s always been on his way, or we’ve been on ours. We’d always begin talking about the experiences, then would never really complete those conversations and I always got the feeling there was so much more he’d wanted to talk about. Anyway, it was fun finally getting to swap those stories in a continuous, uninterrupted conversation with him about both of our experiences!

But, it was also neat being in the “atmosphere” of the fire pit, where my other family members were also talking and laughing among themselves! While I was in conversation with my dad’s friend, I was also pleasantly conscious of the other conversations and laughing going on with the others, and it warmed my heart. Family members with whom I don’t get to see nor be physically around with much anymore, though we do communicate with in all the usual, technological ways of today. We were all standing and sitting in the backyard…in the night…around a warmly burning fire….

I felt the love…I felt the emotional and psychic “healing.”

What is it about being around fire pits?

I’m not sure…but I love it.

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The North Country

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The View Out Our Camp's Front Windows, Lake Titus, New York (© F. P. Dorchak)
The View Out Our Camp’s Front Windows, Lake Titus, New York (© F. P. Dorchak)

My wife and I just returned from a trip to “The North Country,” or upstate New York. It was my dad’s 80th birthday, so we timed our annual trip back east with his birthday. Since there were several of us showing up, there was not enough room at their place, so a “camp” was rented on Lake Titus, just a few minutes outside of Malone, NY. An upstate New York camp is not a tent or KOA, but is a rustic-or-better building used as a camp. Most are rough, but some, called “Great Camps,” have many amenities and are the size of hotels. It just depends on how much money and effort one wants to put into building these things. Here’s a link explaining the Great Camps and their architecture, but just scale it down a bit for the “everyday person’s camp,” and you’ll get the gist. Anyway, we had a place large enough for the four of us. And it was right off Lake Titus, with a dock and paddle boat and kayak. And thanks to Phil and Meredith, who own the camp! Such terrific people! We had a blast!

Our flights in and out went beautifully. We met my brother, Greg, and his son, Alek

The Lake Titus, New York Camp. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 14, 2016)
The Lake Titus, New York Camp. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 14, 2016)

(Greg also has a daughter, Niki, but she couldn’t make it), in Vermont and we all drove to my dad and stepmom’s place, in waaay upstate New York. We did all the touristy things and revisited the old stomping grounds were Greg and the rest of my siblings and I grew up. Stopped by the old middle school we’d attended and walked about its halls (it was open—and I even ran into an old classmate of mine there who now works there; he told me several of our class now works there!). Stopped by the school’s auditorium where both Greg and I had acted in plays (I had been the gangster in “The House on Whaleshead Rock“; this is all I could find on it, but I do still have the play’s script somewhere…). This is where Greg got his start as an actor (he’s also a screenwriter, producer, author, and has even done Stand-up comedy in Las Vegas, Nevada—I’ve seen him perform, he was great, even working a drunk in the front row…), so it was cool to show his son and take pictures of it, though we couldn’t find all the light switches to switch on all of the auditorium’s lights.

We visited the old Lake Clear House, where we all grew up.

Visited Ausable Chasm.

Made multiple trips to Donnelly’s Corners!

Visited our paternal grandparents’s graves.

Frank Dorchak, Jr., Malone Golf Club Birthday Party (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 13, 2016)
Frank Dorchak, Jr., Malone Golf Club Birthday Party (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 13, 2016)

And there was my dad’s 80th birthday party! It was held in the banquet hall of the restaurant of the Malone Golf Club. There were over 70 in attendance, representing all the areas of his life from childhood, the Navy, his Forest Ranger service, to his current efforts with Clear Path For Veterans, and more. My dad spoke, sang, and we all danced. Some came up to say a few words. I spoke. Then, when it came to his birthday cake, he insisted on on having all 80 candles on his cake. In his words: “I earned every damned candle“! As he “blew” them out with a wave of cardboard or paper or whatever it was he was holding, the smoke filled the air above the cake, and Greg and I looked to each other. We both said, yeah, that’s gonna set off the fire alarms! Not two minutes later, yup, off went the alarms! After the fire department arrived, we took pictures of Dad shaking hands with the fireman who responded. We later sent an e-mail to the Malone Telegram and got an article in the Friday, August 19th, paper, the upper right corner of page A3! It’s quite large!

The rest of the trip involved hanging out with family, playing games, talking, standing and sitting around an outdoor fire pit at my folks’s place, and more. At the Lake Titus Camp, my wife and I swam and kayaked the lake. I’ll detail more of some of these and other aspects in some upcoming posts. But it was a glorious 10 days in the North Country, visiting family and reconnecting with an area of the world I love. I love the woods and waters of the Adirondacks and upstate New York and can’t get enough of them. Love visiting my Dad and stepmom, Wanda.

It was a great trip!

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Snow Paper

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The Woods Hold Secrets. (Image by By Estormiz, own work [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons)
The Woods Hold Secrets. (Image by By Estormiz, own work [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Family tragedies, knives, deserted, wintry forests, wolves, and, well, the stuff of fantasy.

This is yet another story I don’t  remember writing, and was written in the early years (1989), but as I stumbled upon it, it just captured my fancy as such an odd little story. A cool one, so I moved it up in the line-up…especially since we just had a blizzard dumped on us (March 23rd), two days later, another eight inches. And this week? A couple more days of fast moving snow squalls. It’s still snowing outside my window….

This story has never been published.

 

Snow Paper

© F. P. Dorchak, 1989

“No! Don’t do it! Please, don’t—”

The shrill screams pierced through the frigid, moonlit night, originating behind the closed doors of a mountain cabin. Behind tattered, backlit curtains forms moved…jerked…flickering images engaged in a heated argument. Yelling. Pleading. Crying.

Outside, smoke from the chimney mixed with blowing snow.

“Daddy no!”

A gunshot.

Another.

Out from the door dove a dark form.

The shadow was far from maturity…short in height and small in frame…and it plunged directly into the several-foot-deep accumulation of snow. Behind the small-framed shadow—her—the door was left open.

“No! No-no-no-no-no!”

Shelain collapsed face-first into the snow.

“Mommy! Why? Daddy—why?”

But her cries only fell upon the hushed ears of a snow-packed forest.

Blood on her clothes.

Shelain lie face down in the snow, arms covering her head, and sobbed….

She looked up. Into the woods before her.

She didn’t need moonlight to see. She knew what was out there. Snow. And trees. Lots of both and little respite from either.

Shelain had grown up in this forest. She had always been a fast learner. In better times her parents had remarked at how good she’d been in finding her way back home while out hunting. That she could survive in the snow if she had to (she’d built her first igloo at the age of five), and that making fires and snaring food was now quite commonplace to her. Her parents knew she could survive, and so did Shelain. She was a tough little girl, and now she would be put through her right of passage.

Shelain didn’t understood what had happened between her father and mother, only that it had happened…and that was all that mattered just now. But she also knew she couldn’t live here anymore. This had been a home, now it was a tomb—and the living didn’t live in tombs.

She did not want to go back in there.

The woods were her only option. Yes, she would go there. She would go to the woods and find a new place. But before that was to happen, she needed things. And that meant…

Going back inside.

And she did not want to do that.

As soon as she got back up to her feet, she felt her head pound, like the outsides had moved too fast for the insides, and her insides were ready to explode…her heart….

Shelain stood. Wiped snow off herself, and turned.

Entered the cabin.

On the floor were—

She moved around them.

She was unable to take her eyes off what now lay on the floor.

But her father’s woods training and her mother’s practicality took over and she immediately set upon collecting what she needed. She grabbed food and clothes. Water wouldn’t be too much of a problem this time of the year, but she took a flask or two anyway. Putting on as many pieces of outer wear as she deemed practical and useful, she slung the pack over her back and

The floor still mocked her. She couldn’t ignore them.

Stooping, Shelain went to her father…unable to look directly at him. She searched around him before she found what she was looking for. Removing it, she put it into her jacket.

His hunting knife. Now it was hers.

Shelain went to her mother.

She was also unable to look directly at her. She went to her hand. Shelain removed the wedding band. Like gutting a trout or cleaning a rabbit, her emotions suddenly seemed turned off.

That was enough.

Pocketing the band she strode out the door, not bothering to close it.

She felt the crunch of the snow beneath her feet, and headed around to the side of the cabin, adjusting her pack. She pulled her snowshoes out from their snowy groves alongside the building and put them on. She’d gotten these two birthdays ago. She was very adept in them, even able to run in them, dodging in and around trees….

“It’s going to be a cold winter,” she said to no one. She stood back up and looked off into the moonlit night.

Off she trekked, into the dark tree line of the forest.

 

Shelain felt as if she was living one of those fairy tales her parents had so often read to her as a child.

But she was a child no longer.

As prepared as she was, she had forgotten two very important things. One was that she might not be as energetic about things after the shock and the jolt had worn off. Two, she had completely forgotten that she had not yet eaten that night.

She figured she’d been walking for several hours (this she did by the movement of the stars), and though she was young and strong, she needed food and rest, and now was as good a time as any to stop. Unloading her pack, she collapsed against a giant snow-covered fir, careful as to not knock any of the snow capping off. She might end up needing the tree as shelter and would need the snow for insulation.

Fishing through her pack’s contents, she removed a small salted slab of venison, immediately digging into it.

She watched the stars.

Then heard the noise.

Noises.

Only moving her eyes, she surveyed the dark…through the trees and back from the direction she’d come.

She’d been followed.

How stupid of her! She knew better!

The moon lit her trail, but that wasn’t all it had lit up. It also lit up a second trail which had veered off on its own into the woods mere paces away. It didn’t take an expert to know that she was being followed.

Wolves.

Shelain slowly placed the remainder of her venison on the snow.

She sat. Listened.

There came the low, throaty rumblings again….it was all around her.

She positioned her pack firmly in front of her; held it with both hands.

All her training had not prepared her for this. She was alone now, no father to get her out of this one. No mother.

Solo.

The rustling came closer, the growls no longer muted.

Shelain saw the wolves emerge from the darkness. She could actually see their eyes.

Four of them.

Slowly coming to a stand, Shelain kicked the chunk of venison toward the advancing pack. That tiny morsel wasn’t going to satisfy anything. She stayed close to the tree. Shelain felt her mind beginning to go limp…lose its focus.

Fear was taking over. She’d felt this once before.

The wolves closed in…formed a semi-circle….

They pounced!

Three went for the venison…but the fourth charged her.

Pack forced firmly out before her, Shelain managed to deflect the wolf off to the side, but it quickly got back up and resumed its attack. Shelain was only vaguely aware that the other wolves were fighting over the venison—but, how long would that last?

The attacking wolf again leapt at her.

For several minutes they faced off with each other. There was no stopping this beast…and soon the other three would also be upon her.

She was alone, snowshoes strapped to her feet, and mentally and physically exhausted.

There was nowhere to go. No one to turn to for help.

This was it.

What would her father do?

Her hand fell to her side.

Yes. The knife.

She unsheathed the gleaming blade.

The wolf lunged.

She missed the first time, but connected on the immediate back swing.

She was soon lost in the frenzy of teeth, claws, and blade when she felt the knife plunge deeply, she felt something hot spray her face, and her attacker suddenly fell on top of her.

She was bleeding.

Three more! There are three more!

“No!” she screamed. “Oh, Father, why did you do it? Mother, I miss you!”

She so desperately wanted things to go back to the way they had been…to the way they’d been before….

Why couldn’t we turn back time when bad things happened to us?

She’d been mauled pretty good by the dead wolf and her grip on her knife was no longer sure, but her survival instincts again kicked in. Shelain was again on her feet. As she saw the three wolves approaching her, she grabbed her pack and dumped it out in an arc before her. More venison and fruit and bread sprayed out before her…and she ran.

She’d never had to run on snowshoes to save her life before.

All she could do was what she was doing.

Run.

 

She dropped heavily to her knees in knees deep snow, heart beating up and into her throat. She was tired, wet, had lost much blood, and was about to lose much more if she didn’t change her situation…

But she no longer cared.

She’d been foolish to believe she could make it on her own, no matter how smart she thought she was. There was nothing to make it to. Nowhere to go. She’d lost her family, lost everything. And the wolves

(where were they?)

would be on her in—

Her hand hit something.

Dragging her knife through the snow to the object, she poked it through to the surface. It unraveled just enough for her to see it.

It was cylindrical and

Made of paper?

A…calendar?

A paper calendar…and there were days marked off.

Well, great, at least she would know what day she died.

The calendar was dated last year…but not all the days were marked off. What a stupid thing to find in the snow…out in the middle of nowhere…a pack of hungry wolves chasing after you—

And why hadn’t the wolves caught up with her?

But…a calendar….

Her curiosity got the better of her, and with bloodied and freezing hands, she began unrolling it.

The year on the calendar shifted before her eyes.

One moment it read 1830…the next 1700…but always it showed past years, nothing current. And the marked-off dates remained the same. The calendar unrolled, she tried to turn the pages, to see other months, but she couldn’t…none of the pages would yield. She couldn’t unstick the pages. As she looked at the crossed-out dates (what day was it?) she noticed how some of the crossed-out dates looked more messed up than the others. Smeared. In fact the very last crossed-out date was really smeared and blurry and anything but neatly crossed out.

She heard the rustling.

They would nearly be upon her!

Good, let them come…put an end to her misery….

Shelain traced her bloody knife tip along the weeks and stopped at the next open day after the really smeared and soiled and blurry crossed-out

(yesterday…)

date. Wouldn’t it be nice, she thought, if she could go back and change things…make what daddy did never happen. Turn back time? Wouldn’t it be—

 

The wolves broke through the snow-covered trees and leaped upon their prey…but only ended up landing upon one and other, instead. Confused, they shook the snow from their lean bodies, sniffing around the indentations in the snow before them.

There were blood stains…her scent…but no meat.

All that was before them was a snow crater of someone who used to be there.

The wolves dug, but never found Shelain. They did find, however, a useless pile of paper in the snow. They sniffed at it—it was not a good smell—and hurriedly left the area, one less member to their number….

Deep in the woods of the north rested a small log cabin. The smell of hardwoods permeated the air as the smoke mixed with falling snow. Inside the soft glow of the fire’s light filled windows, and there resided a small family of three. It was a meager birthday, but it would turn out to be the best birthday Shelain would ever have….

 

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Dark Was The Hour

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Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks - 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons).
Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks – 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).
In 2004 The Gazette newspaper had put out a call to write stories for their Christmas short story contest. They required certain themes in the stories, like trains and Colorado and snow. This was the first and only time I remember “writing to spec”; it’s not something I like doing. But I did. I submitted. It didn’t place.

But where did the story idea itself come from? There was definitely the train imagery from the Twilight Zone’s “A Stop at Willoughby“…but there had also been some media coverage about Fallujah at the time that also had something to do with it. In any event, I love these kinds of stories, whether it’s Willoughby, “The 7th is Made up of Phantoms,” or my own: “Tail Gunner” and “Etched in Stone” (which will post Feb 26, 2016). They reach into me and just grab me. Make me, well, tear up….

When I wrote “Dark Was The Hour,” I’d contacted a nearby Marine Corps recruiting station and talked to a handful of marines…even got a couple of them to read it. I wanted to use the right terminology, the right descriptions, get the right “feel” to the story. Those marines were: Sergeant Sharp, Corporal Hughes, Private First Class Fox. That’s all the information I have left on them. Again that was in 2004. I often wonder about them…how they’re doing. I remember one of them was actually chomping at the bit to get “over there”; I think it was PFC Fox. I hope they’re all still alive and well.

This story was published in the December 2007 issue of Apollo’s Lyre.

 

Dark Was The Hour

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

 

A slight chill radiated inward from the window as Frank Bishop stared out through his accusatory reflection into the snowy night. He rocked back and forth as the train gently cradled him through the high Colorado mountain passages with its comforting ratcheting sounds and motion. He inhaled the scent of leather and polished wood—nostalgia.

Fallujah sucked was the nicest way he could put it and the fact that he’d left parts of himself back there didn’t help matters.

“Ticket, please?” the Conductor asked.

Frank jumped, shooting a hand to his side.

Of course he no longer carried his Beretta nine mil and of course this man wasn’t a threat.

He gave the conductor his ticket.

“Thank you, sir,” the Conductor said. “Next stop, Idaho Springs!” The Conductor smiled an odd little smile Frank found unnerving and left. Frank closed his eyes, allowing the lulling metallic Ta-tun–Ta-tun, Ta-tun–Ta-tun of the train to

Fallujah.

A name he hoped he’d never—ever—have to speak or hear again.

But he still heard the

 

Explosions. All around him. His ears rung, his eyes swam, and his head pounded from the slight concussion. Lieutenant Bishop popped his head back up over the battered cinder block wall. Small-arms fire came quick and well-directed. He ducked back down.

“Sir! We really need to—”

“I know!” Bishop shouted back to the platoon sergeant. He wiped sweat from his eyes with bruised and battered hands caked in dried blood and powder burns. The cacophony and smell of rocket-propelled grenades, spent mortar rounds, and death filled the air. The Fog of War.

“I’ll head off to the left—there,” the lieutenant said, pointing, “and you guys nail ‘em with everything we—”

“Sir, you know you’re—”

“What do you want me to do? Leave him there? You can see him as well as I can! I’m not leaving him behind.”

The Marine sergeant passed on the word to the rest of the platoon.

Bishop took a deep breath, looked to his men, then

 

ran his hands through his hair. It’d been a while since he’d been on this train. The last time had been when he’d been nine—was that right? His folks had taken them all on a Christmas ride between home—Idaho Springs—and Denver. Just before the car crash that had claimed them.

Had he made that up—or was that the concussion talking? His head still felt fuzzy. All that shelling…all that….

God, it felt so good to do nothing. To just sit back and relax. Look out at the dark snow-covered landscape like some Hitchcockian movie. His dad had really loved Hitch.

A reflection in the window passed quickly behind him, and

 

Bishop spun around, his still smoking and spent M-16A4 useless at his feet. Nine mil already in hand, he pulled his KA-BAR combat knife up before him and in one swiftly efficient movement took out the hostile who’d lunged for him. Another was close behind, but Bishop dispatched him just as efficiently. Breathing heavily, he quickly secured the room, sheathed the knife, and grabbed the dying marine’s wrist. He looked to the wrist.

Something was wrong.

No time to think about it, he turned to leave when there was a tremendous flash of heat and noise and something ungodly kicked him in the very seat of his soul and launched him bodily into a wall. The next thing Bishop knew, he was

 

crying. Something wasn’t right. Why was he crying? He was going home, home for good. He was no use to the Corps any more. Had served his country. Had his decorations, which he couldn’t look at without considering the lives lost—and saved. He was going home to his parents and girl. Their black lab, Boomer. Going to make a new life, if that was at all possible these days.

But what about those left behind?

Who was gonna keep an eye on them? Keep them safe? His buddies. Hector—how was Hector? Had he made it? Hector Gonzalez

 

laid down a searing blast of cover fire around the lieutenant’s position. The lieutenant was still in there. Gonzalez had no choice. He couldn’t leave him. Additional hostiles were quickly overrunning their position.

Gonzalez hand-signaled the platoon to cover him.

Gear rattling, Gonzalez tucked in around the wall then made his way through the rubble. Once he got to the open twenty yards through which he had to sprint, he glanced back to his platoon. They kept up his cover fire. Gonzalez sprinted across the space and slammed his body against a wall. Just up ahead was Bishop. He wasn’t leaving him, not after all he’d done at his own expense. No way. He’d stayed behind to allow the rest of them exit…when the blast had come. Gonzalez cursed himself for allowing the lieutenant to order them off like that. All he could think of was

 

“I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” Bishop asked the Conductor.

“Of course you are, Son,” the Conductor reassured. “You’re going home. For Christmas. The best one ever.”

“But…”

The Conductor smiled.

 

Gonzalez had made it to the lieutenant. He was a mess. All he could tell for certain was that he was missing…parts. It’d hadn’t yet registered just what, in all the still-settling smoke and rubble, but he wasn’t…whole….

“Christmas…,” the lieutenant whispered, “Jea-nna….” His face was thrashed and bloodied.

“Lieutenant?” Gonzalez asked, but there was no more.

Gonzalez grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist and quickly pulled him from the rubble as more fire opened up on their position. He turned to leave, but lost his hold. He tried to regrip the lieutenant’s wrist, but only grabbed

Air.

Gone.

The lieutenant was

Gone.

Gonzalez spun around.

No body, no lieutenant. Only acrid ordnance stink and rubble.

“But he was—he was just—where’d”

 

he stood in the well of the exit stoop as the train came to its screeching halt.

“Have a great Christmas, Lieutenant!” the Conductor encouraged, smiling. He saluted Bishop.

Bishop turned and looked up to the conductor. Bishop was bloodied and covered in soot and grime and war in his desert cammies and gear. He still held his nine mil in one hand, KA-BAR in the other. He looked to the nine mil. Outside.

It snowed heavily.

He cast a momentary, dour smile back up to the Conductor, then carefully placed his weapons up at the Conductor’s feet. He stared at the instruments of personal destruction one last time…rubbed a wrist and worked his jaw…when a larger smile crossed his face. He uttered a single chuckle.

He looked back out into the dark, snowy Colorado winter before him.

It was always darkest before the light.

Bishop inhaled deeply of the cold, sweet, aromatic pine of the evergreen forest mixed in with train exhaust. Saw Christmas lights through the heavy snowfall he swore he could now actually hear—heard Christmas music?—when a hand reached in to him from outside the train.

“Welcome home, Son,” his father greeted.

Bishop again inhaled deeply, smiled…and stepped off the train.

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The Death of a Man

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Unknown Person
The Great Unknown (Unknown Person, photo credit: Wikipedia)

My wife and I attended the funeral of a neighbor this past weekend. His name was Eddie.

Eddie, whose particulars I will not get into to maintain family privacy, was someone my wife’s family had known for a long time. Eddie was also a fixture on his patio, smokin’ cigarettes and tossing balls (and other objects) for his dog to chase after. He is survived by his kids, mom, and other family members.

What is the measure of a person?

What is the sum total of one’s life?

How does one’s death affect everyone they’d ever met?

There are so many variables that go into any life, and trying to summarize those into an hour or so’s service in their honor is just crazy impossible…but said services are not about summarizing the passing of the life in question…they’re about closure for the those who remain behind. About missing the sound of the deceased’s voice, his or her laughter, the touch and feel of his or her’s hands or kisses. The strength of their hugs. How they helped you through your problems, or how you helped them through theirs. How you laughed and cried together. How they “reality checked” you. The security of their presence…how they strode across the Earth and played with children, lent dimensions of depth to our lives. The sparkle and life of their resilient, oh-so-alive eyes….

Eddie was a handsome devil in his younger years, and certainly still handsome in his later years (and by “later years,” I mean he was about my age), including the sporting of a beard that kinda gave him that sea-captain-of-yore look. We always hailed each other and sometimes entered into conversation (and sometimes or two a good laugh) when we were both out back, me grilling, mowing, or doing other yard work. Whatever was going on with him—and inside him, because the exterior is a mirror of the interior—he always seemed to take things in stride. He recently told me he’d been very happy in starting up a new hobby/business venture that had always kinda interested him.

“Hey, Eddie!”

“How ya doin’, Frank!”

The wafting of his cigarette smoke (yes, it was only a little annoying, and well…).

It became a “thing.”

His medical condition just never quite got better, and he kept finding himself in the hospital or some extended care facility. We weren’t “close,” in that we went out, hung out, kinda thing (we traveled in very different circles), but I did help him and his mother out in various ways. Unexpectedly—at least to my wife and I—he made that final trip into the Great Unknown we label Death, and we just couldn’t believe it.

He’d been on the mend.

He looked and sounded strong-as-bull, same mischievous tone to his voice. It was a strong voice. His energy felt good about him. He was once more returned to the “old Eddie,” the healthier Eddie—

Next thing I know…gone.

Boom.

I didn’t know Eddie in depth, but I had known him for many years as a polite and pleasant neighbor. Never had a problem with him. He seemed like a good man, a man just trying to get by, provide for his kids, his mother (his dad had died a few years ago). And he was always fun to talk with. We’d offered our services and checked up on him and his mom during the nasty flooding in our area this past summer. We always looked for him every time we went outside, so it’s no longer the same, going out there picking up on the smell of his cigarettes, no longer seeing him there, in his usual perch, his dog looking for me in that usual ways dogs do….

In our deaths, we affect other’s lives. We leave voids, unfinished sentences. Our presence in life builds an expected stability to our lives, knowing we can depend on the surety of life, a community, like pleasant friends or neighbors we enjoy interacting with in our own, personal ways. Keeping an eye out for each other. And when we leave…our ghosts remain…as we look in their gone directions and ghost patios and still see them waving to us with their unique smiles. Still hear their now-hollow voices only in our minds. It’s a weird thing, when you think about it, and such a young man…gone, now…actually leaving a void in the lives of two people not related to him….

Do you ever think about the people you know who have died that you weren‘t close to?

But, as with family members I’ve lost, I’m not sad for them…sure, I miss them and their presence and everything that goes with that…but, I’m happy and excited for them. They’ve made the decision (I believe we all choose the timing of our deaths) to move on. Done what they’ve come to do and experience.Eddie is free to return to Earthly life or move on, and I’m glad he spent some of that time in our circle of influence.

I wonder what he’s doing now.

So, to that sea captain of yore, I bid you fair winds and following seas, Eddie! Thanks for spending part of your life on this Earth in our company, and may your further adventures be exciting and fulfilling!

Oh, and, one more thing…

One day, shortly after having heard of Eddie’s passing, I went out back on our deck…and smelled cigarette smoke.

I’d shot a look in “his” direction (for real and fast—it was that weird).

Nobody.

Layin Low and Regoupin….

by

I have been layin’ low and regroupin’ this “Holiday Season,” as I like to call it. And it’s been nice. Been visiting with family, doing some reading and a little writing (sorry, no blog posting), following some writer group loop postings, but not much else…just a general all-around kickin’ back.  Always on the move, always go-go-GOING, it felt great takin’ it easy (at least what I call “takin’ it easy”). Can’t believe how dang fast the year has flown past.

So, one door closes and another is opening. Kinda cool how that happens, huh? Out with the old, yadda x 3. Things are always changing and moving on. Replenishing themselves. There is constant rebirth all around us. Within us. As I frequently like to say, life is what we all make of it, and for this coming 2012 I’d like all of us to make the most of it and not fall prey to all the media hype about Mayans or approaching planets or any other end-of-world scenario…and chose to enjoy our lives as only each of us knows how to do. But more so, I challenge each of us out there to BELIEVE in ourselves. We all have value, and we all contribute to the world. Make no mistake about this.

We all count.

Make your life count by chosing a more positive experience for yourself…which in turn benefits Humanity, because you are part of a whole, and a whole is greater than the sum of its parts (yeah, it’s the “new math”). What you do, what we think–what we all do and think–affects us all. So, make the best of your life, live with a positive attitude, focus on your positive goals, smile, be happy, and greet life with vigor!

Now, I got a bunch of Twilight Zones to record….

Happy 2012, everybody!