Digging Up the Past
Joey scooped a few spoonfuls of dirt out of a small hole. The work was hard and slow but he knew it would be worth it. The earth was hard packed and lack of rain hadn’t helped. A few more spoonfuls and he heard his mama calling him in for supper.
“What you been doin’ all day in that yard, boy?” she asked.
“Nothin,” he replied. It wouldn’t do no good to tell mama what he was up to. She’d make him stop or worse, stay inside reading or something.
The next day dawned stormy and raining. Joey sat in the screened in back porch and stared out across the yard. How he wanted to be out there digging but Mama would have none of it.
Finally, the next day, the sun was shining. Mama had told him he could go out for awhile but not to get too muddy. Joey took his spoon that he had taken from the silverware drawer and ran out to his hole. The rain had helped the mud fill it in a bit but he was undeterred. With a determined set to his young face, he began digging, flinging mud everywhere. The ground was soft today and he wanted to get the job done.
Mama called him in for lunch and scolded him for his dirty clothes, hands and face. He ate his sandwich and chips in silence and ran back outside as soon as he finished his last bite.
His task got harder as the day wore on. As the hole got deeper, the ground began to get harder again. But he knew what he wanted and he would get it and soon. Joey finally decided it was time for something bigger to help him. He snuck into Daddy’s tool shed and found the old shovel. It was taller than him but he could handle it. He hid it as best he could behind his back and casually walked back to his spot. As soon as he dropped behind the little hill, all pretense was gone and he started working in earnest. The shovel was hard to handle at first but he soon found a method that worked for him. And the hole got deeper.
Not long before supper time, Joey struck something hard. This was it! He dropped into the shallow hole and began digging with his hands, scooping dirt off of the wood box and tossing it out. It stunk in the hole now, an unnatural stench but Joey didn’t care. He ran back to the tool shed, all worry of getting caught gone. He snatched a hammer off of the work table and ran back to his find. He wrenched the lid off and nearly falling into the box he caught himself.
He jumped back in surprise. He had been expectin’ to see his old dog, Hank. This wasn’t Hank! The thing in the box smelled like nothin’ he’d ever smelled. It’s skin was stretched tight over bones, the eyes gone. Joey screamed at the demon dog thing.
Mama came running to beat the devil, tryin’ to find out what had scared her boy so bad. When she got to the hole, she froze.
“What’s this boy?”
“Mama! Don’t be mad, Mama. I just wanted ol’ Hank back. I saw Daddy dig this here hole and stick him in it. I just wanted ol’ Hank back!















 

Convenience store tales continued:

I worked the midnight shift at one store. I loved it! All the interesting people are out in the night. I love the night. It feels mysterious. I was usually busyish until about two in the morning, sometimes three. Then it would die off. I loved that part too. It was like the night was mine while the world was sleeping. I could get my work done at my own pace and sometime stand outside and just enjoy the quiet that accompanies early morning.
One night, it had been especially quiet. We had had an ice storm and not many were braving the dangerous driving surfaces. It had been dead all night. I was grateful for a customer just to break up the monotony. About four, a man who I didn't know came in. He had walked, he said and needed the phone. I pointed out the inside pay phone as well as the outside one. He chose the outside phone. I should have had red flags going up right then. What kind of person would choose to go out in the bitter cold to use the phone when there was one inside where it was warm? Anyway, he came back in and talked for about thirty minutes then asked whether we had a public restroom. We did and he left to make use of it.
He had barely closed the door behind him when two men entered the store. Both were Hispanic, both in white trench coats, one with a mustache. That's all I can tell you about them. Well that and they had a gun. It was a small caliber six shooter. The one with the pistol came behind the counter and demanded money in a thick accent. He shoved the gun in my ribs and repeated his demand. I told them there was someone in the restroom. They couldn't understand. They wanted the register that we usually used opened. The problem was, it was broken and I couldn't open it. I tried to tell him the money was in the other register. He just kept demanding I open the one, and he pulled the trigger, once, twice, three, four times. The gun didn't go off.
By this time, I had one or two chances to find out if the gun was loaded or not. A car pulled up outside. In broken English, the man with the gun told me, "Don't call the cops. Don't tell anyone." And they left.
A man emerged from the car and walked in the door and I lost it. I started crying and begged him not to leave that I had just been robbed. He tells me, "Lady, I'm just on my way to work!"
To call the sheriff's department, I had to come out from behind the counter and use the inside pay phone. Nice set up, huh? The dispatcher stayed on the line while I waited for the town's police chief to show up. It turned out that the only deputy working deep nights was off in a ditch somewhere north in the county. The chief decides he needs to be in complete uniform (the dispatcher woke him up at home) so it took him about thirty minutes to show. Of course, the robbers are long gone by now. He took my statement, the one of the guy in the bathroom and the customer who came in and left. My boss came in while this was going on, my shift was over and she came to relieve me. She asked what happened and if they got anything. The district manager had the same concerns. No one asked if I was okay.
My theory on the whole thing is that the guy in the bathroom was in on it. He used the outside phone to call them. Someone had taught them just enough English to communicate their desire for the money. And, I believe, the gun was a prop. I think it was empty. I thought I recognized one of the men months later when he came into the same store. He kinda got a deer in the headlight look and left promptly.
I refused to work anymore midnight shifts after that.















 

What is it about the "little things in life" that make them so special? I believe it is because they appeal to our senses rather than our brains. They bring texture to our lives.
On my way home from the local store to grab a Coke, I saw a man on the school playground with his two little girls. They were all laying on the ground, laughing. It made me smile to see a parent spending quality time with his kids. It was one of those little things that touched me but more importantly, will touch the lives of those kids. They will remember an adult who took the time to play and laugh with them.
And what about that Coke? I was thirsty and nothing else would do. I love the taste. I love the fizzy feel of it. It tastes good.
And speaking of taste--I have been watching what I eat lately. In attempting to lose some weight, I make a conscious effort to slow down when eating. What I've noticed is that I actually taste what I'm eating now. I notice that I actually don't like some things and savor others more. Why didn't I think of it sooner?
Yesterday, we had afternoon storms. The lightning show was amazing! Purples, pinks and blues lit up the sky. I was mesmerized and wanting more. When it came to an end, as all things do, there was another brilliant show. I was treated to a bright rainbow and a show of wind-swept clouds touched by the setting sun. The colors were vivid and the detail was something I lost myself in. Again, amazing!
What about sounds? I love music but my neighbor's taste clashes with mine. I call it "boom boom music" because it has the heavy bass that rattles my windows. Every one in awhile they will have friends over. When they do, the music is on and loud. Usually I chafe at the sound. One weekend last fall, they were taking advantage of the nice weather and had a group of people over. That day, rather than allowing myself to get angry or frustrated over it, I listened to the sounds behind the noise. I heard voices of people who enjoyed one another's company, sometimes a murmur, other times louder as one would tell a story or joke. And I heard laughter. That is a sound that always makes me smile. It means people are happy. I decided that day that, hey, they should be allowed their fun. It is not hurting me in any way other than a small annoyance. And I like to hear their laughter.
Little things mean a lot to me. I revel in the bloom of a flower, the velvet of a rose petal, the song of the mockingbird in my apple tree. I marvel at storms, snow and ice, trees dancing in the wind. I applaud the sounds of laughter, music and thunder. Opening my senses to things I might otherwise have missed has enriched my world and given me material as a writer.















 

“Marge, did you hear about that Kelly boy?”
“Helen, don’t get started! You know I hate gossip!”
Helen buttered her buttermilk biscuit, a small sly smile playing at her lips. Marge always said she hated the small town tales, but Helen knew the truth. Marge ate it up.
“He’s been seen over at Mrs. Harris’ when the mister is away.”
Oh Helen! He’s probably just having her tutor him in math. Now you stop talking trash about our youth.”
Inward Marge’s alarms were going off. She had suspected that the pretty math teacher was smiling just a little too widely lately. And to think that she was seducing that poor boy!
“…the football team and his girlfriend,” Helen was saying.
“What?”
“Dear, do try to keep up. I was saying that if they find out for sure that he will most likely get kicked off the football team and his girlfriend will dump him.”
Marge rolled her eyes at her friend and bit into the buttered biscuit. No one made them like the Lucky Diner. Mel had a secret recipe that he shared with no one, not even his cooks. Brad Newby, another of the town’s young men, stopped by their table to refill their coffee cups.
“Now here’s an upstanding young man, Marge,” Helen proclaimed. “He works hard, goes to school and knows how to treat a lady. You’re making good grades are you son?”
“Yes ma’am,” Brad answered. “Would you be needin’ anything else?”
“Not right now, young man, thank you,” replied Helen.
As soon as the boy was out of earshot, Helen leaned over the table.
“You heard his gal may be pregnant, haven’t you?”
Marge sighed. “Helen, do you ever stop? Where do you hear all this drivel?”
“Mostly at Barb’s Beauty Shop, some at church.”
Marge looked positively scandalized. “At church? In the Lord’s House? Gossips?”
“Dear, you’re spitting all over the table. Even the Lord needs entertainment. I heard the preacher may be leaving town soon. He’s ruffling the feathers of the wrong members of the congregation.”
“What do you mean ‘ruffling the feathers’?”
Helen knew she had Marge in the palm of her hand now. Once she asked a question it was all over but the crying. She sipped her coffee, savoring the moment.
“Well, I heard he has big ideas to change things and the elder people don’t want anything changed.”
“Like what things? Helen?”
“Oh, like letting the youth have more say in the church, changing things that are already voted on in church meetings, that kind of thing. Nothing earth shattering but enough that the older folks don’t like it.”
“So they are going to get rid of him?”
“Possibly.”
Marge sat her half eaten biscuit on the side of her plate.
“You look a little green, dear. Are you okay?” Helen inquired.
“Yes, yes. I am a little light headed. I think I need to go home and lie down.”
“You do that dear. I’ll call on you later.”
As Marge stood at the cash register to pay her check, Helen smiled to herself. So it was true, the preacher had been having an affair. And now she knew who the other participant was.















 

Cold water splashed across Rissa’s feet as she waded across the shallows near her cabin. The creek that ran through the property wandered to the edge of the back yard before setting out across the wooded back pasture. This was Rissa’s spot, her sanctuary when life was trying to beat her down.
Lately, life had been doing just that in the form of her husband, Jerry. He had been staying in town, working late. In fact, in had gotten to be a pattern. He would come home late, tired and she would start on him. All she wanted was a crumb of his time. It was something he hadn’t offered her in a long time. His nights were getting later and later. She worried constantly that her marriage was washing away like the creek over the smooth stones.
He had stuck to his stubborn story that the boss needed him and that they needed the extra cash. Since he was in charge of the finances, she never knew if this was true. It was obvious that they weren’t spending any less or more than usual. The money he gave her for groceries, household needs and herself hadn’t grown since all the overtime.
Rissa sat down on a large rock that stood sentry over the north side of the creek. Sighing to herself, she wondered how they had gotten to this point. They had been so in love. He declared that he still was. But he never showed it anymore. He was too tired all the time. Even on the weekends he wanted nothing more than to veg out in front of the TV or nap. He barely spoke to her nowadays. She figured it was for fear of setting her off. Neither one of them was much of an arguer. Both detested confrontation and they had chosen instead to talk things out. Except for this.
This new situation in their nearly ten years of matrimony had been cause for all out war. Rissa didn’t know herself anymore. She would scream at Jerry about his work taking precedence over her. He would sometimes scream back at her but would more often fall silent. This began the waterworks. Rissa hated for him to see her cry but she couldn’t help herself when he shut down like that.
Tires splattering gravel on the drive startled her from her revelry. It was daylight. He shouldn’t be home for several more hours. He hadn’t come home with the sun still in the sky for months. The truck door slammed and crunching footsteps neared. Rissa took a deep breath and slowly turned toward him. Jerry walked toward her cautiously, testing the waters it seemed. She gave him a wary smile.
“Welcome home honey!”
“Hi darlin’.”
He sat next to her on the rock, their hips touching. He was toying with something in his hand. It was a small box. She gasped. Had he noticed she’d lost her wedding rings. He hadn’t seemed to notice much lately.
“Baby, I saw your rings sitting next to the sink and they looked so worn and small. I wanted to give you what I picked to begin with. I couldn’t afford them at the time but the opportunity for overtime came up at work. So anyway, this is for you.”
Rissa carefully took the small blue box and opened it. Inside, nestled together were a new engagement ring and an eternity band. Rissa cried.






 

Two weeks until Halloween. Ruth hated this time of year. Grotesque masks began staring at her from store aisles in September as if taunting her. Decorations leered at her from seemingly every yard and window including the windows of the small town convenience store in which she worked.
Her aging bones didn’t take to the cooler weather like they used to. It made her cranky and the kids around town had marked her as a hateful old hag. They made rude remarks and gestures to her. And every year she would have to wash and scrape stinky egg mess off of her house and the store where they had been egged. And heaven forbid if the holiday fell on a weekend or right in the middle of a week. The kids would be egging both weekends and most of the weeknights. They hated her, she knew. She refused to sell the offending, shell-covered missiles to them. This marked her as a target and she paid dearly each year.
Tonight was quiet at the store. Ruth had already stocked the cooler, doing so wrapped in a heavy coat and wearing gloves. The sweeping and mopping were done and the deli cleaned out. Everything was in order for the next morning’s crew. She sat on the rickety old stool behind the counter reading a trashy romance book. Two large windows—one behind and one to the side of her reflected the interior of the store but still allowed her visibility to the outside. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted movement.
A shape stepped just out of her view behind her. Damn kids! It was just another early prank. Well she was ready for this one!
After several minutes passed with no other disturbance, she decided maybe she was seeing things. She settled back into her reading. She only had one more hour until closing then she could go home and have a cup of hot tea while she finished her book.
Then she saw it. The figure stepped out from the shadows at the corner of the building. It had a shuffling walk and leaned heavily on a walking stick. A long black robe covered all but the head which was one of those “old woman” masks Ruth had seen at the store. What caught Ruth’s attention wasn’t the mask as much as the build. This wasn’t a kid. By the time this registered in her mind, it was too late to pick up the phone, the figure was inside the store. It hobbled over to one of the tables and sat down with a whomph.
Ruth’s mind was screaming in panic. She kept her eyes on the book while trying to think out a plan. Could she reach the phone and dial 911 before it shot her? She knew in her heart that this was a hold up and that she would be shot and killed. She was no match for it physically. It was a half a foot taller if it stood straight and probably had a good sixty pounds on her.
Just then, it stood. It ambled over to the counter slowly. A scream was building in Ruth’s throat. As it reached the counter, it stood to its full height and casually said, “Aren’t you going to say something Ruth?” A gloved hand reached up and snatched the mask from its head. There, in all his dignity, stood the mayor. Ruth fainted.















 

Suze looked out over her overgrown backyard in disgust. The combination grass and weeds were nearly a foot high with vines and flowering shrubs tangled amongst it. Her uncle mowed for her for free and she was at his mercy as to the schedule. He would most likely be another week at least. He always let it get up before he came, mowed and left. Not that mowing helped much. He hadn’t weedeated the place in near three years and nowadays he refused to mow outside the chain link fence, saying it was the city’s job to do so.
She had so wanted to plant a nice flower garden, make the place presentable. Last spring she had spent several hundred dollars on flowering plants and shrubs. None of it ever saw the soil. It was just too depressing to try to make a garden when the lawn was less than desirable. This year she had planned on planting vegetables as well but that didn’t come to fruition either.
She would have apples this year, though. She noted the small green orbs dotting the tree. The mockingbirds had surely nested there again this year. They had for the ten years she had lived in this house, often singing lullabies to her when she lay awake at night. Their young learned to fly and fend for themselves in the safety of her trees and birdfeeders.
She could break down and purchase a mower and do the yard work herself, but she couldn’t handle the heat of summer. She would get sick and be down for days, refusing to go out into the cursed heat. She couldn’t even afford to hire a teenager to mow for her. She cursed her uncle.
Turning away from the window she faced her gloomy home. She had let the cleaning chores get away from her. For awhile she had been depressed and simply didn’t care what her home looked like. Now it was piled up with trash and dishes and whatnot. She knew that she had countertops but couldn’t find one at the moment. She didn’t know where to start. Overwhelmed, she ambled to the bedroom and lay on her bed. Sleep. If she slept, she wouldn’t have to feel anything, she wouldn’t have to face anything.
Once laying down, she felt the stirrings to get things done. She could get some trash bagged up and then maybe load the dishwasher. Suze sat up and the feeling went away, she lay back down. When did she become like this, a shell of the woman she once was? She had been vibrant and had energy. Her house was never spotless but it was certainly presentable. Now she was like a bag lady with a house. She took little pride in herself or her surroundings. She used her uncle’s negligent mowing habits as an excuse but she knew it wouldn’t wash. She was stuck in a rut, in limbo.
Resolving to find herself again, Suze began to make a plan.















 

It seemed the perfect way to spend a summer afternoon. The old Rambler had gas in it, Sheri's parents were away and the pasture beckoned. She was going to teach me to drive.
Two teenaged girls in an old car with no air conditioning and only an AM radio. The Rambler was a dull gold with vinyl seats and worn carpet on the floorboards. It had been stuck once in a high water and still showed water stains on its interior. It was a worn old car. It was perfect.
First we got into our normal sides of the car; she in the driver's seat and me riding shotgun. The windows were rolled down letting in the slight breeze in an effort to take some of the edge off of the stifling heat. Even so our blue jean-shorted legs stuck to the vinyl upholstery and sweat rolled down our backs.
We drove over rough, bumpy pasture to get to a somewhat flat stretch on which I would learn to drive. Once there, Sheri and I switched sides of the car, exchanging one sweaty sticky seat for another. Once situated she began her lesson. Press the brake, put the car in gear and let off slowly. I must have forgot the slowly part because I let off suddenly and the car lurched forward. I slammed on the brake effectively stopping us in our tracks. After patiently explaining again how to move forward I once again let off too quickly although not as badly as before. Another twenty or so tries and I had it.
Next I actually had to press on the gas and drive forward. Sheri must have had nerves of steel because she never complained about the too-fast starts and stops. I stomped on the gas too hard and we shot forward across the pasture. I was driving! No, I wasn't according to my friend. Try again. I did and again and again. Eventually, after repeated whiplashing starts and stops I got the hang of it.
Turning wasn't as bad. Since the field grass was fairly high and the ground still rough in this spot, it was harder to turn than it would have been on a regular blacktop road. While my turns weren't as wild as my starts and stops they still had much to be desired.
Backing was altogether a different animal. If there is something to be hit or a ditch to fall off in, I'm going to find it by backing a car. Luckily, by now, Sheri knew enough to keep a close eye on me and another eye on where we were going. I only made a few attempts at backing before she had enough of playing driving instructor.
She allowed me to drive back to the house, bumpy pasture and all. I was a young girl tasting her first of teenaged freedom! The roar of a two thousand pound machine that I had complete control over was intoxicating! Then, all too soon, we were parked, the adventure over. Sheri's parents would be home from work soon and we would have to pretend that we'd had a normal, boring day hanging out at the house. Ah, summer memories!















 

The wind screamed outside as the storm's winds lashed the side of the house. Darla felt a shiver run down her spine as she wondered if this would finally be the "big one" that the forecasters had been predicting. For the past several years they had ben saying that the area was well overdue an EF-5 tornado.
In Oklahoma, as in the rest of Tornado Alley, folks were becoming complacent about the weather. That usually spelled out a recipe for disaster. Once people stoped heeding the warnings was when people died.
A ripping sound above signaled the first of the shingles peeling off of the roof. Darla wondered what it would cost to fix her roof, so lost in her thoughts she didn't hear the roar at first.
When it did register, she realized it was like nothing she'd ever heard before. Jet engines, trains, all the descriptions she had ever heard didn't touch the deafening sound she heard now. Twenty seconds went by before she realized she should be below ground. Dashing to the back door of her house, she wrenched open the door and fled to the cellar. The door resisted and she tugged with all she had. It finally gave an inch but that was all she needed. She yanked it open and hurled herself inside just as debris was beginning to sail overhead.
Once inside, she fumbled for the lamp she kept inside and turned it on casting pale light around the dark dungeon. A spider or two flitted out of the light's reach. Darla shuddered. She hated spiders. She would have to set off a bug bomb tomorrow.
Darla's ears stopped up as the vaccuum of the tornado filled the air around her. Something big banged hard against the cellar door and she jumped nearly out of her skin.
As soon as it had started it was over. To Darla, it seemed like hours when in fact it was mere minutes. She tried the door and it gave only inches this time but enough for her to wriggle out. Her pickup truck was blocking the rest of the door, sprawled across the cellar. Where her house had been was a concrete slab with debris and pipes here and there. The grand old oak trees in her yard were grotesquely twisted, some ripped up by their roots and tossed about. Most of the neighborhood looked the same. At the far east end, some homes were damaged but remained mostly intact. Farm equipment had been tossed about like so many children’s toys. Dawning crept across Darla as she realized the closet farm was over a mile away. This twister had been on the ground for awhile.
Others began emerging from cellars and inner rooms of their homes. Shock and fear registering on their faces. She took note as they became visible to her; the Smiths, old man Carter, widow Anderson. Children shrieked as they saw the destruction and adults stared in shocked disbelief. Some moved to check on their neighbors while most stood rooted in place. A wail went up as a woman that Darla didn’t recognize sank to her knees and began screaming.
A new sound added its presence from the distance. Darla almost raced back into her cellar before she realized that it was clear overhead and the sound was the siren of a vehicle not the storm siren. State troopers and county deputies arrived on the scene, more sirens screaming in the distance. Lawmen stepped from vehicles to check on those they could see and to inquire about those who might still be missing.