Rain That Doesn't Quite Reach the Ground

V I R G A

Clouds, dark and light

roiling,

rolling,

and fearsome-looking,

mean,

and full of sorrow.

Rain drops fine and cool, falling,

not quite to the ground

in virga curtains;

promises not kept.

Your face,

fearsome-looking,

mean,

and full of anger,

 sorrow

not realized.

Tear drops fine and hot, falling

not quite to your cheek,

taut with rage,

in virga curtains;

 promises not kept.

By: Michael D. LeFevre    ã Copyright 29 April 1998

More of Lord

ACT 3

            Lord pulled into the parking lot by the smelter time shack.  He hated doing this.  He had already pulled his nest egg out of the bank and closed the account there.  All he had left to do was quit his job and pay his last bit of rent.  The job first.  He walked into the locker room and opened his locker.  He looked at the work clothes in there.  They were stiff with sweat, the seams caked with a green dust that was the copper concentrate that he melted in the furnaces on the days that he worked.  “Nasty shit…stuff.  I won’t miss that.  Or the fiery furnaces, maybe nothin’ about this place.” he was prone to talking to himself lately.  He rolled up the ruined clothes and pitched them into the trashcan, tied his bootlaces through the suspension of his hardhat and scooped his soap and razor into one of the boots.  He walked out to the timekeeper and called him over, ‘Hey man, I need to talk with you.”  When the man faced him, he went on, ”I got an emergency at home up north.  I need to quit, sorry about the notice.  I gotta go. I won’t be back.” 

            The timekeeper looked at him, kinda down his nose, “You tramps are all the same. You can’t stay in one place for shit.  Good thing you won’t be back.  Here fill this form in, so we know where to send your check.”  Lord took the form, filled in the blanks and shoved it back at the man.  The timekeeper looked it over and nodded.  He gave Lord a half-assed salute/wave.  His middle finger was extended a little farther than normal.  Lord got the message.  He picked his gear off of the floor and went to his truck.

            The landlord was on his porch when Lord drove up to the trailer. “I won’t have to chase him down.” he thought.  He walked up to the man and started to tell him that he had to head home today when the man burst out in loud, drunken voice, “Ya seen Lily?” 

            Startled, Lord forgot his business for a minute. “NO, why?  What’s  up?” 

            “She said she had enough of me and packed some clothes and left.” he moaned. “I thought you had her.”

            Lord didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what to do about it. The drunken old bastard had brought this on himself.  “I haven’t seen her man. I got some bad news, I’ve got to go home, it’s an emergency.  How much do I owe you?”

            “You signed a paper kid.  I’ll let you go for $200…cash.” the man had forgotten about the missing Lily when the prospect of money had risen.

            Lord said to himself, “Needs another bottle I’ll bet.” Then aloud, “I read that paper and it says that you get to keep the cleaning deposit, that’s $25 and I owe about a week’s rent, that’s $25.  How about I give you $25 for the inconvenience and we’ll be square?”

            The drunk came right back, “How about you give me $150 and I’ll let you off easy.”

            “ I’ll give you $50 and then I’ll start packing. Deal?” Lord thought he had him then.  He reached for his wallet.  The landlord stepped closer, trying to see how much Lord had in there. He wasn’t about to let the man see his nest egg, so he turned and slipped two twenties and a ten out and put the wallet back in his pocket.

            Lord turned around and waved the bills, “Deal?”

            The greedy landlord snatched the money from his hand, “I’ll go get your paper.” Off he went, weaving to avoid the blades of grass.  He never knew when one would catch a toe and put him down.

            “Don’t I know that feelin.” Lord said. Chuckling, “I gotta stop talking to myself, folks’ll think I’m crazy.”  He entered the trailer and peered around the stuffy dark space.  How much of this crap would he pack?  He went in to the bedroom.  The stink of his morning’s sickness was strong enough to provoke an erp or two as he dumped the liquid in the toilet and put the can in the tub and turned on the water.  He scooped all of the bathroom stuff that he wanted and dumped it in the middle of the still-damp sheets.  He dumped the clean and dirty clothes on the bed and gathered up the edges of the top sheet and tied them together.  Lord picked that bundle up and his guitar and hauled them out to the back of the pickup.  He went back in and grabbed the other sheet and spread it on the little table in the kitchen.  Sorting through the refrigerator and cabinets, he found there wasn’t much that was worth taking, so he wadded the sheet into a ball and stuffed it with the other bundle.  Taking one last look around, he walked out and shut the door.  The landlord was just coming off of his porch, waving a paper.  Lord met him halfway, he took the paper and offered his hand to seal the deal. 

            “Good riddance to you and her.  If you see Lily, tell her to keep on going.” The sorry old bastard spat on the grass, turned and walked away.

            Lord stomped out of the room, fuming with anger.  “How could she lie for a man that had hit her and blacked her eye?  Dad would never have done that.” Lord promised himself that he wouldn’t let it happen again. Big talk for a guy just barely into his teenage years.  Sure enough, four days later he and Charlie came home from school and found Mom in the kitchen making supper.  She tried to keep her back to them but Charlie was feeling a little sad and needed a hug from her. When Mom turned to hold him, he gasped, “Oh, Mom!”  Lord looked up sharply.  A fire raced through his body filling him with rage, as he saw the swollen and split lip that had been added to the yellow-green bruise of her fading black eye. “Mom! He hit you again? Don’t let him do that. I’m gonna call Grampa!” He figured that Gramps could stop the abuse. But, Mom wouldn’t hear of it. He walked out of the kitchen and went to sit on the porch. ‘Slick’ would be home in time for supper, he guessed.

            Lord got into his pickup and drove away from the drunken, sour man.  He took it easy on the gravel drive that led to the blacktop a quarter of a mile away.  He downshifted as he reached the sharp corner that was at the end of the driveway, just before the mailbox. He was startled as Lily jumped out of the brush in front of him.   He stomped on the brake and killed the engine before he could push the clutch in with his other foot. He shook with adrenaline at the near miss.  “Damn, Lily, I almost run you over!” he shouted at her through the open window. Lord opened his door and jumped out and went to see if she was okay. She grinned at him sheepishly as he faced her.  “What do you think you are doing?” he went on.  Her grin faded at the question.

            “I’m leaving.” she announced fiercely. “He won’t hit me ever again.  Can you give me a ride?”

            Lord thought about her request and about the trouble that he had just left behind.  He didn’t want to be involved with that bastard in any way.  He looked at Lily.  She stared at him with such a look of determination…but here she was seven or eight months pregnant, thin as a rail for all that. Wearing worn but clean and neat clothes, the sum total of her belongings stuffed into a small knapsack…a book bag really.  He thought about his history and the escape that he and Charlie had been forced to make over a violent bastard parent, well, step-parent to be totally truthful. He wondered that if he agreed to help her would it make her life worse.  Or maybe cause him more trouble than he could even guess at.

            “Okay, I’ll take you a ways…where you going to?”  Lord nodded to her in agreement.  Lily smiled widely and quickly walked towards the passenger door. “Wait, how old are you? I don’t want to be arrested for kidnapping.” She stopped in mid-stride at his inquiry.

            “I’m 18 and a half.  Honest. I’m old enough to do what I want, and I will whether you help me or not. I won’t bring another child into this life for him to hit.” Lily’s expression showed her resolve.

            Reassured, Lord relented, “Jump in. Let’s get going before the sun goes down. They got into the truck and started north on the highway. “You didn’t say where you are going.” he asked while he shifted gears.  Hearing nothing rumble of the engine and the rush of the wind whistling past the open windows, he glanced in her direction.  She kept facing forward, not offering to answer. “Well?” he asked again as he turned back to his driving.

            Lily said something but it was too soft for him to hear over the road noise, so he turned her way again.  His eyebrows lifted, he touched his right ear with a finger signaling that he hadn’t heard her.

             “I don’t know…I don’t have anywhere to go.” she spoke barely loud enough for him to hear. “Can’t I just ride with you to wherever you are going?  And then I’ll figure it out.”

            “Don’t you have family to go to?” he asked.

            “No.  I do have a sister.  She left 2 years ago and I haven’t heard from her since then.” Lily looked at imploringly. “Please…”

            Her voice tugged at Lord’s heart. If he and Charlie hadn’t had Gramps to go to they would have been forced to…God only knows what.  At least she would be safe with him. “I guess so. I’m going home to try to convince my girlfriend not to dump me.  I don’t know how that will go. But OK, you can rest easy…’til then at least.”

            Lily nodded, but continued looking forward.  He noticed tears trailing down her cheek, the one that he could see.  She was holding back from really crying. He could tell by her shivering body. 

Tailgunner, a favorite project of mine.

TAILGUNNER ON A BARSTOOL

ACT 1

SCENE 1

         Hortense Maude Cheever was wiping down her mahogany bar one more time that day, for the one hundred and seventh time.  At least.  She made one more check over the customers in her tavern to see if they needed another of whatever they were drinking; and to see if they were still alive or comatose.  She snorted to herself as she wondered for the ten thousand, two hundred and seventy ninth time if it was worth it.  Babysitting drunks that is.

         “What the hell else would I do with my time” she said to herself.  “I can’t see myself sitting in a quilting bee.”  Just as she was shaking her head at that thought, the door banged open and the bright outside light backlit a young man standing in the doorway, blinking his eyes, trying to make them adjust to the dim light of the tavern.  “Come in and shut the damned door, it’s too bright out there.  Hurry up!”  Hortense growled at the figure in the doorway. 

         Stumbling into the room, the young man did his best to follow her orders.  “It’s dark in here” he said. 

         “That’s just way we like it, don’t we Tommy?” she looked over her shoulder at an old, thin, weather-beaten man at the end of the bar, then turned back to look at the newcomer.  Immediately she knows that he is too young to be in there, “That’s far enough sonny, this isn’t the school yard, out…get out now!” 

         He stammers, “W…W…Wait a minute, my name’s not sonny.”           Hortense gets a hard look on her face, and starts to walk around the end of the bar.  The young man reaches into his rear pocket and produces his wallet.

         “My name is Don, see right here on the ID.” 

         “Let me see that” she reaches for the wallet and snatches it from his shaking hand. “Well…” she asks.

         Don stammers, “Uhhh…I’m not 21, but…”

         “But nothing, OUT, GET OUT! I’m not in the soda pop business, little boy, no bubble gum here.” Hortense bellows at him, trying to intimidate him out the door. She really didn’t like whackin’ these youngsters with pool cue to get them out before the law caught them in here.  But she would if she had to.

         Don held up his hand, “Wait, I just want to celebrate my news! I gotta tell somebody!” This last was drawn out and a bit whiny.

         She interrupts him, “Go tell your mommy, despite popular opinion,” waving at the staring customers, “I’m not a psychiatrist. And they,” waving again, “ain’t priests to hear your confession, so…take it out of here bub. I ain’t losing my liquor license for you or anybody…so hit the road!”

         Don takes a folded envelope out of his pocket and straightens it and pulls the letter from inside and begins to read it, “UHH…Greetings and Salutations! It is our pleasure to notify you on behalf of the United States of America, that the Selective Service Lottery Number assigned to you has been activated. It is now your duty to report for Induction Processing on the 3^rd of October…blah, blah, blah.”

         Hortense lowers her gaze, her face reddens a bit, and she opens her mouth about to begin speaking.

         Don jumps in, “Don’t you think I’m old enough now?” His challenge lays out there; he almost dares her to toss him out now.

         She caves in, many years and many young men on their way to war have passed through this tavern. Hortense can’t let this one go without a taste of a normal life at home, before he is thrust into the Hell of war.

         “Just keep a low profile, and if you act like you’re drunk, it’s out you go. Hold on, I’ll get you a beer.”

         Don tries to push a little more, “A beer? How about a shot of whiskey on the side?”

         “How about you don’t press your luck junior!” she continues to the beer cooler.

         “OK, OK, then a Coors longneck’ll do.” Don orders something that he has seen in a magazine. Hortense is drawn up short.

         With an amused snort, she says, “Comin’ right up bigshot!

Michael D. LeFevre  ãCopyright  2002   (Adapted from a short play of the same name)  

The Exotic Woman Series

The Exotic Woman Series is a 3-part (so far) line of stories taken from either dreams or vignettes of 'real' life. Sometimes it is hard to tell which is which. Someday I may define what an Exotic woman is. for now, she is what she is.

A Dream

The EXOTIC WOMAN Part 2

An irrational dream begins…

            I had gone to the theater with a friend, some trendy new play.  The type of play that seldom came to my home-town.  The kind of play that was original, verbal, situational and smart as opposed to glitzy, dopey musicals featuring a frustrated insane, physically repugnant monster with a nice baritone and an obsessive love for the hot chick.  You know, the ‘re-run’ that everyone pretends to “love”, but only because they really dig the music and ignore the dialog and plot.  Thank heaven this play hadn’t been like that.

            I was still sitting in my seat thinking about the quirky ending to the play when my friend got up to go.  “Going to the whizzer, see you outside, OK?”  I shook my head to clear the echoes of the last scene and nodded, “Yeah, I’ll see you in a minute.”  As my buddy left, I stood and stretched the stiffness out of my legs and back.  Turning to go, I saw my friends, Marla and her husband Dean talking to Phil, another of our group at the back of the theater.  Waving, I climbed the aisle and walked up to them, said hello and hugged Marla, shook hands with the guys, “How ya doing?”  They replied, “ Fine, Fine, Fine.”  Small talk broke out, each of us catching up on recent events, grandkids, dogs, gardens and the like when out of nowhere I heard my name spoken.  “Mike”.  In the noise of the conversation I couldn’t tell where the sound had come from or if it was real.  “I must be hearing things”, I told myself.  And then it came again a little louder and more insistent, “Mike”.  I looked around, trying to pinpoint the origin of the calling.  It had become important to find out who was calling to me, who owned that voice; that silky, alluring voice.  I scanned my memory for that particular sound, that exact tone of ‘come hitherness’.  Then, again the voice reached out to me, inviting, full of want and desire, “Mike”.

            At that moment the exiting crowd thinned and revealed a woman sitting in the aisle seat of the back row and she was looking directly at me.  I was startled, even though I had been looking for whoever had been calling my name. 

            The woman was beautiful, too beautiful to be looking at me that way.  So naturally I turned around to see if someone else was standing behind me, someone else that she had to be looking at.  I was sure that I was misunderstanding her gaze.  No one was there, except my friends who were looking at me, puzzled at my actions.  I looked back at the woman who smiled slightly, just a quirk of the lips really, and she lifted one eyebrow in an invitation…question?

            She was gorgeous, sitting there a bit sideways, legs crossed at the ankles.  “What ankles”, I thought and continued to look her over.  “Lips”…had I said it out loud?  Lips, full and generous, red, red with that favorite shade of lipstick that I like; the only lipstick that I like. Her hair was black, black as a raven’s wing, soaking up the light like a black hole, glistening only where the light was strong enough to escape the pull of the dark. It was thick, and cut in a short flip that looked natural and inviting.  Her almond eyes were dark too, and from where I stood I couldn’t tell how dark, but they seemed to be saying, “Get over here you fool, I have got something to tell you.”   Just one more glance I thought and…”Oh my!” I sucked in my breath, “OH MY!”  My glance slid from head to toe and back again, “OHH MY! and in a yellow dress too. “

            My feet started moving of their own volition, walking directly over to where she sat, willing me to come to her with her eyes.  I felt as if I had no control.  I arrived to stand in front of her and reached down and took her proffered hand.  “Her skin is like silk”, I thought as I helped her to stand.  As she did, I took her other hand in mine and looked deeply into those dark eyes.  “What am I doing?” in wonder, I gently pulled her to me.   I leaned toward her, intending to kiss those scarlet lips. Just as our lips were about to touch, she lifted her head so that I kissed her chin.  Startled, I jerked back with a question on my face.  She chuckled low in her throat, lips curled in a smile.  She then let my hands go and took my head in hers and pulled our lips together.  An electric spark literally exploded fireworks in my brain.  The sweet fruity aroma of the ruby lipstick filled my head, temporarily overpowering the clean, womanly smell of her skin.  I wanted to crush her body to me, full length, welded together lips to knees; one hot, seething nuclear power-plant of desire.

            I held myself in check, I don’t know how, and pressed my lips back to hers a bit firmer and opened slightly.  She didn’t respond at first so I let the tip of my tongue caress her soft, scarlet lips and as she relaxed, our tongues touched in the real duel of love.  When our lips had first met, my eyes had closed in reflex to the bliss that had spread through out me.  As our kiss deepened, my eyes opened and found her looking at me, eyes dark, deep, and unfathomable.   Who knew what thoughts were flashing in their depths.

            As the desire in both of us increased to just this side of unbearable, our hands started roaming in a more passionate embrace of…how to describe what this was.  A rough hand grabbed my shoulder and jerked me away from this woman, rudely pulling our lips apart, leaving a tingling, yearning, coldness where only heat had been before.  As I stumbled back from the force of the hard treatment, my right arm drew back in an instinctive, defensive act, fist clenched hard, ready to pound the intruder.  “Get away from my woman!” this stranger’s harsh voice ground out.  “What in the hell are you doing?” 

            The woman stepped in between, preventing us coming at each other.  My clenched fist ached to drive through the stranger’s face, it vibrated with the effort to restrain it.  The woman looked at me, shook her head slightly and turned to the stranger.  She grasped his hand and turned to go.  He turned and muttering threats, drug this beautiful woman off like so much baggage.

            I watched them go; the clenched fist relaxed and my arm dropped to my side.  The stranger and the woman swept through the exit doors and at last, she turned and looked straight at me.  Her lips that had so recently held mine in an embrace of love mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”  Silently spoken, loudly received.  My shoulders slumped and my head drooped so that I was looking at my shoes.  “Oh my God Mike, who was that woman?”  Marla asked.  I looked back at the empty doorway, sorrow on my face, “I don’t know, but she called my name.” 

            I walked away to find my friend.

Michael D. LeFevre   May 2010 ã COPYRIGHT

Personal Essay

Starshine

            The morning rushed up like a steam locomotive, as the sun disk peeked over the Wasatch Mountains.  Golden sunlight rushed across the valley floor, chasing the mountain-shadow eastward at a thousand miles an hour.  A large, dark-haired man gathers up the hand of a young boy and walks him over to a battered old pickup truck.  After opening the dented, scratched door, the man bends down and engulfs the boy’s torso in his work-roughened hands, “Up you go, move on over.” he mock growls at the eager child.  The boy just smiles as he slides across the brown naughahyde, wincing slightly at the chill of the seat, “Where’re we going Uncle Arnie?”

            This day was preceded with a night that has been repeated countless times, but not, I must say, with the same eyes, ears, and brain as then.  I had been given the opportunity to spend a week with Uncle and Aunt, and jumped on it just as, well, just as a duck jumps on a Junebug.  My father was 10,000 miles away easing his divorce pains on a Navy destroyer in the western Pacific Ocean.  I lived with my Mother and little sister and had the man-hunger that all little boys have after a long sentence of exclusively female association.  Trucks, tractors, barns, machinery, irrigation ditches, hedges like castle walls, quail, and pheasants, all have greater attraction than a mother’s tender hugs and caresses.  Scraped knees, frogs, dogs, and bloody scabs, almost always, have more power to attract young male attention than dresses, sweet-smelling hair or soapy baths do.  And Uncle had all those things at his finger tips; he ran Grampa’s orchard.  I don’t remember Grampa being around much in those days, he must have been there, but the vivid memories of time with my mother’s older brother linger until today.  We played tag and catch with Babe, a velvet eared German Shorthaired Pointer bitch (there’s no greater sop for a child’s tears than the floppy soft ears of a dog; others have verified my long standing belief), waiting for the day to pass.  “Do you want to go irrigating tonight?”  We get our turn at eleven.” Uncle breathes those magic words.  Words that no sane boy could ever turn down.  “What about my bedtime?”  I wonder aloud.  “I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.” he answers.  Hurray, Hurray!  After supper, the pre-daylight savings time day came to its natural end.  My head sinks down, I wonder if sleep would ever come.  Of course it does, as after every typical kid day.  I was afflicted with that inexorable gravitational pull on fatigued eyelids.  As soon as I fell asleep it seemed like Uncle was shaking my shoulder to get up.  “Better take your jacket, it’ll be chilly on the ditch bank”, Uncle gently guides my sleep numb arms into a lender jacket (a loaned heavy shirt of Uncle’s).  We go out of the house, into a pool of porch light that barely holds the dark at bay.  Uncle lifts me into the truck shooing me over so that he has room to slide in behind the wheel.  We drive a short distance to the orchard, past the farmhouse, the ruby trunks of the cherry tree; driving on down by the barn, rolling past row after soldier row of MacIntosh, the Red Delicious and finally making a left turn down between the ordered ranks of the Roman Beauties.  The incandescent yellow light thrown by the pie dish headlights, bores through the thick darkness of these fruitwoods.  Startled, small birds flutter barely out of the path of the truck.  Suddenly, a right leg stabs at the brake pedal, “Whoa! don’t want to get us stuck in the mud.” Uncle reaches out and turns off the headlights.  Immediately the dark gathers around us like my coat, head to toe, wrapped tight around our chests’ tight enough to make breathing a burden, all of a sudden.  He turns the truck engine off and the silence adds its’ load to the darkness.  Suddenly apprehensive, I slide closer to the warmth of Uncle’s large frame, but in vain, as he steps out of the truck and gathers up his shovel and my hand.  “Come on boy, we don’t want the neighbors to take our water.”  And we’re off, gliding through that black velvet darkness, serenaded by the back scratch/fiddle playing residents of the orchard.  Five year old legs pump furiously to keep my toes from dragging furrows in the dirt.  Uncle saunters unconcerned (that my legs will surely be worn off right up to my knees) through unseen thickets snagging at my Levi’s, flashing his light here and there, unerringly moving to some pre-determined coordinate in that grid of living applesauce.  Although I now know the magician’s trick of finding your way across a familiar tract of acreage, it was a mystery to me then.  I was wondering what would become of me if somehow my hand became separated from the giant warmth of Uncle’s grip.  Would I wander endlessly through mega-acres (just 40) of Grampa’s kingdom, what would I eat (especially eat!), did anyone even love me anymore (where was my daddy?).  When, of a suddenness, my mind’s perambulations were brought up, just as short as those five year old legs, at the edge of a wet smelling, gurgling dark void.  The warm golden beam of the flashlight struck leaden jewels on the surface of the ditch that had looked so inviting in the daylight.  Now, the shining just seemed to be some malevolent invitation to stay away.  “I’m going over there, and it’s real muddy.  Why don’t you stay right here and I’ll be back in a minute.  OK?” Uncle asks me.  My head does a fair imitation of one those rear car window dogs, describing a side to side, up and down wag/nod, as I stammer out  my nervous agreement, “OK”.  The darkness gathers in around me as that warm spot of light moves off, up the flow of waterway.  I long to be with that small glow of security instead of standing by myself in the night, not knowing where my next meal is coming from.  Restlessly, I shuffle my feet in a small dance of childish fear of things unknown.  The serenade that seemed so great just moments ago, now seemed dirge-like as the reality of my aloneness washes over my slight frame.  I glance around as if I could see the cause of my discomfort through the inky blackness.  For some reason, I glanced up.  “Oh, My GOD!” my childish brain screamed, “Look at all them diamonds in the sky!” I shouted to myself.  The clear night air of Utah Valley magnified the dome of stars that shone so intensely in the absence of Sister Moon.  They put the crystal brilliance of gems to shame that night.  My uneasiness faded away beneath the warmth of icy bright stars, millions of eons away.  The dance of fear turns instead to the primal beat of a dance-step known to every human being born on this planet, if only in the genetic code of their chromosomes.  Head back, mouth opens wide, or even slightly, hands at your sides, left foot steps sideways and right slides to meet the left in a twirl of bewitched circle.  Around and around, counter clockwise, Orion, Pleides, Big Dipper, Little Dipper, North Star..........Orion, Pleides, Big Dipper, Little Dipper, North Star, on and on until you think you may fall down full length on your back, star-struck and mute.  I revel in the wash of starlight that night.  Never before and certainly not since have “i” felt so small.

            My reverie is shattered as the suck and splash of size 12 gum boots intrude,  “Ready for home?” and my slack right arm jerks fishing-line taut as the missing warmth of Uncle Arnie’s big rough hand gathers mine up and heads for that old, battered pickup and home.  My interrupted sleep is quickly resumed as I am tucked into my spare bed nest.  My dreams change from frolicsome dogs and thrown balls to the cold, distant shimmer of stars.  I am changed, and I know that I am.  I will see hundreds of awesome night skies in the years that follow but never again with those five-year-old eyes. 

Michael D. LeFevre ã Copyright  24 April 1995

Mouseturd Flats

This is a work of fiction even though some may recognize names and places mentioned, with one exception, the summer nights sitting in the old metal lawn chair gazing at the stars and singing old songs, especially 'Deep in the Heart of Texas'. I have taken bits and pieces of real events and overheard stories and twisted them into this excerpt of the story. The whole story will be published at a later date. I hope you like this.
 
                          McRaven

Mouseturd Flats

MOUSETURD FLATS

PRELUDE

            An old woman sits in a metal lawn chair with a young boy and girl at her feet.  The old chair is rocking as they all look up in the sky periodically and point, apparently, at stars.  They all burst into a song they have always  sung when watching the stars together. For some reason they are distracted and forget some of the words.

            “The stars at night are big and bright,

              Deep in the heart of Texas!

              Na na na na na na na na,

              Deep in the heart of Texas!”

            The old woman laughs deep and joyfully at their attempt to sing the song. Her grandchildren lay their heads on her lap.  She hugs them both, love beaming from her eyes, it is undetected in the darkness.  The old woman reflects upon her life, the good times and the…well, not so good. She has eight grandchildren, these two are her oldest and she loves them all.  That love squeezes her great heart in a tight grip; tears of joy spring into her eyes as she names them all in her mind.

            Connie raises her head and asks, “Nanny, are the stars as bright in Orem as the ones in Texas?”

            Nanny chuckles at the thought, “Yes, they are dear, why do you ask?”

            “I don’t know.” She is quiet after she answers her grandma.

            Mike, the know-it-all brother, pipes up, “She just wants to know if Dad sees the stars where he is.  He’s on a ship in the South China Sea, you know.  Shootin’ old VW’s at North Viet Nam...I wish he could come home.”

            “He sees the stars, same as us.  I guess.  Maybe they’re diff’rent in Viet Nam.”  Nanny offers the best explanation that she could. Viet Nam wasn’t even a country when she went to school. That was over 50 years before this night, before World War I even. Her conclusion seemed right. It was her best guess.

            Connie objected to her brother’s smart-alec remark, “They don’t shoot VW’s Mike!”

            “Yeah they do...smash’em up and put a fuse in the gas tank and send them out of the big guns on the USS New Jersey.” He winks at Nanny, but in the dark she doesn’t see it. Mike continues, “Courtesy of ole’ Adolph Hitler.”

            Connie giggles out loud at the thought of a VW Bug flying through the air.   “Mike you’re so full of it.” She pauses, deep in thought, then quietly says, “I miss him.”

            The yearning they have for their absent father is evident to Nanny. She can hear it in their young voices. It is too bad that the marriage didn’t work out.  Lord knows that she hadn’t been the best example of married bliss to her girls.  Nanny tries to sooth their loneliness, “I know you kids miss your Dad.  He can’t come home, the Navy won’t let him and maybe its best with your new family and all.”

            Mike asked a question that had been bugging him for a while, “Why’d they get divorced?”  Connie sat up straight, she wanted to know the answer to that question too, “Yeah, Nanny how come?”

            Nanny was startled by that question, she hadn’t thought the conversation was heading in that direction.  She didn’t know how to answer the question; she really didn’t have the right to answer it.  Nanny punted, “You’ll have to ask your mother if you want to know more.  Let’s look at the stars some more.  Uh, Ummm…Deep in the heart of Texas.

            The kids didn’t join in with her singing.  Mike was in a mood for answers and if she wouldn’t talk about his parents then maybe he could learn more about her. “Nanny, where was you born?”  Connie knew the answer to that one, “In a hospital stupid!”

            “Was not!”

            “Too!” Connie stood up to her big brother.

            Nanny ended the fight quickly, “Stop it!! Stop!  If you’re gonna fight we’ll go in and you can go to bed!  Are you done?  I mean it, stop the fighting!” Unseen in the darkness two heads bob up and down in agreement.  Nanny waited until they calmed down then she told them,  “Ok.............I was born in Mouseturd Flats, in my parents bed.

            “Where is Mouseturd Flats, Nanny?

            “Over by the Provo River, Mike.” Nanny said.

            “Nanny, why did they call it Mouseturd Flats?” Connie wouldn’t be left out.

            Nanny spoke kind of fast like she is embarrassed by what she was about to say but the kids couldn’t see her face in the darkness. “Because we were so poor  that we didn’t even have mouseturds in the cupboards. Not just my family but all of the farmers in that valley.”

            This sounded like someplace that Mike wanted to see. He was fascinated by farms and old houses.  And if there was a river, well, that was just the frosting on the cake. 

            He jumped up and asked, “Will you take us there, Can we go? Can we? When can we go?”

             “Oh Lordy!  I guess, um, I don’t know, umm.   We can go tomorrow, if your mother says you can.  That was so long ago, I remember..............” Nanny’s voice drops off, they snuggle together and the three of them start singing ‘Deep in the heart of Texas’ as the sound of the crickets rises and falls in time with their song.

Michael D. LeFevre  ã COPYRIGHT 2 July 2000

(adapted from a short play of the same title.)