New Short Story

Sorry to jump around so much, but I guess it just mirrors my brain lately. I have been thinking about a lot of different things this summer. I am working on the other stories so I won't leave you hanging. Getting out of College only has one more chapter...but that's the kicker...it is the most emotional one for me. Even if it is only a story. Nate and Josephine is about half complete but has plot issues, so I am thinking about that. If I have lost you as a reader because of the interlude, I am real sorry. Please come back. As usual, if you have comments, please feel free to share.

The Hummingbird Man

Chapter 1

         A ruby throated Hummingbird flitted by the old man’s window, straight for the fancy copper and art glass feeder hanging on the outside of the window. It was hung just right so that the old man could watch the little birds. In the summer that is. Later, when the birds made their annual flight to the southland to escape the cold of winter his grandsons brought a little cedarwood seed feeder so that he could watch a whole different set of birds. 

         The old man looked up when the motion of the little bird caught his attention. He watched as the rapidly beating wings carried the bird up and down, side to side, until it was sure that there was no threat. Then it slowly slid forward and dipped its long beak into the faux flower blossom and sucked the sweet liquid. A dark streak flashed in from the side and the gaudy ruby throated cock bird backed out of the fake flower and chased after the dark bird. They flew in dazzling circles and zig zags, both trying to intimidate the other.

         “Damn, if they wouldn’t fight so much they both could get a bellyful of syrup. Just selfish, that’s what they are. Just like people.” The old man grimaced and shook his old bald head in disgust.

         The door to his room flew open. Hummingbird man! Let’s get your sorry old ass into your chair and go to supper.” The wild looking young man who was the attendant for the men in the ‘home’, walked over to the closet where the wheelchair sat waiting.

         “Shut the hell up, and bring the chair over here! And quit calling me the Hummingbird man.” The old man swung his tired old stick legs over the side of the bed where he sat. Legs that had carried him over tall mountains and many miles in search of far horizons, now wouldn’t hold him to walk across the room, let alone to the dining hall. Arms and shoulders that had lifted 1000 bales of hay in one day, now could barely push the wheels on the chair. But there was nothing wrong with his mind, well not too much anyway. He did have a hard time remembering some of his friends’ names but, he never forgot his family.

         “Hurry up!  Wait, take me into the bathroom first. I got to go.” The old man said impatiently. He secretly liked the boy, but he didn’t let on that he did. The attendant was strong as a bull and he handled the old men in the home like they were made of cardboard. He was a happy-go-lucky kid, but he had a smart mouth. It got him in trouble with some of the other old farts in here, but the old man liked it. It kept his mind sharp, trying to keep up.

         The old man reached out his hands expecting a pull up and an arm around his shoulder to help him over to the bathroom, but the kid bent down and picked him up with an arm under his legs and one around his back.

         “Man, you’re as light as one of those hummingbirds that you watch. No wonder I call you ‘Hummingbird Man’.” The young man carried him easily to the bathroom and set him upright next to the toilet.

         The old man was embarrassed, he was the guy that used to show off his strength. He had carried his father exactly like this in the last days of his life. The thought of that gave him a chill that travelled up and down his spine.

         “What do you think you’re doing! I didn’t tell you to carry me like a baby! Get out while I go to the bathroom! Now!” The old man used anger to cover up his embarrassment.

         “Do you need help with your zipper?” the young man offered.

         The old man sputtered in outrage. “No one but me has touched my zipper since I was a tyke. Except in fun. And you ain’t gonna be the first. Now get out!”

         The young man smiled at the old man’s feistiness. He nodded and turned his back to the old man so that he could have some privacy, but the rules wouldn’t allow him to completely leave the room with the old man standing as wobbly as he seemed to be.

         “I’ll be right here, but I won’t look, rules you know. Say something if you feel like you’re about to fall.”

         The old man grumbled, but he went about his business. When the dribbling sounds of the old man’s weak stream stopped, The young aide turned back and helped the old man to his wheelchair. As they were wheeling down the hall to the dining room, the young man started whistling like a bird. The warbling rose and fell in a lively rhythm.

         “What kind of bird is that?” the old man queried.

         “Shitbird.” The young man deadpanned.

         “For Hell’s sake, you are a smartass aren’t you. For real, tell me.”

         The young man smiled broadly. He wanted to laugh. But that wouldn’t be cool. So he deflected the old man’s attention.

         “Look there’s your girlfriend, Mrs. Terwilliger. Do you want to sit next to her?”

         “I don’t have a girlfriend.” The old man growled. “Just friends that are females. Yeah, take me over there, I might as well have some company that isn’t so full themselves like some I might name.” He said this last bit pointed right at the young man.

         “Alright Hummingbird Man, here you are. Howdy there, Mrs Terwilliger, looking for some company?” the young man pushed the old man up to the table in the place next to the woman. He left him there and went after his other charges.

         The old man smiled nicely at Mrs. Terwilliger. “Good evening, Melanie. Is it alright if I sit next to you?”

         Mrs. Terwilliger snorted indelicately. “It’s a little late to ask for permission isn’t it? You’re already here.” Then with a smile, “ Of course it is okay. How are you today?”

         “Just fine, thank you. And you?” the old man winked at her. They had a close friendship. Friendships in the ‘home’ were hard to maintain at their age. Between illness, senility and death, time to develop relationships was often short. Melanie and the old man, had both been in here for about 4 years. They had the good fortune to be alert and mostly well, even though they were both approaching 95 years old.

         “Why does that young man call you the Hummingbird Man?” Mrs. Terwilliger asked.

         “I don’t know, everyone knows that I feed the birds. Hummingbirds in the summer, all the other little birds in the winter. I like watching them better than looking at TV. Maybe he has a nickname for everyone in here.” The old man looked perplexed at that. He hadn’t thought of that before.

         “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Terwilliger offered, “I haven’t heard him call anyone else by a nickname, just their real names. Have you?”

         “No I don’t think I have.” He answered. The staff started to serve supper.  

Death in the Valley-Chapter Three

Chapter Three

         Mrs. Burnett had finished making dinner and setting the table. She walked out onto the porch staring up the hill to where her husband was plowing. Or had been anyway, a cloud of dust marked his progress towards the house. He seemed to know exactly when supper was ready and showed up, tired, sweaty and hungry.

            As she watched the drifting dust cloud, she thought of how they had come to be here, in the valley. How she was still excited to be living on their own place, working for themselves, not some miserly owner who begrudged even the little bit that they were paid. Her thoughts drifted back over their life…

         The Burnett’s had been married for a long time. Long enough to raise two girls and a son. The boy had been killed by a bad bull on a hard scrabble ranch in Nevada. The two daughters had married and been carried away by their men to far away Colorado where they both worked on the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Mr. Burnett was a hard worker, he knew how to plow a field or castrate a litter of pigs. Usually for someone else, seldom for his own benefit. Mrs. Burnett couldn’t complain however, he had always worked enough to keep the wolf from the door and shoes on the kids. She worked hard too, there was a hot meal on the kitchen table every night when Mr. Burnett came in from a hard day at work. Mrs. Burnett washed their clothes by hand in a washtub every Monday scrubbing the worn clothes on a corrugated board that often wore the skin from her knuckles, leaving her hands raw and bleeding for most of the week. She maintained their clothing so that the work clothes were more of patches than the original fabric. She was skilled with a needle and thread. She sewed all of the girls’ dresses when they were at home. Mrs. Burnett teased them that they wouldn’t have caught a man if it hadn’t been for the pretty dresses that their mother made for them.

            One day after the girls had been married for a year, Mr. Burnett came home with an exciting proposal. How would she like to have their own place? The boss had told him about a ranch, just 100 acres over in western Utah, Skull Valley, that had belonged to his wife’s brother.  The lazy so-and-so had planted a dozen apple trees and built a lean-to shack for his wife and kids then skipped the country. The boss had bought the property from the woman and sent her back to her folks over in Manti. He offered the place to the Burnett’s for just what he had paid for it; they could pay him some every year when they sold their harvest.

            Mrs. Burnett took about 30 seconds before she grabbed Mr. Burnett in a bear hug and asked him why he had even waited to ask her. He should have shook the boss’s hand before he changed his mind and sold it to someone with cash.

            The next day they both went to see the boss and accept his offer. They signed a note for $2000 and shook his hand. Joyfully making plans they went home and started to pack their meager belongings. They had accumulated an old grain wagon with a canvas cover that looked like an old prairie schooner. Two middle aged geldings to pull it, a riding horse for Mr. Burnett to use when the boss had him chase the wild cattle on the bi-annual roundups. Mrs. Burnett had a half wild milk cow that gave enough milk for their meals and to sell a little butter made from the cream. There was a calf every year to sell, and her two dozen hens laid enough eggs that the extra was sold to add to her kitchen fund. Mrs. Burnett’s household goods were old and worn like their clothing, the only furniture worth anything was the marriage bed that Mr. Burnett had made for her and the beautifully carved Hope chest that her Scottish father had given her on her thirteenth birthday, no doubt goaded by her mother into action. He had used his considerable skill to make a wonderful chest that she had cherished all of her life. She had protected it from 3 rambunctious children and a dozen moves.

            Mr. Burnett asked his wife to help push the wagon from its’ place by the shed to the front of the little cottage where they could load it with their belongings. They tugged and pushed to get the heavy wagon rolling, then Mr. Burnett rushed to lift the wagon tongue and directed it so that the rear of the wagon was even with the doorway.

            “If we get it loaded today can we leave tomorrow?” Mrs. Burnett asked. She was eager to move to a place of her own. She had lived in line shacks and old cabins at every ranch that they had worked at since they were married. She couldn’t count the dirt floors and empty window frames that she had fixed to make a home for her man and her children. Their only son was buried on a lonely ridge overlooking the ranch where he had died. The owner had felt so bad that he had ordered a white limestone marker for her son. He had slaughtered the bull that killed him and placed the severed head on the grave, Two days too late, but there it was. After things were settled and they were sure it would work out, maybe she would move his grave to the new place so that he could lie next to her and his father when their turn came.

            Mrs. Burnett shook her head; the thoughts of the past had taken her mood down. Or the heat, she couldn’t tell which. Where was that old man? Supper would be burnt to a cinder if he didn’t get here soon. She searched for sign of him getting closer, the dust trails were settling. “I guess he’s behind the barn” she said to no one in particular. The sudden sound of a whistling old man trying to sneak up on her caused her head to swivel. “You couldn’t surprise a marching band you old coot! Not with that tune.”

            Mr. Burnett laughed. “Damn! I was hopin’ to catch you sleeping.”

            “Not likely. If I didn’t hear you, I could smell you a mile away. Why don’t you wash off and put on a clean shirt, supper’s ready.”

            Mr. Burnett laughed again, “I will ol’gal, just for you!” He slapped her behind as he walked past. “Just for you!”

I'm Back!

Hey, here is a new story. It is based on true events that occurred a couple of miles south of where I now live. I have misplaced the rest of the story (it is hand-written), so this is it until I find the notebook where it is written. Please let me know what you think. I found out a while a go that I have an unexpected connection to the events. The names have been changed and the details have been fabricated as the actual murders have never been solved as far as I can tell. So, Here it is "Death in the Valley".

Death in the Valley

 Death in the Valley

Chapter One

            It was a hot August afternoon in valley. Mrs. Burnett had opened all of her windows and doors hoping for a cross breeze that might cool the house off. The only drawback to that was the flies seemed to congregate in the house hoping to escape the heat of barnyard and maybe score a bite of the supper that she was making for her husband.

            Mr. Burnett was out in the south field plowing the wheat stubble under hoping that the late summer thunderstorms would settle the loose dirt before winter. His team of horses were working hard even though the soil was sandy, with a little gravel. There was no big rocks. The horses perspired freely and hot dust stirred up by their feet stuck to their wet hide making muddy streaks around the leather harness. He decided that they had worked enough for that day and kicked the lift pedal that used the mechanical force of the McCormick sulky plow to lift the plowshare from the earth. When the plow was up, he turned the team and headed for home.

            The heat of the stove almost unbearable, Mrs. Burnett had made only enough fire in it to fry some potatoes and warm up the left over chops from breakfast. The rest of the meal was fresh vegetables from the little kitchen garden that she worked so hard to make produce. Mr. Burnett seldom helped in it, usually just helping her with the spring cultivation and hauling fertilizer from the corral. He did grow an acre of potatoes that they used for their winter storage. She set about putting out the plates, knives and forks on the square table that was situated on the cool side of the house. Mrs. Burnett made a trip outside to the little spring box that Mr. Burnett had dug out in the shade of the north side of the house. He had directed the small stream of water that had been brought down the hill in a ditch dug by a horse drawn plow and cleaned up with a shovel. It fed the spring box and the watering trough for the animals around the home place and she irrigated her kitchen garden with it. They had dug a shallow well in the yard for their drinking water.

Chapter Two

            Carl Schwartz, Jr. was big, 25 years old and built heavy. He looked like a man but he was still a boy in his mind. Carl, his father called him JR because of the Jr. that his Ma had tacked on, was full grown and thick. Thick in body and in mind. He looked just like his Pappy, but Pappy was old and smart. Carl Schwartz Sr. said he was smarter than JR so that made it so. It must have been true because when JR was hungry, Pappy brought food, and when his boots wore out, Pappy brought him some new ones. Well, new to him anyway. JR could tell that somebody else had worn them from the rancid sock smell. He didn’t worry too much where they came from, just so they fit and and he couldn’t feel the rocks through the soles.  Pappy took care of JR.

            He said it was his bounden duty ‘cause he had promised JR’s Ma that he would. She was real sick when Carl Sr. made the promise. Ma had died, JR guessed that was true because they had put her in a hole and stuck a cross made from some crooked sticks in the soft earth after she was covered. A preacher came and said some words about Jesus and how Ma was just sleeping until the morning of the ‘rez-r-wreck-shun.

            This had caused a big to-do when JR started crying and wailing, saying, “If she is just sleeping, then wake her up! I want my Ma!” Over and over again. Pappy had said a cuss word, then gave the preacher a dollar, a paper one, not silver, and then he grabbed JR and shook him until he stopped weeping.

            “JR” he said, “your Ma is dead and she ain’t gonna wake up. That damned preacher shouldn’t have said that!” Then lower, he mumbled, “At least he said the right words over your Ma and he ain’t one of them damned Mormons hereabout!”  

            They wandered a bit after that. One boomtown or mining camp after another. They would stay until something happened that would make Pappy curse, then sigh; every time he would say, “JR pack up your kit and kaboodle and let’s mosey.”

            One time, he had whined for an hour about being hungry, so Pappy told him to go find something to eat. So JR did. Down the road a piece, Old Lady Jones had a flock of fat hens that were nearly tame. Whenever anyone walked by the house the chickens gathered at you feet looking for a handout. JR was getting angry at trying to wade through the flock so he raised his foot, ready to kick them over the roof an idea flashed through that thick head.

            “Hungry…food…chicken…food…hungry!” Instead of booting the feathered annoyances out of the way he lowered is foot and bent down to grab the first begging  chicken that he could reach. By the head. He lifted it up squawking crazily. He gave the whole bird a twirl around his meaty paw, separating several vertebrae and severing its spinal cord. Amazingly, to JR, the squawking stopped abruptly to be replaced by a frenzied flapping of its wings. JR watched curiously. So did the living hens. A horrible screeching came from the house where Old Lady Jones lived and the door was flung open by a bellowing woman.

            She didn’t stop hollering until she came to a stop face to face with JR. He looked dumbly back at her. The noise brought Old Man Jones from the back shed where he had been sampling Booter’s latest try at brewing beer. Alarmed at all the noise he imagined that a stinking coyote had gotten into the old woman’s chickens. So he grabbed a long handled shovel to bash it in the head.

            When he turned the corner of the house, he saw that big thick kid of Schwartz’s standing in the road with a limp chicken in his hand and the old woman dancing in outrage and shrieking curses at the poor dummy. JR caught the motion of Old Man Jones running towards him with a raised shovel in his hands and for once his brain worked fast enough to realize that he had better run on home. 

            Home was a shack on the edge of the mining camp about a hundred yards away. When he thundered into the dooryard, Carl Sr. looked up to see his frightened thick son running towards him holding a dead flopping chicken in his big beefy hand and realized at once the source of his son’s fear. “Go inside and shut the door JR.” Pappy told him, “And don’t come out unless I say!” JR usually did what Pappy said to do. Fifteen minutes later, Old Man Jones and the town Marshal walked into the dooryard and started yelling at Pappy. They pointed at the shack and yelled some more, but Pappy just shook his head. Then they left walking back the way they came, Old Man Jones turned and pointed his finger at Pappy and yelled at him to “do something about it!”  Pappy just shook his head again and watched them walk away.

            When they were gone, he called JR out and pointed at the dead chicken that his thick son was still holding by its broken neck. “Pick the feathers of that bird and pull its guts out, then pack up your kit and kaboodle and let’s mosey some.”