Words From the Lakeside - update 9/21/2009
Click here to email for information or instructions on how to order a copy of "Words From the Lakeside"!
---------------------------0-----------------------------
COMMENTS BY THE AUTHOR
Over the years I have collected, written and saved many quotes, comments, letters and poems. These include facts, ideas, thoughts, hypotheses or theories from my mind and soul. The purpose of this book is to share them with others. Some of my words will please you and may bring a smile. Some will have little meaning to you. Some may not be in harmony with your own feelings and beliefs. Some will be about subjects no one likes to face. Like every other human mind, I may be right or wrong. I try to think and also to write in a way that is rational, rather than emotional. However, since we are all mostly controlled by instincts (emotions) rather than reason or logic, rational thoughts and actions are extremely difficult—impossible for many. Also, I rarely accept the words of others without question or strong confirmation. I admit, it has to make sense and fit with my perception of reality to be accepted. Those words of others in this book make reasonable sense to me or they would not be included. I readily acknowledge that it is perception that rules over reality in virtually every choice we make in life and that perceptions can change. Basics do not.
In the past I have been severely criticized by some individuals and groups for expressing my views a bit too stridently. Sorry about that, but we live and learn. I now try to be less strident and more conciliatory in expressing my views. I listened to the words of Abraham Lincoln as quoted herein, who, by the way, was hated and reviled by opponents in his time much as George Bush is today. Men of action are always despised by some groups of opponents, usually because they are out of power.
In writing this book I have sought truth and rational explanations of that to which my senses and intellect react. I am also given to factual descriptions in essays and true stories and to extrapolation of today's knowledge in fictional expressions and stories. Much of my fiction is "hard" Sci-Fi, or fiction based on scientific reality extrapolated. I do not write fantasy. As the years bring changes and new experiences, I will revise and add to this work as new information and ideas dictate. My ideas may seem crazy to some, but to them I address the following quote from Angela Monet:
"Those who dance are thought insane by those who can’t hear the music."
Hopefully, the music of my words and those of others quoted will reach you.
DEDICATION
Special thanks to Barbara, my wife and companion for the "golden" years. She filled my life with love and spirited activity. After we married, she became a Methodist pastor and led a small country congregation in a church "in the middle of three cornfields" as she always says. A committed Christian, she took to the
Once I began writing full time, she became my chief editor, proof reader and critic. Her excellent language skills and legal secretary experience equipped her to proof read and correct my work. Her spiritual and social input balanced the science basis for much of my work. Fearless and determined, she was positively brutal with a red pencil. We conducted many friendly verbal battles over differences with wording or concepts in my writing. She definitely infused my work with her own flavor, to its benefit. She kept me on my toes. Her health problems brought us in nearly constant contact with a warm companionship and closeness stronger than before. Our hopes and plans for the future were shared right up through her last days, shored by her indomitable spirit and unbreakable faith.
When she passed away, my heart was wrenched from within me. I asked God to help me to bear the pain. Sunday morning, October 16, 2005, at eight-forty in the morning, my dear, sweet Barbara passed from this life into the next. May God receive and hold her good and precious soul in his gentle hands. There is much about Barbara in Section IV of this book. I can only hope her spirit will guide my heart and mind as I continue to write. I miss her terribly in so many ways. We are hopeful for the future as we plan the promotion of my writing and lecturing.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The book has four sections:
Section I - Quotes, Comments, Letters and Poetry
Section II - Essays by HJ
Section III - Fictional Short Stories
Section IV - True Short Stories - most from my childhood
Excerpts from each section follows to provide a flavor of the book.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Section I - Quotes, Comments, Letters and Poetry
From my private store of quotes, comments and poems. Authors of quotes are acknowledged if known. - HJ - indicates my own words. Should you know the origin of quotes designated as - Unknown or - Anonymous, please let the book publisher know.
TRUTH AND BELIEF
When truth and belief come to conflict,
it is better to change one’s belief to fit the truth
than to change the truth to fit one’s belief.
Beliefs are the creations of men
while Truths are the creations of God!
—HJ, July 7, 1986
New Serenity Prayer
Lord, grant me . . .
The serenity
to accept that there are those things I will not know,
The comfort
of reasonable beliefs to fill these voids of knowledge,
The courage
to change these beliefs when truth so dictates, and
The wisdom
to know the difference between belief and truth.
—as modified by HJ, March 1999
To all my dearly beloved children,
Your kind of father? I think only maybe. As best I can be with what I have to work, I will try to be my own kind of man. As a father, my kind of man will always try to realize that his children are not his possessions, but that they growing, separate human beings with their own lives to lead. He is, therefore, responsible for doing the best job he can to teach his children how to cope with the world. He does not have the right to impose his own will on them, but must protect them from danger. He must not be a pal, a dictator, a friend, a slave, or a slave-master to his children. Yet as situations dictate, he must be each of these and still more.
His relationship must be multidirectional and fluid in all respects. As the child grows, he must constantly adjust to the proper degree of control for both the child’s education and protection. He must have the strength to let his charges be hurt so they learn some cautions are in order. He must carefully protect and gauge the amount of hurt to be allowed to both the child’s age and constitution.
Likewise in life’s decisions, he must grant more and more autonomy as the child gains the experience to handle it. He must maintain a benevolent dictatorship until his charges are on their own. Democracy is fine for a nation or group of adult equals, but it is a disaster in a family of growing children. He must also recognize it is best to loosen the reigns too early than too late since this teaches the child responsibility for his or her actions. Above all, he must know love is not possession, but sharing. A wise man was asked how to hold love, to which he replied, “Like a small bird in the hand. Hold it too tightly and it dies; hold it too loosely and it flies away.”
I know not how you view your father now, but when you are a full person at whatever age, invite me into your life as you would a friend. If it comes to pass in a comfortable and loving fashion, I will have been the father I intended to be.
—HJ, 1965
He who knows not and knows not that he knows not is a fool.
Shun him!
He who knows not and knows that he knows not is a child.
Teach him!
He who knows, and knows not that he knows is blind.
Lead him!
He who knows and knows that he knows is wise.
Follow him!
—Many versions and sources, Persian saying, Sanscrit, Confucious
It is better to try and risk failure,
than not to try and thus insure it.
—Anonymous
If you give a man a fish, he has food for a day.
If you teach him to fish, he has food from then on.
—Chinese Proverb
Enigma
We place the pieces in the puzzle randomly,
Fitting each together with the one before it.
One doesn’t fit. It is taken out,
Turned around. Replaced,
Only to find that it doesn’t fit again.
Can the pieces be altered?
Or the puzzle changed?
Or is the only solution in
Putting the pieces into a different maze?
—Deb Archer to her father, HJ, 1972
Epilog to Enigma
The puzzle is nearly complete. The picture almost whole.
Only a few random spaces remain.
Too many pieces are left over and none of them fit
And we keep finding more pieces
And more pieces and still more pieces!
Another puzzle? Another picture?
More pieces, more puzzles, more pictures!
The puzzles that were wholes
Become pieces, small random pieces
That seem to fit still greater puzzles.
We find more puzzles that are pieces
And few fit . . . and the enigma starts over . . .
Full cycle . . . at another level . . . ?
—Reply to “Enigma” sent to Deb Archer by her father, HJ
Dear Lord,
I want to say that today I have not done a single bad thing. I have not been angry or nasty to anyone. I have not said an unkind word, acted selfishly, bragged, or cursed.
But in a few minutes, Lord, I am going to get out of bed, and from then on, I’ll need all the help I can get.
—Anonymous
Honest work bears a lovely face, for it is the father of pleasure and the mother of good fortune. It is the keystone of prosperity and the sire of fame. And best of all, work is relief from sorrow and the handmaiden of happiness.
—Anonymous
Alas! Time doesn’t fly! Time stays. We go!
—Anonymous
Ice-blue eyes - secret tears - pain hidden in the heart - bright laughter - running, running - broken child’s world - stifled fears - steeled, hard-shell - soft love-warmth - sun and bright sky to black midnight - the now trapped - foiled understanding - tenuous dream-wish - listen, hear - being freedom - broken chains - fly to - reach - have - love - borrow - miss you . . .
—HJ, 1965
Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things
—Cicero, 80 BC
It is better to wear out than to rust out.
—Bishop George Horne, 1730–1792
Memory is the power to gather roses in winter and snowflakes in July and to taste a loving kiss from long ago.
—HJ, 1970
Aye . . . like a snowflake in flight
between sky and ocean are we.
Beauty for an instant . . . Never to be again.
—HJ, 1973
Hold yourself responsible for a higher standard than anybody expects of you. Never excuse yourself. Never pity yourself. Be a hard taskmaster to yourself and be lenient with everybody else.
—Henry Ward Beecher
The real, the sweetest taste of victory comes when you win in your adversary’s battlefield, fought with his weapons and his set of rules at a time of his choosing, when losing would cost you no loss of stature. Even more so when you are that adversary!
—HJ, 1972
Images of Pain
A Satanic burst of flame - Screaming, burning flesh - Bright tinkling shards of glass - Another monstrous flash of fire - Black smoke billowing - Heart-rending phone calls - Humanity in the stairwells - Electronic pictures burned into brains - A rumbling, crushing, obliterating collapse - Terrible showers of stone, steel, glass, dust, and flesh - Lives painfully obliterated as millions watch in horror and disbelief - Booming clouds of smoke and dust, then dooming silence.
Heroic thousands in vain efforts - Photos of lost loved ones - Withering hope - Veils of tears - Anguish a billionfold, but a few scream with joy - Faces of horrible pain of loss - Electronic images of child faces of evil - I cry, you cry, millions cry, God cries. Satan laughs!
—HJ, September 11, 2001
The really dangerous people are not those who believe in violence as a means to every end or they who believe in treachery as a means to most ends. Those can be overcome by violence and by alertness. The truly deadly menace is the intelligent man or woman whose central vision, trained and indoctrinated in the self-righteousness of their views as are so many elitist intellectuals, has been misdirected and confused until suspicion has become the guiding principle and pure power the only end.
—HJ, 1992
Somehow, we always get back to the basics. Right and wrong, good and evil, like beauty, are in the eye of the beholder (or doer). Their rules are not immutable. They are lifestyle—cultural, social, or religious creations. They depend entirely on one’s own situation—whose side you are in, to what group you belong, or who eats whom. I’m sure Genghis Khan, Hitler, and Saddam Hussein had and have very different views of these words than their victims.
Good and evil, right and wrong have very different meanings for a zebra than for a lion.
—HJ, May 8, 2001
One midnight, deep in starlight still,I dreamed that I received this bill:
(-------- in account with life:)
Five thousand breathless dawns, all new;
Five thousand flowers, fresh with dew;
Five thousand sunsets, wrapped in gold;
One million snowflakes, served ice-cold;
Five quiet friends; a baby’s love;
One white-mad sea, with clouds above;
One hundred music-haunted dreams
Of moon-drenched roads and hurrying streams;
Of prophesying winds, and trees;
Of silent stars and browsing bees;
One June night in a fragrant wood;
One heart that loved and understood.
I wondered when I waked at day,
How . . . how in God’s name
. . . I could pay!
—Courtland Sayers
In human intercourse the tragedy begins, not when there is a misunderstanding about words, but when silence is not understood.
—Henry David Thoreau
An untruth that conveys a true meaning from one person to another is, in fact, a truth—a truth that conveys a false meaning is in fact an untruth. Truth or untruth is not in the medium, only in the message!
—HJ, 1968
Heavens! How many obstacles there are between a resolution and its fulfillment! How much compromising to be done with unessential issues to preserve the main thing whole and worthy! Each new obstacle to be surmounted in its turn, its smashed entanglements converted into means toward the main end! And the main end never to be overlooked, forgotten, substituted, changed, abandoned, nor once dishonored by a coward doubt!
The worst hour is the eve of the final effort, when the goal that seemed so near, seems passing out of reach, and all the work done hitherto that seemed so wise, appears ill done and ill-conceived, and all the unpredictable, imponderable dangers suddenly invade the mind like specters. Then a man needs courage. Aye, he needs the courage to believe his vision all along, from the first until now, was clear, and all his efforts well aimed to a good conclusion.
—Talbot Munday in Tros of Samothrace
By doubting we are led to inquire;
by inquiring we perceive the truth.
—Peter Abelard
There is only one danger I find in life. One may take too many precautions.
—Alfred Adler
With our progress we have destroyed our only weapon against tedium: that rare weakness we call imagination.
—Oriana Fallaci
Every former protester I know passionately defends the actions of the 1960s and early '70s as exercising our First-Amendment right to criticize government policies. None seems to have read the First Amendment to the end where it speaks about peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government. More importantly, even in their advanced years, many seem incapable to confront the reality of having served the interest of America's enemies.
—Balint Vazsonyi
A trained flea can be taught to do most the things a congressman does.
—Mark Twain
The sick in soul insist that it is humanity that is sick, and they are the surgeons to operate on it. They want to turn the world into a sickroom. And once they get humanity strapped to the operating table, they operate on it with an ax.
—Eric Hoffer
Add a few drops of venom to a half truth and you have an absolute truth.
—Eric Hoffer
Enlightened people seldom or never possess a sense of responsibility.
—George Orwell
Where is all the knowledge we lost with information?—T. S. Eliot
If there were no God, there would be no atheists.
—G. K. Chesterton
In children we have an innocent audience not yet hardened and brutalized and made cynical. They look to us trustingly for information and enchantment. How very few of us are worthy of such trust.
—Sterling North
The United States will be a socialist dictatorship by 2030.
—HJ, 2008
Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away.
—Philip K. Dick
The quickest way of ending a war is to lose it.
—George Orwell
The desire to transcend the human condition is an invitation to tyranny.
—Gertrude Himmelfarb
When only cops have guns, it's called a 'police state.'
—Robert Heinlein
Without violence nothing is ever accomplished in history.
—Karl Marx
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Section II - Essays - by Howard Johnson
Reflections On and About Columbus Day
Ah, Columbus Day—when Europeans celebrate their discovery of this land. To some of my distant relatives, this is a day of sadness and mourning. A day recognizing a painful turning point in the land where America’s original inhabitants lived for hundreds of centuries before the invasion by Europeans. For me it is a day of mixed emotions. I thank God that my Native American blood made peace with my European American blood a long time ago. However, I still get upset when reminded how my European forebears treated my Native ancestors, particularly the repeatedly violated treaties. But all that is behind us, it’s history and we move forward.
It is time for the forgiving of old injustices and evil acts by long-forgotten ancestors. I firmly object to the recurring demand for reparations for the descendants of slaves. If anyone deserves reparations, it is certainly Native Americans more than and before any other group. I am not in favor of those kinds of reparations either. The time of hatred and recriminations is long gone. It is a time for healing.
Yes, Columbus Day reminds every Native American of repeated raw deals at the hands of Europeans for most of the last five hundred years. Yes, there are frequent grumblings and protest marches on Columbus Day which receive very little press coverage. In spite of some places where discrimination still exists, most Native Americans now walk proudly as fully accepted members of American society and are proud to be called Americans. They are increasingly returning to their tribal roots for reawakening of their cultural heritage and language. Even more important, they are now being honored for their culture as are increasing numbers of other ethnic, racial, and religious groups. This is a kindly human movement for the most part with expressions in dance, literature, festivals, foods, and song. America’s multinational and multicultural people are more and more honoring their differences, respecting their variety, and enjoying their fellow human beings of all kinds.
Sadly, there are those who never forget and still hold hate in their hearts. Not only do they hold on to that hate, but they pass it onto their children and others they can influence. Violent grudges held for centuries and passed down through generations are what make the hells in places like The Middle East, Bosnia, Rwanda, Israel, Afghanistan, and recently New York, Washington, and Pennsylvania. Racial, ethnic, religious, cultural, social, language, political, income, and many other differences can be used to foment hatred, fear, and mob action. This is particularly true among the young or uneducated. Use of these protracted hatreds and twisted religious and political beliefs by unscrupulous leaders to enslave followers is everywhere, including the United States. From small-scale operations like Jim Jones and his cult to David Koresh and the Branch Davidians to some militant blacks and their followers to bin Laden and the Al-Qaeda group, they have a similar pattern. Adolph Hitler and his Nazis are one monstrous example from the past. Only the scale of the death and destruction are different.
The real question becomes, how do you fight against hatred without using hatred and becoming the very thing you despise? That is a knotty question with few ready or obvious answers. The only real hope is to rally the entire world to help eradicate all manner of hate mongering and the terrorism it fosters wherever it exists. Many in the media and in political life in this country would do well to curb their own hate speech. They themselves are not so apt to do direct damage, but there are many among us who become so inflamed by such talk that they take actions that are terrorism on whatever scale. The recent, numerous incidents involving Middle Eastern–looking people are examples.
Currently, we are reeling from the results of a major diabolical attack by a group who have been indoctrinated since youth with an unreasoning hatred of our way of life. Make no mistake, this calculated and pernicious hatred is being used by groups of men to gather support for the complete destruction of individual freedoms of all people. They want to impose a false and evilly convoluted version of Islamic law on the entire world by any means possible. Among other things, this law places women in a state worse than slavery. Under their law, these men have the power of life and death over women without question. Women must be completely hidden by clothing and veils when outside. Homes with women must have their windows painted over with black paint or other nonremovable opaque covering so there is no chance of their being seen from outside.
The atrocities being committed against women in Afghanistan are monstrous. Among the most recent, a woman whose arm was accidently exposed as she drove, was dragged from her car and stoned to death by a group of men. The sports stadium in Kabul is now used solely for public executions, usually of women. Many women are killed by their husbands or a relative by having their throat slit with the popular dirk: a short curved dagger carried by most men.
Here is a quote from a man who spent much of his life in the Middle East and Central Asia. The italics are my words. “These inhuman monsters by our view are from a culture that places little value on human life. In the middle east, if you show concern for human life, they conclude that you’re a patsy and act accordingly. One example: the Iran hostage affair. They understand murder as we understand humanitarian acts. I don’t mean for us to actually commit the murder, but people who think you will commit murder on them are deterred. Then you don’t have to actually do it. Murder is reliable, feasible, and affordable, so the preparations for war we are now making send the kind of message that those people understand.”
Recently, my wife, Barbara, and I watched in horror at the TV views of Afghani women being beaten and executed. These so-called Islamic fundamentalists are no more followers of Islam than the average barnyard pig. They are inhuman, satanic monsters—cruel, extreme misogynists to whom women are used as objects for their frustrated hatred and anger. They have been indoctrinated since youth in a satanically twisted version of Islam by teachers whose convoluted, pent-up hate is an expression of their own inadequacy and weakness. The actions of these subhuman creatures display mob mentality of the worst kind. They are in stark contrast to the Muslims who brought forth the light of education, mathematics, astronomy, architecture, and art during the depths of the European Dark Ages. Those great men of knowledge would be stoned to death by these slaves of satanic masters if they were around today.
In his book, The True Believer, Eric Hoffer describes men who think so little of themselves they can only gain self-esteem by abandoning “self” to a “cause.” These true believers, as he calls them, will do anything, including committing suicide, for their cause. Following their “leaders” who enslave them to serve the leader’s own and often undefined purpose, these are not men of free will, but true slaves of those who manipulate them. Such is the enemy free men now face.
Man has a natural instinct for enslavement. All great and small movements utilize this “pack animal” instinct to control masses of people as tools of opportunistic leaders. Humanitarian civilization tends to counter this instinct while mobs, movements, charismatic leaders, and fundamentalists tend to nurture and expand it.
The real power in mobs, movements, fundamentalism, and other uses of instincts to control lies in a very simple, irrefutable fact—that it is infinitely easier to damage or destroy to change things than to build or create. Only the most rudimentary skills were used by a few men to bring down the World Trade Center in just a few minutes. Contrast this with the immense effort required to design and build those same structures. In the same vein, it is far easier to make angry criticisms of ideas that differ from your own than to listen to those ideas and then make calculated judgments. Closed minds can be true agents of evil.
A simpler illustration which many have experienced firsthand is the frequent reaction of small children to sand castles, even those created with hours of careful work. With glee and a real sense of power, a small child will rush through and completely obliterate the creation. It is that rush of power, that instinct for destruction that creates such childish joy. On any scale, it provides those who feel relatively powerless a form of power over those whom they fear or to whom they feel inadequate for any reason. Vandalism, terrorism, murder, rape—all real crimes of any scope are usually examples of the destructive efforts of those who feel weak or inadequate in some way directed at those toward whom they feel weakness or inadequacy. Mob action is the lowest form of human expression, but therein lies its power. It is the easiest way for an individual to abandon decency with anonymity and “get back” at real or imagined sources of power.
It will be infinitely more difficult for us to hold our dignity, our respect for all life, our love of freedom, reason, and humanity while engaged in this battle. A battle that is indeed for survival against an enemy that holds the opposite view demands our complete annihilation and does so in the name of religion. Whatever our course, let us pray we do not become like those satanic leaders or their blind followers. Above all, let us take care not to condemn all of Islam and thus fall into the trap that these evil men are trying to spring. Islam is not the enemy. Ignorance, prejudice, anger, fear, and genuinely evil men who are “true believers” in a twisted fundamentalist cause are the real enemy.
I believe it was Thumper who said, “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all!”
—HJ, November 2001
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Section III Fictional Short Stories
- mostly Sci-Fi by Howard Johnson
The Gold Feather
I deliberately studied each passenger who came through security and into the waiting area for the shuttle. It was from force of habit. The years working on various highly sensitive projects taught and trained me to look carefully for anything unusual. On my first vacation in years, I was headed back to my favorite place in this quadrant of the galaxy. Officially “on vacation” I remained, as always, an active though relaxed member of the Eegis project.
My relaxation ceased and my mind sprung to attention when a tall, and very beautiful redhead strode catlike into the waiting area and flowed into a seat. From the feline way she moved I was sure she was a rare, homo sentient from the old earth. I’d heard about this advanced human subspecies, but had never even seen one. Her simple dress clung to her like a second skin, moving flawlessly just enough to show it was not attached. It was an unusual color, a deep red with amber overtones, almost Titian. As she sat, our eyes met and locked for a moment. A sudden, intense feeling of pleasure ran through my body as I imagined her moving sinuously against me. It was more emotion than thought and caught me off guard. I am never caught off guard and it bothered me big time. The thought, something is just not right, sent a chill through me.
When they called my group to board, she stood and walked toward the gate right in front of me. She was slender, almost fragile. My eyes would not leave her body and its sultry movements as she moved fluidly up the steps and into the shuttle. I have never seen anyone whose body moved so smoothly. She almost seemed to have extra joints in her limbs.
This is one lucky day. I thought to myself as she slithered into her assigned seat next to mine. As soon as I settled in my seat she turned and looked directly into my eyes while her words emanated from the most inviting, full, red lips I had ever seen.
“I’m Leura Clauson. Who are you please?”
Her directness and the musical sound of her voice surprised me even more than her exotic appearance. “Uh Draxel, Draxel Syl—call me Drax.” I was uncomfortable and ill at ease—sure my voice betrayed my discomfort.
“Have you been to Stentor Seven before?” her silky voice chanted softly. “This is my very first visit to the Vegan star system.”
“Been there several times,” I struggled to say. The barely detectable smell of her sweet breath was like warm milk. She wore a perfume that hung just on the edge of awareness. It was there, but as soon as I thought about it, the scent was gone. I was in uncomfortable territory without a secure mental footing. “I’m going on my first vacation in years and this is my favorite place to visit. Are you on vacation?”
“No, I’m a botanist on a research project. I plan to study plants growing in the low gravity and artificially controlled atmosphere.”
The lilt of her speech was enthralling. It wasn’t an accent, just different and very musical. “A scientist! I’m impressed!” I smiled as I spoke thinking that was a huge understatement. “How long will you stay? On your project, I mean.”
“At least one stellar year. My grant may be renewed for an additional year. It’s my first major assignment. . . . What was that little smile about?”
“Just a little private joke—on me.” Her perception was amazing.
“A secret?”
“No, just a laugh at myself.” Her directness, too, was a surprise.
“Tell me.”
Now I was getting irritated. “Let’s say it’s just something I’d rather not tell someone I’ve just met.”
Disregarding my irritation, she switched the subject smoothly. “What’s your profession?”
“I’m a gravity propulsion engineer. Do design work on the propulsion systems on craft like this one we’re on.”
“That must be terribly interesting. Gravity propulsion is a highly complex
“You really want those boring details?”
“Absolutely! And where did you get your education?”
“I took advanced gravity propulsion at the AGP center on Earth.”
“And how long did that take?”
“After a basic engineering degree, state licensing requirements include two more years of advanced schooling with lots of math and physics. Then we have a year of training on the equipment, two more of working in the field and finally, passage of an examination before
“Wow! That’s five years. Botanists have it much easier.”
“I don’t know. Biochemistry is a very intricate and demanding science. Applied to complex living systems, it has to demand a great deal of effort.”
“It is also very fascinating and rewarding.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
“So you are vacationing here?”
“Yep! This vacation is long overdue and Stentor Seven’s my favorite place to visit.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve seen the digirecords, but those are quite bland. No beauty or poetry. You said you’ve been there?”
“Yes, and it certainly is beautiful, spectacularly beautiful.”
The shuttle’s engine hum increased and it rose slowly from the pad to start the two-hour trip. The motion was quite noticeable, but would disappear as soon as we cleared the atmosphere and the main drive kicked in.
“How did it come to be? The records were very sketchy about the planet’s origins; they just mention it was artificially created with no explanation. What does that mean?”
I was becoming more comfortable. Maybe it was because I was now on familiar territory. “It was once a small, sterile planet a bit smaller than Mars and about two thirds its mass. It lies just the right distance from the red dwarf star, Stentor, for a life supporting environment. Focused gravity beams were used to tow huge ice planetesimals in from the Stentor Oort cloud. They melted and became the oceans and created the atmosphere, mostly carbon dioxide. Special vegetation was introduced to consume the Carbon dioxide and add oxygen to the atmosphere, but you should know all about that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I studied, the conversion of primordial atmospheres. All botanists study that early in their schooling since it has been used to modify many planets.”
“Then you should also know about the biota from earth-like environments and that it took almost six-hundred years for the growth of these plants on the land and plankton in the seas to bring the atmosphere to its present mixture. It’s very much like earth’s. Am I right?”
“The introduction of the biota, yes, but the six hundred years it took? I don’t remember being taught about that.”
“That’s probably because the exact time for the change varied from place to place. After that, temperatures, pressures and everything else were adjusted for human habitation and the biota thrived. Since then, many larger life forms were introduced and soon flourished. The combination of optimal rotation rate and distance from Stentor, along with lots of work over the years gave us a semitropical paradise covering the entire surface.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“Because of the low gravity, plants grow to immense size and spectacular proportions. That, I trust will be the focus of your research project.”
“You are correct. Please tell me more.”
“Better yet, I can show you. When we come in to land, you’ll see what is possible in this light gravity. Watch for mountains that rise seventy thousand feet with sheer cliffs and unbelievable waterfalls. You should be able to see a lot of unusual geology and geography. It’s really quite spectacular from above.”
“Point those things out to me, will you?”
“Gladly! Once on the ground be sure to take in how water behaves. It’s quite different from Earth. The muted sounds of the slow waterfalls and of the unusual rivers are like a chorus of musical mumbles. Waves on the oceans can grow huge, yet they seem to roll in slow motion. The surf amazes everyone with spectacular thirty foot breakers tumbling slowly and gently onto the sand.”
“I can see why it’s such a popular vacation spot. How about the weather?”
“The weather is marvelous, mostly sunny and warm with fractal-like white clouds moving slowly across hazy, pale blue sky. In order to have adequate surface pressure, the atmosphere is kept many times deeper than on your home planet. Because of this, no stars can be seen at night and the central star, Stentor appears bright red. Clouds can rise as high as a hundred miles and the winds always drift by gently.”
“That’s amazing, very different from Earth.”
“Then there’s the rain, the unbelievable warm rain. Because of the low gravity, raindrops fall slowly, congealing into large blobs which grow to near tennis ball size before they blow apart by the air as they fall through it. The soft pelting of big blobs of warm water feels great.”
“I heard about the rain. I can hardly wait to experience it. I want to run through it freely, without clothes.”
I would sure like to see that, ran through my mind, but I didn’t mention it. Her next comment drew vivid mental pictures in my mind.
“If the chance comes up, could we run through the rain together? I’d like that.”
It was said so innocently, so matter-of-factly, she caught me speechless. I paused to calm my imagination and struggle for composure. “Uh—yeah—sure. That sounds like a great idea.”
“It sounds like true paradise. I hope I can spend my leisure time enjoying a few of the things you describe. Would you show me around some while you’re on vacation? I don’t mean to interfere with your plans, but I know no one else here.”
I was beginning to believe my good fortune might overwhelm me. “Why, yes! I would enjoy it. I have no specific plans, none at all.”
“Wonderful. I won’t have much to do for the first few weeks so I want to look around a lot. I’m certain to find many new things to experience. It all sounds so exciting,” she said just as the main drive took over and the hum and vibrations ceased. We soon cleared the atmosphere and were on our way.
Over the next hour I relaxed completely as we spoke about families and friends. She drew pleasant experiences out of my memory and shared her experiences as a child and about growing up. There was an unusual quality to her stories. They were very softly emotional. Incredibly, I could almost feel her joys and pains as she described them.
After a rather long pause in our conversation I realized she had fallen asleep. Her head against my shoulder brought on pleasant sensations, as did her snuggling down against me several times during the flight. I examined her closely. Her hair was extremely fine with individual hairs growing unusually close together. It was the same dark red as her dress with no hint of a color change near the roots. If it was dyed, it was an absolutely perfect job. She turned a bit and put her hand ever so gently on my right arm. Her pale amber skin was baby soft and unflawed. When I touched her hand, it felt like satin, almost frictionless. By now I knew she was far too perfect for a normal human. The “scentars” as those rare advanced humans were called, were reported to have unusual emotional abilities. She certainly seemed to possess those.
I noticed a Gold pin high on her dress, the only adornment she wore of any kind. It was a feather, about an inch long and quite fragile. It looked like a real feather, but very tiny and clearly gold. When it moved, it displayed faintly the many colors of the spectrum. One moment it seemed to be gold, another to flash color, and another to catch and reflect any light source like a diffraction grating. Colors flashed so vibrant it seemed almost alive.
A slight bump was followed by vibrations and the hum of the landing drive. Leura sat upright without the slightest hint she had been asleep. “We must be arriving.”
“Check out the scene below. Like I described earlier, it’s spectacular.”
She leaned toward the window. “It is amazing. The mountains—everything you said—they’re so different.”
When she sat back from the window I looked at her. “You slept the last hour of our trip almost without moving. I wish I could do that.”
“Just concentrate on pleasant thoughts and close your eyes. You’ll go right to sleep.”
I smiled at her easy answer, still concentrating on the lovely gold feather pin. “What’s that pin your wearing? It’s quite beautiful.”
“A gift. My mother gave it to me when I completed my studies. It’s the only jewelry I ever wear. It’s supposed to signify fidelity.”
“That’s one I never heard before.”
“Actually it’s a special kind of fidelity. Fidelity to a common, usually treasured experience with someone you love. My mother loved me very much, and I her. It’s about the wonderful life we spent together before I left home. Specifically, it’s commemorating our last day together. That experience will never happen again.”
“That’s beautiful, sad, but beautiful.” I felt undeniably and intensely morose for just a moment as she spoke. That nagging wariness of unknown origin again troubled me.
“Yes, I gave her a similar pin. It’s a family custom. We both knew we would never see each other again.”
I’m sure my shock showed. “Why not?”
Her voice had changed almost painfully. “It’s a bit complicated. We just knew our paths would never cross again.”
The sorrow within me became almost overpowering. “How can you be so sure?”
Leura had the tiniest hint of melancholy for just an instant. “Please, I’d rather not talk about it any more.”
I experienced a sudden intense change to terrible anxiety. It was almost overwhelming. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone and I felt fine. “What was that all about?” I said out loud in reaction.
“What was what all about?” her clear, silky voice had returned.
“Sorry. I just had a very strange feeling for an instant and it startled me.”
Once more Leura shifted mental gears without hesitation. “Would you be able to help me to my hotel? This is all so new to me and I’m a bit nervous about going there alone.”
With my luggage scheduled to be delivered, I was free to go where I wished. “Certainly!”
“You’re sure it won’t be an inconvenience?”
“Positively. I’d love to see you to your hotel.” Once again I could hardly believe my good fortune. By this time I was beginning to grow accustomed to her soft, musical speech.
As we approached the hotel I remarked, “Buildings like this hotel are constructed in ways unimaginable on planets with normal gravity.
“Yes, it is quite extraordinary,” she said as the air car dropped us at level 196 of the hotel. It landed smoothly on the cantilevered plaza. Leura picked up the one small bag she carried and danced across the plaza right to the edge. She was a little girl spinning with excitement from one side of the outside walkway to the other as I led her to her room.
“I’ve never been up this high in the hotel. How’d you manage such a room? I thought the upper floors were reserved for foreign dignitaries?”
“And foreign botanists,” she quipped as she flipped her hair and, with a flourish and hand-printed the key pad. The door slid soundlessly into the wall and then closed silently behind us after we walked inside.
I was dumbfounded. The room was decorated in shades of the exact same colors as Leura’s dress and hair. “This can’t be accidental. How’d you get your room decorated to match—you?”
Her look and demeanor changed and she laughed in that sensuous, lyrical way, no longer the little girl. Her voice also changed its timbre and now sounded almost like a flute or muted violin, terribly emotional.
“I plan on being here for at least a year so they let me have my choice of decoration. Do you like it?”
“It takes some getting used to, but it certainly is beautiful.” Once more I smiled as an intense feeling of warmth and pleasure flowed through my entire body. “Wow!” came out of my mouth as an involuntary expression.
Leura stepped lightly to the
Once more I became aware of her delicate perfume, just on the edge of my senses as she walked over and looked straight into my eyes. The warm milk-like fragrance of her breath also caressed my sense of smell. It was intoxicating. She reached up and gently placed her wrists on my shoulders. Her hands hung loosely, just touching my back. I hated the shirt that lay between her hands and my skin.
“Now, Mr. Syl, I want us to dance together. Would you like that?”
Completely out of my element and on the edge of losing any hint of control, I replied lamely, “Yes, I would.”
I was now totally beyond rational control. She slipped her slender fingers around my neck, took my hand and moved to the music. I looked directly into her eyes and saw they were a dark blue with just a hint of red to the black of her huge pupils.
“Pull the little ring at the back of my collar,” her soft voice commanded.
With a slight pull her dress changed from the dark red-amber to an iridescent blue-green. She began moving rhythmically against me to the hypnotic beat and sound of the strange music. The sensation penetrated my whole body which flushed with warmth.
“Now, dear Drax, I want to show you my appreciation for what you are going to do for me.”
She pulled me gently into the bed where cool satin sheets caressed my skin. I could hardly tell the difference between those sheets, her skin and her satiny dress. Something akin to fear, but not actually fear, surged through my being. I was perceiving everything with intensely heightened senses and enjoying every delicious moment.
“Lie on your stomach. I want to give you a massage,” she urged.
Ecstatic, I immediately complied. Her long, slender fingers were soon working up and down my spine, around my shoulder blades and neck and finally down the back of my legs. Never have I felt so good, so totally aware, not in my entire life. Just when my body had turned completely to jelly, she stopped the massage and began dragging her fingers lightly over my bare arms. Suddenly I felt her lips moving up and down the back of my neck. The stimulation to my skin was ecstatic. She stopped and lay down on her stomach beside me.
“My turn.”
I was overcome with passion and amazement. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just do to me what I did to you. Don’t you think that’s fair?”
I remembered a line from the distant past and uttered it under my breath, “Resistance is futile.”
I began in the middle of her back. The fabric of her dress seemed just like a second skin. Unbelievably soft and satiny, it moved smoothly to my touch. She had no taut muscles. After I massaged her for a while she rolled over on her back and looked up at me, those dark eyes boring into my very essence.
“Tickle me please. Slide your fingertips slowly and gently over my skin. Just barely touch me. Just like I did to you. You liked that didn’t you?”
“I prayed you’d never stop.”
“Do it until I can’t stand it anymore. Then we can weep together.”
“Weep? What do you mean, weep?”
“Weep for joy. Ultimate joy.”
“I’m game. Joy sounds wonderful right now.”
“You’re doing wonderfully. Then, when both of us are completely overwhelmed with joy—then we will weep.”
I felt as if I would explode. Every touch of my fingertips on her silky body drove me to new heights of ecstatic pressure. After what seemed like hours Leura rose slowly, slid over beside me and began brushing my hands and arms with her fingers as I continued touching her. When I could stand it no longer, I stopped moving my hands.
She sensed the change and rolled ever so slowly onto her back pulling me down with her.
Those dark blue eyes continued to bore into my very soul while her soft voice hummed quietly, “Weep my love. Weep for time,” —Her voice trailed off into silence.
My mind and senses virtually exploded, a long, delicious explosion of complete abandon. I completely lost my sense of gravity and seemed to float in the midst of the continuing soundless explosion. I had never before felt such intense pleasure. The center of my very being separated from my head and floated through my body. Intense feelings ricocheted between joy and melancholy, then pleasure and despondency, never remaining for long in any single state.
After what felt like an eternity, Leura’s near whisper floated through my head. “Thanks dear Drax. Thanks for life and love.” I opened my eyes and looked at her for an instant and was surprised to see narrow streams of tears running from the corners of her eyes. Once more, I drifted in complete, all-engulfing, feeling-filled silence.
Things changed—suddenly and drastically. Normal gravity had returned. When I reached for her, all my grasping hands found was a slightly damp, rumpled cotton sheet. What the . . . I thought as I opened my eyes to the shock of a bright, sunlit window in a beige room. I was alone and in a different bed in a different hotel. Outside, the sun was rising over the unmistakable skyline of Cleveland Ohio. “My God!” I said out loud incredulously. “I never . . . almost forgot who I was,” came stumbling out of my mouth.
A flash of realization made me check my watch. I saw there was barely enough time to get to my breakfast meeting with Arlo Trippy, the engineer who was my NASA contact. He was working with me on their part of the Eegis project. I dressed quickly, grabbed my suit coat and headed for the dining room. Arlo was waiting as I walked in.
“Right on time. I like people who are punctual.”
“I almost wasn’t. You wouldn’t believe the wild dream I had last night or rather this morning. At least, I think it was a dream. It seemed so unbelievably—alive.”
“Sometimes dreams can seem very real.”
“This one sure was.” I shook my head. Still, bewildered. “Well, let’s get down to far out physics. That’s reality.”
“Certainly.” Arlo paused and gazed intently at my coat lapel. “What’s that pin you have on? You weren’t wearing it yesterday.”
I glanced at my lapel. Firmly attached was a tiny gold feather.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Section IV - True Short Stories
Ol’ Bugeye
It was early July of 1939 I first spied him swimming slowly past my startled eyes as I stood on the end of our pier. He was absolutely the biggest bass I had ever seen. His fat green body cast a large shadow on the sand in the four foot of water as he moved into the shadows of some surface weeds about thirty feet from where I stood frozen. My heart beat frantically as I watched him settle into a motionless shadow to wait for a small fish to pass within striking distance. This was major excitement for an eleven year old boy.
Knowing any quick movement would send him immediately out into deep water, I slowly crouched down, crept off the pier and out of Ol’ Bugeye’s view into the yard. Once there, I rushed to get my casting rod and attach a large "pikie minnow" to try to catch him. The sharp pain of treble hooks puncturing my skin greeted my clumsy efforts as I frantically tied the plug onto the line with fingers that shook with excitement. A small price to pay if I caught him. I rushed across the yard, stopping and crouching down as I approached the seawall of boulders that ran across our yard. Peering carefully over the rocks, I soon spotted the telltale torpedo shape near the weeds. He hadn’t moved. Now I had a new problem.
Only about twelve feet from shore in about eighteen inches of water and in a small clear area surrounded on three sides with thick weeds, waited the
I aimed carefully and flipped the rod tip sending the plug in a high arc a good twelve feet past where the fish lay waiting. He didn’t move when it splashed down even though the line hit the water about a foot from him. I moved to the left in order to retrieve the plug directly past his hiding place while keeping it away from the thick weeds. I tried a slow, twitching retrieve past the green monster, all the while expecting a sudden rush and strike. He completely ignored the tempting artificial bait. My heart still pounding with excitement, I tried another cast. This time it landed closer and the bass turned in the direction of the noise. As he turned I had a clear view of his head as he faced me directly for a moment. I noticed a prominent white spot over his right eye. Perch frequently had fatty, white deposits on the top of their eyes and I surmised this was the same although much larger. "Okay, Ol’ Bugeye," I thought to myself. "Let’s see if I can get you to hit now."
This time I retrieved a bit faster. As the plug wiggled closer, Ol’ Bugeye started to approach, opening and clearing his huge mouth about a foot from the Pikey Minnow. He turned from the artificial bait at the very last instant and swam slowly away toward deep water. Frantically, I reeled in and cast out again in the direction he went as he disappeared. Next I charged out on the pier to see if I could spot him. No luck. I ran back to the yard and over to the Waters’ pier next door where I noticed many bass moved after leaving the clear sandy area in front of our yard. I cast in all directions for some time, but apparently, Ol’ Bugeye had moved on. I slumped my shoulders and headed slowly for the cottage where breakfast and my terrible disappointment would be shared with a consoling mother.
Several more times that summer I spotted Ol’ Bugeye cruising slowly through what was obviously his hunting grounds just off the shore all along Walker’s Park, the collection of fourteen cottages served by one dirt road and named after
Hugging the grass behind
In my mind I smelled the sweet, slightly acrid fragrance of fresh-caught fish, felt his hard scales in my grasp and the slippery slime from his body covering my hands. Excitement grew as once more I flipped the rod and sent the artificial bait arcing some distance past where he hid. He must have seen my arm movement as one flick of his mighty tail and all that remained was the cloud of find sand kicked up by his hasty departure. Again, I tried and failed. Ol’ Bugeye was definitely wise to stalking fishermen. To reach such a size he must be old and very wiley. He was proving to be a worth adversary. I would have to try a new approach the next time he appeared on the scene and that would not be until the following summer.
The following summer I only saw Ol’ Bugeye once when he swam by our pier amidst a school of several other smaller bass. This was a hunting pack, not unlike a pack of wolves, which cruised steadily along the shore attacking any small fish they encountered. I had seen packs like this one, chase and confuse small fish, gulping them up as they rushed away from one hungry mouth only to be grabbed by another from a different direction. Ol’ Bugeye had joined about a dozen of his smaller cousins to work the shoreline. The smaller bass in the group were probably wary of Ol’ Bugeye who could easily have one of them for lunch. Cannibalism is quite common in bass and many of them become prey of their larger cousins. As summer drew to a close I wondered what happened to my old nemesis.
During the summer, I caught several good sized bass from that small patch of arrowheads. One weighed more than four pounds. I switched from casting plugs to live bait thanks to our neighbor, Dan Hackerd. He taught me to use four to six inch long perch for bait. They were plentiful and the natural prey of large predator fish. A few minutes in the shallow water about two-hundred feet off shore with a worm on a cane pole and my minnow bucket held a dozen or so of the tiny green fish. I would stalk the favorite ambush spots for the green torpedo shapes, live bait at the ready on a bass hook on my casting rod. Spotting a bass, I would cast the perch as near to my prey as I could without spooking him. Often the bass would strike the instant the perch hit the water. I would watch as he repositioned the perch before swallowing it head first. As soon as he began swimming a way I would set the hook. I didn’t miss very many. Sometimes the fish would circle the perch, head angled down, until he was positioned so he could gulp the bait head first. Often, after examining the hapless bait from several angles, the bass would slowly back away and leave. This happened mostly when the perch lie motionless. Usually, the instant the bait moved or even twitched, the bass would strike. Apparently they didn’t want dead bait and would only take those they knew were alive.
It was late June of 1941 before I ran into Ol’ Bugeye again. One sunny morning my heart jumped as I spotted him during my daily hunting trip of bass ambush spots. Right next to the patch of arrowheads a familiar huge shape with the unmistakable white eye spot lurked. This time I was prepared with a lively perch hooked on my trusty casting rod. A flick of the rod tip sent the perch into the water about five feet in front of my quarry. I held my breath as Ol’ Bugeye slowly moved toward the perch which struggled to free itself from the hook. Suddenly the perch spotted the bass and swam frantically away dragging the line behind. A single flick of his huge tail and Ol’ Bugeye engulfed the tiny perch in his cavernous mouth. My heart pounded as I watched him spit out and then gulp my bait back several times. Finally, he started swimming away with the bait firmly in his mouth. I waited until he was moving steadily away then locked the reel and yanked back to set the hook. All I did was jerk the hook out of his mouth. I’m sure he never felt the hook as I missed him completely and reeled in a bare hook. Dejected and disappointed, I headed in for breakfast.
I spotted him briefly several times in July, but by the time I had bait and rod ready he was nowhere to be found. It was mid-August and I was swimming home from my friend Paul Harruff’s place just six doors to the west. As I passed the Mathews’ pier, I saw a huge dark shape, lurking motionless in the shadow. Moving very cautiously, I walked on in the three foot deep water about twenty feet from where he waited, until I could no longer see his sleek shape. Then I rushed out of the water and ran home. I had no small perch to use for bait so I grabbed my casting rod, a single cane pole and can of worms, jumped into our rowboat and rowed frantically out to where perch were easy to catch. Fingers shaking with excitement, I threaded a small worm on my hook and whipped the pole to throw the line with its red and white bobber to where I hoped perch lay waiting. The few minutes the bobber stood without moving seemed like forever. Finally, a slight bobble, a quick jerk of the pole and a struggling perch came swinging toward my waiting grasp. Just before reaching my outstretched hand, the perch flipped off the hook and dropped into the water. Frustrated, I grasped the empty hook and rethreaded the worm in a frenzy. Once again I threw my rig out. Almost immediately the bobber disappeared and another perch swung in toward my waiting hand. This time he didn’t drop off.
Instantly, I hooked the perch onto the bass hook attached to my casting rod and headed for where I hoped Ol’ Bugeye waited. Standing up in the boat to see better, I rowed cautiously toward where I last saw him. The dark shape still waited in the shadows. I dropped into the seat and nervously picked up my casting rod. A careful flip of the tip sent the bait toward Ol’ Bugeye. "Too close," I murmured as the perch splashed into the water less than a foot from my old quarry. I stayed down, not wanting to add more alarming sights to his field of view. As I waited, my boat drifted slowly toward the pier, not a good thing. After several minutes, I slowly stood up to view the spot where he last waited. The huge torpedo shape was gone. "The splash of the bait so close probably scared him to deep water," I thought as I quickly scanned the shallow, sandy bottomed water in both directions. "There he is," I said out loud when I spotted the slowly undulating green shape heading east toward the Waters’ pier and the small patch of arrowheads. Immediately, I decided to beach the boat at Hackerd’s right in front of me and pursue my nemesis on foot.
Holding my rod with the struggling bait high, I ran through Hackerd’s lot well back from the shore and out of his field of vision. Once more I crept up to the rocks and peered at the patch of water plants. Nothing lurked there. Standing slowly I scanned the shallows, just catching sight of a huge tail as he slipped under Waters’ pier. "He’s headed for our weed patch," I muttered under my breath as I dropped back from the seawall and headed cautiously out onto the pier. Again I scanned the shallows thoroughly, especially the shadows beneath the surface weeds. Then I saw it, a huge eye with that small white cap stood out in the shadow. The rest of him simply disappeared into the background. His camouflage was almost perfect, but that eye gave him away.
Ever so slowly and carefully I positioned my rod. A quick flip of the tip sent my bait toward an open spot about four feet beyond Ol’ Bugeye’s nose. I watched that eye shift toward the spot. Soon his entire body slid out of the shadows toward the now struggling perch and my sharp hook. My heart beat frantically in my chest as I stood there frozen waiting for what seemed like forever. "Go ahead. Take it!" I kept urging under my breath as he inched slowly forward. My bait now lay on the bottom, motionless and belly up, not a good thing. Ol’ Bugeye, now only inches from my bait, stopped moving forward then began slowly backing away. Suddenly the perch struggled to right himself in the water. In an instant my quarry moved forward opening his huge mouth and drawing in perch, hook and all with one swift fluid motion. "Don’t spit him out," my mind commanded as he repositioned the bait with several quick jaw movements.
I watched my reel spin slowly then faster as he began swimming away pulling the line out. The terrible question now became when and how to set the hook. I watched ten then twenty feet of line pay out before grasping the reel handle and lifting the pole suddenly to set the hook. This time my pole bent as the hook sunk home. At last, Ol’ Bugeye was on my line. "I got him!" I shouted out loud. "I got him!" To my cries, Mom rushed out side. As was often the case, she had been watching my actions for some time. Wise in the ways of fishing, she picked up the landing net from where it leaned against a tree and rushed over to help. This was the biggest fish I ever hooked and quite a struggle ensued.
I rushed to the end of the pier to try to keep him away from the thick weeds in the dense patch between Waters’ pier and our own some eighty feet to the east. I knew that in those weeds he would probably break the line. Suddenly he exploded into the air, opening his
Another run of about twenty feet and another series of smaller jumps told me he was tiring. As I reeled him closer to the pier, Mom, now at my side and ready with the landing net, instructed, "Don’t let him near those pier posts." We both knew that one turn of the line around any of those pipes and he would break it and be gone.
"Don’t worry Mom," I replied. "I’ll keep him away. He’s tiring so be ready to net him soon." He was tiring, but he wasn’t done yet. I could tell that since he still swam upright.
Mom placed the net in the water just in front of him as I pulled him straight in toward the pier. When he spied the net he exploded out of the water once more sending a spray all over both of us as he dove and again took out nearly twenty feet of line. "He’s not giving up easily," Mom said as she wiped the water from her face and we both watched him pulling furiously away.
"I just hope he stays hooked," I remarked. "The last time he jumped I saw the hook was just barely caught in the corner of his mouth. One strong pull and he’ll be gone."
For at least the next ten minutes I worked Ol’ Bugeye carefully back and forth in front of the pier to tire him out. I kept the line just taught enough to work him with the rod tip preventing any more furious runs or explosive tail walking. When he finally swam by on his side, I knew it was time to net him. One quick dip of the net and Mom had him. He still struggled furiously in the net as we headed to the yard to remove the hook. When we reached the yard the hook had come out on its own. We netted him just in time. Before placing him in our live box we measured and weighed Ol’ Bugeye carefully. At twenty-six inches long and weighing seven and a quarter pounds he was the biggest bass I had ever caught or would ever catch in Lake Tippecanoe. I don’t know for certain if anyone ever caught one bigger or not. At that time, few catches were recorded. Our neighbor, Dan Hackerd, said it was the biggest bass he knew of and Dan was our local fishing expert.
We kept Ol’ Bugeye in the live box until the weekend so my dad could see him. I was so delighted and proud to show Dad my prize when he arrived on Friday. After the customary picture taking and additional confirming measurements, Ol’ Bugeye was cleaned and prepared for cooking. Sunday, the entire family enjoyed Mom’s special baked fish while I enjoyed family celebrity status.
The Yellow Buick Convertible
I started attending Purdue university in November of 1945, a seventeen-year-old just out of high-school. With the ratio of guys to gals at Purdue standing at more than five to one and the campus swarming with returning WWII vets on the GI Bill, a seventeen-year-old hardly had a chance. Dates were hard to come by unless you had a steady or a car and lots of money. Most girls had dates four to six weeks ahead and after a few months at Purdue usually developed what we disparagingly referred to as the "Purdue attitude," a blend of haughty superiority and an "aren’t you lucky to be with me?" attitude. Even the local high-school girls added little to improve the mix.
For this reason I frequently hitch-hiked from Lafayette to Indianapolis for weekends visiting my cousin Dona. She introduced me to her high school girl friends so I seldom had a problem getting a date, even on short notice. These girls were very friendly and even somewhat impressed with a "college man." I quit looking for dates on campus and even brought several "Naptown" girls to West Lafayette for Purdue social events - dances and parties. "Naptown" was Purdue slang for Indianapolis.
With great anticipation I rode the Lafayette city bus to the end of the line. That was as close to the US 52 bypass as possible. From this point I thumbed cars as I walked the few miles to the bypass near the Alcoa Aluminum plant. Sometimes I would get a ride as I walked, but usually I ended up walking all the way to US 52. There were always a number of other guys lined up along the road so as a new arrival, I would take my place at the end of the group. Even with six or seven others there before me, I usually got a ride in less than a half hour. Hopefully it would be with someone going all the way to "Naptown."
One warm Friday afternoon in May I hadn’t been waiting long before a yellow Buick convertible stopped to pick me up. The driver, a middle aged rather paunchy, man smiled pleasantly as he pulled onto the road headed south.
"You a Purdue student?" he asked as the Buick picked up speed. When I nodded in the affirmative he continued, "I hope you don’t mind the wind. This is the first warm day and I want to leave the top down and enjoy the warm spring air."
"Fine with me," I replied. "I like top down driving." I was, however, beginning to be apprehensive as he continued accelerating to a very high speed.
I noticed he was going more then eighty, quite a bit too fast even for this dual, two-lane modern concrete highway. As we sped on, he told me he was a salesman on his way home and drove this route every Friday afternoon. He explained his rush to get there was because of a dinner date with a new lady friend. He went on talking about his date in an animated fashion with exaggerated gestures. I was suspicious he had been drinking and this heightened my fears. He was weaving over both lanes as he talked and gestured. Fortunately there were very few cars
We had gone maybe twenty miles when it happened. During one of his weaves across the center line, the rear wheel dropped into a sizeable winter pothole. The car twisted quickly to the left and then right as he overcorrected. The back of the car seemed to bounce higher each time he tried to correct. Suddenly we were airborne and I saw the driver’s feet fly over my head as he flew out of the car. At the same time I dove for the floor and wrapped my arms around the pedals and steering column to hold on and stay with the car. It was an instinctive reaction which probably saved my life. All I felt then was the car bouncing and grinding along the ground upside down. Suddenly I was being pressed harder and harder against the floor. There was no pain, just tremendous pressure and it was very dark. Mercifully, the car finally ground to a halt.
In the silence, I took stock of my situation. I didn’t seem to be badly hurt. In fact, I felt no pain, just a great pressure on my body, a wet, cold pressure. My head was in a small air space under the dash beside the steering wheel. My right shoulder was jammed against the floor and my right arm was pinned under the pedals. My left shoulder was very cold, very wet and held firmly in place by great pressure. My left arm was held immobile against the front of the seat. My torso and legs were jammed against the floor and seat and they too were compressed, cold and very wet. My chest was compressed, but I could still take shallow breaths. There was absolutely no sound.
After what seemed like a very long time, I began to hear voices, muffled and distant at first, but finally clear enough to be understood. I tried to cry out, but the pressure barely permitted shallow breaths and I was having a hard time getting enough air. I couldn’t make any sound as all parts of my body were completely immobile. My guess is that it was about fifteen minutes before people were close enough to the car for me to hear them. I caught parts of conversations, enough to know that the driver had been killed,
It was a very long time later when again I heard voices.
I tried moving my fingers, toes, arms and legs. I could move my toes in both feet and even wiggle my right foot. I worked that foot carefully trying to open the space around it. I also worked part of my right hand loose. It was close to my face so I used it to clear the mud that was oozing up around my nose. I knew I had to keep that space clear so I could breathe. I almost panicked when I realized the car was slowly settling in the mud forcing the almost fluid wet soil up into every airspace. It crept slowly, almost imperceptibly up around my right arm toward my face. I feared it would block my nose and cause me to suffocate, so I worked frantically to free my right hand and push the oozing mud back. Finally, I either began holding my own or the car stopped settling. In any event, the mud no longer crept up toward my nose. My concentration on the struggle with the mud took so much of my attention I seemed to lose track of time.
Finally I heard a new sound, that of the motor of a large truck slowly approaching. "Was this the wrecker?" I wondered. Before long there were again voices coming to where I lay imprisoned. After many shouted instructions and the loud sound of a nearby engine laboring, a loud clank of metal on metal told me the wrecker was about ready to lift the car. Suddenly the car shuddered and began to move. The wrecker was lifting the car from the right side. When I felt my feet drop free, a woman screamed.
A man’s booming voice announced suddenly, "There’s a body in there."
My immediate frantic kicks were greeted with, "He’s alive! His feet are moving."
A shout, "Hold it!" stopped the lift of the wrecker. I felt hands tugging on my feet, trying to pull me free, but the mud held me solidly.
"We’ll have to lift some more, slowly," a man shouted. "Careful now. Care . . .ful!" the man instructed.
As the car was slowly lifted from the right side and the mud fell away, I felt the pressure subsiding. Finally, the mud pulled away from my left shoulder, removing the crushing pressure. I could once again breathe fully. It was a marvelous feeling. I freed my right arm from around the pedals, drew my head out from under the dashboard, rolled out from beneath the lifted car and stood up. A cheer went up from the small crowd watching. I was wet, muddy, stiff, and a bit sore, but unhurt. When I asked for the time someone answered, "seven-thirty." I had been in my muddy prison for nearly four hours.
Once out of the wet mud I warmed quickly in the eighty degree air. Surveying the scene I could envision what happened. The car had left the road, dug its front into the soil across the ditch, flipped end for end and landed upside down in a freshly plowed field sliding at least two hundred feet. The windshield and dashboard acted like a scoop, packing mud tightly around me and filling the entire interior of the open car. Its path through the fresh soil told the whole story. The policemen were insistent I be taken to a hospital. I was just as determined not to go. I was unhurt and able to move freely without pain.
I was taken to a small hospital in Lebanon just a few miles away where I took a welcome shower and changed into fresh clothes from my suitcase
With the assistance of the Indiana State Police I arrived at my cousin’s party at about ten with an intriguing story for the young lady who thought I stood her up. I was the only one who came to the party in a State Police cruiser.
To contact author, Howard Johnson Click Here!
posted by HoJo at 9:38 AM
|
0 comments
