Sonny Boy's Blues

It was another hot summer morning in south Mississippi when I got the call from my features editor Ed Bates at the Hattiesburg American to work my day off. July of 1976 would go down in the record books as one of the hottest summer months Mississippi had seen in the past thirty years. I had covered the Forrest county city council meeting until 11 p.m. the night before. At least I think it was the night before. My job as a newspaper reporter tends to blend night into day with its demands of working whenever there is a story to tell. I submitted my piece to the paper at midnight and had come home and gone right to bed. Another mundane article by me, Rick Jacobs, feature reporter. As I picked up the telephone I looked at the clock. It was 6:30 a.m. “Hello, I’m not even going to guess who it is. I know it’s you Ed. What do you want, it’s my day off remember?” Whatever Ed wanted, he usually got, he was my boss, and I needed the job. Remember to be nice I said to myself, as I tried to recall why I got a journalism degree from USM instead of an engineering degree from Mississippi State like my parents would have liked. “Rick, you need to get down to the Glen Oaks Nursing Home in Lucedale, Mississippi right away. Aldous Ray wants to talk.” “Aldous Ray? Are you referring to Aldous ‘Sonny Boy’ Ray I excitedly asked?” “You know him Rick?” Ed asked. “Do I know him? Do I know him? For God’s sakes Ed, he’s just one of the most influential blues guitarists to have ever breathed! I’m on my way. Wait, where is he, did you say Lucedale? Oh my God, I’m going to interview Aldous Ray!” Ed knew I would take this assignment. I was a student of the blues having played guitar throughout my college days, paying tuition with any gig I could score. From coffee houses, bars, pool halls…I had done them all. I knew the music of ‘Sonny Boy’ Ray from his contribution to Mississippi delta blues. He had never agreed to an interview until now, and I was going to be sitting in the same room with one of my idols.
I jumped into the cleanest pair of clothes I had, got into my car and headed south. The sun would be my companion today as I took the drive down highway 98 to Lucedale. I would pass through sleepy small towns with names of New Augusta, and McLain. I would cross bridges with rivers flowing beneath by the names of Leaf, and Chickasawhay. It was a welcome assignment in more ways than one. Being out on the open road was a respite from a stuffy office, or sitting in on a boring city council meeting. Meeting Mr. Aldous ‘Sonny Boy’ Ray would be the highlight of my career. Whatever Mr. Ray wanted to say, I would be the one to record it all.
Plenty of time to take pause on the trip and think of the questions I would pose to Mr. Ray. I’ll ask him who influenced his music. I’ll ask him why he left Mississippi in the 1940’s and moved to Chicago. I’ll ask him about playing in Memphis in the 1950’s. As a student of the Mississippi delta blues, I knew all too well his music, where he played, his hit songs, even the name of his beloved guitar. He affectionately named his 1945 Martin 00-18 guitar ‘Sweetness’. This famous guitar was built with an Adirondack spruce top and scalloped braces, mahogany back and sides and Brazilian fingerboard and bridge. It was a lovely guitar that had been featured on the cover of several magazines in the past twenty years. Most recently, Guitar Magazine had featured ‘Sweetness’ on its cover page, calling it "the purest sounding guitar ever manufactured by man.” How I would love to hold that guitar in my hands if only for a moment!
As my mind went over the questions I would ask, the town of Lucedale slowly came into view. With directions offered at the local Texaco station on Main Street, I found my way to Glen Oaks nursing home. As I walked down the hallway to the nursing station, I was greeted by the charge nurse, a Mrs. Jake Rounsaville. Nurse Rounsaville escorted me to the room of the man who I had come to see, the world’s greatest living blue’s guitarist. “Mr. Ray…Mr. Ray you have a visitor from the paper. He says his name is Mr. Jacobs.” Mr. Ray raised his head up from his pillow and looked towards the door. “Do come in Mr. Jacobs.” I’ve been expecting you all mornin’, I hope your drive from Hattiesburg was enjoyable.” “Yes sir, it was quite enjoyable. Getting out of the office once in a while is a delight,” I replied. With pleasantries aside I retrieved my notepad from my briefcase and took a seat next to Mr. Ray’s bedside and began to do like any good reporter and ask the five basic questions of Who, What, When, Where and Why. “Tell me Mr. Ray, who was it that taught you how to play the blues?" Mr. Ray lay silent for a full minute before he spoke.
“Young man, stand up!” I did as Mr. Ray said not quite understanding what he wanted. “Now turn around and face the door.” OK, I thought this a little strange but again, I had a story to write and I assumed this would all be a part of it. “Now, young man, you can show yourself out the door, and close it as you leave.” “I’m sorry, you want me to leave?” I asked. “What I want you to do is get the hell out of my room Mr. Jacobs! You young people nowadays. Ain't nobody teaches nobody how to play the blues. You either got it or you don't. It's given to you when you born. I happened to be blessed. Just show yourself out the door.” I was stunned. I had offended Mr. 'Sonny Boy' Ray. I had committed the ultimate sin for a reporter! Had I not shown enough respect? I had asked the wrong question. I failed in my job. The only thing I could do now was apologize to one of my idols, so I did. “Mr. Ray, I’m very sorry I offended you. I suppose I started on the wrong foot, and I humbly apologize to you and 'Sweetness'. I best be getting back to Hattiesburg. Good day, Sir.” As soon as the word ‘Sweetness’ came out of my mouth, I had my interview. “Hold on there young man…how do you know ‘Sweetness’? Now you just come back in here and pull up a chair and let me tell you all about the blues.” I had my hook set, now all I needed to do was start reeling. I smelled a Pulitzer wafting in the air.
“You know son, ‘Sweetness’ is my guitar. A fine guitar she is too; a 1945 Martin, model 00-18. She’s a beauty, and never let me down. I played her on my biggest hit Walkin’ in High Cotton. You’ve heard that haven’t you son? I still sings those lyrics in my head ever now and then...'Oh you pick cotton fifty cent a day, tote that cotton that's what I say...what I see when I look down...ain't no money in this ground'." Indeed I had heard of Walkin’ in High Cotton. It was only the biggest selling blue’s piece in history. “Well, ‘Sweetness’ was a gift to me from a very special friend by the name of Muddy Waters. I guess you probably heard of him. Make yourself comfortable, this story don’t go nowhere fast and I probably need to tell it before I pass. I was born in Sunflower county Mississippi in 1910. My world was cotton, cotton, and mo’ cotton. We used to say they would bury us neath the cotton gin when we was gone, and I believed it. Me and my brothers would pick cotton from daylight until late afternoon six days a week. I did that until I was old enough to be on my own and look for work elsewhere. I did try to join the army when I was of age, but got turned down because of my big flat feet. I finally found a job as a truck driver hauling pigs from Chicago to Memphis in the 1940’s. Chicago was a fine town in the 40’s. There were blues clubs all up and down Michigan Avenue. That’s where I met Muddy Waters. Muddy was the real deal. He would play his set and then still hang around the club until 3 or 4 in the morning and just jam with the local cats. That’s when I was introduced to him. I played a little guitar from my days growing up in the delta. Muddy said I had a unique delta blues sound to my licks. One thing led to another and before I knew it, every time I was in Chicago, we would hook up and jam after his gig. It wasn’t long before I was playing sets of blues with him on stage at the clubs in Chicago. We became good friends. I didn’t have enough money to afford a real nice guitar, so Muddy gave me ‘Sweetness’ that beautiful Martin 6 string before I moved on to Memphis in 1953. ‘Sweetness’ has been my only true love.” I sat there at the side of the bed and didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. Mr. Ray was telling it all, and I wasn’t about to interrupt.
“Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, I moved on down to Memphis in 1953. I gave up the truck driving. I was making a name for myself in the music business by that time. I played almost every club on Beale Street. You know Beale Street, now don’t you son? I remember meeting a young Elvis Presley in 1954. He was driving a truck then too. He was always coming into the black clubs and listening to the blues that was played. That boy was always asking about the songs we played, the chords we played. He wanted to know everything he could learn. Elvis had a lot of questions. A real nice young man that Elvis. I remember giving him a little bit of advice one night after a hard set of the blues. I told him ‘always keep yo’ hands clean Elvis’. Muddy used to say that to me. He would say 'Don’t wash yo’ hands in Muddy Waters'. Who would have thought that Elvis would have a hit with that title? Washed my hands in Muddy Waters! Now if that don’t beat all! Now Mr. Jacobs, excuse me if I get a little excited with all this talking ‘bout the past. The doctor gots me on a pressure pill to keeps my blood down. He tell me not to get too excited.” As Mr. Ray took a break, a knock on the door sounded and a woman with a plate of rice and beans came into the room. “Mr. Ray, it’s Miss Nettie. I brought you that red beans and rice. I cooked them up special just like you asked.” “Come on in Miss Nettie,” Mr. Ray said. “I could smell you coming down the hall child.” I could tell it was time for me to leave. Mr Ray looked tired from our interview, and I didn’t want to keep him from his meal, so I bid him a farewell with the promise to come back the following week and continue where we had left off. I told Mr. Ray that I would get his story in the Hattiesburg American the next morning. As I was packing up my notepad and papers to leave, Mr. Ray asked me, “Rick, when you come back next week could you sneak me a small bottle of Jack Daniels? I know it’s against the rules here, but I won’t tell if you won’t.” I promised to bring him a small bottle, but it was just between the two of us. “Two peas in a pod” I said. “It’s a Mississippi delta blues thing,” was his comeback. We both laughed as I parted. I was already looking forward to next week.
I got back to Hattiesburg at 6 that evening and had my story in for print by 9 p.m. After a late supper I fell asleep on the couch. It only seemed like a few moments before the telephone rang, it was my editor Ed Bates. I looked up at the clock, it was already 7 a.m. Immediately I thought he was calling me to congratulate me on the stellar piece I wrote on Aldous Ray. Instead, I got jolted off of the couch with these words. “Rick, I’m sorry to tell you this. Aldous Ray passed away late last night. He had a stroke around midnight and died in the Emergency Room at the George County Hospital in Lucedale. By the way, your article on Mr. Ray was just what this paper needed. I hope that helps…take the next couple of days off. I’ll see you then.”
I was speechless, and with that news delivered, Ed hung up the telephone and I lay my head back down on the couch cushion and wept. The world had lost a living legend.
I awoke again at 10 a.m. to the ring of the telephone. It was the charge nurse of the Glen Oaks nursing home, Mrs. Jake Rounsaville. She asked if I would attend the funeral of Mr. Ray. The funeral was set for Saturday afternoon at the George County Funeral Home with burial to follow at the George County Memorial Gardens at 2 p.m. “Of course I will be there, Mrs. Rounsaville.” Yes, of course I would. Although having only met ‘Sonny Boy’ the day before, I undeniably felt a common bond with this man. A man who would be remembered as a pioneer of a style of music that was purely American.
I drove down to Lucedale the following Saturday morning. I didn’t attend the eulogy. I came as the burial service was concluding. I stood far in the back of the thirty or so people that had come out to pay their last respects to this remarkable gentleman. I recognized Mrs. Rounsaville in the crowd, and also Miss Nettie was there in her finest Sunday hat. After the service when everyone had gone their way I walked up to the gravesite. Freshly dug red dirt still moist from the earth awaited the shovel of the grave digger to cover the simple pine casket. Little did that soil know that it could never cover a legend. A legend indeed as I read the names inscribed on the numerous floral wreathes surrounding the open grave. Names like B.B. King, Buddy Guy, Muddy Waters, Elvis A. Presley, Eric Clapton. I went back to my car and retrieved the pint of Jack Daniels that I brought from Hattiesburg. I stood above his grave, opened the bottle and took a sip, then poured the remainder into the final resting place of my new friend.
I made it back home late that evening and slept until late Sunday morning. I spent most of Sunday evening listening to ‘Sonny Boy’s music. I had lost a friend. I considered myself blessed to have known him.
As I readied for work the next morning, I heard a knock on the front door. UPS had delivered a large package and set it on my front porch. A letter came with the delivery. It was from Mrs. Jake Rounsaville. It read, “Mr. Jacobs, before Mr. Ray passed away, he made it very clear to the attending nurse that he wanted you to have this. I am not sure of its worth, but I think it only proper to send it to you. You can certainly do with it as you please.” Sincerely, Mrs. Jake Rounsaville, Charge Nurse, Glen Oaks Nursing Home.
As I opened the large package, I realized I was staring at what I once wished that I could only hold. It had an Adirondack spruce top with scalloped braces, a Mahogany back and sides, and a Brazilian Rosewood fingerboard and bridge. It was ‘Sweetness’. It was high cotton indeed... 'Oh you pick cotton fifty cent a day, tote that cotton that's what I say...what I see when I look down...ain't no money in this ground'.

Life With Sophie

My granddaughter Sophie will be moving to Okinawa,Japan in a month. She will be away for at least two years. I have certainly enjoyed being around her for the past year. She's now about 17 months old, and so fun to be with.
Today while looking through the photos of our day at the park this past Thanksgiving I got quite sentimental. We had a great time on the slide, and the merry go round. After the park we went down to see the horses. The horses actually came up to her. They knew she was special, just like everyone who meets her knows. I've become quite enamored with her cute laugh, her sweet smile and her trusting hugs. Life is so wonderful and full of surprises around every corner...just wish this corner didn't lead to Japan.

Biscuits By The Grace of God

Following in the footsteps of those who came before me is no easy task. Words like commitment, sacrifice, and love are all qualities that I learned growing up in Lucedale, Mississippi as a child in the Pennebaker household. I saw it played out daily in my home. My parents were my teachers, and I am blessed that they taught me those principles. I learned what mattered was not what you have, but rather what you have to offer. I can remember my daddy inviting door to door traveling salesmen into the home and feeding them dinner because they were either young and scared or looked hungry. I recall stories of my grandfather leaving thanksgiving turkeys on the doorsteps of needy families during the night. Granddaddy wouldn’t even stay around for a thank you. He would just knock on the door and walk away. I can remember Mama and the breakfast she made everyday for the family. Mama would get up before anyone else and have the table set before waking us to come and eat. I really miss the smell of biscuits coming from that tiny kitchen. That smell brings me to the reason I’m writing this.
This morning before climbing out of bed I thought for sure I smelled those biscuits. I was in that unique state between wakefulness and sleep, somewhere between Lucedale, Mississippi and Pensacola, Florida. I was again ten years old and my stomach was growling. As the smell of those biscuits made its way down the hall and finally into my bedroom, I couldn’t take it another second. I sat up in bed, put my feet on the floor, and with the aches and pains of a bad knee remembered that I was fifty four, and it was all a dream. Bittersweet memories of home, of my parents now gone, an aging body, and an empty table awaiting me downstairs was suddenly my reality. I immediately realized I had a choice to make. I could either fall back into bed, which I was heavily in favor of, or I could make that breakfast myself. With all the enthusiasm I could muster, I chose to do what Mama would have done. This Southern boy was going to have his biscuits.
Jimmy Dean pure pork sausage, check. Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits, yes! Fig preserves! Oh, God is so good. Everything I need sitting before me in the refrigerator. A bag of Starbucks coffee in the cupboard was a plus. 450 degrees and a cup of coffee later I was sitting down at the table with my breakfast. The phrase ‘southern ambrosia’, passed through my head as I readied that biscuit like a Marine would ready his uniform before an inspection. I made two for myself. One with fig preserves. Not just fig preserves, but fig preserves that I had made earlier in the summer from our own fig tree. The other I prepared ala ‘Steven Martinez’ style. Steven and I were combat medics attached to a Marine unit stationed out of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Steven taught me how to make the combat MRE’s more appealing by adding Tabasco sauce to everything. I grew to like it quite a bit. So the second biscuit was smothered in that piquant hot sauce from New Iberia, Louisiana. Now it was time to eat. I stopped an inch short of putting that biscuit to my mouth and remembered why all this busy work began in the first place.
As I put the biscuit back down in the plate, I bowed my head and thanked God for giving me my family, for giving me the food set before me, and also for giving me the parents I had growing up in south Mississippi. I realized that it was much deeper than just putting food on the table. It was also about love, accountability, and tradition. I almost wished for a moment that a young hungry salesman would knock on the door. How I would love to share this second biscuit with him. Even if he gets the one smothered in Tabasco sauce.

Come A Rose

Come a Rose, come around
and chance I gaze into your eyes.
Let me hear the tender sound
of lover's songs and sinful sighs.

Anxious winged seraphs
I beg you hear my fervent plea.
Take flight quickly...blaze a path
and bring my lover here to me.

Come a Rose, come around
and knock upon my waiting door.
I ache to hear the steps you bound
upon my bedroom's wooden floor.

Dieu Est Un Poisson

My name is constantly coming up as a matter of contention to some. My friends know me as Kim, my business associates call me David, and God knows what others call me. I tend to like Papa to be used by those who love me. As for anyone else, it really doesn’t matter.
So here I am driving up to Rhode Island from Virginia to be with my family at Thanksgiving. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday of the year. Nan, my wife has invited the parish priest to come by and deliver blessings and have a taste of true Vietnamese/Rhode Island/Southern cuisine. Nan and the kids have really taken to being active in the local church since coming to Albion. I suppose it’s a credit to her that our children are all being raised Catholic. If it was left up to me, I really don’t know what sort of religious upbringing they would have.
So Stafford, Virginia has been my home for the past six weeks while I have been overseeing a military contract. Another month and I’ll be done, but for now I can only get home every other weekend to be with family. As I cranked up the Landcruiser, and headed north I noticed the first snowflake. Just my luck I thought as I headed home to the ‘Hope’ state. Yep, that’s our motto. I preferred the motto, “Rhode Island…Where Size Doesn’t Matter”. I had that on the bumper of the SUV until my wife made me take it off. It seems like we got too many stares, finger pointing, and giggles from passing motorists. That embarrassed Nan, but I liked the attention. Regardless, I agreed to take it off the bumper to make her happy. As I exited the military gate and went through the traffic signal, my world came to a stop…a dead stop. There will be no Thanksgiving in Albion, Rhode Island tomorrow.
As I opened my eyes I was surrounded by the most beautiful light anyone could imagine; a bright light emanating from a large white room. “Where am I? What happened? How did I…?” As soon as I uttered those words, a fat man with a chewed up cigar in the corner of his mouth answered. “You’re in Heaven Mack. Nice to finally meet you, I’m Gabe. Welcome to heaven where all is good, and the chow hall is always open. Now I suppose I should introduce you to God, you are expected.” As we walked down row upon row of aquariums filled with goldfish, there positioned in the center of the room was a huge octagonal aquarium filled with beautiful colored gravel. Swimming alone inside the aquarium was a goggle eyed fancy finned goldfish of impeccable quality. Gabe turned toward the fancy fish and said, “God this is Kim. Now I’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted.” Gabe turned and disappeared, and God spoke. “Surprised? Don’t worry, everyone is. You didn’t think God was a fish did you? Well, go ahead…say something.”
“Oh my God, I mean Sir, I didn’t…know!” “You presume much by calling me Sir", replied the Almighty. And don’t be too hard on yourself about using the name in vane, everyone has, and I'm a forgiving God if you haven't been told. Everyone gets into heaven. I should let you in on a little known secret...hell is what you make of your life on earth. You didn’t think I would love you so little that I would create you in my own image and then cast you into a burning sulfurous eternity to suffer endlessly did you?" I thought about what I was seeing and hearing and then said, “God, what do you mean created me in your own image? You’re a fish for God’s sake….I’m sorry again.” Oh Jesus!” “Everyone is a goldfish, God replied. You may see yourself differently on earth, but believe me…you are a goldfish. Go ahead look at your reflection in the aquarium and see for yourself…you’re a goldfish.” You don’t have to go to confession, you don’t have to eat fish on Fridays….please don’t eat fish, God reiterated. You don’t have to tithe ten percent of your earnings. All you have to do is love your fellow man as you would have them love you. That’s as simple as it gets. Obey the golden rule. And if you get it wrong a few times, I’ll make an exception, you see…everyone gets a ticket into heaven. Now, it’s your turn to take your place among the school of souls where you will be fed fancy tropical flakes for eternity.” “But I don’t want to be here. I want to be with my wife and family. I want to go back!” At that moment I felt Gabe’s hand on my shoulder leading me out of the great aquarium room and pointing me towards Virginia.
I spent the next two weeks in intensive care at the Bethesda Navy Medical Center. The morning of my fifteenth day in the ICU, I awoke from my coma to see my wife sitting by my bedside knitting a blanket; a blanket monogrammed with the following; Commander ‘Papa’ Pennebaker…My Hero.
I had incurred a broken T-6 vertebrae but no spinal cord damage. I had traumatic brain injury, and had a broken left femur, but I was going to be OK. I knew where I had been, and I knew where I was going. My life on earth from this moment on would be different I thought. I was going to make a difference in my life and the lives of those I dealt with on a daily basis.
I finally made it home to Albion just in time for Christmas. We called it our Thanksgiving dinner at Christmas. The importance of the word Thanksgiving was not overlooked. As the family gathered around the table and held hands I wanted to tell them that we are all going to heaven. God loves us all. But I just couldn’t help but let out a huge laugh seeing them all as goldfish.
Thanks Gabe for leading me back home, and save some of those fancy tropical flakes for me would you? I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again, though hopefully not too soon.

The Patti Duvel

Gather 'round mates and hear ye this tale
of the fateful voyage of the Patti Duvel.
A sixty foot trawler with a beam of blue spruce,
an old weathered Captain and a rough hardened crew.

The call for the crew went out about one
to gather at the docks by the rise of the sun.
With lightening quick speed the boat was all readied;
the lines were hauled in and the sails were all steadied.

The tuna were deep running out on the ledge
and the Captain set sail with this God solemn pledge,
“We’ll work ‘til we fill the hull of this trawl,
then it’s back to homeport and whiskey for all!”

The boat was offshore closing in on its mark,
as the winds picked up force and the sky turned slate dark.
Waves of ten feet were breaking over the rails,
arriving in sets of three and four swells.

Well, the best laid plans do oft go awry,
as the winds were now howling with seas twelve feet high.
The wooden deck groaned, and mates cried for their mother,
as the Patti Duvel listed then started taking on water.

The Captain and crew hung on to their ship,
but after an hour all loosened their grip.
As one after the other slipped in to their grave;
home to past sailors, some cowards, some brave.

When word reached back to their port the next night
that the Captain and crew had lost in their plight,
the men all drank whiskey and the women drank tea,
and remembered their friends who returned to the sea.

Sixteen Minutes With Mary

I promised a friend I would talk with you tonight. I know you listened because I slept peacefully.







Are my shoulders strong enough
to lift you from the mire?
Can they endure the strain and burn
to lift you even higher?

Can my presence give to you
a friendship you can trust?
A knowing in your heart and soul
that tells you that you must.

Reach out my friend and take my hand
if ever you are wronged.
I'll be there to lift you up
my shoulders they are strong.

My Granddaughter

What a blessing it is to be alive and involved in a child's life. Especially if they are your Grandchild. Life just keeps getting better. I promise that I will be such a positive influence in her life.
One hundred years from now, it will not matter what kind of car I drove, how much money I had in the bank, or what kind of house I lived in. What will matter is that I made a difference in the life of my Granddaughter.
That is all that is important to me.


Little girl, little girl

ribbons and lace

soft little fingers

and a beautiful face

pink little ears

and wiggly toes

pouty little lips

and a wee tiny nose

a cute little laugh

and a delicate smile

you've captured my heart

my sweet little child

The Boneyard Bangers

My life in 1968 seemed as though it was spiraling out of control since Mom and Dad decided to divorce. I was a happy thirteen year old that year living a normal life in Montana with good friends and backyard football games. As soon as the divorce was finalized, Mom and I left our little town of Lavina and headed down south to Mississippi. Mom and I were moving in with her brother, Uncle Smitty. The only silver lining of the move was that he lived on a piece of land that had a lake on it. I had played there a few times when we had visited him in the past. I tried to remember the name of the Lake, was it Bonefield? No, that wasn’t it, maybe ..oh yeah, Boneyard Lake. Creepy sounding name but I wasn’t scared of anything. I looked forward to fishing, exploring, and maybe Uncle Smitty would teach me to hunt.

Fall was in the air when we arrived at our new home, at least our home for the time being. Mom enrolled me in school, I made a few friends, and a couple of boys were coming over to the house in the afternoons to play football in the back yard. One boy I liked was Billy Wilson. We became buddies and soon we were what Uncle Smitty would call “a couple of River Rats”, because we played down by the water so much. We took Uncle Smitty’s reference as a badge of courage. We weren’t afraid of anything and Boneyard Lake, albeit spooky at night, was our haven away from being stuck inside the house or doing chores.

Halloween was only a week away when Billy asked me “John Boy, can you keep a secret?” My real name was John Reinmiller, but I guess John Boy was sort of like a southern thing so I didn’t object. “Sure I can keep a secret. You can trust me I swear.” “You’ll have to swear with your blood John Boy. You’ll have to. Tonight I’ll take you to a place you won’t believe. You meet me after supper by the dirt road that runs down to the lake. Tell your Mama you are coming over to my house to plan for Halloween. I’ll see you tonight, and don’t be late.”

After supper I met up with Billy and we both took a trail guided by our flashlights to the edge of Boneyard Lake. As we came upon the boat launch I saw a small fire and heard the chanting.

“Black and Orange, Yellow and Red

We call on you to come back from the dead

Return we ask and visit us

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust”

Ok, maybe I wasn’t so brave after all. My throat lumped up and I was shaking so hard my flashlight beam was shining on the surrounding trees like a prison spotlight searching for an escaped convict. “Chill out John Boy, it’s OK. I know these people. This is what I brought you here for.” Billy gave out a whistle and we were acknowledged by the group of kids sitting around the fire pit in a circle. We took a seat on the grass and the chanting continued.

“Spirits past and spirits new

Lead us now we’ll follow you

We sacrifice our blood to take

Upon these grounds of Boneyard Lake”

“What’s going on Billy”, I asked “It’s the secret clan of the Boneyard Bangers, and now that you know about us, you are one. You’ll be tested in the next week, and you better not let us down, or something bad will come your way, I guarantee you that”, Billy said. With that I was asked to cut my middle finger and drop seven drops of blood into the fire pit. The cut was superficial. I was so scared I didn’t even feel the blade of the knife as it opened up my flesh. Seven drops of blood, a pact to the Boneyard Bangers, and an impending test of my courage within the week. Somehow I longed for Montana. I got back home to Uncle Smitty’s within an hour and went right to the shower, cleaned up, and went to bed. I didn’t sleep much that night.

Billy met me after school the next day and told me the Boneyard Bangers had decided what my initiation would be. “John Boy, you’ve been given your orders from the high priest of the group. You have to break into Old lady Smith’s house on Halloween night and steal her pistol that she keeps in the gun rack next to the fireplace.” “I won’t do it, I said. You’re kidding right? I’ll talk to this high priest and tell him I won’t do it!” “You’re talking to him John Boy, and you will do it, otherwise you’re a dead man.” Billy had an intense look of evil in his eyes. I believed he would actually kill me if I didn't do what he said.

Halloween night came quickly and I found myself wishing I had never heard of the Boneyard Bangers, had never left Montana, and had never met Billy. I wanted my Dad. I wanted out. I knew if I was caught I probably wouldn’t go to jail, being only thirteen years old, but I would be from that point on an outcast in this small community we lived in. I was afraid of Billy and his threat if I didn't do as he instructed, so I did exactly what he told me to do. I snuck up the stairs to old lady Smith’s as soon as her lights went out. It was 9 pm and I had to make it quick, as it was time for me to be home and Mom would be looking for me. I opened her unlocked door, quietly entered her living room and found the gun case and took what wasn’t mine. I took her pistol, a Smith & Wesson 357 Magnum revolver, fully loaded. I silently left her house and hid the pistol underneath a pile of wood at Uncle Smitty’s. Billy would ask me about it the next day, and I would have to show him the gun, or give it to him if that is what he ordered.

I met Billy at the boat launch at Boneyard Lake the next afternoon. I took the pistol along with me hoping that this would all be over within the next few minutes. “Did you get it John Boy? Did you get the pistol?” I pulled out the 357 magnum, but having second thoughts, I put it back in my coat pocket. “Give me the gun John!” Billy had never called me John before. His eyes were pure evil. “Give me the damn gun!” Billy struggled with me to grab the gun. As I grabbed the handle of the pistol, it went off with a loud bang. Billy looked at me with surprise as he still tightly held the barrel of the pistol. His eyes were no longer filled with evil. Now all I saw was fear. His grip loosened on the gun and he fell to the ground at my feet with a bullet hole in his chest. I dropped the gun and ran home.

Billy’s Dad called that night looking for him. Uncle Smitty shouted out to me “John have you seen that other River Rat today?” “No Uncle Smitty, haven’t seen him all day.” That night his Dad went looking for him and found him lying in a pool of blood, dead from a gunshot wound to the chest. The police were called, the weapon recovered and traced back to old lady Smith’s home. She didn’t even know it was missing. The police determined that young Billy Wilson had stolen the weapon, and either accidently or intentionally shot himself. I never said a word about it.

Rose Upon A Wisp

My wife was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2006. After undergoing a double mastectomy, and a very difficult time with chemotherapy including a hospitalization with pneumonia I found myself deep in depression.
At a point in time during the chemotherapy we both were at the point of accepting she might not live and having to accept whatever the consequences were. It was so difficult. This poem was written by me at a very low point in my life when I just had to live on faith. I hope you enjoy.

Rose Upon A Wisp

Shall I cast your love with open hand
and let it catch the breeze?
Shall I turn my back upon your name
and fall upon my knees?

The wind shall lift your love ahigh
to take it where it blows,
and land it soft upon a cloud
to change into a rose.

To free you from your earthly bond
is to free you from your gloom.
Then I'll chance to view your love
transformed into a bloom.

Let It Rain

 


















I thirst for your coming
sitting alone as if anticipating
a lover to call upon me
not knowing when or where
 
Waiting for you to wash away
the dust that has settled upon my skin
since we last parted
so long ago

When you come
let me be awake to welcome
your arrival
and bathe in your presence

Immerse me in your love
Saturate me in your element
Delight me with your company
Let it rain

El Barrio

My name is Maria Marisol Fuentes. I am fifteen years old, well almost. I'll be fifteen next month. My home is New York City, El Barrio. You may know it best as Spanish Harlem. If you haven't already guessed, I'm Puerto Rican. This is my story.
I dropped out of public school when I was twelve years old and started work in a garment factory located on East 113th Street. I live with my Papa, an unemployed alcoholic. My Mama left us two years ago, and I have not heard from her since. The money I earn at the factory helps pay rent for our tiny apartment on Marin Boulevard. Each day that passes, I find myself more depressed and resigned to the idea that I will live and die in the barrio. I want more, and I have a plan to get out, but I will need help.
"It's 6:47 am, I need to walk faster. I've got to clock in by 7:00 am. I can't be late again!" As I made my way down Marin Boulevard, turning South on 2nd Avenue, and then arriving at the factory on 113th street, my feet ached from the fast pace I set walking into work. I thought, I've got to buy some new shoes as I grabbed my time slip and shoved it into the clock. "Ahh, 6:59, I made it!" Still too close for comfort, I thought. As I took my position at my sewing machine my body switched to autopilot while my mind took me to faraway places, like Florida... maybe Puerto Rico. San Juan would be so beautiful this time of year. Anywhere away from this dreary existence that I call home.
So as soon as my shift would begin, it would end. My fingers always ached from the endless repetitious task of attaching collars to the endless supply of shirts that would be pushed my way by the team of seamstresses. I had a quota of one thousand shirts a day. Within two months on the job I could not only meet one thousand shirts a day, but I could surpass that quota by another thousand shirts. I was paid three cents per shirt over my quota. So on a typical day I could earn an extra thirty dollars. To me that was my ticket out of the barrio. I didn't tell Papa about the bonus money. If he knew about it, he would drink it up within a week or two. Yes, my money was safely hidden beneath the floorboard of my bedroom. The money I have saved over the past two years now totaled exactly $15,200. When I find a way to leave Papa and the barrio, I will be gone....just like Mama.
I know my story sounds so dark and hopeless, but there are bright spots in my day. There is a young man at the factory who has been asking about me. He smiles at me, and spoke to me last week. He said "Hola Maria. Mi nombre es Tito Vázquez ." Since then I have learned that he has asked a lot of questions about me. I also have asked about him. I know he is twenty one years old, drives a nice car, and works in quality control at the factory. I also found out that he thinks I am pretty, and wants to ask me out on a date. The older Puerto Rican ladies in the factory are telling me to stay away from him. "He's a playboy," they say. "He's no good...you'll only get hurt" But I like him and if he asks I will go out with him. Although I am fourteen, I have yet to go on a date, or even have a boyfriend, so Tito and his attention intrigued me. I thought possibly I would have a way out of the barrio.
A week later while I was at lunch, Tito sat at my table and asked me on a date. "You know Maria, I was thinking it would be nice to see a movie with you, or if you want to go for coffee we could do that. If you are interested, that is." I thought for only a minute and agreed to meet him. Not at my apartment, but at the corner of Marin and Second Avenue. Tito agree, and told me to watch for a candy apple red Porsche 911. "I'll pick you up at 7pm Maria, watch for me OK?"
That evening before our date I pulled up the floorboard to my bedroom hiding spot and took all $15,200 and stuffed it into an oversized purse. I packed an extra set of clothes. My Papa was passed out on the sofa in the living room. I bent down and kissed him on his forehead and whispered "Goodbye Papa". I knew that when I left the room and closed the door behind me that I would never be back, and would never see Papa again.
Tito pulled up in the Porsche at 7pm. He got out and opened the door for me to get into the passenger side. "Tito, do you believe in God?" "Si, Maria...I do believe. Why do you ask me this?" I opened the bag and showed Tito the money.
"Let's get the hell out of this city," I said. Tito replied, "Si mi amor, si. You should buckle up, I have a very fast car."

Sweatman's Barbeque

Located way off the beaten track is where they come to get that hundred mile barbecue. A good fifty miles from Charleston, SC, is Sweatman's Barbeque in Holly Hill. Holly Hill, South Carolina to be exact. Never heard of it? You should have.
A tiny wooden building which serves as the restaurant is where cars start crowding in on the dirt parking lot at 11:30 am. Open only on Friday and Saturday. Come early if you want a table. Come early if you want the skin. There won't be any if you arrive late. Be sure to bring cash. That's right, Sweatman's Barbeque doesn't take credit cards, or checks. And be sure to bring your appetite.
The buffet offers only a few items. Rice, liver hash, cole slaw, pulled pork which comes in the choices of dark or white meat, and ribs. All served with your choice of a vinegar sauce, or a mustard based vinegar sauce. If you are lucky there will be pork skin. Sweet tea or water.
That's it.
Was it good? Absolutely worth the drive from Charleston. Will I be back? Undoubtedly I will. When Anthony Bourdain visited Sweatman's BBQ he said, "Barbecue with it's mixture of heart, science, and magic is a high calling in the South."
Yep, whole hog barbeque is a whole different world.

Challenger Deep

“Papa, Wally Hunt at the Cape. How long can you hold your breath under water? Call me back when you get my message. It’s urgent.” That was the message I received when I got back from my daily surf at the beach, and found my cell where I had left it on the kitchen countertop. As soon as I got the message I returned the call. “Hello Wally, it’s Papa. Your message sounded important. What’s going on at the Cape?” “It’s not the Cape Papa; it’s what’s going on in the world. I guess you haven’t heard? North Korea launched a long range ICBM, a Taepodong-3 towards California about two hours ago. It was intercepted by a surface to air missile fired from the USS Port Royal (CG 73) fifteen minutes into flight. The rocket and its payload dropped into the Pacific Ocean somewhere southeast of the Marianas Islands. We need you at the Cape as soon as you can get here.” I put the cell in my pocket without even saying goodbye. Wally would know I was on my way. I sped by the security gate and straight to Building 1. Wally and his staff were gathered and I was briefed.
“Commander Pennebaker, the President of the United States has asked you to do your country a great favor. The President knows you are retired, and that you are only one of a handful of people in the world who can navigate the United States Navy bathyscaphe, Alvin-2, to the bottom of the ocean in search of the Korean missile that was intercepted today. Your knowledge of the Alvin-2 would be invaluable in a search and recovery mission of the Taepodong-3 if you will accept the challenge.” Alvin-2, I thought to myself? Why the Alvin-2? It’s only function is to dive to depths unattainable by any other form of submersible. “Wally, are you telling me that the Korean missile is in the Marianas Trench?” “Yes, I’m afraid that’s correct Papa. Our sounding instruments have placed it in a crater of the Marianas Trench. Not only that, it’s in the deepest recesses of the trench. It’s at the bottom of Challenger Deep.” I knew the Challenger Deep. It is thirty six thousand feet below sea level…the deepest surveyed point in the ocean. Pressures there are over one thousand times greater than at sea level. I had worked in the development of the Alvin-2 at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution before entering the space program in the late 1970’s. That is precisely why I was summoned.
I knew all about the quirkiness of the submersible, the groaning sounds it makes when it drops below twenty thousand feet, its functional capabilities, and the danger of a mishap. “OK, Wally, but why retrieve the missile? “Papa, U.S. satellite images and CIA intelligence indicates the North had transported its most advanced long-range missile to the new Dongchang-ni facility near China. Those same satellite images show the North fitted the ICBM with a questionable nuclear payload. We think the intent of the North Korean government was to start a nuclear war with the United States. The trajectory of the missile would have had it landing somewhere just east of San Francisco. Our Navy intercepted it before it slammed into the bay area of California. If that had occurred, hundreds of thousands of innocent people would have died. Of course North Korea is denying it was a nuclear payload. It is imperative that our government retrieve the missile and its nuclear payload intact before the Koreans and their Chinese allies do. Are you clear?” “I’m as clear as the waters off of Cocoa Beach Wally. Count me in.”
With no time to waste I found myself suited up and being escorted to the runway where the Lapin Blanc was waiting for me to climb aboard. Oh yeah…the Lapin Blanc; that sweet little lady with the twin Kretchmar turbo boosters. I would find myself at Andersen Air Force Base in Guam within half an hour. This was going to be a wickedly cool ride.
Three, two, one…blastoff. The familiar five G’s of crush…being pushed back into the form fitting leather seat of the Lapin, then the familiar blue to black of space and the stars in the heads up display were so déjà vu as I had just done this same type liftoff only three weeks prior on a search and rescue trip to the Van Allen Belt to assist in bringing home Sam. Sam…I wonder how she is and what NASA has her doing now? She’s probably getting a little rest and relaxation after that near disaster in space. She would be jealous as hell if she knew I was behind the throttle of this magnificent machine. I could still feel her in the seat sitting next to me. Her scent, her amber color still lingering in the confines of the Lapin’s cockpit. Just as soon as those thoughts began to fade I started my descent. I could see the entire island of Guam come into view with its runways approaching at two thousand miles per hour. Then the sound of the air traffic control came through, “Commander, welcome to Guam. You are clear for runway seven. A CH-47 Chinook is waiting to take you out to the USS Port Royal.” The screech of the Lapin’s tires upon the hot asphalt runway brought me back to reality. I suddenly wished I was back in the seat as a fighter pilot. I kissed the Lapin goodbye and boarded the Chinook for a fifteen minute flight out to the deck of the Port Royal which was on station. The US Survey Ship Kilo Moana was also standing by carrying with it the bathyscaphe Alvin-2. The Chinook set me down upon the fantail of the USS Port Royal, and from there I was escorted to the ready room where the Captain and his officers were anxious to brief me on the operation.
“Commander Pennebaker, you’ll be guided by radio and sonar transmission to the Taepodong-3 from the communication station on board the Kilo Moana. Your communications officer will be one of your NASA counterparts. I believe you know Lieutenant Sam Abjelina?” My mind went numb. Could it have been the quick flight over in the Lapin, maybe pulling too many G’s in such a short period of time? No…it’s Sam. That’s what it was. Her name coming up again and again in my life, it was more than kismet I thought, it was destined to be.
“Yes sir Skipper, I know Lieutenant Abjelina well. We go way back, all the way back to her college days at UC Berkeley. I would be honored to have her navigate me down to the Challenger Deep and back.” With that Sam entered the ready room and we gave each other that ‘keep the rabbit going’ smile. 'KTRG', short for 'keep the rabbit going'. It's a phrase I used with Sam when I was her flight instructor at NASA. I used it to push her past what she thought she could handle, and it worked. As the Skipper stood to exit the room, the junior officer attending shouted “Attention on deck.” Everyone sharply stood at attention as the Skipper exited. As the door to the room closed, I gave Sam a hug and then I was quickly escorted to the Alvin-2 to prepare for my dive to the Challenger Deep.
Suiting up for a dive in the Alvin was much different that readying for a space flight. At NASA it took at least one hour to put on a space suit, check for air compromise, and go through all the system checks of the suit itself. Suiting up for a deep dive was a matter of slipping into a one piece body suit. A suit made of lightweight gortex that zipped up the front. So lightweight in fact that it felt as though you were wearing nothing. Simple, functional, heat conserving; it reminded me of my body suit that I used for surfing the waters off of Cocoa Beach.
As I climbed into the Alvin and re-familiarized myself with its instrumentation and robotic arm, I got my first sound test from my navigator who was on board the Kilo Moana.
“Papa, it’s Sam. Are you ready to get this done?” Her words settled my uneasiness. If there was anyone that I would have chosen for this job, it would be her. She was smart, and tough as nails. I don’t know where she got her toughness from, but I’m guessing she had something happen in her younger years that developed that toughness. I never asked, but someday if she wants to tell me I would be there for her to listen. I owe her that. I wonder what she would think if she knew about the tattoo? “I’m ready Sam, let’s begin the descent.”
Thirty six thousand feet to go I thought as the Alvin was lowered into the water by the massive steel crane and steel cable that was my lifeline to the research ship Kilo Moana.
The tether cable’s rate of ascent and descent is approximately 10 miles per hour. That meant in 42 minutes the Alvin would be on the bottom of the ocean, a depth of thirty six thousand feet. Hopefully Sam will guide me right on top of the Taepodong-3. From there I would simply connect a retrieval cable to the missile with the help of the Alvin’s robotic arm and then the missile and its payload would be raised from the Challenger Deep.
“Papa, you are at one thousand feet and descending. Give me a systems check please.” "All systems are functioning properly Sam. Depth indicator checks at one thousand feet, submersible lighting system is turning on now.” As the submersible dropped silently deeper still, I could make out the faint groans of the metal plates compressing against each other as the atmospheric pressure of the ocean began to crush against Alvin’s steel hull. “Papa, ten thousand feet.” “Roger, Sam, ten thousand feet and all systems go for search and retrieval.” The surrounding environment was pitch black outside the range of the submersible’s lighting system. Occasionally a squid or small strange looking fish would come up to peer at the Alvin. I’m sure they thought I was just as curious looking as I thought they were.
“Papa you are at twenty thousand feet and descending. How is everything aboard?” “All systems are go Sam.” Then it happened. A loud groan from the Alvin, and then a deafening BANG! “Sam, come in Sam. Did you get that on your end? Did you hear that Bang?” “Papa, what happened? Yes, I heard it, as did almost everyone in the communications room. Are you OK?” Surveying the Alvin quickly for damage I could immediately see what caused the sound. “Sam, the glass porthole to the starboard side has cracked. No water intrusion, just a linear crack from top to bottom” “Papa, I don’t know if the mission needs to be aborted. Let me consult with the Skipper. I’ll be back to you within the minute. Papa, the mission is a go, but if you begin getting water intrusion into the cabin, the mission will be scrubbed and the Alvin will be raised. Do you copy?” “Roger that Sam. I’m all in. We only have twenty more minutes until we reach the floor. Let’s roll.”
Within fifteen minutes I was twenty feet off the lowest point on earth. Sam had guided me safely to within feet of the missile. The Alvin’s submersible lighting system illuminated the floor of the trench, and I was right on top of the Taepodong-3 and its payload. “Sam, good work girl…you put the Alvin smack square on target. Don’t let me forget to take you to dinner in Manila when I get back.” I heard Sam laugh from almost seven miles above me. For me that was worth the whole mission, even better than getting back into the Lapin’s saddle. That laugh was my reward.
“OK, let’s get down to business. USS Port Royal, this is Commander Papa K. Pennebaker. Robotic arm deployed and retrieval cable connected to payload and missile. Navy research ship Kilo Moana, you are go to retrieve, I repeat you are go to retrieve and begin the ascent of the Alvin-2.” “Roger that Commander Pennebaker, initiating ascent of the Alvin. We’ll see you on board the Kilo Moana in forty one minutes.” “I’m coming home Sam, hope to see you on deck when I return.” “I wouldn’t miss it for the world Papa, see you there.”
As the Alvin started slowly surfacing my ears were glued to the headphones, my connection to Sam, and my depth status. “Papa you are at twenty thousand feet and all is go. Please give me a status check.” Roger that Sam. System check good, wait….Sam, I see a tiny stream of water intrusion from the porthole crack. Looks like it’s a slow deliberate stream, nothing to worry about, but get me out of here as soon as possible. I don’t like the looks of it.” “Papa, I’ll keep constant communication with you for the remainder of the ascent. Let me know if anything unusual happens. You are within fifteen minutes of surfacing. “OK Sam, I’ll keep you on constant audio.” The next ten thousand feet was uneventful, Sam and I remained silent throughout those minutes then came Sam’s voice though the headphones. “Papa you are at ten thousand feet and ascending, please give me a status check, over.” A little more than ten minutes and I’ll be home I thought, and then the water began to pour in through the cracked porthole. “Sam! Sam! I’m in trouble, I don’t know if I’ll make it out of this one. Water coming in fast. Up to my knees…I can’t stop the water…Sam.” “Papa! Hold on! We’ll have you out of there in ten minutes. I know you can do it! Remember how you used to tell us when you were our instructor back at NASA that you could hold your breath for a full five minutes? Papa, I promise to get you out of this…I promise!”
“Engineering, crank up the retrieval. We need to get Papa to the surface. Dammit engineering, just do it!” The last words I said to Sam before the water entered my lungs were…..KTRG.”
The Alvin-2 surfaced seven minutes later, Alvin's cabin was filled with sea water, and I was strapped into the submersible's seat. I thought how strange it was that I was hovering above my body watching as the safety crew of the Kilo Moana unharnessed me from my chair and brought my body out and laid it on the deck. I could see Sam standing over me being very stoic, yet I knew she would cry later. I could see the ship’s medical officer unzip my body suit and expose my chest. That’s when Sam saw my tattoo. It read ~ELVIS IS KING~SAM IS MY HERO~ I wish she hadn’t seen it under these circumstances. I honestly had plans to show it to her someday. I got 'inked' right after the rescue three weeks ago. It was surprising to me that I could be embarrassed and dead all at the same time. This was really all a rather peaceful state I was in until the medic put the paddles to my chest and BAM! Hey, now that hurt! Then BAM! I heard him say “Stand back”, then BAM! Another jolt of electricity coursed through my body. Then simultaneously I heard Sam's dear departed Grandmother Natividad say, "Go back, you are not ready", and the medic shout "I have a pulse. Get Papa to medical ASAP!”
I awoke the following morning, back in my aging body with Sam standing over me crying. “Hello Gorgeous”, I said. “Welcome back Papa”, came her reply. “So are we still on for that dinner in Manila Papa? Well as soon as I get this IV out of my arm Lieutenant.” "Papa, I would have missed you badly. Thanks for keeping the date, I might even introduce you to family if you want to meet them.” "I'm up for about anything Sam, even family."
One week later, the DPRK was forced back to the six party non nuclear proliferation talks. Indeed they had armed the Taepodong-3 with a 20 megaton uranium warhead. The retrieval proved beyond dispute that their government was corrupt. The Chinese government was forced to make an international apology for their part in the denial of the missile launch and its payload. The UN sanctioned a formal censorship of both countries, and the rest of the world, well they knew the real truth.
As for me, I had a great meal with my friend on the beautiful Island home of two great women. A new national hero, Navy Lieutenant Sam Abjelina, and my new guardian angel Natividad Bartolome.
If you need me, just leave a message. I’ll be holding my breath in anticipation that it’s Sam.

Rebirth

The placental waters of the Pacific filled my lungs. Maternally cushioning, drowning me inside the confines of my uterine tomb...and I have returned to an embryo awaiting a rebirth and a new life reincarnate from 360 joules of electricity passing through my chest.

Night Songs

Darkness nears and stars come out.
The sun sets low, coyotes shout.
Crickets chirp into the night,
and fireflies glow as birds take flight.

I sit and watch the dance in rhyme
then all around me stops in time.
As all God’s creatures give their praise
to be alive just one more day


And just as soon as it began,
the moon lends light upon the land.
I bow my head and say a prayer
to all God’s creatures kind and fair.

The Gift Of My Father

Camp Shelby Mississippi 

Is where it all began,

the transformation to a soldier 

from an unassuming man.

Soon thrust into a battle 

to preserve our way of life;

enduring cold, fear, hunger, 

and distance from his wife.

He stood tall when called upon, 

and always did his best,

and never once you heard him brag 

about the medals on his chest.

Honor, comittment, loyalty, 

and the courage to stand tall.

I reflect upon my Father 

and the gift he gave us all.

.

The Day Duke Exploded

It was one of those sweltering summer days in the South. July of 1960 was proving to be a month that would go down in the record books. I didn't know much about the weather, being only five, but I did know what hot was. The attic fan in our home ran non stop that summer. We had been sleeping with the windows open since early May. Waking up damp with perspiration was our badge of courage for making Mississippi our home. That's what my Daddy would say. The heat and my youthful ignorance would soon prove to be my undoing.

The day started like any other day. Mama arose early and started breakfast. That was her duty. Southern women, especially Mothers, had duties. Unmarried young women had dreams of someday having duties. It didn't make too much sense to me. I just wanted to be outside playing, or fishing with my friends. I crawled out of bed soon after Mama from the smell of sausage and biscuits on the table. Daddy would be up and to the table after his morning bath. Showers hadn't been invented yet, at least not in our town. It was a bath where you got to lie down in a tub of tepid water to wash away the dirt and sweat from the day before. The night before when I said my prayers I promised God that I would tell my big secret today, a secret that had been troubling me all week. I didn't know if I could go another day feeling such guilt without telling Mama and Daddy what I did, and where I hid the body. I planned to tell them tonight when we sat and talked before bedtime. Just then I heard Daddy raise his voice so Mama would answer quickly. "What's that God awful smell? Did you clean some catfish last night and forget to put the garbage out Mama?" I sank low in my chair hoping he wouldn't see the guilt on my face, but it was much too late to fix things now.

Five days earlier, it had rained hard. Enough rain to leave what looked like a lake in our yard, and a river along the ditch that lined our dirt road. Just the kind of rain that Duke, my Labrador, and I liked playing in. As I pulled on my galoshes I thought about how much I loved my dog. We were good buddies. I called out loud for Duke, but there was no answer. I called for him again a little louder. He should be running up to me and jumping on my chest. That was his typical greeting. It was a ritual, and for a moment I was worried. After all I was five years old, and rituals were important to me. I had rituals for almost everything. When I met up with my friend Glen each day, our ritual was to punch each other as hard as we could. It hurt, but it was our ritual. If I didn't get slugged in the arm I felt unacknowledged, I needed that to validate our bond. I needed Duke's presence, but he was no where to be found. I had to go look for him. I hurriedly put on my Hopalong Cassidy cowboy hat and gloves and set out in search of my buddy.

The rain had turned the dirt road in front of our house into a gumbo of red and yellow clay. I slipped with almost every step I took, hoping to find Duke at the next turn in the road. As I approached the intersection of where our road met up with the county highway I saw Duke. He had been hit by a car, and he lay motionless in the rain. I knelt down and opened his mouth out of curiosity. His tongue was swollen, and his jaw was rigid. Even at my young age, I knew he was dead. I felt ashamed. I should have taken better care of Duke and protected him from all the bad things in life. He was more than my friend, he was my responsibility. I wasn't going to let him lie out here in the rain. I grabbed him tight by the tail with my cowboy gloves and dragged him towards home. Back home I found a place to hide his body in the garage which adjoins the main house. Somehow hiding his body relieved me of some of the shame I felt for not caring and watching out for him better. I had failed Duke, and now he was dead.

The next few days passed uneventfully, although questions of Duke's whereabouts came up nightly. Mama and Daddy would say Duke probably found a girlfriend, and was out "sowing his oats". I wished they would stop talking about him. My guilt was tremendous, and I became more and more ashamed each time Duke was mentioned during our family discussions. I knew exactly what happened to Duke. I felt awful. For the first time in my young life I didn't like myself. I felt I had not only let Duke down, but my family as well.

That brings me back to the breakfast table. As I slid down in my chair, I was promptly snatched back to reality with a stern look from my Daddy's all knowing eyes. I couldn't take it anymore. I had no choice but to reveal my secret now. With a cathartic release of pent up emotion I wailed, “I did it, I know what happened to Duke!” I led Daddy out to the garage, and in behind a stack of old worn out tires, and a swarm of flies rested the body of our family dog. Duke in all his glory had decomposed, and some time during the night, for lack of a better word, had exploded. Daddy said a very bad word, before slowly composing himself. Gently he took me by the hand and walked me back inside the house. We all took our breakfast out to the back yard and sat at the picnic table. We cried, laughed, and remembered our Duke. Although Daddy punished me by having me clean up the mess I helped create, I finally understood unconditional parental love, the price of keeping secrets from the family, and the meaning of a dog day afternoon.

When the Rain Falls

I'd play a muted trumpet if I could
on my front door steps
If my neighbors heard it they'd know
that it was raining

Cheeks buldging like Dizzy's
smiling like Satchmo
in between clouds
of soulful riffs

Smooth notes like the rain
falling by the bucket full
from a tarnished old horn
and a young boy’s fancy

Mo Anam Cara

Out to the West so many miles
she walks in bare feet by the bay.
Raven hair and loving smile
sipping lattes through the day.
So wise in age and graced in style
linked to my soul in special ways.

The Gaelic bond that we both share
Mo Anam Cara is its call.
Whatever burden we may bare
is always taken without stall.
To uplift each in loving prayer
and share the pain if either falls.

A kindred soul; a co-joined heart
a willingness to always share.
To know the other does their part
no need to say we'll always care.
Mo Anam Cara, let us start,
Mo Anam Cara....kind and fair.

Bringing Home Sam

The last days of June were unusually hot, although I really didn't mind the heat as I spent most of my free time in the water. Learning to surf Cocoa Beach Florida at the sweet age of 53 was out of the ordinary, but I was quite the un-ordinary guy. Ron Jon’s surf shop had come to know me well in the past year as this was my usual hangout on any given weekend before I would head to the local beach.

My background up until a year ago was in the space program. My business card read Commander K. 'Papa' Pennebaker/Shuttle Commander/ NASA Flight Program Coordinator. I had flown missions out of Cape Kennedy with the shuttle program dating back to the 1980’s, and most recently held the position of officer in charge of new recruits indoctrinating into the astronaut program. Flying by the seat of my pants was what I really enjoyed, but working with the ‘new blood’ coming into the flight program gave me a great sense of satisfaction. I had decided recently that I had done all I could do and had seen it all, so last July I met with my good friend and supervisor, Wally Hunt, and told him of my plans to retire. It was time I thought to start thinking about a new life, and enjoy the fruits of my labor. If I had prepared the new recruits thoroughly I could leave the program without any reservation. That is when my cell phone rang.

“Papa, it’s Wally. We need you at the Cape. We have a Galactic Code 4.” As soon as his words were transmitted to my cell I was in my car and heading toward Cape Kennedy. I passed by security and drove straight to Building 1. That's where Wally was waiting with the news.

“It looks bad Papa. Sam has gotten herself into a real nasty situation. She was flying her first solo mission to Jupiter. While maneuvering though the Van Allen belt, her craft was struck by a meteorite. Our sensors indicate her oxygen pressure is very low. We believe it’s only a matter of time until she runs out of breathable oxygen, and then …well you know what that means.”

Sam was the top cadet that had come through the astronaut training program under my direction. She was a summa cum laude grad from UC Berkeley with a double major in physics and aerospace studies. She made it through the space program despite having two young children to take care for, and the death of her namesake Grandmother Natividad. Her hard work and professionalism impressed me above all the other students I had instructed. After she graduated the program at NASA we became good friends, and she even once took me to her favorite coffee house and also introduced me to her Mother's Filipino cooking. “What do you need me to do Wally? I’m in. I’ll do anything for Sam.”

“Papa, NASA needs you to go back into space and rescue Sam. Do you think you can do it? Can you reach into your gut and pull out the courage to fly again?” “Just show me the way to the launch pad Wally. The surf can wait a day or two; I’ve got a rendezvous with Sam.”

Wally and the pre-launch crew led me to the hangar where I was introduced to the Lapin Blanc. A prototype rescue craft, small, two-seater, white, sleek, awesome. “Why the name Lapin Blanc, Wally?” "It's French for White Rabbit", Wally replied. "A quick rescue vehicle developed in collaboration with the French Space Administration for just this purpose. This craft flies like a Ferrari with its two twin Kretchmar solid fuel booster rockets."

“What do you think Papa? Can you can fly it?” “For Sam, hell yeah I can... start the countdown!” “Countdown starts in 1 hour Papa, better suit up. Sam needs you.”

After a quick two fingers of tequila in the preparation room, and getting into my flight suit I was ready. I was going to bring Sam home in one piece or my name wasn’t Papa K.

3,2,1 blastoff. My body pushed back onto the leather seat of the sleek white rabbit as it rocketed through the clouds and within seconds blue turned to dark black space. As the twin Kretchmars disengaged I could see stars through the heads up display and I could feel myself go weightless. It had been years since I had experienced weightlessness, and now I understood why surfing appealed to me. It was that same kind of feeling.

My rendezvous with Sam would be in an hour as I familiarized myself with the robotic arm that I would use in pulling her to the Lapin.

Out of the dark Sam’s craft came into view. I could see it had been struck by space debris, as it wobbled out of control and gaseous vapor spewed from its port side. I sent a message to Sam by radio and was successful upon the first attempt. “Sam, it’s Big Papa K. I’m here to take you home.”

After what seemed like an eternity, I heard her beautiful voice. “How did you know where to find me Big Papa?” “I listened to your guardian angel Natividad. She showed me the way. Now let’s get the hell out of here and back to Karen and Mikey, what do you say?” As I grabbed her with the Lapin's robotic arm and pulled her inside the two seater she took a deep breathe of fresh oxygen and then smelled the coffee. “Yeah, I brought you one. It's a caff'e caramel macchiato from Peets. You didn’t think I would forget, did you?” We had both reconnected after all this time. Sam was still the bright Filipina Berkeley girl I had come to admire. The one who first gave me the name ‘Big Papa K’, the name that had stuck.

As we re-entered earth’s atmosphere, the sky was colored an unusual flush apricot sway. At that moment I turned to Sam and said, “You remember the song? Our song from long ago? Wanna sing it again?" We both laughed and started singing that silly song I wrote about my trip out to California to visit her once. As our little white Lapin sliced through the clouds, Cape Kennedy's runway came into view.

Filipino pride, Filipino pride...
Going back to earth in my little white ride.
Top down crusin' here comes the mornin' sun.
Becha I’ll be brown before this trip is done…

to be continued.....