First blog post

Walter

There’s some of you out there, perhaps a good portion actually, who know Walter.
Related in some form or fashion, if not distance kin then at least good friends of the fellow.
I first read about Walter way back in school. Read a book about him,”The Life and times of Walter Mitty”. Although our names spell different, we’re blood bound through and through.
He commuted to work as many of us do, he’d miss his get off point, bus stop, or train station, whatever the case may be. All because his mind was elsewhere. I think we can relate. In grade school one of my teachers early on told my mom I was forever gazing out the windows. Yes, Walter and I go back many years.
That’s where voyages begin actually. Even if they be of a few days duration, the imagination is sparked or set afire and go we must. Some even go so far as building a specific sailboat for a specific event. There’s plenty of the Mitty folk who’s done the Texas two hundred in craft especially built for the event, another is the Everglades Challenge, there are more as well.
Of the Mitty clan, I suspect they’re one of the few family’s that can cross all boundaries of every nation on earth and people group ever to exist. This Mitty clan I also suspect may very well be the only clan that allows others entry irregardless of place of birth. It shouldn’t outta be but that’s the way it is.
Walter’s done some microcruising as well. A friend of his, years ago, lived aboard a 12 footer for a spell, another older gent I read about with one leg gone lived aboard his twelve as well, under a bridge, sold bait after having rowed out to obtain it.
These dreams we hold don’t have us yearning to live under bridges, safe to say, but those bridge type certainly had dreams we could relate to at one time or another. The voyages of the dreams , truth be known, are just the thing that spurs many on to accomplish the unaccomplishable, or so their told. You can’t do that! How are you going to eat? Where you going to live?
I met a fellow sailor who took his many years of experience backpacking, along with another friend of similar knowledge, and were dropped of in the wilderness as if they were whisked off the street. Only the clothes on their backs and the knowledge in their heads to see them through for a month.
Where did it start, this dream to do such a thing? To sail the tip of South America, to Kayak the west coast of the America’s, to sail across the bay to the next harbour? Uncle Walt, the inspiration of so many known, and the unknown of many more.
To all the relatives of Walter Mitty, arise and offer a toast in his name. May his name ever be an inspiration.

Michael j beebe

Standing

Standing

   Fred was standing on the front steps of his home. It was early morning, the overnight dew had settled, the sun was still trying to climb above the horizon. 

   The darkness was fleeing.

   The morning quiet of early spring gives a special feel to life along the coastal Bend of Texas.

   The neighborhood was quiet, all at peace. No one could imagine the knots Fred carried in his stomach.

He received an email about twenty minutes earlier.

   Panama was coming apart at the seams. The island he had bought just outside of Bocas Del Toro was the focus of his mind. Several years ago when he purchased it he thought it would be the ideal bug out location. Now he was concerned about the strong box he’d left behind. 

   Fred never thought the homeland would outlast Panama. 

He’d even left his sailboat in a local marina’s care. The reports he was getting were not good.

   He and Sally, his wife, had vacationed there ten years ago. Sally had passed, never realizing the dream.

   Fred was alone now. And he didn’t much feel like going to Panama. At the same time, there was a sizable chunk of change waiting for him. 

   With inflation soaring, oil going to two hundred, he’d soon be living near the bone.

But still, without the love of his life by his side, the desired faded like a vapor. 

Continued

Michael J Beebe

Fiction, ghost writer

Guest House 5

Guest House 5.   

   “Your grandfather owns the notes on at least fifteen houses! I’m only half way through this file.”

   “What’s that mean? Owns the notes? I thought only banks could own notes!”

“No, anybody can own a note. The hard part is having the money or getting the money to be able to buy something, like property, that other people want.”

   “I still don’t get it!”

   Rachel, if you bought a piece of land at a good price, and paid cash for it, you would own that property free and clear, meaning the only debt tied to that land would be  property taxes. No banks, credit unions, nobody. Then if you sold it, you could set the terms. You could sell it for so many payments plus interest, until it was paid in full. 

   It’s pretty rare an everyday Joe can swing something like this. From what I’ve seen so far, your grandfather has done it fifteen times and counting. Amazing.

   “Why would he do that? So many houses!”

   “I don’t know, but I suspect Mr. Harris knows. How are we doing on gas?”

“About a quarter tank.”

   “Let’s stop ahead, get something to eat also.”

“I’ve got to buy some clothes. I hadn’t planned on a trip to Texas. Then, stealing a look at Erick, eyes catching, “Thank you. You’re not spending another dime.”

A  “We’ll see about that.”

   At the graveside, there were just the two of them. Raymond Fredrick, buried next to his beloved Else. They walked back to the truck. Then when driving away from the cemetery, Rachel spoke first. 

   “Can you drop me off at the airport? I booked a flight, it leaves in an hour. I must do this, Erick. I must. I am very grateful for all your help. The house two doors down from you is yours now. Mr. Harris is about done with the paperwork. I hope I’ve not led you on to anything.”

   “No, no. You haven’t, not in the least.”

   “You were a perfect gentleman, and still are. Thanks for holding me that night. I’ll always appreciate it. You’re a very special person.”

   The forty-five minute ride to the airport was another long silence. This one being far different than the ones shared over the past ten days.

   “No—please, don’t park. Drop me off curbside.”

   When Erick pulled to the curb, Rachel leaned across the seat and gave him a quick kiss, and was gone into the terminal before Erick could gather his wits. 

   Erick pulled up to his house just as FedEx was walking away. 

“Are you Erick Stephens?”

“Yes I am.” 

“Please sign here.”

Inside was a Warranty Deed for the house two doors down.

Erick was on his way.

The end

Michael J Beebe

Guest House 4

Guest House 4   

   The air was brisk. It matched the tension both Erick and Rachel felt. The old trucks heater had not even warmed before they pulled into the small parking area of the lawyers office. Turning off the ignition they looked at each other, no words shared since the last defence Erick offered.

   The warmth of the office and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, along with Hilda’s cheery ‘Good morning’ tore down any walls that were unknowingly being built. ‘Mr. Harris will see you now.”

   “May I get you both a cup of coffee?” Hilda asked.

   “Yes please, black.” 

   “And you Rachel?”

   “With cream, and do you have any sweetener?”

“Yes of course.”

   “Please have a seat. I’m Jon Harris” he said standing, offering his right hand to Rachel first then to Erick, who now stood to grasp the lawyers hand. 

   “I was notified a few days ago of your grandfather’s passing, Rachel.”

“How?” 

   “Your grandfather kept things simple. He carried one of my cards in his wallet with a short note on its reverse side. The police notified me, and they now wait to hear from you, the only known family member.”

   “Since you’re both sitting here, my natural assumption is the shoe box was delivered, received, opened and left you, Rachel, in an amazed state?”

   “Very much so.”

   “I advised against doing such a thing, but Raymond was a stubborn old goat; and greatly loved. When Else died, her passing almost took him with her…

   “I’ve a question. Why did he pick me to deliver the shoe box?” Erick asked.

   “Raymond kept his eye on you. He knew about when the house would go into foreclosure so he drove by, happened to be in the neighborhood. Saw you working on the place and noticed the house up the street was for sale, he bought it.”

   “Seems kinda odd.”

   “No, not really, that house held a lot of memories. He and Else had built that house and spent many wonderful years there. They continued working together, buying old places, fixing and selling.”

   “Raymond wanted to see who it was that bought his old house. He had this in mind and it seems to have worked so far.”

   Rachel let out a small gasp, “My grandfather was matchmaking?”

   “Well, yes and no. Erick would never have been trusted delivering a shoe box with $300,000 in it, and strange as it was, if your grandfather had any doubts.” 

   “If you want I can contact the Rockport Police. I need to know what you want to do with your grandfather.” 

   “I’d like to see him. Give him a proper burial. “

   “I’ll make the call, and start things rolling.”

   “Will you take me Erick?”

   “Yes, I’d be honored .”

   “There’s some more business to attend to. My apologies once again. Yesterday’s afternoon spilled over into today’s. I did put together a small summary of your grandfathers holdings. We can continue the living trust settlement when you return. 

With this information I’m send with you, you’ll be much better informed as to the extant of his holdings.”

   “There’s more than the shoe box?” Rachel asked incredulously. 

   “Yes, there’s quite a bit more. This packet will get you going. Write down any questions, I’ll do all I can to help. I’ll call the police, get your grandfather moved to a funeral home. We can text. Best way”

   “You’ve been such a help Mr. Harris. We’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“One more thing, your grandfather had this taken care of as well.” Mr Harris handed Rachel a bank card. Just call and activate it.

   They left town on the 195 South. 

The silence once again settled in the truck’s cab as it had before. This time, the mood was lighter. More of a relief. Rachel fell asleep, the constant movement and noise of the old truck was like a mother rocking her child after skinning her knee.

   At the next gas stop, they traded places, Erick was soon asleep. But didn’t sleep near as long as Rachel.

   “Erick, if you’d like, go through that information, I’d appreciate the help.”

   “Ok” and he started through the papers. Letting out a soft whistle, then a few minutes later another one. With the third whistle, even lower than the previous two, Rachel interrupted.  “You’re gonna have to tell me what you’re whistling at.”

Guest House 3

Guest House 3

   It was six or seven hours to Spokane and Erick’s radio didn’t work, nor did the CD player. The traffic was light, the clouds were piling up against the mountains. 

   “So tell me.” Rachel asked.

   “The police sergeant told me three years after your grandmother, Else, had passed on. Your grandfather just up and disappeared. The property went down hill, taxes piled up, and a hurricane added to the damage. It looked like a tear down. Nobody wanted it and the property went to auction, and that’s where I came into the picture.”

   “I won the auction and began fixing the place up. I added a small shed I converted to an extra bedroom. The day I met your grandfather, I had gone out to search for a book I may have kept next door. The two buildings weren’t connected.”

   “That’s when I stumbled upon your sleeping grandfather.”

      “There wasn’t a bathroom, just a commode stuck in the corner with a curtain for privacy. Ray was sound asleep, fully dressed sitting on the toilet. When he first woke up was when I took the picture.. he asked for a cup of coffee and then apologized for having to leave me with such a mess.” 

   “What mess was that?”

   “His passing.” Dealing with the police, the ambulance, the many questions. It was an intense day and a half. 

   I’d glance over at Rachel every now and then. She was lost in thought, either staring ahead or looking out her window. Never once did I catch her looking my direction.

   “What do you think happened, Erick?”

   “Raymond loved Else. They’d been together almost 40 years, when the love of his life was called home, Ray fell apart. Empty, everything empty. There was no relationship with your father, only saw you a few times growing up. That was hard on the two of them. When Else died, well, Ray just left. “

   “He went for a long drive. A very long drive. You got post cards from him, time to time, didn’t you.?”

   How did you know? 

   Oh, I’m a father, I know. 

What then? 

   “He came back. We talked for most of the afternoon, or what seemed like most of the afternoon. It may have only been a short two hours. He talked, I listened, nodded my head, said, “Uh huh, once in a while.”

   “Did you read any of his diary ?”

   “A little” is all Rachel said. 

   Long stretches of highway passed under us. Without a word. Both of us were trying to keep our thoughts from getting to Spokane ahead of us. 

   We stopped on the summit and picked up two coffees and one sandwich to share. 

Ten or twenty miles of silence Rachel then shared a bit of the diary. “Part of the diary . covers his last years of wonderings.”

   She put her mostly finished coffee into its cup holder, pulled her coat tightly to herself and was soon asleep. She must have been up most of the night.

   When we reached the lawyers office, we found the lawyer had been called to the court house and had to reschedule our meeting to first thing in the morning. 9 am. 

   The secretary was most helpful. She had even reserved a two bedroom suite for us, not too far away. 

   In the room, the awkwardness started to rise. Then Rachel, looking very worn out, asked if I would just hold her. 

   The next morning at the hotel’s breakfast buffet, Rachel asked, “Why didn’t you just take the money and disappear?”

   “I am not a thief, besides, I never knew there was any money involved, other than what your grandfather paid me. Shall we go?”

Michael J Beebe

Fiction 

Windmills

Windmills

   “I hear they started construction of windmills on Hynes Bay.”

“Where’s that?”

   “It’s a back bay adjoining San Antonio Bay, next to Austwell.”

“That don’t tell me anything. I’m not familiar with all the different bays.”

   “You know where Seadrift is?”

“Yeah.”

   “It’s across the bay from Seadrift.”

“Isn’t that where the Wildlife Preserve is?”

   “Yep” 

   “How’d they get all the approvals needed to sink a bunch of windmills in that beautiful bay?”

   “Taxes.”

   “Taxes! Explain that one.”

   “Seems most all the people fleeing California are coming to Texas. They need electricity for the housing tracts. The local governments need the tax base for all the infrastructure. So there ya have it, progress equals more taxes. People can’t leave well enough alone. They promise it won’t hurt the fishing.”

   “That’s what they promise, eh?”

“Yep, we’ll see.”

   “Ed, how ya been? I haven’t seen you since last year when you were telling me about those windmills going in across from Seadrift.”

   “Joe, that’s been almost two years, maybe more.”

   “Yeah it’s been awhile. I remember you saying it wouldn’t hurt the fishing. Well the whole area is off limits to fishing and any kind of boating, signs all over the bay stuck on posts in the shallow water, keep out, restricted area. What’s going on?”

“Yeah, that’s what they told us at one of the many meetings they held.”

   “Let me tell you what happened. All of the wind mills in the front tier of the group facing South East, they were set lower then the ones behind those in front. I was wade fishing, had the whole place to myself.”

   “Yeah. So!”

   Well, a shallow draft sailboat came across from Seadrift, one of those centerboard trailable sailboats. It had a tall mast on it, and they got…”

   “They? You mean more than one sailboat?”

   “No, ‘they’, a guy and a girl.”

   “So what happened?”

   “They got too close to the windmills in front, the ones set lower to the water. When the blades were turning on the windmill, one of the blades got stuck between the forestay and the mast. I seen the whole thing happening.”

   “What’s a fore-stay?” 

   “It’s a part of the wire rigging that holds the mast up. The fore-stay goes from the bow of the boat to the top of the mast.”

   “What happened then? The sailboat was lifted out of the water, dumping the two sailors into the shallow water, or they jumped. When the blade of the windmill stuck in the boat’s mast then lifted the boat all the way up out of the water. 

   The boat slid down the blade getting stuck on the hub of the windmill. The wind blew the sailboat back between the other two blades and the whole thing came crashing down. I was there, I saw it.”

   “Did ya get any pictures?” 

“Nah, I left my phone in the truck.’ 

   “What happened to the sailors?

“I picked them up, took them back to Seadrift. They were pretty shaken. They just wanted to get the hell out of there, thinking they’d be in a world of trouble. They asked me not to say anything.” 

   “So you didn’t report it. “

   “Nah, what for? It was kind of exciting seeing the damn thing fall apart the way it did. Besides, those kids were young. They didn’t need anything like this following them around for the rest of their lives. The engineers were the ones that screwed up, designing em so low.”

   “No pictures huh? Not sure if I believe ya.”

   “Joe, I’m telling you, that’s what I saw.”

Michael J Beebe

Fiction

Guest House 2

   This trip to the Pacific Northwest all too soon had me doing things differently than my usual care free way. For instance, I started locking my truck each and every time I got out of the truck;  the shoe box sat on the passenger side floor, and before the first fill-up I had thrown a jacket over it. 

   The envelope I put in the zippered side compartment of the driver’s door. I was wondering if Ray had somehow joined me.

   Every hotel, I put it in my duffel before walking across the parking lot. I had to focus. 

I found myself looking at the one pic I took of Raymond Fredrick. 

Many miles with a broken radio gave me plenty of time to think.

Why would she invite me out to island she shared with a few other people?

Her grandfather disappeared twenty-five years ago, without a trace. 

The question didn’t seem to have an answer.  

When I’d gotten to Oak Harbour on Whidbey Island I got a room and the next day, rented a small power boat and went out to the island.

   “This is a private dock, you can’t tie up here, ” came a woman’s voice. 

Excuse me, are you Rachel Fredrick? 

She stopped, not walking any further.  “Who are you?”

“I’ve something for you.”

“What is it,” she asked, taking a few steps closer.

“I’m not sure, just an old shoe box, bound tightly with twine. Your grandfather said it contained some paperwork and a diary. I was hired to deliver it to you personally.”

“Put it there on the dock and back your boat off.” 

“Yes ma’am. I’ll be in touch.”

When I got back to the dock where I’d rented the boat, the fellow working the dock said,  “Rachel Fredrick called, and wanted you to call her,” handing me a pices of paper with a phone number on it. 

   I drove back to the hotel I’d stayed in last night and got the same room back. Then I took a nap. I’d slept for almost three hours before I called Rachel. 

   Hello Rachel, this is…

‘Your the fellow who gave me the shoe box earlier today? Left it on the dock?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“What’s going on? What’s this all about? Who are you and how did you get my grandfather’s diary? What’s with all this money. “

“Let’s take this a bit slower. I’ll explain everything or at least try to.”

“I’m listening.”

“I was hired, for lack of a better word at the moment, to deliver to you the shoe-box. I was told…”

   “Who told you?”

   “Just a minute, let me finish, then I’ll do my best to answer any questions.”

“Ok, go ahead.”

   “I was told the box contained some paperwork…”

“I’ll say it does.”

   “…and a diary. I wasn’t told there was any money in the shoe-box, just some paperwork.”

   Who was it that hired you. 

“Let me send you a picture I took of the gentleman.” 

   “Go ahead, send the picture, I’ll wait. Call back if we get disconnected.” 

   “THATS MY GRANDFATHER!” WHO ARE YOU?”

“I’m Erick, Erick Stephens” 

   “Can you come back out here this evening?”

“No, I can’t. The boat rental is closed. I can in the morning, weather permitting. The dock man said a blow was coming in later tonight, if it did, he’d be closed. Said it was supposed to last a couple days.”

   “Are you going to be around for a few days, Erick?”

“Yes, there’s one more item I was to give you after you opened the shoe-box.”

   “What is it?”

   “A brown envelope, not very thick. I don’t know what’s in it, just that you had to open the box privately. I was not to be present.”

    “Where are you staying?” 

“At the Coachmen Inn, Oak Harbour. In the morning I’ll be checking out. This is a bit pricey.”

   “You stay put please, I’ll pick up the cost. We’ve got a lot of things to talk about. I’ll call the front desk when we get off the phone.”

   I slept well, the forecasted wind hadn’t arrived yet, maybe it changed its mind.

I was enjoying my second cup of coffee when I noticed the flags snapping a bit faster. Then I saw Rachel walking up the small incline from the nearby harbour. Looked like she was carrying an overnight bag.

   She came right into the coffee shop directly to my table. 

   “Do little birds work for you?” I asked.

“No, just a few phone calls. May I?” Rachel seated herself. 

The waitress brought my order, then turned to Rachel. 

“What can I get for you, Rachel?”

   “Just an order of toast”

“The usual?” With a nod she was off to the kitchen.”

From my coat pocket I retrieved the brown envelope and slid it across the table.

   “Thank you,” she whispered.

   Holding the envelope for a moment, then turning it in her hands, but not opening, nor removing her eyes from it,  “Erick, tell me everything. Please. I want to know. Rachel then reached into her coat pocket, took out a business card and slid it across to Erick. 

   “A lawyer in Spokane?”

“Read the other side.”

“Rachel, ask Erick to take you to see the lawyer.” Erick held the card using just the thumb and forefinger of each hand, not saying a word.

   “I already called the lawyer, he’s expecting us late this afternoon, early evening.”

   A customer walked in with the strong, cold wind behind him.

Guest House

Guest House

   I drew back the curtain surrounding the commode, and jumped back three feet. There sitting on the toilet was an elderly man, fully dressed, slumped a bit, with chin on chest, dead. Or so I initially thought. There was a slight rise and fall of his chest.

    I went out to the guest house looking for a book. My library is split between the main residence and the guest house picking up some of the overflow.

   He was a small man, frail in appearance, a full head of gray hair. Clean shaven, wearing a tweed jacket, with old worn wool pants, his boots were rather clumsy looking. They weren’t Red Wings by any stretching of the imagination. 

   His button down had seen those same better days as the pants and jacket. The boots though, still had years of life left in them.

   I was sitting across from the old guy wondering what to do. My cell phone rang, and being in the moment of this odd situation I fumbled some before hitting the answer button. The ringing phone woke the old guy.

   The visitor stirred a little, opening his eyes, looking around.

It was a close friend calling, “I’ll call you later.” I said, but before turning off the phone, I took a picture of my guest. 

   The old fellow had a quizzical look on his face, his eyes clearer now, “Where am I?” He asked, looking around, then added, “This looks to be a cozy place.”

   “May I trouble you for some coffee before I leave? And I must apologize for the state I’ll be leaving you in” 

   “Sir, please sit here in this chair, it’s much more comfortable.”

“Thank you, I will.”

   I stood and gathered the cups and coffee, soon Mr. Coffee was dripping. The small house was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. 

   “That small shoe-box, tied with garden twine,” the old man said pointing. “I need you to deliver it to my granddaughter. She’s living up in the Pacific Northwest somewhere. I haven’t been there myself. She lives on an island. “

   “That’s a long way from coastal Texas. Why not mail it?”  

“No, that would never do.” Then reaching inside his coat, he withdrew a thick brown envelope. 

   “Here’s enough money to cover your expenses and time.” He continued, “You’ve been chosen for this small delivery, there’s no one else to do it. My granddaughter’s contact information is inside.”

   “After I leave, you’ll be on your own. Don’t mention any of this to the authorities. There’s nothing illegal I’m asking of you. But if they get involved, my granddaughter will never get what’s coming to her.”

   I handed the codger his first cup of the freshly brewed coffee. 

He spoke of his wife, Else, who had passed too many years ago. He reminded me one more time of keeping our little secret, as he accepted his second cup of coffee. 

   He didn’t finish the second cup. Almost—but not quite, about half remained. I was watching him as he paused mid sentence, put his cup on his lap held by both hands, his head gently rested once again on his chest.

   This time there would be no waking up. 

   I called the police, the ambulance arrived shortly after. There were questions asked I had no answers to. The sergeant showed up the next day with even more questions.

   It turned out Mr. Raymond Fredrick had disappeared a little over twenty-five years ago. He had lived in this very house. His wife had died three years before he’d disappeared. He never got along with his only child, a boy, now grown and moved away somewhere.

   Mr. Raymond Fredrick, now most certainly dead, his driver’s license showed the same address. 

   The puzzle continued. Any neighbors that may have remembered him were long gone and mostly dead themselves. 

   “Do you need me for anything,” I asked the sergeant as he stood to leave. 

   “No, there’s strange things that happen every now and then. This is one of them.” 

   The sergeant left and I started packing.

Fiction

Michael J Beebe

I got a little done

I got a little done

Then I got to thinking, at this rate I’ll need another lifetime to get anything meaningful finished.

I’d gone out to the boats. To the shop.

The wife asked, “Why are you back in so soon?” Then added a few boxes I needed to check off.

“Tired,” I said.

“I’m glad you listen to your body.”

Dad-gum heart.

I’m seventy-eight. Congestive heart failure, that’s what they’re telling me. I’m just now starting to believe them. It’s been several months since the news. The eyes are going, too. They’ll have to wait their turn — along with the boat projects out in the yard.

Give ’em up. Let ’em go.

I’ve said that before.

I read an article twenty or thirty years ago. An old fellow, early seventies, building one last boat alongside the Mississippi — the great river that’s had its share of squashing dreams without regret.

That spring the river rose. Everyone fled the yard except the old man. He stayed and raised the dock lines as needed. The river kept rising, and the corrugated metal roof came closer and closer.

Then Mississippi said, “Maybe next time,” and started backing off.

Now I understand why he stayed.

You just can’t walk away. You can’t stop building. Can’t stop singing. Can’t stop bringing children into a world that seems to be falling apart faster than beavers can mend their dams.

If we’d just leave them alone.

But we can’t do that. Leastwise those with the means to — can’t.

It’s not so bad. Really, it’s not. The brain’s still good. I can figure. I can read. I can still put a few words on paper now and again.

And it’s good — I got a little done before I came in. 

Six Acres

Six Acres and a Pond

   I stumbled upon a piece of land for sale, 6 acres with a sizable pond on it. The pond appears to be about an acre itself, with an island in its middle. At first sight I was figuring how to divide it up so as to sell three or four acres and having my part ending up free and clear. 

   The pond appears somewhat centered on the six acres, but looking again at the pictures from above, compliments of someone’s drone. It was at one end. The end away from the road. 

   A fresh water pond in this day and age can be a good thing. Trees heavily lined the property’s perimeter, along with the undergrowth the pond was well hidden from passer by’s. 

   That small island in the middle set my mind to thinking. Giving me both a chuckle and a plan for the possible future. Done right, 

There is enough room for a small house on that island, it even has a shade tree growing next to the waters edge. 

   A foot bridge would be easy enough to build. Wouldn’t need electric, a composting toilet would do the trick. The fences would have to be strengthened, the front entrance double gated. 

   Enjoy living on an island just outside of Rockport, Texas. Doesn’t sound very unique yet, but this get away will offer protection from the coming chaos when the stuff hits the fan. 

   Raise sheep, a few cows, fence off a garden, stock the pond with both fish and several alligators, the buyer would be safe and sleeping securely on his tiny island home. 

   It’s available right now. Still on the market. Once word gets out with its true potential, it’ll be gone in a heartbeat.

   Call, 361- yada-yada-yada. 
Fiction

Tunnel Rat

Tunnel Rat

   Boot camp, 1960. Two skinny 18 year olds.

One white boy, the other black.

   Steveadore was given the nickname of Stevie Wonder, 

The other was just called Whitey.

   Whitey had a foul mouth and constantly shirked duty

Stevie Wonder was raised a bit different than Whitey, his mama didn’t raise no fool, and all his learning was proven to be true. Stevie was always getting the short end of the stick. But his mama was good. A God fearing woman, a deaconess of her local church, abandoned soon after little Stevie was born. She decided then and there her son would grow up to be a man. 

   1960, US Army, decided these two were going to be Tunnel Rats. Their first assignment, push this box through the obstacle course ahead of them and use what they found inside the box at the other end wisely. 

   Given head lamps, the small oversized shoe box, and their rifles. They pushed that shoe box ahead of them under the live fire range then entered the tunnel. 

   The going wasn’t so bad, Whitey took the lead. After fifty yards and a few twists and turns, it was total darkness. They could see light up ahead and at the same time they were picking up a foul oder. 

   The section of tunnel with the light shaft gave them two things, fresh air and a short cut out of the tunnel. They had been warned not to take it.

   Whitey took the short cut and encouraged Stevie to do the same. Stevie said no and continued on through the next section of tunnel, the odor of rotten eggs grew worse, the tunnel was getting wet and muddy. Keeping the muzzle of the rifle from the mud was getting almost impossible. 

   He then remembered the condoms the DI had given him and Whitey at the start of the day. He had stuffed them into his shirt pocket and rolling over onto his back working within the confines of that now wet dark tunnel, Stevie pulled out one of the condoms and put it over the end of the rifle barrel. 

   Continuing on, pushing the shoebox forward through the narrow sections of the tunnel, now it was stinky, slimy, mud. His whole focus was getting to the end. 

   The odor was getting less, the air about him was no longer stifling or stagnating. He knew the ordeal was about over. When the tunnel took a sharp right turn he could see its end. 

   Exiting the tunnels end, he was a filthy dirty mess. Covered in stinky mud, he was glad that was behind him. Now the shoe box. Sitting on the ground, he pulled it to himself and opened it. 

   Remembering the admonishment of the DI to use the contents wisely. In side Stevie found the box full of white rags and one stiff rod that screwed together. Stevie knew instantly what this meant. In war, the rifle was his best friend. Stevie set to cleaning his best friend, disregarding the mud on his face and neck, cleaning only his hands.

   The Drill Instructor showed up a short time later. He didn’t say a word at first. Just stood there taking in the scene before him. 

   ‘Don’t  leave nothing behind and get in the jeep, back seat.’he barked. 

The driver was given the ‘Let’s go’ command and knew just where to go.

They stopped in front of the base commander’s field office and the DI with Stevie following entered the makeshift office tent, simulating the real deal.

   Behind the desk sat the base commander. Before him stood Stevie, at ease, covered in mud, his rifle by his right side, clean. The shoebox full of the used to be white rags, cradled under his left arm.

   ‘Son, you’re mama didn’t raise no fool. You keep up the good work, you’ll be the first soldier to finish boot camp as a corporal. Then turning his attention to the DI, I want weekly reports on this recruit every Friday morning. Then turning to his company clerk, make a memo of this and put it on the calendar. 

   Turning back to Stevie, “Keep up the good work, you two are dismissed.”

Outside, the DI said, ‘Stevie Wonder, go on back to the barracks and get yourself cleaned up. Then come by my tent and pick up a weekend pass. I’ll see you bright and early Monday morning. 

   Yes sir!

Michael J Beebe

Fiction

Ghost Writer