God Says I Am In The Strangest Ways

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God Says I Am

In The Strangest Ways

William Blair

Copyright © 2023

By William Blair

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The stories in this book are true. They contain no false elaborations nor are they spun in a way to make them more than documentations of genuine occurrence. That is not to say they are moon landings in scale but instead are my own intriguing experiences that I hope will be entertaining to the reader.

Though intended as entertainment, the oddness of these events serve as beacons. Small lights causing my personal reflection on life, our place in it and the realities of God. With God intended to be defined by the reader. They are offered with the ambition that they cause you to not only notice but embrace the pleasant as much as the not so agreeable ingredients of life and the larger stage created for all. For too much sugar rots the body and mind while too much salt toughens one to leather. An accepted balance of the two is the recipe for a complete well cooked person.

But always remember, life is a strange place.

Table of contents

A Bird

Hell's Kitchen

The Archipelago of Life

A Bird

I am not a religious person. There was no Sunday school, no bibles thumped in my home, no tradition handed down by a Grandmother rocking her last years and secret past away. My upbringing lacked all such experience, more volcano and sacrifice than love and charity. The total discussion of theology was as great as the quest of sobriety, meaning there was none. So why believe in God? It is a big question. Well not just big , it is the question. The eternal pondering wander of the mind longer than those years spent in the desert. For me it is not a belief by instinct but one that grew from it. The quest to find the port in the storm. I, as many get lost in the immensity of the deity, getting caught up in the divisions of man. But God contains all such faces yet has none and it is our eye that divides.

So one would imagine a profound answer of why. A sea divided in order or the masterful winding of the eternal clock above that grinds mountains to dust? Or the marvel of a woman and the beauty of such vessels and miracles contained within? But again I am lost to all such wonders. Only to know that they are and admit little understanding of their operation. So why? To each his own but for me it is the strange experience of life and those little things that a thinking mind cannot easily cast away as coincidence. For as I grow older my belief in coincidence becomes less and less. Through both weed and speculation into the wasteland my path has brought me and climbing over mountains stumble I on the little things. Three little things to be precise, experiences that have been given to me as testament of confirmation. This is one of those experiences that brings me to court and what might that be? A bird. Not as big as the species mind you but small as a baby bird.

I had planted some seeds in the front yard. Corn, lettuce and greens of a few varieties. Beans and squash and two types of tomatoes sprouted. Along a worn and tired chain link fence a row of sunflowers of the giant variety. As any good farmer, I had begun a compost barrel or bucket to be exact. An empty five gallon bucket of drywall compound with a series of holes drilled around the square green letters of which the spackle now covered the walls of the old Moorish style house my wife, daughter and I called home.

Making dinner one late afternoon there were scraps to add to the bucket. Onion peels and pepper cores were to join the rancid canister of rotting waste that was browning itself a stew. Gathering up the scraps, I mothered them to the door. Lumping one handful on the other, found the knob air conditioned cold and opened it.

Green leaves and bright sun filled my eyes with the understanding that summer was soon upon us and the frying pan of Florida was to cook us all. I was rudely greeted with a harsh and most unpleasant high pitched “squeauck”. Looking down through the ruffage of a daisy tree to spy with a hunter's eye a grey speckled flake among the stalks. Eggless, nestless, motherless sat among the bush, a mockingbird, baby but a week old that waddled side to side badding me to come closer. The beak opened and worm tongue spoke, “squeauck”. Outloud I greeted it, “Owe no. Go away you little nuisance of burden unwanted and unlooked for.”, fully meaning every word. But the response, as if in total understanding of my lack of interest was to waddle back and forth lifting one little yellow footed leg up, putting it down, raising the other over and over like some little engine of minor worth back and forth getting nowhere. “Go be eaten little thing.” I said moving off the stoop toward my bucket of rot.

Now you may call me harsh, uncaringly cruel and overly human for not running to this creature's aid but minding your thought I offer in defense what burden this creature would bring. For I am sure you do not understand the hardship of picking up this thing. I, by another hand, had seen this before. In my youth I had dealt with birds who had been abandoned. Pigeons for the most part. Motherless, I saw how hard and futil taking such a small thing under responsibility was. To care for such was difficult to say the least and to see a creature cared for fade slowly into shadow, waning into nothingness and die was heart shrinking. It seemed better that the end should come quickly by a cat's claw rather than slow emaciation.

Understand I have no wings to fully provide for its needs and little time and less money to sponsor such a dependant. I ask you, at this point to come back to earth and leave your Disney concept of nature in that widespread asphalt parking lot somewhere under E-17 and D-15. My question, how do you feed such a thing? It can not eat store bought bird food. You can not bring it to the pound or put its cuteness on the evening news to coax a citizen to adopt. The harsh truth was without a mother bird this creature was most likely doomed.

So I put my waste in the bucket and moved to the warm side of the door knob bathed in the late smooth sun and turned it to go inside. “Let nature take its course.”, I said. “Squeauck” rang in the most unpleasant tone as the door was shut. With my back turned callus away I did my best to stay stone and steel cold. I grabbed the chicken soon to be dinner, spread the legs and split the backbone with a black handled chef knife.

The lamp in the sky fell through the window licking my cheek as its glow made its way through the tree tops to lay rust red on the black speckled countertop. Having more scraps to add to the compost with a hard heart grabbed the knob again. In the bush to my lament as before was the chick. I cursed the little creature who cursed back, “squeauck”, crunch, crunch, back and forth with horrid little feet, “squeauck”. I looked again into the bush and the little thing beaked itself forward a few inches. I breathed in heavy and exhaled even heavier feeling the ice pick of its tiny pale beak pierce the ice on my frigid heart. I closed my eyes with hopes that when I opened them this creature would be gone. That it would have the decency to be eaten by some creature one step higher in the food chain.

But it was not so decent and when my eyes opened, it being a bit selfish I might add, was still there, “squeauck”. Ok, move to it I thought but as soon as the chick runs away in fright call my attempted good deed done and be upon my way. So I moved off the steps harshly and approached as hard and threatening as I could. But instead of frightful feathers to my surprise it moved to me, “squeauck”. I was sure my two hundred plus pounds would cause these two ounces to flee in terror, relinquishing any responsibility and providing the ability to leave this bit of cat food to its fate. But I was wrong, it stood fast and I, a hundred times its size and none too happy stood out matched, “squeauck”. Alright, fully believing that this hors d'oeuvre looking for a cracker would surely make its way away as I stooped to lessen my tower towards it, I bent. But it did not flee. Instead it pumped its small self closer to me. As my hand swooped down it still did not run but jumped into my palm. Powerless I asked, “ By what time weaver and master of all chance and score lay your little beak outside my door and what's more, into my hand”. Instantly it’s beak widened to 45 degrees and its tongue wormed in hunger.

I went back into the house closing the door and knew I was doomed. How to keep this puffball alive? I would have to come up with some instant plan as unready as I was. I would need a nest of some sort and more important a story to tell my wife why this creature was in our home. My daughter would be in love at first sight, though this featherless bird was none too cute but very much the opposite. Its skin was gray and wrinkled with undeveloped feather stalks that hung like porcupine quills with no vane against its body. Tufts of down clung to it uneven like lint on a piece of chewed gum dropped on the floor. Not that it had lips but the orange skin at the hinge of its beak drooped to resemble an unhappy frogs mouth and its voice, “squeauck” was the most unpleasant. But nonetheless my daughter would adore it and I would be hard pressed to keep her hands from mice to menning this creature to death.

So finding a cardboard box I dumped out some old Bridal and Parent magazines, flipped it over to knock the dust out. Then an old emergency blanket from a hurricane that never came was sliced and a few squares padded the bottom. It was then my daughter came in and inquired what Daddy was doing. I told her about the baby bird and her eyes lit up like the Fourth of July and she instantly ran to the box to rain her stars upon him. I followed close behind, “So cute!!!” she said as I swept in just ahead of her young talons innocently reaching in to squeeze the little potato through a strainer. We would need to make the box as close to nature as possible so we both went outside to gather sticks and twigs to fashion into a nest.

Now I must admit I have built a lot of things over the years but none gave the experience or competence to make that circle out of sticks. We tried several variations but each lacked structural integrity and I gained a deep respect that no school or human experience could provide, realizing that each bird that ever existed was able to out build me hands or wings down. We did our best yet our product lacked in every way, other than being round...ish and made of sticks. It’s natural mother would have thought this structure an embarrassment and I must say I felt a bit inadequate calling it done. But however lacking the chick would have to find whatever comfort it could in it. In some innate way I assured myself it would as I placed it into the sloppy center. With the chick's first move it promptly fell apart.

While the thin neck stretched and poked at the sticks that continued to spread it waddled back and forth until it found a corner to sit down. Corners are not good in circles I thought to myself. “How cute” my daughters bell chimed again but staring at it, I myself could not see this quality. “Squeauck” the young bird tolled. I sighed, it was time to eat and more than likely well over do.

That was to be the challenge. What to feed this unwanted burden of unpleasant grey featherless skin. My thoughts fell back to my Uncle and his beloved pigeons. The English Baldies with white heads and deep chests of chestnut plums. The Fantails who’s tail raised like a grand peacock with leg feathers that hung to cover their claws in proud boots. The prized Homing Pigeons expressly bred for distance, speed and beauty winning countless first place prizes with graceful dart like flight. Or as others in the family referred to them, rats with wings. This commentary caused my Uncle to wince in pain and turn back to his coop as I trailed behind fascinated by every feather that hit the ground.

In his coop rows of boxes lined the walls, each a home for one bird. He would reach in and pull the bird out inspecting each one in all directions and gently place them back in. Row after row, box by box he would examine each with the most genuine love and care. On those summer days he taught me how, from egg to flight to raise a bird. Once in a while a mother would reject a squab. These received my Uncle's special attention with the hope to save them. He had a gift for this, a patience and understanding. Using heat lamps to warm them and even feed it as a mother would. I remembered how he would actually chew the seed and simulate the process of the mother bird, creating a paste from the high quality feed. Holding back from swallowing he instead would deliver it to the hatchling who greedily took all that was offered.

I stood deciding if it was worth a try. Thinking there was nothing to lose I reached under the cabinet and withdrew a bag of wild bird seed with a black and white bluejay on the label. Reaching in I took a handful of the tan round spears, long grains, red digits and striped black sunflowers seeds. At this point I confide in you I am no vegetarian and would be much more likely to pop that little bird in my mouth than this fistful of dry dusty unpleasantness. But greater than my unquenchable carnivorous hunger, my mercy for this innocence overruled. One last look into my hand like an emperor at a poison pill I accepted my fate and tossed the little shapes in my mouth. My first mistake.

Marshalling them side to side I did my best impression of a cow, grinding my teeth together feeling the shapes give way. The softer seeds quickly mixed with my saliva and formed a paste while the stiff ones stood strong getting caught in my teeth. This did not make the process any more pleasant and trying to keep from swallowing while grinding your teeth is more difficult than one might think. But after a few minutes my mother bird mix I deemed finished. At this point you might foresee my next challenge. I raised the chick up to my mouth and wondered if I could duplicate my Uncle Duffy's method and soon realized his skills were far greater than my own. Further, the difference in size between a tiny mockingbird chick and a small pigeon now seemed vast and no matter what a polite lady might say, size does matter. But small or not I proceeded.

To describe, it was like spitting a half chew granola bar into a bobbing eye dropper, very little hit its mark. With a mouth still half full I made my second mistake. Thinking I needed a thicker mix of seed I added more and started to grind away only to swallow much of what was already chewed. The hard sunflower seeds caught in my throat causing a cough followed by a choke before another hard swallow sent them to my stomach. I decided to abandon this batch entirely and delivered the total of it into the garbage. I washed out my mouth and dipped my hand in the bag one more time and tossed it in. Yes, I do not give up easily.

This time my chew cycle strategy was more advanced and after a few minutes another half chewed granola bar was ready. I raised my hand and spit in half a mouthful and formed my hand in a fashion so that my extended thumb acted as the tip of some spanish bota directing the mix into its mouth. Though much better planned this did not work well either. The baby took almost nothing and was soon covered with what it did not swallow. I washed my hands and decided to seek another route.

I sat there and my mind swayed down the many paths life had wandered over the years. On those trails of forgotten lore my memories were woken, from Fox Fire books to survival manuals, Outdoor Life magazines to Popular Science, rumors, innuendos, hopes, dreams, lies and lullabies of a youth long gone brought me through every strain of experience and route of education until this burden bore me to the conclusion of a well trodden life and thus before the mountain I declared the answer….Meow Mix. Yes, I would say to you that this product, not unlike carbon, stardust, Wd-40 or Duct tape, was entailed with such a myriad of uses that on God's given day, the Sabbath, would serve as Manna for this creation cast upon the river of life.

We jumped in the truck, me and little Rosa. Loving any ride, she was excessively happy with the adventure at hand. Sandals, shorts and a smile she ran down the aisle and I quickened my step behind her. Locating the bags with pictures of animals, finding the fairer of the pair available and the Meow Mix was ours. It was not long before we were home and again thinking the best way to feed the chick. I took one sharp smelling little star from the bag and held it up. I would not be chewing this. I put it to the tiny translucent beak, dwarfing any possible entrance. Crunching it up I tried to force the pieces in but it was too dry and impossible for the tiny bird to swallow. So I soaked the bits in water.

Now Meow Mix, when wet turns to a paste or depending on the ratio of water to meow, a slurry and gains a smell of fermentation not exactly intoxicating. I would not speak for this chick nor confirm this slop was what Mamma would have provided but it was as close as we were going to get that night. I found an old syringe type medicine applicator and the meow mix slurry was able to be drawn through the tip and as I pushed the plunger down it shot across the room. The 200 pound man now to be called Mamma Bird was ready.

The baby reached stretching its neck, beak up and open and I squished a small amount into its mouth, testing. But it shook its head sending the slop all over itself and me. With the second attempt I pushed a little harder sending a stream down its throat. The little creature received it and jerked its head back, eyes bulging and down into its gullet it went. The chick stopped moving and sat with its beak open and small triangle tongue sticking out yellow, Breathing hard it reasoned the entirely different taste that was provided. I gave him a good ten minutes, thinking that a good scale of time to gauge if we were going to live through this. I was confident I would but the little pile of nothingness was in question.

But he passed his expiration time of 7:42 and was still breathing. So I raised the syringe again and the chick met me halfway lifting its tiny head and I gave a second squirt trying to determine how much filling to stick in this little thin feathered cupcake. As its throat and eyes bulged I found its full line. This process could be described as less than neat and the little bird was now full of Meow Mix giving it a reddish hue resembling the most homely vagrant Cardinal. I tried to wipe it off but the stems of the feathers made this impossible and just pushed behind the bald quills. A bath was out of the question so I let the mix dry thinking it easier to clean. Third mistake, it was not.

As it dried to kitty concrete among the bald feathers I pulled the clumps which clung tight and thought I would pluck the little bird balder than it was. Like pulling dry cement from a leafless bush I painstakingly extracted the nuggets meow. When mostly clean I placed it in the broken nest, reforming the wooden halo around the bald thing. Taking the rest of the emergency blanket I covered the box as the chick looked up at me and went to bed.

The next morning, meaning sometime after midnight and long before the sun rose I went through the same process. It produced the same mess, eating some and wearing most but it ate. Back to the pillow I rose a few hours later to do the same.

This process went on for a couple days with the bird living but smelling like a bowl of wet cat food left in the sun. I left for work thinking another solution had to be found. I drafted on the computer and thought the day away. Driving home I watched nature at 40 miles an hour and remembered every cartoon from my youth and now my daughters. Worms were always the main source of food for birds. Getting home I packed us all in the truck and headed to the Pet Market and bought a container of meal worms for six dollars. I thought this to be expensive but it was not until I got home that I found how costly it was.

I pulled a meal worm out of the saw dust it was packed in, while wriggling popped it into the tiny beak and its shape was a natural fit and down into the stomach it went. No hesitation and no mess. The worm fit perfectly, as if it were designed for it. I followed it by another and another and was soon two dollars invested and starting to get nervous but was relieved when it stopped taking more. I am not a rich man and was calculating the cost of each worm as it disappeared. Twenty five cents, fifty cents, a dollar then two. It was distressing that the little creature was matching my own cost of a meal as two 99 cent cheeseburgers at the local Whopper Hut filled me. I thought to myself it was good I did not enjoy worms because they were out of my budget. But it worked, the little bird was full and quickly nestled in the corner of the grey fabric and slipped into dream. I covered the box and made dinner for the people, worms excluded for being cost prohibitive.

We finished eating and sat down to rest turning on the television. It was but a minute until, “squeauck” rang out from the Florida room at the rear of the house and my head fell to the back of the sofa. Now that is the thing about babies, of any sort. They eat often, very often and make a lot of noise waiting to do so. My wife looked at me and I to her and silently with no words got up and walked to the back of the house grabbing my can of worms launching the little white sausages down the bottomless bird until another two dollars worth was gone. I sat again beside my wife thinking about the cost that was adding up, now at four dollars. We watched TV until it was time for bed and I set my alarm for midnight and drifted away.

My alarm went off and unhappily I got up, flicked on the light pulling the blanket away, “squeauck”. I disregarded its noise as we were getting into a rhythm and I quickly popped 75 cents worth of worms into the little slot machine. I would need to ration the worms to make it to morning and left it less than full.

Laying down again it was clear I would need to find a more affordable way to feed this creature or get another job. For worms do not grow on trees and the price multiplied by its appetite ment we would all be homeless if I did not figure something out. Amazingly enough this small bird would quickly add up to a budget buster as six dollars of worms were consumed in less than a day. I dropped the last 75 cents into its gullet and left for work.

Again I drafted on the computer and drifted in thought. Doing the math my stomach tightened. The container of worms was gone along with six dollars and the chick was still hungry. At that rate, a month would cost a minimum of $180 at the current prorated level of worm intake. But with all current modules of varied analytical studies available to me indicated an anticipated expansion growth of consumption of 1.5% compounding daily. Over the course of expected longevity of domestic care would produce an economic impact that would equals us living under the tree the bird fell out of. This situation, I can assure you was not good as we did not budget that much to feed our entire family let alone some small homeless bird and I was soon regretting softening my heart to bring it inside.

I finished for the day and on my way home watched the birds as I drove. From the wires they landed below the trees and rooted around picking through the dirt swallowing what they found. Some dug, some flipped over leaves but every bird I saw had a beak full. They were eating and had been doing such since birds began. It took just a second for me to decide. If they could do it, well so could I.

I arrived home and was met by my daughter and wife who were quick to tell me the fluff of nothing was squawking. I pulled the cover back, “squeauck, squeauck, squeauck” it bounced stretching its neck with beak open and tongue flailing. The little mockingbird was growing stronger and louder and much more annoying. I changed my clothes and grabbed the plastic worm canister and out the door I went.

I rolled over a white concrete paving stone some 18 inches square and sure enough three worms wriggled on the surface. I pulled the first out and into the canister it went. Reached for the second but it constricted and pulled out of my fingers disappearing into its tunnel. I moved quicker on the third and it followed the first into the container. I turned the paver back over and moved to the next that made up the walkway but there were no worms. Just millipedes scrambled along with rolly pollies and beetles. The third yielded several more worms and after another paver felt I had enough for the day.

Inside I pulled the cover back, “squea..”, but before it could finish its cry I shoved a big fat worm in its beak and it was soon halfway down its throat while the other half wrapped around the little creature's head. With a little help the worm was gone and so was the next and then another. As the end of the third hung out of its mouth it was clear the bird was full. I could now do the worm mathematics to get a handle on the number needed. I covered the box and let the creature sleep. Three worms I thought to myself. That meant I was short in the helminths field so out the door I went and filled my container with enough for the night and morning. It was a bit of work but at least they were free of charge.

I woke up two worms to midnight and could hear the “squeauck” from the back. I popped several into the bird and went back to bed and did the same at two and then with the sun. That day I searched more stones and the day after did the same. But it was not long before worms were getting hard to find so I turned to beetles, millipedes and any other creeping thing to take their place.

The bird was thriving and the soft feather down was now gone and the bald feather stems were filling in. It could now bounce around the box without falling over and I will admit it slid to the cute side of ugly, no longer looking like a starved plucked chicken frog. But the harvesting was getting harder and I needed to look for other places for things to swallow. I rooted through leaves, turned over logs, flipped old pieces of anything laying around. Bugs were easier to catch though harder to feed. Millipedes curled into a broad flat spirals wider than the chick's head and were more exoskeleton than nutrition, more crunch than cream. Rolly Pollies were easier but were too small for my fingers to hold and often fell into the cloth and were lost. But beetles, that was the money bug, just the right size and shape. The only problem was getting them to be swallowed as they were not willing participants. But I found if you gave their head just a little squeeze they would still and could easily be consumed.

But again my methods of foraging became less and less fruitful. Sheets of plywood, concrete blocks, lumber, even cocoanuts could not yield enough. I searched my garden and in trees and any place I thought would hold a bug but always needed more. So I began to dig holes. Holes in shadowy places were the best and again beetles were plentiful. Hole after hole was dug and several coffee cans kept enough food to keep us going. I was the avian Reinfield of the neighborhood, digging hole after hole grabbing any bug or worm I could. Eventually the lawn was littered with holes giving the yard a scape resembling the Marne, raw earth scared by invasion. With all this effort I could only imagine how this bird's real parents would have to work endlessly to provide, how dedicated they would need to be. This began to trench a deep respect for the power of the things that are and their ability to survive.

But it was paying off. Feathers were now full and the little wings were flapping. The cardboard box was outgrown and replaced by a hamsters cage and the speckled fluff bounced up to the end of a branch that was shoved inside, flapped his wings and jumped with a thud to the bottom of the cage. After a while the strengthening wings slowed the thud to a thump and it was not long before there was no thump at all, just a soft landing. It was time to acclimate the bird to the world beyond the four walls it had grown to know.

So instead of leaving it inside all day I placed the cage outside under the shade of a pink flowered Japanese Orchid tree. Twist tying the little door closed and placing a large rock on top so the wayward felines could not claw it out of the cage I left him and worried the day away. Arriving home I found it was still there and seven beetles later brought it in for the night. I did this for several days then stepped up the process by taking the bottom off the cage. Placing it directly in the grass pushing hard so that it was sealed to the ground holding it down with tent spikes. Again getting home to find all was well so the day after moved the cage over an anthill. The bird took the hint instantly snatching up the bugs and it was not long before the chick would root through the grass looking for its own insects and worms. Finishing its exposure I left the cage out overnight among my tomato plants, then in the rain.

Now it was time to teach it to fly, not that I knew how to myself. But I took it out of the yellow bared hamster cage and held it in my hand and let nature take its course. It did so without hesitation leaping fearlessly, bouncing off my shoe and into the dry tan strands of grass. “Squeauck”, it looked up at me and flapped its wings, getting high enough to be above the grass. Flipping a paving stone over I grabbed a black shell whose leggs hurried as it was placed into the triangle beak. The bird's throat no longer struggled against the stiff ebony oval and was gone.

Over the next few days I tossed the bird higher and higher in the air and each time it flew further from my shoe. Until one day I tossed it and it did not hit the ground but landed in a tree then to another and without looking back it launched into the air and was gone. My heart shrank as it’s wings fled my sight. I stood there a few minutes wondering what to do feeling lost. But there was nothing, it was over.

I went back into the house and looked at the empty cage in the silent room. I found my place on the sofa and said softly to my wife. “It’s gone.” “What?” she said. “The bird. It flew away.” “Yea!” she said excitedly but surprisingly I was not as happy. I instantly missed my little burdon and was full of worry for its safety. Though I had spent the weeks waking several times a night, dug a thousand holes and had little to no interest in the creature at first, now that it was gone so was a small piece of me. So on the sofa I sat in my stew of milieu, just a sad meatball between an empty heart and a deep concern.

I woke at the normal feeding time, got up and sat in the dark sunless Florida room alone looking at the empty cage. I pulled the curtain aside, how big the night was outside. Where would my bird sleep? What would it eat? I doubted it would survive long but told myself I did what I could and steeled myself to natural law and went back to bed. It took a couple of days for me to put the cage back in the shed. I would check the yard and trees when I got home to make sure but there was no use for it, the bird was gone.

After a few weeks the heavy rains came and the bare sandy grey holes I had dug filled with dirt and turned to rolling little hills of new grass and by the end of summer were all but memories. Fall came and the garden ripened and while the harvest was small it was sweet. The sunflowers, who had turned their heads to greet the day all summer long now hung them low in autumn's slow sky until they browned and wept their seeds to the ground. Blue jays came to raid the sad suns and eventually the stalks gave way and lay themselves down.

I thought to myself, silently swallowing hard to get a tickle out of my throat. Should I have let it go? How long did my bird last before it was eaten or starved? I pulled the stalks out of the ground and tossed them into the compost heap. Without a real teacher, probably but a few days and was more than likely already part of the great compost heap in the sky. But that is nature, that is the world. A good deed done, to be lost and forgotten in the pointless tide of time, evermore. I hardened myself and put the bird back into the purple of my mind.

But my family was there and to them this small event was long forgotten and life continued as it ever was. We worked, ate and raised a family but somehow this little creature clarified my position in this strange world. I was more than just a man, I was a father, which is bigger, as a mother is larger than a woman. Not better, not better but playing a distinct role in the workings, no longer a single entity. As a star is more than a light in the sky if an earth spins around it and that face eternal faded and rose 300 hundred times and more till it bore a year. So passed Christmas and so rose Easter and birthdays. Time fell to Mother's day and on meager funds, we celebrated. Cake and flowers brought us to spring. Until I woke one Sunday in a mood fitting for Father's day. My family showed me appreciation with breakfast, a card, a kiss and hug. It was a humble celebration but more than enough and after we finished very happily went grocery shopping.

I was the first out of the car when we arrived home. I shut the door and a bird flew from a branch some thirty feet above barely catching my eye. Now one bird looks like another that looks like the other but this one grabbed my attention. Landing on the parapet of our home it flapped its wings and chirped and flew up in the air in circles and landed back in the same place. As I looked at it a strange feeling of recognition overtook me. It flew again from the parapet and excitedly fluttered and bounced in the air above my head in a tight circle, its wings beating against its chest and blurting an endless barrage of tweets. “It's him”. I said out loud, doubting the possibility but knowing it was. Immediately, “No way,” was the next thing that fell out of my mouth.

I can’t explain exactly how I knew but I did. Perhaps it was the way it flew or more so the way the bird approached without fear. It was like hearing your child’s voice in a crowd and knowing it was your own among the many. There was an anticipation in its wings and a happy greeting excitement as it looked down to me chirping over and over. It shot back to the house for a second to rest on the parapet before launching again into the air circling over me several times swooping down Disney style close enough for me to see in its eye.

I sat down in the middle of the lawn and any doubt of who this bird was washed away as it came down and landed on my shoulder. In some strangeness I could recognize the creature now fully grown. It was the one I had cared for all those worms and beetles ago. Feathers long and beautiful, chest deep and proud in shining blue grey.

Up again it danced in the air above my head, fluttering excitedly to see me like a dog whose master, long gone arrives home. It sang it’s song in the happiest tone my ear has ever heard. It was a song of adventure and triumph and my ears ate all it could give and I understood every blirt and bleep it made. It did this for five minute and in one quick move shot up and over the house. I was amazed by the visitation and thought it over as I sat, too astonished to get up.

But just as quick, back again it took the air above me, this time flying into the branches of that Japanese Orchid tree and back out, back and forth, back and forth it flew. It dawned on me what it was doing as a small bird moved closer, branch by branch every time my bird flew in and out. It was coxing a young bird to come closer. A baby, her baby moved from limb to limb. I had called it a he for our time together but I was wonderfully wrong. It was a she and she had come to introduce me to her child not long fledged and I was in awe that I cannot fully describe. Some things are beyond words and this was one. The fact that this bird had such an understanding and ability to come back to find me was amazing but to give such an introduction was beyond measure.

The baby did not come from the tree like its mother but found the branch that reached out the farthest and sat and fluttered its wings, chirping to say hello at its nearest end. Now I have seen birth and I have seen death but never did I see such that connected me to the eternal power of creation and purpose than this faint thing at the end of the branch saying hello.

It was no larger than the size of its mother was, a golf ball with wings, when she flew away. Both she and I knew that this young creature was ready to start its own adventure like we both had done so long ago. But before it did my bird wanted to show it’s child what she had experienced and to show me she had made it. Not only had I taught her enough to survive but to prosper and wanted me to know it.

She flew happily around the yard showing off her skills, cutting through the air full with pride and grace touching my shoulder and raised finger. How amazing this world could truly be. She wanted to show her baby that her father was different beyond belief and the stories she told in the nest were indeed true. That people, at least some, at least one was good and could be something more than what they seemed. I too realized this bird was larger than I ever dreamed and our existence so much more than I could ever imagine and a tear made it to the corner of my eye. Something so small could be so vast. Like an atom split can change the world she did mine.

There is no doubt in my mind that I was spoken about in some strange language of song so foreign that its words were indecipherable. Such that could only register as the beauty of sound on our ears. Yet in that nest at night below the moon in that tune she told her child stories as I did my own and I was one of them as she was mine. Her music told a tale as song does that is so much more than what can be put on paper. For her it was about a time she spent in a strange world of giants. How she learned her different way of living, perhaps an accent to her song that could only be gained by living in a foreign land. A taste of food uncommon to her species. Maybe to introduce a new custom to her kind and change their world in some untelling way as a small wind into a hurricane changes ours.

So we spent the afternoon sharings Father's Day that way. One of the greatest gifts that I have yet to receive was given to me that afternoon. Priceless, a child's return on Fathers Day. This to me was not by mere chance but by absolute design. But design by who one must ask in such an awesome moment. Not only a child's return but the introduction of the next generation. This was not a Thursday lost in the many days of the year or a holiday unrelated but Father's Day. Talking and singing we moved together among the blades of grass, smiling each in our own way happy as any could be on this side of eternity.

But like the day and our youth it could not last. As the sun fell to the age of the day our time together faded to minutes and our excitement slowed to a universal and sad understanding of her nearing departure. She settled on the branch with her baby as the growing shadow echoed her presence. Her song faded and with no sound left a melancholy rained from her eye onto me. Her feathers unsettled, she looked over her shoulder and over our house then back to me. Like before she had to leave but this time we could find our goodbye in a language of a common unspoken.

But the unspoken at times is the clearest language of them all. I looked up with that language to say it was ok to leave and understanding she answered by looking over her shoulder again twice and back to me. In an instant she flew, her baby close behind and was gone like an arrow lost to the horizon.

I stood until the last light followed her into the purple shadows and continued standing alone knowing she would not return but took the time to appreciate every moment of the experience. To absorb the emptiness of her leaving. At that moment I realized her departure was as important as her coming and so was to be cherished as an exclamation of her arrival. A reminder that if she never would have left the first time, if I never would have let her go she could never return in such wonder. For you can not have one without the other. Cannot keep the coin in your pocket and cast it in the well at the same time and a coin not cast can never bring a dream and if not brought forth from the pocket can never shine.

So this treasure cast shines a memory special in my thoughts and dreams. I was given the time needed to be by myself and entered our home and into a light of clarity different to my eyes. Taking my place on the sofa I put my hand on my wifes knee in silence. “Happy Fathers day”, she said. And I thought, yes a happy Father's Day indeed.

So the world continued because that is what it does. That is nature, that is the world and we, a handful of fateful deeds cast on the sages of time drop our tiny coins into the epic well of eternal existence. To ripple a wave, be it light or shadow, further than the scope of measure or dream. A wave to reach so far that sight is lost. So far that everything is washed in the unseen bath of our actions. Beyond the realm of a mere mind our choices endure. By dancing in the air that slow afternoon my bird showed me nature, showed me the true world and she introduced me to God. I say to you, cast your coin into the well of light and wait for the wave. You may see it return.

Hell’s Kitchen

Life is a strange place. Often we walk out our door not knowing where our path may lead or if the door we left will be there upon our return. So it is best, in my humble opinion, when leaving that door to keep a keen eye on the foreign forest at the edge of the familiar. For in those dark places you never know what you may find and if one day you return to discover the door you departed from gone and back into the forest you tread, I say to you be wary of where you rest your head. You never know what is below the pillow you lay. And now some poetry prior to the commence of my tale.

Mind, Body and Shadow

I woke up again

Years before today

Darkness had invaded me

And crouched at the foot of my bed

To watch as I lay silent

By some power not to move

Be it my fright

Or some strangeness

That held me to that room

Did it crawl inside my body

Did it breed inside my mind

Did I leave it in the shadow

Is there something left behind

I must preface this account by saying I lived in a small strange little town in upstate New York as a teenager. The hills of Palenville rolled with legends older than the trees. It is the fabled home of Rip Van Winkle and the rumored haunt of the Headless Horseman. The town's roots go back to the 1600’s when Hendrik Hudson walked the valley but was founded in the 1800’s by one Rufus Palen. It was, I am told, America's first art colony and has been the home of endless poets, musicians and artists as well as unique personalities of endless score. I mention this only to make you aware of the strangeness of the area and what people it attracts, myself being one of them.

But this characteristic is not limited to the town only but covers the entirety of the area, rolling over the hills and filling the valleys with a unique quality of animation. This tale or at least most of it took place further along the only road that runs through the little town and up the mountain that Palenville is based.

I was young when I started working. Home was not the place I wanted to be and being industrious, wanted to get out into the world and roll around in its dirt as soon as possible. I achieved this by finding a job as a dishwasher and prep cook at a resort up that single road that slid upwards along a boulder strewn stream that ran the valley between two mountains. Since it was a resort and we tended to work long hours, staff were provided rooms to share. These were the unrentable and unkept rooms. Walls and floors damaged to the point of being more valuable to house staff than be repaired. One for the men, another for the women and we all would spend the weekends working late and starting early. I didn't spend much time at home after this. Weekends and after school were eaten by dirty dishes and fifty pound bags of onions needing to be peeled.

From the start I was informed by Red, the manager and cook, that the place was haunted. He would speak of Claud, a young boy killed in the parking lot by a car while riding his tricycle. Claud, he said, would sometimes follow him around as he walked the old resort or be in the kitchen when he arrived to open early in the morning. Red would say this with a smile but claim every bit of it be true. I took the information with skepticism but the pump was already primed hearing so many weird tales living in the little town at the foot of this mountain.

Claud unfortunately was not the only death that took place on the property. Overdoses claimed some, a murder, some accidents and the loss of the entire staff one season many years ago do to a fire on the third floor. This unusual number of dead gave fuel to the stories of unearthly events. Not to mention the look of the place, crooked with age it stood on an old bluestone foundation, leaning cruelly. The windows were no longer square and the paint, a deceased yellow, no matter how fresh always looked faded and sick. To add to the eeriness of the property there was a cemetery located on site, old enough that the dates and names on the headstones had long since washed away. There were many stories and not all belonged to Red. In fact there were none who worked or in fact who ever worked at the resort that did not have a story to tell and truly believe the place was cursed by the time they left. I am just another one of those people.

It did not take long to be convinced the resort was indeed haunted. It was the kind of place that doors would open and close by themselves or when totally alone in the kitchen to be tapped on the shoulder to find you were still alone when turning around. At times there were smashing of dishes or shadows moving in the daylight. Things would be relocated from one place to another or a voice to call out when no one was around.

Worse yet, on occasion murderous high pitched screams of a woman would emanate from the back storage room whose sliding wood doors were closed and locked by a padlock to keep the contents secure. If one were brave enough to approach, at times it was possible to peer through the quarter inch gap where the dark sliding doors met to see something passing on the other side. I would only add there were no other exits from that room. Those doors were the only way in or out and when unlocked and searched nothing would be found except on occasion a mess from items pulled from the shelves.

Many kitchen staff reported this particular event and they separated by years and individuals unknown to each other. The experience would be shared by a shaking and white faced individual who declared it their last day of employment only to have the same story repeated by their replacement. When outside walking the grounds one may see someone look out a window of a room that was unoccupied and locked or orbs of light that hovered through the cemetery. Some stayed longer than others and I stayed longer than most.

Most stories came from staff as they spent the most time, forced to get to know the building and the normal abnormal. Most guests who stayed were groups bused in from New York City and yes they also experienced strange things but often had no idea how strange the event was. Staff would know, as we all were informed of the expected number of vacationers and rooms to be occupied. If noises came from an empty room no one tried to confirm the source.

On one occasion a troop of Girl Scouts stayed the weekend. The troop came down stairs for breakfast. Anna, Red's wife, also a manager asked how they slept. “Fine”, one little girl said pausing for a moment, “But can you please ask the people on the third floor to be quiet? They were very noisy last night banging on my ceiling.”. After a few seconds of silence Anna could only say there was no one staying on the third floor. The Girl Scouts had been the only guests since the weekend before and were limited to the second floor only. The rooms on the third floor were empty and locked. This ended the conversation.

I worked there for several seasons with many of these strange occurrences happening on a regular basis and had become somewhat used to them. Knowing they were happening I kept the reality of it far enough out of my mind to be able to remain. I would expect you to ask why I stayed in such a place for so long. The only reasons I can provide is that it gave me a place to be other than home, put money in my pocket and waitresses to look at.

It was the end of the school year and the beginning of summer. At this time of the year the resort would be between guests and would not have much work. The plan was to go home and return with the flock of guests. I had not talked with my family in weeks and when I arrived home I found home was no longer there. The house was empty and the lights off and it was evident no one had been there for days. As this was a rental it was clear it was no longer my place of residence. My family had moved on forgetting to provide me the details of such. This put me in a hard spot but being on great terms with Red I called. He told me to come back and stay at the resort and work the grounds until the season started. So with my pack on my back and thumb in the air I hitched a ride on that single road and back up the mountain I went.

There was nothing much to do that first day but settle in. It did not dawn on me until dusk, when standing in the lobby, Red handed me the keys to the resort and said, “Lock the door behind me.”, that I was going to be alone in that old spooky building by myself the entire night. He turned and went out the door giving a wave as he headed home.

I wanted to say something but was at a loss. At that point I did not even want to acknowledge my awareness of the situation, thinking it would gain the attention of whatever was in control of the strange happenings in the place. I locked the deadbolt as the sun faded and looked but a second across the bar room which was now dark and empty and a chill ran up my spin.

From the lobby a single flight of stairs led to the second floor. Strangely they did not continue to the third. Instead the flight leading up to that floor was at the farside of the second floor hall. On that end was also a staircase used by staff that led down to the kitchen and then basement.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor as quietly as possible but each step creaked my approach as if trees falling in a forest. At the top of the landing I grabbed the knob of the steel fire door and opened it as a rush of stale air fled the long hallway passing over my body like a thousand warm fingers welcoming me. I wanted nothing more but to run from that place but having nowhere to go but that room I stepped in.

Pulling whatever courage I could find from my shorts I moved through the stains of the faded mustard yellow hall that bent crookedly towards my room at the far end. The red carpet gave no silence to my steps, trying to be quiet the old floorboards below made this impossible. On either side the walls held the dark brown door frames of each room now left open to make the scheduled maintenance easier. The third floor, not yet on schedule, was still locked.

I passed each frame to spy a ruinous abyss held by each one, looking in only to have my heart shoot into my throat seeing my own reflection in the window at the far side of the pitch black rooms. This caused me to quicken my step at each glance to find myself at a full run halfway down the hall totally abandoning my plan of a silent ingress. I got to my room ready to burst through the door to find it was locked. I grabbed the keys fumbling my entry and finally unlocked it stepping in. Across the hall was the doorless staff stair leading down and adjacent a red painted steel fire door that led to the third floor. I closed and locked my door.

Now you may have gotten the feeling this was not the Hilton and this event being some years ago and you would be correct. The rooms lacked amenities and one of those were televisions and another, phones. Not one in any room. Guests were expected to spend their days enjoying the great outdoors and staff were staff. I did not have a radio or any other device to distract me. Instead it was the excitement of silence that abound as I lay on the bottom bunk of an old steel framed bunk bed and did my best to pass the time.

The room looked older than the building itself with few updates and less maintenance since it’s construction sometime in the 1800’s. It’s condition was the reason it was designated a staff room and those who stayed helped little. The wall paneling was a walnut finish, faded and warped from heat and moisture from leaky pipes above. The white tiles of the ceiling were as white as the wall paneling, aged with smoke and stained from the same leaks from above. The floorboards were painted a battleship grey while in the corner a series of boards were missing providing a large hole that was to be avoided by placing another set of bunk beds over it.

That night I lay quite, afraid to even breathe. In the silence the boards creaked throughout but told myself it was just the building settling, while my next thought was being so old the building should have settled by now. I did not not allow myself to think of one frightful experience or story and did my best to think nothing at all. Eventually I fell asleep and was greeted by the new day. I went down to the kitchen and Red arrived to make his coffee as I made us pancakes. I waited for him to ask me how I slept but he never did. We talked about what to do that day and went out to do it.

We met for lunch and ate at the stainless steel table then set the white dishes in the green dish rack ready for the dishwasher. We went back to work and did my best not to look at the building fearing something in a window I could not excuse. At the end of the day we met in the lobby. “I’ll see you in the morning, lock the door behind me.” said Red. I did and again climbed the stairs and through the haunted gauntlet of open doors walked to my room looking directly down the narrow crooked hall, neither left nor to the right. I hurried but this time was not stopped at my door, having left it unlocked.

I was alone again, but feeling more comfortable began to read a book by Elbert Fry. I was lost in the pages when suddenly a thud came from the floor below followed by another. This pulled me straight from my imagination and squarely back into the reality of being alone in that resort. I sat up silent and again a thud came hard from below with enough force that I could feel the vibration of impact on the bottom of my feet. My mind reeled with attempts of explanation, below me was the storage room which was locked. In fact the whole building was locked tight and I knew there was no one to bang the ceiling below. I grabbed a knife out of my bag, laid back down pulling the covers over my head allowing only one eye to be exposed.

The night moved slowly that way. Drifting to sleep for a minute or two until, thump, thump, from below would wake me time and again. Eventually the day came and I opened my door a crack to make sure the hall was empty and quickly crossed the hall and ran down stairs to the kitchen.

Red arrived, this time I made eggs waiting for him to ask how I slept. He looked at me and his eyes offered concern but his mouth did not. He could see that I was stressed and tired but it seemed my nights were taboo and not to be discussed. I could only believe he thought mentioning my time alone or any strangeness of the resort would make my situation worse. That day was spent mowing the grounds and passing the graveyard felt ill and if I knew how to whistle I assure you I would have.

At the end of the day I gave a quick wave to Red as I turned the key and shot to my room not caring how much attention I gained running down the hall. It was sometime around 10:00 and again a thud came and then another. I sat looking at the floor and beneath the bunk hating the hole that was in the corner. There was only a thin ceiling in that area to separate me from whatever was making the noise. To my horror another bang came from the room directly above me on the third floor. I remembered all the doors above me were locked and had not been opened for weeks. This made my stomach sick. But more came.

From above the unmistakable sound of a heavy set of footsteps walked across the floor as I stared at the ceiling. Back and forth they moved from one side to the other, then to the front and then the back. Below each bump made me jump, feeling as they were knocking on my soul. I lay down again pulling the cover above my head, one eye out, knife in hand. Exhausted I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to a strange feeling of not being alone. Lying there I tried to move but was unable and my blanket, still as a shroud no matter how much effort was exerted. My eye uncovered looked into the black stillness and could see a form at the end of my bed. I pretended to sleep and in truth I am unsure if I was or not. It’s silhouette darker than the shadow it sat did not move but continued to sit in a cross legged position on the floor at the foot of my bed. I could only make out an outline of what looked like a man, a man just sitting and watching. His hair was unkept and hung in locks as if it had not been washed or combed for ages. His face was long and I would think him to have a square jaw if I were able to see his face. The shoulders were not broad and he not more than 5’ 9” and 135 pounds or so if to stand. But he did not stand, in fact he did nothing but sit and watch and I still unable to move, slipped back into sleep.

I awoke and was free from the hold of the spector or my strange dream. Either way Red received only toast that morning and I said nothing to him but went out to care for the grounds. I did not bother to show up for lunch, unable to eat, instead I did my best to busy my fevered mind with more work. Red did not come to say goodbye that afternoon or if he did I had already locked the door and headed for my room and to my cover and knife to hide the night away.

This time the noises began as soon as night fell. Thump from below then another, thump, each one growing louder than the one before. I sat up and tossed my cover aside and gripped the bone handle of the knife as the silver guard curled around my finger. Above footsteps started quickly filling the room circling the space. At first they were contained like the night before. But tonight I could hear the door, though locked, open and the steps leave entering the hall above. Down the corridor another door opened and slammed followed by another. A second set of footsteps joined the first, then a third and more, each walking above in different directions, moving in and out of the rooms, doors opening and slamming.

One might think this a practical joke but there was no way to play such. All the entrances to the building were locked and there would need to be a crowd for such assault. How would they get in? Each room above was locked as well as below. The keys were kept secure and inaccessible in a locked key box in a locked office at all times. No one had access to all these keys. No, there was no joke.

It was as if the entire resort was full of madmen as the entire third floor vibrated above in a violent wave. The stairway that led to the third floor filled with noise moving down the steps and the heavy red fire door scraped the floor as it opened to the second. One by one the footsteps entered the hall outside my door. Below, the banging grew more intense until the book I had been reading bounced hard enough to fall to the floor. With that a howling wail began to rise from some hideous voice below that cut like a razor through my ears filling my mind to the point of madness and was soon chorused by a deep moan.

This all grew until it filled the entirety of the second floor. The rooms on either side of mine were penetrated and I was surrounded. On all the walls around me started a hammering as if great hands were beating them, trying to break in. I could hear more voices on the other side of the walls but their words, muddled and confused, could not be understood. Just a slaughter of utterance that yelled and shrieked mobbing the walls.

I fell to the floor crawling to the door and looked below the threshold to see numerous things move by, blocking out the light with each pass. I reeled back in horror ready that my mind would explode in panic yet nothing yielded or slowed, instead the attack intensified. The continuing screams below me shot a streak of fire up my spine that shivers still follow as I write today. Lost and broken, at the complete mercy of this menace there was no escape. But as the banging arrived at my door I tell you in absolute truth I was lost. The door rattled against its frame and I was sure the small lock would give way with the next slam. It was at this time a light came on in my mind that I cannot explain. The words “There is a bible” echoed.

Now I have said before I am not a religious person and in fact had no experience with any and cannot explain why this came to my mind being there had never been a bible in my home. I looked around the room to see nothing. I opened the old night stand and inside lay an old brown covered bible. I pulled it out and I cannot remember what I said but it was something close to, “God help me, I have no other place to go and I am alone. I do not know what to say and have never done such before. But I am in need in this horrible place. Be with me and protect me.” With that I opened the bible to a verse I have no idea and read aloud and I swear on everything I love, hold dear or ever will, by my life, everything around me slowly silenced as if being pulled back to wherever it came. The wailing grew distant, falling away until it disappeared. The moaning and voices too faded and were gone. The doors stopped slamming and the footsteps grew still as the banging on my door ceased until nothing passed outside. It was gone.

I wiped the sweat from my face with my cover and left the bible open on the dresser and sat for at least an hour but it did not return. I put the knife under my pillow and lay for hours in the first silence to find me after sunset in days. In that quiet I slipped into sleep.

The morning came, again I met Red in the kitchen this time making him an omelette as my eggs were pretty much scrambled. Spent, my eyes showed it in bloodshot red but my mind was better. As before Red did not ask any questions but his face reflected what mine must have shown. I talked with scattered unfocused sentences and my words were more to relieve tension than to transfer information. Again we proceeded with our work.

So the next few weeks passed. It was not the last time there was any such experience at the resort. But I can confirm the thud and thumps that I experienced until the season started were mild. I was no longer awoken at night and never again had a visit from the midnight watcher. I now had a power to resist whatever it was and learned there was a power greater than that which walked those halls, though I understood neither. The season started and guests filled the floors and I was relieved not to spend my nights alone in such a place.

So perhaps the poem at the beginning of this tale makes a bit more sense now. It was written a few years after that summer, when in the middle of the night I awoke in a frightful sweat of nightmare that sometimes comes to me as I dream of the Watcher. I have mentioned before that life is a strange place and would add, sometimes, I get to my destination in reverse, entering in through the out door one might say.

This is one of those times. On those hot summer nights alone in that terrible old resort I found a devil exists. Not the movie kind but a dark menace that lives in reality. That is where such things come from, a hellish backdoor that no person can withstand or fathom to control alone. In life, experiences, both good and bad must be embraced. When looked for it is easier but when they literally knock at your door unwanted it is understandably more difficult. But embrace we must. So again thinking with a critical mind if a devil exists… if the shadow exists so must the light for a shadow without light is not. One does not find one without the other. So if a devil exists... then so must God. The destination in reverse.

This is the second experience I offer to you. For me this experience is undeniable and so my conclusion. In my dire straits I was brought from the deep sea of shadow to the shore of light and I would not tempt fate by denial to find myself again a drift with no ability to call. I have never told this full story to anyone and the first to read it will be the first to share. I am unsure what you may get out of this, if anything. I would likely think a healthy doubt and disbelief which you are entitled. But all is truth.

With the end of the summer season I found myself back in the little town of Palenville, the home of legend and libation. I stood on a hill underneath the last light on a road that continued on into the still of night with a friend. We had been out late and found ourselves walking at an hour in a place most would avoid. “What are you going to do?”, he asked. I didn’t say a word but picked up a foot and took a step forward leaving him there in the safety of the light and headed down the hill into the nothingness. Later he asked how I could walk down such a dark road alone. We were both nervous as we stood neither wanting to continue but I took the step. It was not that I was stronger or faster, I was not. The only difference between us was experience and by such found it easier to handle a match of the unknown than a blaze of it. That road ahead seemed rather small in comparison to my summer.

So darkness is only darkness and man is but a man and both can be tamed. In my past I have walked in the shadow of the dead and have slept among demons to find a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. In that light I found myself and then God.

The Archipelago of Life

There are many phases in life. We meet people, we work, relationships come and go as we move and grow older, changing and adapting to our environment. An environment mind you that is not stagnant but dynamic as an ocean with the ability to interact with us. Shifting the tides, moving the sands, forming the individual and the world around us creating a unique signature upon a block of time. An island of time if you will.

These changes can be minor or run to the extreme yet all are distinct progressions of the period prior. Reflecting our surroundings and ourselves. Each related in one way or another. If one could plot these periods on a map and navigate, the journey of an individual would become apparent in trailing islands of time that make up life. Telling the range of experience by a common chain that links the heart of each in a sailing relation amidst the vast sea of existence. Periods of life separated from one another by some strait of event streaming from the point of origin. That eruption of life from the cracking womb at the bottom of our prevalence that creates these distinct isles of time. Each inhabited by its own Ben Gunn, who, wanting his cheese and holding his treasure, becomes a bit strange at times having been slapped by a Darwinian force of change and alone too long.

But beneath those changes the raw earth binds the islands of time in a linear commonality. These are the things that make up the human experience. Periods of time. Masses that rise from the eternal depths to be eroded by age, chance and fate. One could refer to this chain of time islands as the archipelago of life. Sail now with me among a few of mi Isla de la vida.

I arrived in Florida in August, the best month to move to the state if you are looking for a reason to move back wherever you came from. Driving straight through the night with my companion, Joshua, a large German Shepherd who smiled his long jaw wide at the window I shot through the miles of darkness. Then with the sun hot enough to cook the highway white and palm trees green and still as the birds in them I got out of my yellow Oldsmobile on I-95 somewhere between hot and hell and was promptly kicked in the face by the meanest sun I had ever been below.

Pulling some change from my pocket I looked for a quarter but the sun above, yellow enough to kill, reflected off the coins enough to blind my eyes. Unable to see, I felt for the largest coin in my palm and dropped it in the payphone and wondered if it or anything could work in such desolate heat. But to my surprise it did and a familiar voice filled both my ear and heart as I received the final directions. Not hesitating I hung up and got back in my air conditioned banana and continued south.

I had received another invitation from my father to come to Florida and this time decided to take it. He had sailed away from New York a few years earlier and I had withstood several previous invitations so that I could enjoy another winter of four foot snow storms, icy mountain roads and the privilege of having my pinky toes hang out of my boots purple in the snow until they could no longer grow toenails. Cultured by such experiences I broke down to see the south and a father whom I was more than looking forward to being with again. To say we were close is to suggest you are close to your head or hold your heart dear. Over the decade prior we had grown to be a part of each other and it would be good to get my head back on my shoulders.

I pulled in the sand that was as much of a driveway to be found and parked under a very strange sapodilla tree whose upward turned bows hung low enough that one needed to bend to pass underneath the canopy of thick leaves held up by a black trunk of gravel like bark. Below, it’s round fruit scattered and rotted in their thick tan skins while small flies buzzed around the foreign flesh that was exposed, turning the sand around them brown.

Standing in front of a duplex painted in a soft tropical sunset purple topped with whip cream white spanish tiles I wiped the sweat from my forehead. The sweet color was as foreign to me as the tree I parked under or the ever level ground that seemed to have no rise in elevation since leaving Georgia. It was as if the great iron above had heated the earth flat, my feet warm from the remnants of its pressing. I was used to bluestone and brown tree trunks with light leafy leaves cast on mountains. The difference from Upstate New York was a complete stimulation for my mountain mind. Though I thought the heat would be indicated as the cause of death on the legally required certificate needed after the sun melted me into a saline pool of humanity.

The sandy grass led to a concrete walkway. I walked past a front door of the first half of the duplex and continued to the rear. There I found the most stegosaurus looking tree directly in front of the front door. The trunk, covered in long black spikes, was grey and only four inches in diameter. At the base it widened as if it rose from the back of an armadillo which sat in a round lump dispatched by the heat. There were no branches but instead was topped with a vengeful tuft of long tough green leaves hanging down in retribution to those who dared to walk by. Each leaf armed with a black spike. It was a tree a caveman would most certainly have had if they lived in Ojus Florida.

A black wrought iron security gate swung open to a broad greeting smile. A bit greyer and a few more wrinkles running through his sunkist face was Dad. I walked through the gate noticing an unmistakable bullet impact on the center bar as I entered. Should be an interesting visit I thought to myself.

I sat at an oak table in the dining room with my favorite person in the world and Dad's wife, Pat. This was his first wife some lifetime prior and had become his third after my Mom. Life has a funny way to eddy a tide to form a circle. Bringing you back to where you started. Dad had said he had met enough people for one lifetime so returning back to this beginning only made sense. In truth this was obviously a love that had never been fully extinguished. It was not that he did not love my Mom but she was a hard ship to navigate. After the thirty year Poseidon adventure with her this calming shore of youth was a place for him to rest and enjoy.

Pat would soon become another of my favorite people but now she sat with a tall glass of Pepsi feeling a bit awkward sitting with a son of the second marriage. But this would fade quickly. She would understand I was glad Dad found a place to smile and I knew that place was with her. We filled each other with our adventures of the last year or two. Mine wrought in snow and hard life and his, of warm sun and strange southern creatures. We laughed and the time apart made our bond all the more strong. It was good to see him happy after the last decade which had been egregious to say the least. But we both weathered the storm called yesterday and that island of time now seemed to be part of the past. He was happy, happier than I had ever seen him. The two of them together, the happiest couple I had ever known. Life was good.

I took a position working alongside Dad and it did not take long to get used to Florida life. No shoes or shirt at 2:00 AM soon became my uniform as I drove the streets of Miami. I had not decided to stay in Florida and was still not convinced it would be my home. To me, the state needed another New Yorker like it needed another grain of sand. But on Christmas Day, waist deep in the waves some 70 degrees I thought of my previous Christmas as deep in snow 70 degrees colder and thought this was as good of place as any to take some time to think on where to go next. But I knew in the meantime it was time to go fishing.

As did everyone else I had been introduced to. The plan was for a caravan to head south and fish the bridges. I had never been to the Florida Keys before and was excited for another adventure. That week, Chester, a gentleman we worked with gave us a used jacuzzi and other items from a bathroom he had renovated. I, being younger would switch my day of work with Dad to pick up the many items. Saturday came and we did as planned. I spent my day lifting cabinets, the jacuzzi, assorted motors and marble slabs that were to be installed the weekend after in the rear of the duplex we were living.

Sweating but finished I picked up Cheese. Yes they called him Cheese, who was Pat’s son from her second marriage and his friend Darrell. We loaded up the Dodge Raider with rods, coolers and assorted gear for a few good days of fishing.

Sliding to a youthful stop beneath the sapodilla tree I got out of the truck. Reaching down I picked up a hard skinned brown fruit, gave it a squeeze and put a piece in my mouth and it tasted like a kick in the stomach. I spit it on the ground and Cheese laughed. “C’mon Willie” he said. We approached the black wrought iron gate and found Dad. To my surprise he was not ready, no shoes on and looking distant. “You're going right?” I asked leaving little room for a no. This put a nail in the coffin for what I thought was already confirmed. “Yes'' he said with some hesitation which caused my eyebrow to curve with inquiry but quickly overlooked his uncertainty, excited to be leaving. My asking washed away any resistance and he went to put on his shoes. We drove to get some ice and leaving the store Dad handed me the keys and said, “take care of things”. He jumped in the backseat and I behind the wheel and headed south to drop some lines in the water.

We were going bridge fishing, a good fifteen of us. Me, Dad, Ham, the first son from Dad’s first marriage with Pat, Cheese, a cousin, some friends. A good patch of wild southern fruits heading out with a few northern stones tagging along to fish the Florida Keys. A good time was sure to be found.

The Keys, an American Archipelago stretches from the bottom of the state separating the Atlantic from the Gulf of Mexico. Each land mass linked by a bridge. Most of the old original structures built by the great Henry Flagler had been destroyed. But there were a few left. Surviving remnants of his railroad that opened the island chain to the state. These stand alongside the newer less attractive bridges and served as fishing piers. These with distinct arches that leap across the water like concrete dolphins.

To me, one bridge was as good as another but Cheese knew exactly where we were going. “This is it, we're here, Long Key Bridge, we’ll fish on the south side.” he said, getting excited as all fisherman do when close to their spot and the salty air fills their lungs. “Soon as you get across pull off to the left.” About three quarters of the way across the two and a half mile bridge, Cheese yelled “There they are.”, and quickly rolled down the window and pulled himself out of the speeding truck and yelled. “You don't know how to fish, Cheese is here to learn you boys some, Wooohooo” he dropped back in his seat bouncing with a consistent buzz as we shot past a set of tents and lanterns on the bridge parallel to us. Cheese reached over and slammed the horn causing a good swerve towards the guardrail. “Careful Willie, you don’t want to go over the side.” he laughed. Muffled yells responded in a series of foul words that could not fully be made out but seemed to challenge Cheese on his heterosexuality.

I pulled over and we packed everything on our backs and walked close to a mile out onto the old bridge. We were the last to get there and three tents, five coolers and 30 fishing rods along the old knee high rusty guard rail marked the spot. I looked out over the water and took a deep breath filling my lungs with the fresh sea air. Between the islands, below the bridge, the black water rolled a heavy torrent of January. The ivory tops of the waves the only tell that the blackness below was a moving ocean. To the east, the Atlantic, the endless swallower of distance that rolled unto infinity. Turning around to find the Gulf of Mexico, the murk of the west just as expansive and hungry. Each endless to their respective horizon and we straddled twenty five feet above the place where those bodies met in battle. I found a spot along the rail, dropped my line and left conversation for others. Looking around I saw Cheese setting up another lantern and Darrell kicking a cooler across the bridge. Behind me Dad set a lawn chair down along the guardrail and unfolded it so the three leaves lay flat and laid down to take a nap before the real fishing started.

About a half hour later I had my first hit and reeled up what looked like a good size snapper below the light of the rising moon. I turned to call Dad but he was not there. Being inexperienced with bridge fishing I made the rookie mistake of reeling the fish up instead of handlining it and sure enough the line snapped halfway and the fish fell back to the water with a splash and was lost. I looked again to the lawn chair to say how close the catch was but it was still empty. I tied a new hook and quickly put another piece of herring on and back into the deep it went. A few minutes later one of those Florida things happened. A single cloud passed directly over me and dropped icy cold rain as it moved from the west to the east. I shivered, amazed that such cold rain could fall in such a hot place. I looked again to the chair thinking Dad must be in the tent with everyone else avoiding this rain and I nearly dropped my rod to find a warm dry place. But as quick as the cloud came it was gone and a warm breeze took its place.

It was not long before Ham came up to me as I was putting another piece of bait on my hook. “Have you seen Dad?” he asked with a concerned look. “He’s with you in the tent.” I responded. “No he isn’t”, he said tensely. At that point the pieces in my mind that were in order were quickly rearranged so that things no longer made sense. I looked to the north and then to the south but there was know sign of him. Ham walked around the group speaking to each, one by one and returned. “He probably went for a walk.” he said with a shaky confidence that gave little foundation to build a structure of belief upon. He would walk to the end of the bridge to find him and headed north disappearing into the dark. A walk in that icy rain, I thought to myself and could make no sense out of that statement. I looked to the lawn chair just ten feet behind me and now noticed a pair of shoes neatly placed underneath. A walk without shoes in icy cold rain?

That was the moment the pieces fell in place. I looked off the bridge into the dark Atlantic thinking of what to do. Endlessly the water raged past faster than I could run and instantly understood the power and vastness of the ocean. What move to make when minutes ment miles and there were many between this one and when I first noticed him gone.

I would have jumped in a heartbeat. I had jumped into worse for less be sure but I can only compare it to jumping out of a moving plane at night, without a parachute, a half hour after someone had fallen out. Now you jump with the hopes to find them. Futile inefficaciousness. “But perhaps he went for a walk.” I said to myself and held on to that flickering candle flame of hope as the winds of change raged.

Ham came back with a white face and wide eyes. There was no walk involved. At that point words were no longer needed. The wind had won and the flickering light of hope went out. I would mention at this point that Dad swam as well as lead, in one direction to the bottom of whatever water it may be. There was no floating or treading. He tried to learn when he was younger he had told me years before. But as soon as lifting his feet he sank and that was that and that it was. We milled around for a little while, some more than others, me little if any. Each came with an explanation on how he was safe and well but the eye does not lie and each face left mine looking down. No one believed a word they peddled but I understood their intentions. Who wanted to tell the reality and who wanted to hear it. With all the kaos I put my fishing knife blade up in my back pocket. Cheese came over to express his thoughts and I turned away and as he passed the blade cut him deep on his forearm. “Aghhh” he cried and I turned to see the gash and the blood run down heavy and drip onto the pitted asphalt. I could not muster a response or pretend to be concerned. I turned away as he tore off his shirt wrapping it around the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Darrell rushed over to apply pressure. It was apparent we would both be scared a lifetime from this evening.

I continued to walk until in the depth beneath the stars I stood alone between the islands of an old yesterday and a tear of the yet unborn breaching tomorrow. They say birth is painful and the cataclysm of change below the waves proved the stillbirth of the new day so. I would be there to catch whatever was delivered. Looking up I found an empty spot in the sky and cast my thoughts into that void and knocked on the very door of God's mansion and amidst that deathful moon and bright bits starlite agony he opened it. This is the only part of this tale or any tale for that matter that I will not disclose. At that moment I made a promise to keep secret if my request was answered and I can only offer that it was and so what happened for the ten minutes will be held behind my veil of commitment eternally.

Ham made the call to the police and an officer arrived with an authoritative wide brimmed hat and the official notepad of discontent. We relayed the information and the officer took his notes and dryly asked questions. “Did he swim?” was his last. I shook my head and he adjusted his broad hat in response. “We will send a boat out in the morning.” he finished and walked back to his car. Our group talked and tried to make some sense out of the evening but I did not want to be part of such wasted words. I already knew or at least knew enough. I entered one of the tents and laid down to stair up to the top of the dome by myself.

As the day broke I came out to find the world had continued and a new day had dawned. From behind me I could hear blades chopping the air and turning could see a large helicopter Coast Guard orange approaching from the gulf. It passed directly over my head low enough to shake the tent and pull my hair. It continued over the Atlantic side passing over a Marathon County sheriff's boat which headed under the bridge and into the Gulf. The officer was true to his word and each passed back and forth for hours but found nothing.

By late morning there were no words left. Just sad eyes that slowly began to gather up the supplies. The tents and rods were broken down and a pile was made of it all. We stood around but no one could pull the plug or thought they should. It was unspoken but I knew it was my call as I was the closest to him and had brought him. “Lets go”. I said and without words each took up their burdon supplies and solemnly walked back to the cars.

We packed up and when finished Cheese came to me with a bandaged bloody arm and asked if I wanted him to drive. “No, I will take care of it.” I answered and sat in the driver's seat and started the truck. I hesitated for a moment but the moment was gone and pulled out of the gravel parking lot and onto the road headed north. It was then I knew that block of time was over, that last decade. I thought my leaving New York started the new chapter but that was not the end. The ending came when the wheels left that loose rock and started on the hard pavement north for everything was different now.

So I guess you could call that block of time the “Island of Dark Atlantis”. For it was not a time of bright sunlit uplands but a chaotic rage a decade long of blood and torrent and at its pinnacle end of seeming triumph the ocean came and destroyed everything that was and I jettison on the waves between what was yesterday and what would become tomorrow clung to broken flotsam memories. With head down, without care, I let whatever tide bear me to the nearest shore of survival.

It was four hours of transience, a twilight drive from the Keys to that sapodilla tree. The eye and mind unclear, seeing all in a strange shade of simultaneous existence. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, all veiled layers in a dream like state lay on either side as I drove, my emotion clouding all. But stepping out of that truck they quickly merged into an unpleasant present. We delivered the news to Pat and it was received as one would imagine. The echo of her cry still rattles around my mind to this day accompanied by the look on her face. Her mouth covered by a shaking hand and a set of eyes that grew instantly older, losing their shine as their light fled to the ground in a string of tears never to return.

We set out the next day with a boat to the same place to search but after a day on the water found nothing but sunburn. We spoke of going back again but it was pointless pain none needed to bear. We would need to wait. But the ocean does not readily give back what it takes and it held this prize. I sat with my head low for hours that built to days but no call came. I took no company, my only companion, Joshua, the large black and grey German Shepherd who understood exactly what happened. One of us did not come home and my pain set a discourse in his heart. Strangely the dog took the habit of never leaving my side and shared my heartache with constant contact lying so he touched me at all times. His head as low as my own, his ear touching mine.

On the first day after something strange happened. I, lying there in complete dispose when like a shot Josh jumped up on four legs to whirl around facing the door. Fangs fully exposed with tail low and shoulders hunched, hair straight on end he growled and barked in a fever towards the door. Taken back, I looked to him then to the door but no knock came. Yet he did not stop and at the top of his lungs he continued strong enough to send saliva across the room. To say the least he was not a mean dog and I had never seen him act in such an aggressive manner. He was gentle and silly by nature and loved both children and rabbits. More curious yet, as I watched I could see his eyes intensely focused on something on our side of the door. He would lurch forward as if to charge or warn whatever it was not to come closer, all the time growling and barking an absolute fervent. As he did this my own hair stood on end and I could feel a presence in the room that caused chills to run up my spine.

This may have been my own state of mind taking hold but how does my emotion cause this dog to react in such a way? More peculiar still as I watched Josh’s eyes began to move, following something in the room until he no longer looked at the door but was pointed to the closet then to the night stand on the other side of the room. All the time his hair on end and white teeth exposed, himself between me and whatever he was concerned with. Keeping his hind quarters against me as a pivot point as he moved until whatever it was was gone and he lay down by my side again. I did not know what to think of this wild occurrence but spent a few seconds on it until again my head hung low.

That night I was woken by the same outburst. I sat up in my bed looking into the darkness while Josh raged at the nothingness around us. I started to get an eerie feeling that something was in the room other than me and that dog. But in such ink only the shine of his white teeth showed. Trying to rise he refused me. Pushing me down with his hind quarters and sitting on my chest as he snarled. After ten minutes he calmed and lay down at my side and in the shadow my questions grew on what this was.

It only took a couple of thoughts to associate this strange happening with my father's assumed but not confirmed passing. There is a belief that the dead say goodbye to the people they care for. But this was absurd to me and did my best to shake such thoughts. Yet could not keep my mind away from such.

I awoke the morrow morn and tossed my legs over the side of the bed. With great effort lifted my head and looked to the window to see the sun. To me it seemed poison and wanted to spit at its shine. It rose as if nothing was a matter, as if there was peace in the valley. I sat until the sun no longer filled the frame and shadow walked the room. Again Josh jumped up and in an instant filled the space with his aggression against an unseen foe causing me to jump. My hair rose on end again. What was he looking at? His pupils dead set on something. Something that moved unseen, at least to mine own eye. “Dad”, I said out loud feeling foolish that I could even propose such a proposition. Again as a fog it lifted and was gone as if the very word dispersed the question.

Finally I left my room by obligation only as my care for Pat overruled my selfish want of loneliness. She was there in the dim and I joined her at the oak table in the dining room. The fluorescent lights of the adjacent 1970’s kitchen gave a dull halo as it fell through the plastic drop ceiling panels stained by age. She on one side and I on the other. The only thing between us was a bottle of Pepsi and a glass full of silence.

We comforted each other with the silence in that glass. Just being there gave each other the strength to continue. Somewhere in that nothingness Pat said, “I heard Josh barking.” I nodded. “What was he barking at?”. “I don't know. He has been acting very strange.” I answered. “That is not like him. He is always happy.”. “Yes.” I responded, “but we all were.” She looked at me and curled her lip to an unhappy pucker and picked up the bottle, ruining the glass of emptiness with dark soda. She pushed it to me, got up and opened the cabinet. She pulled out another glass that did not match the first filling it as high, took a long sip and sat down.

“Your Dad woke up Saturday with a very strange feeling.” she said and I raised my eye from the rim of the glass to meet her gaze. “There was something bothering him and he did not want to leave the house. It was not until you got home that he decided to go. He said he did not feel comfortable, did not feel safe. He did not want to go fishing. I had never seen him like that before.” This obviously grabbed my attention, remembering when I arrived. I could sense the same, seeing that forboden hesitation in his eyes. “He wasn't ready when I got here,” I said. “Yes, he was planning not to go. I was surprised when he put his shoes on and said he was leaving.” I kept the obvious response to myself. There was no need to add anything knowing it would only deepen the sorrow.

We finished our conversation and I got up and headed back to my room with Josh meeting every step, keeping his shoulder against me so that I bumped into the furniture as we walked. I lay down and tried to find patterns in the popcorn ceiling to keep my mind occupied but each turned into a horrid scene of life’s last moments. A hand stretched above the waves or the torrent of kaos below. Turning to another corner to see a still dead silence floating above me. This trance was shattered again by Joshua who rose and clung to the edge of the bed and emptied his lungs loudly towards the empty wall.

I shot up again with a chill that said I was not alone. I looked in the same location following between his two big ears like a rifle’s sight. Now I could only think of Dad, or what is left after the light of a life is taken away. Does that linger? I thought to myself. It is hard to think it does not as you feel something before you and your dog follows it around the room growling and snapping. This happened several more times that day until by the end I only referred to this visitation as Dad. Who could blame me? I could think of nothing else and such a thing had never happened before. It was as likely a possibility as any I could think of and there was some strange comfort in it. That he was not fully gone.

I feel asleep to wake with Josh laying at my side. The sun had not yet lifted it’s head and the moon spied me through the window as it’s silken sheet of light covered us. We lay still as the cool night's curtain passed between us and the dead stone in the sky. I could only wonder where he was, his body I mean. Floating somewhere beneath that moon in a pool of doom. I looked around the room but there was nothing and Josh lay silent. I looked again to the moon and drifted back to the ages.

It was the third day after he died and I woke up late, somewhere around 11:00. I left the room and the house was still. No lights, no movement as I made my way to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and the light burned my eyes. I turned away to see the two empty glasses on the table. Closing the door to sit and look to Dad’s chair filled with emptiness. Josh set his head in my lap and I scratched behind his ear. Still no interest in food I rose and went to my room laid down and fell back to sleep.

Awoken by Josh again barking at whatever he could see. I spoke in the direction of the dog's eyes, gave a greeting and asked, “How are you? Where are you? It lasted only a few minutes and was gone as Josh curled up at my side. The comfort I had felt from the visitation started to slide to a sadness, then to a wrenching naw. If this was truly something left from my father, why was it here? Why didn’t it fly to where such goes? It came again several hours later and the only thought in my mind was it should not be here. The dead are for another place. I stared through stained eyes and tried to calm Josh until it fled.

As the sun began to set I sat again with my head down on the table, my eyes full of tears. Once again my visitor arrived and a thought came to me. I was the reason for the visitation. If it were Dad’s essence, our deep connection kept him tethered. My inability to let him go was the stone keeping him here. This added a darker shade upon my already black heart. In an instant I knew I must let him go. Not the grief, no that would linger forever but the leftovers of man. The vapor of humanity, the light outside the bulb had to be released. I turned my eyes away and felt the same emotion as the moment of leaving the gravel parking lot at the end of that bridge. I spoke out loud in a soft but stern voice. “Go, you should not be here any longer. You are dead and I am not. I will live and do what I can, but you must go. I will not hold you here any longer.” With my eyes full of tears I could just make out Josh’s head as he calmed and lay by my side. I again lowered my head upon the table in a pool of broken tears that puddled wider than my face.

You may call my visitor anything you like but it never came again after that moment. It was gone. Though Josh stayed with me constantly, he never barked that way again. Never looked at anything that I could not see. The strangeness, after three days was gone and my heart felt it leave. It took a bit longer to find Dad’s body though.

But we finally received a call after eighteen days. It was my intent to identify him but after speaking with the coroner in depth he persuaded me that this was not the best idea as there was not much left to identify. After such a duration it is like a sandwich floating in the melted ice water of a cooler. The bread has broken up and plastic wrapping has come undone to let much of the meat fall away and sink to the bottom for the fish to eat. It remains loosely held together by the plastic but it is best not to stomach what is left.

I had concerns about confirming it was him but was convinced it was by that plastic wrap or in this case Levi shirt he was wrapped in. Dad did not carry a wallet ever, this was something a civilized person simply should not do in his opinion. Instead he kept his drivers license and important information along with a small engineers notebook in his shirt pocket, buttoned. So kudos to the manufacturer of Levis for that shirt or at least the pocket was durable enough to withstand eighteen days in warm saltwater. Through wave, through storm, through sharks, to be opened on a cold stainless steel table in a dead white coroner's office by a set of pale soft fingers with well trimmed nails. Now that is a product endorsement if I have ever heard one. I don’t see a Tommy Hilfiger shirt holding up to that. Thank you Levi.

I received another call a week later to let me know Dad was being cremated. This hit a little hard as it was my birthday and what a birthday present. After the crematory candle was extinguished we headed down to pick up a small 8” x 10” x 4” universal people packer wrapped in brown paper with a tag taped to one side indicating my father's name and date of demise.

It was a strange juxtaposition of realities. If you have never been to the Florida Keys let me explain. We crossed that same bridge on a beautiful day of new born baby blue skies as far as the eye could see. Kissed ever so slightly by angel clouds wisping miles away. Those skies rested ever so gently on a bed of turquoise water as beautiful as any woman's eyes in the dreamiest of fairy tales you could ever read. Life skipped on the breeze in the form of swift gulls and pelicans that formed perfect echelons pointing us northward. We reached the first island and quaint purple peasant palaces dashed along the roadside with their happy inhabitants sitting on white chairs resting on colorful porches. All nested among patches of evergreen mangroves whose heads stood in the sun pulling in life and long fingering roots reached deep into the sand and blasted white coral. And I, in some tasteless white renta car, sat in the back seat on hot sticky pleather with a pallid brown box containing the dry dust of my incumbent entombed within the plastic walls between my knees. An interesting ride I might say and so you may understand why Long Key Bridge holds a special place in my heart.

So time rolled on as time does do, whether skies of storm or endless in blue. Years later I was in college cooking the cauldron of the mind, working and dating for it was that time in life. There were ladies, girls, women, chicks and chicas. Like plentiful fruit in some God sent orchard on the path to Eden. Everywhere was a fragrant bloom of intoxicating spring charm and my head buzzed like a bee pulling pollen as I could. Speaking to any and all just happy to be buzzing around. Some were sweet, some sour, others too high in the tree or not ready to be picked. While others hung on the vine a little too long, a bit spoiled or rotten. Others were not fruit at all but cocoanuts while others just bananas.

I got home after taking one of the bananas out to dinner and lay looking at the rafters thinking it better not to peel that one. Like everything, things get tiresome no matter what they are. Relationships came and went as my interest fled, not finding what I was looking for and not really knowing what that was. I doubled the pillow under my head and my brain gave a little click as my brain will do. “Well this is not going well.” I thought to myself. The choices in relationships I had made all seemed sound and reasonable but produced not much more than pleasant acquaintances that I wished the best for but time and again found myself wandering down the path to look up other trees.

It was not a gluttonous lust of a fruit salad or the thrill of yet another pick from the vine. Most had no pick at all and became good friends gaining my deepest respect. It was the cheesy stereotypical relationship iceberg, lack of connection. There had been an air of needing to try too hard to connect. It was not particularly to anyone but everyone and therefore in reality probably me. I guess I had passed the island of the lost boys to the isle of man.

“I have had enough.” I said looking at the ceiling. “Big Guy” aka God, “this is up to you. I am not doing this anymore. My next date will have to ask me out, not a hint, not an innuendo but a direct request to go out on a date with specificity that cannot be denied.” It was time for another's determination, again not a religious man here but there is something going on in this world and perhaps whatever that is can truly understand women and find the correct one. So I left it for the great human resources department upstairs to review the applications and decide.

Now this is problematic as I am not the most patient man and keeping fruit off the menu is difficult. But with pure intent and strong will I went back to college to complete my semester. I played coy to advances, flirting and beating around the bush trying to pull a plum of invitation but no fruit would fall. So finishing the year and still single I transferred to another college and continued my unspoken quest.

Class after class I met all that any could want and the smiles asked for what I would not give. As polite as possible I ignored the obvious unspoken requests. The subtle eye contact that turned away with a smile, giggle sweet enough to float a soul. The backward glance to assure she knew I watched as she walked away. It was not until the end of the semester that my ship almost sank. I had been talking with one young lady and felt she was about to ask me out. As she grabbed me by the arm and twisted her hair around her finger my big toe shot up in my boot and my captain nearly fell off the ship. But I held fast and waited for an invitation and to avail she sailed away silent. Lonely, I held firm and finished another year, a bachelor.

I was about done with my courses and needed one last class to graduate. To my annoyance the college did not offer it and would not until the next winter. Nine months was too long to wait so I searched and found the previous school I had attended had a summer course that could transfer so it was back to Miami-Dade.

Entering the class early I found the room empty and looked for a prime spot taking the third seat in the third row. Not too far away from the board, not too far away from the door. Easy to see, easy to get out without gaining too much attention. The class filled quickly with the last empty seat behind me. It was filled by the final student as the professor put their briefcase down and handed out the syllabus. The young lady ahead of me turned and smiled, handing me the pile. Taking one I turned and gave the remaining stack to another young lady and smiled in the same, “how you doing” fashion.

The class progressed and as usual groups formed. At breaktime I found myself with the same several students talking and laughing class after class. Three guys and three girls who all sat around my third seat in the third row. My sail was up and I flirted with the girls but there was no bite on the bait. I had all but given up on anyone being forward enough to ask me out but enjoying everyone's company I made jokes and entertained myself as the number of classes dwindled.

The last class came and after the exam our small group of breaktime friends walked out into the hall and into the parking lot. One by one the group got smaller as each headed to their vehicle until I found myself walking with one student. This was the one who had taken the last seat behind me on the first day of class. We arrived at my small purple truck in the far parking lot to find next to it a small white Nissan. It was then I realized that car belonged to my classmate.

We talked for hours until the last two cars in the parking lot were ours. That is when she pulled out the cosmic hammer and wacked me right on the top of the head. “What are you doing this weekend?”, she asked. This question cocked my head to the side like a dog in some commercial, obviously getting my attention. “I’m not sure.” I responded offering nothing. “Would you like to go out on a date?”, she continued. Here we go, I said to myself thinking this should be interesting.

“Sure, What would you like to do?” I asked. “I’ve been thinking.” she said, “I have never been fishing and need someone to take me. Do you fish?” This raised my eyebrow as thoughts began to whirl on the merry go round in my mind. Go fishing? For a first date? Interesting and rather strange and approaching with caution, “Yes, I fish. Where would you like to go?”. “I’ve heard a place called Long Key Bridge in the Keys is a good place to go. Have you ever heard of it?” she said. This caused the hair on the back of my neck to curl. My eyes scanned the parking lot for any sign of a setup. But there was no one and nothing. “Yes”, I said with a hesitation, “I have heard of it.”, dumbfounded by the request. “Let's go there.”, she smiled. Now I play poker and had to reach down as deep as I could and put on the strongest poker face I had. “Ok” I answered. “We can do that.”

Now let us touch on the details. This is four hours away from where we both lived and in the middle of nowhere. This bridge is not a destination but a location passed unnoticed on the way to a destination. Identified only by a small six by twenty four inch sign posted on either side of the bridge half covered by mangroves and not seen by anyone at seventy miles an hour. There is no restaurant or club, no place to hang out and be social. It is a bridge with rusted out guardrails and no lights on the way to somewhere you want to be.

Further, in the last years since my fathers passing I have never met anyone who had ever heard of Long Key bridge let alone a young spanish girl living in Opa-Locka attending Miami-Dade College and only several years in the United States. As well I had not been asked to go fishing since that first trip to the bridge and had not been back since. Strange indeed that this obvious family girl would ask a near stranger to take her to a dark and far away place somehow having some faith that I was not the Charliest of Mansons and she to wind up on the news. But we set up a time and said I would sort out the details.

But instead of saying goodbye I spent the next hour or so exercising the most covert interrogation techniques I could muster. Asking details and round about questions in every direction I could think of trying to find some link between this short spanish girl and anyone or any place I knew. But there was nothing. She knew no detail of any other thing or event in my life. She had never been anywhere else I had ever been except the class in which we met and this apparent request came out of the blue. I inquired years later and apparently a weather report had mentioned the location, not even a person, a weather report, on Telemundo. Now I am a gringo, mucho gringo aquí. I didn't even know there was a Telemundo at the time or that tele and mundo went together. As well the fishing was something she tossed in because she could not think of anything else. I said goodbye and got into my four wheeled grape and went home.

Few people knew the story of that bridge but I had shared my experience with one close friend from childhood who was now a roommate. I got home and played the same game of espionage with him trying to find some hidden link but again there was nothing. No way for anyone to relay any information to this girl. In truth my heart told me no one shared such a personal and painful event as to try and manipulate me. But I had to exhaust all such possibilities for the only other feasible explanation was that the request I tossed into the air a year before had been volleyed back to me with such force that it practically knocked me over. But that was the case. Thy will be done, I said to myself.

Saturday came and I picked her up. Again I drove south from island to island, bridge after bridge until the long set of arches catching dips of moon told me I was there. We found a spot and set up, tossed out lines and spent the next several hours catching nothing but each other's words.

At the end of the evening I packed up the gear and we got in the truck and I turned the key. Silence, the truck wouldn’t start. The perfect end to a first date. All the run of the mill thoughts ran through each of our minds. Her, “Sure the truck won’t start.” and I, “Of course the truck won’t start.” I said nothing but popped the hood and pretended to do something but in reality did nothing but curse under my breath. Before closing the hood I banged on a black thing and pulled on a white thing, said a little prayer and damned the loss of the carburetor and all familiarity with newer engines. I closed the hood and pretended I was in control and with a fake confidence turned the key again, to my surprise, vrummm, the engine started.

Wasting no time I put it in drive. Leaving that loose gravel and hitting the hard pavement I did not realize the present island of time had ended and another began at the same exact location as the one previous. But that is the way of the epoch. You never know when they pop or when they erupt from the depths. So that was our first date that led to a second and third, to years to marriage and child and is still.

A few years later we talked about our first date and I told my wife this story. Being a woman of faith it made her smile. She then shared her side of the celestial setup. It was her last class in her last semester at the college. Work and school had filled up her time as anyone who has done such fully knows. Tired and not all that excited for a night class she parked her car and thought about life and how much time she had spent on everything but enjoying it. “God” she said in a conversing but telling manner. “This time I am going to find someone to have fun with. I am going to find an Irish guy and have a good time.” She got out of the car and headed to the classroom. Standing outside the door she looked through the vertical glass above the handle and saw me and the last empty chair just behind.

“Maybe that is him.” she said. “Maybe I am that lucky.” Opening the door she took the last seat in the class, then a syllabus and then my heart and my remaining time on the planet. So yes, I am Irish with a bonus of Scottish and if pressed can provide undisputable documentation as well as eye witness accounts of being fun and possess a certification in providing a good time though maybe not an easy one.

But what in life is easy? Certainly not its understanding and what of its ease lives long in memory? For such are but shallow pools of experience that are dry and forgotten long before we reach our next island adventure. But the tidal wave risen from the depths is held by the mind forever.

So are all the tales in this book. Uneasy rides on the way to the final destination, the shores of infinity. But before we go we are given raiment to cover our disbelief, eyes to see what cannot be seen and a tongue to taste past the bitterness of life. With these, light drives through the shadow. While on the journey, I say to you, take a look to the shy fiats of times for they are the signature of God.

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