Category: Short Stories

Fishing

On By Jerry BrothertonIn flash, Short Stories19 Comments

The days of summer are really only made for one thing…fishing. I recall that at thirteen I would have rather been fishing than pretty much anything else I could think of to do. Of course that was a time before I discovered that girls were placed upon the earth for something more than to just to annoy me. The Wakenda creek wasn’t good for anything more than gars and the occasional soft shelled turtle. You might catch a few Bullhead catfish or even a descent sized carp on a good day but that never mattered. It gave me all the peace and quiet I needed to try to make some sense of the raging hormones that were part of being a teenager.  Most days you could usually find me lying on the bank staring into the clear sky and wondering if I wasn’t really adopted. There were even times when my line would be in the water without any bait on it.

In most places the Wakenda creek normally ran very shallow and narrow. However in my secluded, and I thought secret, spot the water backed up into a pool of deep green. A large cottonwood tree stood at the water’s edge just off a nice sandy beach. The breeze would dance among its leaves and pluck the soft tufts from the branches and send them drifting slowly to the water below. On this particular day as I rounded the cottonwood I saw a familiar figure leaning against the tree. It was my dad.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, more than a little puzzled. You see there was more than a little age difference between me and my father so we usually didn’t have a lot to talk about.

“Today…I’m going to show you everything that is important about life.”

So I thought that this was the talk that I have heard so much about from my brothers. So I prepared myself to absorb this information. I was going to learn about girls, sex, money…you know what I mean… real life and death stuff.  It was going to be the kind of stuff that you can only learn through years and years of trial and error. The knowledge of a lifetime given to me from the one person I knew to be the wisest man on earth.

My dad placed his hand firmly on my shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. For the first time in my life I noticed his hands.  They were strong and tanned but calloused from way too many years of manual labor. His fingers were twisted from age. His touch was rough and his grip firm. But I could feel there was a gentleness that lay underneath the surface of his touch. It was a tenderness learned from a lifetime of love and caring. With the other hand he pulled a red checked handkerchief from his bib overalls and wiped his brow. His face was wrinkled and leathery but his eyes were still full of light.

I watched intently as his knurled hands threaded a large gumbo earthworm onto his hook. His tongue stuck out from between tight lips and curled slightly on the end. He held the work only a few inches from his face trying to see through squinted eyes in the dim early morning light.

“Always take your time to do it right. It’s gotta be perfect in order to get the big ones,” he said. “Leave just the right amount wiggling to lure them in…but not too much or the smart ones would just pull it right off and leave you with nothing.”

After an extensive examination of his work he nodded his head in satisfaction. Then he spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the squirming worm. A small trail of dark liquid trickled down his grizzled gray beard.

“Just so they’ll know it’s me.” He said, with a crooked grin and a quick wink. Then with one fluid motion he cast the line of his cane pole into the water of the creek. There was barely a splash as it landed within inches of a fallen tree that jutted out from the surface.

“Always know exactly where to place your bait,” he said.

After resting his pole on a forked stick protruding from the soft earth, he removed his sweat stained ball cap, ran his twisted fingers through his thin silver hair and took a long swig from his bottle of wine. He leaned back against the old cottonwood tree…wriggled his body a little in search of the most comfort. Then he spat out another stream of tobacco juice and went to sleep.

I wanted to give him the time to provide the answers at his own pace. So for several minutes I watched him lying there in the warm sunshine. The only sound was the sough of the wind in the willow trees and the long mournful whistle of the distant Burlington Northern making its way east with a load of grain. I waited patiently, eagerly anticipating the wisdom that he was going to share with me. I had so many questions that needed answers. I wasn’t sure where to begin.

“What the hell?” I asked myself. “Is this all there is? Where are all the answers about women, sex, work, politics, war and money?”

Now, nearly half a century later, I understand one thing, that no matter how paramount my problems may seem to be at the time, I always look back to that day and realize. He had told me everything I needed to know

Poor Vs. Poverty

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories10 Comments

It’s true, while growing up in my tiny little town of Wakenda Missouri, we didn’t have much. But, one thing is for certain…that no matter how far down the financial ladder you might find yourself you can always look around and see someone that’s just a little worse off than you are. Somebody you can point to and say, “At least I’m not like those poor unfortunate bastards.” There’s always going to be a gap to separate, ‘those poor’ people, and ‘us’, and it doesn’t matter how low on the totem pole ‘us’ happens to be.

What I can tell you about poverty is that it is something that you can’t understand by reading about it in some book. It means different things to different people. It’s personal, and it will affect everyone in a completely different way. You can’t know how you’ll handle it unless you’ve lived through it. We can sit here and talk about it all day and I can tell you about how poverty means letting your child lay in bed with a fever so high that you fear death might not be too far off. Yet, still not be able to get the medicine they need, outside those home remedies passed down from generation to generation. I can tell you tales, of how a 14-year-old boy leaves his home, family, and friends to try to find a better life somewhere else, because he believes there’s nothing for him if he remains. His realization that anything that could possibly happen to him somewhere else, good or bad, would still have to be better than his life fading into oblivion. I could try to explain to you that real poverty is feeding your children sugar sandwiches because there is no other food in the house. Real poverty means knowing that when you can afford them; beans, fried potatoes, and white gravy will go a long way to silence the cries of empty stomachs.

I can tell you these things and you will nod your head in agreement and maybe even say that you understand where I am coming from…but unless you have been there you probably have no idea what I am talking about.

So perhaps it’s time that I set the record straight and let you know just how poor my family really was.

“Man we were so poor… Lordy, Lordy… everyone should feel sorry for poor ole me.”

I had to do the chores for every house in town before I could go to bed at 3:00 in the morning. Then get up at 5 AM, walk twenty miles uphill to school and then another twenty miles uphill to get home at night…in four feet of snow…all year long…and barefoot. My parents forced me to wear flour sacks for clothes, eat worms for breakfast, and dirt for supper. I had to endure the humility of playing with second hand (or maybe third or fourth hand) toys. That is, of course, if I had any real toys at all and not just a stick and a dead frog named Pete. If you buy that then I have a bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you.

I know that nobody (if they are in their right mind that is) would ever admit to being poor. I guess we all believe that without the proper portfolio the poor will never cross into heaven. Like there’s some kind of doorman standing there at the gates taking cash bribes and sending straight to hell all those who can’t afford to pay.

Well I’ve never been accused of being the smartest person in the world so I’m not afraid to tell you that growing up in the small village of Wakenda we were poor, needy, poverty-stricken, destitute, lacking the means to obtain the comforts of life. In other words, we were those poor unfortunate bastards. My parents didn’t try to hide it. They never bowed their heads to anyone. That was my family, take us or leave us. The thing is that no matter how hard people would try to convince you otherwise nearly everyone in town was in the same boat. Of course there were those few that had a little more and usually when they wanted to impress their neighbors referred to us as ‘less fortunate’.

Come on now, let’s be honest and call a turd a turd when it smells like shit. We weren’t ‘less fortunate’, ‘economically deprived’, ‘underprivileged’, or ‘financially challenged’…we were poor…dirt poor…and I don’t see any shame in admitting that. As my father always said, “we didn’t even have a decent pot to piss in.”

As a child I often wondered why he would even consider using a pot when we had a perfectly good outhouse in the back yard. I suppose though a more compelling issue should have been the fact that my mother seemingly unconcerned that my father would use her cooking utensils for bathroom accessories, would always reply, “but what we never had, we never missed.” I understand what she was saying; that the important things in life come from the heart and mind and not from your pocketbook. Seriously though, here’s where I have to say “donkey-crapola on a stick.”

I can definitely tell you that when one of the other kids got something new…or even second hand for that matter, which to me was as good as new. I missed not getting it too. I missed it a lot. But did it kill me…NO. Did it make me stronger as a person…I believe so.

So what is the difference between poverty and being poor? Despair! Despair tells you that there is no hope of a change for the better. When you truly believe that there is no hope of change it sets its own limits to your dreams. That is the key. When you truly believe there is no hope of change.

My mother and father did the best with what they had. They never gave up hope. Here I am today to tell you that there is always hope. My parents knew it and made sure their kids understood that no matter how bad things are at the time there is always a way. Mom made everything she could from scratch. We raised chickens, canned our own fruits and vegetables, and my brothers, my father and I hunted for every imaginable creature that could walk, crawl, fly, swim, had fur, feathers or scales. As long as it had meat on its bones or fur we could sell, it was fair game.

Now I can’t say that I lived in total innocents or was completely unaware of what I have been told was my poor and wretched existence. I knew that we didn’t have much. I just truly never paid attention to it. Besides, there were things that I was able to take for granted. I knew that if I was hungry there was always just enough to eat. If I was thirsty there was always just enough to drink. If I was hurt there would be enough love and compassion and my mother would be there with a hug and a kiss. If I began to feel sorry for myself my father would be there with a swift kick in the ass to set me back on the right path.

Besides, the lack of tangent possessions only served as fodder to fuel my imagination. It’s what allowed me the ability to make a rifle from a stick, a hand grenade from a dirt clod or a spear from a dried weed. If there were things that I really couldn’t live without I would just walk along the roadside and pick up discarded soda pop or beer bottles, and return them for deposit. (That is until that nameless evil beer company from St. Louis stopped using long necked bottles and began using those short necked things that had no refund. That my friends was indeed a sad day for kids all over America.) Of course you’re assuming that in a village with a population of only 150, including dogs, cats, cows, pigs and chickens, there was anywhere to spend money anyway.

Of course, the bad thing about growing up poor was the side effects. They probably did ruin me for life….by teaching me not only good work ethic but also a healthy understanding of the value of money and a solid respect for sharing.

You know there is an old saying that the rich get everything they want so they don’t feel strongly about anything they have. In their eyes everything is replaceable. I don’t know anything about that, having never been on the rich side of town. That’s why the poor hang on so tightly when something does come along though. Because we had so little we knew how to squeeze a penny until ‘Ole Abe’ had tears running down his face.

Depression

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories24 Comments

The loss of a loved one can have a profound effect on all of us. Perhaps in ways that we can’t fully realize. At first it might be hard for us to accept the reality that the person is gone. That we will never again be able to hug them, laugh with them about the good ole days, or watch the love they have for their spouses, their children or grandchildren sparkle in their eyes as they spoke of them.

After realizing that they will no longer be one of the constants in our lives we might become angry. Mad at ourselves for not spending more time with them, especially in those final years. We will pray, we will cry, but eventually we will begin to accept death as the inevitable end to every life no matter how special or unique the person was to us.

Death is a certainty for everyone and everything. It’s important however to remember that although grieving is a normal process after a loved one’s death, those that have moved on ahead of us would wish that our sorrow be short lived. Their desire would be for us to live out our lives as planned. We must continue on as examples of the positive things that they left behind, and become who we were meant to become. We must embrace our grief in order to overcome it. Remember that grief for a loved one’s death is not a sign of weakness but a sign of the love that we hold for them.

Different people react to things in different ways. It takes some a bit longer than others to get over their grief so don’t feel inadequate or unstable if it takes you a while longer than others think it should. Though we may never understand exactly why things happen; we realize that they all happen for a specific reason. It may not seem like it now, but as time moves on, we know that the pain and hurt that we feel will subside. However, the memories of all the good things they meant to us will remain.

With the holiday season upon us and our emotions already stretched to their limits, I would like to remind everyone that sometimes the events that seem small to us may be just enough to push others beyond the breaking point. Although grief is something that we must embrace in order to move on, it’s only a short step from natural sorrow to depression. I thought it appropriate to share this list, of some of the signs of depression, so that we may be better prepared to help our loved ones, or ourselves, through what can be such an emotional time in our lives.

  • Feeling physically drained or emotionally out of control (extreme mood swings, feeling good one minute and sad the next)
  • Difficulty in eating, perhaps the thought of food might even make you ill
  • Increased susceptibility to illnesses
  • Feeling emotionally shut down
  • Difficulty in doing everyday tasks, can’t think clearly, or remember things
  • Crying continuously, or unable to control anger
  • Can’t cry at all
  • Drinking more than usual
  • Can’t sleep at night, taking frequent naps, or are constantly tired
  • Sigh a lot
  • Talk about death over and over or dwell on it every moment
  • Loss of interest in work, house, or physical appearance. Neglect of personal hygiene (don’t brush teeth, take regular baths, or wash hair very often)
  • Suffer from extreme loneliness
  • Have lots of guilt about things you did or didn’t do
  • Lack of interest in sex
  • Constantly criticizing yourself
  • Feels like there is a huge hole in your heart or something is missing
  • Relive and rehash scenes or conversations
  • See no reason to exist

Perhaps, it’s the last listed here, that we must be especially vigilant. Depression can sneak up on us without warning and sometimes, it can be very difficult to distinguish between it and normal adolescent behavior. We must remember, that no matter how bad it gets, no matter now desolate, lonely, sad, miserable, or lost we feel, it will get better. Every person who is born has a purpose. We may think that our life is worthless or we won’t be missed, but we’ll never know whose life we will touch, or the difference we might make in that person’s life. However, each of us will make a difference to someone.

You can see how easily it can be to confuse depression with so many things. The key is the length of time it takes to recover from an emotional trauma. If you feel that your grieving is lasting too long, seek the help of a therapist, minister, friend, or physician. It’s okay to seek help until you are better able to handle your grief. Never be ashamed at seeking professional help. Remember that each time you suffer a loss, large or small; it can trigger feelings that will bring back all the memories of all your other losses. Things like the loss of a pet, a house fire or even a bad grade on a homework assignment is enough to push us over the edge. You may not consciously think about them, but the feelings can still be there.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 tells us ‘To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; A time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to morn and a time to dance. A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; A time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; A time to keep silent, and a time to speak; A time to love and a time to hate; a time of war and a time of peace.’

Above all, I wish for every one of you a time of peace.

Merry Christmas to all.

 

Happy Holidays

On By Jerry BrothertonIn flash, Short Stories11 Comments

There seems to be a controversy among many of you, demanding that we put ‘Christ’ back in Christmas. I would like to attempt to explain difference between “Merry Christmas” and “Happy Holidays”.

Christmas is the act of honoring God and the birth of our Savior. It is about helping our fellow man in their time of need. If it is your intent to donate your purchases to charity or volunteering at your local shelter or even helping the elderly by providing some friendship, then I say to you, “Merry Christmas and May God Bless you.”

However, when you come through the checkout lane with your cart filled with decorations, candy and ornaments or you push and shove your fellow shoppers just to get to that one toy so you can give it to someone that doesn’t really need it, just so you can have some self-gratification on December 25th; then you my friend are celebrating the man-made HOLIDAY created for the soul purpose of profit. Quite the opposite of the Christmas spirit.

So please do not proclaim to the world that the people of retail are Devil worshippers or anti-American when they say to you, “Happy Holidays”.

Words are just words; it’s our actions that will bring Christ back to Christmas and it’s up to each of us to keep him in our hearts.

 

Coincidence, Fate, or the Hand of God

On By Jerry BrothertonIn flash, Short Stories2 Comments

Just a few miles down a dust covered road from my hometown of Wakenda, the Missouri river rolled its muddy water eastward. It offered life to the small farms struggling against poverty. It offered money to the barge owners that floated its turbulent waters. It offered hope to those that moved their goods to better markets.

But to one young boy standing silent on its bank staring into the murky water… it offered a promise. It promised to cool the sweltering Midwest heat that was beating down on his shoulders with the fierceness of Hell itself. It promised to take away his pain and give him peace. It promised him that he would never be hungry or ridiculed for being different. It promised him he would never be rejected. The hypnotizing swirls called to him; whispering to him a promise of freedom.

What a simple thing it would be to do, he thought. Just slide one foot closer to the edge. Just one small step and let the water surround him. With a smile of contentment on his face, he turned to take one last look at his friends as if to say goodbye. That’s when he realized he was getting a bite on his fishing line.

“Holy shit,” he said as he reached down and cupped one hand around the pole and gave it a jerk. Ten minutes later, he was holding the largest catfish any one had seen in years.

One moment…

A single point frozen in time…

Placed there, perhaps, to change one person’s world…

 

There is more to a poem than a rhyme

There is more to a day than just time

Through all the hatred, laughter and sorrow

There will always be hope of a better tomorrow