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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: short story

As Gold as it Gets

28 Monday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

fantasy, fiction, karma, short story, story

“I’m not doing that while we’re driving, Adam! It’s too damned dangerous!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, Nikki, you do what the hell I say or … “

“LOOK OUT!” Nikki screamed.

Adam looked about him and wondered aloud: “Where the hell…?” He shivered from the cold. The fallen leaves were powdered with snow. He heard no-one. Saw no-one. “Where the hell am I?” he asked no-one. 

A faint path led to a briar bush and beyond that a faded, mottled blue and teal door stared out from a stone wall. Apart from that, the woods seemed to stretch forever in all directions. Adam mumbled, “I must be in some weird-ass dream. Whatever.”

After convincing himself it had to be a dream, he found himself acting more bravely. He strode up to the door and pulled the knocker up and let it fall upon the heavy door. Three times he did this, not really expecting any result, but what the hell. It was something to do, he reasoned. 

Adam jerked back as the door swung open. Inside, a huge room opened up. It was filled with light. He looked down at his well-polished rattlesnake boots. They gleamed more brightly than ever before. He squinted. He mumbled, “This is definitely the weirdest dream I have ever had.” 

Adam found a single chair. He sat. Before him, a hazy golden figure loomed. 

“Hello, Adam.” 

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Oh, my God! Adam had never heard such a resonant voice. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Generally, Adam considered himself to have been blessed with the gift of gab. But now, he was speechless.

“It’s all right, Adam. Everyone is taken aback at first. I’m St. Peter.” 

“What? The St. Peter? Like…like, I’m in heaven?” 

“Well, let’s not jump the gun, Adam. You and I need to have a bit of a chat first. Before we choose your next chapter.”

Then, just like, St. Peter popped the most dreaded question of every job interview: “So, tell me about yourself.” 

“St. Peter, I’m happy to meet you! I’m Adam. Adam Smith.” Adam smiled his most winning grin here. “Not the invisible hand guy, but my parents named me after him. And, indeed, Sir, or Saint, I am indeed a businessman. I did quite well. Took care of my bit…my bit of the business which was management quite well. Last year I was voted best dressed pim…pimple-free, and handsomest self-starter in all of LA. City of Angles! I should be here! I’m rich. I’m powerful in my own way. Know what I’m saying. Given your name and all that, I don’t know whether you’re interested — you got the whole ‘Saint’ thing going but your name is ‘Peter’ so — but anyway, if you are interested, I could fix you up real good if you know what I mean. I know you get a lot of applications for heaven and you can only take so many, but I’m a self-starter. Right? And I can help out. What do you say? Heaven. Okay?” Now, Adam smiled an even bigger grin. His cheeks hurt.

St. Peter asked, “And what is your idea of heaven, Adam?” 

“Well, easy! Kind of like on earth, but better. Everything gold! Unlimited wealth! Everything gold! No cops! What say? Am I in like Flynn?” 

St. Peter, and the bright room, and the door Adam entered all disappeared. In its place, Adam found himself on a street of golden mansions! He looked to his left — elegant mansions as far as he could see. He looked to his right — elegant mansions as far as he could see. Ahead of him was a well-appointed gold mansion with his name emblazoned on a huge sign. He walked up and sure enough, the front door opened at his touch. Inside, he feasted his orbs on the sight of gold floors, gold walls, gold furniture, and gold ceilings. His jaw literally dropped. “Now, this is more like it!”

Adam sat in a golden chair. He picked up the remote, also gold, and turned on the TV, also gold. It showed pictures of golden mansions. On every channel. “Wow! This place is cool! What do you think, now, Dad? Thought I’d never amount to anything. Hah! Here I am in heaven! Hear that, old man! I’m in fricking heaven!. A heaven of gold!” 

The next morning, Adam grew bored. And hungry. In his beautiful golden kitchen, beautiful golden dinnerware sparkled in golden drawers. No food though. It wasn’t clear exactly how this works, thought Adam. That’s all right. I’ll figure it out. He went out the front door and turned right; walked up the sidewalk to his neighbor’s front door and knocked. No answer. He peered in through an unfrosted window and saw that his neighbor’s interior was solid gold like his.

“No-one home, I guess” said Adam to no-one in particular. As he walked back out toward the street, he noticed for the first time that his neighbor’s mailbox matched his precisely. He walked over to at least find out what his neighbor’s name was. 

He read the name: ‘Adam Smith’. “What the hell?” said Adam.

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Then, he noticed that the address was also the same. 

666

Adam ran down the street, knocking on every door. 

No-one answered. 

Adam looked at every mailbox. 

They all said the same thing: “Adam Smith, 666 Streets of Gold.” 

He screamed. To no-one in particular, “What kind of heaven is this?!” 

He sat in a lump on one of the identical porches. He looked at his lap. He turned over his hands and noticed that scrapes and bruises decorated his white knuckles with red and blue.

Adam said, to no-one in particular, “I’ll just keep knocking on every door till I find someone.” 

In high school, Adam had not paid much attention in any of his classes, but math class he especially despised. He had no idea what the hell the teacher had been talking about when she started talking about infinity. It seemed like an abstraction with no meaning whatsoever in the world of Ghetin High School. 

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Now, however, Adam would have plenty of time to discover the true meaning of infinity.

Karma: A Horror Story

Who Speaks for the Dead?

Plans for us; some GRUesome

Ramming your Head into a Brick Wall Doesn’t Make you a Hero

Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Author Page on Amazon

Donnie Takes a Blue Ribbon for Spelling!

18 Monday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

America, Democracy, environment, fiction, school, short story, sociopath, sociopathic, truth, tyranny

 

two girls doing school works

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[NOTE: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to characters alive or dead is purely coincidental.] 

“Children, let’s all clap our hands together. We want to congratulate Marcy for winning a Blue Ribbon for winning the Spelling Bee.” 

Donnie rolled his eyes. He had never liked Marcy. Her skin was dark, for one thing. Not as dark as a N——- but too dark to be a real person. Maybe she was “Port of a Rico” or something. Who cares, thought Donnie. Stupid spelling bee anyway. 

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The teacher, Miss Galore, noticed that while most of the kids in her third grade class were clapping, Donnie was grinding his teeth and pounding the table and rolling his eyes.

“Is everything all right, Donnie? You seem upset.” 

Donnie made himself smile pleasantly. “Oh, I’m fine, Miss Galore. Thanks for asking. I’m so pleased as punch for Marcy. What could be better than winning a Blue Ribbon for a Spelling Bee?”

“Oh, good. I’m glad you’re okay. But since you brought it up, there is another contest coming up. This month will be a Science Fair. Let me see the hands. How many of you would like to enter the Science Fair?” 

Everyone’s hand shot up, even Donnie’s. 

Then, the bell rang. But Miss Galore ran a tight ship. The children knew that even though school was basically over when the bell rang, it would be impolite to leave until they were dismissed by Miss Galore. 

“All right, class. I’ll tell you more about the Science Fair tomorrow. For now, Class Dismissed.” 

The kids all began chattering with their friends, and walking out toward the place were parents were lined up in their air conditioned cars. 

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Donnie grabbed his books and walked over to Marcy. “Hi, Marcy! That’s really swell that you won the Spelling Bee! That Blue Ribbon looks very cool! Can I see it?” 

Marcy didn’t really trust Donnie, but his voice sounded sweet, so she handed him the ribbon. 

Donnie’s teeny hand shot out like a striking snake and he snatched the ribbon. He turned and dashed out of the room as fast as he could. He skidded around the corner and slapped into the door to the boy’s bathroom. He dashed over to the nearest stall, threw the ribbon into the toilet, and closed the stall door. Then, he flushed the toilet. He gathered his books back up, and opened the stall door slowly. He peered out. Only one other boy, Billy, was in the bathroom. Most of the kids were outside lining up to get picked up by their parents or chauffeurs, he thought. Billy, like an idiot, thought Donnie, is looking down at his thingie to make sure he doesn’t pee on the floor. Who gives a damn? So, Donnie pushed open the door to the boy’s bathroom. On the far side of the hall, only about ten feet away, Miss Galore and Marcy were both staring at him. 

Marcy’s bottom lip was trembling and there were tears on her cheeks. A big smile lit up Donnie’s face. That won’t do. He pushed his fingernails into his palms and forced himself to create a look of concern on his face instead. He had practiced for hours in front of a mirror, so that his look of concern was remarkably genuine looking. Now, he needed the voice to match.

“What’s wrong, Miss Galore? You look troubled.” 

Miss Galore took a few steps closer. “Marcy tells me that you took her Blue Ribbon.” 

“Oh, yes, I did look at it. It’s wonderful. You should feel very proud, Marcy!”

Marcy tried to make her voice sound strong, but at that, she failed. “You took my ribbon though! Give it back! I didn’t even get to show my Mom and Dad yet!” 

Donnie looked over. She was on the brink of squirting out more tears. Sort of like peeing on your own face, when you thought about it. I’ll never do that. What an idiot she was. If she didn’t want me to take her ribbon, why hand it to me, he asked himself. Stupid bitch deserved to lose her ribbon. 

“Miss Galore, I did look at Marcy’s ribbon for a moment. I gave it right back to her. What’s wrong? Did you lose it, Marcy?” 

“NO! I didn’t lose it! You took it!” 

“Oh, Marcy, I’m so sorry you lost it. We all lose things some times. As I’m sure Miss Galore will tell you — you have to be careful not to lose things —- especially things you like a lot.” 

Marcy was now screaming: “YOU TOOK IT! GIVE IT BACK! IT’S MINE!” 

Miss Galore noticed more kids were gathering round to see what was causing the commotion. She said calmly, “Donnie, can you please give me the ribbon?” 

Donnie looked affronted. “Oh, I don’t have it. I just had it for maybe — one minute — not even a minute — maybe fifteen seconds. And then, I handed it right back.” 

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Marcy held back her tears, but barely. “Why did you take it in the bathroom?”

Donnie put a look of puzzlement on his face. “Why did I go to the bathroom? I had to use the toilet, Marcy. Isn’t that why you go to the bathroom too?” 

Now, Miss Galore looked back and forth between the two children. Donnie didn’t look upset at all. But Marcy certainly did. She wondered whether Marcy could have simply misplaced it. “Do you think it might still be back in the classroom, Marcy? Maybe we should take a look?” 

“NO!” Marcy screamed. “I didn’t lose it. Donnie asked if he could see it and then he snatched and he ran out of the room and into the boy’s bathroom. I don’t have it. He has it.” She pointed at Donnie. 

“Well, I don’t have it. I will swear on a whole stack of Bibles. You can search me. Search me good. I don’t have your blue ribbon Marcy. I’m sorry you’re upset. I know it makes me angry too when I lose things. But you shouldn’t go blaming other kids when you lose something.”

“ARGH!” said Marcy. “I did not lose it! You took it! Make him empty his pockets, Miss Galore. I know he has it!” 

Miss Galore frowned. She couldn’t really do a thorough search of him. Maybe she could get one of the boy counselor’s to do it. She glanced around. Luckily, the teachers still stood out among the students. “Oh, Mr. Graham! Mr. Graham! Can you please come here a moment?”

Miss Galore explained the situation quickly. Mr. Graham frowned. “I’m not doing a strip search of the boy! How about this: write a note and ask the parents to search him when he gets home. Donnie, turn your pockets out.” 

“But Mr. Graham, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t steal her stupid ribbon. I looked at it. It’s — I have to tell you, it doesn’t look that nice up close. Her little medal isn’t even real gold. I don’t have anything bad in my pockets.” 

“Donnie. Do it now! Turn your pockets out,” said Mr. Graham who could pretend to be genuinely outraged over nothing and he genuinely didn’t like back-talk from students.

Donnie shook his head and appeared very reluctant, but he turned out all four pants pockets Except for a pack of Kleenex, and what appeared to be the wings of a dragonfly, his pants pockets were empty. Mr Graham nodded. “Thank you, Donnie. Hand me your backpack.” 

Donnie shifted from one foot to the other. “Mr. Graham, my driver, Pom-Pom is going to be mad that I’m so late. It’s just books mostly.” He handed the backpack to Mr. Graham who searched the inside and turned each book upside down to see whether there was a ribbon hidden between the pages. He turned to Miss Galore. “Nothing.” 

“You see?” said Donnie. “I told you I didn’t steal her stupid ribbon! She’s such a liar! She probably cheated to win the ribbon in the first place!” 

Miss Galore wanted this to be over. “Okay. Okay. You two get over here. I want you to apologize and shake hands. Marcy, you apologize for accusing Donnie. And Donnie, you apologize for … not making sure that when you handed the ribbon back to Marcy, that she didn’t drop it. I don’t know. Anyway, just shake hands and I don’t want to hear any more about it. I’m sure your ribbon will turn up, Marcy.” 

woman s head on plate

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That evening at dinner, when he had eaten his fill and Fred Senior seemed to be in a reasonably decent mood, and not yet drunk, Donnie casually said, “Say, Sir, did you know that there are N——-s at my school?” 

Fred Senior, sputtered through his mashed potatoes. “WHAT? Are you sure?” 

Donnie looked at the ceiling and pretended to think. “No, but I think so. She might only be half N——. I don’t really know. She has dark skin though. I never paid much attention but today she told a lie to try to get me in trouble at school.” 

“What the F*** are N****s doing at your school? I’ll talk to the Principal tomorrow and get this straightened out. Are they teaching you kids anything useful at that school?” 

Fred Junior said, “Yes, Father. I am learning algebra. That’s useful.” 

Fred Senior smirked and snorted. “Doesn’t sound like it, but the main thing is you’ll get into a good college.” 

Donnie added, “I’m going to win a Blue Ribbon in the Science Fair. I’ll find out more about it tomorrow.”  

Fred shook his head. “Christ! What rot. Anyway, how about desert?” 

Mary brought over a large dish and placed it proudly into the middle of the table. In it were little scoops of watermelon, cantaloupe, and honeydew. There were slices of apple and banana as well as some ripe strawberries all arranged quite artistically to Mary’s eye. 

Fred Senior grimaced and shouted, “What the F### is that? Seriously, Mary, have you gone nuts? I asked for desert! Not a f###ing salad!”

Mary swallowed hard. The A/C was out. It was hot as hell on this day in mid May. She had remembered that fruits were so much better for you than pies, cakes, and cookies. She thought maybe it would nice to have a cool fruit salad on a warm and sultry night. She had thought. That was her problem. She should never think. She should just do whatever Fred tells her too. Her mind raced. What could she get to assuage her husband quickly. 

Fred Senior glared at her. He had stopped yelling though, thought Mary. His voice instead had that soft, sweet, syrupy sound that it made…whenever things were going to go terribly badly for her.

Fred Senior did indeed speak in a soft, controlled voice. “Children. Go upstairs now and do your homework. I need to have a little chat with your Mother. You know. Big People stuff. You wouldn’t be interested. Boring really. So upstairs. Go on. Up. Now.” 

The children pushed their chairs back and looked straight down at the ground. They had been taught that, even a glance at each other or at Mom or Dad could — would — be considered as a reproach to their Father. So, they all tip-toed up to bed and immersed themselves in a book; they learned that if they did it well enough, they could ignore the noises — whatever they were — that would be coming from the kitchen and dining room. 

All, but Donnie, that is. His procedure, was to go up with the other kids and then sneak back down and watch. It was one of the biggest risks he ever took in his entire life. But he couldn’t help himself. He loved the way Daddy made Mommy so weak and pathetic. It made his Daddy so much bigger and stronger and manlier. He would be that way some day. He would be just like Daddy! And, next week, I’ll win a Blue Ribbon in Science! 

gray industrial machine during golden hour

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————————————————————-

Other blog posts: 

What about the butter dish? 

Inventing a New Color

There’s a pill for that

Citizen Soldiers: Part 1

Citizen Soldiers: Part 2

Citizen Soldiers: Part 3

After the Fall

Author Page on Amazon

 

True Believer

14 Thursday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

ethics, fiction, mystery, preacher, religion, short story

church altar

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“Walllll,” began Grandpa; as he always did, with a long pause and a sucking of false teeth as he held that final labial consonant, “yep, there marched time, quicker than you believe, conceive…”  (He had that oh-so-annoying habit: rhyming terminal words). The rain pitter-pattered on the canvas of the huge gray tent. Alabama’s like that: sunny days; drenching night-ways. 

He gobbled another greedy shot of Jack Daniels. Spat. Rolled eyes to skies.  (Oh, Lord, not me too.)

“…when Earth hung lower on firmament’s edge, and all of us’ns believed in the Testament.  AMEN!”

His glory days as child wonder preacher got juiced up with juice. Even in those glory days, that sad, dark, wooden church held a few dozen and that was on special occasions. But it didn’t matter. Because in his mind, he was preachering before the congregation of a magnificent cathedral if not God’s own thrown.

“A-MEN!” he repeated, as though this one AMEN was the one that would put us over the top and headed toward the Promised Land. He said ‘Amen’ as though his life depended on it, and perhaps he really thought it did.

I could see Light, Holy Light, rekindle in his eyes. “We BELIEVED! And, God so loved the World of Alabama that He gave his only begotten Son, who won, the One thing that is Done. AMEN!”  

Well, he foamed in fine form for this night, I thought, shaking my hanging head slowly, perhaps, showily. 

“And, Oh, Dearest God, what have you revealed, concealed from your flock, your true stock?” 

The crowd began to sway and have its say, “AMEN!” came the shout above the rain, explode the brain.

“The Ghost, the HOOOOOOOLY Ghost…will enter you and make Him Yours and He makes you His. Yeah! It’s the Way! Can I hear you say Yeah!?”

Shouts all around. Surrounded in sound, I found myself hoping for a Sign, a Line, a Find of Mind. I die. I see the Lie, but cannot fathom Why. Oh, Why?  

680174EA-5910-4F9B-8C75-C15B3136FB06_1_105_cAuthor Page on Amazon

If Only: short mystery about a chance meeting on Tower Bridge around 1900.

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man. 

 

A Mere House of Mirror

19 Sunday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

bias, Carnival, COVID19, empathy, fiction, Fun House, insight, Mirrors, prejudice, racism, relationships, religion, short story, truth

Chapter One: Mere Mirror

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The hot, humid, cloudless August day offered not the slightest breeze of comfort. The girls had finished their snow cones only three minutes ago, and they already felt the stifling heat. They looked around for some shade. Jean jumped up and down and pointed excitedly at the large wooden structure ahead of them. 

“Jean, I don’t want to go in there. I hate Fun Houses.”

“This one’s cool, Wilm. Totally! Outstanding mirrors.”

The sun shimmered on the Rye Playland sidewalks. Sweat beaded on Willamette’s forehead. “Some old pervert’s always trying to grab at you in there.”  

skate ramp

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Jean nodded and then laughed. “Maybe some cute young guys too. Ever think of that? Come on!” 

“I don’t want to be groped by anybody, Jean!”

“No, me either. But, you know we might meet some cute guys. What say, Wilm?” 

Willamette half-smiled in surrender. They sauntered over, trying to time their arrival to coincide with any nearby hunks. Sure enough, a couple cute guys were about to get in line behind them when two white trash hillbillies slid in first. 

Willamette rolled her eyes, knowing that some stupid skeleton would flash in front of her and make her scream and she told herself she wouldn’t but she always did anyway. She wondered why she had let Jean talk her into this.

This time was no different. She screamed when the skeleton jumped out,  just as she knew she would. She cursed at herself for it. Then, she nearly fell flat on her face when they stepped onto the stupid steel rollers. She was about to protest to Jean that she still hated these places. But Jean had disappeared.  Willamette could see the house of mirrors around the corner. At least, she thought, this part won’t be scary.  

Willamette looked in the first mirror. Her eyes Zombied. In the mirror in front of her stared a horrified old man with pasty white skin and unkempt dirty black hair.  What an illusion! She laughed. But the laugh that came out was an old man’s whisky-roughened laugh. Her eyes slowly gazed down at her hands.  

Her hands were gone.  

In their place were the gnarled fingers of an old man, white skin, blue veins, dirty fingernails.  

She screamed. 

And, then she screamed at the gravely sound of her own voice. 

—————————————-

Chapter Two: Mirror, Mere

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“Come on, y’all’ll enjoy it.”

“Sounds stupid. Ain’t been in a ‘Scare Houses’ since I was twelve.”

“This here one’s great!” Jay-Bob snickered and winked at his buddy, Willard. “’Sides, you can cop a feel.”

Willard’s pale skinny finger fluttered toward the facade. “Looks like the same stupid grinnin’ clown and the same ugly witch as back in ‘Bama.’  What’s so special about this’n?”

“These New York dudes got themselves some whiskey cool mirrors.”

“One’s thang’s for danged sure. These here Ryeland tickets costs ’bout ten times our state fair for the same danged rides.”

“Come on, Willard, give it a go.”

“Fine.” Willard spied two teenage girls joining the line, and sidled in behind them. One had tight slacks but the other wore a loose cotton dress. Didn’t she know about that blast of air? Or, maybe she did. Liked, in fact, showing off her panties. Pink? Black? He wondered to himself.

The dark, the pop-ups, the rollers. Willard’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. The youngsters eyes adapted much faster and they immediately sped ahead out of groping range. What’s next? Stupid House of Mirrors. Willard turned the corner. Where the hell was Gene?

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“Screw him,” he muttered aloud and wondered whether he’d be a beanpole or a midget.

 He looked in the mirror.

Willard didn’t want anyone else to hear his question so he used a stage whisper — though he had no idea what that term meant. 

“What the — !  Gene, how they do that?” 

But Gene had disappeared.

Willard blinked again at the cute, black teenage girl gaping at him in the

mirror; blinked; stared down to see skinny black hairless arms and the bluely

sparkled fingernails; screamed in that high girly voice; watched the ample

heaving breasts.

Then he screamed even louder at the sound of his thin soprano voice. 

————————————————-

Chapter Three: Mirror, Mirror

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“So, how’d we do, Gene?”

“Mmmm. The conditions were there, but no insight. No change. No enlightenment. Frankly, I think we’re in trouble, Will.”

“Drat.”

“Maybe the thing with human beings is…. I don’t know. If they’re too freaked out, they can’t reflect on their own prejudices. In fact, I don’t think they can reflect on anything. They just become scared bunnies.”

“But if they are too comfortable, they never change. They just sit and — whoa!  — Gene? What was that kind of trumpet blast sort of noise?”

“What do you think? We’re being called into judgment.”

“Already? Where? Over there? It’s so damned bright!”

“God is light. No surprise there. Hey, we gave it our all.”

“Small comfort, Gene, when we both fry to embers. I can’t see a thing.” 

“It’s too bright. There are brilliant lights omnipresently. All places seem to be light, bathed in light, reflecting light. I can’t see where I’m going.”

“All paths lead to the one path.”

“What? Oh, great, we’re about to be fried and you’re waxing philosophical. Not to mention Zen. Wrong religion. What is it about you people?”

“We what people? Black people? Is that what you mean? People of color?”

“Christ, Will, how many millennia have you known me? No, of course I don’t mean because you’re black! I mean, ‘you people’ as in you intuitive types. You have to learn to think things through logically.”

“Excuse me, Gene, but you have to learn to listen to your intuitions! God IS ZEN.” 

“COME HITHER!” trumpeted God.

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———————————

Chapter Four: Mere, Mere

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“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re the real black.”

“You’re the real whitey.”

“You’re just a youngster.”

“You’re old.”

“You’re a thievin’ female wench. Give me my body back!”

“You pervert dirty old man! Your body disgusts me!”

“You stole my body!”

“Man! What?! Why on God’s green earth would I covet this ancient body? Why? I had my whole life ahead of me. I hate crappy wrinkled fingers — fatty yucky sides!” 

man hands waiting senior

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“Yeah, well I miss my –.  Never mind. I liked bein’ a man.”

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Photo by Avonne Stalling on Pexels.com

They sat on very separate stumps in an unending forest of stumps. Overhead, the sky shone pale blue. No crows cawed in the distance. No planes vapor-trailed. No faraway cars hummed along the Interstate. They stared into the infinite horizon of flat waveless ocean. They sat silent for a long, long time.

Finally, s/he spoke. “Does it really matter? I mean, here, does it matter?”

“Maybe it don’t. You might have a point.”

They sat for a moment looking out silently at the endless sea.

“Did it ever really matter? Really?”

“Dunno. But we need water. Fer sher. Not sea water. Fresh water.”

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“Check. I’ll search that-away. Yell if you find anything. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Willamette and Willard took ten steps apart; turned back simultaneously, stared, shook their heads in unison and laughed. It can’t be truly said that it was a hearty laugh, or even a pure laugh, but it was a laugh. It was a beginning. 

How to find water? If water reflects sky, might not sky reflect water to those with open eyes and open hearts …when human survival depends upon it?

One may hope. One may hope. 

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—————————

Essays on America: Labelism

Pattern for Collaboration: Find and Utilize Diversity

America

Author Page on Amazon

Donnie Gets a Hamster!

14 Tuesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

bully, childhood, crime, criminal mind, cruelty, Dictator, fiction, psychology, short story, sociopath, story, tyrant

hamster

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“No, Donnie, I told you. You’re not getting a dog until you show me that you can handle more responsibility.”

“But Mommy! I’m ‘sponsible! Watch! Look! See! I’m not peeing my pants any more!”

She turned away from the sink and checked the front of Donnie’s pants. “I know, Donnie. That’s a good thing. Believe me, Fred and I are very proud of you for that. But neither one of us has time to take care of a dog. You have to help out around the house.”

“But, I don’t like housework, Mommy. It’s for bitches. Not for young men.” 

Mom sighed. She shook her head. “Do I have to wash your mouth out with soap? Don’t use that word!” 

Donnie pretended not to understand. “I’m not supposed to say, ‘housework’? How come?” 

Mom said, “Donnie, there’s nothing wrong with saying ‘housework.’ Or, doing it, for that matter. But don’t say ‘bitch.’ It’s not nice. If you talk like that no-one with an ounce of sense will make friends with you. It shows a lack of self-control.” 

“How about ‘son-of-a-bitch’ — is that okay, Mommy?” 

“Donnie, no. Just no. Can you dry the dishes for me? That’s something a ten year old should be able to do.”

“NO NO NO NO NO NO! I’m doing that! It’s for bitches! Sorry. I mean, it’s for pussies. Daddy never dries dishes.” 

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“Where did you get such a filthy mouth anyway? I don’t talk like that. Anyway, if you can’t even help me do the dishes, how do you expect me to think you’ll take care of a dog. I told you. It’s a lot of work.” 

Donnie smiled. Suddenly, he was afraid he was going to laugh. He stuck his fingernails into his palms to keep from laughing at how stupid his mommy was. “I do lots of work!” 

Mom put the last dish on the drying rack. She turned to look at her son. “Donnie, you don’t do any work. I asked you yesterday to rake leaves. You didn’t do that. On Monday, I asked you to weed the garden. You didn’t do either one. I’m not getting you a dog.”

“I’m not peeing my pants! And I did rake the leaves. I couldn’t weed the garden because my hands would get dirty! Then what?”

Mom took town a dish towel and begin drying the dishes. “Donnie, Junior raked the leaves. Not you.” 

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“Is that what he told you? What a liar! He just told you that after I raked them! He’s a liar! Why do you let him get away with that? Why Mommy? Is it because no-one loves me?” 

She stopped drying the dishes. She wiped her hands and turned to look at her son. “Donnie, of course, we love you. We all love you. But you did not rake the leaves. Why do you say you did?” 

Donnie yelled, “HE LIED! HE LIED! I HATE FRED JUNIOR! HE LIES! HE TAKES CREDIT AFTER I RAKE THE LEAVES!” 

“Donnie. Do you see the picture window in front by the dining room table? I sat right there and polished the silverware and watched Junior rake the leaves. You went over — twice — and tried to wreck up the stack he was making. You did not help at all.” 

“That was me doing the raking, Mommy! I was the one who raked the leaves! Junior was trying to wreck up the stacks. Maybe we — I think we were wearing each other’s coats. That might have confused you. Did you have your glasses on?” 

She sighed. What the hell…? “Donnie, he’s a head taller than you. He wouldn’t even fit in your coat. I know what I saw.” 

Donnie saw it was time to shift gears again. “It may have been really foggy. I don’t know how you got confused. But you only know what you think you saw. I was there and I remember the leaves, but let’s not fight. I love you. I don’t want to upset you. I just want a dog. What do you think?” 

brown wolf

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“Donnie. No.” It was exhausting to deal with this kid. Sometimes, I wonder why I even try. Maybe a boarding school is the answer. Maybe a dog would teach him some responsibility. But it wouldn’t work. I’d just end up picking up the poop, feeding the dog…”I’ll tell you what, Donnie. I’ll talk to Dad and see what he thinks about getting you a hamster. If you take care of that for a year, on your own, then we can talk about getting a dog. How about that?”

Donnie thought about it. A hamster is better than nothing. Not as much fun as a dog. But maybe I could trade it for a dog. Susan might be that stupid. Or Lindsey. They’ll believe anything. Worth a try. “Oh, Mommy, that sounds great! Can we go now? Can we get it NOW! How about now!”

Mom was already beginning to regret her impulsive offer. “Donnie, I told you that I was going to discuss it with your father. If he’s okay with it, we can go to the pet store on Saturday morning. But I’m not taking care of it. You have to feed it and provide water and clean its cage. Understand?”

“Oh, yes, Mommy! I understand. I’ll do all the work. Or pay someone else to do it. I mean if I’m out of town or something.” 

—————————————

Sure enough, that Saturday, Donnie went to the pet store to get a hamster. It was teeny and pathetic. He could easily crush it with one hand. It hardly counted as a weapon of protection. But maybe if I take care of the hamster, he reasoned, they’ll get me an attack dog later. 

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It was a bright sunny day out, so he took the cage out. Junior and Maryanne were off with their friends. Mommy had said to stay in they yard, but she wouldn’t mind if he went next door to the vacant lot. There were some things he needed to check out about his hamster. Things he wanted to do in private. He didn’t even know yet whether it was a boy or a bitch. There was a nice little grassy spot in the sun on the other side of the fence. He put the cage down and stuck his hand inside. Stupid Hamster was easy to catch. At least, in the cage it was. Maybe “Stupid” is a good name for him. Or her, he reminded himself. The pet store people had said it was a male, but Donnie had his doubts. He didn’t notice anything hanging out down there. Well, this time, he’d get a good look, away from prying eyes. 

He pulled back the fur and looked everywhere. Nothing. If the Hamster did have a thingie it was even teenier than his own. That made Donnie feel good. And feeling good reminded him of tearing apart grasshoppers. And that made him wonder whether he could get the Hamster to eat a grasshopper. Now, that would be fun to watch. He scanned the nearby area but didn’t see any grasshoppers. He could look by the tall weeds, but that was too much work. All of a sudden, it hit Donnie that while a hamster was a lot less work than a dog, it was also a much stupider pet. Not only would it not protect him. It wouldn’t fetch. It wouldn’t go on walks. What good is a stupid hamster, with such a teeny thingie you couldn’t even see it. 

He wondered if it’s little paw fingers would break off like the grasshopper’s legs. That might be fun. But the grasshopper was hard. This hamster was soft like a snot rag. You couldn’t really break a snot rag. So…? It wouldn’t be that much fun. But people could break bones. So, maybe I could break hamster’s bones. It wouldn’t be as much fun as pulling its legs off, but it would be some fun. Then, he suddenly remembered his magnifying glass! The teacher had just had one of her boring science classes but one thing was cool. She had started a fire just by focusing the Sundays onto a piece of paper. And the paper had burned to a crisp when so many Sundays all came at once. Donnie could relate. Sundays were always boring. 

selective focus photo of magnifying glass

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Donnie decided it would be fun to see how the stupid hamster reacted if he set different parts of it on fire. He took the magnifying class out of his pants pocket. He grabbed the hamster and held it tightly in his left hand. Then he took his magnifying glass and played it back and forth to focus on the hamster’s nose. That would hurt! But the stupid hamster kept wiggling and wouldn’t hold still. “HOLD STILL you stupid bitch! OUCH!!” Donnie dropped the hamster onto the grass.

The hamster bit him! How dare he! I will burn that bitch to a crisp, he thought. 

“What, in God’s name are you doing?” 

Donnie jumped and screamed in sudden surprise at a voice so near. He jerked his head and saw Junior standing there with a frown. “Junior! Just in time to help me. My hamster jumped out of its cage and it ran away. Help me look. Help me find him! Look over there by the tall weeds. I’ll look this other direction. He can’t have gone far. Please! Help me! Mommy will kill us if I lose it the very first day!” 

Fred walked casually toward the tall weeds and asked, “Why were you yelling at it?” 

“Let’s find him and I’ll explain it all.” Donny ran off across the property line and leaped up the stairs to the back porch. He flung open the door. “Mommy! Mommy! Junior threw out my hamster! He’s lost! We can’t find him! Oh, Mommy. Mommy. Come help us look!” 

Mom was growing slightly more skeptical of Donnie’s claims, but her first instinct was to believe her own son. “Why would he do that, Donnie? Are you sure?”

“Come help me look! Quick Mommy or will never find him. Junior said he never had a hamster so why should I get one. And then…”  At this point, Donnie put both hands over his face and pushed it into a sad face. But it wouldn’t stay. He’d have to keep it covered, he decided. “Then, he took the top off. I thought he just wanted to pet my hamster. But no! He threw it in the bushes! I’m scared a wolf might eat it! Or, a bear!” 

They quickly strode out to the vacant lot. When they got there, they saw Junior hunkered down staring into the tall weeds. Mom yelled out, “Junior! Why did you let Donnie’s hamster out?” 

“I didn’t let his hamster out. He dropped it.” Unlike Mom, Junior was onto Donnie’s tricks, or at least some of them. 

Mom opened her mouth, but before her lips even parted, Donnie began his fake crying, “No, Mommy. No. That’s not true. I was petting it inside the cage but Junior said he would show me. And he took my hamster and threw it over there somewhere.” 

Junior looked at his mother and shook his head. “Why would I care if Donnie has a hamster? Really? Seriously? And why would I look for it if I threw it out. And if I did throw it over here and Donnie saw me then why did he go “looking” the other direction?” 

Mom looked questioningly at Donnie who smiled his biggest possible smile. “Mommy? Can I please have a dog now?”  

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—————————————

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man! 

Donnie Plays Doctor Man!

Donnie Plays Soldier Man!

Donnie Visits Granny!

 

Jennifer’s Invitation

22 Sunday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, story

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

assertiveness, birthday, fiction, gift, grade school, life, love, party, relationships, short story, shy, shyness, story

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When I grew up in Northeastern Ohio, my birthday came in the spring —  real spring. This business about three months of spring is absurd. In Ohio, spring lasts about three weeks — the time from the first onion grass, crocuses, and daffodils shoot green through bare black dirt, through the greening of the willow switches, the white exploding dogwoods and cherry blossoms, till at last, every tree’s gold and red has turned dark green — that takes three weeks. And, square in the middle of nature’s renewal comes my birthday. At the age of nine — now more than sixty-five years ago — it seemed so lucky — yet, so right that this my birthday fell in the springtime! Perfect.

The only thing more perfect would be having Jennifer come to my birthday party. Jennifer! Her family, Gunnerson, was from Scandinavia and she looked it. Long, light blond hair, deep sky blue eyes, pale white skin. Best of all, she liked me — kind of. I lived nearly a world away from her — three blocks — but luckily she lived on the way to David Hill Elementary School so I could walk part-way to school with her. We could continue up residential Davies Street, littered with maple-seed helicopters, or cut over to Archwood. Urbane Archwood Street held the branch public library and even a filling station.

fuel dispenser

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Mom had promised me a party this birthday and I could invite whoever I wanted. Or, so she said. Actually, her friend from the bridge club had two daughters that I definitely did not want to come to my party, but my mother, of all things, had promised that they could come. Really! Imagine! I never told her she had to invite Jennifer’s mother to her bridge club! Actually, it wouldn’t have been a bad idea, but I didn’t think of it at the time.

No matter, so long as I could get Jennifer to my party. The tricky part was — how to get her there. Of course, you might think: “Well, hey, why not ask her?”

You might think that if you were born in New York or California or have forgotten what it’s like to be a nine year old boy totally overwhelmed by the goddess beauty of a nine year old girl. No, just walking up and asking her was definitely not an option.

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Instead, I hit on a brilliant idea, bound to succeed. I made a newspaper. It had three or four articles on the front page and three or four more articles on the back page. It only took me one week-end to make. And there, right on the back of page two, in the lower right hand corner was the story of my upcoming birthday party, complete with a list of invitees. That list included Jennifer!

Now, for part two of my foolproof plan! The very next day, I contrived to walk home from school in front of Jennifer. I slowed down till she was only twenty paces behind me and “accidentally” dropped my newspaper. I continued to walk, but held my breath, heart racing. Soon, I heard the soft, bell-tones of her voice call out that I had dropped my paper. Yes! She handed it to me. I dully muttered “thanks,” as I stared into those infinite blue eyes for a clue.

Nothing.

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Hadn’t she read it? Hadn’t she seen her name right there on page two? Was she blind, and I didn’t know?

I scurried on ahead. Maybe she just hadn’t noticed. I dropped my paper again. Again, I heard her call out my name! She had seen me drop the paper. I waited for her to catch up with me. She handed me the paper. I swallowed hard. I looked in her eyes. She looked at me. I said, “Well…did you read it?”

“Oh, no!” she said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh,” I said, and turned, crimson glowing hot on my cheeks.

I thought about dropping my paper a third time, but what was the point? She took it as an invasion of privacy to read my private paper. I’d have to come up with something else.

I did.

I got pneumonia and the party was canceled. I did get a record and a book as presents from my mother’s friend’s two daughters but I didn’t read the book or listen to the record. It wouldn’t be … right.

The next year, my parents moved to a new house and a new school district and I never saw Jennifer again. Except in dreams. Where her blond hair is still blond and her young smooth skin is still flawless. And, spring — spring lasts forever.

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Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration 

Fate and Late on the Interstate

10 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

cellphone, driving, fiction, life, short story, story, Travel, truth

128

Braintree: Don secured Timmy’s Infant Seat, shut the door and slid into the driver’s seat. He glanced over at Ivy and smiled.

Reading: Mitch’s eyes already drooped. He cracked the window; turned up the radio. His 18-wheeler responded sluggishly around the curves, the cylindrical hold sated with liquid propane.

Norwood: Don glanced left at the small planes circling the airport. “When Timmy’s older and we’ve socked away some money, I’m learning to fly.”
Ivy frowned and stared for a moment at her husband before asking, “Why on earth would you do that?”

Woburn: Mitch wondered to himself, why is 128 always crowded with traffic, day or night? God, I’m tired. What station to choose? Too many lights, he thought to himself and rubbed his eyes. He opened his driver-side window fully. The air was warm and moist.

Needham: “Don, didn’t we promise to bring wine?”
“Shoot! Yeah. Not sure where though. They don’t have anything like that at the rest stops.”
“Better hurry or we’ll miss the fireworks.”
“I promise Ivy. We won’t miss the fireworks. Hand me my phone.”

Lexington: Mitch thought, Crap. No truck stops? I need coffee. Only on the Pike maybe. No, there’s gotta be one here somewhere. Geez. I pity poor Jim who has this boring route every day. A promise is a promise though. Mitch smiled and thought, you owe me, Jim, big time.

Wellesley: “Ivy, do you remember — didn’t we visit Shelly off this exit once and I’m pretty sure there’s a wine store right down Washington. Right?”
“All I remember is your outrageous flirting with Shelly all night. Give me the phone. I’ll look it up. Anyway, Washington is mostly boarded up these days. Dead.”
“I did not! I wasn’t flirting.”
“Just promise you’ll never to do it again. And hand me the phone.”

Waltham: Windows rattled. Expensive porcelain shattered. Babies awoke. Dogs barked.

Boston: Many saw the bright and distant flash. Most assumed it was merely ordinary folks in Lexington or Concord celebrating the birth of the nation; celebrating their freedom from the tyranny of a distant ruler; celebrating their independence from foreign rule.

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Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

The Declaration of Interdependence

A Profound and Utter Failure

The Lost Sapphire

29 Saturday Feb 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

fiction, jewels, life, parable, Paradise Lost, ruby, sapphire, short story, story, truth

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I cannot recall where or when or how I had first gotten the giant blue sapphire. Of course, even at five years, I knew it might not be a real sapphire; at least, that’s what my parents insisted. They called it “just glass.”

But, they might just possibly be wrong. After all, I could look into it forever. And, if I looked real hard, I could see the dim, midnight blue outline of things beyond and through the stone, transformed by the magic of the stone into something quite out of the ordinary; something heavenly, mysterious.

So far as I could tell, my parents never actually saw the stone; certainly they never looked through it. They’d just glance at it and say, “Oh, yeah, it’s blue glass.” Well, it seemed to me that it must be a real sapphire. Besides making things look beautiful, there was something else — something mom and dad never even tried to understand. It was this. If something happened I didn’t like; if I were sad because my dog was “put to sleep” or scared of getting a shot, I could look at this sapphire and it made me feel better! It made it all: Okay. If I listened carefully, it spoke words of wisdom and comfort. It was obviously worth a lot more than my parents knew.

True, there was a tiny chunk broken out of one corner. But that didn’t really matter. The stone was still perfect. Perfect, something to be kept forever.

Forever, that is, until Jimmy moved next door. Jimmy was ten years old and had a two wheel bike. Jimmy towered up nearly as thick and high as an adult. But Jimmy was still young enough to see the powerful magic in the sapphire. One bright Saturday morning, on the green grass of the “devil strip” between the white sidewalk and the forbidden black street where the deadly cars zoomed, I sat in the grass watching the magic sapphire, listening for its words of wisdom. Jimmy came and plopped down beside me. He flashed the red reflector from his bike in the sunlight. Oh, how it sparkled into my eyes!

“Do you want this ruby?” asked Jimmy innocently.

“Oh! Okay. Thanks!”

Jimmy handed it to me and let me flash it in the sun. It was so much brighter than the sapphire! It sparkled fire!

“Great,” said Jimmy, “Let me have the sapphire.” He snatched it from the grass where I had lain it, jumped up and ran into his house.

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I stared dumbly at the huge shut door, then back down at the red reflector in my hand. Maybe this was a good trade after all, I thought. It was really bright all right. And when you moved it in the sun, it made different starburst patterns. After all, it had come from a full-sized two-wheeler. But still…something was missing. Then, a buzzing filled my ears. I suddenly realized that the reflector was just pretty glass! There was no magic to it. It didn’t speak; it just buzzed its foolish empty buzz. I couldn’t look through it to other things. It had no depth. And worst of all, it could never make anyone feel better, not even a little bit. “I thought you meant…for a minute…” I mumbled to the big kid behind the thick wooden door.

I considered telling my mom and dad. Maybe they could get the sapphire back! I hated telling them. You just don’t tell parents about kid troubles; it’s against the main unwritten law of being a kid. But maybe they could get my sapphire back! When I finally told them what had happened, they said, “Well, you made a trade.” I tried to get Jimmy to trade back, but he had none of it. Jimmy soon moved away, never to be seen again. But I kept the red reflector — not to look at because that would seem somehow unfaithful to the spirit of the sapphire — but just in case Jimmy came by one day wanting to trade back.

And later, much later, I used my allowance to buy special clear marbles — called “Peeries” — emerald green and dark blue with bubbles in them, and my dad got me a cool science kit with a clear rainbow prism that threw color into everything, and then one day I looked into the deep, sparking blue eyes of a blond girl named Jennifer and later into the sparkling blue eyes of a beautiful woman named Wendy and then into real diamonds and computer screens and experimental results and statistical analyses and conclusions, insights, and science fiction.

All of those things were good and all of these spoke to me.

But I still wonder where the blue sapphire is and how to get it back. How to get it back? The magic. Not clever illusion; not something made to look nice; but true and actual magic.

Are you out there, Jimmy? Because I still have your red reflector if you want to trade back.

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(This story first appeared summer 1997 in the e-zine, The Empty Shelf. Somehow, it seemed apropos to today).


 

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration 

Inventing a New Color

30 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

colors, invention, painting, short story

Inventing A New Color — A Chapter from Tales from an American Childhood

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After my dad returned from World War II, he married my mom and nine months later, I was born. We lived in a number of places, but when I was about three and a half, we moved to Portugal. My dad headed up a tire factory there. I don’t remember much about Portugal, but I do recall going with him to some of his fancy dinners. For reasons I did not understand at the time, when I was five, my mother and I took the long ocean liner ride back to America without my dad. Mom and I lived with grandpa and grandma at their house. I attended a kindergarten in Firestone Park and had a very nice teacher. I loved kindergarten.

I missed my dad but liked grandpa and grandma. She told me “Old Pete” stories and we listened to radio shows such as Roy Rogers, Hop-along Cassidy, and Tom Corbett and the Space Cadets. “Little Grandma” lived there too. She was my grandpa’s mom and stooped over very tiny, very old, and looked like a Native American. Much later, I learned that that was because she was Native American or perhaps half Native American. I loved “Little Grandma.”

Grandpa worked as an engineer and designed airplane wings, among other things. Grandpa was also a painter and his beautiful and detailed oils hung in large wooden frames throughout his house. Mostly, these were landscapes but there were also portraits and my personal favorite depicted two warships firing cannons at each other while being tossed on giant waves. Grandpa taught me many things. Naturally, I wanted to return the favor. When I was about five, I overheard him saying that it was impossible to invent a new color. Well, I could definitely teach him something about that! I loved the idea of being an inventor.

In the middle of kindergarten, my dad returned from Portugal and re-united with my mom. He bought a house and we moved away to a different neighborhood from grandpa & grandma. I had to start school in a new kindergarten with all strange kids. The very first day, my new teacher decided that I would lead the parade and draped the rope of a large drum around my neck. I didn’t want to play the drum and I made that about as clear as I could to her, but nonetheless, I ended up marching around the room with the heavy drum around my neck. I hated kindergarten.

My dad worked as an engineer and my mom was a teacher so both of them were gone all day. They hired a housekeeper to take care of me. And, somehow, after the first day, I convinced my housekeeper that I did not need to go to kindergarten any more. This was fine with me because she was nice enough to give me my favorite lunch every day — a jar of maraschino cherries!  They were so sweet and such a pretty red. And, not only were the cherries themselves delicious. The jars proved to be perfect for my experiments! So, in the second half of kindergarten, I stayed home and instead spent my time inventing a new color to show grandpa. I had a paint set and I water and I had lots of empty cherry jars. It was all a matter of time and careful work. At last, I would be able to teach grandpa something. I love teaching.

After many weeks of careful work, I finally created a new color! When grandpa and grandma came to visit, I was ready. Under my bed were about 40 little jars of diluted paint. Thirty-nine of them were failed attempts. But one of them contained the prize. I carefully crawled under the bed and located my invention, pulled it out, and scampered into the living room where the adults practiced their buzz-talk.

Buzz-talk sounded serious and low but didn’t actually mean anything so far as I could tell. Surely, no-one could mind if I interrupted buzz-talk by announcing my invention. I proudly held out my prize to grandpa. Grandpa was very smart, so the fact that he did not immediately catch the significance of this jar surprised me. He merely glanced at the watery liquid in the maraschino cherry jar without comment.

I decided that I’d better clue him in. “Grandpa! It’s a new color!” He glanced at it again and said, “I’ve seen it before.” And just like that, he went back to buzz-talk!  Crest-fallen, I wandered back to my bedroom and placed the prize beneath my bed with all the failed experiments. Apparently, this was just another one. Despite this terrible turn of events, I hardly gave up. I just redoubled my efforts. I knew there was a new color out there somewhere and I would find the perfect mix and next time be successful! I loved the challenge.

Grandpa had already taught me that red and yellow paint made orange; that yellow and blue paint made green; and that red and blue paint made purple. So, obviously, most of my experiments involved various proportions of red and green, purple and yellow or orange and blue. Most of them ended up as fairly similar shades of gray-brown. But if I mixed very carefully, I produced not dull gray-brown but something with a slight tinge of something…new! I somehow found other jars because I needed more than just the supply offered by one a day lunch-time maraschino cherry jars. I didn’t think bigger jars would have anything to do with inventing a new color, but it was possible. After a few weeks, grandpa and grandma came over to visit again. And again, I interrupted their dull living room buzz talk by showing off my latest creation. This time, I was more apprehensive. The first time, after all, I had known for sure I had a new color. This time, I was uncertain. I waited for the right opportunity — that slight pause in the buzz-talk — to display my new creation.

“I’ve seen that,” Grandpa said and turned back to buzz-talk. I wasn’t yet old enough to argue. And, even now, years later, if someone claims they have seen a color and you think they have not seen the color, I am still not sure how to argue. Convincing other people is seldom an easy task and convincing them that their own perception is limited — that is extremely difficult. Many times, I have heard the old saw, “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.” I actually doubt that. I suspect in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is more likely to be declared in league with Satan and end up being stoned to death.

Let’s think about this. Suppose you are the one-eyed person in the land of the blind. Say everyone is hungry and you see a berry bush a couple hundred yards away. Now what? Well, you could say, “Hey, everyone! I see a berry bush over there (uselessly pointing). Let’s go pick some berries.” Everyone else says, “What berry bush? I don’t feel one. I don’t hear one. I don’t smell one. There’s no berry bush. Be quiet and stop talking non-sense.” Alternatively, you could just quietly walk over to the berry bush and bring back a small quantity for everyone to share. Of course, if everyone went, you could bring back a lot more, but no-one wants to follow you. You bring back some berries but people would be suspicious. They might well think you had been hiding these and had many more you failed to share.

Similarly, if you saw a pack of hyenas headed your way and warned people, the blind might well think you were in league with the hyenas. After all, you were the first one to know about them. You must have told the hyenas where everyone was. At long last, if you were the one-eyed person, you might be pretty tempted to put out that other eye. Life would run a lot smoother for you. Alternatively, you could leave the tribe and live on your own. And, many people do make this choice, essentially. But it’s a pretty lonely life. You could try to patiently explain that just as sometimes they could smell things they could not feel and feel things they could not smell, and hear things they could not yet feel or smell, that you could “see”…ah, that’s the sticky bit.  How do you explain sight to the unsighted?

Of course, my grandfather was not blind. Far from it. He was not only an adult, with more power and experience and knowledge than a five year old kid. He was, in fact, an artist. He was an expert on color. I could see evidence of his expertise everywhere. His paintings adorned our house and his own. So, he probably was right about the particular colors I had shown him so far.  But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t invent one next time that was truly new. So, back to the lab, I went. I failed a few more times and eventually gave up. Inventing a new color really was impossible.

Or was it?

Many years later, I attended an art exhibit in Pittsburg. It featured many kinds of “modern art” including a very cool kinesthetic art exhibit. In one exhibit, I simply stood on a platform in front of a large rotating disk. I watched the disk rotate until quite unexpectedly, the disk was quite still and I was rotating the other direction!

Of particular interest were some extremely large extremely brightly colored canvasses which featured huge swaths of complementary colors. If I stared for a good long time at the super bright red and then moved my eyes over to the super bright green, the combination of temporal and spatial contrast produced an unearthly bright green, a “supersaturated” color impossible to produce by merely using one pigment. While I had not invented this, at least I now had experienced a color it was likely my grandpa never had. I could not really check this out though because he was long dead. Of course, I have met him in dreams many times and in the dreams he’s not really dead. It was all a big mistake. And, in my dreams, there are often landscapes painted in supersaturated colors that even he has to admit are new inventions. I love it when even the wisdom of elders may be mistaken and changes over time.

My grandpa knew that we humans are all mortal but he also knew that we still had some fragmentary art that was thousands of years old. Perhaps art provides a kind of immortality. When I was about ten, grandpa visited Europe and saw many of the oil paintings of the “Old Masters” that he had admired so much. He saw with his own eyes that, over time, the oil that they used turned yellow and the colors that they had used were transformed. Father Time himself invented new colors for these artists. When, he returned from Europe, he switched from oil painting to water colors. Beyond that, he limited himself to using only three pigments all of which were oxides of metals. He was also very careful in his choice of canvas for the same reason. He stuck to these constraints so that his paintings, unlike those of the “Old Masters”, would not yellow or fade with time.

Grandpa’s paintings were designed by an artist/engineer to be stable and unchanging over time. When Grandpa died, I inherited quite a few of my favorite water colors and I can testify that the colors were extremely stable over time. They remained stable, that is, up until the time we moved to California and almost everything we owned was burned up in a moving van fire. What was burned up included all our furniture, electronics, papers, and almost all clothing and paintings. All the carefully laid pigments of metals were altered forever. All of the work and effort were now white ash floating somewhere in the sky near Continental Divide Arizona. A little carelessness on the part of a trucker in too much of a hurry, perhaps, to check the lubrication and the whole truck went up in flames. Robert Burns comes to mind.

It seems to me that our country once comprised a long-standing collaborative work of art involving many artists and many colors. This was a painting of scale and magnificence, though not yet completed. Every shade of the rainbow and more besides swept from sea to shining sea. The painting combined portraiture and landscape, scenes of war and peace, city, country, rivers, lakes, deep woods, and shining plains. Yet, somehow, people became impatient with the progress of the painting. Maybe, they thought, the work would go faster if we just painted the whole canvas white. They no longer cared what the end result looked like. They just wanted to get done so we could move on to the next project. We really couldn’t take the time to make sure the bearings were lubricated. And, now, the transport burned up along with the painting. What’s left are scattered white flakes snowing down on the countryside. I love irony, but I loved the paintings more.

At some point, grandpa said something else to me about color. He said that most people look at color in the light but that there is also color in the shadow. And, so, despite the deepening, darkening shadows, I am trying to see the color hidden there in those shadows. It is too soon to know whether I am inventing a new color, inventing a new way to look at color, or just seeing what is actually an after-image — beautiful for now, but sure to soon fade to the dull white gray of old and sooted snow. Maybe one of us can invent a new color or a new way of painting or a new way of looking or a new way of helping people be less impatient with the slow careful progress required for a timeless, collaborative work of art. Inventing new colors is not easy work; that I can say for sure, as is restoring true color that has faded to a uniform and pasty gray.

Perhaps I’ll buy a jar of maraschino cherries.

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