The Prophecy

     When you are fourteen, wandering alone on strange, lonely country roads and are equipped with an over developed imagination, it's easy to see how one could quickly come to believe in the Wendigo - the creature who seeks out and devours people wandering alone on strange, lonely country roads.

     Well, if he catches you, it's a terrible death as his teeth tear at your flesh until there is nothing left of you. But if he doesn't, you've got some tale to tell your children and grandchildren.

THE PROPHECY

By Victor Epp

About the only excuse for this story being called 'The Prophecy' is that you might just come to the conclusion that I might be going to say something important. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. I'm not saying either way. That way we won't get into an argument about it. Besides, I'm not the one who has to listen to this stuff anyway.

Truth be known, this story involves at least one prophecy that was made years ago. Remember the day we boarded the bus to the big city and I had been mortified at my Tante Lise's good-natured teasing that I would now be a 'city slicker'? Well, wait 'til I tell you.

By now you know that all I ever wanted out of life was to be a farmer - well, after my own fashion anyway. Not that I sat around and pined for the wide-open spaces mind. No sir, there were adventures and opportunities right there in the big city that just couldn't be passed up. Well heck, you can't just lie down and let the world go by just because you can't go out in the field and pick stones or build stukes or that sort of thing. I mean, in the winter there was road hockey with Campbell’s soup cans for goals and frozen meadow muffins from Bill the milkman's horse. There was even real hockey for those whose school grades were good enough.

You could always tell when spring rolled around by the pockets full of marbles the boys carried around. Aside from marbles and the pie game that was played with a half open pocketknife, there was always the challenge of getting across ditches and frozen puddles over what we called 'rubber ice.' That was fun only if you managed to get over it without crashing through. Needless to say it was only fun about thirty percent of the time. The other seventy percent of the time you had the teacher to deal with. After that you had your mother to deal with and if she was having a bad enough day, you might just get to deal with your dad too. Still, we persisted. Then there was the old swimming hole. Actually it was an old creek that flowed through the local cemetery and past a Chinese market garden. Last one in on the first Sunday in April that the ice was broken up was a rotten egg, or something like that.

Of course, summer had an altogether different set of adventures. If you didn't have a baseball glove, you made one out of your winter mitts. If we'd only had enough sense to play catch with guys our own age, but no, we had to play with the older boys. They were nice enough but man, could they burn the ball! You'd spend most of the summer with one hand looking like a tenderized pork chop. See, you can look at our motivation in two ways. One is to say that we were just plain dumb. The other is that we were toughening ourselves up. Personally, I like that one better.

I've already told you about raiding gardens and corn roasts and things like that, so I won't beat it to death. Besides which, by the time I was fourteen I already had two years of part time work experience. I'd worked in an auto body shop, had a summer on construction and in the winter I delivered papers and even set pins in a bowling alley. Then I got a job at a downtown theatre as an usher. Man, you got a uniform and everything. That was cool!

Now you'd think with all those goings on, a person would be well satisfied, and generally that was true. Well I was until dad dropped the bomb on me. It seemed that one of the families out on the farm needed an extra hand to plow under the stubble after combining. Holy Toledo! I could go out and plow with a tractor and they'd even pay me wages and everything! The fact that I had never driven a tractor before or even worked a horse drawn plow never even crossed my mind. I was going to be a farm hand! I could have quit school right then and there! Mind you, it was only the first week of August so there was no pressing need.

By the time I got out to my uncles' place I had pretty well settled down to normal again and in fact the reality of what was expected of me started to loom larger and larger. Nick, my farm boss, came by at dusk to pick me up and take me out to their place. Normally I'd have had to get there on my own but he happened to be courting my cousin at the time, so it wasn't a wasted trip for him.

The minor adjustments I had to make were really not all that serious even though the new environment was pretty much of a culture shock to me. Well, let me stop here and explain the situation. There were three brothers living at the Harder farm. Of course, Mister and Missus Harder lived there too but they were away somewhere. These boys were all in their twenty’s so to a fourteen-year-old they were not boys at all but full grown men. Now that was going to be interesting. See, I didn't have any brothers so this would be a whole new experience for me. With the size of these guys though, it was a little iffy as to whether I would enjoy the whole affair.

            The sleeping arrangements were probably by rank and age. Nothing doing but I had to bunk in with Frank, the youngest. Of course they made a joke out of it, saying that it was safer than climbing in with Ben just because of his sheer size. If he happened to roll over in the night, that would be the end of me. It turned out to be a bad choice either way because Frank was one of those restless sleepers. Within a half hour of going to bed, he had rolled over so many times that the covers were wrapped around him like a mummy and I was left shivering on the bed next to him.

            It wasn't until after breakfast the next morning that I got indoctrinated into the dynamic of the Harder camp. First of all, these guys knew their business. Secondly, once they got out the oor, they were all business. They had one of the first self-propelled combines in the area and once their own place was done, they went custom combining all over the place. Given the amount of work there was and the weather, they more or less had to be well organized. You could more or less compare them to the pit crew and racecar drivers in the Indy five hundred all rolled into one. No kidding, these guys were built for speed. Once Nick got on the other side of the kitchen door, it was impossible for him to just walk. If he didn't have a tractor or truck under him, he'd be running.

Ben and Frank were a little different mind you. They saved their speed for their vehicles. Both of them drove motorcycles. Big 'Indians' they were, not those sissy pants Harley Davidsons. No sir! These were the same kind of motorcycles the army used in WWII, only faster. I don't think those bikes could go any slower than ninety miles an hour, and gravel roads be damned.

I could go on and on about it but I guess you get the idea. After taking the time to show me the ropes and taking me out to the first field I had to plow, Nick left me on my own with the little Allis-Chalmers four-bottom plow. Wow! What a rush that was! You'd have thought I owned the whole Interlake region. I'll tell you what though. None of the instructions were lost on me. The furrows would be straight and even and I wouldn't do anything to tip the little tractor either. After all, I could farm with the best of them. Well, that last part was only in my head.

Allowing for lunch and supper breaks, we went from eight in the morning until about ten o'clock at night. That wasn't because we were ready to quit either, but the dew on the ground dictated our hours. By the time we all pulled into the farmyard, every one of us was black as the land we'd been working, covered with sweat and mosquitoes. It was glorious! Then came the ritual cleaning - the farm version of a shower. First you stripped down to absolute buck-naked. You shook the dust out of your clothes, put them away in a safe place, turned on the pump and hosed each other down. That in itself was a source of entertainment for the boys. Naturally, because of the pecking order, I was the last one to get hosed down. By the time it got to me, the water was coming out of the bottom of the aquifer and was colder than all get out. Of course everybody hung around just to see me dance.

That's about how it went for the whole two weeks I was there. By and large the weather co-operated and there was very little down time. Well, everything has to come to an end sooner or later though. I was really sorry to see the last of this adventure. As far as I was concerned, it could have gone on forever. But a day before I was scheduled to leave, it just happened that dad and a couple of his buddies were out hunting partridge. Well that is to say, Dad's buddies were hunting and he was the guide. Somehow word got out that they were holed up at my uncle's place and would wait for me to give me a ride back home to the city.

What that meant was that I had to take my gear and walk the two and a half miles to my uncle's place. Now you would think that a bunch of hunters doing nothing more than chasing prairie chickens all day could have swung by Harder place and picked me up in that big forty-nine Plymouth of Mr. McLeod's. It never occurred to me that they were too busy filling their faces with Tante Anna's cooking and each other with tall tales to bother with the likes of me.

            Okay now, farming is one thing. Wandering alone in the wilderness is quite another. I gathered my stuff, got my pay, and said my good byes. In all fairness to the boys, they just didn't have the time to take me back to my uncle's place. As I said, they were all business and the window of opportunity was closing fast. So here I was on the narrow gravel road with a long journey ahead of me in the early evening.

Once out of the long driveway I was alone - all alone - in the wilderness like I already told you. Do you have any idea how far two and a half miles is when you're just starting out? Once you're at the other end it's not that big a deal but when you take the first steps, it might as well be a thousand miles. You know full well that you're never going to make it alive.

            At least I had some supper in my belly to carry me along the way. It was early evening and I figured that if I marched along at a good clip I could make it before dark. Heck, maybe I'd even hitch a ride from a passing farmer. Oh yeah, right! I might as well have been in the Sahara Desert as here for all the traffic there was. Nope, there was no other way than shank's mare on this trip.      

By this time of day the sun was getting low in the west, casting long shadows among the trees. Now at the end of August the shortening days seem to speed up all of a sudden. Once the long fingers of shadows began to creep across the road, I knew it wouldn't be long before it was pitch dark and I had a lot of ground to cover. After all, there were no streetlights out here. There were no people either, so it seemed. There was just me and the wild animals in the bush. Oh, you couldn't see them, but they were there following me, I knew that much for sure. You could just feel their presence.

            My feet decided to pick up some speed. How far had I walked so far - a mile, a hundred miles? I hadn't walked far enough because the number eight highway was still nowhere in sight. And the shadows were getting longer. You could just hear the animals creeping up in the trees, stalking me all the way. I tried to tell myself that it was just the wind rustling the poplar leaves but no, this was different. It was definitely a pack of predators; large savage beasts waiting for just the right moment to pounce and rip the flesh from my body. Someday, if anybody ever happened to come down this forsaken road again, they might come upon my ravaged carcass in the ditch and then they'd know they should have come and picked me up in the first place. That would teach them.

            Oh they were out there all right. There were wolves for sure, maybe some bobcats, could even be a bear or two. With each step I took, they got closer - and bigger. You see; that's the thing about wild animals in the Interlake. At first they are a normal size as you might expect if you could actually see them. But when they disappear into to bush, especially if they are stalking you, they get bigger - and hungrier by the minute. Why if a person had to walk two and a half miles with these ravenous creatures closing in, they might grow as big as elephants by the time the finally decide to put you out of your misery.

            All these thoughts racing through my mind were creating havoc with my body. My feet didn't want to listen to my legs, which in turn didn't want to listen to my brain. That was just as well because my brain wouldn't even listen to itself. I should slow down because I was kicking up too much dust for the animals to see. On the other hand I should break into a full gallop to possibly outrun them. Why oh why did I ever drink so much juice at suppertime? Well, wild animals or not, there were some things a person had to take care of. By now the number eight was within sight, and with it came a small sense of security. I headed for the ditch to the fence line in some ridiculous show of modesty. Just as I got there, a spruce grouse flew up in a flurry just about a foot in front of me, Well, a shotgun blast at point blank range would have scared me a whole lot less. I immediately forgot about my reason for being at the fence and made a beeline for the road.

            It turned out the number eight was no better for traffic than the mile road. The only thing was, it was dustier. Where was everybody anyway? It never even occurred to me that they were all out in the field combining. All I could think of was that I was left out here in no man's land at the mercy of these savage beasts that were getting bigger and closer by the minute.

            So busy was I with all this lamenting and yammering to myself that I almost missed the driveway at my uncle's farm. By now it was fully dusk and if it hadn't been for the light in Tante Anna's dining room I might have. There was the big forty-nine Plymouth sitting in the driveway. I made a beeline for the outhouse.

            Of course, once I got in the house, they had to make a big deal of how late it was. They were just about to leave without me. Oh yeah, right. Why then did it take another two hours to drink some more coffee and spin another string of yarns, forgetting all about my hair-raising ordeal?

It didn't come to mind until we got home that night and I was safe in my own bed once more that Tante Lise had been right all along. How could she have prophesied seven years before that moving to the big city would turn me into a 'city slicker'? Maybe she was right and then maybe she wasn't. After all, it wasn't that I was scared out of my ever-loving wits or anything like that. I was just cautious because I knew about those big dangerous, man-eating animals out there. That was about the last thought I had before sinking into a very deep, long, safe sleep.

            Well, there you have it. You can argue about whether this was about a prophecy until you are blue in the face if you want. I'm not saying one more word about it.

If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp.  Introducing "TruthSeeker" 

http://worldwidesunshine.com/eMerchantPro/pc/Truthseeker-Ebook-279p657.htm

 

PANTS

The only things you hear on the news these days is about war, earthquakes, floods, famine, landslides, oil spills and such until it all mixes together in one big blur. It's got so you can't tell one disaster from the next. DOESN'T ANYBODY TALK ABOUT ANYTHING IMPORTANT ANYMORE? When are we going to get back down to basics?

PANTS! Yeah, that's what's important.If you can't get the basics right, how can you expect to accomplish anything? Well, if nobody else is going to do it - I guess it's up to me.

Pants

By Victor Epp

     Pants are cool! In fact, pants are so cool that there's nothing in the world to compare with them. Oh I know what's going through your mind. Maybe the old guy has finally gone off the handle. Well now, not so fast, leastwise not before you think about what I'm saying. It's one of those things that kind of sneaks up on you when you're not looking, but by gum, the truth is, pants are cool.
     This whole business came to mind one day not too long ago when we were joking about a humiliating incident involving pants that happened to me more than seventy years ago and you know, just the thought of it brought gales of laughter to everybody's mouth but mine. I could have sworn that I was still humiliated. Well, that's not really true either. I was laughing with everybody else, but I swear the consternation was as vivid in my memory as the day it happened. Since then I haven't been able to get pants off my mind.
     Well I might as well tell you what happened, since you're going to find out anyway. Maybe after you get over your first round of guffaws, you'll think about just how cool pants are, especially you mothers out there. Maybe then a guy might be able to get the respect he deserves for the thought and planning that needs to be put into pants.
     For a while, I thought my mother understood about these things, but no, not really. I guess women's brains just aren't put together that way. She started out like any other mother, putting me in short sissy pants in the summer and those awful breeches in the winter - you know the ones that are tight from the knee down with laces so they can be tucked into your moccasins and keep the snow out. Whoever thought that dumb idea up sure under estimated a boy's ability to get snow down just about every crack that was ever invented. Then from the knee up, they were loose and baggy, something like wearing a kite. The final insult was the suspenders that got clipped onto them. I would have settled for the bib overalls my dad used to wear around the farm, but they didn't make them in my size. Besides, in order to be authentic, they had to have the front pockets on the chest, you know, the one for pencil and writing pad and another for pouch tobacco, and most important was the one in between just made for bullet hurricane lighters. Oh yeah, I almost forgot the one on the hip that held your two-dollar Big Ben pocket watch. Well if it wasn't the real McCoy, I didn't want any part of it.
     But my mom topped everything I could have ever wished for. She made me a pair of long pants - I mean real long pants! Not only were they real grown up type long pants, but also they were made from an old army coat or some such thing that was the proper weight. Can you imagine such a thing? It was almost sacred! She zipped them up on her Singer sewing machine like a professional tailor. Well, you did that on the farm in those days. It was still the dirty thirties and if you wanted something bad enough, you made it yourself.
     Another thing you did those days was to butcher your own meat - chickens, pigs, whatever. Now you city slickers might snicker at your country kinfolk for their backward ways, but I can tell you there was no shortage of visitors from the city after such events. No one ever left the table hungry either. In fact, as I recall, at least one city slicker built his business around just such affairs. Old Charlie Oberton was an insurance salesman from town. He was the self appointed shooter any time there was butchering to be done. What he'd do on pig killing day was to get dad's old twenty-two Savage single shot rifle and pop off the selected pig from his perch on top of the pen. After it had been drawn and quartered, he'd get down to the real reason he was out there - selling more insurance of course. I tell you this so you'll know that these events were a real production, given the times.
     The very first time I got to wear my new long pants was on pig killing day at our house. You'd have thought it was my coronation, that's how excited I was. It wasn't just that I got to wear them, but I got to show them off too. How I managed to contain myself from five o'clock in the morning until about eight a.m. I'll never know. I kept going out to the back shed lean-to of the house to peer out the window for signs of my uncles and aunts coming up in their big box sleigh. That in itself was a big thing for me. I was almost as crazy about horses as I was about my new pants.
     All the chores and preparations going on around me were just so much jumble. Dad was out in the barn. Mother was hauling water in to the house and pouring it into boilers and tubs, stoking up the fire in the kitchen stove and generally getting ready for a long tiring day. She probably told me to keep an eye out for the people just to get me out from under foot.
     Finally, finally there was a faint crunch, crunch, crunch in the snow. They were coming! At last they were coming! My time had arrived! I peeked out of the frosty window to see the sleigh turning into the barnyard, puffs of steam blowing out of the horses nostrils as they crunched ever closer in the cold. The women and children who weren't at school piled out from under their blankets and headed for the house with pots and utensils. They were here!
     I just couldn't take my eyes off those beautiful horses. As the women reached the door I backed up to tell my mother they had arrived. My heel hit something and suddenly I lost my balance. Head over heel, I fell backwards into the galvanized steel bathtub that my mom had been busy filling with all that water she'd been hauling. There I was at the moment of glory, lying in a bathtub full of cold water with my brand new tailor made, never before worn long pants! Terror struck as my relatives all gathered around, standing over my wounded pride like vultures over a dying monarch. Then they - well they - they laughed.
     It was at that very moment that my chest opened and Satan struck at my very heart. It was either him or that ghost from the Indian burial mound down the road. Anger, humiliation, embarrassment and a whole lot of other emotions that I still haven't found a name for cut through me like lightning bolts. I rose like an apparition out of my watery grave and streaked through the kitchen, the dining and living room into my parents' bedroom and dove under the dresser without ever once touching the floor. Well, I did have to come out to change in to some dry sissy short pants, but other than that, there was nobody big enough to get me out from under that dresser. Not even those big beautiful horses outside could have done it that day. Nobody was going to see me like that - not even me!
     To be fair though, they all did try to contain their laughter as best they could. But let's face it; from their viewpoint I had lightened up what would otherwise have been a very hard day. Well, la dee dah - that didn't soothe my wounded pride any! As far as I was concerned, this hopeless bunch of people just couldn't grasp the gravity of the tragedy I had just suffered.
     Well, there's been a lot of water under the bridge since that fateful day and I've come to accept the shortcomings of women in general and mothers in particular when it comes to the importance of pants in a man's life, no matter what age he is. I've reached the conclusion that they just don't have what it takes to fully understand the situation.
     The situation didn't get any easier as life went on either. When we got to be teenagers for instance, the pants fashion in the city anyway, changed to what we called 'strides' which was a fitting name for what we were all about. The moms still didn't get it. They called them abominations. Nonetheless, our pants made a statement of our individuality. What they really were was pants with a wide knee and a very narrow cuff - sort of bell-bottoms in reverse. It seemed that with every criticism the designs got just a little more outrageous. It got so you had to have seams sewn on the outside of the legs. Still not good enough, you needed flaps on the back pockets. They were known as gun flaps and kind of looked like a cloth holster with buttons.
     Finally, some of the women started to get the idea, even if only a little bit. In truth, I think they were more concerned with what they called 'the new look' that involved long skirts with crinolines underneath and peasant blouses - or something unimportant like that. Some of us actually bought into that by modifying our designs to less radical creations, but deep down, we knew nothing had been learned. Are you starting to get the picture about the passionate attachment men have to their pants? Do you begin to see that some things in life are worth standing up for? Heck, I even started wearing my belt with the buckle to the side, just as a personalized accessory. Come to think of it, I still do.
     Well, it's not just me either. When my kids were much younger, the wife and I had a very special anniversary celebration. Of course, she dressed everyone up in proper fashion according to her tastes. Well that turned out to be a big mistake too. Twenty-five years later I'm still getting grief from one of my boys over that stupid sissy pants denim suit he had to wear. I'm just grateful that he had enough tact not to go flying under somebody's dresser at the time.
     Nowadays they're wearing a new kind of pants, with pockets running down both legs. There are zippers in different places so you can take off or add on leg lengths to suit your activity. Not that I understand the logic behind these new designs or I'd ever wear anything like that, but at least I respect a man's choice in design.
     Can you believe that the wife still makes me stand up on a chair while she pins up my casual grubbing around pants? I can't get it through her head that you don't hem up pants like that. You roll them up is what you do. You only hem up dress pants, for heaven's sake. These days I'd be happy with a pair of those old bib overalls except that they don't make 'Old Chum' tobacco anymore and the weird stuff they suck on these days in the 'Zig Zag' cigarette papers is no decent smoke. Besides, where would you ever find one of them old 'Hurricane' bullet lighters anyway? A man shouldn't wear stuff like that without the proper accessories.

If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp.  Introducing "TruthSeeker" 

http://worldwidesunshine.com/eMerchantPro/pc/Truthseeker-Ebook-279p657.htm

 

Old War Stories

“The hurrier we go, the behinder we get!” Well, that’s how it seems anyway. There was a time when things were done according to a certain set of standards, certain rules of protocol. You respected them, and got respect because of them. And you got the job done! Well, that no longer holds water. New ethics, new protocols, new technology, new this, that and everything else gets in the road.
Well, take wars for example. These days they don’t even know what war to get into, how to get there or who the enemy is. The dress code is way below par and they don’t even know when to go home for dinner. Is it any wonder they can’t win one?
Oh for the time when things were different.

OLD WAR STORIES
By
Victor Epp

Kids growing up in wartime when the war is someplace else have a different slant on things than they would if there was bombs and grenades going off around their ears. That’s only natural. They have no way of understanding the pain and suffering endured by innocent victims and the soldiers who get sent into battle as cannon fodder for somebody else’s ideology. Either way, for kids there’s always a real obsession with how it ought to be. To eight and ten year olds, it’s just another adventure game.
Well what’d you expect in wartime anyway? I mean, the dads and uncles and big brothers are all away overseas. The women are working in factories and warehouses. The grandmas are collecting lord knows what all for the war effort. There’s soldiers and sailors and airmen in uniforms everywhere. That’s got to affect how kids think and how they play, even when the war is far away across the ocean - especially when it’s that far away. With the radio blaring news about the war, and newspaper headlines announcing this victory and that battle, there was enough fodder there to fuel the imagination until kingdom come.
I swear most communities were cleaner and tidier those years than before or since, because if a picket would just happen to come off of somebody’s fence, it immediately turned into a rifle. All you needed was a Swede saw to shape it and an auger and drill bit for the trigger hole and you were in business. Folks didn’t leave empty cardboard boxes around either. They made the best tanks and airplanes and jeeps and who knows what all else. You could even draw pictures on them. Not only that, but when you got into a pitched battle with the enemy, they would really get wrecked, which made it all the more realistic. Once they were battered beyond any use, you could always put them in the burn barrel, which is more than you can say for the real McCoy.
We probably fought every battle there ever was, and likely did it better than anybody’s army. Oh, we died, and got limbs blown off and had our positions destroyed, just like the real thing, but we always managed to get it over with in time for supper or to go and deliver our newspapers. The only real casualties besides our weapons and equipment were our clothes. Well, that and our egos if we happened to have been the enemy that day. That was a bummer - being the enemy, I mean. It meant you had to lose of course, and the only way you could get any respect out of it was to die with flair. It got so you could be a sniper, shot out of a tree and fall, screaming all the way to the ground, roll and writhe around a bit, and never be the worse for wear.
Of course there was always your neighborhood klutz around who couldn’t dodge a pebble without getting hurt. I remember this one kid, Skinny Butler - his dad was in the army, overseas. He was kind of weird anyway, maybe because he was stuck in the middle of all those women. Seems there was always two or three aunties around the house. Unless you knew the family, you were never sure who his mother was. There were women coming and going around that house all the time. They all had boyfriends too, mostly soldiers. That was a whole other source of entertainment, watching the romantic goings on. From my vantage point, I could always peek around the front corner of our house across the alley and through the neighbors’ empty lot to the Butlers’ back porch. There was always somebody saying hello or goodbye with a sense of urgency - regular soap opera, it was.
Well, Skinny liked to play war too, and he was no chicken either. But he had a penchant for the olden days, stuff like Robin Hood, King Arthur, and stuff like that. Heck, what did I care? War was war and we were both battle-hardened veterans. We could make bows and arrows and swords as easy as Lügers and Sten guns. In fact, we could even make crossbows if we had a mind to. Stan Cater made one once out of a piece of two by four and an old car leaf spring and some clothes line cable he found at the dump. It took three guys to cock the bow and when it went off, it split the arrow right down the middle without even moving it off the groove, that’s how powerful it was. We were pretty well smart enough not to fool around with the thing after that.
Anyway, getting back to Skinny and me, these ‘Olden Days’ war games would start out nice enough. Skinny had the language down pat too. He loved to attack ‘yon’ hill and ‘smite’ the enemy. The two of us would terrorize the empty field behind the auto body shop, through the ditch and over the railway tracks and into the school yard ‘til there was no place left for the enemy to hide. Well, you could only do that for so long before you needed something more than your imagination for an enemy. I mean, it was just no challenge that way. So, Skinny and me, we’d choose up sides - just the two of us. Not that we were mad at each other, but at least that way, we’d have a real enemy to ‘vanquish’. Big mistake.
The thing was, we’d start off kind of formal like, just the way we figured proper knights would do. Sometimes we’d even have newspaper or cardboard tied to our arms for armor. Before long, we’d find ourselves getting more enthusiastic as our imaginations got pumped up and sure enough Skinny would end up with a nosebleed. Then we’d end up having to stay in our own yard for a day or two. You’d think we’d have learned.
See, Skinny had three problems when it came to playing these games. First, he was full of bravado - that’s just the way he was. Of course, he was bigger than me so it came quite natural. Second, he was about as clumsy as they come. That sure don’t help nothin when you’re a knight of the round table. Third, he had a very sensitive nose. I swear that if you yelled at him loud enough, his nose would start to bleed. Actually, he had a fourth problem, which was the worst of all, the one that kept getting us both into trouble. He couldn’t stand the sight of blood. He always knew it was coming. First he’d dare me to smite him if we were playing David and Goliath. Of course I’d oblige. I’d try to smite his arm with the side of my ‘sword’ but he would move and end up getting his bugle smote. He’d panic and go screaming home to mama. I don’t think he ever squealed on me but of course, mama always knew who smote her kid and she’d be out there, shaking her fist at the corner of our house. Next thing I knew, I’d be trimming the front lawn with hand clippers, which took about three or four days, if I worked at it.
We learned our war tactics from old Wallace Beery; toughest, ugliest U.S. Marine that ever walked the face of the earth (at least in our local movie theatre). But heck, he could save the whole world before breakfast single-handed and never even break a sweat. He had stuff hanging out all over him; his big butt hung out his pants at the back, his big gut hung out his pants at the front. There was always a smoke hung out of the corner of his mouth. (At least it was a tailor made, not like them cowboy roll-your-owns). Jeez, he was even ugly in his dress uniform when he was being awarded whatever medal was popular in the movie. Is it any wonder we grew up wearing baggy clothes and having tailor mades hanging out the corner of our mouths?
Oh, we knew the difference between make believe and reality though. On the way to a Wallace Beery movie, we had to pass one of the city’s water reservoirs. There was always an armed guard patrolling the top of the ridge there, twenty-four hours a day. At night they even had searchlights. Now those guys had real guns. Somebody told somebody, who told somebody that if you got too close, or ever, ever touched the chain link fence perimeter, they wouldn’t think twice about blowing your brains out. They had orders to shoot to kill and by God, that impressed us some. Of course, we never had the good sense to walk the next block over because that way we’d have been unable to see these trained killers, but we were smart enough to cross the street before we got there. By the time we got to the movie, we always felt like we’d survived the first encounter by the enemy.
The newspapers and the radio, - now that was something else. They were confusing to us kids, to say the least. Either they talked in code, or were just plain stupid according to us. We could never figure out such statements as ‘missing in action’, or ‘lost in the campaign’. What? Didn’t those guys know where they were going that they’d get lost? The weirdest one was taking time to ‘remember our fallen’. Cripes! We fell down all the time! We never bitched about it. The worst thing that ever happened to us was a good smack in the head for having gotten our clothes all dirty. The only good thing ever to come out of the radio was a program called ‘Lancaster (something or other)’. Harold Markowitz couldn’t wait to tell in class one morning that those guys could see right through the radio. It seems that when his dad came home from work one day when the program was on he was about to change the dial to the news when this program was getting ready to do a commercial. Just as Mr. Markowitz’ hand touched the radio, the announcer said ‘Don’t touch that dial’ with such conviction, it scared the old man into leaving the program on, figuring somebody might be spying on him. Well, one of my uncles summed it up this way after returning from overseas. He said don’t believe anything you hear, no more’n ten percent of what you read, and only half of what you see. I guess that’s pretty accurate.
Well as the war closed and the men started coming home, we also were growing up. There were different things to interest us. Souvenirs taken from the enemy, Army and Navy surplus clothing like flight jackets, cargo pants and the like. One of the guys brought in his big brother’s steel cigarette case with a bullet hole right in the middle of it. The story was that he had had it in his tunic pocket when he was hit. The bullet pierced the cigarette case just enough to go about half an inch into his chest. He bragged that smoking had saved his brother’s life, which was all the more reason for us to do it. That piece of memorabilia even topped the odd Lüger or enemy bayonet we saw.
But I’ll tell you what. Old Mr. Cook who was our English Teacher in High School summed it up about as accurately as you could want it. For a mousy little bespectacled man, he was sure full of surprises. We were studying a book called ‘The White Company’ that was from about the same era as Skinny Butler and my adventures. We were supposed to do our own reading but he couldn’t help himself but get right in there like a dirty shirt. According to him, the era in which the book was set was when war was war by gum! The armies at least had the good sense to get out there in the selected battlefield at an early hour, fight like banshees all day long with their kings and generals at the head of the column. By late in the afternoon, they had the decency to call it a day, take care of their dead and wounded, and have their supper and all that. Now see, us kids could understand that. We’d had the same idea just a few years before.
Anyway, the more he dwelled on it, the grumpier he got. Heck, the way wars were being fought these days, he said, what with people shooting at one another from half a mile distant and the generals and presidents and kings all hunkered down in some safe cozy place miles away, you might just as well not even bother. Mr. Cook was a WWI war veteran so he did know something about a real shooting war. I guess that was why he got so grouchy. Whatever happened to hand to hand combat, he would say, his voice rising as he got more and more worked up. Whatever happened to picking out a good battlefield and proving yourself, man to man without blowing up half a world full of innocent people? The way it was now, the enemy was so far away, you couldn’t tell who you were shooting at. You might just as easily kill somebody’s cow, or kid for that matter, the way things were. And the Prime ministers and kings and generals always got the worst of his tirade. According to Mr. Cook they were all a bunch of lily-livered cowards who had never seen a battlefield except in the movies. He said if the armies followed them like they did Genghis Khan or Hannibal or Charlemagne, they’d all end up on different golf courses.
Well, if you think about it, he had a point. He was sure a feisty little guy for a five foot two, hundred and twenty pound English teacher - probably had a bit of a Napoleon complex. He’d even go to all the football games just to see the combat. Of course the kids would fill him full of cokes and hot dogs and he’d spend the next three days with indigestion. But he took it like the man he was.
Well, sooner or later you got to grow up, if that’s the right word for it, and put all your war games aside, because the next batch of kids is coming into the world. There’s no more time for heroes or for saving the world because you’re too busy feeding the little buggers to worry about that sort of nonsense. It isn’t until you can sit back and take a breather that you realize the brood you’re raising is just about as butt ugly as Wallace Beery. They got body parts hanging out the back and the front, with joints hanging out the corner of their mouths, but they haven’t got the muscles to drag themselves any further than the video game screen. Then some idiot with a Ph.D. in ‘Stupid’ comes up with the idea that these games develop good hand eye co-ordination. Sometimes I get the notion to pick up a picket fence sword and smite them a couple of times. Let’s see how good their hand eye co-ordination would be then. Why, I’ll bet the WWII vets, even the dead ones could still beat the pants off these geeks. Jeez! Even the world leaders, hiding at their country clubs gotta drive around in golf carts. They probably even got power steering on them contraptions too.
The more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to agree with old Mr. Cook, rest his soul. Only thing is though, he seemed kind of bitter. He was probably looking at us and thinking the same thing I’m thinking about the young folks around here. It’s just too bad that ‘hand/eye co-ordination’ Ph.D. guy couldn’t figure out how we could co-ordinate our eyes to see the hurt we’ve managed to inflict on people and use our hands to heal the wounds instead of playing video games. Well, I guess we already know how to do that, but it just isn’t a popular pastime. Maybe it’s as simple as going back to picket fence slats and cardboard boxes where our leaders pick a field of combat and lead the column. Maybe that way our soldiers could become heroes again instead of the shattered shells of humanity they’re made into, we could still have our wars and be home in time for chores and supper.

If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp.  Introducing "TruthSeeker" 

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Me and the Kid and Firrecrackers

     One of our "Over-the-hill" mentioned to me the other day - did I remember when we as kids used to have wars with "Cannon Balls", shooting them into each others yards from across the street? "Cannon Balls" of course are/were firecrackers that would shoot balls of colored fire out to explode into a ball of sparks in time delay fashion. Well, who could forget that? How the world ever escaped being set afire at our hands I'll never know.

     Well, that got me to thinking about fire crackers. Seems that my generation isn't the only one to be obsessed by firecrackers - or more accurately, pyrotechnics. Here - let me tell you about it.

Me and the Kid

And Firecrackers

The kid says to me, "Can we go get some lady fingers?" he says.

          "Have a peanut butter sandwich," I says. I thought he was talking about cookies.

          It took him a minute to figure out where my mind was at. Then he got it. "No, not cookies." He eyes me kind of funny. "Firecrackers! They're called lady fingers!"

          "What?" I wanted to know. "They still make those things?"

          The kid was surprised. He never figured I even knew about ladyfingers. "Yeah," he says, "They're cool."

          About this time my mind leaves the conversation. It drifts back, way back to a time when I remember two or three boys, maybe eleven - twelve years old have got their heads together to think up something to do. Not that there isn't always something to do, but if you've done it before it loses it's edge. No, you've got to invent something new.

          The time I'm talking about is just after WW II. Our heads were still full of airplanes and battleships and tanks and blowing everything to smithereens. Of course our experience with death and destruction came mainly from the movies, so we had kind of a different perspective on things.

Blowing up bombers or sinking destroyers had everything to do with pyrotechnics and nothing to do the loss of human life as far as we were concerned. And we could blow things up with the best of them.

          Boys of that age are endowed with some extraordinary talents. It must be in the genes. Firstly, every last one of them is a demolition expert. That's a given. Next, most know how to build stuff – after a fashion. Well, you can't destroy something unless you build it first. The other necessary ingredient is the usual over abundance of imagination born into every boy. You stir all that in a mixing pot and voila! There’s a whole stew of fun and adventure.

          Up to now, most of our model building had been centered on model airplanes. Every model of fighter and bomber ever built in the real world could be had at St. John's hobby shop. We'd spend hours with balsa wood, glue, colored tissue paper and airplane dope on these things only to have them crash on their maiden flight. Then we'd patch them up and do it all over again.

          Well, normally that was good enough to keep us occupied between other adventures during the year. But given all our special talents, come Queen Victoria's birthday when there were fireworks all over the place, that just didn't cut it. Maybe the fireworks were good enough for the old folks and two-year-olds, but after you’d seen it once it was just plain boring. What a waste!

Even lighting these little ladyfingers and throwing them at the girls wasn't all that much of a sport because they always told their mothers on us. That was more trouble than it was worth. No, we had bigger fish to fry.

          We soon figured out how to build a big destroyer ship from left over balsa wood and paper and airplane dope. We could make it go too with a rubber band and propeller from one of our wrecked model planes.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Before the days of paved roads and curbs and sewers and all, there were ditches on all the streets to drain rain and spring run-off water. We had all kinds of uses for those ditches, one being to sail destroyer ships in.

          Where was I? Oh yeah - ladyfingers. They used to come in little packages with the wicks all braided together by one long wick. That meant you could string them out in a long line and you'd have them popping off one after the other like machine-gun fire until you ran out of ladyfingers. Either that or you could pull them out one by one, light the wick and throw them at somebody. The thing was that they were small - couldn't do much damage by themselves. They were only about three-quarters of an inch long and about the thickness of a fat pencil lead. There was maybe fifty in a single pack.

         

          So what we did was load the inside of our self-designed destroyer with ladyfingers. When everything was in place, we’d wind up the propeller attached to several loops of rubber band. The wick was kind of short so you had to hold the thing in the water while somebody struck a match. If you didn't let go soon enough, you could wind up with about two hundred ladyfingers going off in your face. Of course, that was part of the challenge.

          When she blew, it was just like in the movies - even better! There was a rapid-fire set of explosions that lasted half way past the neighbor's place before she sunk. That was the best piece of demolition we'd ever pulled off! We've been talking about it ever since.

          I wouldn't have told you about all this except that's what I told the kid.

          "Cool," he says.

          A while later he says, "Can I invite my friend over? He's got a whole bunch of ladyfingers."

          I figure, why not? We don't have any model boats to blow up mind, but we ought to be able to find something. Besides, if I'm there to supervise, what can go wrong?

"Okay," I tell him.

          So the friend's dad drives him over - says he'll pick him up about four. Soon as he's gone the boys want to get at blowing things up.

Nothing else is on their destructive little minds. Well, like I said, you've got to build something before you can blow it up, and I'm racking my brain.

          "How many ladyfingers you got?" I ask the friend.

          He hauls a whole fist full out of his pocket and shows them to me.

          "Holy Hannah!" I yell. "Those are no ladyfingers! They're Block- busters!" They're at least two inches long and as fat as a whole pencil. I know what those things can do! They can blow a Campbell's soup can twelve feet in the air if you set them right.

          "No," say the boys both together and show me the package. They're ladyfingers all right. “What can we blow up?"

          Old shingles and stones from the gravel driveway on a piece of tin, you name it and we blew it up. It was one of those magic afternoons you reminisce about. Only this time I was old enough to have some common sense about safety precautions. Still, it took me right back to my boyhood. I wouldn't trade that afternoon for all the rice in China. All too soon four o'clock rolls around and the dad shows up to collect his boy and the kid heads for the television. Me - I climb on the lawn tractor and mow the grass, all smug and self-satisfied.

          About six-thirty or so I'm outside doing something I can't remember what when a cruiser car comes slinking down our driveway. The Mountie pokes his head out the window and how dee do's himself. I do the same back. He tells me the neighbors called to say they heard some shooting in the afternoon that sounded like it came from here.

          “No kiddin’,” I said, trying to think how I’d answer him without telling a big whopper.

          Well, you just can't go around lying now can you? What sort of example would that set? You've got to tell the truth and that's all there is to it. So I said I hadn't heard any shooting, which was the truth. Heck we don't even have any guns. I could have said it was just the boys and me setting off some firecrackers, but I didn't know if that was legal, so I didn't.

          But I felt I owed the cop something more so I offered that I'd just finished cutting the grass - about three acres of it. When that lawn tractor is going, you can't hear a thing so I couldn't rightly tell. That was the truth too. But I asked had they checked on that road behind us? It's kind of lovers' lane of sorts where anything can happen. The Mountie allowed that he might, and left. I haven't seen him since.

          Of course when I got inside, everybody wanted to know what was up. They were kind of excited to see a cruiser car at our place. I told them they were here because they had a complaint about shooting going on around here.

          The kid's eyes bugged right out of his head. "What did you tell them?" You could see he was already imagining himself in handcuffs and being hauled off in a cruiser car.

          "I told them the truth," I said casually. "I told them I didn't hear any shooting going on here this afternoon." Then I added, "You got to tell the truth, especially to the cops. Otherwise you'll get in big trouble."

          "Cool." Says the kid.

            I never got chewed out for that one neither. I guess I still got what it takes.

If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp.  Introducing "TruthSeeker" 

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Earth Child and the Dream Cloud

Cynicism, ridicule, derision, hardship; these are the sticks and stones thrown in the path of fulfilling one's dreams. If we succumb to them, all we are left with is pain and dejection. This little parable is meant to illustrate that.While the story comes out of my imagination, people like Terry Fox, Rick Hansen, even the Famous People Players will tell you it's true. I hope you enjoy the story and take it to heart.

Earth Child and the Dream Cloud

Earth Child was running, running, running. But he could not run fast enough to escape Wind. Wind was everywhere, blasting sand and dirt, tree branches and even dead grass blades at Earth Child. They hurt! Oh how they hurt as they pierced him. The driving sand lashed his eyes so he could not see. Soon he became lost in the storm. The dead grass blades whipped his face and hands. It stung horribly. And the twigs and branches that pelted his body cut him and broke his bones.

Still Earth Child ran, blindly staggering this way and that, stumbling, falling, picking himself up and running again. He tried desperately to escape Wind. But Wind would not let him out of his grasp. He swirled and whirled around Earth Child, changing directions at will, forming little eddies to pick up more debris to hurl relentlessly at Earth Child. He was indeed an ill wind that blew evil upon the boy.

Even so, Earth Child kept running. He had to get away from Wind. It was too painful. But he was tiring and could not outrun Wind. His legs grew weak and began to tremble. Blindly, he ran into something very hard that knocked him down. He did not know what it was and did not care. Dazed, he slowly tried to raise himself from the ground. But Wind was howling and screaming around his ears, throwing even more bits and pieces of debris at Earth Child. It was hard, hard, very hard but he knew he must try.

With all his might Earth Child heaved himself upright against Wind’s mighty blast. He rubbed his eyes to get the sand out of them and see where he was going. But the blood on his hands from the cuts he had received blinded him even more. And the salty tears smeared over his hands, getting into the wounds and stinging them.

It was too much! It was just too much for Earth Child. He was exhausted, had nothing left to fight off the evil Wind. With trembling legs and a desperate heart he began to sink back down to the ground. Wind blew even harder, making sure to finish Earth Child off once and for all. Now he would be lost forever and that was what Wind was all about.

Earth Child’s fall seemed to take a long time, as though it was in slow motion. Part way down the stinging and pain began to ease. He was conscious of a soft touch enveloping him, holding him close. Wind’s screams became quieter, more distant. Still he was sinking down, slowly, being laid to rest on a soft blanket that wrapped around him and nestled close around his whole body. It was warm, and quiet, and comforting. Here Earth Child felt safe from Wind and soon he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

And Earth Child began to dream. The most beautiful dream unfolded in his sleep. He could see himself clearly, walking through the forest and coming eventually to a large clearing by the lake.

Even though a storm was still blowing over the water and spilling on to the shore, it did not touch him. When he looked down he noticed a wispy vapor covering his whole body. The storm raging all around him could not penetrate the delicate soft blanket. The debris it churned up fell useless and spent at Earth Child’s feet and he walked freely through it as though it didn’t exist.

How strange this was, and how comforting. Curious, Earth Child began examining the vapor around him more closely. Splashes of brilliant color wove their way through the milky substance, dancing and undulating in the sun’s rays. They intertwined through one another in dazzling patterns like a magical prism, changing again and again into different displays within the mist surrounding them.

Earth Child did not know what to make of this. Each burst of color was new, yet it looked familiar. Had he seen it before – somewhere?  He looked closer and realized it wasn’t what he saw that was familiar, but rather what he felt when the colors sprang forth. For as long as he could remember Earth Child had dreamed of being a peacemaker among his people, perhaps even among nations. The very thought of it had colored his world, so good was the feeling. Now those colors were all around him, trapped in this soft misty cloud blanketing him.

Still in his dream, Earth Child came to realize that this was his Dream Cloud. This was what sheltered him from all the harshness in the world around him.

As long as he kept it and his life’s dreams close, anything that Wind blew at him fell harmlessly at his feet. It was only when he forgot about his dreams that Dream Cloud moved away. Then he was exposed and vulnerable. Yes, this was his Dream Cloud.

Earth Child awoke from his deep sleep. It was calm all around him. He discovered that he had blindly run in to an old tree stump when he had fallen. Before he got to his feet he examined his body and the scars and bruises on it. To his surprise they were starting to heal. It must be Dream Cloud. He realized that so long as he did not let go of his life’s dreams, the hurts and bruises he received in following them would heal and nothing could destroy his spirit.

Earth Child rose from the ground and began to walk back to his home, hugging his dreams close. There was a faint, bright aura around him. He thought to himself, perhaps if he had a Dream Cloud of his own, others must have them too, if only they knew about them. Perhaps he would help others find them. Maybe then the world would be a more gentle, peaceful place. Maybe that was a good way to be a peacemaker.

Somewhere in the eastern sky a burst of light flashed and streaked downward. Most who saw it would think it was a comet or a shooting star. Earth Child knew better.    

  

Me and the Wife and Fertilizer

After a long and harmonious marriage, one tends to take for granted the ability to read and interpret one's partner's thoughts. It's a little like ESP. You feel what the other is thinking deep in your bones. Generally that's true, but every once in a while the male radar stops functioning. He becomes instantly lost beyond redemption and has absolutely no idea how it happened. Well, let me give you a for instance:


Me and the Wife and Fertilizer

The other day I heard my wife muttering away in Dutch, “Dit gat kaput, en dat gat kaput! “ She doesn’t generally revert back to her mother tongue unless there is something particularly exciting, beautiful or most often, disgusting to catch her attention. I hadn’t noticed any of the above.

“What?” I asked from behind my newspaper.

“Oh, that host on morning television was just making a joke about his aging father coming to visit. Something about the old guy creaking and groaning around the house like a rusty old hinge.”

“Oh.” Obviously the morning man had touched a nerve. At least it wasn’t me.

“Well,” she said, ”young people seem to think we’re so old. They don’t believe it will ever happen to them. At that age people still figure they’re invincible. I know that’s how I felt, even in my thirties and forties. Back then I thought that my mother was really old. She was barely in her seventies at the time. And look at me now.” She rubbed arthritic her arm for emphasis, as if the guy on the other side of the TV screen would pay attention and take a lesson from it.

Obviously, the whole business either went right over his head, or he didn’t care one way or the other because he announced that they had to break for commercials and he’d be right back. So much for that, I thought.

Well, I felt duty bound to step in here with some words of wisdom. I don’t know exactly what point I was trying to make when I told the wife that the new pope was eight years older than I was and he was taking on a whole new career. I was probably trying to reassure her that people can be useful at any age. We old timers are likely tougher and have more stamina than any of these young whippersnappers anyway.

“ No, no,” she returned. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Rats, I’d missed the point again!

“No, I was thinking about life’s ironies,” she continued wistfully. “First, babies are born and they’re so beautiful. Then they grow and grow into adults. Finally they start on the downhill slope and slowly everything starts to wear out until it all falls apart. The last blow as they age, is that they lose their minds and become like infants again. The only difference is that now instead of being tiny and beautiful, they’re just plain ugly. That’s the final insult.”

Ah vanity, only a woman would think of such things.

“Fertilizer,” I said. It was obviously not the most profound choice of replies.

“What in the world,” she gave me that disdainful, long suffering look of someone burdened with having to put up with conversations totally beneath her intelligence, “has fertilizer got to do with anything?”

“The cycle of life,” I explained philosophically. “A tiny seed sprouts out of the ground and grows into the most beautiful flower.” With the way my wife loves flowers, I thought this would be a perfect analogy.

“It blooms and blossoms into glorious color,” I continued eloquently, certain that I was tuned in to her train of thought, “producing and nurturing its seeds until they are ready to be taken by the wind to stand on their own.”

I was really getting into it now. “As a final act of love and kindness for its offspring, the flower sacrifices its own beauty, withers, dies and rots in the ground to fertilize and feed its young.”

For good measure I threw in, “it’s like martyrdom for the good of creation. Thus the cycle continues.”

The blank stare I got hinted that we were perhaps not in the same conversation, or the same planet, for that matter.

Finally the light in my brain went on. “You’re unhappy with your hair color again, aren’t you?” I suggested.

“Oh, shut up,” she explained.

Well at least it wasn’t Dutch.

If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp.  Introducing "TruthSeeker" 

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When I wrote this story, I was thinking of Clara Hughes and her incredible 5,000 meter speed skating race in the 2006 Winter Olympics. Still 200 meters away from the finish line she had burned up the last of the energy her body had to offer. There was absolutely nothing left! But somehow she reached down deep within her spirit to deliver her to victory. Crossing the finish line, Clara collapsed on the ice, unconscious.

Her senses slowly returned and she realized that she was alive. SHE WAS ALIVE! Even after her body had made the ultimate sacrifice and left her, her indomitable inner spirit had answered the call for help and carried her through to her goal.

The gold medal she won in this extraordinary race paled in comparison to the exhilaration of total 'aliveness' that washed over her. She literally beamed as she stood on the podium with Cindy Klassen, and her completeness radiated from her like an infectious beacon, sweeping the others up in her celebration.

Clara used to train at Sargent Park in Winnipeg in the early days. That was where I had last strapped on a pair of speed skates - about the time when Clara first came into this world. So I can't help but feel a certain kinship with her, although she doesn't know me from Adam.

So what started out to be a story about speed skating isn't about that at all. It's about unconquerable power of the spirit that lies within every one of us, if only we call upon it. It gives me goosebumps when I think about it.

I guess I've written another parable. Here it is.

Call the Wind

He wouldn’t even have noticed the old couple occupying the wood bench next to the track except for the old geyser's outlandish get-up. Even now he blocked them out of his mind. He needed to focus on what was probably the most important preparation before tomorrow’s big event. Everyone had his own way of mentally preparing for the race and, unorthodox as it was, this was Ethan's way.

That was the hard won deal he had made with Coach - no prying eyes, no controlled exercises or stopwatches, and no Coach. The last day before the race had to be his and his alone. After that he would be ready for whatever Coach told him. Coach didn’t like it one bit. The painstaking regimen to bring the young athlete to peak at race time could all be wiped out in one reckless day, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was the only way he could get Ethan to race for his club. The kid was a rising star and there was no way that Coach would lose him over a disagreement, so he grudgingly gave in.

Now it was just before dawn. At the only outdoor skating oval in town Ethan stood alone in the biting winter air, ignoring the old pair on the bench. He knew his strategy was risky. One fall on the less than perfect ice, one small injury and it could all be over before it even began. Nevertheless, he needed to perform the ritual to tighten every nerve in his body taut as a drawn bowstring, something like pulling back the hammer on the starting pistol.

When it fired to signal the start of the race Ethan would catapult from the starting line as though he himself was the missile. Raw nerves and hair-trigger reaction gave him his remarkable speed. The training he'd undergone under the supervision of Coach would hopefully provide the stamina.

One slow lap around the track to check for foreign objects on the ice was all he allowed himself for insurance. The ritual was always the same. Standing at an old faded starting line, Ethan closed his eyes. He forced his mind back to that day in the mountains three years ago. Slowly the terrifying imagery returned. Little by little his memory of the muted avalanche roar began to seep in to his consciousness. The old panic pangs knotted his stomach, bunched his muscles and drew his body into an involuntary crouch. Conjuring up the deafening roar of that approaching mountain of snow, Ethan exploded out of the starting line flailing his arms propel himself beyond the reach of the thundering avalanche with his imaginary ski poles, and driving his powerful legs over the track before him. Just as the combination of exhilaration and fear had given him the strength and speed to cheat the killer descending on him that day, so the resurrection of its memory now awakened his senses and unleashed the power he possessed.

Ethan would keep up this breakneck pace as long as his muscles and his lungs held out. He could only hope they would last for the whole ten thousand meters.

He would push it to the point of total fatigue and then go home to a long, luxurious hot bath and sleep until race time tomorrow. By then the muscles would have recovered enough to be fresh and taught as today. His mind would be cleared of everything but the race.

Right now though, he didn’t need any distractions. There was a lot at stake. It was a national championship and Ethan had never competed in anything more than five thousand. Still, he couldn’t help a sideways glance at the two shadowy figures at the side of the oval. They were two old people wrapped in buffalo robes.

The old man had pushed the woman’s wheelchair to the rickety old bench at the side of the track and seated himself beside her. Even in the dim lamplight Ethan caught a glimpse of the three-colored knitted skullcap pulled tightly over the man’s head. Red, white and blue stripes ran vertically down it, even to the long earflaps. Ethan pulled his focus back to his undertaking, looking straight ahead and digging his skates in even harder.

The next lap around the track found Ethan reluctantly stealing another sideways glance. The man had disappeared, leaving the woman alone under her buffalo robe. He shook his head as though to rid himself of the distraction. The smallest things could throw him off in the days leading up to a big race. He had to keep his mind on business and shut everything else out. ‘Avalanche’, he kept repeating with every stroke of his blades, ‘avalanche’.

By the fifteenth lap Ethan’s legs started to burn. Until now they had propelled him forward easily with mighty piston strokes, pumping acceleration at the corners and gliding in long easy strokes on the straight-aways. He was beginning to labor. The icy air seared his lungs like a thousand hot knives with every gasp. With ten laps to go he was fading too soon. Ethan renewed his resolve. He knew he’d outpaced himself but he didn’t care. The idea was to drive body and soul to the point of failure. He would finish the ten thousand meters at his absolute maximum speed, or collapse in the effort. Tomorrow would be the day to take a more measured pace.

The rip, rip, rip of the sharp long blades cutting into the ice gave a certain sense of raw power. It was the indescribable sound of mastery over the frozen track, commanding it to yield to the steady piston-like strokes of Ethan’s powerful legs. They sounded as strong as ever, stronger, according to the increasing sound. After a few minutes, Ethan sensed something was not right.

On instinct he swung his head around, expecting to see his phantom avalanche. There, right behind him was the old man, striding stroke for stroke like some apparition of the red baron on skates with the earflaps on his skullcap flying in the wind. The now baggy wool tights belied the power in the old man’s legs that generated long smooth strokes in time with Ethan’s own.

The sudden shock of this vision brought on a new adrenaline rush as Ethan leaned in to the corner, his right arm swinging for momentum, bending him forward for more thrust. His knees burned in protest and the powerful thigh muscles began to tremble. He was close to collapse. Air – he needed air to feed his struggling body.

Without looking back, he knew the old man was gaining on him. Ethan was confused. Was fatigue clouding his mind or was he really seeing the impossible ancient figure overtaking him? He labored on even more determinedly.

In perfect sync, the old man had gained enough to pull up beside Ethan. He must take some awful long strides. And where did this spindly cartoon character get that kind of strength anyway? It wasn’t human. Well it wouldn’t be for long anyway. The man seemed to be gasping for breath. Any minute now he’d keel over – just what Ethan needed. But then he realized that it wasn’t gasping the old man was doing. He was saying something in a raspy long breath. It sounded like he was saying ‘wiiiiiind’ in a hoarse whine.

“You’re runnin’ out of oxygen sonny”, the old man rasped. “You’ll never finish that way”.

Ethan was shocked at the calm easy voice. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t answer. The man was right. Every muscle in his body was screaming for air.

“It’s all right there for the asking. You just got to ask”. The man was no longer gasping, but breathing and speaking normally. “Just call the wind. He’ll fill your lungs and you’ll skate forever – like this”. He sucked in a long breath in concert with his blade stroke, forming a deep rasping word that sounded like he was saying ‘wind’. On the next stroke he exhaled, repeating the same sound. “Do it”, he said to Ethan.

With his lungs about ready to burst and his legs failing, there was nothing else to do but try. For the length of each stroke he emulated the old one, first inhaling the word ‘wind’ and on the next stroke, exhaling it.

“Keep doing it”, said the old man and lengthened his stride, pulling away.

He needed such intense concentration to co-ordinate his breathing with his stride that Ethan didn’t notice the man and the woman in the wheelchair leave the track. He actually finished the forty laps and at the end, was skating easier, re-energized by the breathing regimen. It was true. He felt he could skate forever. Now when he wanted to thank the man, he was nowhere to be found. He’d simply vanished, leaving only wheelchair tracks in the snow.

Ethan turned in to the clubhouse to change and head for home. He never said a word about his bizarre encounter to anyone. No one would believe him anyway, especially Coach. He hardly believed it himself and there was no use getting into arguments about tactics the day before such a big event.

Still, when he bent down from the podium to receive his gold medal, Ethan’s thoughts went to the strange old man in his outlandish clothing. Had they not met, this wouldn’t be happening. He tried in vain to spot him among the crowd of spectators. This medal belonged as much to him as to Ethan.

It wasn’t until after all the presentations and the attendant hoopla were over that Coach got Ethan in a quiet corner. “Just what did you think you were doing out there?” he exploded. “With all that moaning, I thought you were going to die right there on the track! I nearly sent the medics out there after you. You scared the pants off me and everybody else out there”!

Ethan couldn’t think of a logical response. “I was calling the wind”, he said simply. It was the truth.

“Calling the wind? Calling the wind?” Coach was incredulous. “Who do you suddenly think you are, Earl Jensen”?

“Nope. Who’s Earl Jensen”?

“It doesn’t matter” Coach shot back. “The point is, we laid out a strict regimen for you to follow. That’s how you got to where you are today. If you expect me to continue coaching you, we’ll have no more of that crap”!

“Who’s Earl Jensen”?

“Just the fastest skater that ever strapped on a pair of racing skates, that’s who.

But he kind of went off his nut after his wife was paralyzed in a freak accident. Before that she could skate nearly as good as him. After she was laid up in her wheelchair he used to go flying around the ice faster than ever, howling like a banshee. Folks used to say he was skating for the both of them and howling to the wind to get her legs back.”

“So what’s wrong with that?” Ethan said out loud. “He was still flying wasn’t he”? On the inside he was getting an eerie feeling.

“Well”, said Coach, “people started to get afraid of him so he wasn’t invited to competitions anymore. The old coot even put special treads on his wife’s wheelchair. He would skate around the track pushing her in the chair until the club stopped him from doing it”.

“That doesn’t seem so crazy, Coach. Makes perfect sense to me. Whatever happened to them”?

“Well, she died in ’38, and Earl didn’t last much longer after that. Without his lady and with not being able to race anymore, I guess life just wasn’t worth it. He just sort of petered out. It’s a shame, really.”

“You got a picture of this Earl Johnson”?

“Jensen”, Coach corrected. “Hey! What’s going on in that head of yours? I don’t like it one bit. I’m your coach and I’m the one who tells you what to think. You might have done well in this race but your not nearly ready for the worlds yet. You've got a week off before we start again. You’d better have all that crap out of your head by then if you want to skate for me.”

Ethan had heard enough. “Have a nice life”, he said quietly and turned on his heel. Coach needed him more than he needed Coach. He’d come around in a day or two, but for now Ethan left the man with his mouth open, unable to speak.

Instead of going home, Ethan headed for the old clubhouse. It was late and no one was there. He threw his skates over the chain link fence and scrambled over after them. He stripped down to his tights and jersey and laced up. As he stepped on to the oval, he looked up. “This one’s for you Earl”, he said out loud as he started to stride on the ice.

‘Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind –Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind’, Ethan chanted in rhythm to his strides. Longer, ever longer grew his powerful strokes, pumping his legs through the corners like hydraulic pistons. ‘Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind –Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind’, gaining incredible speed on the straightaway, he was flying. Ethan knew he could skate forever if he wanted to.