It was just a few weeks before the Christmas of 2017 that my story took place. I had been left alone to my own devices while my wife was in a neighboring town visiting our daughter and son-in-law and our two grandchildren.
Being no stranger to fending for myself and enjoying the brief bit of solitude, I made my simple supper consisting of a can of soup and peanut butter sandwich which I ate while watching the nightly local news under the scrutiny and supervision of the dog.
I had finished my meager feast and was catching up on all the local happenings. The dog had retired to the couch after a long day of guarding the house against intruders when it hit me. The craving. The longing. The need. I wanted desert! Something sweet and now.
Franticly I began my search. All the places known to the Grandkids revealed nothing. Kitchen refrigerator and freezer, kitchen drawers, and even Judy’s secret hiding place for her baking adornments were barren. I began contemplating a trip into town to quench my pastry lust. Even though that would mean a change of clothing from my comfy jogging pants (Yea, right, I jog) and at least fifteen minutes travel time.
Then I remembered the freezer in the basement. Hidden within its deep dark bowels lay a virtual cornucopia, a plethora if you will, of Christmas cookies. Made by my wife, Judy, and frozen for the time being until Christmas when the wealth of homemade goodness of the many dozen pastry treats are to be enjoyed by family and friends in celebration of the season and the birth of Christ.
Slowly I opened the lid. My heart was beating hard and my mouth was watering at the sight of all the sugary temptations that lay below. I tactfully maneuvered a tray out of its frozen vault and with great stealth, carried my tasty treasure to the kitchen.
But my stolen riches are frozen harder than granite slices. “How do I thaw them?” I questioned myself. Do I thaw them quickly in the nuclear reactor that hovers overhead and risk an over temp and perhaps a melt down? Or let them warm at room temperature and risk them being seen by my wife before they are thawed and devoured like a stranded sailor.
In my need for a sugar fix, I decided on a little bit of both would suffice quite nicely. I laid them on a paper towel and placed them in the microwave for about five seconds and then let the warmth of the air finish the job.
Seconds slowly turned to tortures minutes and my need grew stronger. I kept a sharp lookout for the return of my wife and shouted to the cookies to hurry their defrosting least I be caught.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, my fix was thawed, and I ate the first of the round sweet opioids and waited for the high to kick in. Oh sweet ecstasy!! My mind was spinning, and I saw colors as “Inna-Godda-Daveda” played in mind. I was in Valhalla. Vanilla iced chocolate cookies big enough to be used as home plate. Chocolate chip cookies equally as big and with a 50/50 ratio of chips to cookie, I ate until I was sick with delight.
The next day my high was gone, and my state of mind had returned to normal. Judy and I were in the kitchen making small talk and doing some small cleaning when Judy asked me “Where’d the cookies come from?”
Busted!! In my sugary wasteland I had forgotten to return the tray of cookies back to their frozen vault. No explanation I could conjure up. No blame could I place on the dog. I stood there for a few seconds, mouth agape searching for excuse. I couldn’t even lie my way out of this one. “I got them out of the freezer.” I truthfully stated, thinking my matter-of-factness could repel any harsh rebuttal. I was wrong.
I had opened up the gates of hell. Lashing after verbal lashing I endured. I was reminded of the intent for the cookies and now that I had stolen, there might not be enough.
I could do or say nothing. Nothing could be said to vindicate nor justify my actions. But the worse was the threat of no more cookies at Christmas and since my favorite cookies had yet to be made, I kept my mouth shut and sent myself to a self-imposed solitary confinement.
It was about a very solemn hour later when my son showed up for an unexpected visit and light supper. Lewis, or “Lewie” is twenty-four and has a family of his own so his visits are cherished. After we had finished our snacking meal Lewie asked his mother if there was any desert to be had in the house.
With glee and cheer and in front of my unbelieving ears, Judy told Lewie. “There’s some cookies downstairs in the freezer if you want’em!”

You may, or may not, wonder why I sometimes name my short stories after songs. Let me try to explain like this…
Imagine you are I, riding a stretch of road and all things have fallen into blissful place. The bike is running smooth and peaceful. The exhaust sings in a baritone of monotone soothing peace and bliss. The road is smooth and just unfamiliar enough to keep you attentive and alert but not so much that you are tense. Tall white ships sail overhead. Their flat bottoms glide effortlessly on the sea that provides us life. You lean back just enough to feel nestled into the one you love as you playfully hit the throttle “just enough” to feel the iron horse obediently lunge forward as you cut the wind a little more.
The road below rises and falls as does the ocean to a ship with her sails full and proud. A turn to starboard and then to port. I command my vessel to play as we effortlessly leave them in our wake.
From the corner of my eye a hawk sits perched on a limb of a naked tree. The raptor is always alert for those lower on the food chain. The swift predator has my awe and respect.
As mile after mile roll beneath my wheels a song appears in my mind’s eye. Its melody fits the carefree and elated mood of my mind and body. I am in my zone. My Nirvana. No one can harm. No one can anger.
I think of a phrase from a “Crosby, Stills, Nash. And Young” song. “Wooden ships on the water very free and easy. Easy, you know the way it’s supposed to be”.
I send this to you all not with the usual picture enhancement, but without. In the hope that you will be able to see what I saw.

 

 

 

A cloudless sky beckons me from a morning slumber. Anticipating the day, I hurry my mate to move along. A touch of a button and thunder fills my ears. Once on the road I look to the sky. A song from a long-forgotten time resonates in my mind. A song that, all too well, fits the mood.
By afternoon the flat bottom puffs float slowly overhead. Suspended on the ocean we live in. Mile after tranquil mile I breathe. No elixir, drug, nor hypnotic trance could put me in the mental state I now embrace.
We explore nothing in particular and find treasure in each other’s company. The road ahead and all that surrounds you, tell a story… if you listen.
I am on my bike with the woman I love.

Today I found an old friend. She would walk with me in my youth. She taught me responsibility. She sharpened my young eye. I did not baby her but I used her with respect and cared for her. She has been near me for many years now and I knew where she resided. But today I brought her out of the darkness. As I caressed her I smiled as memories paraded by my mind’s eye.
Tin cans surrendered to her. Distant rocks felt her wrath. Pine cones disappeared after feeling her destructive blows and even a hornet’s nest, hanging on a far off strip mine cliff, fell to the torrent of missiles she threw.
“She” is the first rifle I fired and the one I learned to shoot with. She is somewhat of a family heirloom. Originally owned by my Uncle and traded back and forth many times between he and my Dad (who would use it to cull the over population of squirrels that would descend upon his bird feeders every winter.) I remember Dad sneaking around the house corner and sniping the tree rats that would feast on the free offering of nuts and seeds meant for the winged creatures that would tough out the winters cruelty. Waging guerilla warfare with the furry little rodents became a spectacle to my Mother and I and though many rounds were expended towards the crafty foe, few, if any, met their maker at the hands of stealthy hunter. Oh, Dad was a good shot and I’m sure if wanted to, he could have ended the lives of many of the squirrels. No, I’m inclined to believe that after many years of hunting and trapping and living, more or less, on and off the land in his youth, Dad just wanted to give the birds their turn at the provided feast.
I will cherish the rugged and accurate Marlin 81D and when my allotted time has run out, I hope it will stay in the family and passed around between my children and their children to finally rid the world of marauding tin cans and pine cone warriors

This story is stolen. No, there is no plagiarism. Rather, the story idea is stolen from a story I read on my own Facebook page. An autobiographical story written by a friend of a friend. A story about the comforts of both body and mind one gets from well-worn clothing. In his case and the case I am about to state, a well-worn tee shirt.
My tee shirt story begins, as many of my stories do, in the glory days of 1971 and 1972 during the wild times that has now become known as “the SL-70 days”.
I had the little red bike for about a year when my Uncle “Jum” and his son Ted showed up at the house for a quick visit. I had only seen my Uncle Jum once before in my life and it was a first-time meeting for my cousin Ted and I.
You see, Uncle Jum had moved his family to Albuquerque New Mexico many years before and had established himself in the construction business as a welder and his job had brought him home for a short time.
Uncle Jum was a man of small stature and thin build, as best I can recall, with a small dark and well-groomed mustache highlighting his face that seemed to be the first thing everyone noticed about him. After a lifetime of hard work under desert sun and skies the covering of wrinkled and tanned leather he wore for skin hid a hard layer of muscle tissue connected by sinew tough enough for me to easily imagine my Uncle taking crap from no one.
But my Uncle also was a bit of a “wise guy” a real “ham” if you please. I mean the man could kid around and crack you up with his quick wit and humor for hours at a time.
My cousin Ted was the source of great pride and joy to my Dad. Ted had joined the Navy at the height of the Viet Nam war and was on a river boat patrol when his craft had become ambushed. Most of the men on board had been wounded or died during the fight and Ted had suffered two dangerous head wounds but he manned the turret guns and held off the enemy until help arrived.
Ted was awarded for his bravery and courage under fire and I remember Dad getting the news clipping in the mail Uncle Jum had sent to him. Dad cherished that news report and he took it to work with him one day to show all those he worked with and to brag about his Nephew. After that the newspaper clipping hung with honor in the kitchen on the cork bulletin board for a long, long time.
As I recall, I was washing or tinkering of some sorts, with my SL-70 when in the driveway pulled a light-colored flatbed pick-up truck. Mounted onto the forward end of the flat bed, next to the cab, was a giant weird looking piece of machinery that couldn’t be anything but a welder.
I don’t remember just where Dad was but I do remember Dad giving out a subdued but gleeful cheer of “There’s Jum and Ted!!”
After a few minutes of Dad and Uncle Jum greeting each other and Dad shaking the hand of his hero Nephew, Uncle Jum finally turned to me. I had been standing by patiently when Uncle Jum said “Hi Rich!” “How are you?” I told him I was fine and a few other bits of small chit-chat before I could contain myself no further and blurted out “Wann’a see my new bike?!” “Sure!” came my Uncle’s reply.
We all moved to the area of the lawn the SL-70 was resting on and gathered around it and each other with lawn chairs where we were joined by my Mom. We sat and talked for what seemed to be, hours. I sat there listening to stories of hunting of days gone by. There were stories of a Grandfather I had never known and of other family members that only appear in my memory voids as vague ghosts. I heard stories of desert places and things I saw only on TV westerns.
My Uncle and Cousin were getting ready to leave when my Uncle Jum asked me… “Rich, would you wear a Yamaha tee shirt?” Thinking it was my Uncle’s sense of humor I responded… “Nope! I only wear Honda tee shirts.” “Well, I guess you won’t be wearing this.” As he held up a tee shirt from a motorcycle shop in Albuquerque New Mexico called “Weird Harrold’s”
Wow…. A tee shirt from a motorcycle shop in Albuquerque. I stood there speechless. It was a motorcycle tee shirt from a faraway bike shop. A caricature of a motorcycle rider blasting away on a caricature motorcycle with the name “Weird Harrold’s” across the front. Wow..
“Rich!”… “Richard!” “Whad’a say?” came the stern command from Dad.
I awakened from my bliss to mumble “Thank you!” to my Uncle Jum and Cousin Ted before they had to head out to meet time restraints.
The rest of the summer that tee shirt was my “ridding shirt” and since I rode almost every day, by the end of the summer that tee shirt had seen it all, worn it all and was a true disgrace to my Mother. It had a large red Kool-Aid or soft drink stain on the front and was a mix of mud and grease stains and a few grass stains thrown in for that Coupe-de-Grasse feel and look.
I’m sure Mom and Dad thought I had ruined that tee shirt gift. But in actuality, just the opposite was true. I had cherished that tee shirt. I had honored it the only way a young biker could. It was my constant companion. It was my way of keeping my Uncle Jum and Cousin Ted close to me. It was me.
I saw my Uncle Jum just one more time before he died. That was a few years later in 1979 on a motorcycle journey to Albuquerque. Cousin Ted was the same year and journey and then again twice later. Each of those visits brought back memories of that ragged, dirty, and beautifully stained tee shirt of so many years ago.
I would give almost anything to have another “Weird Harrold’s” tee shirt. Even though the place is long gone I know somewhere in dark and forgotten places of homes and garages in Albuquerque New Mexico there is a “Weird Harrold’s” tee shirt. (Size men’s large)