What was the best purchase you ever made?

What was the best purchase you ever made? Maybe I should define that a little bit, make the parameters a little more exact. How about comparing amount of money paid for the object to amount of hours of enjoyment it returned. Of course this is all a setup. I have a purchase in mind already. A couple years ago, at an annual used book sale I attend each year, I picked up a book and added it to my sack of other goodies. The rationale at used book sales is different than the rules buying at a bookstore. At a bookstore the costs are prohibitively high so your selection process is much more strict. If you’re paying out twenty-five bucks and more per pop, you know you have to be convinced that you are buying the corresponding amount of enjoyment per dollar spent, not always easy.

But at a used book sale the fun is put back into the process. At twenty-five cents for a paperback and fifty cents to a dollar for the hardcover, it is all changed. You can buy a book because you once read something by the same author and enjoyed it, so maybe you will like this one by the same guy. Or perhaps the cover art grabs you, or the title interests you, whatever, if it grabs you, pick it up and toss it into your grocery store size bag, which are kindly provided by the hosts of the sale so you will keep browsing and adding to the bags contents. It is one of the best hours I spend each year rummaging through books that were once pristine and full of promise to the buyer. Now they are here among other much used or slightly used compatriots being once again analyzed for their worth. Which brings up another buying point; is a book in immaculate condition a better choice than the other which has obviously been much handled or ill-kept, is that a clue to its value? The answer is yes or no because, of course, there is no answer. But every once in a while luck enters the process and a book will be picked up by the person it was meant for. This happened to me once.

The best purchase I ever made, using the cost versus enjoyment-received criteria, was the book I mentioned in the first paragraph. It was the book titled, TO SERVE THEM ALL MY DAYS, by R.F. DELDERFIELD. I love this book. I have read it twice now, and the second reading was a good or better than the first. I suppose judgment of a books value is subjective and not objective. It meets your internal value system or it doesn’t. It’s as easy as that.

It is a book of over six hundred pages and I am a reader of each word, versus the fast reader who gulps paragraphs at a time, so the amount of time to read the entire book is not really calculable, but many, many hours to read the whole work is a fair statement. I enjoyed each and every hour I spent on it, each time, and all for twenty-five cents, picked up at the used book sale. This was the best purchase I ever made.

THE FIRST TIME

I’m standing in the wings behind this dusty curtain knowing if I touch it the dust will cause me to start sneezing, I can’t do that. Oh God I think I’m getting sick, I’m either going to faint or throw up. I know I shouldn’t have worn this green satin dress, it’ll reflect the color to my face and I’ll look like I feel. I’ve only got about a minute to get myself together. The sweat is running down my ribcage and I know my face is shining like a polished cue ball. What if I get out there and no sound will come out of my mouth? Or I start to stutter? Oh sweet mother of God I think I’m getting panicky, should I turn and run? If I do I’m finished. Oh for crying out loud, now I have to go to the bathroom. If I don’t go right now I’m sure I might embarrass myself. No time, think of something else. Oh my God and now my stomach is starting to growl. It’s the loudest I’ve ever heard it. Can they hear it on stage? These new microphones can pick up anything, Oh Lord what to do?

“and now here is Americas favorite singer, winner of six gold records, star of stage, screen, and television, the one, the only…….”


OR THE SIX THOUSANDTH TIME, ITS ALWAYS THE SAME.


a fictional job related anecdote.

OBSOLETE

The rays of the sun slant through unwashed windows, illuminating the

dryness of age in this forgotten place that stands by the side of steel tracks

where weeds now grow; where once great iron locomotives came, paused, then disappeared; where now only the sound of dried leaves skittering along the ground interrupt its sleep.

Benches along the wood paneled walls remain highly polished from

the multitudes of trousers and dresses that once buffed their

surfaces.

Bars of the ticket agent’s window, a patina of age upon them,

still guard a long gone presence that once routinely and officiously

charted the journeys, the count of which befogs the counter.

This forgotten structure, with walls that were once yellow,

green or red, chipped away by weather and neglect has turned

gray now as if to accommodate the modern world by becoming

as one with landscapes of the past.

Yet, to forget so easily this creation of its time as a discarded

relic, would bury all that we were that lives still in the lazy sun lit

dust of memory and where we too will assuredly abide one day.

MIDNIGHT TRAIN By Jim Kittelberger Weary eyes refuse to close, and I'm tired down to my toes, yet another sleepless night seems plain when I hear the midnight train. Its that sound, that sound, it speaks to me clackity-clack clackity-clack, the great steel wheels intoning their mantra, clackity-clack clackity-clack, a fountainhead of imagination and quest clackity-clack clackity-clack, wait, please wait, but again, too soon it passes me by. Clackity-clack clackity-clack that hypnotizing sound calms me, soothes me, yet beckons me as sea maids entice the sailor, Clackity-clack clackity-clack that evoker of memories, moments, dreams. my whole being stirs, contemplates, then quiets The iron colossus turns gently east into the midnight darkness The ever increasing distance dimming the sound, fainter, fainter, fainter until it is no more. my eyes close and dreams begin. Copyright 2001 Jim Kittelberger. All Rights Reserved.

"A VERY SPECIAL CREATION"
By Jim Kittelberger




Wham, Bam, Drrr, Zing, Wing..The sounds from the girl factory were loud and frequent.

There are many sections within the factory. There is a section for brunettes, redheads, and a special section for blondes. The head girl maker in the hair section is Arno the magnificent.

He is making a special announcement to the whole factory over the loudspeaker system. Your attention please.

We have today received a special order from the great God-O, and he will be making a special trip to our factory to watch our progress. You must follow all orders exactly; we can have no second rate work on this project. If a mistake is made, the offending worker will be sent immediately to REJECTOLAND. There they will have to work on BOYS with spiked hair and freckles. OHHHHHHHHHH, could be heard from the workers, because no one wanted to go there.

In the hair section, Arno was reviewing the hair types. I do not want stringy hair. I do not want a dishwater color. I want hair that reflects Gods sun. AH YES, THAT IS THE COLOR I WANT.

Since I have been made special bigwig-colossal-chief over everybody- major domo great- fantastic- magnificent- very wonderful BOSS, I will follow this project to its completion. The next stop was the eye room.

Now, I do not want vacant looking eyes, I do not want dull looking eyes, I do not want silly dilly eyes, I do not want bird eyes, I do not want snake eyes, I do not want pig eyes, I do not want potato eyes, I do not want buckeyes, I do not want fly eyes, I do not want fish eyes, I do not want glass eyes and I especially do not want red eyes. What the special order requests are blue eyes that reflect the stars and its glitter. Eyes that laugh without words. Eyes that can show kindness. Eyes that will see the good things in life. Eyes that will show love to each person they look upon.

SHAZAMO WALLYZIGZAGS!!! THAT'S THE COLOR I WANT.

Now on to the naming department, where they met the head of the department, Mrs. Alphabetcha.

We need a name that is just right for this special project, Mrs. Alphabetcha. Can you do it? Well ABCDEFGHI am sure I can Magnificent Arno. Now be sure you don't give her a name like Gertrude or Agnes or Helga or Salamiface or Zelda or Brutus or Clarinetlips or Eggplant. I want a name that is regal and feminine. I have just the name for the special project. It is the name of the last Russian czarina and it is very feminine. It is GrouchoOh No, Oh No, that is just a little naming department humor.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

The very best name we have in our department is ALEXANDRA. This is magnificent said Arno the magnificent.

We will now take the parts I have requested to the assembly department. This is Mr. Model Kit, head of the assemblers. Do you have your instructions Mr. Kit? Indeed I do Mr. Arno.

I have instructions to attach the gold as the sun hair to the top of the head. Insert two blue eyes from the special stock with stars in them. Insert the premium brain with a special section added for extra compassion and love. Insert and attach all of the above into a head with the AAAAAAAAAA+ pretty face. I have attached all the other necessities such as fingernails, toenails, a couple of arms, a couple of legs, a belly button and white teeth with a complimentary toothbrush and toothpaste included.

WHALAAAAA! What do you think Mr. Arno?

Perfecto Mr. Kit. I think she is just about ready for shipment.

All of a sudden the room became as bright as the sun and everything became silent and a red carpet appeared on the floor and Mr. God-O appeared and spoke: Ms. Alexandra, I am going to send you to earth to be in the care of two very nice people, who will do the best they can for you and will love you for all your days. So go now and have a very happy life and I will see you again in about ninety years or so and I will want a report, so keep a diary.




August 9, 1999.
(C) copyright 1999 Jim Kittelberger. All Rights Reserved.

THE SILENT TRANSACTION By Jim Kittelberger PREAMBLE: I could not decide which paragraph I wished to use for the last paragraph of the piece. I left it to my editor. My editor, who tells me what she thinks, read the two paragraphs and told me flat out that the last part is way over the top and should be omitted. She further added that it sounded like I was in a rage and that I really didn’t believe any of what I had written. I hate to admit it, but she’s right. That said, it felt therapeutic to write it, like going to a shrink I would suppose, and purging yourself of all that dwells and festers. So I agreed with her that the final paragraph is way too much, but I felt good writing it so I will leave it so you can read it and get angry with me and you’ll feel better also. The cash register rings up the amount to be tendered and the cashier looks at the customer with a sullen look on her face. The customer, me, looks back at her. “One fifty”, comes out of the cashier’s mouth, as she is looking somewhere but not at me. I write the check and hand it to her. She deposits it in the cash register and resumes looking at that somewhere place. The bag that she shoved my purchase into sits on the counter, and after another interlude of silence, I assume we are done. I pick up the bag and walk out of the store, thus ending another transaction in the new screw you era. Does this sound familiar or am I just one of the saps of the world that everyone likes to play this trick on? Maybe it’s just been a bad week. Twice this week, I have tried to make small talk with a person in a retail store, and twice I have had the person look at me like I had small pox, although one did manage to nod his head before he grabbed his change and fled. My God, I’m sixty-five years old, reasonably presentable and certainly not threatening in any way. I don’t think they believe I’m going to ask for a handout, nor do I believe they think I’m a Moonie getting ready to hand them a flower in exchange for a donation. I think they and the sullen cashier are just a few of the examples of the age we now live in, that seems to becoming more and more insular, and much less anxious to reach out for human contact. These examples are of course not the norm but the exception. But it happens enough that I am aware when it does. I am also aware of one reason for this unsociability. A huge technological wave arrived in the world a decade or two ago. That wave was greeted by all of us with open arms. The new age brought with it the marvel of our time, the computer. And I need not list what that brought with it, video games, computer games, computer nerds, and the rest of us, who will sit at a computer for hours on end, (which of course, I am guilty of much too often). People of all ages have taken to these activities with relish, but not without giving up something. That is the time that could have been spent with other live actual people talking, sharing thoughts and feelings. The one common problem created is that most of the new high tech pursuits are one person to a computer or television. Children take to these new pursuits like a duck to water because they are just plain fun. But what they give up or what we allow them to give up, is the give and take of playing with other children where they can learn the greatest lessons of their life, how to develop social skills. Too easy? Maybe. Or Well now you know my dilemma. What should I do about it? I hope to have many more years on this earth and I intend to keep going out in public. But if the trend, as I see it continues, and rudeness is the way of the future, I suppose I should start now working on my rude tactics so I can fit right in. I will initially, and this will be the easiest, change my facial expression to one of sullenness or even surliness, and trim my vocabulary to words of one syllable that could be spoken with a grunt. One technique that I think I will like would go like this: someone speaks to me and I answer him or her with my Robert DeNiro ‘Taxi’ imitation, “Me? You’re talking to me? Then I’ll just sneer and walk away. Yeah that’s good; hey I’m liking this. Rude is good. Perhaps as a warm up before going out into public, I’ll bite off a head of a bat or maybe a sparrow ala Ozzie Osbourne to get into the mood. My television choices should also change, I’m thinking with my new persona that Howard Stern would be a top choice. He, of the tell-it-like-it-is genre is about as classy as it will get in my new world. I’m much too old to start wearing clothes that are much too large and letting them hang down to my kneecaps seems a little dangerous. But I can start wearing any caps I may have backwards or sideways, and perhaps I should put a propeller on top, it wouldn’t look any stupider, I don’t think. Well after I’ve done all these things to make me fit in with the new rude to the ears, rude to the eyes, rude to any sensibilities I may have left, the world may have changed back to a place much more pleasant to live in, or I may have developed Alzheimer’s and not care anymore.

THE BIRDMAN OF CARTER'S LAKE
By Jim Kittelberger




Winter is finally coming to an end, but not soon enough for me. Cabin fever has definitely set in after five months of self imposed indoor activities. Retirement is great, but some days tend to get a little too long. Today was one of those. A lazy type day with weather not yet nice enough to start working the gardens, but with just enough change in the air to give you hope. I hadn't yet put on shoes this morning, choosing instead to amble from room to room in my soft slippers. I'd brewed myself a cup of lemon and honey tea, the taste of which seems lazy to me, and it matched my mood. Sitting in my comfortable reclining chair, I force myself not to recline and sip my tea, my eyes roaming over everything and nothing in particular. Not unlike a child, I'm thinking what to get into next when my eyes stop on the large old trunk sitting near the fireplace. I haven't looked in there for years.



The trunk is large and black, with a large brass lock, which has never been locked since we've owned it, and I'm not sure we even have the key. Inside, a wooden tray is filled with baby clothes and little shoes. Items that my wife is unable to dispose of because they evoke silent memories of the three children we co-produced, the best and purest evidence of our being on this earth. Under the tray is a witch's hat wrapped in tissue, a decoration from Halloween that it seems didn't get put away in the attic. Several owners manuals, one each for an old VCR, a computer scanner and our current microwave, were placed in here so we would know right where they were if we needed them. Yeah, right. Down one more layer lays a red book nestled atop a favorite sweater of mine from days gone by.


It turns out to be a forty-five year old telephone book. I wonder how that got in here, I mutter, as I start leafing through the book that is considerably smaller than the one we currently use, and the exchanges used in those days consisted of two letters and five numbers.


The yellow pages are more interesting. Coal companies are listed, are there local coal companies anymore? I don't think so. There are a lot of contractors and construction companies. Things were good in those days. Dance studios, we had three in the book. When I got to the F's in the book I discovered five, count them, five pages of full service filling stations. Oh those were the good old days, to be sure.


I sat on the floor over an hour with my legs crossed Indian style until I was not certain I would ever get them straight again. I decided I had better get off the floor, and the recliner looked real good. It was. After moving my body this way and that, it melted into the chair in gratitude. My eyes seem to be getting a little grainy as I continue reading through the telephone classifieds. As my mind starts to fog over, sleep, I know, is not far behind. I read one last classified for Seeburg coin operated jukeboxes. "Oh yes, how well I remember those wonderful machines," is my last conscious thought as I drift off to sleep.



As Johnny Ray's song 'Walking In The Rain' finished up, Paul fished in his pocket for another nickel. He found one nestled between a stick of Black Jack gum and a ticket stub from the drive in movie he had gone to last weekend. The jukebox was filled with really cool songs, but he had money for just one more. He was staring at the choices when his friend Jeff, who could not stand more than one minute of silence, chided him,
"So, I suppose you're going to play another sloppy slow one?"
"Yeah, so what if I do?" Paul answered back. And in fact he was pushing G2 to hear Pat Boone sing 'Love Letters In The Sand'.
"It's just that since you met that stupid Mary Jane, you've gotten so darn quiet. What the heck's with you? Jeff said.
I couldn't really say, I thought to myself. I'd had dates before, but something about this girl was different.


I was thinking about last Saturday night at the drive-in and smiling as Jeff discovered he again didn't have my complete attention.
"Oh for crying out loud. You don't need me here, I'll see you in school." Jeff said as he left shaking his head.


I had been thinking of Mary Jane and her clean smelling hair and an evening spent testing the endurance of human lips after long-term use. Somehow it didn't seem important that I wasn't paying attention, I was thinking about next weekend.


After some fancy talking and assurances to each of our families that we would abide by the 'unwritten moral code', seriously on her part, grudgingly on mine, we received their reluctant blessings and use of my parents’ car to attend a dance out of town. This was pretty exciting stuff for seventeen year olds, and as we headed north on U.S. 13, Mary Jane snuggled close and laid her head on my shoulder. The length of time needed to arrive at our destination we estimated to be about an hour. We drove through farmlands dotted with gold and tan pastureland, on a black asphalt road that meandered through the fall countryside in a more or less straight line, and watched cows grazing, farmers on tractors, and counted mail pouch signs on the sides of the barns. But to us, or at least to me, we were driving on the yellow brick road. A new world was opening up in my mind, a world of new freedoms, a world of unknown adventures; an exciting world, all new and maybe a little scary. My mind had done a 180-degree turn driving down this beautiful highway, and transformed me from a boy into a young man with hopes and dreams for the future. But those hopes and dreams were predicated it seemed to me at that moment in time on that one person sitting next to me. With her beside me, my life seemed to open up and any thing seemed possible.


A large illuminated sign appeared just ahead informing us that the road to everything wonderful, Carters Lake, Inc. was just ahead. The attendant directed us to follow the arrows to the parking lot, which we figured must be the area ahead that looked like a cloud had descended to earth. The dust was heavy and I knew I would have to wash the car before my father saw it again, or my days in borrowed wheels would be over forever. We maneuvered through the crushed gravel to a spot pointed to by boys in brightly colored vests completely covered with dust, where we parked. As we walked through rows of spruce trees, planted to leave the sight and dust of the parking areas behind us, we emerged on the other side to a vista of green. Sidewalks meandered between trees of maple, elm and oak. Soon we could hear the sounds of waves lapping on the shore off to our left just before we sighted a large white-sided building with a brightly lit marquee proudly announcing the band of the weekend. Just by luck the band this weekend was the Glenn Miller band, still one of the favorites even without its famous leader, who was killed in World War II. If there was a band that was tailor made for dancers, this was it. As we got closer to the door, we could hear the very familiar sounds of Moonlight Serenade. Handing over our tickets and collecting our stubs, we entered a huge room. Tables were surrounding a well-waxed dance floor. Omnipresent in its bigness and glitter was a revolving, reflecting glass ball hovering over the floor. Reflecting glitter bounced off the dancers as the couples twirled to the music of the band that was situated at one end of the dance floor. The band members were dressed in formal attire and male and female band singers were seated on either side of the bandleader. When they started the next song, String of Pearls, our feet could not hold still any longer. Mary Jane was a good dancer, thank God, because I had to cheat to barely be eligible for fair status. But the music and the atmosphere overcame all our hesitation and we swayed in time to the music. Mary Jane laid her head on my shoulder during the slow tunes and I was sunk. I was madly in love before the band signaled intermission.


The weather still felt warm even though autumn was getting near. I held Mary Jane's hand as we strolled over a bridge that led to the beach. The waves were lapping on the shore, and the water looked black in the darkness. The breeze blowing in over the water gave promise that cooler weather would soon be upon us, but not tonight. The sand felt warm and Mary Jane removed her shoes and teased me to do the same. I did so with no further coaxing. We walked hand in hand for a while without talking. Another couple passed us going the other way, but except for them, the beach was ours.
"You look very pretty tonight," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else to say.
"I could say the same about you. I've never seen you so dressed up before," Mary Jane answered with a smile.
Paul stopped and turned toward Mary Jane, took her hands in his, and kissed her tenderly on the lips. As the kiss ended, Mary Jane threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. The kiss was a long one and they swayed from side to side, neither wishing to stop. Just then, Paul felt something warm and moist land on the top of his head. They broke apart immediately as Paul looked up at the offending sea gull and shook his fist at it. Mary Jane stepped back and stared at the mess slowly oozing down from the top of his head. The look of shock and mortification on Paul's face kept her from laughing.
"Maybe you should stick your head in the lake?" she suggested shyly.
"I know what I should stick in the lake," Paul bellowed, stricken with embarrassment, "that damn bird."
He turned, ran fully clothed into the lake, and plunged his head beneath the waves. As he came out of the water, still looking like he wanted to sock someone, Mary Jane was standing at the edge of the water waiting. The look on her face was a look of sympathy, but as he came closer she could not contain herself any longer, and a small chuckle escaped her lips, as she watched his face. He looked at her with what started as anger, but as the embarrassment ebbed, the anger went also and he joined in. Their chuckles turned into knee slapping laughter as they recalled the story over and over. Finally he put his arms around her.
"I think I'm in no shape to return to the dance." He said.
"I don't care, I've loved every minute we've been here and anything after this would be an anti-climax anyway," Mary Jane said as she smiled at his discomfort.
On the road home, they retold the story over and over. Each time they put the emphasis on a different part of the story, and it got funnier and funnier. They laughed until they were exhausted. It would be a story that would be only theirs for the rest of their lives.



"Wake up Paul, it's almost time to eat," she said, as she gently touched his shoulder.
As he roused himself, he reached up and took her hand.
"I was dreaming about a young girl I used to know many years ago. She was a pretty thing as I remember. We went to a dance up at Carter's Lake and, well maybe you don't want to hear anymore of this, because it involves kissing on the beach and hand holding, and maybe it's too much for your tender virgin ears," he said, as he smiled lovingly at this woman who has been his wife for nearly forty-five years.
"Oh for crying out loud 'birdman', she said, get yourself up and let's eat."


Mary Jane reached out her hand to help him up, and they hugged before he followed her to the kitchen.





Jim Kittelberger 2001. All Rights Reserved.

THE VILLAGE By Jim Kittelberger My eyes were burning, so I opened the car window to let some fresh air in to circulate in the hopes it would revive me enough to keep me going maybe another fifty miles. The final trick, if the fresh air doesn't do the job, is to turn the a/c on to coldest, until I get so darn cold, any thoughts of sleep are frozen out. I like driving through the night on my business trips. I seem to think more clearly with darkness all around me. I have also convinced myself that the darkness helps mend frazzled nerve endings caused by trying to do too much, too fast. A single flickering light appears in the distance, breaking the total black of the pre-dawn night. As it gets closer, it loses it's 'out of this world mysteriousness', and the single light becomes two as the approaching car closes the distance between us quickly. Another sojourner in the night breaking the speed limit, as I am also guilty of doing. He, believing as I do, I suppose, that we are solitary beings in a time warp of darkness that will cover our crime. The lights are starting to bother my eyes and I'm all out of tricks to stay awake, so I know that my solitary time is about over and I start thinking about breakfast. The sun rose quickly this morning, changing the horizon I was driving into from deep black to charcoal gray with strands of red and yellow. Which, if you believe the old saying: Red sky at night, sailors delight Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning, or something like that, promised a bumpy day. The village, which was the first community I came upon that looked big enough to have a restaurant, was of medium size and quite pretty with small, clean, tidy streets, and a town square of grass and trees and benches. It was indeed square, bordered by nicely maintained vegetation. But food was on my mind. The streets surrounding the square were red brick. On the opposite side of the street from the square were small businesses. Most of the facades were in the Williamsburg style and presented a unified look from the outside. There were some, though, that spurned the look of the majority and presented the patrons of their business an independent look. Perhaps, thinking that it was more eye-catching being different. In fact, one did catch my eye. It presented to the community two plate glass windows with the entrance in the middle. On the window was the logo I was looking for. "HOMETOWN CAF", followed by "You'll think your mama's doing the cooking." I was sold. I straddled a stool at the counter thinking that I'd get faster service here than the usually slower service at a table. Finding just what I was looking for on the much-used menu, I ordered. Quantity and speed were my two basic requirements for breakfast. As I sat waiting to see if my simple criteria were to be met, I sipped on a cup of hot Earl Gray tea and glanced at the restaurants advertising emblazoned on the mirror behind the counter. It announced the ordinary kind of things you would expect to see there. The special of the day, a request that you remember that this is the place of the most famous milkshake in town, and the Hometown Cafe logo with the words-SINCE 1935 THE PLACE TO EAT AND MEET. Everyone seemed to be acquainted and the talk seemed friendly and animated, which left a stranger at the counter pretty much on his own, so I grabbed a morning paper and read until breakfast arrived. "Damn", I said aloud. "I'm sorry", the rather skinny man two stools to my right said. "Oh, I beg your pardon", I said. "I must have spoken out loud, I didn't mean to do that." "Hey, that all right, sometimes I get so mad myself that I want to throw the paper on the floor", he replied, smiling understandingly. "I usually don't speak to myself out loud, but this article really ticks me off. This crumb kills two people, gets eighteen years, and then he's back out on the street. This is not right. They give repetitive dope users life in prison, for crying out loud, and they're not hurting anyone but themselves. It just boils my ass; I'm sorry, now listen to me, I'm cussing out loud." My companionable counter-mate smiled to himself. "Do you ever get so angry that you'd like to stand up and tell it like it is?" "You bet I do", I said, "but who listens to us? You have to be somebody to talk and have someone listen these days." "Well, my friend, that's not necessarily true. Did you take a look at that poster on the mirror there?" he asked, pointing to a red, white, and blue poster with American flags bordering the top and bottom. The message between the flags proclaimed our right as citizens of the USA to speak our piece. It also stated that the next gathering of opinion-ators would be today at high noon in the public square. "What exactly is that all about? I asked. My skinny friend turned on his stool to face me. "You've heard about the English allowing anyone who wishes to get up on a soapbox in Hyde Park in London and spout off about anything that's on their mind?" "Yes, I have, but is that still going on?" "Well here in the village we have the same sort of thing, with a little bit of difference," he said with a small smile. "Tell me about it." I said interested. "We believe that differences of opinion can cause dissension, which we have found is bad for the village. So from time to time we hold a town meeting, which the whole village attends. We allow the dissenters to speak their piece. The problems are ironed out forthwith and we can then go forward together." "The whole village?" I asked surprised and becoming just a little skeptical of what I was hearing. "The whole village," he repeated, "We villagers live closely together, and have very few secrets from one another. The town meetings foster a closeness, and any problems are quickly identified, and we are better able to fix any problems then and there." He paused, and then continued. "In the towns square, free speech and thought are the rule. It can be fun and it would be good for you to get some of the things that are eating at you, like what you read in the paper, out of your system. It'll do you a world of good, it'll purge your soul of bad thoughts, and your mind will be cleansed of all the rottenness that goes on in this world today." I listened to him, not knowing if I had run into an itinerant preacher, or maybe just a nut, or maybe what he was saying, if it was true, might be a hoot. I could afford to take the day off, and then get back on the road tonight if I could get a little sleep. I agreed, and my skinny friend said to meet him at the entrance to the restaurant at 11:55, and he would accompany me across the square. We shook hands and parted, which left me some time to kill until then. I decided to see what else the little village offered, and started walking around the square on the business side of the street. The businesses were the normal service type stores as in most towns, a hardware stood next to the restaurant, followed in succession by a men's clothing shop, a women's clothier, a toy store, and a book store completed one side of the square. On another side were city offices and the local police. On the third side were amusements, a movie house, a small bowling alley, a bar, a video rental store and a pizza shop. On the fourth side of the square were the bank, a loan company, an antique store, and finally, a computer/office supply store. Not unlike any small town in America, and in fact, maybe a little bit better than most, with the essentials required to keep the populace happy and home. In a popular and civilized move, the city fathers had also switched to vertical parking, instead of parallel, with two-hour meters for a nickel, but only on this side of the street. There was no parking on the town square side of the street. Strange, he thought. At exactly 11:45, on the sidewalk directly across from the Hometown cafe, a man dressed much like an English castle guard appeared, and began patrolling the sidewalk this side of the square. On each of the other three sides, the identical event was taking place. I thought to myself that perhaps they were taking the 'English Hyde Park' analogy a bit too far. The square itself was completely devoid of people; not one person was anywhere to be seen. "This is really strange", I thought, almost like a pageant timed and choreographed to the second. A make believe headline ran through my head, "MAYBERRY AND PLEASANTVILLE TEACH CIVICS, FILM AT ELEVEN". I smiled at my small joke, although a slight feeling of apprehension had crept in, but I shrugged it off, thinking why ruin the experience. I'd have a great time repeating the story over and over again to my wife and coworkers. At exactly 11:59, my skinny friend appeared and we walked together across the street. The 'patrolman' nodded to my skinny friend and at exactly noon, we entered the town square. It was incredible. It looked like the entire population of the town was assembled around the bandstand that stood in the exact middle of the square. "It looks to me like everybody in town must be here." I said, still amazed by the turnout. "That's a very accurate guess," my friend said, "as I said before we take these gatherings very seriously and it would not be good manners to miss one." He continued as he looked toward the bandstand trying to catch someone's eye. He caught a man's eye standing near the bandstand checking names off a clipboard. "Excuse me," he said, and left to confer with him. I stood, looking around at the crowd. Something seemed odd to me, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The men, women, and children were standing in separate orderly groups, which seemed a little strange. The females all wore pale blue dresses, which seemed really strange for today's women. But then I figured out what it was that seemed most odd. Each separate group was standing at what we called in the military, at ease. At ease is not exactly at attention, but also not at rest, and they all stood quietly, that's what it was, the quiet among so many people. "Weird," I thought it's almost like I was beamed down in the middle of an Amish community, but not exactly. Something seemed chilling about this wonderful show of civic awareness and uniformity. Then to my surprise, skinny-man appeared on the bandstand, and everyone went completely silent. "Citizens of the new way, our beloved country is in crisis. We have become an amoral society. The freedoms that we so cherish have become freedom to slide into moral corruption. Drugs pervade our great country and we stand by seemingly unable or unwilling to control that which leads our young to degrade themselves in depravity and license. The ideals that we have strived to attain have been trashed as old fashioned, not worthy goals. In their place we celebrate excess. Our hero's are nonexistent. Why is this happening? I say to you, it is because we have no leadership, or leadership too weak to make decisions that might hurt someone's feelings or step on a freedom that perhaps, no not perhaps, a freedom that should be abolished for the welfare of the majority. The new way has the answer and the backbone to do what is right. The new way is the right way, it is our way, and in the future our example will lead the way for the whole country." He stood back, put his hand over his heart, and stared with those cold eyes seemingly at each person there. The eyes imbedding in each the righteousness of his words. The crowd erupted with the chant "so be it, so be it, so be it," their eyes glistening with love and hope for this man for whom they have waited all their lives. They continued until he stepped forward and raised his hand for silence. "The new way, the way of promise for the future, also has the humility to know that new idea's are welcome and indeed solicited. With the thought that we are all responsible for our actions and words, we begin." "Citizen Will Gunther." "As you all know, I'm a man of few words," Will began, "and I don't much like to complain, but I have to tell you that what I pay to have my garbage hauled is outrageous, and it should be lowered." "So there, I've said my piece and what say you?" With the words still in the air, the applause began, and thumbs throughout the crowd turned upward as the crowd shouted and showed their approval. Two other men quickly followed. Subject one was cleaner streets, and subject two was the suggestion they needed more jails. Both were given thumbs up. Speaker number four, Citizen Joseph Miller did not meet the same fate. He climbed the steps of the bandstand and stood front and center, stuck his chin out and began. "You all know me," Miller began, "and I don't complain much, but there comes a time when what's right is right, and individual choice should be a man's right." He paused as shouts here and there among the crowd started up. "I know that's not a popular belief around here, and I usually agree with the majority and go along, but maybe I've been wrong." Now the crowd was becoming angry as one of them had the audacity to suggest that an individual's right was as important as the majority, or indeed, that he had any individual rights not allowed by the town. Will ignored the shouts. "It's my right," speaking over the dissension, "to paint my house whatever color I want, whenever I want, without having to get approval from anyone." The shouts began to drown out Miller, and a sea of down turned thumbs showed throughout the crowd, which threatened to become a mob. The skinny man, off to the side of the speaker's platform, nodded to several very big men who proceeded to escort Citizen Miller off the bandstand and hustled him into a small structure partially hidden by large trees. When the doors closed, the unmistakable sounds of a beating could be heard. The crowd expecting just that clucked their approval, and talked among themselves that he got what he asked for. "This would teach him the lesson he had been aching to get." "How dare he even think such things, let alone speak them out in public." "Unthinkable." I stood toward the side of the speaker’s platform, literally feeling shivers go up and down my spine, and my legs felt weak. Perhaps, taking poor, brave Mr. Miller away and beating him was just an elaborate staging of this grotesque play for my benefit. No, I was sure it was not. If it was staged, it was certainly not for my edification, I was not of any real importance to what was going on here. The lesson to be learned was for the gathered assembly standing before me. My guess was they got the message. As I was gathering myself back to some semblance of sanity, Skinny man stepped forward to the speaker's platform. "A moment of clarification to a recent visitor to our town, I believe is warranted. I wish to explain to him, and all assembled, that Citizen Miller is in no real danger and will be as right as rain after a brief period of re-indoctrination and rereading of the town charter to which all citizens must adhere. Citizen Miller has always been a troublemaker, so it could be said he brings all his trouble upon himself. Now, we will say no more about it." Whereupon the crowd broke into applause and chanting of "so be it, so be it, so be it," endorsing and empowering the leaders words and thoughts, until he raised his hand for silence. "As I promised our visitor, he will get his opportunity to address you today on any subject he wishes. I want you all to treat him as an honorary, temporary citizen of our town." "So be it, so be it, so be it," again chorused up from the assembled, filling me with the fear of many throughout history, the fear of impotence against power, one against many. I felt repulsion for the acceptance of the unthinking people as they endorsed wholeheartedly whatever their leaders espoused. Because I knew of no other recourse besides turning and running away, I started for the steps that led to the platform. "What the hell am I going to say up there?" I thought. The proceedings of the afternoon in this strange town with these strange people had stifled my thought processes. My brain was filled instead with feelings of astonishment, fear, and bewilderment. "I wasn't worried about making a fool of myself in front of these descendants of other mobs, from other times. Although, I must say, the feeling that I was jumping into a Roman arena with a multitude of unfriendly gladiators, and awaiting the verdict of the bloodthirsty spectators did not completely escape me." I made my way to the center of the speaker's platform, and grasped the podium, trying to still the quivering in my legs. Off to the right, but in full view, stood the leader. His presence dominated everyone by a force unique to only a few in each century. What is it that allows these few to twist the thoughts and actions of a group or a nation to his will? The physicality of Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, was not awe-inspiring. If they had any common feature, maybe it was the eyes, dark, cold eyes, and the complete absence of feeling for the human race. The Citizen Leader, from my short acquaintance of him and this village, had all the earmarks of a budding despot, despite his less than commanding physical stature, and yes his eyes were cold and dark even as he smiled his welcome to me. I wish I could say here that I took command of the platform, and gave a speech second only to Martin Luther King's 'I had a dream' speech, and that I swayed them all in the direction of justice for all. That I convinced them that Citizen Miller was right, and he could paint his house any color he wished; but I can't. I stuttered and I stammered and finally I apologized for not being prepared and awkwardly made my way off the platform, feeling like the coward I was. My only thought was to get out of this village as fast as my cowardly feet and high-powered automobile could take me. But as I was about to make my way out of the square, I was stopped by several of the leaders large henchmen, who informed me that The Leader would like a few words with me before I left, if that was convenient with me. To save my pride, whatever was left of it, I said certainly and followed them. I was led to the same small structure that Miller had been taken to. Maybe I wasn't going to get off so easily after all. I had no other choice but to enter as the large men surrounded me offered no chance of escape. So I acquiesced again to the meeting and entered. The inside of the structure was Spartan with furnishings, a wooden table and two chairs. Dark stains on the floor, reminders of Citizen Millers visit, and others before I am sure, gave me much discomfort, as I thought I might also be adding some blood to the grisly decor. The Leader, already seated at one of the chairs, motioned for me to sit at the other. I did. "Before you leave us," he began, "I want to make you aware of a few facts. One, what you see here is only the beginning of a new and better form of government. As you have seen, we have a village without problems, without disagreements, that is progressing forward arm in arm to achieve an ideal society. We think alike, we work together, and we succeed together. We believe that freedom for all in all things only creates babble, not unlike the Tower of Babel, too many voices, too many opinions only creates division and despair. The way to success and achievement is through one voice, one direction for the common good." "Two, what you see here is only the beginning. In the next state election, I will run for and win the governorship, and what is good for this village will be good for the entire state. Then the entire country will see and compare and it is my firm belief that they will choose the new way." "Three, if you find enough courage in yourself to inform your fellow countrymen of the new way, you will find that this village speaks with one tongue, and that voice will deny everything you say. You will be just another crackpot, your story will have a shelf life of one day, and your life will be ruined. So don't waste your breath, just keep looking at the news, and someday we will meet again citizen." He smiled at me, but those eyes, those dark evil eyes, told me more than the smile ever could. I was nearing the town’s edge, and was wondering if I would ever again be able to drive through the dark nights believing all was right with the world, or I wouldn't be stopped just up the road for a security check. These thoughts and many more were coursing though my head as I glanced back and read the sign that proclaimed I was leaving the sleepy village of Munich, Ohio, Please come back. I floored the accelerator and trembled. Jim Kittelberger 2001. All Rights Reserved.

THE INTERNET An Essay by Jim Kittelberger Talk about being absorbed, about being sucked into a world that will transfix you for hours on end, then you have to be talking about the Internet. By clicking on to C-SPAN, I can be listening to an author talking about his current book, or listen to Garrison Keillor’s PRARIE HOME COMPANION while I am browsing through the TATE in Britain, the METROPOLITAN in New York, or the BRANDWINE gallery in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania. Depending on your tastes, you will certainly find what you’re looking for in this galaxy of plenty. This has to be as close to nirvana as you can get unless you sit at my wife’s table and savor the aromas. I have never been a sophisticate in things of the world. I’ve always felt it cramped the experience of discovery, the pure joy of seeing something for the first time, of enjoying those things that are not commonplace in my world. In fact, I made a conscious decision early on that to replace those feelings with a veneer of worldliness was not for me. So with this background, you can see why I am bowled over by the Internet. The Internet has allowed me to meander back to the things of my childhood, the things that kids remember. Like the comic books I read, they’re on the net, or at least the covers are. The bicycle that I loved is also there, a ROADMASTER with a brake light and other features that knocked me out at the time. You can learn a foreign language; you can even chat with someone on the other side of the planet. You can visit the biggest flea market in the world, E-BAY. Now there are some who snub this electronic miracle to their detriment. It can teach, it is THE communication development (e-mail) that keeps families and friends and indeed business in contact, without even affixing a stamp. It has become a boon to the elderly and retired of the world. It opens up new interests in folks who thought they would retire to a rocking chair, but instead they have developed new interests and discovered new talents they didn’t even know they had. And finally what most of us go to the Internet for, it amuses us, big time.

THE LONG STEEL TRACK A CHILDREN’S TALE FOR OLDER ADULTS By Jim Kittelberger The Blue Engine Line pulled into the station at Littletown, Ohio. It belched one last puff of smoke, and one last shot of steam, which created a very large cloud obscuring the little station house. If trains were people, it would seem that blue engine was ready for the train retirement home, or as was the fact, for the scrap heap. Blue train had been working very hard for many, many years, carrying passengers from their homes into the big city. It was good at its job. It would proudly announce its arrival at each station with a loud toot of its whistle, and carry the people safely to their destinations. But times became hard for all the people in Ohio including the farmers and they had to work much harder to have enough money to feed their families. The owners of the Blue Engine Line also had less money, so they cut back on upkeep on their trains. Well, Blue train just like people needed someone to keep it clean and neat and pretty and oiled and in topnotch mechanical shape. But the owners didn’t have the money so Blue train started getting a little dirtier and shabbier and not in very good mechanical shape, until finally it was so tired and uncared for, it acted old. So as time passed and the company had more money, it was decided that instead of fixing up Blue train, it should be retired and shoved aside. They would purchase a new shiny train, a red one, the Red Engine Line. Blue train was oh so blue and sad as it sat on the siding of the station, but at least the owners had not send it to the trash heap, but instead just ignored it. So it sat there day after day, month after month, year after year. Children would come with their parents and climb up into the engine and pretend they were engineers speeding down the tracks. Blue train liked that, but he was sure he had some more miles left in him, but the owners had forgotten all about him. That is until one day when the most important man in Ohio, the Governor of the state and many mayors were aboard the Red Engine Line on the way back to Capital city to sign a very important bill that would help all the people of Ohio. The night was moonless, and dark. Snow was swirling around the big train as it barreled through the night, speeding them to the Capital. When all of a sudden with no warning, it started slowing in spite of anything the engineer could do, until finally it stopped in the middle of nowhere. The big engine wheezed and sputtered and started to make the oddest noise the engineer had ever heard. It stated making noises like a coffee maker, it sounded like water boiling and percolating and getting louder. It was the great boiler building up a huge head of steam and not being able to use it for moving the train. Something had broken and the steam kept building until something was going to blow soon. The engineer, not knowing what to do, ordered all the workers off the engine and he followed them soon after, and they ran off to a safe distance, and stood in the blowing snow waiting for whatever was about to happen. Well it finally did happen. The boiler, not able to contain its hot steam one moment longer, blew out a huge hole in the bottom of the boiler and the steam and fire exploded under the big locomotive. Farmers, who saw it, later reported that the sparks that came out of the boiler were better than any Fourth of July fireworks show they had ever seen. And the steam created a cloud bigger than four of Zeke Smiths biggest barns. The owners, who were riding with the Governor, were mortified. Here sat the most important man in Ohio with a very important job to do sitting here in the middle of pastures and cornfields, still many miles from the Capital, not moving. They huddled together and got out their maps of all their tracks and stations, arguing and discussing and arguing again. They finally decided they needed the closest train available to get here and rescue the governor and the mayors. They looked again and again, and decided that the closest station to them was a little town called Littletown. So the call went out. Get up steam on any available train and send it as soon as possible to rescue the very important people. The Littletown stationmaster replied yes sir, yes sir twice because he was so nervous. He looked at his manifest and was aghast, he had said yes before he realized that all his trains were out of the station at other places. That is, all except, the Blue train. But it had not been used for years and was old and tired. But he had no choice now, because if he called back and told them, they would surely fire him for not realizing he had no trains available. Blue train was in the middle of another nights long sleep, when he noticed a small army of men coming in his direction. Before he knew what was happening, they had lit his boiler and the steam was making the old engine come alive again. As quickly as possible Blue train was connected to the main line. The engineer pushed the old throttle and the Blue engine started to move. At first it was like an old fellow with stiff muscles getting on his feet after sitting for a long while, he groaned and moaned; but soon, as the steam ran through its lines and twists and turns it started to feel good, until he was flying down the tracks feeling as if he were a teenager again. Soon, it seems in record time, with all its lights blazing and its horn tooting and whistle whistling, it came around the final turn and there was the Governors train. The Governor could not stop thanking the owners for their great wisdom in sending for this fine train, and the owners could not stop thanking the stationmaster for his wise choice in sending this fine old train. So, I wish I could say that old Blue train was back to work on a daily basis, but time could not be reversed and old Blue was just that, old. But old Blue was given a special siding all to itself, and banners proclaimed that this train was the train that rescued the Governor of Ohio in a snowstorm and carried him to Capital city where he signed important bills that helped all the people of Ohio. He was a hero. There is a moral to this story. We all get old and our bodies may become smaller and less robust, but inside all of us dwells a spirit that burns eternally bright, just like Old Blue Train in Littletown Ohio.

The Ring
By Jim Kittelberger


Lotta Stores is bored. Lotta is eight years old and is a nice little girl. Her family is very rich, and she can have anything that money can buy, but she is very lonely. She has a nurse to help her dress and bathe and brush her hair. There is also a maid and a butler around. Her daddy is always busy making money and her mama is always going to teas and garden parties and things like that. She wishes she had a brother or sister or a dog or a cat or a bird or a fish or a horse, but alas she is not allowed to have any pets. But most of all Lotta wishes she had a friend.


Today, the weather outside is terrible, it's raining and thundering, and blowing, so she is not allowed to go out. She is told to amuse herself. Her home is at the top of her fathers' biggest building. At street level is the entrance to "THEGREATSTUFFSTORE". The store is five stories tall. Offices of the store are on floors six to ten. Floors rented out to other business are on eleven to forty nine. At the very top, on floor fifty, is where Lotta and her parents live. There are lots of windows but no blinds because no one is tall enough to look in. She can look out her window and see birds flying below. People on the street look like little toys walking around. Since she is alone most of the time, she uses her imagination and makes up stories in her head. Sometimes when she looks down and sees the little people and cabs and buses, she holds her hand in front of her face while she is looking down and imagines she can pick up whole handfuls of people and cars. If she is extremely lonely she pretends that she turns her hand over and all the little people and cars are on her palm and she talks to them. Usually the people are very scared, but she talks real nice to them and they calm down. One day as she was talking to her palm people, a boy of eighteen, told her, "I know just what you mean, I'm an only child also and there were many times I wished I had someone to play with or especially to talk to. I had so many questions that I couldn't ask my parents. They were too busy or I was too embarrassed to ask them."
"Yes, yes, that's exactly right. I have so many questions and my mama and daddy are too busy for me and that's when I wish I had a friend." Lotta said excitedly discovering that someone else felt the same way.
"Can I ask you what your name is?" Lotta asked, a little nervous.
"Sure you can. My name is Ozzie, actually it's Oscar. That was one bad name to have when I was younger. Kids made fun of me and it made it hard to make friends, and so many times I wanted to ask my parents why did you name me that? I guess it was my moms favorite uncles name so she just didn't think what it would do to me. But when you get older, it's O.K. you learn how to handle those things." Ozzie said smiling at Lotta.
Lotta was beaming. She loved talking to Ozzie, he was like a big brother. He knows what problems and questions I need answered.
Just then Ozzie said, "I am going to have to go now Lotta, I have to get to the other side of town before three o'clock and I will have to change buses three times to get there."
"Oh no, do you really have to go? Lotta asked, feeling sad that she would probably not see him again. All of the sudden a great idea occurred to her. "Wait right here Ozzie, I will be right back." As she laid him gently down on the windowsill. "Don't fall." She said and off she ran.


She ran to the elevator and told the attendant that she wanted to go down to the store. The man asked her what floor and she said. "Please take me to the toy floor." The man knowing who she was said, "Yes Miss Lotta, here we go." When she arrived at the toy floor, she ran directly to the boy's section and the model cars. She told the lady that she wanted to take two of the model cars that had little engines in them. I would like the red sports car and the black pickup truck. Everyone knew Lotta and gave her what she wanted. They would just write it down and it would be O.K. The lady came back with the two she wanted and off she flew back to the elevator. When she arrived back at the apartment she went directly to the windowsill, and Ozzie was still there, gazing at the birds flying outside the window.
Beaming, Lotta sat the two vehicles down on the coffee table. Ozzie crawled back up on her palm and Lotta asked, "What if you had your own car? Would that help you get to where you have to go quicker?
"Why sure it would, Ozzie said, but I can't afford to have my own car. I am just getting started in this job and it'll be a long time before I can do that."
With that she took Ozzie over to the coffee table and sat him down beside the red car and the black pickup.
"They are yours Ozzie for being so nice to me. I only ask one thing in return."
Ozzie was flabbergasted and couldn't keep his eyes off the red sports car. "Absolutely Lotta, what is you want me to do?"
Lotta asked nervously, "Would you please come to see me every day and let me ask you things and maybe have lunch with me sometimes?"
Ozzie looked at her with understanding eyes. "Of course I will. I would be very glad to come have lunch with you and we can talk about anything you would like. But now I have to fly, well I don't think I can do that, but maybe you can set me back down on the sidewalk."
With that she picked up Ozzie and his red car and put them in the palm of her hand and put her hand in front of her eyes and set them gently down. Thank you for coming Ozzie. Will I see you tomorrow?"
"You sure will," he said as he jumped into the red car and drove off down the street.


That evening as Lotta and her parents were sitting down to eat, her father said, "You seem especially happy tonight sweetheart, it does my heart good to see you smiling. Did something happen today to cause these smiles?"
Lotta gave him a bigger smile yet, and told him about Ozzie and the car. Mr. Stores smile left his face, and he looked at Lotta and asked, "Didn't we have a talk about your imagining."
"Yes we did daddy, but this was real, I did talk to him, I did give him the car, He is going to come back and have lunch with me." Lotta said, a little sad because her daddy would not believe her.
Mr. Stores sat back in his chair and sighed. "Oh Lotta, I love you so much, but I worry about you. You know you were only imagining and Ozzie is not real. Now please eat, and I don't want to hear anymore of this nonsense."


The next day Lotta stood by the window at lunchtime and stared down at the street. "Oh no." she said as she was about to give up waiting, when she saw a little red car pull up to the front of the store and park. She put her hand in front of her face and lowered it, and picked up Ozzie and sat him on the windowsill. "Oh Ozzie, I am so glad you came. I was getting very worried that you would not come." She said breathing a sign of relief.
"Why heck, there was nothing for you to worry about, you're my friend and I said I would be here. Now what's for lunch"?


Ozzie and Lotta had a wonderful lunch and she told him of her fears and asked many questions about growing up, until it was time for him to go. Ozzie said as he was getting ready to go, "I almost forgot. I got you this friendship ring, so you will always remember me and smile." He took the ring and put it on the coffee table, and Lotta started to cry. "Don't cry Lotta, it was supposed to make you happy." He said concerned.
"I am crying because I am so happy. Thank you very much. Now you had better go or you will be late for work. Will I see you tomorrow?
"You will see me every tomorrow until you don't need me anymore." He said as he jumped into her palm and she gently lowered him to the street.


That evening at dinner, Lotta was uncommonly quiet as they ate and her daddy asked, "You seem very quiet tonight, is everything alright?"
"Why yes daddy, everything is fine"
"Well I'm glad to hear that, and I hope you are finished with that silly talk of that imaginary boy and his car. I worry about you and only want you to be happy. By the way, what's that ring you're wearing?"





(C) Copyright 1999 Jim Kittelberger. All Rights Reserved.