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Campfire Stories

The crew all sat around the campfire. The conversation was about monsters and spooks .

Anticipation ran high after each selection as the crew detailed their humorous, and scary choices.The Stay Puffed Marshmellow Man got several mentions. Also listed were: vampires, mummies, the Holy Ghost, their in-laws, and former husbands and wives. It was all in good fun. 

I remained silent. “Wes?”

“Well, it’s not going to mean much to folk’s who’ve never been to sea, but we used to call it Mr. Wakey Wakey. You see, there’s always someone who’d come around on board ship to wake you up for a night time watch. But once in a rare while, you’d go to wake them, and they’d be dead. Dead with a grimace on their face. 

I knew a shipmate who survived. He said it was an old petty officer who shook his shoulder while whispering in his ear, “Wakey Wakey!” right after that, they took him to sickbay with appendicitis. But he survived. Other shipmates compared notes, and Mr. Wakey Wakey was known on lots of cruises and ships. Always after midnight. So yeah, I’m afraid of Mr. Wakey Wakey.

The only other former Navy person there that night was Mike. No one was as superstitious as Mike, especially after more than a few beers. So I made sure to elaborate about ships we both knew and drop names of former shipmates. Mike had served two enlistments and had lots more sea duty than me; he knew the watch standing routine. By bedtime, he was primed. Just to set the hook, I piped Word Passed through my lips and then announced to all, but specifically to Mike: “All hands turn in your bunks. Turn out all lights. Keep silence about the decks. The smoking lamp is out in all berthing compartments.” We all turned in.

A bit before midnight, I dipped my hands in the nearby stream to get them wet and cold. I slipped beside Mike’s tent and carefully unzipped the fly. There he lay asleep and snoring hard. I tossed a large towel over his head, grabbed him by the neck with cold, wet hands, and hoarsely whispered, “Wakey Wakey! You have the mid watch!” then I rushed to my tent to watch the reaction.

Mike didn’t seem to realize at first that his head was completely covered. He floundered about hollering out loudly, ” I’m not ready to die!” As the entire campsite erupted, he took the towel from his head and looked out into a campground lit by flashlights. Several loud “what the hell’s going on?” rang out. Mike’s flashlight came on and caught me in its glare. I was lying in my tent, howling with laughter. “Wes, I’m so going to get you for this!”

And he did too, but that’s another story.

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The Cat By The Door

The little brown cat sat there cleaning itself. It was so unassuming you’d almost assume it wasn’t there. My girlfriend and I were visiting Claire, and Claire ignored the little cat. I bent over to make some kitty come here noises. Claire gave me an annoyed look: “what’re you doing?” “I was trying to get your cat’s attention,” “Cat? I don’t own a cat.” I pointed at the small brown cat sitting by the door looking intently at me. Claire glared, “why does everyone think I own a cat? I’ve never owned a cat!” “Well,” I pointed out, “one never really owns a cat; you live with one. Kind of like roommates.”
My girlfriend extricated us from the unpleasant visit, but her look told me that there’d be a heartfelt talk later on about my seeing things again. We returned to our apartment downstairs, and I stopped thinking about it.
Later that evening, I noticed Clancy, the Gray Menace, running about the room, rolling and chasing about, as if he was playing with another cat, but just one people couldn’t see. As I looked away from the otherwise empty room, I thought I caught just the faintest hint of brown streaking across it.

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What Jerry Did

Halloween week can be an iffy time of the year to be on the road. Sometimes it’s like late summer, and others its almost full-on winter. I never particularly liked hitching during this holiday week. Too many cruel people hide among merrymakers dressed as ghosts, goblins, and political figures.
This particular year I was strongly motivated by the economic need to be in a different state to make money at a new job. It was my bad luck to be stuck on the road on Halloween. It’s trite to say that it was dark, windy, and damp, with the clouds scudding rapidly like clippers before a storm. But it was. A low bank of fog was forming, and visibility on the road was becoming non-existent. I needed to get off the highway and into shelter soon.
I stumbled through the woods adjacent to the highway until I found myself in a clearing. The sort of clearing it was wasn’t apparent until I collided with a half toppled tombstone. Finding the aisle between the graves, I proceeded to walk through the graveyard until I came upon a massive and ornate crypt. I walked up onto the covered portico looking for shelter. There was not much. Looking at the ornate ironwork gate and the door behind it, I noticed that the locks had been broken. This was not my idea of a great refuge from the weather, but I wasn’t about to go too much farther without any alternative shelter.
As I entered, I noted the small podium with an open ledger book on it. To the right was a carved stone bench, and on the opposite wall was a weeping angel with her face covered. Creepy; it reminded me of the Weeping Angels in Doctor Who. I didn’t think I would do much sleeping tonight. Behind me were a double row of unused stone benches that I assumed were meant for the crypt’s owners’ coffins—never used. I shut off my flashlight and reclined on the stone bench opposite the angel – “I’m keeping my eyes on you, sweetheart.”
I guess that I did sleep for a while. On waking, I nervously checked the angel -” glad you behaved darling.” from outside came the sounds of teens taunting a member of their group. ” come on, you said you’d go in. All you do is lie down on where the coffins go, and stay there till midnight. I’ve done it lots of times!” ” but Jerry, it’s a tomb. I don’t want to!” ” look, Sal, I’ll show you how to do it, then you do it. OK?”
Jerry and his friends surrounded Sal, who looked like someone’s younger sister about to be victimized by her older brother and his friends. They were nervously capering around, seeming to be caught between anticipation of a good joke and outright fright.
Jerry strode up the steps to the entrance and eased open the gate with a big grin on his face. Seeing my chance to turn the tables on a bully, I pulled up my hood and grabbed my flashlight. As Jerry stepped inside, I lit the flashlight directly below my chin, placed a hand on his shoulder, and in my worst Boris Karloff voice, said: “Jerry, we have been expecting your arrival…welcome!” Jerry screamed, ran out, fell flat on his face at the end of the stairs, got up, and ran away. The entire gang joined him, running away in panic. I stood in darkness on the steps, hood drawn up, and light under my chin.
I gathered up my pack and guitar and headed downhill towards the highway. I’d had enough Halloween for this year.

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The Good, The Bad, And The Kitty

If Clancy, the Gray Menace, could have selected his favorite actor, it would have been hands down Clint Eastwood. A Fist Full of Dollars, Dirty Harry that would have been the model, the Gray Menace would have emulated. He even had the moves down: idly sitting there licking the blood from the paw while waiting for you to make a counter move, cue the Enricci Morricone music in the background. Or him sitting in the doorway backlit seeming to say: “The heart, Ramon. Don’t forget the heart. Aim for the heart, or you’ll never stop me.”– A Fistful of Dollars

But of course, the very central part of the feline strategy is the stalk. It can be subtle in a master’s paws, ending in a stroke of raking claws. Or it can be the prelude to a broad swath of destruction that Kurasawa would have emulated in a Samurai movie ( have I mentioned that the Gray Menace sat still and intent through an entire showing of the Seven Samurai?). In either case, the technique requires endless practice. And targets to stalk. 

While living in Arlington, there were some particularly obnoxious neighbors. You know the sort. They put their garbage into your already full recycle containers. When they have company, the company drives up onto your lawn to park. The loud cookouts last till 3 AM on Sunday. Have you had neighbors like this? Calling the police solves nothing. You seem to have few alternatives. “Who you going to call?” – the Gray Menace. 

The neighbors had an obnoxious German Shephard named Schultz. It had terrorized every cat in the neighborhood and had set its sights on Clancy. 

Clancy had already taught Schultz one terrible lesson, but Schultz decided to come back for more, and more and more. One night while the neighbors had their usual noisy late Saturday evening cookout, the “master” decided to direct the dog to attack the Gray Menace. The guests seemed to think this was a great sport. The great Gray one was sitting on top of the chimney of an unused brick fireplace. At the convenient height of about seven feet, he could survey his domain. Once Schultz was within range, he dived onto the dog. The dog swerved at the last instant, and instead of a full-body crash, sustained raking claws to his legs. Schultz wanted no more, and the pursuit began. Schlutz tore through my yard and back into his own. Dog and cat nipped and scratched their way through the crowd of guests. A riot ensued as everyone scattered to evade the combatants. There was a “friendly fire” incident as Schultz nipped his master while the master tried to grab a collar. The grill fell over, and hot coals added to the chaos.

Deciding to declare victory, the Gray Menace returned home and triumphantly sat on the fireplace, licking his paws.

The police arrived responding to several calls of a disturbance at the neighbor’s house. As the officers stepped out of the cruiser, the Gray Menace eagerly ran to them. He was purring loudly, rubbing against their legs, and rolling over to show his belly.

The neighbors described the unbridled viciousness of the invasion of their peaceful abode. But, the cat was receiving scratches behind his ears, belly rubs, and pets. One police officer, now holding the Gray Menace in his arms, seemed dubious of the charges against such a sweet cat.

Putting the cat down, the officer mentioned to the neighbor that there’d be a citation for violating the noise ordnances if they received any more calls. While this happened, the Gray menace nonchalantly strolled back towards me; a little victory strut was evident. He always liked authority.

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Stepping Stones

After my Government job disappeared in the early ’90s, I took an assistant to the director position at a small publishing company. The charismatic Owen Jones was the Director, and he was the darling of what we used to call a Letterhead Board of Directors. Board members were prominent, wealthy, and privileged. Their names and companies were on the company’s letterhead. Little room remained for text, but board members were impressed.

The company was a well-funded vanity press with plans to publish the memoirs of prominent Board members. The first effort was the autobiography of Arthur Siegfried, the Chairman of the Board.

Owen was the sort of boss who kissed up and kicked down. He fawned on the Board of directors but was abusive to his staff. His favorite ploy was to have a staffer in attendance at functions. Periodically he’d gesture for us to approach, ask a question, and then abruptly turn his back on us, resuming his conversation with a more critical individual. It showed how vital Mr. Jones was and how low we were in the order of things.

Staff was definitely to be seen and not heard. It should have come as no surprise that after two years, the company was no closer to publishing the autobiography Journey of a Titan than they had on the day the company opened. Owen was much too busy attending functions with the Board members, shmoozing at Chamber functions, and currying favor at the clubs he had joined. Owen gave little direction to staff.

The project had already gone through three editors and two copy editors. The Journey of a Titan had major rewrites regularly as Arthur buffed his written image. Actual production stalled, but the jacket art and prose were complete down to solicited and paid for blurbs from enthusiastic reviewers.

Owen’s strategy was to get discovered. The Chamber activity, clubs, and charity events were opportunities for him to get observed and offered the next stepping stone on the ascent to corporate heights. In short, he expected to be gone when the house of cards began to topple. Many before him had successfully used the strategy. You look sadly back at the wreck of your first effort, sigh and note that those who came after you were lesser individuals.

Dictators, tyrants, and tools depend upon others to maintain their position. Those who bear this in mind have long careers. Those who forget this soon get overturned. One night, sensing his next step ascending close by, Mr. Jones pulled his favorite ploy on Arthur Siegfried. On Monday, at an introductory meeting, we met Mr. Siefried’s son, our new Executive Director.

I understand that Owen eventually found work in the hospitality industry, but being a night manager at a Holiday Inn Express was a far cry from schmoozing with the elite. As Napoleon said: “Glory is fleeting. But obscurity is forever.” 

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Round About Midnight

The worst hitching was those long dark passages on moonless nights. No cars or trucks, you walked for miles. If the weather put it’s two cents in, you’d be tired, wet, and cold. After a few hours of this, you’d be up for ventures you’d typically steer clear of and call crazy.
I had to stop and look at the burnt-out house several times before I took a closer look. Even desperate, it seemed too unsafe—the smell of fresh char mixed with strange odors from burnt plastics, and foam hung in the air; this was recent.
Around back was an abandoned car that might offer a windbreak till dawn. Opening the passenger side door, I eased onto the seat.
I settled in as well as I could and peeled back the wrapping on a candy bar.
I had a nervous feeling that I was not alone.
From the back came a low growl. I was heading out the door in a flash, dragging my pack behind me. A hand grabbed my shoulder. A voice croaked, “Ya gonna share some?” I heard the sound of claws scrabbling behind me and an odor that was hard to place, not pleasant.
I didn’t stop running until the lights of the police car came upon me. Two officers asked me why I was running along a deserted road at midnight like the devil was out to get me. “Cause he is.” I managed to pant out. After I caught my breath, I stood there, hands on my knees, panting while I described what had happened. I told them about the strange house, the car, the hand grabbing me, the voice, the sound of the hell hound, and the bad smell. They listened to my every word with serious intent before cracking up in loud laughter.
Now I was more than a bit upset, but I heard a shuffling sound, and down the road, I saw a thin erect form lurching towards us. At his feet was a red-eyed devil hound. I could do no more than point and scream: ” There!” The officers commenced howling in laughter. Turning to look behind themselves, they saw the figure and the hound and started to scream with mock terror. One of the Police turned and put a hand on my shoulder. Barely able to speak from the laughter that was shaking his form, he managed to squeak out, “That’s just Chester and Barney!” Worried that the locals were on familiar terms with Hell Spawn, I turned to start running again but found myself restrained. “Easy now, we’ll all just run down to the Nugget Diner and get ourselves an early breakfast. After that, we’ll get you back on the road and Chester and Barney to the station house for a shower. Boy, is he ripe tonight?
Chester turned out to be a local hermit, Barney, likes candy bars. The local Police couldn’t leave well enough alone and retold the tale to everyone sitting in the dinner. They probably retell it every Halloween.
So if you are passing through Ocala, off route 29, give the Police a wide berth. They have a twisted sense of what’s funny. But Chester and Barney are OK.

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Spoils of War

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">George couldn't let it be. He and his wife were visiting, and he'd brought over a radio-controlled car. It was racing around after the cat. When the Grey Menace, Clancy, tired of being chased, I warned him there would be consequences. Creep, <a href="https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2020/10/23/creep/">creep</a&gt;, creep, the car slowly approached Clancy, then backed up teasing. I sensed that Clancy was nearing the end of his patience. An attack was <a href="https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2020/10/23/rdp-friday-impending/">impending</a&gt;. "George, give it up." I reached to slap the control from his hand. Clancy now was glaring directly at George. "George!" Too late, twenty-one pounds of cat lept towards George. George couldn’t let it be. He and his wife were visiting, and he’d brought over a radio-controlled car. It was racing around after the cat. When the Grey Menace, Clancy, tired of being chased, I warned him there would be consequences. Creep, creep, creep, the car slowly approached Clancy, then backed up teasing. I sensed that Clancy was nearing the end of his patience. An attack was impending. “George, give it up.” I reached to slap the control from his hand. Clancy now was glaring directly at George. “George!” Too late, twenty-one pounds of cat lept towards George.

<p value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">The little vehicle spun in circles. George ran through the kitchen and living room, the cat in hot pursuit. Clancy uttered a final battle cry and slammed into the screen door through which George has just exited.The little vehicle spun in circles. George ran through the kitchen and living room, the cat in hot pursuit. Clancy uttered a final battle cry and slammed into the screen door through which George has just exited.

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80"><br>Silence. "Wes? What's going on?' asked my wife. From outside, George whimpered, " Can I get my car?" " Now's not a great time, George, he's carrying it off. Spoils of war, and all that sort of stuff." Clancy picked up the car, carried over to his bed, sat there, and challenged the world to take his new toy away.
Silence. “Wes? What’s going on?’ asked my wife. From outside, George whimpered, ” Can I get my car?” ” Now’s not a great time, George, he’s carrying it off. Spoils of war, and all that sort of stuff.” Clancy picked up the car, carried over to his bed, sat there, and challenged the world to take his new toy away.

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No Exit

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">The poster wall said: " It's hard to remember that your original intent was to drain the swamp when you are ass deep in alligators." The poster hung on the bare wall in my supervisor's office. Again, I sat opposite her as she face-palmed frustration with me. Somehow I knew that this was wrong. she hadn't been my supervisor since before I went to grad school. But a pinch on my wrist told me that this hallucination was not only <a href="https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2020/10/22/vivid/">vivid </a>visually but fully tactile too. I decided to play along and see where it went. "OK. What did I do this time?" she glared at me and said nothing. She hadn't been a bad boss despite the real need to put a snotty twenty-five-year-old in place every week. So the glare was a dead give that this was…wait, <em>dead</em> giveaway? Hell! Well, yes, maybe. It couldn't be heaven, could it? Strange Heaven. Into this scene, pranced Joltin' Joe, another boss from later on. " Great, I've been waiting for you…" he then proceeded to rip me several new ones in the manner that he had perfected.The poster wall said: ” It’s hard to remember that your original intent was to drain the swamp when you are ass deep in alligators.” The poster hung on the bare wall in my supervisor’s office. Again, I sat opposite her as she face-palmed frustration with me. Somehow I knew that this was wrong. she hadn’t been my supervisor since before I went to grad school. But a pinch on my wrist told me that this hallucination was not only vivid visually but fully tactile too. I decided to play along and see where it went. “OK. What did I do this time?” she glared at me and said nothing. She hadn’t been a bad boss despite the real need to put a snotty twenty-five-year-old in place every week. So the glare was a dead give that this was…wait, dead giveaway? Hell! Well, yes, maybe. It couldn’t be heaven, could it? Strange Heaven. Into this scene, pranced Joltin’ Joe, another boss from later on. ” Great, I’ve been waiting for you…” he then proceeded to rip me several new ones in the manner that he had perfected.

The door opened. What was next? My former father in law the Cap’n, my ex-wife, the old landlord, or the dog that terrorized me at ten?

Instead, a gentleman in a three-piece suit walked in, glancing first at a clipboard and then at me: “Carreras, Louis – you’re not due to arrive for another ten years- OK, all of you back to your hells. The assignment here doesn’t start till then. In the background, I heard my old landlord screaming as a dog growled.

“OK, Carreras, you can go back to sleep now. Your demons will keep until the due date.” The scene faded, and gray turns to blue as I become aware of the sky outside of my window. A hell where your tormentors were all former nemesis? No Exit?

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Remembering

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">Early in the century, time and effort had been invested in building a dam across part of the <a href="https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2020/10/20/rdp-tuesday-swamp/">swamp</a&gt;. It formed an impoundment for the cranberry bog planted below. All across New England, people turned their hands at any number of trades and practices in the hopes of doing better than break even. It was true that many places in New England grew a better crop of rocks yearly than anything else. Spinney's family had owned a hard-luck farm on which they tried growing apples, raising foxes, chickens, dairy, and the experimental cranberry bog. One project after another was attempted to try to wring a living from the rocky coast. And he pointed out, that was before the Depression.<br>The healthy growth of forests was a later phenomenon, he told me. When he was young, there were few trees; wood got cut for heat. And sheep kept everything else trimmed back. If you went fishing, you followed the fisheries' seasonality, farmed, and did work for summer residents. Spinney had gone to work as a ship's carpenter but still had helped out on family activities.<br>He explained that it had been too labor-intensive harvesting such a small bog and getting the cranberries to market. Once the family got the Roadhouse on route 47 going, they let the bog, chickens, and orchard go. Serving dinners and drinks paid better and less work too.<br>Spinney explained this as we snowshoed into the swamp. We climbed through fresh snow onto the hillock in the middle of the swamp. On top sat a tumbledown tar papered shack. "this is where us kids would camp while working on the bog." Off to the southeast, you could peek through the trees and see the bay.<br>"So why didn't you leave?" I asked. He looked at me for a while: "Wes, you're going to leave here to go back to graduate school. You're going to remember this view someday and wish you had stayed. Then you'll understand."<br>And I do.Early in the century, time and effort had been invested in building a dam across part of the swamp. It formed an impoundment for the cranberry bog planted below. All across New England, people turned their hands at any number of trades and practices in the hopes of doing better than break even. It was true that many places in New England grew a better crop of rocks yearly than anything else. Spinney’s family had owned a hard-luck farm on which they tried growing apples, raising foxes, chickens, dairy, and the experimental cranberry bog. One project after another was attempted to try to wring a living from the rocky coast. And he pointed out, that was before the Depression.
The healthy growth of forests was a later phenomenon, he told me. When he was young, there were few trees; wood got cut for heat. And sheep kept everything else trimmed back. If you went fishing, you followed the fisheries’ seasonality, farmed, and did work for summer residents. Spinney had gone to work as a ship’s carpenter but still had helped out on family activities.
He explained that it had been too labor-intensive harvesting such a small bog and getting the cranberries to market. Once the family got the Roadhouse on route 47 going, they let the bog, chickens, and orchard go. Serving dinners and drinks paid better and less work too.
Spinney explained this as we snowshoed into the swamp. We climbed through fresh snow onto the hillock in the middle of the swamp. On top sat a tumbledown tar papered shack. “this is where us kids would camp while working on the bog.” Off to the southeast, you could peek through the trees and see the bay.
“So why didn’t you leave?” I asked. He looked at me for a while: “Wes, you’re going to leave here to go back to graduate school. You’re going to remember this view someday and wish you had stayed. Then you’ll understand.”
And I do.

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The Woodbox

As a Boy Scout, I eagerly chopped wood for the campfire and loved foraging for deadwood we could burn to cook our franks and beans over. Cutting and prepping wood became more of a regularized activity in Coastal Maine. The Cap’n had a five-acre woodlot, and among the duties, my first wife asked me to assume was to “help Daddy get in the wood.”
The Cap’n and his wife had begun “snowbirding” to Florida years before I came into the picture. So harvesting from the woodlot was not a monumental task. They left the coast around New Years and returned near the end of March. I was cutting their fall and spring heating wood, not wood for an entire heating season. Just as long as I harvested the woodlot in the manner preferred by the Cap’n, he was happy. It was a good experience and not demanding.

Years later, I remarried, and once we had started a family, we moved to the town where my wife’s grandmothers lived. One grandmother lived alone in a vast old Colonial-era house. Need I say the punchline on this? It was mostly uninsulated and mostly heated by an elderly wood stove. While we had been courting visits to grandmother during the winter had required heating soapstone bedwarmers on the stove and putting them in the bed before retiring.
My brother in law had, after a long debate, convinced grandmother to make some changes in the elderly heating systems, but the house still needed voluminous amounts of wood to heat. Grandma was a true Yankee; the change came hard.
When the in-laws moved to Virginia, I assumed many of the duties for assisting grandma with heating. I stacked purchased cordwood, did almost all the splitting, and made sure that her kitchen wood box was always full. When her “wood guy” proved unreliable, I began to cut in the woodlot until we found someone reliable. Since I was a New York city boy who relished the country life, I did not find these tasks distasteful.
Besides, there were the Hermits and tea.
On a snowy winters morning, after splitting, stacking, and wood box filling, there is nothing so enjoyable as sitting in front of an old wood stove with your favorite grandmother sipping tea and eating freshly baked hermits. Granma was the daughter of a minister and had grown up in lumber camps and other Northwoods locations in Vermont, wherever the ministry had taken the pastor and his family. She had some incredible stories to tell. It had been a life that required more than a bit of hardihood to be successful. It was well worth the admission cost to sit while my jacket and gloves dried by the stove, sip, eat hermits, and listen.
Grandma has been gone now for many years, but on winters days when I am splitting and filling my wood box, I have urges to return to those days.

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