May by James Bates, lemonade

This year Mother’s Day fell on May 9^th, the same date as Andy’s birthday. When I left for work, I hugged Meg. “Happy Mother’s Day, sweetheart.”

            She hugged me back. “Thanks.” Then she held up Allie, who’d she’d been holding. “Kiss Daddy.”

            “Bye, Daddy,” she said.

            I gave her a slobbery raspberry smooch, which she loved. “Bye, bye, Goofy One,” I told her.

            She crossed her eyes and made a face. “Goofy, goofy,” she said, and scrambled out her mother’s arms. It took one second for her to gear up to top speed as she began running around the room yelling, “Goofy, goofy, goofy’, at top of her lungs.”

            “Thanks for that,” Meg said. But she was laughing. She and Allie had a special bond.

            Kind of like me and Andy.

            Speaking of…I looked around. “Say, where’s the Birthday Boy by the way?”

            “In the back by the garage, building a fort or something.”   

            “Okay, I’ll touch base with him on my way out.” I kissed Meg again. “The party still on for four this afternoon?” Our friends Jack and Linn and Arnie and Amber and their kids Samantha and Willow were all coming over for a dual Mother’s Day/Andy’s birthday celebration. The weather was pleasantly mild in the sixties, and we were going to fire up the grill and do venison steaks that Jack was bringing and filleted walleye from Arnie. I was going to do up a big salad, bake some potatoes and steam some pea-pods. For dessert we’d have Andy’s homemade birthday cake that Linn was bringing.

            “Yep, we are,” Meg said, chasing after Allie. “Watch out! Mommy’s coming to get you!”

            Allie screamed and ran laughing into the bedroom she shared with her brother. “Nooooooo!”

            Meg and I both smiled at each other, silently sharing the same thought: It was nice to see our daughter so happy. We shared a quick hug.

            “Okay,” I said. “I’m off. See you a little after three.”

            “Have a good day.”
            “I’ll try.”

            I’d been working at Esker Quik-Stop for a couple of weeks. It had taken about a month to find the job and get hired after I’d found out that Zylon Labs, the company where I’d been a research scientist for the last six years, had closed its doors for good. The conclusion I’d eventually come to after bemoaning my loss of employment for about a day? That’s life. Get on with it. So, I did.

            Of course, Meg was a little more direct. “It’s no time to feel sorry for yourself, Lee.” Looked me in the eye and spoke in that direct way she has when she wants me to be perfectly clear I understand the point she is making. “Time to move on.”

            Message received. I started looking the next day.

I usually worked two or three days a week at the station, most often from ten in the morning until three in the afternoon. I was paid ten dollars an hour. It wasn’t much, but having a little extra cash never hurt.

            Meg was making good money as an editor for Charlotte’s Press, a small independent publishing company, but I wanted to contribute. With the onset of warmer weather, we didn’t need as much firewood to heat the house, so with less wood to cut, I had some extra time.

The Quik-Stop station was two blocks west of us on the corner of our highway and country road 2. It’d had a sign in their window that we’d seen coming home from getting our second Pfizer shot a few weeks ago.

            I’d pointed it out to Meg. “What do you think?”

            She’d slowed and read it as we drove past. “You working at a gas station?”

            “Yeah. We could use the money, right?”

            “Right.”

            “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.” I thought for a moment or two. “Is it because of the extra kids?” In addition to Andy and Allie, Meg was now watching Linn and Amber’s girls, Samantha and Willow.

            “No, that’s not it. I love those two little ragamuffins.”

            “So, what is it?”

            “I don’t mind you working at all.” She turned and smiled as she pulled into the parking space behind our cabin and near the garage. “In fact, it’ll be nice to have the place to just myself and the kids.” She joked. I think. “I’m concerned about you being around so many other people.” She waved her hand arbitrarily. People up here aren’t the safest you know when it comes to Covid.”

            She was right. Mask wearing and social distancing was still frowned upon by the vast majority of rural Minnesotans. But by being conscientious and masking up and social distancing and avoiding crowds we had managed to stay healthy and keep the kids from getting sick with Covid for the nearly five months we’d been up here.

            “I see your point,” I said, helping the kids get out of the car. I watched them run laughing to the cabin. I pointed and commented, “It’s nice to see how well the kids have adjusted.”

            “It is.”

Meg took my hand as we followed behind. The wind was warm blowing through the pine trees. The ever-present crows were around squawking up a store. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. It was a pretty day. “The kids are doing great.” She hugged me. “We all are.” She sighed. “I just want you to be careful. That’s all.”

“Don’t worry. I will be. I’ll wear my mask and use hand sanitizer. Plus, they’ve got a plexiglass barrier between me and the customers.” I smiled and opened the door for her to go inside. “So, you’re okay if I apply.”

            She shrugged. “I know you’ll be safe. Sure, go ahead.”

            So, I did. The next day. Mr. Sven Jorgenson, the manager, hired me on the spot. So far it had worked out fine.

I checked my phone as I went out the back door. I still had some time before I had to leave. “Hey, Andy,” I waved. “How you doing?”

            He waved back. “Fine, Dad. I’m building a fort. Come look.”

            “I will.”

            “I found something.”

            “Cool,” I said, not really thinking about what he’d found, but more to the point, thinking about getting to work. It was only my second week and I wanted to make a good impression. Plus, I was one of those people who was obsessed with being on time. I checked my phone as I walked across the worn yard that at one time probably used to be grass but was now mostly dirt and low growing weeds.

            He was playing with some of the boards that were part of the collapsed garage next to the single car one that we could have used if it were empty of junk. Which it wasn’t, hence us parking the Honda Fit outside. The garages were about a hundred feet from the cabin.

            On the way, I eyeballed the last of the wood Gladys our landlady had left for us in January. The pile was tiny compared to the ten-chords that had originally been there. We’d used most of it up, but still had enough to take the chill off any cold nights or days. I made a mental note to cut it all up, split it and store it on the porch in the next week or two to clear the yard. Maybe then we could plant a garden.

            With those thoughts in mind, I walked up to Andy. He was squatting down with his back to me looking at something.

            “Hi, buddy,” I said. He was dressed in a dark blue sweater under worn bib-overalls. He had on rubber boots because the ground was soft and muddy in a few places. And on his head, he worn a Minnesota Twins baseball hat. His hair was long and curly and spilled down to his shoulders.

            He turned and grinned. “Hi, Dad.” Then he pointed. “Look what I found.”

            I put my phone away. “What?”

            He stood up and pointed. “There.”
            I bent close and looked. “Where?”

            “Under that board.”

I squatted down and looked underneath. “I don’t see anything.”

            Andy got on his hands and knees next to me and lifted the board.

            “Oh, my god!” I yelled, scrambling backwards and falling over myself to get away. It was a twisting, writhing, mass of snakes.

            Andy laughed. “What? You don’t have to be afraid. They just gardener snakes.”

            Now let me tell you something about me and snakes. It won’t take long, and it’s not a pretty story. Nor one I’m proud of. My mom was terrified of them. So was my dad. Together they instilled a reptilian fear of them in me while I was growing up that not only filled my days with terror, but my nights with nightmares. “They’ll come in your sleep and eat you,” Mom sometimes said.

            “Or crush you to death by suffocation.” Dad would add.

            Thanks, Mom and Dad.

            The idea was to fill me with a fear so great I would stay away from them. Done and done!

            But as I got older and I started to rethink that thinking. A friend of mine in college was a herpetologist, a snake guy, and he said to me once, “If you fear snakes, that means everything you know about snakes is wrong.”

            Rational thinking to an emotionally charged fear, that was true. And, I have to say, I tried. He taught me about the good they did for the environment and their place in the ecosystem. He even got me to hold one, a harmless, four-foot-long bull snake. (Harmless!). All well and good, but I was unprepared for the thousands (at least) of the withering writhing snakelets (or whatever they were called) that my son was so proudly showing me.

            As a mature adult and a father who wanted to set a good example for the younger generation, I tried to rally. “Those are nice, son,” I said, trying to keep the quivering quaver out of my voice.

            “I know, Dad. They are so cool.” He wrapped his arms around my waist and hugged me. “This is the best birthday present every.”

            I cleared my throat. “You know we can’t keep them.”

            “Oh, I know.” He grinned at me. “I just like knowing they’re here. I can study them.”

            Wow. And here I thought the book I got him about strange Grimm’s Fairy Tales would be a hit. (It actually was.) But I have to admit, it was wonderful to see him so excited.

            I hugged him, steering clear of the snakes. “Well, I’m glad you like them,” I said. Your mom and I had nothing to do with it, but I’m glad you’re happy.”
            “Oh, I am, Dad. I really am.”

            I hugged him some more. He really was a great kid. “I’m glad.”

            I left then and went to work. Later that afternoon, we had a great Mother’s Day/Andy’s Birthday and everyone had a super good time. Andy enjoyed showing off the den of gardener snakes to Jack and Linn and Arnie and Amber and Sam and Willow. The common consensus was that they were “Awesome!” In fact, I was the only one who had the willies over them. But I did my best to hide my it. After all, not only was it Andy’s birthday, but, as my rationally minded son keeps telling me, “Dad, don’t worry about them. They’re completely harmless.’

            He’s right. They are harmless. And I’m trying my best to get on board and come to grips with the snakes my son so adamantly admires. In fact, he and I go out there every day to check on them. Each day it gets easier, so maybe it’s working. It’s been over a week now, I haven’t even had any nightmares.

About the author 

Jim is an award-winning author who lives in a small town in Minnesota. His stories and poems have appeared in over three hundred online and print publications. His collection Resilience was published in early 2021 by Bridge House Publishing. Additional stories can be found on his blog: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

Migration

Migration

by James Bates

lemonade

11 May is International Migratory Bird Day

When Phil arrived at the viewing platform there were maybe twenty people. Half an hour later, as the sun was sinking low in the western sky, there were over a hundred with more arriving by the minute, all excited to see one of the greatest spectacles of the bird world: the nightly flight of sandhill cranes to their roosting spots along the Platte River in central Nebraska.

            Phil watched in awe as huge flocks of cranes boiled out of the stubble corn fields north and south of the Platte where they'd been feeding all day and made their way to the river. They were big yet gracefully birds with six foot wing spans, the tips of which barely moved as they skimmed the tops of riverside cottonwood trees before dropping low and coasting to a landing on one of the many sand bars scattered up and down the river. There they would spend the night, safe from roving coyotes and the occasional bobcat. In the morning they would rise in unison and head back to the fields to feed. At any one time between mid February and the end of March there were as many as three-hundred thousand sandhill cranes in the area, half a million all total during migration. People came from near and far to view them.

             Count Phil among those coming from afar. He'd spent the day making the nine hour drive from his hometown in Long Lake, Minnesota, and he was happy he had, but there was more to it than seeing the cranes. He'd also made the drive to help alleviate some of the loneliness he'd been feeling. Divorced now for just over a year, his ex had taken their two kids (along with her boyfriend) to Cancun for spring break. They shared custody but this was the longest he'd ever been separated from ten year Jason and six year Sara, and he'd been unprepared for how lonely he felt. He'd come to Nebraska to see the crane migration, sure, something he'd always wanted to do, but as stunning as it was he still missed his kids. A lot.

            Toward sunset the crowd of crane watchers in the viewing area swelled to over five hundred and for Phil it got to be a little too much. He shouldered his backpack and walked along the riverbank to nearby Alda Bridge where there were fewer people. The river was a quarter of a mile wide at this point and he savored the relative calm before stepping onto the bridge. The sun hung poised on the horizon and the sky was on fire in blazing orange. The rattling, prehistoric voices of the cranes drifted through the ever deepening twilight. The air was clear and clean and the river murmured in poetic harmony with night time falling over the land. It was like being in another world and Phil loved it.

            Groups of three to twenty cranes coasted over his head as he walked along the wide concrete bridge. Some were so close he could hear their wing beats and see the amber irises of their eyes. The only people around were couples wanting to be alone and families with young children and babies. He was walking by just such a couple when he couldn't help but overhear the frazzled voice of the mother.

            "Frank, could you do something with your son? Frank Junior is driving me nuts."

            "He's just excited to see the birds. I'll take him for a walk, maybe that will help."

            "Well, do something. Emily's getting fussy," the mother said, bouncing a small bundle wrapped in a blanket. "We might have to leave soon."

            "Okay. I won't be gone long," Frank said. "Come along Frankie." He took his son, an eight year old boy it looked liked, by the hand. "Let's go check out the other side of the bridge."

            They fell in a few steps behind Phil.

            "Dad, where do all these birds come from?" Phil heard the young boy ask.

            "I think they come from South America," the father said. "I'm not sure."

            "I like them," Frankie said. "They're cool."

            Phil smiled. He liked hearing the exchange between the father and son. For eighteen years he'd taught tenth grade biology at Long Lake High School. He liked kids, liked being around them. He was also a dad who missed his own children and felt drawn to this young father and his boy.

            He turned and smiled by way of greeting, "Nice night," he said to the father.

            "It sure is," he smiled back. "Great night to be out."

            "It is," Phil responded, slowing down so he was walking next to them. "Do you guys live around here?"

            "We do." He pointed behind them. "Five miles that way. Over across the highway in Wood River."

            Locals, then. "Cool," Phil said.

            They started talking, talking and walking all the way to the end of the bridge where they turned around and came back. Phil told them about the cranes, how they migrated to the Platte River from Mexico and Texas, and that they were stopping over in the area to feed and rest before continuing their journey to their nesting territory in northern Canada and Alaska. He talked about his job teaching tenth grade biology. The dad talked about working for the highway department and his wife working at the local grocery store. They'd lived in the area their entire lives but this was the first time they'd taken their young family to see the cranes.

            "By the way, I'm Frank. That's my wife Kathy and daughter Emily," he pointing up ahead. "And this here is Frank Junior. He likes to be called Frankie."

            "Nice to meet you, Frank. Frankie," Phil said. He introduced himself and he and Frank shook. When he extended his hand to the young boy Frankie chose not to shake. That was all right with Phil and he put his hand down.

            "Frankie, come on," his dad encouraged. "Be polite."

            Reluctantly, Frankie put out his hand and they shook. When he let go his eyes brightened. He looked at his dad and then at Phil, a wide smile forming. In his palm was a bright and shining quarter. "Wow! How'd you do that, mister? he asked.

            "Magic," Phil said, laughing.

            "Can you show me, mister? How do it, I mean?"

            Phil made eye contact with Frank to see if it was okay. He didn't want the father to think he was a weirdo pervert or anything. Frank nodded, yes, and Phil showed Frankie how the trick was done.

            By the time they got back to Kathy the twilight had deepened and there was just enough light to see.

            Frank introduced Phil. "He's from Minnesota and he's a teacher. He taught Frankie a magic trick."

            Phil chuckled. "Hi. I teach biology. Magic is just a hobby."

            Even though she was distracted with her daughter, Kathy was gracious. "Nice to meet you Phil," she said, bouncing her little girl.

            With the last light fading and night settling in, Phil took a flashlight from his backpack and used it to light the way back to where Frank and Kathy's car was parked. They chatted a few minutes and then said their goodbyes. When Phil shook little Frankie's hand he came away with a tiny matchbox car. He was impressed, "Looks like you've got the makings of a real magician here," he told Frank. Then he smiled at Frankie, "Good job." Frankie beamed.

            Phil stood in the dark watching the young family drive away and then used his flashlight to walk to his car. All the other crane watchers had left and the peace and quiet was breath-taking. There was a light breeze from the south, bringing with it the pungent aroma of moist, fertile farmland. It smelled heavenly. Nearby, he could hear the nighttime sounds of the cranes on the river, quietly talking back and forth, their voices sometimes rising in volume calling out and alerting others to possible danger, a coyote perhaps.

            The proximity of the cranes had a calming effect on him. He thought about the family he'd met, Frank and Kathy and Frankie Junior. Even baby Emily. Nice people. Salt of the earth. He was glad he'd spent time with them. He thought about the cranes resting nearby preparing in a few days to fly nearly two thousand miles north to their nesting territories, a feat in and of itself. As he gazed into the darkness, he could feel the immensity of the big land around him stretching horizon to horizon with stars filling the sky to overflowing, unlike anything he'd ever seen; constellations spinning in an never ending cosmic dance; verdant fields waiting to be tilled and planted with this year's crop. Let his ex have Cancun, he'd take Nebraska in the spring anytime.

            He got into the backseat and wrapped up in his sleeping bag. He'd sleep here tonight so he could watch the cranes rise from their roosts at dawn. Then he'd head home. As he closed his eyes he knew for sure he'd be back next year. He'd be back but he wouldn't be alone. He had a sudden, passionate desire to share the experience of seeing the cranes and this country with his children, a father's innate feeling it was the right thing to do. Maybe they'd even make it a yearly event and come down together every spring. Just like the cranes, he and his kids could make their own migration to the Platte River. He had a feeling Jason and Sara would love it. He knew he would, being here with his kids, the three of them together like they were supposed to be. Having the cranes around would just make it that much better. In fact, then it'd be perfect.

About the author 

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota and he has made the nine hour drive to Nebraska to see the sandhill crane migration many times. His stories have appeared in CafeLit, The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways, Cabinet of Heed, Paragraph Planet and Mused - The BellaOnline Literary Review. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

           

Ice Skating on Christmas Eve

by James Bates

hot cocoa

On Christmas Eve the two brothers got together to go ice skating. Once young and full of pep they were now old and just this side of decrepit, not to mention both widowers and grey bearded for longer than they cared to remember. That was okay. Skating was something they'd enjoyed all their lives though this was the first Christmas Eve they'd thought to do it together. It was soon apparent it had been a good idea, for they reveled in the moment, enjoying the crisp winter air and the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the frozen pond as they glided over its smooth surface.

            After a while, Tim took a break and bent down close to the surface, "Hey, these bubbles in the ice are kind of cool. I'm going to take some pictures."

            "All right," Jeff called to him. "Go for it. I'll just skate."

            "Don't fall," Tim cautioned.

            Jeff laughed as he skated past backward, showing off, "Don't worry." He turned and took about six glides before he stumbled and fell and landed hard on his butt. "Damn!"

            Tim looked up, concerned, "You okay?"

            Jeff lay on his back looking into the clear blue sky. It felt good to be outdoors. It felt good to be skating with his younger brother, too, though he'd probably be stiff in the morning - the fall certainly wouldn't help."Yeah, I'm fine," he said, struggling to his feet and brushing some snow off as he skated over to see what Tim was doing.

            His brother was on knees, his camera inches away from a bubble in the ice shaped like a heart and framed by the blade marks of ice skates that had cut through a thin dusting of snow. "What do you think? Think this'll make a nice picture?"

            Jeff had long ago given up trying to offer suggestions to his artistic brother. Tim had a unique gift, especially when it came to seeing the beauty found in nature. He used to be an accomplished landscape artist. Used to be, that was, until his eyesight began to fail him. Now he could barely see to drive, let alone paint. But he could see well enough to take pictures, like he was doing now.

            "Looks good," Jeff said, meaning it. "It's kind of surreal."

            "Yeah. I like it. I'm going to take some more."

            And he did, all the while Jeff skated around the small pond located in a wooded park a hundred yards behind Tim's small home. They were out on the ice for nearly an hour, until the sun dropped low behind the trees. Even though he fell a couple more times, Jeff couldn't remember when he'd had a better time skating.

            Finally Tim said, "We should probably get back home." He struggled to stand. He'd taken at least a hundred pictures. "It's getting cold. Maybe I could make us some hot cocoa when we get back. Do you have time for that?"

            Jeff lived in an efficiency apartment in a small town twenty miles to the west. He had nowhere he had to be. "Sounds good," he said, skating over and plopping down on the shore in the snow next to Tim to take off his skates.

            Then they walked through the cold winter afternoon to Tim's home. Later they'd have their cocoa, maybe build a fire, listen to Christmas music and enjoy the evening together. They might even reminisce, remembering Christmases long ago when they were young boys, and their family and grandparents and aunts and uncles had all gathered together around a festive tree decorated with colorful lights and handmade ornaments, sharing laughter and the goodwill that comes from being together this time of year.

            Times long ago, but not like now. Jeff and Tim's children and grandchildren were scattered across the country and preferred to stay put, while their young brother Will happily did the same in the warm sunshine of his home in Arizona. Now it was just the two of them, these two brothers, older, quieter, but not any less appreciative of the season and the chance to be together on this Christmas Eve.

            As they walked the path leading to Tim's home, Jeff suddenly had an idea. "Hey, how about if we do this again next year? You know, go skating on Christmas Eve. It's been fun."

            Tim smiled, patted his brother on the shoulder and said, "I was just thinking the same thing, and you know what? I'd love to."

            Jeff thought for a moment. "You know, maybe we could invite Will next year. We could call him up and talk him into leaving sunny Arizona for a couple of days. If he could stand the Minnesota cold, that is."

            "We could buy him some long underwear to entice him," Tim added

            Both brothers laughed good-naturedly. Will had a thing about cold weather, and it wasn't a good thing, either.

            "All we can do is ask," Tim said. "Let's do it."

            "I'm all for it," Jeff said.        

            So they called Will that night and he immediately said yes, he'd be happy to join them. He'd be happy to accept their offer of long underwear, too.

            Just like that, a new tradition was born, and in a season of traditions, a new one for these two old brothers was the best thing that could have happened. It gave them something to look forward to, something to count on, something hopeful to live another year for. It was all they could ever have hoped for.

            "We'll have to get him some skates," Tim said, after they'd hung up. He was enjoying his hot cocoa, savoring every sip.

            "Not a problem," Jeff said, moving closer to the fire crackling in the fireplace. He thought for a minute. "How about the day after tomorrow? After Christmas?"

            "That'd be perfect, Tim said, rubbing his eyes. "Okay if you drive? You know these old eyes of mine aren't getting any better."

            "Not a problem. Be happy to."

So it had been a pretty good Christmas Eve, as far as the brothers were concerned. In fact, it was the best one each of them had had in a long, long time. The next one just might even be better.

About the author

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. In addition to CafeLit, his stories have appeared in The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways and Paragraph Planet. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com

Neon In Our Veins

by James Bates

iced mocha

Dad stopped working on the combine, took off his cap, wiped his forehead and looked to the north. Grandpa and I stopped working, too, sweat dripping into our eyes, thankful for a break. It was blistering hot for early September, over ninety degrees, and out in the middle of our soybean field there wasn't a bit of shade. We all watched the old pickup spewing a plume of dust as it raced down the county road.

            Dad put his cap back on and turned to Grandpa and me with a perplexed look, "That's Lilly. What can possibly be so all fired up important?"

            Grandpa and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders, neither of us having a clue, but, we did know one thing, if my mom was in a hurry, there must be a good reason.

            She turned off the road and raced across edge of the field, the truck going air borne over deep ruts made by farm equipment, then pulled up to us fast, slamming on the brakes and sliding to a stop, dust billowing all around . Mom didn't even bother to get out, just yelled through the open window, "Dad, you've got to get to town quick. Jerry Jorgensen called. They've got an emergency with that big hotel sign of his."

            My humble but talented grandfather was the most sought after neon sign repairman in Redwood County. "What's the matter?"

            "He didn't say, but there's some fancy pants guy, the governor, I think, and a bunch of his cronies coming to stay. He needs you right now."

            Back in the fifties, the Prairie City Hotel, nestled on a picturesque bend of the Little Sioux River, was the premier place to stay in southwestern Minnesota. It was about twenty miles from our farm.

            Grandpa looked at my father who shook his head and said, "I can't go with you. Take Jack Junior, instead. I need to get this combine un-jammed."

            Grandpa scratched at the prominent blue vein on his neck, a move that caused me to subconsciously reach for the small vein just forming on my own neck. He nodded toward me and looked at mom, "What do you think Lillian?"

            My heart leapt to my throat. Grandpa had lived with us for a number of years and had his workshop in an outbuilding back behind the barn. From an early age I had tagged along after him, showing an interest in the work he did with neon signs. He liked my company, I guess, and had already taught me about electricity and shown me how to bend glass to make tubes and how to add neon and lots of other cool stuff that you needed to know for neon sign repair. But I was only eight years old. Usually Dad helped if grandpa need it, but not today. We were in the middle of the soybean harvest and he was too busy getting that troublesome combine up and running.

            I watched Mom. It was up to her to make the final decision. She and Grandpa held each other's gaze for a moment while I held my breath. I'd give anything to go along. Finally, she gave him a quick smile and then looked at me. I could see something in her eyes. I was pretty young and the real question was, was I ready? Mom hesitated only a moment before silently nodding, as if to herself, and then said, "Yes, J.J., you can go with Grandpa, but for Pete's sakes, be careful." Inside I silently cheered.

            It took us thirty minutes to get to the hotel located on the corner of Main Street and Riverview Avenue. It was imposing three story red brick structure with gleaming white trim that had a wide, twenty step entryway adorned with a beautiful black wrought iron railing. A small crowd had gathered. When we arrived Jerry was waiting for us on the steps, literally wringing his hands. He ran up while the truck was still rolling and said, "Thank god you're here, Bill. The governor is coming soon. The sign's out. Oh, man, this isn't good."

            Grandpa got out of the old pickup, put his hand on the distraught man's shoulder and calmly said, "Don't worry, Jerry, my grandson and I'll take care of it." He turned to me, "J.J., let's get going."

            We dragged our ladders out of the back of the truck, set them against the side of building and climbed up. Grandpa quickly deduced the problem; a transformer had blown, and he proceeded to fix it while I handed him the tools. We had the repair completed and the sign back in excellent working order in about half an hour; plenty of time before the governor and his entourage showed up.

            Later, after the sun had set, Grandpa loaded me in the pickup and we drove back to town. When we got to Main Street, he parked a little ways down from the hotel and we watched the hectic scene on the street. Nearly a hundred townsfolk had gathered and there were three or four different news crews milling around, everyone eager to get a glimpse of the governor. I don't think Grandpa saw any of it. He only had eyes for the hotel's neon sign, Prairie City Motel, illuminated with glowing colors of red and green and blue.

            After staring in reverent silence for a moment, he pulled me close and pointed past the front windshield, "See, J.J., look at how pretty the sign looks. The reds and greens are so vibrant, and that blue is my favorite color."

            "It reminds me of a castle in Wonderland," I said, thinking about my favorite television show.

            "I couldn't agree more," Grandpa grinned. "It's magical." He paused touching the blue vein in his neck and then added, "I'll let you in a little secret. Neon makes me feel alive inside."

            Grandpa was as much a poet as he was a skilled craftsman.

            I'll never forget that day. For the next twenty-five years I helped grandpa, traveling to the rural towns of southwest Minnesota, repairing neon signs. I loved the work. After he passed away, I stayed with it. This year, I've started bringing my nine year old grandson Johnny along and he loves it as much as I do. There's lots of work for us. They don't make neon signs anymore, everything is LED. That's okay. Nostalgia for the old days is in fashion right now, and there are a lot of old signs out there. We're busy all the time.

          We were driving home from a job the other day when Johnny turned to me and asked, "Granddad, do you think we have neon in our veins? You know, like blood?"

         I laughed, thinking he was joking, but one look told me he wasn't. He was deadly serious.

          I thought for a moment, thinking back over the years to all the signs my grandpa and I,  and now Johnny, had repaired. I took my time before finally answering, "You know what? Honestly? You might have a point. I think maybe we do."

            He sat back in the seat of my old pickup and looked out the window. It was a warm, sunny afternoon in late fall and fields of golden corn were waiting to be harvested. For the first time I saw a blue vein pulsing in my grandson's neck just like the one in mine. Like my grandpa's. He smiled and nodded his head, as if to himself, and said, "Yeah, I thought so."    

About the author 

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. His stories have appeared in CafeLit, The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways, Cabinet of Heed, Paragraph Planet, Mused - The BellaOnline Literary Review, Ariel Chart and Potato Soup Journal. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

Music On The Wind

by James Bates

Hot Black Coffee

George and Ida Ferguson, my great grandparents, were second generation cattle ranchers in eastern Montana. Mom kept a framed picture of them on the fireplace mantel when I was a kid. It was taken in their parlor and you can just make out a piano behind Ida with a vase of cut wild flowers on it. They were dressed for the occasion, she in a calico dress, her long auburn hair wrapped around her head in a twirled braid, he in a white, snap button shirt, vest and gray Stetson hat. The flat prairie land of the Yellowstone River valley can just barely be glimpsed through the billowing curtains of a window in the background.

            I spent countless hours as a kid imagining what their life in nineteenth century cattle country would have been like: herding longhorns, busting broncos and mending fences. My tastes back then ran toward cowboys and Indians, so their romantic love was certainly not on my radar, but the true fact of the matter was that their love for each other was known far and wide.       

            "That's right, Stevie," Mom used to tell me.  "They were hard workers and humble, salt of the earth people, busy with chores from dawn to dusk. But in the evenings they made time for making music. Ida played piano and sang while Frank accompanied her on fiddle. I'm told that their songs brought joy to even the crustiest cowhand's heart."

            As a kid, that kind of talk was embarrassing hear and often turned my ears red. But as I grew older, I started to imagine a different scenario, one in which they not only lived the hard life of cattle ranchers on the western frontier, but also found it within themselves to love deeply while creating beauty and harmony through their music in juxtaposition to that rugged land.

            Years later I meet Janie and we fell in love. While we were dating, I talked often about George and Ida. Did I idealize them? Maybe. But Janie told me she thought it was sweet they loved each other the way they did and that was good enough for me. It got me thinking that maybe she and I were kindred spirits, like my great grandparents were.

            The summer after we married, Janie and I took a driving trip west to the great plains to see firsthand the land of my great grandparents. We ended up parking our car outside the small town of Willow Creek, Montana, and spent the day hiking rolling pastureland amid pungent sage, prickly cactus and golden fields of wildflowers, kept company by prairie dogs, meadowlarks and a small herd of pronghorn sheep.

            By sundown we had made our way to the top of Buffalo Butte, the highest point of land in Stillwater County, and the overlook where George and Ida's ashes had been scattered. The sun was low in the west, the sky exploding in a fiery orange from the last light of day, the land stretching out to the horizon where we could just barely make out the shadowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains.         

            The peace and quiet was immense, so quiet I swear I could hear both of our hearts beating. I said to Janie, my voice a whisper, "Legend has it that you can still hear my great grandparent's music if wind is right."

            Janie turned from viewing the scene spread out before us and took in a deep breath of fragrant prairie air. Then she took my hand, her smile as wide as the big sky above us, and said, "I'm so happy you brought me, Steve. I love you. I love being here with you." Then she leaned in and kissed me.

            "I love you, too, Janie," I told her. "Forever and all time." And we embraced, holding each other tight, our bodies molding into one.

            Then, out of nowhere, we heard it. Faint strains from a piano, a fiddle and then a soft voice singing. We stood together, our love growing stronger with every note we heard, listening to the heartfelt music played by my great grandparents, songs of love I somehow knew Janie and I would carry with us for the rest of our lives. Songs from my great grandparents brought to us from them on that gentle prairie wind.

About the author 

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. His stories have appeared in CafeLit, The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways, Cabinet of Heed, Paragraph Planet, Mused - The BellaOnline Literary Review, Ariel Chart and Potato Soup Journal. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

Kite Flying

by James Bates

ice cold lemonade

The flat, treeless, chunk of land on the cliff outside the town of Granite, Minnesota was the best place around to fly kites. It was the size of a football field and me and Joey were flying ours that summer when we noticed a new kite soaring on the wind. A pink one that made us laugh.

            "Ha. Man, look at the thing," Joey guffawed. "What a sissy piece of crap."

            "No kidding," I said, just to go along with him. We were eleven years old between sixth and seventh grade, and peer pressure was alive and well in our little town.

            My kite was a black winged batman and his was a red and blue Spiderman, both simple kites we picked up at the drug store in town. There were nearly twenty kites in the air that day, a lot of them fancy ones flown by the summer kids. Me and Joey were townies. Our fathers worked in the Steel River iron ore mine fifteen miles inland. Cheap kites were the way to go for us. They worked just fine.

            Later in the afternoon everyone else had left and we were by ourselves. We had lost interest in the pink kite and were talking about baseball when we heard a scream. It came from the far side of a rise near the edge of the cliff. We quickly pulled in our kites and ran to see what was going on.

            What I saw made my blood boil. About five or six older kids had surrounded a young girl and had her pined up against the side of a huge boulder. They were taunting her, pulling at her clothes and making rude gestures by grabbing their crotches. Their laughter reminded me of hyenas I'd seen some nature program. I looked at Joey. He was frightened. We were both small for our ages, no match for a group of big guys that looked to be in their early teens at least.

            "Let's get out of here," he whispered.

            We'd stopped about fifty feet behind them. They had their backs to us, but the young girl could see us plain as day. I could see in an instant that even though she had to be scared, she was defiant, trying to hold her own. She even had a stick in her hand she jabbed out whenever someone tried to attack her. It was only a matter of time before they descended on her like a pack of those hyenas I'd seen on the television.

            I looked around for a weapon. The ground was bare, just smooth granite and lichen, but I did find a fist sized rock. It'd have to do.

            "Come on," I said to Joey, "Let's help her."

            Joey...Man, too this day I still think of that moment. He could have run and saved himself, but he didn't. He picked up a rock even smaller than mine and said, "Okay. Let's do it."

            Screaming at the top of our lungs, we ran at them. I'm not sure what we were yelling but we startled the hell out of them. I remember them turning toward us, looking perplexed. Then they looked bemused. Then they looked angry.

            But by then it was too late. The girl had taken their distraction as her chance and she bolted toward us. We turned and ran with her and didn't stop until we got to the safety of the wide open space on the top of the cliff.

            We stood panting, nervously looking over our shoulders to see if we were being followed. We weren't'. They must have decided we weren't worth the effort. We were safe.

            She was the first one to speak. "Boy, you guys were amazing," she said. She was maybe a year older than us, and taller by a head. She had short cropped dark hair and green eyes and skin so smooth I had to stop myself from reaching out and touching her to see if it was real. In that instant I felt myself tumbling down a slippery slope I'd only heard about.

            She hugged us both. "I owe you guys my life." Her smile was so sweet I thought I'd die. Instead, I swooned. She smelled like vanilla.  

            She looked at each of us for a moment and I felt like she was looking into my soul, a soul I never knew I had until that very moment. Then she grinned, turned, waved her fingers and said, "Well, thanks. See you around."

            I watched as she sauntered away toward the road. I could see her bicycle parked there and I panicked, not wanting her to leave. I yelled, "Say, was that you flying that pink kite?"

            She stopped and turned. "Yeah, that was mine." She pointed, "Those bastards wrecked it. I'm going to have to get a new one."

            Joey and I looked at each other. He mumbled, "Go ahead, ask her."

            "Do you want us to go with you?"

            She took a stick of gum out of her pocket, slowly pealed the wrapper off and started chewing. My heart rate went through the roof. All I could think of was being close to her.

            "Sure," she shrugged her shoulders, "Why not?"

            That was good enough for me.

            We joined her and went to the drug store in town and helped her pick out her kite. Superwoman. By then it was dinnertime and Joey had to go home but I just couldn't bear the thought of leaving her. She told me her name was Angie. We went back and flew kites until sundown.

            And we flew them every day afterwards for the rest of the summer, some days joined by Joey. Those were great times. Just before Labor Day her parents put her on their sailing yacht and left for their home somewhere on the Saint Lawrence River. We never saw her again

            Joey and I stayed in Granite where we eventually finished high school and went to work in the mines like our fathers. We still live there, raising our families and making lives for ourselves. This summer we've been teaching our kids to fly kites outside of town on that same spot we met Angie.

            We were there a few days ago when Joey turned to me and asked, "I wonder whatever happened to her, you know, Angie." He was helping his four year old son launch his blue and red Superman kite.

            "I have no idea," I told him, tugging at the string, helping my five year daughter save her Wonder Woman from crashing to the ground."I liked her a lot. I just hope she's happy."

            "Me, too." Joey said, thoughtfully, before adding. "That was a great summer, though, wasn't it?"

            "It really was," I told him smiling. "One of the best."

            And we were quiet then, lost in our own thoughts, standing in the sun, the wind blowing clean off of Lake Superior, enjoying the day and having fun with our kids, our minds drifting back to that long ago summer, a time that with every passing year faded a little more from our memories.

            Just then the wind died and the kites started to fall. We hurried to help the kids, each of us grabbing a string and running backwards, the kids racing alongside laughing at our antics, us laughing with them. Finally the breeze returned and the kites lifted into the air. We handed the strings back to our kids and grinned at each other, completely in the moment, this summer rapidly becoming more and more memorable.

            Joey gave me a high five. "Nothing better than flying kites."

            "No kidding," I said, watching Superman and Wonder Woman dip and dance on the wind, feeling like this was one of the best days I'd had with my young daughter in a long time. I knew Joey felt the same way about his son. I turned to him, "Say, I've got an idea. How about if the wind is right, let's grab the kids and come back here tomorrow?"

            Joey smiled and nodded, "Absolutely. I was just about to suggest the same thing."

            I laughed. "Great minds..."

            He laughed, too.

            And the next day, we did.

About the author 

Jim is a kite flyer and lover of spending time near Lake Superior. Unfortunately, he doesn't do either as much as he'd like, situations he plans to rectify in the near future.