K-Log or K-K-K-Katrastophe Log: Changing Horses in Mid-stream

K-Log or K-K-K-Katrastophe Log: Changing Horses in Mid-stream: A middle of the night decision became reality in the daylight. I pondered today and decided:  I am cutting my loses and jumping o...

Changing Horses in Mid-stream

A middle of the night decision

became reality in the daylight.

I pondered today and decided:  I am cutting my loses and jumping off of a horse in midstream.

Goodbye Blogging, it’s been a fun love affair but you are not giving back to me as much as I am giving to you.

Another love has appeared.  Myrt-Ty-Ky-Ly, the fierce dragoness, kept putting her soft snout in my hand, and soon she became part of my dreaming hours.  Soon she became so familiar to me that I would have recognized her in a herd of dragons.  Oh my goodness, Myrt-Ty-Ky-Ly is me, we have fought the same battles, given away our heart in a like manner, have the same wounds and rewards. 

Dragons were around for a purpose.  The pale humans needed challenges in order to toughen them up.  My tribe of dragon did its job and then disappeared.  Or did they?

Myrt-Ty tells me in soft bits of flame that the time has come to recognize and concentrate on one priority – her battles, her loves.

I thus disappear from Blogging, from Google Plus, from Circle, from Twitter.  Nobody paid any attention to me anyway.  I had a very few encouragements (you know who you are and thank you so very much).  But for the most part I was swept away, unseen, by the flow of words that ignored me. 

A kind friend gave me a website.  http://thealternatesafeworldofsanctuary.com/

I am hoping to find someone to put my Blogs ( Kindly-Kross-roads, http://taswos511.blogspot.com/ 

Dreams, Druthers and Dragons http://rainbowanddreams511.blogspot.com/  ) and a few long-ago published stories in a neat format on this webpage TASWOS.

My writing is good, I feel that it should not be buried.  My book is good (the alternate safe World of Sanctuary

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00C6MG8BK  ), available on Kindle, Amazon and bookstores, and I will not abandon Evangeline and TASWOS either, only postpone.

The midnight hour is here and if anyone misses me - I am heading off to assure Myrt-Ty that we are cutting the distractions, we will start filling the pages.  Adios, Aloha, Farewell for now.  Mariam 

THE WESTWARD HO IS SAVED!

ALICE COOPER IS THE HERO

ALICE COOPER DEFEATS KING KONG

#AliceCooperHero

#KINGKONGdefeated

#WESTWARDHOsaved

#MyHomeTownPhoenix

#KindlyKross-roads

#walkingthemile

KING KONG ATTACKS - Can anyone save the Westward Ho?

KING KONG ATTACKS THE WESTWARD HO

A HERO IS NEEDED!

WHO WILL THE HERO BE TO SAVE THIS 

FAMOUS OLD HOTEL?

HERO, COME HELP!

#MyHomeTownPhoenix

#walkingthemile

#believeindragons

#kindlyKross-roads

+Mariam

MY HOME TOWN

Wandering around

my home town

Seeing with different eyes

#myhometownPhoenix

#walkingthemile

#believeindragons

#kindlykross-roads

+Mariam

COMING OF AGE

He did not consider himself old despite the fact that he walked the five-mile run instead of racing through it, despite the gray hair and achy bones on rainy days.  Not until the day his father died and he realized he was the top generation.  He had a duty to tell the story.

The night was clear, the stars sparkled within touching distance.   Horace waited in front of his 30 year old comfortable home.  Spaceship511 came in silently, green lights blinking and slowed down as Horace held out two sheets of computer typed paper.  With a swoosh Spaceship511 disappeared and “Coming of Age”  now joins the legends of the Kindly Kross-roads.

COMING OF AGE

By Horace Ryder

June 1958, Indianapolis, Indiana.  It was stacked up to be a good summer.  One year under my belt at Purdue, mostly because Mom wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Quite a few of my high school class were still around for a few months anyway.  We had all been in kindergarten together and we planned a good interlude of hanging out, checking on the girls and passing time until we would be heading for the military.  My best friend Chuck kept talking about driving to California and spending the summer on the beach but I was a little unsure about that.

My dad knew some people over at the Indiana State Police and he got me a summer job with them.  They told me it would be rough work, which turned out to mean being outdoors, holding the measuring lines for the surveyors.  I had fallen into cream.

My dad was of the old school, the real old school, like his father and grandfather and probably back to the cavemen.  This meant that whatever he said was the rule.  Even though he had a great reputation as a trial lawyer, there wasn’t much justice around our house.  Clean your plates, telephone calls limited to five minutes, be in the house by ten and in bed by eleven. 

Being the easy going type, I didn’t let it give me too much grief, just worked around his obstacles mostly by keeping my mouth shut. 

Dad didn’t throw any dollar bills my way to help with tuition and books.  He had worked his way through school and considered it my right to do the same.  My older brother had skipped out and joined the army, and my sister left for a marriage license when she was 17 but I stayed around because of Mom and her longing for one of her children to get that college certificate.

The week in June that I’m talking about, summer thunderstorms had moved into the area.  My crew stayed in the office, catching up on paperwork.  This meant they had me cleaning the equipment, filing the paperwork, going out in the rain for donuts, keeping me busy while they sat around and shot the bull. It was all part of the internship.  By this time I found I liked the surveying and casually considered turning my college credits toward a degree someplace in engineering.

My room was at the back of the house and I could read long past that eleven o’clock curfew.  However, this night the sound of the steady falling rain put me to sleep early.

It was two o’clock in the morning when the sound of the front doorbell woke up everyone in the house.  Something had happened.  My dad got to the door first, pulled it open and I could hear Chuck as I came closer.

My father bellowed in his best courtroom manner, “What are you doing here in the middle of the night.”

It was a tired voice that answered:  “I need to see Horry.  My car broke down and I want to borrow his.”

There was no hesitation in my father’s reply, “You can’t have his car.  He’s in bed and he’s going to stay there.”

By that time I had reached the door.  “Chuck, what’s the matter?  Come in out of the rain.”

My father moved between us.  He had a lot of weight on him and he blocked my going further.  I shoved at him, something I never would have dared to do without the anger building up in me.  “Chuck,” I shouted around him, “I’ll get the keys and be there in a minute.”

“No you won’t young man.  You are going back to bed and stay there.”

“Dad, that is my car and it may be an old junker but I paid for it and I can do whatever I want to with it.”

“You live in my house and you go by my rules.  You are not leaving here.”

By that time my mother had arrived in her old blue checked bathrobe and tears on her face.  “Leave him alone, dear.  You know that is his car to do with as he wants to.”

“He can do  what he wants to when he pays the bills.”

I headed back up the stairs to my room on a run.  Dad locked the door and herded Mom back toward their bedroom. 

I moved as fast as I have ever moved, I didn’t want to leave Chuck standing in the rain and I couldn’t believe my father had acted so rude.  He might be a big shot down around the court house but that didn’t give him any right to be so impolite.

I picked up my old plastic raincoat, slipped on loafers and grabbed the keys from my pants pockets.  Despite my speed I didn’t make it.  My father was standing in front of the closed door with no intention of moving. 

“I’m going out, Dad.”

“If you go out, don’t come back.”

Mom returned.  “Ned, come to bed and we’ll talk about this in the morning.”

“Only when this young man has returned to bed.”

She turned to me.  “Horace, please do as he says.”

My arm went around her shoulders for the quickest of hugs, trying to give her reassurance.  “I can’t, Mom.  Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

Mom was really bawling by now.  Dad gave in.  “I will move  to let you out because I love your mother.  But the door will be locked when you leave.”

My folks were not the demonstrative type, not even holding hands or kissing, except for the little peck when he left for the office in the morning.  His declaration of love for Mom  stopped me for a footstep since this wasn’t his style.  But I kept going.  I opened that front door and rushed out in the  pouring rain, wearing my pajamas, loafers and the old plastic raincoat thrown around me.  I hollered for Chuck, kept calling for him.  I walked the surrounding blocks for probably three hours, hunting for Chuck, not finding him, not expecting to find him after the first ten minutes.  The rain turned from a downpour to a drizzle.  I walked familiar neighborhood blocks sorting out my relationships in my father’s house.  By the time dawn had started to show up on the horizon I had grown from a carefree teenager to a young man with a mission.  I would not ever be in a position again to be dictated to.

When I finally returned to my home, I tried the front door.  It was locked.  I went around the path to the back.  That door stood slightly ajar, waiting.  I never asked who unlocked it.  It could have been either Mom or Dad but it didn’t matter.

I continued to live at home for the summer until returning to school in the fall.  It was all politeness between my father and me.  “Good morning, sir.”  “Good morning to you.  Work hard today.”  “Yes sir, I will.”

That I did, more so than the previous beginning days.  I recognized an opportunity to get a head start on highway engineering and I took every opportunity offered to me.

Did my father and I ever become friends?  Yes, but it was not until after I married, had two children of my own, and was established in my architectural business.

Dad came in the office one day and handed me a book, “Here’s one you might like son.”  Our mutual joy in reading brought us back together and by the time he died we had a sincere friendship and respect for each other.

The day after the rain Chuck apologized – he had been drinking underage beer and didn’t want to get caught driving.  We have been friends for over fifty years now and can laugh over the stupidity of teenagers.

When my son reached his deciding years, I wondered if I would have the courage to forbid him to go out in a storm in a car that blew blue smoke when it clunkered enough to run.   But dad and I never discussed that rainy night.  Maybe I should have thanked him for pushing me out of kidhood but we let it go at that.

DRAGONS, DRUTHERS and DREAMS

In the Shadows -  Can you find them?

Dragons, Druthers and Dreams 

How many Dragons at:  http://rainbowanddreams511.blogspot.com/  ?????

A GREEN LIGHT SIGNAL

It’s a clear night, even the city lights can’t dim completely the array of stars overhead,  A  blurb flashes on and off at the sixth floor apartment window.  Spaceship511 catches the signal and coasts slowly by. No, nothing calling here.  The flashes are only solar battery Christmas tree lights. 

A white owl, also powered by the Arizona sun,  perches on the wall of the patio.  Suddenly a dazzling sparkle arrow darts from the eyes of the owl and points to the inside of the window.  There is only an instant available for insight.  That’s sufficient to catch the Kross-road stories. 

An old lady is humped over the computer keyboard.  Her back hurts.  She has spent the hours of the afternoon struggling with the computer layout, pushing unknown html around to form a Descriptive Archives.  Her efforts haven’t been productive. Three possible formats and none worked.  The entire K-Log might have been destroyed.  She will find out when the next K-Log is added. 

The old woman’s computer has a file with the title of “K-Logs in progress.”  These stories have come to her so that she might edit and return to the world.

An hour remains before she must push the keyboard away and prepare supper, returning to her evening duties,  The computer screen shows the unfinished K-Logs and she looks quickly to decide which one to finish telling the story. 

Maybe “Coming of age,” a teenager becomes a young man.  No, not yet, the story awaits the ending, on its way from Indiana.

“The Report on the Mexican.”  This story will hurt to get on paper.  Too much blood, too much heartache to continue with this now.

A photo of Senator Ted Kennedy shows up under the papers by her keyboard and the old lady smiles as she remembers that afternoon.

The phone rings, the wrinkles crease on her face even further.  A Kross-roads hasn’t shown up yet for grandson, medical help is needed and the old woman wants his ills handled, wants to hear hope.

There is one more picture laying on her desk that might be a mystery and might be an answer.  June 1976.  She knew the man, a methodical person, and he had set up his Canon on a tripod to take a series of pictures at an Indiana State Park.  The day celebrated a 50^th wedding anniversary, complete with speeches, good picnic food, beautiful warm June weather and happiness covering it all.  The camera caught the mood and the photographer produced lovely scenes of trees bordering the rippling water.  He used these scenes to make calling cards and gave them out for both business and social purposes. 

 

Thirty years later, 2006, the photographer died.  He had told his wife and a few close friends that he would try to find a way to contact from “the other side.”

2013, seven years have passed. Two of his calling cards show up unexpectedly, within a couple of days of each other, and from two different places.  One came in the mail from a friend of a friend of a friend in New York state.  The other showed up in a box of paperwork to be thrown away.

The widow doesn’t doubt that her husband is telling her that all is well with him.  But what else?  This comes at a time when she has a decision to make.  Is her husband telling her that he accepts that she might  love someone else?  Or is he reminding her of pleasurable days they had together, that the time has not yet come to find another love.

A Kross-roads awaits in her life and she believes that a message has come from her love of forty-five years and he is telling her the path to take.  She cannot read the signposts.  She awaits, she wants further signals.  Slightly exasperated with her message from ‘the other side,” she calls out, “Dear,  be more clear and specific.”  Many a time she has told him those very words and many a time he has told her, “I am clear and specific, you are not listening to me.”

Spaceship511 backs away from this scene. The window, the apartment, the owl are bookmarked.  Kross-roads are waiting here.  The old lady will return to her keyboard tomorrow and maybe the stories in this household will be ready for telling.

#Krossroads  #crossroads  #spaceship  #bookmark  #stories  #signposts  #Mariam

November 21, 2013

Katastrophes, . . . Krashes . . .  One-Step-Forward & Two-Back . . . sometimes even Failure, it won’t work at all.

Life is all about spreading your wings. 

Take the effort or sit in the rocking chair and rock, rock, rock . . .

Blank pages await.  Words will fall on them and show Dreams and Rainbows. 

Add your  name so that these stories will come to you.

Follow along for the ride, add a thought, a comment.

Thanks for stopping by,       Mariam

Introduction to:

The Kindly Kross-roads

Series

Spaceship 511 lands on the grassy sweet smelling landscape.  A story of Kross-roads decision hides in the mansion.

                                                                                

You might have seen the young man clipping the oleander bush, keeping the punchy limbs in front of him, determined that Mrs. Nosey would pass on by.  She glanced in his direction, headed his way.  He put his clippers in his tool sack, taking two steps on his way.  He stopped. This time he would not let her anger him into shouting. That police incident was over, he would stand his ground.

She was talking before she reached his part of the sidewalk. Her gleeful smirk traveled the street telling the catastrophe of Mr. Big Shot’s daughter’s wedding ruined because the orchestra had cancelled.  Tim didn’t bother saying good-bye or changing his sweat soaked shirt.  He and his struggling Five Spot group were on the way to a gig that started his career. 

Spaceship 511 swoops down again.  That kid wearing raggedy jeans, torn sweatshirt, has been “riding the rails,” running from home for a week.   The freight cars slowed down for the small town, the engineer not stopping here.  The kid licked his mouth, his water bottle had been empty all night.  The speed began picking up, too fast, now or not.  He jumped.  This jump, a Kross-roads decision, would lead to a Life and Love in the small town. 

Maybe the Kross-roads decision isn’t obvious.  A choice happens because of a newspaper article, a radio announcer talking your subject, a high school teacher’s encouragement years back that led you down your special road.

When we look back, the Kross-roads stand out in solid red and black.  How could we have done otherwise?  At the time we sweated over a decision.  Or it was as casual and offhand as “Sure, I’ll call in sick and we’ll go to the ballgame.  Can’t let your free tickets go to waste.”

Where were your Kross-roads?  What were the choices you made that led to an unexpected, unexplored part of your life?

Spaceship 511 will land in many backyards, reporting the stories of choices.