The Apple Pie Is in the Oven

As we celebrate our independence on this hot, humid Sunday, I think of the many people who risked their homes and their lives to seize the right to be free of tyranny. I'm grateful to all of our soldiers at home and abroad, remembering the sacrifices of my grandfather and great-uncles in WWII and my own father during the Vietnam War.

I think of my own carefree childhood and recall water-gun fights and pop-drinking contests. If I listen closely, I can hear the hum of mosquitoes as I stand on my great-uncle's porch and watch a blaze of fireworks bombard the night sky. I taste potato salad and see cakes decorated as flags. I smell coconut pie in my grandmother's kitchen and hear my grandfather's soft voice as he tells tales of fighting in the Pacific.

I remember all of these things and more. Yes, the apple pie is in the oven and everything is good.

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

 

A Tribute to Ace, Part II

On December 7, 1941, a key nation secured membership to the World War II Club.  The inductee was the U.S. and the admission requirement was met through the sinking of its fleet at Pearl Harbor.

The attack on the naval base had been executed in a process similar to the means employed by a pack of hungry sharks.  The Japanese banded together, targeted their prey, and achieved their objective by swallowing an entire fleet whole.  Fours years of war followed and thousands of Americans were called upon to defend a nation and a world.  A small man with black hair and silver eyes was one such recruit.  To soldiers, he was known as “Ace.”  To me, he was known as “Pa.”

My grandfather survived the war, and though he has been dead thirteen years, I still smell the aroma of the cup of coffee that never left his side.  If I squint and think of yesterday, I see the haze of smoke that always arose from a half-burnt cigarette.  When I close my eyes and listen, I hear myself asking him to tell that shark story one more time.  When asked to retell the encounter, Ace would grin, chuckle softly, and sip his coffee before beginning.  Though worthy opponents, the sharks in his story were not the Japanese.

***

In the midst of the war-ravaged Pacific, Ace and several friends were atop a cliff, daring one another to dive into the ocean to rescue their small boat that had drifted from the desolate island.  Ace was resolved to volunteer for the task, but before he made a verbal statement or decision, he always took a long drag on his cigarette and sipped from his bottomless coffee cup.  Coffee was not available, so he settled for a cigarette.  As the rolled addiction ignited by way of a hastily struck match, Ace was shoved over the edge of the cliff.  

Neither the fall nor the fear of being unable to swim is reason to revere this story.  Ace  survived the premature dive, and he was an excellent swimmer.  He had a way of surging through the water like a bobbing frog, and if one were not careful, one would drown in the water parted by his strong, jutting chin.  

“Ace,” one of the men shouted from the cliff.  “Ace, hurry up, there’s sharks down there.”

The human frog stopped swimming and looked back at the island.  Three grey fins seared through the waves near the rocks several yards behind him.  Determined to thwart his friends’ cruel joke, Ace shot through the water and headed for the boat.   

Despite his speed and agility, one might doubt the presence of sharks or the tale itself.  Yet, Ace was indeed a fast swimmer.  He was four times my age when we raced and swam together with our arms linked.  In the first scenario I never won and in the second he usually ended up tugging me along because I was unable to keep up with him.  

To conclude, Ace eluded his ravenous pursuers and reached the boat before it drifted into deep water.  Was Ace quivering with fear when he reached the boat?  Was he able to avoid the sharks when paddling to his friends waiting for him on the shore?  To answer the first question, Ace was laughing when he reached the boat which is not typical of someone afraid of being eaten by sharks.  Why would he laugh?  The explanation is found in the answer to the second question which can be summarized by stating I hope Ace’s friends could swim because that is what he made them do.

*** 

If you enjoyed this tale about my grandfather, you can read more about his life in my latest book, Haunted Voices from My Past:  True Narratives of an Ohio Family.  Within its cover are the chilling stories: “Railway Nightmare,” “Another Hitchhiker from Hell,” and the most terrifying incident he experienced, entitled “Ace and the Devil.”  Each of these accounts awakens the supernatural and macabre.

After ordering, be sure to read “A Tribute to Ace,” the blog that inspired this latest entry.

***

For more information on Sunflower Footsteps, authors, and titles, visit:

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.

My Name is Dorothy

Toto had glass eyes and smelled like instant coffee.

My mother crocheted a small grey and white blanket from leftover yarn with the aid of the dim light over the kitchen sink. She then unearthed a scruffy white poodle from my closet and dyed its shaggy coat with three cups of her favorite instant coffee. After a night spent by the heater and a quick blast from the hair dryer, the stuffed dog was crammed into a wicker Easter basket and covered with the grey blanket. Toto was ready for school, but Dorothy failed to appear. Instead of partaking in my school's "Storybook Day," I stayed at home nursing the flu with the hundredth viewing of The Wizard of Oz.

Since that fateful day, I have been resolved to miss nothing more. Now I rejoice in the simplicity of summer's end, the diligence of the autumn woolly worm, and the magic of the first snow. I applaud the plight of those who never give up and marvel at the pear tree that retains its leaves until winter's winds wipe away summer's decay. I wonder about the package delivered to the house across the road and remember the clear brackets glued onto the mail carrier's blue-white teeth. I think of Christmas and BB guns and the setting of the low winter's sun. I remember fireworks, blueberry tongues, and paper cartons filled with ice cream. I recall the stories of Ace and the smell of rich coconut. I sing with the Lollipop Guild and chuckle. I never noticed the multitude of flowers growing from all those tiny shoes.

My name is Dorothy, and I'll never stop exploring and remembering.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.

A Tribute to Ace

Monday was Labor Day for those of us residing in the U.S. Despite its connotation, it does not denote a day set aside for work. Rather, the day celebrates the ability to laze about and feed one’s face, preferably with one’s fingers accommodating in rapid, shovel-like gestures. While participating in this yearly ritual, I snuffled over half-cooked coconut pie filling, remembering a man who died thirteen Septembers ago.

Why was I crying? Each holiday my grandmother made a coconut pie for Pa and me. She always cooked the homemade masterpieces over her gas oven the night prior to the big day. Before the filling had set, Pa would slice through the gooey custard and warm crust. Between mouthfuls, he would dial my phone number to taunt me about his sneaking the first piece. This man was my grandfather, and he was known as “Ace.”

In tribute to Pa’s memory, I wrote the following short piece about one of the tales he told during a warm day like this and after an empty pie pan like now.

***

      Ace returned from the Second World War a changed, hardened man though he eventually confronted his problems and altered his life. Before this metamorphosis, he was a rabble-rousing young man with a cigarette in one hand and a homemade blackjack in the other.

***

      Ace’s car swerved around the deserted town like a child’s toy car spinning on linoleum. The drunken young man jerked the steering wheel again, determined to elude the blaring police car chasing him down the darkened road. He stomped harder on the gas pedal and whizzed around the corner past a gas station. His grey eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. The police car had fallen behind during the last maneuver but continued its pursuit. Ace glanced at the gas gauge and grimaced. He was nearly out of town, and if he were to lead the police into the countryside, he would soon run out of gas. He threw his spent cigarette to the floor as he reached the last intersection. The car engine whined as the accelerator furthered the distance between him and his pursuer. Grinning, Ace fumbled in the dark for his cigarettes. He glanced one last time at the rearview mirror and flipped off the headlights.

***

      The police car raced through the intersection and rounded the corner into an alley. It roared down the gravel road past the cars parked alongside a series of crumbling brick buildings. After stopping briefly for the traffic sign at the end of the road, the car headed west.
      A tiny orange light bloomed and faded in the alley. Ace was lounging on the hood of his car, smoking the remainder of his cigarette and laughing.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.