For you in 2023?

 

What will your 2023 be?

A new year......new challenges.  Tradition has always been when the

old year is discarded and the new year is ushered in, that a person

takes a serious look at what is ahead for one self.  But those

resolutions that one makes are usually only half-baked in reality,

more often based on hope than a self proclaimed assurance that

those choices can and will succeed.



Those that make those resolutions for a new year suggest the

following;

1. resolve to accomplish a small goal or set of goals as opposed

to reaching for the 'pie in the sky'....failure only brings about

disappointment and can harm the ego.

2. reward yourself when you make one of those goals a success.

3. possibly making a resolution that will be part of an overall

five or ten year plan to make a change in your life; job, relationship,

financial situation.

4.  Maybe the most important of all, surround yourself with those

that will have good influence on you...not people who will bring you

down into their negativism..


Believe in YOURSELF; that's the most important aspect of the whole

deal. As Les Crane said in a song Desiderata many years ago...

"You are a child of the universe... you have a right to be here."

Simple, plain, straight forward. 

So, embrace 2023 with vision, clarity and hope. Remember,

2023 won't influence you....you will influence it!  SS

Merry Christmas everyone...

 

I want to say Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my friends, followers 

and readers....no matter where on the planet you may be...I wish you all the best.

Lot's of things planned here for 2023...so come back and check in often....

samplings from both books...and some samplings from the new book also will

be here for you to enjoy.

Stay safe out there...and bring in the new year with gusto and good health! SS 

A quick preview from Travis Dawson, Undertaker

 

As you've read here before, I am diligently working on my western Travis Dawson, 

Undertaker. It's been a lot more work than I realized but, I keep hammering away at it..

Here's a quick sample of one part of the story....I'll set the scene:

Travis is taking his new acquaintance Miss Sarah from the local mercantile to a dance 

down the street, when their night is interrupted suddenly. 

 Travis Dawon prt. 34                                                                                pg 192

 

    The dance hall on main street in Tucson was full up when Travis

and Sarah made their way through the front door. A burly man in

a tattered blue shirt and Indian necklace draped around his thick

neck relieved Travis of fifty cents at the door, and Travis escorted

Sarah to two nearby seats which were directly below a sign which

hung directly overhead exclaiming ‘smoking in the street only’.

Travis could see the reason for the sign.. the building looked like

a sure fire trap, it’s ancient hand hewn beams straining above to

keep the well worn roof from caving in. There surely must be at

least one hundred people in the place, with chairs and little

tables strewn in no order at all around the perimeter of the dance

floor which he guessed was only fifty by fifty feet.

On the stage, three fellas were pickin’ at a guitar, a banjo and

one on a mandolin…a fourth sat nearby, readying what looked like

an old harmonica that surely must have come across with

Columbus himself. Travis sat Sarah down and said, “I’ll go get us

some refreshment, don’t talk to any strangers.” The comment

invoked a bright giggle from Sarah with a return of “Well don’t

you be gone to long now young man.. the night’s a wasting’.”

 

                                                                                                                        Pg 193

 

Travis edged his way down the side of the busy dance hall toward

a table draped in red and white with two elderly ladies in attendance

of it. Travis recognized Mrs. Beasley from the rooming house

immediately and shouted “Hello there young lady…you in charge of

the punch?” “Well hello back Mr. Dawson. And yes, I am in charge of

this refreshment stop. See you have that Miss Sarah with you from the

general store… is there something in the future we should know about?

I also do weddings for people..you know.. the food, drink…all the

arrangements.. that sort of thing.”

“Whoa” yelled Travis with both hands up in the air. “Little premature

to be talkin’ about a wedding, but I’ll give you first crack at it Mrs.

Beasley if something like that happens down the road.”

“Wonderful” replied Beasley as she handed the two glasses to Travis.

“Give my regards to Sarah…and you two enjoy that full moon out there

tonight.” And with Travis grabbed the drinks and headed back to the

seats, just as another square dance got underway… the caller on the

platform instructing the dancers to ‘do-se-do and allemande left’.

Travis had been to a few dances as a kid but could never get the hang

of the four couples listening for instructions and going in a circle one

way.. then the other. Heck, it was easier pushing a herd of cattle through

                                                                                                                        194

a tight canyon and down a ravine then trying to keep those instructions

straight in your mind. However.. when the slow dance came around.. he

knew he would have Miss Sarah out on the floor and hopefully as close

to him as he could muster. 

Travis arrived back at the seat next to Sarah and floated the drink to

her left hand which was awaiting it’s arrival. “Thank you Travis” she

exclaimed. “You are such a gentleman.” Sarah and Travis were just

starting to get comfortable and were enjoying the couples out on

the dance floor when all of a sudden a young cowboy ran in and

started yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Hey everybody… come quick… the livery stable is on fire!” The

band stopped playing immediately and the square dance couples

froze in their last moves as the intruder repeated his excited

message, “Come on….we need help…the livery is on fire!”

Travis put his drink on the floor, turned to Sarah and said, “Stay

right here Sarah… let me go see what’s going on and I’ll be back

for you directly o.k.?” Sarah’s mellow and relaxed face became

perplexed instantly as she spoke to Travis “please be careful…

don’t go being a hero alright?” The last two words had just

hit his right ear as Travis moved toward the front door…at

least a dozen other men in front of him as they headed out of

 the dance hall.  

It's just a piece of glass...

 

Did you ever possess anything that was just down right bad luck?  In the 

story; The Fortune Teller's marble.....you'll discover that something simple 

could cause major disruptions.....the story is from Tales Unleashed.... it 

appears below:

                                     The fortune teller’s marble

 

                        

The marble was very unique.  It had come home to the family farm house inside of

Terry’s metal lunch box in the spring of 1962. As his mother opened the lunch box

to remove the papers left from Terry’s noon time lunch, the small piece of glass rolled

out, hit the counter and bounced to the floor…. scooting another ten feet to strike the

frame of the cellar door which blocked it’s further escape. Reaching down and picking up

the marble, Terry’s mother examined it closely.  It was exquisite, and very unique.

She had never seen one like it before.  The marble was cloudy, almost milky in color but

had a magnificent turquoise shape that appeared to be ‘floating’ within the cloud.

“Terry” his mom yelled out.  “Come to the kitchen please.”

 

She heard his footsteps descend the twelve steps from his room into the cloak area at the

bottom of the stairs and then into the kitchen. “Yeah Mom, what do you need?”

Holding the marble between thumb and fore finger she replied, “Where did you get this

marble…..does it belong to somebody at school?”

Reaching out and taking the marble quickly, Terry replied with, “Oh there it is… thought I’d

lost if for a minute. I traded my little sailboat I used to put out in the creek for it …with Jimmy

Taylor… you know Jimmy.” 

“And he was o.k. with that?” replied his mother. “Seems a little lopsided swap to me..you

worked hard to make that boat.”

“Yeah maybe” Terry said, “But this marble is special….he said it came from a fortune teller

ad in a magazine .. he sent away for it…… it cost 50 cents… but he said it didn’t bring him

any good luck… so he wanted to trade it away.”

His mother, hand on hip, looking a little disgusted, came back with “Well so far it’s not brought

you any good luck…you had time and money in that little boat you built… seems to me you

got the short end of the stick.”

“Oh, it’s o.k. mom….I got a feeling about this marble.”  And with that, Terry shoved the marble

in his jeans pocket and disappeared out the back door before his mom could get another

word out.

 

The next few weeks around the farm house were rather perplexing. Terry’s father fell off

a short ladder in the house while Terry sat nearby rolling the marble against dominos set up

in it’s path.  Ten days later, and while taking a hot pan off the stove, Terry’s mom burned

her left hand as Terry sat on the floor behind her, shooting the turquoise gem into a

paper cup laid on it’s side. And three days later, Terry was sent to the office for disrupting his class. Mesmerized by the marble, Terry would sit at his wood top desk and lightly bounce it an inch or two from the desk into his hand… back and forth… back and forth. But the worst was

yet to come.

Six weeks after the marble came home in the lunch box, his grandfather who came for

his mom’s famous pancakes, fell at the house…..breaking his right leg. As his feet came out

from under him, his foot kicked a small piece of glass against the dining room wall… yes

it was the now infamous turquoise marble. Terry had been right when he told his mom he

had a feeling about the marble. The marble was special, but it brought nothing but bad luck

to his family, and Terry knew he had one thing to do to end the bad string of luck which was

hounding his family.  On a bright sunny afternoon, Terry took the marble out to the back

porch and with all his strength threw the marble as far as his little arm could muster…

whirling it into oblivion. It was done. Or was it? Did that piece of turquoise glass have

some power not known to Terry… or to anyone who had been around it? The answer would

come a short time later. 

 

Circumstances for Terry’s family continued on a downhill spiral. His father lost his job on

the railroad.. and there was no work nearby, so the family decided to sell the house and head back east

 to be close to the rest of the family in Philadelphia. It was an agonizing decision for them but with little

 choices left, they decided the move was best for everyone.

 

The house sat empty for almost two years, while real estate agents worked in earnest to

sell the house which was now starting to show the signs of being empty.

 

On a chilly day in October of the following year, while readying the house to show later

that day, real estate agent Judy Dwyer climbed the steps of the house to what was once

Terry’s room on the second floor. Her eyes peering into the brightly lit room, she noticed a reflection of

 light on the window sill…. and walking over to the window, she reached down

and picked up a wonderful little piece of glass with turquoise floating in a cloud.

At first she thought….this would be a nice little present for her daughter… but then she

reconsidered… and replaced the marble upon the white window frame.

 

Best leave things as they are, that was the right thing to do.

 

Terry’s marble had been tossed far far away… but it had found it’s home again.  And

now the marble that had been bought thru the mail from a fortune teller ad would soon

have a new family from which to garner some attention.

 

 After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  

The house upon the hill...

 

Two young lads decide to check out the spooky looking house not far from their homes..

but maybe they got more than they bargained for. 'The house upon the hill'...it's chapter 

number two in Tales Unleashed and is here for your inspection...step up and take a look. 

The House Upon the Hill

Our town of twelve hundred people had a resident that was more than just a bit unusual. The “lady who lived on the hill” – as she was known, never by her given name – was rarely seen during the light of day, preferring to go out early in the evening, strolling down the road to the little grocery store about a half mile from where she lived. Sometimes she would ride her old bicycle, the original tires patched and re-patched from the years of riding up and down the cinder roadway. Indeed, Beatrice McGee was a strange and lonely lady. No one could remember a day when she did not live alone in that house on the hill. Rumor had it that her husband had been lost at sea some fifty years ago, and she took refuge in this lonely country house that would be far removed from the dark and murky New England coast which had claimed him.

And here it was, Halloween eve, young Tommy and Joe in their ever-increasing curiosity to get a closer look at the old woman, inched their way through the briars and brambles leading to her place . . . trying to get close enough to peek through a downstairs window on her front porch. The house was usually dark, with perhaps one light in the second floor to keep out the bats, and a dim light on the first floor. The night air started to settle in quickly now as a half moon brought more light to the scene just in front of the boys.

“Tell me again why we are doing this?” asked Tommy. Joe replied, “You’ve heard the rumors Tommy… everyone in town says she has about twenty cats.. and they’re all dead, stuffed and in different spots all around her . . . I’ve got to see for myself.”

Before Joe could respond, Tommy crouched lower and headed out to cover the last fifty yards to the front of the house. Joe wanted to be somewhere else at this point . . . anywhere else. He had hung out with Tommy through some weird adventures, but this one was going to take the cake, and if they got caught . . . boy, would things be bad at home for both of them.

Beatrice had no phone or television. The boys had heard that she would listen to the radio at night, pop some popcorn and then retire sometime before midnight. It was now just eight p.m., and with any luck at all, Tommy and Joe would have a real close look at the ole’ recluse and see for themselves what the town’s people had talked about for years.

Finally, the two boys had made it to the porch. Both on their hands and knees, they paused, trying to catch their breaths and straining to hear anything from inside the house.

The faint light of the one bulb which was lit filtered out through the dirty window and faded curtain, and onto the weathered boards where the boys sat.

“Hear that?” Tommy said, grabbing Joe’s arm to get his attention. “She’s got the radio on for sure.”

Joe leaned over closer to Tommy’s left ear and said quietly, “I want to go home . . . come on Tommy, I don’t care about seeing any dead cats and this place is just too creepy.”

Just as Tommy was ready to respond, they heard a rush of air and boards scraping boards as the bottom window was thrown up and a voice shrieked out, “What do you young-uns want? Come to visit my dead cats did you?” What followed was a foul, high pitched laugh that made both Joe and Tommy jump from the porch with legs and feet struggling to get traction below them. Within seconds they were ten, fifteen, twenty yards away . . . Beatrice was still laughing from the open window . . . and yelled to the pair as they made their way down the hill, “What’s the matter . . . cat got your tongues?” The question was followed by a screech that followed the pair as they raced homeward, Joe losing his baseball hat as he ran, with Tommy in the lead by a good five yards.

Two minutes had passed and the pair, totally spent, stopped at the bottom of the hill, both out of breath and shaking profusely.

“Next time you want to do something stupid, count me out,” Joe said.

“Ah, shut up,” Tommy responded, and the two started the final two-minute walk back to town.

Back at the top of the hill, Beatrice settled into her favorite antique rocking chair, and grabbed a coffee jar filled with popcorn she had made days before. Except for the sound of the rocker pushing down on loose boards of the old house, the house was still. The radio playing lightly on the mantle . . . the cats, placed here and there, all in their respective spots, their glazed eyes piercing the cobwebs and dust, transfixed on Beatrice their keeper.

As Beatrice rocked and smiled, she announced to her pets, “Tomorrow is Halloween my sweeties . . . do you think our two little friends will return?”

“We shall see, we shall see.”

Tommy and Joe didn’t return the next night, Halloween. But they planned on going back on a Saturday afternoon, when the sun would be high, and the shadows not so frightful. But it was not to be.

Three weeks after their night on the porch under the screech of Beatrice, an overnight fire burned down the house on the hill and everything that was in it, including Beatrice and her beloved collection.

The next day after the fire, as Tommy and Joe sat on a slope nearby looking across the way to the destroyed house, Tommy remarked, “I guess we’ll never know . . . about the cats, that is.”

“Oh I know,” replied Joe. “It was too strange of a story not to be true . . . just too strange not to be true.”

A must visit for your future travels...

 

 My how the months fly by don't they? This is a re-post of my original 

 visit to the grave site of Twilight Zone creator Rod Serling in Interlaken, N.Y.

A year later, my brother Gary accompanied me on my 2nd trip there. 

It was an easy drive .....it was an hour and a half from where I live in 

Cohocton, N.Y.  If you were a Twilight Zone fan...this trip has to be 

on your 'bucket list' of places to go....it is simply awe inspiring...and 

I must admit, just a bit spooky.  I hope you enjoy the story and the pics...

Visiting Rod Serling.....

I'd been planning the trip for sometime now...an hour and one half from Loon
Lake here in Cohocton....but the drive was well worth the discovery.

Rod Serling's grave site in Interlaken, N.Y.  was an experience, let me tell you.

When I was a mile out, the anticipation grew, I was hoping I would not have
difficulty finding the spot, but the map I had spelled out the location pretty
well.

Driving thru the gate and meandering thru to section G reminded me of many
funerals I have had over the years....the quiet, the peaceful surroundings...
being anxious to get to the right place.  The last turn to section G where he
is buried had some pretty good washouts, but my car handled them easily,
and I pulled over and parked. Grabbing my camera and tripod, I headed up
the slight incline to where the map indicated where he rested....

I found rows of markers with death dates of the 90s', then the 80's...then
I hit the 70's and I knew I was very very close.  Within thirty feet, a grave
that looked a little 'busy' with things around the stone jumped out at me.

As I walked up to the the grave, I was actually overwhelmed.  Here he was.
Rod Serling, master of the short story, creator of the world famous
Twilight Zone, followed by Night Gallery. Wow. I was finally here.

I had followed him and Alfred Hitchcock for years...enjoying their stories
and most of all, their surprise endings to their stories. I have mentioned both
writers on the back cover of my new book Tales Unleashed coming out this
fall. 

As I knelt down to inspect Rod's simple 12 by 24 grave marker...I could tell
that he has not been forgotten. Many who traveled here before me left little
tokens, coins, photographs of Rod.  It's so pleasurable to know that others
have made the journey here before me... just to experience this guy and
the talent that he had. But what a short life, just 50. How much more could
he have written if he had lived to 70, 80 and beyond?

A flag also was present..he served in the Army, WW2. He had received
several medals during service in the Pacific. 

So in the quiet, I sat my tripod, took some photos, spoke a few words to
this man, thanking him for his stories, in inspirations, and for his service
to the country. 
Wikipedia has an excellent long biography of Rod. You should go there
sometime and read it. He had many

many talents indeed.

As you know, Serling was a big smoker...the following explained that
and his death:

Serling was said to smoke 3-4 packs of cigarettes a day. On May 3, 1975, he had a minor heart attack and was hospitalized. He spent two weeks at Tompkins County Community Hospital before being released. A second heart attack two weeks later forced doctors to agree that open-heart surgery, though considered risky at the time, was in order. The ten-hour-long procedure was performed on June 26, but Serling had a third heart attack on the operating table and died two days later at Strong Memorial Hospital in Rochester, New York. He was 50 years old. His funeral and burial took place on July 2 at Lake View Cemetery, Interlaken, (Seneca County), New York.

His grave site is easy to find, and is lot G, plot 1044. He has a simple 12” by 24” headstone.

Contributing factors to his early death included the fact that he was a very heavy smoker,

his favorite being Chesterfield ‘long’ cigarettes. He endorsed the brand and was rarely seen

without a cigarette in his hand, even while introducing some of his TV episodes. 

I wasn't at his grave site too awfully long. I almost felt like an intruder into this

space, a quiet and serene place....you could here a pin drop. 

Thanks Rod. Perhaps I'll go back there another day. If you find yourself in the

Fingerlakes of New York, direct your car to that gate. It's a place that is indeed

where your imagination can abound, where time itself slows to a halt...it's

a place where the Twilight Zone has come to rest. SS

The pumpkin weeps....

 

All living things have a 'soul' if you will....but do they have sensations? You decide. 

from Tales Unleashed.....'tis the season for; 

The Pumpkin Weeps

“Slow down, Jimmy! Carving a pumpkin takes patience, a keen eye, and most importantly, a steady hand.”

Chad Osborn was sitting next to his son Jimmy as the eight year-old boy inserted the knife into the outer skin of the pumpkin they had just purchased a half mile down the road. The knife was not a sharp one—which was probably part of the problem—and Jimmy tried in vain to accomplish a deep cut. Chad knew that his wife would not approve of this whole plan, but under strict supervision, Chad thought Jimmy could at least do the task without taking a finger off.

“I want to make a big frown on the face, Dad.”.

“Why a frown?”

“Well,” replied Jimmy, “I can’t be too sure the pumpkin would have a smile on his face after being pulled out of his patch. That was his home, right?”

His dad chuckled. “I guess that’s right, son . . . I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

And so the two continued for the next half hour to make the face that Jimmy had envisioned, Jimmy getting his wish as he put the finishing touch on the pumpkin that made it quite sad-looking indeed.

“Can we put in on the front stoop tonight with a candle inside, dad? I’ll be careful. I promise. And I’ll watch it closely.”

“Okay” his dad said. “We’ll come out at dusk and light it up for a couple of hours before you go to bed.”

And so the plan was in place. Jimmy couldn’t wait to eat his supper, get his homework done, and prepare for the first pumpkin lighting of his young career. Wow, what a night it would be! A couple hours had passed, and Jimmy became increasingly anxious to start the night’s festivities. Jumping on his dad’s lap and knocking the newspaper from Chad’s hands, he asked, “Can we go out front and light it now dad? Can we, can we?”

“Okay son, I’ll go get some matches and we’ll see how that project of yours turned out.” His dad put down his paper, grabbed his son, and they headed out the front door with a shared mission in mind.  

Sitting on either side of the pumpkin, Jimmy and his dad examined the masterpiece they had created earlier in the day. The face wasn’t scary—it looked more sad than angry. Jimmy lifted the stem attached to the top and sat it aside as his dad struck the match and reached down inside to light the small white candle. 

Replacing the top and getting down in front of the pumpkin, Jimmy exclaimed with joy, “Dad, look at it . . . it’s perfect!”

 But Jimmy’s broad smile became a straight line as his face went from joyful to serious.

“What’s wrong, son?” his father asked.

“Dad, look at this.”

Coming around front, his father knelt beside Jimmy and saw what had changed the child’s face.  On either side of the pumpkin, and at the outer corner of each eye, several drops of water dripped down the pumpkin’s cheek. Almost a stream, if you will. “Oh that’s just condensation from inside son. Pumpkins are very wet inside you know.”

“No, dad. This pumpkin is most unhappy that we have ripped it away from its home, and it’s crying. Look at it.” Jimmy started to well up himself, his bottom lip quivering. “We have to take it back tomorrow. It has to go back.”

“Son, nobody’s going to take back a carved pumpkin . . . but we’ll try.” With that, the pair blew out the candle and retired for the evening.

The next day being Saturday, Jimmy and his father placed the pumpkin in the front seat of the station wagon and headed back down the road to the stand from which it came. The old man who operated the stand sat on a rusty old milk can and struck a match to his pipe as the pair approached him.

 “Problem?” inquired the man as Chad and Jimmy placed the carved piece at his feet.

“No, none at all,” replied Chad. “It was nice, but my son wants it returned to where it came from. Can you do that?”

“Well, I’ve never had anyone bring one back before, rather unusual, but guess I could. Can’t give your money back though.”

“Oh no, don’t expect that. Thanks so much, we’ll try and get back next year.”

“Suit yourself,” said the old man as he loaded the pumpkin into a wheelbarrow.

Sitting in the car, Chad and Jimmy reviewed the day that had just passed between them and the pumpkin.

“Do you think that pumpkin felt it when I cut it with the knife dad?”

“I don’t think so Jimmy. Many say that plants can communicate with each other, but I don’t believe that a plant can show any kind of emotion, let alone produce tears. How about an ice cream?”

 As the two drove away, they watched the old man as he moved the wheelbarrow out from behind his stand. Picking the pumpkin up and gently placing it back near another of its kind, the old man walked away with water dripping from his hands. “Boy, I don’t think I’ve ever handled one that wet,” he remarked as he dried his hands with his well-worn handkerchief.

Jimmy’s pumpkin was back home, as Jimmy had requested. Had his pumpkin produced tears after being ripped away from the fertile ground? Had it felt not only the separation, but also the knife that Jimmy had held to produce the frown that now adorned its face? Lots of questions indeed to ponder.

The sun settled two hours later on the old man’s pumpkin patch. Tonight, there would be a new face there, one with a most distinctive frown, and perhaps even a dried tear or two to reflect the moonlight that was yet to arrive.

Coming in 2023......

 

What’s coming up in 2023……a western, a romance, an adventure

in the old west....

 

It’s Dry Gulch, Arizona, the year is 1875. Young rancher Travis

Dawson has just left his father’s ranch after losing his younger

brother Caleb in a horse riding accident.

Forty miles to Tucson, and Travis and his horse Jack have set out to

get away from the memory of that horrible accident.

A robbery along the way…meeting an attractive lady Sarah at the

local mercantile….being talked into a job and place to stay with

the local undertaker Turnball….the last job he thought he would

ever be involved with!

The story is gritty, dust ridden, raw, thought provoking and full of

one surprise after another for the young Dawson.

Travis Dawson, Undertaker….now copyrighted and expected to be

printed and available in 2023!

This is a western that has it all…..watch for the previews on line on

the world wide web…..and get ready for

                                   Travis Dawson, Undertaker.

                                  Authored by Stanley E. Swan

Old man Crenshaw's place....

 

Youngster Jeff loved being on his bike and pedaling around the neighborhood....

except there was one place he tried to avoid. The house where Old man Crenshaw

lived.....it was down right spooky and broken down. From time to time Jeff would

see the old man standing in an upstairs window with a rolled newspaper tucked 

under his arm...what was that about? One day in late May as Jeff made his way 

up the hill and past the house....he stopped the bike and peered ahead to see both

a Sheriffs car and ambulance parked at the bottom of the drive. 

This is story 19 in Tales Unleashed (Amazon) 

Old Man Crenshaw’s Place

When most kids loved riding their bikes to school, Jeffery Adams was just the opposite. His six-minute ride to and from his rural farm house was down an old dirt road, up a steep incline and past Old Man Crenshaw’s place, a dilapidated two-story building that seemed to reach out for him every time he passed it. What was there about this house?  His father had told him many times about its owner, Ebenezer Crenshaw, a cranky old man that had worked at the newspaper for many years. It was rumored that Ebenezer was a conjuror . . . sitting by the light of a single lantern, reading tea leaves and cards, and casting spells on those he didn’t care for. Could it be true? Perhaps. Jeffery cranked the pedals as hard as he could every time he passed the Crenshaw place, kicking up cinders and dust as he would fly by the front porch and walk.

Once, he had seen the man in jeans and tee shirt, with a rolled-up newspaper under his arm, standing in an upstairs bedroom window. This place was creepy, very creepy . . . the kind of creep that sneaks into your bedroom at  night, slithering through that slightly opened window you had left before retiring. 

It was one afternoon after school in late May that Jeffery, on the way home was just coming up to the Crenshaw house. In front of the house was the Sheriff’s car and an ambulance, neither of which had their emergency lights flashing. A deputy stood in the middle of the road, presumably directing traffic to slow up a bit as it approached. Jeffery rolled up to the deputy, stopped his bike, and asked the officer, “What’s going on in there anyway?”

The deputy replied with, “Looks like Old Man Crenshaw has died. Someone stopped earlier in the day for some reason and found him inside. Now move along, son. Nothing else to see here.” 

With that Jeffery started pedaling homeward again. Geez, now Crenshaw’s would be creepy… him being dead and all. What would happen to this place? He pondered that question as he continued the journey home.

A couple of weeks passed. Crenshaw had been buried in the local cemetery not too far down the road from Jeffery’s house, and things seemed pretty normal again in his part of town. One night sitting out front of his house with his dad, Jeffery remarked to him, “You know dad, I saw Old Man Crenshaw one day. He was standing in an upstairs bedroom window in jeans and a tee shirt with a rolled-up newspaper under his arm.”

“Is that so?” replied his father. “Interesting, I heard that as a kid he delivered newspapers all over town. Did it for many years I think. Later on, he was actually employed by the same paper company for many years. Seems like he always had a newspaper on him.”

Two days later, Jeffery and his best friend Will were pedaling around town when they happened to pedal into the Whispering Pines Cemetery. It was the place where Old Man Crenshaw had been buried two weeks before.

“Why are we here?” asked Will of Jeffery.

“I don’t really know for sure,” replied Jeffery. “It’s just . . . I just want to see where he ended up.”

As they rounded the corner in the cemetery road, straight ahead they could make out a newly dug grave with a couple of wilted flower pieces laying on top.

“That must be it!” exclaimed Jeffery as he pushed the pedals to get a little closer.

Within ten feet of the spot, Jeffery slammed on the bike’s brakes and dug his feet into the soft ground. On top of the grave amongst the brown flower pieces was one rolled-up newspaper, its ink starting to run from the rain since the interment. 

“What is it with the newspaper?” asked Will.

“I’m not really sure. But I’d bet you a million dollars his obituary is in that edition. I’d bet you a million dollars . And I know one thing for sure—it’s his last newspaper.”

 And so Old Man Crenshaw had gone on. His newspaper delivery days were long past him now, and his abandoned house would sit and continue to wither away in the months and years ahead. Someday, when someone would buy that house and start renovating, do you know what they would find in those walls? Yes, one of the best old stand-by insulations ever invented: newspapers. 

Discovering Dr. John....

 

So a young man, wondering in the woods in the back of his mom's property discovers an

old rusty, broken down vehicle.....that discovery would send him down the path to his

life's work.  It's story number 12 in Tales Unleashed (Book Stand Publishing)    

Discovering Dr. John

At fifteen years old, Chad Gillmore was a whiz in math and science. He couldn’t read enough about the wonders of the world around him. At age eight his mom had presented him with his first chemistry set, and night after night, Chad would be in his room conjuring multiple solutions and pretending to be the one that would make that next discovery.

Chad knew that he wanted to pursue an occupation in medicine, but he didn’t know why. His father, who had passed away when Chad was only an infant, was a laborer, and his mom worked two jobs in retail shops not far from home. His mom suggested to Chad that if he wanted to pursue a job in the medical profession that he should seek his education in the military, as there would be no feasible way she could afford him a six- or eight-year college program.

Having just moved to a small house in Alloway, Chad and his mom enjoyed the rural pristine twenty acres that surrounded their modest home. Romping through the woods on a bright summer day gave Chad time to think about what was next, for both himself and his mother.

It was a Thursday after school that Chad decided to head out into the woods to explore new territory that he had yet not invaded. With a backpack on his shoulders and a wave to his mom, he was out the door.

Up the gully to the top of the hill, Chad made his way among clumps of maples and pines, flushing out a couple of grouse as he went. When he broke over the crest of the hill, Chad made a discovery which was most unusual in this setting of greenery and rock. Twenty yards in front of him was a car. Well, more of a truck than a car. Shaded in colors of white, blue, and rust, the vehicle sat among the weeds and small trees, resting from its past years work. Chad ran to the vehicle and slowly circled around it, taking it all in . . . wow, this was a find indeed.

Chad dropped his backpack, pried open the front door, and eased himself into the front seat which was covered in leaves and debris. A key was in the ignition, the dashboard was rusted and covered with dirt. Cobwebs were in every space of the interior, proof that few had entered before him.

Peering into the back, Chad saw what looked like some sort of stretcher, rolled up and rotten from the elements which he presumed had battered it for decades. There was something soothing about this car. It had a peaceful feeling to it, a feeling of good deeds being done and pursuits being realized. Chad couldn’t quite understand it. It was strange, yet inviting, to his spirit.

After a brief rest, Chad reached for the key in the ignition and tugged it slightly . . . and to his surprise the key slid out. He tucked it into his right jeans pocket. Jumping out of the front seat, Chad pushed the door firmly, but the door was inches from exacting a firm closure. Chad noticed some type of faint lettering on the door and started rubbing off the years of dirt and grime that masked it. Within a couple of minutes, Chad backed away from the door and read,

Dr. John Sullivan
Dispenser of Fine Medicine
Main St. Alloway

Wow. A medical car, used, abandoned and placed here for its final rest.

Chad touched the door and whispered in a faint breath that only a passing robin might have heard, “I’m going to carry on your work Dr. John. Thank you for the healing you did. Your key will be in my pocket until I start my own work someday. Thank you.”

Chad grabbed his backpack and headed for home, contemplating whether he should share the discovery with is mom. Maybe tomorrow . . . but not today. Chad knew that he would re-visit the car in the weeks ahead, and that Dr. John might speak to him about what his future chosen profession might bring.

And so a few years later, Chad with his interest in science and math, did indeed enter the medical profession. By way of the U.S. Army, Chad received his training and spent almost twelve years in service to his country and his fellow countrymen as a highly skilled nurse. During his time away, his mom did pass away, and Chad kept the house, renting it to local folks who could watch after it while he was away.

One week while home on leave, Chad revisited Dr. John’s medical vehicle which hadn’t moved from its original spot. Chad smiled as he ran his hand over the most rusted part of the truck’s hood.

“Thanks, Dr. John, for the inspiration. When I get home soon, we’ll get you out of this lonely place you’ve been a prisoner in, and get you fully restored.”

Chad’s find out in the woods so many years before had now seen him come full circle. He smiled lightly as he walked away from the vehicle, knowing that someday, not in the too-distant future, he’d be driving it through Alloway, on the road and among the houses to which it had been so familiar.

A walk in fog.....and time.

 

Welcome to my new followers....literally world wide by means of the world 

wide web. Little did we know years ago...such mass communications would 

ever become reality....but it is here...and a bit unsettling as well!

You'll find several interesting stories here on my blog....from the unusual 

to romantic...to unsettling in some cases....but don't be alarmed... they are

only just stories right? 

Ever go walking in the fog? Just for kicks maybe? You might rethink that

idea after reading the story below....thanks for stopping and have 

a great day!  SS 

 

Settle in and enjoy story #3 from Tales Unleashed.....

A Walk in Fog and Time

Is it possible to move through time? Is it possible that certain events are destined to repeat themselves, never coming to completion? Yes, yes indeed, it is possible. The story below is one of those events. Possibly a tragic event that would not allow the participants ever to have rest . . . read on, then decide for yourself.

The twilight was settling in quickly now. As I peered out the kitchen window, the impending darkness was bringing with it a thick fog bank, a result of the late afternoon rain and cooler temperature. The trees on the hillside beckoned me to take a walk among them, so I grabbed a light jacket and headed out the back door, paying little attention to the wet grass that clung to my scuffed-up oxfords. I’d been up and down these hills behind the house so many times, it seemed that I knew every tree, ditch, rock, and gulley that made it so friendly. As I made my way up the hill through the oaks and maples, their leaves rustled gently as the fog continued its downward spiral. I sat to catch my breath, feeling a bit faint from my fast ascent. No hurry, I thought. Sit and absorb the moment.

Sitting on a stump I knew so well, I watched the fog gain intensity . . . rolling down the hillside and enveloping me with a force I could actually feel through my thin summer jacket. I pulled up the collar around my exposed neck as the fog tried to invade my naked skin, giving me a chill that was unusual for this time of the year.

I listened intensely thinking that I was hearing a voice from further up into the woods, but I couldn’t imagine anyone else being out here at twilight. Zipping up my jacket to the top, I again headed up the hill, stopping every fifty yards or so to give listen.

Still, a faint voice, muffled by the fog, was descending to my ear . . . a man’s voice, soft-spoken, but authoritarian to some degree. I continued on and within a few moments I had crested the hill enough to look down into a bowl in the terrain. The man’s voice was slow and deliberate. The words spoken, I could not make out, but it was clear he was speaking to someone or a group. I moved between the large oaks, trying to hide behind trunks as I moved closer to make my discovery. And there before me, maybe a hundred yards ahead in the fog, were four figures cloaked in long grey capes with very large sleeves, almost choir robes. They all wore hats. The three shorter figures I presumed to be women, had bonnets tied at the chin, and the taller figure wore a wide brimmed, pitch black hat. He had in his left hand a seven-foot staff which towered above all four of the figures. Who were these people?

I moved closer . . . trying to look through the now very thick fog which was cloaking my view. Within another thirty yards or so my position had changed and my neck strained as I peered around the tree which hid me. On the ground in the middle of the group was a wood box, looking to be three feet long—perhaps a storage box for valuables, or a child’s casket.

All of a sudden the taller figure looked my way, sensing that he was being watched. I froze, hoping his eyes would not pierce the thick fog veil which surrounded me. He looked down at the book he had in hand and continued his speech to the group.

I’d had enough. My flight sense told me it was time to move away.

Slowly I backed away from the solemn scene, retreating back down the hill, my mind quickly trying to understand what I had just witnessed. The forecast was for clearing weather overnight, and tomorrow I would return to the bowl to see what I could find. In the meantime, I went to my encyclopedia and started to scan through examples of period clothing worn through the ages. When I got to the page of Quaker clothing my jaw dropped. Yes, this was the type of clothes these figures had on, right down to the length, cut and color. Now I had to know more.

The next day, the weather had cleared and I made my way to my local historian’s office. She was a gal just shy of being a hundred and she would know about my house, my town, and my hill. Sure enough, upon inquiry, she told me that Quakers indeed were some of the first settlers here. She asked me why I wanted to know, but I was not ready to relate to her my story of what I had seen.

Later that morning I retraced my steps to the bowl. The birds were singing. One lone turkey scratched for food as I entered the oaks that led to the bowl. I located the spot at which I thought I had seen the figures hovering over the small wooden box. The immediate ten feet of ground there was completely bare. There were no leaves, no twigs, no grass . . . just rich black earth. I had seen many times before spots in the woods that would be scratched by turkeys as they sought their daily feed, but this spot was beyond that. Not wanting to leave the ground looking so bare, I gathered a handful of leaves and twigs and covered the spot, trying to blend it in with all that was around it. The spot felt very lonely and strange, even with the mid morning sun now finding its way onto the site. I left the bowl and found that tree stump I had sat on the night before in the fog.

What had I seen last night? In the fog, a group of four in the forest standing around a small wood box. I had to think I had somehow been lost in time, or perhaps they had been lost in time. My conclusion was that I had witnessed a Quaker burial, but how could that be? It made no sense at all to me.

Now I’ll have to give serious consideration about going back to that same spot again. I won’t give up on the hill, it’s a fantastic place . . . but I know I will not return there in the twilight, and definitely not in the fog.

What did Julie VanBuren experience that day?

 

It's story number 24, page 91 from 

Tales Unleashed.

A Skate on Strange Ice

At age nine, Julie van Buren loved playing in the shallow McHenry Creek, just behind her house in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She would sit on the bank of the creek with her mother and toss stones into the water; on occasion they would launch a paper boat, set it in the water and watch intently it as it slowly made its way southward. 

Winter time was just as much fun. Her mom would let her skate unattended on the very shallow creek which had a few pools of water less than ten feet across and less than nine inches in depth. It was a safe and gleeful place that had entertained many families over the years. 

Today was a beautiful sunny day in February of 1954. Julie laced up her skates and shoved off from the bank onto the frozen surface of McHenry Creek, its ice lightly covered with fresh snow from the night before. Julie’s smile was ear to ear as she pushed herself around the frozen pool. The scarf wrapped around her neck barely kept the cold air from creeping under her collar. As Julie completed her fourth or fifth trip around the ice, she dropped a glove and quickly turned to retrieve it. She didn’t know why she even had the gloves with her today—it was cold, but the sun was warm, and they were tucked in her coat and out of the way. Julie arrived at the spot where the glove laid, and as she reached down to pick it up, something beneath the ice caught her attention.

She sat down, moved the glove, and brushed away the light snow with her left hand. As she peered down through the ice Julie was startled to see a young girl’s face just below the surface. It was a young face, perhaps about her same age: rounded, highlighted by chin-length blond hair with curls on the forehead. The eyes were closed, and Julie thought it resembled a Halloween mask. The face was pale with no color and no movement whatsoever.

Julie was startled and tried to get up quickly, but lost her balance and fell back to the ice. She struggled to get away from the face that she had just seen. She made her way quickly to the back door and went to the kitchen to report to her mom of her ghostly encounter. Her mother assured her that it was just her imagination, but she persisted and the two returned to the creek and the spot that Julie had told her about. They found nothing.

The next few days passed with little being said about the incident by Julie or her mother. On the fifth day, her mother’s curiosity had gotten the best of her, and while Julie was at school, she went to the local library to do some research.

Finding some Lancaster history books she started thumbing through the pages of gathered materials looking for anything out of the ordinary. One story in particular jumped off the page at her. The headline from 1928 read: Lancaster girl Ruth O’Brien still missing.

Reading on she discovered that the young gal had disappeared in February of that year while playing in light snow. A total search of the area, including local waterways, had shed no clue. Along with the article was a pencil sketch of what Ruth looked like at the time of her going missing. Julie’s mother copied the article and the sketch and took it home, it was something she wanted to study further as time allowed her. 

Three days later young Julie discovered the article and the pencil drawing at her mother’s desk. Picking up the picture and going to the kitchen, Julie said to her mother, “Mom, where did you get this drawing? This is the girl that I saw in the creek last week. Remember me telling you?”

“I’m sure it’s just coincidence, honey,” said her mother. “That little girl lived here a long time ago.”

Julie’s mom decided to call the sheriff the next day, just to report what Julie had seen. The sheriff, getting on in years, chuckled and said, “There have been numerous other sightings over the years of young Ruth, but nothing has ever come of them.”

And so, Julie’s sighting in McHenry Creek would be the latest to be lodged with the local authorities.  

 The girl Ruth, who had vanished almost three decades ago during the month of February, had just made another brief stop near Lancaster.   

The Reading.....

 

    It's chapter eight from Tales Unleashed.....

    What could be more fun than to have your fortune read at the county fair.

For Jim and Cathy, a brief stop along the midway in a dark and mysterious

tent would make great changes in their lives.  Dont' be afraid....after all....

 it's just a story.  

The Reading

Jim and Cathy hadn’t planned to go to the county fair that day. Jim’s mom was a bit under the weather, and being the man of the house, Jim felt he should be nearby if she needed anything. His dad has passed away several years before. At twenty three and single, his job at the auto parts store and some other part time work helped to pay the bills and put some food on the table.

Cathy had graduated with Jim just six years prior. She didn’t want to go to college and had been Jim’s steady since the tenth grade. They had often talked about tying the knot but circumstances seemed to be against them both . . . so they went on day to day, week to week, trying to look down the road for brighter days.

The county fair was in action, just five miles to the east, and Cathy had asked for two weeks solid if they could go on that first Friday night. Jim hesitated, but his mom pushed him into it.

“It’ll do you and Cathy both good,” she advised. “Go have some fun. I’ll be just fine here.” His mom was confined to a wheelchair, had breathing difficulties, and suffered from a plethora of other problems which seem to get worse yearly.

Jim took her advice and picked up Cathy at 7:00 the night of the fair. They drove in his Chevy pickup, contemplating what was ahead for them at the fair. It was the event of the year with lots of food, entertainment, a midway, and just bushels of excitement to experience. As they walked by the fortune teller’s tent, Cathy grabbed Jim’s left arm and asked, “Hon, let’s go in. I’ve never had my fortune told. It’ll be great. it’s only five dollars . . . can we?”

Jim tried to pull away, but Cathy pushed him into the tent opening which led into a very small enclosed canvass room, no bigger than ten feet square. Dimly lit, they could see the room was appointed with wall hangings touting the great mind-reading powers of Belinda, who they assumed to be an older woman. To their great surprise, a sheet was swept aside and out walked a very attractive woman, probably in her thirties, dressed in a white fluffy blouse tucked into a deep purple floor-length skirt.

“Please sit down,” Belinda commanded, as she pointed to the two chairs in front of the small card table. On the table were just two items: a six-inch white candle which was lit and producing just a whisper of smoke, and the crystal ball, approximately ten inches in diameter and cradled in an ornately carved gold base.

Her eyes met Jim’s and she gave a smile of approval. “Why haven’t you married this fine-looking man?” she asked Cathy.

“Well, maybe someday,” Cathy replied. Before she could say more, Belinda had put a finger to her own lips, asking for quiet.

After being seated, Belinda surrounded the crystal with both hands turned up, almost in a position of accepting a gift. The room was quiet, the only sounds were those of others passing by on the midway and the carnival music drifting in slightly through the gaps in the tent.

There was no movement in the closed room, only the light grey smoke from the candle, which started to envelope the crystal, making for quite an eerie presentation.

“You two will be married in March of next year,” Belinda said. Do whatever you have to in order to make that happen.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached for Jim’s hand. “Soon after you marry, you will be taking your mother for a long ride. It will be out of state. Now I must go.”

With that, the mysterious woman got up and quickly departed the same way in which she had appeared.

“That certainly was strange,” Cathy said.

“Indeed it was,” replied Jim. “But eight months from now, you and I will be one!”

The pair stood, gave each other a huge hug and headed for the midway which awaited their discovery.

The courting of the two continued for the next several months, through the holidays and on into winter. Not wanting to jinx the reading they had received, Jim and Cathy planned a wedding in Jim’s house with his mom and a few close friends . . . and their dreams would soon be true. A March wedding was a bit different, but the two were deeply in love, and no matter the financial circumstances, they would make it happen.

Two weeks after the couple exchanged vows, Jim’s mother took a turn for the worse. With pneumonia complicated by heart problems, she quietly passed away one evening while sitting in her favorite chair, doing her entertaining crosswords.

Upon making the final arrangements for his mom, Jim found out she had already attended to such, and had most of the expenses in advance. The big surprise was discovering she was to be buried in her home town of Bethlehem, PA. That was over one hundred miles away. But it was what she wanted, so Jim was not one to change plans that had been set in advance.

Jim and Cathy followed the hearse the day of the funeral. Under some small maple trees on a beautiful mid-April afternoon, they said goodbye to this sweet lady who had done so much for them. As they motored their way back home, Jim and Cathy talked about the day they had been at the county fair—specifically, their encounter with Belinda in the tent, the marriage in March, and taking his mother for a long ride. A visit to a county fair fortune teller had produced the two opposite ends of life itself: a wedding and a funeral. Joy and grief.

As they continued North along the interstate, Jim pointed at a billboard just before they made their exit. It advertised the 85^th Annual Broome County Fair.

“Maybe we’ll pass the fair up this year,” Jim chuckled. Within the hour, the pair had arrived home.

Two years passed and Cathy, seven months pregnant, wanted to go back to talk with the lady at the fair to see if she could tell them if it were to be a boy or a girl. But Jim would have no part of it. “One trip in a lifetime to a fortune teller is more than enough,” he warned. Their daughter was born two months later. They named her Belinda, after the ravishing black-haired beauty who had foretold their marriage.

And perhaps another trip to the county fair?            Maybe next year.