What do you want for yourself?

 

It's never an easy topic to discuss........even to think about for most 

people...but it's one that has to be contemplated. 

What do I want my family or survivors to do with me once I pass on? 

Have you talked about it with your wife? children? significant other? 

You will save your loved ones from terrific stress and frustration 

if you let your wishes be known ahead of time....yes, ahead of time.

So many options to think about....burial....cremation...donation of your

body for research....calling hours... no calling hours...viewing... no

viewing...final place of disposition (cemetery) for body or cremains..

It seems like an endless list....but it can be quite simple if you just sit

down and talk about it. 

If you have a computer, you can go on line and just google;

preparing for my final disposition.

There will be many sites that can help you figure out what's best for

you ...and your family. Better yet, call your LOCAL funeral director and

tell him you need to sit down and talk about your 'end needs'.... he'll

be happy to give you all the answers you want, and that will help to 

eliminate doubts, fears and questions you may have built up in your

mind over the years. 

The most peaceful people I ever dealt with while in the funeral business

were those that had 'a plan' in place....believe me...it just makes good

common sense.  Call someone soon....establish a plan...and relax. 

It's a 'feel good' story....something we all need.

 

This story was posted here a few months ago......I don't have anything Christmas related,

but this truly is a 'feel good' story...and is about family....and the holidays are about

family indeed.  So indulge me here.....and follow Mary Pritchard in her quest for a 

retirement home. 

   Is it possible to be 'drawn' to a certain place? Can your 'sixth sense' take

over and actually lead you to a place where you are supposed to be?

It does seem so.  Mary Pritchard found that out upon her retirement...drawn to

a place, and actually to a time that she had experienced before. Mary did find

that perfect retirement home....in Morgantown. It's chapter 4, 'The Mason's mark'

one of 28 stories to be found in Tales Unleashed.  

The Mason’s Mark

Mary Pritchard had always wanted to live in a nice quiet home, one with a front yard, perhaps a porch, maybe even a large dining room. But as a youngster in the 1950's, she had little choice about where she would be. Her mother had passed when she was a very young girl.

Mary possessed the one and only doll that her mother had gifted her on her fourth birthday. Soon after that, with her mother’s passing, she would have to go live with her Aunt Trudy, her only known relative. Mary’s father Miles had also passed away very tragically while on a job near their home in Morgantown. Miles was a master mason . . . a bricklayer, if you will. His work was beyond compare and Miles had helped build dozens of homes that were the envy of all who viewed them.

As Mary neared her retirement age, the call of returning to Morgantown kept coming to mind. And so, a year before retiring, Mary contacted a number of real estate agents in the Morgantown area to arrange to look at some homes there. By email, Mary finally had two or three very nice homes to look at . . . and her excitement grew as she marked two walk-throughs on her calendar, scheduled on the same weekend.

Meeting the local agent at a small friendly coffee spot in Morgantown, Mary looked at the information about the two homes that the agent had laid out in front of her. Both were well-kept homes, in nice neighborhoods, and each offered the right accommodations for someone soon to retire. But there was something about 151 Spruce Street that drew Mary’s attention more than the other property. The front yard was small and easily maintained, a nicely decorated porch graced the front, and the home was entirely made of brick. It weathered well over the years and had been maintained beautifully by its previous owners.

That same afternoon the real estate gal drove Mary to 151 Spruce. My, it was a lovely home, and even had a picket fence!

“The price is a bit high,” Mary exclaimed to the agent as they made their way up the front walk. “Do you think they might come down a bit?” The agent assured her she would see what could be done if Mary decided she wanted to buy. The agent gave Mary the quick tour . . . guiding her along the way from room to room and pointing out the amenities as they went.

“I must show the basement,” said the agent. “It has a new furnace, new water heater, cement floor, and it’s completely dry!”

As the two descended the ten short steps down, Mary felt a warm sensation, as if someone was welcoming her to this place. Yet she had never been in this house before. She was sure of that.

As the two gals chatted back and forth, Mary made her way to the straight and square red chimney on the west side of the basement. Old it was, but showed no signs of wear or deterioration. Two bricks up from the basement floor, Mary spotted an irregularity on one brick’s surface. Squatting down and brushing the dust from the brick she read, MJP, 9-’50. As she touched the brick a second time, a wave of exhilaration came over her. She knew then and there that her father Miles James Pritchard had helped build this house, presumably in September of 1950.

She stood up, turned with tears in her eyes, and said, “I’m home, I’ll have a check in full for you tomorrow.”

After more than fifty years, Mary had come home to Morgantown . . . not just a home, but a home that her father had helped to build for her. A better retirement gift, no one could ever have asked for.

It's been 50 years....hard to believe.

 

It's a case that's still open.  March 1970, and a man in Andover, N.Y. on his way to work

 comes across a deceased male along- side a county road. But this was not an accident

or natural death....this was homicide....and for some time thereafter was recognized as

a gangland killing.

And so, fifty years has gone by...and I understand the case is still 'open'....but time

is on the side of the perpetrators at this point. I remember visiting the grave where 

this man is buried in Andover...and a few years ago there was discussion of disinterring

the remains to possibly do a dna test....a test that wasn't in existence back then... but

I'm sure the costs and time constraints have weighed heavily in the decision not to 

proceed with the attempt to identify. 

So... who was this victim? Was there a reason he was dumped along side a road

in Andover, N.Y.? Interesting for sure.....a final resolution may never be known.

The following two news releases are out there on the web if you do some 

searching. 

' A hunter's panic'..........

 

It is deer season in many parts of the country....a time of adventure, a family 

tradition of being in the woods...a time to bring young hunters into the exciting

realm of bagging that buck. But with the adventure comes the possibility of 

accident, a physical dilemma of some sort...and worse; a chance of being lost

out there. This is a true story...and it is possible that it has happened to you 

or to someone you know. Take a look, at A Hunter's Panic... story number 

13 in Tales Unleashed., it might actually give you a chill. 

The Hunter’s Panic

It was a cold day in late November. Deer hunting had arrived in the Northeast, and today would be like so many others over the last forty years. The early rise at 5:00 AM, a quick bite to eat, packing some lunch and a thermos in the backpack, and joking with family members about why such foolishness was attempted year after year! It was more about a family tradition maybe then actually putting meat in the freezer. One often thought how much more fun it could be if were just a bit warmer than the twenty degrees that was now showing on the thermometer.

At twenty degrees, you couldn’t sit for long. And if the temperature was accompanied by a brisk wind and some snow, it was a whole lot less attractive than sitting at home by the fire. Brothers Steve and Ron had been hunting together just shy of four decades. The oldest, Ron, seem to garner the most luck, usually pulling the trigger within hours on the first day . . . then blowing the whistle in his pocket to indicate it was time to come and drag it out.

As the pair left the house to head to their popular spot, Steve immediately noticed the black sky to the west, indicating probably a good snow was in store for the day. It was still dark, and the twenty degrees harsh, as the duo made their way from the parked car and into the woods, agreeing ahead of time on a plan to rendezvous within a couple of hours and to compare notes on what had been seen. A wave of the hand to each other and the hunt was on. It would be another forty minutes before the hunting began at 7:00, and faint light was just starting to creep into the top of the giant pines which lined Steve’s route into his spot. Within minutes, he had settled into a small clump of hemlocks very near a little creek which was now frozen over.

He quickly took inventory of his backpack, pulled out the thermos, and tucked it into his top coat. He knew he’d be needing it soon today. Sitting on a log with his back to a tree, he looked over the 12-gauge and eased the five slugs into the gun, chambering one, and setting the safety as quietly as he could. Now he was ready. Let the fun begin.

He and his brother had been to this spot to many times over the years. It was a block of woods, maybe a quarter to half mile square, with a neighbor’s fences bordering on three sides and a county road on the fourth. The number of deer and turkey was usually very plentiful, and Steve knew the chances of success would be high today.

The only challenge for the moment was keeping warm. He had three layers of clothing on, heavy hunting pants, high boots with double socks, and a hat that tied down over the ears to keep the wind from freezing soft tissues.

The quiet of the moment was astounding. As the morning light continued to drift into his sight, a light snow started to develop from the west, no doubt from the storm clouds he had seen earlier. The waiting game had begun . . . listening, watching, slightly shifting the head from side to side, trying to soak in anything that might be within his view. Within a few minutes, the stillness of the woods made his eye lids heavy, and he lowered his head. He thought a quick nap would be interrupted if a deer came charging his way.

The invasive nature of the twenty-degree chill had found its way inside his sleeves and around his back, and Steve came to attention quickly, his eyes now focusing on full daylight and a pounding snow storm. How long had he dozed? Looking at his watch, it was now 8:10! How could he have slept so soundly in this cold? He shook himself of the two to three inches of snow that had engulfed him, his pack, and his shotgun. It was dry snow and brushed off easily. As he scanned the woods, his sight was only ten to twenty feet away as the snow was coming in heavy amounts now. This was going to be a tough hunt today. With heavy snow and no visibility, you could walk by a deer and not even see it, and the deer would probably bed down and not be moving at all.

It was time to go find his brother. Steve stood up, put on his backpack and headed out. The snow was falling heavier by the minute and the west wind started to kick in, making it almost impossible to watch where you were stepping. Pulling his hat brim down further to help his vision, Steve continued on for a few minutes, heading for the spot where his brother usually sat. But things were looking odd today. The snow had melded things together and the landscape did not look familiar at all. Steve stopped to collect his thoughts. The wind had increased, driving the snow deep into his neck and crevices of his gun. He turned a full 360 degrees, looking for a tree, land contour—anything that looked familiar, but there was nothing that seemed right.

Steve continued to walk, stopping only for a moment behind two large oaks, out of the wind, the catch his breath. The sky was dark and ominous, the snow relentless, and the wind had shifted now from the north.

Steve decided to go back from where he had started, but his tracks were very faint, and within a hundred yards, they had been engulfed by new snow. Steve was not one to panic, but this place in time took him back to a year when he was a kid, and he had been lost for a few hours while at a scout camp in the Catskills. The only difference of that day and this one was the weather.

Steve started to have a panic attack. His breathing was quick and shallow, his eyes and ears straining for something that would give him a clue as to where he was. The whistle! Steve reached into his side pocket, pulled out the whistle attached to the silver chain, and gave two long bursts on it. But his brother would never hear the sound. It was muffled by the heavy snow and strong wind, which he now estimated at least twenty miles an hour. He stuffed it back in his pocket. His panic attack made him perspire . . . the worst thing that could happen in this kind of storm.

Steve moved to get under a small group of pines on a slight incline. Sitting on his pack, he reached for his thermos—but it was gone. Somehow in his quick movements through the snow it must have dislodged. His breathing rate increased, and he tried to settle himself down, knowing that now, he was his own worst enemy. Settle down now, he thought to himself. This parcel you are hunting in is no bigger than a half mile square. If you don’t walk in a circle, eventually you will walk out of it.

He had never been lost before. Well—maybe once. But he marveled at how Mother Nature could totally consume you with her fury, scrambling all of your senses into a total feeling of despair. Trying to calm himself, he thought about his father and his grandfather, and wondered if they had ever been in this situation before.

He would wait it out. The day that started out as a tradition of being with a loved brother, maybe shooting a nice ten-point, and enjoying the outdoors had turned into a whole lot less. His mind had made him panic, the cold had taken its toll on his good spirit, and now Steve just wanted to go home.

As he sat under the pines watching he snow continually piling up on itself, he saw a shadow starting to emerge through the storm. It was a man for sure, but the clothing he did not recognize. It looked like the abominable snowman making its way toward him. Covered in snow and moving slowly, the figure continued the trek up the slight slope. When the figure came within ten yards, the right hand rose and gave a wave in his direction. It was his brother.

Giving a yell, Steve waved back, gesturing his brother to come to his location.

Ron approached brushing the snow from his form. “Quite a day,” he said. “You okay? You look a little flushed.”

Steve let out a big breath. “Yeah, okay, I’m getting a bit cold, and somehow I lost my thermos.”

“Let’s see if we can find our way out of here. We’ll head back to the car, get warmed up, and see if the weather breaks for later.”

The two headed out. Steve knew that even in the toughest times, the big brother was there to save the day. Within just two hours, Steve had been lost, been panicked, and been found. He wondered if his brother might have suspected such, but there was no need to even consider it.

There was no deer shot that day, but it really didn’t matter. The end of the day brought safety, hot food, and brotherly love in abundance. That in itself was more than ample. 

Wow.....what a year uh?

 

What can you say about 2020? A year that has been un- matched in events,

turmoil, challenges, and the list goes on.  Let's hope next year will be a bit

brighter for everyone.  

I'll be starting some regular posts again here soon. Most of my engagements

at libraries, seniors groups etc. have been called off because of Covid 19

naturally....let's hope we get a break on that as well, and soon.

Meanwhile there are lots and lots of posts listed on the right side of my

blog here, and I invite you to go through them...think you'll find some

interesting stories. Stay well out there. SS

The Pumpkin Weeps.....

 

Do plants have feelings? Perhaps...consider it as you read thru this story...

it's number 17 from Tales Unleashed. 

 

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.

Lost at the Drive in........

 

1965.......a delightful night in June, and Jerry and his girl Cindy 

would be heading to the local drive in....but it was not to be.

As Sam Cook's 'You send me' played on the radio, the thrill

of it all was over whelming. It's story no. 25 in Tales 

Unleashed and is presented for you below. 

Lost at the Drive-In

It was 6:00 on a Friday night and Jerry was looking at the clear sky over the perfect farmland which butted up to his dad’s property. It was the ideal place to live . . . a hundred acres outside of a little town of less than twelve thousand people. Two minutes into town to the malt shop, the bowling alley, the tackle shop, and the best of all, the Starlighter Drive-In. Jerry remembered going to the drive-in as a kid, sitting in the back of his father’s Hudson while his mom and dad were in the front. His memory brought back the great smells of the drive in—the hot dogs and relish,  the popcorn, the hot fried dough.—but all that was years ago. Now it was June 1965, and a glorious night it was. 

Jerry got on the phone with his steady girl Cindy and they agreed he would pick her up at 8:30 . . . maybe stop for a quick vanilla cone then head to the Starlighter for the show. What was playing? Was it even important? Heck no, the Starlighter was the make-out spot for the whole high school it seemed. Jerry cleaned out his red ‘57 Chevy and made it look very inviting for Cindy, as this was the first time they were going to the drive-in alone. No double dating, no chaperones. Just the two of them, under the stars and watching the big picture show.

Jerry’s jaw dropped as he drove up to Cindy’s house and saw her bopping down the steps. She was gorgeous tonight . . . a white blouse and pink sweater, pleated skirt, bobby socks, and penny loafers.

Jerry thought that this girl could actually be the one . . . the one that they always tell you about as a kid, the one you have to never let get away under any circumstances. Jerry’s smile was wide as he opened the door and Cindy slid over the white leather car seat to be as close to him as she could.  As Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” played on the radio, Jerry put the Chevy in gear and they headed for their night out.   

It was 7:00 am and Jerry’s dad was up and getting his fishing gear together for the day. He had promised Jerry that the first Saturday he had off, they would head out to Brier Lake and try their luck for some rainbow trout. The locals said the rainbows were large and mighty plentiful there. As Jerry’s dad made the coffee, he looked out the window and noticed the ’57 Chevy was not in its usual spot. That’s odd. He knew that Jerry was taking Cindy to the drive-in, but that was last night. He chuckled to himself . . . could they have fallen asleep and not noticed the early daylight? He had heard of it happening before. Such an incident would surely be met with grave words from parents upon returning home.

As the hours passed, there was no sign of Jerry, Cindy, or the red ’57 Chevy. The local Sheriff and state police put out an all-points bulletin for the vehicle and its occupants. The day turned into three days, then to five, then to an agonizing seven days with no resolve. Jerry and Cindy were both level-headed kids, the kind not to run off or to make bad decisions, so it stumped everyone in the small town. Both popular kids in the same class, these two were the least likely to be in any sort of trouble. 

Time continued to pass. A year turned into five years, the sixth year stretched into the tenth, and then into year sixteen . . . but it wasn’t to be sweet sixteen. After failing health and no son returning, Jerry’s father passed away, a desolate and frail man.

It was in the 17^th year that a young man scuba diving in Brier Lake found himself in very dark, murky water and swam headlong into a vehicle entwined in seaweed and muck. He recognized the swept- back tail fin. The young diver knew in an instant that this indeed was the profile of a ’57 Chevy.

 Within two hours the local Sheriff and coroner stood on the bank of the boat launch and watched as a wrecker gently pulled the vehicle out of the water. As the vehicle emerged from its long-held place in the lake, the bright sun reflected off of the rusted bumper and trunk lid of the old car. It was indeed a red Chevrolet.

Jerry and Cindy had been found. What had happened that night would remain a mystery, though. Did they go to the show as planned? Did they make a detour and head elsewhere for more privacy? Did they become lost in the twilight, or worse yet, become victims of some insane person? All unanswered questions. 

As the tow truck operator pulled the vehicle up on to the flatbed, he lit a cigarette and started whistling a very melodious tune.

 “Say”, said the Sheriff. “I know that tune. What is it you’re whistling there?” 

 “Oh, it’s an old Sam Cooke favorite of mine. ‘You Send Me.’”

 The Sheriff nodded and said, “Yep, remember it well.” He got in his patrol car and headed home.