Week 12: I am an English Teacher. All English Teachers like, but I'm telling you the truth.

It's the usual sort of day in my morning English class: The student collective is sluggish, hunched over their books or nursing half warm cups of coffee in an attempt to maintain a state of wakefulness. In contrast our proff is her usual self, bright eyed and energetic, she's trying to get us to engage in a conversation. Usually we're pretty reluctant, or just not awake enough, to really be up to the task but today we're on the subject of Young Goodman Brown; a story that seems to have energised our usually dreary minds. The question that has been posed is thus: What do you think happened in the woods? Is it real or imagined? The conversation moves about the room and is actually starting to pick up as more of my classmates warm to the subjects: Good vs Evil, Reality vs Perception. Was it a dream? Some of them think so, others don't. I have something of a different opinion which I eagerly voice as I'm called on. "Well..I really don't see how it matters if it was real or a dream." there's a moment of silence and I feel the sudden surprising weight of eyes on me as I take a quick glance about the room. I thought it somewhat obvious...in a philosophical sort of way at least. If what Goodman Brown had seen, real or imagined had impacted his life in such an extreme way it matters very little of the demonic visions he saw in the woods were imaginary; they were real to him. The Prof seems almost to be in shock, but finds her voice. "Of course it matters! If it wasn't real then why did he distance himself from his wife and the members of his community?" I'm not sure if she's upset over my opinion or not so I simply smile and nod. I thought it was a pretty keen observation anyways.

Week 12: My Summer Vacation..

It's the last day of school, everyone is full of grins and anticipation of that sound, that final tole, that voice over the com that tells us to have a good summer. We will, of course, once we tear out of this place like a pack of crazed animals set loose from their cages. I'm so anxious I can almost taste it, smell it, the scent of fresh cut grass and my mother's barbecue are waiting for me a scant seven miles away...but when I'm in these walls they may as well be on the other side of the country. I'm watching the clock, counting down the seconds...then that sweet, sweet sound of that last bell echoes through the school... ***** "Seriously, you gonna do it or what?" I'm standing on the edge of a wooden and concrete slab, looking down into the maybe three feet of water rushing through the channel of the dam in Orrington. It's an insane idea, I know it is, but I've been bragging about it all the way here. I can feel Dan and Justin behind me, grinning more from anticipation than anything else, of the stunt I'm about to pull: a somersault plunge into the rushing, if rather shallow, waters bellow. I swing my arms scissor lick in front of my chest, stretching out my back and arms as I mentally prepair myself. "Yeah just gimme a sec, I gotta do this right..." And I knew that was the truth, for certain. I wasn't really afraid, getting hurt was an abstract notion in my mind at that point. What really mattered was executing the flip and landing in such a way that the surface area of my body will slow my descent thus avoiding some seriously nasty bumps, bruises, scraps or even breaks. "Uh huh..." I can hear the mirth and Dan's voice and something clicks inside me. The familiar rush hits my veins and I can smell the stink of adrenalin rises in my nostrils. I clench my teeth in a half crazed smile and glance over my shoulder at my two friends. "You only live once right?" And with a grunt of effort, I jumped into a somersault over the edge. ***** Over the picnic table my mom looks across her plate at me and arches an eye brow at me. I'm grinning like a cat that's caught the canary as I'm eating my potato salad. My hair's wet and I'm still in my swim trunks; Justin and Dan had stopped in for a quick bite then retreated just as quickly, sniggering all the while. "And what've you been up to today?" her tone is half sarcastic, half serious and I perk up and grin all the wider. "You seem pretty pleased with yourself." "Oh...nothing. We just went swimming at the dam." I know I'm pretty transparent at this point but I'd rather not tell my mother the nurse I flawlessly front flipped into three feet of water from twelve feet up in the air. If that stunt didn't kill my mom certainly would.

Week 12: A Risk At Writing

Dust was kicked up then slowly began to settle as the car came to a grinding stop. The middle of the woods, on a dirt road, secluded in the waning hours of the day seemed like a romantic place to stop. Or was it? A casual passer by, if there were such a thing this far into the woods, would hear the sound of raised voices coming from the car. An argument for certain but over what? The man's deep baritone would drone from the confines of the metal box on wheels then raise to a roar that proverbially shook the windows and was joined by another, more feminine voice. Soothing, placating, the argument dies for a few moments then the door to the car slams open, the metal creaks loudly in protest. "You don't get it." his voice is a growl of frustration and rage that bleeds into the surrounding stillness. With an angry jerk he steps out of the car, the touch of his boots to the ground brought a puff of dist and scrape of gravel. On the other side of the car the passenger side opens and she steps out and turns to look over the car. "You're right I don't. I don't know why you'd want to go out west for two weeks." Her voice is restrained with emotion. She watches as he walks to the edge of the dirt road and stares off into the woods. "I haven't seen my friends in two years." The growl has faded from his voice, replaced with a defeated, almost tired, tone. With shoulders slumped he turns to face her and leans against the car door. "Can't it wait?" her voice is pleading, a call for calm and reason. But somehow, she knows it won't be quite enough. He shakes his head and falls back into the driver's seat with a heavy sigh. "Fine. I won't go."

Week 12: Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll

The beer in my hand is only half full but it feels just a tad bit heavier than it should. The party's been going for a few hours now and I've got that warm, slightly sluggish and more than a little diluted feeling pumping through my veins. It's a relaxed state if you know how to maintain it but most just opt for the 'chug and go' approach to their drinking that often leaves one praying to the proverbial porcelain throne....but I digress. We're in full swing here and I'm doing pretty well by most standards. Kwi Ce grins at me and offers me another beer, which I refuse. "Nah I'm good...I'd actually like to walk back to my room tonight." Kwi Ce's grin widens and he settles back into his seat on the couch. "Your loss man." I had to agree on some level. The brand, which name escapes me now, was a rich IPA that was full of flavor, but I'd been to enough convention parties to know it's better to walk out on your feet than to have someone carry you. I sit up and scrub a hand across my slightly numbed features, when I open my eyes that's when I saw her and I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped a little. Long, wavy black hair that spilled over her shoulders to just above her lower back that gave a complimenting contrast to her pale skin. Brown eyes so dark they were nearly black and curves that couldn't possibly be hidden beneath the modest T shirt and jeans she worn. From the corner of my eye I saw Kwi Cee give me an amused look and he offered me the bottle again. "You're more drunk than I thought. Here, why not cushion the blow before you go and get yourself shot down?" I wave him off and flash him my best, lop sided smile. "Ease up KC, let me show you how it's done." with that I haul myself to my feet.

Week 11: Simple Words

"I did it...I made it!"

I spout the words as I step off the stage of my high school graduation, diploma in hand and a big grin plastered across my face. My mom smiled one of the biggest smiles I think I've seen in a long time and wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug.

"Yes, you did." there was a hint of bottled up emotion in her voice which only made me tear up with her and we simply held one another for a short second. I almost didn't, make it that is. Now here I was hugging my mom on perhaps one of the biggest achievements in my life so far.

And we were simply happy to be standing here.

Week 11: Tools

My dad's always been the craftsman type. One of my earliest memories of my father is of him climbing up a ladder to the roof of our old trailer, tool belt slung low accost his hips, and screws jingling down the aluminum structure with each step. I can also remember him yelling at me to get back, afraid I'd lose an eye or hurt myself in some other indirect way of his actions, but that was his way: gruff and masculine in a way only a Maine carpenter could be.

I also remember going through his tools as a kid, more out of curiosity than anything else. Each had it's place in either his tool belt or box they were all battered and well used, a sign of the trade, but they all had their places. I actually got in trouble a few times for putting things where they didn't belong, especially that three eighths wrench.

This was, of course, before my folks split up.

Now that we're older we've done several projects together, the tools still have the same worn and battered look they've always had and he's acquired more than a few since my early years. Though as we move through the basement of his house to work on a cover to an aquarium I've noticed there's less order, fewer tool boxes. The shelves are lined with haphazardly placed instruments of construction and their various accoutrements. Some of them aren't even in the house he's told me, but scattered about several work sites he's currently attending.

I just shake my head in wonder and feel lucky that we've found a suitable chop saw for the job.

Week 11: The me and the not-me are the same person, he said to one of himself

The first thing that got my attention was the low growl eminating from Maggie's throat. The fact that she was growling wasn't particularlly new, she's always tried her best to 'protect' the rest of us from the danger of passing cars and exceedingly suspicious people out on bicicles, it was the pitch that caught my ear. Low, throaty, the deep base of the sound made the hairs on the back of my neck match the short, copper, colored fur that spiked up between her shoulder blades. Pushing away from my computer desk I went to the window and drew back the curtain to look outside.

A man was out in the half circle drive, nondescript, in a black T and jeans. He'd be just your every day Joe with the cig half hanging from his lip as he peered into the window of my car. Beside me I Maggie's lips draw back wetly to show a hint of canine as I slide from the window to open the door. There's a heat in my chest as I step out onto the weather bleached porch and I can feel it building. Maggie's right by my side, the muscles in her powerful shoulders rippling with a contained hint of iminant action.

"Can I help you friend?" I stress the last word and eye the tresspasser from my elivated vantage. Again the dog at my side rumbles a threatening growl and the man looks up from the inspection of my car. He offers a friendly smile but I'm not convinced.

"Nah, just passing through. You got a phone I could use? I could actually use one to call a friend to have them pick me up." I shake my head and Maggie takes a first step down the stairs, her back looks like it's been set into a mohawk at this point.

"Sorry, we use cells here and I don't think I want to let you use mine." the tresspasser glances down at the bristling dog then back to me with a small shrug.

"Fair enough." and with a shrug he walked away from the house.

Week 11: Ol' Uncle Henry's...

Antique large round top chest. Excellent condition for it's age. Some damage. Solid peice...makes excellent storage for quilts, gear, xmas items.... Questions, call Pam.

And it is a solid piece, it's true, though the colored panels bear the nicks and scratches of, perhaps, over a hundred years of use. How many generations of family has it served? Quietly keeping it's silent vigil over the items stored away within its depths and bearing the brunt of an casually uncaring world's battery. Each ding, scrape and scuff marks the passage of another year loyally guarding it's appointed charges from said abuse.

And yet it hasn't found its proper home, having been passed from one home to the next; perhaps even being inherited by one family or another. Still, it sits quietly waiting for the next person to come with their special items and to keep them safe.

Week 10: Tug of War

I've come to a disturbing realization: I truly dislike people.

Now don't get me wrong, I have my friends and my family that I hold dear but people in general? From what I've seen in the tabloids and TV....it makes me sick on some philosophical level. From Snooky to the Jerry Springer show our race seems so captivated by a carnival of outragiousness and depravity that sometimes I wonder if we really, truly, are worth the effort.

But then I encounter people of genuine integrity. The sort of person that would sell the shirt off their back to help a stranger get fare for a cab ride home or a hot meal to eat. These people are few and far between but maybe, just maybe, could be a source of our collective redemption.

I hesitate to use the word 'redemption' due to its religious inferences, which is in and of itself another whole can of worms. I chuckle about it now but my friends and I would have long winded debates that would last long into the night about the perceived worth of religion. They would point out all the good deeds, the money and work contributed by people of faith. I would then counter that more blood has been spilled to 'God wills it!' than anything else in human history.

Not that I don't have any religious inclinations myself, I just believe everything should be placed into perspective.

Week 10:None of the People Fallen on that Field of Battle Were as Real as I am.

It's Christmas eve and we're working over time to get the store ready.

It's also the time for our seasonal cuts to happen, right about the time when you'll need that minimum wage job to get through the holidays.

There's a nervousness in the air, all the employees know it. I'm not overly worried though...I've worked hard and been on time, hell I've even done the Wal Mart cheer in the morning with my cup of coffee in hand, trying to be a team player.

Besides, it's Christmas eve and we're trying to get the store ready.

As I'm stacking up boxes for display names are being called and, one by one, people are going out back to receive their pink slip. But I'm not worried, I've been a good worker and I've always done the heavy lifting that most of the people here can't or wont do.

Besides...it's Christmas eve you'd think they wouldn't want to put too many of us out on the proverbial street.

The last box set and straightened I lean back and try to rub a knot out of my shoulder, it's been hard work these past few days. Then my name is called over the intercom and I look over at Charity, who seems to be just as shocked as I. So I make the long walk back to the crew area, and the over night manager walks by me, his head down and eyes averted. I know he doesn't agree with what's about to happen.

But it's Christmas eve and they have to make their profits.

Week 10: Nature red in tooth and claw. The Law of the Jungle. Survival of the Fittest.

I'm running. I've been running for what seems hours, though I'm pretty sure it's only been about five minutes. The sound of children playing is drowned out by the high pitched screaming of the mob that's been chasing after me, its grade school but you'd think this had come out of something from Battle Royal.

I knew they were planning to pick on me again today, I could see it in the leer on their grubby little faces and the whispers they passed along behind their up raised hands. It wasn't a new thing really, I've been picked on before, but this time seemed different...it was like the entire boys section of the class was in on it this time. Turns out I was pretty much right.

So I kept running, my snow pants and rubber boots squeaking and rustle with each continually labored step. They were gaining on me fast and I had just hit the open stretch of playground...flat land that went on forever to my intended destination, the monkey bars. At least there I could climb up and kick at them till a teacher came over to pull my bacon out of the fire.

Not this time though. They caught me. They grabbed me. They surrounded me with leering faces and raised fists, propped for the inevitable playground trouncing I was about to get. But I have something they didn't expect, I saw their faces and did a bit of planning of my own. Just as the first punch was set to fly I swung my gloved hand up, the sunlight glinting off the points of four tacks I'd embedded in the knuckles of my glove. There was a pregnant pause before the leader of the group cried out and they all scattered like leaves in a strong breeze.

Arms race of the play ground I guess. Not that I'd intended to use the impromptu spiked gauntlet...the tape that held the push tacks in place wouldn't have held very long but they didn't know that.

Week 10: The Pin Pricks Your Skin. You Feel Nothing.

I'm a hard man to get to know, that's what a lot of the people I've been acquainted with or called friends have said to me at least one time or another. Mostly its because I'm a fiercely private person. I guard my personal life, my secrets, with a sort of iron fisted determination it borders on an obsession. I could blame it on my mother's side of the family, they are the greatest secret keepers I know of, but really...how much can you play the nature vs nurture debate in who and what you are? I'm the quiet sort, I'd rather listen than talk, and generally keep to myself. I think a girl in high school once called me "Dark and dreary Dray" which is kind of fitting. Not that I don't have my reasons to be this way, I've been burned before in the past by people using my history against me, so I simply don't talk about it. Don't let anyone know about it that I don't deem 'safe' or 'trustworthy'. But this practice in and of itself has it's draw backs.

For instance this obsession with keeping myself safe by keeping everyone at arms length has been the down fall in more than a few of my relationships, romantic or otherwise. I think people have an innate need to know about things they don't have knowledge of and I strive ever so hard to be a mystery to the world around me. I think a friend of mine once said I was crazy for doing that, that I'd push my current girl friend away due to not sharing enough of myself with her. I just shrugged it off and kept going about my business as I normally would but, in the end, it turned out he was right. It baffles me really, if someone doesn't offer information up I don't press hard about it, why should they do the same with me? But I know people don't, can't, work that way; at least on an intellectual level. But here I am, still hording my 'secrets' and keeping everyone at arms length.

It wasn't until my last relationship ended, with my meager belongings packed neatly and carefully in a box next to the bed I'd slept in for three years and a tear streaked face telling me I had to go, that I gave serious reconsideration to coming out of hiding. I had to show my real face to the world and try to understand that even if I do get hurt again not everyone is going to try to burn me like that single event that triggered this self imposed exile from humanity.

It's just a shame I couldn't have realized it sooner.

Week 9: The best part of this story is the part I can't tell....

I'm seated in a blue arm chair at the Union, the warmth of a new cup of hot chocolate blazing away between my hands. Idly I blow on the contents as my friend Rick squints at me from across the small coffee table. He's a stocky kind of fellow with short cropped hair forming a prominent 'V' in the center of his forehead. I smile at him as I spin the cup slowly in my hands.

"So, how did you manage to do that? Seriously that was something else."

"It's simple really...but if I told you I'd ruin the secret."

Rick glowers at me good naturedly but holds his questions as I take another sip of my drink.

************

"Word through the grape vine says you got away with murder the other night." This is my friend Kevin, jabbing at me while we work. Hot fry grease vaporizes and rises slowly into the air as I drop another fry basket into the vat. I look up from my work and quirk a brow at him coyly.

"Maybe I did. What do you think?" my cryptic response gets me one of those goofy, shit-eating-grins Kevin is well known for when he thinks he's on to something. I can't help but smile a little myself in return.

"I dunno man...everyones been talking about it, I'm just trying to figure out if you actually did anything."

"Well I guess you're going to have to wait and see, eh?"

************

"No, seriously, how did you do it?" I look up from my book and glance of at John. I'm in the Union again, killing time before having to go to work. You'd think I'd spend less time in college if I actually was going. I simply smile up at John and set my book down in my lap.

"So you guys figured out it was me then?" John nods and flashes me one of those lop sided smiles of his.

"Yeah, we just can't figure out how."

"Well you know what? It's amazing what you can get done by simply asking the right questions." And of course this brought about the perplexed look on John's face I was looking for.

"What'd you ask him?"

"Ah...now if I told you that I'd be giving away trade secrets..."

Week 9: Linked Vignettes

I'm standing in in a fairly long line at the Phoenix Airport. It's hot and the noon day sun is slamming down on my shoulders like a hammer; my friend Julie had tried to warn me about the difference in temperature, to dress in lighter clothing but here I am roasting to death in my black Niki hat, t-shirt and jeans. Though I take some comfort in seeing some of my fellow travelers, other members of my charity organization I assumed. Glancing out into the flat expanse of the desert I began to zone out a little, caught up in my own thoughts when a voice from the front of the line.

"Hey! Hey you! You with the hat!" I of course look around with the others in line, myself being the only guy happening to wearing a hat. Finally the proverbial light bulb pops up over my head and I point to myself and look at the man calling from the front.

"Who, me?"

"Yeah you! That shirt your wearing...what does it say?"

I glance down at my shirt, the Areo Postal logo blazoned across my chest in a tan tribal style "It's Areo Postal...it's a clothing company."

"Oh.." was my only reply as the shuttle pulled up and we all began to board.

***********

Now I'm at the hotel, standing in line to be registered for the charity event. I've been on my feet for almost four hours now between the airport and waiting to get my room booked then waiting in line, but at least there is the blessed miracle of air conditioning. With a sigh I start to flip through my paper work one last time but am interrupted by a quick poke at my shoulder. With a grunt I turn around to see who it was and found myself looking at the man who called to me about my shirt at the airport.

Now that I have a better look at him he seems nervous, his slicked hair and fashionable glasses he was actually dressed for this weather in a dark blue polo and white cargo shorts. He grinned at me and offered his hand.

"Hi! I'm Scotty, I didn't mean to freak you out back there at the airport."

I took his hand and shook my head a little, I didn't want to have the poor guy feel embarrassed just because he liked my shirt.

"Nah, no worries man. I was just surprised is all."

"Oh! Well that's good.." the guy, Scotty fidgets a moment then continues in a rush "Well I thought you were kinda sexycuteandareyougay?"

I blink.

"Um...no. No, sorry dude.." I was a little taken aback, not that I mind being asked the question or anything, it was just the first time anyone had asked me in a serious sort of way.

"Not even a little?"

Again I blink and shake my head "Nope, totally straight." To which Scotty smiles and shook his head.

"Damn shame that." And off he wandered, leaving me a little perplexed.

*************

For the rest of the charity event Scotty and I ran into each other a few more times, it's kind of hard not too while staying at the same hotel. It wasn't horrible or anything, mostly we'd just laugh about it or wave to one another in that sort of mutely awkward event sort of way. Later on I was chatting with a group of friends near the pool area and Scotty trotted by with what had become his usual greeting:

"Still sexy!"

With a slightly embarrassed smile I gave him a faint wave then turned to regale my friends with the interesting, if slightly awkward tale, of Scotty.

Week 9: I Came, I Saw, I Conquered....

"You ready for this?"

Q's impish grin is etched deeply around his eyes as I fasten the last few straps on my chest armor. I'm nervous as hell but I give him my best grin.

"Sure am! Order of prestige right? That means..." I trail off and look over my shoulder at an imposing looking fighter who's busy fastening his vambraces. Q's grin widens and he bobs his shaved head, the metal of his roman style armor creaks with the motion.

"That's right kid! You get the King first."

"Oh. Great."

***********

"You've got some good defense, but you're not really throwing any shots."

Sun glints off Vey's helm as I climb back to my feet. I'm gulping mouth fulls of air in an attempt to catch my breath but he's barely broken a sweat. Guy's in his forties and putting me to shame...great.

"Yeah...I'm thinking too much." The back of my leg is burning like a mother; I gotta watch those leg shots. Vey nods a little and shoulders his weapon, a piece of ritan wrapped in tape and with an iron caged hand guard.

"Try to find a balance. I remember when you first started your aggression was your best asset. Now you just have to use that and keep in form."

"More aggression huh? Yeah, I can do that." I flash him a wide grin and settle down into a ready stance.

***********

"Yes!"

Cedric's roar of approval rang out from the side lines as I slipped a leg shot past Vey's guard then followed up with a kill shot, the solid ritan blade rang off his helm like the toll of a small church bell. Panting I stepped back and offered Vey a nod as he stood up with a grin.

"That was much better." the larger man rolled his shoulders then rested his shield against his hip. I nodded a little and blew a breath out between my lips. I was getting better, breathing had become easier and I was just stronger in general. I turn a little as Ced nudges my shoulder.

"That was a big improvement." he nods once then goes over to talk with Bill. I can't help but grin at his words, if both he and Vey say I'm doing better...that means I'm on the right track. I shoulder my own weapon and look back at Vey.

"Ready for another?"

Week 9: A Random List About Me

1. I'm an avid reader. Just check my book shelf!
2. Sometimes my memory isn't the great, not because I'm forgetful, but because I have so much going on in my head!
3. I don't really put special meaning behind holidays, it's more about family to me.
4. I love broccoli but hate Lima beans.
5. I know the difference between a wakizashi and a kitana.
6. One of my favorite books is The Giver. It's now on the contested book list.
7. I'm a middle child of three.
8. Math is certainly not my strong suit.
9. I like to run, I like to bike more.
10. I don't have much time for running and/or biking.
11. I like video games. I suppose that means I never really grew up :D
12. My favorite colors are earth tones.
13. When I get to a door another person is going through I try to open it for them.
14. I have friends all over the US and some over seas.
15. I like to travel.
16. I find thunder storms to be one of the most relaxing things on the planet.
17. I love sushi.
18. My dad's a carpenter and I wish I was half as handy with a hammer as he is.
19. I fancy myself a writer and some people would agree.
20. Nights spent by a fire side with friends are some of the best nights ever.
21. When I was 12 I owned a white and red bike called a 'fire star'. I road it around until the barrings in the peddles gave out.
22. Sometimes I wish I had super powers.
23. I'm a summer baby, thus I like to be warm and hate the cold.
24. My favorite place in the united states is Phoenix, Arizona.
25. I have a weird habit of eating faster when I'm with people I don't know.

Week 8: Oh Sh-- Son!

Know that sound of breaking glass? Know how everyone in the room/area freezes and goes silent when they hear it? Its like the human race as a whole has some sort of manufactured instinct instilled in them from childhood and seems to be pretty universal. Like now for instance, when I threw the snow ball intending to strike the side of my house but instead got the window.

There's that stillness, beyond the winter calm, that seems to permeate everything. I'm frozen in place watching the shards of glass slide from the frame in a sort of tortured slow motion. Even the cars on our normally busy road seemed to have stopped driving buy. For a moment I think to myself it's like one of those movies I've seen where the action sequence slows down to almost nothing and you hear someone yelling in the background in uber slow motion monotone 'Noooooo....!!!'

With a jolt reality seems to reassert itself and time resumes, I can hear the glass shattering against the window sill and my dog Maggie starting to bark. That's when the real panic sets in, my mom's going to kill me!

My ascertain is only confirmed when I hear my first, middle, and last name bellowed from behind the broken window.

Week 8: "We are gathered here today to remember....."

My grandmother was a very soft spoken women, the very a typical matriarch of the family. The kind of woman who could make iron freeze brittle with her disapproving stare and snap under the weight of it, yet she was always kind to my brother and I. She never raised a hand or her voice, she didn't really have too with that quiet air of authority she possessed. Though I do remember one time she did raise her voice quite clearly; it was one of the last foot ball games of my high school career against MDI. I'd gotten into slug fest with the linemen across the pitch from me and got sucker punch under the grill the result of which was a broken nose and my upper lip being torn from my skull. When I got back up looking all a bloody mess I heard her then, beating people with her purse and swearing like a sailor that just came to port. I don't think I'll ever forget that.

Now I'm seated on an oak pew stained almost black, the collar of this new shirt rubbing my neck raw as the priest standing at his pulpit delivering the eulogy. I know my eyes are red rimmed and swollen but I haven't cried, I don't want too. Not next to the stone visage of my mother as she gazes on at the closed casket draped in flowers. I'm straining something on the inside with the effort but I've managed, I'm 'the man of the house' and have to keep up that strong face. Around my mother, brother, and I our relatives are arranged; some stifling their grief into handkerchiefs or the shoulders of the people next to them, others simply listen, their faces carefully impassive as if afraid to let that Longely stoicism crack for even a moment,even under these circumstances.

It had been a heart attack. One so fast, so devastating that my grandfather Earl had left for the store and come back ten minutes later, she'd died in her sleep. Earl's seated up front, his old face so lined with suppressed emotion his flesh almost looks like it's made from sun beaten oak. I passed him in the bathroom at the wake, I've never seen him so...small before; like someone had come along and deflated his shoulders with one quick poke of a blade. I found my Aunt at one point behind the church staring off into the distant sky line of Bangor, near oblivious to anything else around her. It's like we were all falling apart in our own little ways.

As the sermon came to a close, as those gathered rose one last time to file by the casket, I steel myself, take a deep breath and follow suit; the line of mourners stretches back to touch the polished set of double doors near the end of the room. I couldn't help but catch the glint of colored light streaming through stained glass windows reflecting in tears. I remember in that moment as I slowly walked my way down the isle the most absurd thought struck me: Who will make my peanut butter and fluff sandwiches the way I like them now?

And that's when I began to cry.

Week 8: The Things I See While Walking Down the Street, That's Heaven to Me..

When someone says 'Down Town Bangor' the first few things that come to mind, at least my mind, is the Bangor Opera House, Bars, and the gone and sorely missed Grasshopper Shop. What I don't normally associate with the Down Town area is Christmas spirit or that holiday feeling you get while in the mall, right before the big shopping rush starts...but that's what I'm getting right now as I step out of the Opera House entry way onto the street.

I've been working on building a set for one of the shows here, the Christmas Carol oddly enough, and we'd just called break. Now I'm standing outside watching the first white flakes drift down from the dark gray skies in one of the years few, true snow storms. I admit, I'm not a weather man by no means but I'm pretty sure you can just tell by the sheer size of the precipitation in question if it's a big one or not and these flakes are huge! I can't help but smile as I hike up the collier of my jacket against the cold and start walking down the street towards the cafe.

It's hard to describe, at least I think so. It's that's slightly heavy, slightly charge feeling the air gets during this time of year. It's a combination of lights and sound that intermingle in a muted display of positive feeling. You see it in the each wreath that hangs precariously from it's integrated position on a lamp post and the small, slow wink of Christmas lights catch the falling snow and shift with your position on the street. I walk past a small department store, one of those that is full of odds and ends and knickknacks that can catch your eye and might even have some use to them. Inside the large display window it's full of silver tinsel and garland, white lights sparkle off a live tree fitted with gold ornaments. It's warm and inviting. I might even go so far as to say breath taking.

Its the little things like this, the snow, the light and decoration, the over all spirit of winter that really makes me smile. I'm a summer guy myself but sometimes, just sometimes before the craze of commercialism drives everyone mad, it's nights like this that are really a small piece of calm that I can associate with heaven.

Week 8: Down In the Boondocks....

The sound of softly crunching pine needles acompanies my foot steps as I make my way along the damp forest path. It's a small back woods trail; one that runs just beyound the treeline that gaurds our back lawn and the moss covered swamp that lays beyound. My jeans are already stained and my once light blue shirt had a dark ring around the mid section, a result of haveing scalled a tree or two in an attempt to see just how wide my objective is; that objective being the large body of standing water dead center of the swamp I'd entilted 'Tiger Lake.' It sat shrouded by a toumble of half rotted trees and encrouching moss that fought against the acidity of the pine bed left by the furs and pine that make up the majority of the wood in this area.

I duck around a withered tree and lay eyes on the black depths of Tiger Lake, it's surface only disturbed by the buzzing of impossibly numerous inscts, the segmented legs of water skimmers, mosquitoes, and other assorted larva hum on or just above the water. With slow, almost hesitant steps I aporache and begin what I like to call the 'psych up'. It's a little process where I intentionally try to get my adrenaline pounding, like playing a kick ass song in my head over and over or genearlly try to generate at 'fight' response to get my nerve up.

After all a bunch of people said there were a tong of leeches in that water.

None of my friends that had come out to visit this spot had dared to swim in the Lake, let along put their feet into the water. Now, I was about to show them that there was nothing to worry about, that the whole thing with leeches and other creepy crawlies wasn't a big deal. Still, I thought as I started to walk into the water with my shoes and sneakers still on, best to keep covered up just in case there are a few nasties in there that might bite....