a section from the stolen canoe episode

The noise of the drunken cabal of teenagers grew as Gabe and his father silently made their way down the path, hid in the bushes, and  watched the wild action in front of them.  The four teenagers who had stolen the canoe were splashing the paddles in the river, yelling and hooping as they did so with no idea they were being watched.  They had foolishly thought they wouldn’t be followed.  

A crowd of teenagers were gathered around a fire, drinking beer, telling stories, and laughing uproariously.  An inner glow of envy broiled within Gabe as he watched kids who were not much older than he was.  Within a couple of years, I’ll be doing the same thing, he thought to himself, but today, he really wanted to get their canoe back in good shape.  

Bruce elbowed Gabe in the ribs, nodded and motioned for him to stay where he was.  He then stood up and walked into the fire light and loudly cleared his throat.  Most in the crowd of teenagers instantly dropped their bottles and ran in all directions.  The ones in the canoe, dove into the river and swam across to the other side, clamoring up the banks and running as fast as they could toward the county road.

Three tough guys didn’t panic, standing calmly while holding their beers in their hands.  The tallest one tossed a slug of the warm brew down his throat and then looked at Bruce.

Buoyed by the effects of several beers, the tall one said, “Huh, one guy!  Whatcha gonna do, old man.  There’s three of us.”

The other two laughed and tipped their bottles into their mouths and took swigs of beer.

“I don’t think I’ll have to do anything by the looks of you three.  You can barely stand up.”

One of the others snorted, “Let’s take him, Slack!”  

All of them tossed their empty bottles onto the ground and pounded their fists into their palms.  Bruce crossed his arms and sighed.

“If you’re going to do anything, start now, because I’m a little impatient and not willing to wait all night.”  He kept his arms crossed as he checked his watch.  “Besides, it’s past my bedtime.”  He waited for their response.

Their eyes danced from one to the other reflecting the indecision they felt.  Slack began to say something when they noticed a sheriff’s car with flashing red lights tearing down the dirt road leading to the spring.  Instantly, all three bolted and ran south along the river path and away from the spring.  

Gabe emerged from the bushes, wide-eyed.  He felt a surge of pride well up inside of him at the way his father had handled the situation.  He felt confident that his father could have taken all three, regardless of their state of inebriation because he was a well-built six footer who had been in the Navy.  Gabe had been ready to throw himself into the battle if it occurred just because he wanted the action and excitement.  In fact, he craved it and was disappointed when the sheriff’s car had shown up and scared all of them off.

While Gabe and his father spoke to the sheriff, John Klipper and Smiley Wilson were slowly cruising the county road with their eyes peeled for any drunken teenage boys running away.  Their headlights shown upon the railroad crossing and two figures straggling along the tracks.  

Two boys started waving their arms at them as their car approached.  Klipper pulled off the road onto the two-foot wide dirt shoulder.  The breaks screeched a little as they came to a stop and Wilson rolled down his window.  

“Hey mister, can we catch a ride back to town?  We had a little accident down at the river.”

“Sure thing boys, jump in the back, Klipper said.

The boys gratefully opened the back door and piled in.

“You look pretty wet.  What kind of accident did you have?”  Wilson asked.

“We tipped our canoe and just barely made it out of the river alive.  Alan conked his head on the gunnel and almost drowned.”

“My, my, you boys had a bad one, it sounds like.  Tell you what, we’ll pull into my place here and get you some towels, dry you off and let you call your parents to come pick you up.”

“Uh, that’s alright.  We’ll be okay if you could just take us back into town.”  The boys were shivering now.

“Nonsense, we’ll get you boys all warmed up first.”  Mr. Klipper slowed down to pull into his driveway.  The boys recognized the area at once.  With their hands on the door handles they looked at each other and nodded.  They exploded out the doors at once and took off heading east across the golf course.

“Well, I guess they didn’t want to experience our hospitality,” Smiley chuckled.

A rough draft section from, Brothers.

For the past four years, Gabe Hula had spent his summers in the area of the old fort he and his brothers had built as kids north of the golf course.  

It was the summer of 2008 and he was sixty-two years old with long gray hair that flowed past his shoulders.  His beard was long, thick, and bushy with mats of hair conveniently tucked under his chin.  His clothing was what one would expect for someone living in the woods, drab, dirty, only not torn or worn out.  His summers were spent living this way so he never got a chance to wear anything out totally.  

The winters had always bothered him so he grudgingly moved back to his little house in the southwest part of Austin to live as soon as the first, consistent whiff of arctic air blew in from the north. 

Three months before he began retreating to the old childhood haunts, Gabe had begun waking in the middle of the night.   Anxiety ridden, he would rise and prowl the perimeters of the house peeping out the windows, crouching low and then popping his head up, searching for the source of his nervousness.  Sleep would elude him for great multitudes of days, until exhausted, he would collapse onto the floor.  He lost track of time, other people, and himself.  He didn’t understand why this was happening to him now, but flashes of war had spilled back into his head and it frightened him to the point where he knew he had to seek help.  

An old war buddy made the first contact at the Veterans’ Administration for him.  Gabe went and was interviewed.  The things he said to the young woman who interviewed him terrified her, and when she threatened to have him thrown in the looney bin he walked out and quit going to the sessions.  

He had begun to feel like he was losing his mind, until…a fever swept him one day to the country, to the old places he and his brothers had explored as kids.  And here, he found a certain peace, away from people, away from terror.  The constant, gentle trickle of water flowing past the shelter he had built calmed him.  Although his hearing had deteriorated,  he was still able to notice the occasional, loud swearing from frustrated golfers on the nearby course, and the hooping of children when they had hit a particularly excellent golf shot.  Those sounds didn’t bother him, however; he had grown up knowing those sounds.  They were the sounds of home.  

Back from a trip to Oregon and California

Just returned from a wonderful trip to visit friends in Salem, Oregon, where we visited small towns, wineries, and went to a minor league baseball game in Salem.  We had terrific weather and a great time with good friends.  From there we rented a car and drove to Napa Valley where we stayed for three days in the wine country sampling delicious wines, eating out, and just relaxing.

A visit to San Francisco and Sunnyvale where Cindy's brother and wife live topped off our vacation.  We had a great lunch at the Cliff House on the Pacific Ocean.  What a treat that was.  The view of the ocean, waves crashing onto the rocks below, and surfers riding the breakers as they rolled toward the beach was outstanding.

We boarded a flight out of San Jose and flew back to Minneapolis Monday and drove home that evening, stopping only for a quick bite at Wendy's restaurant in Owatonna.

It was a restful, wonderful trip that allowed us to reconnect with friends and experience a beautiful drive through Oregon and northern California.

Now, it's back to work writing this week.  I don't know if I mentioned this in a previous post but I interviewed my older brother before we left on our trip about his Viet Nam War experiences.  We spent six and a half hours conversing and ended up with some great material to include in the new book-Brothers.

the neighborhood

He walked the railroad tracks until reaching the dirt road running along the western edge of the golf course.  While walking the road, he passed the open dump that anyone was free to visit, dump their refuse or  pick through the junk left by others.  He paused and scanned it methodically to see if there was anything he might want to scavenge.  Spying nothing, he turned and continued his walk home, paralleling the railroad tracks until the county road intersected them.  He then switched to the railroad tracks, finally reaching the Hula’s rambler two hundred yards further down and below the tracks.  

Jack, Kellan, Sydney and the Klipper kids were playing kick the can in the acre and a half yard filled with oak trees.  Screaming voices and laughter filtered up to where he stood, bringing a smile to Gabe’s face.  The others didn’t notice him as he sneaked his way down the embankment through the thick brush.  He timed his burst from the weeds, almost reaching top speed as he hit the yard and kicked the can towards the square-shaped concrete covering of the well.  The can hit the concrete, careening off and flying a couple of feet into the air and onto the other side of it. It continued to roll on the ground toward the Klipper’s house, losing its impetus until it came to a halt under John Klipper’s lawn chair.  

John Klipper was the no nonsense father of the three boys and four girls who made up the rest of the Klipper family.  He was raising the children alone after the death of their mother three years earlier.  

Mr. Klipper was smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper as he sat comfortably in his chair on the concrete patio.  When the can had finally come to a clattering stop under his chair, he put down his paper on the small table next to him and took another drag from his Marlboro.  The cigarette dangled from his mouth as he leaned over and picked up the can to examine it.  The children were all deathly silent as they stood and watched him turn his head one way and then the other while he stared at the can.  For God’s sakes, it was just a can they collectively thought.  What could he possibly be looking at and trying to figure out.  

After what seemed like an eternity, he ever so slowly placed the can on it’s side on the ground, stood up like a stretching lion and faced the kids.  Everyone of the kids stood horrified as they wondered what he was going to say or do to all of them.

John Klipper stood for another moment staring at them until a smile broke out across his face and he drew his left foot back and exploded it forward into the can, sending it over all of their heads back towards the railroad tracks.  

Totally shocked, the children didn’t move a muscle until Mr. Klipper, with the cigarette still dangling from the corner of his lips, said, “Well, what are you waiting for?  Go for it!”  He then sat back down, picked up his newspaper and resumed reading.  Shouts and screams erupted into the air as everyone rushed to the can. 

More about Gabe from "Brothers".

“I, I, thought you were somebody else,” Gabe said.  The bum stood silent, not saying anything for a while.  He noticed the man looked old-maybe thirty.  Even in the darkened interior of the fort he could see the bum’s skin looked dirty.  The pants were worn out at the knees and his jacket was almost in shreds.  As Gabe took a step backward, the bum followed with a step forward of his own.  He slammed the club into his hand smoothly, silkily.  There was no doubt in Gabe’s mind the man was threatening him.   

“This is my brothers’ and my fort,” Gabe stammered as he decided to stand his ground.  The man stopped slamming the club in his hand and stared at Gabe for a few seconds before he said anything.

Laying the club on the dirt floor and changing his attitude completely, the bum said, “Well, I didn’t know that.  If I had, I would never have disembarked from my train and utilized your ‘fort’ to cook my supper.  Please, if you will allow me, I will finish my dinner, clean up, and then be on my way.”  He looked expectantly at Gabe, searching for his permission.

“I, uh, think that would be okay,” Gabe finally, grudgingly muttered.  Feeling like he was now in control, he added, “If you want, you can stay here the night.  I think my mom said it was supposed to rain later on and it doesn’t look like you have anyplace to stay…later… I mean.”  

A smile broke across the bums unshaven face as he sat down on one of the many half logs the brothers had dragged into the fort.  “I appreciate that…”  Gabe remained standing as the two of them stared at each other.  “Would you like some beans?  It looks like they’re boiling now,” said the bum.

Gabe hesitated, thought of declining and leaving, but instead said, “Yeah…I’m kind of hungry.”  The bum grabbed a wooden plate, dished a couple of scoops of beans onto it, and handed the plate along with a spoon to Gabe.  Gabe accepted it and began eating as he sat upon another nearby half-log.  The bum began eating the rest of the beans out of the pot.  They regarded each other silently for a while as they downed spoonfuls of beans.

Finally, the bum said, “What’s your name?”

Between spoonfuls of beans, Gabe muttered his name, and then he paused and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Paul.”  The bum put an enormous spoonful into his mouth and resumed chewing.  More silence ensued, broken only by the animal sounds of masticating and swallowing.  As he finished and placed the empty pot on the ground near the fire pit, the bum looked around before saying, “You made a nice place here.  Anybody traveling across the country could have an easy time of it holing up for a while in your fort.  How long did it take you to finish it?”

“My brothers and I took a couple of days to get it mostly the way we wanted it, and then we gradually added some things…like the logs we’re sitting on.”

“Comfortable, better than the flatbed of a train.  I’ll say that,” said Paul.  He let his eyes travel around the interior, whistled, and slapped his hands on his thighs as he rose up from the log.  Quickly, Gabe moved back a little, startled by the crack of the man’s hands against his pants and the swiftness of the man as he got up.  “It’s ok, just getting up and stretching.  I’m not going to hurt you, Gabe.  People might call a person like me a bum, but, they don’t really know what I’m about.  Why I travel the way I do or why I…find myself in this kind of lifestyle.”

Gabe finished his plate of beans.  “Well, I, uh, should get going.  It’s okay if you stay here tonight, Paul, but my brothers and I were going to camp out here tomorrow night and I’d appreciate it if you were gone by then.”  The bum regarded him warily for a few moments with a slightly twisted turn to his lips.

“That’s fine, Gabe.  I’ll be gone in the morning-probably a train passing through then and I know where they slow down enough to jump on.  You don’t have to worry.  I’ll be gone.”  Gabe started to back out of the entrance, which was only ten feet behind him, but reconsidered and turned to walk straight out when he realized the bum might think he was afraid of him and feared an attack.  

“Gabe!”  Gabe quickly turned around to face the bum.  “Thanks for letting me stay here.  I appreciate it.”

Gabe smiled.  “No problem,” he said, and then he left.

He walked the railroad tracks until reaching the dirt road running along the western edge of the golf course.  While walking by, he passed the open dump anyone was free to visit, dump their refuse, or go through everyone else’s junk that had been dumped into the large, open pit.

Brother Gabe

Gabe cracked a smile and said, “Keep watching me and you’ll learn more, sonny.”  Jack shook his head and laughed a little, launching a wad of spittle across the narrow stream created by the spring.  A contest immediately began, to see who could spit the farthest.  Demonstrating that he wasn’t completely grown up, Gabe joined in, winning the contest by a couple of feet.

The boys resumed work on a fort they had begun several days before.  They had to put the finishing touches on the stick roof they had meticulously woven together with twine from home and smaller diameter vines they had hacked from the trees.  This was just one of many forts they had constructed over the past few years.  The grand castle of all their forts rested about a mile north of their house; a hundred yards to the east of the railroad tracks and a hundred yards north of the third hole of the golf course.  

A large, old elm tree had fallen over, creating a natural cave-like area beneath it.  There was enough room for an adult to stand up inside and branches covered the sides.  The brothers had filled in the sparsely covered sides of the natural fort with sticks they had gathered from the ground and branches they cut from saplings, completing the most beautiful structure they had ever had the fortune to discover, improve, and use. 

 In the center of the fort, they had dug a three foot diameter by six-inch deep hole and lined it with rocks found nearby, and built small fires, cooking cans of beans and roasting hotdogs they had pilfered from home.

On one of the days when Gabe had gone to the fort alone, he surprised a shabbily dressed man cooking a pot of beans over their fire pit, his pot was hanging from the sticks the brothers had dug into the ground and bent over the fire ring.  Growing up by the railroad tracks, the brothers always referred to such men as bums, because that’s what their mother and father had called them.  Driftless men crossing the country on the rails, stopping for a day here and there for a little respite from riding the trains.

Gabe had noticed smoke rising from the fort as soon as he had stepped from the railroad tracks.  He carefully made his way down the twenty foot embankment, taking care not to create any noise.  His first thought was that he was going to surprise one of the other neighborhood kids messing around within he and his brothers’ fort and make him pay a physical price for it.  Sneaking quietly, Gabe inched his way to the entrance and then burst inside.  He stopped quickly when he realized it wasn’t any kid he confronted, but a grown man holding a menacing looking club in his hands.

“Well, you want a piece of this club or not?” the bum asked in a leathery voice.

Writers conference

I attended the 11th annual Writers Festival and Book Fair on Saturday, March 22, 2014 in Bloomington, Minnesota.  It was a great experience that lead off with Nancy Carlson as the keynote speaker.  Nancy has been a very successful publisher of children's books and is well known across the  U.S.
I attended the following sessions:

The Creative Process
Every good story contains a mystery
Short and Sweet: Learning to write succinctly
How to work with Editors, agents, publishers, and booksellers.

In addition to the sessions, exhibitors were pitching books, publishing outlets, copy editing, etc.

Every one of the sessions I attended was professionally presented, entertaining, and filled with excellent tips.  The presenters were available for questioning afterwards and very willing to help answer any questions we had.

As a side note, I bought a book from two, older gentlemen who had taught at Robbinsdale, Minnesota.  They are twins who grew up in a tenement flat in Yorkville on Manhattan's ethnic Upper East Side in the 1940's, 50's, and 60's.  They later moved to Minnesota and taught grades K-University for a combined 64 years and earned doctorate degrees.
The title of the book, Yorkville Twins, caught my eye immediately because I am the father of identical twin sons, soon to be 38 years old.  While chatting with them, we compared notes of the trials and tribulations of twins and the often love/hate relationship that exists.  They're  a couple of great guys, and after I'm through reading their book I'll give it to my twins to read.

It was worth the cost of attending ($79) and very easy to find, just off 35W at the Bloomington Theatre and Art Center.