No Trespassing

Last time I checked, I noticed that I live in a beach community, one that is supposed to cater to tourists. People come here on vacation, right? That explains why we have miles of beaches, tons of hotels and resorts and every kind of eating establishment imagined by man.  The South Carolina Grand Strand is supposed to be a tourist attraction, a vacation of fun in the sun, sightseeing, golf, putt-putt, dining and dancing. That’s why people flock here. Don’t move here if you expect a laid back peaceful utopia, one void of bumper to bumper traffic coming and going. This is a place where highway 501 can become a seasonal parking lot, and a destination where you must be prepared to get in line to do most anything. If you’re thinking otherwise, you obviously did live under that proverbial rock.

I live and work here. I’m not bothered by those who come here. I understand. I used to be one. I moved here knowing my small town lifestyle would be forever changed. Traffic, sure it would be the worst I had every experienced on a daily basis. You learn to plan and pick your battles if you’re a resident, realizing which roadways to seasonally avoid, quickly finding those mom and pop restaurants the tourists haven’t discovered or picking your time wisely to visit those that you fancy, to beat the crowd. I didn’t move here to lead the crusade to implement an extreme makeover. I don’t complaint saying how this or that is much worse from where I once lived. What’s the point?

Let’s recap a bit of history. There are those here who wanted the bikers banished from the land. The couple of weeks they are here each year just simply ruined their lifestyle, too much noise, too much fun, too much scantly clothed females and boisterous leather clad hoodlums. So what did the leaders of the community do? They weaseled in all sorts of laws to control noise, make them where helmets, restrict vendor permits, and all sorts of other nonsense. No, I’m not a biker. The only bike I have is one that is dependent on how hard I peddle it; one speed, whatever I manage.

The premise of the less tolerant, get rid of the Harley Davidson crowd and those Atlantic Beach black bikers. Life would again be perfect for those already living in their very own little perfect existence. It worked. Many bikers bit back, deciding not to spend their hard earned tourist dollars within the city limits of Myrtle Beach. Let’s get this straight, in a state that allows riders the option of wearing helmets, the Gestapo attempted to force feed riders to wear helmets in their slice of heaven. The newly adopted unlawful like law was eventually overruled by the higher courts but the bikers didn’t forgive or forget. They had the last laugh, avoiding Myrtle Beach like the plague, enjoying Surfside, Garden City, and Murrell’s Inlet, all of the others with welcome mats posted. 

Golfers, while not directly targeting them, they have begun another quest to rid the city of the many Gentlemen’s Clubs. Golfers come here to golf and many have package deals. No, the strip joints are not typically part of any package deals but many golfers support them, their night time mulligan so to speak. Ordnances have been written and passed to banish all adult entertainment from the city limits of Myrtle Beach. Most have been here forever, just like the golf courses. Think about the direct link to tourism and these visitors funneling money back into the community. Seriously, think beyond the pole dances for a second. Who else depends on the success of the girlie bars; alcohol distributors, food services, specialty clothing stores, cab companies and just think how many people are employed. Beyond the female entertainers you have bartenders, waitresses, cooks, bouncers, DJ’s, parking attendants, folks in the insurance business, etc. Think about tax revenue. Some golfers will stay screw coming here and will go to other places to play golf and have their nightly fun. Then the course, hotels and restaurants are impacted. No, I’m not carrying the torch for strip joints; I’m getting to my eventual point.

Now the all powerful Oz is proposing an ordinance to band beach tents of all things. Again, before I even get there; for the record, I don’t own or ever have owned a beach tent or beach umbrella. It just seems to me to be just another slam on those who support our area, the tourist. While going to the beach and enjoying the sea and sun is fun, it does come with health issues, being exposed for prolonged times.  The tents bring welcome relief from the heat and burning rays; especially for the tiny tots and elderly or those with the fairest skin in the land. Never bite the hand that feeds you. This seems to be the theme of local city council. They say the tents block the lifeguards. I can see that point but why not restrict where they can be erected, prohibit obstruction, not banishment. Could it be that if all these tents were gone that people would be more apt to rent beach umbrellas? Might we have profiteers among us? Seriously, have you ever tried to fit a family of four or more under an umbrella? Tents, really…

How do I end this sort of rant? Why not let’s just see if we can deter all tourists from coming to the grand strand? Get rid of the bikers, the golfers, those pesky families with the tents, and let’s not leave out the spring breakers, those wild kids just looking for trouble. What about the snowbirds; should we let them cross our northern borders? They must be mentally challenged or deranged, flopping their polar bear butts into the wintry frigid Atlantic. Maybe Myrtle Beach should scrutinize everyone and grant just so many visas per season. Wait, they just haven’t implemented the visa part yet. It’s a tourist town, FOLKS!!! Maybe we should ban those noisy air planes while we’re at it. Why do we really need an airport?

I’m sorry. I just don’t get it. This is a food and hospitality industry here. Folks depend on the tourists to make a living. No, I don’t work in either. Why not just chase them away and see how that works. I’ve lived and worked here for nine years and bikers, golfers, strippers, spring breakers or the zillion beach goers have never negatively impacted my life style. Sure, I pick and choose my times to go here and there but it’s a mere ripple in the ocean of my blessed world. My advice, if having all these people around you really disturbs you and distorts your vision of living at a nationally known beach escape, then perhaps you should move to a world with no ocean, no attractions, hotels or motels or maybe just back underneath that rock. Just possibly we should be contemplating how we can banish the Beach Gestapo before we all become extinct. Most of us are already endangered but in our case, not protected. I’m shocked they haven’t gotten rid of tourism to protect the loggerhead sea turtles. Don’t get your panties in a wad; that was just my twisted sarcasm. I have nothing against sea turtles. Several of my best friends are on the beach turtle patrol. I’ve even written a kid’s book about them, Digging Sea Turtles (not yet published).

Nip it in the bud, quit beating around the bush. Why not just erect signs at all entranceways to Myrtle Beach, Tourist, Keep Out. We Don’t Want Your Kind Here.  Yes, this means you!  

I feel so much better having gotten that off my chest but don’t spread that around. I might be asked to leave for not being pissed off at all these visitors to paradise. Failing to comply is sort of like insubordination isn’t it? Add traitors to the list of those not wanted. Makes me want to go out and buy a Harley, pitch a tent and stuff a few one dollar bills. Care to join me?

 

 

  If Papa Would Have Played Golf 

Papa, born in 1900, passed away at the ripe old age of ninety. That seems like yesterday to me, his only grandson. Never a golfer, his pastimes were hunting and fishing. During my childhood he always took me both. I have tried to visualize what a round of golf would have been like if I had talked Papa into joining me. The corners of my mouth immediately go north just thinking about it.

            First of all, I’d certainly have to pay because he’d never fork over the price of admission if a day of fishing wasn’t included. Next I’d have to find a course without those dress code restrictions.  He’d most certainly be wearing his Camel brand denim overalls. Picture this, a two hundred forty pound barrel-chested, bald and toothless southern grand old man joining me wearing par 4 knickers aka Payne Stewart style for an afternoon of playing the gentleman’s game. Now wouldn’t we have been a sight in the fairway, or the way I hit the ball, in the woods, which would suit Papa just fine.

            Standing on the first tee box looking over the lush green fairway, I can hear his first comments, “Hun, that there would sure make a good garden spot.” He always had these huge vegetable gardens and would figure fairways were just a waste of good farm land. “Might raise a goat or two out there.”

            I’d probably tee up the ball for him and hand him my driver. He’d be wearing a pair of those cotton work gloves on both hands. He’d hand me back my club, reach down and pick up the ball, then pull out that hand crafted sling shot from his overalls, his weapon of choice when hunting rabbits,. He’d load up the ball and fire that puppy. The ball would land out there in the middle of the fairway about a hundred fifty yards off the tee. “Maybe you should get back in the cart and just ride, Papa, and enjoy the scenery.”

            Squirrels scurry left and right, across the fairways and I notice that scary little twinkle in his eyes. I place my hand on his hand still clutching the sling shot giving him the look of disapproval.  On this particular course, huge fox squirrels hop right up to your cart, standing on their hind legs as they look for a quick handout. I can hear him now. “Lookey yonder, Hun, at the meat on them bones. These critters are a lot bigger than the little gray ones I usually nail back home. Heck, I could snatch him up and put him in the game basket behind the seat of this little car we’re riding in.”

            I again reinforce that the golf course would not appreciate it if we began slaughtering the local wild life. He tosses them one of his goobers. That’s boiled peanuts for you that don’t understand the goober term. I notice he still has that stew pot gaze so I speed off to our next shot.

            Papa stays easily entertained as we continue on our little trek through the wild kingdom. On number five, three turkey cross the fairway, all gobblers, and I have now taken possession of the sling shot for good and am warning him not to throw any golf balls. Doves flutter by and he encourages me to try to nail them with my seven wood. “How much do they charge you if you just want to hunt here?”

            I see the course ranger approaching. I convince Papa that he’s a game warden and tell him that we’re on game management land. He tips his hat as Mister Ranger rides past us. He behaves for a while, but I not ready to drop my guard just yet.

            I boomer-rang a hook into the pines to the left of the fairway and we ride over to search for my ball. I avoid saying let’s go hunt for my ball and get him started again. The pines are thin so I find it fairly quickly, turn and see Papa with my driver in his hands. Only bad thoughts come to mind. He’s staring up a small oak, club cocked like a deranged base ball player in a denim uniform. He’s motioning me to join him; not good.

            “Walk around to the other side.” He’s now applying his patented treeing technique on a fox squirrel perched head high on the opposite side of the oak tree. Respecting my elder, I tactfully remove the club from his grasp, lead him back to the cart and ask him again not to try to kill anything, please.

            We somehow make the turn with no fairway trophies. I buy Papa a coke, salted peanuts and a hotdog. He pours the peanuts in his bottle of coke sloshing them around and frequently taking a swig.  Because he left his store bought teeth at home, he pulls out his pocket knife and carves the hotdog into tiny bite sizes that he can gum down. I dread the back nine because several ponds await us and I too often feed the water gods.

We’re over looking an ominous pond on the number ten tee box. New problem raises its ugly head. I didn’t consider his interpretation of a water hazard.

            “Hon, take out the rods; we done found us a fishing hole! Hit another one of your worm burner shots and scare us up some red wrigglers.”

            I slice my drive, where else, in the pond. I drive over to drop and play my third. As we pull away he yells, “If you drive real slow I could troll from these little car.” He has my ball retriever in his hands scooping at the water. Pointing to the beverage cup holders he tells me that we could put the bait worms in them.

            Finally we’re heading down the eighteenth fairway.  I’ve had to talk him out of grappling in the last pond. Grappling is when you wade in the water and reach under the bank trying to find catfish.  Pulling up to the club house, he greets every group asking them what did they get. Interpreted this means did they catch any fish or kill any critters.

            Taking Papa golfing; what was I thinking? And boy, am I lucky that I never did. Would have been a hoot though…corners of mouth go north again

Life of a Pirate

Okay, I get it. Wearing a black patch over my left eye does make me look pirate like. The grey beard doesn’t help dispel the myth. Recently I had my forth vitreous hemorrhage, 2^nd in my left eye, last time 3 ½ years ago. Don’t worry, no pain is involved. It occurs when blood vessels leak into the vitreous 'gel' inside the eye.  Here’s the medical explanation: The eye is filled with a clear vitreous ‘gel’. When blood leaks into this gel, usually from blockage or damage to the blood vessels of the retina, is known as a vitreous hemorrhage. This usually results in blurred vision, as the leaked fluids block the light that passes into the eye. Luckily I’m not blind in one eye and unable to see out of the other as the old saying goes.

My right eye experienced this phenomenon for the first time back in 2004 while on the second day of seven day Caribbean cruise.  I woke up to my right eye traveling warp speed just like on Star Trek. Well, that’s the best way to describe the zillions of tiny floaters impairing my vision. My eye doctor upon return identified the situation and sent me to a retina specialist. There is always a concern of retinal detachment. Mine was routine, apparently everyone undergoes this evolutional process as they mature, some sort of separation of the fluid from the retina. Most go undetected. Lucky me, mine snagged and broke a blood vessel. Totally blind in one eye and having a new appreciation for the gift of eyesight, you just wait until the blood dissipates; experience putting this to a month or longer. My right eye did this one more time about a year after it cleared and surgery corrected it. I’m on the second tour with left eye and if it persists after clearing this time, I’ll have the corrective surgery for it. Again, there’s no pain involved, if you exclude the fact that I have no peripheral vision on my left side and disrupted depth perception.

Enough of the gloom and doom; it’s more an inconvenience than anything, once the doctor has confirmed you’re in no danger of retinal detachment. I’m 0 for 4 in that category.  I wear the eye patch to ward off insanity.  One eye not working badly interferes with the one that is. I spend much of my work day on a computer, as well as doing my writing at night. That white screen wrecks havoc on a sightless eye. The patch helps. Quick side story: back in 2010 I had my first incident in this left eye about the same time my wife had cataract surgery in hers.  Complications temporarily left her blind in her eye until surgery corrected it. Imagine the two of us, often in the same room, unable to find one another. We literally walked in circles and into one another. We were one stooge short of three.

The patch is a sarcasm magnet. I’m the king of sarcasm so I appreciate this fact and feeding frenzy. I’ve heard every pirate and blind joke. I’m quick on the trigger and usually have excellent comebacks. I’ve been asked if I was trying out for a roll in Pirates of the Caribbean.  No, but I’m stunt double for Captain Jack Sparrow.  Sometimes I just nip it before giving them a chance. I tell them I’m in role play for a character in my next novel, Grey Beard. Other times I will strike my Captain Morgan pose, ‘Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--...Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest--...Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!’ How’d you like that, landlubber? I’ll pass a coworker in the hallway and announce, ‘I’m off to rape and pillage, care to join me?’

Sometimes I just stare them down and say, ‘I know, you thought Snake Plissken was dead.’ More times than not I get the deer in the headlights look, most apparently not familiar with Kurt Russell’s role as the one-eyed, patch wearing, mercenary in the classic, Escape From New York. I haven’t gone Rooster Cogburn on anyone yet. John Wayne did have a few classic quotes in True Grit. ‘Baby sister, I was born game, and I mean to go out that way.’ I’m sure I’d just waste them, just like my Snake comment but you have to love a line like this, ‘A fella that carries a big-bore Sharps carbine might come in handy… if we get jumped by elephants, or buffalo, or something.’ Or, I mean to kill you in one minute, Ned. Or see you hanged in Fort Smith at Judge Parker's convenience. Which'll it be?’

As mentioned, sometimes the quips come from those beating me to the punch. “Why are you wearing that patch between your bucking-ears?’ To that I just let out a deep throated arrrrrrrrrrrr. ‘Where’s your hook?’ And to that I just say, ‘Don’t make me go Peter Pan on you, Tinker Bell!’ All is in good fun. I can dish it out just as well as I can take it. I told some of my friends at church that it should be a law against the ushers confiscating a man’s sword, gun and parrot at the door. At a meeting at work, I looked around the room and asked was I the only one that that knew this was take a pirate to lunch day. In another meeting I tried to rally my coworkers, calling for a mutiny. Hey, if I locate the patch over my right I’ve got first dibs on Pin the Tail on the Donkey and I’m quite good at Piñata. By the way, I have my eye on you. I work in quality assurance so this doesn’t exactly instill warm and fuzzy feelings. I could be the Mayor on the Walking Dead or Patch of Days of Our Lives. I’ve been called Cyclops and Cyborg and resemble those remarks.

In all seriousness, having this handicap is an eye opener. Blindness is nothing to kid about, right? Driving an automobile can bring about road rage to those not wanting to share both lanes with me. A good drive to work is if I don’t cause an accident. And if I did, I must have not seen it. The first morning the eye blinked out on me I was driving my thirteen mile workday morning commute on frozen tundra.  The highways were frozen due to sleet and freezing rain, a rare occurrence for Myrtle Beach. Talk about the perfect storm. Luckily few drivers were on the roadways.  Only a blind man wouldn’t heed the highway patrol’s warnings to not drive in these conditions if you didn’t have to. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. Maybe not, my left shoulder is sore from running into door jams and people not yielding the right-of-way.

With no restrictions from the doctor, I attempted a round of golf, having the perfect handicap. It put a new spin on keeping my eye on the ball. Can you say depth perception impaired? First tee shot went much better than expected, long and in the fairway. I even managed a double bogey on the hole, three putting because I couldn’t make out the green contour. At least that’s the story I’m sticking to. The next three holes were a series of thirty yard strikes, double paring all of them. Thinking, what had I been thinking; I made a slight adjustment, moving the ball back in my stance to hopefully correct topping the ball. It worked. I actually had two pars during the round and shot a lower score than I had been shooting. My golf buddies told me to remember that adjustment when my vision returned. Heck, I’ll just close one eye from here on out.

It’s been two weeks now and I’m noticing a slight improvement. I can identify some objects and can even tell if I’m alone in a room or jot. Picking my nose or scratching private parts is not recommended. Utilizing the sympathy card has not come into play. Because I’m in no pain or on any sort of medication, people don’t seem to think I need any help or the occasional pass. Who knows what sort of monkey motions they are performing from my not so good peripheral vision. I should spin around quickly and give them the evil eye. Oh well, I still have the eye of the tiger and will survive this Buccaneer experience, shiver me timbers and all that crap. Rum and coke is on me at the 19^th hole.

I caught the beginning of H.G. Well’s The Time Machine just before midnight last night and had to watch the entire movie. It was the 1960 version with Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux, one of my favorites. H.G. Wells and Jules Verne were two of the best authors, the trailblazers of Science Fiction in science fiction. Think about it, with Well’s classics such as War of the Worlds, The Invisible Man, The Island of Doctor Moreau and Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, and Around the World in Eighty Days, each mesmerized kids and adults alike. Every one of them has been transformed into movie classics just as the novels before them. Inspired to say the least, reading these marvelous novels and then watching them play out on the silver screen could have possibly inspired some of my writing and spun yarns. See if you agree.

 

Here are a few of my unpublished novels, you decide: 

 

The Perfect Spook House

 

In 1969 Eleven Eleventh Graders from Abbeville High will forever be impacted by the events of that Halloween night. An old deserted house of the Cedar Springs Road holds secrets to their past, present and future.  Nineteen years later the adult versions are drawn to that house one more time, this time for answers. Sometimes the past is best left in the past. Digging up old bones can harm you. Driven or possessed, they must see this through and they might like what resides in Pandora’s Box.

 

My Sasquatch trilogy (Foot, Another Foot and The Final Foot):

 

Foot

Indian lore becomes reality for a trapper turned wagon master when mountain man BN Carlson leads a handful of hopeful frontiersmen westward. Some aspiring to cash in on the gold rush, others leaving their past behind, the patrons of the small wagon train follow their dreams; their second mistake, trespassing into the northern woods, their first, trusting in their fellow man.

 

The Indians honor and protect the Northern Woods. The S’cwene’y’ti defends their territory. The price of admission can hold tragic consequences for those unfortunate souls trespassing into the sacred territory. Far worse circumstances await those brought unwillingly to the secret valley. 

 

No one knows this more than five unsuspecting mountain men seeking to strike it rich as loggers, and a small Indian rescue party attempting to impress their old chief. Get rich schemes in the northern woods bring death quicker than riches. Rescuers soon find themselves in need of rescue.

 

BN holds the key to their survival and only if he makes the right decisions. By self admission, he’s not cut out for this wagon master trade, struggles with the responsibility and discipline required to ensure safe passage for the patrons. 

 

Be warned. Stay away from the North Woods!

 

 

Another Foot

 

November 24, 1971, the beginning of one the largest manhunts and unsolved mysteries would forever haunt one man. His obsession would drive him to extremes. Over the next nine years the Pacific Northwest would become a hot bed of sightings and discoveries, leading to one defining moment, May 18, 1980. Others followed separate paths, those destined to cross. Myth and nature would define Mattie Reynolds career. Question, would she be willing to solve one mystery at the expense of exposing an even greater one. Obsessed, she had lived her life pursuing tales documented and defined by her ancestor and now she had proof or did she?

 

A chance encounter and those consumed by greed make for the perfect storm, lives drawn to one place, one time and only one way out. Stay away from the North Woods for the S’cwene’y’ti defends their territory. 

 

                                                       Final Foot

 

Twenty years should be long enough for Mattie Reynolds to distance herself from that defining moment in her life, but she can’t shake destiny and unanswered questions. She is drawn once again, like it or not, into a world that isn’t supposed to exist. Can she really handle the truth? Legend, Lore or Lie, greed has its own path, modern technology has a will and a way. Survival of the fittest has never been taken to this extreme. Sometimes there are no winners in the great North Woods.

 

The Lords Last Acres

 

Man has always pondered the ultimate fate of earth. It has forever been a mystery and somewhat of a dice roll as to what would ultimately bring an end to this world we occupy. Scholars, sooth Sayers, evangelist, scientist, politicians and the every day hard working man have all had their theories.

Would it be catapulted into another ice age from a renegade asteroid or giant undetected meteor’s impact? Could a nuclear holocaust spell the end with some small country or terrorist group accomplishing what Russia and the USA failed to do during the cold war? Could man simply destroy mother earth as a result of biological warfare unleashing a deadly virus or plague with no known cure or immunity?

Destruction of the ozone was supposed to slowly do us in, leading to global warming! Could man just simply deplete or pollute all of natures resources through recklessness and over population? Mother Nature could decide enough is enough and unleash volcanic eruptions, earth quakes and tidal waves of biblical proportions.

Let’s not leave out Hollywood’s version: conquest or extermination by a superior alien race!

Since the beginning of time man has predicted the end of the world and proposed all the scenarios. A simple belief: it will happen! Man may not know exactly when or exactly how, but mankind has forever forecast earth’s final destruction!    

Can earth survive the human race? Can man survive man? Rebirth of earth and a test of man’s sanity and ingenuity for survival begins here...but no one could have fathomed the human race would face potential extinction while earth continued to flourish.

In a tiny coastal community nestled in South Carolina a storm is brewing; a storm not visible on Doppler. An unsuspecting farm in the southern belt may hold the key to earth's future. Beach just minutes away and palms swaying in the glorious ocean fed breezes, a battle will soon be underway, but not against a known enemy, but a battle just the same. The farm's residences and visitors will be tested. A passing grade will ensure a chance for mankind. Every life is critical and instrumental to the success for survival. Unlikely heroes shall emerge as the faith of others is pushed to the limit. Love will bloom and human rage will be unleashed. The world will never be the same. And so the saga begins...

 

The Tenth Elemental

 

Jaybird McCracken’s home place is for sale. What greater place to have a summer home than in peaceful Maggie Valley, North Carolina, the perfect retreat from the South  Carolina Grand Strand. Doyle and Jill Vandergrift, son Travis, daughter Megan do just that, venture into a world where cell phone service is spotty with no distractions of a zillion television channels. It’s a perfect backdrop for Doyle’s magazine assignment, cozying up to local heritage. Perfection comes with a price and in the shadows of the b Blue Ridge Mountains is it known as Salvatore Perozzi but you can call him Jimmy, the last elemental.

 

Lou Who

 

Alzheimer’s is a cruel disease but there are worse fates than losing one’s mind. Ask Greenwood resident, Emma Lou Stetson. She is coping with a life no longer her own, and everything you think you know you might not. Sometimes you might attempt to find your way and instead find something else, one with deadly consequences. Wade Stetson loves Lou and will be there for her, for better or worse, until death do them part. How bad really defines worse and dead isn’t always dead. Doctor Kelly Garner works feverishly to assist a family in distress but sometimes the medical profession struggles for the answers too. Revenge is powerful medicine, especially when evil controls the reins.

Absent on Arrival

 

Many people ventured in the fall of Great Smokey Mountains to take in the seasonal changes and the leaves changing their colors. The resort was nestled in a secluded section of the Great Smoky Mountains, southwest of Hazel Creek. Ten floors, seven with rooms, would house around two hundred fifty people. The hotel staffed nearly fifty employees during peak seasons. One access road brought the visitors to the resort, guaranteeing a secluded stay. Amenities such as horseback riding, bicycling, and walking trails offered what most visitors cherished. It amounted to an all inclusive in the shadows of the mountains, a rare jewel for most.

Jay and Mira Myers have been looking forward to this, as have others, secluded and rustic, a perfect setting. Within minutes of checking in, dark secrets greet the travelers. The hotel isn’t what it seems and checking out isn’t an option. Literally, Jay and a handful of hopefuls face their darkest hour. Nightmares, are you kidding? What happened to good old fashion hospitality?  Welcome to the Big Blue Resort, we’ll leave the light off for you.

Last Stand on the Grand Strand

 

Chad Reynolds, kicking and screaming, gives into his wife’s wishes for a vacation of forced family fun along the shores of South Carolina. A marine biologist, physical oceanographer and marine chemist, one would think this would be a vacation hotspot for Chad, the Atlantic Ocean at his beck and call but a tourist trap doesn’t inspire his creative juices. Something stirs in the waters that might change his opinion and bring work to an otherwise not so pleasurable experience.

 

Being the son of an infamous Bigfoot hunter brings unwanted attention to the oceanographer. Mattie Reynolds never attempted to influence her son one way or the other, allowing him to choose his own path. He wanted nothing to do with the Great North Woods and chose the ocean instead as his passion. The fruit doesn’t always fall so far from the tree. Myths and monsters know no boundaries. An old and new nemesis will excavate bones he’d rather leave buried. Battling both could cost him his life and the lives of those pulled into his little drama. There will be no fun in the sun this time.

Little Mountain

 

Abbeville, South Carolina, nestled between the state capital, Columbia and the piedmont of Greenville, is rich with history but being a kid growing up there in the fifties through the seventies, I didn’t exactly appreciate the significance of my heritage so to speak. I had more important fish to fry, enjoying life, taking risks on the wild side and creating my very own tiny town theatrics. Sure, the ole home town was the birth place and death bed of the confederacy but what did that really mean to me.  What did I really know or care about the southern states succeeding from the Union, Succession Hill signifying the meeting place where the premise evolved? The most important event in my life had to be the end of another school year and summer adventures tugging at my cut-off jeans.

To put things in perspective for the generation of couch bound, video game savvy kids lacking imagination, vitality and the gumption to venture outside and embrace what life has to offer, we mostly invented ways to entertain ourselves.  Baseball, basketball or backyard football could only hold our attention for so long during those long summer days, before we were bored and yearning for that dare factor, to go where no kids had gone before us.  It was always outside for us; don’t even think about making us come inside. We’d fight our parents tooth and claw for the right to push the limits of dark thirty. Sorry, dark thirty is that time of the day just before darkness falls.  It can’t be found on the face of a clock but trust me; everyone back in my day knew the significance of the setting sun.

One of our favorite summer pastimes had to be quenching the oppressive humidity any which way we could. Sometimes this was accomplished via the oscillating sprinkler watering the yard connected to the hose pipe.  Sorry, southern slang, hose pipe is garden hose to those not privy to the lingo of my time. Running though the fan tailed spray, jumping through the water, kept us quite satisfied and momentarily entertained.  The Slip and Slide was the ultimate adventure. The long roll out of durable plastic, affixed to the hose pipe, with water spurting from tiny holes,; all one would have to do is get a running start on the grass then belly or butt flop on to the slick surface and ride her to the end. 

Sadly, one cannot live by sprinkler or Slip and Slide alone.  Water cost money and the meter was running as long as the water was flushing through that hose.  Money doesn’t grow on trees; our parents would constantly remind us. What that had to do with staying cool lost something in translation for us.  Swimming pools, other than at the recreation center, were virtually unheard of back in the land before time.   A few legendary paddle pools existed, so I’ve heard.  I had one, once upon a time, maybe 8 x 8 feet and two feet deep filled to the brim, but even this was a big deal for the gill-less fish we were. My Granny had a concrete pool at the bottom of the hill in her backyard.  It required clogging the drain with a rag or whatever we could find to plug it, filling her up with a hose pipe and then enjoying the water until it became too filthy and then you drained it, maybe.

Not to worry, we had Little Mountain Lake, just down the Cedar Springs Road from Hunter Street where I lived.  The actual name was Parsons Mountain, the highest point around, peaking at 832 feet. It was a little mountain, that’s how we came to call it thusly. It was originally named after Mr. James Parsons back in 1772 and gold was even discovered there in the 1800’s. It’s now part of the Sumter National Forest.  For our purposes, it had a lake that was constructed there in the 1940’s. If we were fortunate and with a tad of luck tossed in, our parents, grandparents or some family member would load up a slew of us kids and take us to our swimming hole.  We thought this water paradise was enormous and in a kid’s eyes it was. Visiting there as an adult, it more resembles an oversized pond now.  The eye is in the beholder and back then, we were beholding to the adventure and time spent there.

Hiking the winding dirt and gravel road to the top of our little mountain highlighted many trips there.  It was our very own Mount Everest. There on the top rested the ranger’s lookout tower, but I’ll get to that shortly. Along the way, on the opposite side of our lake’s designated swimming area was the dam and spillway. No, this was not of Hoover proportions, nowhere close as a matter of fact. Heck, none of us had seen a real dam so again, eye of the beholder. Further up the winding road, Lost Lake was a place of interest, maybe not for us as kids, but the teenagers were drawn to the secluded mud hole like flies. It was a favorite parking spot for making out and making ones fantasies come true. It would grow on us later and we too would eventually appreciate its significance, older and wiser as they say. A similar place existed closer to town, just off the 28 bypass, ‘The Beach’, a place where fill dirt was excavated down the end of a secluded road.  Well, not too secluded, because everyone knew where it was located.

Before reaching the tower, we had to pass the old gold mines. Yes, these were genuine gold mines, three of them long ago deserted. These weren’t clearly marked so you had to know where to go. We did. Two were surrounded by a fence and the third was a slanted hole into the ground, the entrance caved in with no opportunity for spelunkers. Each visit was marred with dares. Climb the fence and see how far you can go. We were all daredevils back then but none of us were quite that stupid.  An obvious entry way didn’t exist so climbing the fence really served no purpose. Sure, we talked up gold prospecting but what did really know about generating our very own gold rush. Just the same it was fun going there. Now they are marked as part of the Tower Trail.

The tower, now that was our Holy Grail. Negotiating the long incline to the tower to us was like ascending Mount Everest. Once we arrived, there rested the ranger station at the top, resembling our very own Eiffel Tower. Next dare, who’s going to the top of the tower? Really there was no risk, steps extended to the ranger platform.  The doorway to the inside of the station was padlocked so you could only ascend to the section just below it. From there the view was breathtaking. We were on top of the world, standing there at the highest point of our Little Mountain.  Etching our names in the metal framework at the top was mired in tradition and marked our territory, our testament that we had completed the climb. You could always count on one scribbling; Kilroy Was Here, a bald-headed man (sometimes depicted as having a few hairs) with a prominent nose peeking over a wall with the fingers of each hand clutching the wall. The doodle supposedly originated during World War II and was graffiti associated with GIs.  You could find it on most any bathroom wall or in out of the way places. Of course other inscriptions contained profanity and brought about bursts of laughter from us, taboo as it was.

Little Mountain was not just reserved for kid adventures. Some involved partnering up with adults. If you have to, you have to. One particular tradition was our version of a hayride. Papa or daddy always needed pine needles. What better place to collect this bounty than the pine forest of Sumter National Park. It was free after all and child labor laws weren’t enforced in Abbeville County. A bunch of us would pile into the bed of papa’s 1961 Apache 10 Chevy pickup truck, securing the rakes with our bodies and we were off to collect pine needles.  This was yet just one more creative game for our wild imaginations. Raking was not fun but the real fun hinged on us filling the bed of that truck. Once it reached the height of the cab we were done. We then became kid tarps, brought along to secure the load. We embraced our job seriously; well, maybe not seriously but mashing down those needles and wallowing in them brought sparkles to our eyes.  Let the hayride begin.  In a less stressful time, no one ever considered riding in the back of pick-ups; the bed certified the passengers as human projectiles. This was life before seatbelts or other restraints.  A kid had the freedom to roam anywhere in a vehicle, unrestricted, often landing in the lap of the driver and helping them navigate.  My favorite spot when I was small enough was stretching out on the platform in the back window. Cars had child size shelves just above the back seat in the day when you could tell a Chevy from a Ford. Life was good.

Sometimes we would venture to Sumter National Forest in search of an elusive plant. We became medicine men in the Amazon jungles, seeking some sort magical cure for what ails you. Actually we had no idea why we were looking for this plant. My black mama, Anise, my second mama, the one who kept me in check while my parents worked the second shift @ Milliken textile mill, required this plant, so enough said.  Looking back, I think this was some sort of Ginseng. She supposedly made tea from the reddish root, it having some sort of healing and curative properties. As an adult, one of my coworkers referred to it as Bo-hog root and he said it was used for sexual enhancement purposes; home remedy Viagra maybe. Either way, it was a game of see how many we good find.  It secured us another ride in the back of Papa’s Chevy as he would bring her and us to forest.

Further down the Cedar Springs Road stood what we considered to be a genuine haunted house, the octagon shaped Frazier-Pressley House, but I will save that one for another chapter, a more teenager version of life in Abbeville. We definitely upped the ante as we reached our adolescence, becoming more creative, our innovation peaking new levels, once we could now drive.  No longer handicapped by someone else getting us to where we wanted to go or possibly places we should ever go; we took many a peek inside Pandora’s Box and for the most part survived our experiences unscathed.  It wasn’t from lack of effort, pushing the envelope.  Parents don’t need to know everything, right?  What happens on our mountain; well you know how it goes.  

Jan 1^st, Resolutions, Revolutions and Evolutions

 

January the 1^st is just that, the first of January. It comes every year as does every other date. Professing to launch a new beginning, break old habits, give yourself an extreme physical or emotional makeover, find love, lose weight or seek any other thing you are not particularly happy with is not magical on the first day of every year. If you were fat on the 31^st, you’re still fat on the 1^st and probably over the next few days or weeks thereafter. If you don’t have what you perceive as love in your love, then maybe you’re looking for love in all the wrong places. If you drink too much, you probably over did last night thinking today would be the start of not drinking like a fish. And if today is the day you stop smoking, then why did you smoke so much last night and pollute those around you? If you didn’t like yourself December 31^st, what makes you think you’re a sweetheart today?

 

No, resolutions are not the miracle cure for what makes you so unhappy. Sorry, but it’s just another day like the run before and the one tomorrow. Why is it that we too often launch a revote against our eating habits moments before midnight, only to gorge ourselves on collard greens and black-eyed peas, cornbread and all the fixings, sweet tea and desserts the very first day we profess to take control. We’re taking the K&W approach today; no home cooking and leftovers of the rest of the week, no aroma of collards greens penetrating every inch of the house for days, no clean up or washing dishes necessary; and guess what, the K&W serves portions and if you can back for seconds, you pay for seconds. Being older and wiser, we join those other elderly folks at the K&W (Kanes and Wheelchairs), a right of passage. Seriously, have you ever scanned the tables when there, Q-tips dot the horizon. It is good food bought cheaply.

 

Greens consumed on the 1^st day of the year are supposed to ensure you have plenty of cash during the year. I eat greens (turnip salad, collards, spinach) once or twice a week and it ensures iron in your blood, not gold or silver in your pockets. Working and earning a living ensure cash flow. Political jab, sorry, try to stay away from this but government is not going to buy you happiness. Entitlements arte ruining the country, making too many people fat and lazy and the New Year’s revolution is not going to win that war. You control your life and what has happened can and shouldn’t be blamed on the success of others. I’ve worked my entire life and am still working. I owe you nothing so why should mine be used to supplement yours. Don’t even get me started on healthcare, the evolution sending us though the wormhole. Off my soap box, just ticks me off anyway and today I really don’t wish to stress about it.

 

New Years is just the beginning of another year. There is nothing magical about it. Your life will not undergo miraculous transformations just by you professing to change, do things better, shed old habits or pounds. There is nothing wrong with setting goals but waiting until January the first to set those goals is probably just a tad too late. You should have probably already set and been working on these things that make you unhappy. Keep in mine that you can only change what you can personally control. You can change other people or other situations that aren’t within your grasp to influence. If you hate your job, look for another one. Same goes for your spouse and significant other in any relationship. There’s nothing worse than being unhappy, so shame on you if you stay in either, if you don’t want to be there. Walking away isn’t easy, the first step being the hardest. I’ve left marriages and jobs that I didn’t particularly like and have never looked back. Stop throwing the pity party. Your friends don’t want to be invited to your unhappy life.

 

Yes, it is the first day of another new year and we all have dreams, aspirations and visions of a wonderful future. Destiny is but a word. You control it, not some pre-destined journey chosen for you. Take me. I’m no one special. I grew up in a small town, no particular standout my any measure, most of my life being uneventful except for misfires on my part; those events that you’re not really proud of, but it is what it is. I can’t change the past or blame others for how I have lived or the mistakes I have made. Today I can live the life I desire and I can influence tomorrow. I was no standout in school, not one to be remembered for being the smartest or most athletic; heck in most cases I was the unknown, the one skirting the shadows. I didn’t go onto college or earn any sort of degree but I have been successful; no, not rich, but I have managed and have everything I could ever want. I’m even a published author, four times and no one can take that away from me; even if I had to pay out of pocket to hold the completed books in my hand. But guess what, when I’m gone, my books will live on. I’ll be more than just another name on headstone in the graveyard. Thanks go out to those who have supported me, mostly family and friends; me wetting my hook in the fishing hole more times than I probably should have. I’m no million best seller but million is just number just like the 1^st. Writing and publishing my writing is an expensive hobby but I enjoy it so mission accomplished. I can strike that one off my bucket list so to speak.

 

No, today is not special. It is but the first day of the month of another new year, but it is what you make of it but no different than how you lived yesterday or plan to live tomorrow. Resolutions, revolutions and evolution are just words ending in ‘tion’. If it floats your boat to believe than there is nothing wrong in believing I suppose. Believing in Santa, The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy have done wonders for my childhood, but the difference, adults can control their lives where as children we needed to believe in fairy tales. Last night we hugged, we kissed, possibly even more and we held up our glasses to toast what had been and what can be. Ultimately, it is what you make out of it, choices and you do have them. If today means the first step in your journey then so be it. Regardless, just be happy and live today as if you don’t have a tomorrow. You’ll like yourself if you just be you and not what you want to be or what others might want you to be. Happy first day of the rest of your life to each and every one of you and today and every day here after, belongs to you.

 

Disclaimer: fast and furious fingers pecked on the keyboard this morning so I do apologize up front for any grammatical, punctuation or sentence structural errors. I did run spelling checker but that’s about. I do not apologize for content. It was just me being me and January 1^st absolutely had no impact on my rambling scribbling.

44 pages completed for this novel and here's the opening:

Raw Ride

A Good Old Fashion Zombie Apocalyptic Shoot-um Up

‘The only good Indian is a dead Indian, or maybe not.'

 

Vargas sat on the rickety old bunk, his back to the wall, staring down at the blood soaking the front of his shirt, thankful it wasn’t his, not that it bettered his current circumstances. He’d never thought he would draw comfort from being behind bars, but he now assessed his jail cell differently.  Many would probably blame him for this, if they knew the whole story. No denying it, he had most likely contributed to the current set of affairs. Greed had never been one of his best attributes. This time though, it had cost him everything.  He wasn’t even sure if what had been done could be undone. One thing for sure, there would be no three square meals in his future, nor any opportunity for parole or pardon. His future lay squarely in his hands, and seemed bleak at the best.

The calendar hanging on the wall opposite his barred cell indicated winter was knocking at the door. Winters could be harsh in these parts, but harsh seemed a relevant term now.  Vargas had survived many brutal winters but none seemed as deadly as the one ahead. He glanced over at the only other cell in the tiny jail, where the young man still hunkered down behind his upturned mattress and bed. The boy, maybe in his late teens, had not spoken a word. Vargas hadn’t attempted to strike up a conversation with him, not really willing to share what he knew just yet, not that the kid knew that he could enlighten him about their little dilemma. Funny, the kid was there because he had broken some law and Vargas was here by choice. He twirled the key ring on his finger, a reminder that he could leave at anytime, of his own free will.  He was comfy, not so cozy for the time being, and wasn’t that eager to venture back outside.

Vargas thought he heard something; cocked his head for a better listen, but was overpowered by his own nasally heavy breathing and pounding heart beat.  This damn waiting was taken its toll. At least in here it was a safe haven.  Out there…out there, it was anyone’s bet. One thing for sure, he couldn’t stay behind bars forever, as much as it did seem to be a smart move. Name your poison, a death sentence is a death sentence, or maybe not, given his new understanding of dead and not dead. He inspected his fingers, his hands and then his arms, reassuring himself that the bloody spots were not wounds, just blood, and not his. How the mighty Vargas had taken a plunge, fallen from his self imposed pedestal, infamous and in high demand once upon a time, but now his fairy tale had reached a not so happy ending, nightmarish beyond even his wildest dreams.

 The deathly silence was abruptly interrupted, the voice causing Vargas to flinch, a man fearful of his own shadow now days. Taking a deep breath, he turned his head to see the kid standing there, clinching the bars in a death grip. He was pale and wild eyed. Vargas didn’t fault him for that. He had a right to be.  The kid’s breathing was heavy and irregular, almost as if he had forgotten how to breathe. He had the look of a fish out of water, only lacking the flopping motion on the bank after being hooked and landed. Vargas twisted his head one way, and then the other, his neck snapping and cracking like breaking tree limbs, bones old and worn, too much tension adding to the discomfort.

“Mister, you were out there, what’s going on in those streets?”

Vargas rubbed his hands through his gray streaked oily hair, and then rubbed his eyes and face, before standing. Both knees popped loudly, arthritis questioning his maneuver. He hobbled towards the kid, his legs still protesting his first steps.  Rubbing his gnarly almost all gray beard, and then his neck, he stopped one step shy of the bars that separated him from the frightened young lad.  Eyes locked, he thought carefully before he spoke, measuring his words, as had become the art of being a showman, a snake oil peddler and seasoned con man. He wasn’t sure the kid could handle the truth, the whole truth, so help him God. Unbelievers couldn’t always be convinced, but these were unbelievable times, even by his standards. Smoke and mirrors, deceitfulness, illusions and lies, had been his forte, at least until it was no longer required, not after his most magnificent discovery, the game changer, and his ticket to the Holy Grail. Wealth and riches, watch for what you wish, he reminded himself.

“Hey kid, what you in for?”

“They said I stole a horse. I didn’t. I found it.”

“Hang’um high just the same, no tolerance in these parts for horse thieves, guilty unless you can prove otherwise, so goes it.”

“Why did you lock yourself in? You have the keys, are you a deputy or something?”

“Or something about covers it.”

“Mister, I heard a whole lot of shooting, yelling and screaming earlier. It sounded like a war had started.”

“Yep, indeed it did. Wars can be won by one side or the other and it’s wise to pick the winning side, but in this case, that isn’t necessarily the best choice.  The good guys are at a disadvantage and the bad guys, the ones like me and you, are not a sure thing either. The table is running against us, odds not in our favor, and even cheating doesn’t ensure a winning hand.”

“Then who are they fighting?”

“Who are they fighting? The key to the war being waged is not necessarily one you could peg on a who.  This fight is not like any a young pup like you has ever seen. Hell, this is new for an old dog’s eyes.   I’m not sure you would even call this an even fight. It’s like they say, never bring a knife to a gun fight, only worse. No rules, no holds barred, knockdown, drag out, last man standing, and the one that gets knocked down don’t amount to much; they just keep coming, unless you know the secret how to stop them.”

“Mister, I have no idea what you’re saying. You’re not making much sense. You’re not touched in the head, are you? “

“I’m crazy all right. I’ve seen things that would put most men in one of those straitjackets, locked away, never to see the light of day again; and being crazy might be better than being a sane man living in an insane world.”

“I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

“You instigated this little conversation, kid, not me. It makes no mind to me if we chat or not. Anything I have to say doesn’t change a single solitary thing. You want out; here’s the key. You’re free to leave. I don’t have a dog in the hunt and it doesn’t much matter to me what the hell you do. ”

“Why don’t you leave then?”

“You some sort of moron, boy; you said it yourself, I came here and locked the door. I had good call to be locking my ass in a jail cell. Bars are not for just keeping people inside; it keeps the outside from getting in.  Here, you want the keys or not? All I ask is just hand it back over to me once you unlock your door.”

“Please, just tell what’s going on out there, Mister.”

“Call me Vargas. Everything has a starting point, a beginning before the ending. This is no different, except the ending might be the real end in this case. Do you have religion, boy? Don’t answer that. It’s not much good for what I’m about to tell you. God is not going to save you from hell on earth. There are powers that maybe even he can’t control or destroy. I’m not a God fearing man, never have been and believe me when I say it; you can’t pray your way out of this mess.”

“I’m Henry McCarty.  I don’t think the deputy who locked me up in here knows who I really am and I’m sure as hell not going to be confessing my identity.”

“Ah yes, I’ve heard of you, kid. Not to worry, it’ll be mine and your little secret. Horse thieving isn’t the worse of your offenses or worries, but like I said, hanging is hanging, and if you’re lucky enough, just maybe you’ll meet that hangman some day.  So, tell me, Henry, do you want to hear this from the beginning? We got plenty of time, so long as we keep these cell doors locked.”

“I reckon I might be persuaded to stay a spell, at least until I know what’s going on out there is done. Like you said, we can leave anytime we want.  We got us the keys.”

“Hold on to them and hold on to the seat of your breaches. You might even want to sit down. I’m long winded and got plenty to say.”

 

Happy New Year