The Oblong Box by Edgar Allan Poe

October brings all things macabre. This is a favorite Poe of mine. Enjoy!

SOME years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C, to the city of New York, in the fine packet-ship "Independence," Captain Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June), weather permitting; and on the fourteenth, I went on board to arrange some matters in my state-room.

I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I entertained feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow-student at C -- University, where we were very much together. He had the ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human bosom.

I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and, upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters -- his own. The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two berths, one above the other. These berths, to be sure, were so exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one person; still, I could not comprehend why there were three state-rooms for these four persons. I was, just at that epoch, in one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, with shame, that I busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It was no business of mine, to be sure, but with none the less pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great wonder why I had not arrived at it before. "It is a servant of course," I said; "what a fool I am, not sooner to have thought of so obvious a solution!" And then I again repaired to the list -- but here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party, although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring one -- for the words "and servant" had been first written and then overscored. "Oh, extra baggage, to be sure," I now said to myself -- "something he wishes not to be put in the hold -- something to be kept under his own eye -- ah, I have it -- a painting or so -- and this is what he has been bargaining about with Nicolino, the Italian Jew." This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my curiosity for the nonce.

Wyatt's two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence, however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her as of surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was, therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance.

On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt and party were also to visit it -- so the captain informed me -- and I waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of being presented to the bride, but then an apology came. "Mrs. W. was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on board until to-morrow, at the hour of sailing."

The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the wharf, when Captain Hardy met me and said that, "owing to circumstances" (a stupid but convenient phrase), "he rather thought the 'Independence' would not sail for a day or two, and that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know." This I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze; but as "the circumstances" were not forthcoming, although I pumped for them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return home and digest my impatience at leisure.

I did not receive the expected message from the captain for nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and every thing was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. Wyatt's party arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two sisters, the bride, and the artist -- the latter in one of his customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not even introduce me to his wife -- this courtesy devolving, per force, upon his sister Marian -- a very sweet and intelligent girl, who, in a few hurried words, made us acquainted.

Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; and when she raised her veil, in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend, the artist, when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared into the regions of the purely ideal.

The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in exquisite taste -- and then I had no doubt that she had captivated my friend's heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect and soul. She said very few words, and passed at once into her state-room with Mr. W.

My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant -- that was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage. After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong pine box, which was every thing that seemed to be expected. Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a short time were safely over the bar and standing out to sea.

The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet in length by two and a half in breadth; I observed it attentively, and like to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar; and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to myself for the accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist, would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino: -- and now here was a box, which, from its shape, could possibly contain nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo's "Last Supper;" and a copy of this very "Last Supper," done by Rubini the younger, at Florence, I had known, for some time, to be in the possession of Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It was the first time I had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of his artistical secrets; but here he evidently intended to steal a march upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my very nose; expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved to quiz him well, now and hereafter.

One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go into the extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt's own; and there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the floor -- no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his wife; -- this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong, disagreeable, and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On the lid were painted the words -- "Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New York. Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled with care."

Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the artist's wife's mother, -- but then I looked upon the whole address as a mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend, in Chambers Street, New York.

For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although the wind was dead ahead; having chopped round to the northward, immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers were, consequently, in high spirits and disposed to be social. I must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who behaved stiffly, and, I could not help thinking, uncourteously to the rest of the party. Wyatt's conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy, even beyond his usual habit -- in fact he was morose -- but in him I was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their staterooms during the greater part of the passage, and absolutely refused, although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any person on board.

Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say, she was chatty; and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea. She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies; and, to my profound astonishment, evinced no equivocal disposition to coquet with the men. She amused us all very much. I say "amused"- and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is, I soon found that Mrs. W. was far oftener laughed at than with. The gentlemen said little about her; but the ladies, in a little while, pronounced her "a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent looking, totally uneducated, and decidedly vulgar." The great wonder was, how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match. Wealth was the general solution- but this I knew to be no solution at all; for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a dollar nor had any expectations from any source whatever. "He had married," he said, "for love, and for love only; and his bride was far more than worthy of his love." When I thought of these expressions, on the part of my friend, I confess that I felt indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking leave of his senses? What else could I think? He, so refined, so intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful! To be sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him- particularly so in his absence -- when she made herself ridiculous by frequent quotations of what had been said by her "beloved husband, Mr. Wyatt." The word "husband" seemed forever -- to use one of her own delicate expressions- forever "on the tip of her tongue." In the meantime, it was observed by all on board, that he avoided her in the most pointed manner, and, for the most part, shut himself up alone in his state-room, where, in fact, he might have been said to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse herself as she thought best, in the public society of the main cabin.

My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was, that, the artist, by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart -- but could not, for that reason, quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the matter of the "Last Supper." For this I resolved to have my revenge.

One day he came upon deck, and, taking his arm as had been my wont, I sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom, however (which I considered quite natural under the circumstances), seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and that moodily, and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or two, and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow! -- as I thought of his wife, I wondered that he could have heart to put on even the semblance of mirth. I determined to commence a series of covert insinuations, or innuendoes, about the oblong box -- just to let him perceive, gradually, that I was not altogether the butt, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said something about the "peculiar shape of that box-," and, as I spoke the words, I smiled knowingly, winked, and touched him gently with my forefinger in the ribs.

The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry convinced me, at once, that he was mad. At first he stared at me as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my remark; but as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his brain, his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed protruding from their sockets. Then he grew very red -- then hideously pale -- then, as if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with gradually increasing vigor, for ten minutes or more. In conclusion, he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to uplift him, to all appearance he was dead.

I called assistance, and, with much difficulty, we brought him to himself. Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was quite recovered, so far as regarded his mere bodily health. Of his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest of the passage, by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me to say nothing on this head to any person on board.

Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of Wyatt which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I was already possessed. Among other things, this: I had been nervous -- drank too much strong green tea, and slept ill at night -- in fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to sleep at all. Now, my state-room opened into the main cabin, or dining-room, as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt's three rooms were in the after-cabin, which was separated from the main one by a slight sliding door, never locked even at night. As we were almost constantly on a wind, and the breeze was not a little stiff, the ship heeled to leeward very considerably; and whenever her starboard side was to leeward, the sliding door between the cabins slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the trouble to get up and shut it. But my berth was in such a position, that when my own state-room door was open, as well as the sliding door in question (and my own door was always open on account of the heat,) I could see into the after-cabin quite distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were situated the state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights (not consecutive) while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W., about eleven o'clock upon each night, steal cautiously from the state-room of Mr. W., and enter the extra room, where she remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had separate apartments -- no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent divorce; and here, after all I thought was the mystery of the extra state-room.

There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much. During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was attracted by certain singular cautious, subdued noises in that of her husband. After listening to them for some time, with thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the artist in prying open the oblong box, by means of a chisel and mallet -- the latter being apparently muffled, or deadened, by some soft woollen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped.

In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment when he fairly disengaged the lid -- also, that I could determine when he removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon the lower berth in his room; this latter point I knew, for example, by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the wooden edges of the berth, as he endeavored to lay it down very gently -- there being no room for it on the floor. After this there was a dead stillness, and I heard nothing more, upon either occasion, until nearly daybreak; unless, perhaps, I may mention a low sobbing, or murmuring sound, so very much suppressed as to be nearly inaudible -- if, indeed, the whole of this latter noise were not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it seemed to resemble sobbing or sighing- but, of course, it could not have been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr. Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rein to one of his hobbies -- indulging in one of his fits of artistic enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong box, in order to feast his eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this, however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by good Captain Hardy's green tea. just before dawn, on each of the two nights of which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon the oblong box, and force the nails into their old places by means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he issued from his state-room, fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from hers.

We had been at sea seven days, and were now off Cape Hatteras, when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the southwest. We were, in a measure, prepared for it, however, as the weather had been holding out threats for some time. Every thing was made snug, alow and aloft; and as the wind steadily freshened, we lay to, at length, under spanker and foretopsail, both double-reefed.

In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours -- the ship proving herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects, and shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period, however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane, and our after -- sail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one immediately after the other. By this accident we lost three men overboard with the caboose, and nearly the whole of the larboard bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses, before the foretopsail went into shreds, when we got up a storm stay -- sail and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading the sea much more steadily than before.

The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted, and greatly strained; and on the third day of the blow, about five in the afternoon, our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to windward, went by the board. For an hour or more, we tried in vain to get rid of it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship; and, before we had succeeded, the carpenter came aft and announced four feet of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps choked and nearly useless.

All was now confusion and despair -- but an effort was made to lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as could be reached, and by cutting away the two masts that remained. This we at last accomplished -- but we were still unable to do any thing at the pumps; and, in the meantime, the leak gained on us very fast.

At sundown, the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as the sea went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of saving ourselves in the boats. At eight P. M., the clouds broke away to windward, and we had the advantage of a full moon -- a piece of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping spirits.

After incredible labor we succeeded, at length, in getting the longboat over the side without material accident, and into this we crowded the whole of the crew and most of the passengers. This party made off immediately, and, after undergoing much suffering, finally arrived, in safety, at Ocracoke Inlet, on the third day after the wreck.

Fourteen passengers, with the captain, remained on board, resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly-boat at the stern. We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it touched the water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr. Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and myself, with a negro valet.

We had no room, of course, for any thing except a few positively necessary instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save any thing more. What must have been the astonishment of all, then, when having proceeded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up in the stern-sheets, and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy that the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his oblong box!

"Sit down, Mr. Wyatt," replied the captain, somewhat sternly, "you will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwhale is almost in the water now."

"The box!" vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing -- "the box, I say! Captain Hardy, you cannot, you will not refuse me. Its weight will be but a trifle -- it is nothing- mere nothing. By the mother who bore you -- for the love of Heaven -- by your hope of salvation, I implore you to put back for the box!"

The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal of the artist, but he regained his stern composure, and merely said:

"Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say, or you will swamp the boat. Stay -- hold him -- seize him! -- he is about to spring overboard! There -- I knew it -- he is over!"

As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the boat, and, as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded, by almost superhuman exertion, in getting hold of a rope which hung from the fore-chains. In another moment he was on board, and rushing frantically down into the cabin.

In the meantime, we had been swept astern of the ship, and being quite out of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back, but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate artist was sealed.

As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for as such only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the companion -- way, up which by dint of strength that appeared gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed in the extremity of astonishment, he passed, rapidly, several turns of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around his body. In another instant both body and box were in the sea -- disappearing suddenly, at once and forever.

We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark.

"Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some feeble hope of his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself to the box, and commit himself to the sea."

"They sank as a matter of course," replied the captain, "and that like a shot. They will soon rise again, however -- but not till the salt melts."

"The salt!" I ejaculated.

"Hush!" said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the deceased. "We must talk of these things at some more appropriate time."

We suffered much, and made a narrow escape, but fortune befriended us, as well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed, in fine, more dead than alive, after four days of intense distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length obtained a passage to New York.

About a month after the loss of the "Independence," I happened to meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned, naturally, upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars.

The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and a servant. His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a most lovely, and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship), the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was frantic with grief -- but circumstances imperatively forbade the deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her mother the corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned the ship rather than take passage with a dead body.

In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being first partially embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of salt, in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady's decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some person should personate her during the voyage. This the deceased lady's-maid was easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room, originally engaged for this girl during her mistress' life, was now merely retained. In this state-room the pseudo-wife, slept, of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the best of her ability, the part of her mistress -- whose person, it had been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers on board.

My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears.

-THE END-

Thaddeus

I was just talking to myself in the kitchen when I looked to my left and saw a pair of feet with a blue sock and a black sock on walk by. I didn't get to see the body. When I said hello, no one answered. I would have been surprised if someone did. I live alone. No wife, no kids, not even a goldfish. My flat is on the top floor of an eight floor brownstone; it’s a walkup. I’m fairly certain even the rats digging through trash cans in the alley below wouldn’t climb those flights without getting lightheaded from the lack of oxygen at that height.

I have to admit, I didn't think much more about the stocking feet and went on talking to myself. The topic was a greasy burger or a dry salad. I pulled the ground steak from the refrigerator when I saw the feet again out of the corner of my eye. I’d remembered my Mom telling me Grandpa was dotty because he was old and had “hardening of the arteries.” I put the meat back in the frig and grabbed the fixings for a salad.

Later that night, I’d fallen asleep watching a ball game. It was a boring game. I woke with a start when I heard footfalls in the kitchen. As they say, third time was the charm. It was time I investigated those feet. As I approached, I saw the blur of blue and black run under the table. I still hadn’t seen who was attached to them. They could have belonged to a neighborhood kid from another building. By this time,  I started talking to myself again. I was rationalizing with myself that with three dead bolt locks that often kept me out, a child couldn't have just snuck into the apartment without me knowing it. Although a child could open any child-proof cap the pharmaceutical industry came out with, I began to doubt myself.  I looked under the table and saw the feet. They were too big to be a child’s feet. It was possible they belonged to a teenager, but, I told myself, I would see a body attached to those feet.

I remember a time when my Saturday nights were spent at the corner tavern with a group of friends. Instead, I sat on the floor looking at a set of feet wearing a blue sock and a black sock. I leaned forward and squinted at those feet. Upon a closer look, I recognized those socks!

“See here,” I cried. “You’ve my socks! Come out this instant.”

To my surprise, a diminutive little man, with incredibly large feet, emerged from under the table. He pulled off the socks and handed them to me. I’d rattled off a string of questions to help me understand exactly who he was and what the devil he was doing under my table. He had quite a tale to tell.

His name was Thaddeus. He was a gnome. He was in the middle of doing his job when I had inadvertently carried him up eight flights of stairs to my kitchen by way of a laundry bag. He’d been dashing about the kitchen trying to find an escape route. The poor little fella. I gave him the socks and gave directions to the Laundromat I frequent.

Thaddeus, you see, is the little gnome who grabs your socks, giving you that odd sock every wash day.

When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor

Seventeen year old Tommy had just walked his best girl, Melinda, to her class and was headed for his own. Twenty minutes into the class, Principal Harding, choking back tears, announced the attack and sent everyone home. The next day, after President Roosevelt declared war on Japan, Tommy told Melinda he had enlisted. They were married in a quiet ceremony in front of a judge.

Three years later, Tommy was in a foxhole reading the latest letter from his wife and showing off the newest picture of Tommy, Jr. at the third birthday party he missed. It had taken three months from this letter to arrive. It took longer and longer for the mail to reach the front. He heard someone say it was December 16^th and they expected a lot of heavy fighting. And it was cold; so cold he was sure he’d lose a couple toes from frostbite. Tommy began a letter back to Melinda on the back of the one she sent telling her just that. It was then he heard the screaming whistle of a bullet overhead. The battle had begun.

As his platoon crept through the fog and heavy snow, he began seeing shadows. Were the shadows his comrades, the enemy, or just trees? Bullets flying everywhere; grenades going off yards away. The deeper into the forest he went, the less he heard of the battle. There were occasional swooshing sounds which passed his ears; followed but the sounds of bones cracking and someone screaming. 

The screaming he heard was his own. Through a fog he learned he was stateside in a hospital. He overheard a nurse giving report to the next shift the bullet was lodged in his lower back. He heard Melinda whisper he’d be fine.  She'd brought little TJ to his room daily.

Before he knew it, Tommy was home. Melinda went back to the plant and was hired as a secretary. The years seemed to fly by. He was there for TJ’s first say of school, first home run and the broken arm that came with it. Tommy was around for his son’s first crush, the date, and the broken heart. When TJ was married and had his own little Tommy, he stood at the nursery window, beaming with pride.

The years went by in a flash. TJ was no longer little. He had a family of his own; two sons and a daughter, who was the apple of her grandfather’s eye.

When Melinda was diagnosed with cancer Tommy stood at her side the whole time. It wasn’t long before she went quickly in her sleep.

Tommy stood in front of the graveside with his arm around his only son, doing his best to console him. Through his tears, TJ said goodbye to his mother and asked she give his love to his father. Tommy looked down at the gravestone. Engraved under his name was the date of death, 16 December 1944. When he looked up, he saw a welcoming bright light. In the center was his best girl, looking as young and radiant as she did the day they were married. It was time to let go move on.

Sand Castles

Growing up with the ocean only blocks away, Jon spent most of his childhood at the beach. Like most little boys, he loved to play in the sand and make castles. As he grew, so did the castles. There was never a shortage of sand brought in from the ocean by the tide. Jon had an artistic talent for sculpting, but not with clay. He sculpted sand castles. Each morning, he would set out to the beach, tools in hand, to sculpt a new castle. He’d place a bucket for donations because even a sand sculptor had to eat.

One morning, he saw a little girl on the beach playing with a doll that looked like a mermaid. He decided he would make his castle look like an underwater city this mermaid would live in. As he worked, people would walk by, admire his work and drop a coin or two in the bucket. Jon daydreamed about who would live in his castle. The little girl's mermaid, perhaps? Or a princess? Or maybe a famous figure in history? By dusk, the beach began to empty. The little girl was gone. As he did every night, he counted his change and bought his merger supper from one of the stands on the boardwalk. While Jon ate, he sat and watch the tide roll in and wash away his day’s work. On this particular evening, the ocean gave up more than sea glass and shells. A small bottle with a cork floated to the base of the castle. Jon picked up the bottle and saw a scrolled scrap of paper with writing on it. He removed and smoothed it out on his leg.

 It read, "My name is Amelia Earhart. I'm alive and being held in the City of Atlantis!" 

Hello?

 Even as a child, he had a love for the macabre. Rod Serling and Alfred Hitchcock were both inspirations. It was no surprise then when he decided he would become a screen writer. His motto was, “scare me, then scare me again.” In fact, he had the motto printed on the business cards he used to promote the latest weekly webcast he was writing for.

After a week of beach bumming, he’d came home to an angry cat and a stack of newspapers. He was the only one he knew who still read the news in ink form. Grabbing a beer and a stack of newsprint, he read about the latest crime wave sweeping the fair city. A serial killer was stalking high rise buildings on the city’s downtown area. It appeared the killer was stalking his victims and catching them off guard in office break rooms late in the evening. Of the six victims, the latest had come to long enough to give a detailed description of the killer’s M.O. The killer called out, “Hello?” as if he were lost. When the last victim left the break room to see if he could help, he found no one in the offices. When he went back to grab his cup of coffee, he was hit from behind. He never saw his assailant. The victim later died of his wound. There was no mention of any new victims.

Now that he was back, he thought of a few story lines for the webcast. It seemed everything had been done before. It was Saturday night, his date cancelled on him and the cat was still pissed she’d been left alone for a week, “Typical female,” he thought. With nothing on television and having lost the last of his video poker chips, he decided to go to the office to work out a few kinks in next week’s program. He had taken the story line from the recent headlines regarding the serial killer and he was having a problem making the killer believable.

He’d worked for an hour or so before going into the break room to make a cup of coffee. While he was filling the machine with water, he though he heard the rattle of outer office door knob. As he entered the reception area, he called out, “Hello? Hello?....Hello?”

When he woke up, there was blood on his hands, as if…

The Scout Badge

An elderly couple stops a young scout in the street. They tell the child he’d be perfect for odd jobs around their house. Thinking this would be a great way to earn a badge, the scout agrees.

The following Saturday, the scout rings the bell of the old house the couple live in. The wife takes the child out back to the garage with the promise of milk and fresh cookies when the job is done. The husband explains he would like the mason jars in the boxes along the back of the garage buried in the ground starting at the back of the property. The scout takes a box and the spade to the back fence and begins to dig. There are jars of beans, corn, chili sauce and peaches. It makes sense to bury some of the jars since it would be cooler in the ground, although this isn't the way Mother or Grandmother store the canned goods. A couple of the jars have cash in them; saving for a rainy day.

The scout gets to the fourth or fifth box, and by this time is not paying attention to what is in the jars. And then, by the end of the last box, he notices packed in one jar is the earring belonging to that of a teacher at school. Oddly enough, the earring is still on the teacher’s ear which is now on packed with some pickled eggs.

The Mausoleum

I remember my fiancé and I were spending the day in a local cemetery. We had our picnic and list of headstones of the rich and famous we wanted to find; a couple presidents and a rock star were on the top of the list.

We drove around, found a few interesting stones and a huge shade tree to have our picnic under. When we finished, I bundled our picnic trash to toss in the bin next to a row of mausoleums. Always the snoop, I’d begun to look through the windows. Most of the windows here blackened with decades and sometimes a century, of grime.

I came up to one with beautiful colored lead glass windows. Someone paid attention to them, the sun bounced off them creating a rainbow. I walked around the small building, looking in the windows at the brass name plates. I called over to my fiancé to have him come and take a look. I turned to look through the colored glass in the front. That was when she lunged toward me, pressing her rotting face against the glass. Her finger nails missing from scratching to get out. I could read what was left of her lips.

“I’m trapped in here, help me!”

Prying the narrow doors open, I felt her bony fingers grab my shoulders. I’m sure the screams I heard were mine.

I now sit in that room.  My once copper red hair is snow white. My fingernails are gone. I wonder what happened to my fiancé. 

I’m alone and no one comes to look through the beautiful colored lead glass windows.  

Water Logged

After the ridiculous winter we had, which included two blizzards and copious amounts of smaller storms with accumulations over one hundred twenty inches, Western New York was happy to see spring arrive, late as it was. I can’t honestly say we have seen much of the bright orb in the sky. Someone may want to mention to Mother Nature the correct phrase is, “April showers bring May flowers.” All we have seen has been April showers and May showers. Looking at the long range forecast, June doesn't look too promising either.

Let me start by describing our property. We barely live in the suburbs. The city line of Buffalo is only a block away, but it’s still a different world. The house sits on a dead-end street; eleven houses total if you include the corner houses. They could swing both ways, I suppose. While we really have no front yard to speak of and the back is concrete and garden, we are blessed with a side yard. It’s large enough another house would be built on it, if we were still city dwellers. On the other side of the house is a concrete lot use for tenant parking for the multi-family house. Its owner, Barry , is a story in itself. Because of the spacing, we have the pleasure of not hearing the intimate details of our neighbors’ lives. The sounds of a baby’s cry, the chink of silver being washed or the meow of a pet cat in the window are all comforting sounds.

The yard is also a bit of a bowl. Not much, but enough to notice the water pooling. Once the over one hundred inches of snow melts, it stays there. You may have noticed water does not run up hill. There was enough water in the “pond” it would freeze nightly giving the little woodland creatures of the night a place to play hockey. Now that temperatures are above freezing; ducks have somewhere to play and I’m fairly certain I saw a beaver building a damn.

One day recently, I was told, sternly I might add, I should be wearing boots. My shoes would be ruined. She was right of course, but who enjoys carrying a bag or box with shoes in it? Then all this rain made me wonder why galoshes and overshoes are obsolete. Remember them? When I was little, I wore those cute little red galoshes with my rain slicker. Mom and Grandma wore black ones with fur in the winter and clear ones during spring and summer rains. They were even in the shape of the heel they were wearing! Men wore rubbers than slipped over their shoes. I admit, forty years ago, I mocked. Today, I covet. My shoes would sing my praises if I saved them from slush and puddles.

Now, at the end of May and Memorial Day weekend, I’m planting my small vegetable garden behind the house. I’ve purchased the squash, cukes, and tomatoes from a local nursery. I’ve even brought home an apple tree to plant! Until we meet again, I’m going out to be the happy gardener and play in the sun.

Wait, was that thunder? How hard can maintaining a cranberry bog be?

The Easter Miracle

The doctor had just left the room. As she lay on the cot in her son's ICU room silent tears streamed down her cheeks. She allowed herself only a moment of self pity; only a moment of weakness. In time her anger would surface. Until then, she lay on the cot praying for help.

Three year old Billy lay in the hospital crib with the high bars on each side. At home, he was sleeping in a big boy bed. His daddy was gone and his mommy was just told he had meningitis. Over the next couple weeks, Billy would go from bad to worse. 

Rooms in the ICU began to fill. A 60 year old woman, a cardiac patient, was admitted to intensive care because of the overflow in the cardiac unit. The doctor just left her room. Her daughters were just told here was no medical reason for their Mama to be in a coma. It was a mild heart attack, not much damage to the heart muscle.

There are rules to any intensive care unit. Only immediate family may visit. Visits are only for ten minutes at the beginning of the hour, unless the nurse your decides it is in the patient's best interests to have the patient's family visit a bit longer. Billy's mother had visiting hours at any time. She was also allowed to stay with him. But there are times when even mommies were not able to stay in an ICU room. Sometimes the patient and his nurses had to be alone. And during those times Billy's mommy and the woman's daughters would spend time together in the unit's waiting room. The exchanged to progress of both patients. Christmas was just around the corner and this was not what anyone had planned in way of a celebration. 

Shouting was coming to Billy's room. The sisters thought the worst. Going to the door, the older sister was ready to comfort the child's mother. They heard her saying, "Get out! Stay away from him! I will never give up on him. My God will never give up on him!" As the sister reached the door, she saw a priest slinking by. The sisters took the weary mother out to the waiting room. She told the sisters the doctors had told her Billy had severe bacterial meningitis. If Billy survived, and they were very doubtful he wouldn't, he wouldn't walk, he'd be deaf, dumb and blind. The doctor had suggested a priest come in and speak with Billy's mother. When the priest came in, he'd only told her it was God's will her son die and began last rites.

A week had gone by. The sister's mama was still in a coma. She still had not stirred. Billy was showing signs of improvement. The woman passed the following day. The doctor wanted the cause of death to be, a broken heart. Billy was taken off the ventilator the same day, breathing on his own. 

The older sister stayed close to the young mother. Billy had been released from the hospital. He couldn't walk, talk, ear or speak, but he was home. Billy and his mommy would visit the older sister often. He'd lay on the floor next to the sister's collie. Midge seemed to know there was something special about Billy. He would poke her in the ears, eyes, nose and mouth. Midge would lay there next to him, her paw always touching him. 

A little over a year later, just before Easter, Billy was enrolled in a school for the deaf.  He could see. He could walk. He was talking! He was still deaf, but with all those other Easter miracles, not a soul seemed to mind.

Harold

I recently purchased a book entitled 642 Thing to Write About. Basically, it's a book of 642 writing prompts for young writers. I am not young, but love to write.

I had decided not to do prompts in the order they are given in the book. I let the book fall open, close my eyes and point. Today's writing idea: Write a poem about a bird that is afraid of heights.

Harold was a very special bird.
His song could always be heard.

He spent most of his days by the pond
In the park which he was so fond.

When approached he never took flight
Because poor Harold was afraid of the height.

A Spiritual Teacher Missed

Over the years, you meet thousands of people. Some are only passing acquaintances. Others childhood chums from school days you forget the moment you move the tassel from one side to the other.  You have neighborhood friends you’ll never forget even if you never see them again once you move out of the hood.

And then there are those you meet who leave a mark on your life you never forget. All too often, they leave us before we are ready. Today, the Ides of March, is the birthday of one such person. Tom, happy birthday.

The Marstellers were new to our church back in the 70s, or was it the late 60s? If you were a teenager in our church at the time, they were a breath of fresh air. They became the meaning of fellowship for us. Tom was a father figure to us. Louise, although many called her mom, was more of a best girl friend who could keep your secrets. Tom, Jr. was the teasing big brother I thought I was missing.

In a time when the world’s morality was changing, Tom and Louise taught lessons from the bible that we were able to relate to.  I always pictured Jesus as the ultimate hippie spreading love.

They were also my MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship) leaders. We’d spend a sleepless night at the Christian young center downtown. Bowling, skating, telling stories and having a huge breakfast in the morning. And the camping trips! I went on my only snipe hunt camping with them. My first horseback ride was on a camping trip. Then there were the spaghetti dinners, the coffee house on Friday nights and Vacation Bible School. Layman Sundays each one of us was given a part to show our elders we knew rhe meaning of fellowship.

Tom and Louise gave to us that meaning of without any of us realizing it. Long after I grew older and had a family of my own did I realize how very lucky I was to have them in my life as a teenager. I also realized that time could never be recaptured. My daughter would never experience it. That spark just wasn’t there.

Not long before Tom passed away, I’d sent him a private message on facebook (how cool is it that Tom had a facebook) telling him how much he and Louise meant to me.

I like to think I’m a better person for having known them.