Friday, September 25, 2026

The Motorcyclist


 

 

My wife wrote some damn thing called Down the Stairs. I read a few preposterous pages. And yes, the publisher, another woman of course, managed to get it in several bookstores. But these days female writers could write The Maid Who Stole the Cat and it would make it on the best seller list.

 

The sadist part, it’s not the women. Middle aged men haven’t lifted a book since high school and only then one of those paperback ‘read it quick scams’ that can explain Crime and Punishment before you finish your beer.

 

 But, do I get my novel punished? Let’s not get into that or the reasons, nonsensical reasons.

And as I sit at my desk taping on the key board, a damn motorcycle jerk kills my concentration with a blast, thinking everyone loves clouds of nasty, loud, stupid so-called music. 

 

If I could get away with shooting his tires, you can bet that his damn life would end. But then a sweet note of success scurried through my mind.  

 

The next time, I’ll put a big heavy board in the street in front of my house. Let him choke on that.

 

I walked out my front door and yelled quite politely for him to quit the noise!  His response was a middle finger wave.

 

When I came back inside, my wife asked me, not so politely, to do something to stop the noise.

 

“Sure, I tell his wife on him.”

 

She threw up her hands and went back in her cubby and slammed the door.

 

Next day, Mr. Motorcycle waited until night fall. How clever! What a jolly fellow.  At least I wasn’t writing, and the noise was a relief from sitting at our dinner table suffering through my wife’s cooking. I raced out the front door, but he didn’t see me when he came roaring back.  I’d forgotten to turn on the porch light.

 

My neighbors were still gone on some trip. Who knows where. Probably it was somewhere to watch a cows’ annual milking festival. Joanne and her husband, Fred probably thought the cows were relatives. Joanne was their size, and Fred’s voice sounded like he was mooing. Maybe he had to moo to get his wife’s attention.

 

The next night, same motorcycle. My wife offered me her shotgun. I’m not allowed to have one after what happed to the couch. She was sitting there. Her hearing will ever be right.

 

I stood on the porch, with the light on, the shotgun braced against my chest. He roared by, then turned and came back again. Good thing I didn’t have any shells. I should have run to the road and let the stock rearrange his teeth.

 

Why do Motor-jerks have to be jerks?  They’re already stupid. That should be enough to stop them from voting.

 

Nothing happened for the next night or the next. Are we in luck? Had the man on the motorcycle dueled with a train?

 

Finally, once again; he must have recovered from the train tracks.  He raced by, making angles shout from the heaven. I looked out the window as he blazed by, giving me the middle finger salute. I thought he was on a one shot try, but he came back.

 

He skidded and flew over the handlebar! I ran to the front door. He was still in the street. Not moving.

 

Fred was standing over him with the motorcycle looking a little strange, with a rather large log beside it.

 

Damn! I didn’t know Fred had the guts! 

 

Didn’t know they were home!

 

An ambulance showed up. Don’t know what happed to the bike.

 

Cops came by. Fred blamed it on some tree harvesting yesterday. Good call. Lots of various logs were all over, but only one in the middle of the street. Hooray!

 

I shook hands with Fred twice and invited him and his wife to supper the next day.

 

My wife did the cooking. I didn’t really didn’t want them coming back.  

Wednesday, September 23, 2026

One Night, a short combat story

 


DaNang is called home to hundreds of airplanes from Air Force, Navy, Marine, Army, Vietnamese Air Force, CIA, and God only knows how many handfuls of government this and that. To say Da Nang is a big, busy base is like saying a hurricane is a nice breeze. Two long runways and everybody has to use them. Morning , noon and night.

 

Strange things could happen fling in combat in Vietnam. Weather does it’s best, Pilots get shot at everywhere they fly. Some make it back, but not all. Flying through heavy cloud cover can damage airplanes. Big mountains often hide in clouds and some poor souls find out the hard way.

 

And sad to say, some pilots break commonsense rules.

 

A young pilot by the name of Roy Bland, and his last name suited him, was on his third or fourth sortie over northern Laos, on a night mission. His backseater, Harry Smiths, had flown together six or eight sorties in Vietnam. Hard to remember exactly how many. Schedulers put names on the chalk board where they could squeeze them in.

 

Harry was busy studying the radar scope and ignoring a few dozen antiaircraft explosions, mostly too far away. Then they weren’t. Lighting up the moon.  One came close enough to rattle the aircraft. “Damn close!”

 

Roy said nothing.

                                                                                                                                                                 “Roy, did you feel that? Man, what a blast! Worried the little friend in my pants!”  Still nothing from the pilot, but everything seemed ok. Instruments in the back cockpit were smooth, then another close one, then a blast tried to turn the jet on its side! “Damn Roy, I know you heard that one!  Christ! Another! Zeus damn near lost his Sandals!”

 

Roy mumbled something, soft, then louder, almost screaming, “We’re gonna die!”  

 

“What are you talking about?”   

 

The jet dropped the nose for no reason. Harry grabbed the stick. Shouldn’t be falling out of the night sky!

 

The voice spewed out, “We’re going to die. We’re both going to die.”

 

Harry tightened his hand on the stick, pulled it back, getting the plane to what seemed level. “Let’s not die now. That’s for later, after breakfast.” 

 

“We’re going to die!” It sounded like Roy.  Harry still had the stick, still had the plane steady and level. But the hell! Maybe Roy had gotten pieces of shrapnel that had gone through the front cockpit. Maybe they really would be dying.

 

“You ok?”  

 

“Oh, my God! Dead! That’s what we are!”  The word ‘we’ finally scratched the surface.

 

Roy’s voice was normal, except what was coming out wasn’t. Roy wasn’t crying. In fact, he was calm, as if death wasn’t nearly as bad as not getting laid.

 

“Take it easy! I got the stick! I’m not dying and neither are you!”

 

The engines sounded perfect. Then the stick was jerked from hand to hand and the nose of the aircraft went down fast.  Real down. Ready to kiss the ground down! Even in scraps of moonlight, Harry saw nothing outside but black. No more antiaircraft guns following them.

 

 

Hey, Roy, how ‘bout you let me fly the plane.” Harry grabbed the stick. Roy didn’t fight him.

 

“Why don’t you just play with God’s gift to man, while I have the stick. We can just wait until we get to home plate and grab a beer.”

 

No answer, but must have his mind somewhere, if he still had a mind. Anyway, there was another problem. Hard enough to land a Phantom from the back seat in daylight. Even with runway lights and other lights around, it was still hard to put a Phantom on the ground at night.

 

Harry checked the fuel gage and the distance home. Looked ok. Both.

 

The stick pushed down twice more. He managed to talk him down. 

 

Finally, the base was in sight. But landing was still a big problem. Harry contacted the tower. “We’ve got a problem.”

 

“Roger, Bongo One. Say your problem.”

 

Roy spoke up, “What problem?”

 

“You feeling better?” Christ! Harry was not sure which Roy he was talking to! The one who was trying to kill him or the bastard who suddenly was once again a pilot. 

 

Time to take a wildly hopeful chance. “No problem, Roy. Put us on the ground!  Tower, problem solved”

 

“Rodger, you’re cleared.”

 

Then the damn stick went straight down!  Harry pulled.  

 

“Quit that shit! We’re going to get on th ground!” There wasn’t much leeway. Christ! Maybe two thousand feet. Maybe a bit more.  “Tower we got that Problem again!”

 

“Bong one, stay your problem!”

 

“We’re close to the ground!”

 

“Say your problem!” This time the tower was getting loud and determined.

 

“Put the Commander on! Right now!”  

 

“Roger!”

 

Lest than two minutes, “This is Colonel James! Say it all! Tell me…do it now!”

 

“Problem is he can’t fly the plane…thinks we’re going to crash!”

 

Colonel James took a deep breath.

 

“I can’t land!”

 

“Is he hurt?”

 

“Damn! He’s gone crazy. I’m going wet!  (Going over the sea)

 

“Let him talk to me!”

 

“I’m tell you Colonel, he doesn’t want to talk to me to you to anybody! He says we’re going to DIE! And I’m close to it!  Gone wet! Just pasted over Monkey Mountain.”

 

“I understand! Bale soon when it’s safe! Choppers on the way!”

 

Now the biggest guess. Bale out by himself, to drop in the water and maybe let him drown!  The F word echoed in his helmet!  “You hear me?” No sound.  “I’m pulling it! We’re going in the water! Choppers are coming.”

 

“NO! Don’t Pull it!”  

 

Christ the guy was nuts!

 

“Get ready, lean back now, Roy! We’re going for a dip.” 

 

 

“Don’t!”

 

Canopy Jettisoned, seat catapult and rocket boost, a flash and Harry was under a parachute over the ocean, followed by Roy a split second later!

 

Seats released and Harry found himself, floating in the dark of night. He looked for Roy, saw nothing but the lights of DaNang. No light near him. 

 

As soon as he hit the water, he released his parachute and made sure his vest was solid to keep him afloat. He called Roy on his radio. No answer. The water wasn’t too rough, but maybe just a little too rough to see Roy’s blinker. His was on. 

 

A chopper flew by ten minutes later. Lights washing across the water, and caught sight of Harry, then settled low and a rescue swimmer grabbed Harry and hoisted him up.

 

Colonel James met him in the hospital.  “Glad you made it back, but what was the problem?”

 

Harry hesitated. “I don’t know how to explant.”

 

“I understand. You jumped out of a airplane and landed in shark invested water.” The Colonel smiled. “You probably need some sleep.”

 

“No sir. I’m ok.” His eyes were wide awake. No way he was going to sleep.

 

“So what happened?”

 

The Colonel listened for a while. The smile disappeared.

 

The same helicopter picked up Roy Bland the next morning. He was severely tired and fell asleep on his way to the hospital.

 

The next morning, Colonel James told him with a smile it was great to have him back. Then came the very strange conversation.

 

“Sir, I really don’t know what happened. Harry…..my backseater kept saying something about we’re going to die.”

 

“You didn’t make the call?”

 

“No sir.”

 

“You didn’t call the tower for an emergency?”

 

“No sir.”

 

Very strange. Very weird.  The Colonel knew who he had talked to through the tower, or thought he knew.

 

“You didn’t say you’re both going to die?”

 

“WHAT?”

 

The Colonel went silent, but his mind was churning. Christ! Maybe Captain Smiths….Well damn if he could tell one for the other. 

 

The next day the Colonel spoke to several generals in headquarters, doing his best to explain the unexplainable. 

 

All up in the chain of command decided not to try to explain the unexplainable. But Colonel James knew better.

 

He sent Captains Bland and Smiths back to the hospital to separate them and let all the smart doctors take a shot at figuring it out. 

 

That didn’t work out well, tossing in and out everything they could cover. Perhaps combat fatigue. Perhaps normal excitement. Perhaps anything…

 

The aircraft was in deep water. The colonel in charge of aircraft mechanics spoke with those in charge and familiar with the working of control sticks.  Without seeing the aircraft, well….They knew the beast was good when it took off.

 

Eeny-Miny-Moe.  Colonel James sat in his office, looking out the window. 

 

His Chief Master Sergeant knocked. “Come in, George.” A pause. “What have you got?”

 

“Sir, there was something about a crash.”

 

“Two days ago.”

 

“Yes Sir. I heard there was a big problem. I might be able to help.”

 

“Great idea, Chief.”

 

The next night, two training ships took off. Harry was in one, with a solid pilot in the front seat. In the other plane with Roy as a pilot and a well-known instructor pilot in the back seat. 

 

Things were going well and then…After a two-hour flight, one plane called the tower for an Emergency.   The all 

Tuesday, September 22, 2026

I Watch An Ant

 





I watched an ant, a tiny thing going and coming 


Not caring the wind was blowing 


While I, was bothered by whispering leaves 


As drips of rain brushed my sleeves 


And yet the ant gave not a care 


Traveling without a stop, without a scare 


As for me, how much have I done 


Not a one, not nary a one 


Waiting lost among thoughts I dread


Then I watched the ant instead

Sunday, September 6, 2026

Is It Chili or Not? By the Careless Cook

 






To stop the rambling discussion that is surely coming, let’s just say, every cook already has a favorite chili recipe, and I’m sure as hell not going to argue with a Texan, which might end in gun fire. 

 

And to let you know, I do not have concealed carry. Not in my kitchen or a bar room.  My wife on the other hand.  Only kidding! At least on the concealed part.

 

Now that the tantrums are pushed aside, let’s talk about what I call chili, at least what I call chili today.

 

I am not only a careless cook, but usually a careless cook in a hurry. So, here it comes: I’m in a hurry for chili

 

Chili, in the Food Processer

 

Is it really a recipe? Mine is.

 

Ingredients, but always need to be adjusted according to taste.



 

At least of 2 Cups of your favorite meat (chopped) I used already cooked slices of beef

 

1 Half onion, peeled and chopped

 

4 Cups of water, plus 3 or four cubes of beef bouillon, or more water and bouillon if you need it

 

½ Cup masa harina to thicken, I usually use more because I like thick chili.

    

(Instead of buying masa harina, I put corn meal in my coffee 

grinder. Works well.)



 

2/3 cup of chili powder, more or less, judging by taste

 

A teaspoon of mustard seeds

 

A can of beans (I use pinto), rinsed. This is the one thing I do NOT put in the processer

 

Salt and pepper as you desire.

 

Add a pinch or two of cayenne, depending how much fire you like in your chili.

 

The Easy Part


This only shows the meat.



Put everything, except the beans, in the food processor. Turn it on and leave it on until it is thick.

 

Put the chili in a big pot and heat it carefully. Don’t let it burn!   Add more water if you need it. After it’s properly cooked, cover and leave the chili in the pot for a few hours, or overnight to let the flavors meld.

 

And don’t forget tortillas or tortilla chips!  And beer? Have mercy! And I like to wear a sombrero while my wife serves me with a, “Si, mi esposo maravilloso!” while sitting on my lap to offer another icy beer. 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, September 4, 2026

I Am a Protean

 


I am a protean and aren’t we all,  


Moods gather us like summer moths 


Our wings fluttering before dodging again 


Through the great green leaves,


To perch on a branch, until the  wind 


With another flutter of wings carriers us, 


In directions unknown, then gone again 


Our mind aquiver, our directions twisting 


Leaving only desires to guide us, 


Leading us, lost aimless in another direction 


To find another tree, another branch.






The word Protean comes from Proteus, an old sea god in Greek mythology. 

Proteus could change his shape.


It also means constantly changing.


Monday, August 31, 2026

The Glory of a Rock

 



A child holds a rock as though it were silver, 


Leaning down to see brightness more wondrous than sunshine,  


Such a wonder to his eyes held in small hands, 


Oh why have I lost the glow and wonder?


His eyes wide as he rushes to show his treasure 


No longer treasure in my impoverished mind, 


Wonders locked away in a remote control 


The beauty of rocks scattered through years


Tell the boy to stop picking up rocks?


And concentrate on growing old?  


But it can’t be said with tears in my eyes 


Tears from the years and  loss of my boyhood


May I hold  your wondrous rock?


It is beautiful but you are the jewel in the crown.


Let’s find some more before my eyes grow weak 


And your boyhood fades, and you become me.


Saturday, August 22, 2026

Oh, Love Lovely Love

   




 

Glimpses of love, red, blues of the rainbow, twisted longings,

 

Grabbing bits of carelessness, with stars passing through moonlight

 

Thoughts, and parts of ourselves we cherish follow us

 

And anger, is only love’s blackness shuffling away, 

 

That love may appear in brightness to gather within us 

 

Oh, love how thou doth trouble me with pics and promises

 

With whimsy and tricks, hand in hand only stunned by anger

 

Cherishing careless winds, unfolding as bold gifts for our heart

 

And still, I cannot know love, but with hope it finds me.