Message in a Bottle

Today was a nice day. The hounds and I were out walking near Blenerville and I spotted something unusual bobbing in the water. After a bit of coaxing, Lofty swam out and brought it back in for me.

It was my first real message in a bottle.

I can tell you I got a little excited about it. It was sealed at the top and some cling film and rubber bands had been secured around it. THe bottle had been painted and decorated with some roses and lace. I don't imagine it had been in the water longer than a few weeks because it was fairly intact. Mind you it had been in there long enough to build up a fair bit of slime and seaweed.

I could see the paper inside but the seal had gone and there was water in there as well. I got the top off and emptied it all out. Along with the messages were some lovely rose coloured beads. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble when making this.

So, here is what I found. There were two little cards that would normally go on a wreath for a grave and two other pieces of card. You know, that really touched me. Someone was sending a message out on the ocean for a lost loved one. I don't know if they were for someone who had newly passed on or remembering them on a special day. It might even be for a few different people because I saw a couple of names. One way or the other I thought it was a wonderful way to keep someone's memory alive.  You toss a bottle into the waves and who knows where it will end up, very much like a person's soul. All we can do is hope and hold wonderful dreams close to our heart.

It was hard to make out some of the words because the water had gotten at the card but here is what I could read.

To my dear angel, Mommy loves you always - Mom XXX

Thinking of you Lilly, you can stay as long as you (Last word unclear)

Early birthday wish that your at peace and dining amongst the stars XXX

My dear Tasha, hope you're with me, I need your guidence, love and miss you always - (Signature unclear) XXX

To my guardian angel, protect me from the claws of negative people,

Paper Chain

I'm Charlie, and I am four and a half. The half is important because that's how long I've been going to school. I was scared on my first day, and told my Mom I didn't want to stay but she made me anyway. I remember standing in the hall outside the classroom, and it wasn't like my hall at home. It was big and smelled funny. There were no clocks ticking, or coats hanging on the coat-tree and Snookie the cat wasn't lying in her bed. I think I might have cried, but I'm not sure about that. Anyway, like I said, that was a half ago, and a half is a long, long time.

It turned out that school was a great place to go. Teacher is really nice, like another Mom, but she dressed differently. We play games, and there are loads of other kids, not like at home where it's just me, Mom and Dad. There are rules, but not many, and they make us learn new things, but that's ok. I like learning new things, it's easy. Before school, I thought all kids were the same, but I was wrong about that. First off there are girls, now they're different. They don't like the same things boy's do at all. Some boys are different too. Some are loud, some are not, some push and shove, some play nice, and some can be mean; that I don't like.

My best friend is Simon, we do everything together. We sit at the same desk; do our lessons together, play together, and eat our lunch together. Simon is great, the greatest kid in the world, he could be even greater than me.

So today is Monday, and I'm very excited because Teacher said she'd have a big surprise for us on Monday. I'm dressed extra quick, eat all my breakfast, pack my lunch box, put on my bag and coat and Mom is still sitting at the kitchen table.

"What's the rush?" she asks, as she pulls on her coat and shoes. I do wish she'd hurry up.

"It's surprise day! Come on, Mom!" I say, taking her by the hand and pull her out the door. I try to make her run, but she's too heavy. She tries to keep up, but her legs are too old to go fast. Once I heard her say her legs were killing her, sometimes I worry about that, but not today. Today is surprise day. When I get to the classroom, I'm not even the first there. I hang my coat on my hook and go to stand beside Simon. Everyone is crowded around teachers’ desk where there's something square covered with a cloth.

"What is it?" I whisper.

"I don't know, Teacher won't tell until class starts," he whispered back. We spent the rest of the time before class guessing what might be under the cloth. I thought it might be a cake, I hoped it was a chocolate one with hundreds of thousands all over it. Simon thought it was a time machine because every now and again it started to make a noise. Time machines are cool, but I still hoped it was a cake. The bell rang, and Teacher made us all sit in our chairs before she took the cloth off the secret. When she did, it wasn't a cake, and it wasn't a time machine, it was a million trillion times better. It was two white mice in a cage, one of them was running around on a yellow plastic wheel making a squeaking noise.

"WOW!" said the whole class together, even the girls. We tried to rush forward, but Teacher stopped us. She said we had to be gentle. Two at a time, she let us up to see them. Once we all had a look, she told us all about them; how to feed them, give them water and to change the sawdust in the bottom of the cage. All that week we looked after the mice, and on Friday things got even more exciting. Teacher said she had another surprise. She said two responsible students could mind a mouse each for the weekend. Of course, my hand went straight up, but so did everyone else's.

"Miss, miss, miss, miss," we all chanted, but she wouldn't pick. She said we were going to play a game and the winners would get the mice for the weekend.

Games are great! I'm good at games. She gave out strips of coloured paper and glue and told everyone to make a paperchain as long as their arm. This was easy, we'd done this before. When everyone had their chains made, she held up a basket and said she was going to draw out names for partners. One boy held up his hand and asked, "You mean we might have to play with the girls?"

The teacher only laughed and pulled out the first two names. They went to the top of the class and Teacher secured their chains together, then attached each end to a kid’s arm. Teacher explained that we would have to mind the chain for the day, making sure we didn’t break it. The last pair to break their chain would win.

Teacher began drawing more teams. At last, she pulled out a piece of paper with, Charlie, written in red marker. I jumped up and down with all my fingers crossed. "Simon, Simon, Simon," I chanted in my brain, but it didn't work. The name that came out was, Tom, written in horrible, snot-green, marker. TOM! I didn't want to play anymore, Tom never won anything.

"Come on," said Teacher, waving us up to the front. I walked up, hanging my head and dragging my feet. Tom didn't look like he was excited about this either. As we stood there being chained together, I glanced over at him. He was bigger than most of the kids in the class but nearly never gave Teacher the answers she was looking for, but that wasn't why I didn't want to be with him. It was playtime. When he was in the yard, he was the loudest of all the boys, running around, pushing and shoving, always wanting to be first on the swings, or the climbing frame, and he even took things out of people’s lunch boxes and ate them. I told Mom once, and she said that was stealing which was a bad thing, and I should never do it. That's why I didn't want to be with Tom, he was a bad boy. When the chain was made, Tom went to go back to his chair, and I went to go back to Simon, already forgetting about the chain. We nearly broke it.

"Dumbo," he whispered when we got untangled. It was only then we realised we had to sit beside each other for the rest of the day. There was no space near Simon, so we had to sit at Tom's desk all the way in the back of the room. When we got there, he folded his arms on the desk and put his head down. I heard him say, "I really wanted to mind the mouse." He must have been talking to me, there was nobody else at the table.

"So did I," I said, and he raised his head a bit.

"We'll never win," he said, and he looked really sad.

"We can try," I said, and pointed at our chain. "Look, it's still together. We have a chance."

"You think?" he asked, holding up his hand with the paper chain attached.

"I'll try if you will," I said. I really wanted to bring home a mouse too. He nodded and went to rub his nose with the back of his hand, stretching the chain tight.

"Careful, you nearly broke it," I said, checking the paper for rips.

"Sorry," he said, and his face went red.

When lessons started, the first thing Teacher wanted us to do was draw a picture of any animals that lived in our houses. I got busy with the crayons and soon had a great drawing of a ginger cat with the word, Snookie, over its head. Tom had his hand covering his paper as he worked. I asked for a look, and when he showed it to me, it was just a load of blue circles going around and around.

"What's that?"

"It's a spider web," he said, shoving it closer so I could see it better.

"Wow, you have a pet spider?" I imagined a huge hairy thing, like the one I’d seen in the pet shop. Tom went red again.

"Not a pet, but there are loads in my house," he said, and tried to hide the picture again. I don't know why but I started to feel sorry for Tom. He seemed sad; having no pets was a terrible thing. I decided not to say any more about it because it was upsetting him. One by one, kids began forgetting about their paper chains. As each one ripped, they would say, "Oh no!" and hold their hands up to their heads.

Every time that happened, Tom let out a little giggle and said, "Ours is still ok." By the time break arrived, half the kids were out of the game already.

"Lunch," said teacher, clapping her hands. First, Tom and I went to my bag and got out my Spiderman lunchbox, then we went to Tom's bag and got out his silver one. The kids who were knocked out of the game were running and playing like always, and normally, Tom would be right in the middle of it. I was about to go out with everyone else when he held me back and said, "We better let them go out first." I nodded, and we waited till the room was empty. I saw Teacher smiling at us, she knew we wanted to win. We decided to go over to the sandbox to eat our lunch. We sat on the timber which held the sand back and opened our boxes. I got an apple, a small chocolate biscuit and two banana sandwiches, my favourite.

"What did you get?" I asked.

"Ham sandwich and a chocolate bar," he said, but wouldn't let me see in the box. He just closed the lid.

"Are you not hungry?" I asked.

"I'll eat them later," he said and bent over to put the tin at his feet. That was when two boys started wrestling in the sand behind us, and one went crashing into Tom, knocking him over. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I heard the rip as he hit the ground. He jumped up, but it was too late. He held up his arm and looked at the paper loops dangling from it. I thought he was going to cry, but he didn't. His face went very red as the boy who had knocked him ran away. He stood there and looked so mad; I'd never seen a kid look mad like that before. That was when he started shouting and running after all the other kids, pulling apart their paper chains.

Before Teacher could catch him, he'd broken every paper chain. Teacher marched him inside, and everyone in the yard was shocked at what he'd done. Nobody knew who was going to take home the mice now. My toe hit against Tom's lunch box, so I picked it up. The lid was open, I wasn't snooping, but there was nothing in it. No ham sandwich, no chocolate bar, only some crumpled tinfoil and crumbs. Tom was telling fib's as well. Why did he do that?

After the break, Teacher looked as mad as Tom had looked earlier. He was sitting alone at his table, his head resting on his hands and his ears were very red. Everyone was asking Teacher who was going to take home the mice and pointing at Tom saying it wasn't their fault he broke their chains.

"Sush! Sush!" she cried, until everyone stopped talking. "After what happened I don't think it’s a good idea that anyone gets to take home the mice today."

"What!" everyone shouted, everyone but Tom. Then everyone was saying it was Tom's fault; Tom was naughty, Tom was bold, Tom should be punished, but they should not. Teacher soon had enough and stamped her foot, stopping all the noise.

"I've decided to take the mice home myself, and that's the end of it," she said, crossing her arms. There was no changing her mind. I saw lots of kids giving Tom angry looks, and I felt sorry for him. They were all pointing at him and said it was all his fault, but I knew that someone had broken our chain first. Nobody seemed to think that mattered, but I did. I was still sad when Mom came to collect me, and I told her all about the competition and what had happened. She said that Tom shouldn't have done what he did, even if someone else broke our chain, it was naughty. I was thinking about arguing, but sometimes grown-ups just don't understand kids.

All weekend I wondered what the school mice were doing in Teachers house. I wished I'd got to bring them home and let them play with Snookie, but Mom said it might not have ended well, whatever that means. Anyway, Monday came, and I was back at school and excited to see the school mice again. As classes started, I saw Tom sitting all by himself. Everyone was still mad at him, and none of the kids would talk to him. It wasn't fair, someone had broken our chain first, that had to count for something?  Lunchtime came, and I saw Tom take his silver lunch box and go all the way to the corner of the yard and sit on the grass. I didn't think it was right he should be alone so I asked Simon if we should go over, but he was still mad at Tom and said he was a meanie. I looked from Tom to Simon and back again. Simon was my best friend in the world but what was happening to Tom wasn't right. Nobody should have to eat lunch by themselves. I stood up and walked to the far side of the yard leaving Simon behind.

"Hi Tom," I said, and sat on the grass beside him.

"Hi," he said and sounded very sad.

"You shouldn't have broken the chains," I said.

"I know. I'm sorry about that, but they won't talk to me." All I could do was nod because he was right. I opened my lunch box and saw that today I had an orange, two crackers with cheese and a jam sandwich. I looked over and saw that Tom's lunch box was still closed.

"What did you get?"

"Ham sandwich and a chocolate bar," he said, and this time I knew he was fibbing.

"I got jam; I don't like jam. Will you eat half for me?"

"Really?"

"Yea," I said, and handed him half my sandwich. His eyes grew big, and the sandwich vanished in two huge bites. His cheeks puffed out, just like the mice did when they were full of food. It was so funny I laughed out loud, and Tom grinned, his mouth still full of mashed up bread and jam. Some of the other kids in the yard looked over to see what we were laughing about but didn't come talk to us. After, I gave him one of my crackers but kept the orange for myself. We played together for the rest of the break, and when we went back to class, he gave me a huge smile and said, "Thanks for the sandwich, it was the best one ever." I went back to sit beside Simon, and he seemed to be mad at me now.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Tom's naughty, you shouldn't be friends with him."

"He's not so naughty really, he's just hungry." I could tell by Simon's face he didn't understand, but then how could he. He never opened his lunch box to find nothing inside.

Running for Home.

“Be back before eleven!”

“Jesus, Mom, I’m not a kid.”

“Eleven.”

“Alright already,” she said, slamming the door. God, she was such a worrywart; always nagging, always wanting to know where she was going, who she was meeting, what she was doing. Would the woman not get a life? She walked down the drive and around the corner, wondering if he was going to be there.

Toby was older by two years, a senior already, while she was still a freshman. When she caught sight of his ten-year-old dodge idling at the kerb her heart beat a little faster. She skipped to the car and threw herself into the passenger seat.

"Any trouble getting away?" he asked, checking his mirror and pulling out. He looked good, and the car rumbled sexily. The diamond stud he wore in his ear flashed in the dwindling sunlight, and his teeth were so white they could be diamonds too. She’d been bowled over when he approached her in the mall and asked her to a party. She knew him from school, of course, but he'd never spoken to her before. He was, like, so cool.

"OMG, she's like…unbelievable," she huffed, staring out the window in what she hoped passed for a wistful pout.

"You're here, that's all that matters. Did you tell her you were meeting me?"

"Nope. I said I was going to Shanna's, but they're away, so if she calls, the phone will ring out. Clever huh?"

"Sure was, babe. Tonight's going to be wild!" he said, throwing his chin to the roof and howling like a wolf. It was primal sound, one which plucked her animalistic strings. They drove into the evening, laughing like loons.

They drove out of Littlerock and onto the interstate. It hadn't dawned on her to ask where the party was, she just assumed it was going to be at someone’s house from school. Could he actually be taking her to a college party? Oh wow, imagine that. The girls would die of jealousy. She smiled over at him but he kept his eyes on the road. She wondered how she never noticed him looking at her before, she sure spent enough time watching him.

It was getting dark as they turned off the turnpike and started climbing up into the mountains. She didn't exactly know this area but she couldn’t imagine any college all the way out here.

"Where is this party?" she asked, looking across at Toby for reassurance. Surely, he would see how unsettling this was? He grinned as he guided the car through the twisting bends with one hand on the wheel and one resting on the back of her seat. He began stroking her hair, and his fingers played down the back of her neck sending electric shocks running down her back.

"Not much further, the rest should be there already."

That was something at least. She'd heard stories about these secret gatherings, where everyone would meet at a deserted barn or something, hundreds of people, with a DJ and beer and well... everything. A pop-up festival, that must be where he was taking her. He drove on, the road getting narrower and higher with every passing minuet. A thrill ran through her, this was living, exciting friends, new experiences, living on the edge. This was what she always knew she was destined for and this was what her Mother seemed determined she wouldn't have. The road ended in a small turnaround. They parked and Toby took a tent and a rucksack from the boot. They walked into the gloom with her dancing on his arm, setting out on an adventure of a lifetime. Fallen pine needles crunched underfoot, singing softly as they welcomed her into the darkness. Deeper and deeper they ventured, leaving light and normality behind. She strained her ears for the distant sounds of music, or voices, but all she got was the whisper of the wind through the branches. Her mind became giddy as she toyed with the notion that they were becoming extraordinary, one of the chosen few, those that lived above the world and beyond the pale. Life wasn't for living, it was for devouring, and she was starving.

A clearing appeared fire-light flickered, illuminating the lowest branches of the trees. There was no DJ with pulsing light shows, there were no throngs of joyous kids, all that lay before her were three tatty looking tents and four boys lounging on a log. Toby called out and they grinned when they saw him. One gave him a bottle of bourbon and he chugged greedily. None of them seemed interested in talking to her, it was as if she were invisible. In that moment every exalted feeling inside of her died and goose bumps sprang up on her skin.

"Where are the others?" she whispered in Toby's ear.

"What others, this is it," he said, with a dismissive smirk as he dropped his ass on the log and passed the bottle along the line of boys. After a moment he introduced her, but to her ear, it nearly sounded resentful, as if she were an uninvited guest at a gathering of friends. The others nodded and said, hi. one moved over a little so she would have a spot on the log. She sat down, and he leaned in against her, his jeans pressed against the bare flesh of her leg, protruding under her dress. She gathered the fabric in her hand and pulled it as low as it would go, which was not so low at all. They passed her the bottle, and she took a hit, the liquor burned her throat.

Night fell fully before Toby had the tent up and she couldn't help noticing he only unpacked one sleeping bag. Where was hers? Or was that meant to be theirs? She was no prude but she hardly knew the guy. Beer and whisky flowed as the hours passed. The boy's voices grew harsher and louder, the jokes got filthier. She tried telling them she had enough to drink but they kept insisting she take some, to get the party started they said. She felt alone in this gathering, crushed together on a fallen tree. One of the boys kept touching her, rubbing against her, and all Toby did was grin when it happened. When Toby went for a pee she followed.

"I think we should go," she said, seriously.

"Go where?" he said lasciviously and wrapped his arms around her, planting them firmly on the cheeks of her ass.

"Home," she said, pushing him off.

"Home?" he said, his face turning ugly. "I thought you knew how to party?"

"Of course, I do, but this isn't much of a party, is it?" she asked, waving back at the drunken teens spitting into the fire.

"Not yet, but things are going to get much better. You'll love it, they all do," he said, spanking her behind as he walked back to the camp. They all do? What's that meant to mean?  She followed him back to the fireside, watching him guffaw with his mates like a pack of hyenas. She had no choice but to sit back down and hope.

As the level of whisky in the bottle diminished, the lust-laden looks all the boys threw her way began to multiply. When the guy beside her slipped his hand between her thighs, she knew she'd been a fool to come all the way out here with a bunch of guys she barely knew.

She jumped to her feet, slapping the hand away, and demanded, "Take me home!" Toby just grinned. "Fine, I'll make my own way," she said, storming off in the direction she thought the car lay. As she left, they boys started cat-calling after her.

"Where do you think you're going?" Toby jeered. She didn't answer, and fear made her lengthen her stride. She knew there was danger in those guys, danger she didn't want to see before. That was when she heard them coming. They crashed through the bushes and howled like animals as they chased after her. She ran but she had no idea where she was headed. Every direction looked the same. All she knew was she had to get away from them.

The path she was following soon vanished and she had to force her way through the undergrowth, ignoring the sharp branches as they scraped her naked legs. No matter how hard she ran, they kept gaining on her. In desperation she leapt over a thicket and was shocked to find no ground on the other side. She crashed down a slope in a brain rattling roll until she was spit out onto a narrow strip of tarmac. She raised her eyes and was shocked to see a huge truck barrelling toward her. Breaks screamed and smoke rose from the locked-up wheels as the huge cab shimmied first left, then right, but always bearing down on her. She closed her eyes and knew she would never open them again.

She didn’t feel the wheels crush her or the grill rip into her flesh. Perhaps that was what dying was like? She opened her eyes and stared at her distorted refection on the chrome bumper of the truck. She let out a breath and the image before her fogged up. A pair of boots hit the ground and came running toward her.

"Are you ok, Miss?" he said, reaching down to help her up.

"Yea," she said shakily, but she wasn't one bit sure she was.

"You came out of nowhere. You could have gotten yourself killed," he said, the shock making him a bit sharp. She took a proper look at him and was surprised at how young the trucker was, he was little older than Toby. He had kind eyes and she could feel his work-hardened hands as her took her elbow. She couldn't think, so much had happened, her mind felt drunk, as if she'd downed the whole bottle of whisky not just a few sips.

High above them on the slope she heard Toby's voice call her name. It was like being slapped in the face by an invisible hand. She grabbed the trucker and pleaded. "Mister, could you give me a lift to the next town?" There was a quiver in her voice.

He looked at her and frowned, "You don't live up here?"

"No, Littlerock," she said, and watched him push his baseball cap back on his head in confusion.

"You're a long way from home."

"I know," she said, and felt her throat tighten up as tears threatened to come. She heard bushes rustle as the boys closed in on her. She had to get away from here, this man was her only hope.

"Gosh, I don't know," he said, as if she were the dangerous one, but then something changed in his features as he came to a decision. "I guess I can't leave you out here. Hop on." As she opened the passenger door, she heard the bushes up on the ridge shake, they were right on top of her. In that second, climbing into a truck with a complete stranger seemed like the safest thing in the world. Air hissed out as he engaged gears and the big rig moved off. As the wheels gathered pace the driver reached out and stroked a white rabbit’s foot that dangled from his sun-visor. Was this man saving her, or had she just made things a whole lot worse? She felt like she should say something.

"Thanks, so much for this," she said, but she had one hand resting on the door handle, ready to bail out if necessary. Only a few hours ago she could see nothing but good in the world, and now she could see nothing but danger.

"It's alright. How the blazes did you end up all the way up here?"

Something about the young trucker was comforting, and for some unknown reason she spilt out every detail of her story. She told about being invited to the party, and sneaking out with Toby, and the things that happened. She could see the young man's jaw clenching in anger she described them chasing her through the forest.

"You should have told your Mom where you were going? Do you know how dangerous that was?"

"I guess I do now, but I knew she wouldn't have let me go. She never lets me do anything. She treats me like a kid all the time."

"I guess to her, you are. And more important, you’re her kid. She only wants to keep you safe."

"I guess, but she can't keep me locked away forever."

"And what about your Pop?"

"Don't have one," she said, looking down at her scuffed and bloodied knees.

"Course you do, everyone has a one."

"Well, not me. Mom never talks about him so what kind of a Dad is that?"

"A bad one I guess," he said, and she saw the pained look on his face. Something she’d said hurt him.

"Have you any kids?" she asked, trying to take the spotlight off her. The young trucker changed in a second. It was as if someone turned on a million-watt bulb in his soul.

"One, kind of," he said, grinning ear to ear.

"How can you…kind of…have a kid?"

"Well, that's why I'm in such a rush. My girl has gone into labour."

"Oh my GOD! That's amazing," she squealed, and she saw him reach out and touch the rabbit’s foot again.

"It is, it sure is," he said and sounded flabbergasted by the enormity of it.

"Do you want a boy or a girl?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't care, as long as they are healthy. I've never been so scared in my life. I still feel like a kid myself." he said, letting her see a little of his own insecurity.

"You're not married?"

"No, my girl's parents won't stand for it. They won't even let me see her, but I'm not missing this no matter what they say." There was determination in the guy, she could see it. He was little older than she was but this was a man, a real man.

"Your baby is lucky to have you," she said, and she meant it. The young trucker looked over at her and gave her the happiest, saddest, smile she had ever seen. In the reflected glow of the dash, she was sure she saw a tear.

They rolled further down the mountain, and she realised not one other car passed them. It dawned on her how lucky she had been to fall out on the road at the moment she did. A minute earlier, or later, and she would have been trapped with those animals. The thought of all the things that might have happened made her shudder. As if sensing her fear, the trucker looked at her and smiled. Then he reached out and stroked the dangling rabbit’s foot.

Soon, the road levelled out, and the trees vanished. In the distance, a small cluster of houses appeared, and a half dozen street lights lit up the dark.

"You can leave me here," she said, sure the man would want to be rid of her.

"I'm passing Littlerock, I can drop you home," he said.

"You sure you don't mind?"

"Don't be silly," he said, and drove through the sleepy cluster of buildings. The interstate was near empty at this hour of the night, and as the miles passed, the trucker seemed to lapse into thought. Out of the blue he reached out and stroked his furry charm, and she asked, "Why do you do that?"

"What?" he asked, a little confused.

"Rub that?" she said, pointing at the talisman swinging from sun-visor.

"Oh, it's my luck. I rub it for luck, or sometimes to remind myself how lucky I already am."

"So why did you touch it that time?"

"I was thinking of my baby, and I got scared."

"Oh."

"Yea, and my girl. It’s a big thing, and I'm not there to help. Even if I was, what could I do?"

"Just be there, I guess. Do your best," she said, and wondered where those words came from.

"Ha! That's true. You're a bit of a genius," he said, teasing her.

"A genius who nearly got herself raped or killed by being stupid."

"Well, there is that," he said, trying to be funny to take the sting out of the truth.

She could see in this man, what she saw every day in her Mother, but wouldn't acknowledge. Like him, her Mom was just doing her best, trying to make sure her baby was safe. She looked back on the way she acted; how spiteful she’d been, and all the harsh words she said. She felt more stupid than ever. When she got home, she was going to make all that right; she promised she would. She looked over at the young trucker and for some reason she felt safe with him, safer than she’d felt in a long time. It might have been the rocking of the cab, or the shock, or the warm air coming from the vents, but she couldn't stop herself drifting into sleep. A second passed, or possibly two, then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Your home," he said, smiling at her. Through her sleepy eyes, she thought he looked like a young Johnny Cash. Outside the window was her house, with all its lights burning. It was late, must be at least four in the morning.

"How did you know where I live?" she asked and yawned.

"You told me, then went back to sleep, don't you remember?" he said with a grin. She didn't, but she must have done.

"Thanks so much, for everything," she said and pulled back on the handle. Before she got out, he leaned over and handed her the rabbit’s foot.

"What's that for?" she asked.

"Luck! And to remind you of me," he said, as she climbed down from the truck.

As she looked up at him, she knew he was someone she'd carry in her heart for the rest of her life. "I'll always remember what you did for me," she said, and closed the door. Air whooshed from the breaks, and the tuck glided away from the pavement. She watched it go and felt terribly sad. It was like losing a friend she'd known her whole life, even though she’d only known the trucker a couple of hours.

She began walking up the path when the front door leapt open, and her Mother came rushing toward her. She braced herself for a telling off, but her Mother grabbed her in a huge bear hug. She kept saying, "I was so worried," and crying.

"I'm sorry, Mom," she said and hugged her back. She hadn't felt this close to her Mother in years.

"Where have you been? What happened?" she asked looking down at her grazed knees and scraped skin.

"It's a long story. I'll tell you inside, but I'm ok. Nothing happened, well nothing too bad." Her mother raised a hand to her mouth and all the colour drained from her skin. Together they went inside and closed the door on a dangerous and spiteful world.

She sat on the couch and started to tell her Mother about Toby, and how he asked her to the party. Her Mom looked so frightened she reached out and took her hand, forgetting she still held the trucker’s lucky charm. Her Mom looked down at the little white piece of fluff and seemed even more shocked.

"Where did you get that?" she asked, taking the key ring and examining it very closely, her eyes growing wide. 

"I was going to tell you; this young trucker came along and kind of rescued me. He dropped me home and gave me..."

"His luck," said her Mother, finishing the sentence for her.

"Yes. How did you know he called it that?"

Her mother didn't answer but instead asked, "What did he look like?" and her words trembled.

"Nice. Good looking, really. He was young, about twenty, tall, skinny, jet black hair, and a nice smile. I thought he looked like Johnny Cash."

The words were no sooner out than her Mother began to sob and rushed off toward her bedroom. She was shocked and chased after her trying to explain that the trucker had been the one to save her, it was Toby and his mates that tried to hurt her. She arrived in the bedroom to find her Mother scattering old photos on the bed and searching through them frantically.

"What is it Mom?" she asked, but her Mother wouldn't, or couldn't, get an explanation out. Then she found what she was looking for and handed over a black and white photo with trembling fingers. It was the trucker.

"I don't understand," she said. What was her Mother doing with this?

"I should have told you; I should have told you years ago," she sobbed.

"Told me what?"

"I was so young, so very young," she cried. "I loved him so much. He was good, a real good boy. Then I found out I was pregnant and my family went crazy. I needed him so much, and he just vanished. It was the hardest time in my life."

"You're saying this guy I met, was my Dad? That's impossible. He's only a few years older than me," she said, thinking the shock of everything had knocked her Mother off-kilter, making her see things that weren't there at all.

"No there's more. You see the night I went into labour I was terrified, and even though he had abandoned me, I needed him. I got a nurse to get a message to his family but he never showed up. He broke my heart. That day, when you were only minutes old, I held you in my arms and vowed you'd never need anyone but me. I was going to be mother and father to you, seeing as your real Father didn't want to be there."

"And you were…you are. I'm sorry I made things so hard for you, I really am," she said, seeing how much her Mother had sacrificed for her, but the story wasn't finished yet.

"It was all a lie," said her Mother.

"What was?"

"He never left me. He was driven away by your grandfather. I only found out years later. My Father threatened him; told him he'd take me away unless he left me alone. I don't know why he did it, but he did. That night, the night you were born, my message got through and he was coming, threats or no threat. He drove across two states like a maniac, trying to make it on time, but he never made it at all. He wrecked on the interstate; died instantly. I should have told you but you were already six, and I had told so many lies, I didn't know how to tell the truth. I'm sorry, I should have told you about your Dad. He was a good man, and he always reminded me of Johnny Cash too."

"It couldn't have been him. He's dead," she said, struggling with all she had learned.

Her mom held up the rabbit foot, "This was his. I knew it the moment I saw it. He called it his luck."

"That means..."

"It took him fifteen years, but he made it." her Mom said, and wrapped her arms around her. As they hugged, she lifted the rabbit’s foot from the bed and stroked it. Deep in her soul she always had a feeling, it was like she was never really alone, and now she knew why. He'd been there, he'd always been there, watching over her and when she needed him most, he appeared. Her hero, her Dad.

Let There Be Light

I was told a story by a Kerry legend, that I found so funny, I had to share it with you today. The teller of the story is Mike Bunny, Bunny not being his actual name, but that is a whole other tale.

Now Mike is the kind of fella who could tell you if a cow calved anywhere in Kerry, what time it happened, and if it had been a boy or a girl. He was having a cup of tea at the bar while I was telling a wayward tourist that the Blackvally outside Killarney was the last place in Ireland to get electricity and that had been in the 1970's.

"Yea, that's right," piped up Mike, "But did you know that Killarney had Electric Street Light before London?"

"Jesus, never!" I said with a dismissive wave of my hand.

"As true as I'm standing here. Not sure of the year but it was late ninety's, eighteen ninety's that is. Years before most of London had street lights. The Killarney Electric Light Company was right there in the middle of town, and it ran from a mill on the river."

"Rubbish," I said, but the tourist was hooked.

"Really?" he said in awe.

"Would I tell a lie," asked Bunny as if he were highly offended. The tourist shook his head and gazed on with puppy dog eyes.

"I even know a story about the first house with an electric light in the town," he said sipping his tea.

"Go on, you better tell us," I said and admittedly I was a bit hooked myself.

"Well, I was told of this young lad, about seventeen, who got a job down the creamery, and it was at the same time. He wandered down from the mountain with every stitch of clothes he owned in a cardboard suitcase no bigger than a woman's handbag. He secured lodgings with old Annie Guthrie, who happened to have just installed a new electric light in her kitchen. She gave the young lad a hearty meal and fixed him a lunch for his first day of work and was about to retire for the night when she asked the lad, "Are heading up?"

Now he'd never before been in a town as big as Killarney and was still agog at everything. His mind was buzzing with excitement and sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. "I'll stay up a while longer if you don't mind, Missus," he said.

"Not at all, just put out the light before you go," she said and climbed the stairs. A few hours later she was woken by cursing and scraping of furniture in the kitchen. She jumped out of bed and put her housecoat on and rushed down, noting that the kitchen light was still burning brightly. She pushed open the door to find the young creamery worker standing on the table with the red-hot light bulb in his hand and a look of fury on his face.

"What in the devil is going on?" she demanded.

"This house be haunted, I'll not sleep a night under the roof," he said, jumping off the table and regarding the woman with terrified eyes.

"It's not haunted you Amadán!" she snapped.

The boy pointed at the light and with terror in his eyes said, "I've been blowing on that lantern for the last two hours, and it won't quench, if that's not witchcraft, I don't know what is!"


With that, the boy dashed up the stairs, grabbed his meagre belongings and fled the house with Mrs Guthrie's cackles ringing in his ears."

Mike took a sip of his tea, and I had to admit there were tears in my eyes from laughing.

"Good story," I said.

"It all true," he said and waved a good by before leaving the pub.

I just had to find out myself, and sure enough, the Killarney Electric Light Company was set up and operating with full street lighting before 1892. Don't you live and learn?

Tragedy

The writer's group I attend, although not nearly often enough, picked the word tragedy as a story prompt this week. 

When I saw it, I said, "Easy," sure most of my stories have something tragic in them. I started ticking them off in my mind, I could use Five Little Fingers, which was a half poem about a child lost in a terror attack, or I could use Eamon's Monument which told the story of a husband lost at sea, or I could use Christina's Story which was a double tragedy dealing with a young woman who was attacked and the death of the man who came to her aid. Realistically I could have made a case for most of my stories to date and to do that would be pure lazy in my eyes.

I decided to find out what tragedy really was. 

Did you know the word is derived from the Greek word Goat?? Me either. Apparently, there is no explanation for the link between goats and sadness, but on considering it, they do have mournful faces.

So what does the word mean? A tragedy is an event causing great suffering, destruction and distress, such as a serious accident, crime or natural catastrophe. Can’t argue with that.

It also means, a play dealing with tragic events and having an unhappy ending, especially one concerning the death of the main character. Given that definition, a few of my stories are classic tragedies, and not just because of the terrible writing. 

So there we have it, that is the tragedy, but what is its essence? That required a little thought, so I settled down with a coffee and pondered. 

Recently I had an interesting conversation with a very attuned person about the need for hardship in life. I must admit, I believe a little bit of strife is good for the soul, it’s the teacher of lessons, it makes us value the good times, and it allows us to survive where we thought we should not. I think we're too quick to bemoan the small obstacles life throws in our way and it seems to me the more privileged we are, the greater we complain. In my mind, I could hear an expensive top, shrunk in the wash, described as a tragedy, or a missed aeroplane, or a flat tyre on the motorway. Are we too quick to label our lives catastrophes when the word was meant for so much more?

How can our designer disaster compare with the sinking of the Titanic? 

In what way does a delayed journey put us on par with the millions of soldiers who never came home? 

Never will a deflated wheel parallel the anguish caused by 9/11 or Hillsborough or The St Stephens Day Tidal Wave.

It’s time to use a new word for our troubles, one more suitable for their scale. You know, the next time I’m tempted to describe something in my life as a tragedy, I think I should pause and ask myself, am I just being a goat?