The time will come when everyone would be gone.
The gold would be separated from the silver, and only then,
you would learn that all that glisters is truly not always Gold.
The finest things always, always comes to us in the most Humble, unselfish and unexpected ways.
Some friends are only for a time, there are those who just needed your time.
Then there are those who are worth more diamonds and pearls…lifetime friends are what they are called.
Few true friendships remains in this world…life gets harder when we fail to choose what’s right-fully ours.

Fighting for someone means something, but fighting for some one special says; Everything.
When a friends tells you its ok that you’ve fallen, pray and get back up again…instead of walking away cause you’ve fallen, it says something.
When you have a shoulder that you can lean no matter the circumstances, no matter time nor place, it says something.
Neglecting a true friend is punishing one’s self… its setting your self up for disasters ahead.
Only true friends tell you honestly when you’ve done wrong. A friend sometimes sees more than a brother or a father.
Changes are good. Most times we can’t see when there’s a need to change. If you ever see that need take heed.
Sometimes its just best to make some changes. And a true friend is a gift from the man who knows best.
The Alpha the Omega…the creator of all things…

angel.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Friends.

See the man walking down the highway.
He wears only ragged shorts and worn-out shoes.
His hair is long and stringy,
His skin is like leather, beaten by the sun over many summers.
He walks the highway from one end of the lake to the other.
A common sight on any day, he is known as Nature Boy,
But his real name is Paul.
Sometimes he looks old, sometimes young,
Most times ageless.
No one knows where he came from.
Some say he is a millionaire
Who lost his family in an accident.
Now he walks the highway and sleeps by the tracks.

One day I offered him a ride.
He looked into my window,
A scared child, apprehensive, untrusting.
“Paul’, I tried to assure him, “It’s okay.
It’s okay, Paul”.
Hearing the sound of his name,
He relaxed some, and climbed in.
We rode in silence, he, very still, barely moving.
I did not ask him how far he was going,
He didn’t tell me; he didn’t have to.
I had watched him each day,
I knew his routine.
I stopped at the place where he always left the road,
He climbed out, saying nothing,
And watched as I drove away.

He was found by the railroad tracks.
Some say he died in his sleep,
No one really knows.
He was just a character, a curiosity.
But for me he was a person, a brother, a friend.
We had shared a brief moment in time,
In silence, but still we had shared a moment.
I had looked into his eyes; I had seen his soul.
To this day it haunts me.
Who was Nature Boy?
Who really was Paul?

by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Nature Boy.

The last three chapters:

Part I

Etta and the Lie

Etta had just moved in with Jeffery when the lying began. She had told people that she was childless, married for money and lived a upscale life style. The trouble was she could not remember what was true and what was not. She knew she had a family of children but when she told Jeffery she had 10…where did that come from? Ten!!! She knew it was not true. She knew that no man would get started making babies and not stop until there were ten while married to her. She would have not been that good of a mother.

She did know that she came from stock that did not see the fault in telling lies, using people and getting what they wanted without a thought about the consequences.

Her sister, Mary, had never left the home place on the other side of the swinging bridge. She did not see the need for it. She was much older than Etta and had endured her childhood with an eye to survival.

Mary had kept a place in town on the corner of a block near the church and close to the last child in the family. Blanche was the one that really made the money. Several men were left with a dime in their pocket and Blanche had it all.

So Mary’s house in town was beautiful, white with grand trees around it. The community had come to call her Aunt Mary and she wore a bun on the back of her head that was white and perfect. The antiques in her house were exquisite. She was a member of the local sorority ladies and invited speakers, pianist and men with authority to come and make a presentation afterwards. Local teachers boarded in the upstairs corner bedroom, down the hall from hers and respectability oozed from every pore.

In the little community where Etta, Mary, Blanche and Wesley were raised there was a history, a lurking under current of evil that one could only guess at. The people lived with it like those people that live close to disaster zone live…aware and blind at the same time. Third and fourth generation families were living there and if a new comer asked for the truth, there was no way to explain it all. What was, was.

So as Etta began to think about home… she knew that there she could be herself if she wanted to. She could let her guard down and choose to tell lies or not. People there were accustomed to the unlikely and warped.

Jeffery and his wife were beginning to be suspicious. While Jeffery wanted her to be his mother, live in the back room, his wife was not for it at all. They had both made it happen but they were beginning to wonder if they would live to regret it. If Etta were to go as she had come, without warning or notice, they all knew there would be a sigh of relief. And Etta knew that it was what she had always done…when things got uncomfortable, when she made her own bad luck, she left and created a new personae. Maybe the time had come. There was only one thing she needed to do before she went…she needed to tell the truth just this one time.

Part II
The morning had dawned with a huge bang. Somehow the cellar door had been left open and the wind was blowing across the back yard, whipping it back and forth. It had waken the baby sleeping across the room. Jeffery raised his head from the pillow reluctantly when he felt his wife jabbed him in the ribs.

What??? It was always that way with him…the choices or dilemmas saw him to running away. He had a difficult time facing what was to be faced. In this case the baby seemed the most important but then his wife guided him in the direction of the door and headed toward the crying baby herself.

There was something that did not seem right when he walked through the kitchen and out the back screen door into the yard. He could not remember the last time they has been under the house. “Why would the cellar door be open?” he wondered as he removed the twig that held it open? When he glimpsed inside, all seemed to be in order. He smiled at the thought of order as he peered over broken lawn mowers and twisted lawn hose. After he closed the door he stumbled across the lawn toward the back door. He needed to have his cup of coffee.

That was when he realized she was gone. The coffee was cold and her chair sat empty, the paper was not on the table and her slipper sat cold on the floor. He ran down the hall to her room. The bed was neatly made and he knew when they looked in the cellar next time the glasses and her suitcases would be gone. It caught his eye in the darkened room and when he walked closer he saw that there was an envelop on the bed.

He sat down with a groan. He didn’t call his wife. He knew she would have guidance to offer him. She might even be happy about Etta’s quick departure. He couldn’t face that, not now.

He held the envelop in his hand and waited before opening it. He knew that Etta had a story to tell…or at least she needed to clear a few things up. But now that he thought he had the answers in his hand, he was not sure that he wanted to know. She was too much like him. They thought and looked alike. It was so strange how she knew about him without really knowing. Then it came back to him…the night she came to the door, strange yet somehow familiar. The words…”your father said we looked alike”.

At the family reunion they had never really connected and his father acted as though he and Etta had never met when they were reintroduced. Etta, for all her maneuvering of people had never made a move to even get to know him. “She might have been overwhelmed with the crowd,” he thought. But she had not even looked at him. He really didn’t recognized her on that night she came to his front door.

So what had she meant…”your father said we looked alike”. He looked at the envelop in horror. On the outside were written the words, “The Truth”. Who was she? She had been there for over a year, living in his house, helping guide his children and he had not sensed who she was…well not really? The envelop grew hot in his hand and he began to cry. He wept for the mother he never knew, for never having brothers or sister, for the lost opportunity, for himself. He did so want her to be his…he wanted her back, he wanted to know she was safe and not in danger. He did so want all that. He began to open the envelop when he realized that he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t know, not ever. The reasons for her coming and going, the realization of what that held in the ebb and flow of his life…he did not have the courage to face it. Not today he said. She will be back. At least he had had her for a while, he really had loved her eccentric ways and colorful lies. He could see her gray hair and the bag she brought the groceries home in. He heard her singing “Save the last waltz for me…” and dancing around the kitchen humming “blue suede shoes”. He decided he would just pretend. The truth was not necessary..

Dad, the next to the youngest said, “Where are the potato chips. Did you know the peaches are rotten. Aunt Etta has been at it again!”

Part III

Etta was standing in the airport in Boise waiting for the red car to pick her up. Wesley had loved the car. It was the last one ever made like it and became a symbol in the neighborhood where he lived of his eccentric nature. Etta always smiled during those years she live with him when she heard whispers from the patio of the next house. They thought he was a bit crazy and called him the “looney one”. He had raised a garden on the curb until the uproar got to be too much for him then he moved it to the back lot and built a very large compost bin. He did not really use it but it annoyed the nexts on both sides and he like that.

The red car had been in storage and when she called the care takers at the house they had it serviced and were to bring it to the parking lot. The instructions were for them to park in the north west corner of the structure, leave the keys in the ignition and leave. She didn’t want to see them. Wesley was gone, the house would stand empty until Jeffrey decided to tell his wife about it and the inheritance. Jeffrey had never known about her or his mother. She just wanted to keep it that way. So she took the car and began driving west.

The valley was steamy with summer sun gleaming on green fields. The river wound through the fields until it left the road where she drove. The hill that lifted from the river stood between her and home. A cemetery lay at the top and remnants of a golf course could be seen. A cross marked where graves of pioneers had died and the sagebrush was limp in the afternoon sun. Cheat grass had turned a shade of purple in the dry heat. As she came over the crest of the hill she could see the houses of those she knew. I’ve had done the right thing, she thought.

There were two beautiful white houses in the town. One was owned by a prim school teacher and her book keeper husband. The other was owned by Etta’s sister Mary. The two knew each other well but had never set in the same room or even exchanged pleasantries. One was Methodist and the other Catholic.  One was upstanding the other pretending to be what she was not.

Etta drove slowly down Jefferson Street and stopped in front of the beautiful white house in the shade of the Elm trees. Mary came to the door holding the keys in her hand. They didn’t talk…now was not the time. Too many years and not enough sharing had led to blank stares. There was nothing to be said. When Wesley had died and Etta couldn’t be found, they thought she was dead. In a way she was and always would be. But now the keys were in the ghosts hands and the red car drove away slowly returning to the house across the river.

The swinging bridge was still there. A garage that had served as the storage of sorts had been cleared and the red car pulled into its cool refuge. She pulled her two bags from the trunk and walked across the bridge again. This time though she was not afraid. Everything that could have possibly happen to her had happened and she was turning all that misfortune, lying, striking beauty and angry retaliation inward. She was happy to be free at last to live out her life with herself. She didn’t feel guilty…not in the least. After all the river and the swinging bridge had taught her everything she needed to know.

b

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Etta.

I wish I were an Eagle

Soaring high in God’s blue sky.

Effortlessly flapping its wings

Taking it ever high.

Surveying the earth beneath 

Sharp eyes taking all in

Searching a likely prey

A tasty meal for him.

Swooping swift as a bullet

Feathers fluttering in the wind

A hare, a fish, a bird

His talons soon will win.

Back to the aerie

Three hungry chicks to feed

With mouths wide open

Ingesting nourishment they need.

His daily chore completed.

His family will survive.

Then back to Gods vast range

To swoop, and soar, and dive.

Oh, for the life of an Eagle

What freedom that must be?

Oh, for the life of an Eagle

Knowing you are free.

Tom Fenning

7/22/2005

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Flying high.

Pouring Out Your Heart

Saying what is really in your heart

Indeed, a very difficult task.

All kinds of things pass through your mind

And asked to explain

 Would be rather hard to impart.

How do you tell someone?

How much you love them

Without becoming emotional

 Tripping over every word uttered sincerely

From the heart.

There are so many different kinds of love.

There is lovers love.

Spousal love.

Family love.

Children love.

 Grandchildren love.

Great grandchildren love.

All covered under love

But with different degrees of intent and emotion.

 The most important thing

Is the fact that you openly display your love.

Love can be shown just by

Showering each other with dignity and respect.

Love is also shown

With looks,

 Words

And treatment.

Disrespect is the poison

That kills love.

(Tom Fenning)

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Pouring out your heart.

September 11, 2001,
The day the world stopped.

I sat watching the pictures in disbelief,
Knowing in my mind what was happening,
But in my heart, believing this could never be.

My plan that day was to buy a new computer,
But instead, I sat there watching the pictures,
My insides hollow,
My mind numb with disbelief,
Fear,
A sense of loss,
My innocence gone.

It seemed a sin to go out shopping,
While others were dying,
To be wanting something so material,
While others were losing everything.

So I just sat there,
No longer wanting to watch,
But unable to tear myself away,
Just watching and watching,
As the same images were played,
Over and over,
And over again.

I finally bought my computer that day,
My life would not stop.
I could not allow them to take it away.
My life would continue,
Though it would never be the same again.

The next day I went to work,
Taking the many phone calls
From those trying to leave the stricken city,
Or those trying to get home to families.

Every call was different,
Yet every call was the same.
Everyone was calm,
In an eerie sort of way.

No one wanted to talk about what happened,
I’m mean, what could they say?
Everyone had seen the pictures,
Everyone had felt the loss,
The sorrow,
The pain.

I took over a hundred phone calls,
One after another,
From every part of the planet,
From people just wanting to get home to loved ones,
Even if they already knew they were safe,
Just to hold them,
To tell them they were loved.
There would be no family quarrels today.

That evening I sat in front of the television
And hid myself in a bottle of wine.

by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The Day The World Stopped (911).

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ย ย ย ย Wintertime on the farm was always looked forward to with great anticipation, because it meant less chores and more time for recreation. When the snow began falling, I felt a certain satisfaction, because it meant endless skiing and horse drawn sleigh rides to all corners of the farm. Our dapple mare, prancing in front of our huge red sleigh, seemed to be enjoying the ride as much as the riders. The horse and sleigh fitted with sleigh bells added to the glorious ride with the jingle, jingle, jingling of the bells.ย In the freezing weather, and the chill that always accompanied our sleigh ride, the thought of hot chocolate and hot apple cider was always looked forward to with gleeful anticipation. Sitting in front of a roaring fire, fed by apple wood logs with their magnificent scent, drinking hot chocolate, and apple cider is an experience that will last a lifetime. Although the outside weather was bone chilling, our home was toasty warm. Sleeping at night under soft, feather filled, comforters always guaranteed a restful sleep, which always accompanied our adventurous sleigh, rides. Winter also brought with it days of celebration such as, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year. The wonderful cooking odors in our little farmhouse around the holidays would be hard to describe. How can anyone describe heavenly smells? Roasting turkey, apple, peach, and pear pies. Mashed potatoes, candied yams, peas, corn, string beans, and cranberry sauce. There was always enough food to feed the thirty or more friends and relatives that attended our food fest.

ย ย ย ย

After such a sumptuous repast, it is time for conversation, because many of our guests had not seen one another since our last holiday. Talk is usually about new births; weddings, divorces, promotions and the gamut runs from A to Z. The saddest part, for me, of any get together is never in meeting; rather, itโ€™s when friends and loved ones have to depart. There is something inside me that is heart wrenching, and I have never been able to decipher what brings on this melancholy feeling whenever family and friends gather and then depart. Out of all the holidays, I likeThanksgiving best, because there is no hype associated with this holiday. No one is trying to sell you anything. None of the guests are expecting any gifts. None of the guests need bother to wonder what gift to bring. Itโ€™s just a good old fashion holiday where you come, enjoy a good meal and be happy.

ย ย ย ย On the other hand, Christmas is strictly a holiday that should be celebrated in a purely religious way. It is the birthday of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. We should take all the commercialism out of Christmas. The solemnity and true meaning of this sacred holiday should supercede the expense of gift giving. Presents are nice to receive; however, many families are already burdened with the expense of rearing their own families, and cannot afford the added expense of buying presents for other family members.

ย ย ย ย

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย All the retailers have already relegated Christmas to the scrap heap, because they have already taken Christ out of Christmas, because they spell it XMAS. What should this tell us???

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ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย New Year is another day to be celebrated because it brings in a New Year, and hopefully a new beginning of a prosperous year for everyone. This is another holiday that needs restructuring, because many people treat this wonderful day of new beginnings in a ribald manner. Instead of seeing the New Year with bright eyes and bushy tails most view it through black or rose colored glasses, because this cuts down the glare on bloodshot eyes.

Thomas Fenning

Dec-05

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This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at A city boy’s dream of farm life.

Everyday was just the same; I said she couldn’t come,
My days were busy and I hadn’t time,
To hold my baby on my knee and tell her how I felt,
Or have a cup of her ‘pretending tea’.

My days were full of things to do and people I must see,
With meetings, shops and sometimes interviews,
And she would have to understand that Daddy’s days were full,
And she would have to wait ’til he got home.

But even then there wasn’t time to listen to her dreams,
Or watch her as she showed me how she danced,
And when she went to bed and asked if I would read a book,
I said, “Another time and maybe then.”

Another day; I’m in the car and heading off to work,
And in the rear view mirror I see a face,
It’s no one that I recognize or anyone I know,
A woman with a tear upon her cheek.

And then the image changes and I see a little girl,
Who’s calling for her Daddy to be there,
To see the woman she’s become while he was working late,
And tell her that he loves her all the same.

Now it was just a vision, but I turned that car around,
And went back home to where my baby was,
And picked her up and held her tight and told her I was there,
And took her to her Daddy’s work today.

by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at To Her Daddy’s Work Today.