There are a lot of reasons Donald John Trump slithered into the Oval Office forty-seven months ago. And a lot of reasons he’s headed for the door next month when Joseph Robinette Biden is sworn in. You didn’t know about the Robinette thing, did you? I’ll admit it doesn’t have the same mudslinging frisson as Hussein, but it’ll do.
Anything’ll do, really. It is instructive to remember most MAGAs (You shall know them by their red-stained pates.) did not blink when told, “Remember, what you’re seeing… is not what’s happening.” That sort of phrase perfectly encapsulates Trump’s world view. Although no coherent view of the world is possible for a solipsist. (Solipsism is like narcissism on acid. Not like hippie acid, like Alien blood acid.)
Mr. Trump’s followers don’t tend to have (nor care to possess) a reasonable, objective, defensible view of reality; many believe the earth is less than ten thousand years old. Once you’ve swallowed something like that it’s not much of a leap to the notion that 50% of Guatemalan five-year-olds belong to a South American gang. A gang they had to commit first degree murder to join. As has been tirelessly pointed out by the fake news media (and even several earnest members of the organization) MS-13 started in Los Angeles.
And anyway, everyone knows it’s really the Salvadorans you want to watch out for.
Trump will of course continue to operendi his modus; fleecing the faithful and avoiding the cross-bar motel. (A skill he taught to remarkably few of his lieutenants.) Defining those who voted for Trump as either idiots or deplorable is a mistake. What they actually are, is pissed. Perhaps a majority of them were born that way. That’s not going away when Trump carries Melania across the threshold at Cruella Castle in County Palm Beach.
When the scarlet-tops get wound up – they’re worse than a bunch of ACLU pointy-heads railing on the death penalty. Greenpeace will keep you from cutting down a tree by putting a spike in its trunk. The Proud Girls will simply shoot you in the head.
As Dick Nixon might have put it, “NOW, we’re getting somewhere!”
Except that we’re not. The party might continue, but the guy with all the coke and whores has split, Jack. Ever since the premier episode of “Who Wants to be POTUS?!” when Trump and the soft-core First Lady descended from the skies on Big Otis, the MAGAS have sent the ratings through the roof.
But look guys, the Network didn’t pick up the series for a fifth season. What can I say? Write your Congressman.
But wait, what’s that slick new reality show on Facebook and YouTube? Something about 18,000 socialist poll workers toppling a government. The first episode was free but if you want to see the more please go to www.trump.com/one-born-every-minute.html/
Have a valid credit card ready. I’m told the new series will be renewed every season, as long as the MAGAs continue to finance the shooting costs and producer’s override.
Not that anyone cares, but those who’ve worked in a U.S. polling place knows ‘stolen’ votes are as common as virgin births. But these are the same idiots that believe in the safety of 5G and think chemtrails are made of condensed water.
The lippy drunk at the end of the bar has finally gotten tossed out on his ass by an eighty million pound bouncer strapped with nuclear weapons. Will he get nabbed for P.I. as he stumbles out to the car, or maybe return with an AR to teach the bouncer a lesson he’ll never forget?
MAGAworld is certainly welcomed to keep buying tickets and staying tuned, but that big bouncer’s been working the door here for nearly 250 years and one’s kicked his ass yet.
If you don’t count Ho Chi Min.
Like any rapidly aging drunk with too much money, Trump’s next move is as unpredictable as it will be excruciating to witness. My best guess is that he’ll end up hawking stale launch codes and shooting scripts of the Zapruder film. That means either a long reservation at the Julian Assange suite in the Kremlin… or ending up as a door prize for some lucky MS-13 member at Leavenworth.
Whatever happens, there’s no way they’re ever letting him back into that bar.
One more thing …
Trump: ‘What You’re Seeing and What You’re Reading Is Not What’s Happening’
IS IT TIME TO NEUTER ZUCK AND THROW HIM IN A PIT SOMEWHERE?
What the Would YOU do with Thirty Billion Dollars in Your Checking Account?
MarkyMark & Prissy Zuckerberg plot the torture and dismemberment of California governor Gavin Newsom while appearing to listen to him on a Zoom call.
By Mark Lee Mark Lee is a CPA and business consultant who writes about politics, economics and culture. He lives in Maui but makes frequent trips back home to Texas. He once portrayed Jeff Lebowski in a corporate video. You can reach him at mark@maui.tax
To be honest I never liked this little pricksicle.
Hating on Zuck – a nickname which misses the word “suck” by a single letter – has entertained millions for over a decade. If you think it’s because we’re envious of his dough, well look at the big brain on you. The difference between me and The Other White Mark is that I am jealous of his money – but he is not jealous of my possession of a soul.
I’d also like to take a moment to make clear that I’m not jealous of everything the boy has.
Like his hair.
Or Wuhan Bridezilla up there. Wowzers. A quarter trill sitting in the office safe… and you end with this chick?
Must have a hell of a personality.
Before you start in on me… I don’t believe in leaving innocent spouses out of things like this. And if you think calling a defenseless, innocent, thirty-five year old Asian multi-billionaire Wuhan Bridezilla is some fucked up, MAGA, racist bullshit – – you’d be right. But I cut and pasted it from Zuck’s website – http://www.facebook.com – not mine. So I’m just quoting when I say Wuhan Bridezilla- and nobody can culture cancel you for that. Can they?
Sociology teaching moment: Innocent spouses are rare. More rare than Facebook posts by Nazis about killing Jews in any event. Less rare than US election news and analysis from the Internet Research Agency in your FB “news” feeds. Zuckerberg to world: “I got your feed right here…”
QUICK: WHICH WEBSITE IS THE BIGGEST SUPERSPREADER OF MISINFORMATION ABOUT THE CORONAVIRUS PANDEMIC?
I’m not going to apologize for what follows, because it comes from a genuine place. I’m speaking from the heart when I offer “feedback” to the worker bees at Facebook. It may be a black heart, but it’s my heart. Look, in all fairness to me the little bastards asked for my “feedback”. Should you ever decide to offer “feedback” to Squad Zuck, please exercise extreme caution. Feeding(back) the spawn of a chimpanzee and a wraith is extremely risky. It can bite your fucking arm off at the elbow and use what’s left as a bloody straw to suck your soul (viz. your ‘personal information’) out of you. Hey, speaking of soul sucking billionaires…
How many hours did you spend on social media last month? Have you ever considered that you could’ve spent all that time lying in a warm bath staring at the open straight razor sitting in the soap dish thinking about other cool stuff you might do instead? I’m only saying that life offers a cornucopia of possibilities other than spending fourteen hours a week as an unpaid research subject. Your breathtaking generosity with your time and your humanity has put enough money in the pockets of that guy up there who looks like he’s seconds away from going full Ted Bundy… that he can afford to move to Mars. Which is probably a much more suitable place for him. He could frolic around up there in the low gravity and CO2 breeze with South African CRISPR experiment Elon Musk.
It’s hardly a coincidence that a lot of billionaires are headed for outer space – and you should be rooting for them. These guys aren’t planning on letting people like you come with to Mars and that’s actually the good news. These delusional little demi-gods may believe they’re running from the disaster of planet earth but what they’re really doing is running to a different place where they can create yet another disaster.
We’ll all be doing much better down here without the Insane Clown Billionaire Posse sharing our ecosphere. I predict we’ll be amazed at how successfully we can all get back to the business of being actual human beings again. Instead of lab rats. The time when people like Jeff Bezos and Bill Gates are safely consigned to vacuum of space can’t come soon enough. How about we lock the door and turn off the radios when they split?
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(WASHINGTON DC) – There’s a saying in the Corona virus infested K Street watering holes frequented by the remaining West Wing Bunkerkommando.
“This must be what it feels like to be the grabbed p***y.”
Those still sucking oxygen from the puss-filled political corpse of Donald John Trump, outgoing forty-fifth President of the United States, are beginning to smell the rising water. Even the President’s children are said to be panicking.
Speaking of the demoralized lame-duck president, one anonymous source remarked,
“He’s reduced to figuring out who’s giving him better advice: The guy talking to pigeons on the park bench, or the eighty-year-old man in the convenience store parking lot with a bible under his arm, screaming at an ice cream sandwich.”
Here’s a recap of what we know about the latest thinking from the President’s most trusted advisors – as well as his sons.
Uday: The acting CEO of the President’s businesses has suggested to his father that he is perfectly willing to kill himself in an act of protest. The 36 year-old Trump has offered to dress in a saffron robe and MAGA hat outfit, then set himself on fire in the Rose Garden.
Although sources say the president’s middle son is “ready to strike the match” the president is having second thoughts about the plan, reportedly telling advisors in a rare display of caution, “It sounds like a great idea in theory, but I’m scared it would, you know, backfire somehow. What does Stephen Miller think?”
The president’s chief concern appears to be that if the younger Trump somehow botches the job (which aides say is likely) the president would “[get] stuck having to appear concerned about a dying son – something he really doesn’t have time for at this point.”
Qusay: Known as the president’s secret weapon in communicating with his base, the eunuch scion of the Trump dynasty has offered to become, according to a source, “an actual weapon.” The source says the plan involves “his elephant gun, his first wife, and Kimberly Guilfoyle” in something code named Sloppy Seconds.
Speaking on the record, Trump son-in-law Jared Kushner said, “It’s a fun plan, but as everyone knows, even Donald Trump is not a big enough moron to listen to his sons.”
As we filed this report there were unconfirmed reports the president’s eldest son has entered a rehab facility in Idaho for issues described as “stimulant abuse and anal insertion of army men.” It is unknown whether the army men the source referred to were the little green plastic ones, or actual members of the United States armed forces.
Jared: Known to command more respect from the president than his sons, has suggested the president order Treasury Secretary Mnuchin to authorize a one-time, COVID related grant to Kushner Companies for eight billion dollars. A source present at the meeting where the suggestion came up said the president responded to the Kushner Companies heir, “I like the idea, but what does it have to do with my plan to seize control of the military, mobilize a MAGA Army, and impose dictatorship on the United States?” Kushner reportedly replied, “Not all that much really, but doesn’t it still sound like fun?”
The President is said to be considering his son-in-law’s plan closely.
Ivanka: So far the president’s bean can fondling daughter, who officials frequently describe as a poster child for nepotism laws, seems to be in the driver’s seat. The Marlboro huffing, former fashion model is a feared presence not only in the Kushner household but in the West Wing as well. She has been largely dictating her father’s no-nonsense, Evita Peron inspired opera buffa response to his convincing electoral drubbing.
While some predicted Ivanka would be a moderating influence on the Trump White House, she is widely known inside the Administration as the sharp elbowed idealogue with came up with policies like family separation, DACA Taunting, and the idea some have said she is most proud of: Tormenting the widows of political enemies.
“Anyone who gets on the wrong side of that little lady can lose a gonad or two,” a highly placed Trump administration official said. “Just ask Jared.”
When contacted for a comment regarding the intrigue surrounding fraught circumstances surrounding the current presidential transition, a spokesman for Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Mark A. Milley responded this way, “So far we’ve never had to evict anyone from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue… but you’ve seen the movie Zero Dark Thirty, right?”
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The Wonderland of Lights Outdoor Christmas Market vendor registration is open for both weekends of Dec. 5 and Dec. 12 from 10:00 am to 6:00 pm.
A booth space is $30 per space for approximately 10×10 for one day. Electricity is not available. Tables, chairs and canopies are the sole responsibility of the vendor. Merchandise should be limited to holiday decor, crafts/homemade goods, stocking stuffers, and gifts items. Only one consultant per brand.
There is no admission cost for shoppers.
*** COVID- 19 Safety Precautions ***
– We are committed to the safety of our merchants, citizens, and guests. We will continue to stay informed on the most recent regulations in place and will further adapt any events as needed.
– Vendor booths will be spaced a minimum 10 feet apart from one another.
– Social distancing will be observed by shoppers and vendors.
– A capacity limit on each block may be established.
– There will be no food product sampling.
– This event is subject to cancellation depending on the condition of COVID-19 in our community. In the event of cancellations, vendors will be fully refunded.
The Ginocchio would like to introduce its General Manager, Brantley Price. Welcome aboard Brantley!
Brantley Price
Brantley brings years of food, beverage and management experience to the re-opening of The Ginocchio. There are a number of unique challenges in operating a restaurant like The Ginocchio in these very unusual times. We are confident that Brantley and Chef Reynaldo can lead the charge in overcoming these challenges and can guide The Ginocchio back to the highest levels of excellence in dining, cocktails and service.
Some have asked – why not reopen The Ginocchio, just as it was? While we are very proud of what Chef Reynaldo and The Ginocchio team were able to achieve in our first run, we also recognize that providing that special Ginocchio experience while also maintaining the highest standards of safety for our customers and our staff requires a great deal of fresh thinking. The times have changed, but our Mission has not. Brantley and The Ginocchio will find a way to adapt and evolve and achieve that Mission.
For those of you who were predicting our demise, sorry – The Ginocchio is reloading and relaunching with every intention of serving our loyal customers for years and decades to come. Positive things are happening in Marshall, and we are proud to be part of this historic community. Pandemic, social unrest, polarization – let’s work together to address these challenges, while respecting all members of our community, regardless of ethnicity, background, gender or religion. Our Mission requires no less.
The Ginocchio will be announce its reopening schedule very soon. Bear with us as we work to get things right for you. We look forward to serving you again soon!
The Ginocchio
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Editor’s note: George Smith is a co-founder of Marshall’s Wonderland of Lights. He recently sent me this article. It’s something we should all think around.
Traditions, good traditions, the ones that make us smile, that give our kids and grandkids pleasure, that bring back fond memories should be cherished and protected and embraced, revered even.
Marshall has such a tradition, one that is more than 30 years old and has brought more people to this city and produced more smiling faces than any other event…ever.
The Wonderland of Lights is not another festival; it is an institution that must be preserved, changed to fit the times and cultivated with love and reverence.
When Wonderland of Lights was conceived, Marshall was in the midst of the worst economic period since the Great Depression. There were more empty storefronts downtown than were occupied buildings; 18 of the top 22 retail establishments had given up and locked their doors.
From Day 1, the Wonderland of Lights was never about “lights”; it was about the spirit in the hearts of the special people in a special place called Marshall. As co-chairman with J.C. Hughes, Jr. for first five years of the holiday lighting festival, I have a personal bias in making sure the festival not only stays viable…but grows as it glows annually. A vast majority of the citizens embraced the concept of Wonderland from Day 1. And from the onset, the Chamber of Commerce, Tony Bridge at the radio station, and the News Messenger pushed the idea because it served as a beacon of light in a dark era of the city’s history.
What was so special about Wonderland of Lights?
One night in the first year, I was going around the square, replacing burned out bulbs and talking to visitors. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman and four children get out of a car. Something made me watch them. The kids, 10 to about four years of age, were running around under the lighted trees and staring gawk-eyed at the courthouse with its 100,000-plus lights.
The woman watched them and, suddenly, slumped to the ground. I ran over to check on her. “Are you okay?”
She looked up and big tears were coursing down her cheeks. “This is just so beautiful. This is just so incredibly beautiful.”
Her story tore through my heart.
Her husband had left, walked out of the marriage a few weeks before; she had no job, no money and four small children. And Christmas was less than a month away.
She looked up at the lights. “This is our Christmas! I bring the kids up every night and let them run and play and marvel at the beauty.
“It’s all they’ll have this year for Christmas.”
I turned away on the pretense of getting something to write on which gave me time to wipe my tears away.
I got the lady’s contact information that night and the next day started a “telephone tree” to see if folks could help.
Within 48 hours, the spirit of Marshall rose up: The lady had a job, free day care for the kids, enough money to keep the rented house outside of town and utilities, groceries, and abundant Christmas presents and clothes for all the children. This newspaper gifted her with a Christmas tree, lights and ornaments and a shopping trip to local merchants.
The spirit of Christmas. The spirit of Marshall.
Fast forward a few years. There was an incredibly likable high school girl who volunteered to help string lights and work at the old city hall stage on the intricate task of making light panels in chicken wire.
She was happy, helpful, diligent and hard working. She always carried a smile on her face to share with others.
One night she didn’t show up to work; we learned she had been killed in a car wreck.
The day after her funeral someone put up a small decorated Christmas tree at the gravesite; one of her friend, knowing she loved teddy bears, put a small bear in a glass jar by her gravestone.
The tree and the bear were stolen.
Within a couple of days, there were five small, decorated Christmas trees and more than 10 teddy bears in jars surrounding her gravesite.
The spirit of Christmas. The spirit of Marshall.
Of course, there were detractors for the projects, aginners who didn’t like change, who didn’t like the Chamber or the newspaper and went out of their way to make their feelings known. One lived in a very nice neighborhood and when all his neighbors decorated their houses and landscaping…this resident held on to an intense curmudgeonry with a fierce determination.
About the first of December that year, the resident left on a family vacation and returned to find the house and landscaping ablaze with thousands of tiny white lights, courtesy of his neighbors, who even ran extension cords to their homes to provide power.
The spirit of Christmas. The spirit of Marshall.
Wonderland of Lights is not about Christmas lights; it never has been. Don’t let the special spirit diminish. Embrace and enhance this tradition that only Marshall possesses.
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This Father’s Day is different for me. Why? I am a year older but was true in that situation a year ago.
The last 24 hours has caused me to question everything I believe or think I know. The present global pandemic and ensuring isolation and cloying anxiety and fingerlings of depression (plus some inner-most personal, tumultuous thoughts) created a need to examine my “here” and take a mental inventory of my “now” and ask hard questions about my very existence and my overall worth to myself, my family, my world.
A personal humanity laundry list emerged from my musings, not just for me, but for others as well. Take it or leave it, it’s now out there and my sunshine today is ultra-bright.
Happy Father’s Day to everyone.
We know first hand about the dilemma associated with race, this big story about how people go out of their way to be judgmental, mean-spirited even, to those who are different or who chose to be appear or act differently
Shame on those that see color before humanity, gender before value, sexual orientation before good deeds, religious affiliation (or atheism) before reverence for the emotions of the human heart, or nationalism over the needs of fellow human beings.
We are all of one creation…of that we should all agree. even if we disagree on a distinctive singular path.
That is a start.
Be kind today and every day after. If you do that and I do do that…it is the start of a movement that can change our world for the better.
Be kind. Today. Every day.
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As major milestones in life approach, it’s been my style, so to speak, to do a personal inventory of…me.
Who am I? What have I done? What have I done that has been worthwhile, that has contributed to the betterment of the community at large?
I have been a part of amazing and worthwhile developments: Jason, Mattie, Brandie, Cameron are my proudest co-accomplishments.
But on a more earthly, human level, I am a writer. I must write to truly feel alive.
I write because I must, because the thoughts that swirl inside need freedom. That does not mean I am personally Trump-proud of the words that flow or that I want readers to heed my words as the Gospel According to St. George. To me, writing is an addictive obsession, a harbinger calling to read, research, analyze, think.
I have never written a single, focused phrase (or blurred one, for that matter) trying to change anyone’s mind. Ever.
But if any words that have ever passed through my fingers caused one person to truly “think” about their situation, belief or preference, then I believe I have accomplished something worthwhile.
Too many people today do not think, being content to be in the lemming-clan, kowtowing to mass-think, relieved to be released from the tiring process of reading, researching, analyzing, and thinking.
As my 75th birthday closers in, I thank God I never fell into the trap of just reacting and following the herd and … not expressing my hopes, dreams, opinions and beliefs in a straightforward manner, warts and all.
At this time in my life, all is good.
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Frankie Roosevelt said, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” Grandpa said Mister Frankie was always right about everything, so I figured I could do this thing.
* * *
By Lad Moore
From a distance, the Ming House was almost obscured. Wisteria vines had encircled it three layers deep, their tentacles winding through broken panes then retreating back outside in search of sunlight. The vines resembled the arms of an octopus, but not yet revealing if its once-gentle caress had now become the grasp of a constrictor.
The porch, unpainted and un-repaired for decades, sagged to the earth on one end, making the whole structure appear to be on incline—like a carnival fun-house. The clapboard siding had long since given up its whitewash except at the roofline where eaves had protected it from generations of rain and wind. The same overhang gave residence to years of wasp nests that dotted it like pimples on a powdered face. My friends would never venture even as close as the curb; insisting, as with most other old houses, that it was haunted by the owner.
Grown-up Northsiders claimed that Mr Ming had simply moved away when his business closed after the Great Depression and the lean years that followed. They said he moved to Dallas to live with an old maid sister—a sister he oddly called Aunt Dora. He never came back, just opened the place to its star boarders—pigeons, field mice, rat snakes, and maybe the odd hobo on overnight leave from the nearby Texas & Pacific tracks.
But my friends would have nothing of it. “Ming stayed around to get even with the bankers who abandoned him and took his store,” they claimed. “By count, four banker men met death at his hands, each having been strangled with piano wire, their heads sorely chopped off. And he kept them heads in a steamer trunk. Bet it’s still there.”
“Who said?” I asked.
My friend Benny Smitherman ventured that the details of the murders could be read in “them annals” they keep at the old Carnegie Library. “I seen the papers, and my dad read the foul accounts to me when we had scary-story hour on Friday nights after the boxing matches went off TV.”
“Old Ming haunts and soils that place,” Benny continued, “He got away clean because when they electrocuted him he didn’t die. The law says if you survive the volts, you are a free man; you can’t be fried twice for the same crime. So he roams that house dragging an old leg chain as a souvenir—‘the unchained butcher’ he’s called. He never so much as lights a candle at night. His green-marble eyes can see in blackness. His hair is a white shock of wheat—like that of a Cap’n fresh off’n the sea. Just last week the paperboy said he saw Ming in the upstairs window making a choking gesture. He’s in there, there’s no doubt. Bet you a dollar.”
I doubted the tale, but there was an eerie coincidence. The Flash Gordon serials at the Saturday matinee featured a character also named Ming, archenemy to the rocket ship hero. That Ming was a dweller of darkness too, and he cultivated some evil friends known as the Clay Men. Ming was a horrid sort who wore a black cape with a funnel neckline. His Clay Men would ooze out of the cave walls and do whatever bidding he asked of them.
My grandpa scoffed at the very idea of murders. For that matter, he said to heck with the boys’ further claims that Ming House was protected by demons just because it sat directly across from Greenwood Cemetery. It’s true that Greenwood was a cemetery long in neglect of care because no one claimed responsibility for it. Graves of sunken earth and tumbled tombstones spoke ill of the reverence it should hold. Over time, vandals roamed it freely, stealing the rusted iron fences and ornamental gates that once encircled many of the graves. Three years back a tornado skipped through the grounds, and the downed trees and debris still block many of the narrow aisles, preventing much of any access to the site. Almost no one visits the graves there anyway. Many are unmarked and rarely if ever do the tombs get adorned with holiday flowers. I’ve walked the area more often than any of my friends, searching out the giant black and yellow grasshoppers that favor the place. Even with my tame cemetery experiences, I would never venture into that place at night. I remember reading somewhere that “Graveyards are safe in sunlight, but haints lift up after dark.” That quote rings louder than anything President Frankie Roosevelt might have said when he was out politicking.
The sun was half-mast to the horizon. My friends and I sat across the street from Ming House, lined against the perfumed privet hedges that were the border to property owned by the Baptist College. Four crows perched to our right on the cemetery fence, barking their protest to the coming darkness that marked the end of their feeding day. Crow bellies are never full. They will eat both flesh and greenery; and they will chase away any other critter to lay claim to the food, even fighting off their own kind. I have to admit I didn’t like the crows being there.
The sun was finally gone and with light becoming scarce, we began to talk back and forth in whispers. It just seemed the natural thing to do under the circumstances. We were there to scout for any sign of Ming. It was just us four cub reporters, looking for a story long just rumored.
Nightfall also ended all street traffic. By now, everyone in town except the four of us had sat down to dinner, with Lassie on the television in the next room. We were alone, and just a silhouette of the house was visible across from us. It was unnervingly still and quiet. I had expected crickets would be serenading the few lightning bugs that usually speckled the sky, but nothing stirred. I could smell the house. An old house holds the fragrances of past life, and couples them with rotting wood long exposed to elements. It is a sweet smell, certainly not an odor that an evil old man who never bathed would emit.
Another hour passed and still nothing moved. One by one the boys began to desert me for home, certain of a scolding and a cold supper. Now alone, I walked across the street and stopped at the rotting picket fence, its gate long collapsed. The sidewalk beneath me had been pushed up toward vertical by the massive magnolia tree roots underneath. I touched the rusty gate hinge, and it swung away with a squeak. It was darker in the house than out, so I could see all the way to the back door, like looking through a dimly lit tunnel. I was studying the house when I thought I heard a creak—like the groan of a stressed timber. Maybe the fingers of the wisteria had tightened their grip. Then the air turned noticeably cooler. I headed for home, looking behind me every ten steps or so to appease the hair that bristled on my neck.
We came back to that spot four consecutive nights. Nothing was ever any different, and such a constant state soon emboldens the spirit. With my friends looking on, I crossed the street again and again, each time venturing a bit farther up the sidewalk. I finally reached the porch and with great trepidation, reached out and touched a wooden column with my finger. It reassured me to have touched Ming House and not have immediately been disemboweled by demon Clay Men slinging rusty scythes.
I heard a noise from behind. My friends were running off in the direction of Hendry’s Grocery two blocks away. Hendry’s was like the hub of a spoked wheel, a central spot where each of us met and later split off in different directions home.
My attention returned to the task. There were rusty cans and broken bottles on the porch, evidence of some traffic. Having reached the threshold of the steps, I decided that tonight’s achievement was conquest enough for now. Like a crab, I backed down the sidewalk toward the gate, not wanting to turn my eyes away from the house. At the street, I headed home. None of my friends were waiting for me at Hendry’s.
Benny Smitherman claimed that since we last met, he had been elected Chieftain of our group. I hadn’t even seen so much as a ballot. He said that it was the will of the group that I lead them in solving once and for all the question of Ming House. In honor of my bravery thus far it was suggested that an assault on the house next Friday the Thirteenth would further enhance the adventure and give us unequivocal credibility with the public. Further, we would all sneak out and meet at Hendry’s just before midnight. In so doing, we were flaunting all the traditional curses at once. The News Messenger headline would read:
“Local Youths Debunk the Legend of Ming House. Governor to Award Medals of Valor for Un-Haunting Premises.”
“I ain’t going inside alone,” I said. “I might fall through some planks.”
“We’re with you. It’ll take all of us to stand proper guard.”
It was misting on the night of Friday the Thirteenth at eleven-thirty. Parents sleep especially well in gentle rain, so slipping out through the bedroom window was easier than anticipated. At Hendry’s, I saw only Jimmy and Nels. Benny was missing. “Where’s the Chief? I asked.
Jimmy answered, “He saw a double feature this afternoon. A Roy Rogers and Nellybelle one, and a scary movie called The Thing. I bet he’s under his cozy covers dreaming about that luscious Dale Evans.”
We waited several minutes longer for Benny, then walked on to Ming House. Each of us brought flashlights with fresh batteries. I checked the pocket watch that Grandpa had given me. It was one minute before midnight. The mist looked like smoke drifting through the flashlight beams as we blanketed the house with light. Leading the way as assigned, I was first to place a foot on the porch. It gave a bit under my weight but did not break. I stepped up to the screen door and peeled it back. The front door was slightly ajar, and its hinges squealed as I pushed it farther open. I looked behind me. Jimmy and Nels had linked their arms together. I put the flashlight under my chin so they could see my grin. They immediately separated.
The open door led into what was probably once the parlor. The room was empty, and the far end led into a hallway. I started through the doorway, shining the light on the floor beneath me, wary of broken boards. Suddenly I felt a tangle of cobwebs and began swatting at the strands. It felt like I had shoved my face into a boll of cotton candy but it was not at all sweet. I’m certain I felt a fat spider in my palm as I batted the air.
Some sort of howling creature dashed between my legs, brushing my calf. I turned quickly to see a yellow cat nearly airborne toward the door. Nels bolted, matching the shriek of the startled cat. The two of them never touched a plank as they sailed from the house. Jimmy stood there jerking his face back and forth as if caught between two equally bad alternatives. Fight-or-flight was written in his eyes. I raised my hand like a traffic cop.
“Just a cat!” I said. “Just a big yellow cat!” The words were meant to both explain and comfort. The spider and the cat had been unnerving even to me, and I closed my eyes and began a quiet recitation of the Lord’s Prayer in my best Presbyterian dialect. The part about “Forgive us our trespasses” seemed to make a lot of sense at the moment. I added a sentence of my own on the end about keeping me safe from “whatever lurks in Ming House.” I figured God knew the house I was referring to and wouldn’t mind me adding a real short PS to his famous prayer.
It must have frightened Jimmy to death to see me mumbling that prayer with both my eyes tightly closed. His flashlight bounced on the floor as he did a u-turn—a pivot as impressive as a gymnast’s back flip. He was gone, and I figured he would quickly pass Nels and the cat in stride.
The next room was like a foyer. To one side stood the sagging hulk of an old upright piano, its white ivory curling backward like the bark of a shag hickory. I decided that indeed, ignorance was bliss; it was not the time to check for missing piano wires. To my left was a steep staircase with no handrail. More spider webs there, and my flashlight caught one in its beam. The spider was gently raising then replacing two of his legs like a soldier marking time for his sergeant. He was black with yellow racing stripes. Doesn’t a black widow have red markings?
I heard a crash of some kind. There was a sudden swish and something hit the side of my face and ear. It was an owl, disturbed by my presence and in a predictably bad mood. I could feel the warmth of blood on my cheek. I wiped it with my hand and looked at it under the light. There was a smear of blood—not much, really—but tomorrow my face would bear a battle wound nonetheless.
I raked the cobweb away with a loose board and placed one foot on the first stair step. It creaked loudly. My flashlight was growing dim and by now, Jimmy’s would be giving out as well, still turned on and lying on the floor. I decided that getting this far into Ming House was accomplishment-complete. I would be the only one deserving of the Governor’s medal.
Back into the street in the damp air, I turned around for one last look. The house had not given up any secrets. I figured there were none to give up, just as I suspected all along. I crawled back through my window and put my damp clothes on the footboard to dry. Grandma’s quilt was especially warm and welcome. I slept without dreaming.
For several days I had a swell time with my friends. I had poetic license and began to embellish everything about the night at Ming House. They hung on every word, but I don’t think they bought the part about finding a human-bone torso impaled on an old pike, and of course, I claimed my owl injury came from an ape-like man swinging an axe.
Three or four weeks went by. One Saturday we decided to meet at Hendry’s and go collect grasshoppers for old man Crain. He told us he would buy them, two for a nickel, for his trotlines. We took turns kicking a beer can up the street as we walked. As we got close to the cemetery, we stopped cold. Bulldozers were sitting at Ming House, having done their job of demolishing the place into a pile of gray rubble. On a flatbed truck sat the old piano, and beside it, lashed to the truck with ropes, was a leather-covered steamer trunk.
The author’s latest short story collection, “Riders of the Seven Hills” is now available at traditional booksellers along with his previous works, “Tailwind” and “Odie Dodie.
Signed copies may also be obtained at regular prices by contacting the author directly via pogo@marshalltx.com
GIVE US YOUR FEEDBACK. CLICK ON “COMMENT” TO TELL US WHAT YOU THINK or use one of the alternative methods for providing feedback.
I celebrate the days when one could pull up to many a roadside joint and order something to be delivered to the car on a clever little window tray. The cold Cokes or Dr Peppers wore a paper napkin girdle to soak up the chill beads. The Cokes back then burned one’s throat as they went down. True “Original Cokes,” you know, contained a bit of cocaine. Today they contain, well, who knows. I suspect Creomulsion.
This was a time when Neely’s was in the old wooden building farther up on West Grand. The carhops announced their coming and going by the loud clap of the screen door. As they headed outside, we watched them closely to see if it was our order. If so, we knew to roll the car window up about the width of one’s palm.
The French fries had enough grease on them that they too needed napkin dams. The grease made them limp—not crispy, and the limpness was what made them good. A little salt was already on them from the kitchen. I always added a little pepper too. Once, while visiting in Niagara-on-the River Canada, I found some limp ones at a street carnival. The barker sprinkled them with vinegar instead of catsup. Not bad, but when I got home I resumed my Heinz.
World-Class were the French fries at the Lions Club trailer during 1950’s-era home Maverick games. The paper cones that contained them were soggy from lard, but the fries could not be replicated. There was something grand about Lions fries when the chill in the night air made them give off that wisp of steam that caused a swell of saliva to flow down one’s chin. I always bought two in case I reluctantly had to share, but I tried to empty one of them on the way back to the stands.
There was a dark side to drive-ins. I worked at the South Washington A&W Drive-In in high school. Mr. Neely’s training regimen said I must work inside for a low hourly wage and earn my way up the ladder to carhopping for tips. I figured I was as well off staying inside, because who would tip a flat-top-headed boy versus the pretty blonde with the bobbing ponytail? My inside job was washing root beer mugs—an endless cavalcade of them. The mug sink had a continuous replenishment of very hot water flowing into it. My face was slick with oil from my pores, which fertilized my bountiful crop of pimples. That sink was like an all-evening steam bath, and sometimes punctuated with a soggy cigarette butt someone had extinguished in a mug.
I gave up the carhop dream—trading it for a job with a roofing company. The day we fiberglass-insulated the attic of the Methodist Church in its 110-degree environment had me desperately wanting one of those root beers I got to see going out on those car-hop trays. My root beer job didn’t include all the free root beer I wanted. In fact, I can’t recall ever getting a free one. Mr. Neely was not one to dilute a profit margin.
Sonic eventually took car hopping to a new level when they introduced their rollerskating gals. The skates must have met with mishaps because today they wear tennis shoes. I still tip the carhops though, because I know what it is like. The only downside is that today, we place our orders through a microphone and have to guess what the person on the other end is saying. “Will that be all?” is about all I think I understand. I always answer yes and hope the order turns out right and I don’t end up with someone’s corn dog instead of a Number One. There’s no sweating Coke bottle at Sonic, only a Styrofoam cup that they say will remain in the planet’s landfill for twelve centuries. Aliens, trying to unmask the remnants of our lost culture, will be perplexed. More advanced than we, they never abandoned carhops and green glass bottles.
All this talk has made me hungry. There’s no curb service, and not even a hint of a carhop, but I’m heading over to Fugler’s Bubba Burger. He’s got a sandwich so big that it only takes 6 to make a dozen.
The author’s latest short story collection, “Riders of the Seven Hills” is now available at traditional booksellers along with his previous works, “Tailwind” and “Odie Dodie.
Signed copies may also be obtained at regular prices by contacting the author directly via pogo@marshalltx.com
GIVE US YOUR FEEDBACK. CLICK ON “COMMENT” TO TELL US WHAT YOU THINK or use one of the alternative methods for providing feedback.
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