Come and sit with me in the confessional. I have something to say.

In recent years, I've had some bad experiences involving alcohol.  I'm not going to name names or identify any specific incidents.  That's not the purpose of this entry.  The purpose of this entry to expose a part of my personality. I've decided it's time to put it out there.  It's the part that others don't want to bare or even face, let alone put it out there for the whole world to read.  

I want to state two points before I get to what I really want to say.

First, I don't care if someone drinks alcohol.  That's their choice and they have to carry the responsibility of their actions while under its influence.  Second, I do not drink alcohol. Only the occasional drink, but at my discretion. I find it upsetting when I've mentioned this numerous times, yet the message doesn't seem to be heard.  At some point, I begin to question the respect people have for me.

Now on with the confession. So here it is.

I am vindictive.  And I am well versed in it.  Not physically, but verbally. 

I could take someone down without touching them.  I don't need to throw physical punches; I'm not strong enough. But I know how not to mince words. In my past, I have been called to carpets numerous times over my comments, statements, and harsh words.  I have gotten in trouble to the point of the fear of losing a job.  All because I got to the point in the most hurtful and harmful way. I've lost friends due to extreme honesty.  

One time, my vindictiveness was fueled by several bottles of wine.  And from that downfall, I swore never ever again.  I was painfully, hurtfully and brutally honest.  And I've never spoke of it again and never will, but I have lived with the memory.  I learned my lesson and never forgot that lesson.

I have spent a lot of time focusing on this aspect of my personality.  Taming it.  Tempering it. Controlling it.  I am afraid to drink again for fear of it unleashing itself.  I have learned to live with that part of personality and the pain it can bring.  I've tried to unsuccessfully eradicate it.  When that failed, I decided to studied it and learned to live with it like some disease.

And now through my writing, I've found a venue for it.  Through my characters, my stories, and my blog.  I have used my writing to let it fly, but still controlled.

I don't drink alcoholic beverages.  And never will again.

Thanks for reading.

CSM

A View of the Town, Episode 4: July 15th, 1920

Welcome to A View of the Town, the adventures of Dr. Willis Fletcher in a small coastal town in Maine.  Offering tidbits of local color and the lay of the land, we now return to Dr. Fletcher and July 15th, 1920.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by...  Winter.  It's after the fall, but before the spring.   Winter.  It's somewhere in between.

And now on with A View of the Town, Episode 4...

As you might recall from the last time, I told you that I would tell you about the story about the Witch's Wood, but I've decided I've first got to another story off my chest.  I told you about how Slumberman's Sawmill almost burnt down. Ignited by a forgotten firework which no one ever admitted to lighting.  And of course, who would. So, it remained a mystery, until now.  For you see, I know who lite that firework and how.  It was a few days later, July 15th, when it came clear to me what I had missed. A pair of hooligans running for their lives down the back hill behind the mill.

As the new doctor in town, I had the privilege of meeting Mr. Amos Flathorn, local carpenter.  He was small framed, but stocky, and I'd guess about 50.  One the morning, a few days after the incident, Mr. Flathorn came into the office, limping in pain.  When I asked what the problem was, he dropped his pants and pointed to a hefty two-inch splinter in the left part of his rump. After extracting the festering sliver of pine, I jokingly asked "And how did you get such an injury?"  From that moment on, I felt like a priest hearing confession.

Mr. Flathorn lowered his head in shame.  "It was really the wife's fault. I told her to hold it 'til we got home."  He had caught my attention and asked him to continue.  I was puzzled by what he meant 'hold it.'  Mr. Flathorn began to tell me more. "She gets urges, you see... If you know what I mean." He grinned and winked.  I remained silent, trying to not burst out laughing. Now I got what he meant by 'hold it.'

"So, we was on our way up to the mill to pick up some oak boards when she grabs me and drags me into the shed.  I'm saying 'no, not now', but she hiking up her skirt and saying 'oh yes, right now. I can't hold it 'til we get home.'" He paused and shook his head. "When the misses takes a notion, there's not stopping her.  She's a powerful woman."

Now being a good listener and a polite person, I wasn't sure I wanted to hear any details and had prepared myself to stop him, but I think he got the hint and got to the point.  The splinter point.  "You see, I laid on the bench while she... well... You know.  She's a large woman and strong headed.  After it was said and done, she light up a cigar, but accidentally dropped it and it rolled away under the bench.  Next thing I knew, sparks were a flyin'.  When I jumped up, that's when I got the splinter."

It wasn't until a few days later that I met Mrs. Flathorn.  She was definitely a large woman, towered over Mr. Flathorn, and obviously wore the pants in that household.  This wasn't exactly the kind of story I had expected.  A couple setting of a firework while... well... you get the hint.  Oh, I forgot to mention...  Mr. Flathorn told me he was 65 and Mrs. Flathorn a very young 67; although they don't look it.  With that, you can see why I found this story incredible.

Join us again next time, when Dr. Fletcher tells us about the Witch's Woods and how it came to be known as the scariest place not in town.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by... Winter. It's cold. It's bold. It's a winter.  It will come back at the same time next year.

CSM

The Caretaker: A Short Story

The Caretaker

The weathered caretaker tapped his worn spade on the oblong mound of pebbled damp dirt, then stepped back, admiring his work.

This part of his profession he hated the most; much preferring the pruning of the trees and the gardening of the flower beds. It was easier than digging down six feet, which he never did.  Under his watch, most graves only went four feet. Tipping his woolen cap from his bushy graying-haired head, he said a silent prayer for the now laid-to-rest. All alone. No mourners shedding tears. No mourners speaking of better times. No mourners bidding farewell to the recently departed Frederick Crown.

A November wind rustled the fallen decaying leaves. It fluttered and tickled those still clinging to the last; harassing them into letting go, only to learn that they fought back until they were ready. Darkness crept over the clear sky like a black canopy, soon sliced by a Cheshire grinned moon and a thousand pinpoints of starlight.

The caretaker buttoned up his patched linen waistcoat, careful of the sore calluses earned from not wearing work gloves.  He slipped on his dusty jacket and pulled a stained handkerchief from its pocket and patted his sweaty brow. Calling it a day, he started for his snug hearth at home, where his wife would ask if it was a scarce or full service. If it was scarce, she would cross herself, asking for forgiveness for the deceased sins, then serve the caretaker his meager stew of mutton, carrots, and potatoes.

At the churchyard gate, the caretaker felt its cold wrought metal on his bare hand, he paused, and lent his ear to the wind. Asking "Hmmm... What was that?"  Was it a mouse in the brush?  A dangling tree limb, scratching the top of a headstone, the one with the embossed skull?  Or the one with the weeping willow?  Were Heaven’s angels discussing their day’s work of showing wandering souls the way towards the light?

But he heard nothing.  He saw nothing, only the fresh grave of Frederick Crown among the sea of others.  Nothing moved except for the leaves at the mercy of the blustery wind.  The caretaker shrugged his shoulders, and with focused strength, pulled the iron gate closed. Its hinges squeaking under its own weight.  He made a mental note to bring the oil can tomorrow.

The graveyard stood alone, silent like the night before. With its new resident, Frederick Crown, now four feet underground. Soon the wooden cross would give way to a slate with his full name and birth and death dates.

However, had the caretaker stopped to listen, that on the air, almost barely there, but there none the less, echoed a lone repeated word. So faint. So low. A solitary word. Over and over. “Alive.”

And if the caretaker had strayed back or even lingered, he might have heard the scraping and clawing of the bloody fingertips of Frederick Crown, digging into the pine board of his casket lid, flailing and skidding from side to side. Begging and pleading. “Alive.”

CSM