Marmaduke Scott of Pasquotank County, North Carolina, Part 2

Marmaduke Takes a Wife, Or... Great Scott!

One piece of information that is floating around out there all over the place is this...

Marmaduke Scott married Miriam Jackson and she was the daughter of Bailey Jackson....

To put it politely, Wrong!  And I have some evidence to support that.

Marmaduke Scott married Miriam Jackson on December 30th, 1789, in Pasquotank County, North Carolina,  If you search in "North Carolina, Index to Marriage Bonds, 1741-1868" in Ancestry, you will be able to find the record. It lists, as the bondsman, a man named "Demsey Jackson." My first response was "This has got to be some connection to Miriam. Brother? Father? Uncle?"  Well, with some heavy-duty digging which meant reading through the estate papers of numerous Jacksons of Pasquotank County, (which by the way you can do on either Ancestry or Family Search, and I might add that Family Search is free, and my eyes almost went cross-eyed,) I was able to find my answer.

Image from the estate files of Simon Peter Jackson, from Ancestry, 9/23/2017

In the 1774 estate papers of Simon Peter Jackson, you will find on a half-sheet of paper, that looks like it was a scrap piece, a note about an orphan by the name of Miriam.  On the back of this slip of paper, you will find the name Dempsey Jackson, Simon's brother, Uncle to Miriam.

Image from the estate files of Simon Peter Jackson, from Ancestry, 9/23/2017

I think that should do it.  I did read other information about Miriam, the orphan of Simon Peter Jackson in the estate papers.  By the way, her mother was Mary and she had a brother named Zackariah Jackson.

If that's not enough for an doubting Thomases out there, how about the other interesting piece of evidence found in the estate files. A note requesting information about the receipts of said orphan. Someone is requesting that information for his court case...  And that man is none other than Marmaduke Scott himself. (I love his signature!)

Image from the estate files of Simon Peter Jackson, from Ancestry, 9/23/2017

Somehow along the way in the research, someone got the idea that Miriam was Bailey Jackson's daughter and she married Marmaduke Scott.  They were partially correct.  Marmaduke did marry Bailey Jackson's daughter, after Miriam died.

Marmaduke Scott married Mary Polly Jackson, daughter of Bailey, and they had several children. His first child, Harvey, was the Miriam's son, but the rest listed in his will belonged to Mary Polly.  That's further shown in her will dated 1820.  You can also search for Bailey's will and find even more support there.

And one last item, click on this link and take a look at this... THE JACKSON-JENNINGS HOUSE PASQUOTANK COUNTY: A DOCUMENTARY RESEARCH REPORT Prepared by Jerry L. Cross November, 1991  This report is about the Mary Polly Jackson Scott cabin which is now in the Museum of the Albermerle in Pasquotank County. There's some information about the Jackson family, a kind of a tell-all about the strife between Harvey Scott and Mary Polly, his step-mother.  It also gives lots of information about her estate and from that you can learn a lot about Marmaduke's children and who they married.

That's another story...  The children.  From my findings, Marmaduke and Miriam had two children -- a girl born in late 1790 and Harvey in either 1791 or 1792.  But there seems to be a couple who claim to be the daughters of Marmaduke...  I'm not so sure.

Tune in next time for more about these two and the rest of the children...  Working title:

Here a Child, There a Child... Or Where There's a Will, There's a Relative.

CSM

Marmaduke Scott of Pasquotank County, North Carolina, Part 1

Yes, me too.  I thought of the comic strip.

When I was in middle school, I was a History Club geek! I say it with pride. We took a field trip to the Anderson Public Library, where Phyllis the librarian taught us how to do genealogy. She was short. I mean I didn't have to look up to her, I only looked up to her.  She took this geeky middle schooler and taught him how to research.  In hindsight, I was honored that I had a great teacher.  But back to where I was going with this...

I have no idea what sparked the interest in my family's history.  Maybe I thought I would find out I was related to some one famous like George Washington or Lizzie Borden or Attila the Hun.  At the time, all of the elder generations were still around and I was able to gather some great stories about my family and where they came from... as best as they could remember... Or as best as they would tell me...  (Wait... is that the rattling of a closeted skeleton I hear?)

One branch that intrigued me the most was on my mother's side. The Scott line.  They had traveled to central Indiana from a place called Pasquotank County, North Carolina.  And the furthest back, so far, leads me to a man named Marmaduke Scott.  "Duke" for short.

All these years later, I pulled out that file, re-read the research (which to be honest, was done by a distant cousin), and became further intrigued about this man named Marmaduke Scott. So my researching began. With the advances of Internet access, I was amazed how much I could find in the privacy of my comfy pajamas at home.

Pasqutoank County, NC, Google Maps

Pasquotank County lies almost on the Atlantic Ocean. A long narrow stretch of land where you can find Kitty Hawk lies between the county and the actual ocean.  It was north of the county seat, Elizabeth City, where Marmaduke settled, and according to the land records, and acquired land in 1784 and began making a name for himself.

From the many estates and wills that I have scoured, I can find no family connection between him and the county's long-settled Scott families. But there are some possibilities and I am still determined. I'm willing to do a seance if necessary.

I do know that he served in the Revolutionary War, but oddly enough, he enlisted and served in Massachusetts. I mean like what the...?!  There's like a zillion miles between Massachusetts and Pasquotank County.  So was he born and raised in Massachusetts or was he visiting relatives or just traveling about, checking out the country before settling down?  I'm not really sure.  From what I've read, apparently, he was a sea-faring man.  Steering ships up and down the coast.  Well, if it's true, I've not found any evidence of it and am beginning to wonder if it's mythology.  Regardless, when he enlisted in 1776, he gave Middleborough, Massachusetts as his residence.  Hmmm...  What a mystery...

Tune in next time, for Part 2...  Working title:  Marmaduke Takes a Wife, Or... Great Scott!
CSM

Home Ownership... Or How I Aged Ten Years Overnight

Well well well.  Life has definitely taken a turn...  No wait.  Let me be a little more descriptive.
Life jacked it up into high gear, swerved to miss the cat that ran out in the road, yanked the wheel a hard right to turn, and raced to a freaking stop sign only to wait until the last possible freaking second to slam on the freaking brakes... Stopping on the dime that the grandmother with the walker was just about to bend down and pick up.  Damn!  What a ride!
New job.  New car.  New home.  The holy (or maybe unholy) trinity has been completed.  I am now the proud father of an approximately 200,000 pound house and yard to boot.  It was a short gestation period... Only a few weeks.  It has two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, living room, dining room, and basement... And a three-car garage.  You know what I'm talking about.  An average American home owned by you and the mortgage company for the next thirty years.  And when you send in that last payment, it becomes solely your responsibility. They get to congratulate you and walk away the cowards! Oh joy.
The process of buying the house went smoothly.  And I am told that I was lucky.  I've heard horrific tales of mortgage terror that would send chills up any monster's spine.  Frankenstein's monster would probably run in fear. However, my experience was easy.... When you've got no debt and nothing to explain because you own very little, there's no reason for you not to zip through.  The sad part is what does that say about me...  Sigh, I've been playing it good way too long.  But moving on...
With paperwork signed and keys in hand, I moved into "The Little House," named after one of my favorite childhood books.  I could have gone with "Hill House" but why jinx it.
So far, "The Little House" and I are slowly falling in love.  I like to sweep its carpets, wash its windows, and mow its yard.  And in return, it likes to leave me mysterious puddles of water on the basement floor.  I still have yet to determine where that puddle came from.
Owning a house was never a dream for me. But now I do dream about.  About all the places it could leak. About shingles flying off during a wind storm. About the tax bill.  The running toilet that keeps on running.  The furnace breaking down when the weather is just about to turn frigid. And dreading water in the basement that will raise all the way up to the roof line.  It makes me think of those cartoons where the characters are floating around inside until someone opens a door and they all flush out into the yard.  I can hardly wait.
Anyway, I did it.  I own a house. Small, but cute. I hate that word.  In my experience, anything that's cute will undoubtedly grown up to be the one that makes you pull your hair out by the roots, turn your smooth skin to wrinkles, and send you straight to an early grave or at least to the mental ward at the local hospital.
Yeah, I may not have kids, but I own a house... Come on... I dare you.  Just try and convince me there's a difference.
CSM

New Job, New Car, New Home... Or The Bermuda Triangle.

It all started on summer morning when I woke up and said "F**ck this sh*t!"  

You know the scene in movies where all the birds fly off when someone yells some obscenity.  You know that scene where the person is just about to yell it and the scene cuts away.  The birds fly off.  Well, that happened after I said "F*ck this sh*t."  I even think a few car alarms may have gone off as well.

All I can say about that moment was... I was done. I was over it. The feelings that I had been bottling up had popped the cap and started to fizzle out all over the place.  And to be honest, I didn't care who it fizzled on.

It was also at that moment that I started to pray for a miracle, and to be honest, I just didn't believe in them anymore.  There was no reason to hope and/or trust in the universe that all would be well. So I simply gave up and gave into the drudgery of life. Get up, go to a boring and taxing job, go home to a heighten state of paranoia and anxiety, and repeat.  Seven days a week for twelve months a year for the rest of my life. I wasn't sure what to do.  But I knew that 24/7 of repetition wasn't going to cut it.

But now in hindsight, someone somewhere showed me that miracles do occur.  One morning it happened.  An simple email from my co-worker/friend Kathy saying something like "Check out this job posting." And that's when the ball began to roll. (Many thanks Kathy!)

Now, I look back and think "Okay. I did it. I moved on." And in a way, I feel deep inside that I wasn't alone in the venture.  Sure I might have done it all myself. Sent the resume, interviewed, had post-interview depression where I thought for sure I had blown it because I gave a half-assed answer and really didn't think it through and wondered why the hell did I say that.  Jack ass!  And then I lost sleep and worried and cried, but mostly waited patiently.  And I waited.  And I waited.  And I...  Oh dear god!  Is this ever going to happen?!  Talk about your constipating moment. And finally it did.

I remember my last few words of the previous chapter of my life.  It was something like... "So long suckers!"  Or maybe it was, to quote Bugs Bunny, "Don't think it hasn't been a little slice of Heaven... 'Cause it hasn't."

And the first few words of the new chapter... "Holy Sh*t!  What have I done!"  I was freaked out. You know what I'm talking about.  Did I just do the right thing?  Am I sure about this?

At my new desk, I have a note from my good friend Meaghan that shows Woody and Jessie from Toy Story posed ready to jump down through an opening leading them into some sort of dangerous situation... Woody is obviously saying "ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS?"  Jesse says "NO!  LET'S GO!"   Meaghan sent me the perfect image and perfect quote for exactly what I was thinking and feeling.

Was I sure about this?  No, but I went anyway.  And now I am sure about this.

So, the post title is "New Job, New Car, New Home... Or The Bermuda Triangle."  Maybe I should call it "The Unholy Trinity"....  I've address the moment of the new job.  And now I've got to write about the new car and the new home.

For a while there, I felt like my pool of stories has dried up.  Ha!  I have so much to write about now.  I'm not sure where to begin.

Am I sure about that?  Nope, let's go!

CSM

The Color of the Sky, The Conclusion

And now the conclusion...

When I got home, I dropped the blanket on my bed and headed to the hay loft.  I had to think.  I had discovered how to... well... "take" matters into my own hand, but didn't know any more than that.

It wasn't long before Sissy... I mean, Rusty came up.  He sat next to me.  I was still perplexed.

"You alright?  You looked like you seen something weird."

I shook my head. "I'm fine. I just heard about something."

"What was it?"

I told him.  He didn't seemed surprised, then I found out why.

"My older brother Luke made me do that one time.  He was drunk and he told me if I didn't do it he was going to tell Daddy and he would get mad and tell me to do it."

I was shocked.

Rusty slid closer to me and nuzzled his nose nuzzle against me jaw.  Before I knew it, I was kissing him.  I felt his hand slide down my shirt to my trousers.  Ten minutes later, I experienced what I had just learned that day.  I squirmed and bite hard on my shirt collar to keep from crying out.

Late in the day, I saw it.  The begonia and all the other flowers were in full color.  I noticed the leaves on the trees, the dark green paint on the house, and the pinks, blues, and purples of Gra'ma dresses.  The green fields and the grass.  The barn and its faded red paint.

*****

A week later, Rusty and I were sleeping in my full-sized bed.  He wore his old nightshirt and I wore my undershirt and underwear. 

Laying on my back, I saw him laying on his side facing me.  A thunderstorm rolled in and ever so often lighting would strike.  The air felt good.  It was cool and damp after hot and dry for weeks. The garden would grow like mad now.

Rusty shifted towards me.  He was scared of the storm.  I got up and pushed the window down so it was open just enough for the strong breeze to come in, but kept the rain out.  I crawled back into bed and clasped my hands behind my head.  Rusty snuggled against me.  I wrapped my arm around him, wanting to keep him safe. I could feel his arm across my chest and his nose into my neck.

I slept good.  Sometime in the morning, I woke and could hear the rain still hitting the window.  I also heard the creak of the door as it closed.  I saw Gra'ma's back as she left.  Rusty and I were still snuggled together.

The next morning, the rain was gone. I dressed and left Rusty sleeping.  Out in the kitchen, Gra'ma stared at something in her hand and sipped her coffee.  I looked out the window and saw a mechanic working on our Ford sedan.

"He's putting on the part it needed."  Gra'ma said as she went out and talked to the mechanic.  I could hear it start and run.  He drove off and Gra'ma came back in.  "He's going to put gas in it for me.  Also put on new tires.  He's such a nice man."

I saw that the wall of the kitchen were yellow.  The curtains in the window were polka-dotted in blues.  And Gra'ma's hair had streaks of silver among the dark.

She pulled what she had been looking at from her apron pocket and laid it on the table.  It was a photograph.  I could see it was a couple of men.  I thought maybe it was Uncle Will and Granddad.

"Who are they?" I said.

"That's my brother Horace. He's fifteen years younger than me. He lives in Los Angeles and works in the motion pictures.  He helps with the sets and stuff like that.  Not really sure what."

I had never seen Uncle Horace before and only heard stories.  "Whose that with him?  A movie star?"

Gra'ma grinned.  "That's his lover."  Not saying any more, she poured more coffee and got some eggs out of the basket on the counter.  "They have a house with a guest house behind it.  He's got money. Not that we're bad off.  I've got the money from your parent's and Granddad's insurance policies. Money put back for your education. Not sure just yet what to do about Rusty.

I knew then that Gra'ma knew about Rusty and me.  I was sure that seeing us snuggled together in bed had helped solve the mystery, if there was a mystery to solve.

She broke and mixed the eggs in a bowl then poured them in the hot cast iron skillet.   She cut sausage and put it another skillet.

"I've been thinking about Rusty. Maybe he should..."  She turned and looked at me.

It was one of the few other times that I was scared of what was about to be said.  I worried that she was going to say that Rusty needed to go back home.  That she didn't want him here.  That he was a bad influence on me and I needed to find a nice girl to date.

"I think it's time we leave here.  We need a change."

I stood up.  I started crying. "You can't send him away. Not back over there.  His daddy will just beat him again.  He's happy here."   Up until then, I had never raised my voice, especially to Gra'ma.

With her mouth hung open, Gra'ma put her hands out to me.  "No.  No.  We're not sending him back over there.  I was thinking he could come with us.  To California.  I've had a letter from Horace. He says we can come live with him."

I fell into her arms and sobbed hard.

*****

We left November third.  It was a Monday. Granddad's Ford ran smoothly.  The mechanic said it should make it all the way to China if we needed.  Not that we'd want to go there.

We'd packed the trunk and backseat with what we actually owned from the rented house. Gra'ma taught me to drive so I could help on the long trip. Gra'ma drove first and Rusty sat in the middle, leaning towards me.

"Horace says we're going to love Los Angeles.  They have orange trees all over and there's movie stars and plenty of work."  Gra'ma's excitement wore off on us.

We drove through town.  I waved goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Milton.  They smiled and waved back.  The Write tipped his hat.  I stuck my tongue out at Neil.  He just stood there. My once sepia-toned world was gone.  I saw everything in full color now.  The world was beautiful.

*****

Now that I am older, I can tell this story.  I'm sitting at my typewriter in our house in Los Angeles.  Rusty is out in the backyard, reading something.  I think it might be my new manuscript.  We lived with Uncle Horace right up through college.  Gra'ma paid for my education. I studied English.  Rusty went to work for Uncle Horace helping build sets.  Gra'ma lived to be one hundred and one.  We never went back to Whitcomb, that town south of Terre Haute, Indiana, but we kept in touch with Mr. and Mrs. Milton until they passed away.  They did tell us that Mr. Fray died while drunk.  He got hit by a train when he staggered out onto the tracks after a visit to Ms. Watkins.

The world is changing again around us again.  We could fly back now to Whitcomb, but we won't.  My world hasn't changed the way that it did back in 1942 when I first noticed that the color of the sky was bright blue.


CSM

The Color of the Sky, Part Five

And now Part Five...

I ran home.  I wasn't sure exactly what was happening.   All the browns and grays and shades of white were dripping like wet paint.

When I got to the end of the lane, I could see Gra'ma standing on the front porch.  She had her big blue enameled stirring spoon in her hand.  I could see it was blue.  Her dress was red with pink flowers.  Sepia-toned Mr. Fray was standing at the bottom of the steps.

As I neared, I could hear her.  She was in state of anger that I rarely saw.

"You just think you're takin' that youngin' home, you old coot."

"Now see here, Mrs. Jeffries, he's my son and I'll do what I damn well please."

"Like hell you will.  You can just go back over to your own side of the road and stay there."

Mr. Fray took a step forward and Gra'ma whacked him hard on the head with her spoon.  Dazed, he stepped back.  She then hauled off and whacked him again, only this time on the side of his head.  Whack!  Whack!  Whack!  Three more times she hit him.

"Damn you old woman!"

"You see here, you old child beater!  You can just go to Hell.  You ain't gettin' that child back."

Mr. Fray shook his fist and walked away.  "I'll call the Sheriff."

An hour later, Sheriff Adams showed up.  I stood at the screen door and watched Gra'ma show him the bruises and scrapes on Sissy Boy.  The Sheriff wandered over to Mr. Fray.  Not too long after, he came back, carrying a suitcase that he handed to Gra'ma.  Sheriff Adams said "You can keep Sissy Boy.  Mr. Fray doesn't want him back."

"Fine.  Rusty is very welcomed here and you can rest assured that he won't get beaten."

That was the first time that I had heard him called Rusty.  From that point on, Gra'ma insisted we call him by his real name.  That was the first time I saw that he had red hair.  His name fit.

That was that.

*****

Later that day, Gra'ma sent me into town to buy an extra blanket, but I ran into Neil before I could get in Milton's back door.

"I hear ya got a girlfriend livin' whitch ya now," he barked.  "Has she gotten ya off yet? Or you got a muff down there?"

"I don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Well then why don't ya go over to Ms. Watkins' and ask one of her girls to tell ya. I dare ya."

"I will."  I marched off towards Ms. Watkins' place.  I hoped nobody would see me.

Ms. Watkins kept a whore house near the railroad tracks, not far from the depot. They liked to entertain the gentlemen.  I wasn't sure exactly what they did there.  I could only guess that she had ice cream socials since one time I heard Neil talking about how the women that lived there liked licking things.

It was one of those big old houses that they didn't build anymore.  Mrs. Watkins kept it looking nice. The white picket fence looked like it had just been whitewashed.  I strolled along the sidewalk and tried to look nonchalant about it all. 

I'm not sure about this.  I'm not sure I can do this.  I thought, but then said out loud.  "But who else you gonna ask."  I hemmed and I hawed along the sidewalk and kept looking around to see if anyone was looking.  I had to keep the dare. I was tired of Neil and his bullying and I wanted to show him up.

Around the side, the gate was ajar. After, I looked around and didn't see anyone, I squeezed through.  There was a rosebush trellis and a framed swing with a canvas in the side yard.

"What are you looking for, young man?"

At first, I only heard the voice, then a young woman rolled out of a hammock tied between two trees.

"I... I... I..."

"Come now, you can tell me. Are you here for a little fun?"  Her dark hair was tied up with a scarf with the bow on her forehead.  She wore a frilly robe that came down just below her knees.  Her lips were bright ruby red against the sepia tones.

I spoke fast.  "I have a question. What does it mean to get off?  And what does a muff have to do with it?"

She threw her head back and laughed.  "Well now.  Let me see.  You've got a girlfriend, don't you, and want her to know how to do things?"  She leaned forward and whispered in my ear what it was all about.

I didn't know what to say.  I didn't have a father to tell me about such stuff and now I had found out from one of Ms. Watkins' girls.

"What's he want?"  Ms. Watkins had come out on the porch.

I ran away and squeezed back through the gate and headed back to Milton's for that blanket.

CSM

The Color of the Sky, Part Four

And right onto part four...

The next morning is when it happened.  The day that Sissy Boy ran down our lane in that striped dress of his mama's.  His dad had gotten drunk and slapped him around.  He had caught Sissy Boy looking in the closet where his mama's dresses still hung.  Apparently, he was hugging on one of them and thinking about his mama.  His drunken dad didn't understand and made him put it on calling him "the woman of the house."

Gra'ma cried. Sissy Boy cried.  I simply said that I had to go to Milton's because it was my work day.

****

I was sweeping when Sissy Boy came in with a list from Gra'ma.  He was to buy a new shirt and a pair of trousers and a few other things.  I saw that he had on my clothes.  Mrs. Milton helped him.

In the back room, the delivery man had left cartons of merchandise.  Mr. Milton finished inventorying bottles of liniment oil and I was to unpack them.

Mrs. Milton let Sissy Boy try on his new clothes in the small bathroom in the back.

"How do they fit?" I heard her say. "I've left the bag here on the stool next to the door.  It's got the thread Mrs. Jeffries wanted. I put a copy of the receipt in the bag if she needs it.

"They fit fine, ma'am," said Sissy Boy through the shut door.  "And thank you." 

Mrs. Milton left and the bathroom door opened.  Sissy Boy looked nice.  He had folded my clothes perfectly and held them like they were fine linens. 

I couldn't help but grin. "Look at you in your new clothes."

"These are the first new clothes I've had in a long time.  I usually get hand-me-downs."

Without any warning, Sissy Boy kissed me on the lips and headed out the back door.

I turned just in time to see the back of Mrs. Milton walking away.

But there was something strange about her.  Her dress and only her dress was light blue and stood out against the shades of brown and gray.

*****

For the first time, I was scared.  I didn't know what Mrs. Milton would say to Mr. Milton and then what they would say to Gra'ma.

I carried the box of liniment oil bottles to the front of the store.  I spotted Mrs. Milton whispering to Mr. Milton. 

Sitting in his usual spot by the front window was the one everyone called "The Writer."

"How are you today?" he said.

"Good, sir." I glanced over at Mrs. Milton.  She had finished talking to Mr. Milton and headed to the back room.

"Ever read any Dickens?"  He held up his book.

"No, sir." 

Mr. Milton put the last of his stock of pencils and notebooks on the shelf.  He plopped the empty box in the back corner and walked my way.

I inhaled, feeling like I was going to pull all of the air out the room.  Mr. Milton checked my work.

"Very good, Daniel.  You do a good job in keeping the store clean and the shelves neat and tidy."

I was nervous. "Thank you, Mr. Milton."  I thought for sure that this was it.  I was going to be told to leave and never come back.  I was scared and thought I had overused my acceptance of the way things were.

"I may give you a few extra chores.  Of course, I would pay you more."

I was stunned and didn't know what to say.

"Have I ever told you about my sister?  She lives in Chicago with a... well... very special friend that she loves greatly."  He patted me on my shoulder and smiled. "Mrs. Milton and I visit her at least twice a year. We always enjoy our time with them."  His eyes said it all.  You are safe here.  He went to help a customer.

"See, son," said The Writer.  "Just like in Dickens.  All will be well."  He winked.

I let out a long breath of air and finished stocking the bottles.

When I turned around, I froze. I felt like I was frozen in place.

"You alright, son?" asked The Writer.  "Looks like you're looking at the center of the sun."

The jars of red, orange, and green hard candies.  The bright green gum balls.  The orange wrappers of the O'Henrys.  The red letters of the Sky Bars.  The yellow and blue letters of the Butterfingers.  All the candy wrappers were so bright. I squinted my eyes.

*****

CSM

The Color of the Sky, Part Three

A day late, but here's the next part of my short story...

Enjoy!

CSM

*****

The loft was my hiding place when I wanted time alone.  I have a couple of books and some movie magazines stashed up there.  Nothing dirty unless you think Nancy Drew or Tom Swift is dirty.

I was studying a sepia-toned photo in Modern Screen Magazine of Johnny Weissmuller in a bathing suit then one in his Tarzan loin cloth.  I fantasized about what was under that cloth.  As I sat there, I got 'excited' and felt my trousers getting tight.

"Are you up here?" said a quiet voice. 

I jumped. It was Sissy Boy. He was at the top of the ladder to the loft.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."  Uninvited, he sat down next to me.

"What do you want?"  I pushed the magazine between my legs to hide anything and now Johnny Weissmuller was smiling up at me.

"I love the Tarzan movies."  He grabbed the magazine and pointed at the picture of Johnny in his swimsuit.  "He's very fit, isn't he?"

I politely took the magazine back.  "He is."  It was an awkward moment.  He knew what was going on.  I could tell.

Sissy Boy was blunt.  "I think he's very handsome."

I snorted.

"I do."  Sissy Boy waited to see what I was going to do.  I did nothing.  Like I said, I accepted it for what it was.

Sissy Boy leaned over and kissed me on the cheek then scurried down the ladder, looking back at me. I was smirking.  I wasn't sure what to think.  I heard him race away like a mouse.  That night, I laid in bed and still felt the soft touch of his lips press against my cheek.

The next morning, I stepped out the back door and slipped my boots on.  I needed to do some weeding in the garden.

After tying my shoe laces, that's when I saw it.  It was Gra'ma begonia that she had in a pot on the back stoop.

Against my sepia-toned world, the center of one of the flowers was bright red.

*****

I worked in the garden.  I pulled some beets and potatoes and shook the dirt off.  I handed the basket to Gra'ma and she went inside.

I needed some time to think and maybe cry.  My other private place was out in the field next to our house.  I pushed my way though the corn stalks to a large sycamore that had grown up next to an unmovable boulder.  There was a small place between the tree and the boulder where I could easily hide.

As I sat there, I could hear the rustling of the corn stalks and the leaves of the sycamore in the wind.  I was thinking about my parents.  How I missed mama's smiling face and the praise from my dad when I did well in school.  I began to cry.

"Why are you crying?"  Sissy Boy said gently and peeked around the boulder at me.

I wiped away the tears.  "You shouldn't be creepin' up on people like that."

"Sorry." Once again, he invited himself to sit next to me.  There was room for two, but it was a squeeze for both of us.

We sat there until he broke the silence.  "I miss my mother.  She died when  I was ten.  Daddy gets drunk a lot and cries for her.  My brothers say nothing and work in the fields.  I bet you miss your mother a lot too."

He was so understanding that I started crying again.  He put one arm around my shoulder and worked the fingers of his free hand into mine.  He cradled me like Gra'ma does when I get sad.  Then I could feel his lips on my forehead.  I felt a shiver.  I broke free from him.

"I gotta go."  I raced off.  I wanted to stay but for some reason I couldn't. To be honest, it wasn't right to be thinking of my dead mama and wanting to kiss Sissy Boy at the same time.

I emerged from the corn field and meandered back to the back stoop.

And there it was.  I leaned down for a closer look.  The entire begonia flower was pure red.

*****

The Color of the Sky, Part Two

And now Part Two of my new short story...

Enjoy!

CSM

*****

About a two weeks before, I was walking into town when I noticed that the youngest of the Fray boys was trailing me. He was also sixteen.  I turned to look at him.  He squinted from the sun in his face.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Well then nothing's what you'll get."  I walked on.

"Are you walking to town?"

"Yep.  Got to get a few things for Gra'ma from Milton's."

He caught up, but stayed a couple of steps behind.  "My name's Rusty.  Most folks call me Sissy Boy.  Guess that's cause I take of the house while daddy and my brothers work in the field."  He hung his head down and put his hands in his jeans pockets.

"Yea, I know."  I also knew that he got teased and taunted a lot.  We walked the rest of the way in silence. I could feel his eyes glance over at me.  To be honest, I was thinking about Cesar Romero again.

We cut down the alley behind the businesses on main street.  It was quicker.  I could go in the back door of Milton's.

About half way there, Neil stepped out from behind a garage opposite the bank building.  He was a hulk.  He was seventeen and no smarter than a dead cat.

"Well if it isn't Sissy Boy." Neil shoved him.

Sissy Boy backed up, trying to avoid Neil.

I stepped in. I don't know why. I just did.

  

Neil laughed.  "Oh yea, Danny Boy, is he your girlfriend?  Does he get your gun off?"

"What?  I don't have a gun."

"What's ya got then?  A muff?

"A muff?  It's too hot for a muff."

Neil shook his head in disbelief. "Yurra dumb ass. Don't even know what I'm talkin' 'bout."  He pushed me then shoved Sissy Boy again.  This time Sissy Boy fell.  I kicked Neil in the shin.

"Oh you're gonna get it, you son of a bit..."

"What in blue blazes is going on out here?" Mr. Leiber came out the back door of the bank.

Neil ran off.

Mr. Leiber helped Sissy Boy up.  "Damn that Neil Henderson. I'd like to whoop that boy over the head.  Maybe knock some sense into him."

We thanked Mr. Leiber and we went on to Milton's.

Sissy Boy followed me back home.  I knew he was watching me as I walked.  He walked over to a tree in his yard and sat down and leaned against it.  I gave Gra'ma the bag of sugar and salt. I went out to the barn and ran my hand over the hood of the 1934 Ford sedan that sat idle since Granddad had died.  It needed a part.  I climbed up into the hay loft.

*****

The Color of the Sky, Part One

But first, my opening commentary... I wrote this short story last summer and for some reason, I love it.  The idea popped into my head one day while looking at some old sepia-toned photographs.  For the first time, I felt like I had written something good and my harshest critic thought so as well.  This was a defining moment for me.  It's a short story; several pages long.  I am editing each section as I go.  My goal is to post a new section every Tuesday.

Enjoy
CSM

The Color of the Sky

By Christopher Marshall

Sissy Boy ran down the lane to our house.  He was crying and wearing a striped dress that he held up to keep it from dragging in the dirt.  I saw him and yelled to Gra'ma and she came out on the porch.

"What the hell? You've been beaten," she said as Sissy Boy ran up the steps. "Just look at that lip and that eye's gonna swell up.  What happened to you, honey?" 

"My daddy's drunk and he beat me.  Made me put this dress on and..."  Sissy Boy cried harder.  She took him into the house. "I can't go back over there."

I followed and Gra'ma said to me. "Danny, be a good boy and fetch some water and there's some iodine and cotton in the bathroom cabinet." 

I could hear it in her voice that she was shaken by the sight of him.  Sissy Boy was crying.  Gra'ma was crying.  I held my tears in.  I knew at that moment how I felt about him.

*****

My world was sepia-toned. Everything I saw was made up of shades of browns, whites, and grays like in the movies.  It was 1942 and there was a war on.

I came to live with Gra'ma Jeffries earlier that year.  I was sixteen. My parents had been killed in an automobile accident.  Gra'ma had suffered not only their loss but recently Granddad from a heart attack and her son, my Uncle Will, killed at Pearl Harbor.  She had only me and her brother in California.

We lived in a small four-room house outside of Whitcomb, a town south of Terre Haute, Indiana.  Gra'ma rented it from Mr. Leiber, the town banker and took in sewing, mending, and laundry.  Three times a week, I worked for Mr. and Mrs. Milton, who owned the local five and dime, to help with the rent or whatever else.

And here's something important. One afternoon, I sat in the movie theater watching Betty Grable and Cesar Romero sing and dance. All the boys hooted at Betty Grable. I watched her and watched her, but no matter how gorgeous she was, my eyes kept wondering back to Cesar Romero.  I thought he was dashing and handsome.  That was the first time I thought about who I might like.  Somehow, I didn't really care.  I was like that.  I accepted things and moved on.

To Trivia I Go... Or What A Group!

Once a week, I hang out with a group of guys and we compete in a brain-testing game of trivia.  I enjoy their company and have been wanting to write about them. I decided it was time.

First comes the disclaimer... I can't write about everyone in the group!  I just don't know everyone that well. So don't be all judgy if you don't read about yourself.  I've decided to write about the ones I know best... Or at least I think I know them... Hmmm... Maybe I don't know them... Maybe they'll become offended by what I write...  Ha!  Oh well. They'll just have to spank me... No wait.... I better rethink that.  Anyway...

Okay, back to the ones I know best...

First, there's this couple I like to think of as Little Cub and Papa Bear.  They are so cute together.  I've known Little Cub the longest; in fact, he was the one that invited me to trivia.  I've seen him go from very heart-broken to finding the love of his life.  However, at trivia, Little Cub can get pretty annoyed when we agree on one answer, then debate it and chose another, then find out we should have gone with the first choice. We really should have listened to Papa Bear...  He knew best when he said Monet. I can picture this pair together, snuggled up on the couch, watching a zombie-infested world go by.  They're so in love.  They make me feel hopeful that I will find that someone who will think of me more than just a "wham bam thank ya ma'am".

Now there is this one guy...  All I can say about him is...  He can be such a Gloomy Gus!  Look here Gus... Here's what I've got to say to you. "Be happy.  Don't be bitter. You're attractive. You have friends who care about you.  And yes, we know you're a loner.  But don't be so hard on yourself. Just remember you make other people hard..."  Or at least that's what I overheard. He reminds me that everyone has walked rough paths and we need kindness and lots of beer.

Of course, I can't forget the one I think of as "The Matriarch."  He reminds me of the type who sits and watches and evaluates.  You know like Maggie Smith on Downton Abbey.  I could see him in one of her big brimmed hats. With his white beard.  Sipping tea. I'm sure he would have nothing but nice things to say... Maybe. And don't even get him started on politics. He's pointed out that "orange" is truly the new black...  Or I should say "black-hearted." That's why I like him. His views encourage me to keep in touch with what's going on in the world.  And that there's a few things that after you've touched them, you'd better go and wash your hands.

I've heard of couples where one is outgoing and the other is quiet.  There's a pair that makes me think that is true.  And it appears to be the case here. One seems to be introverted.  For some reason, I regard him as a wise sage. I suspect if I needed advice on anything, he should be my first choice to ask. His partner, on the other hand, appears to be the extrovert.  Always smiling.  Always laughing. And always looking kind of... hot...  Well, to be honest they're both hot.  Okay, I'll be even more honest if they wanted to, I'd let them "take me down and pass me around"... I'd be happy to be their 99th bottle of beer on the wall...  Hey, I've got to stir in a little controversy into this.  They show me that great relationships do happen and that I shouldn't give up hope. And periodically check the expiration dates on "the supplies" in the night stand drawer.

Well, my post has met its limit and here I must stop. So much more I could write.  Maybe next blog post...

CSM

On Being Gay... Or Would You Like Sex with That?

Being gay sometimes gets me down.  I don't see it as a curse or a disease or a punishment.  It's part of who I am, but it's not my entire world.  I've filled my life with so much more that just my sexuality, like writing stories that I store on my computer but never try to get published.  There's my expensive Lego habit.  My Disney mania. The love of Ethel Merman belting out everything's coming up roses... Okay, yes, I know, but I didn't say I wasn't a stereotypical gay.  I just said that it gets me down.., And yes, listening to The Beauty and the Beast soundtrack does get to me.  It's Angela Lansbury...  But I digress.

But there's that one part about the gay lifestyle that grinds my ax.  

I get really tired of feeling like all I am is a piece of meat for oversexed a-holes who think that's what being gay is all about.  First, good for them.  I'm glad they have a lusty hobby and I'm glad they found meaning for their lives.  What I'm not glad about is when they tell me that I'm the a-hole because I won't pleasure them.  I'm avoiding graphic detail, like describing what they want to do to me.  I actually had to look up a couple of terms... Those S&M guys...  Oh brother!

I have only one response for these guys who won't take "no" for an answer...  "Go fuck yourself, honey. I've got better things to do."  Since being back in the dating scene, I have said this a lot.  

On my dating app, guys will send me unsolicited pics of their... well... you-know-whats and their you-know-wheres.  And trust me, I've got my new canned response... "Thank you for the pics.  I will assume that you are showing me your true personality and that you are a dick and an ass.  Thank you for being honest up-front. Sincerely, I'm-blocking-you."

I'm sorry but I think this so-called world of gay hook-ups isn't that great.  In fact, the guys I know who do a lot of hook-uping seem to be the most self-abusive. But if we consider the old saying "You are what you eat..."  

They also seem to have no self-worth or low self esteem. They sleep around with guys that turn them on at that moment then simply move on.  I recently had a crush on a 20-something who told me that he had already been with 50 guys... and apparently counting.  I'm 47 years old and not any where near that number.   I can't help but roll out the sarcasm by saying "Gee, there's something I'd like to be remembered for.  Not things like I loved all my friends and cared about their well-being.  Or that I wanted to teach people about history and how it got us where we are today.  And god forbid that I be remembered for my caring nature."

Why would someone want to do that -- just sleep around?  So, I asked, read a few reports, gathered information, slammed back a very glasses of Riesling and drew up a theory.  Please disagree with me if you like... but I've decided that most gay men are just like dogs.  They only want to sniff your behind. And my response is "Get your damn nose out of my butt."

Over the past few months, I've kept swinging back and forth between the realization that I'm going to be single the rest of my life and the complacency of  just giving in and fuck around since no one gives a shit about the fact that I have a life.  

Once, I met this kind of a nice guy who just wouldn't let up.  He wanted to... you know... go "downtown"...  He finally wore me down.  I simply gave in, dropped my pants, and said "There!  Knock yourself out!" Guess what his response was... "Well if you're going to be a-hole about it..."

It gets old so fast... No wonder I have a "Why Bother" attitude... Sigh.

CSM

My Eulogy... Or Don't Wait Until the Last Moment.

The other day I was thinking about making a will, who to leave stuff to, and what do I want to happen to my body... My flabby pasty body.  But even more, I wondered what I would want people to say about me.  So, I decide to write my own eulogy...  And here it is... Or at least part of it.... I may have more to say... And now here it is...

"When Christopher Marshall was born, the entire country celebrated his birth with fireworks... Well, okay, it was the Fourth of July, but who cares.  Christopher was definitely a Yankee Doodle Dandy, which he often sang "Yank my Doodle, it's a dandy."  He always had a way finding the dirty alternative.  He relished the world of double-entendres.   Regardless of his lewdness, he tapped his way into the world and never stopped.

He loved to entertain and make people laugh and smile.  I mean who wouldn't forget the time he dressed up as a nun and went bar-hopping.  And who couldn't forget about the time he helped that old lady across the street only to find out she wasn't an old lady who didn't want to go to the other side of the street.

Chris had a way about him... An honest way.  Too honest... He didn't really need to agree with Penny when she kept saying she was fat.  He was just being honest... "It felt like Godzilla approaching the city," he would say.  He always pointed out stray pink curlers.  He offered free and very useful advice like make sure that it's a pineapple ice and not yellow snow.  Or how about "Don't go away mad..." And he always loved it when people complimented his behind.  When he walked away, people often said "What an ass!"

He loved deeply.  He cared deeply.  He wanted to kick people in the balls. He loved so hard and so much he wanted people to feel the same pain and he figured that would be the best way.  And trust me, if he didn't care, he would let you know with a hearty round of a tune he called "Fuck off motherfucker and don't let the door hit you in the ass..."  I wish I could remember how the tune went, but I was quite a showstopper and toe-tapper that a chorus line could really kick to.

I will tell you this.  He believed that death wasn't the end, but just another beginning.  He believed that he would wake up and find himself in his own Heaven, filled with what he always wanted in life, including but no limited to, an unlimited pass to Disney World, time to spew all of his fictional stories into print, and win that Academy Award (where he can walk across the stage naked and nobody laughs.)  He truly believed that it doesn't end here.

I was there to hear his last words... "I loved too hard, over thought everything, and I accidentally farted during an organ recital one time, but nobody noticed. They must have assumed it was a D-flat and was part of the song."

And I was told to tell everyone his last three words...
"So long suckers!"

CSM