Thursday, January 26, 2012

To my friends in Russia

Apparently, the short stories are being enjoyed in Russia.  Thank you, to those of you who seem to be passing the link around to your friends (in any country).

The next story. will be published on the blog in six days.

It is about a part of the first trip I helped lead to Costa Rica.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Poetry books 1, 2, and 3

Poetry books 1, 2, and 3 are available on Amazon, now.  You can also get them straight from the publisher at https://www.createspace.com/3667434

Sunday, January 15, 2012

I Don't Wanna Go Home

I Don’t Wanna Go Home
by Ken Goree

My daughter, Carly, had begged for months to go on a camping trip with me; just a father and daughter adventure.  I am a teacher, and she had the same spring break as me, so the timing was right. 
It was just April, which in Western Washington means most of the outdoors is still coated in a lovely, spongy blanket of emerald green moss and algae. 
Carly and I decided to go east of the mountains to find a drier climate.  Our destination was the Mardon Resort, on the Potholes Reservoir.  We had been there for several fabulous trips in previous years.
The second week of April, Carly and I loaded up our gear and little black and white mop of a dog, Jaicy, and headed east. 
“Carly, are you…achoo…ready to…achoo…go?”
“What, Dad?”
“Are you ready to go?” I repeated.
By the end of the drive, I had finally come to the conclusion that one of my students had given me a cold for a spring break present. 
Carly and I checked into the campground and set up the tent.  The moment we finished that, the flinty grey sky opened up and it began to rain.  So much for a drier climate. 
Carly was a good sport about my cold.  She played at the resort playground in the rain, while I curled up in my sleeping bag, with my head hanging outside the tent.  I wanted to be able to keep at least one bloodshot eye on her as she played. 
I didn’t find out until the next day that I should have stayed in bed.
When the rain tapered off to a drizzle we took our little dog for a hike into the desert.  The three of us climbed up and down basalt cliffs, pushed our way through sage brush and squished through mud in places where water had seeped through the O’Sullivan Dam. 
We were having a great time until the mosquitoes, gnats, and midges attacked.  The bugs had let us slip by so that they could close in from behind as a living wall of insectile malice. That finished the hike for us.  When the bugs are so thick you can’t inhale, it’s time to turn back.
Returning to camp there was a new challenge to face.  Peter, an eight-year-old boy, decided to hang out with us.  After breaking several pieces of our camp equipment, I finally located his family’s campsite and returned him to his proper environment.
Soon after, Carly and I went into the tent for what we hoped would be a comfortable night’s sleep.  It was cooling down quickly, but we had our winter sleeping bags.  We expected to be warm and toasty.  What we didn’t count on was a monsoon and a hole made by the canvas hungry mice in my garage. 
Late in the evening, the rain started again.  It came down so hard I mistook it for passenger jets taking off from the Moses Lake Airport.  Around midnight, my daughter informed me that her sleeping bag was wet.  I had her move to my side because most of the stream that was rushing through our tent was staying on the side where Carly had been sleeping. 
Then our soggy dog Jaicy decided that she needed to sleep inside my sleeping bag with me.  I finished the night warm, but not comfortable. 
By morning, the weather had cleared.  I should have known something was wrong. 
We shared a sumptuous Captain Crunch Breakfast, while Jaicy was cuddled up next to me on the wooden picnic bench.  As I petted her, I felt a small lump down under her fur. 
Curiosity being one of my stronger instincts, I checked to see what is was.  “Uhhhgg! A tick!”  I almost squealed out loud.  In all the times we had been to the Mardon Resort we had never seen ticks. 
As I looked over her body some more, I found more, and looked more and found more and on and on and on.  My little puppy was covered with the things. 
Then I remembered that Jaicy had slept in my sleeping bag with me.  “Uhggg!!!”  Again, I almost squealed.  I would have if Carly hadn’t been there.  What I did do was shudder violently for several minutes. 
Next, I frantically checked my body over; completely confident I would find hundreds of little black vampires latched on to my flesh.  Not a one.  I couldn’t believe it.  Then I thought.  Oh no.  They want younger, tenderer meat.  They’ll be all over Carly. 
“Dad, what are you looking for?” Carly asked as I scanned her arms and legs.
“Little bugs that bite people sometimes.”
“Oh, like when the nurse at school checks us for lice?”
“Ya, something like that.  I’ll check your hair in a minute.”
“Okay,” Carly said.
I checked Carly over and…nothing.  I was in a happy state of confusion.  After giving her a clean bill of health, I showed her one of the ticks from the dog. 
I checked in the tent and found a tick crawling up the wet nylon wall.  I figured I couldn’t damage the tent anymore than it already had been by the mice, so I used my hatchet to take care of that tick without a single shudder.  Then I checked in my sleeping bag.  Three of them were crawling around inside (some shuddering was involved) so I checked myself over again.  Still nothing.
Carly, Jaicy and I jumped into the van and took a trip to the nearest feed store, 30 miles away.  I bought some flea and tick drops for the dog, and I asked the girl at the counter what I should do about the ticks that were already on the dog.  I had heard you weren’t supposed to pull ticks directly off the skin, so I hadn’t. 
“Oh, go ahead and pull those critters off.  It’s okay with this kind.” 
“How come I didn’t get bit?”
“This type don’t like people so much,” she said.
“The feeling is mutual,” I replied as I turned away and tried not to shudder.
Removing the ticks from Jaicy’s neck, body, and legs was a revolting job.  However, it was a little satisfying too.  I dropped them onto the warm parking lot asphalt as I pulled each loose.  I intended to run over them with the van when we drove away.
When we arrived back at the campsite, I figured we’d be packing up to go home.  After all, we had been soaked, almost frozen, subjected to Peter’s vandalism, and had narrowly escaped being tick food.  I was ready to go home.  Enough was enough.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Carly said to me as I was starting to take the tent down.
“Packing up, Sweetie.  I thought you would want to go home.”
“But I like camping with you, Dad.  Can’t we stay another night?  Something always happens when I’m with you.  I just can’t wait to see what’s going to be next.”
 “Whatever you want, Princess.”
 “Achooo!”  I grabbed a sleeping bag that had been drying in the afternoon breeze and wrapped it around myself.  Then I began to shake with the fever and chills of the cold that had been a spring break present from one of my students.


Saturday, January 14, 2012

Short Story #2 Coming tomorrow

Well, so far I have met my short story writing resolution, for January.  The first story went out on the first, and the second story is ready to go out tomorrow, January 15th.

One-twelfth if the way there, already?  This has a much different feel to it than the poetry blog had.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Nalley Bluff


You wake in the dark of the morning to the feel of my finger tips on your shoulder and kiss on your ear.  After you stand up with mild protest, I hand you a cup of coffee.  Soon, I am buttoning you into one of my quilted flannel shirts.  I move you toward the cabin door.  You know how cold the morning must be outside and take reluctant shuffling steps the entire way, a pout on your face.  Before opening the door, I lift the lid of an ancient cedar chest and withdraw a thick down comforter.  I wrap it around you and lift you off your feet.

          By the time I have carried you down to the beach I am panting and laughing at the same time. And you, you are laughing too, your face buried against my neck.  I hand you a pair of thick gloves and heavy knit hat, from my pocket, then help you into the center seat of the small aluminum boat.  I untie the ropes and then climb in with you.  Before starting the motor I lean forward and tuck the comforter more snuggly around your legs.

          The start of the motor is obscene in the pre-dawn stillness.  The oily smoke from the outboard stings your nostrils.  I back us away from the dock, then turn in a sharp arc and start us skipping across the dark water of the lake.  The blackness of the night has lifted just enough to show that we are heading into a fog so thick it looks like we might crash up against it rather than push through.  But pass into it we do, and as we do I feel the chill bite of the cold droplets against our skin and you fold yourself more tightly into the comforter.  You can feel the vibration of the cold metal seat where your body meets it.  Your hands are warm in the gloves, but you know the chill that is millimeters from your fingers, and your seat.  The waves ring out as they pound against the sides of the boat while we fly through the dark mist.

          The boat begins to slow and I warn you to hold on for when we bump the beach, and soon we do.  I climb past you, pausing briefly to touch and smell your hair.  I climb out of the boat and drag it onto the beach.  I pull a lantern from under the bow and then lift you carefully to the pebbly sand.  In the lantern light, you can see the mark from a boat, and foot prints next to where we have come up and you know that I have been here before waking you.  I feel you smile in the darkness.

          I walk you up a trail, guiding you and holding the lantern out for you to see each step. 

          I take your hand and bring you into a small grotto.  A place carved out of the basalt rock hillside thousands of years before, by a long-gone stream that left only this lovers’ meeting place behind to be remembered by.  I bring you to a drift wood bench and seat you.  In front of us you see a teepee of cut firewood, which you know I have placed there during the night.  I bend and strike a match to the fire starter, and you watch as delicate fingers of flame grow and spread light and warmth through the grotto.  Moving back to you I reach down and find what I am looking for: a thermos and two mugs.  You giggle and say, “Now, that I expected.”  I pour your mug full and smelling peppermint you breathe in the scent, and realize you were right.  It is hot chocolate, with a bit of Rumplemintz.

          You spread open the comforter and welcome me in.  We don’t talk much.  We sip our chocolate, snuggle close, and let the fire warm our faces as our bodies keep each other warm under the comforter.

          Later, we look out the open end of the grotto and see that the fog has begun to drift away and the sun is beginning to rise over the lake.  The fire has died down and I tell you it’s time to see more.  I’m excited to show you the worlds I explored when I was young. 

          We walk up a trail which soon connects to an overgrown road.  “This is the way to the Nalley House,” I tell you.  “It was deserted even when I was a kid, and is still standing … sort of.”  Soon the early morning light reveals the silhouette of a house.  It is very large, almost big enough to be called a mansion.  There it sits, all alone, the only house on this side of the lake.  We know the lake is back behind it, but it is hidden by a wall of Douglas fir and cedar trees.  There is no light in the house, hasn’t been for 50 years.  Only darkness looks out those windows.  I feel you shudder next to me and I know it is not from the cold.  “Me too,” I say. 

I take your hand and lead you to the house.   The porch creaks as we step onto it.  It almost seems to have a bounce.  The front door is open, half torn from its hinges.  We peek in, and then I draw you in with me.  “I have a flashlight if we end up needing it,” I tell you.  You don’t respond.  You just pull yourself closer against me.  I can feel you shaking inside your comforter cocoon.  This house frightened me as a child, and I realize it still does.  There is something wrong in this place.

          We continue through the house.  The hallways and rooms are littered with the remains of parties.  We notice, but are not in the mood to find it funny, that the teenagers in that area seem to prefer Busch Light beer.  There are holes kicked in most of the walls and faded wall paper hangs down in strips in places.  There are stains from water leaks on the ceiling and most of the walls.  In one room there are dark stains splattered up one wall, a smeared handprint tattooed across them in a black that may once have been red.   We lock eyes with each other, and turning as one, head for the door.

          The room seems suddenly smaller, as does the hall and the other rooms we pass, and pass through.  By the time we get back to the front door we are practically running, the comforter flapping out behind you.  Fifty yards from the house we realize we are running.  We stop.  Turning to each other we exhale shaky breaths and then burst into fits of laughter.  Once we regain control, I look at you and say, “Yep, just like when I was a boy.”  At that, the laughing starts all over again.  Eventually, we stop.  I hold out my hand and say, “You’ll like this next place better.”

          I pull you along a narrow path, and we follow a gently chuckling stream up the hillside.  We have begun to work up a sweat, and I take the comforter from you, to carry.  Cresting a small embankment we are just in time to see a beaver lumbering toward the water.  He dives in, swims out a few yards and then with a loud echoing slap of his tail disappears under the surface of the pond.  We sit on a log that stretches out with one end bending into the water.  I point to the water to show you the trout.  They are invisible against the algaed stones.  Then suddenly they become visible as the flick of their tails propels them smoothly forward.  You wonder how you didn’t see them at first, then after a blink wonder again at how you can’t pick them out until the next time they move.

We talk as the morning warms.  You tell me about your best childhood friend, and that you are best friends still.  I tell you about the time I got caught drinking at the Seattle Center.  Then I tell you a joke just to hear your musical laughter.  I tell you another hoping to hear your adorable giggle; you cover your face with your hands and the giggles continue.

When you get yourself under control, you see me looking at the place where your hair meets and leads into the graceful line of your neck.  Silently you lean in closer to me, looking up into my eyes.  I gently caress your neck and up into your hair.  A quivering sigh escapes your lips as I draw you toward me.  The morning is still cool by the water.  Mist swirls up in a hundred places from the surface of the pond, making it look like a miniature white forest.  We don’t notice the chill in the air, as I spread the comforter out on the grass.  The heat coming off our bodies drives the cold of the morning away.