Phil Truman - Somewhere Aware

A Shovel Ready Idea

2012-01-24T14:43:00.001-06:00

"Do you think any of them idiots up there in Washington can get this country back working again?"

It was one of the opening queries a member of the group would toss out to get things rolling again when the conversation lagged.

They were a varied bunch of men; not quite old but getting there, friends sharing a bond going back to their small town school years, the last of which had ended nearly fifty years ago. Now they got together about once a month to drink coffee, eat some doughnuts, and remain friends. They might reminisce a little, but a lot of the talk centered on families - usually on some current stupidity of their grown children, or the infallibility of their misguided grandkids. Some fishing and hunting stories would arise from the outdoorsmen in the bunch; and, of course, there were individual health issues to discuss.

Their meeting place was a converted garage of one of their members. The space where Kiah Worley's old pickup once parked was now occupied by a vinyl picnic table. In one corner a wood burning stove smoldered, now that it was winter. The pungency of its smoke, leaking from the disjointed chimney pipe, bit slightly at the eyes and nose. Deer antlers lined the walls, and on a shelf above the coffee maker a huge skull of a feral boar hog rested, its disquieting tusks thrusting up from the lower jawbone like primeval scimitars. No specific sign hung above the entrance, but just the same, all self-respecting wives and other assorted females – except for the dogs – knew not to come in there, even if they'd wanted to. Naturally, none did, that is, come in or want to.

Politics came up from time to time, but not often. Like religion, it was a touchy thing which could intensify into heated and un-resolvable arguments, so they tried to leave it alone. Unspoken, they all pretty much felt their friendships were more important than political opinion. However, given the current state of the Union, it couldn't always be avoided.

The group remained silent after the question, shaking their heads and sipping their coffee. Most believed the query had a rhetorical nature.

Hayward Yost, a retired dairyman who'd worked seven days a week from sun up to sun down for well over half a century, decided to take the floor. "My granddaughter, who's ten, said to me the other day, 'Someday I want to be President.'"

"Why do you want to do that? I asked her.

"So I can help all the poor people, she said.

"And how would you do that? I asked.

"Well, there are a lot of rich people in this country. I'd make them give more money to the government so we could give it to the poor people.

"That's really a noble idea, I told her. But you don't have to wait until you're president; you can help poor people right now.

"Really? How? she asked.

"I've got a ton of jobs around my place I need help with, I told her. It'll take you about a day to do them, but I'll pay you two hundred dollars for your work.

"Two hundred dollars?! she said. She seemed pretty impressed.

"Yep, I answered. But you've got to promise me you'll give one hundred fifty of it to some poor people. You get to keep the rest for yourself."

"Okay, she said, but it appeared she'd lost some of her enthusiasm. She stopped to think a minute. Hey, Grampa, she said. I've got an idea. Let's go to some poor people, and tell THEM about the work you have and let THEM do it for the two hundred dollars. And I'll still do my fifty dollars' worth of the work."

The men around Kiah Worley's garage table all got a good laugh from Hayward's tale. After they all settled down, Buck Buchanan asked, "What'd you say to her?"

Hayward smiled and grabbed another doughnut from the box. "I told her I thought that was a much better idea. An idea worthy of a future president."

Want to read more about Hayward and his friends? Use these links to check out my novels:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME

Wintering with Gramp

2012-01-06T14:42:00.001-06:00

White Oxley's grandson Jakey, who'd just turned seven, said, "This is the worst winter I can ever remember."

That confused White. The winter so far had been pretty mild, especially compared to last. Most days had stayed in the balmy sixty to forty degree range with a bright winter sun. And the Southern Plains drought from last summer persisted; what little precipitation there had been in the late fall and, so far, early winter coming only as rain.

Last year in the first week of January the second snow storm of the season had blown through leaving the frozen stuff so deep and the air so cold school had to be suspended for another two weeks past the mid-year break. More snow and deep freeze continued into February, and they had to slosh through March which had the consistency of a half-melted snow cone. That had been the worst winter White could remember.

"Worst ever?" White asked. He put the book mark between the open pages and closed the book, sensing a talk coming. "How do you figure?"

"There hasn't been any snow. Duh," Jakey answered.

Despite the disrespect leveled at him, White had to admit the boy had a point, from his young perspective, anyway. The mid-term break would end the next day; the perils of returning to first grade loomed for Jakey.

"Well, you know, it's all on how you look at it," White said. "Remember last year when you couldn't go back to school and you got bored being cooped up so long?"

After a thoughtful interval, Jakey responded. "I wasn't bored. I liked not going to school."

White nodded. "I can understand that. Believe it or not, there was a time when your old gramp looked forward to snow days, too. But after a couple of 'em, I was ready to get back to school, see my friends and all. Didn't give much thought to being bored."

Jakey looked askance at his gramp. "I'm bored now," he said.

White winced at the stab, and took another sip of coffee. "Yeah. Here's the thing, though; being bored is a state of mind, and a state of mind is something you can be entirely in charge of, something you can totally own. So, if you're bored, all you got to do is think of something that'll make you un-bored. I figure you're smart enough to do that."

Jakey picked up a Lego figure – a two inch tall Darth Vader – from the collection on the floor before him, turning it over slowly, idly with his fingers.

"And another thing, you need to get back to school so you can learn to read and write better. Once you learn to read and write you won't ever have to be bored again."

"Why's that?" Jakey asked. It looked to White like he might have sparked some interest.

"Because when you're able to read there ain't no place you can't go, or nothing you can't learn. And if you've a mind to write you can make up your own worlds to tell others about."

"I don't like to read," Jakey announced. "Reading is hard."

"Yeah, it can be starting out. But like anything else, the more you do of it, the easier it gets. There're all kinds of adventures you can get into when you read."

"Like what?"

"Well, let's see." White rose from his chair and went to the bookcase, scanning it. "Ah," he said. "Here's a good one." He pulled the volume from the shelf and returned to his chair.

"Hop up here and let's see what we got. He patted his thigh and Jakey jumped upon it, looking expectantly at the book his gramp opened.

"Chapter 1. Loomings," White started reading. "Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world…"

Want to read more about White Oxley? Use these links to check out my novels:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME

The Question of Santa

2011-12-21T10:03:00.001-06:00

"Is Santa real, Gramp?"

The boy's gramp, White Oxley, drove on quietly for a few seconds, trying to decide what tack to take with this question. It was one of those a child asks whose answer would become a defining moment in that young life. Most parents preferred to put off answering such questions. White could think of three: Is Santa real? Is the Tooth Fairy real? and What is sex? White had to be careful how he answered.

They were headed into town, WalMart to be exact. Jakey had spent the night with them, as was his habit on Fridays. The boy's grandmother needed to do some Christmas shopping, so they'd all piled into the pickup to make a morning of it.

"Why you asking a question like that?" It was a stall tactic. White looked over at his wife in a silent plea for help. She smiled and winked, but said nothing. She always did this to him, taking delight in letting him dig a big hole before she came to pull him out.

"Sammy Botts told us Santa's all fake," Jakey answered. "That grown-ups made him up. That parents are the ones who put presents under the tree on Christmas Eve."

Jakey was in the first grade, the toughest of all school years: the start of reading and writing, math, homework, and no front teeth. Also, there was usually some know-it-all older kid who broke the news about Santa to the last of the innocents.

"Edie Jean started crying when Sammy said that," the boy continued. "And started pounding on him, until Miss Halley stopped her."

"Well now, why'd Edie Jean do that?" White asked, still hoping to divert the subject.

"She said she asked Santa to give her daddy a ride home on Christmas Eve. He's in the Army fighting bad guys somewhere far off," Jakey said matter-of-factly.

"Well…" White said. He sighed and looked to his wife again, but she'd turned her face toward the window, studying the passing countryside. White figured she was thinking about her brother Ben and that empty Christmas now so long ago.

"Is he, Gramp?" the boy implored again.

"What do you think, son," White asked.

"I think he's real," Jakey said, nodding.

"Well, there you go," his gramp said. "As long as that's what you believe, then he is. Believin' is a powerful thing."

White glanced over at the boy. Jakey looked thoughtful, so White continued.

"Sammy Botts just ain't got all his facts. Parents do put some of them presents out on Christmas Eve, but that's only because Santa asks folks to help out. You see, there's a whole lot more kids nowadays compared to when I was a kid. It's just more easier for Santa to get it all done that way before Christmas morning.

"So you tell Sammy he's got it wrong. That if he was to believe Santa's out there, like you, then by damn, he'd be out there; if he don't, he won't.

"White!" his wife said with the admonishing tone she used when he swore.

White went on. "Seems to me, though, life'd be a whole lot more fun if you was to believe in Santa Claus."

"Yeah," Jakey said starting to smile.

"One more thing," White said. "Monday morning I want you to go up to Edie Jean, and tell her this. Tell her it come from your gramp who happens to know Santa personally.

"You tell her that Santa will try his da…his goldurned best to pick up her daddy and bring him home, but that it ain't entirely up to Santa. You see, a soldier ain't likely to leave his buddies if they need his help. Could be her daddy won't be able to make that rendezvous with Santa. But if he don't, it won't be because he don't love his baby girl. No sir, jist the opposite. He loves her so much he's willing to stay over there and fight those bad guys so's to keep her safe back home; to make sure she has a happy and peaceful Christmas.

"You tell Edie Jean, if her daddy ain't home by Christmas, not to worry. He'll be there shortly."

"Okay," the boy said.

White wheeled the pickup into the WalMart parking lot. "You think Santa is still here?" Jakey asked. "'Cause I want to go see him again."

"Why, I believe he is," his gramp answered.

White looked at his wife and smiled. She touched a tissue to her eye and blew him a kiss.

Want to read more about White Oxley? Use these links to check out my novels:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME

Christmas Lights in a Wad

2011-12-05T13:30:00.001-06:00

"What is it you're doing, Punch?" White Oxley asked.

White stood in the front yard looking up at his friend perched atop a ladder leaning wobblingly against the roof line of the house. In one hand Punch held a wad of green wires with little protruding light bulbs while he tried with the other to extract one end of the string. He glanced down at White. "Well, what does it look like I'm doing?" He spoke with irritation, returning his attention to the snaggle of wire and lights.

"My first thought was some kind of alien life-form had landed on your roof, and you'd got up there and nabbed it. But then I seen it was some kind of electrical thing, so I figured you'd come up with a peculiar sort of suicide attempt. I'm just here to talk you down, son."

"No, it ain't none of that" Punch said, not the least bit amused. "I'm hanging these dang Christmas lights for Jo Lynn."

"Well, I ain't no expert on hanging Christmas lights, like you," White said. "But wouldn't it be simpler to untangle that string of lights on the ground instead of up on that ladder…and safer?"

Punch lay the wad of lights on the gutter and looked up at the sky. He sighed loudly. "Yes, it would," he answered. "I just didn't think it'd be this complicated when I started. I'uz in a hurry to get back to my ballgame."

White could see the scene now. Punch had done something stupid, had somehow screwed up and got Jo Lynn mad at him again, and was trying to make up for it by agreeing to do any blame thing she asked him. This happened on a pretty regular basis with Punch. And over the years, White'd come to the conclusion Jo Lynn counted on it to get things done around the house.

"Well, why don't you come on down from there before you fall and break your fool neck, and I'll help you get all that straightened out."

Once Punch descended, they moved to the porch steps. White sat, took the ball of lights from his friend and started working on it. Punch watched, mildly impressed with his friend's patience and tenacity with the task.

"I don't understand why Jo Lynn wants them lights up, anyway," Punch said.

"It's festive," White said, pulling on a loop of wire. "Your women like festive. Makes 'em feel like things look better'n they actually are. That's why they watch all them TV shows about weddin' dresses."

Punch took about a half minute to consider all that. "I got to get her a Christmas present. I ain't done that yet. You got your wife anything yet?" he asked.

"Yep," White answered.

"What you get her?"

"Something nice; something she won't expect."

"I ask Jo Lynn what she wanted and she said," Punch switched to a mocking falsetto voice. "Oh nothing really. I got everything I need."

"Uh huh. You know that's a test."

"A test?"

"Yessir, when they tell you they don't really want anything for Christmas, it's their way of seein' what you'll come up with. And then they'll determine that what you do end up gettin' them is an indication of your love for them, one way or t'other."

"Do what? Well, holy cow, it's just a dang Christmas present."

"I know. I know. But women look at things different than you and me. We see Christmas presents as merely something that'll come in handy, like a new compound bow or a set of socket wrenches or a flat screen TV for the garage. They, on the other hand, take them as a measure for the depth of your relationship."

"No way," Punch said, shaking his head and grinning back at White thinking this was another one of his friend's jokes. White loved to pull his leg.

"I'm dead serious, boy. You got to think long and hard before you decide what to give 'em. Like I said, needs to be something nice, and something she won't expect."

Punch nodded, scrunching his brow as he submerged deep in thought. After a bit, he snapped his fingers, his face brightened. "I got just the thing. I'm going to get her a bus ticket to go visit her momma for a couple weeks. She won't expect that."

White unloosed the last tangle in the string of lights and stood. "Let's get these hung up, son. I 'spect I'll have to come back in May to help you take 'em back down."

Reunion with an Old Girlfriend

2011-11-20T23:39:00.001-06:00

I like that car commercial where the guy goes to his class reunion and sees his old girlfriend across the room. They smile at each other wistfully, and share a few flashbacks before moving on with their new loves and, presumably, new cars. I've gone to some of those reunions, only the old girlfriends weren't near as gorgeous as that young fella's in the commercial. I probably wasn't either; however, unlike that guy, I did shave and get a haircut before I went.

A first novel is a lot like a first love. Your relationship with it was pretty intense, infatuation blinded obvious flaws, you hated to let it go but eventually other things drew you away, and when you look at it years past it ain't near as perfect as you remembered it. Still…

My first novel and I are having a reunion of sorts. It has been re-released with a new cover, a new publisher. Thought I'd re-introduce it here; give a brief synopsis, a short excerpt.

My publisher considers the book an inspirational novel, anyway that's the imprint he put it in. I suppose that'll work. My inclination for its genre is late young adult with a crossover into adult fiction – meaning appealing to readers over 18, too; not…you know, "adult" fiction. It's kind of a guy novel, because it revolves around football, high school football in small town America and all the intensity that goes with that. Most of the characters are male. However, I've had quite a few women tell me they like the story, once they get around the football stuff. Oddly enough, some women even liked the football action. But it's not just about football.

The book is called GAME, an American novel. It's available for the Kindle, Nook, and all other e-book readers for just $2.99. Trade paperback is also available for considerably more money. I'll send you a signed copy, if you wish. Go to my website for details. So here's a short excerpt:

Setup: September, 1974. Every Saturday morningduring the football season many of the men in the small Oklahoma town of Tsalagee gather in the only eatery in town to discuss the previous night’s high school football game. This season, unlike most, the team is off to asurprisingly good start. Friday night, their Redmen had beaten the bigger classed, but mal-coached, Wideford (pronounced “Widyfurd”) Buccaneers. The coming weekthey’ll face the reigning 2A State Champion, and fearsome, Hert City Trojans.

The boys down at Arlene's Cafe–those farmers, merchants, tradesmen of the town–lightened up a little on their coaching suggestions and criticisms after the Wideford game. Guarded optimism even came from one booth that the Redmen could whip the coming Friday's opponent, the Hert City Trojans.

"You know," R. B. Dorn offered slowly as he lounged back in his booth and stared prophetically at a point on Arlene's ceiling, "Them boys …" He squinted into the mist of the future to double check what he was going to foretell. "Them boys just might could …" He paused again to draw in his listeners a little further, while he maneuvered his toothpick to remove a piece of Arlene's pie crust from between his left incisor and first molar.

"Them boys could what, Arbee?" Hayward Yost asked impatiently from his oversized perch on a counter stool.

"If that boy Tarlson," R. B. finally continued. "If that boy Tarlson kin bust through them Hert City boys like he did against Widyfurd, an' if that defensive line kin stop that colored tailback of Hert City's..." R. B. extended another exasperating pause. "...then I believe we could whup them boys."

That prediction brought a lot of chatter and several whistles from Arlene's patrons. Buck Buchanan spit some brown goo contemptuously into the Del Monte green beans can he carried with him for just such a need, and snorted derisively in R. B.'s direction. Arlene rolled her eyes and smiled conspiratorially at Hayward Yost as she topped off his coffee cup. Soc Ninekiller remained passive and said nothing.

My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.
Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME
My Website

Boys in the Rain

2011-11-07T08:32:00.001-06:00

Back in the World, back home, they would've called that kind of rain a frog choker. It was a Sunday.

He sat on a ridgeline near the Korean DMZ during that Sunday deluge. It was the fall of 1967 and he was a soldier in the 7^th ID; 2^nd Battalion, 32^nd Infantry Brigade. He'd been put there, along with about fifty other guys spread out along the ridge, as part of a perimeter guard for a visiting dignitary; a man named Hubert Humphrey, the Vice President of the United States. They'd rolled them out of bed early that morning before daylight, made them saddle up, and trudged them out into the inky downpour with little explanation on why - the Army's usual modus operandi. The boys just did it because the person in charge was yelling at them to get their butts in gear and fall out.

They moved outside the compound, forded a swollen stream and, in grunt parlance, humped a yama (climbed a big hill), and were parked two by two about every twenty yards along the ridge. He was partnered up with a small black guy from Jersey…or maybe it was Kentucky. He finds it hard to recall; that was a long time ago. But it didn't really matter what pigment they owned or where they came from; their location at that particular time was smack dab in the middle of shared misery. They huddled together under snapped together ponchos, which was meager protection against the cold and driving monsoon rain. Besides, they were already soaked to the bone. As for color, both were tinged in blue as they shivered there. Their brotherhood wasn't a matter of race, but of disposition.

Turned out the Veep didn't show that day. One troop offered his guess that the man threw back the crisp sheets he'd slept between, looked at the rain outside his hotel suite in Seoul, and said, "I ain't getting out in that sh**. Where's my breakfast?" They all laughed, picturing the silk robed man sitting down to waffles and bacon on fine china, a nice fruit cup in a crystal goblet, a hot cup of coffee. The soldiers had broken out soggy C-rations for their breakfast. Truth is, none of them on that ridge knew what the man did or didn't say that morning, but most likely he said whatever he said while the troops were slogging up that hill to protect him. Word didn't reach them until late in the afternoon that he wouldn't need that protection after all. And the rain hadn't slackened a bucket by the time they slogged back down to thaw out, dry out, and de-mud in their hootches.

None of them got hurt that day, unlike so many others in so many other places at so many other times. Those boys in the rain suffered little more than physical discomfort, maybe some hypothermia. But no shots were fired, no mortars loosed. Most likely those on the other side couldn't see to aim through the dark curtain of rain, even if they'd wanted to, which they probably did. The privation which visits soldiers knows no ideology.

Most of us in that country at that time lived to join that vast and exclusive club called Veterans. One who didn't, a boy named Wilfred Owen who was killed in another generation's war, the one that spawned the idea to create a day to remember all military veterans, wrote this:

…Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but a trembling of a flare
And heaven but a highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.

To my brothers and sisters who once wore the uniform, who answered the call, who paid the price; who were and are out there protecting us all, great and small, I by God salute you.

My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.
Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
Visit my Website

The Unanswerable Question

2011-10-25T11:16:00.001-05:00

At age forty Punch Roundstep wasn't sure he had any more understanding of women than he did at twenty.

"Women is sure hard to understand," he said to his friend White Oxley.

White took a draw off his long neck, taking time to watch a Packers' receiver get clobbered before responding. "Well, I don't think it's so important to understand 'em as much as it is just to like 'em."

"Why'zat?" Punch asked.

White considered the question for a few seconds, long enough to observe the Packers' QB get crunched under six hundred pounds of Cowboy beef. "I expect it's mainly to ensure the continuation of the species like anything else," he said.

"Well, I like Jo Lynn; tell her so all the time."

"That's good," White said absently, his eyes still on the TV. "But you need to compliment 'em sometimes, too.

"Yeah, but that don't always seem to work."

"Don't work how?"

"Night before last we was getting ready to go out and she comes out wearing this tight red dress."

The reverential sound in Punch's voice drew White's attention away from the Monday night ballgame. "Red dress?" he asked.

"Yeah, and she asks me did I think it made her look fat. Well, she was so dang gorgeous I just grabbed her up and said, 'Darlin', I love a woman with a big butt.'"

White leaned back into the sofa and took another slow drink of beer. "You told her that, did ya?" he asked with a sad grin.

"What, you think that was wrong?"

"I ain't sure your answer was wrong; mebbe just ill-advised. Y'see, that's a trick question women like to pull on us to see if we're paying attention to 'em. There ain't no right answer. And they'll keep asking you that question until you tell them what they don't want to hear. But they ain't looking for honesty. Your best hope in a situation like that is to try to change the subject…or leave the room."

Punch furrowed his brow and shook his head. "See, that's what I mean. I don't understand why they'd do that."

"It's a mystery, awright," White said, turning his attention back to the more comprehensible world of football, hoping his answer would end this bottomless and pointless discussion on women his befuddled friend had started.

However, Punch persisted. "But I meant what I said to her. When she come into the room in that red dress, she was so dang pretty it brought tears to my eyes. I was payin' attention to her. Now she won't even talk to me...or nothing'."

White sighed resignedly and pressed the mute button on the remote. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on the game until he got the boy straightened out on this matter.

"Son, the damage is awready did. There just ain't no going back with women, or forgettin' neither. All you can hope to do at this point is try to cover up the mess you made with presents. Your women will forgive a lot, if you give 'em presents. The more, the more better."

"Awready been trying that," Punch said.

"'At's good," White said, nodding with encouragement. "What did you start with? Flowers? Candy? Jewelry?"

"Naw, better," Punch said. "I got her a new vacuum cleaner."

"A what?"

"Yeah, gave it to her this evening. Didn't seem to make much difference, though. So tomorrow, I'm going to take her out to get a new washer and dryer."

White picked up the TV remote and switched off the power. He stood to go get himself another beer. "This is going to take longer than I thought," he muttered.

You can read more about Punch and White in my novel Legends of Tsalagee.

My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.

Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME
my Website

Tyson the Cowardly Chicken

2011-10-09T23:09:00.001-05:00

White Oxley had purchased the rooster at a discount. "Well, there is one I can let go for half price," the salesman said.

He'd made the trip to Siloam Springs to find a replacement for his main rooster who'd fallen victim to a coyote. White hadn't been surprised after it happened. The old boy was past twelve and apparently didn't see very well. He'd guessed the cock mistook the coyote for one of his dogs. Most likely, Stumpy, who had somewhat of a coyote appearance, and liked to wander around the chicken yard looking for misplaced eggs. There was a young cockerel in the flock, but he wasn't quite up to speed for taking on the responsibilities of Head Rooster, so White made the buying trip to Arkansas.

Unfortunately, King George – that was the departed rooster's name – had come to tolerate Stumpy, probably because his repeated floggings of the dog didn't seem to deter the mutt's trespassing; and with the rooster's advancing years, keeping up the chicken yard policing activity came to be more trouble than it was worth. Funny, though, that old George couldn't tell the difference between a coyote and Stumpy, as the dog had only three and a half legs – losing the lower half of his left front one after stepping in a rat trap as a pup – and moved about with a pronounced hop. On the other hand, chickens weren't known for their intelligence.

Oxley eyed the chicken man suspiciously. He'd told him coming in he didn't want no dang high dollar rooster, and had turned down the first two prospects. "Why half price?" White asked.

The fowl in question didn't look like a half-price rooster. He sported a high comb and long bright red wattles. Head and neck feathers shined a reddish-golden; his body and leg feathers glinted in mottled blue and rust and green; those off his back flowed burgundy to red to orange; his tail feathers sprung high in black and blue-green arches. He was sure enough a handsome bird, and seemed to know it; strutting about the large cage, his head high, his beak slightly opened, his red eyes wide and fierce.

"He ain't much of a crower," the chicken man said. "Sounds sorta like a tornado siren with laryngitis."

White nodded. "What else?" he asked.

The man sighed and crossed his arms on his chest trying to decide the best way to say it. "There's some signs that this feller ain't very aggressive, you know, with the ladies."

"Whadda you mean?"

"I mean he has a tendency to get henpecked."

White took off his ball cap and scratched the top of his head. He studied the rooster in silence. "Well…" he said presently. "For the price I reckon I can live with that."

"Great!" the man said. "I'll go write him up." And hurried off toward the office.

After the fella got out of earshot, White turned to the caged rooster and muttered, "Henpecked, huh? Guess I know what that feels like."

Back at his farm, White was about to release the new rooster into the chicken yard when his grandson came running up. The boy was smart like his momma and ornery like his gramp. That made him White's favorite.

"Hey, Gramp," the boy said excitedly. "Who's this?" He jumped up onto the pickup's lowered tailgate peering into the cage.

"Ain't give him a name yet. Thought you might have one."

"Let's call him Tyson."

"Like the fighter?" White asked.

"Who?"

"The boxer," White answered. The boy gave his gramp a puzzled look. "Before your time, I guess," said White.

"No, I meant like the chicken mom buys at the store."

White grinned and nodded. "Seems about right." He opened the cage door and prodded the rooster out. "Welcome to your new harem, Tyson."

The rooster alit with some squawking, gathered himself, ruffled his feathers out some, did a little preening, then looked about. The group of hens gathered across the yard looking back at Tyson, muttering amongst themselves. The rooster raised his head high, puffed out his chest and strutted toward them. A fat old hen, white with brown neck feathers who they called Maybelline, walked out from the group and stopped in front of Tyson, cocking her head left, then right. The rooster threw back his head to crow, but only a scratchy screech came out. He stuck out his left wing, lowered his head and started waltzing in a circle in front of the hen, then put the right wing out and circled back, describing a figure eight. The big hen watched him for several seconds making several clucking comments during the dance. In the middle of Tyson's third circuit, Maybelline walked over and pecked him soundly on top of his head. Tyson squawked moving back a step or two, then turned and fled to a far corner of the yard, flapping atop a fence post.

"How much you pay for that rooster, Gramp?" the boy asked.

White would later reflect that, though tasty, Tyson was the most expensive fried chicken he'd ever et, even at half price.

You can read more about White Oxley in my novel Legends of Tsalagee.
My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.

Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME
my Website

No Mountain Too High, No Tale Too Tall for Chuck

2011-09-23T10:56:00.000-05:00

Let me tell you about Charles W. Sasser, who for name-dropping purposes I'll call, Chuck. Chuck is a living breathing Indiana Jones, only with a longer resume. However, I don't think he carries a bullwhip. Like Dr. Jones, Chuck has been a college professor and an archaeologist/anthropologist, but unlike Indy, Chuck isn't the figment of some Hollywood maven's imagination. Chuck is for real.

That's his picture to the right. It's a portrait done in pencil by the artist still known as Dan Case. It's from a photo taken right after Chuck had eaten a bowl of kimchi. You can see by his expression he knew it was a mistake. And the hat…well, the hat was made from the hides of 38 Australian geckos who tried to sell him insurance. Chuck has a low tolerance for cute. The t-shirt, I believe, came from a garage sale in Marrakesh.

The day after he graduated from high school at the tender age of 17, Chuck joined the navy to literally escape those cotton fields back home. He later signed up for the Army Special Forces where he served for thirteen years, and is a combat veteran of several wars. He was a police officer in Miami, Florida and a homicide detective in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He holds degrees in history and anthropology, and has taught at universities and lectured nationwide. I met him because he moves in writers' circles having over 3,000 published articles and more than 50 authored books to his name.

An extraordinary adventurer, Sasser has solo canoed the Yukon River, dived for pirate treasure in the Caribbean, ridden horseback across Alaska and camels in the Egytian desert. He has climbed mountains, sky and SCUBA dived, kick boxed, busted broncs, driven a Smart Car in traffic, and it's said once had a latte with Bigfoot. He holds a record for flying an ultra-light aircraft across the U.S. I think it's for the number of hours without stopping to use the restroom.

I saw Chuck the other day. "Hey, Chuck," I said. "Whacha up to?"

"Getting ready to go to Afghanistan. A general at the Pentagon called and wanted me to do a story on a Ranger unit over there. What about you?"

"Well, I'm headed to Bass Pro," I answered, slapping my stomach and huffing up testosteronily. "They contacted me about some guns and stuff they wanted me to check out."

Chuck nodded. "Yeah, I got the same flyer."

I decided to shift topics. "Say, listen, I've got this blog I'm trying to get people to read. Would you be willing do an interview for it?"

"Gee, I don't know, Phil. The General is sending a Gulfstream and—"

"Just a couple quick questions. I'll walk you to your car." I looked out across the vast WalMart parking lot, shading my eyes. "Where is it?"

"It's that white Lamborghini out there." He pointed to a dot on the horizon.

"A Lamborghini? Dang!"

"Well, it's not mine. The Pope asked me to see if it really would go 500 miles an hour like the salesman told him. I gotta get it back to him this weekend. He's sending Vatican One to pick it up."

He started walking briskly toward the Lamborghini. I trotted along, trying to keep up.

PT: So, Chuck, what do you consider your greatest adventure?

CS: Let's see…I've eaten raw seal liver in the Arctic [no seals were harmed in the writing of this blog post]; been bitten by a piranha on the Amazon; chased by a grizzly in the Yukon; dived with sharks; been wounded as a combat correspondent; parachuted into foreign countries…There're so many, I'll have to let you choose."

PT: Didn't you once do lunch with a Bigfoot?

CS: Unfortunately, I've never had the opportunity to dine with Mr. Bigfoot. However, a couple of summers ago, I backpacked the American Northwest and southeastern Oklahoma searching for him.

PT: Do you carry a bullwhip like Indiana Jones?

CS: While I have the greatest respect and admiration for Dr. Jones, I sometimes question his judgment. If I'm going into a gunfight, I'm not carrying a bullwhip.

PT: Do you think you could take Harrison Ford?

CS: Harrison Ford is an actor. In my estimation, after John Wayne, all the actors that follow are over-sensitive quiche eaters.

PT: What about Darth Vader?

CS: You take away that black robe and helmet and Darth Vader is just another tall skinny guy with prosthetic legs needing an inhalator.

PT: Do you own a monkey?

CS: I do not, nor have I ever, owned a monkey. I did date one once, though. Actually, she was an ape.

PT: Do you have any Native American ancestry?

CS: I'm one quarter Creek Indian, one quarter Scotch whiskey, and two-thirds…wait, why do you want to know?

PT: Census people asked me to clear that up.

PT: How much did you get for your 1^st published piece?

CS: $25. I was 15 years old and won a statewide contest for high school students writing about Oklahoma. I wrote about picking cotton. At that time, it's what I knew best.

PT: Is it true you've never bought anything on Amazon?

CS: Absolutely true. I don't like machines, don't trust them; and they don't like or trust me. When I buy something, I want to deal with real live human beings.

PT: How's that even possible? There are aborigines in Australia who've bought stuff on Amazon. Hell Heck, you probably know them!

CS: Then I'll get them to buy me stuff.

PT: What's all this I keep hearing about you and Kim Jung Il?

CS: There are a lot of disparaging remarks going around about poor little Kim, who, incidentally, doubles in Hollywood as Martin Sheen. I call him Il; he calls me warmongering, Western Capitalist pig. Otherwise, we have a compatible relationship.

By then we'd reached the Lamborghini. Chuck pressed a button on the keyless entry gizmo, and the trunk popped open. "Dammit Dang it!" he said. "I'm still getting used to this thing." He jerked open the door and slid in. The sleek machine roared to life. I slammed the trunk lid down. Chuck gave me a thumbs-up and zoomed off, narrowly missing a group of nuns getting out of a van, who gestured…well, angrily at him.

I watched Chuck speed out of sight in the Pope's white Lamborghini. "Guess I better head on over to Bass Pro," I muttered.

You can read more about Chuck's true-life adventures at his blog - http://www.charlessasser.com/wordpress/

My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.

Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME
Visit my Website

From 12/7 to 9/11

2011-09-09T10:29:00.001-05:00

Four years before the September 11^thAttack, I was at Pearl Harbor. My wife and I had long planned a trip to Hawaii for our twenty-fifth anniversary, and we took the kids, both young teens at the time.

On our last day on the Islands, we scheduled a visit to Pearl Harbor. I'd been to the Arizona Memorial once before, and I wanted my son and daughter to have that solemn and most reverent experience; to gain some understanding of the heavy price America has always had to pay for shining a beacon of freedom throughout the world.

Upon our arrival we found all the boat trips to the Arizona Memorial booked for the the day. Ironically, about 90% of the visitors were Japanese. That bothered me, even angered me a bit. So we wandered the small park, taking in the view of the harbor and the other memorial plaques and monuments there on the shore. To assuage my pique against the Japanese tourists, I started walking in front of their camera views just as they took their shots. Passive aggressively, it seemed the least I could do.

Then something subtle happened. I didn't even notice it at the time, but later reflection brought it home.

After six brief decades as a human being…and a believer, I've found that coincidences rarely happen in life. Had there been seats on one of those boats, we four would've been able to visit the Arizona; we would've been able to stand in humbled silence before the Memorial Wall bearing the 1,172 names of sailors and marines killed when the ship was attacked on the morning of December 7, 1941. We no doubt would've been moved by the moment, gaining an indelible memory. On the other hand, had those things happened, we may never have met Dick Fiske.

I first spotted Mr. Fiske moving through the park and the gift shop as I made my photo op rounds amongst the Japanese tourists. He seemed to stand out. Somewhere in his 70's, he was a small, neat man dressed in a loose-fitting green shirt and white slacks. He sported a snow-white mustache to match his pants. His gossamer hair was white, too, but a military cap covered most of it; a little hat like you see American Legion guys wearing adorned with buttons and patches and inscriptions. I could see a Marine emblem on one side of the cap, and sergeant stripes on the other. The words U.S.S. West Virginia were embroidered on one side, and when he turned around I read "Pearl Harbor Survivor" across the back of his shirt. He carried a big white scrapbook. I was intrigued. I wanted to approach him, but was a little shy. This man was a hero, after all. As it turned out, I had no idea.

"Excuse me, sir," I said to him. "Were you on the West Virginia during Pearl Harbor?" In the American lexicon, the proper noun has become an event.

He looked straight at me, his eyes keen and bright. "I sure was, son. Would you like to hear about it?"

"Yes, sir, I would. And I'd like for my kids to hear your story, too."

He nodded with a smile, and I led him to a bench where my family sat.

He told us the events he'd experienced that Sunday morning over 50 years past, turning through the book he held showing us pictures to fit his narration. He'd been a nineteen year old Marine assigned to the Battleship West Virginia. In those days, those easy duty days in paradise, he was a bugler. It was his job that Sunday morning to go topside and play reveille for the ship's company.

He stood on the quarterdeck when the first torpedoes struck. The blast blew him across the ship. Stunned, he got to his feet. Looking astern, where the Arizona sat parked on Battleship Row, he watched as the bow of the great ship rose up out of the water followed by a massive explosion. The eruption blew him backward. Soaked in oil and water, but somehow uninjured, he got to his feet again and ran to his battle station on the bridge. Once there, he saw his captain receive mortal wounds when bomb shrapnel ripped through the windows. The ship was gone, and the abandon order was given. The young Marine jumped over the side and swam to Ford Island, helping those in the water not able to swim…those who needed help.

Dick Fiske survived that "day of infamy" at Pearl Harbor, and later 36 days on Iwo Jima. But what Dick Fiske did after the war is even more incredible. He accomplished what few of us could ever do: he forgave his enemies. Decades after the war, Fiske met Zenji Abe who'd flown a dive-bomber over Pearl Harbor. The two became friends, and Abe gave Fiske a sum of money asking him to lay two roses every month at the base of the Arizona Wall and play taps. Abe invited Fiske to Japan where he visited Ground Zero at Hiroshima playing taps at their memorial service. He continued to do both those homages for several years. In 1996, Fiske received The Order of the Rising Sun from the Japanese Emperor for his reconciliation efforts. Richard I. Fiske died in 2004 at age 82.

Here at the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 Attack, I don't know if any of us are ready to reconcile with those who attacked us that day, to forgive them. I don't think I am. Those enemies don't appear to be interested in any kind of reconciliation. It seems we daily get messages from some quarter in their camp that their on-going intent is to annihilate all Americans, every man, woman, and child. Tough to forgive people like that. They appear to be against all we believe in: the right to say and write what we want, worship how we choose, go where we please, freely choose fellow citizens to represent us in our government, help those in need, allow all citizens the opportunity to better themselves. Though not a perfect people, decent Americans have always known the difference between hatred and tolerance, tyranny and liberty.

Today we can mourn our honored dead, and pay tribute to the sacrifice of those who died for freedom's sake. Maybe by the 50^th anniversary of 9/11 our country and the world will be in a place where we can find Dick Fiske's and Zenji Abe's kind of forgiveness.

My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.

Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME
Visit my Website

Tks 4 the Follow, Emily, & YW!

2011-08-23T09:31:00.028-05:00

A poem keeps popping into my head; something from high school, an Emily Dickinson ditty. There's a couple things odd about that: 1- I'm not what you'd call a big Emily Dickinson fan; 2 – that I remember anything from high school is amazing. But even though I possibly could have gone to high school with Emily, she and I have almost nothing else in common, that is to say, I'm not a reclusive virgin poetess.

Well, I suppose it is true I spend an inordinate amount of time shut away in my room chittering away on this dang computer talking mostly to the screen and my dog; so, okay, I may be a little reclusive. And I may have dashed off a bawdy limerick or two at some point. But I do have kids, even grandkids. I swear they're mine. Do not for one second believe a word about their being adopted. They just say that.

Anyway, back to this Dickinson poem, which keeps rattling around in my head like a Little Richard song*. I'm thinking Miz Dickinson was way ahead of her time. I mean, there may have been some social networking going on in the mid-19^th Century, but I doubt it was anything like today. My guess is Em had maybe twenty friends, tops, and those probably included some goats and chickens and such up there in Amherst, Massachusetts; I have a few of those myself. Followers, it is said, were even fewer. So I'm pretty sure that's why she wrote this poem:

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us – don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog.

I definitely understand what Emily was going through. Sounds to me like she was just as paranoid as the rest of us. And it must've been a whole lot harder, because she didn't even have a "Like" button for people to click. Can you imagine?!

Well, this baby frog better get back to telling his name the livelong day to (hopefully) an admiring blog.

*For a demo, go here: http://tinyurl.com/2pxo7h. Picture me as the fat white guy.

P.S. please like me.

My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.

Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME
Visit my Website

Enabling Cookies

2011-08-08T17:34:00.002-05:00

It was going to be 108 in the shade that day…again, so we were trying to come up with something new to do inside besides play video games. Jamison, my six-year-old grandson, had come to spend a couple days, and it had fallen on me to keep him entertained…and uninjured. He's one of those little guys who likes to keep things moving; not only his body, but his mind. In both cases it's a struggle for me to keep up with him.

Catch was out because of some stupid woman rule about not throwing a ball in the house; checkers had already drawn to a Mexican standoff; the 550 piece puzzle we'd picked up at Bass Pro a few days prior (a big-mouthed fish leaping in sunset waters) was completed on the dining table; that is, all except for one piece, which we suspected Jamison's little brother had confiscated, and possibly eaten. We'd already done the theater scene, and we both agreed there's just so much you can watch involving animated yard gnomes and/or six inch blue beings.

So we were at our wit's end…almost.

"Let's make something" he said.

"What do you want to make?" I asked, thinking along the lines of Lego structures.

"Cookies," came his immediate response.

"Cookies?" I said aghast. "I don't know nothin' about bakin' no cookies."

"We can do it, Grampy," he assured me. "Call Mooma (a.k.a. Grandmother). She'll tell us what to do."

As an aside, Mooma is a holdover moniker from Jamison's baby-talk years of which he hasn't yet let go, much to my wife's chagrin. I'm glad I got away with just "Grampy."

So we got phone support from Mooma. Fortunately, she wasn't in New Delhi, so I understood most of what she told me to do. Jamison and I managed to get everything mixed up and put on cookie sheets, although most of his contribution involved licking utensils and sticking his (licked) fingers in the dough. And one egg fell to the floor instead of the bowl, much to the dog's delight. Grover is always happy when the boys come to visit, as he knows he's likely to get food windfalls.

Our cookie of choice was your peanut butter, and therefore had to be "mashed" prior to baking. According to our support technician, this is where you dip a fork in water and press the tines onto the cookie dough ball. This flattens the pre-cookie and creates those hash marks you often see on that denomination of cookie. Jamison insisted he be in charge of that task, and despite my repeated order not to lick the fork between mashings, he did it anyway.

After all was said and done, we managed to bake up a good batch of pretty tasty, non-health code compliant, PB cookies. But, hey, I figure at 375 degrees for ten minutes, any cooties imparted would've been cooked well beyond virulence.

And did you know cookie dough, even mashed, will turn out bigger baked than raw? Go figure. We found one big cookie per sheet, and had to cut them into squares to get them off it. Didn't upset the taste, though. They were pretty dang good, even if we do say so. However, I think Jamison's mom was upset with me that his lunch that day consisted of half a dozen cookies. But I did, I told her, throw in a nectarine so she and Mrs. Obama wouldn't think totally ill of me.

My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.

Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME
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Soc and Little Wolf

2011-07-17T08:33:00.002-05:00

Eighty-six year old Soc Ninekiller never kept the leash on Little Wolf when they came to Veterans’ Park, even though Officer DuFranc told him he should.

“I could write you a ticket for that, you know,” Officer DuFranc said in his deep cop voice after his first admonition. Charlie DuFranc was an imposing figure, standing six foot five in his leather cop jacket bristling with cop tools and burnished badge. And, of course, there was the daunting Glock holstered at his side. The stern visage on his broad black face helped, too.

Soc, sitting on a park bench, whistled his dog over and snapped the leash onto the collar. Little Wolf put his front paws on the policeman’s razor-creased blue pants at the knees. Officer DuFranc reached down to pet the miniature husky and scratch his scruff.

“How you doin’ girl?” Charlie asked. “Huh? How you doin’?”

“Son of a bitch,” Soc said.

“What?” Charlie looked up, surprised.

“Waya is a male.”

“Oh. Well, you need to keep him on a leash, Soc.”

Soc nodded. “He seems to like you, Charlie.”

“Mind if I sit?” DuFranc asked. Soc made a gesture indicating consent, so Charlie sat. Little Wolf sat, too, and looked up at Charlie with a tongue lolling grin. His panting made him appear to be laughing.

“Where’d you get this dog?” Officer DuFranc asked.

“Didn’t,” Soc answered. “Showed up on my porch one morning, grinning like now, wanting breakfast.”

“You try to find his owner?”

“Yep. Checked the neighbors; put flyers around. Even took out a classified. Been a month. No response.”

Charlie nodded and looked down at the dog. Little Wolf looked intently up at Charlie, prancing his front paws. “Woof,” he said to the policeman.

“Dog like that must belong to somebody,” Charlie said. “Doesn’t look like a mongrel.”

“My wife always liked dogs,” Soc said. “Had one when the kids were little. But they grew up and left home, and that old dog died. Never got another.”

“Why not?”

“Raised on a farm where dogs were outside animals, had to earn their keep. Help with the livestock, go hunting. Never had one as a pet. My kids fed their dog treats and loved it up. Sometimes I believed they liked that dog more than me.”

“Hmmph,” Charlie said nodding, as if he understood.

“Wife asked if we could get another dog a time or two, but I refused. Dogs are a pain, I told her, so she let it go.”

“So now you got this dog,” Charlie said. “How does that square?”

Soc looked off into the distance remaining silent for some time. DuFranc was about to stand and depart, when Soc continued.

“My wife was just a girl when I married her. Prettiest thing I’d ever seen. We were together sixty-two years before the cancer took her. Been about a year now. I had no idea what a broken heart was until she was gone. Never knew loneliness was such a deep hole.”

Soc got quiet for another spell. “You believe in the spirit world, Charlie?” he asked at length.

DuFranc looked sideways at Soc. “If you mean God, yeah. I believe in God.”

“Well, there’s that,” said Soc. “But I’m talking about things happening. Some call it coincidence, like this dog showing up on my porch. I never had much truck with dogs, now this blame thing crawls up in my bed every night. The odd thing is I let him.”

Charlie thought about that for a few seconds, then said, “Well, I better get back at it.” He stood and touched the bill of his cap. “You have a nice day, Soc.”

After DuFranc’s patrol car rolled out of sight, Soc reached down and unsnapped the leash from Little Wolf’s collar. The dog gave Soc a cheerful “Raff!” and ran off on a sniffing tour. Soc knew he wouldn’t go far.

My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.

Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME
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The Art of War (and Love) with apologies to Sun Tzu

2011-06-28T21:29:00.001-05:00

A certain group of men meets for coffee every so often. They live in a small town; most have for most of their lives. Some would call them elderly: those of you backpacking your way across campus, or zooming your way through careers and parenthood. These guys have already done all this, and have been placed in a box society calls “retired.” Their paychecks may now come from retirement accounts and Social Security; their status meetings are now coffee gatherings; their parenting has evolved from scolding disciplinarian to indulgent grand, but that doesn’t mean they’re out of it. Maybe they’re not quite as stylish and trendy as some, but still hip in their own archival sort of way. Their collective wisdom doesn’t result so much from a level of IQ as it does from experience.

Around the table there’s Hayward, a once dairyman turned flower grower; Punch (Gale), an ex- mechanic, ex-carpenter, ex-trucker who spends a lot of time and money at Bass Pro; Soc, a Cherokee elder, and miser of the spoken word; Abel, an ex-banker now tomato grower; and White Oxley, a callous-handed working man and unsolicited philosopher. There are others who come and go at the monthly meetings, but these five are the “regulars.” Some fish, some golf, all attempt to avoid their wives. These coffee meets are one such escape. A main rule of theirs, like the sign hung outside the old Our Gang/Little Rascals clubhouse, is No Girls Allowed. It’s not so much a misogynistic thing as it is their lifetimes of confoundation with the female of the species. The all-male coffee meet gives them a forum to discuss this issue without fear of reprisal, as well as others.

One such instance:

“You know, women is a lot like bass,” White Oxley said.

That statement was offered after Hayward had said, “A man once told me, if it weren’t for sex, men and women would’ve killed each other off a long time ago.”

White stirred the lukewarm tan liquid in his mug, as he waited for someone to request elaboration. The cup once held coffee, but had become so diluted with creamer and sweetener, it now resembled, and tasted like, the tan icing you’d find atop a doughnut shop maple bar. When no one responded, White continued on his own. “You can spend a lot of time trying different lures to attract them, but they can always find a way to jump off your hook.”

“Had this crankbait onest called Plum Crazy,” Punch said. “Pretty thing; expensive, too. Ole boy at Bass Pro told me when bass saw it they’d wet themselves. Then he laughed, sort uh crazy like. Never caught nothing with it, though.”

“Now see, that’s what I mean,” White said. “Your women just don’t often appreciate what a man has to offer.”

Soc grunted and sipped some coffee. “In fishin’,” he said. “You need to lower your expectations and raise your commitment. ‘Spect that’s true between women and men, too.”

The table got thoughtfully quiet as the others pondered Soc’s pronouncement. One or two nodded as if they might agree.

My name is Phil Truman and I write novels.

Use these links to check out:
Legends of Tsalagee
GAME
Visit my Website