Other People's Lives

 

(This happened to us last night, so I thought I'd give a quick write-up about it while it was fresh in my mind.)

 

We know so little of other people’s lives. Intimate friends of course, being an exception. But as to the average person we know so very little. This literally came home to me last night when a young man appeared at our door, obviously shaken and using his phone as a flashlight.

“I’ve rolled my car into the ditch down the road,” he said, “may I come in?”

Of course, we told him asking him if he was all right.

“I seem to be,” he replied. He came in and stood there a moment. He seemed remarkably composed, given what had just happened. We suggested he sit down which he did but only for a moment before taking out his phone again.

“I’d better call someone,” he said, and started to dial a number. Momentarily a woman’s voice could be heard answering.

“Mom, I’ve rolled my car,” he said. She said something in reply that we couldn’t make out, probably asking if he was okay.  At least I hoped so. After being assured that he was all right physically, the next thing she said, and we could hear this as her voice was raised, was “I hope you didn’t call the fucking police.”

He replied that he hadn’t. After he hung up, we put our coats on and accompanied the lad back to his car which had crashed into the ditch, rolled over at least once, and landed, straddling a fence, in the farmer’s field below us. The soft earth there had probably helped break his fall. If it had been a tree, like the one just further up the road, we would have been looking at a total wreck, probably with him in it.

“This was my first car,” he told us sadly. “I just got it.” We looked about for a minute and then we suggested going back to the house as it was very cold, and he only had on a light hoodie. As we walked back to the house a truck pulled up with two women in it, one likely his mother, and the passenger window rolled down.  He greeted them and then he got into the back seat. “Thanks for everything,” he said quietly to us and the two inside the car said the same thing and they drove off, down to the wreck.

More than likely, we will never see these people again, but I awoke this morning running through the event in my mind. How was the boy doing? What happened when they got home? Why was the woman so unwilling to have the police involved? These questions would never be answered and I guess the common response to that would be, well, it's not really any of your business. Is that true, I wonder? Not that I was going to go to any great lengths to find out the answers.

I could see from the bedroom window that the small white car was still stuck in the field, straddling the broken down wire fence. A short while later a flat-bed tow truck appeared, drove across the neighbouring property and dislodged the car and hauled it away.  

As it drove off, I was struck with the thought of how much happens to people in the world every day; some of it good, some not so good, and some desperately tragic. This event fell into the not so good category, I suppose.  I felt glad it was only that. And I was glad that we were able to help this kid in a small way, but overall, it left me somewhat saddened. Sometimes the disconnect in the world does that to me. To most of us, I guess. And so it goes.

   

When Is A Door Not A Door?

 

When Is A Door Not A Door?

November 26, 2024

I was a young man determined to find success. I worked long, hard hours. I fought for what I believed to be true. I took charge and was determined that I would control my fate. I was out to make the world mine, until it all came crashing down one day. I felt compelled to get help and I did get the help they offered but no help seemed to be the answer to my issues. One day I happened upon an ancient scroll by chance at the museum. As I was looking at it a wizened man engaged me in serious conversation. The conversation proceeded on for quite some time until he suggested I follow a path. It led me to this place.

The ancient building was difficult to find. There were many darkened paths on this journey.  I found myself almost giving up many times. He was just a crazy old man in a museum. “Why was I following his advice,” I wondered. Despite my many misgivings I persevered on. After some time had passed I found myself standing before this decrepit little building that looked like it should have been blown down in a fairly gentle breeze.  

I stood looking at the door for a long time. It was ancient and weathered. As a door it was really nothing special yet I was assured by the wizened man when we met that beyond it was exactly what I needed. There were no bells, no buzzers, no door knockers. There was nothing to indicate what lay beyond the door but I was desperate for an answer. I stepped forward and placed the palm of my hand on the door then stepped back. 

The cracked door creaked open slowly. It revealed nothing and everything. I strained my eyes to see in. Inside was a dark passageway that immediately brought creepiness to my mind. No light shone in here yet it was determined that this was the passageway I needed to follow for salvation. Just looking at it sucked the life out of me. I held my breath as my mind raced. Should I stay or should I go? 

“What am I getting myself into?” I thought as I stood there frozen at the prospect this door represented. Is this a new beginning or a departure? If I entered, was there a way out? 

Questions. 

Questions. 

My mind filled with more questions about the uncertainty this door represented. As I stood there pondering, the door started a very slow movement. Quickly I stepped into the gloom deciding I was a bigger man for acknowledging my fate. As the door eased to a gentle whoosh sound I looked around. My eyes became clearer. The pathway became more focused. Lighting had improved to the point where it felt warm and fuzzy. You could almost touch the humanity that existed there. I inched along cautiously surveying my surroundings. The long corridor was barren of any signs of life. As I walked for what seemed like an eternity I spotted something up ahead that was bathed in a stronger light. 

I could see some writing in a beautiful script. I inched forward until I was able to read.

“A door is a conviction that if given time, your options in making your decisions will see a broader span than is normally accepted.”

“What? Wait?” I considered this for quite a while. Was there something more here that I was missing?

A wise man stood in my view in a long side corridor, almost as if he was waiting for me. His head was bent in prayer. I looked at him for quite some time before he looked up at me. He began to chant.

“A door is a pathway to your soul. It is a beginning, an end, a challenge, a closure. You determine your life by it. By the decisions you make.”

“When is a door not a door? A simple question that begs an answer. Choose well.” 

And with that he silently moved off until he was no longer there. 

When is a door not a door? When it is ajar did not seem like the answer here. 

I sat on the floor pondering the question for a long time.

After a while I heard a shuffling sound. A voice hiccuped and then spoke.

“Old man, is this the right passage?  

I looked around for the old man he was referring to when I noticed my hands had grown older. I moved them to my face to discover that I had grown a long white beard. 

 I pointed to the script written on the wall. He stood there looking at it for quite some time.

“What does it mean?” he asked

“When is a door not a door?” I replied looking down the long corridor that the wise man had used to exit from this room. 

“Indeed,” I thought as I shuffled off down the long passageway leaving the newest participant to ponder the age-old question.

The Inheritance: A Hundred Word Story

November 24, 2024

“Your grandmother’s will is straightforward,” her lawyer began. My sister had a look of anticipation on her face. “To you Sarah, is this box,” he stated, handing me a small box. “The rest is for Rachel.” Rachel jumped with glee and laughed loudly as she pumped a fist in the air.

“Is that it?” she inquired.

“I am afraid so.”

She got up and said, “See you sucker,” as she exited the room.

“Open the box,” instructed the lawyer.

I lifted the lid. The sky lit up as comets zoomed by. “Come on in,” invited the voice of my Grandmother.

'Twas The Night Before Christmas (Pirate Version)

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and on board the ship,

We were sailing along at a right sprightly clip.

The swords and the pistols were stowed up with care,

So we wouldn’t harm Nicky or give him a scare.

The crew were all snuggled down below on their cots,

Snoring and belching, the blessed ‘ol sots.

And me with my eye-patch and Big Jim with his peg,

Were standing the dog watch with the very last keg.

When all of a sudden, when that keg had dried,

Big Jim pointed starboard at something he spied.

Away to the gunnels I sped on the run,

My feet by the rail, my hand on my gun.

The moon on the crest of the wavy green sea,

Shone up on the faces of Big Jim and me.

When what did we see (and it sure ain’t no dish),

But a miniature skiff towed by eight flying fish.

With a little old coxswain who steered through the fog,

We knew right away; it was ‘ol Nicky Seadog.

More rapid than ‘cudas, his fish on they came,

And he hooted and hollered and called them by name.

“Now, Horace! Now, Castor! Now Tiny and Dread,

On Black Sword! On Vengeance! On Slasher and Fred!

To the top of the poop deck! To the top of the mast!

Up, up and away, I say fly now! Avast!”

As foam from the cyclone before it does fly,

When a squall hits the bow, did they mount to the sky.

Up the tall mast the flying fish flew,

With the skiff full of treasure and Old Seadog too.

And then in the yards, the topsail furled in,

I heard the flip-flopping of each little fin.

As I turned to Big Jim, and started to speak,

Down the mast came the Seadog, with nary a squeak.

He was dressed all in black, from his cap tilted bold,

To the belt on his trousers with its buckle of gold.

A bundle of treasure he had slung in a bag,

And he grunted from the weight of his ill-gotten swag.

His eyes they glowed red, his breath smelled of onion,

His teeth mostly gone, he’d a nose like a bunion!

The beard on his chin was as black as the night,

And he sucked on a pipe with all of his might.

He had a red face and huge, swollen belly,

That shook when he laughed like a herring in jelly.

He was short but well muscled, a right scurvy old tar

And out of his mouth came a thunderous “yar!”

But a wink of his eye and a nod of his head,

Soon gave me to know I would not soon be dead.

He spoke not a word but leapt to the hold,

And filled it with treasure, all glistening gold.

Then turning and leaping up onto the mast,

He climbed to the top in a heartbeat so fast.

He sprang to the skiff, to his team gave a shout,

And away they all flew after coming about.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he sailed out of view,

“Happy Christmas to all, may your courses run true!”

 

Listen to the audio version here: