The town of Barnville, a small hamlet consisting of farms, a general store, gas station, volunteer fire department and Victorian era houses in the Storrs County area of Connecticut, prided in also having a weathered though well-cared for old-fashioned one room schoolhouse. It was the first building anyone saw upon crossing the countryside county line past the sign, “Welcome to Barnville”. The schoolhouse had been designated an Historical Protected Monument in the year 1960 by the State of Connecticut because of its being built in 1860, marking 100 years of age and the era in which such buildings with outhouse toilets were standard. The schoolhouse in 1960 served as Barnville’s meeting place for community business and elections, and for the occasional holiday celebration.

The hamlet of Barnville didn’t have many young families living there in 1960, as its population of two hundred and thirty-seven souls consisted mainly of older farmers whose fathers had established Barnville, their wives, and the generation or two of decendents who would keep their farmland intact and viable for the future. On one of those handed-down-the-line farms lived a young girl, Agatha “Aggie” Cousins, a pretty little thing with strawberry blond locks, freckles sprinkled across her nose, and emerald green eyes. She was just eight years old, and a slip of a girl, but was “Smart, and full of sass and molasses,” as her Grandy Bea, her mom’s mom, described her with a smile and a wink, “And she’s always keeping up with the boys in looking for adventure.”

“Yes, that’s right!” Aggie had said aloud when Grandy Bea had finished her praising, “And I’m better at trying new things than any grubby ol’ boy I know!” She’d hugged herself and grinned in happiness, then became serious. “Grandy,” said the waif of a girl, “Do you know anything about the Brownies?” Grandy replied, “You mean the chocolate squares I make?” “Nooo, Gran,” said Aggie, “The girl Brownies, the girls my age who can’t be Girl Scouts yet.” Grandy Bea shook her head in the negative, “No, can’t say as I do.”

Aggie thought for a moment, then asked coyly, “Wel-l-l-l, if you knew more about it, and you saw that being a Brownie might be good for me, and fun, would you be a Brownie leader? That’s the person who’s in charge of the Brownie troop, you know, the one who cracks the whip!”

Grandy Bea chuckled a bit, and feigned being taken aback. “What? Since when have I ever taken a whip to you, Agatha Janine Cousins, much less my hand… or even waggled a finger at you!” Aggie turned away and smiled to herself, because at that moment, she knew she had hooked Bea into becoming a Brownie leader.

And so it began…with a whirlwind trip into Hartford, the capital of Connecticut, where the Girl Scouts of America had a store full of everything a good Scout should have, including the prizes Aggie presently had her eyes glued to…Brownie badges. A whole wall of them in front of her, all colorful and dancing in her green-with-envy eyes, just begging to find an honored place upon Aggie’s brand spanking new uniform.

“Ohhh, Grandy,” she sighed, “Look at these beauties! Oh, yes, I want every one of them! How long do you think it’ll take to earn this whole wall?”

Grandy Bea laughed at the sight of hundreds of Brownie badges going up the wall and towering over her excited granddaughter. “Agatha, sweetie, I don’t think there’s enough of you to wear all those at once!” Happily, Aggie piped up, “Well then, I’ll just have to buy more than one sash to hold them, right, Grandy?” Bea rolled her eyes in exasperation at her fresh-faced and freckled Aggie girl.

The beginning and very formal meeting of the Barnville Brownie Troop, lead by newly trained, initiated, and sworn in Beatrice “Grandy Bea” Cousins, consisted of Agatha “Aggie” Cousins, 8, Kathleen “Kitty” Parmenter, also 8, and Wilhelmina “Willa” DePersis, 10. It was a tiny troop, to be sure, it was three less than the normal six plus leader, but enthusiastic Brownie Aggie didn’t care about that. To her, the little troop was a bona fide, ready to go, starched, pressed and tied-up-in-a-bow trio of future Girl Scouts, whom, for all intents and purposes, were bound and determined to earn all of the Brownie badges offered by Girl Scout headquarters.

But first things first, the Barnville Brownies were required to recite their oath while standing in front of the little school house’s classroom American flag. Aggie, Kitty and Willa, standing tall and as straight as fresh young saplings while lined up together properly, looked toward their beaming “Leader Bea”, who nodded the go-ahead. Then the girls smiled at each other as they made their three finger salute, and finally, gazed at the flag as they said in unison:

“I promise to do my best, to do my duty to my God and my country, to help those at home every day, and to obey the Brownie Guide Law.”

A short silence had followed as the new Brownies ended their pledge and salute, and Aggie’s heart swelled with pride as tears rolled down her cheeks. She vowed to herself in that moment to always help others, no matter what.

Many, many badges were earned by the Barnville Brownies in subsequent years, and the little troop that could gained a reputation in Storrs County as the finest example of teamwork there could ever be, in fact, they’d grown to be like a mini-family. Among other accolades for jobs well done, the three Brownies had won a trophy with their names engraved on it for selling the most boxes of Girl Scout cookies in one year… totaling three times the population of Barnville!

At long last, the day the Brownie troop would officially become Girl Scouts had arrived. Just after dawn, Aggie, Kitty, Willa and Grandy Bea, dressed in work clothes and carrying their brand spanking new Girl Scout uniforms, arrived at the old schoolhouse. They set to work cleaning windows, desks and chairs, chalk boards, and the pot-bellied stove near the back door. When finished, they’d made the place fairly sparkle, but had forgotten about the outhouse. Upon agreeing to do the fair thing, the girls had drawn straws to determine who’d have to clean the toilet, and Willa got the shortest straw. On any other day Willa would have been grumbling about her misfortune, but this day was extra special, on this day, she felt, she would no longer be a child, she would become a full-fledged teenager! The latrine, it seemed, was her last test of childish reactions to the grime of life, and she fairly skipped out the back door, pail of soapy water and rags in hand, to meet it head on.

When all in the schoolhouse and outhouse was ready, including green, yellow and brown crepe paper strung up around the classroom, plates piled high with Girl Scout cookies laid out atop the teacher’s desk at the back of the room along with half-gallon jugs of milk and drinking glasses, and water in a teapot set to boil on the wood-burning, pot-bellied stove, the Brownie to Girl Scout Ceremony could commence. That is, as soon as the official Girl Scout Induction Officer got there.

Aggie, Kitty, Willa and Leader Bea looked resplendent in their new, green Girl Scout uniforms, and stood in a semi-circle at the schoolhouse’s front door awaiting the “Swearing In” contingent sent from GS Headquarters. It was high noon, and the air inside the one hundred year old schoolhouse was not only still, it was rife with tension. As the minutes passed, the girls anxiously fidgeted, adjusting their scarves and uniforms, tilting their tams, re-tying their shoelaces and brushing smooth their uniform fronts.

By twelve twenty-five it was apparent to Leader Bea her would-be Girl Scouts would remain Brownies for a bit longer. No one looking official was headed their way, only the parents, siblings and friends of Aggie, Kitty and Willa, and a few locals and friends of Bea’s who had been asked to show up at half past noon for the swearing-in and refreshments.

In due time, relatives and friends stood almost shoulder to shoulder in the schoolhouse’s one room. Leader Bea gave permission for her troop to hand out the cookies and pour the milk for those who wanted them. Everyone was disappointed for the Barnville Brownie Troop, and yet no one made a fuss about the situation, for that would accomplish nothing. Instead, all put on happy faces and made the gathering a time of fun. They even sang and danced, bringing back memories lingering in the walls that couldn’t talk of days gone by.

Aggie, Kitty and Willa felt bad for themselves, and for Grandy Bea. They had all put a lot of work into earning enough badges, selling way more than enough cookies, and performing enough community service to prove themselves worthy of becoming Girl Scouts and Leader.

As they hugged each other in saying goodby at the end of the day, tears began to fall, but not tears of sadness, tears of joy. For Aggie, Kitty, Willa and Bea knew in their hearts and minds that they had passed muster, they were now the very first Barnville Girl Scout Troop. There was nothing left to do on this auspicious day but turn to face the century old schoolroom’s American flag to recite the Girl Scout Pledge. And so, they did.

Copyright Sage Faber 2020

All rights reserved

1580

In the dank and dark alley behind the 2nd Street Badger Bar, a handsome, green-eyed, velvety black cat, who called himself, “Licorice’, and a sleek black female dog, a Labrador-Whippet blend named by her writer owner, “Penink’, sat together waiting for a handout of the Badger Bar’s leftover food. Licorice, becoming restless, said in cat, “Meeeoooww, rouw, rouw, rouw! Brock is sure late tonight! My stomach is pressed against my backbone, I’m so hungry! What’s the matter with that guy anyway? Geez!” Penink bowed down in a puppy play stance in front of Licorice and said in dog, “Oh, c’mon, Lic, he likes to make us wait, you know that. He wants us to hang around and keep our sharp eyes on the alley for him. We’re just unpaid bouncers, ya get it?” “Yeah,” said Licorice laughing, “I’m remembering last Saturday night, it was raining cats and dogs when you stopped a guy from sneaking in the back way by stepping your muddy paws on his brand new shoes and leaning your full weight into him until he fell over into the rain drain. Ha! That was a good trick! What a muddy mess! You’re really something, girl!”

Penink did a prance dance around the alley, swinging her hips as though she owned the place, and smiling to expose her pointy and pearly canines. “Oh, hells bells!”, she barked, “That was the least of it! I gave him a jolly good bite on his butt when he tried to crawl on all fours to the door…was he ever surprised! And I stole his wallet, dug a hole and buried it!” Both furries had a belly laugh over that one, which was even better than belly rubs!

Licorice and Penink finished up their jovial moment with a few more laughs, then settled down to the serious business of preparing to beg as they waited patiently at the Badger Bar’s back door once more.

While they were sitting on the bar’s stoop commiserating, an old Ford van drove down the alley and stopped at the Badger Bar’s back entrance. Licorice and Penink padded stealthily backward into the shadows of the building to watch. Upon the van’s side door opening, the two voyeurs could see a young girl, gagged with Duct tape and tied up with ropes, and a young man in the same predicament. Their captors shouted for them to “Leave the truck now! Get out!” And so, both bound and gagged people each did their best to exit, but fell hard onto the alley’s pavement and knocked themselves out cold. Then, they almost got run over when the van suddenly took off. “What the…” said a puzzled Licorice from his hiding place. “Holey Moley!” exclaimed Penink from hers, and she came out of the shadows to get a better look. The two bound up victims were definitely unconscious or were doing a bang-up job of faking it.

“Whoa!” mewed Licorice, this doesn’t look good. They’re barely breathing under all that tape on their faces. And look at the blood on their clothes! We have to get help…quick!” Penink agreed, and said, “Well, since we can’t yell for help like humans, let’s you and me make one heck of a racket in our native tongues, okay?”

Licorice agreed, and from deep down in his gullet, he produced a mighty, small cat roar and a great imitation of a super-duper feline hissy-fit screech. Penink, highly impressed by her fur-coated friend’s voluminous vocalizing, threw back her head and produced a wild and wholley she-wolf howl a werewolf would be proud of, and together, Licorice and Penink proceeded to serenade all within a five block radius.

Shortly, police car sirens were heard coming toward 2nd Street, and behind them, two ambulances with harp-seal sounding sirens…arp, urp, arp, urp urp, arp, urp arp! (The two horns were not in harmony, for sure). Following this noisy cacophony were, of course, ambulance-chasing lawyers and newspaper reporters. Licorice and Penink were about to become famous.

The police, lawyers and reporters were brought up to speed by the two young victims, and the lion’s share of credit went to Licorice and Penink for their expert “big cat” and “huge wolf” imitations working to save lives. During the reporters accolades, a policeman asked, “I’ve heard of black cats bringing bad luck and being bad omens, but in this case, it’s all been good. What does a black dog do?” Penink looked at Licorice and said in dog, “I’ve got the cat’s back.”

The two previously bound-up victims were carted off to the nearest hospital. No one knew just yet why they had been dumped, in particular, behind the Badger Bar. That interesting news would come later. In the meanwhile, Licorice and Penink contiuned to be celebrated as heroes of sorts for helping to bring swift attention to the injured young folks of the mystery dumping.

Finally, when the melee had died down and everyone had left the scene, Licorice turned to Penink and said, “Wait! With all this crap going on, did you see Brock come out of the Badger with our food?” Penink gave it some thought and said, “No, um, no, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. Hmm, that’s funny, isn’t it? I mean, it’s odd, nothing haha about it.” Licorice, feeling frustrated and hungry said, “I could eat two ol’ roadkill crows and a gallon of minced mice in anchovies right now. Where IS our food?”

The two friends sat leaning together and staring at the closed-up-tight Badger Bar back door as if this action might miraculously make it open.

After awhile, it was stiff neck time. “Let’s go around front and see what’s tickin’,” said Penink, “Something’s fishy, and it isn’t kosher that’s for sure.” Licorice retorted, “Pen, please, stop with the food jokes already, and never say ‘cooking’ and ‘fishy’ in the same breath to a starving cat!”

Penink just shrugged and lead the way between buildings to the front of the Badger Bar. Once at the entrance, Licorice and Penink were shocked and dismayed to see the whole place boarded up, and with a big sign written in red paint, “Closed until further notice. Covid-19 Quarantined”, plastered across the boards. Of course, cats and dogs can’t read, so they were left only to speculate. “Whoa!” moaned Penink softly, “Where is everybody? What happened between last night and today?” Licorice replied, “Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s been closed since the night before. We ‘ve been in the alley the whole time, and we didn’t see Brock last night, remember? Nobody came out. Forget it, let’s go eat.”

“That’s right,” said Penink, “He didn’t show. Do you suppose his absence had anything to do with those poor people that got dumped back there?” I mean, why Badger’s, why not behind someone else’s business?” Licorice took the question into deep consideration. “Hmm, well, hmm, yeah, it could be…no…it’s not that, I’m sure…well, ah, let’s see…umm, was the food really all that good at the bar?” Penink was startled by this last. “What?” asked the dog, “What’s that got to do with…” Licorice began again, “Was it me or was Badger’s bar food really not all that good? Seems to me it lacked something. What do you think, Penink?”

“Well, no,” began Penink, “it wasn’t fully-rounded health food complete with catnip for you and anise for me, no. It was mostly fried something-or-other and kinda greasy. Finger food, you know what I mean?” Licorice looked horrified. “Penink! How could you let me eat that stuff! I thought you had my back, eh? It’s time we moved along to find another place to sup, let’s go!”

And so, the two furry friends sauntered along, jabbering to each other in dog and cat, to seek handouts in places not far and wide away, but just down the alley from Badger’s Bar. “Hey, sis,” said Licorice inbetween purrs, you know I love you like my own family, don’t you?” Startled Penink, feeling the warmth of those words, and blushing under her cheek fur, happily skipped along a bit all around ambling Licorice, then stopped in front of him and murmured softly, “Yes, bro, and ditto to you.”

c Sage Faber 2020

TCWG July entry.

1364 words.

I died in the year 2020 at the very beginning of the Corona Virus epidemic, not yet known world-wide as the Covid-19 pandemic. I did a short dance with the CV, only five days, which shocked the doctors and nurses because, at the time, I was a youngish, healthy woman of only thirty years. When I went to the hospital, I walked in under my own power, but was in the throes of what I had thought was a very bad bronchitis, and was coughing my head off. It was exhausting, and in just the three hours I waited in the Emergency Room for attention, the CV had further infected my lungs until simply breathing became overwhelmingly difficult. Two kindly people, also waiting for help in the ER, went to tell someone about my dire straits moments before I passed out.

If you’re surprised I’m writing this story in my present state of ghostliness or as an angel divine depending upon what you believe in, then I must tell you what it’s like to be actually dying and then, dead. As everyone already knows, people die in a myriad of ways, both naturally and otherwise. I’m not talking about accidents and such, I mean when they’re at peace with it and ready to go. Of course, no one ever thinks they’re ready to go, nor wants to depart, but their brains and bodies tell them otherwise. When that time comes, some people choose to go down fighting, some are calm and glad the end of their suffering is near, a few refuse to let anyone into their space to watch them die, while others want the chance to say goodbye to all of their loved ones before they quietly slip away. For Corona Virus patients at the end of life, there are no choices, they have lost control of their lives, there are no last requests that can be granted, and their dignity in the face of death is witnessed and shared only by strangers who must wear fully protective hazmat-type outfits which hide their faces…all except their eyes.

In my case, while in Intensive Care Isolation, the attending doctors seemingly suited up for outer space very gently talked to me in straightforward medical terms while looking directly into my eyes, but most of the nurses caring for me avoided doing that, instead looking downward at the task they were performing. They worked as fast as possible to do their jobs and get out, so not many pleasantries were exchanged, just lots of tension bouncing to and fro on both sides. I knew they were feeling for me and were scared for themselves, and I saw tears come easily to their tired eyes, then roll onto their hospital blue, paper masks. I told the scared nurses that I would try my best not to sneeze on them, which was a joke of moot point because by that time, I was ensconced in an oxygen tent, those used by pneumonia patients to help them breathe. Oh, yes, I have to add that I’m claustrophobic, so being trapped in that plastic tent for hours on end was freaking me out, and making my blood pressure and pulse go through the roof.

With nothing to do but think…about my family, friends, my two precious dogs at home, and all the things I wanted to do but never did…my life was more than hell, it was hell on steroids and wheels, seeming to be travelling past the speed of sound toward my end. I longed to see my parents, my brother, a friend, even somebody I never liked but somehow politely tolerated. The loss of familiar faces and physical comforting by hugs, touching hands and exchanging sweet kisses was devastating. And to know that I might never see and hold close my two beloved pets ever again gnawed away at what little hope I desperately clung to.

Other morbid thoughts came into my head, too, like, “Who will take care of my furry girls if I’m not there anymore?” “Why don’t I have a Will?” “Is it too late to write one?” “Please, please, Mom, don’t let my dogs get put in the pound! They’ll never get adopted together!” “Dad, I’m sorry you won’t get to walk me down the aisle.” Mercifully, sleep would come after more of my frantic and terror-filled thoughts wore me out.

Not much was known about the nature of the beast, Corona Virus , in those very early days of its appearing and beginning to spread in the United States. Its symptoms were vague, its diagnosis sketchy, and its treatment was iffy at best. About all the doctors really knew was that there was no for sure cure, and the virus’ spread was as swift as it was deadly, causing its upgrade from “epidemic” to “pandemic” in silver bullet speed. My first symptoms were innocent enough to delude me into thinking, “No, it’s just an allergy, a simple runny nose and a slight cough.” But the next day, my temperature rose to one hundred and two degrees, and within the space of a few hours, escalated the coughing to a non-stop bark, sounding like my dogs chasing an intruder.

Being single and living alone, except for my two sweet canine companions, was an advantage when I was at first ill in that nobody (meaning my mom) was nagging at me to stay in bed, drink lots of liquids, and eat chicken soup ’til it overflowed out of my ears. I know moms are great, but mine was a worry wart who bugged me constantly, calling me on the phone after each breaking news story about Corona Virus (COVID-19) symptoms or treatments. Every television and cable channel had different reports, and so, many, many panicked mom to daughter calls were made. About then, I thought her psychic powers were working overtime.

My dad was more of a learn-to-take-care-of-yourself parent, so he had taught me to be self-sufficient by taking my younger brother and myself on camping, hunting, and fishing trips where we three contributed to “surviving” our weekends by living off of the land. We had some great times communing with nature and later, laughing around a campfire while roasting marshmallows at the end of the day. Mom was always happy to see us return home with only mosquito bites and a little poison ivy rash to complain about.

Luckily, I still have sweet memories like those to carry around in my “spirit only” state because even though my recent body demise is taking some getting used to, my soul now set free opened up a whole new, big beautiful world to enjoy. I can go anywhere in a breeze, visit whom I please (ha ha, without them knowing it!), and revel in, however ghostly, sharing my carefree time with family, friends and dogs. I’m a blithe spirit now, who has joined a constellation of bright stars in the night sky that gaze upon you and say, “Don’t be afraid to join us, for we are your guiding lights in the darkness of the great and wonderful unknown.”

c Sage Faber

All rights reserved

April 2020 w1185

Nary three days had passed since Linda Porter had moved into her fourth floor walk-up, when she’d been rudely awakened at midnight by a frantic knocking on her front door. She grabbed her bathrobe from a straight-backed wooden chair, painted light blue, that she’d found near a dumpster, and took her flashlight from the drawer of a small matching table found inside the dumpster. Then, on the short way from Linda’s bedroom to the front door, she put on her robe and stopped at a closet to get her baseball bat, just in case.

At the door, Linda asked,

“Who’s there?”

Which was loudly and shakily answered in a girlish sounding voice,

“It’s me, your neighbor! Please help! There’s something wrong with my baby!”

Linda, ever the cautious one, tried to look through the door’s peephole, but realized she was a bit too short, with bare feet, to reach it. As she looked around for something to stand on, the young lady in the hallway went into more of a panic mode and cried,

“Please let me in! I think he’s dying, there’s blood!”

On that scary note, the word, “blood”, Linda grabbed a handful of books from an unpacked moving box and stacked them on the floor as a step up for herself. She looked through the peephole and, sure enough, she saw a tearful young lady cradling a baby, and what appeared to be blood on its swaddling cloth.

“Oh, no,” said Linda, under her breath, then louder, “Just a sec!”

In one quick move, she stepped down from the books and opened the door. The frantic young mom rushed into the room, passing Linda and heading for a couch a few feet away. There, the mom laid the baby down, unwrapped its coverings, and cried as she pointed to a small circle of blood on the baby’s stomach.

“There! There, you see? He’s bleeding to death!”

Linda moved closer to the baby to get a better look, and got down on one knee. But this move only caused the young mom to wail louder, and the baby began to wail, too.

“Oh, my God! You’re praying for him now!” the mom cried between sobs, “He really IS dying!”

“No, no, no!”, said Linda as she tried to comfort the frantic young mom, “He’s definitely not dying! He’s just had his umbilical cord fall off. It’s perfectly natural. The cord dries up and falls off.”

The young mom settled down somewhat, but she was still very concerned.

“What about the blood?” she asked, “He could bleed to death!”

Linda took the worried mom by her hands, looked into her eyes and said,

“We’ll clean him up, you’ll see, he’ll be right as rain. And if he isn’t, we’ll take him straight to a hospital, okay?”

The young mom smiled, she was totally relieved, and said,

“Thank you, I really appreciate your help. I’m Carol West, and my son is James.”

Linda reciprocated…

“You’re entirely welcome, and I’m Linda Porter.”

Carol gazed lovingly at James, who was sleeping quite peacefully at the moment, while Linda went to gather up the supplies needed to clean the small area of now dried blood from his body. When she returned, she and Carol both shared in taking care of baby James. They could plainly see, when finished, that he was perfectly fine, and his navel was already healing itself. Carol was visibly pleased, and much more relieved than ever, but she looked sad when she confided to her new neighbor,

“We’re all we’ve got, James and me. My boyfriend dumped me when I told him about the baby, and my family, what’s left of them because my mom and dad were killed in a car crash, lives way across the country.”

Linda was taken aback by hearing Carol say this, but was not surprised since Carol had, after all, appeared in the peephole by herself. No one had come chasing after her, and she had not made telephone calls to anyone to tell them about her son possibly being in dire straits.

Said Linda softly,

“I’m so sorry for the loss of your parents.”

Then she looked toward angelic baby James, safe and soundly asleep on her couch.

“You know, Carol, I’m almost…not quite, it’s a stretch, you see…but I’m almost old enough to be your baby’s grandmother. So maybe, if you two like, I could be Granny Linda.”

Carol was delighted, as was Linda, at the chance for a new beginning in their fourth floor walk-ups.

Long time San Diegan, Roger Askam, a recently retired computer analyst, patiently waited as last in line at the outdoor newsstand in front of his city’s historic train station. He was a tall, slender man with pale blue eyes, salty light brown wavy hair combed neatly back, and had a relaxed demeanor. Dressed in nice casual clothes, including a sports jacket and suede Chukka boots, he carried a duffle with more clothes, his toiletries, a book, and a Pizzarelli disc.

Roger looked at his watch. It was five o’clock, B. C. (Before Cellphones), on an autumn afternoon, and he would soon be boarding the Pacific Surfsider for a three hour scenic sunset trip up the California coast to Los Angeles to visit his sister for her birthday. Since he had no weekend gigs lined up to play the drums with his “grey hairs” retirees band, The MegaBytes, he was free to go.

When Roger finally became the next customer at the newsstand, he grabbed a San Diego Tribune from a pile and handed the vendor a fin. The man, who resembled the late actor, Wallace Beery, was slow to make change as he said,

“Y’know fella, your dog looks hungry.”

“What?” asked Roger, “What dog?”

“The ragamuffin sittin’ next t’ ya,” the paper seller said, and chuckled as he pointed downward over the newsstand’s counter.

Roger sneaked a glance sideways without turning his head. The little brown dog in question was staring up at him with ragdoll button eyes and was, indeed, a scruffy-looking thing. It had ears that flopped over forward, fringe-like eyebrows, a short beard, and a shaggy coat. He thought it a terrier of sorts, a quite thin one at that.

Not mine,” said Roger, “The last dog I had died of old age about six months ago. I couldn’t face going through that sadness again, so I didn’t get another one.”

The dog whimpered and put a paw on top of Roger’s nearest shoe.

“Awww,” said the vendor, “Will ya look at that! How can ya resist? I’d hang on t’ that one if I were you.”

“No, thanks,” replied Roger, shaking his head in the negative, “No dogs, nope, no. I like my freedom thank you very much. A dog is like a kid, needs attention all the time…not for me, not now, I just retired! I want to travel. Nope, no dogs, no, ut uh…”

“Okay! Okay!” said the vendor getting annoyed, “Your choice, but at least give the tyke a bit of sustenance, eh? Got somethin’ it might like…”

He reached under the counter for a small wire display stand upon which hung cellophane bags in red, green and yellow. Roger took one of the green packages of Dirty Bird’s Turkey Jerky.

“How much?” Roger asked.

“A buck twenty-five. But don’t give the pooch those, they’re too spicy, got Jalapeño peppers in ’em. Take the red or yellow instead, one’s barbeque, the other’s plain.” He chuckled a bit, leaned toward Roger and continued, “With the plain, the dog won’t fart! You wouldn’t want a farting dog on the train with you, would you, buddy?”

“Look,” Roger retorted, “I told you it’s not my dog.” He looked down to meet the dog’s waif-like, pitiful stare. “I’ll tell you what,” he told the vendor, “How about if I give you some money and you take the dog to the S. P. C. A. It’s a no-kill animal shelter. The dog will be better off there. It’ll get medical care and food, and be safer than running around on the streets. How about it? You and me help the poor thing.”

The vendor’s face softened. He was both flattered and surprised that this complete stranger would trust him to carry out such a plan, especially where money was involved. He accepted the duty, and Roger gladly gave him one hundred dollars.

“Here’s fifty for your trouble and fifty as a donation to the shelter.”

“Nah,” said the paper seller taking the money, “I’ll give it all t’ the shelter.” He came around the open end of the counter to check out the dog, “Yep, needs a bath, a haircut, nails done… the whole enchilada! But for now, a collar and leash…”

Working together, Roger and the vendor fashioned a collar and leash out of the heavy-duty, thick cotton cord used to bundle newspapers, and tied the dog to the vendor’s stand until he could put away his wares and close up for the day. Then, as though right on cue, the train station’s announcer was heard over a loudspeaker…

“Attention passengers! The Pacific Surfsider to Los Angeles is now ten minutes to departure. Please have your tickets ready and line up at Gate A.”

Roger ripped open the yellow bag of Jerky Turkey he’d bought, and laid the package in front of the dog. Then, as he lowered himself to one knee and handed a strip to the quietly sitting, and patiently waiting, canine, he noticed it was a female.

“Here you go, girl,” he said, “I hope you find a good home with nice people to take care of you.” With that quick goodbye and a pat on her head, Roger left for the train.

The line at Gate A wasn’t too long, so with ticket in hand, Roger walked leisurely across the circular turn-around in the train yard to the Pacific Surfsider before the conductor yelled, “All aboard!”. At the first passenger coach behind the engine, he grabbed a hand-hold and put one foot upon its steps, then hesitated and turned around to look back at where he’d left the poor homeless dog. He felt sorrow in leaving her, and his eyes teared up in remembering his own pet that had recently passed on, a German Shepherd dog. As a puppy, the Shepherd had been as small and helpless as the little brown terrier girl. Roger had adopted him from a rescue group that found him living in filthy conditions with no food or water in the basement of an abandoned house. The pup’s mother and his three siblings had died before the rescuers had been told by people in the neighborhood that they’d heard howling and crying coming from the empty house. Roger, as a fan of David Bowie, named his new pup, “Major Tom”, and the small ball of fluffy fur grew into a big bruiser of a dog, sharing fifteen years of his life with a man who devoted himself to Tom’s happiness.

The conductor again yelled, “All aboard!”, as Roger climbed the steps of the coach, pulled open its inside door, and took an aisle seat in the left rear of the car. This would be the more scenic side on the way north to Los Angeles as the train rolled along near the ocean. It would also be interesting, because with only one set of tracks used by both northerly and southerly running trains inbetween stations, a series of diversion side tracks were used by southerly traveling trains to let pass an oncoming train going north. The timing schedule of both trains was crucial to making a successful pass.

Getting temporarily off of the main track rails required that a train stop completely, wait for the main track’s switcher to connect with the diversion tracks, and then move forward onto those tracks. The switcher would return to its main track position behind the train, and then a northerly train could pass by. Later, the diverted train didn’t have to back up, instead it was driven forward over another opened switcher back onto the main track to continue on its way.

Roger was settling into his seat, getting his newspaper ready to read, when he heard the train’s whistle sound, signalling its two conductors to jump aboard because the Surfsider, in thirty seconds, would ever-so-slowly begin to roll. Other people in this passenger car included a family of two adults and two children, an elderly couple, and two young women in U.S. Marine uniforms. All were sitting on the right side of the train, the family at seats turned to face each other, and the others in stationary semi-recliner seats.

A bar and sandwich car, “The Seaview Cafe”, was behind theirs, then two double-decker cars, a single decker, a disabled person’s car with a bathroom, a baggage car with bike storage, and last was a restored antique Victorian caboose with an ornate iron balcony on its rear. The caboose, a relic of old-time campaigning by politicians who wanted to make speeches at stops when traveling, was restored along with three others for Pacific Surfsider trains. The cabooses were reserved for private luncheons or romantic liasons by couples who enjoyed re-enacting, in costume, the more genteel era of the Victorian Age.

Roger opened his newspaper to the Sports section and began to read about his favorite football team, the San Diego Chargers. One of the children in the family sitting mid-way on the right side of the passenger car began to talk excitedly as he peered out of his window.

“Mom! Dad! Sissy! Look! There’s a dog running for the train!”

The whole family leaned toward the windows and saw a scraggily-looking mutt, with a white leash dragging along beside it, making a beeline from the station to the train. Roger, with his face buried in his newspaper, was oblivious to the whole scene.

The dog jumped onto the caboose’s steps, then onto its balcony, waited for someone to open the door, then worked her way forward through each train car as more people opened doors. When she arrived at the closed door to Roger’s car, she was so excited to smell him that she barked her head off and danced a merry dance while scratching on the door until the boy who’d seen her coming opened it. Once in, the ragamuffin girl jumped into Roger’s lap and covered his face with doggy kisses. Her tail was wagging a mile a minute, beating against Roger’s newspaper, and both children laughed at the sight and sound of it.

“Hey, what have we here?” Roger exclaimed happily as he tried to hold up the wiggling dog while she washed his face from ear to ear, “What happened? How did you find me?” It was then he saw the chewed leash.

“Ut oh, guess I just lost a hundred bucks. But you’re worth it, kiddo!”

An hour into their three hour train ride, after Roger had enjoyed watching the California sun as a bright orange ball sink into the ocean, he and the little brown dog fell fast asleep. She laid in the window seat next to Roger’s aisle seat with her chin resting on her chosen master’s leg, while his left hand was on her back. The train had slowed from its normal average of forty-one miles per hour next to the shoreline to twenty, then to fifteen while traveling inland and maneuvering snakey “S” turns around short, steep cliffs. This section was treacherous at night because there were no lights, except the train engine’s headlight, to help in seeing the worst of the sometimes blind turns that brought the sides of the train cars close to jutting rocks, and the engine vulnerable to rock slides that might have blocked the tracks. But it was all good when they came out of the scary area and resumed normal speed when back on the beachside straightaways.

Roger and his ragamuffin girl doggy friend were jolted awake at the train’s Oceanside stop just before the seventeen mile stretch of its Marine base. The two lady Marines aboard moved to seats on the left side, in front of Roger’s seats, to see the base better in passing it. They chatted about their adventuresome turns in boot camp while speculating about where they would be sent next. He listened for awhile, then went deep into thought.

“I’ve got a name for you!” Roger Askam said to Her Scruffyness, who was paying rapt attention with her golden brown eyes, astute nose and tuned in body to his good vibes and every word.

“It’s ‘Cassidy’! She was my great-grandmother, and a lively and fun lady she was, too. What do you think? Do you like your new name?”

“Arf! Arf!” barked Roger’s newly christened kid in a dog’s “I do!”

During the next hour, at scheduled stops, commuters and day-trippers boarded the Surfsider, filling most of the train’s available seats. But in Roger and Cassidy’s car, because the engine and first car stopped just past the loading platform, there were still a few open ones on their side, and lucky thing, too, in view of what would happen next.

Five miles up the tracks, a southerly train was stopped and waiting for the track switch to allow it to move forward onto a side rail out of the way of the northerly train fast approaching. The train’s engineer, knowing he didn’t have much time to get his seven cars plus caboose off the main track, was getting very nervous, and angrily muttered…

“C’mon, c’mon, switch dammit!” which, of course, didn’t make it happen any faster, but as the switch finally opened, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief and began to drive his train onto the diversion tracks. He was sure his train would be fully off the main rails when the northerly train rolled on by, so, when done, he radioed the track controller to return the off-side rails switcher to “Closed”. The controller did so, but told him the computer showed about six feet of the renovated caboose’s jutting iron balcony was not quite clear enough of the coming train’s width. The engineer froze in panic as he knew the northerly Pacific Surfsider was less than a mile away.

The crash was deafening, and Roger hugged Cassidy close to his chest as he, tossed about in his seat, watched in horror as the thin outside metal skin of his train car was being peeled off like the top of a sardine can by the iron balcony of the off-sided train’s caboose.

The engine of Roger’s train had been gouged, too, because the first impact had only pushed the other train’s caboose slightly off its track. Other people in Roger’s car, the two Marines, the family, the elderly couple and more had managed to stay in their seats even without seat belts. Everyone in the car was locked in an embrace with someone, so as not to get thrown around and hurt.

The Pacific Surfsider stopped moving forward just after its third car was past the off-track caboose. All aboard, scared but relieved, sat still for a minute or two in shock and said nothing. Cassidy looked up at Roger from the safety of his arms and gave him a lick on the chin. He kissed her on the top of her head and whispered,

“Thank you, sweet girl, I needed that. We almost lost it, eh?”

He looked out the window and saw nothing in the darkness, then looked around inside the train car at the other passengers. No one seemed hurt, just frightened, and it was then that a conductor appeared and told everyone to form a line and follow him off of the train.

Outside, passengers from the two damaged Surfsider trains were talking excitedly and looking for a way, in the dark, to distance themselves from the trains and tracks. The big worry was that a third train might come along and crash into theirs. The conductors, engineers, and other train personnel did their best to try to calm everyone down and assure them that help was on the way, but the passengers didn’t listen, and all hell broke loose. Some panicked and ran into the darkness only to scream moments later when they fell four feet into a ditch nearby the tracks. Some ran on the tracks ahead of the train, tripped and hit their faces or heads on the cross-ties or rails, causing themselves terrible injuries. Others tried to climb up the ten foot tall wire fences on either side of the tracks which kept wild animals, like deer, from wandering onto the rails. But there was nothing anyone could do, really, except play it safe and wait for help to get there. That’s why Roger, after helping the two Marines find and bring back the injured, chose to sit down on the ground with Cassidy and stay put.

The train crash made the eleven o’clock news programs on all of Los Angeles’ channels. Roger’s sister, Candace, worried sick about him because he was way overdue, sat on her couch glued to the tv set. She was relieved when she saw her brother talking to reporters.

Roger was holding Cassidy in his arms, telling reporters about his brave little dog, how she’d known something bad was about to happen, how she’d gotten him to move away from the window, and then had thrown herself onto his chest to protect him from injury. He also said she had been rescued that very day by him, and that everyone should go to an animal shelter and adopt a dog because it might save their life someday, too. (So? He fudged a bit with his story, who cares? He sure knew how to get a great message across.)

Candace’s eyes smiled through her happy tears as she said to Roger on her tv,

“Oh, my dear brother, you’ve finally opened your heart to another furry child. Major Tom most surely has sent her. She’s a gem!”

Well, we all know that no good deed goes unpunished, eh? Then it won’t surprise you to find that two months after the train crash, Roger Askam, the man who was adamant about “No more dogs, no!” had a “train” of his own crash in his bedroom in the middle of the night. For that little brown ragamuffin, Cassidy, gave him four more homeless waifs to feed with Dirty Bird’s Turkey Jerky.

🐶 🐕🐕🐕🐕

Copyright SageFaber 2019 All rights reserved

T’was the day of the Annual Barkhampsted Fair and Bake Sale to benefit the small town’s animal shelter. The rising sun filtered through lace curtains onto the bed and face of Irmtraut Spaetzle, whose last name meant “dumpling” which she had been dubbed as a cute, chubby-cheeked baby. Now, as a grown woman, she’d cooked perfect spaetzle and was an expert at tarts. Today, she wanted her tarts to be spectacular so her baked goods made the most money for the pups and kitties in the shelter.

Irmtraut decided to wear her traditional Austrian dirndl dress and hooded red cape usually worn at Octoberfest, but in hot, late June, she could forego the dirndl’s white blouse worn underneath her red and black dress and just have the cooler scoop-neck open. Her ample breasts would be accented by the dress’s pulled-tight front drawstring, but this was normal to her and not out of line with the dirndl’s style.

After setting up her sale table in a nice shady spot under a huge leafy oak tree, Ms. Spaetzle retrieved her six dozen, six inch across tarts from an ice-filled cooler and arranged them in a nice pattern. The colorful mixed fruit tarts inbetween the white custard ones with red raspberries on top made for an eye-catching display. It was not long before Irmtraut had sold all but two of her fanciful confections. She was very pleased, and turned to the mighty oak to give it a big hug.

When Irmtraut turned back to her table, she was startled by old Aloysius Wolfson who had been watching her. With glowing, wide, lascivious eyes he stared at Irmtraut’s beautiful bulging breasts and exclaimed,

“Your tarts are works of art!”

Then he moved his searching orbs ’round and ’round, caressing every millimeter of them. Irmtraut, plainly disgusted with his behaviour, pointed Aloysious’s attention to her real tarts, the two available upon her sale table. He began to drool like Pavlov’s dog in anticipation of tasting the enticing tarts, and his canines shined and sparkled through his clear, slimy saliva. As he leaned forward toward Ms. Spaetzle’s magnificent “works of art”, the smarmy lecher asked,

‘Which of the fair damsel’s delicate delights should I sample first? The one on the left with the plump raisin on top giving me goosebumps? Or the creamy white one on the right perhaps holding a promise of milk and honey inside? Which do you suggest, m’love?”

Aloysius Wolfson waited for an answer while bending his bearded face down closer to Irmtraut’s tarts and wringing his gnarly old man’s paws together. She supposed he was getting them warmed up in readiness to touch her cold, sweet delights. Instead, he used them to waft his decayed-tooth, skanky breath over each of the two round delicacies before him, thereby declaring his possession.

Irmtraut had remained stock still and silent. She looked down at her wondrous tarts, soon to be ravished, chomped on and chewed into raisin and raspberry bloody red pulps by this hairy, smelly, long-nosed, abhorrent male she gave not one whit about!

Having had his fill of tantalizing tart smells, Aloysius stood tall to be intimidating, and said fairly snarling,

“Ahh, come now, my dear, you must favor me with your choice, for there is nothing yet of a reward in your pretty basket.”

With that horrible thought in Irmtraut’s mind, that old Mr. Wolfson-in-sheep’s-clothing could stick anything of his in her basket, she snarled back at him,

“You, sir, will NEVER eat my lovely artful tarts, nor will you come anywhere close to my basket! Take your learing eyes, nasty breath and yukky, slobbery drool somewhere else! Now go!”

Wolfson was crestfallen. He bowed his head and whimpered softly, looking like a sad and defeated street dog with a mange-balded tail held down between his legs.

“I did not mean any harm, honest,” Aloysius woefully said, “It’s just that your tarts are the prettiest and most luscious-looking I’ve ever seen! Can you blame me for wanting to savor your tasty teets? …er, treats! Treats, I meant to say….oh, dear. Will you forgive me? Please?”

With tears wetting his furry face, Aloysius laid down on the ground, rolled onto his back and exposed his barely hairy belly. Irmtraut couldn’t help but smile at his puppy-like submissive posturing, and said,

“If you think I’m going to fall for your ‘Give me a peace-making belly rub’ act, you’re mistaken. The best I will do is take you to Grandma’s house. We can all have dinner together, but you’ve got to promise you won’t make fun of Gran for being a vegetarian, and you’ll eat every carrot and pea on your plate. Okay?”

Wolfson thought a minute about not getting any meat for dinner and having to pee on his plate, then put on a happy face and said, “Okay!”

Copyright Sage Faber 2019 All rights reserved

The stars were aligned that fateful night in 2009, but apparently not for her. Joy thought about what she would say when her online “Over Sixty” dating match finally showed up in the sweet little Italian bistro, “Luigi’s Linguine”, she had chosen for their very first meet and greet. Conveniently, Luigi’s was located on Route 23, halfway between Danbury, Connecticut, where her date lived and Georgetown, Connecticut, Joy’s home town. She’d been concerned that neither of them should have to travel more than the other to meet. The bistro fit their needs perfectly.

As she sat alone at their cozy corner table for two, which was not too near Luigi’s busy kitchen, not too near the noisy bar and, thank goodness, not at all close to the rest rooms, Joy stirred her second cup of coffee for the umpteenth time. She grinned wistfully into the circles of cream drifting slowly ’round and ’round in the gently swirling java as she pictured herself with Harvey Chasey, a clean-cut, fairly handsome man with intelligence and a great sense of humor. Joy and Harvey both were a right tad past middle-age, yet were bravely venturing forth into the mine field of internet dating from their settled-in comfort zones as widow and widower, and, luckily, they still had their health. The two lonely hearts had each jumped onto the web dating bandwagon because they decided it was time to reach out for a new beginning in life. And so, after conversing through their computer screens for less than a half hour, Joy felt she had lots in common with Harvey, especially in his wanting to carry on with their lively and interesting chat in person. His willingness to move forward had given her a hopeful sign of some very good times to come.

Coffee swirl daydreams aside, Joy sneakily scanned Luigi’s dining room whilst placing on and taking off her reading glasses from the bridge of her nose in pretending to read the Luigi’s Linguine menu. Waiting for Harvey in her heightened emotional state fueled by happiness-making endorphins, energizing adreneline and re-awakened hormones was becoming wearing. He was way overdue. Looking at her watch was not an option because in her haste to be precisely on time at seven o’clock in the evening for the two potential daters’ first date, Joy had forgotten to strap her timepiece onto her wrist before she’d left her apartment. There was no clock anywhere to be seen in the bistro, but she really didn’t care about the time at that point, she was still enjoying the electrifying anticipation of waiting to see her Prince Charming come walking through Luigi’s front door at any moment.

An hour later, Joy was beginning to feel as though she was appearing conspicuous. After all, she’d pretended to read Luigi’s short menu so many times, she must have looked ridiculous to anyone paying attention. But, on second thought, she was pretty sure no notice was being taken of her by people in the room since she was by herself, clearly no Spring chicken, and the other diners were all mostly young couples only interested in each other. Joy hadn’t given up hope just yet of her date. And surprising even herself, she was still filled to the brim with nervous excitement. She moved her gaze for the hundredth time to the entrance door of Luigi’s, stared hard and crossed her fingers as she wished for her Prince Charming, Harvey Chasey, to appear.

Seconds later, after Joy had squeezed her eyelids tightly shut in order to give her hard wish more strength, the only waiter left on the floor, Carlo, sidled up to Joy’s table to ask if she would like a third cup of coffee. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he’d said, shocking her out of her rapt concentration in Prince wishing, “May I bring you another cup?” Joy was irritated to be broken away from her ardent occupation, though she was still polite and smiled weakly as she replied, “No, thank you, I…um…I’m…” The waiter took his cue and finished her sentence for her, “…waiting for someone. Yes, I understand. Would you like a wine or something else from the bar? Something to eat? We’ll be closing soon.”

That last statement struck Joy like a slap in the face. She realized now that she had been stood up and her crestfallen face confirmed it. She sat dumbfounded over Harvey’s behavior, and then was amazed at her own. She’d been waiting all evening for her Prince to come, and he hadn’t…in fact, he hadn’t even called or sent a message to the place to say he would be late, nevermind not coming.

Carlo, patient as he was, and not having received any answers to his questions, moved on to another table.

Joy, feeling a fool, fussed with her purse, opened it and shuffled its contents around as though looking for something. A tear began to form in her left eye, then her right as she said under her breath sadly, though with an angry edge, “How could he do this to me? I don’t get it, is this his idea of a joke?”

Just then, Carlo reappeared, startling her, and when she looked up at him the tears she’d been trying to hold back rolled down her cheeks. ‘Oh, no,” he said, taken aback by looking into Joy’s beautiful emerald green eyes which were now awash in tears. “No, no, no, this will never do. Nobody cries in Luigi’s! Please, ma’am,” he said as he briskly snapped open a clean, folded napkin and draped it over his forearm for her to take. “Dry your eyes and I will bring you the nicest, biggest, sweetest cannoli you have ever seen or tasted! He grinned and looked left and right as though someone were eavesdropping, then he leaned toward Joy and whispered, “I only do this for my special loves, and I’ll slip some Amaretto into your coffee cup if you like. On the house, of course.” Carlo stood and waited for his sad guest’s answer. “Thank you,” Joy said, while gathering her composure and shakily trying to smile, “That’s very kind of you, but I must be going. I’ll just have my check, please.” Carlo produced Joy’s bill from his waist apron and placed it on her table. He was starting to become distraught himself from seeing Joy in such misery. “Wait,” he said, “Give me a moment, eh? I’ll be right back.” Off he rushed to the kitchen.

When Carlo returned to Joy’s table with a take-out boxed cannoli, a bag of fresh garlic-buttered Italian bread sticks, and a few roses left over from an earlier wedding anniversary celebration, he was disappointed to see that she had gone. In her place, under her cold coffee cup, was the paid check with a generous tip for him.

In her van on the way to her home, Joy was nowhere near joyful. In fact, her sadness had turned into rage against the machine, and she vowed to herself right then and there she would never ever again go into an internet dating site on her computer. She’d had her fill of being up and crashing down, and resented that the perpetrator of her grief had been nowhere to be seen. She felt as though she was the stupidest, most gullible and idiotic woman there could ever be, and that she should have known better, at her age and experience, not to put so much store into someone she’d never personally met.

Upon arriving home, Joy had angrily kicked off her shoes in her house’s foyer, then gone into her bedroom to get undressed, put on her nightgown, bathrobe and snuggly slippers, and grab a blanket. Next, she hit the kitchen and took a half gallon of spumoni ice cream, her favorite, from the fridge. Two small scoops in a bowl were all she needed to soothe her weary soul. She picked up a spoon, stuck it into the spumoni and headed for the living room couch where she made herself comfortable, then turned on the television with its remote.

Joy had savored nearly every spoonful of her spumoni while three commercials aired. She was mellowing out, returning to her normally calm demeanor, and said to herself, “Who cares if my life is lonely and boring, at least it’s better than being jerked around by a no-show womanizer. Good riddance!”

The local news coming on was about to throw Joy for a loop.

A female newscaster sat at a desk in front of an earlier taped video being aired as she reported…”Tonight we begin with a terrible accident on Route 23 in Danbury.” As she spoke, the video became enlarged to full screen showing an unconscious, bloodied and bandaged man with temporary splints on his legs and right arm, his neck encircled with a stiff protective collar, and his head taped into a head and neck stabilizer on a backboard. Several wide straps secured his body to the backboard so that he couldn’t move. An Emergency Medical Technician held high an intravenous drip bottle sending life-saving fluids into the injured man’s veins as he was being placed, backboard and all, onto a gurney and loaded into an ambulance. Once the amulance had left for the hospital, the television station’s on location cameraman had panned the scene and came upon a totally mangled car practically wrapped around a tree. The car looked more like an accordian that had been squeezed shut than an auto.

The off-camera female reporter was heard as she continued to tell the story being aired in the video… “A car crash involving a retired local high school teacher, Harvey Chasey, sent him to the hospital this evening at around seven o’clock. It’s not known whether Mr. Chasey, who’s in critical condition, will survive his injuries, but we can report that he was rushed into emergency surgery when he entered Danbury Hospital and is, at this hour, in Intensive Care.”

Copyright SageFaber2019 All rights reserved

Reprinted, copied or quoted (excerpts) by express permission only.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton