River Rat Brothers: May 1, 2008 S. R. Zalesny
To make up lost time, we had chanced a night run down the river. Dark night drizzle turned to rain. The indifferent terror from the rust blackened barges had mixed with a vision of our raft being sucked into the bottom of the river.
An intuition of my death receded as the ponderous barge swung back into the main channel. Our silent engine coughed a few times then kicked into a steady thrumming purr as if it would never have thought to quit on us.
Exhaustion was a dull ache in cold joints, numb feet and hands. Fear had eaten away at our spirits, but cocky in our youth we could not, would not, admit to its presence. Bravado has its place. The driving rain and cold had at least kept the mosquitoes away. Even those that hid in all the dark crevasses of our raft were gone or dead.
Between the rotting, waterlogged dikes and the shore we now drifted slowly, feeling our way along. The edge of the river became shallow. A thicker fog rolled in to replace the constant drizzle. To find a safe haven to stop was on all our minds, not spoken, but shown in our labored movements and glazed, lidded stares. We needed to rest, sleep, anywhere, for the remainder of the night.

Probing through the thickening fog, by chance we soon found the outflow of a deep creek. It flowed from a hidden source far back from the shore of the main river. It was partially obscured by overgrown brush and a large dead tree. We did not remember it being marked on the river maps we had obtained from the Army Corps. of Engineers.
There was enough room for our small raft to bypass the large fallen tree and travel up the rivulet. We constantly worried we would run aground. But, the creek was sluggish, almost placid. It widened as we explored deeper into the countryside. The drizzle had ceased and the fog became heavy, sticky as cotton candy.
“Look Out! Cut the motor,” was Corren's hoarse whisper.. The raft banged into bark covered wooden timbers.
“Dam, we must be grounded,” Tony cried. He suffered the most. Half his face, swollen from mosquito bites, compounded his exhaustion. Tony was a favorite source of food for the extra large mosquitoes.
“It’s a dock.” Corren explained. “Stan, Dennis, come here, help me tie up.” We stumbled to the front and side of the raft to help with the rope lines. It was a small dock of rough, hand-hewed timbers. We bumped up against the side. We could feel it was well made; there was no give as we nudged up against it and tied off.
Our sight was down to a few feet. Muffled by fog, exhausted by fright, we whispered our doubts of where we were. An old dock on a quiet creek was good fortune we felt. Safely tied up, we ate some cold bread and bologna, and washed it down with canteen water. Yawning and grumbling we quickly fell asleep. We failed to leave a night watch. The fog cloaked and filtered the pathetic call of a distant owl.

The morning mist did not clear. The sun was rising on the Eastern bank of the Mississippi. Trees and brush pressed tight against the little creek where we floated. Still, the morning light could not be subdued. The light suffused the remaining fog with mother of pearl luminescence. We roused our selves. We bumped awkwardly into misplaced boxes, folding chairs and each other. Our vision was still limited. We were startled when a deep voice spoke out of the fog.
“Hello, the raft. Are ye up yet? Hello?”
We were reluctant to answer. We felt a little guilty for using someone’s dock without permission.
“Hello, I say, are ye up? Do not fear. All is right on this beautiful morning. The storm is past”
Out of the fog emerged a white haired, white bearded man in coarse country clothes. His leather boots, half way up to his knees, looked hand made. His brown, work-pant legs were tucked into the tops. He moved with assurance for an old man. He had the slow, smooth, farmer’s shuffle. He planted each boot-encased foot balanced and firm as he strode onto the wooden dock.
“Uh, hello,” Corren answered in a hesitant voice.
“Yes, hello, --- good morning, --- Hi!” we all added our voices.
“Hope it’s okay to tie up here. We were lost and pretty tired last night. We’ll leave as soon as we’re able.” Corren continued.
“Yeah, we’re just trying to get it together.” Dennis added nearly knocking a folding chair over the side.
The stocky old man stared at each of us in turn. There was no squinting of the eyes or hardening of the mouth as he surveyed us all, including Carlos.
“Thar be no rush. You all come on up to the house. The Missus has got breakfast await’n. She don’t like to serve it cold. You hurry along now. You all come up to the house.” He gave us another strong, but friendly look, and turned to head back the way he came.
“Excuse me,” I shouted after him, “ which way? … Where should we go? Are you sure it’s all right? We don’t want to be a bother.”
The old man slowed. “Hear me boys. It be no bother. Just follow me up this way, up the path across the field. The house be up here. Come along now.” He picked up his pace, raised his arm, and waived it forward in the direction he was going as though leading a marching band.. He disappeared into the morning fog-mist.
Should we go? Where are we going anyway? We looked at each other in surprise and confusion.
Then came a drifting scent of something familiar, pancakes on a griddle and hot, fresh coffee. It reached out to us at the same time the stranger’s now distant voice echoed. “You all come along. Hurry, the missus is a putting it out to eat. Don’t want good food to go to waste, now.”

Morning Sounds

Morning Sounds: S. R. Zalesny August 11, 2007

It’s 8 o’clock in the morning. The sun is up in a hazy, pigeon egg blue sky. I can see the rust colored mountains across the valley from my window. I can smell the drying dew from the neighbor’s fresh cut lawn. It is a Saturday morning and I am surprised it’s so quiet. The absence of noise is a Sunday morning happening, not Saturday. I almost doze off staring at the distant horizon. This time of year it can be obscured by smog or a brown haze of smoke from fires, either near or farther to the North and East. Today it is clear. There are no clouds or streaking contrails from a silvered metal bird like a tiny ankh charm hanging from a young Childs neck.
A low breeze puffs across the ivy that is beginning to obscure the left half of my window on the world.
“It’s time to do some yard trimming.” A vagrant thought puffs across my mind.

The ivy tickles the window screen with a gentle rasping sound. I hear my cat Lila react with an inquisitive half meow, part purr. She lies on the floor behind and under my chair; I don’t hear anything other than a light thump from her kinked tail. It is too early for her to investigate and she drifts back into her catnap dreams.

Now I become aware as I hear other muted sounds that signal the start of a new day. There is the creak from the third tread on the stairs.
“That’s new. Haven’t heard that before, have I? ” I question. The house is only ten years old. “Is it starting to settle some more in its adolescence?” I wonder.
The wooden squeal is the first indication that my wife has drifted down to begin her morning ritual. I hesitate in my typing on the computer keyboard. The slight clicking muffles and overcomes other sounds
“There, that’s her tea water.” I proudly guess.
I don’t hear the water gulp from the Sparklets water bottle. Rather I hear the microwave kick on with its usual thrum of fan and microwave energy. She had, for years, used a teakettle. I realize now I don’t remember when I last heard that steamy wet whistle. I miss it.
She either is barefoot or wears the thin sox like slippers I gave her for her birthday.
“Was that two or five years ago? The question furrows my forehead.
I hear her move across the hardwood floor with a light tread.
“Are those her steps I hear or her robe brushing against the edge of the kitchen doorway? Maybe it’s the soft caress across the side of my favorite chair in the den.” Sometimes she sits there to sip her tea
The sudden bang of the front door startles me. It’s matched by an echoing bang from the screen door. She doesn’t slam the two on purpose. It is the normal sounds of the doors closing. In early morning stillness it is a double explosion like two gunshots. I watch from my upstairs viewing aerie as she quickly moves across the driveway to gather her morning prizes, both newspapers, the Times and the Daily News. She stands for a minute to look at the grass, the tree in the tree lawn, the flowers adorning the light post at the juncture of the soft lawn and crisp concrete driveway. Something draws her attention for an instant. It is an emerald green hummingbird that skyrockets across the lawn and then snaps to a stop to hang in front of a fresh bloomed rose. It flits away in a blink. My wife walks into the house. I can just hear the light sandpaper shush of her slippers on the walkway. The double bang of the front doors still startles me.
“Were the doors always so loud? Maybe I need to do something about them? ” My typical male response to an irritant, “How can I fix it?”

There is a clunk from the tea canister as my wife fishes out a pouch of her morning selection of either Earl Grey or English Tea Time. Sometimes it’s Chamomile or Green Tea. My bet would be on the Earl Grey.

It is a Saturday morning. There are several projects I need to get to. The day is always hectic. But for this little time, the day has started and perhaps will go no further. The baby green leaves of the ivy brush against the window screen. It is a whisper. The whisper is joined by the hiss of diamond-studded water as the sprinklers gush on to wash the eager faces of lawn, shrubs and flowers. The faint murmur of the air conditioning fan is like a long deep note played on a bass fiddle.

There is another sound. It is almost beyond my hearing. There, it is louder. Then it reveals itself in front of me, hanging in the air a few inches from the ivy. The Hummingbird returns. I can hear the sound of its blurred wings in flight. It seems to stare directly at me. It is all of an iridescent emerald green and gold with a ruby colored throat choke. Its eyes are a sharp contrast. They are dark purple with flecks of some inner lights with lives of their own. They look hard and old as the world. They are as wise as all of nature. There is a hint of mischievousness.
The spell breaks. Lila, the cat, meows for breakfast as she paws at my leg, jealous of my engagement with the hummingbird. My wife calls up through the stairwell.

“Stan, come down and get your medicine. You have to get ready for the trip.”
“Meow, feed me.” Lila demands, again.
The phone rings. It will be my son asking when I will be on the road..

The clock on my desk starts ticking louder, or is that my imagination? Time skips forward like the clinking of gears engaging and another Saturday begins.

A Special Adventure

The day is hot, even for Los Angeles in the summer. It ain’t bad in the shade, but when I move into the sun it’s like someone is focusing the sunlight through a magnifying glass. Mom says we are still going. I can’t wear my Keds. I have to wear my brown leather school shoes.
Then she says,” This is a special place we’re gong to. I want those shoes shined.”
“Ah, Mom,” I start to complain.
“No excuses. You hear? You put on these good pants and this white shirt.”
“Ah, Mom,” I start again.
“Don’t start again. Just do what I tell you or you won’t go. I’ll just take your brother instead.”
“Yes, Mom,” I answer. I spit on the toe of my shoe and buff harder with the shoe brush. It almost starts to shine, even the scuffed part.
I’m excited. This is a special trip for me. I’ve never been there before. Mom has. She already took my older sister, Mary, twice. I always get excited in anticipation of a trip. I go over and over it in my mind for days before. This time I can hardly imagine what it will be like. My sister, Mary, says it was just like being in a jungle. There’s even a waterfall, she says, but I don’t really believe her. She’s always teasing me and even calls me by my nickname, Butch. Butch, that’s a terrible name. It sounds like a dog’s name. My name’s Stanley, and even that’s hard to live with. When Mom’s in a hurry or really mad at me she says, “Stan-ley, Stan-ley, come here right now!”
I like it better when everyone calls me Stan.
“Stanley, “ Mom yells. ‘Are you ready yet? We’ve got to catch the Trolley. It’ll be here in ten minutes. Do you hear me? Let’s go.”
I hear the front door bang open and then the screen door bang shut behind her as she barges out of the house. I throw the shoe brush into my cluttered closet. I sprint down the long hall from the bedroom my brother and I share. I make a slippery jog to my left through the kitchen. Those darn leather soled shoes nearly sabotage me. Then I jog right, through the living room and out the front door. The screen door bangs shut behind me.
“Stanley, how many times do I have to tell you not to bang the screen door? You’ll pull it right off its hinges.”
Oh, boy, if I wasn’t hot enough from the steeplechase I just ran, the sudden blast of summer sun added about another hundr’d and some degrees. Mom grabs my sweaty arm and hustles us to the end of the block, to the middle of Venice Boulevard and onto the concrete Trolley platform. That’s where we stop. We stand and wait in the wonderful California sun. We don’t dare sit down on the weathered wooden benches. They’d blister us, stick us with splinters and leave scraps of old green paint chips on our butts. Yep, we stand in the wonderful California sun.
Now, for those of you who are wondering, at one time Los Angeles had one of the best rapid transit systems in these United States. It was called the Trolley, the Red Line, or the Streetcar. Yes, these were machines, a little like today’s buses, that ran on rails, like a train, using cheap, clean electricity from over head lines that ---. Oh well, they’re gone now.
We could walk to the middle of most major boulevards, at two or three block intervals and wait for these Streetcars to come by. They would stop. We would get on. We would pay a dime, or two nickels, or ten pennies, and the marvelous, magic Trolley would whisk us to almost any destination in greater Los Angeles, even to Downtown Los Angeles. That’s where Mom and I are going.
I’m still roasting. The Trolley inside is humid with all the people. There is no air-conditioning. We’re lucky though. We find two open seats. As the streetcar picks up speed we sway a little from side to side and there is a fresh breeze through the open windows. I’m happy. This is neat. Mom is a little flush from the heat. She takes off her gloves. Oh, yes. Women and girls wear gloves, usually white, and always on special trips to special places. She fans herself with the gloves. Then she readjusts the “Downtown” hat she wears. She looks nice. I’ve got a nice Mom.
It’s been a half hour trip that seems like forever. But, now we are here. We walk for a few blocks. Mom keeps stopping every now and then to look in the department store windows. She calls it window-shopping. I don’t understand why she doesn’t go in and buy something. She likes May Company the best. I’m so impatient that I’m almost jumping up and down.
“Ah, Mom, hurry up. I’m hungry and I want to see it now.”
“All right, all right, we’re almost there. It’s in the middle of the next block.” She points ahead with her shiny black purse.
Finally. I see it. Mary wasn’t kidding me. The outside has a great awning and there are ferns, and palms and a red rug runner going to the front brass door. There is a man outside who even opens the door for us. I nervously hold my mothers hand and walk into the cool interior of “The Clifton’s Cafeteria.” It’s just like my sister said. It’s the biggest restaurant I’ve ever seen. There must be big fans somewhere because there is a cool breeze blowing, just like at the ocean. Yes, there are palm trees, and orchids, and Bird of Paradise and flowers and trees I’ve never seen before. It’s magical. Then I see it. Yes, there is a waterfall that is turning different colors in time to the music of an organ, a real organ. There it is on the second level overlooking the big open interior of the restaurant.
A large man (mom calls him a waiter-de) walks us to a table. He says it’s ours. It has a real white tablecloth. Mom tells me I have to be careful and not spill anything.
“Mind your manners, Stanley.” She looks stern and then smiles her special smile at me.
I think I’m in heaven. Some other man, all dressed up, brings us some bread in a basket. Mom orders something to eat. The man says I should try the Shrimp Cocktail. I’ve never had it. Mom says it’s yummy. Then she orders me some Lemonade. When the man brings it to me, the Lemonade is ice cold and a little sour. I put a lot of sugar in it and stir it. I’m careful not to spill any on the table. I’m still pretty hot, so I drink it all down in a hurry. As soon as I’m done, the man (mom says the waiter) pours me some more. I think that’s neat. The waiter brings the food, including the Shrimp Cocktail. It’s in a tall glass with ice inside. There is a sauce and the shrimp are on top of the ice. Mom says to try it to see if I like it. I do. I really like it. I really like the lemonade. I ask for more shrimp. The waiter says, no problem, I can have as much as I want. He brings me more. Mom says he likes me. Mom spots some friends from our church. She goes over to their table to talk to them. I chow down all the shrimp and drink all the lemonade, with more sugar. The waiter brings me more of everything. I know I’m in heaven.
It has been a special adventure day, but it’s still hot out. On the way home I’m very, very sick. Now I know, don’t mix ice cold Lemonade with Shrimp Cocktail.

The Horsey

“It is going to be a beautiful wedding. Everything is decorated. Dad even cleaned the basement so we can dance and have drinks there. The whole house is just lovely. Everything is cleaned from top to bottom,” his mother said excitedly into the phone.
“I know it’s short notice, but it’s almost done. Be happy. We’ll see you at the church in a little while. Yes, yes, we’ll be on time, honey. You’re going to be a beautiful bride, Lydia.” His mother sniffed, already holding back tears of joy.
“What? No, he’s staying here. It’s all right. He’ll be fine. One of the neighbor girls will come in to watch him. I know you’d like to have him there. But it’s better for him to stay home. He’ll be less trouble. Yes, we’re on our way. Goodbye.” She hung up and turned to see Butch peering at her through the stairway balustrades. She was flustered for a minute then smiled quickly.
“Butch, what are you doing up? You’re supposed to be asleep. It’s still early.”
“Not tired. Want to go with you.” He answered in his sleepy two-year old voice. He said it softly, as though he was hurt.
“Want to go with you.” He said again, this time with a little edge of defiance, as though he expected her to relent and take him.
“Honey, we talked about it yesterday. There’s only so much room at the wedding and I have lots of last minute things to do. I even have to finish straightening up here.” She tried to smile so he would accept the explanation. But, she had that look in her eye that said; we’re not talking about it anymore.
“ I have to go now, “ she said, then shouted, “ Mary, get down here and put your brother back to bed.”
His sister hurried down the stairs, scooped him up, and rushed him back to his bedroom. She laid him down and covered him up.
“Mare, I want to help. Can’t I go?” he said in a small pleading voice.
“That’s sweet, but no, you have to stay here. Go back to sleep. Joan from next door will be here while we’re at the wedding. You know her, you like her. Be a good boy now. Go to sleep.” She patted him on the head and rushed out the door.
He fell back asleep for a while. Too soon, however, he woke up. The big house was quiet, too quiet. Was everyone gone? Was he alone? He wasn’t scared. He knew everyone on the block. After all, he made sure he visited them almost every day, wandering on his own from one house to another.
This was different. Everyone had been excited, shouting and running back and forth. There had been lots of activity for days. It was for his oldest sisters wedding. He knew the wedding was at the big church. He didn’t really know what a reception was, but he knew it was like a party. He knew the party was going to be at his house. There would be lots of people. Mom and Dad and his other sister and some of their friends had been cleaning and decorating for days. It had been a big rush. There was something called a war happening. He heard the groom, the man who was marrying his sister, had to go right back and fight. When he grew up he would go off to war, too, he thought. Everyone would have a party for him then.
Oh, he thought, my horse. Did it get cleaned he wondered? He opened the door and quietly snuck down the stairs. He had a lot of practice doing that. He didn’t hear anyone in the house. Where was Joan? He went into the front room and looked out the big window. Joan was sitting outside talking to a boy from around the block.
That’s all right, he thought. He felt safer knowing she was there. Now, where was his Horsey? Off he went looking for it. Then he remembered. Dad had put it in the basement. He said it would be in the way. Down to the basement he went.
Gosh, he thought, it was pretty. Everything was clean. There were streamers of different colors on the ceiling. There were boxes with bottles in them stacked on the floor. There were big washtubs full of ice and beer. It sure looked nice. And, there was his best friend, Horsey, his favorite toy, a beautiful white rocking horse with blue eyes and a black mane. He was happy to see it. He saw it was a little dirty. He had an idea.
Butch pushed a chair over to the gray metal wash sink in the corner of the room. All basements in Cleveland had them. He climbed up the chair and onto the sink counter. He was a good climber. He was proud of that fact. Butch grabbed the orange and white box of Oxydall soap. He started to pour it into the sink. He had seen his mother do that when she washed clothes or sometimes the pet cat. The box was damp from sitting on the wet counter. It ripped open and the whole cardboard box and all the soap fell into the sink.
That’s all right, he thought. That should be enough soap.
He reached over and turned on the water. Luckily he turned both handles, hot and cold. The sink started to fill with water. It was quite a large and deep sink. Butch took a towel off the rack and dipped it into the sudsy water. He had to reach way down and nearly fell in. But, he was a good climber and had been in this position before. He pulled back at the last second and climbed down with the wet towel. Now he could wash Horsey and make him as clean as the rest of the house.
Butch worked very hard washing his beautiful white rocking horse. He started to yawn more and more. He dropped the wet towel on the floor. He went back up the stairs to the front room. He climbed on the couch and looked out the window. Joan and the boy were still talking. He lay down and went to sleep almost at once.
“Oh, my God,” someone was yelling.
“Come, come quick. Oh, my God. How did this happen? Who did this? ”
Butch woke up. It was his mother screaming. She was upset. Butch became scared.
“Mom, mommy, what’s wrong. Mommy, are you hurt?” Butch started to cry.
He ran to the stairway leading to the basement. He heard his mother there. She was almost at the bottom of the stairs. She stood pointing down into the basement with a look of horror, her hand shaking.
“What, what is that?” she shouted. She looked back and saw Butch. She saw him crying. She saw that he also looked shocked. He could see past his mother into the basement. He knew why she had screamed. He knew why she could not go farther down the stairs. He knew he had forgotten to turn off the water in the big gray metal wash sink.
“Come down here right now,” his mother said, in a strangled voice.
Butch had no choice. He slowly walked down the stairs, his pudgy legs shaking. He cried big salty tears that tasted awful and made him sick to his stomach.
“Look, look Butch, see what you did. It’s ruined. It’s flooded. Oh, my God.” She gave him a hard look, eyes glinting through her glasses, her mouth tight and stiff. A vein pulsed an ugly red in her neck.
“You should be ashamed of yourself. Look at all that water. Look at all those suds. You should be crying.”
The entire basement floor, the boxes of bottles, the tubs of beer, the chairs for guests, all, all was covered in thick blanketing suds. The soapsuds were even starting to push up the stairs. Butch cried harder.
“What, what happened mom?” It was his sister, Lydia. She was at the top of the stairs holding on to the doorframe with one hand, still dressed in her full white wedding dress and veil, still holding her bride’s bouquet in the other hand. She looked in shock. Tears came down her face.
Butch cried harder still. He cried with big gulping gasps. He could hardly stand up he was crying so hard.
“You should cry,” his mother said sternly. “You’ve flooded the basement.”
“You should cry,” his sister, shouted, “You ruined my party.”
Butch cried and cried. He could not speak. He could not tell them why he was crying. He couldn’t tell them he was sorry, he didn’t care about the basement or the party.
Butch could not tell them he was crying because he thought he had drowned Horsey.