The Hunt in Juniper Woods

 

Jack was 10 years old the last time he visited Juniper Woods in the Mt Hood National Forest of Oregon.  His Gramps took him on his first camping trip and they spent the weekend sleeping in a tent, fishing all day and making their meals over a campfire.  It was pure heaven for young Jack.  Now, 20 years later, here he found himself entering the forest once again.  As he drove his jeep further and further into the woods, he couldn't help but breathe in the strong smells of juniper and pine and everywhere he looked he saw the beauty of the lush forest.  Wild ferns grew thick at the base of the majestic trees and rhododendron bushes dotted the landscape, some as tall as trees and bright with colored blooms.  There was no place on earth like the Pacific Northwest.

Jack was meeting his best friend Cole at the campground nearby and they planned a weekend of catching up and spending some quality time together.  Cole had moved to Idaho after college and Jack didn't get to see him as often as he liked.  As he rounded the bend, Jack entered the campground and caught his first glimpse of the lake.  The sun shining on the water was almost blinding and Jack's stomach did a flip-flop in excitement just thinking about all the fish out there waiting to be caught.  As his jeep navigated the road around the lake, Jack spotted Cole unloading his truck at a clearing in the woods.  He honked his horn and Cole turned to wave him in.

It wasn't long before the guys had their tents set up, the gear unpacked and some wood collected for their evening fire.  They grabbed their poles and walked down toward the lake for some much anticipated fishing.  Jack had a bag of colored mini-marshmallows and a bucket of worms - his all-time favorite for catching rainbow trout - and Cole had his glow-in-the-dark power bait.  They both planned to out-fish the other.  Jack found himself a stump to sit on close to the water and Cole set up his foldable chair a few feet away.  They both baited their hooks and cast out and almost immediately Jack was already reeling in his first fat-bellied trout.  "Woo Hoo!" echoed across the lake and both friends were grinning from ear to ear.

An hour later, they each had a cooler full of fish and the sun was starting to set.  Bullfrogs started croaking and the crickets were chirping loudly.  They decided to head back to the campsite to get the fire going so they could prepare their dinner.  Jack cleaned the fish while Cole got the fire started.  Soon they had a skillet full of trout sizzling in seasoned butter over the fire and potatoes wrapped in foil baking in the coals.

After dinner, bellies full and content, the guys settled in to catch up on each other's lives.  Jack loved listening to Cole's tales of adventure.  While Jack had settled down and married his high-school sweetheart, Cole had started his own business as a wilderness guide in Idaho.  He lived alone in a cabin in the woods and catered to wealthy adventure-seeking city folks who hired him for week-long hunting or fishing excursions along the Salmon River.  The area was thick with elk, white-tailed deer, bear and mountain lion and depending on the season, they also hunted duck, goose and turkey.  It was a dream job for nature-loving Cole.  Lately he'd even taken on a new venture, offering "squatch" hunts for Bigfoot enthusiasts.  It was turning out to be a surprisingly profitable addition to his business, even though Cole himself didn't much believe in the existence of Sasquatch.

Jack was intrigued to hear about this latest venture and he bombarded Cole with questions about Sasquatch.  Jack had always believed in Bigfoot himself, especially since he was convinced he had heard one cry out in these very woods as a 10 year old little boy.  He never forgot the blood curdling cry that seemed to last forever as it carried across the lake that weekend he and Gramps had camped in Juniper Woods all those years ago.  Gramps told him stories about Bigfoot the rest of that trip and when Jack got home, he checked every book about Bigfoot out of the public library and read them all cover to cover.  He was fascinated, and he believed!

Cole decided to indulge his friend's fantasy and suggested they do a little squatch hunting of their own in Juniper Woods.  Of course Jack was all for it, and he could hardly sleep that night, anticipating what they might find.  The next day, after breakfast, they grabbed their packs and headed out for a long hike up into the woods.  All along the way, Cole pointed out things to watch for and Jack searched the ground for any signs of Bigfoot.  Cole showed him low hanging, broken branches or hairs stuck in the bark of trees and they ran their fingers along large footprints in the mud, trying to figure out if they were bear or wolf or worse.  They looked for nesting sites, uprooted trees, caves and any signs of things out of the ordinary.  They stopped occasionally and made calls.  Cole had these strange calls he would make that sounded nothing like the Bigfoot Jack had heard all those years ago, but he listened intently for any response every time Cole belted one out.  Cole suggested they make some thumps with big sticks against the trunk of a tree.  He told Jack this was a form of communication the Bigfoot made with each other, so Cole grabbed a thick branch and whacked the side of a tree three times and they listened to see if anything thumped back.  Every so often, they'd stop and repeat the ritual over and over again, as they walked farther and farther up into the woods.

It was starting to get darker as daylight was fading, so the guys decided to head back down the mountain toward the campsite.  It had been a fun search, but Jack was a little disappointed they hadn't seen or heard any sign of the squatch.  As they were making their way back through the woods, they stopped once more to do some "knocking."  Cole hit a tree with the stick "Thump! Thump! Thump!" and they cocked their ears for a reply.  All of a sudden, they heard a distant "Thump! Thump! Thump!" from behind them, up the mountain where they had just been!  Both boys stared wide-eyed at each other in disbelief!  Had they really heard that, or was it wishful thinking?  Cole thumped the tree again and they waited for a reply.  This time, there was no return thump but a huge rock the size of a small boulder came crashing through the trees and landed at Cole's feet.  They both stared at the rock dumbfounded.  Had some one or some thing just thrown a rock at them?  They listened intently for any sign that they were not alone in the woods, but all they could hear was the pounding of their own hearts.  They decided to move on down the mountain.  It was getting too dark and they hadn't brought any flashlights, never intending to be up in the woods this long.

Neither one of them dared to speak, a million thoughts going through each of their heads.  Cole was a few feet ahead of Jack when they heard a large twig break somewhere in the woods behind them.  Both of them froze and listened.  Cole started worrying that maybe this wasn't the brightest idea, especially this time of year when bears were known to be roaming.  Neither of them were prepared for an encounter with an angry bear.  They started back down the trail when all of a sudden the air was permeated with the most intense, disgusting, stomach-churning smell.  It was chokingly noxious, like something had died and was rotting nearby.  Cole turned around to ask Jack if he smelled it too and Jack looked up to see this huge, hairy mass step out from behind a tree right behind Cole!  Jack was frozen on the spot, so petrified and shocked by what he was seeing that he couldn't even call out to warn his best friend.  Cole, sensing the horror in Jack's eyes, barely had time to blink before two strong arms reached out and picked him up like he was a rag doll and threw him across the forest floor.  All Jack could do was watch in horror as his friends' body soared through the woods and bounced off a tree, landing in a slump at the base.  Jack just stared in awe at this horrible hulk of a beast.  It was far more sinister than anything Gramps had described and nothing like in the hundreds of books he had read growing up.  It had dark brown, matted hair all over its body and long, hulking arms with huge hands and feet.  Its head was entirely covered with the same fur and it had yellowish glowing eyes and a wide nose and the hugest gaping maw of a mouth filled with teeth that pointed out sharply every which way.  It looked right at Jack and tipped its head back and let out the same blood curdling scream that Jack had heard on that very same lake as a 10 year old little boy.  The sound of it hit Jack in waves and the warmth of the beasts' nasty smelling breath rustled through Jack's hair.  He was so intensely petrified with fear that he couldn't have moved from that spot if he wanted to.  All he could do was accept his fate, so he closed his eyes and in seconds he had joined Cole in a slump at the base of the tree.

And that's where the two best friends were found a few days later.  The ranger reported finding several large tracks in the surrounding area that were indistinguishable, and he couldn't say exactly how the boys had died, but each of them had numerous broken bones as though they had fallen from a great height with much force.  Rumors spread for weeks in the surrounding towns and old timers fueled the gossip with tales of the Great Sasquatch of Juniper Woods.  Bigfoot lives!  Believe!

 

Happy Halloween - October 2019

Maplethorpe Cemetery in Cypress Grove, just outside of New Orleans, was one of the most beautiful cemeteries in all the South.  In fact, a certain national publication had recently run a three-page spread about the cemetery in their September issue, leading up to a busy tourist month - October, of course - when people came from all over to tour the cemetery and its beautiful Fall foliage.  The town council had been running ghost tours in the cemetery for the past few years and it had been a tremendous success.  The tours brought much needed revenue to the tiny town and local businesses welcomed the seasonal visitors with open arms.

Maplethorpe was the final resting place for many of the town's most prominent citizens - past and present.  There were many elaborate gravestones nestled between magnificent oaks draped with Spanish moss and southern sugar maple trees dotted throughout, giving the cemetery its beautiful Fall color.  Huge magnolias stood sentry at the entrance of the cemetery and crepe myrtle lined the walkways.  There were wrought iron benches placed here and there, and the entire cemetery was enclosed with an intricate, Gothic iron fence complete with archways and grand spires reaching into the sky.

Beauregard Simpson was the long-time caretaker of the cemetery.  He was born and raised in Cypress Grove and was a much-loved citizen of the tiny town.  Beau could be found caring for the grounds from sun up to sun down, and he knew the location of every occupant by heart.  He lovingly cared for each grave site and treated the grounds with equal love and respect.  The cemetery was his domain and Beau felt at home among the stones.

Beau loved every season in the cemetery, but Fall was his favorite.  It was his job to keep the grounds clear, and he loved the smoky smell of burning leaves.  Beau spent hours raking huge piles of brightly colored fallen leaves and all throughout the day he would burn them in a brick courtyard off to one side of the cemetery.  The courtyard had a big round brick fountain that was drained during the Fall and Winter months, and Beau used this fountain for burning the leaves.  It made the perfect fire pit.  All during the months of September and October, the tiny town smelled of sweet smoke from the burning leaves.

It was Sunday morning and Beau had just arrived to make his rounds of the cemetery.  He could hear the church bells ringing in town, which meant services had just begun.  In a couple of hours, when Pastor Parsons' long-winded sermon came to an end, the townspeople would go their various ways and Beau knew that some of them would come down to the cemetery to pay their respects.  Sundays were often a busy day at the cemetery.

Beau had his broom and rake in the belly of his wheelbarrow and was making his way from one end of the cemetery to the other, starting in the northeast corner at the grave of Miss Eleanor Musgrave, born 1887 and now living with her Lord and Savior since the year 1990.  Miss Ellie, as Beau liked to call her, was a life-long resident of Cypress Grove and she had never married.  She was a tiny little thing with sparkling blue eyes and a mischievous smile and Beau missed her dearly.  Beau had known her his whole life and he always took extra special care of her site.  She had a beautiful headstone with an angel draped over the top, looking down adoringly where Miss Ellie lay.  103 long years of life Miss Ellie had been blessed with and even though it had been nearly 30 years since her passing, Beau still felt like it was just yesterday when she lovingly patted his arm and discreetly deposited a cinnamon candy in the pocket of his striped bib overalls.  Just as she'd done every time she had seen him since he was a little boy.

Next to Miss Ellie laid the Carmichael twins, who had tragically drowned while searching for crawdads in Lawson's Creek.  They had a large granite stone with an etching of their favorite dog Shep, who had also drowned that fateful day, trying to save the two little boys from the depths of the creek.  It was said that Shep had been buried along with the boys, as they were inseparable in life, so they would also be in death.  Next to the Carmichael boys lay Allister Fitzgerald.  He had one of the tallest stones in the cemetery, with its grand obelisk in the middle adorned with ivy and pillars on each side.  Mr. Fitz ran the mercantile in town and always had a pipe sticking out of the corner of his mustached mouth.  There were some days when Beau swept off his stone that he swore he could still smell that sweet smelling cherry pipe tobacco.

On and on, Beau worked his way across the stones, up and down the aisles of graves, pausing to reminisce about the occupant of each grave, whether he knew them or not.  He liked to think they acknowledged him as he went, thanking him for keeping their resting places free of debris as he whisked his broom across their stones.  He always whistled old gospel songs as he worked.  One of his favorite tunes was one his Grandma used to sing when he was a little boy - Swing Low Sweet Chariot.  He was on the third row of stones, whistling away, when he came across a disturbing scene.  There on the flat marker of one of the founding fathers of Cypress Grove sat the most peculiar arrangement of items.  Beau could see two flat stumps of waxed candles and an assortment of small bones scattered across the top of Thomas Maplethorpe's gravestone.  There were clumps of brown fur and some black feathers, a string of black beads and what looked to be the clawed foot of a rooster laying across the grass.  Never before had Beau ever come across something like this in his many years of caring for the cemetery.  He was distraught to think anyone would be so disrespectful.

Beau hurriedly gathered the mess together into a bag and threw it into the wheelbarrow.  He swept the grave and walked around the site twice to make sure he hadn't missed anything.  He continued on with his duties, but his mind couldn't rest for thinking of what he had found.  He couldn't wait to be rid of the bag and its vile contents.  When he had reached the last graves, it was nearly 2:00 and his wheelbarrow was full of leaves and small branches.  There were a few people in the cemetery now, visiting their loved ones and setting out Fall flowers.  Beau made his way to the old fountain and emptied his wheelbarrow in the center of the pit.  He used his rake to push the debris into a pile and a fork caught on the bag, scattering the bones and debris among the leaves.  Beau couldn't light the fire fast enough, so intent he was on getting rid of that awful bag and its contents.  The flames crackled and hissed and the bag caught fire.  A deep purple flame rose high and a mournful moaning sound seemed to come from it with the most putrid smell.  Then almost immediately, the flame died back down and the odor disappeared and all you could smell was the sweet smoke of the leaves.  Beau stared into the flames and thought about the person who might be responsible for bringing such disrespect to his peaceful cemetery.  He certainly couldn't imagine anyone in town doing such a thing.

Once the last of the leaves had been burned, Beau made sure the embers were completely out and the ashes had been swept into a pile before he locked up the cemetery for the night.  He wheeled his tools through the entrance and wound the thick chain through the iron bars and padlocked the gate.  It was just turning dark once he got his truck loaded, and as he backed out of the lot, his headlights slowly scanned the cemetery.

That evening as Beau sat down to his dinner, he could hardly eat for worrying about what he had found on Mr. Maplethorpe's grave.  It made him sick to his stomach to think that anyone would do something like this, especially in Cypress Grove.  Try as he might, he just couldn't stop thinking of it and even as he laid down to sleep, he found himself tossing and turning well past midnight, so distressed he was with worry.

It was nearly 3:00 a.m. and he'd not been able to sleep a wink.  Beau decided to get up and make his way back down to the cemetery.  Maybe a walk through the grounds to make sure everything was in its place would give him some reassurance and he'd be able to put his mind to rest.  He donned a clean pair of overalls and his brown leather hat, put on his work boots and made his way back to Maplethorpe Cemetery.  As his truck pulled into the lot, the beams from his headlights were swirling with a slow moving fog.  The air was thick with it as it wisped about the truck.  Beau got out, unlocked the gate and shined his flashlight down the path as he made his way around the rows of the cemetery.  He slowly checked each grave site, moving this way and that, shining his light across the grass, up toward the stones and even into the low hanging branches of the trees.

When he got to the row where Mr. Maplethorpe's grave was, the fog seemed to clear and it was eerily quiet.  Beau shined his light side to side and the beam came to rest on Thomas' stone.  Much to Beau's relief, the grave seemed to be free of debris and as clean as he had left it earlier in the day.  He stepped up to the grave and seeing it was clear, made him start to relax.  He continued on down the row, checking the rest of the graves.  As he neared the end of the row, he heard a deep rumbling behind him and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.  He turned around and shined his light down the row and the sight caught in the beam of his light turned his blood cold.  There, standing in the middle of the walkway was the largest hound Beau had ever seen in his life.  It had dark matted fur, huge clawed feet at the end of long, thick legs.  It's back was arched and its snout was long.  The rumbling sound was the hound growling, so deep and loud that it felt as though the ground was shaking underfoot.  The hound's long, jagged teeth were bared and its eyes were glowing a golden yellow.  Beau was so startled to see such a beast that he was frozen on the spot.  It wasn't until the hound started to slowly advance toward him that Beau got his wits about him and turned to run.  And run he did, as fast as his legs would carry him!

He knew the cemetery well, so even in the dark fog he was able to navigate his way through the aisles and down the pathways.  He knew when he'd found the courtyard, even though he'd dropped his flashlight a ways back.  His boots clomped across the brick and he tripped and stumbled when his toe hit the raised lip of the fountain.  He landed with a thud in the center of the pit and the ashes were still warm in the pile he had made earlier in the day.  He sat there stunned, trying to gain his composure and listening for the hound.  All he could hear was his own ragged breath and his heart pounding in his chest.  He listened intently for any sound of the hound, but it seemed to have vanished.  Beau got to his feet and was brushing himself off when out of the darkness leapt the hound, teeth gnashing and snarling.  The last thing Beau saw were the glowing yellow eyes and the flash of long, white teeth.

The next day, as the town came to life and people started going through their daily routines, all seemed to be well in Cypress Grove.  The first group of visitors had arrived at the cemetery and no one gave it a second thought when they saw Beau's truck parked at the gate.  They knew he was always here.  The gates were unlocked and the cemetery was well manicured.  While Mary Sinclair visited the grave of her late husband, Patrick, her son Mikey wandered around the cemetery picking up brightly colored leaves.  He came to the courtyard and there in the middle of the fountain lay a brown leather hat.  He looked all around and when he saw no one, he picked up the hat and plopped it down on his head.  Mikey ran off to find his mother and she didn't think twice about the old leather hat he had on his head.  They made their way back through the gates and got in their car and left the cemetery lot.  As they drove back into town, Mikey started whistling a tune his mother hadn't realized he'd even known.  "Swing low sweet cheriot, coming for to carry me home. . ."

Beauregard Simpson was never seen again and the town of Cypress Grove erected a special marker in memory of the caretaker at the entrance of the cemetery.  He was fondly remembered by all who passed through its gates.

The Fog at Boogeyman Bog

My Grandpa was the King of Storytellers.  Ever since I was a little kid, he would tell me tale after tall tale and kept my imagination riding forever high on a wild roller coaster.  I can't tell you how many nights I laid awake in bed with the tales of the day running through my mind.  Many of his tales were about times he spent growing up and the mischief he and his siblings used to get into.

One story in particular always comes to the front of my mind during the month of October, as Halloween approaches and all the spooky decorations start popping up in neighborhood yards.  I always loved Halloween as a kid.  The anticipation of that one night of freedom when me and my friends would dress up and roam the streets, going door-to-door to fill our sacks with sugary treats.  Later, after our sacks were bursting with our favorite candies, we'd meet up at the foot of Bicycle Hill to divvy up our bounty, and we always ended up trading spooky stories to see who could out-do the other in the fright department.  I always had plenty of stories to tell, thanks to my Grandpa.

My favorite story was Grandpa's tale of Boogeyman Bog.  In the tiny town where he grew up, there was a slough out past the railroad tracks where my Grandpa loved to fish and go frog gigging.  He had a little wooden row boat that he kept out there, tied to a stump on the bank of the slough.  During the daytime, he'd often go fishing after school, and on weekend nights his favorite past time was frog gigging.  Some nights he'd come home with a bucket full of fat bullfrogs and his Mama would clean them and cut their legs off and dip them in a spicy cornbread batter and fry them up for dinner the next day.

On one side of the slough was Boogeyman Bog.  Grandpa always stayed clear of the bog because it was a dangerous place.  The ground was soft and covered in spongy moss and grasses, and a person could sink down into the muck and never be seen again.  The bog was known to swallow things up - dogs and wild animals, even little children and grown men!  Everyone feared the bog, especially at night.

Grandpa had an old miner's hat with a light on the front of it.  He always wore this hat when he went frog gigging at night because the light would shine down into the murky water of the slough and he was able to spot the frogs more easily.  The bright light would temporarily blind the poor bullfrogs and it kept Grandpa's hands free so he was able to thrust his spear into the water and gig the frogs.  One night Grandpa had been out in the boat for about an hour and had about a dozen fat frogs in the bucket when he heard an ear-splitting wail float across the dark water.  His first thought was it must have been a screech owl, or a critter in distress.  Every hair on his body seemed to stand on end and a shiver ran up his spine.  The light on Grandpa's hat shined across the top of the water, back and forth as he turned his head in search of the source of that eerie sound, but all he could see was darkness and a gray mist as it whisped around on top of the slough.  It seemed the whole night had gone silent after that frightful noise.  He could no longer hear the frogs croaking or the bugs chirping.  Even the water lapping against the side of his boat had turned quiet.

Grandpa decided maybe he'd had enough for one night, so he put down his spear and picked up the paddles to row back to shore.  As he turned the boat around, he noticed the mist on the water was getting thicker and he could barely see his hand in front of his face.  He slowly made his way through the lily pads and across the slimy slough, but it seemed to be taking forever to reach the shore.  He didn't remember going out that far into the slough, but maybe he'd gotten himself turned around.  The heavy mist was really making him disoriented.  

All of a sudden his boat lurched forward and there was a loud thud as it hit something heavy in the water.  Grandpa shined his hat over the side of the boat, but he couldn't see the shore.  Only tree stumps covered in green algae and lily pads dotting the surface of the slough.  He definitely wasn't anywhere close to his jumping-out spot, so he knew he had somehow ended up on the wrong side of the slough.  The screeching howl split the dark again and poor Grandpa nearly fell out of the boat in fright.  He fell back hard onto the seat and one of his paddles splashed over the side of the boat and dropped to the bottom of the slough.  Grandpa was shaking like a leaf and the light from his hat was scanning the darkness in front of him, back and forth across the water in search of that horrendous howl.  One sweep of the light to the left and he zeroed in on a dark mass standing about 20 feet from the boat.  Grandpa's eyes strained to see through the darkness.  Was it a tree or a bush?  A rock formation on the shore?  The mist was making it hard for him to see through the darkness as it thickened and became more fog-like.  The fog rolled over the top of the water in waves, almost like it had a life of its own.

The boat hit something hard again and this time Grandpa felt it tilt to one side and come to a complete stop.  Surely he had reached the shore.  He pushed his remaining paddle over the side into the water and it hit dirt, so he knew he was close enough to walk out onto the land.  Surely once he got out of the boat, he'd be able to figure out where he had landed and make his way out of the slough.  Grandpa gathered up his things and put the bucket over his arm.  He had just stepped out of the boat when the scream came again, this time much closer than before, and the dark mass shifted closer to where Grandpa was standing.  For a second, he was frozen in his boots, not knowing if he should get back in the boat and try paddling away, or if he should make a run for it.  The dark mass loomed over him now, even closer than before and it started to take shape as Grandpa stared up into it.  It was close enough for him to see it had long arms and legs and was standing upright like a man, but it was larger than a bear and covered in long, gray hair and what looked like thick green worms wriggling all over.  He couldn't see a face or anything to define what exactly it was, and the odor coming off it was sickening and just breathing it in was making him gag.

Suddenly, whatever the creature was, opened it's mouth to scream again and one look up into that dark gaping maw of a mouth, with those snaggly, sharp teeth is all it took for Grandpa to get his wits about him and get the heck out of that slough!  He threw down his bucket and gear and started running for all he was worth.  He could hear the thing splashing in the mucky water behind him, but he didn't look back.  He just ran and ran until finally he had reached the sandy beach that would lead him back up into the woods.  Grandpa didn't stop running until he'd reached the middle of the forest.  He stopped at a fallen log and looked back toward the slough, his light scanning the fog for any sign that the creature was still following him.  He didn't see anything.  Had he imagined it all?  He turned back around and headed deeper into the woods and was just reaching the railroad tracks on the other side when off in the distance he heard the scream pierce the night again, but this time very far away.  Whatever it was, had moved back into the swampy bog.

Grandpa lost his taste for fried frog legs that night, and it was a very long time before he went back to that slough to recover his boat and lost gear.  He vowed to never go back at night, and only on the clearest of days.  He knew he had encountered the true boogeyman of the bog and that it wasn't just some old tale to scare little boys away from the dangers of the bog.  He told his story to anyone who would listen, over and over again.  It's still a favorite story of mine to tell on cold October nights when we're sitting around the fire.  Happy Halloween and steer clear of Boogeyman Bog!

My Daddy

How do you ever get over the grief of losing someone so suddenly, that you loved so deeply?  Never getting to truly say goodbye and "I love you" that one last time.  It's utterly heartbreaking and the guilt and sorrow you're left with just tears you inside out.

My sweet Daddy left this world last week and is now in Heaven.  While I'm glad he's in Heaven, I selfishly just want him here with me.  I miss him terribly and I want to hear his comforting voice.  I want to hear his raspy laugh.  I want to hear him call me "Honey" and say "How's my little lady?" like he always did.

All weekend I've just been grasping at memories, willing myself to hear his voice, wishing for more time together to tell him all the things I want him to know.  Things just keep popping in my head, big and small.  Silly memories, sad ones, fun times, trips we took together.  All the things he taught me.  I can't remember a single time he ever raised his voice to me in anger.  Not one single time.  He was always loving and proud and patient.

I remember once when Tiff and I were staying at his home for the weekend and I got sick with a terrible headache.  All I wanted was to go home to my Mom, which was a four hour drive over the mountains, one way.  I didn't even have to ask twice.  Without hesitation, he just loaded me up in the car in the middle of the night and drove me over those mountains to my Mom.  He dropped me off and turned around and drove the whole way back alone.  He didn't have to do that.  He could have made me stay there with him and just tough it out, but he didn't.

He taught me how to fry an egg.  Silly memory, huh?  Every time I crack an egg in a frying pan, I think of my Daddy.  He used to run his fingers through my hair to get the tangles out.  He didn't like to use a brush, he would just sit there and use his hands.  He used to sing to me with his deep, gravelly timbered voice.  I remember two songs in particular.  One was an old Elvis song called It Is No Secret What God Can Do, and the other was The Eastbound Train, which was a sad song about a train conductor and a little girl who was traveling to see her dying Daddy.

One time he surprised me in Tennessee.  He just showed up at my office one day out of the blue and stayed with me for the whole weekend.  We visited the whole time, just me and him, talking for hours.  I felt so close to him that weekend with his complete undivided attention and he just wanted to hear all about my life.  I took him to my church that Sunday and we held hands during the entire service.  When the congregation stood to sing How Great Thou Art, Daddy broke down in tears and just sobbed and sobbed.  We just held each other until he could stop crying.  He was so tender hearted.

He was such a character, always so charming and funny.  One time when we were little girls, he took us to a petting zoo and stood in front of the llamas teasing them until one of them spit in his eye.  We laughed and laughed.  And a goat pulled his wallet out of the back of his jeans and chewed up some dollar bills.  We thought it was so funny to see him wrestle that wallet out of the goats' mouth.  One time he saved my sister from drowning in the pool.  She went into the deep end and couldn't swim and he just jumped right into the pool with all his clothes and his cowboy boots on and saved her.  He just held her until she stopped crying.  Our hero.

My heart just aches and I can't stop these hot tears from flowing down my cheeks.  I just want us all to be together forever and there to be no dying, no suffering, no sadness.  I hope and pray we can all truly be together again one day and we'll know each other and be able to hug and hold each other and be happy in Heaven.  I'm so thankful for everything my Daddy was to me, and I'll miss him so much.  I can't imagine a world without him.

I love you Daddy.  Thank you for my life.  Thank you for loving me so completely. 

Mystery at Fogarty Creek Beach

 Annie loved nothing more than being on the beach.  For as long as she could remember, she had been coming to Fogarty Creek Beach, a small park off the Oregon Coast near Depoe Bay.  Her Mama had brought her here since she was a toddler, and now, Annie in her late 20's, loved it just as much as she had back then.  Lots of good memories were made at this beach over the years.  Building sand castles, combing the beach for shells and bits of sea glass, watching for seals bobbing in the waves, searching for sea urchins and starfish in the tidal pools.  Annie had even had her first kiss at Fogarty, when she and some friends from school had come to the beach one weekend.  They had gathered driftwood and built a fire on the beach and stayed until well after midnight, sharing stories and yes, kisses in the dark, while the waves crashed noisily in the background.  She and her friends spent many a teenage weekend heading off to the beach and staying as long as time would allow.

Now, as Annie walked barefoot in the sand, she thought back to those carefree days and the friends who had all gone their separate ways after school had ended.  The one constant in her life though, was Joe.  Joe, who shared her love of Fogarty Creek Beach.  Joe, who had given her her first kiss at the campfire all those many years ago.  Joe, who had always been there for her.  Her steady rock.

Annie laid her windbreaker down on the damp sand and sat on top of it to watch the ocean.  She gathered her knees up to her chest and let the wind toss her hair every which way.  It was a particularly windy day.  Maybe a storm was coming in.  Annie loved the way the sea mist occasionally blew against her face.  She loved the salty smell of the ocean and the sound of the gulls riding the wind above the waves.  Joe was out on that ocean today and her thoughts turned to him.  He ran a local fishing charter that took tourists out of the marina at Depoe Bay five days a week, and today was his last run of the week.  Tonight they would share dinner at home and have a couple of days to themselves.  She always cherished her time with Joe.

As Annie sat there daydreaming about Joe, a strange moaning sound came to her over the wind.  At first Annie thought maybe it was a fog horn from one of the buoys on the bay, but the noise came again and this time it was louder and more drawn out.  Annie looked around, but saw no one else along the beach.  This wasn't surprising - Fogarty Creek Beach was a small one, and almost always secluded.  Most folks preferred the long, straight beaches you could walk on for miles, but Fogarty was nestled in some rock cliffs and was shaped like a crescent moon.  You could only access it during low tide and the beach itself was very small and sloping toward the water.  There was a small section of beach at the top where you could picnic on dry sand, but most of the beach was always wet and battered by the waves.

Annie stood and turned to search the picnic area, but again saw no one.  The moaning continued, but seemed distant.  Annie gathered up her windbreaker and started walking along the beach, looking up toward the cliffs.  Maybe the sound was carrying from the small parking lot at the top of the highway?  She tipped her head back and shielded her eyes from the sun, but saw nothing but ancient, weather beaten rock.  Annie kept walking and was nearly to the end of the sand where the rock curved around a bend, when she heard the moaning again.  This time, much louder than before.  She stared hard at the cliff face and thought she saw a darkened space just at the bend where the sand ended.  The tide was starting to come back in, so the waves would keep her from going any further, but this dark space seemed to be where the moaning was coming from.  Could there be a wounded sea lion around that bend?  Maybe the waves had carried it into the sharp rocks and it was stuck there suffering?  She tried to make sense of the sounds, but the wind was picking up again and the water was rushing closer.  If she didn't turn back now, she wouldn't be able to make it up the path to safety before high tide.  Reluctantly, Annie turned around and headed back up the beach, and to the stairs leading to her truck.

Once up the cliff, Annie shook sand out of her shoes and slipped them back onto her feet.  She sat on the tailgate of her truck and surveyed the parking lot.  Hers was the only vehicle in the lot and besides the waves crashing below, the only other sounds were the cars driving by above her on Highway 101.  She sat a little longer, straining to hear the moan, but it didn't come.  She could only assume it was her active imagination, or as she thought before, a wounded animal stuck near the rocks.  She hated to think of anything suffering, but there was nothing she could do for it.  She and Joe would come back tomorrow when the tide was back out.

Annie jumped off the tailgate, slammed it shut and headed home.  Joe would be coming back into port soon, smelling like fish and tired and hungry.  She had put a pot roast in the slow-cooker this morning before she had left - Joe's favorite - and it would be ready by now.  When she pulled in front of their little cottage by the sea, she couldn't help but smile.  Its weathered gray exterior was accentuated by the light blue shutters Joe had painted and installed on the sides of each of their windows.  Joe had cut a little whale out of each shutter, giving the cottage whimsical character.  They had shared a laugh when he first hung them at the windows.  Whale watching was a big business on the Oregon Coast and Joe had often treated his boat load of tourists to a sighting now and then while out fishing.  They often joked about a landlubber hooking into a whale and carrying the boat off to sea.  They had named their little cottage Whale's Spout and they cherished their little home.

Annie stepped up onto the side porch and tossed her shoes in a basket by the door.  She could already hear their English Bulldog, Snout, sniffing and scratching at the bottom of the door, in anticipation of Annie's arrival.  She opened the door and out came Snout, wiggling and grunting like a happy little piglet.  His wrinkly face with its massive underbite was one only a Mother could love.  And Annie was a proud Mother!  She knelt down to receive Snout's kisses and to rub his ears.  The house smelled wonderful with the aroma of Joe's dinner and Annie set off for the kitchen to bake a loaf of crusty bread to accompany their meal.  Joe would be home soon!

Today's fishing excursion had been a good one and all eight of Joe's passengers had caught their limit.  There would be buckets of fish to clean and package, and everyone, including Joe, was tired after a long day on the ocean.  Each passenger paid a fee to fish for eight hours and that included the price of cleaning and packaging their catch to take home.  Most of his excursions had eight to twelve passengers, and he took the boat out five days a week, weather permitting.  It was a good living and he'd been enjoying the business venture for about ten years now.  Two little boys were asleep on a bench at the back of the boat, while the adults visited and boasted about their catch of the day.  It had been a good day, and the seas had been fairly calm.  Everyone seemed to have had fun on the trip, whooping and hollering whenever someone hooked a big one and reeled it in.  Even the little boys were able to pull in a fish or two, with the help of Joe or one of the parents.  It had been a long day and Joe was hungry and tired, ready to head home to Annie.

After docking back at the marina, the deck hands unloaded the fish and set to cleaning them on big steel tables lined up on the dock.  The passengers ventured upstairs for warm drinks and to get in out of the cold.  There was an observation room upstairs with big windows looking out over the dock and bay, so they could watch the boats coming in and the fish being cleaned below.  The men below would gut the fish and throw the waste out to the screaming gulls that were lined up along the railings, fighting and diving for every last scrap.  They expertly filleted the fish and vacuum packed the meat for the tourists who had paid high dollar for their seafood bounty.  Everyone would leave for home happy, and Joe hoped they would all come again and tell their friends what a good time they had.

The last of the passengers had shaken Joe's hand and patted him on the back with promises of returning again soon, so Joe set to hosing off the dock and securing his boat.  It was starting to get dark and the wind was picking up.  Maybe a good storm would roll in and keep them home this weekend, snuggled by the fire.  Joe wouldn't mind being stuck inside with Annie and Snout.  By the time he arrived home, it was darker and starting to rain.  Lights glowed at every window and Joe spotted Annie in the kitchen, busying herself at the table.  His stomach rumbled with hunger and he couldn't wait to get inside and see what she had fixed him.  When he entered the kitchen, there was Snout at Annie's feet, looking up to catch any morsel that might find its way to the floor.  Annie was known to drop a treat or two accidentally-on-purpose, and Snout was like a Hoover vacuum cleaner, waiting to suck up every last scrap.  He didn't even notice Joe standing in the doorway until Annie turned around and greeted him.  Then Snout set to wiggling around and dancing at Joe's feet, grunting for his affection.  Joe bent to rub Snout's wrinkled face and then stood to give Annie a long hug.  It was good to be home and see Annie's smile.

Joe's belly was full and Snout was snoring loudly beneath the kitchen table.  Annie had cleared the dishes and was sitting across from Joe with a cup of tea, savoring one of her famous lemon bars.  Joe had already polished off three of them, and truth be told, I'm sure Snout had had a nibble of one too.  Annie couldn't wait to tell Joe about her day on Fogarty Creek Beach.  "Joe, I went to our beach today and while I was sitting watching for seals, I heard a terrible moaning coming from the cliffs."  Joe, fully aware of Annie's active imagination, prepared to humor her awhile and listened to her story.  "I walked as far as I could Joe, and I think I spotted a cave.  I think the moaning might have been coming from there.  Do you suppose it was a wounded animal, washed into the mouth of the cave?"  In all their time on Fogarty Beach, Joe couldn't recall every seeing a cave.  Lord knows they had explored every inch of that beach since they were teenagers, spending all their extra time there after school and during their days off work.  It must have been a trick of the sun hitting the rocks, making it appear to be a cave.  Surely there were no caves along that rocky cliff.  But Joe was prepared to humor his Annie, and he promised if the storm held off, they'd go there together tomorrow and check it out.

The next morning, Annie was up early and had already prepared bacon and egg biscuits with a thermos of coffee to go.  She was anxious to show Joe the cave and hopeful he would see that she hadn't imagined it all.  When Joe shuffled into the kitchen with his hair on end and sleep in his eyes, Annie hurried him along to get dressed so they could head out.  He had hoped to stay in with a storm this weekend, but the weather had betrayed him and the sun shone brightly in a clear, blue sky.  So much for a cozy weekend indoors with Annie and Snout.  Snout, smelling bacon, came sniffing into the kitchen and went straight to his bowl for breakfast.  He gobbled it down, sounding every bit like the fat little pig that he was, and then he waddled over to Annie to thank her with slobbery kisses.  She took him outside for his morning walk around the yard while Joe got dressed.  After Snout had watered all the bushes and sniffed every rock, she took him back inside, and Joe gathered up the bag of biscuits and thermos and they headed off to the beach.

When they pulled into the lot, there was only one other car in sight.  They parked and locked the truck and headed down the steps toward the beach.  As they stepped out onto the sand, they saw a woman with her little boy.  He had a bright yellow bucket with a red shovel and was covered in sand from head-to-toe.  The remains of his castle was on the beach behind him, and already the waves were inching up to wash it away.  His grin was a mile wide and he waved hello as soon as he spotted them.  Joe bent down to shake the little boys' hand and Annie greeted the woman with a smile.  "Did you have a good morning on the beach?"  Annie asked her.  "Oh yes, we love this beach!  We don't get to come often enough, but I drove him over for the weekend.  We're on our way back home this afternoon, but he wanted to make one more sand castle."  Annie wanted to ask the woman if she had heard any strange moaning sounds, but she didn't want to scare the little boy, so she bit her tongue and they all parted ways.  Now Joe and Annie had the beach to themselves.

They tossed their shoes off and Joe grabbed Annie's hand and they walked toward the water.  Walking in the damp sand was a lot easier than trying to walk in the fluffy dry.  The sun was sparkling off the water brightly and sandpipers playfully skittered across the sand close to the water's edge.  The tide was out, for the most part, so the beach was larger than  normal and you had better luck finding sand dollars and shells.  Annie tugged Joe toward the end of the cliff where she had spotted what she thought might be a cave.  Joe, followed along, laughing at her child-like exuberance.  When Annie got a bee in her bonnet, there was no stopping her!

Annie got within feet of the bend in the cliff, where she had heard the moaning, and spotted the dark area in the cliff.  She turned toward the ocean and the wind blew her hair back.  She turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes and did her best to listen intently, hoping to hear the moan.  But she only heard the gulls and the waves and the foamy water as it inched up the beach toward their toes.  "Wait Joe, let's sit here and listen awhile.  Maybe you'll hear it too!"  So, Joe obliged and they plopped down on the sand and stared at the sea.  They sat there on the beach for what seemed like hours.  Occasionally Joe would get up and walk around a bit, picking up shells and pebbles that he thought Annie might like for her flowerbeds at the cottage.  He'd bring them back to her and then go in search for more.  It was getting late in the day and the biscuits she'd made earlier were long gone.  Pot roast leftovers sounded pretty good and his stomach was rumbling.  "Come on Annie, let's go home to Snout.  We haven't heard a thing.  It was probably just the wind."  Joe said.  "Oh Joe, I just know it wasn't the wind.  I wish you could have heard it too."  Annie replied.  Annie got up and dusted sand off her pants, gathered up the treasures Joe had found for her and took his hand to go.  They walked back up the beach toward the stairs, but Annie couldn't resist looking back one more time at the dark spot on the cliff.  When she did, she thought she saw something moving in the wind against the rocks.  She stopped and turned and watched.  "What is that?" she asked.  "Oh Joe, do you see it too?"  Joe looked in the direction of Annie's gaze and yes, he did see something, but what was it?  Some sea moss stuck on the rocks, blowing in the wind?  He couldn't quite be sure.  He held his hand up to his eyes to shield the sun and when he did, he thought he saw a woman's face in the rocks.  A faced framed with gray hair that was blowing in the wind.  He turned back to Annie and then back to the rocks, but the face was gone.  There was nothing there but the dark colored rocks on the cliff.  He blinked to clear his vision and searched the cliff, but didn't see anything else out of the ordinary.  "I don't know what that was, but it's getting late Annie.  Let's get home."  They climbed the steps to the truck and were dumping the sand out of their shoes when a terribly sad and mournful sound came to them across the wind.  Annie's blue eyes got wide as saucers and she looked at Joe, but kept silent.  Surely he heard that too!  From the look on Joe's face, Annie knew he had heard it.  They both remained silent, holding their breath and listening for the moan to return.  They waited several minutes, but didn't hear the sound again, so they both got into the truck and left the beach.  All the way home, they wondered aloud about what they had seen and heard.

Later that night, after Annie had turned in with a good book and Snout was snoring contentedly beside her on the bed, Joe slipped outside to sit on the porch.  He noticed their neighbor next door was sitting out on his porch too, so he called him over.  "So, I see you're out for a little fresh air too, Sam."  Joe said to his neighbor.  Sam was an elderly man that lived next door with is bride of 55 years, Mary.  They had been good neighbors to Annie and Joe, almost like parents to them - always watching out for them and sharing meals and local gossip.  Joe and Annie had struck up a good friendship with Sam and Mary over the years and thought the world of them both.  Sam had owned a fishing boat himself, back in the day, and he and Joe loved swapping stories about their love of the ocean.  Joe had just finished telling Sam about his past week's excursions when he decided to tell him about what he and Annie had heard and seen at Fogarty Creek Beach.  Joe told him about Annie's experience the day before, and then what they had seen earlier that morning and Sam listened intently, nodding his head and pausing to puff on his pipe now and then.  "What do you suppose it was that we saw, Sam?"  asked Joe.  "Well now Joe," Sam said, "It sounds to me like you two spotted the old Sea Hag of Fogarty Beach."  "The what?!" Joe asked.  "The only sea hag I've ever heard of is the restaurant at Depoe Bay."  The Sea Hag Restaurant was a very popular restaurant owned by an eccentric elderly woman in Depoe Bay and it was known for miles around for it's fresh fish dinners and generous portions.  The owner, Gracie Strom, had owned this restaurant for years and it was passed down to her from her great-grandfather Eli Strom, an equally eccentric ship captain that had called the Oregon Coast home for many, many years.

"Yes, Joe.  The Sea Hag Restaurant was named for the legend of the old sea hag of Fogarty Beach.  It was Gracie's great-grandfather Eli that first encountered the sea hag one night on his way to Lincoln City.  "You mean he actually saw the same woman we think we saw and heard today?  She can't still be alive after all these years!?"  Joe said.  "Well, now Joe, I didn't say she was alive, did I?  Even Eli Strom couldn't rightfully say she was alive, even back then."  Sam said.  "Tell me the story Sam."  Joe said.  "I want to hear it so I can tell Annie."

So, Sam sat there on Joe's porch, puffing away at his pipe and proceeded to tell him the story of the old sea hag, as best as he could remember it.  After all, he'd been a very young boy himself when he'd first heard the story, so he had to think hard and be sure to tell it right.  At least his version of it.  The legend, I'm sure, had been changed a bit at every telling, as most stories are.  He'd give it his best shot.

It seemed that Eli had been a young man when he first came across the sea hag of Fogarty Creek Beach.  He had just finished a week-long fishing trip and had docked his boat at the marina in Depoe Bay, and was walking back to Lincoln City where he had a small cabin at Devil's Lake.  In those days, the highway was just a one-laned gravel road, but the walk was just as long as if that road was paved like it was today.  After a week of fishing, Eli was so tired he almost couldn't bear the thought of walking all those miles, but he knew he had to do it so off he went.  He got as far as Fogarty Creek Beach when he just couldn't take another step.  He crossed the creek at the bridge and climbed the steps down toward the beach in hopes of finding a nice sandy spot he could rest between the rocks until morning.  He found a nice dry spot between two gigantic spruce trees and laid down to sleep.  The sound of the wind blowing through the grand evergreen boughs above his head and the waves crashing out on the beach below, lulled him fast to sleep.  It wasn't long after Eli had fallen into a deep sleep when he was awakened by an eerie moaning sound.  At first, he thought it was just the wind, or the creaking of the branches above, but soon the moaning became louder and longer and there was no mistaking that it wasn't the wind young Eli was hearing.  He sat straight up and cocked his head to hear where the sound might be coming from.  At times it was distant, but other times it seemed the source was right there beside him.

Eli wasn't the type of man that scared easily, but he had goose bumps down his arms and the little hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention.  It was dark as pitch in the woods where he sat, so Eli stood and walked out into the open where the moon shown down on the ocean and its reflection made the night a lot brighter.  He could see the beach, and see where the ocean was creeping up onto the sand.  He looked up and down both sides of the beach but all he could see were the dark rock formations on each side and the crescent-moon shaped beach in the middle.  The moan came again, long and drawn out, sad and eerie.  It just floated by on the wind and faded away.  Eli looked down at the beach and saw footprints in the sand at the water's edge.  Footprints?  Who would be fool enough to walk the beach in the dead of night?  Eli climbed a few rocks down to the sandy beach and walked out into the moonlight.  The beach appeared to be deserted, but as he neared the spot where he had seen the footprints, he looked down and sure enough, there they were.  They were slender and small - the footprints of a woman.  Eli decided to follow them down the beach.

The beach, being short, Eli didn't have far to walk until he came to the edge of the gigantic rock cliff.  Once you reached that spot, there was really no where else to go because the rocks were sharp and jagged and there was no telling what lay around the bend.  The beach itself ended here and sloped sharply down into the ocean.  It wasn't a good place to be when the tide was coming in.  If a person was caught in the pull of the tide, the waves would wash them out, only to crash them back upon the sharp rocks.  A rogue wave chose that moment to crash and Eli was caught off guard.  The water splashed him at the waist and he grabbed onto the rocks to stop himself from being pulled out to sea.  He was hanging on for dear life and the rocks were cutting into the palms of his hands.  He had just closed his eyes to send up a prayer when he felt fingers circling his wrists and pulling him up higher onto the rock.  When he opened his eyes, all he could see was what looked like great masses of scraggly gray sea moss and a once-white gown of what looked like muslin, torn and tattered in spots and blowing in the wind.  When he was able to secure himself more safely on the rock, and out of reach from the waves, he rubbed his sore hands and looked around for whoever had pulled him up on the rocks.  He didn't see anyone or anything, just rocks for as far as you could see and the crescent-moon shaped beach below.

Just as Eli was about to believe he had imagined it all, he heard the mournful moaning again.  It was louder now and very close by.  Eli called out, "Who's there?  Hello?" but no one answered.  He strained his eyes in the dark, looking up and down the rocky cliff, and spotted what looked to be the entrance to a cave there in the rocks.  He stood and made his way carefully over the rocks.  As he got closer to the cave, the moaning began again.  He now knew without a doubt, the moaning was coming from that cave.  When he finally made it to the cave, he hopped down onto a sandy spot at the mouth and peered in.  Honestly, Eli really didn't want to see the source of that mournful moaning, but curiosity got the best of him and he stepped further into the cave.  The moaning grew louder, but the cave was dark and he could barely see his hands stretched out in front of his face.  How deep the cave went, he didn't know, but Eli kept inching his way forward with his arms stretched out before him.  Blindly, he slowly entered the cave.  When his fingers brushed up against something soft, he almost  swallowed his tongue he was so scared, but he stopped and felt the same hands that had rescued him, circling his wrists again and holding onto his arms.  He couldn't see anything but the white of her gown, but he knew somehow the moans had been coming from this woman.  He didn't know who in the world she could be.  He asked her name, but all she did was sigh and moan.  He asked her again who she was.  How could he help her?  What was wrong?  But she didn't answer.  Eventually she stopped moaning and loosened her grip on his arms.  She released one of his arms and raised her hand to his face.  Softly, she cupped his face with her cold hand and Eli felt in his bones all the things she could not say.  It was as if she was putting her thoughts right into his head.

She told him her name was Annabelle and she had been lost in that cave for a hundred years.  Her husband Josef, was a captain on the sea and was on his way home after being gone for nearly a year, when a great storm broke out on the Pacific.  For days she waited for word about his arrival, but heard nothing, and every day she went to port only to find his ship had not yet come in.  She would come here to Fogarty Beach to watch for him and sit for hours on end, hoping to catch a glimpse of his ship.  One day, while sitting on the beach, she had seen something in the sand at the water's edge, so she waded out to see what it was.  When she reached it, she had realized it was a large piece of wood, jagged and rough.  She pulled and pulled until it was freed from the sand and she dragged it up the shore to examine it better.  The piece of wood had a large letter "A" in gilded gold with two small "n's" and then the rest was worn to the point you could read no more.  Annabelle recognized the beautiful writing because her husband Josef had commissioned an artist in Newport to carve and paint this into the side of his ship, The Lady Annabelle.  A ship he named for her.

When she realized what this meant, she fell to her knees and was wracked with sobs.  She now knew that her husband's ship had crashed against these rocks and her precious Josef had been lost at sea.  Her heart was truly and utterly broken.  As she cried and moaned in grief, the tide started to come in fast and a wave knocked her into the rocks.  The water pulled her out deep, only to pour her back crashing against the rocks again and again.  It went on like this for what seemed like hours until finally a big wave pushed her up and over into the mouth of this little cave.  Her dress was torn to shreds and she was covered in cuts and bruises.  She had no where to go, but further into the cave and there she stayed until she starved to death.  No one knew to look for her there, as no one even knew the cave existed.

Eli was devastated to learn this about the poor woman.  Tears rolled down his cheeks as she put these thoughts and memories into his head.  She released his arms and pushed him away.  He turned and stumbled back to the mouth of the cave and out onto the rocks.  He wasn't sure how long he had been in the cave, but daylight had returned and he heard the gulls crying in the wind.  He saw the waves had retreated and the sandy beach was near again.  He climbed over the rocks and jumped down to the sand and found his way back up to the highway.  No one would ever believe his story, but it had to be told!

As Sam finished the tale, Mary came out on the porch and spotted him over at Joe's.  "Come on home, you old Codger!" she scolded.  "Leave that poor boy alone!  It's time for bed."  "It's okay, Miss Mary."  Joe called.  "Sam was just telling me another story about the sea."  Sam made his way home and Joe went back inside and up the stairs to tell Annie about the old Sea Hag of Fogarty Creek Beach.  He had a feeling from here on out though, the telling of the story would change again and Annabelle would  become a beautiful sea maiden, instead of an old sea hag.  He knew too that Annie would be pestering him to find that cave so they could put poor Annabelle to rest, once and for all, and she could find peace with her long lost love, Josef.

Boo to You!

When I was a little girl, I used to think there were alligators under my bed.  My sister and I slept in matching antique twin iron beds, and they were far up off the ground, so you had to hop pretty high to get into them at night.  The alligators didn't live under there during the day, you know.  Only at night, when the lights were out and little girls were supposed to be asleep.

I don't know if our parents, or a mean babysitter put this thought into my head, but I was always convinced that if I put my foot down, or let it stray outside the covers and dangle over the side of the bed, it would be bitten off by an angry alligator and all I'd be left with was a bloody stump!

I remember too, that in the darkness, as I would lay there and think about the monsters under the bed, I would also see things flying through the air above me.  If you looked real hard into the pitch black dark, you could see these tiny little red things darting back and forth real fast and I just knew they were something sinister.  Like if you put your hand up into the blackness, these little red things would hit against your arms and hand with little stinging bites.  I don't know for sure what they were.  More than likely they were the result of extreme eye strain and an over-active imagination, but next time you're laying in bed in a totally dark room, try it and see if you can spot them.

And heaven forbid if the closet door should remain open at bedtime.  Don't even get me started there!  Have you ever stared long enough into a dark, open closet and imagined the contents manifesting themselves into the most gosh-awful monsters ever set forth upon the face of the earth?  Well, I have, and then some!  Hard to believe an innocent coat can become Dracula with fangs dripping blood, just waiting to come out and bite your neck.

As a kid and young adult, I watched all the most horrifying scary movies and read the most horrendously gory books.  I loved being scared and was thrilled when a new horror film came out and we got to go and see it at the theater.  I read every Stephen King and Dean Koontz book there was.  Now, you couldn't DRAG me to a horror movie.  And I can't even get two pages into a book by Stephen King these days without slamming it shut and throwing it out.  I just don't have the tolerance for any of that any more.  I have nightmares for days just watching one episode of the latest horror series on television.  And zombies?  Forget-about-it!  No way, no how!  I can't endure anything about zombies.  If one knocked on my door, I swear I'd just die dead away, right on the spot.  He wouldn't even have to kill me first, I'd just lay down and die before he had the chance!

An occasional ghost story, I can handle.  I watch a few on tv now and then, and they aren't so bad.  As long as there's no blood and guts, I can usually watch to the end.  I might be a little jumpy the rest of the night and sleep with the lights on, but I can usually endure it.

So, here's to another Happy Halloween!  Hopefully yours will be zombie-free and only as scary as you want it to be.  One tip though:  chocolate before bed gives you the most awful nightmares.  I'm speaking from experience here, so stick to the non-chocolate candies before you fall asleep on Halloween night!  You'll be glad you did!

A Night to Remember

Stinky Boy

It was Friday evening and Hubby and I were home celebrating Dudley's 3rd birthday.  It had been raining most of the day, and we had the front door open, enjoying the night.  All three of us were in the living room and Dudley was running back and forth from his toy basket, bringing toy after toy to his Daddy who was flinging them here and there in a rambunctious game of fetch.  Dudley would pause at the front door occasionally, listening to the rain or watching the fireflies bounce around in the wet grass.  Every once in awhile he'd run out onto the porch on alert, barking at some unseen critter and we'd tease him and call him back in to keep playing.

We had been visiting via text with the man we bought Duds from three years ago, telling him how good Dudley looked and how happy and energetic he was.  We were snapping photos and sending them off so he could see how big Dudley had gotten and how handsome he'd become.  Proud parents bragging about their adorable son!  All of a sudden Dudley bolted out onto the porch again and like a flash he was shooting down the steps and I just knew he was after some terrible creature of the night!

No sooner had I stepped out the screen door when I heard this incessant squeaking and chattering and I was just in time to see the back end of a big, black skunk, tail high in the air and Dudley's face right in the line of fire!  In slow motion, I saw Dudley jump into the air like he'd been shot, shaking his head all around and I knew right then and there he was a goner.  He'd been lucky once before when he first encountered a skunk in our front yard.  That skunk was a lot friendlier than this one.  When Dudley ran up to smell its butt, he didn't do anything but chatter and squeak and run away.  This skunk, however, was not so kind.  He apparently wasn't in any mood to deal with the floppy faced bulldog that had just come charging out of the quiet little house on the hollow!

Dudley's face was all scrunched up and his eyes were glued shut but somehow he managed to stagger up the porch steps and right into the living room, stunned.  While it all seemed to be happening in slow motion, I'm sure it really occurred in a matter of seconds.  All three of us were in total shock.  Dudley was standing in the middle of the living room floor and Hubby and I were just frozen to the spot wondering if he really did get skunked or maybe he just got scared.  The smell hadn't hit us yet, but then all of a sudden like some noxious invisible cloud of doom BOOM!  The terrible onion-y smell enveloped us and were were covering our noses and went into major panic mode! 

Hubby picked Dudley up in his arms and ran into the bathroom and dropped him in the tub.  He started running cold water all over his face to flush out Dudley's eyes, which were still glued shut and red.  Hubby was yelling for me to get the soap, get the towels, close the door, look on the internet to see what we're supposed to do, Hurry!  Hurry!  Hurry!

I found a site that said to rinse his eyes with saline solution real good, so I ran into the bathroom and grabbed a bottle and while Hubby held his eyes open, I poured it on.  Then back to the internet again to another site that said to use baking soda, Dawn soap and hydrogen peroxide on him to kill the stink.  We didn't want a bleached bulldog, so we skipped the hydrogen peroxide.  The site also advised Hubby should be wearing gloves while doing all this, but that advice came way too late since he was already elbow deep in skunk water!  Luckily the spray had only hit Dud's in the face, so surprisingly after his bath, he didn't hardly stink at all.  

Unfortunately we weren't so lucky with the house.  It stunk to high heaven!  We couldn't open the doors or windows because then the smell from the front yard would blow in.  We turned on all the ceiling fans and closed the doors to rooms where the smell hadn't reached yet and hoped for the best.  I googled some ways to get skunk smell out of your house and came across a blog from some poor woman who's dog had not only gotten sprayed by a skunk, but it had killed it and brought it into the house!  Poor thing.  She said one thing that worked for her was to pour apple cider vinegar into bowls and place them all around the house.  The vinegar would absorb the odor and then the next day you could pour it all down the drain.  So, I grabbed every bowl we had out of the cupboard and poured the vinegar in and we put them in every room of the house. 

The rest of the night was just awful.  Our nostrils burned with the smell and our eyes were watery and red.  We put Dudley in his pen in the laundry room and closed ourselves in our bedroom but the smell just seemed to be everywhere.  I kept thinking maybe we should just go outside and sleep in our truck or check into a hotel.  How would we ever be able to sleep?  We tried putting Vicks vapor rub up our nostrils, but even that didn't keep the skunk smell out.  I was longing for a gas mask or something, anything to help us breathe clean air!  It was a long and restless night.

The next morning, I was surprised the vinegar seemed to be working and the house didn't seem to reek as bad as it had before.  Encouraged, I let Dudley out of his pen and he plopped himself down at my feet and looked up at me with his beautiful little eyes as if questioning whether all that really happened or was it all just a bad dream?  I went around the house pouring out all the bowls of vinegar, scrubbed the tub, washed all Dudley's  bedding, opened all the windows and doors and started cleaning like a mad woman.  The only thing was, you'd walk outside for a minute and as soon as you came back in the house, the smell would hit you like a ton of bricks.  We were just getting used to it, it wasn't really going away!  Oh no!

I decided to go into town to try and find something we could use to get the stink out.  $95 later, I was back home with every odor-absorbing gel, spray, liquid, powder or candle I could find.  I sprinkled baking soda concoctions all over the carpets, sprayed down all the furniture, washed the bedding and all the laundry.  Two days later and the smell is still there, but it's getting fainter.  I guess we just have to wait for it to wear off and hope and pray no one comes over to visit because we certainly couldn't let them in!

Needless to say, none of us will ever forget Dudley's 3rd birthday.  And no, he didn't learn his lesson because the very next day when he heard the dryer make a squeaking noise, the first thing he did was fly through the kitchen and straight out the front door searching for that black and white stinker from the night before!  Good grief!