For Halloween: The Water Bottles

Here's a little something I wrote for a contest titled "Ordinary Horrors". It's apropos for Halloween, I suspect. And a tip of the hat to the memory of the master of weird scray tales, H.P. Lovecraft.

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Old Missus Shrewsbury asked me and my friends to clean out her basement lots of times, but we always had an excuse. Soccer practice, prayer service at church, homework, you name it and we used it.

It's not that we couldn't use the money she offered us, it's just that her house was nasty. It was probably a really nice place when it was built a hundred years ago, but my mom says Missus S. and her husband had let it go to seed. I'm not sure what that means, but I guess it means what I said. It was nasty and dark, and it even looked like her. The roof was all hunched over and the windows looked like google-eyes and it was even kind of a sick green around the edges. It smelled bad too, like maybe the toilet was backed up all the time or something.

Anyway, we're hanging around Three Corner Park when Joey's cell phone started ringing. It sucks that Joey had a cell phone and the other guys didn't, but not because we wanted one ourselves. It sucked because everybody knew to call Joey if they wanted to get hold of us.

"Bobby, I want you to go over to Mrs. Shrewsbury's house and help her clean out her basement."

Great. The old biddy had finally got smart and asked my mom.

"Aw mom, we're busy," I hedged, trying to put it off.

"I know what you're busy doing, probably looking at dirty magazines with your friends. You get on your bike right this instant, young man, or you'll find yourself in hot water when you get home. And you'd better tell Joey and Kenny their moms said they're to go and help you."

Parents don't have a clue, you know what I mean?

Joey and Kenny were really mad, but since we didn't have any other choice, we rode our bikes on over to the Shrewsbury place. The old lady herself was standing out front waiting for us. She looked like an old toad, the way her eyes were all bulged out, and that big wide mouth with the thick lips.

"I'm so grateful you boys could help," she said as we went inside. Man, that house smelled funky, you know what I mean? Not just that old person smell, but something really gross too.

"Now there's some cookies there on the kitchen table, and you help yourself to all you want." Well that was okay. They were pretty good cookies, though they looked weird. They were shaped sort of like water drops, and had weird little nuts and stuff in them, but they were good. We ate a bunch of 'em, and then told Missus S. we were ready to get to work.

She handed us a bucket and a couple of mops and a broom and some old towels and a box of some stinky cleaner. "Just stack all the boxes in neat piles and clean the floors and dust around," Missus S. told us, "but don't you go in the back room. That's where I keep my dear Robert's things and I don't want anyone messing with them."

Like we would do anything with a bunch of old junk in the basement of the crappiest house in town. Right.

"Now I have to run downtown and do some shopping boys, so you just stay downstairs and do your cleaning until I get back. I don't want you coming upstairs when I'm not here. I have a lot of valuable antiques and don't want them damaged."

You'd have thought we were a bunch of gang-bangers the way she lectured us about leaving stuff alone. I had to kick Joey in the shins, he was rolling his eyes so bad I thought for sure Missus S. would notice and give us hell.

Finally the speeches were all over and she opened the basement door for us. It was pretty dark and smelled disgusting. I wished I had one of those plug-in air things I always thought were so dumb, but in there they would have been great.

"Oh wait," Mrs. S said before we could start down the stairs. "You must be thirsty after those cookies." She went over and opened a cabinet and pulled out three big old-fashioned glass bottles which she filled at the sink. "You take these down with you in case you need something to drink while I'm gone."

That was that. We each took one of the bottles, Missus Shrewsbury flipped the light on at the top of the stairs and down we went, like prisoners being marched out to be shot.

I set my bottle on one of the higher steps as I got to the bottom, and the other guys did too. As they turned to look around the room, I heard the door close and then a click like a key turning in the lock.

"Aw crap," I said, turning to the guys. "She fricking locked us in!"

If looks could kill, I'd have been dead right then.

"I can't believe you got us into this, Bobby," Joey grumbled. He was looking around at the shelves that lined the old stone walls of the little room at the base of the stairs. "Can you believe all the old junk down here?"

Kenny walked over to a bunch of old boxes that had apparently been tossed in a corner and started pulling some of them into a more or less neat pile.

"The sooner we get started the sooner we get done," he said. He paused a second and looked up. "Hey look at that, the whole underside of the floor is covered in metal!" He was right. You couldn't see the joists or supports or anything because it was almost like it had been covered with metal tile.

"Maybe she's afraid of alien brainwashing rays," I snorted. "But who cares? I'm telling you she locked us in! We could get done in five minutes but we'd have to stay here until she gets back from the store."

Joey and Kenny ignored me. They were still pissed off, I guess. I started sweeping all the junk on the floor to one side while Joey took one of the old towels and started running them over the shelves, being real careful not to bother anything actually sitting there. Kenny kept piling boxes.

"Hey, look at these boxes," Kenny said finally as he put the last of them against the wall. "They're all from Tournear Butcher Shop."

Joey dropped his towel in the bucket and went over while I swept around the back of the stairs.

"Yuck, man, they stink BAD!" Joey said, backing away. "And look at 'em, all brown and crap. Is that dried blood?"

Kenny shrugged. "They don't smell no worse than the rest of the house. And at least Miz Shrewsbury will be grateful they're all piled up nice and neat. Maybe 20 bucks grateful?"

"Hey maybe she and the old man chop people up in the back room and ship them out in the boxes," I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder to the small wood door under the stairs that I had just pushed my broom past.

"Man are you stupid," Joey said, picking up his bottle of water and taking a swig. "The dumb boxes wouldn't be messed up with blood NOW, before they were loaded up, you dummy."

Kenny came over too and got a drink, nodding his head. "Yeah, doofus. Where'd you get your brains?"

"Well ok then, maybe they bring in fresh meat for the dog or something." I stepped around the stairs and reached for my bottle of water, and Joey slapped my hand away.

"They ain't GOT a dog, dipstick. You're so fricking dumb I think Kenny and me should show you just how dumb you are!"

"Aw come on guys," I whined, "It's hot down here, and I just want a drink of my water."

"We wouldn't BE down here if it weren't for your mom," Kenny said viciously.

They jumped at me, or tried to, but I still had the broom and I got 'em both a couple of good cracks upside the head before they could get me down on the floor and start pounding me.

Now I was mad, because it wasn't my fault Missus Shrewbury had asked my mom to get us to help her. Just because we lived next door didn't mean I was to blame for getting us tapped to do the nasty work.

I've always been a better fighter than either Joey or Kenny, so I got a good grip on one and gave the other a kick in the butt. They both went head over heels against the little wooden door under the stairs.

It slammed open with a crack like a shotgun going off, and Joey and Kenny went sprawling inside.

"Oh crap," I thought, "we're in for it now!" But Joey and Kenny just lay there on the floor looking up with their mouths wide open.

"Whoooooooa," Joey said, looking at something I couldn't see.

"What the frick is that?" Kenny added as I scrambled up off the floor outside and stuck my head inside the back room.

It was about 10 foot square, and should have been dark since it didn't have any windows, but it was almost as light as the outdoors. That was because of the fancy old shelves that ran along the back wall from floor to ceiling. Well, not the shelves, but the rows and rows of old glass bottles lined up on them.

They were a lot like the bottles the old biddy had given us, except these all had stuff written on them, or carved on them, or something. Sort of like those really old Coke bottles from the 1930s with the raised Coke emblem instead of the stamped on one.

Joey and Kenny were just staring at the bottles and sitting on the muddy floor, but I looked around.

The walls were like hand-hewn stone and they were all covered with green slimy moss stuff. The floor was muddy, like I said, except right around this big manhole sized metal cover right in front of the shelves.

I didn't like any of it. I got this prickly feeling on my neck and I backed up until I was right against the underside of the stairs.

"C'mon guys, let's get out of here and shut the door, Missus Shrewsbury doesn't need to know we were in here," I said, but they weren't listening to me.

Joey was the first one on his feet and he walked over to look at the bottles. Kenny wa right behind him, but scrunched down to look at the manhole.

"Where do ya suppose this goes?" he asked. "Maybe they use it to bring the bodies in and out before they chop 'em up."

I guess he'd forgot that I was dumb to suggest that.

"Look at the weird writing on these," Joey said, picking one up.

"Holy crap, Joey, put that thing down, remember what Missus Shrewsbury said," I hissed, motioning for both of them to get out of there. "You get your asses out of there RIGHT NOW!"

"Awwwwww, Bobby's afraaaaaaaaid!" they both laughed, and I blushed bright red.

"I am NOT, but you're not supposed to be IN there!"

"Look at this one," Joey said turning toward me, holding one of the bottles with the open end turned toward me. "It's like half full of water, and on one side is some words all scratched out so you can't read 'em."

Kenny was pulling at the manhole, trying to lift it up. "Hey Bobby, get your ass in here and help me lift this up."

At the same time, Joey had turned the bottle in his hand. "On this side it says 'This is the water of life asana coquelimok--'"

All hell broke loose.

Every single bottle on the shelves suddenly began spurting water like the hoses down at the car wash! The bottle in Joey's hands damn near exploded as it sprayed water directly at me, knocking me all the way across the outer room.

I'm not exactly sure what happened after that, because I landed against Kenny's stack of boxes and one fell down and slammed me in the head. I came to half sitting on one of the boxes with the water almost up to my shoulders!

I jumped up and started to run over to the little door under the stairs, but the water was pouring out of there like the Flood in the Bible. Just in the minute it took me to fight my way across and under the stairs the water got a foot deeper.

What the hell was all this? All this water was apparently pumping out of the bottles on the shelves, and there were so many they were totally flooding the basement faster than a fire hydrant pumps water to put out a fire.

"Joey! Kenny!" I yelled and tried to push into the back room.

The flow of water was way too strong, though I thought I could see one of those swirly whirlpool things like you see when you let the water out of the bathtub. Maybe Kenny had got the lid off that drain or whatever it was and it was sucking down some of the water.

Then I heard Joey screaming,"Go open the fricking door, Bobby! Let some of this water out!"

That seemed like a good idea so I half walked, half swam back around the stairs and crawled up them. The water was still getting deeper, and I could guess why the whole bottom of the floor above was covered with metal if this sort of thing happened very often.

I had to give the old door a really hard kick to get it open, and I know I busted the lock real good. Missus Shrewsbury was going to be pissed, but then maybe she'd have been more pissed to find three drowned boys in her basement.

I lay down on the floor and stuck my head down, looking through the open stairs into the swirling waters still pouring out of the back room.

"Okay, I got it you guys, come ON!"

I guess getting the basement door open eased some pressure or something, because the water didn't seem to get any deeper, and a minute later Joey and Kenny were swimming around the stairs. I didn't understand it--they looked all pale and scared out of their wits.

Then Kenny screamed and looked back, and Joey screamed too, and I dropped my head down again looking under the top stair into the back room again.

That's when I think I finally lost it.

I'm never gonna forget that sight, as Joey and Kenny were dragged back into the gushing, swirling waters that those big bottles were still pumping out to beat the band.

Nobody could swim against the sucking of the water down that big manhole drain, and that gross, disgusting thing with the huge frog-mouth that was gulping down everything as it sat in the opening.

Nobody could fight against the tentacle or tongue or whatever it was that was wrapped around Kenny's leg as it reeled him in like a fish on a string.

I ran home.

Joey and Kenny didn't come to school the next day, and somebody told me they hadn't come home the night before.

And when I walked by Missus Shrewsbury's house on the way home, she was sitting on the porch, and she had a big old glass bottle sitting on the little table beside her, carved with the letters "Water of Life".

She just looked at me and gave me a froggy kind of grin.

"Dear Robert forgives you for messing with his things," she said, and licked her lips.

Mortality

I learned this weekend that two friends of mine have died.

The first actually occurred in June. I only found out about it while reading the newsletter of the Fine Arts Department at Illinois State, where I graduated back in '84.

Dr. John Ferrell was a guiding light in my love of choral music. He led the Madrigal Singers at ISU, in which I sang for the entirety of my time there.

He did not direct us by standing in front and waving his arms as conductors usually do. Since our raison d'etre was performing the annual Christmas Madrigal Dinners, we sang with only a minimal direction from one of the singers, starting and stopping. But Dr. F. would nurture our collective creativity and inspire quality performance by brief but pointed commentary, a quick outline of how a musical line should arch and fall, a soft-spoken word on forming the words around the music.

Dr. F. nurtured us in other ways too. He was always available for counsel. He was one of "The Wise", as far as I was concerned. I can imagine him in the classic educational setting: he at one end of a log and the student at the other, talking music. In addition, when there was a need (such as when we journeyed to the British Isles on our bi-annual singing tours) he would help us find the funding to pay for the trip--in my case, twice.

I will miss him.

The second death was brought to my attention Saturday morning when I printed the birth and funeral announcements for my airshift.

Chris Walton was 52. A resident of Quincy and formerly of Carthage, we shared a love for gaming. He died of an apparent heart attack on Friday.

Chris was always willing to play something. He didn't appear to care what, he simply wanted to enjoy the camaraderie and play of the game.

I last talked with him when my fiancee was in town. We were leaving Midwest Comics as he was arriving, and I introduced him to Paula. He offered to teach her the game she had just purchased for me for my birthday.

I did not realize that Chris held a degree in history and teacher certs. At some point he must have decided not to pursue the teaching, but I can see him in that role. He told good stories, he knew the history represented in many games like the proverbial back of his hand, and while he was a trifle odd perhaps, he was a good man.

I regret that I did not have the chance, in either the case of Chris or Dr. Ferrell, to tell these two men how much I valued their presence in my life.

In the Orthodox Church we pray for those who have passed on with simple words:

May their memory be eternal!

Now I'm off to tell a few people whose friendship and guidance I have enjoyed how much I love them.

Sometimes you just have to say "I can't."

I'm crabby today, so bear that in mind.

I'm listening to these stories about the Chicago marathon, and listening to the runners complaining about how the race officials screwed up.

Apparently the organizers stocked up on enough water for a normal October weekend in the Windy City, but it was very hot and humid instead. This there was not enough water--although from the footage I saw the runners were dumping the water over their heads instead of drinking it like they were intended to do.

Okay, forget that. I don't run so I don't know the mechanics.

But...

What about their OWN responsibility?

People, it was hot and humid, adding even more difficulty to an already tough event. Shouldn't the runners bear responsibility for knowing whether the added difficulty removed the marathon from their capabilities? Why is that the organizers' fault?

My soon to be daughter in law runs. I think she would have the common sense to realize when conditions would change a race from a challenge to a downright dangerous and potentially injurious and "out of my league" event.

Why didn't these runners simply step back and say "I can't do this today"? Is it just pride that they "made the cut" and they wanted to be able to say "I did it"? Some of them are in the hospital in payment of that attitude.

Hot--humid--long race--DANGEROUS. Some could handle it. Others could not. It wasn't the responsibility of the race organziers to penalize everyone by canceling the marathon. It was the responsibility of the runners to know what was beyond their capabilities.

Ah well, its not like I've never done something dumb like that--I have. One hopes that next time organizers will take such conditions into account and that participants will honestly face up to their own limitations.

My deepest sympathies to the family of the man who died. That is a tragedy that no one should have to go through.

Sometimes the well is dry...

Like today.

Heck, like the whole weekend.

Here I am trying to do better on posting and I hit a dry patch. Gawd, that sucks.

On the more positive side of things, we had our annual meeting at church yesterday. Amazing to see what started with a handful of people barely able to support itself has grown to a budget that pretty much supports itself, with a substantial part of that being given to people in need and other charitable work. Glory to God glory to Him forever, as we Orthodox are wont to say.

Workwise, just want to remind you all that it's National Fire Prevention Week. Check the
smoke and carbon monoxide alarms, make sure you aren't overloading your outlets, 
no wires running under rugs where there's lots of people walking by, and all that stuff. 
Oh yes, make a plan for getting out of your home and practice it. And finally, go join area firefighters in Washington Park on Sunday for a good time to lighten up on the heavy message.

Hmmm, apparently I did have something to say after all. Good! :)

Love

The fragrance of love! When we burn incense, we think of the fragrant heavenly aroma of love. The Holy Spirit, like a heavenly fire, brings the warmth of love into the human heart, and like a fresh wind, chases away the stench of sin and spreads the aroma of Christ to the world. That savor all the saints have borne within themselves. People have sensed it in living saints and in their relics. The Apostle speaks of this: "We are unto God a sweet savour of Christ," the sweet perfume of recognition of the truth and the sweetness of love (cf. 2 Cor. 2:14-16).
--Lessons in Divine and Christian Love from The Lament of Eve by Johanna Manley

LOVE (III)
by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything."

A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.

You see, to love of God is joined also love of neighbor: the person who loves God doesn't neglect his brother; nor esteem money ahead of a limb of his own but shows him great generosity, mindful of Him Who has said, 'Whoever did it to the least of My brothers did it to Me.' He is aware that the Lord of all considers as done to Himself the service given to his fellow servant, and so he will perform every service with great enthusiasm and give evidence of great generosity in almsgiving, considering not the lowliness of appearance but the greatness of the One Who has promised to accept as done to Himself what is given to the poor.
--St. John Chrysostom, Homilies on Genesis, Vol. 3

This one's for Paula.

The Chickens! The Chickens!

Gawd, I love Doug Savage's chickens! They always get me laughing my butt off (and given the size of my butt, that's a good thing :)

Check out his Savage Chickens site at http://www.savagechickens.com

Good health...

...is hard to come by.

Yesterday I had to head up to the Blessing cardiac unit and take a dobutamine stress test. Had some chest pains a couple weeks ago and they wanted to check me out.

Those who know me know I am a sizable fellow so I couldn't do the treadmill--I had to do the one where they inject you with a drug that makes your body respond as if you were exercising heavily, thus raising your heart rate and giving the docs a chance to see if there is anything wrong with the old ticker.

I call it the "lethal injection stress test". I hate 'em. This was my third and it was as bad as all the others.

It helped that the techs and nurses were all very sweet. The ultrasound woman was quite attractive, and reminded me of a girl I pined for way back in high school.  And Dr. Mannapaddi is a hoot and a half. But I digress.

Anyway they shave parts of my chest to attach the leads (ugh), insert the IV feed (double ugh), do the prelim baseline ultrasound (ouch), and then they shoot me up.

Did I mention that I hate this test?

It's ok for a while, almost like going up and down the stairs at the apartment four or five times. The heart starts to pound a bit is all.

They're tying to get your heart rate up to about 120, IIRC. That's fine, but at some point the whole experience goes from "oh this is like a nice brisk walk" to "Holy crap when did I sign up for the freaking marathon?!?!"

The heart is pounding like it's going to explode out of my chest (as seen in many hideously wonderful horror movies). My head is a bit light now. My stomach is dying for a chance to express itself but I wisely deprived it of anything to spew last night. My back is twitching since they lay you on your side. In fact, my right arm and shoulder are doing a bit of St. Vitus too. Great merciful Pumpkin this is too much!

Then to top it off, ultrasound starts digging holes in my chest and left side trying to get more pics of my heart before it goes kerblooey. Yeeeeowch! And the freaking gel they use is like 32 degrees (or colder)!

Longest 10 minutes of my life. Well, second longest. The last time they did this test on me they couldn't get my heart rate over 120. I think I was suspended at 100 or so for some interminable amount of time. But this one was bad enough.

Dr. M. informs me that my heart is damn near perfect. Nothing to see here, folks, move along. Of course he does point out that I need to effect some changes in lifestyle (eat less exercise more--but I'm not going to that place which the test simulates, sorry!) and drop about 150 pounds. That's nice to hear, actually, since a year ago it was 200 lbs I needed to drop.

Anyway, I'm apparently as healthy as a fat man can be expected to be. Better, in fact.

But they still don't know what caused the chest pains.

Well I'm tapped out now, and late for work to boot. So you'll have to finish this one up yourselves.

(insert witty closing bon mot here)

A bit of poetry to while the hours...

This was written when I was active in the Society for Creative Anachronism and was serving as one of three "Kingdom Bards" for the King and Queen of the Middle Kingdom (IL, IN, WI, MN, OH, MI). It isn't quite authentic in the style of a medieval plaint, but one adapts as one must to modern sensibilities. :)

To Her Grace, the Doe of the Middle Kingdom, the Gentle Queen

Oh fairest Queen, Oh lady bright,
Above me as far as sky to earth
This simple song I sing tonight,
My prayer is it may cause thee mirth
But soft, not laughter of derision,
Rather thy gentle smiles bestow
And trust my tune like wise magician,
From thy emerald eyes bring flow
Of joyous tears and heartstrings tune,
And to thy puissant lord should bring
Thee closer in thy love and soon,
I pray this comes from what I sing.

The Plaint

Oh morning star
Above the heights I pray thee rise
So in thy light
The glory of my Queen I'll spy;
The fairest lady of the land is she, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth 'tis as should been)
But gentle Queen still I do honor thee.

Oh noonday Sun
Thou shouldst hide thy glory, shade thy name;
The lady Queen
Doth sing with me, puts thee to shame;
Sweet melody like nightingale sings she, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth 'tis as should been)
But noble Queen still I do honor thee.

Oh twilight sky
In deepsome luster glorious beauty thrives.
Like as my Queen
Whose emerald eyes with thy beams of glory strive,
The victor of the contest fair is she, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth tis as should been)
But beauteous Queen still I do honor thee.

O moon of night
Can I compare thee to my Queen?
My lady fair,
Beloved too, outshineth thee.
They stand so lovely in my dreams, the moon, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth 'tis as should been)
Above all others I do honor these.

Finis le plaint

My lady Queen, these are but words,
And lack the music that I write
At Crown I pledge to sing for thee
If wilt allow that busy night
And now God grant thee rest and grace
And peaceful joy all in thy place,
Goodnight fair Queen, sweet resting too,
Goodnight, dear one, at last, adieu!