I want to feel Jung again — oops that was a Freudian slip.

Klamath, California is where I grew up and it’s constantly being confused with Klamath Falls, Oregon. Dad work for the federal government, Mom for a local tourist attraction and with four kids, money was always tight.

We never had a fast-food place like McDonald’s, Burger King or Taco Bell. Fast food was a bologna or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with milk or Kool-Aid, taken outside to the redwood picnic table Dad built.

Going to restaurant was a huge deal that only happened for very special occasions. We ate at the dinner table each evening after Dad said a little prayer. The television was never on during meals. And we ate what was made for dinner or we didn’t eat at all.

Mom made a lot of our clothes and every late summer, we would go shopping for school clothes in Eureka.

Our school clothes also came mail order from the Montgomery Wards, the Sears or the JCPenny catalog. We wore a lot of hand-me-downs. And sometimes we’d get to wear our favorite outfit or best shirt and pants to the county fair.

Teachers were trusted and respected. We went to school everyday. If you were sick and didn’t go to school, you didn’t get to play outside either. We learned our ABC’s, math, how to read and to write in cursive. You took your school clothes off as soon as you got home and put on your play clothes. And we had to do our homework and chores before being allowed outside to play.

Staying in the house was punishment and the only thing we knew about ‘bored,’ was “You better find something to do before I find it for you.” We spent most all of our time, especially our summers, outside. We played Mother May I, Hopscotch, Cops and Robbers, Combat, 1-2-3 Not It, Red light-Green Light, Red Rover, Hide and Seek, Truth or Dare, Tag, Baseball, Kick Ball, Dodge Ball, Barbies, GI Joe, house, football, baseball and rode our bikes, jumping off scrap-wood ramps, or roller skates and skate boards everywhere.

Our finger and thumb or an oddly angled stick served as a gun when playing Cowboy and Indians. A pine cone or dirt clod made the perfect hand grenade in a game of War. We trusted and respected the Law because they had the real guns and would protect us and our families in a time of trouble.

We played deep in the redwood forest, at the neighbors house, in our own backyards, down by the creek and river, and waded in the ditches and ponds. Kids from all over the neighborhood, even kids visiting cousins would come to our house and play. And it didn’t matter whose kid you were, you were always welcomed to stay for lunch and dinner.

We hardly paid attention to time while playing. Not many of us owned a wrist watch or a wallet. We were undaunted by the rain or wind. We knew it was time to go in when the street lamps came on. And we had set bed times, even on the weekend.

We had paper routes, mowed lawns and collected soda-pop bottles and aluminum cans for extra cash and before we could get real summer jobs. There was no bottled water and we drank from the warm water from the faucet and garden hose. And we watched cartoons on Saturday mornings because that’s the only time they came on.

Our only phone sat in the hallway, where there were no private conversations. We didn’t have cellphones or TV remotes and satellite dishes. Television was mostly black and white and came with three channels. And not only did we skin our elbows and knees in the dirt, gravel and rocks, some of us skinned our young hearts on our first puppy-love.

We watched our mouths around our elders, women and younger children. And we were mindful at all times that our Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents, Parents, the best friends of our parents and our best friend’s parents could and would spank us for misbehaving.

And if they were still living, I’d call my folks and say, “Thank you for everything.”

“Happened again,” a Corporal to my left whispered.

“What?” I asked.

Someone answered, “Skipper got us lost again, Doc.”

“Oh.”

We’re on night patrol, maybe two clicks north and west of our fire base. The scuttlebutt is that we were outside the wire to ‘chase our tail,’ meaning we are out here to impress some V.I.P.

“I hate night patrols, so this better be worth it,” I think.

Left and only a hundred yards ahead of us are some ruins. They remind me of the old adobe walls, remnants of an ancient village, like the kind you’ll find at Chaco Canyon.

“Hey!” a harsh whisper came down the line, “Movement in the ruins!”

Suddenly on alert, we drop to the sand, watching, listening, rifles up and at the ready. The Gunny signals and two men, jump to their feet and zig-zag towards the spot where the movement was last seen.

This was followed by yet another pair, who moved in the same zig-zag pattern to the opposite side of where the movement came. A classic pincer-movement.

Within a minute the all-clear hand sign is given and we are all on our feet, breathing again, though slightly heavier than before. We are moving forward toward the ruins.

“Guess, we ain’t lost after all,” I chuckled to the Jar-head to my left.

He says nothing.

Night vision goggles cast an eerie green glow over the crumbling walls of the village. We set up a comm-site near one of the thicker, longer and higher walls.

Quietly and quickly, I’m moving between our six two-man teams, making certain they have been keeping hydrated and that even the smallest of scratches are cared for. The men both hate and love me for this shit, but it’s my job.

An almost inhuman scream pierces the chilled morning air and everyone drops, heads swiveling from side to side, searching, trying to find the source of the sound. With no noises following it, an immediate head-check is called for; all are accounted for.

Then there’s more movement, all twelve of us saw it this time. A man, whose eye’s captured the indirect glow of our equipment or the stars overhead, darts between the broken walls.

“What the fuck’s that?” a Lance Corporal asks.

No one has an answer, and no one has the chance to answer as a dark-robed figure, eyes cast in a white-glow appears from the darker recesses of a door way, and with a shrill screech, sprints into our blazing gun fire.

As if made of a billion-upon-a-billion dots, the thing fades as if it were mere dust, taking its unholy shrieking with it. It’s quiet for a few seconds as our unprotected ears fight to recover from the pounding of rapid gun fire.

“Fuck! Did’ja see that shit?” someone asks.

The hand signal for ‘silence,’ goes around. Someone’s either crying or laughing, I can’t tell, nerves probably shattered, and soon we are withdrawing back to our fire base.

There will be no after-action briefing.

Sure, it was full moon, but not every monster in the underworld was out making mayhem and sowing fear. Werewolf wasn’t interested in blood, guts or gore, knowing it would harsh his mellow.

Instead he was hanging out waiting for some excitement to pass his way, getting high and feeling the munchies coming on. Then he saw Little Red Riding Hood on her way back from visiting her grandma and his mood turned to romance.

As she walked by, he let out a long, low wolf-whistle. She simply ignore him and continued down the street.

“You think you’re too cool for me?” he called to her.

“No,” she answered, “It jus’ you need a hair cut and some better threads, what you’re wearing is all tore up.”

As she continued down the sidewalk, her returned to the shadows complaining, “Damned red-heads anyway.”

Feeling the empty pit that was his stomach, he tripped down to the local Kwiki-Mart and bought a bag of Corn Nuts and a Mountain Dew.

“Maybe the Bride of Frankenstein’ll wanna hang out,” he thought as he struggled to open the back of nuts.

It’s amazing how things work out: today’s the 22^nd anniversary of my mother’s passing and yes, even after all this time, I still miss her. My plan for the day was the same as most others, do some writing and editing of stories I have prepared for future postings.

But as the the saying goes: “We plan, God laughs…”

In 1988, she and her new husband, took the AA pledge, never taking another drink again. In that time, she urged me to attend Al-Anon, which I did up until her death in 2002.

This morning, I received an invite to read a friend’s newly finished manuscript. Without giving away the story line, the plot involves Alcoholics Anonymous.

Reading it brought back all of the information I’d gained sitting in those rooms. And in those 400-pages, it was like having my mom back for a brief time, talking to me, guiding me, urging me to do better.

As I read, I saw myself in his main character and I realized that some self-correction is in much need. In the end, I’m a fellow who likes to see the ‘dots’ connected and they certainly came together today.

Alrighty, Mom – it’s His will, not mine…

Robbie was the neighborhood bully and everyone either shied away or joined him. Either way, they did what they did out of fear for their safety.

Maggie was the new girl to the area and she had only one real run in with Robbie. He’d pushed her down, then laughed, challenging her to do something about it.

Not one to be confrontational, the 12-year-old took his abuse and once he grew bored of her refusal to respond, he went away. This wasn’t the first time she had to deal with a bully, but she knew it would be the last bit of bullying Robbie would ever do.

The following day, Maggie knelt on the sidewalk in front of her home, drawing smiling faces with large pieces of colored chalk, when Robbie appeared. He immediately began dragging his tennis shoes over her artwork, spitting on the drawings, distorting the once happy faces and laughing all the while.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Maggie warned.

“Oh yeah?” Robbie taunted, “What’cha gonna do about it?”

“I’m not going to do a thing,” she answered.

Suddenly the smiling face he was standing on came to life and before Robbie could react to it, the thing’s mouth opened and the sidewalk beneath swallowed him. It happened so quickly that Robbie never even had the chance to scream.

Being single is better than being lied too, cheated on, and disrespected. Thank goodness I’m not married to Congress.

As he stood by the side of his truck, gassing up, he noticed a woman squatting by the ice machine. She looked tired, was dirty and down on her luck. She leaned on a large metal framed backpack.

Finish at the pump, he walked over, “Can I get you a soda, coffee, something to eat?”

Meyer had a soft spot for the homeless and less-fortunate. She smile with a nod ‘yes’ and followed him inside the store.

He used the can and then got himself a coffee. She had a sandwich, a large bottle of cola and a coffee. He happily paid.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Call me John.”

“Okay, John. Thank you. I’m Sara.”

“You’re welcome. With or without the ‘h’?”

“Without.”

“So where you headed, Sara?”

“Las Vegas.”

“I’m headed that way myself. Wanna lift.”

“Please.”

He hefted her pack into the bed of his truck, opened the passenger side door, cleaned off the seat of the two notebooks and a pen, then let her get in, before shutting the door. She quickly slipped the seat-belt on and leaned back.

The first ten-miles or so were silent ones. Meyer had decided not to ask any questions, rather allow her to open up and talk on her own, that is if she wanted too.

“She’s kinda cute,” decided as he glance over at her from time to time.

Finally, she broke the quiet, asking with a smile, “How do you know I ain’t serial killer or something?”

More than a little shocked, he studied her hard before answering her seriously, “First, not very many women are serial killers and when they do turn out to be one, they are generally in the company of a man, who is usually in the lead role.”

“Women can be lone serial killers,” she argued, “You know, like that Aileen chick.”

“Aileen Wuornos, you mean.”

“Yeah, her.”

“But then what’s the likelihood of two serial killers, each unknown to the other, ending up traveling in the same vehicle?”

It was her turn to study him hard and as Sara did, John Meyer thought wistfully about the ax he had stowed behind his driver’s seat and gently licked his lips.

Your religious?
I prefer pedestrian,
Walking in belief.

As he turned off his computer, he chuckled at the attempt in humor of the story about the boy trying to solve a murder only to find out it is fiction story written by Stephen King. He got up and crossed the hallway, got undress and laid down on his bed. Sleep found him quickly.

That morning’s alarm burned a hole in his dreamscape with it’s harsh buzz-buzz-buzz. He rolled over, fumbled with the clock, before finally finding the sliding switch that turned the noise-maker off.

It was still dark out, but John Meyer knew the sun would be up shortly. He got up, showered, dressed, made himself a toasted bagel with some raspberry jelly on it and headed out the door, happy that he’d packed his gear the night before.

Before backing out of his drive, he laid two notebook in the passenger seat beside himself along with an ink pen. Meyer enjoyed the ability to write out thoughts while racing along the highway.

Finally, he stopped a the 7-11 store at the corner, a mile or so from his house, and bought himself what he call a ‘frou-frou coffee;’ sweet french vanilla. Road trips were the only time he allowed himself this simple pleasure. Any other time, it black coffee, hot or cold, but always black.

Before long he was heading east on Interstate 80. In half and hour he’d be cruising southbound on US 95 towards Vegas.

Meyer had plans for the weekend. He wanted to take photos and hike the desert, maybe even visit the worlds largest temperature gauge at Baker, the gateway to Death Valley.

Soon, and with the sun up and at a blinding position coming in through his truck’s windshield, he made the left hand jog at Yerington and pulled into the first Chevron he found. He needed to fuel up, take a massive piss and get another cup of frou-frou coffee.