The story of the ‘two me’s’ goes like this:

Cuts arm, bleeds profusely.
“Tis but a scratch.”
Stubs toe.
“So this is how I die.”

Nothing in between shall do.

“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care…hey, who the hell stole our chimney?!”

https://soundcloud.com/sierra-tom-darby/afm-9

He sat quietly next to the hospital bed, holding the hand of his dying mother. The thump-hiss of the ventilator and steady high pitch beep of the heart monitor, with its neon green peaks, plateaus and valleys, slowly hypnotized his emotionally-fatigued mind and he lightly closed his eyes.

“Do you hear the sleigh bells, son?” she asked.

He opened his eyes and strained against the quietude, “No, Mama, I don’t.”

“Well listen – they’re there.”

“I can’t hear them, Mama”

Again he allowed his eye-lids to gently fall together.

“There, right there,” she said again, adding, “Can’t you hear them?”

He turned his head and cocked it upward slightly, “No, Mama, I can’t hear them. I think you’ve been dreaming.”

As silence fell between mother and son, she cried out, “Don’t tell me you can’t hear them now. They’re so close!”

Patiently he listened. Then much to his surprise he heard the faint jangle and jingle of sleigh bells as the horses’ high stepped along their way.

“I can hear them, Mama,” he smiled.

She smiled too, and allowed her grown child to rest his eyes once more. Soon the gentle ringing of the dainty bells came to an abrupt stop.

“I’m going for a ride, son. Wanna come along?”

He watched as her frail body slipped from the bed and crossed the floor. The sight warmed his heart.

“No, Mama. You go and  I’ll join you when you come back ’round.”

“Okay,” she called out, “Love you, son. See real you soon.”

He listened as the bells faded from his hearing. They were quickly replaced by the maddening peel of beeps, buzzes and high pitched whining.

He opened his eyes to a room that was a swirling mass of movement; nurses rushed to begin chest compressions, turning off noise-making machines and emergency calls for the doctor. He released her hand and step back towards the corner of the room near the window.

As he watched the scene unfold before him, he heard the soft chatter of sleigh bells chiming somewhere off in the distance. It was then that he felt the stinging burn of tears and the sudden salty taste as they spilled from his eyes, raced down his cheeks, finding their way to his lips, chin and eventually the floor.

I looked up my family tree…a dog was using it.

“Hi Tom, Kathi passed away tonight.” The words hit me hard as I sat in my truck and I felt my heart start to ache and eyes begin to sting.

Kathi had been in the hospital for at least a week before being transferred to ICU. She was on life-support as her liver failed and her brain swelled, leading to a coma.

Kathi seemed to be getting better, waking up, according her youngest son, Sean, but at some point on December 9, she took a turn for the worst and passed away.  Sean and I have been communicating back and forth since I first learned of his mother’s fragile health and after her passing, I figured that the least that I could do is help him with her obituary:

Kathi Ann Campbell was born May 27, 1965 in Chatsworth, California to Dorothy Udell Olson and Lester Vincent Olson.  She entered into eternal rest on December 9, 2019 in Reno, Nevada at the age of 54, following a brief illness.

She graduated from Chatsworth High School in 1983.  Following graduation, Kathi attended Pierce College in Los Angeles, studying photojournalism.

Aside from enjoying photography, Kathi also wrote country-western lyrics with a desire to make it her profession one day.  She loved the outdoors, camping and hiking and had a special place in her heart for dogs.

Kathi is preceded in death by her parents.  She is survived by her sons, Kyle Campbell and Sean Campbell, her brother, Kim Starkel Olson, of Anchorage, Alaska and sister Karri Olson, of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.

The family asks that in lieu of flowers, a donation to your favorite charity be made.  Date and time of a memorial celebrating Kathi’s life is to be determined.

I feel so sad — not only for myself — but more over for her boys.

A reminder
From me
To me
Step back
Close my eyes
Find my quiet place
Breathe slowly
In and out
Repeat
Take it slow
Control what I can
It will be okay
Everything is
And
As it should be

The car, high centered on the embankment, was the first thing seen as I rounded the downhill corner. Nearby were two thin males waving wildly for me to stop.

As I halted and rolled down my window, both separate of the other, cried, “Let me in.”

It was this short, three word phrase that caused me to assess the two teens: disheveled, black attire and pale skinned. Most noticeable were their totally black eyes, devoid of the natural white of a sclera.

Instantly, I knew these were not children, but rather satanic spawns and that their plaintive calls, a mere ruse. I tried to drive away but my engine stalled and I found myself unable to roll my electric window up.

As I continued to struggle to restart my vehicle, they continued with their individual requests, “Let me in.”

Then I remembered that I could enter their weak minds and project myself on their psyche, so looking away, I calmed myself and thought of a red stop light. Then I raised my head and stared at them menacingly as I envisioned my eyes to be glowing red lights, I hissed, “No!”

Instantly they stepped back, my vehicle sparked to life and I drove quickly home. I have since come to my mistake, for now I have several of these evil entities hanging about my home, hiding in the shadows asking, “Let me in.”

At age 94, my Uncle Ozzie was the last man standing of his childhood family. He was born March 1, 1925 in Pepperwood, California to Iva (Amen) and Harry Smith, who had a total seven children, though I never knew exactly where he fit into that total.

The last time I saw him was at the memorial for my Aunt Barbara, whose husband, my Uncle Adam was Ozzie’s younger brother, in December 2013. The one thing I will always remember about Uncle Ozzie was his sense of humor and his unwavering work ethic.

Uncle Ozzie lived his entire life in Humboldt County until being drafted into the US Army at the age of 18. This happened in 1943 and before completing his senior year at Fortuna High School.

He went on to served in the South Pacific during World War II, where he was wounded and received the Purple Heart. Following the war, he was honorably discharged and he returned to Fortuna where he lived the remainder of his life.

Shortly after coming home, he met Aunt Jo Ann (McLure) and the two married in June 1947, having recently celebrated 72 years together. They owned and operated Bob’s Foot Longs, for nearly 40 years until they retired.

It was one of my favorite places to visit when I was a kid, and I always liked the story behind how the restaurant came to Humboldt County. Bob’s started out in Los Angeles as a small corner concession stand owned by Bob and Lula McLure and was towed to Ferndale for the county fair in 1950.

Later it was moved to 13th street in Fortuna, before being handed down to daughter and son-in-law, Joann and Ozzie Smith. The current Bob’s was built a block south in 1967, next to the Fortuna High.

At least that’s how I recall the story…

My deepest condolences to my cousins, Mike and Debi, who were adults before I was born, and who I doubt would remember me. Know that your dad will be missed by many.

Finally, thank you Ozzie, for teaching me how to milk a cow.

https://soundcloud.com/sierra-tom-darby/afm-8

“Destroy this,” Dr. Butler Wyman directed, as he handed Rodney Bekker the tray containing the liver-sized organism, “And be careful, it’s a genetic cross between an amoeba and a micrococcus, and if it gets any larger, it could become hard to control.”

Without a word, Rodney took the tray and left the laboratory and walked towards the incinerator. As he did, he watched the viscus object wiggle about as if it were curious about where they were heading.

“Doctor effing blow-hard,” Rodney thought, “Always trying to impress us with big words like genetic, amoeba, micrococcus and stupid shit.”

He pushed the green button that lit the blaze, that in a couple of minutes would heat the incinerator to an intolerable temperature. While he waited for the flame to grow into an orange glow, he grabbed his lunch bag and pulled out a ham sandwich.

The slug-like thing stopped and turned one end towards Rodney, raised up slightly and gave-off what he could only describe as a low-pitched chirp. He cooed as he fed a piece of ham to it, “Ahhh, if you ain’t the sweetest little thing.”

Smiling as he watched as the ham reappeared inside the jello-like body, he decided against destroying it. Instead Rodney placed it in a cardboard box and secreted it behind a stack of cinder-blacks in the corner.

Later that night, he slipped out of the building with the box tucked under his arm and took it home. As he drove through the night, he could hear his new pet squirming about in the box and chirping to be fed.

Once home, he showed it to Mrs. Bekker, who was not happy with his ill-gotten acquisition and demanded, “Get that damned thing – whatever it is – out of my house!”

Rodney headed into the back yard and placed the box on the picnic table, near their swimming pool. He went back inside to see what he could scrounge up to feed it.

He was gone less than 10 minutes, but when he returned to the box, he found it open and empty. Rodney search the area for another 15 minutes before he gave up, placing the food he’d gathered on the grass for it to eat, should it still be around.

One day, nearly three-weeks later, Rodney failed to show up for work. And Mrs. Bekker had not been seen either.

This prompted a call to the police and a request for a welfare check. After gaining access to the home and a thorough search, officers found Mrs. Bekker’s purse in a living room chair, Rodney’s wallet and keys on his dresser and all the doors and windows locked from the inside.

In the backyard, beyond the wooden picnic table, it was noted that the swimming pool was unusually dirty, filled with a greenish algae and a few half-rotted articles of discarded clothing.