Monday Free-For-All

Good morning!

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Mother’s Day

I always love those crime shows where a suspect meticulously cleans up a crime scene only to have the evidence show up under a black light.  The impact of a mom is kind of like that. You can deny it all you want, but the evidence is always there.

I was blessed to have a great mom.  Not a perfect mom — the only perfect mom was on Leave it To Beaver and she had dozens of screenwriters and makeup artists to make her that way. But I wouldn’t ask for any other mom. And I’m definitely her child.  It kind of happens when you swim in someone’s gene pool.

My sons are also blessed to have a great mom. She, of course, has three boys and fears that someday they will forget her.  I can’t see it happening. They need her like oxygen.

They were blessed with her looks.  Then the list gets a little more mixed from that point on.  Different facets of her personality show up in them depending on the day in each of them.  It’s fun to watch.

Yesterday they told me why they loved her: She’s funny. She doesn’t spoil them. She’s a good cook. She plays games with them. She loves them.  I don’t think they are going to be forgetting her anytime soon.

I hope you have a good Mother’s Day. I know we will here.  I won’t even need a black light to figure out why I need to celebrate.

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The Flood

It was a disaster in slow motion. The man sat on the levee, watching the river rise. Trees, debris and fire-ant balls swiftly floated past.  Off to the north, he could see the casino flooding in the distance.  The river was tormenting the land.

It was being called The Great Flood of 2011.  At least the lobby of the casino would get a good bath and not smell like smoke.  He laughed but then quickly knew that it would cost the state millions and hurt thousands. There was nothing funny about that. It was the second time that the state’s requirement that casinos be attached to water had bit them in the butt. Katrina had deposited a casino barge on his aunt’s house.  You always could depend on the brilliance of the folks who make the rules in Jackson.

Taming the mighty Mississippi’s brute strength had been the lifelong mission of several men. And just when Man got cocky, Old Man River rose to remind him just who was boss. It had in 1927, 1937 and again in 1973.  The flood of 2008 was also rough. And it was threatening now in May 2011.  Man was getting schooled once again.

He looked over the Delta. Crops and trees as far as he could see. This flat, fertile land used to be a primeval swamp when his ancestors first arrived.  The reign of the forest was ended by King Cotten and man’s axe.  The swamps were drained. Canals were dug. Levees were built.  Faith was taken from God and put into piles of dirt.

Faith in things man-made are like Fool’s Gold.  The 1927 flood proved that.  His grandmother told about her housetop rescue from the family home in Indianola.  He’d spend hours on her knee, listening to the tales of the time that changed the face of Mississippi forever.  Herbert Hoover rose to power.  African Americans migrated north to Chicago.  The population loss in the Delta continued to this day.  The dog-eared copy of “Lanterns on the Levee” that his grandmother had passed down to him sat on his truck seat.

If Tornadoes sound like a freight train, a flood sounds more like a cat walking across carpet.  It sneaks up on you, lapping at your home, your life. It was a silent killer. But a killer none the less.  The river was well up the side of the levee now.  He took a couple more photos just for history’s sake. “When the Levee Breaks” by Led Zeppelin (and based on Kansas Joe McCoy and Memphis Minnie’s classic about the 1927 flood) boomed from his truck stereo and was the only noise heard for miles.

The man walked back down to his truck, turned the key and headed South for the long drive to his trailer in Rolling Fork. He had to secure his LP tank, turn off his electricity and move his beagle to higher ground before the crest made its way down to the river.  He rubbed his beard and prayed the backwater levee held.  He prayed man’s desire to control nature would win this round.

“Fool’s gold,” he thought. “Fool’s gold.”

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Sunday Free-For-All

Happy Mother’s Day! What’s up?

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Banjo and The Attack of the Squirrels: Part 2

Continued from Part 1:

The boy was jarred back to reality. A strange noise, like a pocketful of dimes jingling in a jar, came echoing down the hallway.  A key unlocked the lock and the cell door swung open. The open door revealed the oddest sight the boy had ever seen.  There in front of him was a small, gray squirrel in a gray uniform.  On the arm was a red arm-band with a white circle.  Inside of that circle was an acorn.  The squirrel marched in carrying a small plate of nuts. The squirrel looked up at the boy — his eyes were are red as the arm-band on his arm.  The boy felt the bump on his head.

Lunch was served.

A high-pitched whine came from the speakers.   Vibrating and pulsating tones filled the air. The squirrel froze — almost like a statue.  A soothing voice followed: It was time for the morning announcements.  The squirrel was oblivious to the boy.

The boy waved his hand in front of the squirrel. He was in a complete trance.  The soothing voice had him hypnotized.

This was the chance. The boy set the plate of nuts off to the side and snuck past the squirrel. He ran down the hallway to where he thought he heard the bark.  “Banjo come here!” He ran faster and faster!

The boy noticed all the posters along the way.  Planes. Tanks. Scores of squirrels. Then, without warning, the boy tripped, sailing like Superman and hitting the ground with a thump.

He looked up immediately and was licked in the face. It was Banjo. He, too, had escaped when his guard became transfixed during the announcements.  His guard, however, had met a more sinister fate.

Banjo hated squirrels. He REALLY hated squirrels. But he thought they were tasty. And besides, he wasn’t about to eat a plate of nuts for lunch.

Banjo and the boy ran through a giant room full of red-eyed squirrels.  All were standing with their right arm raised, transfixed as the announcements continued.  Judging from the acorn shells, it must have been the dining hall. Banjo growled as he passed; the boy whistled to get his attention.  There in front of them was a map to the way out.  The route to freedom was through the big throne room.

They ran toward the entrance of the vast chamber.

Giant vine covered roots formed columns that ran to the ceiling. Red banners with the white circle and acorn hung every ten feet. Thousands of squirrels could have filled that chamber.  Instead there was just one.  A white squirrel in a tan uniform sat on a giant throne.  He had deep red, pulsating eyes and was talking into a microphone.  In between them and the white squirrel was a walkway crossing a giant chasm.

“Don’t look at his eyes Banjo!” the boy yelled.  Banjo couldn’t have seen the eyes anyway; he was blind with rage.  He started running across the walkway toward the squirrel leader.

The boy started to chase him but noticed a golden cage off to the left of the white squirrel.  It was huge, man-sized and seemed to be holding a single occupant.  The boy squinted — and his jaw dropped in disbelief.

It was his father.

“DAD!” he screamed!

The boy started running after Banjo and toward the cage.  The white squirrel calmly pushed the microphone away and pressed a red button on the arm of his throne.  Suddenly all the squirrels broke out of their trance and began running after the boy and the dog.

A loud alarm bell began to ring.

BONG!

BONG!

BONG!

BONG!

The boy made it to the cage and opened the door. Banjo lunged toward the squirrel leader, gnashing his teeth.

BONG!

BONG!

BONG!

The floor dropped out from under them.

And then they fell.

BONG!

Falling.

BONG!

Falling.

The boy looked over at Banjo and blacked out.

Darkness fell over him once again.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The ringing woke the boy up from his nap.  His head was on his pillow and Banjo was at his feet on his bed.  He quickly sat up.

BONG!

BONG!

BONG!

The ringing was the doorbell.

The Banjo and the boy ran down the stairs.  There was his mother hugging a man.  She wasn’t sad anymore. The boy rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

The man was the boys father!

“DAD!” he cried.

All three of them held on each other, vowing to never to let go.  Standing next to them was a very happy small dog.

Banjo barked, wagged his tail and looked out into the yard. There, sitting under the tree, was a white squirrel with red eyes. Banjo growled and bolted out of the door. He chased the squirrel into the neighbor’s yard.

The End.

© 2011 Marshall Ramsey

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Banjo and the Attack of the Squirrels: Part 1

In a small town in a small house lived a small dog with a big heart.  His name was Banjo.

Banjo lived with a small boy and his mom.  She was a pretty lady, but extremely sad.  She hadn’t always been unhappy, just since the nice man in the uniform came to the door that day. Banjo didn’t know much human, but he knew whatever “Missing in Action” meant, it wasn’t good.

Banjo noticed she cried a lot. Particularly at night.  Banjo didn’t know why — he suspected it was because of squirrels.  Had to be. All the evil in the world flowed back to squirrels.  At least in his mind.

World War 2 was raging across the globe.  The small boy’s dad had enlisted to fight the Axis powers and protect democracy. One fateful day he had vanished.  The war moved on.  A family waited, frozen in place.

Well, not totally frozen. The small boy and Banjo still found time to play.  The boy had toy soldiers and planes. Banjo had his ball.  The boy loved to throw Banjo’s ball in the backyard.  Banjo loved to chase it.

It was a cool early May morning when the boy threw the ball toward the giant oak tree. Banjo ran around the back of the tree after the ball. And didn’t return.

“Banjo!” the boy cried. “C’mon Banjo! Come here, boy.”

Silence.

“Quit playing around, Banjo! Get back here now!”

Still nothing.

The small boy ran to the tree to look for his best friend.  Nothing. Banjo had vanished.

The boy looked frantically around the backyard. There were no holes in the fence.  The gate was shut tightly.  The boy stopped and put his head in his hands.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw it: A big hole in the base of the tree. The small boy went over to the tree and found the biggest stick he could find. He poked the stick into the hole and he couldn’t hit anything.  Thrust, stab, poke – nothing. The boy shoved it in one more time and the stick slipped out of his hand.  It was gone.

What?  The boy got down on his hands and knees and looked into the hole.  It was like trying to peer through a bottle of ink.  Nothing.  The boy inched forward to try to get a better look.  Dirt shifted.  He plunged forward.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

The boy hit with a thump and the blackness got darker. He fell unconscious.

The black turned to gray.  The gray turned to white.  The boy woke, opened his eyes and focused on the room around him.  It was a bare room with white walls and black metal bars separating him from an empty hallway.  “Hello?” he cried.  His voice echoed down the hallway.

The boy slumped in despair. Minutes seemed like hours.  And then he heard it.  A feint bark.

“Banjo!” the boy cried.  Banjo heard the boy and barked louder.

Now to figure out how to get out of the cell.

Click to read Part 2

© 2011 Marshall Ramsey


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Saturday Free-For-All

Good morning. Hope you have a great weekend!

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Friday Free-For-All

Good morning! I’m emceeing Pepsi Pops tonight!

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CARTOON: Snatch and Grab

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CARTOON: The Great Flood

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