Headin' West

It's just time.

I haven't been on a vacation or any type of road trip in a very long time. It's time. No, we are not going to take the Interstate for this adventure. You just miss too much. We are going to take a few of the country's back roads like Charles Karult did in his "On the Road" Sunday morning series. (If you missed those stories, you missed some great stuff.)

For now, the only things I am going to pack are my trusty companion, Willie; a tent and sleeping bag; and a Coleman 5-day cooler that keeps things cold for three days; and this iPad. Hopefully, we can find enough hotspots and enough good ideas to keep you interested and entertained.

At least it will keep me writing and I have no doubt that is part of the good Lord's plan for me.

Saddle up.

Like stories? Be sure to check out Kenny's books on amazon.com

The Strange Case of Skipjack Lux

The sky was coming to life. There were wisps of gold and yellow clouds becoming visible as the sun slowly made the slow climb into the darkness of morning.

The lake was stirring, too. You could hear splashes and if you looked carefully, you could see a ring going across the glass calm water, marking a successful breakfast for a fish willing to jump. The bunnies scurried through the tall weeds. They zigged and zagged with an explosion of effort that came to a sudden stop. They always faced danger from above, from around, and from far away if a young hunter had them in their gun sites.

In the distance, a single headlight came into view. Only one headlight worked on the old Ford truck but it was enough to get the job done. The job was to get Skipjack Lux from his home to his favorite fishing spot before the Vietnamese claimed it.

Like the Vietnamese, Skipjack came to the lake every day. It didn’t matter if it was raining or blowing or even snowing, Skipjack showed up with the dawn.
He smiled as he looked around. He had won the race to his place. The Vietnamese had not arrived but they would soon.

Skipjack shifted his pickup into the park, He had to jiggle the shift lever to accomplish the task but finally, the old Ford truck relented and shifted to park.

He got out of the cab and stood for a second and took in the morning. He smiled. God’s paintbrush was adorning the sky with every second. The lake served as God’s palate as it changed from the dark of night to the ever changing yellows, reds, pinks and blues of morning. It was going to be a good day.

Skipjack turned and reached over the side of the pickup box and grabbed his tackle box, his trusty rod and reel, and his five-gallon bucket. He threw his Walmart folding red fabric chair, still in the convenient carry bag with strap, over his shoulder. Skipjack was ready.

He started the short hike to his spot just as other lights were coming up the road. He turned and grinned as he watched the assortment of Japanese-made cars park next to his old rusty truck.

“You here already,” one of the Vietnamese hollered at him. “We caught yo big fish last night.”

Skipjack ignored the taunt. They teased him every day and he just looked the other way. He didn’t have much to do with these five-foot bullies. They were good fishermen and he and they knew it.

Unlike Skipjack, they didn’t throw the small fish back. If they caught a fish, it went into the five-gallon bucket and ended up in a ground up concoction they actually ate. Some say heads, guts, and all went into the grinder.

Skipjack was very aware they were the masters of patience and masters of catching the “big one.”
He looked out at the lake. There were a bunch of ring spreading out. The fish were feeding and that was a good sign. He set up his chair and sat down and opened his tackle box. He removed a bologna and cheese sandwich packed in a Ziploc bag. He carefully dug his finger through an assortment of Eagle Claw hook and selected a small one. A leader was next. He picked a nice fat worm for the first cast of the day. He assembled his choices on the end of his line and made a gentle cast toward the lake.

His fish breakfast disappeared into the lake leaving an ever-expanding circle as proof. Now, it was time to get situated. He flipped up the top tray in his tackle box and pulled out his rod holder and pushed it into the ground in front of his chair. He put his rod in it and sat down to enjoy the morning, and wait.

Suddenly, the tip of the rod bounced. A fish was nibbling. Skipjack smiled and gently pulled the rod from the holder and pointed the tip at the lake. He reeled in some of the slack.

“Come on,” he said. “Come on.”

Another bounce and just as quick, Skipjack snapped the rod up. The line went tight and the rod tip started dancing. He could feel the fight. A fish was on. He pulled back and reeled in the slack. The fight continued. He pulled back again and reeled but the fight stopped.

“Dang it!” he said.

“Ah big one got away again,” a Vietnamese fisherman said as he stood behind and watched. ”I catch for you!” the man said as he continued his walk.

Skipjack sneered as he reeled in his line. Sure enough, the worm was gone. Fish 1. Skipjack 0.
Four casts and two hours later, the fish were still winning. The Vietnamese however, were already bringing in some impressive fish. Big carp and catfish. Some medium black bass were in the buckets even though they should have thrown them back because they didn’t meet the twenty-one inch limit. No game warden, no foul.

By noon, Skipjack’s bucket was still empty. His rod was in the holder. He walked back to get a beer out of his truck. It was lunchtime and a beer and the bologna sandwich was on the menu. He sat down in his chair and enjoyed both.

He looked at the Western sky. Some thunderheads were growing in the distance. Maybe they were coming Skipjack’s way. Maybe not.

“You catch fish?” A Vietnamese asked as he walked by. The little man struggled to carry his bucket and a big tail struck out of the top of it. He had bagged a big catfish. Skipjack pretended not to notice.

“Some,” Skipjack said. “But I threw them back.”

“Ah,” the Vietnamese said. “I catch big catfish so I go.”

“I see you did,” Skipjack acknowledged. “Congratulations.”

The Vietnamese man did a short bow and continued his walk back to his Toyota minivan. Skipjack knew they were laughing at him but they were polite people and never showed what they though while around him.

The Western sky was dark now. The lower clouds hid the thunderheads so Skipjack wasn’t sure if he would be in their path or not. A little rain wouldn’t run him off anyway.He continued to re-rig as he fed the fish and failed to hook any. Suddenly, the wind picked up. He looked across the lake. Three rapid lightning strikes announced the approach of a major thunderstorm.

Just as sudden, his rod bent in the biggest arc he had ever seen. It jumped out of the rod holder and if Skipjack had’t stomped on it, his rod would have been in the lake. He grabbed it and snapped it back to set the hook even deeper. The fight was on.

So was the rain. At first, it was light. Then, it came in torrents along with small hail. The hail increased in size pelting Skipjack as he fought whatever was on his line. There was no giving up on either end of the line on this day.

The rain swirled just enough for Skipjack to look out on the lake. Through the whitecaps, he could see a huge black bass jump out of the water. Skipjack’s eyes almost came out of his head as he finally got a glimpse of his foe.

“He has to be the state record!” he said as he pulled back and reeled. His smiled as the rain slammed into his face. He could hardly see but he didn’t need to. He could feel his prize fish. He was winning.
The tornado warning siren blasted in the background. Skipjack wasn’t going anywhere. The fish continued to fight him. He fought harder. The storm raged. The wind was extreme and then the storm was gone.

The park superintendent was making his slow drive through the park to check for tree damage when he noticed Skipjack’s truck. A large fallen cottonwood had crushed it. The superintendent jumped out of his truck and went around the fallen tree to try and get the best view of the inside of the truck. No one was inside.

He looked toward the lake. Skipjack’s chair and tackle were spread over a wide area. The wind or worse had made quick work of everything. The superintendent looked at the trees. It was clear a tornado had moved right over Skipjack’s favorite spot and had taken everything with it. Had it claimed Skipjack, too?

The superintendent called 911 and before long, some rural firefighters, law enforcement, and park workers mounted a search for

Skipjack. They didn’t find him. Two days later, the search was abandoned. Skipjack as never found.
Another morning and the Vietnamese were arriving on schedule. They took their usual spots except for one. He stopped and looked at the spot where Skipjack used to fish.

“This spot now mine,” he said as he smiled. He assembled his gear and made his first cast. Within seconds, his rod bent like he had never seen it bend before. He grabbed it just before the rod went into the lake. He tried to reel some line in but whatever was out there drug him almost over the bank and into the water. Thankfully, his line snapped before he went in. He thought he heard a laugh.

“Big fish!” the excited fisherman exclaimed.

He made another cast and again, his rod bent like it never had before and almost pulled him in. The line broke and he could swear he heard a laugh.

“Lake haunted!” he said as he picked up his gear ad ran backward toward his Toyota pickup. Others tried to fish out of that spot and they all got the same result. The Vietnamese knew what a big fish felt like on the end of their line. This was no fish. Fear ran through the community as the legend of Skipjack Lux grew.

Never again would any of them try to fish on this part of the lake because they knew, they were the bait. The master fisherman waited patiently in the stillness of the deep.

Did you enjoy this story? It's one of the stories coming out in my new book, Living at the Lake, coming out in kindle format later this year. Be sure to check out my other kindle books on amazon.com. Enjoy! Here's the link: http://amzn.to/2kIeLXd

The Little Girl from Lexington

Every day, there are some very special flights criss-crossing the United States. They are called "lifeguard" and in the air traffic control system, they get top priority. That's because those flights carry some special people who are holding on to life by the thinnest of strings. This is the story of one of those flights. It's about a very sick little girl and the pilot who wanted to make her trip a special memory.

The Little Girl from Lexington

By Kenny Miller

"Do what you can to make her comfortable," the nurse said as the ambulance slowly backed toward the door of our Lear jet. "I don't think she will survive the flight to California."

          From the size of the crowd and the number of get well signs, you could tell our patient was a popular central Nebraska young girl. But, she was likely to die on this airplane trip as we did our best to get her to San Jose and a last hope.  She was going to have a heart and lung transplant at the Stanford University Medical Center. Veno Occlusive, a very rare disease was clogging her lungs. She was slowly suffocating.  I never imagined I would face something like this when I became a pilot.

          She was covered with a blue blanket. Her plastic oxygen mask went from clear to cloudy with each breath. There were bags of life-saving fluids attached to the long silver stainless steel rods and from the bottom of the bag dropped those clear plastic lifelines which lead to the IV entry points in both arms. She wore a brightly colored scarf on her head. Just below the scarf, I made contact with two blue eyes. They were glued on me as I helped load her stretcher into the airplane. I smiled and slowly mouthed the words, "Hi, you'll be OK."

          The eyes squinted and the mask turned white as she tried to smile. She seemed so terribly fragile and weak. Once she was transferred to our on board stretcher and the paramedic crew had everything properly assembled, it was time to be on our way.

          As I started to close the jet's door I noticed him. He wasn't moving away from the plane with the others. He just stood there, holding a small suitcase. He seemed a little over-whelmed with everything. I could see a toughness in him and at the same time, a gentleness. He seemed like a strong man--maybe an area farmer. I would not have thought much more about him except for the tears. Tears didn't belong on a strong face like his.

          "Wait a second before you start the engines," I said to the captain. I opened the bottom part of the door, climbed out of the plane and walked over to the man. "Are you OK, sir?"

          "They told me there was no room in the plane and I couldn't go," he said. "I'm her father."

          I looked back at the plane and noticed only one small monitor sitting on the only seat left in the plane--the small and uncomfortable seat which covered the portable potty. The seat is right behind the crew and a few feet in front of the end the stretcher. In my mind and I was sure in his, the seat would be just fine. Within a few seconds, he was snugly strapped in, holding the small monitor in his lap, and the crowd was cheering an even louder good-bye as we took the runway and started our takeoff roll.

          "Denver Center...Lifeguard 500 double Romeo climbing to flight level 240," I said into the small boom microphone as our little jet climbed its way to the heavens. Our jet needed a fuel stop to make it to San Jose. With fast service in Grand Junction, Colorado we would be back in the air in less than ten minutes.

          "Lifeguard 500 double Romeo, Denver Center, radar contact," came the quick reply from air traffic control. "Fly heading 233 radar vectors to Grand Junction climb and maintain flight level 410."

          By simply saying the word, "lifeguard," the aviation world and its rules suddenly change. The controllers move your plane to the front of the line. It's only right. We were in a life and death battle with time.

          "Are you warm enough and comfortable?" I asked as I looked over my shoulder at the paramedics and their patient. It was busy back there. One of the paramedics was listening through a stethoscope and the other was adjusting the flow from the one of the IV bags. I could no longer see the young girl's eyes. The paramedics gave me a thumbs-up that all was fine.  So far so good.

          The weather was on our young passenger's side--clear skies and unlimited visibility. We could see Grand Junction over one hundred miles away and could even make out the small black line that would soon turn into our runway. Her father watched over my shoulder as we started our descent into Grand Junction. He had a gentle hold on her left slipper-covered foot.

          As we made our descent into Grand Junction, I had a strange feeling come over me. I looked over my left shoulder thinking one of the paramedics wanted something. An instant double take hit my flying busy head as I noticed our special passenger was propped up on her elbows watching us fly. Her eyes had a twinkle in them and the oxygen mask was turning from clear to white in a nice slow rhythm of what appeared to be very normal breathing.

          "Turn it," I said to the captain.

          "What?"

          "Do some gentle turns so she can see the mountains."

          He looked over his right shoulder and smiled as he made a series of gentle turns to reveal the grand splendor or the Colorado Rockies on a crystal clear day.

          "Can you see Aspen ski area over there?" I asked her and indicated she should look out of the right side windows. She leaned toward the windows and stared for a minute and then turned back toward me. The oxygen mask turned white and pressed tightly against her face as she moved her head up and down to indicate yes.

          A cheer erupted from two happy paramedics, her father, and two pilots. After a quick fuel stop, we were back in the air headed for San Jose. For the rest of our trip, our special passenger got the worst of the commercial pilot treatment.

          "On your left is Salt Lake City. That's the Teton mountain range over there.  That's Reno, Nevada and the big lake that looks like it is on top of the mountains is Lake Tahoe.  That's the Godfather's house--there may be a horse without a head in the yard."

          Her father, still gently holding her foot in his left hand, smiled and relayed every bit of information. She seem to giggle and smile more than ever as she was able to see each of the tourist points as the plane raced for California. She watched us enter the fluffy layer of cotton soft clouds and listened to the engine power adjustments and the radio calls as we glided through the quiet stillness of the fog covered San Jose sky.

          She watched the solid blanket of white fog turn to flying wisps as the Lear broke through the last of the fog to the running rabbit light that lead to the safe warm greeting of the yellow runway lights ahead of us. Finally, we were on the ground.

          Another ambulance waited as we taxied to the ramp through the bay area drizzle. Our paramedics transferred her to another stretcher and started moving the stretcher through the door.

          "Hold it!" said one of the paramedics.

          I looked back from my seat thinking there was a problem. There, raised between our two pilot seats, was a small arm with an IV taped to the top of a reaching out hand. Her hand took hold of my left little finger and gave it a gentle squeeze. The squint in her eyes and the white breaths in the mask told me she was still smiling.

          The tears were gone from her father's face. He smiled and waved good-bye as he boarded the ambulance and sat across from her. Almost instinctively, he reached over and began to hold her slipper-covered foot.

          The ambulance attendant closed the door and I watched the flashing red lights turn to a muffled red glow as the ambulance disappeared into the fog. 

          Welcome to California little girl.

If you enjoyed this story, be sure to check out some Kenny's books on amazon.com. They're kindle books and only 99 cents! Here's Kenny's author page on amazon:

http://amzn.to/2hHdMcI

The Legend of Carpie

This is a chapter from my new book coming out next year...Living at the Lake. Enjoy! -Kenny

The Legend of Carpie

By Kenny Miller

He could see the golden glow on the top of the water. Dawn was coming to the lake and it wouldn’t be long until he got his early morning marching orders.

            Even though he was just a little minnow size fish, he had little time for play. There were some predator fish out there looking for breakfast and if he wasn’t careful, he might be on the menu.

            “Get going in there,” came the first call from his mother. She was a big fish. Most carp are. She was already stirring up the bottom of the lake to make it easy for him to get a good nourishing breakfast of plants and other stuff on the lake floor.

            Carpie flipped his tail and started to move around under the overhang near the bank. It was safe there. The bank and the overhang offered protection from the predators but his mom knew they were close by and there was not a minute to waste. The sun changed from the morning softness and gold to a bright yellow and along with it, the water became lighter. That meant danger. The lighter the water got, the easier it would be for hungry eyes to see movement.

            Carpie looked out from under the muddy ledge and looked at his mom. She had sure stirred things up! Breakfast was plentiful and Carpie made the best of it. He zoomed around and picked off some of his favorite bottom foods. He attacked them like a prize fighter shadow boxing. It wasn’t long before he was full and nose-to-nose with his mom.

            “Enough of this buster,” she scolded. “We need to get to deeper water and find some good cover or a hungry bass of walleye is going to be licking his chops over you!”

            “Awe Mom,” Carpie protested, I can out-run and out-turn any minnows in the lake.

            “You’re dreaming young man,” she said as she pointed a flipper down toward the deep. “Now get.”

            “But Mom, I want to swim with the other guys today.”

            “The only way that is going to happen is if you find yourself in the middle of a big school and you are the little one,” she said. “I repeat, git!”

            Carpie did as he was told and swam down to the deep. Even though dark water offered protection, it was also scary for a little guy. He was still developing and his eyesight and reaction times were not what they needed to be. That was also true of his other young friends. At this stage of the game, there wasn’t much difference between his friends. They bodies were almost transparent and their features were not all that different. He felt safe with all his friends even though his mom had told him that some of those friends would turn on him as they became adult fish.

            His survival would depend on putting a lot of weight and size and not eating any of those tempting treats like corn, worms, and balls of some kind of stuff others told him about that might be found on the lake bottom. There were too many stories going around about carp who took a bite and suddenly zoomed toward the surface, never to be seen again.

            Finally, he arrived in the safety of total darkness. The bottom of the lake was nothing more than mud and lots of garbage. There were rotting skeletons of the dead. There were old logs that finally got too water-logged to float.

            Carpie killed time waiting for his friends to show up. As he waited in stillness, he could sense something close by. He turned just in time to miss the open jaws of a monster walleye who had his eye on Carpie for breakfast. Carpie dove for the closest log. He needed some cover because the monster walleye could turn on a mini bobber and be right on him. He could slip under the log and be safe.

            Just as sudden, the log moved. Carpie could see a big eye open and look through the stirred-up bottom at him. A long spear like object whipped through the water as the big object moved.

            “Pretty close call there youngster,” the blue catfish said as he turned and slowly zig-zagged his way across the bottom. This cat was one of the  biggest fish in the lake—a real rod bender. But he was also one of the smartest. You don’t get to be a fish or this size without being smart.

            “Hey Carpie!” a voice called out from a school of minnows. The crowd had arrived and they were ready for a little fun. They all looked about the same at this stage and they were all still friends. Someday, some would hunt the others but not today. Today they hunted for fun.

            Life changed for this bunch. The bass boy’s bodies stretched out into sleek swimming machines with large mouths and sharp teeth. They, like their walleye friend, would evolve into expert sneak attackers. They would break the lake surface and catch a fly or moth. Minnows didn't stand a chance. So much for the promise of youth that they would never attack and eat a minnow friend.

            The catfish developed into monsters. They had a mouth full of teeth but the bigger they became, the bigger the prey. Even birds were on the menu of these big guys.        

            Fish, unlike humans, didn't start their day in front of a mirror so it was difficult for them to observe the changes going on.  Carpie became a monster in his own right but he had no idea. He was just a fish who lived under the bank during the night and grazed the junk on the bottom during the rest of the day.

            His mouth, unlike his sport fish friends, did not push out in an almost submarine look. His mouth turned down. It was round. There were no big sharp killing teeth like some of the other fish. He didn't need much of a mouth to sort out and eat the garbage on the lake bottom. It was starting to take a mental toll on him.

            “Is this it?” he wondered. “Is this all I am going to be known for?” He took notice of how the other fish respected the bass brothers and his walleye friend. They moved aside when the catfish cruised by. They darted with fear when northern pike came to call. But Carpie? They paid him no mind and in some cases, he could see the snicker bubbles rising toward the surface.

            The other carp felt the same way. They all were depressed. They needed a champion—someone who would do something so unusual and bold that the rest of the fish would raise a fin when he swam by.

            But what could a toothless carp with big lips do to impress anyone?

            The opportunity presented itself on the surface one nice warm summer day. A young girl was getting set to water ski when Carpie put his plan into action. Carpie put his fears behind him and swam into action as the stunned fish community watched. He left the murky bottom and like a sub-launched torpedo and took aim at the unsuspecting young girl.

            Just as she was getting ready to ski, something splashed up between her legs and kissed her on the butt. She screamed. She jumped out of the water and tried to stand on the skis. It was too late. The water was calm and Carpie was gone.

            It wouldn't be the last time Carpie ruled the lake. Other skiers got kissed and terrified. The sport fish bowed as Carpie swam by. Even the biggest of the catfish had a big smile for him.

            Some of the smaller carp tagged along with the lake hero. They stayed close like those little fish that stay close to the big sharks. They didn't want to miss a minute of the action.

            They would have stories to tell their grandfish and great grandfish about their legendary hero. The legend of Carpie.

If you liked this story. check out Kenny's kindle books. Here is his author's page:
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That Christmas

People sometimes ask me what was my most memorable Christmas. It wasn’t a Christmas in Hartington with all the gifts, Rudolph with the taped on red nose blinking on the porch, relatives coming and going, and the singing Rossiter family standing outside singing Christmas carols. Those are all lasting, loving and good memories but it was not the Christmas that reaches out and grabs me to this day.

I wasn’t in the United States on that Christmas. I was trying to make a career out of flying and had taken a co-pilot job on a Lear Jet 24. That jet had cameras in the belly and we were doing a mapping project in Africa—Liberia to be specific.

Liberia was a hell hole. There was such a divide between the rich and the poor and anyone making $100 a month was rich. The rest of that population ate rice and beans when they could get them.

An old woman chased me down the street one day. She pulled at my arm and hollered “nicka, nicka.” I had no idea what she wanted but I assumed she wanted money. She was dirty and in rags. She was Black and maybe she weighed fifty or sixty pounds. She was skin and bones and my guess was, she was starving to death. I had five bucks in my pocket so I gave it to her. She screamed, looked at me, and ran away with her arms waving in the air and her rubber flip-flops slapping on the dirt road.

When I got back to the hotel I asked what “nicka” meant. The desk clerk told me it meant a nickel. Can you imagine your life depending on five cents?

Monrovia is Liberia’s capitol city. It is full of people who have nothing to do but sit around and watch life go by. At that time, the Tolbert regime was in control. We were there on a contract with the Liberian Department of Forestry. Our task was to fly the country and take detailed photographs. From those photographs they would try to finds valuable stands of Ebony. Liberia was not the Africa of lions and giraffes and other great beasts. Liberia was the land of big snakes and dense jungles.

We couldn’t take good pictures even though we had some of the best cameras in the world. There was a brown layer of smog about 5,000 feet and the cameras couldn’t penetrate it. The sky was a bright blue above that layer but it was only after the greats storms came through and cleared out the atmosphere that the people in this country ever saw those blue skies. Liberia was also the birthplace of many of those depressions which became monster Atlantic hurricanes.

Raw sewage ran along dirt roads. The poor cooked using open charcoal fires. The humidity held and the smog layer kept those smells close to the ground so opening a window to get some fresh air was out of the question. Liberian life soon closed in on you. Life didn’t mean much over there.

Aid groups such as CARE and church groups send tons of clothes and food over there but as soon as that aid hit the docks, those donations was impounded by the authorities and found their way to the local bizarre as merchandise for sale. The profits went to the favored class and the poor got little or nothing.

We were supposed to leave Liberia and were scheduled to be home for Christmas but because of the obscured sky, the company amended our contract and extended our stay for six more weeks. That would take us into the new year.

We flew less than once a week, and when we did, we climbed up to 41,000 feet and came right back down so we didn’t produce anything usable.

We went two weeks without a break in the weather and my boss wanted to do a run-up just to make sure the engine seals got lubricated. After starting up, we taxied out to the end of the runway, set the brakes, and ran both engines up to 100% for a few seconds and then back down. On the third run-up the crash truck came roaring down the runway toward us. They were waving their arms at us so we shut down. I thought maybe there was a fire and we couldn’t see it.

There was a problem all right. We didn’t notice the tin shacks about 50 yards behind us. The blast from the engines sent the tin and the palm constructed suburb skyward. We created a homeless problem.

I let mom know about our change in plans.  She was disappointed Mr. Adventure would not be home for Christmas. She knew I was depressed about my job. I didn’t get to fly that often and I didn’t get along with my boss. Nobody did. And nobody was getting a holiday plane ticket home.

Mom sent me a letter that a care package of her Christmas cookies was on the way. I couldn’t wait. But, they never made it. Like everything else in Liberia, those cookies didn’t make it out of customs.

I made friends with a ten-year-old boy when we arrived. He was a light skinned black kid with reddish black hair. He was living in a tree outside of the Monrovia Intercontinental where we were staying. This Intercontinental was not your average Intercontinental. It was run down and lost water pressure and air conditioning on a regular basis.

The restaurant daily special was always rice and fish. Hamburgers smelled rotten when you got one about an inch from your mouth. Eating was always and adventure and if it wasn’t for a daily trip to the American Embassy cafeteria, I would have lost more than the 25 pounds I did lose.

My young friend hollered at me on day two of this adventure. I looked around trying to locate where the calls of “hey, white man” were coming from. Finally, I spotted him lying over a tree limb like a leopard right above me. He wanted me to hire him to watch our Land Rover for a quarter a day. He explained that vandals would let the air out of the tires if I didn’t pay him. He was constantly trying to scam me out of money so I named him Angles. He always had one.

A week before Christmas, he presented his Christmas list. “You buy me shoes,” he said.

“Shoes?” I questioned. “Just shoes. No socks.”

“No No,” he piped up. “Shoes and socks.” 

He smiled. He always put on the greatest smile after a scam. He was the product of a white American sailor and a local woman which explained his light coloring and his red hair. That coloring also made him an outcast. He wasn’t black enough to be accepted by blacks and wasn’t white enough to be accepted by whites. Both parents had abandoned him. The hotel cook left food out for him at night and he had also raped him. That’s why he lived in the tree. In spite of that life, his personality was funny and I liked him. He was the bright spot in my Africa trip.

He had a dark brown patch on his cheek that I was a little concerned about so I wrangled an appointment with the embassy doctor.

The Marine doctor took one look at the cheek and then looked at me.

“Worms,” the doctor said. He had a pocket of worms under his skin.

The day before Christmas, we went to the bizarre and shopped for shoes and socks. All the goods were laying on the top of old plywood boards on sawhorses. I let him pick out his shoes and try them on. The big grin said it all. I also gave him a bonus of two new used t-shirts and a new used pair of shorts. Total, $10. There was no need to wrap anything. He put on the big smile on his worm-free face and scampered off into the crowd.

Sometimes a smile is enough. He had never owned a pair of shoes.

As Christmas Eve darkness fell over Monrovia, I went to the bar and order a big glass of Jack Daniels. No ice. Just whiskey. It was a warm sticky night so I walked out to the pool area and looked out at the harbor and the open sea. I love the sea and on that night, a couple of ships lay at anchor.

Somewhere out there was home. Even though I was alone, I knew I had plenty of company. Soldiers, sailors, Marines, and others serving the country were also looking the same direction. Somewhere out there in the darkness of night was the warm glow of home and family and friends.

I knew Mom was rushing around getting things ready for the family dinner. Uncle Bill was sitting at the kitchen table in his dress bibs and stain-free Dekalb hat pulled down to the top of his nose. No doubt he had pulled a can of Velvet tobacco out of one of the bib pockets and a cigarette paper out of another and rolled a cigarette. She would give him hell about coughing and blowing lighted tobacco all over her kitchen. There would be big plates of cookies all over the house. Some were hers. Many were gifts from the neighbors.

I laughed when I thought about it. You can spend Christmas when nobody is around.

That’s when I heard it. It sounded like Silent Night but it was in very broken English. I went to the edge of the pool and looked down at the houses below. The hotel was located on the highest point in the city so it was on a cliff. At the bottom of the cliff were a bunch of houses. Huts, really. They were having Christmas.

The broken song drifted up to me. I was having Christmas, too. I couldn’t help but wonder, if they were grateful and praising the Lord for their lives in this place, what was wrong with me? They had nothing but everything. That was the message from the first Christmas, wasn’t it?

Christmas changed for me that night. I still like to spend Christmas alone and remember that night in Africa and remember that the gift of life is the greatest gift of all.

Merry Christmas.

A Small Town Christmas

From Kenny Miller's Kindle book
The Heart is Where the Angels Sing


"Go down and get the deer head" she ordered her second son seated at
the kitchen table.

"Awe Mom, you aren't going to put up that stupid deer head
again?" the boy pleaded.

"Get the Santa suit, too!" she ordered.

He hated to go down in that basement. There we're all kinds of
threats down there. There were shelves of old canned goods the family
would probably never eat. Occasionally, he spotted a mouse or lager.

And of course, give a cricket a quarter of an inch around an old
warped wooden basement window and a tribe of the damn things would
soon be jumping around and making their knee scratching noises.

The head was a magnificent buck with a five-point rack and was
no doubt the bragging prize of some hunter of years gone by. The
taxidermist mounted the prize deer's head with a slight proud
uplifted turn to the right.

No doubt he envisioned his handsome work would be prominently
displayed over the fireplace hearth of somewell-to-do hunter. Little
 did he know it would be the seasonal prize decoration of a Christmas
loving housewife.

"Did you get the Santa suit?" she asked her young son as he
struggled through the basement door with the musty old deer head.

“Awe Mom, you aren't going to do the Santa bit are your?" he
pleaded again.

She didn't steal the mount from someone's mantle, she discovered
him on top of the beer cooler in the Chief Bar, a local business her
husband once owned. She also discovered an intriguing piece of
electronics compliments of a liquor company. The flashing light
display was designed to catch the attention of the bar patrons and
suggest they buy a bottle of cordials, a line of after dinner sipping
liqueurs made from everything from apricots to raspberries.

This wife saw instant possibilities in the flashing lights,
particularly the large blinking red one in the center of the
cardboard display. Take one moth-eaten deer head and tape a red
blinking display light on the old deer's nose and you have nothing
less than "Rudolph the red nosed reindeer...." hanging on the front
porch of the small town Christmas wonderland house.

“Listen,” she said as she and her son stood on the front porch
ready to put up the Christmas display. “Can you hear the wind?”

“What wind, Mom?”

“Listen to the Rossiter pines,” she said as she pointed across
the street at the tall pines, which dominated the huge front lawn of
the Rossiter house. “The trees will tell you when the snow is
coming.”

“Is it going to snow?” the boy asked as he looked at the big
pines and listened to the wind gusts as they whistled through the big
trees.

“It will snow soon,” she said. “Let’s get the old boy up and
blinking.When we’re finished with this, we can start on the cookies.”

The boy smiled at his mom now standing on a folding chair with
the deer head over her shoulder. She soon found the big nail and slid
the mount on it. Next, she taped the red bulb to his nose. “OK,
honey,” she said to her son, “plug him in.”

He plugged the cord into the outside electrical socket and the
red nose started to flash.

“There,” she said. “It’s Christmas.”

She had become a famous cookie maker in this small town. She
made them to share them so her cookie trays were welcome holiday
gifts. There were always her seasonal usuals. Divinity, a wonderful
white type of fudge. Fudge with walnuts both light and dark
chocolate. Mice, a little licorice flavored crunchy cookie about the
size of diet bread stick cut into half-inch chunks and date bars covered
with powdered sugar. She also made a special bar made of chocolate chips,
coconut, and dates baked into a light brown crust of brown sugar.

The favorite of the complaining, but helping deer head-hanging
son was her sugar cookies. She had every cookie cutter ever known to
K-Mart, Sears, or any other store.

When she finished making the greatmound of sugar cookie dough,
she took her prize rolling pin, carefully dusted it with flour, and rolled
the now floured dough out on her large flour covered, only-for-cookie-cutting,
heavy cloth.

Once perfectly rolled and perfectly floured, she stepped cautiously
back a step of two and let her perfect little darlings sons take over
the cookie cutting and decorating process. The three boys attacked
the waiting dough like feeding sharks.

Another favorite, which required the help of her three little
angels, was a sugar cookie, about an inch and half in diameter, with
a special chocolate mint center. Only those mints would do and if it
meant driving the 120-mile round trip to Sioux City to find them, so
be it. It would not be Christmas in this house without these special
sugar cookies with the hard-to-find, chocolate mints baked inside.

The boys would gladly give up the deer head and the stuffed Santa but
it would never be Christmas unless they had a good fix of their mom's
famous mint cookies.

The dog jumped and barked as the young boys teased her with
rolled up pieces of cookie dough. Great cookie dough from the dog's
point of view but it was a little hard on the Scottie's system. She
especially liked a little hunk of warm fudge when one of the boys
stuck it on top of her very active little black nose. Her red tongue
went crazy and her head bounced wildly trying to reach the sweet
prize.

"Look what he did to my Christmas tree, Mom!" protested the
older son as the little guy decided his older brother's Christmas
tree looked good enough to eat without baking and promptly did so.

"He got more that I did!" hollered her second son as he tried to
push his bigger brother out of the way.

"Mom, make him give me the Santa cutter!" The little brother
wanted to eat his brother's cookie and have his the cutter, too.

"Someone go find Uncle Bill and tell him to come up here," she
ordered.

Her bachelor farmer brother had to be ordered or invited to the
house. He was the family historian and guardian of ancient family
tradition. Their roots went to the small town of Bergen, Norway and
her bachelor brother knew the traditions and the roads that lead back
to Norway.

She worried about her bachelor brother living on the old farm
place. Nothing had changed at that old farm since she lived there as
a girl. He wasn't a good housekeeper and she worried about what the
neighbors would think. He didn't give a damn about what people
thought of him as long as they were friendly enough to take time to
visit.

"What is that smelly stuff?" the middle son asked as he entered
the kitchen, climbed up on the footstool and looked at the boiling
pot on the stove.

"Lutefisk,” came the quick answer from his Uncle Bill as he sat
at the kitchen table patiently waiting to be served his part of the
traditional dinner. "It's what your ancestors had for Christmas
dinner."

"This ain't no fish Uncle Bill, it's square and hard as a rock,
and it ain't got no fins or head," he said with ten-year-old
authority.

"Why sure it is. It's just been cleaned, cut up, and dried in
the sun out by the sea,” his uncle carefully explained as he pushed
his Dekalb seed corn hat toward the back of his head. He reached into
the top part of his overalls for his can of Prince Velvet leaf
tobacco and a cigarette paper.

"Your ancestors were mostly fishermen and they had to dry the
fish because they didn't have ice boxes like we have today,” he
explained as he held out the cigarette paper in front of his chin and
carefully poured some strands of tobacco on the paper. The boy sat at
the table with his uncle, grabbed a cookie, and started to munch as
the family history lesson unfolded.

"When they got ready to eat the fish,” the uncle continued as he
licked one edge of the paper and formed a cigarette, "they soaked the
dried fish and then boiled it in great big pots to make it tender,
just like your mother is doing."

The boy listened and watched as his uncle pulled a wooden match
from one of the many pockets found on the top of a good set of
dress overalls, struck the match on a brass button, and lit the
loosely packed cigarette.

"In order to have fish for Christmas dinner, the fish would have
to be dried to preserve it so they could save it from the fall to the
winter," the wise uncle continued. "It had to stay out in the sun for
days to get that hard, and the dogs might come by, have a little
sniff, and pee on it."

"Mom!" the boy protested,"I ain't gonna eat any smelly fish
that has dog pee on it!"

By then, the beloved Uncle was laughing so hard that small
strands of lighted tobacco were being pushed out the business end of
the home-made cigarette like a Roman candle, landing and burning his
only good pair of overalls.

“What’s in the sack, Dad?” one of the boys asked as his father
came into the kitchen balancing a couple of brown grocery bags.

“You dad is going to make his Christmas concoction,” the boy’s
mother said as she knew it was time to give up her kitchen to her
husband.

He sat the two bags on the counter, took off his coat, and
started to unload his groceries. The first items to come out of the
brown bag were eggs--dozens of eggs. The next items to come out were
bags of powdered sugar. Then came pure creamery butter and finally a
few bottles of vanilla extract.

“What are you going to do with all of those eggs, Dad?” the boy
asked as he peered around his father.

“Crack them,” he said.

“Why? You making cookies or something?”

“No,” the father said as he opened the cardboard egg container.

“I am making a drink.”

“What kind of a drink, Dad?”

“An adult drink.”

“The one that makes Uncle Jelly’s nose all red?”

“Yup,” the father said as he chuckled. “That’s the one.”

He wasn't very concerned about the clean kitchen floor or the
spotless counter tops as he started to crack the eggs and pour the
egg back and forth between the two shells until most of the white was
in one half and the yoke was in the other half. Some of the whites
didn't make the pass and ended up on his shirt, the counter, or the
floor. The trusty dog helped clean the floor.

"Where's the nutmeg?" he asked his wife as he continued to trash
her kitchen and ransack her cupboards.

He dumped the whites into the sink and put the perfect, unbroken
yokes into a mixing bowl. After a dozen or so crack and sorts, he
added his next ingredient, a few cups of powdered sugar. A measuring
cup wasn't necessary. A coffee mug would do just fine. Last in was
the butter and vanilla extract. Then, using his wife's magic wooden
spoon, he blended all of the stuff into a smooth, yoke yellow batter.
Next, he filled the whistling tea pot with water and put it on the
stove. Out of another tall skinny brown paper sack came a quart of
Old Crow.

There was a special set of matching white mugs that she stored
on the top shelf of one of her cupboards. She knew what was going on
so the cups were washed and ready. As the teapot whistled away, he
carefully measured a tablespoon of the secret stuff into each of the
white mugs.

Next was a shot of Old Crow. He then filled the cup with boiling
water and stirred the magic mixture until it was nice and smooth.
When it passed his smell test, he dashed it with a little nutmeg.

Presto! His famous Tom and Jerry known from downtown Hartington clear
out to Bow Valley. A much different smell now filled the house. And,
before long, so did a bunch of much happier looking neighbors,
family, and friends. To bad the old deer couldn't have gotten a
snoot-full of his Tom and Jerry adult delight. His musty smelling fur
coat would have a much different smell and the snarling grin might
have turned into a Christmas smile.

The boy's father made a roaring fire in the fireplace so the
scene would be postcard perfect. He added a little color to the fire
with a wax disk he bought in Sioux City. When he tossed one of those
disks into the fire, the flames changed color. The jumping flames of
green red and gold fascinated his young sons.

At the other end of the room, was the family Christmas tree.
The tree had to be at least a six footer because that part of the
living room had a little alcove of windows, which faced the street.

It took some doing for the boy's dad but he managed to arrange
for Santa Claus to make an appearance on Christmas Eve. Santa
never missed an appearance in those believer years but he put off most of
the neighbors until later that night or sometime in the wee hours of
the morning.

This Santa was a little different from
the one the boys visited at the big Sioux City
department store a little earlier in the season.
He wasn't as fat. His voice seemed familiar
even though the boys couldn't quite place it.

And, this Santa didn't wear wire rim glasses.
Santa did have a bettermemory and knew
the boy's names without being told. The other
department store Santa had to ask. This Santa knew exactly what the boys
wanted and delivered right on the spot! He was in and out with a flash.

In the blink of the old deer's nose, the Christmas season was
over. The long Nebraska winter lay ahead with the mountains of snow
still to come, announced by the talking wind from the Rossiter trees.

New sled tracks cut through the fresh snow on the golf course
hills. New ice skates cut some clumsy curves across the rough ice on
Little Creek.

Bunnies ran from the bad shots from would-be young hunters
and their new BB guns. And the short-legged Scottie made
valiant attempts to make it out of the snowdrifts she was tossed into
by her young keepers.

The deer head went back to the basement shelf.And one boy would
never eat fish that didn’t come with fins.

Did you enjoy this story? If you did, check out Kenny's Kindle book,
The Heart us Where the Angels Sing now on sale for only 99 cents.
It's great read for those long winter nights ahead!

Merry Christmas!

How about a FREE story break?

My name is Kenny Miller. I am a writer and photographer with a computer full of stories and pictures and I have decided to share them...for FREE!

There. The price is right, isn't it? Most of my writing is about life in the great state of Nebraska but I bet you will relate to a lot of it. I go after life. Some of my stories are interviews. Some of them are more like memoirs. Some are goofy and cute. Some are kids stories.

They may make you smile. They may make you cry. They may make you laugh. But, I hope my stories make your day. If you like my stories, and have a kindle, check out my books on amazon. They won't break your budget.

What the heck, maybe something good will come out of this for both of us. Enjoy!