Requiem for a Gang

(Donkeyland, the Cayuga Street Gang, of the 50s & 60s)

The Cayuga Street Hooligans, they were a small and determined group of kids, a gang sort of, which tried to seize life early on and surrendered to their youth, their vices, prerogatives, and scratched where it didn’t itch, and became donkeys so the police referred to us, and referred to our neighborhood by calling it Donkeyland, a location within the city’s limits, that being, the North End of the city of St. Paul, Minnesota. We being more like a bowl-full of wild crickets, the main area being Cayuga Street. Now some fifty-years later, their prototypes have advanced into a drug related neighborhood, more of a lynching, pathless gang! The old gang has of course stepped down to the law-and-order side of life, for the most part, now resting as if in a kind of comatose state. And many of the old ones are gone, but I can still remember at least, in my time, we all felt safe in our homes, no longer is this possible with the new breed! The new ones are bloodless, and darker souled, and axe-minded, as if insurgents sprawled in various corners, trying to kick away the old locks. Too boot, our rules have invited in terrorists from the Middle East to keep everyone company.

       As for us, we were loyal to one another, there was an unspoken code.  No one disrespected anyone’s parents at any given time. No one stole from an affiliate; usually the stronger would stand up for the weaker, if it was someone outside the gang doing the winning in a fight, and Larry L., the puncher or boxer seen to that, more often than not.

 ·  ·  ·

The era has passed, but it didn’t pass without old lady Stanley, who lived next door to the Old Russian’s house sitting on her patio witnessing it all, she lived long into old age, somewhere into her 90s, she seen it all come and go. Engulfed in her house most of those latter years, watching Mouse, and Gunner racing up and down Cayuga Street, as if it was a drag strip, in their 1940-Fords, what was she thinking, she knew them when they were just beginning their teenage years. Now a fragile wisp of a woman. And the kids jeering at her with their Rock and Roll, Elvis songs, and often times I’d myself sing them while play my guitar, we must have kept her up night and day. We proceeded to do whatever we were doing, without much regard for anyone, I suppose we were possible despoilers. And Larry L., the puncher would punch out the cops on top of Indian’s Hill, and that was not all.    

       The only cop that was respected was Howie the cop, he was the only police officer that was in our neighborhood that dared to get out of his car and talk to us guys. On the other hand, the only safe persons that didn’t belong in the neighborhood, were those who were left alone were: the mail carriers, the milkman, the bread peddlers, and one black man whom nobody knew where he lived but walked down Mississippi Street, onto Cayuga Street, who had befriended the Old Russian, whose two grandsons were gang members, thus he got safe passage.

       The neighborhood was of the Irish, Polish, Russian, German, Anglo-Saxon, and Native American (Ojibwa) stock. It gives the impression for the most part, all the girls in the neighborhood married all the boys in the neighborhood. They were like to like. A few exceptions. Most went to Washington High School, at one time or another. The gang was well-known as for being the Jackson Street boys, to the Rice Street boys, whom were friendly with one another. Rice Street being on one side of Oakland Cemetery, and Jackson Street on the other side. A bizarre twist at any corner of any night.

 The empty lot in the summers, —the weeds and grass got as tall as cornstalks; old man Brandt, who lived alongside the empty lot cut some of the grass and weeds down, got a few of the boys to do the rest of the work, and thus, the gang had a place to play baseball during the day, as if for once without alcohol; yet at night it turned into a drinking arena. It was one adjoined breathe within the gang, and for a number of summers it was somewhat kept up. It wasn’t until they finished the game often before they drank. Perhaps it was the catalyst, and sometimes everyone played the game fast to get it done with quickly, as to get the drinking cycle started, specifically on a keg of beer, where everyone had pitched in to buy it, and Big Bopper (who passed away recently) did the buying at the nearby liquor store—; fifty-years later that empty lot has vanished, leaving nothing but a dark asphalt parking space for cars, where seldom can anyone see a  parked car in that so called parking lot. To boot, most of the houses are torn down now on Cayuga Street, and half the gang has passed on.  

       Well, that’s how it was, once upon a time.

6-29-2015 /Reedited 10-2016     

A Long Day in Vietnam

((A remembrance) (Those with weak stomachs, please do not read!))

  

In 1971, there was still 205,000-American troops in Vietnam, and we had four more years yet to go, before the war would end. The Chinese, and Russia, used Hanoi for their proxy war with America, and the winner was American industries. None of the rich went, or those who politically invested their sons in ways to beat the draft; president Clinton was one such person, as was George W. Bush. Nor did rich Donald Trump go.  But that was just the way it was. When we came home we were called the baby-killers.

       But during all this we GI’s were drinking ourselves to death, flying high on dope, playing the melancholy military soldier, far away from home, and we were deadly!

       Sitting and waiting in our uniforms, that bad-tempered green, as our Vietnamese—workforces—burnt our manure.

       And there were whores like Frenchie, a most beautiful Vietnamese to keep us from masturbating, and her kind to satisfy our lusts. Frenchie being an independent.  Most had a mama-san, whom was usually a woman in authority, with several whores, whom would assigned this one or that one to a GI.  The word is really English and Japanese (suffix) –san, and Mama, English.

       To get along in Vietnam, you learned a few words like: sin chow, meaning: Hello, or Tam Biet meaning Goodbye. Also Khome, meaning no, or Vung, meaning yes.  But there was one deadly word, used often as joking, and sometimes not so joking, and they used the American slang to say it, not their Vietnam ‘giết’: but in American slang it was “I crocodile you!” Sometimes they spoke it in past tense, and we GI’s used it likewise, the work is ‘Kill’ as the phrase means likewise.

       The first month I was in Vietnam, a serious matter had come up. Everyone was talking about the donut girls, otherwise known as the Red Cross girls. That is when I learned the terminology of the meaning, giết’ or Kill, and tra tấn which means torture. When I heard what had taken place I was sick with nausea, a heedless horror.

       I tell this story—after 45-years, of the two donut girls only so their memory may not be forgotten, and for the reader to realize, we had some very brave woman in the armed forces, a tear comes to my eyes as I write this—this is the point of no return, if you can’t take impressions of death, atrocious death without battle, you must not go beyond this point.

       Beyond the attackers, those who found the two girls, caught no involuntary glimpses of the horrid feast that was being enjoyed by the enemy, nor the enemy, evidently the girls this merciless act of torture had taken place a day or two before their discovery, but a squad of men out looking for them.

       And it might be presupposed, in the infernal cycle of torture, and their fate, it was once captured, all too clearly to them, what was in store.  

       They were tied to stakes, stripped bare, left in the sun to burn, skin slit, and peeled back, an oil laid over their skin like honey, their body’s half-eaten as provender, by: ants, spiders, bugs, and so forth.  There was no eddying combat, the two girls were stretched a little apart, and there was a long large log, when I suppose the Viet Cong sat as if watching the gruesome orgy with detached interest.

       Of all the torturers in this erratic world, this kill, this ‘giết’ verges upon ebon blackness. I have never forgot it, as they brought back their sloping hairless heads that denoted a large brain-cavity. No trace of ears, evidently detached, cut off or eaten. These were satanic angels, malign demon, wholly poised as humans, aloft and dispassionate.

  

Note:  Written out in form, May 6, 2016/#5231, and finished 10-2016.   It has taken me five months to express this, and perhaps I should not have. But for whatever reason, the atrocities of war are never told, not those dark ones; and here is one dark one.  Those with weak stomachs, please do not read!  Reedited for a forthcoming book.

Garmisch in Spring (1976)

It seemed in the early to mid-1970s, I never lost a moment, I slept a scarce five hours a night, and only one with a makeup structure of iron cold dead sleep, and that had to settle me down, like it or not. I was always anxious, on the move, more energy than ten-beavers building dams.  I had visited Luxembourg, Belgium, France, Switzerland, while stationed in Germany between 1970, and 1976, and now Garmisch was now on my list. Garmisch-partekirchen, it was where the 1936 winter Olympics took place, a quaint little village that dated to about 1200 A.D., and during WWII, it served as a major German hospital for German troops.  In the 13^th Century, it was ruled by prince-bishops of Freising; and it was next to Austria, and the highest mountains in Germany, to which was Zugspitze. 

       It was on a long weekend holiday, I stopped Cody’s reading lesson, and I had given him dimes for every page he could read without a mistake, Shawn, the other twin boy, never seemed to need assistance with his reading skills. Matter of fact, in an international test, he scored 93%, for his age level in aptitude.

       I had intentions of selling my car, but I had it fixed instead, and wanted to make one last trip while in Germany, it was early spring of 1976, and Garmisch, Germany was my selection. And so I put aside my laundry money, Cody’s reading for dimes, and filled up the gas tank in the car, a 1967, VW, dark green,   filled a leather bag with traveling clothes for the whole family a suitcase older than Methuselah, and put one item of clothes in it for each of the boys, myself, Zaneta, my youngest child born in Frankfurt Germany, a year prior and off we went: wife stock and wheelbarrow of a car.

       Garmisch was only a few hundred miles away, it was a resort area in the sierras. I had on long underwear and a dark sweatshirt, a car full of groceries. We barely made it up a few mountains to the Township of Garmisch, but by noon we had: even having a few times to push the car when it stalled, then back up those last few gradations; it appeared to me, the effort would kill the motor and we’d end up walking, but fate would not have it that way, thank God.  

       After settling in our hotel and having a meal we ended up walking the hilly countryside in Garmisch that afternoon, which was a long weekend, I think the Fourth of July.

       There was no snow on the ground, so the skiing was over for the season, and most of the hotels were half rate, and most were half empty. Shawn in one hand, Cody with a thump in his mouth, on the other side of me, we climbed the hillside. When Cody got tired of his thumb, then it fell back into my hand, Shawn’s hand never left mine, and it was as if we were two peas in a pod.

       The hills were green, and the path up the hill was of laid cobblestone,   and alongside was a wooden fence, fencing in a cow meadow.  And Cody and Shawn fit right into the countryside with the Germans, blond hair, colorful eyes, milky white skin, and strong bones, their grandfather from their mother’s side being of German stock.

       The meadow glowed, all around the boys they were luscious in the midst of this enchanting beautiful countryside.

       We had stopped alongside the fence, Cody had spotted a cow with a big bell around its neck, and I think he wanted to dingdong that bell, he had endless energy like me. I had little patience with chance things, and Cody ran under the fence to the cow and Shawn followed him, quicker than a jackrabbit, —and it scared me a bit but I let it be, and Cody jumped back, and Shawn froze in place. The cow was so huge likened to an elephant, thus came a young boy above ten years old, ran up to the boys spoke in a German dialect, I could understand some of his words, I made them out to be, “Don’t fear the cow, he’s friendly, he’s my cow…” thus again, I left well enough alone lest I  doom the moment of fun running after the boys, and bring more unease into the situation than need be, and the boy, the German lad, looked at me, and smiled, we talked some, with expressible connotations, more so  than pure language: the boys for all intent could have been a lost relative.

        The boy kind of bowed and marveled knowing that they, or we were beyond the deliberate creation of any language, and understood one another. And I expressed the underlie beauty of the landscape, and the boy beamed and ran off, and Shawn and Cody, had now, and forevermore, penetrated the German culture.

       That evening at the bar-restaurant, a fiddler and his son were singing and playing a tune, I had ordered a beer for myself, and some sandwiches for the boys, and coke, and they felt so free and connected, having cleared their mind of the day, serenely joined the fiddler with his son, and danced to the melody being played. It was delightful to see them both untroubled by the realities and grievances of adult life, this evening they had their say, and the last word was theirs.

       

No: 1065/5-20-2014 / Reedited 10-2016

Uncle Wally: POW (WWII) 1944

Uncle Wally was in a concentration camp, during WWII, he talked briefly about it, and so I shall simplify the sketch as mildly as I can for the reader; it was not an exterminating center.  But a place to break the human spirit. Such camps have ceased to exist, but there are many more that have taken their place. From Iraq, to Afghanistan, Russia, and the Philippines, the POW’s of the ISIS, Iran, China, and so forth.

       Private First Class Wally and his platoon had landed on the shores of Normandy, France, the landing operations took place 6 June, 1944, right after the overnight parachute and glider landings; thus, after midnight, the conditions were far from ideal but the amphibious landing had to take place, there were five beaches the vessels were to land, Utah, Omaha, Gold Juno and Sword Beach, Private First Class Wally’s amphibious vessel—because of strong winds blowing from the east, he would land not at their intended position. Omaha would have the most causalities. The major objective would not take place until July 1, 1944. There would be 10,000-caualities, and nearly 4500-deaths of the allied forces. Somewhere between the landing on June 6, and July 1, Uncle Wally would be captured by the Germans, along with most of his platoon, of 44-men, he would be one of the 24,000-men who landed urging that amphibious landing. The Germans would take 9000-causalities.  During this period massive bombings, and or airstrikes would take place. German torpedo boats would kill nearly 800-American soldiers trying to land their amphibious vessels. During the advance inland and to redirect themselves to where their beach was, in the process Private Wally and his platoon were taken prisoners of war (POWs) by the Germans, perhaps on June 8, 1944, two days after the landing.

       Was there a way to escape? Once captured, went through Wally’s mind I’m sure? Standing in line looking here and there. Electrically charged wires everywhere. A triple strand of barbed wire circled the outer rim of the concentration camp as most did.  Said the soldier next to him perhaps: in a whisper, “We talk only in the fog, when in line usually we don’t, and nearly below a whisper if we do. And never when the wind is blowing against us.”   

       I will never know the full story of Uncle Wally’s POW time, and exactly where he was taken, for he never draw attention to it, but it was outside of France.

        For sure, PFC Wally checked out the watchtowers, a glance here and there, “It’s dangerous to spy on the towers as you’re doing,” a voice might have said.

       “Why?” would have asked Wally had someone answered him it would have been more bearable, but no one did.

        “Move them to the barracks” said the Strohshineider, in a matter-of-fact tone to the soldiers guarding the prisoners.

       There wasn’t any gas chambers, but there wasn’t any Jews neither, still yet, there were illegal exactions, and that was what most of the soldiers were worried about.  Uncle Wally would be released after the war’s end.

No: 1103/ 7-28-2015 / Reedited 10-2016

Note 1: the story is based on Historical Fiction, pieces put together from the author’s historical knowledge of “D-Day,” and the author’s filling in gaps, gaps that his Uncle Wally mentioned in passing while visiting his father’s home on Sunday afternoons (in the 1950s & ‘60s), while drinking in the cellar with the author’s other uncles and, Grandfather, over hearing bits and pieces of the war, to which seldom did he talk about it; Uncle Chris being in the Korean War of 1952.   Uncle Wally lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota, lived to the ripe old age of 85; he was a survivor.

Note 2: for the forthcoming book “The Times We Live In”

      

The Black King

  

 When I wrote my manuscript, 1984, the fulfillment of end time Biblical prophecy was just becoming possible. To which I had 53-visions. Now Israel has once again become a nation, and its 12-tribes have returned, the last being in my life time, from Ethiopia, in 1985, plus they have been allowed to leave Russia, but not so until after I wrote the MS.  Israel became a nation in 1948, a year after my birth.  Also, Jerusalem now is the Jewish Capital, all prophecy coming alive in my life time; I’ve told God it is great to have been living in the times of Adam or his ancestors, or these end times, to be a part of it. Just the full return of the Jews is one hung sign of the end time events, and prophecy. Those who are doubters, you will be on the eve of obliteration after the rapture of faithful Christians, for soon the arrival is the great tribulation.   It is mounting this very minute as I write this letter of sorts, the great deception is taking place, and the Beast, the Antichrist is at hand. Not only in America are half its inhabitant’s blind, but Europe as well, and worldwide.  Daniel foretells of this time period. A time when God will make reconciliation for iniquity, that is why we are seeing Obama trying to get America into a new world order, and Hillary into globalism, and the United Nations to take over America.  It is why Obama is making America weak, and allowing a flood of Muslims into the country, once there is disorder, weakness, and we become fearful, and frail, inside, and scared outside, Obama will say: for our own safety we must go under the UN umbrella, if it is not Obama, it will be his shadow, or a like person. In any case we have now historically completed the time period Daniel infers are his 69-weeks of years, and to back track Daniel even tells us when the Messiah will come before he comes, but be rejected.  The last seven years of his prophecy is not yet historically fulfilled, this time period comes after the time of the Gentiles (review Luke chapter 21).  The time of the Gentiles is a time of God’s grace to world nations, a time to come and trust in Jesus Christ, not Islam, the Devil’s choice. And one must remember, God will blind those who deny him time after time for them wishing to keep their sinful ways as has too many of our world leaders, blinded themselves to understandings, and lost wisdom, and are now being allow to condemn themselves, and they are taking a lot of folks with them. One of the forthcoming signs which to a certain degree has already played a part in Israel’s confirmations of a covenant with world leaders, to which they have made already, one being with Egypt, and have tried to make them with Jordan, and Syria, and those Bulls of Bashan, countries that border Israel. The wars of 1967, and 1972, Israel gave back desert land to Egypt to keep peace, and Gaza to Palestine, to keep peace; for those years is what can be called Israel’s trouble years, or better said “Jacob’s Trouble”.  In the Book of Revelation, we see 1260-days John is talking about as days of great tribulation, before Jesus  comes back to earth in great power and glory and destroys all the armies of the world, that the beast or Antichrist has deceived. In my book “The Last Trumpet…” we see the False Prophet, Obama perhaps is a connecting, but poor example of whom he will be, he is already present, but he will be cast alive into the lake of fire, and Obama and Hillary, likewise with him. Now the bible says he will deceive the world, that means only a certain sum of us will understand, I have known Obama’s wishes since before he became president, how, I don’t know, but I’ve been writing about them ever since, and everyone has been telling me “Give him chance, he’ll be a good president,” now I hear that with Hillary. This is the blind leading the blind, or people just purely brainwashed.  Those who say they are Christian and have pushed the Christian doctrine to the side like the voice of the potential Democratic Vice President who claims to be a Catholic, is far from it— he hold no Christian values, he may go to Church, but so does Satan! If you do not understand what I am saying, you are among the blind, so I can’t expect you to understand, but you can read this, and repent, and God may indeed give you wisdom again, if you ever had it. Jesus warned us of this forthcoming discourse, and the worst destruction on earth is just hanging on a thread. The Beast is not only a person but a system, and Satan will have his followers worship him, he is the counterfeit god of this world. Christians may have to give up their lives, but they will be restored during these troubled times.  I am getting old, I very well may not see the fulfillment of this, but should I live a long and healthy life into my early to late 80s, it is possible, but those who have come after me, that generation and the following generation will see it clearly. All the world inclinations, correlations appear to indicate the Beast, and Antichrist, if you wish to separate them, will be on scene soon, the Antichrist, and if I was to take a leaping guess was born in the late sixties, perhaps 1969.  So a good year for this tribulation seven-year period to begin, may very well be in the late 2020s or early 2030s. It is in the makings now.

#1167/October 4, 2016.

Electing Our Next President

Electing Our Next President

We must remember that there is a good deal of intellectual ice mingled with this wine, or train of thought on electing our next president.  If I offend my friend with words, let them drop off like autumn leaves from a tree for they have more cause to complain over their own lives than to complain over my words, or me. It is every bit true what I say, only not told as darkly as it might have been, as I will tell it, had s/he not removed their own detriments, when they speak of mine.  Heavens sees fit to visit me with this unshakable conviction that this article is good for something. That is why I am not asking for anyone’s consent forthcoming of my writings for if I had, many would withdraw it, and that would have disagreed with me.

       First of all, I have never seen in my 68-years on earth, such an election for a president, this we may all agree on.  The Democrats vs the Republicans.  I myself, have chosen in the past both, being a Conservative Democrat, this year a Republican. My decision is based on issues, not emotions, or loyalty to either party, right or wrong.  I’m a Christian, and I hold dearly to Christian views.  So now you know where I’m headed, so if you wish, this is the time to disembark the ship, for this is where the freedom with which I thus publicly assert my rights to speak over personal friendships between private and statesman. Which is to me the most imposing position in the world at this very moment. For other folks there may be a choice of paths,--for me, but one. 

       I am anti-abortion, which is the Christian way; nor I am in favor of all these gay rights, under the name of social justice; nor am I for a corrupted leader that has such a tarnished history, it is unbelievable she can even be running for president, and everyone overlooking it.  Nor am I in favor for our FBI to take sides, or our Federal Reserve Bank to take sides, or for those on the internet, or on Facebook to try to bully people into voting for their heroine, herein.  None of these things thus far are Christian, nor ever will be no matter how you interpret the Bible. Gender ideology, that we are having today, this is a bunch of gobbledygook. Euthanasia likewise. Selling our country over to the United Nations, our uranium to Russia, going against our own laws, by allowing immigration to flow freely, without guarding the people, as Obama has done and as Hillary Clinton expects to do. Sleeping on the watch, when I was a soldier that was a criminal offence. We have yet to see our darkest day but we will.  God made a turnabout on 9/11, he surely must have said, there is a price to pay for your sins America. And all these phony Christians that go to church, and think by saying a rosary they are all forgiven. You got to walk the talk, a Christian has to be like glue with Christ, or just let go and go with the devil, and you’re no good as a Christian.

       How on earth any Christian can vote for Hillary is beyond me, you are voting for more attacks on our soil, a dawdling armed forces, a woman who hates the young, disposes the old, could care less about Christ—to which you can see has taken Obama forever to protect Christians overseas, and sent Islam, more money to build their armed forces up in Iran, to destroy Israel, our only friend in the Middle East. If he is not a Muslim, he is the closest thing to one, and he is surely not a Christian.  We no longer stand to the National Anthem, we no longer have the Ten-Commandments in our schools, we have more Executive Orders, allowing the American Way, which is no longer the American way to be trampled on. People have more respect for the devil man in Russia, Putin, than our own president, and Hillary will be his double, or replacement. Amen.  Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. h.c.

An Old Man’s Quiet Dreams

((The Dreams of 1974-75 & ‘76) (The present, Oct 2, 2016))

  

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The poet, an old man, clean shaven, had some difficulty getting out of bed. The big bay window in the bedroom he always liked to peer out of when he woke up, even in the middle of the night, to make a bathroom run, or in the morning, once out of bed. It  would had been better had he pushed the bed over towards the widow but his wife slept on that side so he’d still have to get up in order to do day and night his habit.

       There was no fuss about the matter, he had his writing items on a wooden table alongside him, alongside his side of the bed, and that being to his benefit, should he wish in the middle of the night to write a verse or two, or make a note.

       The poet this morning had written down some notes about his twin boys who now of course were grown men, and would in a short while stretch them out to make a short story.  His dreaming in fact led him to that subject. In particular, when his twin boys were dressed for their 3^rd Halloween party, like little fairies, to which they won 1^st and 2^nd place (1974), each winning a prize, amongst many other children. And part of the dream was when they had went on their 1^st Easter Egg hunt (1974), in one of the local parks, with a group of other children—both gathering up several eggs; and third, about their first 4^th of July picnic (1975), when a bee got into Cody’s Coke can and he had to grab the can and his wife yelled at him for taking the boy’s coke and wouldn’t believe the bee actually entered the can, so he told his wife “Go ahead and drink some,” and she dare not, staring at the can as if it was cursed! until the bee drunkenly bussed out of the can and flew off. The last part of the dream was when Shawn (1976) went to buy two ice-cream cones for him and his brother from a Ice-cream van that rode back and forth within the Army Housing Project, and a strange boy a year or two older wanted to take one cone form him, and Shawn whom had learned a few karate moves from his father whom was looking out the bay window from the living room, and Shawn looking up, and his father giving him the go ahead to kick, kicked the boy in the chest, and the boy went home crying, his father was proud of that day, he didn’t like bullies.

       His Father-in-law had died in 1976, at the early age of 47-years old of alcoholism, and that was when they were still living in Babenhausen West Germany, matter of fact all these chapters took place in Babenhausen, Germany.

       The tired old man with the pen in hand was not ludicrous, the moving of the bed was just a thought, quickly forgotten (now being October 2, 2016). And he looked out the window as he always did, it in his own way, actually woke him up some, he was near seventy years old.  He had sat up on his bed some, to allow his blood to circulate throughout his body, so he told himself—then slowly got up, if not he’d roll back over and lay quiet and still for another half hour or so in bed, a little beset with notions concerning his heart, he had had a heart attack and a stroke in his mid-40s, he had been a hard smoker, and drinker in his 20s and 30s, and now and then his heart fluttered. He figured the chances were high he’d die someday from that very fact, unexpectedly, better not jump out of bed too quick.  It did not alarm him, it is not easily explained: after his heart surgery, it made him more alive to take more risks. But as he lay in bed it came to mind, days and months were passing, making his old body more useless, every month his body becoming two months older so it felt.  But something inside of him still felt young. It is absurd of course to identify what made him feel like a young man inside and old man outside. But what can be sought is what the old man was thinking about as a young man inside of him and it was those special days with his twin boys. He had enjoyed a long helpful hand in his life, God and his guardian angel that was assigned to him, and everyone he met in the world he had enjoyed, now this morning a great many notions were in his head.

       He had once been a quite handsome man, and a number of women had been in love with him. At least that is what the poet thought, and such thoughts pleased him, and why argue with  an old man’s thoughts, or his dreams that were at one time not dreams, but realities. Such dreams this morning had driven a long process of figures before his eyes. He had eaten popcorn before he went to bed last night, he had indigestion this morning, but after he drank his pineapple juice, it passed. Thus, he got out of bed, looked out the window, only one single short, nearly baldheaded man passed on the sidewalk, it was Sunday, all was quiet. He went downstairs, saw his wife sleeping on the couch, she had went to early mass, and come home and fallen to sleep. He made it over to his writing desk, and began to write, this all made a light impression on his mind, and he wanted to describe it. As he sat by his desk, he wrote for an hour or so, a story he called, “An Old Man’s Quite Dreams.”

        

#1164/ October 2, 2016