ye olde annual halloween story

ye olde annual Halloween story

fiction
edward w Pritchard

repost with edits


Workers in East Liverpool, Ohio digging a new gas line 200 feet North of the Ohio river have found evidence in a tell, of a lower level ancient civilization on the site of current East Liverpool. The layering of civilizations in mounds, called tells in Arabic, is not unusual. As one civilization passes the next often build on the same site, merely raising the street level so to speak. It's a common occurrence well know to archaeologists.

What makes the East Liverpool discovery intriguing, and a little spooky to archaeologists from Ohio State University, at Columbus, Ohio is that the lower city remains are not an earlier stage of development of East Liverpool. Nor were they Native American remains. The tell is confirmed as the remains of an early civilization of Ur formerly conclusively known to be in the Middle East, existing in about 2800BC, in ancient Sumeria. How did a layer of the ancient city of Ur end up in Ohio?

Archaeologists best guess, at least according to underclassmen archeology students from Ohio State is it must have something to do with the Ohio River and civilizations developing on the land between the Rivers. [1]

More later on this as available
end

1.
author contends and hints, Ohio State Archaeology students have erred in thinking it was Ur, which is not particularly scary or news worthy

to my daughter; women philosophers

to my daughter; women philosophers

edited from two women thinkers, previous blog

fiction
edward w pritchard

Women have often received short shift as intellectuals. Writings by men abound in history; women receive less mention if any. Three woman thinkers with something to say worthy of historical notice.


Karen Horney
the Distrust between the Sexes
Horney a distinguished psychiatrist, a contemporary of Freud, influenced by his work, but less abrasive to read than Freud. Horney's view of the mistrust between the sexes is, she says, caused by cultural forces that individuals aren't usually aware of, including misplaced and unrealistic expectations; and that failed relationships are often the result of neurotic patterns developed in childhood.

Susanne Langer
Expressiveness
Harvard educated Langer asserts that language has it's limits, and Art, capital A best expresses emotions a vital part of a healthy human. We all spend years and years at school learning facts and math but spend little time on developing our emotions. Emotional development is best achieved through the arts, which is the theme of her essay Expressiveness.

Next Simone De Beauvoir
women are individuals, equality is best achieved through work, but why did she let Sartre push her around then.
end

a letter to muscle and fitness

repost with edits

a complete and productive workout

fiction
edward w Pritchard

Dear Editor
Muscle and Fitness magazine:

I forgave my husband of sixteen years for getting involved with the lady assistant principal at the school where he taught. I admit I was surprised by the type of woman he choose to replace me with. He had told me for years and years he preferred a demur lady, which I always was. His new friend was tall and broad and assertive and rather loud.

After my divorce for two years I went to the gym and read "Fitness and Prayer" health magazine and followed the advice in the articles on how to build my muscles and body in a Christian friendly way. For me however, my results were not what I wanted and certainly not up to the typical results achieved by other readers of "Fitness and Prayer" magazine.

In desperation and wishing a change I began to work around my neighbors farm with a spud bar. It's a six foot long crow bar used for prying out stumps. It weighs about 20 pounds and it gives a vigorous workout as one tries to remove stubborn stumps from the heavy soil. Over a summer I developed muscles like never before and I began to look like the female fitness models in Fitness and Prayer. Of course I continued to read "Fitness and Prayer" and to follow it's dietary recommendations and to ask God for his blessing with my health regime.

It wasn't until I began the spud bar routine that I began to make rapid progress as a bodybuilder and power lifter. Every other day, except Sunday, I would spend two or three hot and sweaty hours prying up stumps and fighting roots in the boiling sun. I would supplement my endeavor with the ladies three day weekly workout from "Fitness and Prayer" magazine. Twice per day I have a Moses power hour shake with bit of creatine. [see Maggi's diet, supplements and exercises and spud bar routine on line at "Fitness and Prayer", issue 89 September 2010] editor

I credit my success as a weight lifter to my work with a spud bar removing stumps and of course to reading " Fitness and Prayer magazine" and being as good of a Christian as I can possibly be.  / Try it

Maggi Regozzi

when the circus packs up and steadily moves out of town

when the circus packs up and steadily moves out of town

fiction
edward w Pritchard

Us farmers, store keepers, women and children milled around a long time after the circus packed up and steadily left town. The ground shook from the trump of the elephants, the squeak of the wagon wheels carrying the fat lady and the fire eating boy could be heard for a long, long way off and you could see the red hair of the world's tallest man for over a half mile before the entire circus retinue was out of sight; steadily traversing Cario hill off southwest to Carterville.

For four glorious days our lives were transformed by all the performers of the three ring circus but now the strongman who wrestles a giant bear, the woman who trains miniature horses, and the rest of the troupe are all gone; off to the next venue.   

Back to our lives tomorrow.

dang, how is that I, me am not famous/ repost/ edit

dang, how is it that I, me am not famous/ repost/edit

the photo op

fiction
edward w pritchard

For his wife's birthday the President of the United States decided to surprise her with a photo of the 100,000 most important celebrities alive in the year 2013 and naturally he wanted the picture taken at the Hollywood bowl. Embarrassingly the plans were in progress before one of the Presidents staff informed him the bowl would only seat 17,500. Rather than move the photo op the President reluctantly agreed to cut the number of celebrities invited.

Arguments and posturing followed of who would be the most important living celebrities. A furor followed and national interest and normal business was pleasantly forgotten as the claws came out among the famous to have their picture taken at the Hollywood bowl.

Should a musician who had made one great song in 1954 be asked to the event? How about a baseball player who pitched one perfect game in 1965? What about a famous evangelist who had retired without scandal? How about a politician who hadn't written a book?

Eventually categories of fame and fortune and stardom were devised and in good time the 17,500 celebrities were gathered and the picture was taken.

Sadly because of pressing concerns the President was unable to make it to the photo op. His wife was Ok with that because she never really liked the picture as the smiles seemed a little contrived.

As a historical note I was not included on the first list or the second; I have no fame at all, surprising to only myself I am sure. I, me is not famous. How about you?

Routine drive home disrupted by a fall

Routine drive home disrupted by a fall

fiction
edward w pritchard

Sometimes the stories write themselves, skip if you might find this a little disturbing.


Stopped at a stop sign, looking dead ahead five hundred yards away at the construction project I was, where some workmen were rebuilding a school they were, a government recession buster program we ordained; my routine drive home was disrupted by a fall it was.

I saw him, too close to the edge he was, four stories up on a metal roof, walking confidently forward to toss something aggressively over the side. I didn't hear the young man hit the ground but before he fell I swear I saw his eyes, although my vision is bad and although I didn't hear him hit the earth I distinctly felt and still feel the vibrations of the thud high up in my shoulders blades of my back. His day that day was definitely disrupted by a fall.

Who dat, Goodnight Irene; 9th Ward piano blues

who dat, good night Irene-9th ward piano blues

fiction
edward w pritchard

Irene, I live in the Country
sitting by a campfire
not in Angola Prison
listening to blues from New Orleans
and stealing someone's lyrics.

post hoc

post hoc
being dead is different draft 2 with edits

fiction
ed ward w prtchard

how blue can you get?


Being dead is different than I thought it would be but it's still not easy and it's still not comfortable or familiar. Meaning as we begin our journey after we die there remains the familiar element of uncertainty that we do not know where we are going or why. The same uncertainty we felt while we lived continues to exist in us after we are dead.

There is no sensation of pain, at least not for me, and mostly that's how my life was ; so that's normal; though I am dead now. The psychological component of death is similar to life for me. Difficulty, boredom and purposeless.

 Since I am now dead I do not have to fear death any longer, that frees up a lot of time; I must use that time constructively now.

I have been trying to reform since I died. Since I couldn't have a purpose for my being in life, I will adapt one now that I am dead.

I am journeying to the destination after my death and I move on purposely. No more dashing from place to place, trying to escape from myself, only to find myself in the deep oblivion of my meaningless existence. For now I am dead. My restless weariness is over now. I no longer crave what I do not have or debate what cannot be. My mind is free of fears and my heart is indifferent to the absence of my body. [1]

Sometimes as I sojourn after death the movement of matter around me can be heard and it is a distantly remembered voice of a dear friend. Still even that although comforting seems temporary as I journey alone with nothing to do and no one to help.


Being dead is different. My mind is calm my soul is at peace.

1- Lucretius- On the nature of things

a soldier's worse duty / part 2/draft 1

a soldier's worse duty/ part 2

fiction
Edward w Pritchard

I read the story Pritchard wrote of a soldiers worse duty; the story of a northern soldier burying the dead after the battle of Gettysburg. It reminded me of a story my Grandfather told me about our people, the Cherokee Indians and what happened to the dead during the ordeal of the forced march known as the Trail of Tears in the year of 1836.

My Grandfather was a leader of our section of the Cherokees and reluctantly decided and agreed to lead a group of our men, women and children to what became later the State of Oklahoma.

Of course they had to walk there, that is well known, the Cherokees walked on a forced march driven by soldiers, that is well known, many women and children died during the ordeal, that is well known; what isn't well known is the fate of those hundreds of dead bodies. My Grandfather often shared with us his grandchildren of his experience of what to do with the dead during the forced march known as the Trail of Tears.

My Grandfather had been a good warrior in his youth although our group of Cherokees had for years by then in 1836 tried to follow the ways of White Americans in an effort to assimilate and survive, as was the reality of their situation early in 19th century America. Now at the time of the Trail of Tears my Grandfather was an elderly man and walking any distance was difficult for him. Walking from Georgia to Oklahoma was a great distance that had to be endured. Many died on the way. America soldiers had orders not to stop the march to bury the Indian dead. My Grandfather pleaded with the soldiers to allow us to stop to bury our dead but it was to no avail. He ask to bury our dead as a soldier himself, he asked as a spiritual leader, he asked the officers of the Americans as man to man; all to no avail were his pleas to properly bury our dead.

Finishing his story my Grandfather would often tell his grandchildren of how packs of wolves and flocks of buzzards followed the Cherokee Indians as they marched from Georgia to the place that would later become the State of Oklahoma. My Grandfather repeated the story often to me of how the wolves and buzzards would devour our dead children who had fallen on the march of the Trail of Tears. My Grandfather would describe the howl, howling of the wolves as they stalked our tribe and the whirling of the buzzards as they floated above the stranglers in our group.  Keeping his eyes to the front, looking westward toward the future my Grandfather lead our people to a new frontier. The plight of our dead children eaten by wolves and torn asunder by buzzards had to be ignored in order to insure the survival of our group of Cherokee Indians in 1836. This is a fact in the history of America.
end

four days in Manhattan/ draft 1/ part 2

four days in Manhattan/ draft 1/ part 2

see part one for continuity 

fiction
edward w Pritchard

Travel is very broadening they say and because of my extensive traveling recently I have updated my philosophy about artificial intelligence units since having first seen the article that the writer guy ed pritchard wrote about my four day leave in Manhattan. In the first story pritchard wrote I was telling how after I finished basic training for the Navy I encountered a service robot at an Amish restaurant as my waitress who was exactly like a series four robotic sergeant I had just had in basic training. Of course their persona's were totally different but both were the same model of robot, looked similar and despite doing different jobs were unmistakably the same.   

About six years after that incident I was a salesman always on the road going from place to place. One night I was on the road in Toledo Ohio and I stopped at one of those artificial intelligence transvestite clubs. They had series six artificial intelligence robotic units dressed as women singing torch songs to a room full of drunks of which I was one.

The first singer was a robot doing an impersonation of the old singer Pink. I don't know, it didn't quite work. The artificial intelligence unit had pink hair and strutted around a lot but it wasn't all that interesting to me although I enjoyed the style of the original singer Pink.

The main act was the best.  The six foot seven inch robot unit impersonated Linda Rondstat and sang "Desperado". The robot had Rondstat's voice down to a T. What amazed me were the head flips, and the nuances of the eyes and lips, just like the singer Linda Rondstat when she was 25 years old, half a century ago.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery they say and a torch singer never ages when her songs are covered by robotic artificial intelligence units in a smoky bar far off the beaten path in a place like Toledo Ohio.

four days in Manhattan/ draft 1

four days in Manhattan

fiction
edward w Pritchard

After boot camp and before my training in North Carolina through some small miracle the Navy gave me and three of my fellow enlisted men four days of leave. Maybe it was because as radio men we were headed to the War in Lebanon after our training. Having no girl friend at the time and no one at home I decided to fly to New York, Manhattan, the second largest City in the world at the time of this story, 2022.

I did a lot of drinking, strip clubs and gambling like any navy man would and by the second night of my leave I was ready for a quiet evening. I went to the new chain restaurant Durbin's Amish Foods for a seven o'clock dinner alone.

That evening was the most shocking of my life. My waitress was one of the GHE artificial intelligence series four synthetic serving models. A robot of sorts with all the artificial intelligence prerequisite skills for serving work in a restaurant. Wearing a cream colored  Amish style bonnet and the appropriate persona of a shy nervous Amish teenager my waitress brought me drinks, served me bread and sprinkled imported cheese and olive oil on my Caesar salad. All the while the serving unit spoke to me diffidently in a soft sweet voice with lowered "eyes" and a tilted "head".

The rub here? My sergeant in basic training the last twelve weeks at the Marine camp where I trained was also a series four synthetic serving model robot. Believe me my Sergeant's voice was anything but sweet, he wasn't shy and Sarge never cut up my food for me. Looking at the waitress in Manhattan I become unable to look in the eyes; and not just because she was six feet seven inches tall.  It made for a very uncomfortable meal. Both my Sergeant at basic and the waitress in Manhattan were of the exact same type personality and demeanor but were presenting a different persona appropriate to the situation that they were in.

I had heard that these synthetic artificial intelligence units were capable of a wide range of behaviors but it wasn't until I encountered one there in New York that I realized that they could be more than human at times.
end

a soldiers worse duty

a soldiers worse duty

fiction
Edward w Pritchard

I was with the 115 mustered out of Massillon Ohio in the Civil war. It's been 45 years since the battle of Gettysburg but I can still smell the stink of the dead after the battle.

I was traveling to rejoin my unit the 115 who were near Cincinnati, Ohio from the town of Gettysburg on a mission for our company commander Col Thomas Boone. Both Col Boone and myself haled from Salem Ohio before the war, me as a humble farmer, he as a leader of our town. I was in Gettysburg for my colonel on private business that even now I cannot divulge.

In the course of the mayhem on July 3rd 1863 being unattached from any unit I was sent to General Meade's headquarters. The next day after the battle I was temporarily assigned to gather the dead.

Of all the duties a soldier could get this was the worse. It was hot and rainy and close to 10,000 dead
lay on the field rotting with another 3,000 horses nearby. For six days I was assigned to gather the dead.

The smell cannot be described. I remember the maggots scurrying as we picked up the body and a strange type of black bug, about half an inch long with a strange looking stinger at each end. When we rolled over a body to move it the bugs would rush in all directions to escape.

Even now, in 1908 as I write this memoir I can still smell death in the air after the battle of Gettysburg and shutter when I remember how long it took me to be able to look at food after that ordeal.

a rifle, eight silver dollars and a brisk walk/ part 4

a rifle, eight silver dollars and a brisk walk/ part 4

fiction
edward w Pritchard

see parts 1-3 previous posts for background

To Dr. Kelli Watkens
c/o Cleveland Clinic
Heart Center

Dr. Watkins:

I am an antique dealer in Cario, Ohio and recently saw your request for information on Moseby Whitsell of New Guinea, Ohio.

I have information that may be of interest to you. I am now retired and my family is not interested in carrying on my passion of collecting old letters and cards so I am going to give you these two letters as a gift. I believe if you find Mr. Whitsell  is your relative you can be proud of him as one of the first Black men in this part of Ohio to fight in the Civil war, even if not in an official capacity.

sincerely
Eva Harter
Cario, Ohio
September, 2013


DOCUMENT 1

Dear Mose:

I suffered for three long days and nights thinking you had been killed by the confederates going to fight them in Lisbon, Ohio in July of 1863. It didn't take much military thinking to imagine whose
black face those Confederate boys would shoot at when the attack started.

All the times I worried and fretted about you dieing I was mad as the devil at you too. What do you mean telling me you enjoyed the food and cooking made by the white ladies of Salem, Ohio while I was home here worrying over you and taking care of your daughter?

Well now that you are coming home safe, be prepared for the best meal you have ever had. I have a special dinner for you planned the night you return.

your wife
Lucinda Whitsell
X
signed by her mark
letter dictated by Lucinda Whitsell
written by
Mrs. Betsy Haines
friend of family


Document 2

Lucinda,

Thank-you dear wife that was the best meal I ever had. You went to way to much trouble fussing over me a soldier who never fired a shot and was away from home only three days. The whole time I was gone I could think of nothing but you and our daughter. I told my friends last night the pasta you cooked, the cigar you gave me, and the Irish whiskey you poured me were the best any colored soldier ever has had.

One more thing though. I have to criticize you for spending two dollars on imported pasta noodles. No unemployed colored man has a right to eat noodles imported from Italy. I don't expect that the American government will be in any more of a hurry to hire black soldiers even after the contribution of colored troops at Fort Wagner, South Carolina. So I don't expect to be hired as a soldier although I would be proud to serve. I will try again to get on with the railroad. I hope my experience on the Ohio Canal will help me. I for one don't think that Mr. Lincoln freeing all the slaves or not will make it any easier for us to find work at a decent rate of pay. Rest assured though Lucinda, I will properly care for our family.

Moseby
end

a rifle, eight silver dollars and a brisk walk/ part 3

a rifle, eight silver dollars and a brisk walk/ part 3

fiction
edward w Pritchard

see parts 1 and 2 previous
history lesson

Blackancestor.com blog

Does anyone have any information on a Mose Whittelsey of Freedom Ohio. He may have fought in the civil war and may have lived in a place called New Guina, near Alliance Ohio?
Dr. Kelli Watkens
Cleveland, Ohio

best answer

Miss Watkens
I believe there is a connection to Reverend Jermaine Luguen the abolitionist, and to Johnathon Haines of the underground railroad in Salem Ohio. It's New Guinea, now defunct, was three miles north of Alliance Ohio, Freedom, Ohio was one of three towns merged to form Alliance when the railroad came into Ohio in the 19th century. Good luck with your search.
TkP

a rifle, eight silver dollars and a brisk walk/ part 2

a rifle, eight silver dollars and a brisk walk/ part 2

fiction
edward w pritchard

Sunday July 26, 3AM

Lucinda,

I am riding in a wagon down to New Lebanon, Ohio with a sixteen year old boy from Paris, Ohio which is just  South of where you are there in Alliance. The rebels are going to attack New Lebanon sometime in the next twelve hours or so, so we are hurrying  to get there. The young man I am riding with wanted to fight rebs and took his families wagon and two horses to get to Salem to join the citizens there. It was a foolish thing for him to do, everyone knows how much raiders value horses. He is just a kid and won't listen anyway so I got a ride with him. We should be there in a few hours. Lots of other people are headed down this road toward Lebanon also as there had been a call to arms. The people of Salem can rest easy it looks like; John Morgan will strike at Lebanon first. Rumor has it he wants to cross the Ohio River and then return later to Ohio. We might just as well strike them here is my opinion. 

A few hours ago we assisted a lady who was burying her silver spoons in the woods. We saw her light from the road. Her husband is already in Columbiana County and she is terrified of the rebels. I tried to reassure her as I would hope someone would do for you and our child in similar situations.

The boy I am with has never talked to a black man before.  He says there are Black people in Canton near his home but he has never been around any of us. I am sorry he is getting into this mess. He is so young but he tells me they are letting boys as young as twelve fight [ in the militias] he also says Ohio has mustered fifty thousand men to fight General Morgan's raiders, but no one can find him.

Well hopefully I can write again before the battle tomorrow,
love to you and the baby
Moseby Whitsell

A rifle, eight silver dollars and a brisk walk/ part 1

A rifle, eight silver dollars and a brisk walk

fiction
Edward w Pritchard

Dearest Lucinda

Saturday July 25th, 1863

Hopes the baby is well and you are resting off your feet. No such luck for me. After a short walk over to Salem[ Ohio] I have been recruited into the militia. Everyone is so afraid of General Morgan and the rebs that they have no qualms about letting a black man join the fight. Times are changing. I have a new rifle to use, and what a rifle. Mr. Hamlin {of Alliance} when he heard I was going to Salem to help the citizens there watch out for General Morgan gave me a new repeating rifle to borrow. It shoots 10 bullets per minute. That should come in handy. I am there protecting you and the baby, it's something I have to do. I will not let my family be took South back into slavery. Mr. Hamlin also gave me 8 silver dollars. Expense money he called it. He is proud of me for coming to fight. You should get five of them dollars with this  letter, assuming the Confederates are not already in Salem and James Day isn't detained in bringing it to you as he promised me.

You are in my thoughts. I have also been remembering  when I came to New Guinea as I track back over these same roads we walked at night on the underground railroad with Mr. Haines to Alliance, Ohio. This war is crazy but it was far away, now it's come within twenty miles of our home.

These Quakers here are very good people, but I don't think much of them as potential soldiers. They are pacifists and want to pray for peace with the Confederates. There are a few Yankees soldiers coming back through Salem from leaves in Cleveland and Ravenna and they call most of the people of Salem, Damascus, and Alliance Copperheads. Copperheads are Northerners who want peace with the Rebels. Well at least all us Black people here in Ohio aren't copperheads. We know what will happen to us if General John Morgan and his raiders are successful.

The men are all very nervous. Most of them haven't fired a gun, being Quakers and they say Morgan has 10,000 men coming. I doubt that. Maybe a few thousand but if they come to Salem or Alliance there will be trouble for us. The ladies here have been cooking and feeding us non stop. I am treated well by them, like a soldier. I have the best gun here and I am strangely calm about my situation. It's good be to be doing something to help our people. I feel connected to the Reverend John Brown now,bless his soul,that I am putting my life on the line for our freedom. Should I die, Lucinda, please pray for my soul and ask Reverend J Luguen to do the same and tell him I died doing my duty.

Well I am going to try to sleep for a few hours, I think if they are coming it will be at dawn.
Moseby

end part 1

children are unique individuals, not larval adults

children are unique individuals, not larval adults

fiction
edward w Pritchard

reposted, edited
for John

School budget problems

fiction
edward w pritchard

Knowles was the Senior loan officer at the community bank over in Barberton and was going to a budget meeting at the elementary school in a local township. That school system was having budget problems and it was proposed to layoff several teachers if an emergency levy wasn't passed. Knowles who was very good with numbers and finance was going to a meeting as a temporary board member to help the school system with cut back management something he had a lot of experience with having gone through several banking crisis' over the last 20 years.

Knowles was early for the meeting, as usual for he was organized and efficient in his personal habits. He was going through the halls of the grade school about 8:40AM for the 9AM meeting. He had been here twice before and remembered the way.

In the empty hall was one little girl of about 5, or 6, or 7, Knowles wasn't sure for he had no grandchildren and his only son lived out of State now. The girl was kneeling and struggling with her back pack. She saw Knowles coming down the hall and asked him to help her.

The first thing Knowles relearned was how intelligent children are and that they have their own concerns and interests in the world. The girl was confident and innocent at once as they emptied the overloaded book bag and tried to fix the zipper. There were two zippers and one was stuck and it was making the bag out of square and was sitting awkwardly on the little girls back and was difficult to carry. The girl had been trying to fix it for a minute when Knowles stopped.

As they worked the girl asked him if he had any children here. He explained he lived about twenty miles north of here and his son worked far away in another State. The girl next asked him when he had seen his son last. Thinking he realized he hadn't seen his son in four months or talked to him in two. As that realization flashed across his face she looked at him briefly and continuing to remove papers and books from the bag said "you should call him".

Next she asked him continuing to work, like Knowles' wife would or Mother would have in a similar situation, " Why are you here today". He explained to her very briefly and in broad strokes about his budget meeting. The girl asked him if they would still have gym and art class if the budget failed. He said something positive and as they finished the project with her book bag she handed him a picture she had drawn. She told him to keep it for helping her fix her book bag and being nice.

Knowles keeps a minimalist motif in his office at the Bank in Barberton. He did find a place for the picture that little girl gave him. It's a boat on a shore under a blue sky. The picture is impressionist like Cezanne, Van Gogh or Monet would draw if they used only thick crayons. The picture is unframed and a little wrinkled from being in a broken backpack but every day now Knowles looks at that picture and it always relaxes him as he goes about his job at the Bank.

Horse and buggy thinking

Horse and buggy thinking

fiction
edward w Pritchard

My wife and I had been married a long time so I was surprised when she confided in me about a problem she was having. In fact she was crying one evening in our kitchen when I came home from work and told me about a patient of hers Sarah Miller who would have to quit school soon after graduating from the eighth grade.

My wife was a psychologist and although I sometimes forgot such things she had been raised as a Mennonite in her youth. That's how my wife came to counsel a young Amish girl named Sarah Miller, who as was customary with the Amish here in Central Ohio where we lived, would stop her formal schooling at age 13 after graduating from the eighth grade. Following graduation from eighth grade the young girl would complete her education at home with her Mother learning to cook, clean, wash clothes, and eventually raise children as a good Amish member of the Community.

Sarah Miller's teacher who was a Mennonite had taken the drastic step of bringing the girl to see my wife because the teacher felt it would be a debasement of human dignity to not further educate Sarah who had an IQ of approximately 175. The girl's parents who were old school Amish had not been consulted about their daughter's teacher taking Sarah to see a psychologist because the teacher knew from working with the Amish that as a rule there were no exceptions in their minds to their policy of not educating students beyond eighth grade if the youth in question was to be a member of the traditional Amish community.

The teacher knew she was probably violating the law by bringing Sarah Miller to see my wife, Dr. Robinson without the parents permission but the teacher felt she must do something drastic to help the girl.

My wife ask me as a lawyer to look into the Ohio case law on not completely or properly educating gifted students, and to advise her on if she should see the young girl for a second time a week from tomorrow at the next scheduled appointment. My wife also confided in me something she had never told me in our twenty years of marriage that she had faced a similar predicament  herself at age 14 and she had been having trouble the last few days in reliving an incident and decision she herself had made as a teenage girl.

end part 1

Dead drunk on wormwood

Dead drunk on wormwood

fiction
edward w pritchard

There was something pathetic about Josie Sitzwell but no one would say; it being impolite to restate the obvious like that. He would collapse into that green John Deere folding chair he carried each day into work in the kitchen of the hotel where we worked and Josie would say every hour or two, after standing on his feet in the steam of the automatic dishwasher, " I am drunk on wormwood". Meaning he needed a break as he fell back into the canvas folding chair. When he was ready to get back to work cleaning pots, pans and dishes in the back of the hotel kitchen he would always say" best machine John Deere ever made", speaking about his chair. Josie was pushing eighty years old but since he sent all his social security money to Memphis Tennessee to care for his handicapped daughter in the Jolly Rogers retirement center he still had to work full time. The hotel was an old dilapidated Holiday Inn there in Akron across from the Summit Mall.

I was the night auditor at the Hotel where I would be hanging around the kitchen as often as I could at night to be around one of the girls who worked in the bar adjacent to the kitchen. That girl there kept me on a string so I had to work at talking to her. Josie got a kick out of me chasing after her and enjoyed kidding me about it. Once when he was being serious he told me I should get a legitimate girlfriend from the College I went to but I would have none of that.

One of the maids at the hotel got beat up back in the second story hallway near room 235 the suite used by the Jeanette Morganstern Dressmakers service who had a day room during the week and sold designer apparel from 12 to 5PM Monday to Thursday. The porters were off that Wednesday night after the day maid was banged up and beat about the head up there near room 235 and Josie and I ended up scrubbing the blood from the walls where her head had struck at least four or five times. Later she admitted that the assistant back up custodian had hit her because she was seeing two men at once. The maid and the custodian were both black and in those days nothing came of such matters with the police.

Josie was upset that the girl would get no justice and I remember he talked to her a few times about going to the police but she couldn't risk loosing her job over such a thing so the matter dropped.

About a year later, after I had moved on from the hotel business after graduating college and getting married, I was talking to Josie over at the Egg castle restaurant one night where he was working as the night dishwasher and busing tables. I mentioned to Josie, making conversation, that I heard the guy who had beat the maid up had been shot a few months after the beating incident and had slowly bled to death in the Hotel parking lot.

Josie was wearing a grease stained white torn apron and was balancing a mop and a half tray of dirty dishes as we talked about the maid who had been beat up by the assistant janitor. Just like that, cluing  me in on what he had done, Josie said " I guess that man was dead drunk on wormwood" that night when he lay out there in the cold between the cars bleeding to death.

Wormwood was a word from the Bible, it has something to do with Revelations but also Josie had told me once wormwood is another name used in the old testament for absinthe, a bitter herbal drink. Josie wanted me to know he had shot the man in the parking lot for beating up the maid. That's how Josie would tell a story, it could be a little confusing but he got his point across.

After that incident old Josie didn't seem so pathetic, to me at least.  

I mowed the lawn; now what

I mowed the lawn; now what

fiction
edward w pritchard

It's better not to talk about some things. Better why, I don't know, I am sure my shrink would disagree, but of course I don't get my shrink for another twenty years. In the future twenty years hence I'll have a shrink for a year or so, but now when it first happened, when I had the first inkling about how things really were, it's just me out here mowing the lawn and I have just had my revelation.

I mowed the lawn now what? The job is done. The mower made it through the entire process without breaking down. I am not the kind of person to spray off the bottom of the mower with a hose or inspect the level of the oil or sharpen the blade for next time or hang the mower on a hook in the garage or suspended from the rafters in the shed.

I mowed the lawn now what? Into the house? Watch baseball or football. I could talk to her. Maybe help the children with their homework. I never really did that. Better to just give encouragement, a heaping of helping platitudes from Dale Carnegie or one of those positive thinkers that we buy their books and for a few days underline everything in the first few pages.

I could write like; I mowed the lawn now what!!! Of course I remember someone said don't use exclamation points. It's just the lawn is mowed. I went to work this week. Here I am standing in this neat yard, by the car in this smallish city and I have just finished mowing the lawn.

What do I do now, Now that after the job of mowing is done I know, know what is happening here, because, while I pushed the mower about the rows of grass I realized some thing important. No, I don't rake the grass or edge the edges or mulch the clippings.

I mowed the lawn now what?

When people were colored/ reposted with edits

When people were Colored/ reposted with edits





a long time ago here in America in the 1950's people could get and keep a good job even when people were colored, less people were in jail, less people shot each other, and families seemed closer and enjoyed simple pleasures.

fiction
edward w pritchard

Grandpa has a new car for our long drive down route 43 from Cleveland down to Cario, Ohio.  Grandpa works at the Ford plant number one out at Brook Park. It's a very good job for a negro without an education says my Mother. Grandpa has a new Cadillac, 1954 for our drive down to the cemetery down in Stark County about 60 miles from my Grandparents house in Brookpark, near the Ford plant. My Mom says her Dad, my Grandpa should have bought a Ford since he works for the company but Grandma says that if a man works as hard as her husband does he should be able to drive what he wants.

Grandpa is teasing at my Grandma, Velma. I like it when they tease like this,  I can tell they love each other. My Mother never has anything good to say about my Dad anymore since he took off for Chicago to play music. We live with Grandma and Grandpa now, but my Dad tells me him and me will get a nice house when he comes back. I am not sure on that cause I feel like my Mom needs me since he left.

Grandpa is teasing grandma about stopping at the antique store down in Cario. He always pretends like we shouldn't stop to shop when we come down to the Cemetery and today he says he hears they won't let colored people in stores anymore, like back in Alabama.  I thought my Mom was asleep next to me in the back seat but she says don't call us colored, we are Negroes. Grandpa starts to say something else but Grandma cuts him off, they don't want me to hear.

A little later Grandpa says " Velma we could use a new lamp for little Lisa's bedroom, she can use it to study while she stays with us". I know Grandpa is trying to make up with Grandma for teasing her and I feel good to hear them talk like that. I ask my Grandpa if we can stop at the ice cream stand in Streetsboro on the way down just to hear what he will say. " Heavens no girl, ice cream just makes a lady fat, we will get a proper breakfast. "

Later after we went to the cemetery and bought a few antiques, including that lamp for my room; we have pancakes and eggs too down in Cario on route 43. I was still full when we got back up to Streetsboro so I just had a small ice cream cone. After I woke up from a lap in the car I started planning out this week at grade school and reviewed in my mind the lesson we learned at Sunday School earlier this morning.

the devil criticizes this writers lack of readers

the devil criticizes this writers lack of readers

fiction
edward w Pritchard

devil- honestly what were you trying to say below in the story about me?

writer- it was a comment on how the search engine people at google mine my stories for possible ad revenue and then don't share it with the authors

devil- that's what the story below is about? no wonder no one reads this stuff.
end

previously posted

the devil is not really so scary/search engines part 2

fiction
edward w pritchard

The Devil is not really so scary. Walk with him once in a while and get to know him as a person.

The devil is just like we are. Just like you. He's been around a long time and has a reputation. Just like you. The devil is capable of extreme deeds. Just like you. The devil thinks the unthinkable and does it sometimes. Just like you. Walk with the Devil sometimes and get to know yourself.

How to summon the Devil? Think obliquely.
end

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the devil is a bit vain

the devil is a bit vain

see Suburban cowboy alone on Saturday night, previous post

fiction
edward w Pritchard

the devil- I liked the characterization of me as an Amish guy in the previous story

writer- I didn't mention the old tale about the Devil's carriage's shadow crossing your person being bad luck to the bystander in the story either

the devil- just one criticism

writer- now what

devil- most writers characterize me as very tall in their stories, you failed to mention it

writer- you are barely taller than myself

devil- I am much above average, not everyone can be an NBA player, you might next time mention I am tall and stately

writer- anything else

devil- well I see what Jack the Ripper meant when he says you don't have many readers

writer- [ a little upset] I think I am ready for our poker game now.
end

Suburban Cowboy alone on a Saturday night

Suburban Cowboy alone on a Saturday night

fiction
edward w Pritchard

Money is good after a hard week at work, but it looks like the Suburban Cowboy will be alone on a Saturday night. Stay busy. Shower shave and English leather aftershave.

Wash the truck. A twelve pack of Coors lite packed in ice in the slide top Coleman. Put the Coleman in the back of the truck.

Stop at Wal Mart and buy a new classic western shirt with black piping front and back.

Stop at the car show at the church down the road and check out the old classic cars. Share a few Coors with the old guys and their wives.

Redneck music at the roadside inn. A burger or two. Sing along if you wish.

Can't find a lady, choose a facsimile, true ladies are rare. Show off you brown polished Edwin Clapp boots by kicking up your heels on the dance floor.

Can't find that special lady yet?

 Alone in back of the truck out on a desolate country road near a cornfield. Watch the stars, drink Coors and play your harmonica. Sleep in the back of the truck.

Sober, drive home alone.

The truck won't start. The radio was on when you fell asleep to Hank Williams "Your Cheating Heart" you remember that. Now your watch says 3:02 it's pitch dark, it's AM of course. And foggy, with a wet cold mist. Looking up to the East about a thousand bright stars. The stars are reassuring waking up in the dark with a headache, thirsty, no more beer, all 12 are gone. Oh for a pepsi, or another hamburger.

There's that creaking moaning sound again that woke you. There's no Smith and Wesson in the tool chest, It's at home. Grab the metal hand axe, no flash light either.

Walk back to the church, the Lutheran church where the car show was. The creaking sound is approaching, no cars out tonight just that wobbling creaking whining and the occasional whiny of a horse.

There's a picnic ground here behind the Church and about one thousand graves silently sloping up the hill towards the West shining in the starlight. The Moon is down, just the stars and the glow of the fog over the tombstones.

It's a black buggy. Amish. A farmer dressed in all black. His name is Jacob Miller and he is starting his day. He polishes the Amish tombstones in all four Lutheran grave yards here in Hartville before Sunday services. He has a flash light. We are looking for the grave of Carole Yoder. He will give me a ride back to my Family's farm after he finishes polishing the eight markers here. Carole Yoder is the last.

Carole Yoder was a child when she died. June 1889 to May 1894. I use a delicate piece of creamy colored Venetian lace Mr. Miller handed me to polish the oblong leaning sandstone marker. I rub very gently for the sandstone is crumbly and the writing is getting hard to read.

There are no cars or trucks out here on the road as we head up the hill in the black buggy towards my house. Mr. Miller doesn't say much. Amish are that way. He does like my Edwin Clapp boots. He only wears black, boots too.

Why do we always seem to have trouble with our trucks on a moonless night at 3AM? It was lucky that Mr. Miller came along this foggy old road over looking the grave yard at the Lutheran Church. I could have been stuck out here for a long time.

The horse is black too. These Amish are fond of Black. The buggy creaks as we slowly move through the night. Behind to the East there about a million stars out. Soon I hope to see Venus the morning star. It's always reassuring to see the bright morning star Venus. It's a good sign that things are going to be OK. A few stars reflect in the polished wood handle of the hand axe that I clutch in my lap as Mr. Miller and I bounce along this old Country road toward the farm.

three incidents out at the Tractor supply

three incidents out at the Tractor supply

for Spin and Marty


fiction
edward w pritchard

Why did I look like my Mother instead of my Father?

 Both my sisters would be at the mall shopping with my Mother for pink clothes and I would be over at the Tractor supply looking for 40 to one oil mixture for the John Deere trimmer or a half size metal hand axe to whack out some bushes with this Sunday afternoon with my Dad. 

My Dad was so big, 2xx when we looked at the cowboy shirts on sale. I look like my Mother, 5'2 since age 13 and less than 100 pounds. I have her face too, pretty, I don't like that either, I don't like being feminine.

When I was eighteen I was out with Wendell Keener on a date I guess and he had been drinking beers and we rolled around on the stacked up bags of mulch and feed at the Tractor Supply where he worked. It was the middle of a Friday night after I refused his advances in the bed of his red Diesel Ford pick up. He might just as well as stuck things in the cracks between the bags for all the skills he had.

Four years later I first saw Jeannie over at the tractor supply too. She was one of these girls who is always lifting her shirt up to show off her stomach to anyone in the aisles behind her. It worked on me. Later we used to stop real early on Sunday mornings and buy a few things for her horses and then take a long long drive down some ancient Country road with an odd number like 157 East.  We would go way out in the Country and find a farm that took up both sides of a winding road with corn as high as the truck coming right up to the fence by the side of the road I was driving  on and when we finally found the farm house we would talk about how we would buy a place like this someday and sell corn and fruit out here on the edge of the road. I would always describe the little vending stall I would build in the garage at nights after work so we could sell jars of things and make a little extra money. The stall would have a seat for two and we would talk as we waited for our customers to stop to buy our stuff.

Jeannie never did leave her husband and when she died a few years ago I couldn't even go to the funeral. I have put on a lot of weight but I still have a pretty face which I don't much like, but now I ride alone on Sunday mornings on my motorcycle on long rides down in the Country on old roads like 157 West. I don't go to the tractor supply anymore.

a long time ago

a long time ago

fiction
edward w pritchard

Grandpa has a new car for our long drive down route 43 from Cleveland down to Cario, Ohio.  Grandpa works at the Ford plant number one out at Brook Park. It's a very good job for a negro without an education says my Mother. Grandpa has a new Cadillac, 1954 for our drive down to the cemetery down in Stark County about 60 miles from my Grandparents house in Brookpark, near the Ford plant. My Mom says her Dad, my Grandpa should have bought a Ford since he works for the company but Grandma says that if a man works as hard as her husband does he should be able to drive what he wants.

Grandpa is teasing at my Grandma, Velma. I like it when they tease like this,  I can tell they love each other. My Mother never has anything good to say about my Dad anymore since he took off for Chicago to play music. We live with Grandma and Grandpa now, but my Dad tells me him and me will get a nice house when he comes back. I am not sure on that cause I feel like my Mom needs me since he left.

Grandpa is teasing grandma about stopping at the antique store down in Cario. He always pretends like we shouldn't stop to shop when we come down to the Cemetery and today he says he hears they won't let colored people in stores anymore, like back in Alabama.  I thought my Mom was asleep next to me in the back seat but she says don't call us colored, we are Negroes. Grandpa starts to say something else but Grandma cuts him off, they don't want me to hear.

A little later Grandpa says " Velma we could use a new lamp for little Lisa's bedroom, she can use it to study while she stays with us". I know Grandpa is trying to make up with Grandma for teasing her and I feel good to hear them talk like that. I ask my Grandpa if we can stop at the ice cream stand in Streetsboro on the way down just to hear what he will say. " Heavens no girl, ice cream just makes a lady fat, we will get a proper breakfast. "

Later after we went to the cemetery and bought a few antiques, including a lamp for my room we had pancakes down there in Cario on route 43. I was still full when we got back up to Streetsboro so I just had a small ice cream cone.

on the eve of battle

on the eve of battle

fiction
edward w pritchard

Tomorrow we win this war and go home says Donigan or die and spend the rest of eternity pasted to the ground here at Gettysburg, laughs Jiles.

My sergeant says tomorrow will be an important battle; a battle that will be remembered through history.

I don't like the looks of things. For once the Yankees have the right ground. About a mile of open fields across, up hill the whole way, and behind a stone wall. Old General Lee needs to come here and look at things I tell my friend Watson Brimlowe; I'll send for old Billie and the two of you can discuss battle strategy laughs Jiles. Murphy is hopping mad at Jiles; don't call General Lee Billie, you redneck farmer spits out Murphy.

Murphy comes over and puts his arm across my shoulders; I am the youngest soldier in our section. He tells me I should write to my girlfriend back in Georgia. Next to me Brimlowe is writing his name on a paper and pasting it to his undershirt so the Yankees can identify him after the battle here at Gettysburg in a few hours.

Our regiment band is playing. That's a bad sign, usually music before breakfast augurs heavy casualties. 

It's so hard to write to Molly. I don't know her anymore. She never protested at all when I joined up. It's like she wanted to get rid of me and now she doesn't write regularly.

Donigan brings us bacon. His brother is on Longstreet's staff and he lifted some bacon and biscuits for us. He hugs his brother for a long time and tells him to keep his head down. I heard him whisper to his Brother Joey Donigan he loves him. He tells us all that we will back up General Pickett today. Sometime in the next few hours we are going to charge the Yankee lines dead center, across a mile of uphill rolling farmland. Oh yeah, there's several fences and roads to cross and the Yankee's have been moving canons and canons behind the stone walls; I can hear the Yankee canons clunking around a mile and a half away over the sounds of both armies coughing in the damp morning air.

Watson is done with his paper and I paste it on his undershirt for him. Sergeant Murphy kisses the paper before I put it on Watson's shirt. Murphy is a very big guy and fought Indians for thirty years before he joined the Confederate army. I can tell he is nervous about this battle. He says the Yankees have been fighting like men the last two days. He also feels today will be an important battle. July, 3rd, 1863. It could end the War he thinks if we are successful. He looks very worried, every soldier here knows the Yankees have the good ground today.

Dearest Molly,

How I miss you my dear.

 I am at Gettysburg Pennsylvania. It looks like a huge battle shaping up. Somehow the last two days the Yankees fought us to a draw. They are fighting much better than usual under their new General, Meade. Still I have utmost faith in our cause and my fellow soldiers but these new rifles the Yankees all seem to have are a great advantage to them. They are called a Springfield repeating rifles and can fire up to eight rounds per minute. Who knows what weapons will be developed next.

How I miss you my dear.

your friend
ed williams

PITA, recall the preachers and send out the teachers

PITA, recall the preachers and send out the teachers

fiction
edward w pritchard

A cowboy takes care of horses. It grows on you being responsible for an animal that is so much stronger than we are but vulnerable because of the environment they find themselves in.

Most cowboys will eat a steak or fried chicken when it's offered but they know right where that cut of meat came from. It's not wrapped in plastic at a grocery store originally. Cowboys eat so they can work and stay alive and strong. A cowboy's philosophy toward animals is expressed in his day to day actions and activities. Cowboys treat animals with kindness and respect, even though cowboys aren't members of PITA. 

How we treat animals can moderate how we will eventually treat other people, even persons far away. More than a philosophy of kindness we need to take action to make the world a better place. Recall the preachers and send out the teachers.

Let's not bomb ordinary people across the oceans to teach the government of Syria a lesson. There is no PITA in far away Syria to protect refugees. Ordinary people in Syria sometimes find themselves refuges in an environment that is dangerous to their safety, well being and dignity.

The government in Syria might have used chemical weapons. Us bombing Syria is a hell of a way to make a point however sincere and high minded the intent of our leaders. Let's take action to make the world a better place. Recall the preachers who call for bombing in Syria to punish the Country for using chemical weapons and send out the teachers to encourage kindness and respect to living beings.

Syria and the US military industrial complex

Syria and the US military industrial complex

fiction
edward w pritchard

I have always been a bit paranoid.

I just read we are concerned about the historical and archaeological treasures of another Country far away from the United States being destroyed. The Country is Syria. Sadly Syria is the latest place we are about to bomb for strategic reasons.

I get a bit paranoid and suspicious about our Country having  a military  industrial complex when I hear the argument raised that the United States should intervene in Syria's civil war to among other things protect world heritage quality art treasures. It is implied in the article I read that the United States should intervene in Syria to save civilization.

 As a lover of history and the art of the past the destruction of historic articles is appalling to me. I learned about the ancient city Damascus as a boy at Church and it has always been one of my favorite places. Although I have never been there; I have always wanted to visit Syria as a tourist.

I am suspicious when I read allegations about artifacts being destroyed by our latest enemies. I remember I read the same type articles about the destruction of historical objects in Iraq a few years ago when we were considering invading Iraq and were fighting  terrorists there in Iraq to protect ourselves here in our homeland.

Now in my old age if I read in our newspapers about historical artifacts being destroyed in some far away Country, or other sensational stories about helpless women being abused by our enemies, or hear of children being sent to refugee camps and not being properly educated; I take pause.

Am I just being paranoid and suspicious or have I learned that there is an American military industrial complex and it uses timely propaganda to perpetuate itself in an endless series of overseas interventions? 

President Obama and John Locke, what to do in Syria

President Obama and John Locke, what to do in Syria.

fiction
edward w  pritchard

It's good to see our President acting strategic. What to do in Syria? 

John Locke believed that the people have the power to reason to reach proper decisions and the best government is achieved by checks and balances. Let the Congress hash out what to do in Syria.

I for one am proud of our President. Learn from our mistakes; no more unilateral actions, no more over reaching to police the world, and no more acting without allies who have our backs.

President Obama has a vision for America. It won't be achieved by intervening in a situation that isn't strategic to our Countries immediate problems, interests and our President's aspirations for his constituency.