Only Heterosexual Miners To Be Rescued

In a statement that has shocked many, it has been announced that anyone who is openly gay or suspected of being gay, will be prevented from crawling out of a mine shaft where miners have been trapped for over two months.

The joint statement has been issued by the Catholic Church, the Tea Party and members of the Heterosexual Alliance Saving All Acceptable Souls (HASAAS), headed by New York Republican gubernatorial candidate Carl Peladrino.

Underground, the reaction has been explosive.

“My God, who do they think did our laundry down here? I’m not leaving Steven behind just because he’s a faggot,” remarked one burly miner. Others chimed in, citing the number of positive contributions gay miners have made to the ordeal.

“The food has been incredible. Milo can make a mushroom alfredo sauce with only the barest ingredients,” said Jonathan Anderson, a ruddy faced fellow with brazen

tattoos of the American flag and Betty Boop brightening his bulging forearms.

Families gathered outside the rescue site, hoping to hold their loved ones in their arms in just a few hours. Most were unaware of the growing controversy over gay and straight miners being treated differently, but some had heard the news.

As a spotlight flashed on the first miners out of the tunnel, a young voice is heard crying above all other sounds, “Daddy, Daddy you fucking faggot, why did they let you go?”

“Because I lied son and told them what they wanted to hear. God I missed you so.”

Linda Carter

October 2010

Inspired by New York Republican gubernatorial candidate Carl Paladino, who says he didn't want children "to be brainwashed into thinking that homosexuality is an equally valid or successful option," compared to heterosexuality.

VISIONS OF LOVE

Hawaii

God the air smelled good. I remember that. We popped off the plane and headed to the Hilton in Waikiki. Checked in and hungry, we walked off to find something unique to eat.

Our trek took us across the street to a tourist destination that was filled with people looking for warmth and Mai Tais.

As we descended a staircase to the beach, I noticed Ken was having trouble planting his feet and seemed off balance. It was the first time I ever noticed how his sight was affecting his life.

I reached for his hand and tried to help, but the bottom line is when you are full sighted, you miss the cues, you stumble in your ability to help your partner. It would be a couple of years before I truly understood what was happening with my man and his crystal blue eyes I have always adored.

Feelings are one thing, but action is another. I learned to take my time when we walked down streets together and to look for obstacles that could create a problem. I notice cracks in the pavement and tell him what to expect with the next staircase.

I became his chauffeur whenever I could, lessening his worry over traffic and busy streets. I drove him to his surgeries and waited patiently but anxiously for the report. I took him to his follow up appointments at the U of M and met the brilliant Dr. Wright. I bought him flashlights at the hardware store where I worked and read all I could about coping with low vision.

I see how our hands do not meet when trying to pass an object, like a glass or maybe a picture. I do everything I can to meet his needs, but I told him early on that I would never understand.

I will never look through his damaged eyes or try to walk in his hesitant steps.  What I can do is listen and learn and remember to laugh in the face of tragedy. Together, we are sight and light.

Linda Carter

HURRICANES & HYSTERECTOMIES

Hurricanes & Hysterectomies

“The Day My Uterus Died” 

by Linda Carter

August 29, 2005

Ken holds my hand softly as we both focus on the TV in the corner of the pre-op room. Hurricane Katrina is headed for New Orleans, but no one is sounding alarms. It’s just another story.

As we watch the coverage of the storm, I feel a slow warmth move through my body. Only those who have experienced the wonderful world of pre-op drugs can picture what happens next.

You kiss your husband and say I love you, just in case.

Then the bed moves slowly down the hall to surgery, the overhead lights at times blinding you as you drift into a state of nirvana fueled by pharmaceuticals. It’s like God is giving you a naughty pass.

My uterus had always been mean to me, starting with horrendous cramps at age 13. The doctor my mother consulted said this, “Well, she’ll just have to wait until she has children and the pain should ease up.”

I found another route. I started taking the Pill in college and my life changed dramatically. A lot of pain, fear and hassle simply disappeared. Prescription Ibuprofen rounded out my happiness.

Now, years later, I was facing a hysterectomy. You see, those kids never materialized to “ease my pain.” Fibroid after fibroid had cut my quality of life into ribbons. I found a talented female surgeon with a good sense of humor and put myself in her hands.

I was drifting further away now, the rolling bed turning a corner and leading me into a room filled with huge lights. Visions of water and wind mix with a last glimpse of my man’s blue eyes.

August 30, 2005

I blink slowly, adjusting my eyes to the room around me. A sweet nurse brings me toast and something to drink. I ask for the remote control, the news reporter in me refusing to rest.

The world has changed overnight and I am watching a part of America face destruction as the levees fail to hold and New Orleans turns into a quagmire of water, mud, floating houses and dead bodies. I drift back into a drugged sleep, crying softly.

When I wake again, the nice nurse is back, telling me I have been her best patient all night.

I beam with pride that I was able to curl up around three nicely stuffed pillows under a warm blanket and not cause any trouble. I felt so safe, cared for and comfortable, something New Orleans residents wouldn’t feel for a long time.

At home, I recuperate in my bed with two warm kitties close by.  I watch hours of news coverage of Hurricane Katrina and as God is my witness, I think this is when I fell out of love with TV News.

Where was my country? Why had alarm bells not sounded sooner? Why were there children without food in one of the richest countries in the world? How did this happen?

I finally exhausted my ability to consume any more news coverage and picked of all things “The Grapes of Wrath” as a DVD distraction. I was quickly drawn into another time when America was slow to respond to the needs of its people.

During the Depression, families’ lost property, but the real cost to this country was much larger. People lost a sense of place, pride, tradition and most of all, a sense of dignity.

Here is the scene that brings it all home for me, whether I am watching the movie or reading the book.

Outside the Joad tent, a number of children gather to smell the stew cooking over an open fire.

Ma Joad feeds her family first, then instructs the kids to go find a stick so she can share this feast with them. You see in her eyes the incredible sadness she feels in not being able to do more. And you know in your heart, she is the one who went hungry that night.

Linda Carter © 2015

Working Class Hero

A Conversation

 by Linda Carter

“I don’t really get the liberal, conservative thing,” my sister remarked.

“I have always been pretty conservative in the way I dress, talk, raise my kids and live my life. But, because I could care less whether two people of the same sex get married I am considered a “liberal.” She shook her head.

Ten years older than I am, my sister Kathy has always shown caution. She passed on pot and rarely drank. She did tell me she got drunk on gin her first year in college and passed out in somebody’s bathtub. It’s one of the reasons I still speak to her. Without that story, our histories look like a comparison between Mother Teresa and Charlie Sheen.

When it comes to politics, we never talked about it much. We were raised in a working class family of Democrats who benefited from the work of unions and believed in education.

My parents dropped out of high school to go to work, but they made sure all five of their kids got their high school diplomas.

My father loved to read. I remember devouring Louis L'Amour books, True Detective magazines and of course the bible of the lower class, the Reader’s Digest.

My mother loved to play with language and would often mispronounce words to see if I was paying attention. She loved music and the radio and we listened together.

Most families I knew were living paycheck to paycheck. A few doctors, lawyers and business owners had it better, but the discrepancy in wealth wasn’t as enormous as it is today.

Here’s the bottom line. Labels confine us and separate us.

And death collects us all.

Linda Carter

© 2015

All Those Stairs to Grandma’s Apartment

by Linda Carter © 2015

It blew my mind that a little old lady marched up and down this lengthy staircase day after day, sometimes many times a day.  The stairs towered above me as I looked up, toward my Grandmother’s apartment above a plumbing store.

At the top of this lengthy climb lies a long hallway with worn hardwood floors.  My Grandmother’s apartment is the first on the left and I remember seeing that frosted glass door swinging open to a room with high ceilings, an old white gas oven and a double porcelain sink on the right wall.  There are so many surfaces in the room, but they are covered, overflowing with old calendars, daily newspapers, bills, recipes, letters, Green Stamps… I swear she never threw anything away.

Linoleum covers every floor in the apartment and it squeaks under my feet. In the early days of this building, these rooms probably housed a dentist or a doctor’s office. The long narrow living room with high, high ceilings would have made a great waiting area.

At one end of this cavernous room sits a huge stuffed blue couch with sparkling silver threads, a velvet souvenir pillow perched on the cushions. Overhead, a glass etching of the Statue of Liberty in a gold oval frame hangs next to my grandparent’s ornate wedding portrait.

At one end of the room sits my Uncle Cliff, holding court around an antique round dining table with claw feet, a western shirt and blue jeans his wardrobe of choice.

As a child, I sat here quietly, absorbing stories.

Uncle Cliff lights one cigarette after another, crumpling the short filters into the ashtray in front of him. He drinks whiskey and sometimes Christian Brothers Brandy. Uncle Cliff tells fascinating stories and I’m not sure how many are true.

Let’s just say he had to run from cops who caught him in someone else’s pasture and he partied so hearty one time he had to drop trough on the side of the road and change his drawers, literally.

Others dropped in from time to time, my Uncle Herb bringing pop from the gas station and store he owned a few towns away. I didn’t know it at the time, but all these characters and their stories played a large part in who I was to become. 

I was intrigued by words and the tales my family told.

I can still hear the booming, friendly laugh of my Great Aunt Pearl, her white teeth perfectly framed behind the reddest lipstick I have ever seen. She towered above me, a tall woman with a solid frame, but I never feared a moment spent in her shadow. I thought she was colorful, just like this apartment.

The biggest mystery to my child’s brain lay behind a wide doorway that led to the bedroom right off the kitchen. A makeshift curtain droops down the right hand side of the doorway, creating a cave like quality that invites exploration.

A brass bed sits to the right, covered with a fringed bedspread. An old free standing wardrobe takes up much of the left side of the room, filled with clothes and shoes. Beyond the bed, a huge overstuffed closet holds a mountain of clothing and pictures and who knows what. To this day, I wish I could have been allowed to wallow in that mess, finding old stories and souvenirs of days gone by.

The most cluttered room in my Grandma’s apartment was the tiniest. Right off the kitchen stood a narrow door that opened to the bathroom. Just inside sits an ancient claw foot tub, almost invisible with the slips, underwear and other clothing hanging from laundry lines stretched across the room. A red hot water bottle hangs over the end of the tub, a splash of color in a tiny dark space.

I worried about how she bathed and then I remembered how she lived when my Dad was little, settled in an old farmhouse with a pump sink, dust settling into every crevice of home and field, winds destroying dreams as the Great Depression swept over the land and cancer stole her husband.

She lived on Social Security, played cards late into the night and took bus trips around the country to explore history and visit far flung relatives.

She lived a messy life, clutter all around her. And maybe that is her greatest legacy. She knew life didn’t come with any guarantees. She taught me through experience that you can’t always predict or control what happens to you. But you can make do.

THE END

THE ALARM

Story by Linda Carter ©

I’m making a sandwich in the kitchen in my underwear. I had just dragged myself out of bed on a Sunday morning, after a late night “pitty party” that involved a little too much alcohol.

My husband Ken had been in Sioux Falls, South Dakota for over

two months, at the bedside of his terminally ill mother. I was grateful he could be where he should be, but every once in awhile, I was lonely.

And I wasn’t the only one. Our two cats, brothers named Scout and Skylar, were used to Dad being home all day, running his home based business and stopping by occasionally to play.

The two kitties had started eyeing me suspiciously, as if I had created their father’s absence.

Standing at the kitchen counter, I suddenly hear an ominous warning from our alarm system, the speaker blaring right above my head.

“Sensor 81, Help, Help! Sensor 81 Help!” Over and over again.

I was sure I had turned off the alarm when I got up and opened a bedroom window for the boys to get some air. All I could picture was an injured cat trapped by a window or an intruder trying to break into the house.

I bolt for the bedroom and this is the picture I see before me.

Two angelic, furry faces stare innocently up at me, as if to say, WHAT?

I ran for that keypad, frantically trying to remember our code and a little afraid the neighbors would see me a little naked.

Thankfully, silence fills the air, but I knew my journey through Alarm Country was far from over.

As I wait for the call from security central, I slowly put the whole picture together. I surmised that the alarm had been “triggered” by one of eight little paws and I am not completely convinced the little shits didn’t know what they were doing.

The person from the alarm company informs me that Sensor 81 is a “holdup” key, designed to be activated during many scenarios, including a home invasion.

So, let me be clear about this. If someone bursts in and holds

my family at gunpoint, I am to push this button, unleashing a cacophony of sound that could very easily prompt the invaders to shoot ME.

I inform the security system employee that I had actually been held up at “pawpoint” and that I would place the keypad safely in a drawer from now on. 

As I hang up the phone, I reflect on what has happened here.

Two very sad little cats, reaching out with the only desperate plea they can think of… “Help, help, sensor 81… help, help!”

I picture this scenario as police officers arrive and interrogate the two little culprits. Of course one of the cops happens to speak fluent feline and the boys outline their list of complaints.

“She hasn’t played with us in three days!”

“She beats us, yeah she beats us!”

“Our father is missing, we think she did away with him.”

“Check the basement man, it smells down there.”

“Don’t leave us, she’s boring!”

As the police car pulls away, I look down at these two little helpless creatures and sigh, “He’s coming back, I promise.”

THE END

The Obedience Express

The Obedience Express

by Linda Carter

 

I wasn’t scheduled to work that night at my liquor store cashier job, but I received a phone call early in the day from Priscilla, Assistant Manager.

 

One of my co-workers had called in sick and Priscilla asked me if I could work the night shift. Sure, why not.

 

Now that I look back on all this, I remember a scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, where Judge Reinhold took over for a kid at the front counter and ended up losing his job.

 

When I got to work, a co-worker told me what needed to be done that night. It was so unorthodox I insisted we confirm our orders with Priscilla.

 

“That’s right,” she said, she wanted us to stock as much wine as possible on store shelves, without writing it on “pull sheets,” the most time consuming and frustrating part of stocking the store.

 

So I went to town and had a blast.

 

Over the course of the night, I loaded 15 shopping carts full of wine out of the back stockroom onto store shelves, carefully organizing them according to brand, varietal and country of origin.

 

I could fit about 12-15 bottles on each layer in the cart and I stacked them four high. I put big bottles under the cart. 60 bottles a trip x 15 trips= 900 bottles

 

At the end of the evening, my co-worker lauded my efforts and told me to write “15 carts of wine” on the daily task list employees are required to check. 

 

Apparently, managers are not required to check this list.

 

Shortly before leaving for work the next day, I read this email from Assistant Manager Priscilla.

 

“Hey guys! When you have some spare time would you mind going over what was completed last night? I still found garbage in displays, an open case of Mikes Hard 6nr on the floor and inventory was not flooded as far as I could tell. I could be missing key things that you guys accomplished. Thank you and I look forward to speaking with you!”

 

I was a mystified and I must say disappointed to learn that moving nearly a thousand bottles of wine in one evening is not significant enough to be noticed by those in charge.

 

On the way to the store, my mind burned.

 

I confronted Priscilla almost immediately, in front of wine reps, the store owner, customers and according to an irate Priscilla, “members of my own staff!”

 

I told her I was pissed, so pissed that I was trying to decide whether to clock in for my 5-10 shift.

 

She looked at me wide eyed, “Pissed, pissed at me?”

I yanked the task list off the wall, pointing to the note I left about moving 15 carts of wine the night before.

 

And then, I unleashed. I lambasted her for sending an accusatory e-mail, a nasty missive with underlying tones of disapproval and condescension.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Byron, the store owner, trying to wave me outside. I follow him, seething.

 

This wasn’t completely their fault. I had taken a job that was far beneath my talents, pay grade and knowledge. I could handle anything but mind games.

 

Priscilla wanted power, she wanted to exert authority and she was too stupid to realize that 9 dollars an hour does not buy that kind of obedience in some people.

 

My first words to Priscilla when she emerged from the building were, “Am I fired?”

 

She replied, “No, but you will be written up.”

 

I reached out my hand and said, “It’s been nice knowing you.”

 

Some days are too short to ride the obedience express.

 

Linda Carter/Copyright 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Girl Scout

by Linda Carter

 

I reach down as the waves lap against my tennis shoes and touch an ocean for the very first time. I am 30 on this blustery, sunny March day.  

We stay right on Capitol Hill in a two-story row house owned by my husband’s friend Bill. Just across the street sits Bullfeathers, the Capitol Hill restaurant and bar rumored to be the inspiration for the gathering place on the sitcom “Murphy Brown.”

Bill gives us the most incredible high-speed tour of the top visits for tourists right after we arrive. Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, then the Vietnam Memorial just as the sun is setting. My husband looks up a name, a kid he knew who got killed in Vietnam.

We shop for seafood at the Fish Market, grilling it over a small barbecue in the tiny courtyard in front of Bill’s place. We drink beers and sleep in the big warm waterbed, while Bill bunks in the guest room.

Bullfeathers beckons us on the second day. I don’t remember all of the liquor, but I do remember beers before dinner, wine with dinner, after dinner drinks.

We devour steak, lobster, potatoes and dessert. We talk and laugh and I get to know Bill. What a cool guy.

Things start to soften as I finish my Irish Coffee. I don’t have a big recollection of what happened after that, but I was with two trustworthy guys and I never worried.

I wake suddenly around 2 in the morning, the waterbed writhing beneath me. I bolt for the bathroom. After, I try to crawl back into bed, but another violent episode wracks my body.

Hours later, my husband finds me huddled on the floor at the end of the waterbed. I am covering myself with anything I can find, shivering without blankets.

It takes most of the day for me to get my sea legs under me, but I am on vacation and my man has some of the best newspapers in the country at his disposal.

Bill lends us his car so Ken and I can travel to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware to celebrate my birthday by the ocean.

Right before we leave, Bill casually places a plastic baggie on the mantle and says with a sly smile, “Happy Birthday Linda.”

I will never forget as long as I live that incredible vista from the hotel room balcony. I see huge ships on the horizon and wonder at the vastness of it all.

The sound captures me. Wave after wave slowly crashing against the beach, wind blowing softly through our balcony window and raindrops starting.

I reach for the baggie Bill so graciously gave us and realize we have no way to smoke this precious gift.

I think of the devices I have seen over the years, apple cores turned into fruit pipes, bongs made out of almost anything, the toilet paper roll—hello!

I use my fingernail clipper to tear a starting point on a roll of toilet paper, making sure to stack the soft folds on the back of the toilet.

Cutting into the cardboard tube isn’t easy with the tools I have at hand, but I manage. You know those little packets of coffee they put in hotels? The insides are foil.

I stretch the foil over the opening in the toilet paper roll and punch tiny little holes in it with one of my earrings.

Within minutes, my man and I are standing on our hotel balcony, stoned.

I am 30 years old.  I am looking at an ocean for the very first time, mystified that any body of water could hold those giant ships with their lights blinking so tall in the night.

I am in love with adventure, with the simplicity of just one evening and the belief that anywhere I go from here, I will always make things work.

Story by Linda Carter 2015

The Ride of a Lifetime

Linda Carter

I came close to being “felt up” on a Greyhound bus as I traveled home for Christmas break in 1978. Before you think I would treat this topic lightly, please understand the circumstances.

I was a sophomore in college. You could tell how sophisticated I was because I made a big show of reading Look Homeward Angel by Thomas Wolfe and smoking Old Gold Lights.

The bus trip was an arduous trek across the great state of South Dakota, featuring miles upon miles of emptiness, broken only by huge billboards touting free water at the infamous Wall Drug.

As darkness fell, the only signs of life came from yard lights marking the occasional farmhouse in a black, black night.

We stopped often at tiny town cafes to pick up more people. And more people. It soon became apparent to those of us lucky enough to have a seat that the bus was oversold, way oversold.

Weary passengers stood in the aisle, clutching aluminum poles and nodding off every now and then. Once in awhile one of them would jerk awake and glance around sheepishly to see if anyone noticed.

The smell, oh my God the smell.  People sweated profusely in heavy winter coats they had nowhere to hang. Crying babies pooped their diapers and threw up on their harried parents.

This had to be illegal, right? But no one wanted to be the one left behind, unable to catch a ride to that magical Christmas destination.

Just in front of me, an elderly woman massaged Vicks Vap O Rub onto her neck and chest, filling the air with a minty aroma. Next to her a man in a threadbare coat gave off a stench of Christian Brothers Brandy and Brylcreem.

I was fighting the urge to puke when I felt a tug at my sleeve. I looked up into the doe eyes of a teenage boy, about 14, with sandy brown hair. Man his feet hurt, he told me, could he just rest on the edge of my seat for awhile?

I graciously agreed, proud of the magnanimous gesture I was making. He swaggered a bit as he sat down, balancing himself on the armrest of my seat.

We talked briefly and he told me he was on his way to visit his Grandmother for the holidays. As the lights from our last stop vanished into the distance, the blackness of the night prairie descended once again on the crowded bus.

At first I thought I was dreaming, but then I realized a hand truly was moving slowly up my thigh, searching for gold at the end of the rainbow.

When I realized what and who it was I quickly removed his hand, hissing NO as quietly and forcefully as I could. He shrugged, then began a daring attempt to climb Mt. Fiddle and Faddle. I barely pulled my coat closed in time to save the girls.

With another angry hiss, I removed his hand and thus, the battle began. As soon as I would get one hand cornered, another appeared.

I swear to God he was like an octopus on steroids. I fought him off for half an hour, tempted to lodge a complaint, but afraid of the embarrassment this action would cause. If this happened today, I would simply squeeze a nut sack until screaming commenced or threaten the driver with a heavy duty lawsuit.

This night was just another cog in my wheel of life, but it taught me something incredibly profound.

I learned true maturity does not come in showing people what you read or smoke. It comes in how you handle yourself, face the unexpected and lay down limits. This boy wanted nothing more than to regale his pals with tales of lust on a Greyhound Bus.

He never got to finish his journey that night, but I did.

Story by Linda Carter 2014

The Country Club

                 by Linda Carter

Eastern South Dakota is extremely flat. In the summer the horizon is filled with miles upon miles of green and yellow corn rows and fields of golden sunflowers bursting upward toward the bright sky. Clouds of dust from long gravel roads dot the landscape, cars and trucks kicking up small stones that litter vehicles with tiny specks of damage.

At the edge of my small town, near the sun drenched lake called Kampeska, sat the gathering place for the city’s elite. The Country Club dominated the top of a slight hill, giving its inhabitants a feeling of superiority that did not fit the reality of the overall situation. I was working class, just turned 15 and eager to work hard.

Dishwasher, $1.60 an hour. And I was good at this, my first job.

I can still picture bright red lipstick marring the edges of dainty white cups. I sprayed them with steaming hot water and watched the dregs of dinner disappear into the drain just below my waist.

I knew just how to create a motion that allowed plates to glide smoothly into their designated trays. Tubs of silverware soaked for only a moment, tumbling into the waiting bins where spoons found their brethren and forks tangled for control. Knives floated effortlessly from my soapy fingers into their upright positions. The water was warm, cleansing.

For the first time in my life, I was in control.

Parents, siblings, friends, glided into my subconscious and I was one with this simple task. Clean it, wash it, slide it into the steel cubicle and let the hot steam make a new beginning. On the other side, heat hurt my hands as I deftly plucked the clean plates and silverware out of their bins, sorting quickly, expertly. The heat felt good. It was almost as if I was cleansing something inside me, the burning signaling a new beginning. For a few hours, I was the master of all around me and I was good at this, my first job.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to those days, plunging my hands into hot water, grabbing the spray nozzle with a sure grip that wasted no movement.

As I worked, my mind filled with dreams of the future, an education, a career and great success. And yet this was all I needed at this very moment, the water, the steam, the heat and the grace of a job well done.

Story by Linda Carter @2014

Oren Hindman

May 2, 1985

The phone is ringing, too many beers the night before.  I struggle to comprehend.

An officer is dead, I have to dress quickly and catch up with the story. A young photographer with soft brown hair meets me at the TV station where we both work. A rusted and dusty Chevy Cavalier will take us down the road, winding through Black Hills in the early morning, cups of coffee clutched in our laps.

In the days before cell phones, I ask for details over the two way radio, the lone morning anchor doing her best to fill me in. I hear the name, pause, “what?”

“Oren Hindman” the voice replies and I realize I know the young Highway Patrol officer who is lying in a morgue just miles away.

I don’t really know him, in the sense that we are friends, but I grew up in a small South Dakota town with his brother Mark in my class. Oren was popular, musically gifted and handsome.

This is not just a nameless, faceless man doing his job. He is real, his brother is real, his family is getting the news right now and I feel sick. I know that feeling.

In the middle of the night a Highway Patrol Officer came to my family’s door, delivering the news that my oldest brother was dead, killed in a horrible car crash just outside my little hometown. I flash on the memory of my mother’s face as she tried to absorb the news and I wish I could say something comforting to Oren’s family.

Just about a month from now I will marry my soul mate. He’s the only one I ever considered marrying and our days are filled with plans, love and laughter.

Later, I hear stories of Oren’s family, how his wife and daughter were absolutely devoted to him, his daughter waving goodbye from the window as her Daddy went off to work.

A stupid kid with a knife ended this young man’s life. My God, it was a simple DUI, couldn’t you do the time? One flash, one moment and an entire community is stunned by grief.

I never grasped this concept, as many times as I sat in a courtroom and watched the wretched walk by, sentenced to life instead of a few measly months.

Oren and his brother Mark were known as good guys in my small town high school. I wasn’t in the crowd either of them hung out with, but when our paths crossed they were nice, polite and never uttered a harsh word in my direction.

I will never forget that funeral. The lines of Highway Patrol Officers with gloves pulled tight over their wrists, standing at attention as the casket passed.

Then I spot Mark, the boy in so many of my yearly class photos.

His head hangs in sadness as he follows the coffin out of the church. I flip open my reporter notebook and watch as a small, wet stain appears about mid page.

Linda Carter

My Uncle Dale

 By Linda Carter

I don’t know how to explain it. I doubt my cousins or siblings would be able to describe the feeling either. But there was something special about our Uncle Dale.

In my littlest years, he was one of the biggest figures. A tall, strong furry man with a bald head and enough hair on his chest and back to cover many men. He didn’t shy from taking his shirt off, so we have a racy picture of him resting his head in the lap of Aunt Bernice.

She was a family legend. The brightest red hair on top of a fair, freckled face. She was hopelessly devoted to her tiny Chihuahua named Missy Chico. Missy Chico was fed baby food and coddled beyond description. But I would fight anyone who tried to take away my Aunt Bernice stories.

I look at it this way; my Uncle Dale loved her, he slept with her and she didn’t kill me when I threw up on her leg in the car on the way home from my brother Gary’s funeral.

Just a few years ago, I learned the story of how Uncle Dale almost died. He was in a bar in St. Paul Minnesota and as my mother describes it, my uncle could be, well, an asshole when he was drinking. He got into a fight and was knifed. Knifed badly, his guts hanging out of the cut made by another bar patron, probably an asshole too.

Aunt Bernice held his insides as they rode to the hospital in an ambulance.

My mother left her five children in the care of her mother and oldest kids and drove to the Twin Cities with my Aunt Fern from Sioux Falls. Uncle Dale survived.

It wasn’t the first time. My Uncle Dale served in the Army during World War II and my mother said he was deeply disturbed by some of the things he had witnessed.

To us, he was a bright star in our lives who always brought laughter and light to our childhoods.

My sister Kathy tells the most wonderful story. She and cousin Janell got to stay overnight with Grandma Coy. During the visit, my Uncle Dale arrived. He brought with him brand new mittens for Kathy and Janell.  They were thrilled, not just with the mittens, but with the fact that a favorite uncle remembered them at Christmas.

This reminds me of a story my Mother once told me. As a little girl during the Depression, she received a plastic doll for Christmas. It was just a little doll, but she could hold it, she could make up stories about it, she could make clothes for it.  And she knew that her parents had to scrape and scratch to give their seven kids any kind of a Christmas morning.

The special gifts we are given in life vary in size and in meaning. I am so glad I have the memories of a big bear of a man who always smiled at me and made me laugh.

Linda Carter

© 2014

The Snow Shovel

by Linda Carter

I took a part time job last winter. I worked the evening shift at a local liquor store and used my daring news reporter skills to catch the license number for a “smash & grab” bandit who scurried out with about 250 dollars worth of Tequila.

But for the most part, I avoided the limelight and found little corners of the store to claim as my own. What I truly enjoyed was my time with customers, interacting with strangers, hearing their stories and reading their behaviors.

I studied the recovering alcoholic from the halfway house across the street who came in and bought cigarettes, wondering why he tortured himself by staring at rows of bottles.

I found a chair for the drunk woman who was buying vodka and waiting for a cab on one of the coldest nights in our Minnesota winter.

That bone chilling cold hit me hard at 56, as I pushed shopping carts filled with cardboard toward the recycling bin just outside the back door. I carried a box cutter for protection.

One Friday night Sandy grabs the snow shovel at the front of the store and heads outside to deal with the latest inches of white.

She comes back a little later, shaking flakes from her hair. I was there. We laughed about how stupid we were to live in this climate.

I loved working with the guys who supervised on weekend nights. That’s when work hours really sailed by, customers cracking wise as they headed to a party or just home to hang.

When closing, we split up the duties evenly and got out of there as soon as we could.

On this night, the closer noticed the snow shovel leaning against the store beside the front door and not wanting to deal with the alarm system again, he simply put it in the back of his truck and left.

I only know the aftermath from stories, but I have a feeling I can be accurate in my description. 

Sandy comes to work Saturday morning, a rough turnaround from a busy Friday night.

She is questioned about the snow shovel and swears she brought it back inside. Boss cues up a security videotape showing she did go outside with the shovel and return without it.

Sandy turns and heads to the back of the store. Everyone assumes she is clocking in.

            Minutes tick by and no sign of Sandy.

Legend has it she walked out the back door and strolled around the large building to the front lot where her car was parked.

This is the part of the story where I smile and picture her making that glorious trek.

This woman got pregnant at 14. She raised her kids for years as a single Mom. She had worked more jobs than I could count to make something of her family. And a pipsqueak from a wealthy family who had never known a hungry day in his life was questioning her honesty about a 12-dollar snow shovel.

Later that day, the guy who put the shovel in the back of his truck shows up for work and is shocked to hear of his innocent complicity.

We all have a line that no one is allowed to cross. Self respect, pride, it’s so important.

The Boss spent time and effort cuing up this tape and exposing a simple mistake. She was a good worker and she deserved better.

Story by Linda Carter

@2014

Four Minutes

We all wonder what we would do in that moment when action is called for.

Later, I would marvel at the incredible speed of the whole episode, images flashing in front of me like a news promo.

I wrote those promos for years, but never truly comprehended the gut wrenching, heart pounding feeling of trying to save a life until a little boy fell over his mother’s lap in front of me, struggling for every tiny breath.

I had just walked off an elevator after a routine visit to the dentist. I headed for the exit, slightly annoyed at the young boy who suddenly wandered into my path. His face was strange, almost contorted and I paused to look back.

His mother jumped into action first, realizing the child was choking on a piece of candy. She cried out for the boy’s father and together they began pounding the child’s back, frantically fighting to save his life.

I rushed back inside, blurting out, “Do you need help?”

The mother looked up from where she knelt on the floor, her eyes terrified, her head nodding a frantic yes as the boys’ father continued to pound his young son’s back.

Without a word, I turned and bolted for the first door I saw, stepping into an office and announcing loudly, “A child is choking, can anyone help?”

I took no prisoners, defying anyone to stop me from my mission as I moved further into the office. I didn’t know the Heimlich Maneuver, but I knew how to get attention.

A young girl stepped from behind a reception desk and threw open a conference room door. Within moments, a woman bolted from the room, rushing past me and outside, where parents fought to save their young son as someone else dialed 911.

Maybe she was a former nurse, a mother who prepped for every disaster or just someone who took a class when it was offered.  I’ll never know.

She pulled the boy from his father’s arms and grasped him tightly around the middle. Within moments, the candy lie on the sunny sidewalk, the boy gasped in deep, fruitful breaths and the parents wept as they thanked the Good Samaritan.

When I left the building the woman who saved the little boy was holding him, gently comforting the youngster as he cried.

Nobody said a word as I slipped by. I knew it wasn’t my moment in the sun, although I was proud of what I had done.

Just months before I had quit my career of 25 years, hoping to find a place where I could make a difference.

Wasn’t it great I found this place.  This day.  This time. This moment.

Story by Linda Carter