He was just a newborn baby. He came into this world innocent and fragile, just as all babies do. He wasn’t born to well off parents. As a matter of fact, his folks were on the road when his Mom went into labor. They were staying in what passed for a barn when he entered into this life. Humble from the start, he would remain so until his last day, thirty-three years later. Yes, that baby.

    We run ourselves ragged during Christmas time trying to uphold all of the usual traditions of the holiday. We decorate our homes with beautiful lights and pretty trees, festooned with familiar ornaments from our family’s past. We buy, and make, presents for each other in an effort to commemorate the birthday of the greatest person to every walk the earth. We sing his praises, and bless each other with tons of “Merry Christmas” wishes. The civilized world’s economy is bolstered by the spending of much wealth, and the world tries hard to be good, at least until after December twenty-fifth. There’s a lot of people who think it’s just because Santa’s keeping a list, but we all should know better.

    Joseph and Mary’s boy was a real person. I’m fairly positive he cried when he was born. I know his mother fell in love with him immediately, even after all the pain of childbirth. Joseph doesn’t get much credit in the telling of Jesus’ history. Being a step-dad is usually a thankless job. He was no doubt very proud of the little fella and loved him with all his heart. Their lives from the Nativity Scene to the next time we see a young Jesus answering questions in the Temple is a good decade or so of a jump. He ditched the convoy home so he could be in “his Father’s house”. I’m sure he gave his parents a scare, even though they knew his identity. Being a parent’s tough. I can’t imagine being Jesus’s parent.

    Who was he, this Jesus, you might ask. There are many who could answer better than myself. Theologians, preachers, historians and philosophers have written reams about him. I’m sure they know much more than me. I can only give the simplest of answers. He is God, who came to tell mankind how to treat one another and redeem us all from sin. He lived like us. He worked beside us, by the sweat of his brow he put food on the table. He took care of his mom. He paid his taxes. He told us we should love God with everything in us, and that we should love our neighbors as we love ourselves. He said we should love our enemies. He practiced what he preached, too. He loved us even when we were crappy to him. Even when we killed him, he asked that we be forgiven. He proved he was God when he didn’t stay dead, and he still told us to love one another. That Jesus was quite a man, especially considering the fact that he was God. No wonder we celebrate his birth.

    To all of those out there who are getting nervous about all of this “Jesus” talk, please don’t get upset. I’m not trying to convert anyone, or even be preachy. If you don’t believe what I do about him, that’s your right. I just want us all to remember that the baby in the manger is the entire reason for the holiday of Christmas. It’s all about a God that came to experience life right beside us, to show us how to treat one another, and who gave up that life to be the bridge between sin and being able to be with him. All the presents, the tree, the traditions and family get-togethers are great. The birth of God deserves a celebration. Just don’t lose focus on the fact that without Jesus there is no reason to celebrate.

    Happy Birthday, Jesus! Now, can we open the presents?

    God bless, y’all!

      I started Junior High in the late Seventies, during the last century. Yeah, that’s pretty old. My oldest sister, Pam, had just graduated. Between her fart lighting antics and high GPA, we other three siblings had a lot to live up to. So I didn’t really get to experience High School with her. My brother Joe and sister Mary Ann, however, were there to help usher me into that hormonal and confusing time that is High School. I don’t know what I would’ve done without them. It’s quite possible that I would’ve never left my room, played a sport, or asked a girl out on a date had I not had them riding herd on my nerdy butt.  

            They’re both older than me, but not by much. At fifty-eight, and still The Baby of the family, I ain’t no spring chicken. The few years between us seemed like a lot back then, but nowadays we know it’s just a tiny piece of time. We saw the world turn around the same events and people. The Energy Crisis, Star Wars, Smokey and the Bandit, The Bee Gees, Shaun Cassidy, Farrah Fawcett, Saturday Night Live, the Iranian Hostage Crises, and the Cold War, just to name the important ones. We saw a lot of “stuff”, man. Things you wouldn’t believe.  

      Joe made me want to go out for football. He was a very cool dude. A quarterback. Smooth with the girls. He’s always been the “Joe Cool” type of guy. We were roommates for our entire lives, up until he graduated and moved out, but that “cool” never rubbed off on me. Nerd, I was. Nerd I would stay. Thanks to him, though, I had a real impression of what a Cool Guy should be like. He’s stayed that guy throughout my life. In football, he kept me from getting killed on many occasions. He took up for the Little Brother who was ignorant of all things athletic. He tried to guide me on, and off, the field. He’s saved lives, and served his community, as both a firefighter and a police officer. I looked up to him. Still do.  

      Mary Ann was athletic too. Basketball was her forte, but she broke into the boys baseball team when I played third string right field. I’d say she made me look bad, but that’d be giving her too much credit. I did all that myself. Truth be told, she was an awesome ball player, and we didn’t field a girls team. So she went out for the boys team, in an era that didn’t exactly encourage that kinda thing. She played short stop and catcher in summer softball, and stood out, if not tall. Sorry, short joke alert. She was aggressive and competitive in anything she went out for.  She gave me confidence. Not just from her athleticism, but because she treated me like a friend. She talked to me, even around her friends. That means a lot to a shy little brother.  

      As we grew into adults, they did all that, and much more. They were there for me when times were good, and bad. Even while they fought their own problems, they were there, with me, through my own. I honestly wouldn’t have survived without them. No matter what our differences or disagreements may be over the years, we know that we’ll be there for each other. That’s what family does. What it should do. And they do.  

      Happy Birthday, Joe and Mary Ann! Thank you for being the awesome people that I’m proud to call brother and sister. Thanks for keeping me from doing more stupid stuff than I actually did. I appreciate that. I aggravated you and embarassed you at times, in youth and adulthood, but – hey, what’s a little brother good for,  if not that? I love you guys! 

---

 

Dear Santa, 

      It’s been a long time, Santa, since I’ve written. Sorry about that. Just because I’m fifty-eight doesn’t mean I can’t keep in contact. I’m still a kid at heart, so don’t stop reading just yet. This isn’t your typical “list of things I want”, and, I admit, it may be a little outside of your jurisdiction. I already have plenty of toys and comic books, not to mention plenty of books in general, so I’m good there. Like most so called “grown-ups” I tend to go buy my own toys. Where I’m lacking, what I really want, this Christmas, I’m not sure I can put into words, but I’ll try. Hang with me for a minute. I hope you can help. 

      When I was a kid, Christmas was special. Maybe it was partly the toys, but that’s not all that made it special. The food was pretty awesome, too. Candy canes, fudge (my goodness, I DO love fudge) ham, and all the fixin’s that make momma’s loved the world over.  I’ve had some pretty incredible food since I’ve been a grown-up too, though, so that’s not where I’m lacking. The joy of giving is still fairly intact. I love to see the look on other’s faces when they open presents, especially ones I gave them. I think that’s one of the best feelings in the world: bringing joy to others by giving. I reckon you know all about that, too. I think where I need help is in the “Cheer” department.  

      According to Buddy the Elf “The best way to spread Christmas Cheer is singing loud for all to hear”. I love that movie. Next to Die Hard, it’s my favorite Christmas movie of all time. What do I do when I don’t feel like singing, though? Santa, I know you’ve been at this for quite a long time. Surely you’ve had your days when the “Ho Ho Ho” just won’t “Go Go Go”. What do you do then? Maybe I should watch some of those old Christmas movies. Charlie Brown usualy has some good advice. He, and Linus, can really put things in perspective sometimes. They’re really quite sophisticated kids. I’m not so sure about Lucy. She charges a whole nickel, too. I’ll stick with Linus. 

      I guess I’m asking a lot from you, Santa. Maybe I should just start singing and hope my attitude changes. If I give it a try, someone else might want to join in with me. Who knows? I could spread some cheer, even if I only have a little bit. That could work. Like the Grinch, maybe my heart will grow three sizes and I can find my Christmas Cheer. It was the Who’s singing that did it for him. Yup. I’m going to do it. Couldn’t hurt. 

      So, in conclusion, Santa, I just want you to know that I’ll give it my best shot. If you, and the elves can spend all year producing, planning and performing your little miracles, I suppose the least I can do is try and find a song in my heart. If you hear me singing a Christmas song, know that I may, or may not, be faking it. I’ll try and keep in tune (no easy feat with my voice) but I’ll do my best. I think I’ll start with the basics. Jingle Bells aughta do it. Or how about “Santa Claus is comin to town”? That’s a good one too. Silent Night. Now there’s a song. I feel different already.  

Yours Truly,  

Kevin 

P.S.  

If it’s okay with you, I’m going to disguise myself as you again this year. May even wear it to work. Just to spread the Cheer! 

---

Hide quoted text

    The countdown begins. Thanksgiving is behind us. We’ve had not quite a week to digest the enormous amounts of food from last Thursday, and December is upon us. The Christmas Season is here. It’s not like it snuck up on us. The internet, stores and television have been pounding at our doors since early October. The ads, sales and Town Criers all screaming “Christmas is coming! Buy This!” have assailed us for over two months. Lots of stores simply put out everything at the same time: Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas merchandise displayed liberally throughout the store. As one holiday ends, they just add more Christmas stuff. The Buying Season is, indeed, upon us.

    Now, I’m not anti-capitalism. I expect retailers to take advantage of the time of year when most of their sales take place. Like most people, I enjoy giving gifts. It’s just that it seems to fly by so fast, like a monetary drive-by that leaves me feeling like a hollow chalk outline on the sidewalk, bled out of any cash I might have otherwise had. No hard feelings. Many a Transformer and bicycle ago, I paid the price of watching four kids enjoy turning my hard-earned dollars into a mountain of ripped up wrapping paper. I still think back on those days with my own joy. It was worth every penny. It reminds me that I’m not the only one who’s paid that price.

    My Mom and Dad raised four kids, of which I’m the “baby”. Mom still introduces me that way, even after my fifty eighth birthday. I cannot recall all of my Christmas mornings, growing up, but all of them have a pretty common theme. We got good toys. We were allowed to go berserk playing with them on Christmas morning. Mom and Dad paid for them and gave all the credit to Santa. I think of the years that Old Saint Nick got away with that, and I’m amazed that I did the same with my own kids. Did that jolly old elf ever take a Payday Loan out for those little tykes? No! Did he work overtime, right beside those elves (forced labor? It’s possible) ? No! I think not. Did I ever see the man in the Red Suit standing in line at a crowded, bustling store, two days before Christmas, just so he could get a chance at getting a kid the latest Cabbage Patch Doll, or GI Joe? Never! Not once. They might call him Father Christmas, but I think he might be kind of the “divorced dad who lives out of state and only shows up at Christmas with gifts” kinda dad. The least he could do is put those complicated toys together before Christmas morning. Earn those cookies and milk, Old Man.

    Okay, so Santa and I may have our problems. It’s not easy to be a parent at Christmas. There can be lean years when it’s hard to satisfy the desires of those little people who hold our hearts in their hands. There will be times when second-hand bikes and used video game consoles will just have to do. There are kids in India who don’t even get Christmas presents. Mostly because they’re mainly Hindu and Muslim, and don’t exactly follow the same Baby Jesus like we Christians, but my point is: we have to give what we can and be grateful for it. Most kids understand when Santa has an off year. They’ll still love you, just so long as they know you’re doing your best. Santa, I mean. Those gifts are just icing on the Christmas Cookie.

To my Mom and Dad: thank you for making my Christmas’s so special. Thanks for all those years that I went to bed all a-tingle with anticipation and awoke to find tokens of your love under the tree. Thanks for sacrificing your time, money and sanity just so you could step on my little green army men in the dark, throughout the rest of the year. I love you, not because of the toys, but because you went out of your way, your wallet and your mind, to make me and my siblings happy and fulfilled. To my own four children, I say thank you also. Waking up early, watching the joyous faces as you unwrap and play with the feeble tokens of your parent’s love and stepping on every sharp-edged booby-trap throughout the year was worth it. It was some of the best moments of my life.

And Santa, if you’re reading this, know that I still have a bone or two to pick with you. There’s that “Naughty List” fiasco of 1972, the two left-handed boxing gloves incident in 1997, and those looks I get when I talk about you to my coworkers nowadays. We need to talk. Or maybe I’ll just put it in my letter this year.

Never stop believing, y’all.  

      I bought a doughnut this morning. I’d already had breakfast not an hour before, but it wasn’t an ordinary doughnut. It was a very special pastry. You wouldn’t know it by looking at it. Yes, it was topped with a caramel glaze, but not exactly fancy. It was made this morning, but it wasn’t really fresh. Maybe three hours out of the oven, which ain’t bad. No, this doughnut helped me to focus today. It put my universe in perspective, even if just for a little while. How can this be? I’ll tell you, but first-a little context. Be patient. 

      I’ve always loved doughnuts. There’s a shop in West Memphis, Arkansas called “Howard’s Do-Nuts” that’s been around since before I was born. The original owner passed away back in 2019, but it’s still operational. I’ve taken my own kids there, when they were in grade school. I hope they remember it as fondly as I do. That place will forever be one of my favorite memories. It was there that I discovered things like Bear Claws, cream-filled eclairs and the heavenly smell of hot, fresh pastries straight out of the oven. Any problem in life can be made better by doughnuts. That’s my opinion, and I’ll stick to it like a Sticky Bun. It may not make it go away, but nobody can be sad while eating a doughnut. That’s just science.  

      I bought a caramel-covered doughnut from a table set up in our hospital’s foyer, by the front door. As I said, I’d already eaten breakfast, but needed to have this doughnut. The staff were having a bake sale in honor of a young woman who passed away after a car crash last weekend. The proceeds will go to the family, to help with funeral expenses. She was in her early twenties, and her mother is a therapist here at our hospital. I’ve outlived a father and a wife, but to see a child precede you into Heaven is a pain like no other, I imagine. There are no words that can console, no salve that can heal the heart of a grieving parent. The God above that loves us all must be the one to give them peace. In no way, shape or how can my purchase and ingesting of a doughnut make their circumstance any better. The only thing it does is to remind them that they are not alone in their grief. We care that they hurt. In our tiny way, we want to show that we love them, even if we don’t know them on a personal level. Okay, I guess science isn’t always right. You can cry while eating a doughnut.  

      his Thanksgiving, I’m not going to be stressed. I’m going to listen to people more. Talk more. Spend more time just being there. I’m going to let the hugs linger a little longer, and not be in such a rush. I’m going to give thanks for these people in my life that love me. Remember that the food is always secondary. The food is just a sign of love. There are many who came before us that we’ll never share another meal with on this earth. Be thankful for the time you do have with them.  I’ll also take care to show my love to those who are here today. You never know when you’ll get that chance again. 

      Life is a feast. Be thankful when the table is full.  

      God bless y’all.    

---

      We’re going to take a walk on the Dark Side today. Sorry, but it’s what I have to do. I’m late getting this article written because I honestly couldn’t motivate myself to write. It happens. I started several times, but it just wouldn’t come out. I didn’t feel like it. Then it dawned on me: follow that thread. So, here goes. 

      The holidays are upon us, and I’m just not “feeling” it. I’m trying. I promise I am. I usually love when the days of family get-togethers and copious amounts of food come knocking at my door. The dark clouds of depression and foreboding have, unfortunately, parked over my bald head of late. Nothing out of the ordinary. The holidays do that to everyone sometimes. I’m not special. Maybe hemet-wearing, lick the windows on the short bus special, yes. Usually, I’m not the Debbie-downer, woe is me, here come the holidays and the end of the world kind of special. Yet here I sit. 

      Depression hits everyone. We look out at the world and take in all of the dreadful stuff happening, and it’s hard to be up-beat. Volcanoes erupting in Iceland, war-torn swaths of land full of dying children, droughts and famine, spy balloons from China, and politicians doing their mean and spiteful work abounds all over the news. The hatefulness of people is there on the screen for all to see and examine. It’s hard to find a glimmer of hope in it all. So, sometimes, our brains just say, “the heck with it” and we let the cloud settle on our minds. Granted, it’s the easiest solution. Everything is going to Hell in a hand basket, so why not me? I’ll just sit here until the fire consumes me, and we’ll be done with it. Ouch. I told you. The Dark Side. 

      I have real world, adult type problems. Money is tighter than ever, my body is falling apart as I hurtle down the other side of that “over the hill” thing, and even food doesn’t taste as good as it used to. I seem, lately, to be walking a tight rope over the Pit of Despair, and my balance just ain’t what it used to be. I just want to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and dream it all away. Don’t we all feel this way, sometimes? Yup. We do. What can we do to get out of that feeling? 

      The sun came out today. Again. The cool morning starts another day of work, chores, and a gaggle of people to deal with. It brings much of the same stuff from yesterday, with a few different twists and variations. It’ll also bring some different feelings, if you look hard at them. That’s the great thing about feelings. If you don’t like the one you have right now, you can change them. Or they’ll change on their own. Or you can take a pill and make them change until you figure out how to change them yourself. They’re just a construct of your mind. Just know that, like the weather, they will change. Take heart, gird up thy loins, and look on the bright side. Where there’s life, there’s hope. We started the day with life, let’s try to breathe some fun fairy dust on it and enjoy it. I promise I will. You do the same. I’ll see you on the sunny side, dear reader! 

---

      I’ve done a few things for the last time. As I get older, I see many things pass me by that I’ll never have another opportunity to do. Stuff like playing professional football, climbing Mt. Everest, or winning a hot dog eating contest. You know, bucket-list things. I’m not lamenting my losses, there’s just some things I never got around to doing. I’ve done most of the “firsts” in my life. At fifty-eight, it’s inevitable that I’ve already done a lot. First kiss. First child. First job. First time being fired. The list goes on and on. There’s a couple of people in my life that qualify as my “lasts”. They both have birthdays this week, so I’d like to point out how important they are to me, and why. 

      Timothy Sean is my last child. He turns thirty-four on Veteran’s Day. He’s the last son I’ll ever get to raise. He came into my life during a hectic and busy time and proceeded to speed it up. He always kept me on my toes. He’s the last of my four children, and I’ve always said he was the “exclamation point” at the end of my “life’s sentence”. He came into this world moving fast and has rarely slowed down. He made me so tired. I was only twenty-four when he arrived. I’m grateful I had him so young, because I doubt, I would’ve had enough energy to endure his pace, had I been even a few years older. He’s always been a blessing, though. He was, and still is, a kind and thoughtful young man. He brought his own energy wherever he went. Born on Veteran’s Day, he became a Veteran himself when he served in Iraq and Kuwait during Operation Enduring Freedom. He’s always been a soldier, ready to do the job at hand and get things done. I’m so proud of the man, and father, he is today. He’s a great dad, a loving husband, and still brings that energy to the room. Usually, he uses that energy to chase his own four-year old around it, now. I couldn’t ask for a better “last” son.  

      Laura Gail is my last wife. She could toss me out on my ear tomorrow, and I’d never take another shot at marriage again. She’s ruined me. Maybe it’s the price I have to pay for marrying a younger woman, and maybe she just put the bar too high. She came into my life after I’d been a widower for eight years. I had no idea how to be single. I was really making a mess of it. She brought an order to my life that I can’t really explain. She brings out the better part of me that I didn’t know existed. She shows me, every day, what love means. She keeps me centered and focused. She found me at my worst and loved me until I was better. She saved me from myself. How could I love anyone else, after all that? Nope. She’s definitely my last.  

      Happy birthday to the both of you! You make my life better in more ways than you know. Thanks for being last.  

---

      The neighborhood was teaming with kids walking door to door, ringing bells for candy. The sun was barely on the horizon, but the sugar-hungry monsters couldn’t wait any longer. The baby brothers and sisters were pulled along by their older siblings, with calls of “C’mon! All the good stuff is gonna be gone by the time we get there!” They scurried faster, not wanting to get stuck with black licorice or, heaven forbid, Circus Peanuts.  

      The older kids, in their teens, were just waiting for the sun to go down. In cover of darkness, like ninjas, they would throw eggs at houses and vehicles alike, all in the playful spirit of Halloween. The lucky yards that were targeted might also get their trees tee peed with roll upon roll of toilet paper, creating a distinctly spooky and hard to remove decoration for the yard that got bombed. Dads had a mixed response to such shenanigans. Mine tended to utter a curse every time he heard the distinctive “thump thump” of eggs hitting the house. His day after Halloween would include a water hose nearly every year. I’ve known of at least one dad who laid in wait on top of his van parked in the driveway, a cache of eggs at the ready. He fired back at the kids who tried to toss his house. I’m pretty sure he ended up having to wash egg off of himself as well as his house. It was all in fun. No police were bothered by either party. 

      Fall Celebrations were common at a lot of local churches. The “Devil’s Holiday” wasn’t taken quite as seriously back then. There were games like “bobbing for apples” and costume contests that were very competitive. I dressed in drag one year and won a prize. My pronouns remain “he and him”, so don’t worry about any lasting symptoms or disorders. t was all for fun and candy. You trusted your neighbors, except for the creepy guy on the corner. Everybody knew not to go to his house. Mostly though, you could expect to bring home a ton of sugar laden goodies (and some healthy apples that your mom would insist upon slicing up to make sure there were no razor blades embedded). If you were smart, and not a glutton like me, you could make that hoard last a few days, maybe even a week. Your parents might even “sort out the bad candy” and take some off your hands. Yes, it was the good stuff. The Kit Kats, Hershey Bars and Snickers mainly. Chocolate is valued by adults, too. Call it the Parent Tax. Washing egg off the side of the house takes calories. 

      I see almost no Trick or Treaters nowadays. They’ve all but disappeared from the holiday. It’s all “Trunk or Treat” at local churches and community centers. If a doorbell gets rung, it’s only family or someone that’s a well-known friend. It’s a sad reflection of the lessened trust that’s been earned by the horrible state of our society. Our communities are no longer filled with neighbors. They’re just “people we’ve met that we live near”. We live in an era where we can’t let our kids wander up and down the block, knocking on doors for candy because we don’t know each other anymore. Technology has made the world smaller, but it’s definitely separated one neighbor from the other. We talk to each other constantly, via text, email, Instagram, Facebook, and all sorts of social media. We just don’t talk face to face much anymore. We know what somebody’s having for dinner (they posted another picture of it) but we don’t know who they are, whether or not they’re a nice person (you can be anyone you chose to be on social media-it doesn’t make it true) or if they’re the kind of person who would call the cops if your kid egged their house. Those are important things to know about your neighbors. 

      Yes, the scary part of Halloween for us X Gens may be that our kids, and their kids, will never know the difference between the Halloween they’re growing up with, versus the one their parents experienced. I admit, I’m just an old guy reminiscing about lost youth, but it’s true. The candy tasted better and was bigger. You could get a ton of candy just on your own block, with a cheap mask. You could get away with tricks, as well as treats, without anyone getting hurt. Unless dad made me clean the egg off the house. That was yucky. Still, totally worth it. I miss my childhood Halloween. Enjoy your candy, folks! I’m waiting on it to go on sale the day after, like everybody else.  

---

The kid must’ve been at least sixteen, standing at my door. His red nylon jacket had a name tag on his right breast. “Hello, my name is Charlie Decker” it read. He held out his flat, cloth bag by it’s handles, opening it for me to drop in the Halloween candy. It had a hand painted school book on both sides of a math book-Algebra II. I dropped in a handful of “fun-sized” Snickers and Sweeties and asked “Who is Charlie Decker?” I was lost. The kid sighed. It was obviously not the first time he’d had to answer this inquiry.

“He was the lead character in “Rage”. Stephen King wrote it in high school, but didn’t publish it until 1977. It was about a troubled kid that brought a gun to school. He killed two teachers, then kept a whole class hostage while they talked about stuff kid’s never talk about to each other. They all bonded over the experience, except for a guy named Ted Jones. He thought Charlie was crazy. Charlie basically had the others beat the crap out of Ted before he let the class go. Oh yeah, they almost took Charlie out with a sniper, but it hit his padlock he’d taken off of his locker and put in his shirt pocket.” The kid opened his jacket and took a padlock out of the front pocket of his blue button up shirt. There was what looked like a bullet hole in the pocket, and the lock was even dented to look like it had taken a bullet.

“Wow. I’ve never read that one. Thought I’d read all of his stuff.” I said.

“Well, King had them take it out of print in 1997, after the fifth time a high school shooting was associated with it. It wasn’t the books fault, but King probably felt pretty crappy having a work of his attached to kids killing kids. I guess even the world’s most famous horror writer has moral boundaries.” He shrugged.

“So, Charlie was the monster?” I asked.

“Naw. He was just a kid. Lots of kids like him in the last twenty years. He sure wasn’t a hero, though. If I had to guess, I’d say the real monster was his dad. Not that it was all his fault, but that’s what I got from the story. At least Charlie got some of the kids to get their feelings out in the open. Of course, he did all that with a dead Algebra teacher at his feet. Anyway, I’m not sure I could figure out a costume for Charlie’s dad. Thanks for the candy.” The kid turned and walked away.

I stood there, wide-eyed, watching him stroll down the sidewalk to the next house.

I closed the door and put the candy on the table. I went to my son, Chris’s, room and asked him to pause the video game. I gave him a surprisingly long hug.

“Let’s talk.” I said.

      My wife, Laura Gail, is a very practical person. She isn’t one to exaggerate, and she doesn’t scare easily. I kidded her a lot when she told me this story, years ago, but her tale has never wavered. I like to think that there’s always an explanation for everything, but there are some things in this life that cannot be explained. In her own words, Laura Gail presents one of those today. 

      I saw something back in or about 1998. It was truly frightening and when Kevin asked me to tell this story I hesitated. I’m afraid that I will see it again just because I talked about it.  

First let me say I’m not one of those people who sees ghosts or demons. This was a one-time thing and I hope to never see it again.  

      My ex-husband and I were at his mother’s house. We pretty much had a 2-hour bible lesson while we were there. This was a common occurrence when we visited her. It was about 9pm when we decided to go home. We lived between Humboldt and Medina. We turned onto Hwy 152 going toward Medina. There isn’t much in the area but houses and fields. It was very dark.  I was in the passenger seat just kind of staring out into the darkness. It was Fall and the crops had been cleared already. The moon lit the eerie landscape. We were in the middle of a curve with an empty field on my right when I saw movement out in the field. There was something standing in the middle of the recently cut field.  This thing looked to be 7 feet tall, and it suddenly crouched down and sprang into the air. It had wings that were at least 5 ft long that I didn’t notice until it left the ground. When it was standing in the field its wings were kind of wrapped around it like a person would do with a blanket. It was black. I can’t remember a face or feet, but it seemed at least part human. It flew towards me and over the car. I made a noise and sucked my breath in and at the same time my ex and I asked each other, “Did you see that?” He said “I’m turning around to see what that was”. I was terrified. This thing felt evil. I begged him not to go back but he did anyway. It was gone, thankfully. We turned around again and headed home. We didn’t speak the rest of the way. We were busy watching the fields for this thing. Once we were home and, in the house, we talked about it, and both described it the same way. 

      Through the years there have been movies that came out after we saw this thing. We have compared it to Jeepers Creepers. This thing lifted off the ground the same way. We compared it to Mothman. Its shape was similar. We searched for it on the Internet and the best I found close to it was a Jersey Devil except this was more human than it.  

      I tried again last night to search the Internet for what we saw but couldn’t find anything. I got scared just trying to find it and slept with the light on. I felt like I was opening a door just by researching it, so I quit. So, the next time you drive on Hwy 152 between Humboldt and Medina keep an eye out for it. I have passed that way many times and a small part of me still cringes when I think of it.  

“The world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don’t know.” 

                                                                                                              Sherman Alexie 

---