My Readers… I wrote “The Angry Man – COVID19” with appreciation of personal risk related to the readers of this current and highly emotional discussion. I also considered the temptation of some to classify this article as “Conspiracy theory” which often groups unconventional and unconstrained sharing of ideas.  In the end, I decided to publish this opinion paper that some will agree with and others will not. My hope is that you take the time to read it and that you consider its content with your objectivity (experiences and education you have acquired). My optimism is ever present in individuals and organizations where leadership is constantly critically learning through active measures to acquire knowledge. — Jim

I don’t know about you, but I am starting to get my dander up every time I hear that we need to “Shelter in Place” for the goodness of all humanity. If we don’t follow that instruction, death will happen, and it is a certainty. If it is not you that dies, you will bear the guilt of the “Carrier” or be the cause of another’s demise. And yes, that person, “You” killed, will most likely have been old or have some type of affliction that made their previous life at least a bit more miserable than yours. How dare you! How did we get here? It is like the perpetual optimism I usually enjoyed has left my brain and has been replaced by a cynical and artificially directed member of an ant hill. It may be this home security prison that is getting to me or the ever-building distrust I am gaining by observing the airwaves. Personal and destructive agendas wrapped in a caring tone of voice seem to be exploiting emotional distress for gain. COVID19, I know you are an enemy of the Nation and world, but I believe you pale in comparison to those devious in power using your existence to strengthen themselves. 

Men have created things about COVID19 that tick me off. The initial predictions for infections and mortality changed, a lot. That, followed by changing definitions for how to count the dead and diagnosed are the most perplexing and frustrating in the spotlight for me. I am paying attention to these things like most Americans. How can an epidemiologist go from predicting 2 million to under 60 thousand deaths for the USA within two months with the same considerations of social distancing? To my scientists: that science is not trustworthy and should embarrass the college that graduated you! I am angered since I feel as if we as a Nation are being led like helpless sheep by persons or groups with influence and something to gain which is not in the vast majorities best interest. “They” would sell their soul to improve or secure their position. Is it right to cause panic across the entire realm of what we used to call rationality of society? Can the number of ICUs or hospital staff ever be large enough to keep every patient alive? We are all mortal, right (sorry for the cynicism)? 

On April 16, 2019 the CDC redefined what deaths will be counted as COVID19 deaths. The newest change will now include those patients in the COVID19 cause of death pile if their death is suspected to be associated with COVID19. This is like washing away other mortality causes to a large extent since most who die in ICUs today require breathing assistance and many perish from pneumonia-like symptoms. In fact, hospitals have tracked a specific measure of quality called Hospital Acquired Pneumonia (HAP) for years now wanting to make sure hospitals were not the place pneumonia was acquired because of an unsterile environment. Pneumonia, noted upon admission, impacts many deaths of patients admitted for the top causes of death in the nation. Pneumonia will likely not be listed as the primary cause of death if the bodily systems were already weakened by failing systems (i.e. Heart failure). COVID19 will seemingly now trump other causes of death primary diagnoses even when weak bodily system created a mortal opportunity. Will the COVID19 presumptive diagnosis capture all those previously deemed pneumonia’s and jettison COVID19 in the ranking of primary causes of death? I think it is likely. Being isolated is an expectation while an ICU patient and the intensity ration of staff for care is very high. While we change our diagnostics to add new groups into the COVID19 category we must realize reimbursement for care, vents, etcetera is highly linked to these diagnostics. This environment in our hospital system will lure staff (clinicians and administrators) to target the right diagnosis that leads toward the money. 

Political posturing should make everyone on this planet furious. Budget proposals including right and left wing add-ons without association to defeating COVID19 or helping the public affected by its presence are prevalent. Name calling is quickly the tact of elected leaders versus working to find amicable solutions. Leadership divides along party lines without consideration of debate or credibility of arguments. There is a self-centeredness larger than ever before in history based on “Power.” Federal, State and County Leaders are examined prejudicially or preferentially based on the Republican or Democrat suit they wear. Within our largely two-party system we have forgotten that dignity and respect must be the first choice when being leaders. Listening and evaluating different points of view focused on a topic can elevate a common man to be redefined as a cooperative and learning leader. Many have lost the gift of maturity that enables older folks to show attention without expressing insubordinance through appearance or action. Has it become an impossible task to try to appreciate the stress of a leader trying to make the best decision for all, without critically and immediately looking at the shortfalls of the plan? Blindly following is foolish and insincere loyalty is mutiny. So where does that leave us? I think the politicians are putting us in “their” middle, forcing policies they believe in into the center of COVID19. Isn’t it time their motivations change from reelection to serving even those who do not go to the polls. 

The collective media has become one of my most despised sources of information even though there is virtually no other alternative. They intentionally dramatize singular cases of COVID19 and glorify their coverage in a self-promoting way that is undignified. For instance, the smallest fraction of hospitalized patients who had no comorbidities along with their COVID19 are focused upon. I must believe this is to incite individual fear in the general population hinting, “This could be you”, if you do not abide by the new stay at home rules. Multiple correspondents have used COVID19 to tell their personal story of struggle from home. The most maddening is one from CNN who without a doubt needed to be the main character in the COVID19 story after he contracted the disease. His connection with the Governor of New York, gave him an inside scoop to COVID19, but clearly the concentrated story is of himself. We know he had a fever. We know he claims suffering. We know he had a social isolation argument with his neighbor. Oh, might I add; we know he was not “Sick enough”, at least physically, to be hospitalized. And now, we know he needed to continue “His” story, so he is now following his wife’s COVID19 struggle. This is only one reporter making me ashamed to have watched even one of his pity party newscasts. Sadly, I think some of those reporters, like him, might hope of being hospitalized and taken as close to death as possible for their career developmental story. 

From me, who thought I was the “Angry man” when I started this piece, I am glad I got the words out of my head and onto paper. I can’t believe that I am the only American that has had their “Optimism protection system” weakened by the peripheral annoyances of COVID19. Maybe that should be listed as a new symptom? I will drive on collecting factual and comparative data to make good decisions that are informed by common sense, objectivity and reason. I’ve decided to double-down on not being a thoughtless drone receiving the news or guidance knowing that my outlook and lens play a part in the interpretation and outcome. I am optimistic and so should you be. It looks like a nice day out so I think I am going to go for a run. 

“To Lead is a Privilege, to Think is a Responsibility” – Jim Laterza 

We’ve always had bird feeders and have enjoyed watching many different birds visit our yard. About five years ago, we briefly saw a male Bluebird visit our bird bath. After some research, we determined it was just a “fly by” and that he wasn’t overly impressed with our food and lodging offerings. My wife decided that we needed to add Bluebird houses to our backyard.

Much to our delight, the following spring a Papa Bluebird visited once again. He must have approved of our renovations because a few days later, he brought the decision-maker with him – Mama Bluebird. That first year was very exciting for us as we watched them daily from March through September.

The following spring we upped our game by adding a mealworm feeder to our backyard, not knowing if they would return or not. You would have thought we won the lottery the day we saw a Papa Bluebird sitting on one of the houses. Mama soon followed and our “Bluebird” spring and summer unfolded just as the year before. Mama and Papa’s behavior the second year mirrored the first, so now we understood what “normal” was for raising a family of Bluebirds – and it’s pretty awesome!

As we have gotten to know our Bluebirds over the years, we have come to truly appreciate how magnificent they are. As mentioned above, a Papa Bluebird visits each spring by himself. This is his scouting run to scope out suitable places to raise a family. Mama usually shows up a few days later, and they basically start “claiming their turf” by sitting on one of our houses. They are not fending off other Bluebirds, but other birds like Starlings and House Sparrows who also look for holes/houses to build nests in – and also have been known to attack Bluebirds.

Claiming their turf can go on for weeks before they even start building a nest. Similar to the boxing analogy of “pound for pound best boxer”, Papa Bluebird is one of the baddest birds on this planet! We’ve seen times when a Starling has trapped Mama in one of the houses, and out of nowhere Papa comes dive bombing the Starling and chases him away. Papa is extremely protective – just ask a few curious squirrels who have gotten a little too close to the house. Papa is always on watch! He’s like a dad at the playground who never takes his eyes off his children as they play with their friends. Papa likes to sit in a few different spots, usually high points where he can keep an eye on the entire backyard.

It’s heartwarming to observe Mama and Papa Bluebird truly being a couple. Much like a husband and wife, they have their different roles but they work as a team and share many responsibilities. During nest building, we watch them both gather pieces of grass and individually disappear through the hole in the birdhouse. We have also seen Papa carry some nest building materials to the birdhouse opening to hand-off to Mama inside.

Bluebirds are very social. They do not mind interactions with people, and at times we think they actually enjoy us being around. Our Bluebird houses allow for the front section to swing open so we can look inside. We don’t look too often, and we always knock on the side of the house first, but we can watch the progress of the nest building with an occasional peek. Watching nest building is fun, but nothing compares to looking inside a house and seeing a little blue egg in the nest! Mama usually lays one egg a day, in the morning, for five or six days. She actually spends time away from the house during the time and we monitor the egg laying in the early evening each day. “Dive bomber” Papa is always watching us from a nearby perch, but somehow knows that he can trust us. Once all the eggs are laid, Mama takes to keeping them warm by sitting on the nest for about two weeks.

We made a big mistake with our birdhouses the first year. We mounted our houses on wooden stakes that looked nice, but were not very sturdy. After Mama laid five eggs that first year, a raccoon (most likely) knocked the entire house down one night and there were no eggs left the next morning. We felt terrible, and quickly put the houses back up on “industrial strength” poles with safeguards to prevent anything from climbing to the house. We were afraid Mama and Papa would go away, but they stayed. The next day they both sat next to each other on the birdbath for a very long time. Their daily routine was sadly no longer required and they were likely a bit puzzled, but it also seemed like they were mourning. Staying close together, not flying all about until they decided to start all over again – which they did, but in a different house in our yard.

Once the baby Bluebirds are hatched, Papa now elevates his protector role and guards the house pretty much all the time – and aggressively chases away any bird or animal that gets close to the house. He also becomes chief cook and bottle washer. As mentioned earlier, we have a mealworm feeder close to the birdhouse. We add mealworms to the feeder in the early morning most days. We don’t bother Mama during this time, but we do get close to fill the feeder. Papa watches us closely. As soon as we start walking away, he will fly to the feeder for a mouthful of mealworms. He collects the mealworms, but he doesn’t eat a single one as he flies to the birdhouse opening for a beak to beak hand-off with Mama so she can feed the babies and herself. This routine continues for the next 10-15 days. As days go on, we’ll see Mama and Papa go into the house and come out with little white sacs in their mouths. They are removing the waste from the babies so the nest stays clean and safe (gives new appreciation for the disposable diapers we used for our three kids :).

Next comes the best part of helping our Bluebird couple raise their family – the babies start to fledge the nest. After 15 days or so, we start seeing the babies start poking their heads out the birdhouse. It’s really fun to watch over a couple days as they get more courageous, you think one is about to go for it – then he or she thinks “not so sure” and pulls back inside. Growing confidence, along with an increasingly crowded house, finally leads to the first fledgling leaving the nest and immediately perching on a nearby tree branch. One by one, they all take the leap of faith over coming days and our backyard is filled with Bluebirds.

After several intense weeks, Mama and Papa finally can relax a bit – although their parenting responsibilities continue. We add more mealworms per day to the feeder to satisfy the growing needs of all the new babies. Some of the babies quickly find their way to the feeder and become fairly independent right away. Others, are more tentative and we watch as Mama or Papa bring them mealworms wherever they may be perched in a tree. Over coming weeks, many of the fledglings stick around and often play together in our birdbath. As their first brood of baby Bluebirds continue to spread their wings, Mama and Papa have already started nest number two and start the entire process all over again

So, during this unprecedented time of uncertainty and fear, we are blessed to have a pocket of normalcy that our family escapes to everyday – right in our backyard. I hope reading our Bluebird adventures provides you with a brief escape as well, and I hope you find comfort in seeking your own pockets of normalcy within your lives.

Today we all need a break from the endless news cycle so I thought it may be a great idea to write this temporary distraction piece to spur a laugh or two. So, here it goes. 

If I want to head back in time a bit it only takes a second or two for me. You only need to mention the “CB” Radio. That is the Citizen’s Band (CB) Radio for those who may not have been a user or even around in the 1970’s and 1980’s. The CB preceded most all other mobile communication and it was a method our “Big Rig Drivers”, local Pick up owners, volunteer firemen and just about anyone (who was cool) would use to talk to others from their vehicle. They would mount it under their dash and it would open up their world of public conversation at a distance. It was not secure communication by any means and everything you said to a friend through your microphone could be listened to by anyone on that channel. 

Those connected had large “Whip” antennas on their cars or trucks and replicated the same with bigger antennas on their homes. The mobile whip antenna was a thing of beauty symbolizing the muscle under the hood (or dash in this case). You were a connected member of society who likely could respond faster than anyone else to any chaos known to man or beast. This could be a car accident, a fire or simply an overlooked get together that you had only stumbled upon by hearing it on the CB. A “Home base station” was recognizable by the huge triangular shaped frame antenna that seemed like it could reach out to another planet. I’m not sure, but this could be a variant theory of where the phrase “Bigger is better” came from. It seemed like the big and bad CB operators had antenna’s on poles that extended hundreds of feet into the sky and dwarfed their homes. Sadly, I do not think the antenna range was ever tested so it’s likely that bigger might have only represented a more obnoxious disruption to the horizon. 

There was a wave of television shows that spurred the popularity of CBs including Movin’ On, BJ and the Bear or the big screen movies entitled, Smokey and the Bandit, Breaker – Breaker and Convoy to name a few. A new language was born where Smokies were the police, Billy Goat meant Old Timer and 10-4 was a resounding understanding and agreement of the facts you just stated. These influences were deep for a young kid looking for an adventurous life where the good guys always won and everyone was just “Cool.” To participate, you must understand that every CB user needed a handle. That handle was his or her name to be known by when speaking into the handheld microphone for the airwaves. I recall the day I was listening to hear some “Big Rig” talk and I picked up a skipping signal from the stratosphere echoing a southern drawl voice all the way from Louisiana. It was not what the trucker said, it was the fact that I could hear it. I lived in upstate New York so you might be able to imagine the glee of a 10-year-old equal to discovering a precious gem in the backyard or contacting aliens. The man on the other end of the CB was “Snake Eyes.” I thought that was the best handle I had ever heard and thought it clearly represented a serpent able to strike with a potent venom at any moment. Little did I know at my age it likely represented rolling two die with a single mark on each. At that moment I created my name and took on my handle, “Puny Eyes.” 

Puny Eyes sounded almost as cool as Snake Eyes. After all, it included “Eyes” and that in itself would catch random listeners attention. I am not sure where I got the “Puny” part of the handle, but the definitions I retrieved in later years betrayed “Cool.” Puny is small or sickly. Wow, small, sickly eyes! That description does not represent someone who you would want to talk to on the CB radio or how I wanted to be described. I didn’t have a deep voice at that age and community trust was better, but that name should have likely been adjusted. Besides, my eyes were normal sized and I was not unusually small or sickly. Parents who let their kids use the CB might have restricted its use these days with the thought of “Puny Eyes” being at the other side of the conversation. Today, most kids would be restricted from going to “that internet site” if they had a desire to chat. 

During my CB-years I had a childhood friend whose handle was Red Fox. He had chosen his name modifying his dad’s handle, Gray Fox. I appreciated that, but his handle was not unique or interesting enough and did not come close to my Snake Eyes inspiration. My handle rolled off the tongue. Not considering my thoughtful reflections of today I stuck with Puny Eyes! Red Fox and I chatted about “stuff” probably twice per week for a year or two. It was a great outlet and likely entertained the open airwaves with our innocent topics. It is interesting to compare then and now. What if the phone of today was open communication? I’m pretty sure that the privacy police would be on us pretty quick, but what an interesting conscience keeper. Although the CB radio created only a false sense of anonymity, users kept a sense of honesty and cleanliness in their conversation. Obviously, I listened with my untarnished youthful ears and may have saw the world rosier than it was, but that is the memory that stuck in my head. The reach of my CB radio seemed continental and maybe limitless, but no fear was ever produced by its use. It was just pure joy. 

Breaker, breaker, this is Puny Eyes signing off with some lessons of fearlessness, decency, courtesy and respect taught to me through my CB radio in the good ol’ days! Thanks for listening in and hope this “Break” took you away from the stress of today for a bit! 

“Reflect and Laugh to Refresh your Spirit” 

and then …

“Do Your Job” the best way you can 

Jim Laterza

In the turbulent sixties, spies were in demand. There was that war going on over in ‘Nam, anti-war protests across the U.S., and the civil rights movement in the south. My new, young spy friend had been deployed to Eastern Europe, keeping an eye on Soviet activity. I was a bit in awe.

Much later, I was working for a global software development company that sent consultants around the world. The project that I was working on was domestic. But one of my close associates and friends there had come out of military intelligence. He was gathering and analyzing data electronically, from strategic hot spots around the world. My cousin Les was doing the same thing on the ground in South Korea.

A few years later, working for the same company, I encountered two more CIA agents. They were an odd pair. He was short, overweight, balding, and bespectacled. She was a tough one, a real piece of work. She had a manly manner, and rode her Harley to work. They had been working together for years. An unmarried married couple, deployed by the CIA to do interrogations of vietcong, in Vietnam. The company I worked for was headquartered near the Pentagon, and provided cover for CIA operatives. I can tell you this, if you ever encounter a short, overweight, balding, and bespectacled man, tell him what he wants to know. If you don’t, he will cut off your tongue!

It seems they’re everywhere. And they just can’t be trusted!  I thought I could trust Paul. We had been friends in our youth. We went to church youth activities. But, wouldn’t you know it, he married my girlfriend! I guess you can do that if you work for the NSA.

But still the messages came in, unrelenting, unsettling, disquieting.  It is not easy to watch as things spiral out of your control.  Another hand on the rudder, another voice shouting as your ship tacks to and fro without you even being aboard.  It is the lack of control that drives you crazy.  This is action that you yourself have confidently undertaken more times than you can count.  You are good at it.  The results certain.  Dependable.  Pleasing.

“No Sara,” I cry again as the fatal text comes in.  Each previous text was a small incision, a mere papercut.  But this last is a slash to the juggler.  I winced when Sara had substituted another brand of hot dogs for my beloved Ball Park Beef Franks.  I whimpered when the Kraft deluxe mac and cheese was replaced with the store brand basic.  I cried when the chicken breasts were refunded, and I wept unashamedly when the family pack of T-bone steaks suffered the same fate, the fact that the Dinty Moore stew had survived unscathed being meager solace.  But now I am inconsolable. Devastated.  Stricken with a sadness the depth of which I may never escape.  I hold the phone in my hand.  The text stares back at me.  Tauntingly.  Remorseless.  The loss too painful to countenance, I look away.  The Breyers cherry vanilla ice cream has been refunded.  Life no longer has meaning.

And then the phone chimes again with one final, incongruously cheery message.  “Fry’s is on the way!!”  And now I am left to make the decision.  How much do you tip a woman whom you have never met, who may be saving your life, but has destroyed your will to fight on?

Whoa, screech, screech … not so fast! I live in Georgia and not just any part of Georgia, I live in Augusta, GA. The home of the world-famous Masters Golf Tournament. It was scheduled to happen the first week in April when thousands of golf lovers would descend on our grand city. Well, the Masters was postponed and some say the entire city is going to blow away. It doesn’t seem like folks are conceding to that train of thought and the biggest adjustment so far is restaurant curbside service and busy new drive-through windows. Neither the postponement nor social distancing have impacted the weather either. The end of March has been beautiful hanging in the 70s. My suspicion is that the Greek god of Meteorology, Jupiter, is asleep or not watching the news and has not figured in the corona effect. For now, mowing the lawn and sitting outside to enjoy a cool drink in the sunlight is going off without a hitch.

To add even some more confusion to the mix of the corona virus self-isolation, my wife and I have taken to walking not only once per day, but twice! The self-isolation and “Work stoppage” at most offices with a “Work from home” directive has caused many of our neighbors to be in the “Hood.” That is morning, noon and night and every day. Is there a workday or evening difference? It’s not proving to be so different. And, “Social distancing”, is causing the strangest phenomenon in the behavior of my neighborhood. People must be dropping their devices, laptops and even televisions to go outside and enjoy the air. Wait, isn’t that corona virus air?? If it is in the neighborhood air it is causing some to sit on their front lawn and wave from a safe distance of at least six feet apart or others even to walk carefully on the opposite side of the street and say hello when passing. In fact, I think that I have found people who may have been cave dwellers in underground tunnels beneath their homes. They may have been freed by “Social distancing.”

Irony, I am so glad it exists. It is the surprise impact of the effect of something. It’s a lot like a comedic punchline. Did you know what was going to happen before that comedian delivered the “Killer” line? No way, but it was funny. Here in my neighborhood, corona and social distancing are creating a social and aware environment where people are wondering inquisitively about their closest community. It’s not about fearing that their neighbors may be infectious. It seems to be a new desire to be aware of them, their neighbors. It’s as if connecting with them now is important.

I am not sure how the corona virus will inevitably impact me or my family, but I believe the ironies so far have at least some elements of goodness. My goal is to not lose the hope momentum and to focus on those positive indicators of humanity that set us apart as communities and neighbors. As our health system and personal health is tested, I believe there will be many micro-cures of communities delivered by the ironic impact of social distancing. I look for them to provide electricity to fuel more unpredictable and positive magnetic connections and hope they bring.

They knew that “The Times, They Are A Changing”. They knew that “The Answers Are Blowing In The Wind”. They were experiencing war and unrest, and they knew that their parents had also experienced a terrible war. The war their fathers fought had ended. “Their father’s hell did slowly go by”.

I fear that the young people of today are NOT tuned in. They do not listen to the news about the war we are now waging, against COVID-19. They think this is their father’s hell, not theirs. The sacrifices of Social Distancing and the guidelines of the virus task force do not apply to them. We need to listen to an old song, and heed its advice. “Teach Your Children”, written by Graham Nash.

“Hey! I’m Alice. It’s Riley, right?” I smile.

            “That’s me! It’s nice to meet you,” my date wraps her arms around my shoulders. I usually don’t go for hugs on the first date but something about this girl makes me want to open up and tell her all my secrets. I’ve never tried online dating before, but it doesn’t seem as bad as people make it out to be. Or maybe I just got lucky. I mean, she’s beautiful. Her curled blonde hair cascades down the open back of her baby blue sundress. When she pulls out of our hug, I’m met with eyes bluer than water so clear that you can see through to the ocean floor.

            “Sorry,” I chuckle nervously as I realize I’m staring. She joins me in laughter as we both sit down at the high-top table. Three tall candles rest on the glossy finish of each table, being the only source of light in the whole restaurant. The small flames cast a reddish glow with the maroon color of the walls, setting a very intimate mood for a first date. I was unsure of the location as soon as I arrived. Now, I have no choice but to make small talk in an attempt to lighten the mood. “How are you?”

            “A little nervous, to be honest.”

            “Me too! I haven’t been on a first date in years.” Why did I say that? Great idea of a first impression, Alice.

            “That’s okay!” she says, “Let’s just get to know each other for now. Tell me about yourself.” She must have seen the embarrassment on my face.

            “Okay, let me think.” I try to come up with interesting things about my life but I’m blanking on everything other than my breakup with Penelope. I’m on a first date! She shouldn’t be on my mind. Should she?

            “Well, my dad died a couple years ago. Just tell me the first thing that comes to mind! I want to know everything,” Riley leans forward on her arms, giving me her full attention. It’s a warm gesture, but it fails to rid me of my thoughts.

            “I’m sorry for your loss,” I frown. “I was actually thinking about everything that went down with my ex-girlfriend, Penelope. That’s a dark story.”

            “Don’t be afraid to share things with me! How long ago was your breakup?”

            “A little over a year ago.”

            “Why did you two end things?” Oh boy. Here it comes.

            “That’s where it gets dark. Are you sure you want to know?” I ask her, fearful of her response.

            “Of course! I have quite a few scary breakup stories myself.” If only she knew what was coming.

Two years ago…

            “Henry, our one-year anniversary is coming up in a month. I have to get her something. But what?”

“Maybe a necklace?” my best friend suggests on the other end of the phone.

“I could make her a butterfly necklace! I know she likes butterflies. I want it to be real, though, and diamonds are really expensive. Can you make real diamonds?” I ask.

“I think they’re made of carbon?” he says, his tone turning it into more of a question.

“Yeah. Google says carbon is found in pretty much everything, even ashes. That’s interesting.” I get an idea. “I’ll call you back,” I mutter and hang up the phone. I open a new tab on my laptop and type “ashes into diamonds” into the search bar. Videos pop up immediately and I find myself watching them until the sun goes down. I know how I’m going to do it, but where will I get ashes? There is a cemetery down the street from my house…

            I pull my boots on, grab a black bag from the kitchen, and go outside to grab a shovel from the greenhouse. When I step inside, my black and silver shovel is leaning against a shelf full of succulents. As I hold the shovel in my hands, a pang of guilt washes over me. Maybe I should think further into what I’m about to do. No, I think to myself, Penelope and I have been dating for almost a year. I have to do something special for her. I grab hedge trimmers and start running down the street. I don’t have much time to do this if I don’t want to get caught. The gravel crunches under my feet and my pulse is in my ears. The loud thrumming distracts me from my doubt.

            Upon arriving at the garden of death, I start searching for graves with the lumpiest dirt covering the casket. Carbon resides in fresh corpses more prominently than it does in old and decomposed ones. Squinting in the dark, I come to a cross-shaped headstone that reads:

Charles S.

Father, Brother, and Friend

He will be forever missed.

            I swiftly look away after reading the last line. I can’t let this simple factor stop me from achieving my goal. I thrust my shovel into the ground beneath me and jump when I hear a stick snap behind me. I freeze, not wanting to be seen. Dread fills every inch of my body as the thing comes closer. Its steps are quiet in the fallen leaves, like it’s about to jump out and grab me. I can feel it right behind me as beads of sweat form on my forehead. Right when my legs are about to give out, something soft brushes up against my shin. I let out the breath I was holding as I realize, it was just a cat. A black cat to be exact. How fitting.

            After digging up mounds and mounds of dirt, my jeans are brown and the top of a white casket can be seen, even in the dark. I open the casket to reveal a man that looks to be around 70 years old. His hair is white and he’s wearing a blue button-up that’s tucked into black dress pants. I grab his wrists and pull as hard as I can. It takes some force to lift his body out of the pit his casket is in. Once above ground, I lay him down and grab my hedge trimmer. His body is definitely too big for the bag I brought. The snap of his bones breaking under the pressure of the large scissors echoes through the small cemetery. First his arms are shoved into the plastic bag. Then, I cut his legs at the hip and right below the knee. Thank God he was embalmed. Otherwise, there would be blood everywhere and I don’t have time for that.

I don’t have it in me to snap his neck. I leave his head on and tie the bag closed around his neck so I don’t leave remnants of an old man around my neighborhood. I refill the hole with dirt and start on my way home, now carrying 165 pounds of old man with me. I have to take breaks every once in a while to rest my arms. I can’t carry 100 pounds, let alone 165, and I don’t want the gravel pathway to shred the thin bag I’ve put him in.

            When I get home, I put Charles in the huge freezer attached to my fridge. He needs to stay cool if I want his remains to be as valuable as possible. I pick up the phone and dial Henry’s number.

“Alice?” His voice sounds raspy. He must have been asleep.

            “Hey! I need a favor. Do you still work at the crematorium down the street?”

            “Yeah, why?”

✻✻✻

            I hear a car door slam. I look out the window and see Henry’s red pickup truck parked in my driveway. Since I don’t have a car, Henry drove here to help me take Charles to the crematorium.

            “Where is he?” He sounds nervous and tired.

            “In the freezer over there,” I point towards the kitchen and follow him through the hallway. He carries Charles to the bed of his truck and secures him with bungee cords. Once we arrive, we park in the back of the crematorium.

            “I’m sneaking you in, okay? There shouldn’t be anybody here since it’s so late at night.”

            “It’s only 10pm.” He gets out of the truck and heads to unlock the door before grabbing Charles’ remains.

            “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groans.

            “What is it?” What could possibly go wrong at a time like this. Lots of things.

            “I left my key in my office. I didn’t have a closing shift or an opening one so I didn’t think I’d need it. I’m sorry, Alice.”

            “We can pick the lock! I have some hairpins,” I say, reaching for the pins holding my messy bun in place. My brown locks tumble down across my shoulders.

            Henry grabs the pins from my hand and frantically starts picking the lock, his hands shaking. The only street lamp in sight shines just enough light to see the keyhole.

            Right as the lock clicks open, the streetlamp’s bulb flickers off, leaving us in complete darkness. Henry and I both jump in surprise.

           “I’ll go get the bag.” Henry stumbles toward the truck. I know he ran into it because a loud thud is followed by some impolite words.

            The air inside the crematorium inside is cold, much colder than outside, despite the furnaces surrounding us. I flick the lightswitch on while Henry carries the black bag into another room. This one is full of metal tables and unfolded cardboard boxes.

            “Take one of those boxes and place it on the metal table over here,” he nods toward a table against the wall. I do as I’m told and Henry sets Charles on the brown surface. With an easy slice, the black bag is cut in half, revealing the pale, chopped up body before us. Henry is quick to fold the cardboard box and place the lid on. Thank goodness. The frown lines on Charles’ face were creeping me out.

“Can you help me wheel him to the furnace?” We roll the metal table into the first room. In front of every furnace is a large rectangular hole that drops into a concrete ashtray below, full of ashes. I could probably just use these. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I just realized that there are ashes already here,” I mumble, partially regretting my decision to dig up an old man.

“Well, we can just use those if you’d like.”

“No. I’ve already made it this far. I don’t want to turn back now,” I decide.

“Okay. I’ll just close the door and turn on the fire. It’ll take a few hours,” Henry informs me. Henry presses a button to open the furnace. A metal door slides up and he pushes the cardboard box into the space in front of us.

            “A few hours? What if someone catches us?”

            “We’ll be fine. The whole city will be asleep in a few hours. Don’t worry. Wanna come play chess with me while we wait?”

            “Okay,” I groan and roll my eyes.

            Sure enough, the flames disappear and Henry heads to break up what’s left of Charles with a large metal rod. He comes back with a black box full of ashes.

            “That should be enough for the diamond. Thank you so much for doing this, Henry. You don’t understand how much this means to me. I know this is probably crazy, not to mention against the law. But I trust that you’ll keep this to yourself, yes?”

            “I promise, Alice, there’s no way I’m admitting to being an accomplice to this. I can’t believe you even talked me into this. But I would do anything for you.” And with that, he drives me home, making sure to lock the door again on his way out.

✻✻✻

            Today’s the day. The jewelry should arrive at any moment. Our anniversary was seven months ago, but I discovered that it would take around eight months to make the diamond. The company apologized for my loss, even though it wasn’t technically my loss, and they said they couldn’t put my diamond in a necklace. I had them set it into a ring, instead. I hope she likes it. With that thought, the doorbell rings.

            “I’ll get it!” I shout to Penelope, who’s in the other room. The velvet box comes with a note that says:

Dear Alice,

Thank you for purchasing this diamond ring. We’re glad to have helped in the permanent remembrance of your loved one.

-Ashes to Diamonds x

How sweet. “I have to ask you something, Penny.” I say as I walk into the living room. Her strawberry blonde hair is tied in a bun with little twirls coming down on her face. She looks so perfect while reading Frankenstein, her favorite book.

            She looks up at me with golden-brown eyes and smiles. “What is it?”

            “I need you to stand.” And with that, she does, leaving the dog-eared book on the couch. I kneel. “I’ve known you for two years now and there isn’t one thing I don’t love about you. I love the way your hair curls when you get out of the shower. I love the way you smile and wipe your tears after watching The Notebook for the millionth time. I love the way you’re always so interested in the news. I love your compassion for people. The list could go on forever. But, most of all, I love the way you look at me as if I’m the only girl in the whole world. I want you to look at me that way forever. Penelope Irene Bell, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

I pull out the box and open it. A diamond ring sits in the middle of the box. Her eyes are wet now, leaving trails of tears down her cheeks. She covers her face in her hands and, for a second, I’m not sure if those are tears of joy. I hear a muffled “yes” before she nods her head frantically and kneels down to wrap me in her arms.

She crawls back and holds out her left hand for me to slide the ring on her finger. It fits perfectly. The sun coming in through the sheer, white curtains makes the diamond glisten.

For the next few days, all Penelope talks about is the wedding. She spends her days looking through newspapers and wedding magazines. A few months ago, she told me about a news story she read. The grounds keeper at a cemetery found a black and silver shovel, along with hedge trimmers, by the grave of a seventy-year-old man. My guilt kicked in immediately. Every Sunday, she would tell me about another detail the cops had found. There were no fingerprints. The casket was filled with dirt. The family hasn’t even claimed him. With every new detail she tells me comes another wave of breath-taking guilt. Now that I’ve proposed, I don’t know what to do.

We’re both sitting at the glass table when she looks up from her newspaper and says, “The cops still haven’t found the culprit. Nobody saw who did it or knows who it could be. Who could do such a thing? That poor family, and they don’t even know,” her tone is full of sympathy.

After staring into her brown eyes for a while, I can’t take it anymore. I’ve thought about this every day since the cremation. My guilt has been building and I cannot take it. “It was me, okay? I robbed that man’s grave. There, I confessed. Every single day for the past eight months has been so torturous for me. And you following this story has only made it more difficult. But I did this all for you!” I thrust my hand in her direction. “Where do you think that diamond came from? I know you found the note on the counter after I proposed.”

She stares at me in silence. Her hand brushes through her hair as she tries to process this information. “How— how could you? I don’t understand. That’s absolutely disgusting! What were you thinking? I love you more than words can express, but this is too much. I don’t even want to know, Alice. It’s over.” And before I can protest or explain myself, she slips her shoes on and bolts out the door.

In the present…

            “Wow. What kind of person would steal a man from his grave? I mean, seriously. What was that? And then to use his ashes to propose to your girlfriend? That’s disgusting!” Riley scoffs.

            “It was all for Penelope. But it’s in the past now. She dumped me and I have no idea where she is. I haven’t seen her since.”

            “That guy had a name! Charles had a name! Do you even know what his last name was? Or were you too blind with your crazy ideas to look?” Her cold gaze moves from me to the candles, which are now halfway melted.

            “His name was Charles Stewart,” I mumble into my water glass before taking a sip.

            Riley gasps and the color fades from her cheeks. “Wait. Charles M. Stewart?”

            “Yeah, I think so. Why?” I ask, now confused.

            “That’s my father’s name.”

Of an evening, the two of us could be found sitting side by side at an old chrome and Formica kitchen table that had been discarded by its owners but given new life and purpose in the basement of our parsonage home.   Before us were yellow tablets with their blue-lined surfaces crammed with prose, or poetry, or just story ideas with arrows pointing here and there, and stars and underlines decipherable only to their authors.  And authors was what we considered ourselves to be.  No matter that no publisher had ever accepted any of our material.  No matter that the two blocks of wood with the nails sticking straight up from them groaned under the weight of the colorful rejection slips that were skewered on them.  We knew what we were.

Between us sat an old electric Smith Corona typewriter.  The keys were gummy with use, something we tried with limited success to remedy before we did our final prints for submission, and the “e” key stuck frequently enough to be a constant source of aggravation, and an adverse influence on whatever muse might be present.  By spells we would take turns pounding away at the often-unresponsive keys as the motor hummed but did not fully engage.  Its ribbon was nearly threadbare,  and we would manually wind it to the least used sections so that the print could be as crisp as possible.  A writer’s budget is often sparse, and ours did not even rise to that level.

There were piles of neatly stacked, white, eight and a half by eleven, twenty-pound paper containing the hopes and dreams of two aspiring writers, played out in neat double-spaced pica.  There were paperclips binding each of these offerings into its own bundle, and as the stacks grew, somehow validating our efforts, so too did our determination.  We had read all of the magazines and books the library had to offer on the subject, and we knew with certainty that the likelihood of success was in direct proportion to the height of the stack of rejection slips, and we had much reason to be optimistic.  And besides, we knew how good we were.  We told each other frequently.  My brother was undoubtedly more proficient at that than I, as he always had a knack for making the people he interacted with feel somehow better than they actually were.  That would remain true till the day he died.

We did not know it then, but we were not really authors.  We were two still young lads playing dress-up.  Perhaps he more than I, because he dressed in almost professorial garb with a burl maple bentwood pipe perched jauntily in the corner of his mouth, unlit, and Barry Goldwater glasses astride the bridge of his nose.  His shirtsleeves were rolled up, two folds,  pressed flat.  There was no cowboy hat on his head in those days, and no L.L. Bean jacket.  And, consequently, no Doug Deats in his writing.  He was not drawing on his love of the woods and streams and open spaces that was the hallmark of his youth or the joy of his later life.  He was trying to channel Hemingway and Faulkner.  His writing was forced.  Purposeful and intentional just like the books recommended.  Good writing is purposeful and intentional.  Great writing seldom is. In any case, there was not the natural folksy flow that gave his later writings their irresistible charm.  And there was not the genuineness of spirit that came to shine through the pages of his one published book or his numerous published articles.  Ironically, it was not until he stopped trying to be an author and learned to be a writer that he was ultimately able to become an author.

But our mutual lack of commercial success notwithstanding, I mark these times together, two brothers pursuing a common dream, as among my most cherished memories.  We spent many late evenings and a number of predawn mornings walking the golf course across from our house, discussing our intended craft, bouncing ideas off one another, or just musing about life in general.  Out of these encounters we wrote many poems separately or together, none of which has survived.  It was not until after his death that I captured what those nights meant to me in a form neither of us ever proved to have much facility with.  It is as follows:

A Night For Poets

It was a night for poets
The late evening mist lay heavy on the night air
As two brothers walked slowly, silently through the grassy dark
Bound together by thought
Leaving visible footprints in the damp grass… and on each other’s souls
But now, no longer do they walk together, but walk they must
For one the fog has lifted, and he walks, unbound,
Forever in the eternal light of a perpetual morn
The other remains, walking silently, more slowly,
Bound by the darkness of grief and the dampness of tears
Their souls, no longer together, but never far apart

On this, the fifth anniversary of his passing, I can honestly say that the impact of those nights has not been diminished by time, nor has the sense of loss.  The author, and yes he finally got to achieve that dream, has written his final words.  But as those who have ever had the pleasure of engaging my brother in spirited discourse know, the final word was a concept with which Doug Deats was intimately familiar.

It was a time and place that shaped a culture. The country was suffering through the recession that followed the Great Depression.  The tiny community was isolated deep in the mountains. The residents were simple folks who lived life on their own terms. They wanted only to be left alone, to survive together. Survival meant living on vegetables from their own gardens, fruit from their own trees, and meat from their own forest. And it meant relying on one another, for support, friendship, and entertainment. These were mountain people, and Finch and Jones were mountain men.

The stories, Dad told, gave me a picture of two men who were as different as they were alike. Finch was tall and thin. Jones was short and portly. Jones was appropriately jolly. Finch was a man of few words. Finch was a prankster. Jones was a ready-made victim. But they were both avid outdoors men, and inseparable friends. And they behaved as mountain men did, in the thirties.

If you have ever been coon hunting, as I have been on a few occasions, you will know that it provides an experience like no other. It’s done in the dark, in the deep woods, to the inimitable sound of baying hounds. There is the hurried stumbling over logs and through dense cover, to keep up with the dogs. It’s easier to do, if you’re tall and thin. So Finch arrived at the foot of the hollow tree ahead of Jones. He discovered the hole at the bottom of the tree. He decided Jones didn’t need to know that the hole went all the way through the tree. “The coon is up inside the tree. I’ll get a stick and whack the tree, to scare him out. You can put your hands in this hole and grab him when he comes down”. After an appropriate amount of whacking, “He’s coming down!!”. Finch reached into the hole from the other side and scratched Jones unmercifully, before dashing off to a safe distance.

Deer hunting provided the most reliable source of meat in those days. There is nothing like the taste of a venison steak, to the hungry hunter. Some folks have a taste for bear meat, when nothing else is available. Finch and Jones were not particular in that regard. But, this particular day, they were high on the mountain, hunting deer. (Our family has a picture of my dad hunting on top of that very mountain.) At midday they stopped to eat their lunch. They sat on a rocky ledge, enjoying their lunch and their friendship.

Suddenly they heard the sound of some activity, under the ledge. They discovered they had been sitting on top of a cave. Finch constructed a torch out of pine tar, on the end of a stick. He got on his hands and knees and approached the cave. “I’ll crawl part way in. You grab my legs and push me a little farther. When I kick, you pull me out”. Extending the torch ahead of him, he saw himself staring into three pairs of eyes. He kicked, and out he came. They had been sitting on the home of the three bears. What happened next is a story for another day.

One day Finch and Jones were hunting on the mountain on the other side of the valley. They were approaching the area near a bear trap. Rumor had it that a huge black bear had been seen near the trap. They were hoping that they would find the bear in the wooden trap. He wasn’t in the trap, but they could smell him. Suddenly they saw him! He was bigger than the rumor they had heard. Bigger, in fact, than any rumor they had ever heard! They were standing on a narrow trail, and they had been seen. The bear started toward them.

Finch was closest to the bear, so he took the shot. The bear charged, and they ran. Jones was in the lead. Finch couldn’t get past him. The bear was gaining. Then he slowed. He stepped off the trail, and grabbed a sapling in his jaws. He ripped the sapling from its roots. Finch shot again. The bear charged again. Finch and Jones ran again.

Later that night they returned with a horse, to drag the 500 pound bear to their home. He became quite a curiosity. People came from miles around to see the bear, and to hear Jones tell the story. He told of the first terrible charge, the fear, and the race down the steep and narrow mountain path. He told of how skittish the horse was, dragging that bear down that narrow path in the dark. Finch said nothing. “Were you afraid?”, they asked Finch. “Jones kept gettin’ in my way”.