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SAFE INDEED!

02 Friday Oct 2015

Posted by in Creative writing, Non-Fiction, Short Story, Writings

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A man and a woman were walking arm and arm down a big city street.

At the same time, far above, a dangling safe was waiting to be loaded through the window of a sixth story room in a twenty five story office building. The man was old and the woman was young. The rope holding the safe was old and the safe was new. The rope was stretched and it strained as it held the heavy, heavy safe. Both the old man and the young woman wore a wide brimmed hat. But that didn’t matter. That wasn’t the reason they didn’t notice the safe far above. They were looking downward as they walked, trying to avoid stepping on the cracks in the cement sidewalk. It was something they hadn’t done for a while. Not since the young woman was a young girl. The old man was her great-grandfather and each smiled as they remembered back. Just then a passing garbage sounded its loud air horn startling the pair. They stopped and laughed as they watched the truck move on. They were now standing almost under the dangling safe. The wind picked up and the dangle became more of a sway. Then the swaying became a twisting and turning. One part of the rope, the part that secured the rig, began to unravel and where it was frayed from use, slowly and almost methodically, the strands began to break. As the young woman and her great-grandfather were about to walk onward, the wind nearly blew off their hats. Each reached up to hold them tighter to their heads. Heads which were still not looking upward. The wind stopped momentarily and the safe stopped moving about. Just then a pigeon, having earlier been chased by a strong gust of wind from its perch on the ledge of a nearby building, and then from another ledge when the garbage truck sounded its air horn, landed on the top of the safe. With that the wind picked up again. The safe twisted and turned and then jerked and dropped about an inch as more of the strands broke. The pigeon spooked. It flew from the now doomed safe, and as it did it let loose with a dropping, followed closely by another. Just as the old man and the young woman were about to move on once more, the first dropping landed on the sidewalk six feet ahead of them. Then the second one landed. Both with a splat. Standing still they looked at the two droppings just as the final four strands of the untwisted rope snapped, sending the now unsafe safe straight downward to the sidewalk below. It landed as any heavy compact thing would’ve landed. With a tremendous thud. Then the crash was followed by the old rope and the two pulleys that once guided it. There was a small cloud surrounding the now slanted safe that was partially forced into the cement, but the wind quickly blew the dust away.

A crowd gathered and then soon a policeman arrived. The old man and his great-granddaughter lay on the sidewalk, their hats lying beside them.
“What happened?” one woman asked.
“That safe fell from up there,” a man said as he pointed upward. “It’s criminal if you ask me!”
“Are they…..are they…..,” another woman started to say.
“It’s all right,” another man said as he knelt beside the old man and the young woman. “They only fainted.” Then he stood. “I’m a doctor. They should be okay once they come to. But I’ll stick around to make sure just in case their falling down hurt them worse then it appears.”
“Thank goodness,” yet another woman said.
Then, in chorus, the rest of the crowd agreed.
“All right now folks move along,” the cop said. “Excepting the good doctor here of course. We’ll take care of all this. Move along now the rest of you.”
Just then the same pigeon once again landed on the top of the safe.
“Oh so it’s you again is it,” the policeman said to the bird. “I saw the whole thing happen don’t you know, and I know that if it wasn’t for your lettin’ loose the way you did just when you did you little scoundrel…..well, one can only imagine. And now don’t be lettin’ it go to your head, but because of you, saints preserve us, these two lying here, only fainted away and not crushed to death, well they have you to thank for it. Why look, they’re coming now. I’ll introduce you.”
But before the policeman could do so, the garbage truck that sounded its loud air horn earlier sounded it loudly once again, and once again the pigeon spooked and flew away. At the same time a hawk took off from a nearby roof top. It had earlier flown to the area to investigate the mishap. The policeman watched as it followed the pigeon until both birds were out of site.
“What happened?” the young woman asked.
“I think we’re both lucky we didn’t start walking again, Honey,” the great-grandfather said.
“I seem to remember that something caught our attention, Great-Grandfather,’ the young woman replied.
“And you have a pigeon and its droppings to thank for that,” the cop said.
With that the hawk, still chasing the pigeon, flew through.
“Why there he goes now…..errr, I mean to say there goes a similar pigeon now,” the policeman stated, not wanting to upset either the young woman or the old man.
“And don’t worry,” he added, “In all likelyhood that similar pigeon will dodge that devil of a hawk pursuing it and get away clean. I’m practically sure it’ll be just safe.
Then as the cop looked to where the two birds had flown, he and the doctor helped the young woman and the old man to their feet. Then, after removing his hat to scratch his head, the doctor handed the pair their hats. Then all four of them looked at the fallen safe.
“Safe indeed!” the doctor said. “Safe Indeed!”

by John Patrick Seekamp 2015

A VERY DETERMINED WOMAN MY GRAMMA SEEKAMP WAS

15 Tuesday Sep 2015

Posted by in Family Stories, Non-Fiction, Writings

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100_5438It was Spring and my paternal grandmother Victoria Seekamp decided it was a good day to burn leaves. And perhaps a little brush. She was 72 and was babysitting her 6 year old granddaughter, my cousin Kelly, out in the well kept backyard of the oldest house in the village of Goshen, NY. It was built in 1732 and purchased by her and her late husband, my grandfather John H. Seekamp, and their oldest daughter, my aunt Dorothy (Dot), in 1956. On this Monday afternoon, Kelly’s mother, my aunt Rita, was probably at work, as was my aunt Dot, so Kelly was there alone with our shared grandmother. There was a mild wind blowing in from the west, but having already deciding to burn, Grandma Seekamp pressed on. She raked, and raked, forming piles as she went about the chore. Then with one match she got the first pile going. She watched as the flames grew and the smoke billowed. Then she raked some more and then lighted more piles. Kelly watched at first, then continued the running about she had started earlier. Our grandmother looked up at her briefly and then raked some more, now raking along the edge of the mowed lawn, where the back field started. There she built a big pile. She lit that pile, then walked back to the one first lit. As she tidied it some, she glanced back at the pile near the edge. The flames had jumped from it, and the unkempt part of the property, full of dry leaves and grasses, was now burning. She walked over to that area quickly and began hitting the wayward flames with the rake, but that made it worse.

“Kelly,” she called out. “Kelly, run to the house and call the fire department. Quick!”

Kelly, unaware at first that the fire was out of control, looked over and saw the smoke and flames, and the panic on Grandma’s face.

“Okay,” she shouted as she ran. Then she stopped.  “But what number, Grandma?”

“Just dial O for the operator and tell her you need to call the fire department, Kelly,” our grandmother shouted.

“Okay,” Kelly shouted again. then once again she ran.

She disappeared into the house as our grandma began raking the out of control burnings. Then, having already talked to the operator,  Kelly held the phone and waited and not long after that the fire dispatcher picked up.

“Goshen Fire Department,” he said.

“The yard is on fire and we can’t put it out!” Kelly said.

“Where do live?” the fireman asked.

“In Hambletonian Park,” Kelly answered.

“Okay,” the fireman said. “We’ll be right there.”

Hambletonian Park, where Kelly lived, was a small sub division off Craigville Road. The only problem was she was calling from our grandmother’s house and it was at the far end of Main Street, heading out of the village. It was located about a mile from where the dispatcher sent the fire trucks, and though the firemen would be taking Main Street to get to Hamiltonian Park, they would be unaware of  where the fire was actually burning, as they would be taking a right onto a side road, Craigville road, about a half mile before our grandmother’s house.

Kelly ran back out and watched as Grandma Seekamp battled the flames.

First our grandmother and Kelly heard the fire whistle blowing. Then they heard the sirens. Then, as the sirens no longer grew louder, they became fainter. Then they couldn’t hear the them anymore. Fortunately, our seventy two year old grandmother beat down the flames, taming them down to a smolder. After that she doused the remnants with  buckets of water from the hose she usually used to water her plantings. When the fireman finally arrived my grandmother was sitting on a bench in the shade of her backyard keeping vigil in case the flames revived. The story got out somehow, and later that afternoon a photographer from the local newspaper came around. A photo was taken and the story was written on note paper. The next day the caption of the story under that printed photo read: ““Fire No Match For Woman, 72.” Perhaps to others that was so. But to Kelly and the rest of us grandchildren, that fire was no match for Gramma!

by John Patrick Seekamp

 

LUNKERS by Skiz Gazelle

12 Saturday Sep 2015

Posted by in Fiction, Short Story, Writings

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THE CHICAGO METROPOLITAN GAZETTE

SUNDAY MAY 6, 1923

                                                 LUNKERS

by Skiz Gazelle

This one I call, ‘THE OLD BAMBOO.’

Upon reflection of one of my more recent fishing jaunts to the Catskills on the Beaverkill at Craigie Clair, I was reminded of the innocence of youth by what it was that a little but gallant eight year old tyke said, and then soon asked of me. The honest to goodness conversing started with a very serious facial expression, followed closely by some vigorous fidgeting. The boy’s name by the way was Jessup but as he told me, “Almost everyone around here calls me just ‘Jessie’.”

He began by saying, “Gee whiz, if you’re just who I think you might be, and I think maybe that you might just well be the guy from the newspapers, Mr. Skiz Gazelle, on account I heard tell this morning down in town that you were around these parts fishing and such.”

Well I nodded and then the boy Jessie smiled quickly, but then soon became serious once again.

“Then maybe since you are the guy who writes all those really swell fishing stories, and will even tell in the paper to whoever will read and listen just how to catch the very kind of fish that mostly all the people who go out after fish want very much to catch, how come you never ever fish with a bamboo fishing pole, or even use worms or a bobber, like my Grampy Effron and Uncle Cecil fish with? Because just in case you don’t know about such a pole they can catch lots of fish just the very way that you can. But remember, they just use worms and a bobber….and oh yeh a hook of course.”

“Sonny,” I said to him. “Wait a while.”

Then, with a smile, I walked proudly back to the fliver truck I rented, grabbing a long old pole I long before dubbed as ‘The Old Bamboo’. It had been given to me, with instructions to take very good care of it, by a former slave woman called Mamie Julep. It was at a time I had occasion to fish the mighty Potomac at Harper’s Ferry. She was a nice old black great great grandmother who unfortunately passed away just a few weeks after that. But that’s a whole other tale that I’ll gladly share in this column sometime soon. So anyway, with that very pole in hand, I walked still proudly back to the boy Jessie who by now was passing the time skipping stones across an eddy just below the smallest of the man made ripples on that stretch of the famed Beaverkill. His eyes lit up like two Chinese lanterns.

“You do have one,” he exclaimed. “And it’s just like Grampy Effron’s and Uncle Cecil’s!”

“Yup,” I responded. “And I’ve caught plenty of fish on It, and I call it ‘The Old Bamboo’.”

Then the boy Jessie walked closer to see it better.

“Gosh,” he said softly. “The Old Bamboo,”

Then he looked up at me squinting as the sun shined upon his face.

“Mr. Gazelle,” he said before a question. “If’n I ever get a bamboo fishing pole of my own can I call mine ‘The Old Bamboo’ just the same?”

“Jessie my boy,” I said, “There’s only one fishing pole, bamboo or other, that I know of called ‘The Old Bamboo’. This one. And as far as I’m concerned that’s the way it’ll always be.”

I watched as the boy named Jessup lowered his head. Then I crouched beside him. After a moment I extended my hands offering to him ‘The Old Bamboo’. He looked at it and then looked at me.

“Take very good care of it Jessie,” I said. “Take very good care of ‘The Old Bamboo’!”

“Golly, you mean it’s mine?” he asked.

“Yup indeed,” I said. “It’s yours.”

That bamboo fishing pole, the one that old Mamie Julep gave to me, was one of my favorite possessions. But I had had a good many days filled with fishing admiring and enjoying it. It was then time for me to let someone else have the chance to do the same. After all, old Mamie Julep was generous enough to me and so now I was passing that generosity on to the boy Jessie. It was worth all the fish I’ve ever caught just to see him beam up and smile as broad as a boy could ever smile. And I’m sure that looking down from heaven old Mamie Julep was also smiling broadly. I know I was. Of all the fishing trips and adventures I’ve endured and enjoyed over the years, out of all of them, this one, this one where upon I landed merely a small 14″ brown trout, and two even smaller 10″ brook trout and alas catching no lunkers, this trip to Craigie Clair meeting the boy Jessie and giving to him ‘The Old Bamboo’, my prized bamboo fishing pole, ranks in my book as a tie for my all time favorite outing. The other one, the one it tied….my trip to Harper’s Ferry on the Potomac. The one when I met that most generous old Mamie Julep. And so faithful readers that’s my story of ‘The Old Bamboo’.

(A fictional story written on September 12th, 2015 by John Patrick Seekamp of a made up 1920’s fishing columnist and his weekly column syndicated to most Sunday newspapers in the U.S. and other parts of the world!)