The Hoarder: Outraged

Pierre, a forty-nine year truck driver felt overwhelmed, as he entered his father’s trailer. Huge tears welled up in his eyes. The heavy odor made him gasp. “What on earth?” 

Dennis, his seventy-five year old father, had recently lost his second wife, Alicia, to lung cancer. While a stranger to Pierre, he knew Alicia was the love of his father’s life. She had been a heavy smoker.

“Obviously Dad is too,” said Pierre. He put out a smoldering cigarette in a huge, ashtray filled with old, cigarette butts beside a huge stack of old newspapers, on a wooden table.

“Dennis is not coping,” reported Martha, a neighbor, who had contacted Pierre. “He is a hoarder. Please come and check on him.”

“I am delivering a container in that area, next week,” replied Pierre. “I’ll visit him on my way back.”

As Pierre’s eyes gradually adjusted to the light in the room, he was appalled. Almost every square inch of the living room contained stacks of various kinds of broken objects scattered around the room in such a way no one could walk through it. Huge piles of things appeared to have fallen over. Dirty boots, coats, clothes, blankets and towels lay everywhere.

“Has someone trashed Dad's place?” he wondered. 

The coffee table lay upside down, on top of other, broken furniture. There was old, dark blood splattered everywhere. 

“You were right to call me, Martha.”

An unopened letter was on the floor, the last one he had sent to his father. It contained a check for his step-mother’s funeral expenses. 

Piles of torn garbage bags and half-empty, broken boxes, blocked the entrance to every room. Pierre could not believe the number of antiques, miscellaneous household items and other kinds of junk, they had collected. Bags of unpacked groceries stood on the kitchen table and chairs. Others lay on the floor. Empty cans and bottles littered the room. Partially eaten containers of food were stacked on the fridge and stove. The kitchen sink and counter were overflowing with dirty dishes. The food the refrigerator appeared rancid.

“Don’t touch anything,” his father ordered, several moments later.

“Alicia's gone. We were recycling and trashed the place because we were outraged by her cancer. Want  some coffee?”

The Antique Dealer: A Hoarder

“Anything old, bought or sold,” the sign on the door of the antique shop read. The owner appeared almost as old as his antique desk. Some might have guessed that Antonio, the antique dealer was a hoarder, but he would never admit it.

“I like to collect and sell old things, the older the better,” Antonio advised his customers. “My wife forced me into the antique business, because she wanted room to live. Probably the best thing I ever did!”

“Isn’t this place getting out of control?” wondered the sophisticated, elderly physician, casually browsing through huge stacks of old books, journals and other medical documents. “The dust is horrendous.”

Antonio’s eye caught the elderly man’s expression, as he uttered, “I can’t believe it!” under his breath. “Effects of the time on the profession”; this article is dated August 3, 1842.”

“I have a special today,” said Antonio. “I’ll give you that at a good price and guarantee you’ll never find another copy.”

“How much?” asked the physician, purposely ignoring him.  

“One hundred dollars,” replied the antique dealer. “One hundred dollars for you and that is not much for an old treasure.”

“Make it fifty,” bartered the physician, suddenly aware whatever he paid would not be money wasted.

“Seventy five and it is yours.”

“Sixty two fifty. That is my final offer!”

“Sold!”

The physician walked out of the antique store still glancing through the journal, as he headed for his Mercedes.

“Does Antonio have any idea of its value?” the physician wondered, as he dusted it off and carefully placed it in his black briefcase. “It will be recognized by our medical community. That antique dealer is a hoarder though.”

“Does that old man have any idea of how I just shafted him out of sixty-two fifty?” wondered Antonio. “Pure profit. Better money in my pocket, than his.”

“Next,” he said to a woman, admiring a piece of antique bone china.

The Mobster: The Accident

“Nobody throws a baseball at my kid like that and gets away with it!” a heavy, stern looking, middle-aged man yelled from the bleachers. He got up and headed towards his short, chubby, dark-haired son whose nose had started to bleed.

“Not a good throw, Monty!” yelled Terry, from first base. He ran to the pitcher’s box when he realized the baseball Monty had thrown had hit the batter in the face.“That man was a mobster,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here, pronto!”

Twelve-year old Monty, the pitcher for the Blazing Blazers and Terry, his best friend, immediately left the baseball park, much to the dismay of their coach.

“Hey, boys, come back! You cannot leave in the middle of a game.” Exasperated, he threw his hands up in the air. “How can we win baseball games if players always leave? Somebody get an ice pack!”

Moments later, Monty explained what had happened. “It was an accident, Mom.”

“It is just a baseball game, son. Did you apologize?” 

Monty realized that he could have and diffused the situation. “Mom, that man is a mobster. I cannot be a pitcher now. I want to quit playing baseball.”

“There would not be baseball games if the players quit when others were injured by baseballs,” Monty’s mother replied, She knew they were frightened. “Where did you get that information?”

Several hours later Monty’s mother answered the front doorbell. The coach, the boy injured by the baseball and his father stood at the door.  

“I want to talk to Monty!” demanded the boy, whose face was bruised and swollen.

“I want to speak to Monty’s father!” demanded his father. “Get him, right now!”

“That is why my baseball players are quitting,” thought the coach. “Bullying!”

“I am so sorry,” Monty’s mother replied. “Monty is not at home and his father is deployed overseas. Can I help you?”  

“We came to apologize to the boys and hope they'll come back,” suggested the coach, kindly. “Please relay that message for us.”

The Candidate: Political Ambush

Hours before the election, two candidates who were watching a third female candidate were amazed at what they saw.

“Grace will win because of her exceptional charisma, confidence and grace,” predicted Hope, a petite, dark-haired candidate in a beige, wool outfit with matching accessories. “I admire and respect her. If only I could touch and change the lives of people the way she does.”

“Watch her work that crowd,” replied Destiny, a blonde woman, wearing a gray suit with a black hat, purse, gloves and shoes. “If you knew how to do that, you would win the election.”

“We could learn from her,” suggested Hope. “She demonstrates wonderful integrity with respect to political issues. She has amazing energy, strength and stamina, too!”

All three young women were new hopefuls in the political arena. Hope was allowing the possibility she might win the race, but Destiny’s ratings were too low. It was too late. There was no doubt that Grace, the tall, slender woman with long, dark hair, was making a good impression on everyone. She focused on the huge crowd of excited voters gathered around her. Her professional appearance in a bright, blue suit with white accessories and her unwavering composure as a female politician, made her stand out among the rest.    

“That first speaker was ungracious, loud and outspoken,” said Destiny. “She’s definitely out!”

“Grace demonstrates an inner beauty that is magnified every time she speaks,” replied Hope. “Watch her smile!”

“Where did she learn how to speak to people?” asked Destiny. 

“It is not something that is learned. You have it, or you don’t.”

Hope decided to keep on trying to win the political battle. She walked into the crowd and chatted with people. Being true to her name, she was still hopeful.  

Destiny stayed where she was, simply allowing destiny its course. Having given up already, she was not destined to win. In fact, she had ambushed all hope of winning. Sitting where she was, her fate was sealed.

“No female is going to win this election!” a man in the crowd yelled, as he pulled something out of his pocket. “Politics is a man’s game.”

The Fascinator: Less is More

“I'm not British, but I can certainly don a fascinator for the royal visit.” Nellie looked in the mirror. “There is no way that I can change my face, though.” 

She was sixteen and much to her dismay, still pleasantly plump. Her waist length, dark hair and pudgy cheeks were just like they had been when she was a baby. Everyone pinched her cheeks as a child. Now, she had rosy cheeks that made her look like she was blushing.  

Just then, the doorbell rang. Whoever was at the door was in a hurry and rang again.

“Help,” said Monica, her fifteen-year old friend, a petite, pretty girl who was extremely shy. “Mom says I need a hat to wear when we go to see the royals tomorrow. Everyone has to wear a hat. She offered to lend me one of hers, but they are so old looking. I am not into hats!”

“Me neither. I was just thinking about wearing a fascinator,” replied Nellie, with a smile. “Come in. We will figure something out. “A fascinator looks like a bird’s nest, perched on an angle, on one side of your head and it’s worn towards the front.”

Both girls laughed aloud.

“Fascinators are the rage in Britain. There, the millinery shops are full of them,” replied Nellie. “I have an idea. Let’s create our own fascinators.”

Several minutes later, Monica said, “The web site, “Ooh, La, La Plume” gives the historical background of fascinators and says feathers were the base material for the original fascinators. Jewels and precious stones came along later and miniature ships, stuffed animals, butterflies and flags, too.”

“That is neat. They have engraved shells, cameos and even ostrich feathers,” said Nellie. “They can have artificial flowers, waxed, satin ribbons, tulle and even stuffed birds.”

“I think less would be more, if we make our own fascinators, don’t you?” asked Monica. “Let’s start with a comb or headband, and see what we can create.” 

“Monica, you will look wonderful no matter what you wear.”

“I am not wearing a stuffed bird!”

The Royals: Protest Pomp and Prejudice

“Oh no, there are going to be anti-monarchy protestors at City Hall, on Sunday,” read Dominic. “This cannot be happening in our country, not in Canada! This is a demonstration against our British, royal visitors.”

Marie, Dominic’s wife, looked over his shoulder and was shocked as she read the first line. “But, they have come here in peace.”

“It is demonstrators who oppose the newlywed couple’s representation of the monarchy,” continued Dominic. “Can you imagine? They will be carrying signs and chanting slogans. This should not happen in a free land that is a democracy.

He read on. “Canadian broadcaster CBC reports that Quebec’s relationship with the monarchy has often been strained, with the Queen met by booing protesters on a visit to the province in 1964. That was so many years ago!”

“I love the excitement, pomp and circumstance associated with the young royals, even though they are not our king and queen yet,” said Marie. “It is so wonderful to see a newly married couple being welcomed in Ottawa by so many people, on Canada Day. Why do a few protesters have to spoil it for everyone?”

“Protests happen all around the world,” replied Dominic, sadly. “What if they were our children?  We would feel terrible. That beautiful, young bride could be our only daughter. We would be terrified for them.”

“I am terrified for the royals,” replied Marie. “We live in a supposedly civilized country. Have we not learned to love one another yet?”

Just then, Dominic and Marie’s daughter came in the back door, with her boyfriend. “Dad, Mom, we are going to the protest. Come with us!”

“Excluding people from our country because of their race, creed and color, that is prejudice,” replied Dominic. “Or because of the monarchy. That is so wrong!”

The Princess: A Walkabout

“Daddy, do you think I might be a princess, someday?” asked Tammy, his five-year old, adopted daughter, as they were preparing to go to the park to see the royal visitors. “Like the real princess we are going to see today?”

“You are my little princess,” replied Theodore, a single dad and a police officer. “Your mother and I chose you out of all of the children in the whole world to be our little girl. Now, your mommy is in heaven, but you will always be our little princess.”
      
“I want to be a real princess, Daddy,” insisted Tammy.

“I might have to find a prince charming for you, then.”

“Like in fairy tales?” asked Tammy. “That is only make-believe, Daddy.”

“If only I could make your dreams come true.”

“Do they have princesses in heaven, Daddy?”

Tammy continued to bombard him with questions about princesses. He did not know how to answer all of her questions. He only knew that seeing the royals might help her understand the meaning of the word princess.

Theodore stopped at the flower shop to buy flowers for the prince and princess, who were going to do a short walkabout.

“If the royals are close by, you can give the princess this bouquet, all right, Tammy?”

“They are so beautiful, Daddy!”

Theodore did not expect to see the huge crowd that had gathered in the park.

“If we are lucky, the prince and princess will walk by us and say hello. I brought my camera, so that we will have a picture of them even if we do not have a chance to talk to them.”

Tammy waited patiently behind the barrier that had been set up. She held the flowers very carefully.

Theodore took a photograph of her just as the royals walked up to her and the princess graciously accepted her floral gift.

Tammy was thrilled and talked about the princess, all of the way home.

Later, Theodore enlarged the photograph he had taken earlier

“My God, the hit-and-run driver who took my wife’s life is standing beside my daughter!”

The Prince: Whitehatted

“Prince William and Kate to be whitehatted in Calgary,” said Ron, a fifteen-year old Calgary student, as he read the headlines on the CTV.ca web site to his little sister, Bonny.

“What is whitehatted?” asked Bonny. "I don't understand."

Her older brother smiled.

“Maybe because you are so young.”

“I am seven.”

“The prince and princess will receive custom-made top of the line, white, Smithbilt cowboy hats made out of white beaver, fur felt with a silk lining,” said Ron. “It's like receiving the keys to the city of Calgary.”

“Is it the same as giving the prince and princess flowers?”

“The white cowboy hats are a gift saying ‘Welcome to Calgary’. The prince and princess will wear them at the Calgary Stampede.”

“We are going, too.”

“Prince Phillip, Prince Andrew and Prince Edward received white cowboy hats when they visited Calgary. So did Pope John Paul the second, Russian President Vladimir Putin, Oprah Winfrey, Luciano Pavarotti and Ozzie Osbourne.”

“Mommy’s wearing a fascinator. She could make me one,” said Bonny. “You can wear a white, cowboy hat and pretend to be a prince.”

“There is a white, cowboy hat fascinator on the Globe and Mail website,” replied Ron. “It has a tiny, white cowboy hat on a headband. Mom could make you one like that.”

“I want a white, cowgirl hat, so I can be a princess. Should they not give the prince a white, cowboy hat and the princess a white, cowgirl hat?”

“A princess can wear the same cowboy hat that a prince does.”

“You would not wear a white, cowboy hat fascinator if you were the prince?”

“Probably not,” replied Ron. “I will wear a white, cowboy hat and you can wear a white, cowgirl hat fascinator and be my princess.”

“Then we will be 'whitehatted'.”

“Not quite, but close enough.”

The Locked Trunk: A Family Secret

“Could this be it?” wondered ten-year old Maggie, her face glowing with excitement, as she showed her twin sister, Mattie, a huge, gold key she found in the garden.

“Wow!” replied Mattie. “We can finally solve the mystery!”

A battered, old, wooden trunk had been collecting dust and cobwebs, in a dark corner of the attic for years. No one had opened it to the best of their knowledge. Where the key was, or what the trunk contained, no one seemed to know. There was always dead silence when the children asked their parents and grandparents about it. Its contents remained a mystery.

“Children should be told things like this,” said Maggie. “It is not right for families to have secrets.” 

“We’ll figure it out ourselves,” said Mattie. 

Maggie, less aggressive, followed Mattie’s lead, as they raced toward the century-old house through the heavy, oak doorway and headed up the winding stairwell to the attic.  

“I found the key!” Maggie hollered to Todd, their younger brother, who was on the computer. “Help us open it!”

“Do we dare, without Dad and Mom?” 

“And Grandma and Grandpa, too,” said Maggie. 

“We’re not waiting for anyone!” replied Mattie, with a mischievous grin. Determined to learn the truth, she grabbed the key. ”We’ll tell them later, maybe.”

“I am the one who found it!” protested Maggie. Visions of ancient, gold coins danced in her head. “Whatever is in the trunk is mine, too!”

“It’s probably old clothes, shoes and hats, like women used to wear on pirate ships,” said Todd. He was much more interested in computer games.

“Maybe it’s elegant, priceless, old jewelry.”  

As Mattie turned the key in the lock, it sounded like there were bones rattling. A deep, grating noise rumbled through the room. Dust started to fly everywhere. A door slammed shut.

“What on earth?” Todd shook, as he ran downstairs and outside.

“Oh, no! What have we done?” asked Mattie. “Have we unleashed a haunted house?”

“Don’t open it!” ordered Maggie.

It was too late. The lid of the trunk was rising on its own. 

The Missing Doorknob: The Price of Entry

An old, gold miner who was alone, destitute and weary, climbed up Mystery Mountain. He sat down on the doorstep of his ancient, log cabin. Munching dry biscuits from his worn, leather backpack, he was soon deep in contemplation.

To him, it appeared that no one had entered the decrepit log cabin. He realized the missing doorknob had probably kept intruders out and prevented the cabin from falling down, at the same time. Had anyone tried to open the door, the entire building would have collapsed or caved in, because there was not much other than the door holding it up.The cabin was at least seventy-five years old. Its old timbers were rotten, the wood eaten away by insects. The roof was sagging badly and the door was almost popping out of its hinges.

Maybe gold miners did not need doorknobs, as they protected their treasure in their own way. Perhaps there was some unwritten law about doorknobs that gold miners lived by? Virtually everyone used doorknobs to open and close their doors. Maybe gold miners, with their hands full of gold nuggets, used a boot to open the door. That would have sufficed. 

Most people knew better than to enter a gold miner’s cabin, unexpectedly. Perhaps somebody needed the doorknob worse than the gold miner and walked off with it.

Panning gold in the mountains was a rather lonely life and thus, gold miners did many things to occupy their time. Pouring melted gold to make a gold doorknob would have been an art that a creative, gold miner might have learned. Perhaps the gold miner was a romantic at heart, and took it to town to give to someone of refinement, or used it to purchase the food he needed to survive.

In and out of reality, perhaps his curiosity, the gleam in his eye and the greed in his heart finally made the old, gold miner stand up and open the door with no doorknob.

No one really knows for sure.

It was his one fatal mistake though, but then, he was the original gold miner paying the price of entry as he returned to his own cabin, for the very last time.

The Model T: The Early Years

“I have to write an article on the history of the Model T,” stated Jeff, a twelve year old,.“I've no idea where to start?”

"You mean old ‘Tin Lizzie’,” replied Rod, his fourteen-year old school friend.

“I don't want to write about anything with a girl’s name, or the guys will laugh at me.”

“I rather like girl’s names, but then I like girls. I didn’t used to when I was your age.”

“My great-grandfather was a wheat farmer and Model T’s were used on large, prairie farms.”

“Can you prove it?” asked Rod. “Your teacher will insist on that.”

“Look! I just found a farm picture dated 1912, on the Model T website.”

“Good work. I remember stories our great-grandparents told about the Model T’s.”

 “When he was young, did your great-grandfather take girls for a ride in a Model T?” asked Jeff.

“Maybe his dad did. Were guys any different then, than they are today?” asked Rod. “I would.”

“I wouldn’t, but I am not old enough to drive yet,” replied Jeff.

“Neither am I. You did not have to have a driver’s license to drive in the field then.”

 “Just gas at about twenty cents a gallon and a crank to get it started,” said Jeff.

“You would need a horse to pull you out, if you got stuck in the mud.”

“Rod, if you call your girl friend ‘Tin Lizzie’, she will get upset with you,” said Jeff.

“I wouldn’t do that. I respect her too much.”

“I would call a girl that, because I don’t like girls,” said Jeff with a mischievous smile.

“Today that would be bullying. Tin Lizzie was probably better than an old horse.”

“She scared the cows on the farm too,” said Jeff. “I can just hear that Model T backfiring.”

“Write your article,” ordered Rod.

“Was Tin Lizzie really made out of tin?”

The Cadillac: The Car Wash

“No disrespect intended, Ma’am,” said the scruffy-looking, owner of Sassy’s Car Wash. “It will cost you twenty dollars to drive your Cadillac through. The price that young man quoted was correct.”

“Does that include cleaning the interior, too?” asked Tilley.

“No Ma’am, if we clean the Cadillac interior, it will be another fifty dollars.”

“That is a total of seventy dollars,” protested Tilley. “I only pay five to run my Mustang through.”

“That is a Mustang, not a Cadillac,” argued the red-faced owner. “Do you want to run your car through? If not, you are holding up the line. You have to move your vehicle immediately.”

Tilley pulled twenty dollars out of her wallet.

“I need a receipt, please.”

“You can afford it!” replied the owner.

“We have to go to a wedding,” she said, quietly.

He said nothing, as he made out a cash receipt.

“Just wash the exterior.” 

“There will be an extra five dollars for soaping the windows and the hub caps, first." 

"Forget the soap,” replied Tilley. “Just use water.”

“It would look better if we wax it, too.”

“How much is the wax?”

“Ten dollars.”

“Forget it.”

As Tilley walked toward their huge, 1973, gold, Cadillac, there was a growing lineup of drivers honking their car horns.

The car wash owner’s laughter was annoying, too.

“We get the rich ones every time,” he said.

“I’ll drive the Cadillac through the car wash for you, Ma’am,” offered a tall, young man.

“How much?”

“You can give me a tip, Ma’am, but you don’t have to. It will be an honor and a privilege as we almost never see expensive cars here.”

“Hop in the passenger seat,” responded Tilley, with a smile. “You get a tip for sitting in the car beside me.” 

“I got to ride in a Cadillac!” boasted the young man, as he got out of the car, several moments later. “A tip, too!”

The Milky Way: Star-crossed Lovers

“I marvel at the beauty of the Milky Way,” said Joey, with a shy, romantic smile. He was excited, ready to get married and about to give a one-half carat, diamond ring to his girl friend, Althea. He was waiting for just the right moment, as they sat on a rock beside the sandy beach. “Our solar system is part of that galaxy.”  

“According to an ancient legend, the Milky Way was named after milk was spilled by a goddess feeding her baby.” Althea was becoming increasingly anxious about getting married. She wanted to have children, but it seemed Joey was too shy to propose. She was wondering if he ever would.   

“It's made up of approximately two to four billion stars, gas and dust. Our solar system is tiny, compared to the Milky Way Galaxy.” 

“All held together by gravity, like glue,” replied Althea, smiling at him.

“Like us, my love” replied Joey, reaching into his pocket for the green velvet, ring box. “Althea, you are my goddess.”

“Please don’t stop now,” thought Althea, smiling at him.

“You are a wonderful girl,” continued Joey, shyly. The ring box was now in his hand. He went down on one knee. “I love you so much.”

“Look, a shooting star!” interrupted Althea. “According to the gods, we are meant to be together.”  

Joey looked up at her beautiful face.

“I am not stopping now,” he said to himself. “This is the right moment.”

Althea saw the bright glow in his eyes. The diamond ring in his hand reflected light from the Milky Way, with a brilliant splash of rainbow colors, as the falling star slowly descended.

“We are a pair of star-crossed lovers.”

“Althea’s thinking about Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet”, Joey realized. 

“No, that is unrequited love that ends in tragedy,” said Joey, as he placed the diamond ring on her fourth finger. “That is not us.”

Claustrophobia: Panic Attack

“My mom will be proud of me!” Elated at the prospect of a successful, job interview and the possibility of a high-paying job on the top floor of large, downtown office complex, Darcy had walked up ten flights of stairs. Following his interview and without even thinking, he grabbed the elevator simply because it was there. 

He realized his mistake as soon as the heavy, elevator doors closed behind him.

“God, I never should have taken the elevator.” 

Darcy pushed the elevator button once, twice and then, a third time. It did not budge. He began to push all of the elevator buttons with the palm of his hand. “I can’t breathe!” he said, gasping for air. “I have to get out of here, now!”

It was too late.

Darcy recognized feelings of claustrophobia  taking over. He shook with fear. The elevator light flickered and went out. He was alone in total darkness. 

“Don’t panic!” he told himself. “Find the emergency button!”

Early memories began to surface. He recalled as a young child, having been locked in a tiny, dark closet for many hours. 

“This room is too small for me!” 

The words he spoke as a child re-sounded in his mind. His fear was too great to conquer and he started to cry. Darcy hammered both fists on the elevator door as increasing panic set in.

“Help!” 

He sat down on the floor and kicked the door with both feet. 

“Someone will hear.” 

Beads of sweat poured off his brow. 

“Don’t panic!” he repeated. “You are an adult. You have outgrown your childhood claustrophobia.”

It seemed to be getting hotter. The dead air was suffocating. 

“I need oxygen!” yelled Darcy, as he became dizzy. He had heart palpitations and his chest felt tight. He pulled his jacket, shirt and tie off. Darcy felt his throat getting tighter.

The elevator groaned, moved a fraction of an inch and came to a bumpy, grinding halt.

“Help!” he tried to holler, but could not. Struggling for air, he lay on the the floor. Just as the alarm sounded, his mind became a total blank. 

The Silver Moon: Success in the Music Business

“By the light of the silvery moon,

I want to spoon to my honey,

I'll croon love's tune...”

Rod was a tall, dark and handsome romantic. He knew exactly how to serenade the crowd as he strummed his guitar and sang in front of the local plaza. Those who appreciated his music tossed coins into his guitar case. As soon as Rod saw ten dollars in his case, he pocketed it immediately.

“You will never make a living in music,” warned his father, a prominent lawyer. “You need a real job.” Rod’s father was embarrassed. His son did not have a summer job. In fact, he did not have a job in the fall, winter or spring, either. His life was his music.

“Other musicians have succeeded,” Rod argued.

His father became adamant about him compiling a resume and lining up job interviews. “You are an embarrassment to our family. No one in our family has ever been a musician. We are lawyers.”

“Music has to be in my genes somewhere, Dad.”

“Maybe, it is on your mother’s side!” Rod’s father grew angrier by the day. His son was eighteen and a high school graduate who had no plans for the immediate future. He wanted his son to be a prominent member of his law firm. “You either come up with a positive, constructive, business plan for your music by the end of the summer, or find another place to live!”

Rod was stunned, but knew his father was serious. He had no idea where to start with respect to creating a business plan, but suddenly, he had an idea.

“I’ll talk to the bank manager.” Rod had deposited all of his money in the bank, on a weekly basis.

“You have done well, son,” said the bank manager when Rod explained his plight. He had earned enough money to pay his full tuition into a college music program. The bank manager handed Rod a business plan cd. “Look at this, then come back and talk to me. You are going to succeed.”

By the end of the day, Rod had registered his own music business and placed an application at college.

The Dust Storm: A Haboob and a Monsoon

“What is a haboob, Daddy?  Is that a bomb?” Frightened by a news report, twelve-year old Lisa rushed into the kitchen, where her father was preparing a pizza.

“Where did you hear that word, sweetie?” he asked.

“It was on the news a couple of minutes ago. The reporter said a haboob hit Phoenix, Arizona. That’s where Mommy went in the airplane!”

“You’re right,” replied her father. His wife, Jessie, had left to attend a convention there the next morning. 

“Let’s see what we can find out about the word haboob. Our pizza can wait.”

“Don’t put mushrooms on mine, Daddy.”

"I remembered. Look up the word haboob and I’ll check the Phoenix news.”

Lisa was correct. A haboob or a massive, dust storm had gone through the Phoenix area.

Lisa typed the word haboob into a search engine and found the web site, About.com.phoenix. “The word haboob comes from the Arabic word, habb, meaning wind. I found information about monsoons in Phoenix, too. Monsoon storms start with a high wall of dust called a haboob.”

“I didn’t know there were monsoons in North America,” replied her father. “I'm happy you are learning to use the computer."

“Daddy, we have to find Mommy!”

The ringing phone startled them.

“You all right, honey?” Lisa’s father asked, immediately. 

“Our airplane was late coming in. The dust storm was very frightening. The huge wall of dust was horrible. Now, everything is covered with dust. I am safe in the hotel, but we’ve lost our power. I may spend the night in the dark.”

“They’ll have emergency lighting, dear.”

“Your mom is fine,” Lisa’s father said, several moments later, not wanting to get into details about the dust storm with his daughter. “She’ll tell you more, when she gets home.” 

“Daddy and I are having pizza,” Lisa said on the phone. “I am not having any mushrooms on mine.” 

The Twister: The Thunderstorm

“What kind of a day is this going to be?” Rita wondered, as she looked out the window early that the morning. “This looks really eerie.”

It was as if the sky was grimacing in agony. It was far too dark to be a normal day. The air was almost too heavy to breathe and malodorous. It continued to be very hot and humid. Heavy clouds hung low making it extremely dark for a summer day. The dry leaves on the maple trees cringed, curled up and turned upside down, waiting to have their thirst satiated. The sky promised rain all day, but somehow did not deliver until the evening.

“Sky, I can feel your pain,” said Rita. “It will rain soon.”

As darkness began to settle in, a violent thunderstorm began to tear free of its invisible anchor. The roar of a howling wind resounded in the distance. It gradually roared louder and simultaneously, stacked haunting, dark, gray-green clouds high in the sky.

As the first raindrops began to fall, the thirsty leaves twisted and turned, quickly lapped up the elusive raindrops. The roar of thunder increased with intermittent, penetrating streaks of bright lightning blanketing the sky. Soon huge, raindrops began to pelt everything in sight. Buckets of rainwater water poured off the eaves troughs like huge sheets of cold, gray, melting ice. Trees began to sway in the wind and their branches started to turn, twist and twirl as if in a violent dance of dismay. The high winds, increasingly twister-like in nature, wreaked havoc all around the area leaving many large branches torn from trees lying on the ground.

“I knew it was not going to be a good day, weather wise,” said Rita, later. “At least this was only a thunderstorm with a twister. We are lucky this did not turn into a full-blown tornado. Thank you, God.”

Later news reports about the thunderstorm stated that metal from the roof of the airport terminal had been torn away. Broken metal and glass littered the parking lot as the wind had damaged one car after another. Numerous uprooted trees left that part of the city without power.