I Bought a Horse

Today, became one of the most empowering days of my life.  I bought a horse.  Now, I am no spring chicken, but buying a horse wasn’t really a check off my bucket list; although, some might think so.   

Earlier this summer I looked at this same horse, rode him and then said no to buying him, because of all sorts of sensible reasons, but I couldn’t get him out of my mind.  I wanted this horse.  I really wanted him practicality aside.  Way aside.  I just wanted him.  Selfishly so.   

That is the main reason that buying him was so empowering.  I did it just for me.  Several years ago, my husband, Ed, and I moved from south Florida to a large farm in Kentucky.  It had a big barn and an amazingly large field.  I wanted a horse so much, but I wouldn’t let myself get one, because it was dangerous and what if I fell and hurt myself and couldn’t handle my responsibilities.  So, no horse for me.   

A few years later we moved to North Carolina at the request of a family member.  A couple of months later Ed and I were in a devastating car accident.  An eighteen wheeler lost control coming down a mountain and its trailer, contents and the concrete barrier plummeted us.  We were both badly hurt.   

The recovery process from the accident was long, painful and hard.  We will never be the same as we were just one second before the accident.  I had played it safe, not got my horse then was injured by someone else.  Such is life.  Many times since then I have said to myself: I could have had my horse.   

 

I figured that if I had gotten hurt on my horse then at least it would have been doing something I really wanted to do.  I have few regrets, but I regretted not having had a horse when I could have had one.   

Fast forward to now … earlier this summer a neighbor from down the road who has horses said that he would sell me this amazing Tennessee Walking Horse, keep him on his farm and teach me to ride and to take care of him.  As I said, I decided to not take the horse.  Dumb.  Real dumb.   

Today, I found out he still had this horse and was willing to go with the same deal.  My amazing husband was still willing to put up with my wishy-washy ways.  He just smiled and said, “Buy the damn horse.”  I did.   

Wish me luck.  I have a lot to learn.  So much.  But, I feel like a million bucks.  I threw caution to the wind.  I will, however, still be very careful while riding Silver Dollar.  He does have one additional name though, and that is Dream.  Yes, he is my Silver Dollar Dream.  He is a dream come true for me, and may I wish that your dreams will come true for you.   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee, August 29^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved   

     

What the Dead Said

I had a terrible week last week, so I was going to write a piece about pet peeves.  Then things went from bad to worse and I decided that I would vent about something even bigger than a pet peeve.   

I am at the age now where many people I loved, and who loved me, are gone.  By gone I mean dead.  For some strange reason I have the capability to sit with folks who are dying.  I can sit for long periods and listen to them as they talk saying what is on their minds.   

 

They may decide to tell stories about their lives or talk about things that they liked or didn’t.  The filters are removed.  Deep secrets are revealed, because what do they have to lose by speaking the truth as to what their feelings or thoughts are?   

Not many of my family or friends are able sit those hours.  They ask me how I can do it and I reply that I am glad to do it.  What they don’t know, although I have tried explaining this to them, is that I have learned so much about many aspects of life and the interior thinking processes of people on their way out.  It has provided a selfish motive for me as well as an altruistic one.   

After the person dies things change so much.  People who had their turns “sitting” with the dying person found every excuse, while they were in that setting, to go anywhere except sitting in the chair next to the person with whom they were supposed to be sitting beside.  They may spend the hours at the place, but not with the person.  They, therefore, do not get to hear the stories.   

Then, as time passes, they tell what the dead said.  Now, naturally, as you can imagine since they did not hear what the dead said they make it up to suit whatever they are wanting to do telling all those around them that this was what so-and-so said or wanted.  For most listeners this is not a problem, because they were not there and so they do not know that the person who was supposed to be there wasn’t—in reality either.   

When they say to me, however, what the dead said and I actually heard from the persons own lips, usually at least several times, what they actually said I really get angry.  It also hurts me that they would attribute to the person who no longer has a voice what they want not what I know the person wanted.   

Maybe they believe that they are telling the truth or maybe they know that they are lying.  I don’t know, but I wish that whenever someone says what the dead said and it is wrong that the dead person could just pop right up beside them and say, “No, I did not say that.  I said this ____.”  Wouldn’t that be the coolest thing?   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 25^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved

The Conclusion: Part 6

From the short mystery series Body in Cold Rock Creek   

Ephram Clout, Junior insisted that he continue telling his story only to the Sheriff and Naomi once he was in the interrogation room at the Sheriff’s office.  Sheriff Matt Stephens read him his rights again this time recording everything.   

Mr. Clout still refused an attorney.  He wrote out his confession stopping occasionally to take a few minutes break to drink a soda that the sheriff brought him.  He told the Sheriff and Naomi that he was a third year student at the University majoring in Sociology.  He said that he had the best grades in his class.   

When he handed them his written confession both were speechless when they saw it was written in perfect English and that his penmanship was easy to read.  Naomi couldn’t help but say, “Junior, you don’t write at all like you talk.  Why’s that?”   

He answered, “Why Ma’am, I can talk like everybody else.  I just choose to talk like my people.  I am proud of my heritage.”   

He continued talking becoming much more sober.  He looked around seeming to be fully aware of where he was and his circumstances.  “You know, I was even one of the people they interviewed.”   

Both Matt and Naomi knew that he was.  Just as he was being interviewed for TTN early during the media frenzy a photographer had snapped a picture as a single tear rolled down Ephram Clout, Junior’s cheek.  The picture was picked up by nearly every paper in the world and it went viral.  It was dubbed “The Single Tear.”  The photograph and photographer was up for a Pulitizer Prize.  The Sheriff could only imagine that now this young man would be dubbed the “Single Tear Killer,” and he was.   

Many of the media folk came back once they found out the killer had been caught, but they were furious, because Junior Clout refused to go to trial.  They wanted the matter to go on and on.   

The Judge required Junior to stand up in the packed Cold Lake County Courthouse and read his entire confession.  He had agreed to serve fifteen years as part of a plea bargained agreement.   

The crowd booed when they heard that.  The Judge slammed his gavel down demanding order in the court.   

The Prosecutor stood up, bucking to the crowd, and despite his earlier agreement with Mr. Clout he asked for a twenty year sentence.  The crowd cheered.  Naomi looked around the courtroom during both of the outbursts and it seemed that the locals were satisfied with Junior’s plea, but the outsiders wanted more.  The media had even suggested the death penalty.   

The Judge said that he was ready to rule and the crowd cheered.  He did a preliminary statement about how sad the entire course of events were.  Then, he said, “The court is satisfied that Mr. Waycastle agreed to play the game.  It was appropriately named ‘The Dumb Ass Rock Throwing Duel.’  Therefore, the court finds that Gilbert Mac Waycastle was partly to blame for his own death.”  Many in the crowd jeered.   

The Judge continued, seeming to pay no attention to the audience.  He motioned for the Defendant to rise.  Junior rose tears streaming down his face.  He wiped his nose and looked like a little boy in his new suit.  He glanced once back towards the audience.   

The Judge said, “This court finds Ephram Clout, Junior guilty of the unintentional murder of Gilbert Mac Waycastle.  He is to serve a period of not more than four and one half years in a facility the State of Tennessee chooses.  The crowd erupted.  It took all of the law enforcement officers in the courtroom to prevent total chaos, but they finally managed to clear the room.   

The young man went off to serve his time.  The talk shows had fodder that lasted for days.  The Judge received both death threats and letters congratulating him on his courage.   

Matt Stephens decided that despite all the job offers that he’d stay in Cold Lake County.  He, Naomi and Edgar decided to keep Ephram Clout, Junior’s place up and to pay the taxes on his farm.  “I just want the young man to have a place to come back to after all this is over.  With good behavior and shortened sentences he could be out in a couple of years maybe sooner.  He didn’t mean to do it.  He isn’t a bad kid.”   

Both Naomi and Edgar nodded in agreement while sipping coffee and rocking on their porch.  “That’s so,” Edgar said snuffing out his cigarette.   

“What are you going to do now, Naomi?” Matt Stephens asked.  “You know we wouldn’t have solved this case without you.”   

“Thank you, Matt.  I must say.  I’ve been thinking about some of those deaths I investigated in Florida and I am just not satisfied that we got to the bottom of them.  I may do some asking around.  May I call on you for advice?  I know that I will get stumped.”   

The Sheriff answered, “You know you can.  Maybe you will even let me be your co-nvestigator.  If you aren’t satisfied then there probably was more to those stories.  Just give me a call and we’ll get started.”   

The End   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 23, 2014

All Rights Reserved

        

       

  

  

Did You Ever Remodel a House? A Poem

Did you ever remodel a house?   

If you haven’t, don’t.   

It’ll drive you nuts.   

And, cost you big bucks.   

Did you ever remodel a house?   

I’ve done six or seven.   

Too many.   

One is too many.   

Always say I will NEVER do it again.   

Yet, I do.   

What is wrong with me?   

Doing it over and over again.   

Now, this one really is the last one.   

One hundred six years old.   

Need I say more?   

No wonder I’m poor.   

Just look at those old …   

doors and   

floors.   

Her beautiful lines.   

This one really is the last one.   

I’ve helped to save heirloom sites.   

Not all big.   

Some very small.   

Homes for common people.   

Places where families were raised.   

Places where lives were lived.   

Then, later they moved or died.   

Who am I kidding?   

I wouldn’t want to do it again.   

But, I would.   

Because, it was worth it.   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 20^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved    

Homeless Elevator Couple Not Forgotten

For the longest time we have heard and read about homeless persons.  Homelessness was big news.   When my husband and I lived in south Florida the plight of homeless persons was always in the news and they could be found everywhere. Many people were trying to help them and many just wanted them gone or at least out of sight.   

Have you noticed that there isn’t that much said about homeless people anymore?  We have them though, and we have many thousands who are on the verge of homelessness.   

 

Last winter a young friend and her family became homeless.  Neither of her parents could find a job nor manage to keep one if they got one.  Consistently, that is.  They ended up losing their trailer when they couldn’t pay the rent and the water and power got cut off.  She said they were going to move in with family.  They still haven’t found a stable home. She changed schools three times last year and is unsure where she will be going this year.  How is she supposed to be okay?   

When my husband and I were on our recent anniversary trip we stayed at a beautiful hotel connected to a river walk by a walkover.  The first morning we went toward the river walk there were two people sleeping in a covered area near the steps.   

 

The next morning there was one person sleeping there.  We pushed the elevator button to go down to walk along the river.  It took the elevator a long time to reach us and when it did there was a young couple in it.   

It was obvious that they had spent the night sleeping in it and I am afraid we woke them up.  We spoke.  It was a small elevator and I had to stand close to the young woman who was pregnant.  I hoped that she didn’t feel like I was invading her personal space.  I already felt like we had walked into their bedroom.   

She looked at me smiled and said, “You smell like baby powder.”   

I looked at her, smiled and answered, “I don’t have on baby powder.  Maybe you smell my soap.”  She smiled again.  She was so beautiful and friendly.  We went on our walk.  As we were returning we passed them again and we all spoke.   

 

I felt so helpless.  I hate a world where people do not have homes or a safe refuge.  I look at the news and see all the refugees from all the wars.  People who can’t go home or if they can there is no home or job to go back to.  Probably, they have lost loved ones.  I want to see them sheltered and safe.   

There are people in every community, town and country who fall into these circumstances.  Many times through no fault of their own.  People who survive natural disasters frequently have not recovered years after them, and what about people in the U.S. who lost their homes during the great foreclosure crisis?   

Recently, on the news they were telling about all these big beautiful hotels that are closed or closing down in Atlantic City, New Jersey.  They are so close to where people lost homes and businesses due to hurricane Sandy--many of whom are still trying to rebuild.   

 

I would like to see all the hotel rooms and all the foreclosed houses filled up with people who do not have a place to call home.  Think how good those beds, bathrooms and mini-fridges in those big hotels would make people feel. They could lock their own doors and hopefully have a greater sense of security.  Can you imagine seeing their children frolicking in the pools?  I know that you could count their smiles!   

I would love to see the businesses around the hotels and homes reopened providing people with year round jobs so that they could pay a reasonable rent.  I would want to see disabled veterans and disabled persons get their benefits if they do not already have them.  These enclaves could become refuges where people could live, work and build communities.   

We are supposed to be a compassionate nation.  A nation that helps people who have had setbacks in their lives, or perhaps never had a chance, become more self-reliant given a hand up.  I do not see that as a description of our nation at the present time, but we could be.  I want us to be.  Do you share my dream?   

    

I cannot get the picture of the young couple we met in the elevator out of my mind.  How does it make you feel?  What can we do about homelessness when there are so many politicians who cut funding to every kind of helping program and by their actions seem to want some of our fellow human-beings to just drop off the face of the earth?   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 18^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved   

The Confession: Part 5

From the short mystery series Body in Cold Rock Creek   

Ephram Clout, Junior led Sheriff Stephens and Naomi Childers through a field and up a long hill behind his house.  Naomi couldn’t get over how polite he was.  He apologized to her because she had to walk so far and once when they came to a steep rocky place he stopped and offered his hand to help her over the obstacle.   

He said little going up the steep hill.  Naomi knew that Matt must be thinking what she was thinking: This young man a cold-blooded killer?   

They got to the campsite and it was as if it had been preserved in a museum.  “I ain’t been back,” Junior told them.  “I mean, I ain’t been back up here since the night it happened,” he elaborated.  “And, nobody else ever comes up here.  You live down there Ma’am?”  He was pointing in the direction of Naomi and Edgar’s farm.   

“Yes,” Naomi said in a voice that was barely audible.  She looked up at him and he smiled.  He looked as if he could be one of her grandsons.  She had to fight back tears.   

“I thought I recognized you,” the young man said as he smiled again.  “They told me at the store that some real nice people bought the old McToole farm.  You fixed it up real nice.  I pass it sometimes when I go that way and I seen you a workin’ in the yard.”   

It was almost as if this young man was just chatting with her the way folks did when she stopped at Markers to pick up ice cream sundaes.  It was excruciatingly painful to think that this young man was a murderer.   

“Well, Mr. Clout why don’t you tell us what happened up here,” the Sheriff said jarring both Junior Clout and Naomi back into reality.  “Why don’t you just start at the beginning.”   

The young man began.  “I have that path over younder,” he said pointing to the woods behind the sheriff.   It meanders down the mountain to the creek after the cliff part.  Sometimes, when I don’t have gas money or just when I want to kill a lot of time I go that way to Martin’s Store.  I took it that afternoon.”   

He continued, “When I got to the store I bought me a candy bar and just sat down on the jawing bench next to this feller and we struck up talkin’.  He said that he’d been hiking the trail and had come off for supplies.  It was getting kind da late and he asked me if I knew where he could camp for the night ‘cause he wasn’t goin’ na make it back to a good campsite on the trail.”   

Junior Clout took in a deep breath and went on, “I told him that he could camp out at my place and he thanked me.  We went hoofing and got to the creek and waded in, ‘cause you have to walk part way in the creek to get back to the path.  He liked the camp site and he asked me to supper."   

   

"He pulled out two big steaks that he got at the meat market at the store.  He was a mighty good cook.  It was dark by the time we finished so we just set in to talkin’ and he pulled out this big bottle and asked me if I wanted a swig.  Well, a course I did, so we set in to drinkin’.”   

“Some right smart of time passed and we was both gettin’ pretty wasted.  It was the best tax-paid stuff I ever drunk and he said it come from somewheres afar off.  It was powerful, too.  Anyways, he commenced to telling me about a travelin’ all over the world and things he had done.  It was real interestin’.  Then he started telling me about all kinds of games people played in those far off places and asked me what our unusual games were.  I couldn’t think of nuttin’ right off so I just says horse shoes.”   

He laughed and said “No, something more ‘exotic’ than that.”   

“I was stumped for a minute and I was trying to think of somethin’ when I put my hand down in my pocket and felt the two rocks I had picked up when we crossed the creek.  I like rocks and I found these two laying side by side in the creek.  They were shaped just like chicken eggs.  One was brown and one was black.  I said, well there is one game, but we’d be fools to try it.”   

“What’s that?” he asked.   

“He told me to call him Gil.  So I said, well Gil, it’s called the Dumb as a Rock Duel.  I commenced to explain how you play it makin’ it up as I went.  He asked why it was called that and I told him that rocks were the weapons and that anybody had to be as dumb as a rock to play it.”   

He just horse laughed and said, “Well, I’m game.”   

“We built up the fire real big to give us some light and walked over a ways from it.  I handed him the pretty black rock and we both stood up with our backs to each other and stepped off twenty-five paces.  We was both real stumble-like and laughin’.  Then we turned to face each other.  I let him go first and he flung the rock towards my head.  He missed by a mile.  Just like we was supposed to do.”   

“Then it was my turn, and I let go and being drunk and all I forgot to think about missin’ him.  I am a powerful good shot, and I throw knives and always win.  Well, I didn’t mean to aim I guess it was just instinctive.”  Junior Clout paused and sucked in a great gulp of air.  Matt Stephens and Naomi Childers did not interrupt the young man.   

He continued, “I sure didn’t mean to hit him.  If I had been thinking about my aim it was off by a full inch maybe two.  I didn’t hit him square between the eyes like David did Goliath, but he went straight down and he was dead as four o’clock afore I got to him.  I just screamed as I held him.  Then I had to figure out what to do and before I really thought I had dragged him by his heels over to the side of the cliff and pushed.  He went over, but got caught a few feet down and I had to take a stick to dislodge him before he went tumbling on down.  It was pitch black, but I heard him hit the water.  I put the fire out and went home.”   

“I was going to call you Sheriff honest I was,” he said as he looked over at the sheriff.  “I didn’t mean to do it.”  They were all standing on the side of the cliff looking down.  The sheriff bent over and picked up Gilbert Waycaster’s lost boot.   

“I thought,” Junior said, “I’ll call him tomorrow.  Every day I kept trying to pick up the phone, but just as I got my nerve up to call you all hell broke loose.”   

To be continued ….   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August, 16^th, 2014   

All Rights reserved   

Rounded Rocks: A Poem

Fields covered with rocks rounded by the eons.   

Left as the glaciers receded leaving behind their tears   

filling the cracks, crevices and currents of new streams and riverbeds.   

Rocks covering fields glazed by grass gleaming in the sun.   

Rocks picked up and woven into a fence that winds like the serpentine path   

holding back the imaginary black horse grazing on lush grasses.   

Grasses so tall they provide cover for rabbits and mice and snakes--   

even birds.   

The horse lays in the shade resting with full belly.   

Rains exposing new old rocks.   

Rocks wondering what is burning their backs   

previously covered by years of leaf rot turned to topsoil.   

What is this bright thing that dries the water off their backs?   

More rocks to be stacked along the fence   

now slipping back into the soil

nestling   

to be covered then found again.   

The horse old.   

The rabbits dead eaten by who knows what.   

It was all from decay …   

from change.   

Now once again returning home.   
  

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 13^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved   

Opposing Views: An Essay

I like it when people who have opposing views can have civil conversations about them.  Conversations with depth and breadth looking at the issues from many sides.  Sometimes with people even changing their minds and moving from one side to the other based on new knowledge and information.  That seems rare and maybe it always has been.   

Why is that?  How can we become so certain of what we believe that we stop listening to what opponents or people with differing views have to say?  I do not pretend to have the answers to those questions, but I am still seeking the answers.   

I know that many people are much smarter than I am and that many people are much better educated than I will ever be, but I also know a few things and some of those things seem right to me.   

I believe that life is to be revered and respected.  I believe that people should try to get along.  Although that is not always possible, because all parties must be willing to try.  I believe that adults need to respect children and men and women mutually respect each other.  I do not believe that one race or nationality is superior to another.  I believe that persons with disabilities have the right to live. 
  

I do not believe that it is all right for persons of one religion to try to annihilate persons from all other beliefs from the face of the earth.  Nor do I believe that it is okay for one nation to be so rich as to make many other nations and people poor.  I would like to see us all have rich and meaningful lives full of hope and promise.   

Friends of mine, Doctor J. Iverson Riddle and Holly Riddle once wrote an article called “The Joy Quotient” where they devised a method of counting the smiles of nonverbal individuals to try to determine those person’s happiness levels in given situations.  I thought then, and still do, that was a genius concept.   

  

Perhaps, I am rambling and ranting here, but it seems to me like many people are going to the far corners of their belief systems seeing things as all black or all white with there being no possibility of there being any gray.  Sometimes things are all one way or the other, but  many times there really is legitimate middle ground.   

What would the joy quotient of people across the world be today if we simply observed and counted their smiles?   I fear that the answer would not be pleasing to us.  We may not be responsible for other people’s happiness, but we certainly can be at fault for their misery.  I would like to see us doing better than that.  I would like to be able to count more smiles.   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 11^th, 2014

All Rights Reserved 

The Question, the Clue and the Culprit: Part 4

From the short mystery series Body in Cold Rock Creek

Summer turned to fall then winter.  Naomi and Sheriff Stephens hadn’t spoken for a while.  The murder was not far from either of their thoughts, though.  One day Naomi was walking along the creek on a day so cold that her breath almost froze when she exhaled.  She was thinking about the murder.  What was bothering her was the fact that although law enforcement officers and both she and the Sheriff had traveled up and down the Appalachian Trail where they figured that Gilbert Mac Waycastle could have been the last couple of days of his life they never found his tent or any sign of his camp.   

Naomi called the Sheriff.  By this time he recognized her voice without a greeting.  “Matt, it troubles me that we never found his camp.  We must have been looking in the wrong place unless someone murdered him for his tent which seems unlikely.”   

“Strange that you should bring that up, Naomi,” the Sheriff said.  “I just had a call from Dr. Ronald Brewer and this case is still bugging him, too.  Seems like none of us likes loose ends.”   

“What was the Medical Examiner thinking?” Naomi asked.   

The Sheriff answered, “He said that he looked at the evidence again, especially his autopsy report.  He is certain that Mr. Waycastle died of blunt force trauma.  He said though, that on further inspection of the blow that hit him on the left side of his forehead and eye that he continues to believe that the murder weapon was a rock, which was what he first thought, but he thinks that it may have been thrown at him rather than by a close contact blow.”   

“He said that it was a rock about the size of a hen egg.  A hen egg, can you imagine that as a murder weapon and thrown at somebody?  He also wondered why it was a frontal blow.  He said that if someone were going to throw a rock at you, why wouldn’t you turn and run?  That would have caused a blow to the rear of the head not the front and there were no defensive wounds at all.”   

“Interesting,” was all that Naomi responded.   

“I thought so, too.  A rock thrown at him. Does that make sense?”   

“No,” Naomi answered.  During the conversation with the Sheriff Naomi hadn’t noticed that she had turned around and was walking back up the creek.  She had just gotten to the place that she avoided and had not been back to since she found the body.  Here she was at the exact spot.  She stopped when she realized where she was sighed and averted her eyes from where the tree had been that stopped Mr. Waycastle’s body from floating further down the creek.   

Instead of looking at the spot she looked up at the sheer cliff above the spot.  “Oh, my God,” she gasped.   

“Naomi, what’s wrong?” Sheriff Stephens asked.   

“Matt, wasn’t Mr. Waycastle wearing a red shirt and wasn’t it torn?”   

“Yes, you know that,” he answered.   

“Matt there is a fragment of red cloth flapping on a tree limb high up the cliff.  We couldn’t have seen it in May because of the leaves which are gone now.   

“Naomi who owns the farm behind yours?”   

“I don’t know, because of the cliff we have never seen anybody.  I just don’t know.”   

“Well, I will find out from the tax map and I will go right there.”   

“Not without me Matt.  Please.  Not without me.  Wait Matt, there seems to be something else higher up on the cliff, but I can’t make it out.  Could it be his boot?  The missing boot that we left out of the media reports?  Matt hurry and pick me up before you go there.  I deserve to go with you.”   

“I know, Naomi.  You are the one who has found nearly every clue, but if things seem like they may get violent … if we find a suspect will you promise me that you will do exactly what I say?”   

“Yes,” was Naomi’s one word reply.   

Sheriff Matt Stephens picked Naomi up in about thirty minutes and they proceeded to Ephram Clout’s farm.  The name the sheriff found on the tax records.  They knocked on the door and a tall skinny young man of about twenty answered.  He said that his name was Ephram Clout, Junior and that his father was dead.  “Folks just call me Junior,” he said.  “I been waitin’ on you Sheriff.”  He hung his head.  “I knew you’d come.  Follow me and I’ll take you to where it happened.”   

To be continued ….   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August, 9th, 20014

All Rights Reserved

Happiness Overused: A Poem

Is happiness overused?   

The word and the concept.   

Do we spend too much time thinking about happiness?   

Or too little.   

Are we interested in other people’s happiness?   

Or just our own.   

Do we even care about how others feel?   

Or just pretend.   

Will it be this way to the end?   

Or just now.   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 6^th, 2014

All Rights Reserved

Media Circus: Part 3

From the short fictional mystery series, Body in Cold Rock Creek   

When the TBI got to the crime scene and found out who the victim was they immediately called the Governor.  He notified the FBI and asked them for assistance.  They had Sheriff Stephens set up a perimeter that ran for ten miles up and down Cold Rock Creek Road—five miles in both directions from the Childers’ farm.  The Governor came and gave a press conference in front of Naomi and Edgar’s one hundred and six year old barn.  TTN Worldwide told him that it made for a great setting to announce the unfortunate event.   

Every form of media arrived from all corners of the world.  It was a media circus and an economic boon for all of Cold Creek County including the adjoining towns and cities in the immediate three state area.  There just weren’t that many motel rooms in the overall area so even all the cabins and camp grounds filled up with news related people and gawkers.  The restaurants owners and managers were shouting "Hallelujah!  What recession?”   

The small town of Cold Rock Creek had so much traffic that its ten member police force had to direct traffic down Main Street.  The citizens were all abuzz and many of them had been interviewed on television answering some of the most stupid questions.  Naomi and Edgar were hounded, but neither of them would answer a single question or consent to being interviewed.  That seemed to make them all the more interesting to the people of the world.   

It looked as if the notoriety was going to catapult Sheriff Matt Stephens into any political office or law enforcement office of his choosing.  He was very handsome, tall with blue eyes and black hair, very photogenic and his deep southern drawl made him an instant cult hero.  It was just crazy.   

Corporate moguls in their companies’ private jets flew into the small airport down the road from the farm.  They wanted to get face-time that was being broadcast to the far ends of the earth telling how much Gilbert Mac Waycastle was going to be missed.  It seemed that the only person missing from the media frenzy was the killer.  They couldn’t find Mr. Waycastle’s killer; although, there were numerous persons who claimed they killed him—people wanting their few minutes of fame—but their confessions proved false.   

Turns out Gilbert Mac Waycastle had been hiking the Appalachian Trail.  By himself.  His cohorts said that he liked to go to remote places where he could be alone with nature to think and to rejuvenate himself.  They said it grounded him and he got some of his best ideas on these treks.   

His body got released and the mammoth media followed his remains to a small town in northern Michigan where he was from and where he was laid to rest.  The investigation continued but turned cold.  There just weren’t any leads.  All parties left with instructions to Sheriff Stephens to contact them if he got any new information and they implied that they might let him know if they learned anything new.   

The outside law enforcement agencies were mainly investigating Waycastle’s friends, family and co-workers.  They were looking at major stockholders in his companies to see who had the most to gain from his death.  They particularly honed in on his competitors.   

Life went on and Sheriff Stephens easily won his write-in election.  He just kept plodding on trying to find out who killed the tycoon.  He dug into as much of the man’s past as could be gotten.  Many things pertaining to Mr. Waycastle’s life were part of public record since nearly everything the man did for many years had been recorded as is the case with many celebrities.  He was a philanthropist and environmentalist.  He seemed to have many friends even among folk one would expect to be his enemies.   

“Well,” Sheriff Stephens told Naomi and Edgar as he was having supper with them one evening between bites of Naomi’s fried chicken, “somebody sure as hell wanted him dead.”   

“They did,” Edgar replied to both the Sheriff and Naomi.  “They had, however, the grave misfortune of dumping his body in exactly the wrong place.  They dumped him in your jurisdiction Sheriff and he ended up in the creek on our farm.  I have the privilege of knowing what the killer did not know and that is that neither you nor Naomi will ever rest until you find out who killed Gilbert Mac Waycastle.  The killer does not know that both of you are coming for them.”   

To be continued ….   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August, 2, 2014

All Rights Reserved