Stories

The Lodge at the Triple Peaks (not its real name)

Published on December 25, 2012 in Stories. 1 Comment

This story is a tribute to time spent with family, any relation to real people or events is purely coincidental

From the outside the lodge looks like a big sprawling house, but certainly not what one thinks of when one thinks of a lodge in the traditional sense. Nothing ever changes at the lodge, the same fake Christmas tree is always in the corner, the same cheap leather couches surround the living room, the same cheesy motivational phrases adorn the walls on painted pieces of wood (“Proudly serving what you bring!”). The lodge is situated up a small incline from the road off which it sits. This has led to many a stuck vehicle over the years. They don’t stay stuck for long though, not when you have an unlimited number of bodies to push and shout conflicting directions.

The time at the lodge always starts the same way, a fleet of vehicles descends on the driveway, one by one they back up to the front door and an army of people (the family, around 30 or so) transfer the contents of the vehicles into the various rooms. The men outside, the women inside, the children everywhere, but mainly underfoot.

The lodge sits in the middle of the Cascade mountains, the main group of mountains in the northwest corner of the United States of America. As such, it is usually surrounded by snow in the last week of December, the standard week in which the event takes place. In good years the snow is stacked almost to the eves of the lodge, great white mountains on which the children play. Sometimes the adults will come outside and dig tunnels under the mountains for the children to play in. This will usually cause some of the other adults to worry about the tunnels collapsing on the children to which the tunnel building adults will reassure them that “you could drive a car on top of these tunnels and they wouldn’t collapse”. No one has yet tested this, but everyone seems to feel better. If it is a bad year, the temperature will be above freezing, and the snow pack will be low. This means dripping water, chunks of falling snow, and puddles everywhere. The children playing outside come in soaking wet, and drying snow clothes are scattered everywhere around the house like a laundromat.

No matter the amount of snow on the ground, sledding is the primary pastime of the days spent at the lodge. Just adjacent to the lodge is an open sloped area, somewhat steeper than a putting green. It is on this “hill” that the sledding takes place. Initially the sledding consisted of adults sitting on an inner tube with 3 or 4 children in their arms, sliding down the hill at an alarming 2.5mph. As the years passed, caution was thrown to the wind, and everyone began trying to outdo one another by getting faster sleds and building jumps over which they would hurl their bodies (and their childrens). As the old saying goes, “it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt”, and it was, and they did. Part of the sledding fun is documenting it via video. This is accomplished with a variety of filming devices. The resulting footage is then dumped onto someones laptop where it is spliced together into a series of glamour shots reminiscent of a mix between a Warren Miller film and Reservoir Dogs all set to a soundtrack of 80’s butt rock. Everyone loves it.

Meals are always composed of something conducive to a group of 30 people, pizza, chili, anything that can be cooked in large quantities with a minimum of effort. There isn’t any structure to the mealtime, at a certain point in the day, usually around the time of one of the traditional mealtimes someone will start making a meal. It is up to everyone individually to realize that this is occurring and procure some for them and their children. Show up late and don’t expect anything to be left over. The children gather in a squabbling mass around the large wooden table, waiting for someone to place a plate in front of them. The adults gather in the living room, the TV the main focus of the room.

The TV is just one of the many constants of the time spent at the lodge, and 9 times out of 10 it is displaying American football. The room is filled with the sound of the announcers regurgitating the standard football announcer lines “Johnson is really controlling the tempo of this game…” and “The Fighting Trojans really need to complete those passes”. Nobody listens however, they are too busy offering their own analysis such as “You just can’t take a sack on that play, you just can’t” and “I’ll never understand why teams run to the short side of the field, if I were coaching this game I would open the field up”. Nobody really listens to each other.

Soda Pop, Pop, Soda, Coke, whatever you like to call it, it plays a big part in the festivities. Each flavor and brand has been given its own nickname, and those on the outside would need help interpreting what a Red Rocket, Blue Bullet, Brown Bomber, Double RS, White Wizard or Green Goblin is. Whatever drink you choose, there will be lots of it, usually half buried in the snow outside the back door. Drink up, there is more where that came from, there might also be a few beers if you know where to look.

The lodge is equipped with a hot tub which is awkwardly situated just outside the front door. It isn’t a very nice hot tub, but you can’t tell the kids that. Every evening after dinner, the hot tub ritual resumes. First the children must get into their swimsuits. This entails lots of public nudity of the two year old kind. Once the swimsuits and swim diapers have been donned, the lid is taken off the hot tub and the madness begins. Usually one or two of the younger Uncles takes one for the team and gets in the hot tub with the kids. Then the hoard of children swarm into the rolling waters and the splashing and crying and half drowning begins. Some of the older children will be encouraged to get out of the hot tub and jump in the snow. This is followed by shrieking and more splashing/partial drowning as they pile back into the hot waters. After 15 minutes or so of this, the children (but mainly the adults) have had enough and the swarm of wet and shivering children are brought indoors to drip great pools of water on the hardwood floors and huddle by the fireplace.

The fireplace is a great stone monstrosity which dominates the living room, taking up one whole wall. The actual firebox is about 1/8 that size. That being said, it is kept full with wood and paper products and spits out a large deal of heat. In the early years the closet just adjacent to the fireplace was full of firewood, a gift from the lodging company which managed the property. As leaner times came, the amount of wood provided dwindled in proportion to the state of the economy (probably not actually, but it sounds good). This seeming roadblock to comfortable evenings filled with roaring fires was overcome by simply breaking into the locked garage where the large stockpile of firewood was kept. This was accomplished by the old screwdriver to the hinges trick and soon the wood closet was filled to the brim and happy times were here again.

Every year at the lodge it seems that someone is battling sickness of one degree or another. Some years it’s the stomach flu, other years a head cold. There have been broken bones, wheelchairs, vomit and much more. The nearest hospital is an hour away and over the years there have been many trips made to it for one reason or another. It’s almost as if the lodge breeds physical ailment. No one really seems to care though, they come back every year.

The time spent at the lodge is a special time, a time spent with family. It’s a time set apart, like a world unto its own. Time slows down and for a few days life is simple. Then it’s over, the cars are packed, get stuck in the snow and then unstuck, and everyone departs, looking forward to next year.

Long Walk

Published on January 9, 2012 in Created and Stories. 1 Comment

The old truck roared under the strain as it crested the last hill, it’s battered and rusted hull blent into the desolate landscape, just like one more derelict piece of junk left to deteriorate in the windswept plain. In the distance hills rose in a ring around the valley, seemingly within reach, but a full days walk in actuality. As the truck shuttered to a stop, the whistle of the wind came into focus, an overwhelming wail, streaking across the short grass and dried mud. It was cold out as evidenced by the small clumps of scattered snow and the frozen water in tire tracks. He opened the door of the truck, pushing it through several sticking points, the creaking noise being carried off by the wind. His tattered boots and faded jeans did little to block the piercing wind and he shivered a little in spite of himself.

Walking rapidly away from the truck he headed toward the broken wooden shack which stood nearby. There was a time it had been relatively weatherproof, but that time had been long ago, and no one had bothered to keep it in good repair. The grass grew right up to the edge of the building and as he got close he noticed some of it had recently been trampled down. He paused for a long second, his jaw flexing and unflexing, a disturbed look on his face. Whatever inner conflict had caused him to pause quickly passed and he charged towards the broken door of the broken building. Flinging the door aside, he disappeared into the dark hole. A second later he reappeared, carrying a small wooden barrel. Dropping the barrel on the ground he grabbed a nearby rock and bashed it to pieces. Digging through the broken wood he pulled out a long thin metal rod. It was smooth and polished, cleanly cut at each end. It glistened, even in the dull light of the winter morning. Muttering to himself, he jumped to his feet and then froze, coming over the rise in the distance was another truck. It was large and looming, newer than his own, with tinted windows and oversize tires. He paused for only a moment, then turned and started to run as fast as he could. The wind howled past his ears and caused his eyes to tear up till he could barely see which caused him to stumble and trip over the uneven frozen ground. He resisted the urge to look back, but kept up a dead run towards the distant hills. He came upon an old barb wire fence, stopping in order to duck underneath, he stole a glance behind him. No one was there. The new truck was gone and so was his own. He recalled how he had left the door of the truck open and the keys in the ignition. The wind whistled and howled, the grass whipped around his legs, the metal was cold in his hand, it was 30 miles back to the main road. He headed towards the hills.

The Old Man By The Sea

Published on November 22, 2011 in Observations and Stories. 2 Comments

It was the middle of summer, sometime in July. The three youngish friends had met at the donut shop to wolf down some empty calories and then transitioned down to the beach for some people watching. Leaning against a vehicle they gazed out at the water and talked about the old days, the glory days, the “better from a distance than they actually were” days.

As they relaxed and chatted, an old man approached from the north. He had a purposeful stride and a focused gleam in his eye. His pants were high waisted, his shirt was tightly tucked, his white hair perfectly parted and firmly held in place with some kind of hair spray. As he drew near to the three he let out a cheery “Hello!”. The youngish men replied in turn and continued talking amongst themselves, or at least they tried to for the old man had joined their circle. Gesturing toward some houses in the distance he loudly told the three that he had grown up in one of the houses, that he used to play on the railroad tracks that ran nearby, and that the town was a lot smaller back then. The taller one of the three youngish men politely engaged the old man in conversation, asking questions and uttering exclamations of amazement at appropriate intervals. The other two listened with reserved interest, wondering when the old man might finish his stories and move on. But any interest in his stories only encouraged the old man, and he proceeded to tell his life history, condensed into 20 minutes. He had been in the military (thanks for your service), liked blueberry pancakes, and drove a blue Cadillac XLR with the top down. “Boys” he said, “let me tell you how to become a millionaire like myself. Put everything you can out of every paycheck into your 401k. But be careful, it’s a lot harder to take money from your paycheck and put it into investments than it is to have it automatically deducted from your paycheck. The automatic deductions also get the money put away before your wife starts spending it. I never made more than $25 dollars an hour in my career and now I’m one of those millionaires you hear about on TV. I did it all through compound interest” With that he was gone. Words of wisdom hanging in the air.

The three youngish friends looked at one another with puzzled smiles, amused at what had transpired. While he may have unfairly stereotyped the spending habits of women, there were certainly pearls of wisdom in his tale. As they stood and discussed the old mans advice, a beautiful blue Cadillac XLR whizzed by, top down, perfectly parted white hair not blowing in the wind, but held perfectly in place by some kind of hair spray.

Hair spray not included

Hungry To Work

Published on October 17, 2011 in Stories. 0 Comments

The mud on his boots was thick, thick and slimy. His pants were tucked into the tops of his boots at mid-calf, duct-tape sealing the boots to the jeans for the frequent instances when the mud got deeper than the boots got high. The faded denim hung loose around his bony hips and streaks of dirt changed the color to a dull brownish hue. The old t-shirt he had on was equally the worse for wear and was covered by an orange reflective vest, the two bright yellow vertical stripes on the vest clashing with the dull worn look of the rest of his wardrobe. On his head was a rust colored hard-hat covered haphazardly in stickers from the various jobs he had worked over the years. Each sticker a badge of honor, like the campaign ribbons on a soldiers uniform. The hard hat itself was spattered with mud and concrete, a testament of the long hard days it had seen. Under the hard hat was a faded blue bandanna which was wrapped around the sweat band. Out from the back of the hard hat hung a pony tail of brown hair streaked with grey, thin and ratty and held together with a rubber band. The face of the man was guant and craggy, deep lines creasing across his forehead and from the corners of his eyes. Despite his world weary appearance, his demeanor was upbeat and friendly. Approaching the door of the restaurant he stomped his feet a few times to remove the excess mud. At the counter he ordered fish and chips to go, then moved to the side and waited patiently for his lunch to be prepared. It was his second month of consecutive employment after two years with no job and he was hungry, hungry to work. The long days, the deep mud, the uncertainty of the next job, he did not mind. It was all he knew and all he could do. He was happy and a thin smile was on his lips.

Just Do Nothing

Published on July 15, 2011 in Created and Stories. 4 Comments

Jamie realized she had to do something. The man was pointing the gun at her head. It was not an accident she was in this situation, she had known the man was there, in fact a friend had warned her just a few minutes earlier that “the crazy guy” was in the park again. Being impatient, and not wanting to take the long way home, Jamie had cut through the park to save a few minutes. She knew full well that the chances of running into the gun toting lunatic were very good. Now here she was, facing what she had been warned of and considering her options. All the man wanted was everything she had. Everything Jamie had meant everything to her and parting with it was not an option she was willing to consider. But was ignoring the man and continuing on her course a better option? What about reasoning with him in the hopes he would let her go? Jamie had seconds to make a decision, a decision which would have lasting impact upon her life, a decision she might or might not live to regret. But she couldn’t make a choice, she was bogged down in self doubt. Every choice she might make had a consequence, and she didn’t want to have the ownership of that consequence on her shoulders, thus it was easier to let the man make the first move. He might take what he wanted and let her go, kill her and take what he wanted, or take nothing and miraculously let her go. Jamie waited to see what the man would do. He squeezed the trigger.