Somehow we fall into routines that find us wishing our life away. Always desiring something in the future, rather than delighting in the present.
When we are children, we cannot wait until we are older. Cannot wait until we can drive a car-- until we graduate from school-- until we get married-- until the children are grown-- until our home is paid for-- until we retire-- until suddenly we realize our life is nearly over! But when death takes its place in our chronological order, we desire with all our hearts to return to any part of that life we so eagerly desired to get through!

What happened to me was the most intense altering of attitude I could have imagined. Even though I am confused how it occurred, I am more amazed I don't really care. It has left feelings of wonderment I never knew a human could experience. As if living life for a second time recalling all that was learned from the first. A sensation so fantastic I awaken each morning in anticipation of the rising sun. Eager to encounter an opportunity that would make a difference in someone's life. And when I expire as one of life's certainties, the measure of my success will not be how many people attend my funeral, but rather how many lives I will have touched during the tenure of my own. How many people will have thought of me the way I thought about Grandfather. How many humans will have experienced what I did and lived to retell it....

I was heartbroken when Mother informed me Grandfather had died. Passed on sometime during the night in his rocker. We knew it was coming; but he would not leave that old house. Would not allow anyone to take care of him. Said he was in peace, and content to listen to the breeze as it rattled and slipped between the leaves of his mature oak trees. Thrilled to watch the creek trickle across the rocks as it embarked on a mysterious journey to a greater body of water. Happy to sit on his front porch in an old rocker most would not lay claim too. Sit with his solitude and amazement of Nature. He said he was etching the vision of life into his memory. Creating a picture so vivid he could carry it through eternity.
Yet I was sad I was not there during his final moments. Sorry he lived alone in that old house on the outskirts of Mountain Home. Lived in Arkansas with no family nearby who could visit except for holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. And even more surprised to discover he had left his house to me under condition in his Will. The condition I live in that house for one month before it could be disposed of. Whether it was sold or not, his last wish was for me to spend a month there alone. No one could accompany me. His will was specific on the terms; yet from respect to Grandfather, I would of honored his request.

I could arrange the time off from work but the finances were my biggest concern. So when the check for expenses arrived from his attorney it was more than adequate to cover my losses and I actually looked forward to a month of rest. Thirty days from the stress of my mailhandler job at the Detroit Post Office. I needed to get away; to get out of town. Away from an overbearing boss that was a political appointee rather than an employee who worked their way through the ranks. I looked to the time off as a means to pay a special tribute to a very special Grandfather. A way that would become memorable for me. An opportunity to relive memories from another period of my life.

The trip to Mountain Home took about 12 hours to drive so I left early on Saturday. The Autumn leaves were delightful during this mid-October drive and I marveled at the picturesque countryside, before losing considerable time on the winding roads through the Ozark Mountains. It was nearly ten p.m. before I pulled into a Conoco station in Mountain Home. Still pleasantly warm, it was near seventy degrees.
An old man in unwashed bib overalls, with dirty, stringy hair draped across his shoulders walked to my auto. His shoes scuffed white over the toes and his soles caked with grease. His jaw chewed as he spat a wad of tobacco on the drive near my car, the brown glob splattered against my whitewall tire. "Could you help me with directions to Highway 201 South", I asked trying to remain polite.
"You Mahan's Grandson?" he mumbled, "we've been expecting you!"
The old man twisted his head and spat again, then forced a smile, as a dribble of tobacco juice oozed across his weathered bottom lip, through a huge gap between unbrushed, tobacco stained teeth. The dribble dropped and ran into his greasy shirtpocket.
"HE said you'd come!"
After pumping my gas he returned to the car window, "fifteen dollars", he said.
I gave him a twenty, watched him walk to the office and return with my change and a wrinkled up sheet of paper.
"This will get ya there" his coal black eyes locked with mine before handing me the directions, and returning to the office.
I couldn't shake an uneasy feeling as I started the car and drove off. The old man just stared through those insensitive, hollowed eyes as his glare followed my car form the station.
I knew then I would stay in town for the evening before trying to find Grandfather's house in the morning. The drive must have exhausted me more than I realized.

There were only a few street lights in town along the main highway, with half of them burned out. But "The Traveler's Inn" was open and the vacancy sign lit. I pulled in, parked and glanced across the five stall parking lot. There was not a single car in front of any room. I was exhauted and afraid there wouldn't be another motel, so I decided to go inside. The office was a small room lighted by a single table lamp in the corner and a large counter. I tapped the ringer on top. An elderly lady entered from the door behind.
"Could I rent a room" I tried to smile, but couldn't?
"You Mahan's Grandson?" she asked through a shriveled, dried up mouth with no teeth.
"HE said you'd come; rooms been paid for."
She then handed me the keys to number 2, stepped from the office into her quarters and quickly shut the door. Nothing more. No signing the guestbook, no car license number, no I.D., no nothing. Just the keys handed over as if she personally knew me.

The motel room was acceptable, one double bed, a single bath with shower only, and no phone or television. But the room was clean and the bed comfortable. I slept like a baby.

DAY 1

The next morning I received my first real look at Mountain Home. A quaint little town nestled in the Ozark Mountains with nothing more than the basic necessities, and a Wal-Mart store. The main road, Highway 412, twisted between little shops like a concrete rope pressed flat against the earth. About seven blocks long, there were several streets that fingered off at irregular intervals. The grocery store was attached to Wal-Marts and the whole complex wasn't much larger than an oversized house. I was sure there was more to discover in town, but I was anxious to locate Grandfather's house and get the car unloaded.

The directions were easy to follow and fifteen minutes later I pulled into the gravel driveway of Grandfather's place. Mahan was still visible on the mailbox, faded and weather worn, but legible.

Grandfather's home was nothing to talk about. An old farm house more than a hundred years old, that sat on an acre of ground with a storm cellar hid under a large mound of dirt on the left side of the yard. The entire property was embraced by pristine countryside of huge, matured oaks which encompassed thousands of acres of trees and occasional pasture land. His property set back from the gravel road several hundred feet and had long been forgotten by County maintenance. Their graders had not scraped the pot holes for years. The County road, a few feet wider than a single width of car, weaved between towering oaks and scrub brush that formed an arched tunnel to Grandfather's driveway. The overhead leaves blocked most of the Sunlight as I pondered how a car could pass on a road this narrow?
The front of the house was all porch with Grandfather's chair sitting alone. Just an old rocker with groves carved into a wooden floor from its legs and probably ten years of rocking in the same identical spot.
The front door had a small window towards the top and was unlocked. As I stepped inside, it opened into a small living room with the kitchen & dining area straight ahead. Two bedrooms and one bath that formed the entire left half of the house. That was it! There was blue carpeting on the floor with a clearly stained dirtpath which formed a trail into the kitchen, down the left hall to a bedroom, and then returned to the living area. Shaped in an oval, it was clear the measure of a man's success was not determined by his house. At least not in Grandfather's case.
The furniture consisted of a worn, rust colored couch and single matching chair. A 19 inch, Zenith television connected by flat antenna cable that dangled loosely alongside the wall and then rose from the back of the T.V., through the ceiling onto the roof. Wide spread water stains yellowed the wall behind the cable as if no intent to seal the roof had ever been made. There were two windows on the rightside of the living room unwashed for years. The neglected glass was paper thin and blurred the outside view. A rusted L.P.gas heater sat alone in the opposite corner and completed the furnishings.
The kitchen was nothing more than a room that harbored years of splattered grease and dirt. The color of the stove top and sides were dirty grey. It was probably when new. The aluminum sink had been replaced fairly recent, but the dining room table with rusted metal legs and a single padded chair reminisced of the fifties. A window above the stove blocked out the sunlight from years of caked dirt.
The bedroom wasn't much better, a worn mattress on the floor, with two boxes in the corner. One for clean clothes, one for soiled.
The bathroom stool was yellowed from years of splattered urine, and the bathtub a cast iron, queen victoria model, with green mold around the drain. The only blessing was that everything functioned. At least it was something to begin with. I spent over $250.00 that afternoon and purchased cleaning supplies, basic necessities, and canned foods....

DAYS 2 - 7

I made a dozen trips into town and cleaned a single room each day from sunrise to sunset.
I found a used furniture shop in Mountain Home and replaced many of the old furnishings, and burned Grandfather's in the back of the yard. I left the ash remnants and scorched, metal furniture frames stand in a pile until I could figure a way to dispose of them. The television signal was weak and did not display much of a picture, so the static became my friend during the first couple of days until I purchased a radio and returned to National news and events around the World. There was no local news. At least none I could find.
Little by little, inch by inch, I worked harder than I ever remembered. And convinced myself it had to be done to ready the place for sale. At least that helped justify my labor.
My folks offered to come and help but that would violate the terms of the Will and in this town, everyone would know seconds after they entered the city limits. I was unsure why doing this myself was so important, but it was. I had to do it alone. Had to finish what I started.
Once the cleaning was completed, and several coats of white paint applied to the walls and ceilings, the house started to brighten rapidly. The carpeting was steam cleaned which returned some of its original luster. And the addition of the new-used furniture placed the final touches on the interior like an Artist brushing the final stroke of a painted masterpiece. The house began to shine from all the improvements. And I began to shine feeling proud from my accomplishment. And the prouder I became, the more my efforts intensified; it became an obsession I could not leave alone. Could not take a break from. Could not rest from! Something was happening and I could sense it; taste it-- I just could not define it!

Saturday afternoon, the seventh day, I stood outside the old house and marveled at its new yellow exterior, the freshly cut aroma of grass, the pleasant view of a yard without the garbage, which had been buried in a hole near where it stood like a miniature mountain throughout the week. My interior inspection was viewed with the same propensity as a newlyweds anticipation of a potential first home. I was proud like a father overwhelmed by the initial sight of his first born daughter. The house would be worth something now. Should bring a reasonable price on the market, whatever that was, and I would find out Monday when I talked to a Realtor to give me an opinion.

At dusk, I laid my head on the new bed, new sheets, and new pillow slips. I daydreamed to visions of resting on Sunday in Grandfather's rocker on the porch, sipping a cup of coffee and discovering what treasures had been left for me stacked neatly in the spare bedroom. It should be a wonderful day.
If I had only known what was to follow, I would of left immediately and never looked back! But exhaustion closed my eyes and I drifted off....

WEEK 2, DAY 1, SUNDAY

I rose early with the sunshine as it flickered through my polished window. I stretched and strolled in my underwear to the kitchen where I brewed a fresh pot of Folgers coffee. The tantalizing aroma filtered through the kitchen with the stink removed from a week of open windows, deodorizers, and a thorough cleansing of everything I could scour.
I decided to walk onto the porch and try out Grandfather's rocker. I can't explain why, but I felt compelled to sit in his seat and never thought to get dressed. I just stepped outside in all my glory, amazed how fast my lifelong inhibitions melted from the warmth of the sun as it baked on my thighs and chest, while I sat for the first time in Grandfather's rocker.
Quickly disappointed by the uneven wooden slats beneath my buttocks and the crooked back supports that pressed harshly into my shoulders, I could not envision how Grandfather could of sat in this chair for any length of time. And with a momentary thought to add the rocker to the burn pile--a blurred image of a huge, black crow dove toward my face as I snapped my head to the right and jerked my arms up to protect my eyes. The crow's wing ripped at the side of my ear as it soared past, immediately followed by bone crushing sounds that echoed from its collision with the house. Unnerved, I leapt from the rocker, twisted, and stared at the broken siding and the lifeless pile of feathers that laid on the porch. Laid directly behind where I had just sat. Blood drooled into a pool from its beak while its twisted neck was lodged beneath a crumpled body. The porch wood soaked up the blood as fast as it drained like a vampire bat sucking its final meal. Afraid it might still be alive, but not wanting to know anyway, I immediately returned inside the house and headed for the kitchen. There was a splattering of blood on my shoulders, and the back of my hair, and the nape of my neck, as I struggled to settle myself down. Struggled to quit shaking. Struggled to keep my pounding heart from bursting through my chest! I began to realize how close my encounter with the crow had actually come. And how easily it could of smashed into my face, or taken my eye. I headed for the bath to relax my nerves, to scrub the crow's blood from my flesh, and my hair! I had to remove it, to get it off me!
In the tub I beheld the crows blood in abhorrence as it formed a slimy red line in the bath water against my hip; then pooled and tainted the soap suds red over my groin, before dissolving downward into the water. I poured shampoo atop my hair and rubbed my shoulders raw to remove any trace of the dried blood.
As if by will of their own, my soaped hands and fingers began to slowly glide downwards across my chest, sensually tracing erotic circles across my skin as the soap suds in the water parted and my arousal became visible. My hands slipped lower towards my stomach as they continued their sexual stimulation, until they reached their goal-- until my hands firmly cupped my genitals and squeezed -- until my fingers encircled-- and tightened-- and pulled on my own blood engorged organ. My eyelids closed as my head tilted back, and moments later I achieved a violent orgasm! The most intensive of my life!
Only then did I start to settle. Only then did I start to relax. Only then did I finish my bath.

The clock struck noon before I emptied my last cup of coffee, the morning events rotating through my mind in a montage of repeated images between the crow and my orgasm....

Later I tossed the dead crow into the storm cellar before departing for town to catch a movie, or do some shopping, or just do anything. And it was bedtime before I returned to the house, something I was not looking forward to....

WEEK 2,DAY 2, MONDAY

I awoke groggy from the Benedryl tablet taken before bedtime. They helped me sleep whenever I was upset and needed a good nights rest. A rest I needed more than ever.
I drank coffee on the porch again, but this time dragged a chair from the kitchen table and left Grandfather's rocker alone. The blood on the porch had become ingrained in the wood so I sat as far from it as possible and basked in the morning sun. I decided to leave the boxes in the spare room for later and go for a walk this morning. Yesterday afternoon had been a temporary reprieve from a traumatic morning. I even found a way to chuckle thinking how everyone in town knew my name. As if born and raised in this area. By far the friendliest place I had ever visited. Even the waitress at "Barb's", smiled when I entered for dinner and said
"Hi Daniel, good to finally meet you."
Caught at a loss for what to say,
"I'm Carol", she sensed my dismay,
"don't worry about it. You know how small towns are."
I thought about making an attempt to know her better, then decided not. I wouldn't be here one day longer than necessary.

After coffee, I walked up Grandfather's driveway to enjoy a leisurely stroll down what was perceived a pathway rather than a County road.
As I stepped along, I marveled at the sunshine that filtered through the leaves in misty blades of smokey sunlight. And listened to the concert performed by overhead branches shaken from a warm breeze. And reveled by natures beauty as it embraced and invited me into a rendition of a fairy tale. All the while water gurgled from a nearby creek as it announced its journey towards the unknown.

Then further down, the lane opened into several fenced pastures where the sun quickly warmed the air. With the exception of cattle and homes, everything appeared picture perfect. The gravel pathway ahead meandered through never ending countryside, like a river into eternity.
Then an opening appeared through the brush which led to the creek. I stepped down and admired the crystal clear water that mirrored my image as crawdads and minnows scurried to avoid any contact with the invading marauder. So different from the muddy rivers and creeks of Michigan. I sat resting while the scenery-- while the water-- while the sunshine warmed and relaxed me as my thoughts drifted to Grandfather. He had taken me fishing once and talked to me like an adult. Talked in ways my Father never had. Talked about life-- about growing up,-- about doing the right thing when tempted with the other.
And he let me wade in the water with my new shoes Mom had just purchased. Something my Folks would have never none. Something that got me in trouble when we returned. But Grandfather brought me a new pair the following day with a little note tucked inside that read "Sorry". My parents were much to protective. They always feared the worst could occur, and raised me to believe it would. Their only son, who fought them like a Rebel. A son who wanted to do what the other kids were allowed. A boy who craved freedom; not attention.
Still, I loved my folks and after growing older accepted their reason for being so protective. But Grandfather presented me the true freedom I craved. A freedom relished with each opportunity presented. And I loved him so much for that.

Water splashed my face from a jumping fish and snapped me from my daydream. Glancing at my watch, it was nearly two p.m. and I had been gone longer than expected. Far longer than I should have. It was time to return, to start on the material in the spare bedroom. I was feeling much better about everything now....

The return walk passed quickly and soon after my arrival I started to carry boxes into the kitchen. I brought three or four out and decided to browse through them, before bringing more. I sat and explored, and became more and more intrigued by the concept of a man's life when it is reduced to a mere selection of cherished items. A collection of odds and ends that descibes what is most important to an individual.
I uncovered an array of unexpected items and mismatches that revealed an unknown side to my Grandfather. A side that left many unanswered questions.

The largest box contained items from his military days. There was a full dress uniform with the insignia of Sergeant. Spit shined shoes with laces neatly tucked by specific order, under the first loop near the tongue.
A black, flat box with Mahan written on the top and several medals awarded during World War II inside. Each medal pinned to a blue velvet backing, with its title below. The Purple Heart-- the Invasion Bronze Arrow-- The Gold Star-- and the Good Conduct medal. He had belonged to the 37th Combat Wing which invaded Africa and kept military papers and newspaper clippings from that assault. Yellowed and corner rolled from time, the years had taken their toll on the ink and the paper. Much of the print had been pressed and absorbed with other clippings and become illegible. But some parts survived to be reread. There were stories about the war effort, and one particular article he protected with plastic. A newspaper article that read:

"MIA Mahan found after 48 days"

0500 hours; Sergeant Mahan who had been
missing in action since December 15th
was found this morning, one day prior
to his Wing's departure from Africa for
an invasion of Italy!Sergeant Mahan who
had no recollection of the entire 48 days
was discovered by Private Smith while on
patrol. The soldiers on guard duty immediately
contacted the Duty Sergant! Found naked,
just outside base perimeter, Mahan
was in remarkably good health. His missing
uniform has not yet been recovered and the
painted markings across his face and body
have resulted in a basewide alert. Security
has now determined Mahan was protected
by an unknown, sympathetic Tribe. The
unidentifiable markings were resolved
to be non-agressive!

The remaining portion of the article had been clipped. Grandfather never mentioned his military time-- nor had my parents. He never discussed any of his experiences when I was around so I assummed he was never in the armed forces.

Other boxes framed a lifetime of treasured family pictures-- of Him and Grandma, who had died when I was very young--of my Mother and Father--Aunts & Uncles--and their families--and some pictures of people I had never met. They must of been special to Grandfather since he kept them.

The remainder of the afternoon and evening was spent browsing through those pictures, and attempting to establish dates from processing imprints and faded names hand written on the reverse.
But there was one picture that disturbed me. One picture that was much different from the rest. One I examined with suspicious intent. A current picture of him with a silhouette of someone alongside, neatly cut and removed. Removed with no trace or clue to the identity. I searched the box carefully for remnants of that clipping to discover who the person might be. Then finally assumed it was someone from Mountain Home, since the picture was fairly recent.
About two in the morning I laid my head on the kitchen table to rest my eyes. A kitchen table filled with an assortment of pictures placed into categories the best I could classify them. But there was a very large pile of unknowns....

WEEK 2, DAY 3, TUESDAY

I awoke early with a back ache from having slept in the kitchen chair. Still very tired I stumbled into the bedroom to fall asleep across the bed. It was nearly noon before I awoke again, and nearly two in the afternoon before I finished my customary coffee and returned to the unsorted boxes.
Those containers presented images of Grandfather as a kid, and newspaper clippings from periods throughout his life. Some of the old black and white ones were faded beyond recognition. But many of the remaining portrayed a far different conception than the one I embellished. He had been in trouble during high school and joined the military to avoid jail.
He was often drunk, or with a whiskey bottle in his hand. With Grandma-- and the whiskey, together, images of an unhappy wife! And a Grandfather with whitened fingertips pressed tightly against her shoulder, as if forcing her to pose. Grandma looked so sad, so much in misery. Again, here was a Grandfather I would have argued could never have been that way. Such a difference from the memory I had preserved. A Grandfather who drank iced tea at family outings, not whiskey! A man who was kind, not mean. A person who was sensitive, not hardened....

The more I stared at the pictures, the more my eyes tired, yet the more my mind expanded. There was another Grandfather within the one I had cherished for so long.
I went to bed before eight p.m., disillusioned and sad. I stared at the ceiling before drifting off and realized how circumstances played such a major role in a man's life, and how he lived it. How he reacted to it. How he survived it! How predetermined responses were but a result of encountered experiences. How a man's belief revealed itself when confronted with adversity. And how age and wisdom helped us to mellow, whether by intent or necessity. My thoughts became confused, unsettled, questioning; does the conclusion of a life justify the methods utilized to survive that life?

Grandfather had his faults like the rest of us, but his appeared more extreme than most of us. I fell asleep then, but did not sleep well.

Click Here To Continue With "Night Whispers", The Conclusion




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