(no subject)
Found this on one of my memory sticks:
Reedsville - 1 ?
I think panic really began to sink the morning that I woke up to the sound of my father pounding nails into brand new boards along the windows. It was about 10:30 in the morning, and at first I could not figure out what the pounding was, or where it was even coming from. I followed the sound into the hallway where I was greeted by a grumpy guest who had checked in the night before. He was short and stout, and was so bald that I felt like I could see my reflection if I looked into his head long enough.
“Just what in the name of all that is holy is going on?” Baldy demanded, rolling his hands into fists, and dropping them onto his hips, “Can’t you see that some people are trying to sleep around here?”
I felt the urge to defend myself, but thought better of it. My mother always told me to mind my manners when it came to guests. Instead, I shook my head, shrugged, and did my best to muster up the most sympathetic voice I could manage.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, “I don’t know what it is. But I’ll go find out and stop it for you.”
Baldy seemed satisfied with my answer, and shuffled back into his room. I could hear the old bed creak from behind the door as he climbed back into it.
I followed the sound to one of the empty guest rooms at the end of the third story hallway, where I found my father boarding up the windows to the room. One window was already completely boarded up, save for space between two boards which looked about an inch and a half wide, and the other was halfway finished. The room was so dim, I couldn’t even begin to figure out how he could even see to pound the nails into the windows without mashing a thumb or a finger.
“What are you doing?” I asked him, “Do you need some light?” I flipped the light switch on the wall next to the door. My father turned around. Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He looked like an athlete that had run a 15-mile marathon, save for the vague look of panic on his face.
“Preparing,” he muttered. He reached into the back pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a grimy red kerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
My brow furrowed.
"Preparing?” I asked.
He muttered something under his breath and nodded, stuffing the kerchief back into his pocket.
“Preparing for… what?”
“The Superflu.”
His eyes flicked down to the wall next to the door, and I followed his gaze to a very large pile of lumber pushed up against the wall. It appeared as though he had moved all the furniture in along that wall in the room away so he could make room for the lumber. I had to lean against the threshold to keep myself from jumping back at the enormity of the pile. It wasn’t hard for me to realize that the pile of lumber was large enough that, if chopped up, he could board up every window in every room of the entire house.
"Dad… you’re not going to board up every window, are you?” I asked, slightly scared, “I mean, isn’t that a little extreme?” He grunted lightly, and I took it to mean yes. A chill ran up my spine and I asked myself honestly if my father was going crazy. For a brief and terrifying moment, I felt a debilitating wave of claustrophobia wash over me. If he was going to board up every window, it would put the entire house into darkness. No sunlight, no moonlight, no starlight, no sunrises. Just pitch blackness. I had never before felt more afraid in my entire life.
The threshold was no longer a brace to keep from jumping; it became a brace to keep from fainting. “Even my room?” I managed.
“Even your room,” he was measuring another inch and a half space between two boards on the half-finished window. The only thing I could do was swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. My mouth and throat felt awfully like they had been filled with sand. “Your mother is going to kill me when she sees this,” he grunted.
“Of course she is,” I snapped. “You’re killing all the sunlight. Did you forget her bed and breakfast boasts a ‘'magnificent view of the proud, Canadian mountain range and the vast, rippling meadows below them’?
Dad grunted again, pounding a nail into a fresh board. It was as if he didn’t hear me, or care.
“It cost me a fortune to get all the lumber. A big fortune, even with my discount,” He rummaged for a nail in his pocket. I didn’t ask him how much it cost; a big part of me didn’t want to know. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the pile of lumber along the wall did cost a lot of money.
“Dad… it’s just a flu… I think you’re going a little bit too far, what with boarding up the windows.” I hoped he didn’t get offended. “I mean, it is just a flu, right?”
He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he nailed the last nail into a board, and stepped back to admire his handiwork. After a few seconds of admiring, he beckoned me over. I hesitated before stepping over to him.
“See this space between these two boards?” He pointed at the inch and a half gap, “it’s level with that window,” he pointed to the first window in the room. “I’m going to stand by that apple tree up there on the hill, and I’m going to run toward the house. I want you to watch me the whole way, and tell me when you can’t see me anymore.”
I nodded, confused, but did as I was told. As my father quickly walked out of the room, he flicked the light off, plunging the room into blackness, save for the little bit of sunlight peeking in through space between the boards that he told me to look through. I heard the screen door open and shut. As I waited for him to get to the apple tree, I glanced back toward the pile of lumber somewhere in the darkness behind me. It was as though he was trying to keep someone - or something - out. Was he going crazy? I felt a pang of dread echoed through my heart. Even more so when the logical voice in my head piped up, exclaiming, He may be obsessed with reading those retarded tabloid magazines, but he isn’t crazy. Something’s wrong, and it isn’t with your father.
My father’s figure appeared in the little two-inch space in the window. He was walking briskly, as though looking for something, and in his right hand he held an old gardening shovel. When he approached the apple tree, he stood for a few seconds before running at full speed back toward the house. It wasn’t until he was within inches of the front porch before I lost sight of him behind a board.
It wouldn’t be for another two months before I would realize why he was doing this. My father returned to the room, hammer still in his pocket and the shovel still in his hand.
“Well?” he wheezed. He pulled his kerchief from the pocket of his coveralls and wiped his forehead.
“I saw you clear ‘till about the front porch.” I answered, watching him cross the room and test the durability of the boards.
“Perfect. Just what I was aiming for.”
He leaned his shovel against the bed, and peered out of the tiny space in satisfaction, hands on his hips. He took a deep breath, and wiped more beads of sweat from his head with the back of her his hand, and nodded.
“Your mother is definitely going to hate it,” he finally grumbled, “but I think, when the time comes, you both will understand, and then thank me for putting them up.” I felt him put an arm around my shoulders and plant a kiss on my forehead. “Anything to protect the women I love.”
Reedsville - 1 ?
I think panic really began to sink the morning that I woke up to the sound of my father pounding nails into brand new boards along the windows. It was about 10:30 in the morning, and at first I could not figure out what the pounding was, or where it was even coming from. I followed the sound into the hallway where I was greeted by a grumpy guest who had checked in the night before. He was short and stout, and was so bald that I felt like I could see my reflection if I looked into his head long enough.
“Just what in the name of all that is holy is going on?” Baldy demanded, rolling his hands into fists, and dropping them onto his hips, “Can’t you see that some people are trying to sleep around here?”
I felt the urge to defend myself, but thought better of it. My mother always told me to mind my manners when it came to guests. Instead, I shook my head, shrugged, and did my best to muster up the most sympathetic voice I could manage.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, “I don’t know what it is. But I’ll go find out and stop it for you.”
Baldy seemed satisfied with my answer, and shuffled back into his room. I could hear the old bed creak from behind the door as he climbed back into it.
I followed the sound to one of the empty guest rooms at the end of the third story hallway, where I found my father boarding up the windows to the room. One window was already completely boarded up, save for space between two boards which looked about an inch and a half wide, and the other was halfway finished. The room was so dim, I couldn’t even begin to figure out how he could even see to pound the nails into the windows without mashing a thumb or a finger.
“What are you doing?” I asked him, “Do you need some light?” I flipped the light switch on the wall next to the door. My father turned around. Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He looked like an athlete that had run a 15-mile marathon, save for the vague look of panic on his face.
“Preparing,” he muttered. He reached into the back pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a grimy red kerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
My brow furrowed.
"Preparing?” I asked.
He muttered something under his breath and nodded, stuffing the kerchief back into his pocket.
“Preparing for… what?”
“The Superflu.”
His eyes flicked down to the wall next to the door, and I followed his gaze to a very large pile of lumber pushed up against the wall. It appeared as though he had moved all the furniture in along that wall in the room away so he could make room for the lumber. I had to lean against the threshold to keep myself from jumping back at the enormity of the pile. It wasn’t hard for me to realize that the pile of lumber was large enough that, if chopped up, he could board up every window in every room of the entire house.
"Dad… you’re not going to board up every window, are you?” I asked, slightly scared, “I mean, isn’t that a little extreme?” He grunted lightly, and I took it to mean yes. A chill ran up my spine and I asked myself honestly if my father was going crazy. For a brief and terrifying moment, I felt a debilitating wave of claustrophobia wash over me. If he was going to board up every window, it would put the entire house into darkness. No sunlight, no moonlight, no starlight, no sunrises. Just pitch blackness. I had never before felt more afraid in my entire life.
The threshold was no longer a brace to keep from jumping; it became a brace to keep from fainting. “Even my room?” I managed.
“Even your room,” he was measuring another inch and a half space between two boards on the half-finished window. The only thing I could do was swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. My mouth and throat felt awfully like they had been filled with sand. “Your mother is going to kill me when she sees this,” he grunted.
“Of course she is,” I snapped. “You’re killing all the sunlight. Did you forget her bed and breakfast boasts a ‘'magnificent view of the proud, Canadian mountain range and the vast, rippling meadows below them’?
Dad grunted again, pounding a nail into a fresh board. It was as if he didn’t hear me, or care.
“It cost me a fortune to get all the lumber. A big fortune, even with my discount,” He rummaged for a nail in his pocket. I didn’t ask him how much it cost; a big part of me didn’t want to know. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the pile of lumber along the wall did cost a lot of money.
“Dad… it’s just a flu… I think you’re going a little bit too far, what with boarding up the windows.” I hoped he didn’t get offended. “I mean, it is just a flu, right?”
He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he nailed the last nail into a board, and stepped back to admire his handiwork. After a few seconds of admiring, he beckoned me over. I hesitated before stepping over to him.
“See this space between these two boards?” He pointed at the inch and a half gap, “it’s level with that window,” he pointed to the first window in the room. “I’m going to stand by that apple tree up there on the hill, and I’m going to run toward the house. I want you to watch me the whole way, and tell me when you can’t see me anymore.”
I nodded, confused, but did as I was told. As my father quickly walked out of the room, he flicked the light off, plunging the room into blackness, save for the little bit of sunlight peeking in through space between the boards that he told me to look through. I heard the screen door open and shut. As I waited for him to get to the apple tree, I glanced back toward the pile of lumber somewhere in the darkness behind me. It was as though he was trying to keep someone - or something - out. Was he going crazy? I felt a pang of dread echoed through my heart. Even more so when the logical voice in my head piped up, exclaiming, He may be obsessed with reading those retarded tabloid magazines, but he isn’t crazy. Something’s wrong, and it isn’t with your father.
My father’s figure appeared in the little two-inch space in the window. He was walking briskly, as though looking for something, and in his right hand he held an old gardening shovel. When he approached the apple tree, he stood for a few seconds before running at full speed back toward the house. It wasn’t until he was within inches of the front porch before I lost sight of him behind a board.
It wouldn’t be for another two months before I would realize why he was doing this. My father returned to the room, hammer still in his pocket and the shovel still in his hand.
“Well?” he wheezed. He pulled his kerchief from the pocket of his coveralls and wiped his forehead.
“I saw you clear ‘till about the front porch.” I answered, watching him cross the room and test the durability of the boards.
“Perfect. Just what I was aiming for.”
He leaned his shovel against the bed, and peered out of the tiny space in satisfaction, hands on his hips. He took a deep breath, and wiped more beads of sweat from his head with the back of her his hand, and nodded.
“Your mother is definitely going to hate it,” he finally grumbled, “but I think, when the time comes, you both will understand, and then thank me for putting them up.” I felt him put an arm around my shoulders and plant a kiss on my forehead. “Anything to protect the women I love.”