Smoke in the Wind

By Bertram Ellis

David Patterson is mad at the world. He lost his job, teaching. Got drunk and almost smashed his beloved Mustang. Charged with DUI and found guilty he is ordered to perform six months community service. He reports to the Bayview retirement home and is set to work to help the old folk fill the empty hours by teaching them to write their memoirs. The old people are not interested. They are old. David hates the task, but he has no choice. Slowly the people come around and start to tell him some wonderful storied. He changes their lives and in turn has his life turned around.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bertram Ellis
• Release date: May 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301778393

Bertram Ellis

Bertram Ellis had a successful career with the de Havilland aircraft company of Canada. He was a pilot until he lost his licence due to deteriorating vision. He has traveled the world, Europe, Africa, the Middle East the far East and South America.Among his adventures he has been blown up, shot at and imprisoned briefly in Saudi Arabia. Lost in the Sudanese desert south of Omdurman,fished the Mighty Zambezi. During all his adventures he has kept his belief in the essential goodness of ordinary people. He is a published author of short stories. A handbook on how to write your memoirs. Since retirement he has presented seminars on how to write your memoirs, at no charge, for many years. He lives in St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada with his artist wife Karen. He has three children and ten hgrandchildren

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SMOKE IN THE WIND

By

Bertram Ellis.

Copyright Bertram Ellis 2013 Smashwords edition.

Chapter One

It was raining as I entered the nondescript building with the brass plate, Bayview Retirement Home, on one side of the entrance. The plate looked more pretentious than the building. A red brick three story structure probably built in the 1950's that could be mistaken for a school. The entrance hall was empty. A sign over a door indicated it was the office. I knocked and stepped in. A petite young blonde wearing a grey sweater sat at a table with a computer screen and papers. Her shining hair framed her face. She looked up and said, Can I help you? Are you here to visit someone?

No. My names David Patterson

She frowned then her face lightened. Oh, yes. You’re the man sent to do community service by the court.

I blushed. Yes, ma’am. That’s me.

What did you do?

"I was charged with careless driving.@ I couldn’t bring myself to say I had been drunk. DUI was a disgrace.

No. I mean, what kind of work do you do? Are you employed?

I was an English teacher, high school, I’ve been let go, budget cuts, you know. I’m working in a shoe store at the moment.

She bowed her head as she thought about the various jobs she could give me. I had dressed carefully. She looked at me, then, looked at me again and I think I saw a nod of approval. I was embarrassed. I have an idea, she said. Do you think you could help our guests write their memoirs? They are always looking for something to do to help pass the time. I hear it is a very popular pastime with old people."

Yes I suppose so. I had expected to be sweeping halls and carrying out garbage. I warmed to the idea. Yes, I’d be delighted to help them.

Good. Come along I’ll introduce you. She stood up revealing a nice figure, about five foot four, blonde hair, brown eyes and full lips under a pert nose. She wasn’t a great beauty, but she was attractive and enthusiasm bubbled out of her like steam from a boiling kettle. She was obviously pleased with her idea. She led me down a corridor and into a large room. I followed her in and found a dozen or so old people sat around a scarred table, worn by years of use. The people looked as though their life had been as rough as the table top. They sat slumped in attitudes of resignation. They avoided my eyes. I looked around the silent room. It was nondescript, the walls painted an institutional gray. A stress-free color, faded with time that a consulting psychiatrists must have once recommend. The solitary window looked out on a dismal yard. Rain drops dripping from skeleton branches of bare trees. God, what the hell am I doing in this dump? My spirits sank as I looked around at the almost lifeless figures. I almost wished I’d been sent to jail rather than face these old hulks. How the hell could I get them interested in anything? They look like a bunch of losers. Their life is over. They are just waiting to die. It was a depressing thought. Community service, huh. Why couldn’t they have me do something useful. Something with dignity. It was silent. No one was talking. Some of them looked up at me with dull eyes, and then looked away.

Amy clapped her hands. God, I didn’t like the way she did that, as though she was getting the attention of small children. I have a treat for you today. Mr. Patterson is an English teacher and he has kindly consented to help you write your memoirs. I=am sure you will find it very interesting.

She pushed me to the front waved her hands as though I was an exhibit, smiled at me, and left the room. My entrance hadn’t had any effect on the old people. No one moved. They sat in resigned silence, half asleep, as though nothing had happened. They continued to avoid my eyes. Maybe I was interrupting their afternoon nap. I could tell they didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want to be there, but I had nowhere else to go. I thought this is a lousy idea. I hate the smell of old people, of moth balls. God, it was depressing. I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. I remembered the time I’d had an unruly class of teenagers. They’d been tough to handle until I won them over. This was a different situation, how does one get the attention of people who obviously don’t give a damn.

Hi. My name is David Patterson, I’m here to help you write about your life. To recapture the exciting days when you were young, I almost said, alive, you have lived through some of the most exciting and wonderful times this country has ever seen. And you were a part of it . . . There’s a laugh. These old wrecks were never young. . . . I’m going to help you write your memoirs.When you finally go to your great reward what will your family know about you? Will you be forgotten but for a few faded photographs? Will all the people you loved who went before you, your folks, grandparents and old friends be forgotten with you? Do you really want all those precious memories and the wonderful people you have loved to disappear into the dust? Do you think your children and grandchildren and their children would like to have the pleasure of reading about them. One of the most enduring gifts you can give your family, one that will be treasured and passed down for generations to come, is the story of your life. You have witnessed some of the most dramatic changes experienced by mankind. The pace of change is accelerating and younger people will see even more dramatic changes during their lifetime. Things we take for granted as being the highest possible development of technology will be swept away. You probably remember when airplanes were made of wood and canvas, were noisy and unreliable and crashed frequently. Did you smile and shake your head when it was predicted that one day airplanes would fly in the stratosphere and cross oceans carrying hundreds of people. Did you ever go to see the Flash Gordon movies and see the robot’s machines that showed events happening in distant parts of the world? Today we take for granted watching major news and sports events on TV as they happen on the other side of the world. Writing your memoirs could be the most rewarding undertaking of your life. One ninety year old woman recently sold her memoirs for a million dollars. You may not be so lucky, but you will find writing your life story a fulfilling and emotional experience as you recall happy times with people you loved who are no longer alive. It is a chance to live your life again. Now to get you started I’ll ask you to talk about your favorite memories, the events that you remember as the most exciting days of your lives. I paused and looked around to see if I was making any impression.

Someone said in a stage whisper, He talks a lot.

Another voice muttered, What did he say?

God, this was awful. My armpits were sticky. I plunged on.We’ll first have some fun talking about the good old days. Then I=ll help you to write the exciting parts of your life story. So first I’ll ask you to introduce yourselves and tell me what you did before you retired. Can I start with you, sir?

Yeah. The old man looked up, looked around then slowly said, My name’s John Marshall.

What did you do for a living, John?

Uh, I was an art teacher. He looked away.

I waited.

Silence.

I guessed that was all he was going to say.

You ma’am? I pointed to a pleasant looking, grey haired old lady with a wrinkled face. She gave me a weak smile and said, I’m Anna Gould.

What did you do, Anna?

Nothing, I was just a housewife and mother.

And you ma’am?

The grim-faced woman with tightly curled bleached hair seemed to glare at me as she replied, Hilda Long, I worked in a shipping office during the war. Got married had kids.

How many children did you have?

Two sons, they left home and I never hear from them.

And you, sir at the end of the table?

The man sat with his shoulders bowed as though bent with care. He looked up by raising his head, leaving his shoulders drooped. His face was wrinkled with worry lines. Jim Watson. I was a rear gunner in the Eight Army Air Corps, served in England. Left the service and sold insurance. That’s it, Period.

You should have some exciting stories of missions over Germany.

God, Damn. I don’t want to talk about all that bullshit. He knocked his chair over and stamped from the room slamming the door behind him. I watched him go with my mouth open in surprise. It was silent in the room. Everyone avoided my eyes.

Oh, Uh sorry about that. I guess he uh, has some painful memories. Maybe he lost a good friend in the service, I stammered. I took a deep breath. You, ma’am? to a woman in a wheelchair.

Don’t let Jim upset you. He is very touchy. I’m Barbara Kremble. I was an accountant. Married, no kids.

Thank you, Barbara.

You, sir?

The man was still looking at the door where Jim had left the room. He turned around and gave me a shrug and weak smile. Uh, I’m Harry Winterbottom. Had my own business after I came out of the army, General contracting, building and stuff.

Thank you, Harry, I suppose you have seen some big changes in the building industry.

Yep.

I waited to see if he would add anything of interest but he had closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. I thought,Oh God, help me.

You, ma’am?

I’m Mary Seaward. I’m a widow. My husband died and left me with three kids and no insurance. I don’t want to think about my lousy life. I just want to die.

Uh, sorry about that it must have been tough.

She seemed to glare at me. I was guilty of being young and to her eyes carefree. If she only knew . . .

You have no idea what tough is, young man.

Don’t I? A couple of weeks ago I had a good job, a nice apartment and a girl. Now I have a lousy job, a drab apartment in a cheap building and my girl has dumped me The only glimmer of good fortune was that I wasn’t in jail for driving while I was drunk. I cleared my throat I swallowed my retort and nodded to a man wearing a collar and tie. You, sir?

Ray Walters. I worked in an office, procurement. Did some world travel. He smiled revealing a face full of false teeth. He turned his eyes on a small woman sat at the end of the table. She stared at me, then said, "My name’s Jenny Wright. I was a housewife. We were