Fragmentation of Life

By Richard Mousseau

A person’s life is a daily accumulation of events, emotions, dreams, true stories and fictional stories. At a point in time when an advanced age is achieved, memories become mingled and sometimes facts become blurred, that of truth and fiction, and sometimes, as is the case of a writer, made-up stories. This book is a collection of stories that I have accumulated over the years, presented as fragmentation of life, what was experienced, observed, and created from an imaginative mind. I present adventure, drama, comedy, true stories and fiction. It will be left to the reader to decide which story is true and which is fiction.
Quotes:
This is what I like, short stories that have depth, and can be read over and over, and I never tire of selecting a story and reading again.
Mystery, adventure, comedy, children stories, crime, drama, inspirational, mystic, and tall tales, the writer covers all. Theses stories are so varied that I am eager to get to the next story. A fulfilling read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moose Hide Books imprint of Moose Enterprise Publishing
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781927393475

Book preview

Fragmentation of Life

Fragmentation of Life

FRAGMENTATION of LIFE

By

RICHARD MOUSSEAU

MOOSE HIDE BOOKS

imprint of

MOOSE ENTERPRISE PUBLISHING

PRINCE TOWNSHIP

ONTARIO, CANADA

cover illustration by Rick Mousseau

Fragmentation of Life

By

Richard Mousseau

Copyright April 1, 2017

Published June 1, 2017

by

MOOSE HIDE BOOKS

imprint of

MOOSE ENTERPRISE PUBLISHING

684 WALLS ROAD

PRINCE TOWNSHIP

ONTARIO, CANADA

P6A 6K4

web site www.moosehidebooks.com

NO VENTURE UNATTAINABLE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED, THIS INCLUDES STORING IN RETRIEVAL SYSTEM OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM BY ELECTRONIC MEANS, MECHANICAL, PHOTOCOPYING, RECORDING OR OTHER, WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THIS PUBLISHER.

THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION, NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES AND INCIDENTS ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL EVENTS OR LOCALES OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DECEASED, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

CREATED IN CANADA

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Mousseau, Richard E., author

Fragmentation of life / Richard Mousseau.

Short stories.

Includes Index.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-927393-46-8 (softcover). - -ISBN 978-1-927393-47-5(PDF)

I.Title.

PS8576.O977F73 2017 C813’.54C2017-902786-7

C2017-902787-5

FRAGMENTATION

of

LIFE

FRAGMENTATION of LIFE

Short Story Index

A WADDLING HORSE.PG. 5

COOKIESPG. 7

FROM THE WINDOW HE SEESPG. 11

GENTLEMAN JIMPG. 17

LOGGERSPG. 19

LOVE’S GIFTPG. 21

MEMORIES OF 1896PG. 28

NEW SKATESPG. 81

NO CHRISTMAS TREE THIS YEARPG. 83

NO STEERING WHEELPG 86

PICK OF THE CROPPG. 88

SPRING ON THE FARMPG. 92

STANLY CLAUSICPG. 94

THEY SAY ITS WATERS ARE DEEPPG. 113

T.J.’S GERY GREEN YELLOW SHOELACEPG.126

TORTUREPG. 127

TRY, TRY, AND TRY AGAINPG. 133

UPRISINGPG. 137

WHAT A WAY TO GOPG. 151

WHAT GOES UP, MUST COME DOWNPG. 153

WOLVES ON THE TRAILPG. 161

A WADDLING HORSE

One morning, ole farmer Ed was out feeding the hungry work horses when he noticed a strange shaped thing bobbing up and down in the fish pond. This was a day after a mean, loud, heavy rainstorm come over the farm in the middle of July. Bobbing up and down in the pondwater was a young gosling. Where the little tot came from was a mystery. Farmer Ed figured that after all the rain that fell, the fuzzy little ball of feathers had paddled up the swollen creek. And, here it was swimming in the pond all by its self.

All summer long, the little fellow waddled around by its self. It was a mystery why and how the little guy had become separated from kinfolk. No other goose came looking for the squirt. Ole farmer Ed decided to name it Waddles.

When farmer Ed would call the horses in for their grain, up behind them waddled Waddles, dressed in black and white dinner clothes. It would spread its big wings and squeeze between the two big horses.

In late October, ole farmer Ed became worried that Waddles would not migrate with other wild geese. Already south bound, geese were flying by, high overhead. Waddles would not even honk like a normal goose. It would not flap its big wings. After looking up at the strange birds in the sky, Waddles would go about eating grain from the horse bucket. Waddles thought of its self as a horse.

All around farmer Ed’s farm, tall pine trees reached up to the sun in the sky. Even if Waddles decided to attempt flight, how would he gain enough of an altitude to fly over the tall pine trees?

One windy October night ole farmer Ed heard a flock of two-hundred honking geese up high in the moonlit sky. Their honking was louder than the whistle of the wind. Suddenly, as if on a wing and a prayer, Waddles spread its wings and began running as fast as webbed feet could into the wind. One foot was off the ground, then the other. Waddles the goose was flying over the corner of the barn’s roof, its big webbed feet kicking at the wind.

Waddles pushed a foot off the top of a tall pine tree, and was heading skyward. Ole farmer Ed cheered for his friend. Waddles was flying pretty-good, considering it never had pre-flight training or practice.

In the dim light of the moon, ole farmer Ed lost sight of the goose, that had arrived with a storm and left with a storm. Farmer Ed wondered how the goose, that thought it was a horse, would make out in the big world.

It would be nice if old farm friends would get together from time to time. Maybe next spring, when the geese came back north, Waddles would fly over and decide to drop in for a visit. Ole farmer Ed, the work horses, and all of Waddles farm friends would watch the sky for its return. A horse-bucket of grain would always be waiting by the fish pond for Waddles the Waddling horse.

THE END

COOKIES

Once upon a time, when you get to be over fifty, anything that happened in the past happened, 'Once upon a time'. I hate to say it, but this story really did happen 'Once upon a time' in the small Northern Ontario town of Timmins. Back then the town was small, consisting of merchants, loggers and the majority being the miners.   When the miners moved in, their homes were built close to their work, and when the merchants came with their goods to sell, they built shops close to the miners.   Soon, as time passed, the heart of the community was dotted with mine shaft towers looming over their workers, their wives and their children.

Down on Main Street, I remember our house, it was large and roomy, not like the company houses on the next street.   On one side of the street, the houses were different, on the other side, all the houses were identical.  After a time, even the people in all those houses looked the same.  No-matter the type of house, or where the house was, they all had something in common.    Out back in each back yard, I could see from our upstairs window, the outhouses.   They all looked the same and every house had one.  And, when you are five-years-old, there are some things that you just can not figure out.   It was on one cool morning just before winter came when I kicked my brother Ray back over to his side of the bed then hurried to pull my pants on because the floor and the air was cold.   We could not use the pee pot because it was in our mother's room.   Down the stairs I ran, through the kitchen and out the back door.  The path was cool on the feet.  I remember looking to see if snow had started to cover the ground.   Reaching for the door hand of the out house, I found that it was not there.   Looking up, I saw our overturned outhouse.   Panic set in.  Searching our neighbours' yards, I observed the same situation.   It was a trick someone was playing on everybody.    It was no treat for me, as I felt a warmth run down my leg and onto my cold toes.

From the mines, the miners would walk home as black as the earth they had removed from the ground.   My father worked in a gold mine.   He was never as clean looking as the gold mineral being mined.  Only after he took a hot bath in the tub did he look like he should.   Every day was wash day, and in every yard, every mother would wash with the same strong smelling soap.   The smell still haunts my memory even today.

The smell that I most remember, was not the wash that hung in the back yard, it was the smell that came from the little house that was in the back yard.   Grandma Mousseau had her own little house there, and the smell I remember was the aroma of freshly baked cookies.  All we had to do was show up at her door and she would make sure we never left unless we had two big cookies in each hand.

Brother Ray was a year or so younger than I, and when he could not come for cookies I made sure that his share was picked up too.   Though at times, when I brought him his share it was not as big as it should be.

Fernand, make sure you give your brother some too, grandmother sternly warned.

I will, I shouted, running down the path past the upright outhouse then around the wood pile.  Once there, I stopped then looked back to see if she was watching.  Into my mouth two cookies went.  Well, today Ray's share was going to be a little smaller.  Sticking my head around the corner I did not see anyone.  ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘I could have two more and tell Ray that Grandma ran out of cookies.’  Just when I put one into my mouth.

What are you putting in your mouth? there was Grandma's voice echoing.

Gulping it down, I said, Nothing.

I had to think fast, Ray was pulling at my arms, he was bound to see the cookies behind my back.

Grandma's making cookies Ray, go get some.

Grandma liked Ray.  Ray was chubby with blonde hair and adoring eyes.   She would give him cookies, I was sure of that.

How many cookies did you get Ray?

Two and one shiny nickel.

A nickel was better than cookies, but no matter how I tried to trade with him he would not.  I did end up with more cookies and they were delicious.

Grandma looked like Grandma's are suppose to look like.  She was warm, yet strict, not skinny, but not fat, the kind that hugs and holds you tight and makes cookies.  No matter what day we would go there, she would always have cookies for us.   Every second Friday, when we knocked on her door there would be no answer.

One Friday morning at the breakfast table I yelled to Ray, Hurry up Ray, we've got to go.

Where are you two off to?

Nowhere, Ma, I answered quickly.

Me too, piped in Ray.

You too what? Ma asked sweetly.

Me too, am not going no where.

Okay, hurry up and get going no where, Mom smiled at our innocent mischief.

Out the back door and down the path we two went, only to stop at the outhouse while ray did what he had to do.  We hurried to the wood pile and peeked between the cords stacked neatly, and waited to see Grandma come out of the house.

Quiet Ray!  Here she comes."

Closing the door behind her, she fixed a pink hat, and fluffed her flowered dress.  She headed up Main Street towards town, without knowing we were following. From behind fences, garbage cans, and the ice wagon, her trail led us to the busy streets of town and to the bank building where people went to get money.  When she came out we missed her, we were too busy following the ice wagon to notice where she went.  But, we did find out that she did not come home until late at night, and that we did not get any cookies that day.

After a couple days of thinking, we figured out that she would have to stop going out because we were missing out on cookies on those days.   Day after day we would sit behind the wood pile thinking of a plan to stop Grandma from going out on Fridays.   When the next Friday came, we were ready to put our plan into action.  Grabbing our breakfast on the run, we headed for the wood pile, hoping we were not too late.

Okay, Ray, wait till Grandma comes out the door and I say go.

Ray nodded his head while stuffing bread and jam into his mouth.

The first sound we heard was the creaking of the screen door.   Peeking from the corner of the wood pile I saw Grandma standing at the door.

Get ready Ray, I whispered.

Down the path, heading for the street, Grandma passed us on the other side of the wood pile.

Now Ray!  Ray stood ready to put our plan into action.

Over the wood pile sticks of wood flew.  Grandma stopped in wonderment.   Dodging the sticks was her main concern.

Who's there? she yelled.

Cookies, we want cookies!

What? asked our surprised little old grandma.  Who said that?

More sticks came sailing over the pile while we continued to yell.    We want cookies.   Don't go!  We want cookies.

Is that you Fernand, and Ray?

We want cookies.

I'll give you cookies, said Grandma, with not a too nice of a voice.

We stopped throwing sticks and yelling, hoping she would not fid out it was us.   But in that split second we did not have time to think.  From around the wood pile came Grandma with a stick in her hand.  Grandma's pink hat and flowered dress were dancing in the wind.

I'll give you cookies, Fernand, Ray come here.

Though the age difference was great the distance between Grandma and us was not, the only thing that did save our hides were the fences and the garbage cans we climbed over and through on our daring escape.

If this was a battle, I guess we lost.  We did not get cookies on Fridays and now we did not get cookies on any other day of the week.   But like all things, time passed.   We eventually did get back into her good graces until time was no longer on her side.  Once upon a time we had cookies, now we have memories that linger just as if it were yesterday.

THE END

FROM THE WINDOW HE SEES

Over the city a mist of smog hangs aloft in the early morning hours.  From the east, the sun struggles to rise from the night's cover of darkness.   Bright rays of colour skim the water's surface of Ste. Marie's river, ending in an explosion of tints on the glass and tiled walls of a building.  Standing tall, this building of majesty with its windows like eyes of the forlorn, sits silently on the waterfront's edge.

Eyes blinked open several times, straining from the sun's rays.  The room looked the same, nothing had changed from the day before.  White and blank, the walls glared, and the smell was the same, ever lingering in the air.  Turning his head on the pillow, eyes see the sky of red and orange in the distance.  In his mind, the words of a saying repeat themselves as they have time and time before.  'Red sky at night, sailor's delight; Red sky at morning, sailor's warning.'

Again, his eyes quickly scan the room, it was the same.  Lifting his head and shoulders up on his elbows, eyes of lifelessness focus towards the end of the bed, then slowly out through the window.  Outside life continues as it always has.

From the window he sees,

The people below.

In memory he sees,

A life going by so slow.

Not a care in the world to be,

Each moment a mournful grey.

From the window, in looks he,

Is better then looking out, day after day.

From the room of white he looks, his eyes searching the distance.  His mind remembering a time before, a time when . . ..

Cool was the morning air in early October when Jim Torn and Frank Palaro headed down the line to do a little fishing.  Both boys were eighteen and from Sault Ste. Marie.  They were going down the train line to meet some girls that lived near Desbarats.  Down the line, meant taking the C.P.R. freight train to Garden River, Echo Bay, Bar River then on to Desberats.  All were small towns to the east of the Sault, and no more than 50 miles to Desbarats by tracks.

October is considered a winter month in these parts of Northern Ontario, and the weather at times can get very cold.  The boys were not thinking when they left Frank's house.  They made sure to have all their fishing tackle when they headed out the door.  On their backs, summer coats were put on.  No-one was up at six o'clock at Frank's when the two closed the light and pulled the door shut behind them before heading out on an adventure.  For all concerned, the two were going fishing, in actuality, they were going down the line to do a little carousing.

Through the tall grass of the field, the only morning sounds were the shuffling feet, the crunching of crisp grass, and the far-off sounds of the 6:45 freight train.  Shuffling a bit faster, the two headed for the bank and shrubs by the tracks.  No more than a half mile away, the train was making the straight stretch near the Husky Restaurant.  Waiting behind the shrubs, they crouched impatiently until the train started to make the curve then they made their move.  At this point, the engine and caboose would be out of the brakeman's line of sight, making it safe to board undetected.

Running along the bank, Jim threw his rod and tackle box onto the back of a scrap car, then grabbed a bar pulling himself onto the landing.  Frank threw Jim his gear, then pulled himself up onto the ladder rung.  Sitting down, they pulled up their collars to keep the chilling wind from their shivering bodies.  The train travelled at no more than twenty-five miles an hour, meaning it would be more than an hour before reaching their destination.  A winter sun would be just rising by then, so the boys huddled on the back of the open cargo car to wait out the ride.

In Desbarats, the girls they were to meet would be at school warm and comfortable in class.  At any other time, the boys would detest being at school, today, the warmth of a school building beckoned them.  It was about three miles to the school from the tracks and the boys thought they could make the three mile trip before the girls' first class began.

Stiff and cold from the ride, their movements were slow when the train's whistle sounded its approach into a station.  Taking their tackle into hand, the two prepared to jump when the train slowed as it passed the loading station.  Just before the station on the blind side, one after the other, the boys jumped then rolled into the undercover of the brush.

On the dampness of the ground they waited until the yellow of the caboose faded from sight.  Gathering their fishing equipment into a pile, some grass and branches were laid to create a camouflage, the equipment was easily hidden from sight.  Only on their return trip home would the equipment be used as evidence of their absence from school and home.

From off Lake Huron, the wind blew inland bringing the cold and dampness of the water.  Jim and Frank, their bodies cold and stiff, walked slowly against the bitter cutting wind of winter.  It took them longer than they thought to walk the three mile distance to the school.  When they pushed open the double doors leading into the building, classes had already began, and the girls were nowhere to be seen.  Sitting down on the heating rads lining the window, the boys tried to warm their chilled bodies, but to no avail, for the cold seemed to reach down deep into their bones.

For the rest of the day, the boys hung around the school meeting the girls off and on until after 6 o'clock.  One of the girls’ parents were leaving for a day or two, so the four waited for the parent’s departure before going to the home.

Out into the cold once more, the boys headed with girls in arm.  Two miles to town for the beer, then another mile to the girl's home with