Short Stories

By John Caulfield

When author John Caulfield was younger, he cut the grass using an old, temperamental, self-propelled hand mower. Now, this eighty-five-year-old husband, father, and grandfather uses a riding lawn mower. A lot has changed in the years in between. In Short Stories, Caulfield shares a collection of short stories, with some embellishments, that offer glimpses from his long-lived life as well as other imaginative anecdotes and tall tales.

From a group of close-knit boys growing up together in Queens, New York, during World II, to a story about the importance of an old fruitcake tin and the Boy Scouts, to memories of eating a Nathans hot dog on Coney Island, Short Stories offers an eclectic compilation of narratives told from the authors unique perspective.

Filled with humor and detail, the tales present a lighter look at life and take a trip back in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480826182

John Caulfield

John Caulfield, a veteran, is in his mid-eighties and is married with children and grandchildren. He currently lives in Fishkill, New York.

Book preview

Short Stories

A book by John Caulfield

A Book of Short Stories put together by the Author.

His intention is to amuse the reader, provide a chuckle.

Hopefully he succeeds.

Dedicated to,

Jeanne, the love of my life.

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Copyright © 2016 John Caulfield.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2617-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2618-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015921360

Archway Publishing rev. date: 3/9/2016

Table of Contents

1.   Life in the fast lane

2.   Bon Voyage

3.   A Summer Day

4.   Martha

5.   Newspaper Boy

6.   New York Satire

7.   Repentant Scout

8.   Nathan’s

9.   A Tree that Falls

10.   Lazarus

11.   A Brief Moment

12.   End of the Road

13.   David

14.   Grandma’s house

15.   Deep Water

16.   GI Blanket OD

17.   Dead Zone

18.   The Power of the Gong

19.   Timmy and the Ghost

Introduction

Life in the fast lane

Yesterday was full of thoughts of tomorrow.

Tomorrow is here.

Life in the Fast Lane

I’m 85. Retired. Life is good. Just a little slower. When it comes to cutting the grass it’s a lot slower. When I was younger I cut the grass using an old temperamental self-propelled hand mower. On this big yard. Self-propelled, worked part time. Had to keep pulling the rope.

I have a riding mower now. All I have to do is turn the steering wheel. It does a good job with very little effort on my part. Of course I take full credit for a job well done.

Younger! When I was younger. A long time ago. I did a lot of planning, dreaming on how to fix the house, the property. Especially on weekends.

We bought a house in sad shape, needed a lot of TLC. It was what we could afford. We raised three kids in it and made the house a home.

Sunday evenings when I could do no more. I would sit right here on the hill under my apple tree. I’d relax with a beer and look down at the house and property.

I would dream of all I wanted to do. To fix. To change.

Didn’t have much money so I had to do it all myself, by hand.

Years have come and gone. Some of the fixing never got done.

Now?? Now I am angry with age. Old age snuck up on me. One day I was old. My youth was gone. Never to return.

My mind is still young. I still dream. Things I’d love to do. My body? It won’t respond. It’s old. It’s tired.

Awakening to the fact I can no longer fix and build things breaks my heart. Still I dream and plan. Maybe if I hit the lotto. Another dream.

Right now I still have half the yard to mow. I’ll get around to it. Instead I’m watching a little white Butterfly flitter erratically in the air seemingly with do direction. It goes high low and sideways at the same time and yet it is going somewhere round about in the same direction.

I’m told it’s not a Butterfly. It’s really a Moth. I don’t know. I like Butterfly. Watching this harmless creature I wonder why, what is its purpose? Does it know where it is going? Does it know where it is? Does it know where it’s been?

Does it get tired? It seems to go in all directions at once yet seems to always move one way like it has a destination. When it gets to that destination does it know it has arrived?

Wait!!!!! From somewhere. Another identical Moth flying from where?

It flitters in all directions at once. Both Moths fly erratically in all directions. Miraculously they find each other. In midair they meet and kiss while performing the wildest maneuvers. They separate and flitter away amazingly in different directions. Erratically moving away from each other till their gone, sadly alone. Leaving me to wonder. What was that all about? How did they find each other?

What did they say to each other when they met? Hang a left at the intersection to avoid construction. When you get to Aunt Cora’s house tell her old Mister Caulfield is still dreaming under his apple tree.

Why are these harmless creatures here? Why was one going East the other going West before and after their kiss hello and goodbye? A Wonder?

I’m sure some College has a million dollar grant from the Government to study Moth behavior to discover its secrets. I don’t want to know. Like the end of the world. Some things belong to God. Leave my Butterfly’s alone, otherwise God will have no secrets at all.

I still have to finish cutting the grass, but, the Butterflies have left me with a mystery, requiring my full attention.

Maybe tomorrow. Life goes on.

Introduction

Bon Voyage

He floated down the river, frightened out of his wits to the amusement of all. A long time ago. The story is true.

Only a few people knew. I’m the last one. Now you.

Of course the embellishments are mine.

Set your sails, batten down the hatches. Jack sails again.

Bon Voyage

This is a story I don’t know where to begin, 1943, 1944. It’s a story about a bunch of boys, young teenagers coming from good hard working families.

We lived a few blocks from the East River, Queens New York City during World War 11. We didn’t have many extras in life but we had plenty of what we needed, Family.

We didn’t know what an allowance was. If we did know we would never ask because we knew our parents didn’t have it to give.

There were six of us. We had low paying odd jobs after school where we made pocket money, pennies. There were six of us. If one guy had money we all had money. A friendship that lasted a life time.

In the summer when it got hot we would go to the city pool, if we could pay the admission. Other times when it got real hot we would swim in the river.

The East River is a fast moving band of water that separates Manhattan from Queens and Brooklyn. The River runs between the Long Island Sound / Atlantic Ocean and New York Harbor / Atlantic Ocean. Its currants are treacherous. There is an extra turbulent narrow strip in the River called, The Hell Gate.

History has it many old sailing vessels met their demise in the Hell Gate.

Since the East River is connected at both ends to the Atlantic Ocean our astute, not too distant forbearers figured it was a great Sewer Pipe. So, a huge sewage system was created to dump New York City’s raw sewage into the East River. The river would carry the sewage to the ocean. Every toilet was connect to the East River. I won’t describe it.

The river moves in both directions depending on the tide. So the sewage moves back and forth finally settling to the bottom.

As a kid I use to hang out on the river edge by the big big sewer pipes. Throw stones at the river rats. Lots of fun. Most of the stones were gone, already thrown. The cops chased us. Hanging out by the river caused Infantile Paralysis’s, they said. Before the cure.

There is a big rail bridge over the Hell Gate. The bridge is appropriately called, The Hell Gate. There is another Bridge further down called the Tri Borough Bridge. The Tri Borough is for vehicle traffic.

On one side of the Hell Gate Bridge there was a cove in the river. We called it the Hell Gate Cove. The cove was up stream of the sewer pipes. The cove was free of solid floating waste so it was said, It’s Clean. Free of solid waste, therefore, non-polluted. On hot hot days we use to swim in the cove.

Of course we knew. One day we were in the cove swimming, kibitzing when Jack showed up with a big inflatable tire tube. It was during World War 11. The tube was valuable. Where did he get it??? It was worn out, covered with patches. He wouldn’t say where he got it. Got in the water with his tube and wouldn’t let anyone use it.

We started to horse around, push the tube with him in it much to his displeasure. He couldn’t swim, none of us could. We pushed too far. The tube got caught in the current. He wasn’t too far out, at first. Laughing, we tried to get him back. Couldn’t.

He started downstream, on his way pass Brooklyn to New