Odds and Ends: (But Mostly Odds)

By Roberta J. Noe

Comedy and tragedy have always been the same play staged by the world and each individual both at once and throughout time. This book picks up some of those miscellaneous odds and ends and reminds us that it's mostly odd how our life comes out in the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 26, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469112350

Roberta J. Noe

Dave and Bobbie Jo Noe, along with two daughters, Sarah and Kelsey, live in the countryside surrounding Gower, Missouri. When not writing, reading, singing, working, or publishing TYPO Magazine, they take great comfort in the fact that they can do all of those things together. Dave's day job is as a mobile home park manager. Bobbie Jo is an activities director at the local convalescence center. The kids are in school. This is their first book together.

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Copyright © 2001 by William D. Noe and Roberta J. Noe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

INTRO

BUSTER JENKINS EATS A BUG

DREAMS AND FISH

SOMETHING TO THINK

ABOUT: CHILDHOOD

NIGHTMARE

SI’S CITY

TAKEN FOR A RIDE

THE CASE OF THE

BAWLING BRAT

CAN KICKIN’

BIOGRAPHY

SAMMY THE SNAIL

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT: GOD

MR. MUDBALL

THE DAILY WORD OF MOUTH IN PRINT

ON THE COB

THE CASE OF THE

BORROWED BROTHER

BEYOND MY GRASP

TWENTY FIVE CENTS UPTOWN

GETTING YOUR MONEY’S WORTH

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT: MEDICINE

THE MIRACLE OF LOVE

FOOKY

THE MOLE

THE CASE OF A SAD CASE

WET DOG

KILLER RADIO

THE CURSE

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT: MONEY

SANTA?

LET US PRAY

THIS HERE STORY

WINDBORN

THE CASE OF THE BURNING BAR

AN EIGHT DOLLAR CIGAR

A PLACE TO PARK

LETTERS TO A TURNIP CONTINUED

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT: SNAKES

KILLING SUICIDE

TOY GIRAFFE

THE CHRISTMAS STAR

THE CASE OF THE GATHERED GARBAGE

FAIRY TAIL

LEGACY

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT: THOUGHT

C.C.

OUR FIRST KISS GOODBYE

LITTLE RAGS LIKE YOU

TIME TO NAME THE DEMON BRIDE

AT THE WINDOW

FOGGY RECOLLECTIONS

TURKEY AND THE TOAD

THE LAST CHRISTMAS

I SAW, FAXTHHHHH:

THE CREATURE THAT LIVES!!!

JOE MASTON’S STORY ABOUT TYPO

DAVE’S FAKE BIOGRAPHY

 (OR IS IT … )

This book is dedicated to our moms and dads who told us and taught us and

lived more rich stories than we could ever put to

paper.

INTRO

… infinity to now …

As I was just saying to myself, I have been writing on and off for quite a few years, and by the time you all read this, I’m sure at least more time will have passed. The preceding, of course, makes no sense while at the same time it’s totally true. All things change with time, but the words a writer pens remain the same. Each story, no matter how different from the one before it, casts some sort of shadow on the author’s beliefs, even if it only serves to show what the author doesn’t believe. Therefore, I’ve made my statement totally true by saying that something that is written either displays what the writer feels or maybe it doesn’t.

TYPO Magazine is a monthly little endeavor running only eight pages in length. Every month we pump out a fresh mixture of short stories, poetry and occasionally etcetera. We don’t make a lot of money, but we continue because of our love for the craft. This book is a collection of some of the short stories we have put out since we started.

When I came to TYPO Magazine in 1995, it didn’t exist. I put it together, along with others to help and flush out the ‘creative team’. I can say in all sincerity that, that group will never split. Shortly after its inception, my wife, Roberta joined the fray. We knocked ideas and styles around in our little mag, and continue to do so. Much of this is derived from that. At the back of the book, I’ve included a little bit about TYPO and how you can participate.

I guess what I’m looking for in, Odds and Ends, is a group of short stories that runs a wide gamut of styles from serious to outrageous and back while at the same time demanding only a short attention span from the audience. I always enjoyed being able to read a complete story in only a limited amount of time. Odds and Ends is a mood roller coaster. It’s a schizophrenic bumpy ride filled with spurts and stops, loops and landings. Don’t expect one story to be like the other, and once you accept that, prepare for a story like the one you read just a few stories back. Mostly, though, just sit back, stand up and enjoy the drive through the lush jungles of the barren desert. Catch a few odds and ends. Put them in your backpack, and watch out for the hole in the bottom.

If you have any comments (like how unfair it is that Roberta only got a few stories) send a letter to, PO Box 286, Gower, MO 64454.

—Dave Noe

BUSTER JENKINS EATS A BUG

It was THE summer. I don’t even remember how old I was. I just remember that it was the summer that every kid had when life became a memory. Even now, when I think back on my childhood, it’s that time of year in that very year I remember. I don’t remember what year it was. Oh, I could take a guess and be just about close enough. I know I was old enough to notice girls, but still young enough not to know why I was noticing girls. It was a golden time in my life when anything could be exciting and adventure was either waiting around the corner or blasting on ahead full steam in my brain. All of my grand folks were alive and kicking, and my older brother, Tom was still at home. It was a time when the family unit I knew best was still all together, before everyone grew up and moved away.

Now, summers in my part of Missouri were traditionally very hot and humid with little rain. Any cloud at all was a welcome sight when the temperature hit that third digit. Add to that, long rows of soy beans that needed to have the cockle burrs and milk weeds and volunteer corn cut out, and burning dusty rows baking the soles of our shoes off, and we had plenty of unpleasant days. That’s what church was good for. All seven of us kids would clean up real nice every Sunday morning and head into town to go to church. It was the one morning of the week that Pop didn’t mind taking off, and it was nice to be able to spend one day out of the fields. Plus, the church had an air conditioner.

Don’t misunderstand, now, we didn’t work from sun up to sun down chopping weeds and doing chores. We’d start out at the break of dawn and work solid until about two. Then, we’d head into the house for lunch, and most probably not do any more hard work until the next morning. It was just too hot. It was unsafe. Those afternoons were spent with family or with friends, or both. Or, we’d go fishing or swimming. Well, most of us would go swimming. My littlest brother, Mike, was scared out of his wits by the muddy water in Caster Creek and Doyle’s pond, ever since he had gotten leeches on his leg.

Anyway, to make sense of these meandering memories, this summer had been just as hot and just as dry as most of the others had been, and each church service was filled with prayer for rain that seldom ever came in time to help the crops grow good. It was really an odd thing. I often thought we must have lived in a cursed place. We could see the rain on the horizon. We heard tell of it hitting the big city. We watched it time and again go around us or break up before it hit us. Yet, it seldom hit us straight on, and it was always the topic of conversation at the general store.

Tom was dating a girl from the feed store, I can’t remember her name, but he was acting strange. He didn’t have the time to mess around with the rest of us kids like he used to. His afternoons were spent working on his old station wagon so he could drive into town and see that girl. A good opportunity was coming up for him to be able to see her every night for a whole week. Our church was holding a revival.

Most folks had headed out of the area on vacation about this time of the summer. It was just before cooler weather, and a little before harvest. So, to get a crowd at the revival, the church had to think up some silly stunts. The year before, Pastor Hal had climbed up on the roof of the church when we got fifty people to attend the first night of revival. Later that week, his son swallowed a goldfish. On high attendance Sunday, Pastor Hal cut off Deacon Jenkins’ necktie. That was a good one, if for no other reason than to see Deacon Jenkins’ face.

Deacon Buster Jenkins was the elder in the church. He had seen several pastors come and go, and had always maintained his high position. He was well respected, and could pray for fifteen minutes straight if the mood struck him. He must have been a really good man, but for some reason, we kids never ever saw him smile. Occasionally, we would catch one of his icy glares if we got too rambunctious during services, and we saw him tap his foot once at a church picnic, but we never saw him crack a grin, even when Pastor Hal would tell a joke. The silliest thing we ever saw him do was stand up in front of the congregation and lead the prayer with his necktie cut down to a little blue stub. Now, though, all that was about to change. Pastor Hal had promised that if we could get one hundred people to revival services, Buster Jenkins, elder and archdeacon of the First Baptist Church, would swallow a live bug.

We kids were giddy with excitement. Even the adults were talking. We heard Ma saying that it took a month of persuasion, and doubling the people from fifty to one hundred, to get Brother Jenkins to agree to do this. Even then, he wasn’t too happy about it, but it sure caused a commotion. It seemed like there was nothing that could stop a hundred people from making this service, nothing but God and Belinda.

On Sunday the revival was suppose to start. On Thursday before that Sunday, it started to rain. The drought dried up and water filled the sky. The temperature dropped thirty degrees. The wind picked up. The clouds grew from nothing, and the storm decided not to go around us. By Saturday we had gotten over nine inches of rain. Then, on Sunday morning, Belinda had a cow.

Belinda was my Ma’s cow. Pop gave Belinda to Ma twelve years before, and Belinda had trouble calving every time. Whenever there was a drastic change in the weather, Belinda would go into labor. It took both of my folks and sometimes several of us kids to help with the process. It was looking like Deacon Jenkins was going to go hungry tonight.

Tom was beside himself. He was determined to make it into town if he had to load Belinda into the station wagon and pull her calf in the church aisle. Pop told Tom to go on. Belinda would be fine for a couple of hours. He and Ma would watch her, but Tom would have to come back after church was over. Tom was too excited to complain too much. He didn’t do much more than groan when Pop told him to take me and Mike and Carly along to help him remember to come right back home.

It was just about twilight time when we splashed to Tom’s car. He yelled at us not to get any mud on the seats. Then, he spent about five minutes trying to get the thing started. We finally took off, and Tom was in a hurry. The water in the road splashed up and over the windows, leaving brown streaky smears behind that were quickly washed away by the next puddle. When we got near Caster Creek we were tootling along at probably about seventy. Most of the way Tom was driving by feel and memory. It was raining too hard to see much of anything. Finally there was a clearing, and we could see where we were. There ahead of us was Caster Creek. The problem was that the creek was over the top of the road.

Tom was determined to make it to town, though, and was sure he could make it across. So, he poured on the speed and hit the creek with a huge splash. For a moment, I thought we were going to jump like a stone, but only for a moment. Water rose up everywhere. It came in under the doors. We couldn’t see anything, and the motor died. Then, we slid sideways.

Everybody started yelling. Michael covered his eyes and screamed. The car slid into what was left of the railing and stopped. Tom’s door wouldn’t open, so he crawled over me and jumped out. Water poured in and over the seat. Tom picked up Carly and set her on the roof. Then, he did the same with me. Michael was going wild, and Tom could hardly hold him. He got a few steps away and Michael jumped out of his arms. I dove in and grabbed Michael, but the river pulled us over. I grabbed the bumper and held on to it and Michael. It was really hard to get a breath with the water rushing over me.

Suddenly, Michael was pulled from my grasp. At first I panicked, but then I saw that Tom had pulled him from me and made it to the road. Carly reached into the back and fished out the jumper cables, and Tom worked his way over to me. We tied the cables to the bumper, and Tom walked me and Carly to the shore using the cable as an anchor. We just left the car there and walked all the way back home. Needless to say, we didn’t make it to the revival.

I didn’t see much of Tom after we got home. I heard some of the yelling, and realized that Tom wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. He didn’t either. Not only was he grounded, but he never did get that station wagon running right.

Me, I was more upset about Deacon Jenkins than I was about almost drowning. I sat with the lights out at the window and watched the rain water the weeds in the field, until way past bed time. Tom came in later with a candle and sat down at the window with me. He apologized for all the mess. I remember we talked for a while. It seemed really special. It was like Tom was Tom again.

Tom left the room for a minute and said he would be right back. I turned back and watched the rain on the black window. When Tom came back, he was holding something between his fingers. When he got closer I could see he had caught a cricket.

I may not be Deacon Jenkins, He said, But watch this.

I couldn’t believe what I saw next. Tom stuck the live cricket in his mouth, made a face, and swallowed immediately. It was the grossest thing I had ever seen, but we must have laughed for an hour. I’ll never forget that night, not for the flood or the dunking or even for Tom eating a bug, but for the time that I sat with my brother in a cold dark room and laughed and talked all night.

END

DREAMS AND FISH

The frozen wasteland