The Hand of Providence: Stories from an Ordinary Life

By George Monroe

(Oviedo, Florida - June, 2005)
I have a few stories to tell, and I am determined that it is finally time to tell them. All the burdens of everyday life are in my rearview mirror. My professional career has been completed, my child is grown and gone, and my IRA finally contains enough zeros, hopefully, to carry me through to the end: Its time to get on with it.
But how to begin? I suppose I could take a cue from that old tennis shoe commercial and just do it"; just sit down and start banging away. Thats the way guys like James Joyce and Jack Kerouac did it and look where they are today. (Well, O.K., technically theyre dead, but theyre still earning big bucks for somebody!)
So, in order to tackle an enterprise of this magnitude I have devised a plan. I will take the old "go with what you know" approach. Which brings me to a second question: Just what do I know?
Ive been walking around on this old earth for some six decades now; a fact which, of itself, must count for something. In all that time I must have accumulated some knowledge, some experience, and, hopefully, a bit of wisdom. So Ill just run with that.
Which brings me to question number three: What form should my book take? Or, more specifically, in what literary genre should it be written?
I have decided to take a coldly analytical approach to the question by compiling a list (Below) of some popular literary genres (Column A.) and then listing my reasons (Column B.) to write, or not to write, my book using one of the genres listed in (Column A.)

Column A. Column B.
Genres Pros/cons

Economics Cant get checkbook to balance
Art Cant draw a straight line
Murder Mystery Never killed anybody
Cookbook Always burn the toast
Childrens Book Cant remember that far back
Bodice Ripper Never ripped one
Travel Guide Wont ask for directions
How To Dont know how to anything
Music Tone deaf
Animals Allergies
Sci Fi Never been abducted
Poetry Cant rhyme

As we can plainly see, the old scientific method" didnt serve me very well. Now I am back to square one, or rather, back to question number three. Since it was apparent that I dont possess a great deal of knowledge, then it must be time to move on to the question of experience. Ive had a bunch of that! So I will write the thing in the form of a memoir, and make it a very personal memoir to boot!
It will take courage. After all, dear reader, Ive spent a lifetime carefully crafting a persona designed, in part, to keep the world at bay. If I show my true side to the world, the side that I have always kept hidden way down at the bottom of my psychic and spiritual sock drawer, if I lay bare my very soul, you might call me a nutcase or rip me to shreds.


(Oviedo, Florida - December, 2007)

I have bitten the bullet and put it all out there. My hot little MS is on its way to my highly regarded and very reasonably priced P.O.D. publisher. (Snagged the half-off Christmas special deal).
From my prejudiced point of view, its no War and Peace, but its not a bad read. Ive included a few stories about my travels, talked a bit about the nature of writing, taken a brief swipe at poetry, mentioned a few things about my real career, recounted a few painful experiences, and preached a couple of lightweight sermons.
A note to parents: This book may be classified as kid friendly". It contains only a couple of hells" and damns" here and there and only when required for dramatic emphasis. You will find no passages describing acts of lurid, explicit, or deviant sexual behavior. (I only write what I know). Please overlook the numerous errors of punctuation, spelling, and syntax. (Im too cheap to pay extra for copyediting).
And so, I offer you t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 2, 2008
• ISBN: 9781469121185

George Monroe

ABOUT THE AUTHOR George E. Monroe, Ph.D. grew up in the little town of Nashville in Brown County, Indiana. After graduating with a B.S. Degree in Elementary Education from Indiana University, he returned to Nashville to teach sixth grade and serve as local Scoutmaster. He then moved to the big city, continued his education, joined the faculty at the University of Illinois in Chicago, and traveled to many places in the world. However, a part of him has always been rooted in the unique environs of his youth. He has published three books of Brown County Stories that are personal recollections of characters and events during that special time of his life (see his website browncountystories.com). To make a mysterious Brown County legend more available and interesting to curious children he teamed up with illustrator Irene Olds-Perry to produce this book, The Secret Cave On The Hill. He currently lives with his wife, Merle, in Evanston, Illinois.

Book preview

Copyright © 2008 by George Monroe.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4363-1526-5

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-2118-5

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.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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46635

CONTENTS

Preface

I Miei Nuovi Amici:

My New Friends

Mr. Coppola’s Xanadu

Tikal

Glitz

Wires

Le Hotel Automatique

Mon Petit Ami

Algebra vs. Adolescent Math

Miss Emmert

Reunion

The World’s Richest Man

Veteran’s Day

The Cathedral

Flight 821

Ouch!

A Few Observations on a

Trip to Cedar City

Confessions of a Literary Groupie

A Little Bit About Me, Maybe

Poetry, Schmoetry!

The Tree

The Old Geezer

The Big Squeeze

Why the Price of Gas is

Different at Every Station

Obsequies: of the late

George Arthur Monroe

For my earthly ‘Holy Trinity’

Judy, Amy, and Mom

Preface

(Oviedo, Florida—June, 2005)

I have a few stories to tell, and I am determined that it is finally time to tell them. All the burdens of everyday life are in my rearview mirror. My professional career has been completed, my child is grown and gone, and my IRA finally contains enough zeros, hopefully, to carry me through to the end: It’s time to get on with it.

But how to begin? I suppose I could take a cue from that old tennis shoe commercial and ‘just do it’; just sit down and start banging it out. That’s the way guys like James Joyce and Jack Kerouac did it and look where they are today. (Well, O.K., technically they’re dead, but they’re still earning big bucks for somebody!)

Telling my stories will be a daunting task, and so, in order to tackle an enterprise of this magnitude I have devised a plan. I will take the ‘go with what you know’ approach. Which brings me to a second question: Just what do I know?

I’ve been walking around on this old earth for some six decades now, a fact that, of itself, must count for something. In all that time I must have accumulated some knowledge, some experience, and, hopefully, a bit of wisdom. So I’ll just run with that.

Which brings me to question number three: What form should my book take? Or, more specifically, in what literary genre should it be written?

I have decided to take a coldly analytical approach to the question by compiling a list (Below) of some popular literary genres (Column A.) and then list my reasons (Column B.) to write, or not to write, my book using one of the genres listed in (Column A.)

As we can plainly see, the old ‘scientific method’ didn’t serve me very well. Now I am back to square one, or rather, back to question number three. Since it was apparent that I don’t possess a great deal of knowledge, then it must be time to move on to the question of experience. I’ve had a bunch of that! So I will write the thing in the form of a memoir, and make it a very personal memoir to boot!

It will take courage. After all, dear reader, I’ve spent a lifetime carefully crafting a persona designed, in part, to keep the world at bay. If I show my true side to the world, the side that I have always kept hidden way down at the bottom of my psychic and spiritual sock drawer, if I lay bare my very soul, you might call me a nutcase or rip me to shreds.

(Oviedo, Florida—December, 2007)

I have bitten the bullet and put it all out there. My hot little MS is on its way to my highly regarded and very reasonably priced P.O.D. publisher. (Snagged the half-off Christmas special deal).

From my prejudiced point of view, it’s no War and Peace, but it’s not a bad read. I’ve included a few stories about my travels, talked a bit about the nature of writing, taken a brief swipe at poetry, mentioned a few things about my ‘real’ career, recounted a few painful experiences, and preached a couple of lightweight sermons.

A note to parents: This book may be classified as ‘kid friendly’. It contains only a couple of ‘hells’ and ‘damns’ here and there and only when required for dramatic emphasis. You will find no passages describing acts of lurid, explicit, or deviant sexual behavior. (I only write what I know.) Please overlook the numerous errors of punctuation, spelling, and syntax. (I’m too cheap to pay extra for copyediting.)

And so, I offer you these, dear reader: My secrets, my desires, my dreams, my prejudices, my hopes, my nightmares, and all the rest of it; right here, right now, and until the end of time, in black and white, 12 point, AGaramond typeface, for you and all the other six billion souls on earth to read… 

. . . But only if you care to spring for the full retail cover price… This ain’t no library; move along there if you ain’t buyin’ . . . Sorry, no author’s discounts for distant relatives or in-laws.

I Miei Nuovi Amici:

My New Friends

I have an hour to kill. The huge, grimy plaza in front of the train station is dark. The cafes and hotels which ring its perimeter have all closed up for the night. The only signs of life are an occasional passing taxi or a wheezing Vespa. I know it would be safer to wait inside the big, deserted station, but the place is rank and stuffy while the night air filling the plaza is cool and sweet. I drop my pack at the curb, settle in at the base of a dim lamp post, and light up a delicious Cuban cigar. I know little about this historic old city of Genoa except that it has a world renowned reputation as a rough and tumble seaport. I really don’t care to be here at all, but this is the place where the tracks cross and I’ll soon be on my way to a more familiar tourist haunt.

Across the plaza stands a giant, green statue bathed in the only bright light within blocks. Its larger-than-life honoree stands proudly at its center wearing a big green helmet and holding a giant crucifix in his left hand. A figure of a young girl dressed in Pocahontas garb clutches his right thigh. She gazes lovingly up at her bronze protector. I grapple with the Italian script carved in gold across the statue’s base. The best translation I can come up with is: CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS—OUR HOMEBOY.

A city bus chugs to a stop in the center of the plaza, deposits its human cargo, and pulls away. In the dim light I can make out two, no, three figures, one quite tall and the other two of medium build. They appear at this distance to be little more than dark, menacing shadows. They stand in the center of the plaza for a minute looking this way and that. Their movements are erratic, cautious. They have been smoking weed, I am guessing, or maybe even crack. The tall one turns and points in my direction. They laugh. I cringe. The trio rambles toward me. As the distance between us closes I can make out details. The tall one is dark with close cropped hair. He moves with a lanky gait. To his right is the hipster, compact and stocky, dressed in baggy cargo pants and an even baggier pullover shirt. The third member of the trio reminds me of a young Johnny Cash dressed head to toe in black with a thick mane of black hair down below his shirt collar. They are within a few feet of my nest. Like an Indian snake charmer facing a hooded cobra I cannot look away, not even for a second. By now it is too late to mount a hasty retreat back into the safety of the station. My hand finds the strap of my pack. I twist it tightly around my wrist, one, two, three times. I make a foolish decision. Come what may I will not give up my stuff! I mutter a quick, silent prayer, Dear God, just let it be quick.

The trio forms a tight semicircle around my huddled mass. The hipster bends over at the waist. His face is only a foot from mine. Our eyes meet. A little grin forms on his tight lips. Out of the corner of my eye I see his right hand disappear into the big pocket of his cargo pants. Here it comes. I feel a blush of panic stab at my heart, and then a wave of sublime peace. In a couple of seconds it will all be over. The hipster’s flashing blade will carve a neat crescent across my throat. I’ll try to suck down one last deep breath, but the connection will be severed. The best I can manage will be a little gurgle as blood bubbles up into my brand new orifice. I close my eyes and wait.

I hear a distant voice; Saint Peter is calling me home. No, not unless the old boy speaks with a heavy Italian accent. I open my eyes. The hipster is still there, still bent over at the waist and still carrying that same silly grin on his puss. His right hand is no longer in his pants pocket, but is now positioned a couple of inches under my nose. Hipster is holding something. I move my head back a couple of inches and refocus my eyes. I can see it clearly now. It’s not the gleaming, razor sharp blade that would spell my doom, but a small, white box. There is writing on its top: CAMEL. With a flick of his thumb he exposes a double line of brown filter tips. Saint Peter speaks a second time. My friend here, he would very much like to trade some of his cigarettes for one of your cigars. I look up and see that the voice is coming, not from the distant heavens, but from the tall, dark guy. Sure! The small squeak from deep in my throat is the most reassuring sound I have ever heard.

I free my hand from its