As I Ponder

By Bill Boudreau

In "As I Ponder," Bill compiles some of his writings previously available in novels, journals, reviews, periodicals, and literary publications.

          The reader journeys into fiction, non-fiction, creative nonfiction, biography, history, and nostalgic genres.

 Themes range from Bill's childhood experiences, retrospections, travels, view on flea markets, Oklahoma seasons, to senior life.

   Fiction includes abduction of a teenage girl, a boy who wants to know about his father, a judge who must determine punishment, a tycoon's fight to land a giant Blue Fin tuna, a wanderer's confession, a middle-aged man's escape plan interrupted, and a musician who sells his soul.

          Settings depict scenes of a Bay of Fundy sea storm, ocean voyage, Caribbean Islands, village on the North Atlantic coast, Gulf of Mexico island seashore, and Oklahoma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Boudreau
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215712474

Bill Boudreau

Bill Boudreau is a French Acadian, born and raised in the small fishing village of Wedgeport, Nova Scotia, Canada. He’s a graduate of the Montreal Technical Institute and earned an MBA from Oklahoma City university. He’s retired from a long career in Computer Software/Engineering and management. His self-published writings books include poetry, fiction, creative-nonfiction, allegory, and passages of his personal life, in addition to publishing books for numerous other authors. Accompanied with guitar, he has written and performed French and English ballads and love songs. His website is: www.billboudreau.com

Book preview

Journey to Redemption

(Published in "Dragon Poet Review," 2018)

Years ago, I mounted Lightning, the flame-colored stallion of life, and rode away from my birthplace. I’d never ridden before. Naïve and unaware of the perils of the world, I spurred Lightning at full canter in the direction of my youthful dream, a place I’d fantasized. I let Lightning gallop at will, free rein, toward that destination.

Visions of a new world excited me, then. Images of glory prodded me like a sword at my back. A world of excess sizzled my aspiration. Unwittingly, I was vulnerable to the sweetness of the flesh. Primal voices beckoned me. An appetite for new knowledge stirred my intellect. Hunger to achieve taunted me.

Sometimes in my sleep, I still hear a song my grandfather sang to me—If you only knew what’s in front of you, my Child, my Child /If I could only tell that all will be well, my Child, my Child...

Fire that had ignited my spirit decades ago, still burn, but a diminished heat—a warm flame that doesn’t char the soul. Keeps my essence vibrant.

Lightning doesn’t want to gallop as often.

The trail had been long and winding. Looking back, I can see where we’d trotted, and a single road had faced me. We all have gauntlets to endure. For each one of us, it’s unique, and many times, of our own making.

In earlier days, I didn’t know what was around the corner. Perhaps, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone forward—a blessing, a curse?

Time went on.

More recent, Lightning and I arrived in front of a rocky cliff, more like a tower. I dismounted, looked up at the stone rise that reminded me of a temple, a shrine, or an altar. I couldn’t determine whether man, nature, or some super being had built the twenty to thirty-foot structure that could be a monument.

I stared upward. A feeling of inferiority pressed on me, as if being judged. I pondered at an opening about fifteen feet up the wall of the precipice—an entrance, or just a hole in the rock?

Away from the tower, a mile or so, there flowed a tranquil river, and on the far shore, lush vegetation flourished—trees, fertile slopes, and valleys. Mountains penetrated the clouds. Animals and birds frolicked at the water’s edge. Nature’s kaleidoscope, I thought. The wind blew aromatic scent from that distant bank.

Then, the breeze changed direction, and on this side of the river, a frisky dust devil swirled sand in my face.

The arid basin leading to the monolith, lay dry, red-dirt deprived of nutrients. I wondered why. The earth was hard and cracked like a jigsaw puzzle.

Out of the shadows, a band of horses ran among the red bluffs. They stopped and stared at us. Lightning returned their gaze. Then he turned to me. I read his eyes. He wanted to join them, and sadness filled my heart. I couldn’t do anything about it. I didn’t own him. Before the dust settled, he became one of them, and together galloped along the river northward and up into a dark, almost black, cloud that began to move my way.

The huge sky-body seemed angry. Flashes illuminated the dark mass like neon in a pitch-black night. Reverberating thunder shook my guts. I felt so alone, trapped in a terrible storm. The monster cloud had intelligence, I thought, it wants to hurt me.

Outward, beyond the river, a clear sky met the horizon. But over me, rain began to fall hard. At the base of the rock-wall, I stooped under a stone awning, felt entombed. Thunderbolts rumbled, snapped, lightning zigzagged the overhead sky. It rained so hard that in a short time the water rose around my feet. In a fetal position, I remained still for almost a half hour. The storm didn’t let go, it spat hail. The wind rose, the pellets hurt me. How can I get away—cliff’s opening above me? I must get to it, crawl upward like a spider along the surface to that hole.

Out of the crevice, I stood, hugged the cliff, grabbing stone niches. Drenched, the wind, rain, and hail hit my back with such force that I screamed. Sluggishly, I inched upward. My shirt ripped opened. I scraped, bruised my skin. It seemed like an eternity. Finally, I reached the opening and climbed into a rocky lobby.

Moments later, the storm cloud vanished. Scared, tired, wet, and chilled, I turned and peered into the cave. It’s a throat!  Uninvited thoughts stormed my brain. Did the cave contain the corridors of my conscience? Do I dare explore its hallways and mazes?

I turned and stuck my head outside. A lightning bolt struck the side of the entrance. I retreated and understood the message. I had no choice, the time had come.

Inward, like evil eyes, two openings to tunnels going deeper. I stared. Where do they lead? Why did I thought they’d take me to the core my inner being, and discover who I really am? Do I want to know? Deep in my psyche, there were faint, almost forgotten deeds I would’ve rather not revisit. Was this what I must go through before it’s over?

Doubts invaded my brain. Was this the moment of judgment? Who’s my judge? Did the truth resided in those rocks? I feared to know. I stood still, pondering.

Then, I stepped forward, closer to the entrances. I debated which to enter and could not help but believe that, inside, existed my true self. I shivered as I deliberated. What if I come face to face with my misdeeds—people I’ve cheated, lied to, harmed, and they know about it, and want an explanation, wanting to know why I did what I did? Was this my final confession, last confrontation with myself?

On uncertain legs, I stood in front of the right entrance and forced a heavy step. I felt consumed and knew I was about to begin an extraordinary journey.

About twenty feet into the passage, I saw faint lights at perhaps twenty-five-foot intervals. Hands on the walls, I balanced myself. In cautious steps, I moved ahead. The ceiling hung less than a foot above my head. In near darkness, I could feel the pick’s rugged marks on the walls. An uncomfortable temperature shrouded me. Deeper into the tunnel, a humid cold stuck to my skin. Feeling of helplessness came upon me. A stench seeped up my nostrils, a scent I’d never sniffed before. Why did I think of decayed flesh? In twilight, moister glazed the walls. Other than the drips, quietude engulfed me. Surely an evil silence.

I concluded that I’d no choice but wander the stony labyrinth of my soul.

Character

[Published online, Nov. 8th, 2011, in This I Believe, an affiliate of NPR (National Public Radio)]

Ibelieve in the proverb of You reap the fruits of your labor.

I came into the world with certain traits, but I believe my character developed from surviving the gauntlet of infancy, childhood, adolescence, and adulthood.

Before age ten I had many chores—squeezing the cow’s teats and seeing milk squirt out, knowing it would reach the table at mealtimes. Weeding sprouts and enduring the stink while wearing knee-high rubber boots, ankle-deep in the back of an oxcart, pitch forking cow manure on garden rows that yielded fresh vegetables. Crouching at the dying pig’s throat, collecting, and stirring the blood, though gory, in addition to the hog’s other parts salted in a cellar barrel, provided parents and seven siblings protein through the long, cold North Atlantic winters.

When I was not quite thirteen and cut my hand, trimming fallen trees for stove wood, I didn’t think it was uncaring of my brother and grandfather to let me walk alone out of the snow-covered forest to the main road and thumb a ride to a doctor. The problem was mine, and I didn’t question family necessity taking priority.

Realizing the cliché no pain, no gain, in adolescence I didn’t question what came along—good or bad—I had earned the outcomes.

Back bent, swinging a four-prong pick, digging sea-worms on the low-tide mud flats strengthened my body and further conditioned my brain to recognize that labor contributed to survival, although compensation at that time was only a penny for each slimy worm dropped in the bucket.

Pulling, baiting, and dropping lobster traps to the bottom of the deep, cold North Atlantic Ocean further imprinted my psyche. At four o’clock in the morning, I hoisted, shook herrings out of nets into the boat hull, and reset the nets, before heading to the mainland to sell the catch. Of course, I kept a few for a home meal. Tide restricted, standing in a dory as the sea rose, I collected rock-weeds with a ten-foot rake, returned to shore, and met the buyers.

Experiencing more wet days (fog and drizzle) than sunny ones, and not caught with unharvested mowed fields, I pitch-forked dry hay into the barn until sunset.

Mid-autumn found me stuffing eel-grass and small spruces around the rock cemented foundation to keep the house warmer, as well as the food in the cellar from freezing through the winters.

At not quite sixteen, I worked in a fish factory, dragging full tubs of herring filets on the wet floor dumping the fish in bins filled with pickling brine. This is where I first learned the impersonal nature of business.

I am who I am because of the beliefs and values implanted in early life.

First Confession

(Published in Seasoned Reader, Oct. 2007 issue, Oklahoma City)

Seven years old and the age of accountability had arrived. If death struck and had a mortal sin on my soul, I would go to hell and burn forever. The nuns and the priest had prepared me for redemption—first confession and communion. I was to confess: disobedience, lies, unclean thoughts, bad acts, swear words, gluttony, dishonesty, stealing, disrespect toward elders, and any behavior that had broken God’s and Church’s commandments.

The moment came. I did not know how to behave as I waited. In the pew, I sat still like all the others who appeared at ease before delivering their misdeeds to the priest for the first time. A damp chill filled the sanctuary. Boys and girls who went in before me seemed to stay a long time behind the dark glass door. What could the confessor be telling them, asking them? What if I need to pee? Darn it! The thought gave me the urge. The more I thought about it, the more I needed to go.

My turn came. I went in and closed the door.