Maxwell Parker Goes To War, Classic Collection Of Novellas & Short Stories

By Perk Perkins

The unique story-telling style of Perk Perkins entertains the reader through action, adventure, drama, great dialogue and humor. These novellas and short stories span a period of

 one-hundred-fifty-years, and cover a wide variety of subject matter, from the terror of the Civil War in The Long Journey North, to the sad plight of Native Americans in The Last Appaloosa.

 

Humor and drama blend seemlessly in God's Little Apostle, The Miracles of Valley Junction and Maxwell Parker Goes To War and these particular tales are prime examples of Perk's folksy writing style that has been compared to that of a modern Mark Twain. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Perk Perkins
• Release date: Aug 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223497271

Perk Perkins

Perk Perkins may sound like a stupid name, but it worked out for Zig Ziglar so why not Perk? Perk started writing for magazines and then landed his own award winning, weekly newspaper column called, The Smile Factor, which ran for over eight years.  He has authored several novella's and short story collections and The Angels of Valley Junction is his first novel.  His background as an entertainer, comedian and professional smart aleck has influenced his writing and offers readers a unique voice they enjoy and deserve.

Book preview

THE STATUE

ONE

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The Kaw Valley is located just a few miles west of Topeka, Kansas. Running through the center of this agricultural honeypot is the Kansas River. The valley is wide, flat and vast and is by far the richest and most productive farmland in Kansas. The Kansas River is responsible for this success as the anxious river overflows its banks every fifteen years or so depositing new life by way of rich nutrients and natural fertilizer. The strong aroma of the dark, black, earthy dirt is a joy to the farmers olfactory senses. The first thing a farmer does when he steps up on his John Deere every morning is take a deep snootful of the precious air and wish he had bigger nostrils. This ground is expensive to buy but much of it is owned by families of farmers that go back many generations.

Corn and soybeans are the product that the special soil in the Kaw Valley produces. The farmers will plant corn for three years, followed by a season of growing soybeans. The soybeans miraculously replenish the nitrogen and other natural components that the greedy corn depletes during its reign. This rotating of crops has been one of the keys to the continued triumphant harvest in the Kaw Valley every year. It seems almost nothing can stop its success; Nothing except rain.

There are several small towns in the Kaw Valley which are all connected by highway 24. Wamego, is the largest with a population of about forty-eight hundred folks. It was named after a Potawatomi Native American chief and the towns biggest claim to fame was that Walter Chrysler, the founder of the automotive giant the Chrysler Corporation, was born there.

Saint Mary’s was named after a Jesuit mission which was established first in 1866 and then the town was built around it. The mission is now home to a number of nuns and priest who teach at St Mary’s college, which was founded in 1978. There is a small, majestic Catholic church that was designed like the ancient cathedrals in Italy, which is where the founders of the mission came from. The population hovered around twenty-seven hundred people for many decades.

Rossville is quite small with a population of eleven hundred, and the closest town to Topeka is Silver Lake, which is so small the citizens all have to take turns being the town drunk.  All of these little hamlets are only a six or seven-minute drive from each other and Silver Lake seems to be much busier than the others due to the Kaw Valley Co-op being located there. And, of course, it’s also the location of Big Mac’s Bar and Grill.

Big Mac’s is a popular spot in the county, especially on a rainy day when the farmers can’t get out into the field. The Early Bird Breakfast Special always brings them in, rain or shine. But when there ain’t no shine, they linger after breakfast. Coffee graduates to beer and cards, like spades and rummy. Then if the rain hasn’t stopped the quarters stack up high on the pool table.

Mac’s is a tiny place with only one pool table and seating for about thirty people. But on a rainy day the population will swell to over sixty. One might think the fire chief would go ballistic if he came by and saw such a crowd. But most rainy days the fire chief, Dennis Crabtree, who is also a farmer, is playing spades and three sheets to the wind by noon.

The little country tavern is dark and warm, busy and loud. No updates had been done anywhere in the bar since Big Mac’s daddy started it fifty years ago. Unless you count silver duct tape on the booth’s red upholstery as a form of remodeling. Mac claimed that all his patrons loved the bar just the way it was and any changes would drive his customers to the American Legion Lodge in Rossville. He couldn’t chance it.

One afternoon in mid-June, Mac’s was busting at the seams with farmers. A city slicker would have thought he walked into an overalls convention if he happened by. The topic of discussion was the same as the previous eight days: Rain.

Boys... A wrinkled, weathered face spoke up. ...this is the worst I’ve ever seen; I swear. Worse than 94...worse than 1980.

A younger man, fortyish, sitting across from him playing cards said, Herb...worse than 80? You gotta be kidding. He drained the last precious, golden ounce from his Coors can and hoisted it high, requesting a reload.

Rex, I kid you not. You weren’t around but back in 80 the river had flooded and was on its way back down by now. It still washed out most of the stalks, but it was three weeks earlier and we had time to replant and at least salvage...something. Herb cried aloud.

Rex rubbed his red chin whiskers. Yeah...too late to replant for sure. We just gotta hope the stalks and roots are strong enough to take it. Otherwise...

Otherwise what? A man shouted. Otherwise what Rex?"

Everyone’s attention was drawn to the black, Formica-topped table in the corner, the one with uneven legs that wobbled all the time.

Damn Randall...whatcha getting so worked up for. We’re all in the same boat. The rain is falling just as hard at our farms as it is yours. Said Leon, a tall skinny man of fifty sitting at the bar nursing a rum and coke. His yellow, tobacco-stained fingers snubbed out his Lucky Strike cig in the red plastic ashtray.

Randall stood on drunken legs. You know damn well I’m on the edge of the valley Leon. A three percent grade means water is gushing down my field and bringing all the corn with it. This rain is raping my land. I won’t have a stalk in the ground by the time it’s over.

Randall was right about his situation. It was an angry, volatile rain that pounded the earth without mercy. All day, all night it continued with the same destructive ferocity, not letting up for a minute. His two hundred acres was on a very slight grade that in good weather didn’t seem to be a problem. But by day number four most of his corn stalks had washed away and down the field. Now that it was flooded, what remained would be carried away as the water receded.

And I don’t even know how much topsoil I’ve lost? He added.

The crowd silenced in respect to their comrades situation. Everybody had it bad, but most farmers had many good years to put in the bank to carry them through. Randall bought his farm seven years ago and between last year’s drought and no sprinkler system, he had no crop. The year before that he had so many machinery and equipment problems he couldn’t make much of a harvest, even with loads of help from his neighbors. He was mortgaged to the hilt and this year was to be his do or die year, and there wasn’t much hope for DO.

Randall made his way through the thick crowd and left through the squeaky side door.

Take it slow Randall! Herb shouted. Go easy.

He was drenched in a matter of seconds from the downpour and slipped behind the wheel of his black Ford F250. He sat silent and still for a moment as water dripped off the bill of his green John Deere cap. He grimaced as his liquid enemy battered the windshield loudly. He fired the diesel motor and cranked up the Hank Williams Jr. CD to drown out the noise, the rain, the world.

TWO

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At the two-story farmhouse three miles from Silver Lake, Maggie Lane, Randall’s wife, set the table for dinner with the help of their nine-year old daughter Lilly. Maggie was just as beautiful as she was fourteen years ago when they married. Maybe a few worry lines around her eyes had appeared but she earned them being married to Randall. She was tall, thin and her long black hair was worthy of a Revlon commercial.

Little Lilly was like a mini-me of her mother in looks and attitude. She was a spark plug that always fired and had a stubborn streak to match both her mother and father. She always finished her supper when she wanted too. Always got good grades in school when she needed too. And always preferred playing outdoors with her cats, dogs, chickens, pony and whatever animal she could corral to make a pet.

The constant rain had shut her off from her world of the outdoors. Her only consolation were her one inside cat, Felix and her beagle puppy Peaches, who was also allowed indoors. Without those two companions to keep her company she would have melted into a puddle of misery.

The roar of the Ford diesel pulling up to the carport made Lilly shriek and run to the kitchen door. The door opened wide and Randall closed it quickly behind him denying the rain entry into his sanctuary.

Daddy! She exclaimed and jumped into his wet arms. I’ve been waiting all day for you Daddy. Where have you been? She pouted.

He sat her back down and lied, Honey Daddy had a lot of business to do at the co-op today.

Maggie didn’t try to hide her eyeroll and had given up pretending to believe the lies of her knight in shining armor a long time ago. When they married he truly was that knight mixed with Prince Valliant and she worshipped him. That man, a rare gem of a husband in the Midwest, was everything a woman would want. But it all changed in an instant the night his parents were killed by a drunk driver on Highway 24 outside of St Mary’s.

It was six years ago when his life changed drastically, altering the lives of his wife and daughter as well. They changed because he became a different person. Before the accident Randall was a pillar of the community. He never was a great farmer, but he was a hard worker. Many looked up to him in Silver Lake and he volunteered for any fundraiser where they needed manpower.

His faith had been the most important thing in his life. He never missed mass at Holy Name Catholic Church in Topeka and was studying to become a deacon. Randall’s prayer life was intense and he never missed saying morning prayers and then after dinner every night, without exception, they prayed the rosary. He claimed the rosary was their secret weapon as a family. Even though Lilly was only three, she followed along and mouthed the words as best she could. And then...the accident.

It was as if Randal’s faith was sucked out of him like a vacuum, quickly and completely. From that day forward he wanted nothing to do with the Lord or prayer or the rosary. If God can take saints like my folks from this earth then I can’t see how there could be a God. He preached.

He forbade Maggie from going to church after that but he didn’t mind her ‘wasting her time’ with prayer, as long as he wasn’t around. He began drinking every night and then every day and before long there was little time in the day or night that he didn’t drink. He was on a slowly sinking Titanic with no sign of the Carpathia to search for survivors.

Her friends didn’t understand why Maggie stayed with him. His morals were deteriorating, they were on the verge of bankruptcy and he wasn’t trying in the least. They couldn’t understand that she took her vows seriously and whenever she felt she was at the end of her rope, she said the rosary. The rosary would get her through the day and she knew Mother Mary was working on the problem.

Maggie also knew that the special, loving bond between Lilly and Randall had to be preserved. The little girl truly worshipped her Daddy and it often seemed that she was the only person who could penetrate the fortress around his heart. She was about the only thing in his life that he showed love too. There were many things Randall could live without, but his Lilly was not one of them.

Randall pulled a Millers Genuine Draft out of the fridge and sat at the head of the table while Maggie set a whole chicken on the table, fresh from the oven.

I assume this is from... Randall spoke softly with a raised eyebrow.

From...you know...?

Maggie cleared her throat as she always did when she didn’t want to speak in front of Lilly.

Yes dear, that’s right. It’s from the butcher over in Rossville. She lied. Things were getting leaner so they needed to cull a few of Lilly’s pets to feed the family. Lilly didn’t seem to notice.

After dinner Randall took Lilly upstairs for her bedtime story. She had been on a Winnie The Pooh streak as of late and was able to sweet talk her Daddy into two stories that night.

Daddy...can I ask you a question? She asked sleepily.

Of course honey. What is it?

Do we have to eat all my chickens or can I still have one or two to play with? She asked innocently.

Randall swallowed hard, quite surprised she knew what was going on. Well honey...this is...

I know, I know... She interrupted. This is a working farm and our mission is to put food on America’s table. She recited the oft heard quote of her fathers in a monotone voice. But can I just have one to play with?

Randall tickled her belly and as she giggled he answered, Yes. Yes Silly Lilly, of course. Now bedtime.

Later, as he settled into his easy chair in the small, cozy living room, Maggie handed him a cold beer and sat on the sofa across from him.

By the way...she knows.

She knows what? Maggie questioned.

She knows we’re eating her chickens. He stated, while looking at the television with more interest than his wife.

Maggie’s feathers got ruffled, Did you tell her Randall Lane? Why would you do that?

"No, no I didn’t...I promise. She brought it up to me and asked if we’re going to eat them all. I told her no we won’t. She was fine...even quoted my line back to me about this being a working farm and yada, yada, yada.

Maggie took a breath of relief. Okay...good.

Her husband took a long pull off the beer bottle. "Won’t have a farm much longer anyway. Corn crop is gone...the bank will foreclose when we can’t pay the note. Probably be around Christmas time. How perfect will that be? He grimaced.

Well...don’t count your chickens...and I don’t mean Lilly’s pets. I’ve been saying a novena of rosary’s and today was the ninth one.

Now it was Randall’s turn to roll his eyes. Do what you want but you’re wasting your time, you’re wasting your breath and you just wasted nine days for a fairytale. He spoke with no emotion or concern. Even if it was real it’s too late. The crop is gone: Every stalk...the field is bare. Praying for the rain to stop after nine days? Too little, too late.

Maggie sighed heavily and stood up. I didn’t pray for the rain to stop. I prayed that you could find peace again and be the Godly man I fell in love with. She stood directly in front of him, in front of the television, forcing his attention on her. That’s what I prayed for. I’m going to bed. Goodnight.

He slammed the rest of his beer down his throat and then said to himself. Peace? There is no peace...impossible.

THREE

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Randall’s eyes opened slowly the next morning. He was in bed but couldn’t remember how he got there. As the fog was slowly lifting from his beer-soaked brain he realized the sunrise was just now finding its way through the parted window shades. His farmers internal alarm clock was still working despite the liquid punishment he inflicted on anything internal.

As he lay there he wondered why he hadn’t heard the rooster crow yet, and then realized he was last night’s main course. But he did smile slightly hearing the sweet tweets of the meadowlark on the clothesline outside the bedroom window below. It’s as if their beautiful song is fighting, urging the light to destroy the darkness. It’s a fierce, daily battle the songbirds don’t always win, especially when the mornings are dark and stormy like the last nine days.

Suddenly Randall sat straight up in bed. His mind snapped to attention when he realized it’s the first time he has heard a meadowlark in nine days. It wasn’t raining.

He jumped to his feet and threw open the curtains wide. No rain. In the early morning sunrise he could clearly see the fading crescent moon. And just to the right and lower, the red planet, Mars. The sky was clear and the meadowlarks had won.

But his happiness faded when reality reared its ugly, disappointing head: It had come too late. He could now see the corn crop had been washed away and over the next couple minutes the sunlight bore witness to the complete tragedy. Not a sliver of anything green across the north 100 acres. Just dark, black evil looking mud.

He dressed quickly and as he opened the bedroom door the aroma of bacon lured him down the stairs. Maggie had been up for an hour before Randall, like every morning, so she could say her rosary in private.

Good morning! She welcomed cheerfully. Eggs are almost done.

He sat at the head of the table where his steaming coffee cup was full and waiting. He noticed the window above the sink was open and a light breeze carried in the fresh waves of summer air. After such a long period of rain the earth seemed renewed and revitalized. And that same fresh, clean air infiltrates your body and washes your mind. Like it or not, it cleanses your thoughts and realigns your soul. And as that was happening to Randall, right there in the kitchen until his protective filter of sadness, loss and anger put up a brick wall and halted his transformation.

With the small amount of euphoric air that made it in before the wall was up Randall could only muster, Coffee’s good.

After breakfast he took Lilly with him to the truck to drive the gravel roads which crisscrossed the farm, in order to get a closer look at the carnage. The invading flood waters had retreated from the Lane farm taking a massive amount of topsoil with it. Randall stopped here and there and glassed the scene with his binoculars.

Where’s the corn Daddy?

The corns gone Lilly. The rain and the flood destroyed it. He answered with a deep sigh. Hop in the truck...we’ll go check the north corner by the slew.

You mean Lane Land? She smiled excitedly.

Yes maam, Lane Land.

In the furthest corner of the farm was a dry creek bed lined with several gigantic, stunning cottonwood trees. They provided a magnificent, leafy canopy  over the area and it gave the appearance of a charming oasis in a vast corn desert. It was cool and shady, almost like a miniature park and the family would often picnic at Lane Land on Sundays.

As they got out of the truck Randall saw something in the field on the other side of Lane Land. Something white was protruding from the mud. His binoculars couldn’t make it out much better than his naked eye.

Lilly saw it too. What’s that white thing Daddy? She pointed to the field.

Must be a rock. The rain washed away so much soil there’s no telling how many rocks we’re gonna have to dig out now. He grabbed a shovel from the bed of the truck. Now you see why I made you wear your rubber boots? Let’s get muddy.

It took ten minutes to trudge through the muck to get to the rock. Lilly’s boots came off so many times that her father gave her a piggy-back ride most of the way. He sat her down and wiped away some of the mud from the rock.

This is strange. This looks like...like marble. He said incredulously.

He kept pulling mud away by hand, then carefully used the shovel to dig around the object. Soon he had excavated the marble to a length of about four feet.

I’ll be damned Silly Lilly. I think this is a statue. See here on this end is the base and this other end must be a head.

But where’s the face? She asked curiously.

It must be lying face down. Let me dig more around the sides.

He continued carefully excavating another few minutes until the statue wiggled freely in the mud.

Okay honey, I’m gonna slowly stand it upright onto the base. Here goes.

As he cradled his big, muddy hands under the middle of the statue he pulled slowly and the earth released its treasure. As it came to rest upright on the base, Lilly’s face brightened like the sun.

Oh...oh...oh my Daddy...she’s so pretty. Look Daddy look at the pretty lady. She cried with joy.

Randall joined Lilly to see the front of the statue for the first time. His reaction mirrored his daughters.

Oh...wow...Lordy...will you look at that. He whispered.

The marble had come to life in the form of a woman in a long, flowing gown with a veil that covered her head. One delicate, soft hand was pressed against her heart, sorrowfully. The other hand was at her side holding a rosary. The face was incredibly beautiful but intensely sad and mournful. Her head was tilted slightly to the right and gazing upward, almost like a prayer.

Everything from the wrinkles in her robe, her delicate fingers, her lips and nose...all her facial features were remarkably life-like. At any moment you might hear a mournful cry from her mouth and see teardrops roll down her soft cheeks. The beads of the rosary were all perfect and round and the crucifix bore the Savior in such detail that you could count the thorns on the crown. Somehow the shiny, white marble invoked a purity that defied the vile mud as not a speck had clung to the front of the figure.

Daddy...who is this pretty lady? Lilly softly questioned while lovingly holding onto her father’s bicep.

Her father took in a deep breath and slowly let it out.

It’s the Virgin Mary.

Jesus’ mommy? She asked sweetly.

Yes...Jesus’ mommy.

FOUR

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The Lane farm had a large barn and several outbuildings which housed equipment, feed, fencing etc. As you opened the two, large, sliding main doors of the barn, you would walk straight ahead to the back of the building and Randall’s greasy, cluttered work bench. And this is where he placed the sacred statue of the Holy Virgin Mary; Among the dirty pipe wrenches, oily, red shop rags, several rusty Folger coffee cans filled with miscellaneous nuts and bolts and an industrial size box of rat poison. While its true that she bore the Son of God in a simple stable among the animals, certainly through her faith and suffering she deserved an upgrade.

Randall had cleaned and shined the statue thoroughly while looking for the name of the artist. He finally located in a tiny area on the bottom of the base the name, V. DANTI. He was hoping for a name he recognized like Michelangelo, Bernini or Raphael, but at least he had something to research.

It’s true! Maggie gasped from the doorway. I thought Lilly was making it up...but...but it’s true. Our Blessed Mother... She walked, almost ran to the work bench in tears. "...Oh look, look