Traveling to Pleasanton

Pleasanton Paradise
The Trip
Speeding down the interstate at 75 miles an hour, the wind rushing through the open window. It feels cool and refreshing as the night rushes past in a blur of lights and motion. It is 3:15 A.M. and as the poet penned; “I have miles to go before I sleep”.
It was one of those mornings. I planned to leave on time but the evil bed monster would not relinquish its crushing grip. I found the battle for freedom from the Bed Bear consuming the last few minutes I had before it was go time. Now, as I raced down the barren interstate, unbidden thoughts flooded my consciousness. I saw the whole band lined up along the curb, arms folded with terrible scowls on their faces.
“He’s late, that rotten new guy! He’s late and now he’s making the rest of us late. What will it be, Boiling? Hanging? Mere child’s play. No, we need something truly painful, but what? That’s it! We’ll detune his pipes and force him to play “Amazing grace” in the Men’s room of the Marriot in Pleasanton!”
A slight shudder ran down my spine as I visualized the awful scene now being paraded before my helpless imagination. My foot involuntarily plunged the accelerator to the floor and the aging Bronco surged forward into the cold darkness. Soon, I found myself nearing the exit that would lead to my waiting friends. As I turned onto the small street, I breathed a sudden sigh of relief. I wasn’t late at all. There, like a trusted traffic cop, stood Kylene motioning me into a waiting parking space in Todd’s driveway. Ah, all was right with the world. I would not have to face the horrors of the porcelain torture chamber after all.
The bags, pillows, suitcases, pipes and various other sundries were hastily thrown into the back of the waiting vans. After a small amount of force and a few choice expletives, the back hatch was successfully closed and we boarded the vans that would be our home for the next fourteen hours, give or take an hour or two. My first sign that we were in trouble came about an hour into the journey. I heard a strange sound from the rear; it was a labored rendition of some Disney theme song. It started low and quiet but soon reverberated around the inside of the van like a steel ball bouncing from one pinball cushion to another. Quickly, with the adept agility of a trained swordsman, I reached for my trusted earplugs.
Must plug ears… must plug…
I labored with every muscle in me to insert the life saving sponge noise barriers. It wasn’t working! I could still hear it. Like a deadly mist, it began to permeate and then bypass the soft barriers in my ears. Soon, I found myself humming the tune as well. Oh no! What was next? Might I actually join in and then… NOOOOOO!
Mercifully, the sandman came to my rescue. Like a soft snow falling, so it was in our rolling home. One by one the merry minstrels began to nod and then to drift off to sleep. The tumultuous tones began to die and then there was nothing but the silence, the sweet silence of our cruising abode.
As we flew down the two-lane highway, I settled into my marginally comfortable captain’s chair, setting the controls and guidance systems for our destination, far off Tone City, California. My co-pilot, and long time (almost fifteen minutes) friend, was none other than the renowned William Scott George. After insuring the correct coordinates were entered into the guidance computer, Bill and I settled in for a long journey.
Our craft was the wonderful new Dodge @#@$%@ minivan. It had the virtue of being new and that was its only redeeming quality. Our small convoy of four vans and one Dodge Ram pulling a huge trailer, snaked its way along the winding interstate in an unending procession to our final goal. It was a wonderful journey. We saw such wonderful things, such as: the vast deserts of Nevada… yawn… The mountainous heights of Reno… groan… and finally we came to a truly welcome sight. There in the distance was the towering peaks of the California Agricultural Checkpoint.
“Hello, do you ‘ave any fruits or vegetables in your car?”
“No, unless you count the six sitting here in the van with me.”
“Ok, thank you, have a nice day, come again, thank you, thank you.”
I pressed the accelerator and we were off! Free at last, free at last, thank the Lord we are free at last! Our white Dodge minivan accelerated at a blistering pace of 0 to 60 in almost 4 to 5 minutes. That’s when our worst fears were realized. The sleeping beauties in the back suddenly received a kiss from some imaginary prince. They were wide-awake and we began to hear stories such as the following:
How to bake a cake
When baking a cake it is essential to include Porcupines and plenty of dirt and oreos. Be sure to combine all the ingredients Springingly and beat them for years…

That’s right; they were playing a game called Mad Libs. It is actually my favorite. What fun! The games and frivolity continued for the rest of the trip. Looking back, I am so happy I was selected to be in this van. The youthful exuberance and vitality of our Tenor Drummers and pipers truly made the trip a delight and I would not have changed a thing.
We arrived at the Pleasanton Marriot at around 4:00 P.M. that evening and began preparation for the following day’s activities.

An Expose in Boredom, or The Drama of Simple Things

"Scratch, Scratch"
With each thrust of the shovel Dan could feel the weight of his gruesome obsession bearing down on him, like a ton of bricks. The air was damp and heavy. it carried with it the dank smell of soil, and decaying vegetation. A fog-like mist floated, and played, along the ground like an errant child meandering aimlessly.
Dan mumbled to himself,
"Just keep digging, it won't be long now. Soon they will be in, it will be over."
He turned his head to the side, and saw the helpless shapes laying beside him in the dirt. They seemed to be straining to rise, but they maintained their muted silence.
"Stop looking at me! I didn't ask for this! You forced me. It was you, you! do you hear me?"
They did hear, and they understood. Still they made no sound as Dan continued his macabre disruption of the earthy soil.
"How deep must I dig this hole? Surely this should suffice."
Dan was new at this sort of thing. Oh, he had instructed others on how to do it, but never had he actually put hand to shovel as he was now attempting. Unfortunately, this job required it. This was different, these victims were different, this whole situation was different.
Again, he cast a glance over his shoulder at they who helplessly waited for Dan's cruel work to come to an end. Beside them lay the bags of rotting material that would be their companions in this their new home. Dan felt a slight tinge of remorse as he looked at them. How had it come to this? His mind reverted back to that fateful day, the day that marked the end for his bound captives.
Dan had not gone looking for trouble, he was trying to avoid it in fact. He was trying to leave his past behind, what was done was done. It seemed as though they would not allow it. As he walked down the aisle, they caught his eye. Once again, Dan felt that old familiar desire, that haunting hunger that had almost destroyed him.
"No! I'm done with that. I won't do it again, never again!"
The more he repeated his denials the more he felt the hunger. In his mind he could see the details; the vibrant red color, the luscious red liquid flowing across the table as his knife cut and diced each morsel. Then, mashing and pounding each piece into a pulpy red goo.
"Stop it, Stop it I say! Enough, I won't..."
Then he saw them, there standing by themselves. Dan looked left and then right. He was alone, alone with them. They looked so young, so helpless. What happened next was inevitable. As if prodded by some evil demon, Dan quickly grabbed them and stuffed them in the trunk of his car. To cover his doings he returned and gave the guard a handsome sum, hush money to keep him quiet. Would it work? It had to.
As he drove silently through the darkness he thought to himself,
"You are lower than dirt. You just couldn't help yourself could you. You are evil. Turn and take those poor things back, do it now!"
His internal urgings seemed to fall upon deaf ears. Dan just ignored them and drove on. A sudden snap of a twig jerked Dan from his reflections. He turned toward the sound.
"Who's there? Show yourself!"
He waited breathlessly anticipating the worst. Then, from the shadows, a small cat came meandering toward him.
"Scat, get out of here!"
The feline bolted away to safety. Dan let out a sigh and resumed his work. The hour was late and daylight would soon be unveiling his gruesome task. He had to work fast. With the hole complete, he reached for the bag of decaying rot. The stench was almost more than he could bear. He moved the bag to the hole and cut a gash in the material with his spade. Like a river of filth, the black decaying mulch began to fill the hole. Finally, it was time.
He stood and slowly walked to those wretched ones for whom time had so slowly passed. An evil laugh escaped his lips.
"It's time, my friends. Time to sleep, time to dream. Come, enjoy your new home, won't you?"
One by one he took the quivering bodies and laid them in the moist, smelly, soil. He gently scooped up the putrid, decaying, material and began to cover them.
Then it happened, a light appeared. It was bright, too bright. Dan felt himself tremble with fear. Everything inside him screamed with terror.
"No, No, not yet. I haven't finished. I still have..."
"Dan, is that you? What on earth are you doing?"
It was his wife. She had discovered his obsession, she had found him. She slowly looked at his work, that which he had so desperately tried to hide. Her concerned look began to change. An exasperated tone escaped her mouth as she said,
"You're Planting? It's almost 3:00 in the morning. I thought we talked about this. We don't have room for a garden. You know that."
"Yes dear, but I love strawberries, and the store brand makes me sick. I didn't want to buy these plants; they made me. I was simply in the store to get Duct tape, and there they were. They were just sitting on the shelf all by themselves and, well, I just couldn't help myself."
Dan's wife threw her hands up in disgust,
"Fine, fine. Plant your little strawberries. I'm not going to do the weeding, so don't ask!"
Dan nodded his head sheepishly, as she stormed into the house. A sly grin came over his face as he turned to the plants sitting in their new home.
"Don't listen to her, everything is going to be fine, just fine."
Dan completed his work and stood to leave. The red goo would come again, ummm Strawberry Shortcake.

For My Dear Mother

In quiet times of peaceful thoughts
In the evenings silent grasp
Who I am and where from I’ve come
Are questions that loom so vast?

Surely before, when at his feet
We queried with wide-eyed wonder
What will it be like, how will we survive
Who will be there if we should stumble?

Then after much thought, and a sigh of resign
Our father’s plan we began to discover
In his infinite love and concern for our souls
He would provide us a loving mother

A being so wise as to know our thoughts
Yet so humble as to never admit
With tenacity rivaling that of the ant
Who would never allow us to quit


And when we felt lost, or did doubt our own worth
She was quick, our quandary to turn
With a building word and reassuring voice
The worth of our souls we learned

“You can complete any task that you start
No undertaking will be lost to our reach
As long as the lord you rely on for help
No earthly force can, your efforts, impeach”

These teachings she gave and her spirit she lent
In fact her whole life she gave
And forsook her comforts and personal needs
As she struggled our souls to save.

So there at his feet, our father so wise
Granted us the power to win
The beautiful being of love and light
Our mother was given as kin

We must have cheered, and raised quite a fuss
In the glorious knowledge received
And yet in our father’s eyes we detected concern
A deep foreboding perceived

As we bid farewell and went forth to gain
Our second estate and the prize
Our heavenly mother and father looked on
With sorrowful tears in their eyes.





And turning aside to another they spoke
To the angelic caretaker of our souls
“Please guide them home and insure their path,
And guard against sins deadly hold

Remind them always, of me and their home
From where they must shortly take leave
Instill in them pride and knowledge of self
Born from deity’s own image cleaved

So that boldly they’ll stand, in the war raging there
And my cause they will proudly defend
This charge I pronounce, and this burden I give
Though I know it is much to command

But you are selected, for you I can trust
Your spirit and strength have no bound
And for all your time completing this task
If faithful and true you are found

Dominions and kingdoms and glory divine
Are waiting your possession to claim
And all that I am and all that I have
To you I will gladly bear sway

So mother to you I humbly give thanks
For being our mother alone
For bearing the pains of daily travail
In guiding us back to our home

How grateful I am to know of the truth
That with you forever we’ll dwell
And no earthly power or device of man
Can alter this truth that I tell

Thanks for the love, and the giving of self
That made me just what I am
A warrior of god, a defender of truth
And an heir to a kingdom grand

I love you mom.


Robert Jacob

The Rock Garden (A new look at an old idea)

"That blasted noise!"
The old man struggled to his feet and walked to the huge pane glass window in the front room. He parted the curtains with his hand and peered out into the late afternoon haze.
"It's the Hendersons again. If I didn't know better I'd think he was dealin drugs outta that house. Look at all those cars. What could he be doing at this time of day on a Sunday afternoon?"
Jim Offenmore was always monitoring his neighbors, but lately he had taken a peculiar interest in the Hendersons; they were too perfect. What with their three small children and her Barbi-esk looks. No one is that beautiful. The old man was nearing his seventieth birthday and not looking forward to it. Ever since his own sweetheart Janice passed away over fifteen years ago, he just couldn't seem to find that spark.
Then too, the world was changing. Jim shuffled into the kitchen and then to his favorite rocking chair in the back bedroom. His home was not fancy, but it was comfortable. He and his wife purchased it years ago, back when their was only grass and scrub oak as far as the eye could see. Jim loved to be left alone. Oh he didn't hate people, he just didn't need them around all the time.
The garden started quite by accident. It was a simple mistake. The boys were merely enjoying the vacant lot behind the Offenmore home.
"Strike one" Yelled Sandy McCallister.
Another lad chimed in,
"He'll never hit it. Heavy Hitter! Move in." It was Forest Clayson in right field.
The sandlot was a wash with the typical childhood banter that accompanies a robust afternoon baseball game.
"Strike Two!"
The batter was Timothy Baxter. He was the smallest kid on the field and he desperately wanted to get a hit. He lowered his stance and steadied his gaze, concentrating on the pitch. This was his last chance. His intensity radiated to everyone on the field. A strange silence floated across the vacant lot, like an eerie fog floating in from the restless ocean.
The pitcher wound up and sent the small sphere sailing toward the crouching boy. There was a crack and the ball was sent high into the sky amid the exultant screams of the boys. Higher and higher it flew then descended in it's arching trajectory. Timothy was so amazed he forgot to run to first base. Down it came until another crash was heard. It was the bedroom window of the Offenmore home. The ball shattered the glass, sending shards in all directions. The back door to the home flew open. Henry Olsen screamed from right field,
"It's old man Offenmore. Run!"
Like mice who have been spotted by the local cat, the boys scattered. All that is except poor Timothy. He didn't have the presence of mind to flee.
"You! Get over here!"
Obediently, Timothy slowly shuffled toward the menacing form standing on the porch.
"You the brat that broke my window?"
"Yes sir, I uh... I mean I'm sorry, it was an accident. I'll pay for it."
"You bet you will! You get out of here and don't ever let me see your face around here again. You're no good, do you hear me? No Damn Good! I'll be talking to the police about this. Don't think I'll forget either!"
Timothy ran from the field in hysterics. The old man's words had cut deep. Of course Jim didn't really mean what he said, he was angry. Still, the boy had broken his window. Jim felt he had been violated. He had to remember this offense, he had to find a way to remind himself.
Like a scheming tyrant, he paced back and forth, searching for the right remedy for his wounded ego. Then it hit him,
"That's it. Of course."
Without a moments hesitation, Jim walked out his door and into the backyard. Searching he found a large, smooth, stone lying against the fence. Hefting it with his might, he lugged the heavy boulder to the front yard and plopped it down. It landed right next to the front sidewalk. Retrieving some paint from the back shed, he scrawled the boy's name on the rock.
"Timmy broke my window"
There it was in bright, red, paint for all to see. Yes, know the world would know the pain inflicted on him by that thoughtless boy. Content, Jim retired for the evening.
"I'll sleep well tonight", he thought to himself.
The days went buy and Jim continued work on his little garden. Each new offense became another addition to his ever growing stone topiary.
There was the incident with Jim's mailman. He dropped the mail in a puddle before it could be delivered. Jim Was livid.
"I'll call the postmaster. You'll be flippin burgers by tomorrow afternoon!" He screamed.
The Postman had apologized profusely, but Jim would have none of it. Each new offense simply gave validation to his supposition that the world was a rotten place, filled with loathsome people. Day after day, year after year, he labored on his hobby all the while growing darker and darker, as if a gruesome shade was being drawn over his soul.
It is said,
"that which you most desire, you become".
Truer words were never spoken to describe the old man at 426 Elm Drive. Jim's labor of loathing was now nearly complete. With his life spent and his strength gone, he now spent his days on the old front porch, admiring his creation.
The once youthful and exuberant man who held life by the tail, seemed now to be more shadow than soul. Hunched over and gnarled, he rocked back and forth in the cool autumn evening, glaring at the world. His garden was now complete, at least for the moment.
There was the large rock that started the endeavor, the jagged rock scrawled with the declaration of the postman's brazen offense, and hundreds more similar stone reminders. To Jim, it seemed to be a work of art. Often he would walk his garden, muttering to himself the trite writings found on each stone edifice, marveling at his monumental achievement.
It was the next day that the life changing event took place. Jim was making his rounds, admiring his work of vengeful spite when a young mother and her five year old son came strolling down the street. Jim saw them come and positioned himself near the old tree, near the sidewalk. He wanted to take in the comments of this new admirer of his garden. He listened intently as he heard,
"There it is, Mommy. See? I told you it was here!"
Jim's chest began to swell at the thought of how impressed his uninvited guests would be at the sight of his creation. There was a sudden intake of breath as the mother stopped and stared at the sight. She did not notice the bent and wrinkled old man by the tree.
"It's hideous. Oh, it looks like a graffiti junkyard. Why would anyone do such a thing? They are so ugly. Come dear, we need to cross the street. I don't ever want you to come by this house again, do you understand? Who could do such a thing?"
The woman's comments were as a sharp sword, slicing the thin veil of illusion away from Jim's eyes. Was it true? Could he have created something truly awful? Like a person granted sight for the first time, so it was with Jim. He looked at his garden with new eyes. What he saw shocked him into reality. His yard was littered with rocks of all shapes and sizes. Each one bearing an ugly scrawl of paint. Weeds and grass filled in the gaps creating a scene that could have been taken from a 1920's war film. His once pristine and immaculate house now displayed the affects of years of neglect, the high ransom wrought upon it as Jim tended his garden of ill will.
Jim felt a great pain deep in his chest. This final awakening had not come without a price. Gripping his chest he stumbled toward the front porch. A normal person, faced with such a calamity, would have called for aid and been attended to quickly. Unfortunately, Jim had burned those bridges long ago. He was alone, and on his own.
The paper reported the event in their usual callous manner.
'An elderly man was found dead on his front steps from an apparent heart attack. His name is being withheld pending notification of his next of kin. In other news...'
How does your garden grow? To forgive another has nothing to do with whether the offender is in need of such forgiveness, rather it is the first aid for the soul of the one offended. Deny it, and you too can have a garden of rock and weed of your very own.