On My 20th Blogiversary

 ... a little family wisdom and the last half of the first chapter of my ... novella? book? 

Whatever.

As my regular readers know, I'm currently working full time, about 2 years past when I wanted to retire. I've made this choice because people I love need some help and I have the ability to give it to them.

I had plans for this stage of my life. Writing, working out and living part time in an Alabama river house were chief among them. Some people I love hit hard times and, as I had the ability to help them, I postponed retirement. I also postponed my dreams, knowing that at this age, "postpone" can quickly turn into "jettison."

I can get dark and brooding and found myself gravitating towards that. Serving God by loving your family while nursing resentment is like adding broken glass to a good dinner. Worthless.

I don't have the time to write properly, but I do have the time to write. At the rate I'm going, my first story might be done about the time I contract Alzheimer's, which might actually be a good thing. Each time I read the thing it will seem new to me and in no time at all, I'll be convinced I've written 10 different books. 

Hooray?

Anywho, the moral of the story is that while you may never be able to completely fulfill your dreams, you're not doing anyone any favors by not doing what you can and taking joy from that.

You can find the first part of chapter 1 here.

Here's the end of chapter 1. I'm having a great time with this. I hope it shows.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

---

The sun was clear of the horizon by the time Robert Edward Lee Bond, 58, stumbled out of his bedroom into the living room towards the kitchen, one hand rubbing his stubbled face, the other clutching an empty plastic water bottle. He had primed the coffee maker before he and Basil had started drinking last night, knowing how the night would end. Right now, he needed the coffee. Something crunched under his cheap sandals as he stumbled into the galley kitchen in the fishing shack, but he paid it no heed, focused on pressing that button.

Bobby Lee had a private scale for hangovers. There were mild ones where the head hurt and the morning was a drag. There were medium ones where the head hurt and sleep had been fitful. Then there were those where the coffee would make him extremely nauseous. Despite their best attempts last night, this one was only in the medium category. His head hurt, he was exhausted and his thoughts were slow.

The coffee maker started. He looked up. This time, the wreckage registered. Furniture was overturned, there was broken glass on the floor, a few pieces of torn black cloth were scattered near the doorway and the screen door was open and hanging off one hinge. General Beauregard was laying on his side and Cat was cleaning the basset hound’s shoulder. The crunching under his sandals had been broken glass.

“Well, it looks like you two did some interior decorating last night. I love what you’ve done with the place. It’s got that lived-in charm now although next time, you might want to set the curtains on fire to really finish the job,” he said to them, wincing at the exertion of speaking. Then he muttered to himself, “I guess this is what I get for being late with their breakfasts.”

Bobby Lee held his head in his hands, nursing his hangover until the coffee was done. He poured himself a mug and drank a few sips. It was the act of pouring the coffee more than the caffeine that got him to thinking. The wreckage didn’t make any sense at all. Also, why hadn’t the animals been at him for their food? Usually, if he was this late, they’d be barking and meowing, begging. 

Bobby got up to survey the living room. When he went over to the damaged screen door, he looked down at the dock and saw the bow of an aluminum skiff poking above the water. 

They didn’t own a skiff.

Bobby took another gulp of coffee, walked swiftly to his bedroom and yelled to Basil through Basil’s bedroom door to get up. 

Bobby was nowhere near fighting ready. He pulled his Colt 1911 from the shoulder holster slung over the chair and wished he had something sturdier than Walmart sandals on his feet.

He opened Basil’s door and told him, “Get your gun. Right now. Put some shoes on, there’s glass on the floor.” Basil was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes. 

“I don’t need you to tell me to put on my shoes, Robert,” he said as he slipped into his loafers. “I am not decrepit.”

“You’re older than I am.”

“By three weeks.”

“Really? Feels like a lot more than that.”

Basil rolled his eyes and stepped out, Browning 1910 in hand.

“The dock is clear,” said Bobby.

Bobby looked through the front door's spyhole and saw nothing but the empty causeway leading back through the bayou to the road. The boys had chosen this shack to give minimal cover to anyone approaching.

Bobby carefully opened the door that led to the dirt and gravel causeway. Basil, grumbling about his head, covered him. The two took turns on point as they explored around the piers beneath the house until they were satisfied no one was there. 

Bobby shrugged at Basil. “I don’t think we need to report this to our insurance company.”

“However, I must register a complaint with the maid,” replied Basil in his languid upper-crust English accent. “She simply must do a better job tidying up the place. It looks like a tornado tore through it. Ghastly.”

They walked out to the end of the pier where the bow of the skiff was bobbing slowly in the water. It looked like a rental. The ID decal was still on the bow. None of it made sense.

“Not locals. A local would’ve taken our boat,” Bobby said, motioning at the center console sitting in its cradle over the water.

“It couldn’t have been teens, they’d have stolen the car and looted the place,” replied Basil, motioning at the SUV parked underneath the shack. 

Bobby walked out to the end of the pier and then grabbed a gaff hanging in the boathouse. He fished something out of the reeds. It was a torn black t-shirt. There were blood stains.

“Gators,” said Bobby.

The boys went up the stairs and back inside. Basil kneeled by the animals as Bobby picked up the furniture and surveyed the damage. “Robert, old man, these two need the vet. Immediately.” Cat had stopped cleaning the basset hound and looked at Basil curiously as he approached.

“What is it?” asked Bobby Lee.

“Look here,” Basil said and pointed out the injuries on both animals. Cat had a burn of some kind on his left shoulder. General Beauregard’s right shoulder was sliced open, though not badly. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound would need stitches. Both animals bore swollen puncture wounds on their right sides.

“What in the world happened here last night?”

Basil didn’t answer.

By the time the sun was clear of the trees, the SUV was already moving down the causeway toward Lafayette.

The boys' fish camp. It doesn't perfectly match my image of the place, but it's close enough and I have a few more things to do for work before I knock of for the day.