A Murder of Crows — a short story

(I wrote this for an Associated Content short story contest. Entries were limited to 800 words, and had to begin with one of three sentences that AC provided. You can see which one I chose.)

Someone was knocking at the door.

At the sound, the birds in the trees outside started cawing again. All that poison hadn’t done a damn thing. Gary sighed, leaned back in his chair and hoped the noise would stop. The knocking and cawing continued. Biting back a curse, he heaved himself up and stalked to the door. He cracked the door open enough to see a stranger in a messenger service uniform.

“Mr. Rhodes? Package. I need a signature.”

Gary opened the door and signed on the line, then took the package inside, set it down and dropped back into his chair. He hadn’t been expecting a package. He hadn’t been expecting anything but paper, after losing his job, his wife and his kids, and missing mortgage payments.

Curiosity won; he opened the box. Inside, amid a shroud of packing peanuts, was a bronze vase. No, he corrected himself as he pulled it out, an urn, with a plug in the top and a blank plate at the base.

He tried pulling at the plug; it stuck. He pulled harder and it gave. Instead of the ash he’d expected, nothing flew out. He examined the box. No return address. What kind of sick joke was this? Who the hell…

Gary looked around, and decided to set the thing on the television. If he’d had a mantel, he’d have put it there, but in this ticky-tacky tract house the builders hadn’t bothered with such niceties. He stood up again, put the urn in its place, carried the box to the kitchen and threw it in the trash. He took a beer from the fridge since he was there, then went back to the living room.

Chuckling wryly as he sat, Gary thought the urn could be a metaphor for his life: empty and blank. He mentally ran through the people he thought might have sent this to him, and came up with nothing. Nobody he knew had this kind of black humor. If it was humor. And nobody hated him enough to try to freak him out. Not that he felt freaked out; just curious.

He popped the bottle cap and took a drink. Urns are definitely funereal, he thought. Either they hold ashes, or they hold flowers at funerals. He drank again. Or people write poems about them, if they’re old. This didn’t look old. The bronze had been polished to a bright shine, although that was getting harder to see as the sun set.

Outside the birds set up a ruckus, and there was a sudden splat against the front window. He got up again and looked out. There was a reddish smear on the glass. He tried peering down, but saw nothing. Grumbling, he went out.

Just below the window was a black bird, its talons curved toward its body. Crow, Gary thought, or raven. No difference, right? He pushed at it but it didn’t move.

He went inside and got a trash bag, then went back out. He poked the bird again with his foot, harder. It didn’t move. In the dying light, he couldn’t tell if it was breathing or not. He put the bag over his hand so he wouldn’t have to touch the nasty thing and picked it up. It was limp, lifeless, so he pulled the bag up and tied the top. Walking into the garage, he put it into the big trash can there. This trash he didn’t want in his kitchen.

He walked into the kitchen from the garage and grabbed another cold one. He went into the living room to think about there might be for supper in the house, then stopped abruptly. The urn was on the coffee table, next to the empty beer.

Gary slowly sat down, setting the fresh beer beside the first bottle. He picked up the urn, and saw writing on the nameplate. His first name, in an old-fashioned flowing script. He hefted it to toss it across the room, but felt something move inside. He pulled out the stopper and shook it gently, then poured a bit into his hand. Ashes. Slowly he returned them to the urn and set it down.

Not funny at all. But who, and how? He hadn’t seen or heard anyone.

From outside the window Gary heard a screeching of brakes and a loud crash. He stood up, then heard a click on the table. He looked down, and saw a curved black talon next to the urn.

Dear God, his last name was on the plate, too. Gary walked to the window, saw two cars intertwined in the wreck. One was his. He knew whose blood was pooled on the street, and as another black bird dived for the window, he thought he knew why.

What’s the Matter Here?

The title of this blog is the name of a song that was a hit for the band 10,000 Maniacs on their “In My Tribe” album from 1990. It’s a song about child abuse, and how people turn away from it, and make excuses like “he’s their kid,” and “it’s not my business.” I have always believed that if I saw a child being harmed in any way, I’d step in and stop it. Apparently I was wrong.

I stopped at my bank at a small and old strip mall near my home, then walked down to the grocery store. This isn’t a supermarket, mind you; it’s a small store that’s been there since I was a child, and I used to go there with my mother. Most of the clerks and carry-out “boys” (many are retired men) know most of the shoppers, and have for years. As I was checking out, a mother and her young son, maybe four or five years old, were in the next lane. The boy wasn’t acting up; he was playing a little game with one of the younger carry-outs, where he’d take a few steps away from his mother, quietly, and the carry-out would pretend he was going to “get” him, and then the child would run back to his mother and giggle.

They left the store ahead of me, and he was lagging a little, like most children that age do. As we neared the end of the strip mall, where I was parked in front of the bank, we passed a dry-cleaners. Their front door was open, as it often is on warm days. The boy stopped to look in. He was fascinated. He bent over a little and just stared, wide-eyed. His mother was opening the car door and called to him, and I walked past him and said, “You’d better go to your mom now, they might clean you if you go in there!” He grinned at me and turned to his mother.

Not fast enough for her. She yelled, and I quote, “Get your butt over here, now!” in a very angry voice, and as she did she trotted up to her child and grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him towards her. I was unlocking my car at that point, and turned to see. She carried him to the car, swatting him on his bottom at least three times, then violently shoved him into the back seat. I heard another smack — but this one was skin on skin, so not on his bottom. I took a step towards them.

She said, loudly and in an exceptionally angry tone, “You are totally on a time-out, just you wait until we get home!” I took another step towards them, thinking the mother was the one who needed the time-out, and she looked up and glared at me. I stopped in my tracks. If I said or did anything, would it just make it worse for this little boy? If I did nothing, would he get a real beating when he got home? The morning had been chilly, so he was in long pants and long sleeves, and I hadn’t seen bruises, but still… She got in her car, slammed her door, revved the engine and took off before I even thought to try to write her license plate number down.

The little boy’s face, his soft blond hair and wide blue eyes and the little grin he gave me, haunted me all the way home, and long after. Maybe I didn’t have a right to intervene, but I think I had an obligation. I failed this child. At the very least, I should have written down that license number and called the police, so that a social worker could check out the situation. Maybe she’d had a bad day; maybe he’d been impossible to deal with earlier in the day, a “wild thing” like Max in the book, and she was at the end of her rope. Or maybe she was always that way. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to make her angrier, with only that child for her to take her anger out on — but I should have done something.

I know — all my “shoulds” can wear me down and take my focus away from now, and what is. I learned one lesson, though. I’ll keep my notepad easily accessible, and if I see something like that again, if I don’t feel I can intervene, I’ll write down the license number, and call someone who does have the right to intervene. No child deserves to be treated like that, and perhaps the mother needs help just as much as her son.

A Monkey Trap

As I’m trying to finish my first draft of “Spooky North Dakota” (belatedly), I find myself feeling like I’m caught in a bear trap. Reconsidering, I think it’s more like a monkey trap.

I’m not sure where I first heard about monkey traps; I suspect it may have been in a Rudyard Kipling story. But if you don’t know about them, let me explain. Monkeys are both greedy and curious. So, take a jar with a mouth just large enough for a monkey’s paw to get in, and fill it halfway or so with peanuts. Then tie the jar to a tree. A monkey will come along, and being curious, stick his paw in. He’ll feel the peanuts, and grab a handful. With his hand full like that, he can’t get it out of the jar. So, he has a dilemma. Give up the windfall of delicious peanuts, and leave, or sit there with his hand stuck? Usually he sits there with he greedy paw full of peanuts until whoever set the trap comes along and takes him.

It’s not peanuts for me. It’s the mystery and clues around one of the stories I’m including in my book. It’s not a huge haunting. In fact, it’s not a haunting at all. It’s a “spooky.” (Since I’m stuck with the title I might as well make the most of it.)

The story is that of a Lutheran minister, Heio Janssen, who  in 1938 poisoned his pregnant 16-year-old maid, Alma Kruckenberg, while his wife was out of town, then burned the parsonage down to hide his crime. (This happened in Krem, ND, which is no longer there, but the church is — and the lawn next to it where, they’ll tell you, the parsonage was before it burned down. Church members don’t volunteer why it burned.) Such things don’t stay hidden, of course, and the firemen found the body almost as soon as the flames were out, and the coroner found the pregnancy. Janssen denied quite stoutly that he had anything to do with it, even when the parents of the girl confronted him, begging him to tell the truth, since they’d entrusted him with their youngest daughter, who was “a good girl.”

He didn’t break down until he was shown her body, which was just a torso, and the jar that contained their child. Then he confessed, saying the devil got into him and made him do it. (Really. He said that.) He actually made so many conflicting statements that when he was taken to Mandan’s then-notorious “midnight court” (mostly to prevent a lynching) he was convicted of perjury along with all the other charges (rape, murder, arson, etc.).

The people of Marsh, MT, read about this. He had been their pastor from late 1915 until 1933, when he’d left abruptly. They recalled how he’d seemed close to Rosa Opp, the teenaged daughter of one of the church deacons. She disappeared in September of 1930, and her body was found a few days later in the Yellowstone River. The coroner said she’d died from drowning, and called it a suicide. No autopsy was done. Now the folks in Marsh began to wonder. Rosa was a happy girl. Just before she disappeared, she was preparing to be a sponsor to one of her sister’s children at his baptism, and was very excited about that, and making herself a new dress. No one knew of any reason why she would kill herself.

When questioned about Rosa, Janssen said he had nothing to do with her death. But then, he wasn’t facing her body or her father…

Then the people from his very first parish, Lincoln Valley, started to wonder as well. Lincoln Valley no longer exists as a town, but it’s near Harvey, ND. In 1915, just before he went to Marsh, his teen-aged sister-in-law, Margaret Monseur,  disappeared. She was never seen again, and no body was ever found. They went to the judge who’d convicted Janssen of Alma’s murder, and he ordered that Janssen be questioned about that, too. Under intense questioning, he confessed to having “relations” with his sister-in-law, and with at least one member of his congregation in Marsh, but still denied killing them.

These are the peanuts. I have a story — I have everything I need to put it in the book. But I can’t seem to let those peanuts go. I’m searching for information about Margaret. Did she reappear somewhere? I didn’t  find her with a Google search or in newspapers, or on www.findagrave.com — although a friend of my sister, who is helping me search, found Alma’s grave in a cemetery near the Krem church. But I already knew that. The friend also found the grave of a man who is more than likely one of Janssen’s sons, in Colorado. I want to try to find his children, if he has any, and find out what they know. I’ve been in contact with a man whose roots are in Marsh, and he’s sent me photos of Janssen with the church there, and stories from his late father and his 93-year-old aunt, who remember Janssen with dislike (their stories of finding Rosa’s body are much gorier than the actual death certificate tells — but make a great story). I want to know more from the people of Marsh. I want a seance, so I can talk to Rosa and Margaret, who by now is undoubtedly dead, even if Janssen didn’t kill her.

But, if I don’t let the peanuts go, I’ll never finish the book. I have all the story I need. I’m promising myself that when I’ve finished my commitments, I’ll return to the murderous minister, and search for more clues. Maybe there’s enough for a book, or at least a longer story. Or perhaps fictionalize it. Not so much a whodunnit, since the answer is clear, but a why. What makes a man of the cloth, top of his class in seminary school, become a rapist and murderer? What demons lived in his soul? Did something happen to him when he was growing up, or while he was crossing the Atlantic on a great ship? What makes a murderer — or was he born bad? I’m about 60 years too late. He died in 1946 in the State Penitentiary, of natural causes. But I want to know more…

 

 

 

Disaster and Missed Deadline

Well, my worst fear happened: I missed the deadline for Spooky North Dakota. It’s OK with my editor; she said to just have it in by December 1st. It will cut into initial sales, though, since the State Museum Stores and most of the other places that will carry it, other than Barnes and Noble across the state, and maybe in Minnesota and South Dakota, do their buying in the spring. So they won’t be buying until spring of 2011. (My, that sounds like it ought to be so very far away!)

How did this happen? A number of reasons. First, procrastination and writer’s block; I couldn’t really get going on it until I decided to start writing first drafts the way I write fiction: on a notepad with a pen. That broke the dam and words began to flow. Another reason was illness. Every time I took a day trip to get photos, I’d lose not only that day but at least one more, if not two or three. I also managed to have bouts of everything I have bouts of to put me “down” for days at a stretch. But just as I thought it was going to happen, catastrophe struck.

I sat at my computer on July 8, typing in a section with several stories (true or not, depending on your beliefs!), when suddenly I caught a whiff of a vile odor. I looked under the table (always suspect the dog…) but realized that innocent Kimiko was outside. The odor grew in strength and horrendousness (and if that’s not a word, it should be), and I got up and walked towards the back door. Right inside my back door is the landing of the stairs to the basement, and the odor was emanating from the depths. I turned on the light, and walked down a few stairs, trying not to inhale, and saw that one of my worst fears had come true.  The sewer had backed up into my basement. Oh dear lord, the stench.  The area that was flooded, about 6 inches deep, happens to be my laundry area, and three or four plastic laundry baskets of clothes, sheets and towels were gleefully soaking up the sewage (I know, I’m anthropomorphizing — but that’s what it looked like!).

This has never happened to me before, so I didn’t know who to call. I called the plumber I have usually used. He came over promptly, walked down part of the stairs, and said, “The sewer line has backed up into your basement.” (well, duh. That’s what I’d said when I called!). “What can you do?” I asked. “Nothing until it gets cleaned up,” he replied. “Then I can look for the clog.”

Now, because my mother had the same thing happen in her house shortly before she died, and didn’t have insurance to cover it, I decided, since my house has a basement, that I should get the rider my mother didn’t have to cover sewer back-up — meaning that the clean-up would only cost the $1000 deductible.  My insurance company has a preferred (premier? some fancy word) service that does that, so they came out and looked, and suggested that it would save me time and money if I hauled the laundry, etc., out of the basement. Me? with no immune system and no protective gear? I think not. That’s why I’ve been paying that little extra premium all these years! So he said they’d come back the next day.  My dog went to the kennel, and I came to my sister’s house, with a few things because I didn’t think it would take long.

Of course, I couldn’t see what was past the laundry area, so I didn’t know about the damage to the basement bathroom or to the finished bedroom in the basement that I don’t use because in the massive storm of 2002 there was water seepage there, and I had to pull out the carpet and pad, as well as everything stored in the closet (if it’s not one thing…). But I digress.  No, not really. The cleaners put all the stuff in my garage (which leaks like a sieve, and it’s been raining far above average since then), and finally finished their work, including replacing and repainting some drywall,  just this last Friday, the 31st of July. The plumber charged $85 to say “The sewer backed up,” then about $700 to come back after the sewage was removed run cable and a camera 100 feet and find nothing (which the insurance won’t cover) , then another $400 to come again and run cable and camera 130 feet and push “tree roots, probably” into the main line, which the insurance agreed to cover since “determining the cause” is mentioned in the rider. So, $1700 later, I can theoretically return to the basement. Uh-huh.

Then the planned remodeling of my upstairs bathroom and new kitchen flooring began on the 20th (actually they gutted the bathroom the Friday before that, right down to the 1920’s era lathe and plaster, to remove all the mold and mildew and start over).  They said they’d be done by the 25th. It’s now August 2 and there is no floor in the bathroom, the tile isn’t done, and nothing but the tub is in place. In the kitchen, the floor remains, although painting has started. It’s been one thing after another. And one of the crew wants to live with me when they’re done (I’m like flypaper for strange folk…). I really, really hope they’re done by the 5th, but I’m not holding my breath. More than I miss my home, I miss my dog; I am grateful that she actually enjoys the kennel.

I found, and continue to find, that it’s nearly impossible to work here.  This computer is old and so is the software; I can’t get my email here; there is no place to spread my research material and notes, and my sister, or her “presence,” is here always, hovering.

But, there is a blessing in the midst of this. Thanks to a fellow writer, I am in contact with someone who has more info — almost firsthand, stories from his father and aunt – about one of the incidents in my book. At least two, and hopefully three, of the haunted places I’m including will be investigated by Dakota Paranormal Investigators in August, and they’re willing to share their reports and photos with me at no cost (they’ll be credited, of course, in the acknowledgments and bibliography, and the caption of any photo I use — and probably any text, too).  So I now have, and continue to get, information that will make the book better. I guess that’s something to be grateful for, right?

This weekend my sister from the Twin Cities is visiting, so I haven’t much time. I do intend to do a family and birthday related post soon, along with another sneak peek  of  Spooky North Dakota.  I hope someone looks at this, once in a while!

A Bit from the Book, Spooky North Dakota

As I frantically work towards my end-of-month deadline, I thought I’d give my many readers a few hints at what’s actually going to be in the book!

One of the best-known ghost stories in North Dakota is that of the Gray Lady of Sims. Sims isn’t a town anymore; it’s just the original Lutheran Church and its parsonage. Thanks to the faithful and volunteering congregation, the folks from Preserve North Dakota, and a grant from the government, the parsonage was renovated and restored to its original condition in 2006, and on alternate Sundays, after services, can be toured by visitors. But who is this Gray Lady, you ask?

Most will tell you she’s the shade of the first wife of Rev. L. Dordal, and the mother of his two sons, and no one remembers her name, and after her death sometime between 1916 and 1918, the Reverend married her sister within a month, then moved out of state. But those who say that don’t have the advantage of having talked with Lars Dordal’s great niece, who just happens to be my best friend from college, and lives right here in Bismarck.

Mrs. Dordal was named Bertha (although her tombstone says only “Mrs. L. Dordal, d. May 8, 1917;” to which I say, I’d be haunting the place too, if only to get my NAME on my headstone, along with, perhaps, “Beloved Wife and Mother!”). She died just 11 days before her 27th birthday. Rev. Lars did indeed quickly remarry, but his second wife, Clara, wasn’t Bertha’s sister. That was a story they made up, thinking his quick (as in, a month after the funeral…) second marriage might be easier for the congregation to accept if they thought Clara was his late wife’s sister. In fact, she was the 18-year-old who was caring for his brother Jacob’s sick wife and children (Jacob was also a minister), and in the wake of Bertha’s death, Lars, who had truly loved Bertha, couldn’t preach, and went to visit his brother in Ada, MN.  There he met Clara, and the two fell in love almost immediately. Clara was a sweet and beautiful young woman, and the boys loved her almost as much as Lars did.

But the congregation apparently wasn’t so accepting, although no haunting activity took place while Clara was in the parsonage. Lars accepted a call from a congregation in Rhame, in the SW part of the state, and stayed there until Sims called him back to fill in during the 9 months or so they searched for a new pastor. It seems the last one they had left rather abruptly. After an odd incident.

The minister’s family had a female visitor, and she was sleeping upstairs in what had been used as the church until the church was actually built. She awoke in the night, feeling chilly, and saw a woman in her room. The woman was carrying a blanket, and asked her if she needed it. The woman in the bed said yes, and the other woman draped the blanket over her and left the room. At breakfast the next morning, the young visitor thanked the pastor’s wife for bringing her the blanket. The response wasn’t quite what she’d expected — the pastor’s wife was horrified, and said she hadn’t been out of bed — and besides the guest, she was the only (living) woman in the house! And so began the haunting — and the stories — of the Gray Lady.

Her haunting wasn’t a malicious one; it continued as it had begun, with nurturing acts like the delivery of the blanket. She opens windows when it’s stuffy, and started the pump handle before the person with the bucket went outside. She opened and closed cupboard doors, but generally to point out where things were needed, or where they should be put away.

The last pastor and his family left the parsonage in 1940, and it stood empty, slowly falling to pieces, until the renovation and restoration. Is Bertha back, sleeping in her first floor bedroom?

Well, when I went to take photos of the church and the parsonage (and Bertha’s grave), I went intp the backyard, and stood, listening to the whispers of the cottonwood leaves and the songs of the meadowlark. I suddenly felt as though I were being watched. I turned around and looked at the wood-framed lean-to at the back of the stucco home. It has a large square window, and the shade was pulled all the way down. Of course, I thought, I know the story so I expect something to be there, and I took a photo of the back of the house. I wandered around the back yard a little more, enjoying the peace and quiet, so far from city traffic and sounds of people. As I reluctantly walked back to my car, my gaze was drawn again to that back window. And I realized that the shade that had been down was now halfway up. No one else was there; there were no cars but mine, and all the doors were locked. The door to the back lean-to was even padlocked. I took another photo, just so I could compare them when I downloaded them. And sure enough, they show a closed shade, and a half-open shade. Was Bertha saying hello? I’d like to think so.

Surviving the Completely Unanticipated

So you think you know how to deal with everything? Maybe not. Read on, dear readers…

Suppose you’re hiking in a remote area, and you find an isolated valley that isn’t on your map. In the valley is a shack occupied by a clearly inbred family who have, well, interesting lampshades and upholstery, and an unnatural fondness for axes and chainsaws. In this situation, there’s only one thing to do: RUN! Run for your life! Don’t look back, drop your pack if you need speed, and if you hear your buddy screaming, don’t stop – this is “every man for himself” time! The only suggestion for gear is to switch your light hikers for trail running shoes.

Or you find yourselves near an overgrown cemetery or a plague-stricken town filled with cannibal zombies. You don’t have to run quite as quickly; these creatures aren’t terribly intelligent and tend to shamble. Again, the only way to survive is to run. If you have a shotgun, blow the heads off of a couple, as they’ll stop to gorge themselves on their own dead, giving you a head start (no pun intended). If one of your group is bitten, shoot him too. He’ll only turn into one of them.

The worst situation can be avoided by not camping during the three nights of the full moon. If you do find yourself in a tent under a full moon, realize those snufflings and growlings outside your tent probably aren’t rabid raccoons. No, dear readers, they’re werewolves. Your only defense is silver – silver bullets, silver-filled shotgun shells, even a silver letter-opener. A multi-purpose tool may do enough damage to slow a werewolf down, but remember, they’re faster than you, and smarter than the living dead. Try to barricade yourself into your tent or a cave, and don’t come out until daylight. Then GO HOME!

(oops — Don’t forget about vampires! Carry lots of garlic, a flask of holy water, and several wooden stakes. In a pinch you can make stakes from tree branches with your Swiss Army knife!)

And that should keep you ready for anything.

A Book Review Of Charley’s Choice

Fern Hill, a fellow member of Women Writing the West, was kind enough to send me an ARC copy of her latest work, Charley’s Choice: The Life and Times of Charley Parkhurst. I loved the book. I’m sharing my review with anyone who cares to read my blog! (OK, don’t know what’s up with the underlines, but can’t seem to get rid of them — sorry!)

Charley’s Choice is not the typical type or genre of book that I pick up and read — but I’m really glad that I did choose it. Ms. Hill hooked me on the first page, which is actually the end of Charley’s story. There was a mystery there, and I needed, not just wanted, but NEEDED, to follow the clues through the rest of the book.

The first chapter, after “The End,” took me to the beginning of Charley’s story, as a child in an early 19th century orphanage. A girl, Charley abandoned her dresses for boys clothing, to more easily run, climb trees, and sneak into the stable for time with the horse. Horses were what she loved, and all that she wanted to do with her life revolved around them.

After a tragedy, Charley makes her first choices. She runs away from the orphanage, disguises herself and calls herself a boy, and eventually finds a job working with horses in a livery stable.

In Hill’s deft hands, Charley comes vividly to life in that first paragraph of her story — a living child. Although quite young, Charley realizes the limited choices for women in her time and world. She decieds to live as a man and be responsible for her own life. The story describes the increasing difficulties of that decision as she matures both physically and emotionally, but through the joys and tragedies of her live, she sticks to her guns and continues to make her own choices right up to the way she dies.

In the hands of a lesser writer, this story could have rung false or dropped to a maudlin level at points. Fern Hill obviously came to “know” Charley Parkhurst through her research and as she wrote the book. She loves Charley, but portrays her honestly, warts and all. Charley isn’t idolized, though her many quite amazing accomplishments shine through her down-to-earth “auto-biography.” Her mistakes, and how she copes — or sometimes fails to cope — with personal tragedies, help make Charley a believable person. Not a character, not a heroine, but a flesh and blood person I wish I could have met. Although through Fern Hill’s writing, I feel as if I have.

Buy this book, read it, and pass it on to anyone and everyone you know who loves a good story. You won’t regret it, and your friends will thank you for introducing them to Charley Parkhurst and Fern Hill.

New Website Alert!

My new website is www.lorisbooks.com . It’s up and running, so come and visit! And my first book will see the light of day as “Spooky North Dakota” (I argued for “Haunted” but lost) in 2010, although I’ll submit the manuscript in 2009. Also “Spooky South Dakota.”  Unless that becomes “Spooky Creepy South Dakota.” (Scooby Doo, where are you?!)

Riding Out a Tornado: A Tall Tale of Badlands Archaeology

In one  particularly stormy month,  our hard-working crew was camped on Bureau of Reclamation land, pretty much in the middle of nowhere.  As usual, we had two tents: One belonged to our fearless leader, Arlen. It was modern, fairly easy to set up, and could hold three people if they were washed and good friends. The other, well, that’s almost a story in itself.

The University of North Dakota, for whom we were working, had been bequeathed the tents used by the all-too-brief archaeological survey of the area that would be flooded by Garrison Dam. In the early 1950s. After seeing these tents, we didn’t believe that story. No, we were quite sure they’d been left behind by the Seventh Cavalry when Custer took his last trip to Montana Territory. They were moldy, mildewy, gargantuan canvas tents, floorless and cheerless. And leaky. They were for the crew. Of course.

The skies were clouding up, but we had some beer, and three of us gals decided to leave the menfolk to their silly tales of conquests, past and future, and take a 6-pack to Arlen’s tent. We were sitting inside talking about archaeology, and archaeologists we’d like to work with, when we heard the first rumbles of thunder and the first raindrops on the tent.

Arlen looked out the flap, and said, “It looks nasty. Let’s head to the other tent!”

She and Jeani managed to get out and run for the Custer tent, but my legs were tangled in a sleeping bag, and by the time I got to the tent’s exit, it was pouring rain and starting to hail. I decided I’d ride it out in where I was. I’d just finished my beer, after all, and there were three left in the six pack.

It continued to rain and hail, and I continued to sip on a beer. Or beers. Suddenly I heard a noise like a freight train. Having grown up at the north end of Tornado Alley, I knew what that meant, but I had to look out the flap anyway.  Sure enough, about a quarter mile away a funnel cloud had dropped from the ceiling (cloud ceiling — I wasn’t that drunk) and was headed straight for us.

I zipped up the flaps and thought. Let’s see. Take shelter in the basement. No basement. Take shelter in a sturdy interior room. No buildings, no rooms. Don’t get into your vehicle. OK, I could manage that. Hide in a culvert. Well, unpaved two-track road: no culverts. No shelter at all. I decided that where I was wasn’t any worse than anywhere I could get to, so I cracked open another beer.

The noise got louder, the tent began to rock, and I heard a “ping” as a tent stake pulled loose from the ground. I took a long drink. The tent continued rocking, and the pingings continued, from time to time.  I continued drinking, and tried to remember songs from “The Wizard of Oz.” 

Finally the roar and the thunder stopped, and the rain slowed to a scatter, then stopped as well. A few minutes later, Arlen unzipped the tent flap. Jeani was looking over her shoulder.

“She looks OK,” Arlen said.

“She looks drunk,” Jeani said.

“Are we in Kansas?” I asked.

Arlen shook her head. “You look like some kind of strange bird that lines its nest with bottles. A giant magpie, maybe.”

“A Kill-Beer,” Jeani corrected.

This struck me as incredibly clever and hysterically funny. As I was rolling in the sleeping bag, laughing, it occurred to me that I’d had more than twice my usual amount of beer. They could be right. Hmm.

“Why didn’t  you come over to the big tent with us?” Arlen asked.

“Well, I got tangled up, and by the time I got untangled, it was hailing. And I did have the beer…”

It turned out that I had chosen the best shelter, even if it was only secured by  two stakes at that point. The ancient canvas of the Custer tent (which, honestly, should have been on exhibit in a museum) couldn’t withstand the hail, or even the hard rain. It was now full of holes, as well as soaking wet inside and out. I was the only dry one in the group — on the outside, at least.

There was another 6-pack in the cooler in the Custer tent, but I’d had my share, and sat on the cooler while the others drank a bit. That was the closest to a tornado that any of us has ever come — or ever want to. But we’d been lucky. Aside from the holes in the tent, and wet clothes, we’d received no damage at all.

There was a great gouge running across the road and through the open area between the tents.  Mother Nature can be violent, but apparently she shows mercy to beery archaeologists.  And I don’t drink anymore.

Surviving the Unexpected

I’ve already published this at Associated Content, just for fun. You can read it here: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1775824/surviving_the_completely_unanticipated.html?cat=60

Cannibal families? Zombies? Werewolves? They’re out there! So be prepared!