Eyes Out Of The Woodlands A Short Story Out Of Northern Minnesota

Writen by Dennis Siluk

1

[1959] He hid in the woods, watching his father and sister, what they were doing. So we heard that, that is. Most of us felt, and all of us gossiped, he was up to no good. Here he lived an estranged life, hidden in the thick of the deep, like a recluse.

At times it was said, you could smell his cooking of venison, or spot him driving his 1952-pickup to town, dilapidated. His one room shack remained on the 1400-acers his father owned, and there he lived quietly, out of sight and out of the minds of the people in town, except for the intermit conversations, and gossip.

His sister, Victoria, remained with her father year after year, her father selling lumber to the highest bidder. He had some tourist cabins also, down by the lake for the fish folks that came up from the big city year-round.

Why Ambrose was the opposite of his sister no one knew. He wanted to sell his one third of the 1400-acers, or perhaps it was one half of his fathers land, and god knows what he wanted to do with the money. But the old man said 'No!' harshly, said 'No!' after he had left, once and for all. Nine years he was gone, deserted his wife and kid, and went on back to that shack to wait for his father to die, and leave him the land. His sister still there, but the old man never forgave his son, who took a wife, had two grandkids, and left them someplace; he'd never get to see them. But the old man just left well enough alone. Virginia remained single.

We all said, Vera would marry after the old man died, then Ambrose would come out of the woods from his self imposed hibernation, and claim what he felt was his.

2

Nobody really knows what the other person is thinking, yet we guessed at it a lot, and maybe a few of us in town did know; as they say, 'pride comes before destruction,' and we all could see it coming.

Vera was gentle, soft spoken, always thinking, or so it seemed, perchance five foot two inches, short, and cute. She was forty years old now, so the cuteness was leaving her, the old man was sixty-seven, and like Ambrose, the older of the two, by two years, was moody and high spirited like his father—stubborn.

"Why don't you get married?" the old man said one day to Virginia. What ruffled his feathers I don't know, but Vera became dumfounded. (This of course is speculation and what we put together).

"If you're waiting for my wooded lands, you've got a long wait," we all heard him mumble that as he walked out of the grocery store in town one Saturday afternoon with his daughter, and put them groceries in his new truck, 1959 (Ford I think), and headed out of town to his huge log cabin, more like a lodge (yes, a lodge you could call it), in the woods, with six-bedrooms, and five bathrooms. She did say something sitting in that front seat, I heard her, before they took off:

"I have no time for a husband, taking care of you, the bookkeeping, cleaning the house; I've earned my share when you pass on." The old man didn't say a word, he perhaps knew she'd leave; the shape of things would drastically change then, then what [?] That was conceivably the last he ever said on the matter to her for a spell, and she remained living her old life, her old self at the house, a mild cool mannered life, sedate, and watchful as if with long-sided cat eyes.

3

I suppose if there was any respect between Ambrose and Mr. Beck, it was in that Ambrose left the old man alone; respect, or regard for the other, can and did come in that direction.

The old man must have been thinking (so we thought), Ambrose was brave enough to confront his greedy-design, whereas, Vera was willing to subdue hers, and just wait it out. Yes indeed, it was that way, and whatever was on Vera's mind, she was not spending any of her money her mother had left her and Ambrose, whom gambled his mother's inheritance away long ago, had none to worry about.

Then I thought, as many did, the old man would kick her out some day—not that he wanted to, but his temper, his nature, would put her in harms way, and he'd have no choice. And that is exactly what happened, what took place was this: the old baldheaded, bulldog of a man, Mr. Beck short and stocky, like a prize fighter one day opened the door and shoved her down the few steps there were on the porch, saying:

"Spend my money if you can when I'm dead!" And she left his house, just like that. She kept her regular reserved composure, and mild manner, which, strange to say, but true, she was crying, we didn't think less of her for those tears, but it didn't quite fit.

4

She had never cried before, in fact I always saw her as a pillar of strength. Much in control of herself, her emotions: therefore, if she was anything, she was a much deeper fish than her brother, and perhaps equal in shrewdness to her father: I don't know, but I'd say, a dangerous combination.

During the following years, a few years that is, two years to be exact, rarely did anybody stop to see the old man, he paid his taxes as usual; hired some help with the land, and boats he rented to visitors, and cabins he rented to the same folks: Vera now lived with her Aunt and uncle about five miles down the road. And Ambrose, well, he still lived in the woods, checking on what his father was doing, going back to his shack, drinking a pint of whisky now and then, making some home made stuff to boot.

Now and then the old man walked into the woods near the shack, but not too near, a glance towards it, and perhaps he saw Ambrose, perhaps not: he'd then go kill a few animals to eat, and paid it no more attention that that.

Then as Ambrose went one day to see what his father was up to, he saw him lying stone-still, dead on the ground, he knew he was dead; he was near the steps of the porch, as if he could have fallen. There was Aunt Betty's 1960-ford, it took off quickly by the fence, which was by the side of the road, some woman was driving it, and it wasn't Aunt Betty, unless she got her haircut short recently, and she hadn't.

The county health officer showed up, and reported to the officials it was death by accident. He had tripped on a loose step attached to his porch; he even fixed it while waiting for the sheriff. The sheriff talked to Ambrose, and then they buried old man Beck by the shack, it was where Ambrose wished it to be. Vera showed up at the funeral, Ambrose did not. Victoria moved into the house and left the door unlocked for her brother Ambrose, but he never again walked through those doors—Victoria often stood under the arch of the doorway looking into the woods as if Ambrose would show up, she stood in that doorway until she died of old age—waiting, looking.

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San Francisco Days 68 A Poem

Writen by Dennis Siluk

San Francisco—Days ('68)

I lived on the second floor of the old mansion,

in San Francisco ('68) Dolores Street in the attic, lived a young hippie girl, my age

(twenty or so); pregnant—, her stud, heartless he'd let her alone, sleep on that mattress

night and day, until he came home; it was a ting brutal, listening to that crying, crying,

moaning, on that mattress she lay. We talked a lot back then, and were friends.

One day she just up and left, that was it.

Dan's brother was balling some young 'gal,'

so he called her, from the East. She was as pretty as a peach. And I was

getting horny as a dog with two dicks, watching everybody feast on female flesh.

And then I met Karen, she was thirty-two;

and we balled for six-weeks, like fools. (Screwed until we fell to sleep, like sheep.)

She ended up renting the room next to mine and Dan's room, my friend. And it wasn't long

before she took a liking to him. In-between all this, she'd say, "You love to

screw, don't you ever rest?" A rhetorical question I thought at best; of course I did,

when I'd pass out!

It was kind of a muddy romance at its finest

(she had the money and Cadillac): crowned with oblivion—she took a liking

for Dan, and balled him mad (gave him whatever he asked for, and then some). My

floodlights went on, and Dan told her "No more," and she told me: "I wasn't hers"

and I told myself, "Where's the beer?"

#1254 2/28/06

Note: I wrote the book, "Romancing San Francisco," these recent poems on San Francisco, are the things I never put into book, but will be put into a forth coming book I expect. Dennis

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Stay Down Old Abram Chapters 10 11 Amp 12 Unbelievable

Writen by Dennis Siluk

10. Dan-The Unbelievable

Dan Hanson and his wife, Sara Hanson, lived in back of the Trailer Court, where Chris' friend Thompson lived, in one of several small, one bedroom houses—made out of wood with no basements, thin walls, about the size of a double garage, back in Minnesota. They had an eighteen-month old baby boy, and Dan attended the Aviation School, down the highway a-ways, just past the military base. He was not in the military like most of Chris' friends, but simply a friend that hung around at Thompson's house and either got drunk or high off pot when not in school; and they both, he and his wife got to know the group at Thompson's quite well, to include Chris. If either he, Dan or his wife, Sara were standing in their backyard—at any given time, possible on the small porch that extended about four feet out from the edge of their house, that had three steps to it, leading up and to the platform and to the back door, one could see the trailer court, and if the moon was out at night, which it was this evening, you could see Thompson's trailer—for it lit the backside of it. To the left of them was another cemetery, small—and undoubtedly unused for that purpose for a few decades, and behind the graveyard, like the one outside of town, were a few shacks, not many, three in sum, where black folks lived—and again the cemetery was used for trash.

Sara was a nice looking young lady, about the same age as her husband, Dan, and Dan being around the same age as Chris, somewhere around twenty-three years old. He had tried to sell Chris his guitar, wanting $100 for it a week earlier, but Chris only offered $25, which outraged Dan, so he gave him $35, telling him he really didn't want it in the first place, he had a guitar, but Dan needed the money, and so Chris purchased it. In a like manner, often times Dan would try to induce Chris to go into business with him, selling pot. At the oddest times he'd show up with a sack of grass as full as a two five gallon garbage bag, a pocket full of money, give some of his pot away to the folks at the trailer house, and go elsewhere to sell the rest. In a week or so he'd be broke again trying to find something to sell and to get Chris involved. Sometimes Chris would go over to see if Dan and Sara wanted to join them at Thompson's house, and find they were having their own party, and laying all about half stoned—lazy like, drifting into cornball-heaven. And Chris would sit around have a few puffs off the joints—which he didn't care for in the first place, and then go back to find some beer at Thompson's and get smashed on good-ol-alcohol.

Well, this Friday night was different. Sara and Dan had been outside, seen Chris walking about the Courtyard at Thompson's place, and Dan having to go to work, said something to Sara, then he was gone. Sara called over to Chris, getting his attention, and waved him on over. Again, she was an attractive 5'5" redhead, with a slender, curved body. No one would have ever known she had a child. As Chris approached, Sara all alone, Chris lit a cigarette. Looked at her, she was appealing, and a little tired looking from probably smoking pot he figured, but her speech was fine, a bit slow, but ok.

Sara: "Hello?" she said, as Chris stood within a few feet now of her—with a half smile; then both gave one another a few more pleasantries.

Sara: "Say Chris," Sara says in her puzzling looking eyes, "I'm not sure how to say this—"

Chris: "Say what?"

Sara: "Do you want to go to bed with me?" Chris was tongued tied. There was no doubt she would be a good sort to have fun with in bed, and they liked talking to one another, and talked somewhat freely, and the age was right—in that they were about the same age, but she was married and her husband was a friend, and this was quite peculiar, what was behind this thought Chris.

Chris: "It would be a good thought, you're quite attractive, but married, and your husband is my friend, and he's most likely not far away."

Sara: "Well, I'll tell you the rest, Dan asked me to ask you, he also asked me if I wouldn't mind going to bed with you, and I said, if I was to go to bed with someone other than him, I wouldn't mind it being you, but there is one thing he'd like." A pause took place—she was looking for the right words.

Chris: "What might that be," he said inquisitively.

Sara: "Well, he wants to be in the room with us—I, I mean, look, he wants to watch us make love, he'll sit in a chair, and he'll be home soon, and then we can do it."

[Chris—thought for a moment, not sure what to say] "Would he care if it was just you and I and not him in the room [Chris knowing it was not really what he wanted]?"

Sara: "No, he was pretty affirmative on that part," she smiled, she almost looked a little let down; Chris also knew Dan was trying to get him to go into business with him, and so he gave her a kiss on the cheek, a hug, and told her he needed to get back to Thompson's, knowing he did not want to be persuaded, and didn't want to embarrass her, and once Dan came back, and him being already excited about her, that is, in a lustful way, it was best he be gone, least he let him talk him into the game, hence, to avoid them completely for a few weeks would be the answer thought Chris, and thereupon, dismissed himself.

As he walked away, her face was a little illuminated by the light of the moon: Chris then brandished a cigarette—in his hands waving to her, she: Sara, to him had a peculiar ambition, loyalty to her husband being part of this, he thought, then Chris scanned the skies as he talked to himself on the way over to the trailer-court—walking between a fence with some foliage growing around it.

11.

South Carolina Marine

Corporal Robert Benton had been used to being far from home, a-train ride from Charleston South Carolina, to Red Stone; Alabama for training was but a hop-skip-and-jump for him. He had joined the Marines at age 17, and had already been to and back from the Vietnam War or conflict as it was being portrayed as; now sitting at Corporal Thompson's trailer home outside of Huntsville, and the military base nearby, he was getting drunk with Thompson, Chris and the Chief, Chris' Indian friend. He was at Red Stone for the same purpose all the other three were, explicitly, for training in advance munitions

as they all sat back in the somewhat cramped spaces of the living room area of the trailer house, wine bottles, cigarettes, beer cans all sitting on the table, some in the trashcan by the sofa, to the left, a case of beer sitting along side of the somewhat small sofa to the right, the background music was that of Nat King Cole's Trio: everyone was chatting, chumming about, squirming to get situation on the sofa and side chair alongside the coffee table—smoking cigarettes and playing cribbage. It was a restful Saturday, one that was but a week away from Chris' leaving for his new duty assignment. He was a week short of getting his orders to move on to his next duty station but was not sure where it would be yet. Robert had gotten his a few days previously, he was headed for Panama.

--Chris, every so often would get up and look out the trailer window—[on the other side of the coffee table] looking past the other trailer houses onto the parallel highway about one-hundred yards from their trailer—[inquisitive—and becoming quite the habit since his run in with the cop car a while back] to see if there were any cops leaking about in their automobiles—in hopes they might find a stray black and white man walking together, or possible, just an alone black man.

Said the tall husky black Robert, with a somber voice:

"I used to look out windows in South Carolina—I sure did, many of times, where I'm from; took training next door, in North Carolina, at Fort Bragg, like you Chris, ya, sir, I looked out those windows many times, there also, but I can't figure out why a white chap like you are looking out a window, they not looking for you brother…the cops, you know that [with a smile]," he commented.

Said Chris: "You mean to tell me, they followed you around too?"

Said Robert: "They sure did, just like a mountain cat they'd do, but you're white, nothing to worry about?"

Said Chris: "Not sure why I'm looking--: still can't believe they followed me and my friend, my black friend for a mile or so down the highway—two soldiers, that's all we are, two damn soldiers, --and the cops like a cat after a mouse follow us like we were the mice."

The big six-foot-three black, husky Marine, with his big wide shoulders sat back in the small sofa, made for the trailer house specifically: made for a smaller man also—filling half the sofa up, said:

"…dem windows get to ya after a while—ya-know." Chris almost laughed, he was really feeling stupid for constantly looking for the police, as if they were going to show up any minute outside the trailer: pulling aside the curtains, as if he had done something wrong.

"All black-men on base know police in the South follow black-man, especially if they look like they are walking aimlessly along any roads, mainly isolated ones, matter of fact, it bothers them when three or four of us are standing together, as if wes gona rob the bank down the street [he chucked with his heavy and large looking head]."

"You like the south," he asked Chris with a flat affect on his face.

"Yes and no [baselessly he commented]," then added, "I'd prefer to live in the north, and visit the south, it seems safer that way, plus, I wouldn't need to look out windows all the time," everyone started laughing at that.

"Me too," said Robert with confirming eyes, "I've lived in Ohio for a spell, I like it there, going to move to St. Paul someday, be like you, a Midwesterner." Again all at the table laughed—a friendly laugh.

"I'm from St. Paul," replied Chris.

"I know, Thompson told me so, haaaaaaa—but someday."

Chris was two years older than Robert, he had already been to Vietnam, and back, and Chris was yet to go, but it looked very promising for the near future. Then Robert asked: "Why not finish this game?" he said it with a peaceful happiness, slowly moving his big bulky shoulders forward toward the coffee table.

--It would seem Robert was a little like Chris, or Chris like Robert, there were battles to be fought in the world, but it was better to have the ability to hand pick the ones you wanted to fight, like quite rain, instead of them picking you. And here, the game started back up, and it would seem they [they being: Robert and Chris]: were not about yesterday, today or tomorrow, it was for them, about right now. For a black man, it was how it was, for a white man it was how it was becoming. Chris was learning about the south and Robert was to learn more about the north. Both were in the happening, both on the new world stage.

12.

The Fountain and the Test

It was forenoon, Sunday when Christopher Wright, and Henry St. Clair [the Chief], reached the town's fountain, as they talked,--thinking about the test they took yesterday, and all passed, and had to get ready to leave soon for their new assignments—which would be in a few days. The instructor gave everyone the answers in fear they'd not pass, and he'd get a bad reputation; consequently, everyone got high marks, and thank goodness for the answers, thought Chris, it was a busy three months, too much drinking, too much everything. He had sent his mother a Post Card and a picture of the rockets at the center, and watched a few future astronauts as they tried to assemble some apparatus in a big underwater tank, getting ready for a future space flight. It was a good time to be living thought Chris, and especially today, the sun was out, he had a yellow-wind-breaker on, a very light jacket. A warm wind in the air, everything seem so fresh. He had met some good friends he thought, here in Alabama [plus he hadn't known yet, but in a year from then, he'd meet Henry again, in Vietnam].

As the two sat waiting by the fountain for something to happen, sitting down smoking a cigarette, too early to get drunk, too late to get breakfast—just wasting time. Then like magic, two lovely teenage girls showed up, out of nowhere. They both looked at the two soldiers.

"Come over here," said Chris with a very approachable voice, and smile.

"What for," said the taller blond?

"Come here, we're not going to bite you, I want to take a picture with you, you the black haired gal take one of me and the blond."

"That's crazy, what for…?" said the blond.

"Well, to be honest, I want to send it back home to my friends, and also to show my Army friends what a pretty girlfriend, southern girlfriend I have or had, while here in good old Alabama; you know, show off." Everyone started laughing, and the taller blond, that looked about sixteen or seventeen, quite developed, and as pretty as a blue-jay, said to her shorter, slim, girlfriend—brunette, "Why not, a favor for the US Army."

Book: 2

A poet mirrors truth--:
Quite wittingly—upside down--;
So says, he, the clown!

[From the poem: The Clown]

Through the City and into the Woods

[Sketches of military life in the mid--seventies in Europe]

As told by Buck Sergeant Christopher Wright—l974-l977]

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