Addicted to Faith By J Hirtle

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Fri, 27 Oct 2023 19:38:00 +0000

"Fatherless" came out earlier this week. To celebrate i have a book giveaway on Goodreads. I will be giving away 100 copies to lucky readers. Click on the link below to enter for your chance to win.

I also have a promotion for signed copies running on my website, jhirtle.com. Enter the promo code "stories" to receive deep discounts!

Thanks for following and read on, friend, read on!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

fatherless

by J. Hirtle

Giveaway ends November 09, 2023.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway

Fatherless [excerpt] Coming October 2023

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Fri, 08 Sep 2023 17:57:00 +0000

Preorder "Fatherless"

Chapter 1

Spring of 1912—Choctaw County, Mississippi

Oleta Ruth Greene was born on the banks of the Yockanookany River, Choctaw County Mississippi, in the spring of 1912. Born to Miss Mavis Collins and Mister Lewis Greene. Oleta’s father was a man she never knew by anything other than Mister Greene.

On the night she was born, the father-to-be stood in the Yockanookany River up to his calves, cold water pouring in over the top of his boots. Gripping one end of a hoop net with his left hand, the river holding the other, fighting him for the right of possession. With his right, he held Mavis’s hand, for balance, and comfort. He had told her to stay in the shanty, not to come down to the river. He could handle the nets himself, been doing it for most a lifetime. It was near time for the baby to come, she should stay. But there she was, prostrated on the bank of the river, her face twisted with the pain that comes when birthing a baby.

“I’m gonna fetch some help, Mavis,” he promises her (his promise coming as the baby’s head was crowning and Mavis was cursing the gods).

“Don’t leave me here,” she cries, “Lewis, you son-of-a-bitch, don’t you leave me.”

Climbing out of the river, he dropped the net and then her hand. “Mavis, I’ll be a back with some help. I promise.”

Mister Greene made off with Mavis and her half-born baby on the muddy banks of the Yockanookany. He was never seen again.

Promise made. Promise broken.

Mavis lay on the ground staring at the night sky, rain mixing with the tear-streams running down her face. A dejected melody offered by the river completes this melancholic scene. Long-spun Spanish moss hangs from a goliath oak tree. A southerly breeze cavorts with the rain, prompting the mossy shadows to wave like the arms of a fortune teller stealing the last nickel from P.T. Barnum’s sucker. As heavy bottomed clouds trudge across the early morning sky, Mavis bears down with strength delivered by the same God she cursed, presenting her baby to a silent world. The newborn slides between thick thighs and into the numbing waters of the Yockanookany River.

Days later, Mavis lay on the filth laden floor of a one-room shanty with a new baby at her breast, wondering whom Mister Greene had been going to fetch help for. It sure the hell wasn’t her.

A story of fatherless generations embarked that night on the banks of the Yockanookany River. Spineless men destined to follow Mister Greene’s muddy footprints into the unknown. Cowards who tremble at the words—responsibility, commitment, sacrifice—runaways never looking back to see what has become of—Oleta, Clarence, Elizabeth, Otis, and Elijah.

Fathers without names. Children without fathers.

In 1915, Mavis heard that Mister Greene was living high on the hog in Chicago. She packed up everything she owned and stuffed it into a canvas bag. Everything except her determination, that she wore on her face. With three-year-old Oleta Ruth tucked under her arm, she set off for the Windy City in search of her baby’s father. Mother and daughter made it as far as Peru, Indiana before being thrown off the Atchison Topeka & Santa Fe Railway because, according to two gentleladies from St. Louis, “the child smells like shit.” Peru, a city of five square miles, was recovering from the flood of 1913. High waters had delivered massive destruction to most of the town, leaving behind few accommodations for vagabonds such as Mavis and her child.

A local farmer pointed her east, “Head down the road a bit, the circus people make camp there when winter comes. Peru Circus Farm is what the locals have come to call it. Don’t know if they farm anything, but they won’t turn you away, colored, or not. They don’t judge others. Most locals don’t like them being here, but they good people. They’ll help you. Go on down there.”

The farmer had been correct. The circus owner, an Irishman named Millard Murphy set up a shelter for Mavis and her daughter in an empty railcar smelling of hay and manure. He showed Mavis how to burn wood inside an old, galvanized tub to keep warm, warning her more than once to never let the fire jump out of the tub. Every morning, Mavis found a plate of buttermilk biscuits, two slices of bacon, and a tin cup filled with goat milk set just inside the railcar. Sitting with her back against the oily and splintered wall of the boxcar, she held her daughter as they watched the circus people move around with purpose. On some mornings, they would stop and smile a friendly greeting or kneel and make silly faces at the girl. They never asked her questions or pried where strangers should not pry. They never even asked her name. Often, Mavis would carry Oleta into one of the big barns where they would sit for hours watching the animal keepers care for the horses, elephants, and big cats. But never getting too close. Mavis taught the girl the names of all the animals. Showing her how make the sounds of the cats and the elephants. Life at the circus was meager yet filled Mavis with new hope.

In spring of 1916, as President Wilson was sending troops south in pursuit of Pancho Villa, Mavis Collins was hired by the Senger Dry Goods Company, Peru’s largest employer at the time. It was the first and only paying job Mavis ever held, earning her enough money to keep food in their bellies. Never losing her determination to get to Chicago and find that sorry bastard, Mister Greene, she set aside a portion of her earnings each week. With the circus camp closed until winter, Mavis and her daughter slept where they could, never calling one place home. Come winter, she returned to the circus camp and slept in the warmth of the world of boxcars and circus animals. In January 1925, her last winter on this side of Heaven, Mavis died from pneumonia brought on by too many hours of sleeping in boxcars and owning only one threadbare coat. Standing between a sad-faced clown and the bearded lady, young Oleta Ruth watched her mother take her last breath. Ten years after being thrown off the train because she smelled like shit, thirteen-year-old Oleta Greene was alone.

My Bucket List

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Thu, 15 Sep 2022 14:57:00 +0000

September 17, 2022-

I have shared this story every year for more than decade now. Each year I re-read it and maybe make an adjustment or two.

My Bucket List

I turned 65 years old today. I had a thought early this morning, what if this is my last birthday? What if 65 is all I have?

Throughout the day I pondered over my Bucket List. There wasn’t much pondering, you see I have never had a Bucket List. So, the task, twelve years past on my 53rd birthday, was to create my Bucket List.

I scratched my head and put teeth marks in the proverbial pencil as I mused over what would be number one on my list. Minutes then hours passed with nothing rising to the surface. So, I changed strategies, I thought about the things that I have already accomplished or have been blessed with, things that may have been on a Bucket List if I hadn’t already experienced them.

Family always comes first to mind. I was born into the most incredible family 65 years ago. I still see them every week, we still talk and hug, and we laugh and cry together. We grow old together. Last year, Mom went home to be with our Lord. I do miss seeing her, but when I am with my sisters, it is as if Mom is right there with us, urging us on.

I have lived in the Great Northwest, the South Pacific, the east coast and the great state of Texas. I have fished for rainbows in the Russian River and went snorkeling along the Coral Reef.

I have left my footprints in the sand of Hawaii’s North Shore and boot prints in the frozen snow of Alaska’s North Pole.

I had hair past my shoulders and was called a Hippie. (I may have returned to that lately, not as long and certainly not as thick).

I have served my country and been called a U.S. Marine.

I went to school with Mark Twain and Thomas Edison and tasted college for a short while. I have read Tolstoy, Dickens, Stephen King and the Bible.

I have eaten at the Ritz Carlton and Taco Bell, both on the same day.

I have had money in the bank and I have sold Coke bottles to scrape up enough to buy a pack of smokes.

I have had cancer, chemo and misery.

I have had remission, recurrence and rejoice that I am still alive.

I have been high and I have been low, so low that all I could see was the bottom.

I have run marathons and I have crawled across the cold floor on hands and knees, unable to stand because of pain.

I have gone from a 34 waist to a 38 waist and back to a 34 waist. (it is okay to applaud here)

My favorite teams have won the Super Bowl, the Stanley Cup and the World Series. I have watched a perfect game and caught a foul ball.

I have listened to Vivaldi, Miles Davis and ZZ Top, all in the same afternoon.

I have tasted Opus One in Napa Valley and drank a Lone Star beer with Willie Nelson and Mickey Gilley while sitting in the Recovery Room.

I have seen every episode of Seinfeld at least three times.

I’ve published a novel, a short story and have tucked away in the back of my imagination the Great American Novel.

I have fallen in love and out of love.

I have made love on a beach and on a mountain top.

I have had two wives, two ex-wives and six children. (Maximized the limit on both!)

I was with four of my children when they took their first breath.

I was with my father when he took his last.

I have done everything I want to do... almost. At the end of the day my Bucket List only had one thing written on it… you.

I figure if you are reading these words then you and I have at least met somewhere along the way. And I don’t know if I have ever told you the story about Jesus. You see, He is the reason I made it to 65. I know without Him I wouldn’t be here today.

So, on my Bucket List I wrote just one thing,

Today, tell someone about Jesus.

I think that someone is you, so here goes-

God loves you and me so much; He has since the very beginning of time. God knows everything from the beginning to the end; everything, every day and everybody by name. He knows your name.

So, God sent His son down from the heavens, down to earth. We called Him Jesus, teacher, King and Messiah...

and then we killed Him.

And when He died, He took all your sins and all my sins. And from a wooden cross on Calvary, He paid the cost in full. He paid the price of our admission to an eternity with God. He did it for you and me. He unhooked us!

And then, incredibly, He told us, all you must do is believe, He has done the rest. It is finished.

If you were the only one in the entire world, He would have done it all for you.

Do you believe?

Thanks for listening. Thanks for helping me finish my Bucket List.

Your Death

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Fri, 09 Sep 2022 23:09:00 +0000

Your Death

Tell me something—

How can something so massively meaningless

Mobbed with yesterday’s memories

Swarming with today’s sorrows

Teeming with bitter tears

Something from so long ago—

Leave me feeling so fucking empty

A Queen

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Fri, 09 Sep 2022 20:45:00 +0000

Pomp and circumstance, kings and queens, all unfamiliar to us on this side of the pond. But at the news of the passing of Elizabeth, Queen of England, the entire world stopped for just a moment to remember someone we really didn't know.

The following poem was penned by Queen Elizabeth I. A poem about beauty, love and lamentations. Fitting for today-

When I was Fair and Young

When I was fair and young, then favor graced me.

Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.

But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:

Go, go, go, seek some other where; importune me no more.

How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,

How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,

But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:

Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

Then spake fair Venus’ son, that proud victorious boy,

Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,

I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:

Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breast

That neither night nor day I could take any rest.

Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:

Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

Neglect

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Tue, 06 Sep 2022 00:46:00 +0000

Webster's Dictionary defines neglect as; to give little attention or respect to, or; to leave undone or unattended to especially through carelessness.

I shall accept the first to define my own neglect in attending to this blog. I have no excuses, yet numerous reasons, most of which include writing.

Today, I made available for pre-order on Amazon my newest collection of poetry titled Dark Light The Poems of a Divided Mind. Depending on how long Barnes and Noble take to approve the hard back edition, it will also soon go on pre-sale. You will be able to get either, the e-book or the hardback on October 24th.

I have also been working on a new full length novel with the tentative title of Fatherless.

Now you know my reasons, excuses if you prefer, for being absent from the blog. During this absence I have discovered numerous ways not to promote my books. Perhaps I will go into the dreary details at another time, but for now, so as not to cause more neglect, I confess to you a late night revelation-I had better response from this blog than all the other vehicles combined. Sometimes, I guess, one must be buried in a landslide of failures before looking back at who or what got you there in the first place.

S, I have committed, only to myself at this point (don't take this wrong, I am just not ready to commit to anyone else) to write here, in this old friend's house, at least three times a week. I hope to be able to keep you apprised on what's happening in my library, poetry that I may be trying, or anything else that creeps out of the darkness of my divided mind.

See you soon,

Jim

Be With Me

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Wed, 02 Feb 2022 03:56:00 +0000

Going Numb Coming to Audible

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Sat, 29 Jan 2022 17:21:00 +0000

The Old Christmas Story From "The Last Storyteller" Now on Audible!

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Mon, 22 Nov 2021 20:45:00 +0000

The Old Christmas Story

Would you like to hear a good Christmas story? Settle into a cozy chair with a warm cup of cider, embrace the words and we will go there together. Can you see that house over there, the one with red brick walls, white shutters, and a large oak tree towering in the front yard? Inside that house, there is a young girl who has lost hope this Christmas season. Her grandmother also lives there; this is her story, this Christmas story you hold in your hands. Can you see that window just to the right of the oak tree? That is the kitchen window. The girl and her grandmother are in there now. If you go stand by the tree, you will hear her story. I will go with you if that’s okay. The grandmother has propped the window open just enough to cool the Christmas pies. You can enjoy their sweet, enticing aroma as you listen; you will think you entered Heaven’s bakery! But you mustn’t touch. Just listen.

_________________________

“What do you wish for most this Christmas?” Her grandmother asks.

Carmen thought for a moment. She didn’t want to hurt her grandmother’s feelings, but Carmen already knew this Christmas would not be like the ones of the past. Grandpa had died in the spring of the year, and her grandmother had moved in with her family. Grandma living with them really wasn’t so bad—Carmen had to share a room with her little sister so that Grandma could have her own room—that wasn’t too bad, her little sister looked up to her; Carmen kind of liked that. And Grandma was a good cook, making something out of nothing was her specialty.

In August, her father had lost his job. That was a big problem. He was working now, but not making as much money. Mom said they had fallen behind on so many bills it would be well into the new year before they caught up. Carmen knew to have a nice Christmas was more important for her little sister, Beth. Beth was only seven years old and not old enough yet to understand words whispered by her parents—past due bills, making ends meet, robbing Peter to pay Paul...pawn tickets.

Her parents had never discussed things like finances with her. They were always very careful to speak about such things only if the children were not in the room, even when things had still been good. Her dad was always saying, “Let kids be kids. No reason to make them grow up too fast.” Mom thought he was being over-protective. Dad said that was his job. If they knew how many nights, she had stood in the hallway listening, they would have been upset.

Carmen turned thirteen this year. She was a teenager! When her mother had sat down to talk about this year’s Christmas, telling her how difficult it would be to surround the tree with gifts, but carefully avoiding the reasons why, she had felt very mature. Very grown up. (And just a little sad.)

Carmen thought about her grandmother’s question. The truth—she wasn’t looking forward to Christmas at all. If she could have anything she wanted for Christmas, she would want things back the way they were. Life as it was before grandpa died; before her dad lost his job. Carmen wanted her parents to answer the phone without fear that it was another bill collector calling. She wanted a pizza that didn’t come frozen in a cardboard box. She wanted the whispering to stop, the secret listening to end. She wanted her own room back. “I don’t know Grandma; I haven’t thought a lot about it.” Sounding nonchalant., Carmen offers her best smile.

Her grandmother smiles back, taking in her oldest grandchild. She admired Carmen’s long dark hair that flows past her shoulders. Her own hair had been like that so many years ago. Now it was short and silver, very grandmotherly like.

“How about a really nice brush? Your hair is so beautiful, and you should care for it with the finest of brushes.”

“That would be nice Grandma. But I have a good brush. Besides, you shouldn’t be spending money on such things. Dad said we should all be saving in case the unexpected comes again.”

“Your father is just like his father. Penny-wise to the last breath.” She told her. “But it is Christmas! A time to embrace the expected. A time for joy. A time for putting smiles on the face of children.”

“That’s right, Grandma…children. I’m not a child anymore, you know. I am thirteen, remember? Besides, I can’t get excited about Christmas this year.”

“No!” her grandmother cried. "Don’t say that, Carmen! Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. Not just for the presents and Christmas music. Not because of the decorated trees or family reunions or the wonder it brings. Every year, Christmas marks a new beginning. It brings us hope for the future.” Her grandmother had walked over to the kitchen table and sat down across from her granddaughter.

“Christmas is for children. But children come in all shapes and sizes…and ages.” Her grandmother’s smile fades just a little.

“Mom said there won’t be a lot of hope in the New Year. She said it will be sometime before we get caught up on things. It hasn’t been a very good year Grandma.” Carmen sighed, playing with the waffles on her plate. She felt little like eating.

“Your mom may be right, only time will tell. But that is not the kind of hope that I am speaking of.”

A puzzled look came over Carmen’s face.

“The hope, the sincere hope I speak of, is the hope which came with the very first Christmas.” Her grandmother picked up a fork and stabbed a piece of waffle from Carmen’s plate, “Someone has to eat it.” She said plopping the morsel into her mouth.

Carmen knew what was coming next. Grandma could find a reason to talk about the Bible in just about any situation. Every Sunday, since she had moved into their house, Grandma invited the girls to come to church with her. Carmen’s parents didn’t attend church very often, maybe Easter and Christmas. But they didn’t mind Grandma extending her invitation. Carmen’s mother did tell her it was the children's decision to go or not. Beth went with her grandmother every Sunday and sometimes on Wednesdays too, if she didn’t have homework. Carmen had only been a handful of times, but she had attended Vacation Bible School over the summer…that had been loads of fun. But getting up early on Sundays to go and listen to someone talk about things she didn’t understand, just wasn’t for her.

Just as she knew she would, her grandmother began speaking about — “Carmen, do you remember the story of the first Christmas?” She asks.

“Yes. I have heard it many times. You tell it every Christmas Grandma.” Carmen said matter-of-factually.

From the stove. a tea kettle whistles a tune.

“Ah, the water is ready,” Grandma said, “Would you like some hot chocolate? It is a perfect morning for a nice warm treat.”

She didn’t wait for her granddaughter to answer; walking to the cupboard she removed two Santa mugs from the shelf and made the chocolate drink. Carmen could see the steam rising above the ceramic Santa cap.

“Marshmallows?” She asked.

“No thank you.”

The little round lady with the silver hair returns to the table sitting one hot mug in front of Carmen.

“Now tell me, what do you remember about the Christmas story?”

Carmen felt irritation trying to surface. She didn’t want to be rude or short towards her grandmother. All she wanted to do was to finish her breakfast and then go find her friends outside. It had snowed enough to have an epic snowball fight—boys verse girls!

“Grandma I have heard that old story so many times. It’s about a baby, his parents, no room at the inn, and about three old men bringing gifts. Blah, blah blah…”

As soon as the third “blah” left her lips Carmen regretted it.

“I’m sorry Grandma,” she said, “it’s just that the stories from the Bible are hard to understand, with all the “thee’s” and “thou’s”. I guess maybe when I am grown up, I will understand them better.”

“That may be true, Carmen. But did you know that old story is about children?”

Carmen’s brow crinkled with wrinkles, looking amazingly like her father deep in thought.

“I know there is a baby…”

“Well, there were two babies. Mary, the mother of Jesus, had a cousin named Elizabeth…”

“Just like my sister!” Carmen exclaimed.

“Yes, just like your sister. Well anyway, an angel named Gabriel appeared before Elizabeth’s husband, his name was Zacharias. Gabriel told Zacharias Elizabeth would have a baby, a boy. Their son would be called John.”

“I don’t remember there being a baby called John,” Carmen said.

“Well, there was. But the Bible tells us his story after he is all grown up; that would come much later. Gabriel, the angel, told Zacharias, “And many of the children of Israel shall he turn to the Lord their God.” And he did! He was called John the Baptist.”

“I remember reading about him.” Carmen chimed. “Were there any other children in the Christmas story?”

“Oh yes!” Grandma said, snatching another bite of waffle from the plate. “There was Mary.”

“Mary? Jesus’ mother, Mary?” Carmen asked.

“The very one.”

“She wasn’t a child, Grandma.”

“But she was! Historians believe she was just fourteen or fifteen years old. Mary was just a little older than you Carmen.”

“That is very young to be a mother, isn’t it Grandma?” Fine lines of concern cross the young girl’s brow.

“Well, things were much different then, Carmen. I do know this; God chose Mary to be the mother of Jesus. And that is all I need to know.”

“Two babies and Mary. Were there more children, Grandma?”

“There was. But let’s not get there too fast.” She stood to top off her cup of hot chocolate. From the counter, she spoke—

“You remember Carmen; Joseph and Mary had traveled to a city called Bethlehem to pay taxes to Caesar. Many families had also come to the city to be counted in the census. The town was very crowded, Joseph and Mary could not find a room in which they could spend the night.”

“I remember, they had to stay in a barn!” Carmen called out.

“Yes, a barn or a stable,” Grandma replies, returning to the table with a fresh mug of hot chocolate.

“That must have been awful for them Grandma.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But it was that night, in a dirty old stable, God brought into the world a very special baby. A baby who would change our world forever. There in that old stable, with the animals as witnesses, Mary gave birth to a baby boy. Then gently, she laid him in the manger to keep him warm. She would name him Jesus.”

“We have a nativity under the Christmas tree, Grandma.”

“I know, I saw it. It is quite exquisite. It reminds us of the reason we celebrate Christmas.”

“You said there were more children in the story.” Carmen’s earlier reluctance to talking about Bible stories seems to have faded away.

“And there were. In a field, not too far away from Bethlehem, there were shepherds watching over their sheep. They would keep watch the whole night through to make sure no uninvited beasts would harm the flock.”

“Oh, what kind of beasts? If there were children in the field, they must have been so afraid. Were there children there, Grandma?” Carmen had scooted to the edge of her chair, clasping her hands together.

“Yes, there were children, and they were afraid. But not how you might think. Many of the shepherds were very young, like you Carmen. From an early age, the boys were taught by their fathers to protect the family’s flock. And on that night, over two thousand years ago. the Angel of the Lord appeared before them. Oh, those young boys were so afraid. They had never seen such a sight.” Carmen’s grandmother pauses, sipping her chocolate, looking out the kitchen window at the snow falling from the gray skies, the flakes dancing for just a moment on the chilly air before descending to the snow-covered ground. Her eyes sparkling at what she sees.

“What did they do Grandma?”

Returning her attention to Carmen, “They listened. The angel spoke to them saying, “Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.” Reaching across the table, she closes her wrinkled fingers around Carmen's hand. “Oh, my dearest granddaughter, can you imagine what a sight this must have been for those young lads. In the dark of night, an angel appears and tells them that the Christ has been born!”

“What happened next Grandma?” Carmen asks.

“Suddenly, the sky filled with angels, heavenly hosts, singing praise to God—peace on earth and goodwill toward men.”

“Do you hear the bells they’re ringing?” Carmen sings, “I know that song Grandma, we sang it in choir this year.”

“And it was wonderful.” She replies. “After the angels were gone, the shepherd boys knew they must go to Bethlehem and see the baby who would be a King. Leaving their sheep, wasting not a moment, they ran to Bethlehem.”

“Did they get to see him? Did they see the baby Jesus?” Carmen was sitting on the edge of her seat again.

“Well yes, they did. So now Carmen, tell me—what have you heard so far in this old Christmas story?”

“What do you mean Grandma?” Carmen asked.

“Did you hear the hope?”

Carmen sighs, “Hope? No, I don’t think so.”

“Well let’s look closely. Joseph and Mary had to leave their home…just like I did. Only for a very different reason. Regardless, leaving home is terribly difficult. You see, Carmen when you leave home, you leave behind the things memories are made of. Joseph and Mary didn’t even know where they would stay when they arrived in Bethlehem. But God made them a way. And certainly, new memories. Incredible memories. Just like he did for me.”

“Here, in our home!” Carmen said.

“Yes! And now I will make new memories! Joseph and Mary would never forget that night, I am quite certain of that.”

“Did Joseph lose his job like my dad?” The young girl asks.

“I don’t know about that. Joseph and Mary had to travel all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem by foot. That’s almost eighty miles. Now during their journey, which probably took about seven or eight days, Joseph wouldn’t have been working. So that young couple would have depended on God to provide for them. Just as He does for you and your family!”

“Wow!” Carmen exclaims.

“You see even when we go through challenging times, God still provides us hope. If we believe in Him. If we trust.”

Carmen sits silently, thinking. Tilting her head, she asks, “What about the barn animals? Did they have hope too?”

Her grandmother smiles, patting Carmen on the head. “Not like us.” She thinks for a moment, choosing her words, “I do believe they knew something special was happening. A new King was to be born. They gave up their room just like you did for me. They moved away from the young couple and watched silently as a miracle was born right in their midst.”

“Wow! Pretty cool.” Carmen smiles again.

“The animals accepted the infant King into their home just as we must accept Him into our hearts.” She blinks away a tear.

Carmen was looking across the room, thinking, “What about the shepherd boys, Grandma? What about their hope?”

“Well, I didn’t finish the story now did I?” Smiling, she wipes her cheek, "The shepherd boys traveled all the way to the City of David, Bethlehem. When at last they saw the baby Jesus, they were so amazed.” Her Grandma pauses—looking at her grandchild.

“And when they had seen, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.”

“What does that mean Grandma?”

“It means, my dear child, they traveled everywhere telling everyone the good news—a child had been born in Bethlehem, a child who is Christ the Lord.”

Her grandmother pauses again. “It is only with hope…Christmas hope…that one could carry such a message. And it is only with belief that one can have such hope!”

The old woman stands up from the table and stretches her arms high above her head. With a little yawn and a quiet smile, she looks out the kitchen window, over the pies and to the old oak tree —smiling, she asks “Do you believe?”

Whisper Dancing

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Sat, 04 Sep 2021 17:08:00 +0000

Whisper Dancing, the third collection of short stories in The Last Storyteller trilogy is available in paperback and electronically. The Audible edition will be available October.

Whisper Dancing

Follows is an excerpt from the title story-

The child was ill most of time, perhaps the cold floor took more than it gave. One year, Patricia Mae fell ill with pneumonia. Her mother had saved pennies, hiding them away in an old milk jug, in hopes Christmas morning would include candy for her children. Carrying the milk jug under one arm and little Patricia under the other, Emma trudged through the muddy streets of Eastie with her head bowed against the wind and stinging sleet, to the only physician practicing in East Boston. A gentle man of sixty (maybe seventy), bent at the waste, wearing wired spectacles balanced on the tip of his bulbous nose. His hair as white as snow, and his voice barely a whisper. The good doctor waived his customary fee when presented with the milk jug half-filled with pennies. His nurse, a young girl from Scotland, calmed the small child, Patricia, by making silly faces and singing nursery rhymes while the doctor administered care. The young nurse, Ailisa Barrie by name, fascinated the small girl. Patricia Anne giggled at her Scottish accent and silly faces. Secretly, Patricia wanted to be just like Ailisa. A dozen years later, her dreams come true. She realized the only way out of Eastie and the crowded two-room apartment (although by that time only four of the seven children stilled resided there) was to go to nursing school. Massachusetts General Hospital had opened a nursing program a year earlier. Patricia worked diligently and was accepted into the program on the eve of her 16^th birthday. Four times a week, she woke before the sun peeked over the Atlantic, and walked the dark streets of Eastie to catch the first ferry to Boston, home of Massachusetts General Hospital. The night sky was her only companion when, after a long day of learning the skills of Florence Nightingale, she boarded the last ferry back to Eastie. It was during a return trip home she met the young man she would marry, Thomas, “Red” Quinn.

Quinn, riding the ferry every day to work in the booming textile industry, possessed the same determination to escape the poverty of East Boston as his future bride did. The textile industry paid twice the wages of that of a boat builder and promised futures not more boats.

Each evening, as the ferry crossed the harbor, he would stand next to Patricia, holding onto the rails, secretly hoping her hand would brush against his. Gazing across the water and sharing his dreams of one day attending Harvard and hers of becoming a nurse, Thomas Quinn fell in love with the girl from Eastie.

By One's Hand

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Mon, 23 Aug 2021 19:23:00 +0000

By One’s Hand

Oh, Death where is your ring?

How many more moons will crown the vault of Heaven

Ere’ your folded, flesh-starved fingers

Surround bells that toll

Will you approach, hearing my cries

Rising from the depths of despair

Begging for you specter

Longing to taste your stale breath

Across my lips

Cruelly ignoring my last song

Tarrying within the darkness

Of wicked reverie and irrevocable return

A sneer scintillating deadly desires

Oh, Death lay bare how long

Ere’ the blade in my hand’s

Querulous path draws forth

Crimson streams freeing the scars of misery

Discharging the captor called Opium

Come, whisper caustic rhymes in my ear

Exhaling breath tainted

With the stench of annihilation

Usher me into your bosom

Persuade my wavering hand

To carve away

Etching an endless trail

Of miserly shame

Doing what the gods have denied

Doing…

What I have been unable to do

POSITIVE TEST

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Fri, 20 Aug 2021 15:55:00 +0000

Peculiar words crawling over the pages of my journal

Leafs of beige bound by counterfeit leather

Small enough to rest within my palm

Masks, quarantine, isolation, Covid, Alone

Lyrics scribbled upon blue lines traversing

Three hundred and more pages, one page for each day

Turning back the ink-smudged pages

A quest for what I have forgotten

Notions pilfered by a thief in the night

Named Rum

To page twenty-six I turn

The day you left wearing your blue mask

Stained by tears of unknown fright

“It is just the sniffles”

I proffer

From behind my unmasked face

You wanted to believe me

More than the three-letter castle of mandarins

More than the bespectacled practitioner

With a silly name and fat wallet

More than the curve refusing to flatten

You wanted to believe

You didn’t believe

Donning your blue mask

Saddled by purse overflowing

With vessels of purity

You left me

Page thirty-one

You called to talk to me

“It is just the sniffles”

I vow

“Come home, to me”

I am tired of being alone

“I cannot” you cried

Poised on the line between manic and truth

Page sixty-seven

A text-no voice

Punctuated with a red heart emoji

“Come home” I reply (no emoji)

“I cannot”

You lie

Page ninety-nine

Just a X

Scrawled in burgundy stain

I may have been drunk

Ask Rum, he never lies

Pages one-hundred and beyond

Echoed words defining a new norm

No one really likes

You do not call me anymore

(Or text)

Blank pages

Suddenly something new

Page three-hundred and eighteen

A fresh word

Vaccine

Page three hundred and nineteen

You toss a text, smiling

Vaccine Vaccine! Wear your mask and run!

Followed by a flexing bicep emoji

“For the sniffles?”

I reply

You don’t

Page…today

New words—

Positive Test

For you

And your mask

And your purity in a bottle

And your Vaccine Vaccine

And your leaving

Sniffle, sniffle

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Thu, 19 Aug 2021 01:37:00 +0000

Mankind

If mankind

Peers into the eyes reflected upon silver glass

Spurning egos nestled deep inside

You would know my Image

If mankind

Sets his ear against the winds of early morn

Traveling endlessly from east to west

You would hear my Voice

If mankind

Would rise above this mutinous orb

Mocking all desires

You would realize my Mercy

If mankind

Opened their hands releasing all worries

Escaping upon feathered wings

You would feel my Grace

If mankind

Holds my creation against his beating heart

Exploring the knowledge found in every seed

In every valley, on every mountain

You would know my Name

If mankind

Will…

You would know my love

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Thu, 10 Jun 2021 14:45:00 +0000

New Cover. New Content.

It was time to finish her story.

Going Numb

"Why are you doing this?" I asked her.

"I want to go numb," Addison replied.

For twenty years my wife battled an addiction to prescribed pain killers. Opiates disuniting her from a husband, from a family and from God. Slowly her need to go numb replacing all else. This is her story. And mine. A story of how faith was challenged as I walked through life with an addict, entering into valleys where the light never shines. Two decades of searching for hope in the dim, jagged Valley of Opiates, where doctors carelessly dispense the coveted painkiller without guilt. Over and over the opiates conquering her mind, until one day, she fell. It was time to write her story.

Glass Lover

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Mon, 12 Apr 2021 22:19:00 +0000

Cold glass against my palm

Fingers embracing memories

Curled in anticipation

Grasping what you hold inside

Amber liquid glistening under a bare bulb of secrecy

I listen for intruders who will take you away from me

Unwarranted fears wrapped in phony concerns

Hidden behind their smiling faces

Whispering words disguised as encouragement

They don’t know you

I lift your mouth to my lips

Your bitter-sweet aroma invades my nostrils

A relic of nights holding a glass lover against my pulsating heart

Abandoned by all others, you never forsook me

I have longed for your taste

Your warmth violates every nerve

Until the room spins like Dorothy’s Exodus

I fall upon the land of dreams of white nothingness

Blacked out again

Until we meet again

Under the bare bulb of secrecy

Her Name Was Lola

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Fri, 19 Feb 2021 01:37:00 +0000

What do I do now? It’s not as if this crawled up the path like a sloth on Valium. Getting old is a process. An unavoidable process unless…well, unless you die before you reach the age of “old.” And who determines when that is? Not the dying, the getting old. What boxes do you check? Physical changes? Graying hair, wrinkled skin, sagging middle (not to mention other areas). Forgetfulness. Check. Check. Check. And check. I am old. Been that way for a while, but never wanted to admit it or face the ugly truth. Sitting in the dark long enough has a strange way of opening your eyes. I am not being metaphorical. I am literally sitting in the dark. Dark and cold. It’s been that way, off and on, for seven days. Second week of February, the month of love and dead flowers. A winter storm like south Texas has never seen. It looks like those idiot progressive tree-hugging-climate-changing morons were right. Day one, it was beautiful. Snow falling on dead Bermuda grass, turning my backyard into a winter wonderland. Day two, around dusk, the temperature dropped into the single digits. Things lose their beauty when cold turns to frigid. On the third day we didn’t have any degrees. Below zero, two words rarely heard in this part of the country. The wind-chill added misery to misery. The weather girl seemed almost giddy standing in front of the green screen with words blaring—

WIND CHILL -40 DEGREES! STAY INSIDE!

The power went out shortly after that. Haven’t seen the giddy weather girl or her helpful hints since.

The power was off and on. More off than on. They call it rolling blackouts. It rolled down hill like a boulder, crushing anything in its path. When it came on, usually for about twenty minutes, I plugged in my cell phone and laptop, made a fresh brew of coffee, and toasted a muffin. I finished the muffin (with lukewarm orange marmalade) just as the lights went out again. Cable was out, no reason to turn the boob-tube on. My neighbor, an old fart and not very sociable, had his stereo or CD player turned up full volume. Each time the electricity came back on I heard-

“Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl, with yellow feathers in her hair…” Same song, over and over. Catchy tune. Gets stuck in your crawl. Until the thirty-first time hearing it. Then it just grates. Who sang that damn song? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Forgetfulness—Check.

Neighbor’s name is Arthur Lupin. Lupin, like the cat burglar in Sherlock Holmes. He drinks too much and plays his music too loudly. I think he might be dead. Fourteen hours without lights or heat this time. It’s not rolling anymore. More like D.O.A.

Arthur Lupin is old. There is no arguing with that. He uses a walker and drags an oxygen tank behind him. I should go check on him, but if he ain’t dead I would have to listen to him tell me about the time he fought in the Golden Gloves Championship. He is old and a liar. I googled it. No electricity for fourteen hours, but it has been longer than that since Lola, with yellow feathers in her hair, graced the airwaves. He is dead. Got to be.

Day two of the Winter Storm of the Century (the news people feel like they must give everything a name), before the temperature dropped to single digits, I went out in the backyard and built a snowman. I was acting like a little kid. Building a snowman and catching snowflakes on my tongue. Except, I had to sit down several times to catch my breath.

I was hoping to build the snowman with my grandson. He has never seen snow. His momma (my youngest daughter), and the boy went to her friend’s house. He has a fireplace and running water. She would have stayed with me if I asked her to. But I didn’t. I saw the writing on the wall. I sure miss that boy. Playing in the snow with him, making smores by candlelight, telling scary stories with the lights out (not too scary, Grandpa), would have made this more tolerable. Well, maybe next time.

Sunday morning, when I woke, the lights were still out. It must have been forty degrees inside. Can’t know for sure because the smart thermostat ain’t smart enough to stay on during a blackout. My smartphone told me it 4:30 and minus 1° outside. Sitting on the side of the bed, I said a prayer to God. I figure he can hear them no matter how cold it is. Then I remembered I have a generator out in the shed (a light from God!). I bought it a few years ago for a camping trip. It’s not one of those big ones, but it was better than what the utility company was giving me. I dressed, three layers. Don’t know who came up with that rule, but I wasn’t arguing. The padlock was frozen solid. I knew a generator was behind the doors to that shed and I couldn’t get to the damn thing. Back inside, I grabbed my disposable Bic lighter off my desk and carefully navigated the slippery slope back to the shed. Did you know it is impossible to flick you Bic while wearing gloves? My hand about froze off lighting and relighting that little blue lighter with a Cowboys helmet on the side. It took a while with the wind blowing, but I finally heard the lock drop open. I had to move some boxes and a wheelbarrow with a flat tire out of the way before finding the little orange generator. The little red gas can that I would need to fill the little orange generator was empty. I was feeling a little sick.

I made breakfast. Cold English Muffins and cold day-old coffee. Wouldn’t recommend either. I fell asleep on the sofa. I woke with a crick in my neck and my hand still hurting from the gloveless adventure. If the electricity came back on, I had missed it. I checked my phone and still had better than 50% battery life. I wondered why my daughter hadn’t called to check on me. For that matter, none of my children had called. That’s my fault. I don’t share feelings and such with my kids. I figure they have enough problems of their own. No reason to worry about mine. I hope they are okay. I could call them, but I need to preserve the battery in case of an emergency. Like the neighbor dying. Who are you going to call, Jimmy? Another sign of getting old—talking to one’s self.

Sunday and into Monday, the power came back on every few hours. I managed a surprisingly good routine. Plug in the phone and the laptop, brew fresh coffee and cook whatever there was to eat that would take only a few minutes to reach the edible stage. Monday evening, the power was on long enough to cook up some bacon and eggs. I wanted some peaches with dinner, but the lights went out before I could open the can. I haven’t owned a manual-twist the top off-can opener in more years than I can count. After supper, I bundled up and sat on the back porch with a lukewarm cup of coffee, enjoying the beauty of this unexpected and rare winter wonderland. I placed a cigarette between my trembling lips (the only vice I have left). I knew I would have to remove a glove to ignite the Bic, but the anticipation of nicotine was greater than the fear of frozen fingers. The lighter is dead. Nothing but sparks. I tossed the coffee, the unburnt cigarette, and the useless Bic into the snow. Over the next few hours, I obsessed over ways to light a cigarette. No matches in the house. The only lighter was dead. I considered rubbing two pieces of wood together of finding flint and rock and pounding them until the life giving (nicotine giving) flame jumps forth. At the end of the mania tour, I accomplished only one thing; I need to quit smoking—two things—I am not a good outdoorsman.

On Tuesday, I read the “Book Thief” when there was enough light in the house to see. Lupin’s Lola only made a couple of appearances that day. Loud and proud. The interval between lights on and lights off was getting much longer. I still couldn’t remember who sang that stupid song. I’ve run out of muffins and coffee. I forgot to charge my phone. When the power came back on briefly Tuesday night, I plugged it in. A missed call from my daughter. I went to bed early, nothing else to do. I couldn’t sleep, too worried about an empty medicine bottle sitting by the bathroom sink. I took my last pill. The ones I take to help me breathe. PSA—smoking leads to C.O.P.D. PSA number two—don’t run out of your medicine.

Yesterday was bad. Everything left to eat is either in a can that I can’t open or spoiled. I chewed on uncooked spaghetti noodles. This moment of genius brought on a coughing fit. I can’t find my inhaler. I think it might be under the snow. My daughter bought me an oximeter last year after I spent a week in the hospital. My O2 sats where down to 94 when I woke up. After the attack of the spaghetti noodles, it dropped to 91. I slept almost all-day Wednesday. The showgirl named Lola serenading me to sleep.

It is freezing. I can see my breath. I thought of getting out of bed to fetch more blankets. My sats dropped again, so I will just lay here dreaming about the Copacabana, the hottest spot north of Havana…

Manilow! Barry Frickin Manilow!

I am old.

O2 sats-87

What do I do now?

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Sat, 13 Feb 2021 21:34:00 +0000

Winter has made a most unusual appearance in south Texas with temperatures predicted to fall into single digits. Armed with a cup of hot chocolate and a thick sweater, I sat down at my writing desk to pen more stories for the third book in the Storyteller series-Whisper Dancing. Below is an excerpt from the title story. Enjoy! And if you do, please take a virtual jaunt to my author's page (J Hirtle Books) and pick up a copy of one of my books. Thanks in advance and stay warm.

From "Whisper Dancing"

“Someone broke you heart?” Clara asks.

“No.”

“You answer too quickly. You are lying to me, Jimmy Quinn.” Peering through the keyhole, “Who was she? Who broke your heart?”

He can feel her eyes watching him. Turning away before answering, “She didn’t break my heart. Life did. Her name is Laura. Life broke everything when we moved here, away from Cambridgeport. Not long after, she wrote me and told me she was moving to Texas with her father. Her mother died from the flu. I haven’t heard from her since. I may never see her again.”

“Perhaps you will. Did you love her?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“And yet your heart aches.”

Silence re-enters the rooms separated by a door locked by greedy capitalist. The space behind the wardrobe grows darker with the withdrawal of day. The young pair, unknown to each other just hours before, lost in thought, consider what the future may bring. Jimmy breaks the silence—

“There was no music.”

“What do you mean?” Clara, whose name means bright and clear, asks.

“When you were dancing. There was no music. You have a music machine, but no music.”

Clara laughs. “Music machine! It is called a phonograph, silly boy. Have you never seen one?”

“Of course. I just didn’t know…”

“It doesn’t matter. The phonograph…the music machine does not work. The gears are broken. But I don’t need that stupid thing. I can hear the music.”

“Like in your mind?”

“No, not in my mind. I can hear the music, just as I hear you.” Clara places her mouth close to the keyhole, “The music whispers to me, Jimmy Quinn.”

His heart jumps. Who is this girl?

“Whisper dancing?”

“Yes! Yes, that is what I do, Jimmy. That is wonderful! Whisper dancing! You are a clever boy Jimmy Quinn. I would give you a hug if not for this stupid door!”

“Jimmy, supper is ready,” his grandmother’s voice interrupting the revelation.

“Come back tomorrow, young Mister Quinn. I look forward to the intrigue.”

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Wed, 25 Nov 2020 19:46:00 +0000

I haven't penned many poems about the holiday season upon us. One of my favorites is called "Three Words". I offer it to you now as a gift of Thanksgivings. Gratitude for your friendship, your loyal following and reading my back porch musings. I hope you like "Three Words". You can get my latest collection of poetry at Barnes & Noble or on Amazon by clicking the links on top of the page.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Three Words

As precious as gold

Your bronze skin shimmers under the crystal lights

Too many nights I have longed

To again inhale your sweet bouquet

Where have you been?

The fragrant marrow flows past those

gathered to steal just one glance at you

I inhale deeply, igniting memories of our past.

You lay waiting

Your golden skin concealed beneath the alabaster blanket

Just as this night, I inhaled your toxins

I longed to feel your golden flesh

To taste your moistness

To hear those three words

Sung one more time

Where have you been?

I have waited too long

I spy the one who has brought you here tonight

He stands, speaking meaningless words

They have come for you

Not his pointless pondering

I have come for you

To hear those three words

Sung one more time

I see what the others cannot

I know your skin trembles in anticipation

Two united once again

The crystal lights dance,

reflected in the cold steel

He holds in his calloused hand

With lightning speed, the razor-sharp edge comes down

Slicing through your beauty

I see the amber fluids flow

And then they come

Just three words…

"Pass the gravy"

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Wed, 11 Nov 2020 19:11:00 +0000

Download your copy of "The Voiceless Quill" today.

The Voiceless Quill

woke

day one

you woke

everything you thought you were before you closed your eyes and inhaled the dreams of your twisted line,

is discovered to be a lie

a falsehood, trickery, fabrication

disappearing behind a cloak of aberration

crawling on hands stuck to scarred wrists

pilfering life from dumpsters of deception

avoiding the glares of incandescent veneer

snubbing red streaked orbs within the mirror

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Tue, 10 Nov 2020 02:18:00 +0000

The Voiceless Quill

From "The Voiceless Quill" now available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble-

Her

May I tell you about her?

Someone will need to remember

My memories are dying quicker than I

May I tell you about her?

Please, before they are gone

She wasn’t supposed to be first

She was to care for me

The first-time I saw her, I loved her

Her hair was the color of the sun

Her eyes as blue as crystals at the bottom of the sea

Her laughter was a symphony composed by angels

Her skin was the silk of gods

Her face...

I can’t remember her face

It hurts in my heart

I don’t want to cry tonight

But if I cry tomorrow

I won’t remember why

May I tell you about her?

When her pain came

She would take my hand, leaning close

Whispering fantasies

I could taste her lips

She kissed away my sorrows

Whispering words of…

I can’t remember

Who is that?

Can you tell me about her?

The one in the photo

Resting upon my nightstand

Do you know her?

Her hair is the eye of heaven

Alabaster skin I long to touch

Her smile is sad

She is beautiful

Please, Will you...tell me about her

Before I’m gone

Yes Virginia, there is privilege

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Tue, 13 Oct 2020 00:28:00 +0000

Earlier today, I read a post on social media from a man who identified himself as a nurse. An E.R. nurse. An emergency room nightingale. A noble profession indeed. In his post, perhaps better described as a rant, the nurse whined about the treatment our President received while in the hospital after testing positive for the Virus. The nurse complained about everything from the treatment the President received, to the cost of treatments, to the lack of available treatment for others. He ended his post by writing, “That, my friends, is privilege.” I assume he was referring to the President’s treatment and not everything else he belly-ached about.

Well, this E.R. nurse is correct. The President of the United States, the most power office on the face of the earth, held by Donald J. Trump, received treatment in a manner that can only be described as privileged. As he should.

He received this benefit in the same way the E.R. Nurse obtained the privilege to add to his title, the words E.R. Nurse, or R.N if so earned. Or in the manner a Doctor of Medicine can carry the tittle of M.D, or Ph.D. Lawyers display the title Esq., accountants, C.P.A., engineers, P.E. Each of these are privileges bestowed upon individuals. A father who is granted the privilege to walk his daughter down the aisle. A soldier wearing an insignia of rank, or medals upon chest, a police officer wearing a badge, a football team hoisting the Lombardi Trophy, are all privileges that stem from determination, hard work, blood, sweat, tears and immeasurable sacrifice.

Privilege is not given or earned because of the color of your skin, your gender, who you were born to, or where you were born. Don’t be shocked, but you had nothing do with any of these. If you consider yourself as privileged because you have a silver spoon in your mouth, you have lily white skin, or a set of testicles between your legs, you are wrong. You are not privileged… you are ignorant.

You are just as ignorant when you think someone else’s privilege stems from genetics.

The President has privileges you or I do not have. Call it White (house) Privilege if you must color it. This privilege comes at a great cost. It is deserving of the office and of the occupant. The ranting E.R. Nurse has another set of privileges that I or even the President do not have. They too, came at a cost.

It is time to wake up and realize we are not all the same. There are those that are better than you, smarter than you, stronger than you, or have more money than you. If you want what they have, go earn it! Dry your pitiful tears and silence your annoying moans, nobody is listening. We are out discovering the means to our own privilege.

I would think an educated person like a nurse would understand, privilege exists.

I would be negligent when speaking of privilege if I omitted the greatest privilege of all. A privilege that does not require your blood or sweat. It does not require your sacrifice. These were all accomplished for you by someone else hanging on a cross on a hill called Calvary. The privilege I speak of is to be called a Child of God. I could not earn this title, couldn’t buy it, steal it, or forge it. It is the privilege given by God when He chose me. Even as His own son, Jesus Christ was dying.

He chose you too. Have you met Him?

Thank your for listening. It has been my privilege.

God Bless

My Bucket List

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Thu, 17 Sep 2020 15:42:00 +0000

September 17, 2020-

I have shared this story every year for a decade now. Each year I re-read it and maybe make an adjustment or two. In this most unusual year, adding to a Bucket List anything beyond the obvious of survival or the extinction of paper masks would seem frivolous. So, I offer, for your reading enjoyment, the rudimentary Bucket List.

My Bucket List

I turned 63 years old today. I had a thought early this morning, what if this is my last birthday? What if 63 is all I have?

Throughout the day I pondered over my Bucket List. There wasn’t much pondering, you see I have never had a Bucket List. So, the task, ten years past on my 53rd birthday, was to create my Bucket List.
I scratched my head and put teeth marks in the proverbial pencil as I mused over what would be number one on my list. Minutes then hours passed with nothing rising to the surface. So, I changed strategies, I thought about the things that I have already accomplished or have been blessed with, things that may have been on a Bucket List if I hadn’t already experienced them.

Family always comes first to mind. I was born into the most incredible family 63 years ago. I still see them every week, we still talk and hug, and we laugh and cry together. We grow old together.

I have lived in the Great Northwest, the South Pacific, the east coast and the great state of Texas. I have fished for rainbows in the Russian River and went snorkeling along the Coral Reef.

I have left my footprints in the sand of Hawaii’s North Shore and boot prints in the frozen snow of Alaska’s North Pole.

I had hair past my shoulders and was called a Hippie.

I have served my country and been called a U.S. Marine.

I went to school with Mark Twain and Thomas Edison and tasted college for a short while. I have read Tolstoy, Dickens, Stephen King and the Bible.

I have eaten at the Ritz Carlton and Taco Bell, both on the same day.

I have had money in the bank and I have sold Coke bottles to scrape up enough to buy a pack of smokes.

I have had cancer, chemo and misery.

I have had remission, recurrence and rejoice that I am still alive.

I have been high and I have been low, so low that all I could see was the bottom.

I have run marathons and I have crawled across the cold floor on hands and knees, unable to stand because of pain.

I have gone from a 34 waist to a 38 waist and back to a 34 waist. (it is okay to applaud here)

My favorite teams have won the Super Bowl, the Stanley Cup and the World Series. I have watched a perfect game and caught a foul ball.

I have listened to Vivaldi, Miles Davis and ZZ Top, all in the same afternoon.

I have tasted Opus One in Napa Valley and drank a Lone Star beer with Willie Nelson and Mickey Gilley while sitting in the Recovery Room.

I have seen every episode of Seinfeld at least three times.

I’ve published a novel, a short story and have tucked away in the back of my imagination the Great American Novel.

I have fallen in love and out of love.

I have made love on a beach and on a mountain top.

I have had two wives, two ex-wives and six children. (Maximized the limit on both!)

I was with four of my children when they took their first breath.

I was with my father when he took his last.

I have done everything I want to do... almost. At the end of the day my Bucket List only had one thing written on it… you.

I figure if you are reading these words then you and I have at least met somewhere along the way. And I don’t know if I have ever told you the story about Jesus. You see, He is the reason I made it to 63. I know without Him I wouldn’t be here today.

So, on my Bucket List I wrote just one thing,

Today, tell someone about Jesus.

I think that someone is you, so here goes-

God loves you and me so much; He has since the very beginning of time. God knows everything from the beginning to the end; everything, every day and everybody by name. He knows your name.

God knew that we would never love Him as He loves us. He knew until we loved Him as he loves us we would be separated forever and ever. But we can't love like that because...because we are hooked on sin.

So, God sent His son down from the heavens, down to earth. We called Him Jesus, teacher, King and Messiah...

and then we killed Him.

And when He died, He took all your sins and all my sins. And from a wooden cross on Calvary, He paid the cost in full. He paid the price of our admission to an eternity with God. He did it for you and me. He unhooked us!

And then, incredibly, He told us, all you must do is believe, He has done the rest. It is finished.

If you were the only one in the entire world, He would have done it all for you.

Do you believe?

Thanks for listening. Thanks for helping me finish my Bucket List.

Woke

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Wed, 09 Sep 2020 22:39:00 +0000

day one

you woke

everything you thought you were,

before you closed your eyes and inhaled the dreams of your twisted line,

is discovered to be a lie

a falsehood, trickery, fabrication

disappearing behind a cloak of aberration

crawling on hands stuck to scarred wrists

pilfering life from dumpsters of deception

avoiding the glares of incandescent veneer

snubbing red streaked orbs within the mirror

you woke

purity of thoughts

not meant to be shifted, changed, sliced, diced, redefined, realigned

altered by a syringe of soiled crystalline

caressing an ignorant conscious

boasting to change God’s perfect design

you woke

celestial spirits scraping scales from your denying eyes

looking down to discover god created you

to look up

day one

you woke

sober

A Day When...

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Thu, 06 Aug 2020 00:19:00 +0000

Sevenscore and ten days

(that would be one-hundred and fifty, Gen-Xers)

sitting behind blackout curtains veiled from the Summer’s sun and paper masked people exhaling too loudly

Counting and recounting the coins in my old fat wine jar

Sanitizing nickels, dimes, quarters, and the pennies too (so many pennies)

Just in case, you know

Eating ramen and miniature weenies floating in fruity beans

Drinking milk three, now four, days beyond the good date

On special nights, an onion sandwich (on a single slice of bread for one must act sparingly, miserly if you prefer, and drink lumpy milk when one is counting copper coins)

Fruity beans, onions, and curdled milk

No one to offend but myself sitting behind blackout curtains

With only the metallic Alexa to listen to my moans

Alexa, should I worry?

Her answer never comes (she is capricious at times) into the dark and lonely room where I sit waiting for the day when they flatten the fattening curve when red numbers turn to black numbers…

A day when I pull away the blackout curtains and open the door

Standing on my porch, inhaling without a mask hiding my smile

A day when I sit beneath the Friday Night Lights listening to helmet on helmet, brass horns and beating drums, cheerleaders cheering meaningless words

A day when Autumn coaxes colorful leaves to fly away to the

hustle and bustle of the holiday season as I stand on overcrowded peopley escalators, up and down, inhaling the aroma of too expensive perfumes and salty pretzels without an expiration date

A day when…

Alexa, should I hope

for the world I remember?

I Can't Do This

noreply@blogger.com (JHirtle) — Wed, 22 Jul 2020 02:13:00 +0000

I can’t do this today

Peering through dirty windows at citizens hiding

behind shells made of unconvincing paper

Masking unspoken fears, unshaven faces, and unrealized hope

As I sip on day old coffee

Listening to church bells ring meaningless summons

And politicians compete to weave the biggest lie

As the forgotten ones stand in lines separated by social space

To acquire food with borrowed money on borrowed time

From vendors looted the night before

Under the glow of burning cars, burning buildings, burning life

Streets filled with hate for brothers and sisters whose skin is

Darker, whiter, different

I can’t do this again

Sitting hour after hour

Watching, waiting

Alone

Behind broken memories

Wondering where you are

Everywhere I look

You are not there

I can’t do this