One of the best things about my high school years (aside from the 
identical-twin girlfriend who eventually became my sister-in-law) 
was stage crew. In my sophomore year, I got involved with Warren 
Central's theater department. I ended up running a follow spot for 
South Pacific, and spent the next three years crewing practically 
every event Warren Central put on.

Even better was that Warren's brand new multi-million dollar 
performing arts center opened the next year. Ah, the adventures, 
the shenanigans we enjoyed in that place! Not to mention the 
shows...

Wait, I will mention the shows.  It wasn't all high school drama. 
The Warren Performing Arts Center was a state-of-the art facility, 
and hosted its share of notable billing. It was a particular, 
peculiar one-man show which I so fondly remember, involving a 
portrayal of Albert Einstein. But it wouldn't have been peculiar 
at all, were it not for the event that directly preceded it.  
Only days before, the Indiana Thespians society held its annual 
conference at the WPAC.

Some brilliant mind decided that the aspiring young acolytes of Thespis
should enjoy a smashing big banquet, and directed that it should be held on the theater's 
mainstage. Furthermore, it was decided that what was really needed 
was an abundance of helium balloons, liberally distributed among 
celebrants. Our tech director was furious.

Creative minds being what they will be, it didn't take long before 
the main amusement became releasing the balloons up into the 
fly space, and watching them vanish into the rows of curtains 
above. And there they remained, trapped by the static charge that 
developed as they rolled across the heavy velour.

We spent the rest of the week trying to get those blasted balloons 
out of the fly space.

Fast forward to Einstein. A wonderful performance. At the end, as 
Albert listened to classical music on the radio, the broadcast was 
interupted to announce the atomic bombing of Hiroshima.
He staggered, nearly collapsing as he slumped into his easy chair. 
It was then that the first balloon, its buoyancy depleted and 
static cling neutralized, descended from the fly space. It was 
caught by a strong draft and swept across the stage behind, and 
entirely unbeknownst to Einstein.

We, the stagehands, were sitting in the back-row, slack-jawed and 
wide eyed as the moment of dawning comprehension simultaneously 
robbed us of breath and yet compelled us toward uncontrollable 
laughter. Einstein began a somber monologue as another balloon 
came down behind him and rushed away across the boards. Then 
another, and another. 

We dashed out to the lobby and completely lost it. There would be
hell to pay, but at that moment, it was worth every penny. 

We regained our composure and returned to our seats. Einstein was 
speaking gravely about the grim inevitabilities of a nuclear 
future, when another balloon -- pink and still possessing enough 
helium to float, came down, dragging its string along. Somehow, it 
escaped the river of air that had carried its comrades off so 
swiftly, and it stopped center stage. My future sister-in-law 
clutched my hand as the diabolic latex sphere reversed direction 
and drifted toward the dispirited genius in the wingback chair.

We held our collective breath as it stopped next to him and 
slowly, inexorably, impossibly,  impiously turned around to reveal 
-- I kid you not -- a one-eyed smiley face, bearing the slogan 
"Happy Mutants for Nuclear Power!" Einstein never noticed. His 
monologue ended, he rose and shuffled off stage as the lights went 
down.

When the house lights came up, a small group of people clustered at 
the edge of the stage, staring in wonder and murmuring 
speculation on how we had managed to make the balloon do that. I 
fetched the wayward mutant telling them it was a trade-secret. I 
dare say that those lofty musings on the balloon metaphor haunt 
them to this day. I kept that little pink memento until it was 
nothing more than a shriveled latex blob in my cabinet of 
curiosities. To my knowledge, Einstein was never the wiser...

You knew it was coming...
You've been watching the weather closely for the last few weeks...
The anticipation has been unbearable...
But the Storm has finally arrived!

The Storms of Tarshish, the long awaited sequel to Uncle Actica is now available on Kindle!
Paperback should be available during the week of August 7th.

​When Blake Barber and Mia Devlin are roped into an impromptu Christmas vacation in Puerto Rico, Blake sees the perfect opportunity to escape his winter blues, secure his future with Mia, and search for his missing Uncle. Mia's intuition tells her it is a fiasco - at best - and she wants to get it over with; the sooner, the better.

But a series chance encounters plunges them headlong into the dark side of paradise, and they find themselves entangled in the monstrous webs that lurk in Caribbean shadows: drug lords, human trafficking, and terrorism.

As their vacation swiftly spirals into a struggle for survival, Blake and Mia must wrestle with impossible choices between faith, self reliance, loyalty and conscience--while facing devastating consequences which loom on the horizon like the shadow of death.

UPDATE:
Thank you to all of you who supported Messiah's Children Rescue and Life Center 
during our time of crisis. Your generosity ensured that our children received an
adequate supply of water and food while we waited for the rainy season to begin.

On behalf of Overseer Patrick Kimaiyo, the children and staff of MCRLC, and myself,

Thank you.

Andrew Harmon
​~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

​Our Kenyan Children in Danger as Drought Threatens
Messiah's Children Rescue and Life Center
 
Dear friends, on behalf of Pastor Patrick Kimaiyo and the 300 children he oversees, Thank you for your continued spiritual and material support.

Our Kenyan children now face the most dire challenge since the anarchic civil war that rocked the nation in 2008. Kenya is currently suffering from a severe drought which impacts more than 11 million people in Kenya, Somalia and Ethiopia alone, and 39 million across a large swath of Africa.

Bread and Water: Our Situation
The Kenyan government has declared a national emergency. It is becoming increasingly difficult to obtain corn, the mainstay of the Kenyan diet, and prices are skyrocketing.  A couple of weeks ago, Patrick and I decided it would be prudent to purchase as much corn as we could before prices go through the ceiling. It was a wise move, but it will only hold us for a short time.

For the first time in thirteen years, we now face a critical shortage of drinking water.  Our well has run
dry, and we are having to purchase potable water from local vendors.

I am preparing to ship my Katadyn personal filtration pump and a supply of chlorine tablets to Patrick so that he can use water from the Nzoia river - until it dries up. The Katadyn will process up to 13,000 gallons pumping, one quart per minute, by hand.

Call for Help
The long rainy season lasts from March until May and is predicted to be poor this year, creating further hardship for Kenyans and their grazing livestock.

 Thanks to your generosity, we have been able to send $800 per month. This covered the bare basics for our children: 2 meals per day, a little medicine, and a pittance of a salary for 15 teachers, a cook, and a custodian.
​
We are up against the wall, like never before. With food in short supply, Patrick will need to travel farther and pay more to meet the needs of the orphans in his care.

We are praying that our Father in Heaven will send willing hearts our way who can help us bear this burden and see these children through this life-threatening crisis.

You may donate through our website mckenya.org, or by sending a check or money order to me. Email [email protected] for my address.
Thank you for your help, it really does make a difference.

Sincerely,

Andrew Harmon & Patrick Kimaiyo

Salutations, Trespass Islanders!
 
Francis Ford Coppola once opined that:

"...there is a hormone that is injected in the blood of the young writer that makes him hate everything he has just written."

I'm delighted to say that I'm not having that problem with Storms of Tarshish. I have really enjoyed writing this novel.  My beta readers have all handed in their copies, and I am busily polishing the manuscript based on their feedback. Reader reaction has been overwhelmingly positive and I can't tell you how much that encourages me. I deeply appreciate all of my readers, and their honest feedback.

So when will it be done?  I expect to release Storms of Tarshish before May 31 2017. That's a lot later than I'd previously conjectured, but that was the manic in me, talking. I have learned to give myself a lot of leeway. Doing so has allowed me to add a couple of new characters and sub-plots which deliver more backstory, and enrich the overall tension of the narrative. Now the Trespass Island team will give it another reading and, upon approval, we'll move into final editing and formatting. The novel should come in right about 325 pages.

In the meantime, if you missed it, I have redesigned the cover of Uncle Arctica. Sorry, arachnophobes, Old Hairy is still there, but just not as prominently. Uncle Arctica recently received it's 10th 5-star review!

Okay, so I'm itching to give you a preview. Here's the text from the back cover of Storms of Tarshish:

"Blake contemplated his captor's words: your options will become obvious, once you have done what needs to be done. The options were unthinkable. They were wrapped in a black shroud and loomed at the edge of his imagination like the shadow of death. He imagined the worst--failure; never knowing what would become of Mia or, worse, finding out. knowing or not knowing, I would die, he thought. So, I will die trying. What I do can only haunt me as long as I am alive. As long as Mia is safe, it doesn't matter what happens to me, or anyone else."

It has been a productive winter, and though it is still only February, the signs are pointing to a very early 
spring. Here on Trespass Island that means one thing: Storm season is approaching! You'll want to keep an eye on Blake and Mia as they venture into the treacherous waters of the Caribbean.
The Storms of Tarshish promise to be hazardous and exciting!

As I round the buoy of my fifty-first year, I am champing at the bit to get The Storms of Tarshish into your hands!  I am on the edge of my seat as my last few beta readers hand in their copies of the  manuscript. How I long for their feedback! How I covet their input; hunger for their emotional response! How I jubilate in their approbation, their accolades!

A co-worker of mine walked up to me today, barely holding back tears as she handed me the 
book, and gave me a huge hug. All she said was "Mm...Mmm...Mmmmmmm." as she shook her 
head and slowly walked away.  I couldn't have asked for a better birthday present!

We are so close, but it feels so far away! While the redesigned cover for Uncle Actica should be uploaded before New Year's, the cover art for The Storms of Tarshish still needs a couple of minor tweeks.  And I still have to consider the comments and suggestions of my beta readers, re-read the 
manuscript, make my final changes, and send it off to Polgarus Studios in Australia for proof-reading and formatting. Then comes the upload, the printed proof copy (more waiting!) and, barring further tweeks, the final click to release the book to market. I'm hoping for the end of January... But finally admitting to myself that it could be -- will likely be --February. I can't wait! 

"Patience, Grasshopper," I remind myself. "It will happen. Take a deep breath, turn the last pages of 2016, and look back in wonder at the wisdom you have accumulated this year."

Alright. Okay. I'll close this manic ramble with the more profound things that come to mind. I hope you will find them inspiring.

I learned that forgiving can make you feel and look ten years younger.
That laughing daily with a good friend can melt away a decade of 
accumulated hurt and bitterness, so...
That you can find the better, happier person you used to be.
That you don't have to play other people's games, all over again.
That some nutritional supplements can really screw with your mental health.
That a few milligrams of melatonin before bed can change your life for the better.
That somewhere in western Kenya, three hundred kids know my name.
That even at my most foolish, my Creator still speaks to me, kindly and gently, and
says "Andrew, step back from the edge."

Thank you, dear friends, readers, and fans for your help, your encouragements, and entusiasm. Your support has, at times, been the very force which has propelled this project forward. 

I wish you prosperity, blessing, and peace in the coming year.
And have patience...the Storms a'comin!

Andrew Harmon

When I mention that the birds are all gone, some contrarian invariably pipes up
and declares "Well, I don't know about that; I saw a bird in my backyard, yesterday." 
​A...bird. Thanks for the observation, nature lover! 

I work on the northwest side of Indianapolis. Between the far edge of the vast
asphalt parking lot and Highway 421 rises a grassy berm, punctuated with a
dozen small decorative gardens. Each boasts a patch of yellow day lilies, a
large, bushy patch of some kind of mint, all backed by five or six shocks of
tall ornamental grass.

This berm has been my refuge, my oasis of sanity for the past five years. 
I have become very familiar with its inhabitants, as well as those of the
parking lot itself, and I love seeing them all. Except that this year, they
are almost totally gone. The half-dozen killdeer that always take up in the
western quarter of the lot are absent, as is the small contingent of
scavenging starlings. I haven't seen any soaring vultures or hawks for six
weeks.

The bushes, always quite literally crawling with little delta winged skipper
butterflies, and humming with at least four species of bees are empty.  I have
seen a scant few dragonflies and a couple of grasshoppers. Yesterday,
I heard a robin. A solitary robin. Today I finally saw a cabbage white, and
a dozen Canada geese came down from the expansive, flat roof of our
building to drink from shallow, oily puddles in the middle of the lot. I have seen
none of the bigger butterflies: monarchs, viceroys, buckeyes, or red admirals.
The sky and the earth around my workplace are empty, and the only sounds are
he rumbling highway, or the occasional shrieking jet plane. It is a grievous thing.

"I saw a bird in my back yard, just yesterday," she said, with authority.

 Do you remember? Do you remember the black rivers that snaked across the sky
every fall and spring? The undulating, chirping avian torrent that went on for
five, even ten minutes?  Followed by another, and another? Do you remember when
you could not run barefoot across the lawn, because the clover was continually
covered with honey bees?  Do you remember the deafening whir of the night
symphony? The tree frogs, the crickets, the cicadas? Do you remember The great,
yellow-and-black argiope spiders, their magnificent orb webs glistening with dew? Or
Garter snakes in the fern bed?  I remember when an eastern box turtle wandered
into my suburban backyard one spring!
​
Things are not changing. 
They have already changed.  
And it makes me sigh.
 
Drew Harmon,  August 2016

 
Inversnaid
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
 
A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
 
Degged with dew, dappled with dew,
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
 
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Hello Trespass Islanders!  It's been awhile since I've posted on the Reverie page and I wanted to bring you up to date on  what's been going on. I've been writing the sequel to Uncle  Arctica, that's what's been going on! I'm about 35,000 words into the Storms of Tarshish, which is why I haven't blogged,  lately.

Getting back into the swing of the creative process has been a  lot of fun. Busy season at my full-time job is squeezing the  "creativity sponge," wringing details and plotlines out of the  far reaches of my mind. It's funny how new characters will  jump out of nowhere, and change everything you thought you  knew about your story. 

Speaking of which, let me catch you up on the Storms of Tarshish:
Two years have passed since Blake and Mia turned Highland Creek Reservoir upside-down and, as usual, they are in more trouble than they could have asked for.  Blake's first year in private school went so well that he was skipped ahead a grade.  But now a contempt, bred of familiarity and jealousy, has spread among his peers; and his English Composition teacher is surely out to get him. Mia will be heading for college in less than a year, leaving Blake feeling very insecure about their future. And, worst of all, a gold-digging parasite named  Brett Turlow has invaded Blake's life, having latched onto his beloved grandmother, who doesn't seem to mind in the least.

Only one person has the chutzpah to expel this intruder, but he has vanished in the Caribbean -- Carson Urquart, aka: Uncle Arctica.

Blake resigns himself to the futility of the situation, until Mia's loopy aunt Serena insists on sponsoring an expedition to the islands to find Carson. But there's trouble in paradise; annoying, weird, romantic,  deadly trouble that will test the strength of their faith, character, patriotism, and love for one another. If I told you any more, you'd have to kill me!

I hope you all have a great summer! Look for another update  toward autumn.
Best regards,
Drew

The writing has slowed to a trudge. Like a winter-weary Blake Barber plodding along the slushy streets of Pemberton, remembering the adventures he had  with Uncle Arctica, longing for the novelty of spring and the approaching Storms of Tarshish.  

I wouldn't call it writer's block; and I can't really blame it on the winter blah's because I'm actually feeling quite well. That's the problem, really. Improved lifestyle and nutrition have brought the reasonable and tranquil Dr. Jekyll back to my home. My secret fear is that the volatile Mr. Hyde is the one who has been writing my novels and blogs, all along. Right now he's nowhere to be found. 

Not that I particularly mind. He is that dissonant modulation of myself: the inspired, driven, creative, tormented, imperious, maniacal fiend who actually gets stuff done.  Dr. Jekyll, on the other hand, is that kindly eccentric who cranks up  the heat in the study, settles into his recliner and reads to the kids for hours on end -- or tells demented tales over tea, to lift the spirits of despondent friends.

And it such a tale that I will tell you now. A tale of how I made the Russians  smile.

In the late 90's, I worked as a temp in a huge medical supply  warehouse. I began as a stocker, and gradually assumed certain custodial duties, along with stock reclamation, and eventually  maintenance.  It remains the only job I've ever had  where management was so quick to overlook my errors and continually praise my  efforts. I felt like Joseph in Egypt.

Oddly, I was put in charge of things that temps were strictly forbidden to even  dream of doing: operating a scissor-lift; Building flow racks alone in another  building, while using said scissor lift; supervising temp crews; maintaining the  2000 lb batteries for the forklift fleet; managing the mentally handicapped  janitor; and the list goes on.

The workforce was diverse. The receiving dock was dominated by Filipinos, a  surly Jamaican woman, and a good-humored Nigerian prince. Pick/Pack boasted, in  addition to locals, a substantial contingent of Russians from all over the  republics, a pair of Hindi women, and three Seventh Day Adventists from  Ecuador. I fell in with this last group, being that I spoke some Spanish, liked  to laugh, and observed a Saturday Sabbath.

The Russians puzzled me. I watched them pulling their big picking carts through  the wide aisles, glaring down at their clipboards. They seemed so sad. They never smiled. They just trudged gloomily along, day after day.  

One morning, I couldn't stand their collective depression any longer. I  approached Ulyana, a plump Ukranian in her thirties, and introduced myself.   I asked her how to say "How are you."

"Kak pozhivaesh!" she replied.

"And the answer, if I'm well?"

"Harashoa!" 

I repeated my new vocabulary several times.

"You speak good Russian." she beamed. "Come back. I teach you more."

I said "Kak pozhivaesh?" to every Russian I passed that day. Their faces lit up
as they replied ""Harashoa!"

I left my rolling recycle bin and detoured into the break-room, where I knew sour old Ludmila would have her hawk-nose buried in a newspaper.  I sat down across from her and demanded sternly: "Ludmila! Kak pozhivaesh?"

"Harashoa!" she snarled. She dropped her paper low enough to see me. "You speak good  Russian.  Who learn you?"

"Ulyana."

"You learn more!" she commanded, snapping the newspaper taut again.

I was astonished at the transformation wrought by those three Russian words.  
To illustrate the effect: one day I was trundling down the main aisle, carrying  two large unwieldy boxes to the recycle cart. Just ahead, Ulyana bent over to  pick something up.  I tried to sidestep, but one box smacked her squarely on her  broad tuchus. She stood straight up, with a look of wide-eyed shock.

"Oh, Ulyana!" I cried. "Izvaneetya!  Prasteetya!"

Her stark expression suddenly melted into one of near euphoria. "Ohhh!" she cooed, passionately. "Such good Russian!" 

My new friends taught me more of their language. They shared their stories. I learned where they were from: Belarus, Tajikistan, Moldova. I made simple jokes. They laughed. They doted on me. And best of all: they smiled.

Shortly after I started working in Maintenance, Yosef transferred to our department.  He was a stout fellow in his fifties, with thick features and gray hair. He'd been a maintenance man in his Moldova, and felt that his skills and his English were languishing in the packing department. I had just finished my product reclamation patrol and returned to the "cage" when I was cornered by the full-time maintenance men, Lon and Gary. 

"Big Lon" towered over us at six feet, six inches. Gary, stood not more than five feet tall. They were like like Mutt and Jeff from the boondocks of western Indiana.

"Andrew, you gotta help bridge this language gap, here." said Lon.

"Why, what's the problem."

"Well," said Gary, "this Yosef character is kinda...strange. He came into the  cage first thing this morning, and told me he 'very much like prophylactic.'" 

"Ahhh, prophylactic means prevention," I said. "He was trying to tell you that he  is big on preventative maintenance."

"Ohhh. I thought he wanted something else!" he said, much relieved.

Yoseph, likewise, collared me that day and lamented "André, this Gary is very strange little man. I tell him I very much like prophylactic, and he look at me like I ask for condom!"

In the course of time, Yosef and I found ourselves twenty-five feet up, on the  scissor-lift, working on a flow rack.  

"André look!" said my comrade, pointing out cases of toothpaste, and reading  their labels. "Dental Prophylaxis Paste!"

"That's right, Yoseph." I confirmed. "You brush your teeth with that, and you  will NOT get pregnant!"

His heavy brow rumpled up and a smile spread across his face. He wagged a finger  in the air and said with a wheezy laugh, "Oh! André, this is very good joke!" 
 
I found that punning was the best way to illustrate the intricacies and pitfalls of English for Yoseph. He'd say something, I'd make a pun on it, he'd say "No,  André, I said..." Then I'd interrupt and explain the words. Then, as always, he'd furrow his brow, wag his finger and declare it was a very good joke.

Someone once said "a kind word in a foreign tongue builds a bridge a lifetime long." I would agree, adding a smile, to it, too.  The good will released by those few, kind words I learned from Ulyana built a bridge of friendship, learning, and understanding which spanned the gulf of our daily toil. By the time my warehouse assignment ended, even Ludmila was smiling as she came through the door each morning, greeting me, first.

I met Duane Wesley "Bud" Thompson in late 1984, during a visit to The Tinder Box  -- which is appropriate, considering the incendiary nature of these two tales and the ashen state of his final repose. I was procuring a pipe and some tobacco from Bud when I mentioned having just quit Target, and He immediately set about getting me hired for the Christmas season. He was thin and haggard, a very humble gentleman of 55 who had paid his dues in spades.  I was almost nineteen, spoiled, and knew everything. It made getting along with Bud very interesting. He didn't have car at the time, so I frequently drove him home.  It was through Bud's domestic situation that I began to appreciate the simple things in life;  like heat, a toilet, place to cook, and running water.

Home is a relative term where Bud's lodgings were concerned. Abominable hovel is probably a 
better descriptor. His fortunes had diminished considerably in the previous decade. But, 
shockingly shabby as it was, his rooming-house apartment was a step up -- he'd spent the 
previous winter under a bridge in Broadripple. Things would eventually Improve for him, but 
over the next decade he would go through a string of dilapidated digs at which even vermin 
chittered in contempt; except for cockroaches, who seemed to have a special affinity for Bud. 
And so begins our first story.

Once upon a time, Bud gave shelter to a young Mormon woman of eighteen, on the outs with her 
monstrously restrictive, controlling, unreasonable family. In exchange for light cleaning 
she was afforded a spacious room on the creaking second floor, lessons in film processing 
and darkroom basics -- whether she wanted them or not, as well as rides to work and back.  

There was only one house rule at Bud's: Thou shalt NOT touch the loose wains-coat panel 
behind the kitchen table! I don't have to tell you what happened next but I will, anyway.  
She was brooming the grungy kitchen one day when the panel, perhaps by its slight bow, its 
imperceptible skew, vexed her sense of cosmic order and drew her inexorably to straighten it. 
It popped off the wall, and five thousand cucarachas cascaded onto the floor in a skittering 
brown deluge and rushed of in all directions.She called her wonderful, gracious parents in a 
shrieking frenzy, and we never saw her again. The bugs stayed.

Necessity is the Mother of invention, and Bud was the father of Dr. Thompson's World Famous 
One Part Roach Killer.  Aside from apple-cider vinegar and honey, there was no other 
concoction on which Bud relied more heavily.  I'm talking straight K1 Kerosene, folks. 
Sprayed liberally on bone-dry base boards in a big, old, two-story duplex. Regularly. For 
two years.

There is a lovely grassy lot there, now.  It also covers the ground where the neighboring 
house stood. Bud learned some years later from his former landlord that the old place was 
vacant when it went up, and was completely incinerated along with the neighboring house.  He 
mentioned that arson was suspected, because the whole place smelled like kerosene.  Bud 
could barely feign an air of surprize to cover his deep satisfaction and amusement. It was a 
rough, crime-ridden neighborhood and he had hated it, and the roaches.

Another one of Bud's K1 tales vaguely inspired an event in Uncle Arctica. The story goes: 
that one chilly, rainy, San Francisco evening back in the '60's, Bud returned to the 
spacious Victorian rooming house he shared with several friends, only to find it empty, and 
the conical, metal fireplace in the living room cold. He gathered several logs from the 
porch and loaded them into the freestanding grate. They were too wet to light, so he doused 
them with a cup of--you guessed it--Dr. Thompson's World Famous One-Part Formula. He went 
upstairs to give it time to soak in.The next roomer returned and, seeing the glistening wood 
Un-ignited in the cold fireplace, also decided to add a cup of K1 marinade. The third man 
returned --cold, wet, and anxious for a roaring fire (and apparently completely devoid of 
any sense of smell) added his cup and went to his room.  Bud finally returned to the 
fireplace and, splashing on a cup for the road, lit a match and tossed it in.

The blast knocked him flat on his kiester, and brought the other men running downstairs. 
Miraculously, Bud was only lightly toasted. As they were getting him to his feet and 
checking for damage, there came an excited rapping at the door.  They opened to greet a 
middle-aged woman who asked for the owner and stated emphatically that she wanted to buy the 
house!  The men explained that it wasn't on the market, but the woman insisted that the 
owner would sell, because while she was walking through the neighborhood looking for a house 
to buy, she began praying and asked God for a sign. No sooner than the words had left her 
lips than a thirty-foot pillar of fire erupted from their chimney and fanned out in five fingers.  "just like a hand."  she pantomimed.  They put her in touch with the landlord and...he sold her the house!
Impossible: yes;  but true.

However entertaining or maddening his eccentricities were -- however tragic his circumstances, Bud Thompson was a decent, humble, kind, and humane man; a thoroughly human individual whose aspirations were frustrated by the cards life had dealt him, and further complicated by the way he himself played them. Bud readily admitted this.

It was a hard, snowy winter the year Bud died. I trekked through the white and drifted 
boondocks of Owen County to find the Trustee, who doled out $600 to cremate my old friend. I 
was out of work, again. Even had the ground not been frozen, I wasn't able afford to return 
to his cabin to inter his earthly remains. So, the small, cubical, cardboard box of powdered 
Bud sat on my basement workbench for nine months. Eventually, the accumulation of 
clutter,tools, and such obscured and finally inundated him to the degree that I could truly 
say that Bud was buried somewhere in my basement. Finally, in the autumn in of 2012, I was 
back to work.  I had a dream: I was in a rustic hotel lobby in the desert -- White Sands New 
Mexico, I think. I was packing some things into a cardboard box when I spotted Bud coming up 
the walk. He was wearing new jeans, a wonderful plaid shirt of rust orange and deep blues, 
and of course, one of his homespun leather vests. I rushed out to meet him. We hugged, and I 
took his hands in my own. He smiled and said with humble excitement "I'm glad you could make 
it. I'm so glad you could make it!"

And that is all I remember. I knew it was time. I fetched a shovel, retrieved his box from 
the workbench, and headed back to Poland, Indiana.  I buried him in a beautiful spot by 
lake, covering his small grave with large chunks of white limestone.

Of all of the memories I have of Bud, the one that I hold most dear, now, is that dream.
Bud so happy and healthy.  I am so glad that he could make it.  So glad.

     I must have been about twenty.  I was enjoying a long walk in the neighborhood when a decrepit, black Lincoln Continental and its decrepit white driver came rolling up behind me. Oh dirt, who could this be? I thought. The passenger-side window squeaked down and the haggard driver, who looked about sixty,  leaned across the filthy upholstery.  It was Bud.  "Hey Andy! Get in, check out my new wheels!"  he called, in his perennially hoarse voice.
     I could always rest assured that as soon as I could steal away for a quiet moment, Bud would magically appear.  I grudgingly climbed into the massive car. Everything had that grimy feel which all of Bud's belongings posessed. I could smell the pungent roach he'd just tapped out, above the stifling stench of English pipe tobacco and fine cigars.  Bud worked at the Tinder Box, and I 
had, too, until seduced by the greener pastures of Sears.
     He hit the gas, and the front end of the monster pitched up, then swooshed back down, and continued to do so in a rhythm that  felt like crossing a lake in a motorboat on a choppy day.
     "I got it for five hundred bucks!" he beamed. "Can you believe that?  It's nineteen feet long!"
     "That's long as my Lightning," I replied, referring to my sailboat.
     "Then that's what I'll call it.  Lightning!"
     My stomach was beginning to wrench with the acrid odeur of ol' Lightning, when Bud hit the brakes. The nose of the battlecruiser plunged so hard that I thought it'd plow up the asphalt like a pig hunting truffles.
     "You're never gonna get anywhere in Indiana," he said, not quite out of the blue.  "You gotta marry that girl and move to California!" Bud harped incessantly about me marrying and migrating to the west coast, and it drove me bat-whack crazy. I married the girl's identical twin sister, incidentally.  But that's another story. 
     I wrote  in Uncle Arctica that there are people who are your friends, others who are jerks, and some who are a little of both. Duane Wesley "Bud" Thompson was a lot of both, and there is no short telling of our long and unlikely friendship. He was an ex-alcoholic turned Hippie-stoner, a chronically indigent poet and writer, cat eccentric, a devotee of Rama Krishna, Jazz aficionado, and above all: photographer; medium format -- Roliflex or Mamiya. Zeiss lenses. He disdained "postage-stamp-sized" 35mm negatives as being for wannabees, along with those plastic, auto-loading developing reels. Both of which which I used.
     Bud was one of those amazingly cool people who paint a colorful, swerving stripe down the road of your life. It makes driving a little crazy, and takes you places you never wanted to go, at the most inopportune times--and often triggers more than your share of road rage. But in the end, your journey is somehow enriched by it.
     And enriched I was. Bud badgered me into reading Moby Dick. He convinced me that Harlan Ellison was not exactly chicken soup for my young soul,  and he hooked me on Antoine de Saint-Exupery. He insisted that we go see the Queens Coldstream Guards Pipe and Drum Corps. He added to my understanding of darkroom processes.  I learned from him that sometimes all you have left to keep you going is to believe in a dream, even if it seems like a delusion to everyone else. His dream was to return to California and he never relinquished it.
      Very few people will remember him the way I do. No one is left to tell his tale, but me. It would take a dozen blogs to relate my experiences with the old man. I hope eventually to fulfill his dream of publishing a book of his photography and writing. He could be self-sabotaging and cantankerous to work with, otherwise I might have helped him, earlier.  I learned quickly to avoid getting tangled up in anything more than moving day, or picking him up from his latest stay in the coronary ward at Hendricks Regional. Yet, now the publishing process is so accessible that, had he not gotten himself killed, it would likely have been my next project. 
     What is more probable is that he will turn up as a character in one of my future novels. He lent his name to a cave in Uncle Arctica, and his best kite story -- The one about blacking out half of Orange County, and Summit Naval Station. Ah yes, the fireplace incident, too. There is enough of Bud Thompson to fill a novel. Six Shots at Sapphira, perhaps.
     Bud's last outing took him to Greencastle with his Home Health Aid, one November day.   He insisted on driving, contrary to the rules. They parked and exited the car to swap places, but the  transmission slipped into reverse and the car took off in backward circles around the parking lot.  Bud was determined to stop it, and he did - when he fell, and ended up wedged far under the back of the vehicle. He spent 34 days in the ICU at Methodist Hospital. He hated Methodist, blaming the hospital for negligence in the death of his mother forty years before, and accused the current staff of complicity.  It would have pleased him to know that he stuck the hospital with a tab of four hundred ninety-five thousand dollars. Duane Wesley Thompson passed from this life on December 21st, 2011. I was with him.
     I inherited the D.W. Thompson estate, which amounted to a box of his writing,  a couple of thousand negatives, a sheaf of prints; a closet full of old photographic equipment, a Roliflex, a Mamiya 33, three ganja-altered cats, and the grungy old Pontiac that crushed him.  I still have the box.  The cats got good homes. The cameras went to a friend, the darkroom to Goodwill. Never mind how we got rid of the car.
     Bud would not be wholly averse to the notion that the purpose of his existence might have been simply to serve as a warning to others.  I pondered that, as I collected the few remaining valuables from his bedroom.  His mother's beatific smile radiated love down from a crisp black and white print on the wall. It counteracted the grotesque sepia-toned photo on the dresser -- Rama Krishna's drowsy face lost in murky, sepia-toned contemplation; spent incense sticks to either side. I always hated that picture.
     I remembered that Bud once confessed that he'd experimented with much of his life, and the results had left a lot to be desired. Especially where they involved Kerosene. That brought me a wry smile. But as I said, that's a another story. I'll tell you about it in the next  blog.