Talking to Myself

I used to worry about an atom bomb ruining everything. I honestly believed atom bombthat “The Russians” would some day figure out how to obliterate us, and we them, and everything we knew would end. In school we would hold end of the world drills, where we would crawl under our desks, put our heads between our knees and wait for the ceiling to collapse.

Then we had lunch, and even better, recess.

I grew older, and wiser, and as my awareness of world events grew I knew without a doubt that my life would end in a rice paddy in Cambodia. How could I think otherwise? Every night the Nightly News would report from Viet Nam, and give the day’s body count. American soldiers were dying by the thousands, and there was no doubt in my twelve year old mind that I would be an American soldier. I just hoped that I died well, preferable flat on my back, full of bullets with a smoking, empty gun in my hands.

Eventually I came to the understanding that I would, in all likelihood survive the world’s madness. It was then that I created my own. I’m not really sure if the culture of the seventies propelled my drug and alcohol use into the stratosphere, or if my fatalistic world view developed by the events of the sixties did it, but something in my adolescent brain clicked on – or off, and into the world of escape went I. It was a full fledged assault on my life, and there was nothing I wouldn’t try. Hallucinogens, opiates, beer, uppers, downers and all a rounders, it didn’t really matter as long as what I put into my body allowed me the escape from myself that I craved.

Turns out, there was no escape. I’m stuck with me. Some days it’s hard to get out of bed. Others I can’t stay in it. I’ve been searching for the middle ground for fifty-three years now, and am no closer to finding it now than I was when I crawled under my desk in kindergarten. All I crave is peace and serenity, but that inner peace, when found is fleeting. Try as I might it never lasts more than a few minutes, and then it’s back to the mind’s rat race.

The closest I have come to being at peace with myself is when I am caring for another. My career in the fire service allowed me to become a lifesaver, and in the process save my own. It is said that the things we see, and the ghosts of those we didn’t save drive us to drink, drug, and pull the plug. I don’t see it that way. I was damaged goods long before I put on the uniform. It was the very things I saw, and the ghosts of those that got away that saved me. Without purpose I had nothing. Without the satisfaction of being a difference maker in somebody else’s life I was lost. Without the opportunity to do something great I would have sank lower into myself, and the bottom would have introduced itself before I was able to make sense of  who I feared, who I was, and who I wanted to become.

Life is hard. Living is something that we all know will end, one way or another. Living well is a choice. For me, learning how to do it it well is taking a lifetime. Some days the answers I seek are so close I can feel them, and almost touch them, and know I’m almost there. Most days I’m lost in a world of conflict, trying to stay positive while surrounded with negativity. It is those days that I cling to my sobriety with everything I have, and remind myself just how fragile my perception of reality is.

I’ve run long enough. Now, I stand still, and face my life, the people in it and the events I cannot control without hiding under a desk, or dying in a field, or numbing myself with substances that offer little more than temporary asylum. Now, I understand that I will never understand. And now, that is okay.

Thanks for listening.

 

Dissapointment

I watch her struggle, hiding my impatience as she closes the door behind her. She’s angry.castles I’m tired, it’s been a long day. She had looked forward to the me getting home from the city, hoping for a nice night, some conversation, maybe more. One look at my face was all it took. My expression reflected on hers, I saw the disappointment from the driveway. I’m done, and she knows it. The person who needs me most has to wait.

The once graceful form that flew through life without a thought has deteriorated, one leg is burdened by a brace, the other in constant pain from doing the work of two.

To the outside world it’s just an inconvenience, a limp, some fatigue, but, “she looks so good!” Inside she affords herself the luxury of showing some pain. Never all, but some.

People offer encouragement, never fully understanding. “It could be worse… everybody has some cross to bear… at least you have Michael… you’re lucky to live in a nice home…”

I spend my days carrying people down three flights of filthy stairs that she would crawl down, sweeping the dust from the steps as she went, because they refuse to walk, their belly hurts, or they are too emotional, or their family says they can’t.

If they only knew.

Multiple Sclerosis is an unrelenting disease.

Sleep now, maybe more later. Tomorrow is another day.

“…She drew her wheelchair to the edge of the shore
And to her legs she smiled you wont hurt me no more…” ~
JIMI HENDRIX from Castles Made of Sand

April Snowstorm

It’s cold outside, the ice clings to my window, hoping for break, perhaps a late winter heat wave, or a ray of sunshine to melt it away. For now, it obscures my view, leaving us a smaller glimpse of the world outside. The birds flutter about, grateful for the seed I leave them, their frantic assault on the feeders indicative of the harsh reality of the frozen landscape. Squirrels scurry around the bottom of the pole, their attempts at breaching the squirrel-proof feeders over for the day. Tonight they will return to their nest high above me, sticks and twigs exposed now that the leaves have withered and died, and plan another assault.

Mr. Wilson sits on the bed near the window and watches the struggle for food and survival. Does he remember that the frozen landscape will soon give way to budding trees, crocus flowers pushing through thawing earth and warmth? Or is he content to sit inside, surrounded by warmth of a different kind and live for the moment?

Icicles as long as I am tall hang from the roof, somehow getting bigger every day. The temperature has not seen twenty in weeks, I wonder how they do it. What little heat the late winter sun provides must be enough to begin the thaw that I know is coming. I sit next to my pal, and see the palate of white and crystal, snow sparkling on the surface, two feet below grass beginning to consider turning green, and take it all in, knowing that before long we will be back outside in the little world we have created.

There is a lot of life in a quarter acre lot in the middle of suburbia. Watching it unfold from inside is sweet when the subtle aroma of short ribs flows from the slow-cooker, there is food in the dish and people and pets to share it with. Spring is just around the corner, but right here, right now, everything is exactly where it is supposed to be.

Blueberry Picking

Live in the moment they tell me. But what if the moment I’m living in sucks? It’s seven-thirty at night, I’m hungry, dinner is my job tonight, Cheryl is working, and I’m just now getting to the supermarket. I just need a couple of sweet potatoes to go with the steaks and spinach I bought yesterday, easy in, easy out. My mind is spinning a million miles an hour; get home, put the taters in the oven, feed the cats, switch the laundry, make a few phone calls, return a few, clean the grill, check the mail…what the hell, I’m not even home yet and I think my head is going to explode.

blueberries

First thing I see when I walk in the market is strawberries and blueberries, on sale. My mind slows down enough to squeeze in the thought of some fresh fruit on top of a mountain of vanilla ice cream, maybe a little granola to top it off. I grab the packages of strawberries, two of course, because they are two for five dollars, and put a container of blueberries on top.

I’m going to need some ice cream and granola to go with the fruit and potatoes, better get a basket. I manipulate the stuff in my hands so I can lift one of them from the stack and start filling it up. The basket sticks, my cat-like reflexes are slowed by the overload in my brain and the blueberries tumble onto the floor, rolling all over the place.

A quick look left, then right confirms what I thought, it’s an unwitnessed spill. My instinct tells me move on, leave the mess for somebody else to clean up- too busy, too much to do, time is ticking…

My conscious slows things down, and before I know it, I’m on my hands and knees picking blueberries from the supermarket floor. I barely notice people passing, they are none of my concern as they dodge the little blue blobs and move on, lost in their own overwhelming thoughts.

Two little hands appear in my peripheral vision, and they are picking blueberries with me. I glance over, it’s a stranger, a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen focused on the task at hand.

“Do you want them back in the container?” she asks.

“That’s really nice of you, thank you,” I reply, and reach toward her with the half full blueberry container. Another girl joins her friend, and I’m completely lost in the moment, picking blueberries with two gracious kids, their hands busy picking up the mess I created, filling my pint container, making sure every one was accounted for.

When we’re done, they get up, give me a smile and walk out the door.

A few hours later I sat contentedly eating the best fresh picked blueberries I’d ever had, each one better than the one before it. I ate them slowly, savoring each and every instant.

Ten Step Commandments

We spoke quietly, nearly whispering, arms clasped together. Friends and family watched us as the second most important man in her life waited. We took our time, this being a walk to cherish forever, sharing…

We spoke quietly, nearly whispering, arms clasped together. Friends and family watched us as the second most important man in her life waited. We took our time, this being a walk to cherish forever, sharing words of encouragement as we made our way down the aisle. I stood tall and remained steady as we walked, she leaned on me. At the altar, I kissed her cheek. The room became blurry; I didn’t want to let go.

In the blink of an eye she was gone, evolved from my girlfriend’s fiercely independent and aloof 7-year-old into the beautiful daughter that I gave away on her wedding day. A few years later, I did it again, this time with her sister. It didn’t happen overnight and it wasn’t easy. What began as an uneasy truce with my new friends slowly grew into what I have today; a beautiful, happy “ready-made family.”

I was warned:

“Don’t get involved with a woman with kids!” my friends advised.

“You can’t even take care of yourself!” claimed my parents.

“You’re too young to have a family!” from my subconscious mind.

The smartest thing I did was to ignore their advice. I had found the woman I planned to spend the rest of my life with and haven’t looked back.

When I first met her two girls, I could not picture myself as their father. As my relationship with their mother progressed, my role transformed from somebody they were unsure of and shy around to somebody to be trusted. We started as friends and spent countless hours getting to know each other. As time rolled on, I realized I had fallen in love with all of them. My life changed from a simple pursuit of my own pleasure to that of a proud and protective father. I was shocked to realize I wanted them around as much as possible.

With no idea what I was getting into, I immersed myself fully into their lives, married their mother and marched blindly into fatherhood. Along the way, I learned a great deal. Mistakes were made, but ultimately I found what it takes to raise healthy, successful children, even if they started out as somebody else’s.

There are infinite ways to be a parent. I found these 10 to be the most important for us:

1. Love their mother (or father). It all begins here; without the love, the rest is impossible.

2. Be honest. Kids are perceptive. You don’t have to tell them everything about your life, but what you choose to tell, tell the truth. At times, a colorful story about your past (we all have plenty of those!) doesn’t hurt; kids find it easy to bond with somebody willing to laugh at their previous mistakes. It makes us more human.

3. Be fun. It’s not hard. Remember how it feels to be a kid. Time spent with a child is a gift; there aren’t many second chances. Seize the opportunity, play a game, go for a walk, find something interesting to do that you all enjoy. It doesn’t have to cost anything. Kids are fascinated with anything if a caring adult who is giving them the attention they crave presents it to them.

4. Be fair. They will get over the fact that you made them go to bed at 8:30 p.m. if it happens every night and their siblings get the same treatment. (An occasional breaking of the rules feels all the sweeter when it is an aberration from the norm.)

5. Avoid power struggles. In most cases, let the biological parent rule. Be supportive. Occasionally you have to “put your foot down.” Try not to stomp too hard, they never forget.

6. Know your place. You are the step-parent. They have two biological parents, and you are not one of them. In time, you may become accepted as their parent, but there is no guarantee. My youngest daughter calls me Michael. One day, I overheard a friend ask her why she didn’t call me “Dad.” She answered, “Because to me, Dad and Michael mean the same thing.” That day came 10 years into our relationship when she was 15 years old. I thought she had forgotten I existed. How wrong I was.

7. Be productive. Kids share enormous pride in your accomplishments. Your standing in the community reflects on them. They are embarrassed to be associated with somebody who shows little or no pride in their appearance, home or work. Whatever it is you do, do it well; the kids will benefit.

8. Love them. To love them, you must understand them, be a part of their lives. Love builds trust. It is OK to not unconditionally love your spouse’s children. If the kids are truly obnoxious, rip wings off butterflies, eat ants and are mean to your dog, try to find qualities in them that are worthy of love and build on that. Love must be earned for it to be real. Look for traits you admire and feed off them. Encourage the positive.

9. Listen. It seems simple, but listening is a skill that is sorely lacking. It is hard to hear when you are talking. Actively listen. Show interest and ask questions. Be an ally, not the enemy.

10. Listen! Just in case you weren’t listening.

Families are a challenge under the best circumstances. A stepfamily takes it to another level. I am fortunate. As with most things in life, the bigger the challenge, the greater the reward. I met and married the woman of my dreams. Because she came with two kids, my happiness tripled. I never imagined that what I thought might be a burden would become my greatest joy.

Sunburst

The grey had been all I could see for days, grey in the morning, grey at night, nothing but grey. The snow managed to break up the monotony, white spots interrupting the palate, wind making those spots swirl, the cold seeping under my skin, through the walls and into my heated space.

When at last the snow ebbed, and only eight inches covered the ground, and

The Day After
The Day After

branches hung low, waiting to snap but somehow bearing the weight I bundled up, one layer over the other, found my hat, gloved up and dug out.

The low hum of snow throwers in the distance interrupted my tranquility, and ruined the atmosphere, so I didn’t feel too bad when I fired up my own, spilled gasoline creating a rainbow on the pavement I had just cleared.

Heavy snow clogged the opening, and I let the motor idle, leaned over and cleared the hole with my special finger saving stick. I lifted my head just as the sun broke through the clouds, for the first time in days.

Sunsets are pretty tough to beat. Nothing beats a setting sun that hasn’t been seen in a few days, illuminating rooftops covered with snow, turning windows into squares of fire and lighting up the snow covered trees, cars, and earth.

I thought the world had caught fire, and smiled as I revved the old machine back up, and cleared a path to my front door.

 

 

The Expert

    • This was published in the Providence Journal on Sunday, January 24, 2016.
    • expert2
      By Michael Morse

      Posted Jan. 24, 2016 at 2:01 AM

      There was a time when I was the answer man. Now, Google has the job.

      “Who sings this song?” somebody would ask.

      “Why, Lynyrd Skynyrd of course!” I would answer without missing a beat.

      “Lynyrd Skynyrd? What kind of crazy name is that for a band?”

      “Not crazy at all, it’s the way the band members said the name of their high school gym teacher, Leonard Skinner.”

      How and why I remember such insignificant things is one of those unanswerable questions that even Google wouldn’t know.

      “How do airplanes fly?” my neighbor’s 5-year-old asked.

      “The Wright Brothers invented them,” I answered, quicker than a search engine.

      “But how do they fly?”

      “Propellers.”

      “But how do they fly?”

      “The wind created by the propellers creates a back draft that opens a secret compartment in the plane’s fuselage.”

      “But how do they fly?”

      “The air pressure in the fuselage is replaced by helium that allows the plane to rise into the air where the wind currents move it forward.”

      “Wow, you’re really smart, how do you know everything?”

      “I just do.”

      The years flew by and the kids caught on to me, and they have forgotten most of the true things that I tried to teach them, but they never forgot the absurd. Knowledge is power, and the more the kids know, the more power they have. The more they thought I knew the more power I had. Now, with the tap of a finger all of the secrets of the universe, once known only by me and those like me (old people) are readily available for anybody to see. The scale of power has tipped, and not for the better.

      But they cannot possibly know it all. They’ll type the life right out of living by knowing everything. There is far too little left to the imagination. There is no need for an expert; the days of the expert are over.

      Or are they?

      The world needs people with answers, and who better to give the answers to the questions than somebody with an answer quick at hand, even when they have absolutely no idea what that answer is. The trick is to be more interesting than Google. For instance, Google does not know that South Pole Eskimos’ skin is red because they live upside down. It cannot tell a five-year-old that the moon is made of cheese, or that there really is a Santa Clause.

      But we can. We possess something that even the mighty Google does not; a sense of wonder, and absurdity, and the absolute certainty that everything we say is true, as long as we believe it to be, even if only for a little while.

      So don’t let technology get in the way of passing on your wisdom. There needs to be some truth in what you say, or nobody will ask you anything. Most of the time the kids knew that I was full of baloney, and asked me questions just to get a kick out of the answers I came up with. Telling the truth may be the best policy, but stretching the truth honestly is nearly impossible. The art of having a better answer than Google needs to be a mix of honestly crafted malarkey.

      One of our most important jobs as adults and teachers is to instill a sense of fun, wonder and creativity in our children. Pulling their leg now and then creates a bond, and makes us more human, and a person that they like to be around. Especially important is the ultimate answer: no. It’s difficult to compete with technology that does not comprehend the meaning of the word “no.” There’s nothing fun or colorful about “no,” there is no story, no wonder, and no wiggle room, just one word, no.

      With all of the technology at our disposal, you would think that somebody would invent a search engine that every now and then dared answer a question with a resounding NO. Until somebody does, I still have a job.

      Michael Morse (mmorsepfd@aol.com), a monthly contributor, is a former Providence firefighter and the author of “Rescuing Providence” and “Rescue 1 Responding.”

 

http://www.providencejournal.com/opinion/20160124/michael-morse-days-of-expert-are-over

Dead of Winter

It’s cold outside, the ice clings to my window, hoping for break, perhaps a mid winter heat wave, or a ray of sunshine to melt it away. For now, it obscures my view, leaving us a smaller glimpse of the world outside. The birds flutter about, grateful for the seed I leave them, their frantic assault on the feeders indicitive of the harsh reality of the frozen landscape. Squirrells scurry around the bottom of the pole, their attempts at breaching the squirrel-proof feeders over for the day. Tonight they will return to their nest high above me, sticks and twigs exposed now that the leaves have withered and died, and plan another assault.

 

Mr. Wilson sits on the bed near the window and watches the struggle for food and survival. Does he remember that the frozen landscape will soon give way to budding trees, crocus flowers pushing through thawing earth and warmth? Or is he content to sit inside, surrounded by warmth of a iciclesdifferent kind and live for the moment?

 

Icicles as long as I am tall hang from the roof, somehow getting bigger every day. The tempature has not seen twenty in days, I wonder how they continue to grow.

What little heat the late winter sun provides must be enough to begin the thaw that I know is coming. I sit next to my pal, and see the palate of white and crystal, snow sparkling on the surface, two feet below grass begining to consider turning green, and take it all in, knowing that before long we will be back outside in the little world we have created.

 

There is a lot of life in a quarter acre lot in the middle of suburbia. Watching it unfold from inside is sweet when the subtle aroma of short ribs flows from the slow-cooker, there is food in the dish and people and pets to share it with. Spring is a few months away, but right here, right now, everything is exactly where it is supposed to be.

A Providence Christmas Carol

scrooge

 

Stave I
Michaelmorser Scrooge returned to quarters, an unsightly brick building that housed his ambulance, Rescue Company 1, and Engine Company 13. Six firefighters lived there among the denizens of the city, nestled in the heart of the poor neighborhood of South Providence. Fog was heavy; horns from lighthouses warned the ships that still worked this Christmas Eve to steer clear of the rocky outcroppings. He climbed the stairs at the old firehouse, reluctantly entering the dayroom where the members of Engine 13 sat gathered around a game of Monopoly, eating cookies and drinking homemade eggnog.
“Scrooge! A Merry Christmas to you sir!” said Ryan, his cheeks ruddy with Christmas cheer.
“What have you to be merry about? The world is mad, people shoot each other for the money addicts spend on vehicles of intoxication that they use to escape their misery for a few fleeting moments, loungabouts call 911 for free rides to overflowing emergency rooms for medicines that MY taxes pay for, and fools like you spend this cursed day at work in a dingy old fire station playing silly games with the rest of your ilk!”
“Surely you do not mean those words!” said Ryan, a knowing grin on his face. “Come, sit and join us, it’s only a game, and with each turn of the board we put a dollar into the helmet. We’ve already got eighty dollars to give to the poor!”
“The poor?” said Scrooge. “Are there no workhouses? Are there no homeless shelters and soup kitchens? No orphanages?”
“There are,” said Ryan sadly,” and a curse upon this once great nation they are. But for a little generosity and less greed those wretched places could be closed, and flourishing businesses put in their place!”
“The poor and needy will always be with us,” said Michaelmorser, “let them die now and decrease the surplus population! Good night!”
With that, he took his gruel from the icebox and retreated down the hall to his office. The door was closed, and as he turned the knob, the middle of the door softened, and shimmered, and the traces of a familiar face appeared. He rubbed his eyes, then the door where the image had appeared, and found it to be sound and firm.
“Humbug!” said Scrooge, and entered his office and closed the door, and the noises of the merrymaking behind him.
He dozed then, sitting on an old recliner perched in the office next to a drafty window. The dirty dish that moments ago held his gruel fell from the armrest, and clattered on the floor, startling him awake. The clamor from the breaking glass continued unabated long after it should have, and old Scrooge stood, and looked about his surroundings but found nothing amiss.
Suddenly, a loud bell rang throughout the station, the sound of which had hitherto not been heard in this or any other fire station in the city for decades. It was a sound from long ago, when bells alerted emergency responders; not the gentle tones of today. As the vibrations coursed through his cranky old body, a mist appeared through his door. The mist solidified, and took the shape of an ancient Rescue Captain, long retired, his body weighed down by the chains of discontent he forged during his time in uniform.
“Okie?” said Scrooge. “How…why…what are you doing here?”
“How I am here is of no importance, why I am here is all you need worry about!” the apparition of Okie moaned.
“But, you retired years ago! You are in Florida, I heard it just yesterday! You are enjoying the warm air and sunshine!”
“You foooool!” said the Ghost of Okie. “I spent my years which should have been filled with helping those less fortunate by complaining about my misery, and dodging calls pretending to be too busy to respond, and looking after nobody but myself!”
“That is not true! You and I are rescue men of the most impeccable kind! We take care of ourselves first and foremost, and get these fools who call us to the hospital by doing as little as possible! We work all the overtime we can so as not to be the dregs of society we are destined to treat!”
“Idiot!” moaned The Ghost of Okie, despair filling the cramped office, oppressive, suffocating. “See this chain that weighs me down? I forged it, link by link, overtime shift by overtime shift, year by year! It is the weight of a career of missed opportunities, the weight of a lifetime of chances missed! I could have studied the Protocols, and kept my skills up to date, and learned new things, but instead chose to exist in limbo, and sleep through most calls, never looking at the patients who needed my help, never trying to lessen their suffering, or give them just a taste of the happiness they yearned for!”
The apparition then rose from the floor of the tiny office, and floated to the ceiling, and made his way to the window, the giant chain clanging after him.
“You will be visited by three spirits tonight! One as the clock strikes one. The next at two. The third at the hour of three! Heed me well, old Scrooge, and listen to what they say, and you shall have the chance to avoid an eternity of misery forged from a lifetime of cynicism and gloom.”
“I’d rather not,” said Scrooge, shrinking back into his chair.
Old Okie moaned a most disheartening moan, one that filled Michaelmorser with gloom. He watched his old Captain and friend float along the ceiling, and then disappear out of the window, the trail of chain clanging behind him. Scrooge crossed his arms, pulled the curtains back and returned to his chair, and covered himself with a tattered Redboy; a foul, moth eaten dusty piece of wool that once resembled a blanket.
“Humbug!” he said to the empty room, and fell fast asleep.

Stave II

The Ghost of Okie had come and gone, warning Scrooge that three spirits would visit him this night, the Eve of Christmas, his most hated day of all.
“Only three? Good then, I’ll have a quiet night! Three calls after midnight. Humbug!”
The clock struck midnight and no tones went off. “Bah!” He tossed and turned in his chair, closed his eyes and tried to get some rest. Alas, no rest would come and relieve him of his misery. As the station clock struck one, a blinding light filled the office. Standing by the window, observing, was a wisp of a man. He was dressed in khaki pants and shirt, the patch of his calling stitched to his sleeve. It was a patch Michaelmorser knew well, for he wore the same distinguished designation on his own uniform. At one time it meant something to him, but years of cynicism had taken the shine from his calling. The apparition’s eyeglasses were nearly the size of his head and he had a belly the size of the loathsome Saint Nicholas.
“Who. Are you?” Old Scrooge asked the apparition.
“I am the ghost of Christmas Past,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Long past?”
“No. Your past! You may recall my name. It’s Bub, and you were all little Bubsters once.”
“Bub. Yes, I do remember that name being bandied about. The stories tell of a rescue man of the highest principles, a man who never shirked his duty, and dedicated his life to the betterment of his fellow man. I always thought that man must be a fool! What do you want with me?”
“Come you miserable little man,” said Bub, “I have something to show you.”
“I’d rather not.”
Bub’s voice grew louder. He approached, and though Scrooge knew his appearance was probably no more than a bad sausage from the meal he had taken to his room earlier as the firefighters sat amongst themselves in the dayroom, he was compelled to listen.
“Come with me!”
He extended his arm, and Michaelmorser held onto his sleeve and they disappeared through the little window in the office and flew through the night toward a place from Scrooge’s past, the Division of Training. They landed on the ramp, and though a light snow fell and a wind rustled the leaves and tossed litter along the sidewalk, they felt no cold, instead were full of warmth. Scrooge rubbed the frost from the overhead door windows and looked into the apparatus floor of Engine 11’s quarters.
“I know these people!” said Scrooge, rubbing his eyes. “They were friends of mine! There’s Chris Brown, and Joe Brethana! That’s Joe Paiva dressed in the Haz-Mat suit acting like a chicken!”
“They appear to be having fun. And who is that young man laughing along with them?”
“That is the man I used to be,” Scrooge said sadly.
“Come,” said Bub, “To another Christmas.”
They whisked through the streets of Providence, dressed in nightclothes but not feeling the chill. The Branch Avenue Fire Station appeared in the distance, and they floated to the window and looked into the upper level. There, an older version of Michaelmorse was, but not quite as old as now sitting amongst different friends, opening a gift.
“That’s Heidi, and Al! He said. And Kenny, and Arthur and Wayne, and Roger, and there’s Steve Rocchio, and Danny Brodeur! and Chief Moura! Look at us, opening Secret Santa Gifts! I remember, I had Heidi and I bought her a book, a mystery if I remember correctly. We would sit in the dorm with our little lights and read when things were quiet. Those were some good times, I do miss them.”
“And are not similar times being played out at your very station tonight, Scrooge? If I recall, a rather vigorous game of Monopoly was underway and you chose to ignore it!”
“I did, Bub, and I wish I hadn’t. It’s just so many runs, and all the paperwork, and the nonsense, then the shootings and overdoses, I can’t stand it!”
“But stand it you must! You are needed, and needed to be well. Now come, I have one more Christmas to show you, and then my time here is through.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“You left a long time ago. Come, Michaelmorser, before it is too late.”
And they flew, leaving Scrooge’s friends behind. Again.
They flew to another fire station in a different part of the city and observed.
“It’s so quiet,” Scrooge said to the spirit that accompanied him.
“You decided to leave your familiar spot on Engine Company 2 so you could come to the Rescue Division to make some extra money, but you never left,” said Bub. “You found you enjoyed it, and reveled in the opportunity to help your fellow man. You did well for five years or so, then as quickly as it began; the joy left you, alone, sitting in your office dreading the next call. Look at you, Scrooge, your face is full of tension, your body is stiff, you are the very picture of misery!”
“It doesn’t have to be this way!”
“Right you are Little Bubster. You will be visited by two more spirits tonight. Listen well.
“I want to feel needed, as though my time were not wasted on people who care for nothing but bettering their position! I want to want to do this! I want it to be like before, when I saw people truly in need of our help! I’m…”
The office was dark, cold and empty. And Scrooge was alone. The clock was nearly at two. He twisted in his chair, and mumbled “Humbug.”

Stave III

The blinding light was nothing new, every night spent in this wretched building gave rise to the cursed things, most nights hourly, accompanied by the PA sending paramedics to some godforsaken part of the city for some ridiculous reason or another.
Chest Pains? More likely heartburn from eating too much stew!
Abdominal pain? Ha! Gas is more like it. A little dry pressure valve relief does wonders for normal men, not these fools who inhabit the City of Providence! A simple fart is what they need, not a 911 response!
Unconscious? Hardly! Never, well, hardly ever is the unconscious person actually unconscious upon our arrival. Fat, drunk and stupid is more like it.
Seizure? Seizure shmeezure, I’m about to have a seizure if these lights don’t go off!
“You are a weird little man!” boomed a voice that sounded as if it were emanating directly from the center of the blinding light.
“What? Who goes there! And what are you doing in my office!”
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!”
“A good Christmas present would be for you to make the lights disappear!”
“Not a Christmas present you odd creature, THE Christmas Present!”
The blinding light subsided and Michaelmorser was able to get a better look at the originator of the voice.
“Zack! What are you doing dressed in velvet, and wearing that crown? You know, fur belongs on the animals, not on people’s heads! And what’s in that goblet you drink from? I’m parched!”
“This is the milk of human kindness, and I am most certainly not Zack,” the apparition boomed, then drank heartily. “This is the year 2015. I have 2014 brothers, and Zack is but one of them,” he drank again.
“Save some for me!” Scrooge pleaded.
“When there’s a lot, I drink a lot. When there’s a little, I drink it all!” With that he tilted the golden goblet to his lips, tipped it back and guzzled. He wiped his beard clean of the golden brew and handed the mug to Scrooge.
“Too late,” Scrooge said. “It’s gone.”
“You are a pathetic creature, Michaelmorser Scrooge! The cup of Human Kindness is never empty! You need only look within to find more!”
Michaelmorser Scrooge took the goblet from Zack’s brother, and some kindness spilled from the brim, onto the dingy office floor. The cupoverflowed. He drank. The room spun, but not in a dizzying way, rather, it was . . . delightful! Scrooge drank some more. Music filled his office, and the lights once more grew bright.
“This is fabulous,” Scrooge said to the giant, bearded spirit. “Can I have some more?”
“Perhaps, but for now, we have work to do. Take hold of my sleeve, we have a journey and I don’t have much time.”
“If I must,” Scrooge giggled, and took hold of his sleeve.
Though the city seemed deserted, The Ghost of Christmas Present knew just where to lead them. They flew through the dark night, a freezing rain falling, mixed with snow, but somehow leaving them dry. In a blink they were outside a familiar place.
“Why have you taken me here?” Scrooge asked. “I just left.”
“Look inside, you weird little man, and listen!”
“I hope he leaves the job in the city this year,” said Mrs. Michaelmorser. “Every year the weight of his responsibility grows heavier, and he brings his sadness home with him.”
“Remember when we would spend days decorating the house?” Asked young Brittany, Scrooge’s daughter. “It was the most grand in the entire neighborhood!”
“I miss the baked, stuffed shrimp,” added Danielle. “It’s just not the same these years past. Something is missing.”
“I fear he has lost his soul.” said the Mrs. “And without soul, it might as well be simply boiled shrimp on any given day!”
Scrooge’s family went about their tasks, wrapping gifts, stirring the gravy and putting neat rows of manicotti into shallow baking dishes.
“At least he didn’t forget the manicotti this year!”
“Or the wine,” said Mrs. Scrooge, pausing to uncork a bottle of Pinot Noir. “To Michaelmorser, may he find the spirit of Christmas!”
“To Michaelmorser!” the girls chimed in, and sipped their wine.
“What is this madness? I am the Christmasmeister! Do I not make the girls watch The Grinch every year?”
“The Grinch, Scrooge?” asked The Spirit of Christmas Present as they flew back to the city. “How dreadfully appropriate. Drink, you are returning to your miserable self!” He handed Scrooge the goblet, and he gulped.
“I know this place! The Cabbage Patch! Why have you brought me here, there is nothing here but misery!”
“Is there, Scrooge? Look around you, and see the misery!”
Children filled the rooms of the pediatric nursing home, children with birth defects of every kind imaginable. Some were on respirators, some lay in a state of unconsciousness, others were barely aware that they even lived, yet the people who worked here, on this Christmas Eve had decorated the depressing place, and the cheer of Christmas could not be missed. Lights adorned once dismal hallways, and a Christmas tree sat in each room, every one topped with a star. Those stars shimmered, and their light grew, then faded, then grew again. Scrooge looked for a power source but found none.
“What powers the stars?” he asked his companion, sipping from the goblet and feeling the comfortable fire grow in my belly.
“The love that emanates from the people who believe in a greater good, and spend their Christmas here, with these unfortunate souls, and have planned for weeks to get the children ready for a day at home, with their families, or for those who can never leave, have spent their meager earnings decorating this place, and throwing a party tomorrow here, in what you so lovingly call, “The Cabbage Patch.”
A child sat in his crib staring at Scrooge, and smiled as they met eyes. The child had a rare birth defect, and his heart grew outside of his body. Scrooge saw it beat in rhythm with his own. It was the size of a grapefruit, and covered his chest, and was hideous, and horrifying, and completely out of place on such an otherwise beautiful boy.
“I thought they couldn’t see us?” Scrooge said.
“Those that will be leaving this earth soon have special gifts,” replied the spirit.
“Is there nothing that can be done for him?”
“Why? Better he die, and decrease the surplus population!”
“You use my words against me, Spirit! He never had a chance, this boy, who wears his heart outside of his body. It’s not fair!”
“And is it fair that you wear your own heart so deeply embedded in your chest that even your own wife cannot get through!” the spirit said, poking Scrooge’s chest.
“Ow! That hurts! Cut it out! Stop it!, stop it! stop it….”
Michaelmorser looked around his office, and saw that he was alone, and the clock showed nearly three.

Stave IV

At precisely 0300 the tones went off, and Scrooge slipped from his chair and hit the floor. The station was quiet, not a peep could be heard once the tones quieted down. The rescue waited and Brian sat in it.
“A Merry Christmas to you sir,” he said. Scrooge ignored him.
“Where are we going?” Scrooge asked his partner.
“To the Children’s Nursing Home for difficulty breathing, “Brian replied, and stepped on the gas.
It was quiet as they rode toward their destination; Scrooge had little to say and much to think about. The three ghosts that haunted his nightmares were just that, nightmares. Foolish apparitions born from too many rescue runs, too much overtime and not enough peace and quiet!
They arrived at the nursing home, and stepped out of the truck. The freezing rain had turned completely to snow; it tickled Scrooge’s skin for a moment, then melted, and annoyed him. He wiped it away. Brian lagged behind.
“What are you doing, I’m freezing and you are wasting time fiddling about with some nonsense!”
“I’m getting the equipment.”
“Don’t bother,” said Scrooge, annoyed. “We’ve been here dozens of times, the kid probably has nothing more than the sniffles!”
The elevator slowly rose toward the third floor and the patient. It groaned to a stop, and the doors opened. The floor was empy, as far as they could tell, nothing stirred.
“Hello!” Michaelmorser cried, and his voice echoing back was all that could be heard. At the end of the long hallway a shadow appeared. As it approached, the elevator doors closed behind Scrooge,with Brian still inside. Scrooge was very much alone. The shadow continued to approach, growing larger the closer he came. It wore nothing but a black cape, and Scrooge could not see a face.
“Where is the patient?” he demanded. The cloaked figure said nothing, but pointed a bony finger, and beckoned Scrooge to follow.
Sounds of respirators filled the space now, hissing and gurgling, the machines that filled the lungs of the barely living doing their ungodly task without mercy, or feeling, or life, just mechanical movement performed by machines. The sound comforted Scrooge. Children’s eyes peered from each room they passed. Some roamed the hallways, apparitions of their former selves, little ghosts whose lives had ended right in the very space they now occupied.
“You!” Scrooge shouted to the shadowy figure that led him down an endless corridor, realization now dawning on him. “You are the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come! Admit it and identify yourself! I demand it!”
The figure slowed, and turned, and his arms held a small boy whose heart lived outside his body. The boy’s eyes were alive, but the specter held a body that did not breathe, did not move, and did not live. The heart did not beat, and for the first time in his life, Michaelmorser Scrooge had no idea what to do.
“I fear you more than all the others, Spirit!” Scrooge cried. “I implore you, make him breathe! Do something! Start CPR! It’s only a heart outside a body; surely you can make it beat once again! Look at his eyes you monster, they still flicker with life! You have the power to save this unfortunate soul, and give him a chance, another day. Christmas Day! Perhaps this day will be the day that they find the miracle needed to restore his heart and let him live a normal life! Do you not care? Does this life have no meaning to you at all?”
The Spirit of Christmas yet to come held the child to Scrooge with outstretched arms, and as he went to take him, the hood slipped back exposing his face…Scrooge’s face.
“No! Please, it cannot be! Please Spirit, tell me, is this the future that will be, or is it the future that might be?”
The boy now rested in Scrooge’s arms, and his eyes, whose light was quickly dimming met his own, and he stood there, the ghost gone, Brian gone, the nurses and other patients gone, and stood alone in The Cabbage Patch, and watched a beautiful boy’s lights go out.

Stave V

“Rescue 1, Respond to 342 Broad Street for an intoxicated male.”
Scrooge was instantly awake, alive and ready to roll. “An intoxicated male on Broad Street? Fantastic!” His office was just as he remembered before the spirits had visited, but make no mistake, they had visited, and the lessons they offered echoed in his head and filled his empty soul with hope. He opened the office door and stumbled toward the dayroom.
“I’m as light as a feather!” he giggled as he walked.
“I’m as giddy as the drunken man on Broad Street!”
The firefighters sat in the dayroom, putting last night’s Monopoly game away, and the upside down helmet full of dollars with it.
“Ryan! What day is this?” He asked his good friend.
“Today, why, it’s Christmas Day!”
“The spirits did it all in one night! An intelligent boy, a remarkable boy!” said Scrooge, his face full of wonder.
“Here’s twenty dollars for the poor,” Scrooge said, and put a twenty in the helmet. “And there will be twenty more every year until I’m gone!”
“Are you serious,” said Ryan, nearly dropping the loot.
“Quite. I’ve got a drunken man who needs our assistance and have to go, but in the meantime, do you know the prize bird, the one at the poulterers the next street over but one?”
“The one twice as big as me?” said Ryan incredulously. Scrooge looked at Ryan’s girth, scrunched his face into its familiar prunish countenance and replied, “now that would truly be a Christmas miracle! But yes, that’s the bird. Go there when you are relieved and buy it. Bring it here before I get back and I’ll give you half a crown!”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Cook it, my fine fellow, and all that goes with it, and when we come back to work tonight a feast like I haven’t prepared in a decade will be shared by all of us!”
Rescue 1 waited on the apparatus floor, and Brian with it. Scrooge sat in the officer’s seat and growled at Brian, and chuckled to himself.
“Took you long enough to get down here!”
“But I was waiting for you,” he replied.
“And you shall never have to wait again, my good man! From this day forward I will be on the truck and ready to roll every time the bell tips! We have work to do, let’s roll!”
The drunken man was indeed on Broad Street, and was quite inebriated. He slept on a cold sidewalk in all he clothes he possessed.
“Ignorance and want, all in one untidy bundle,” said Scrooge as he and Brian scraped their patient off the sidewalk and brought him to the ER where he could find some warmth and comfort.
“A small detour, Brian,” said Scrooge as they left the hospital grounds and drove toward the fire station. “To the Children’s Nursing Home, and step on it.”
Old Michaelmorser Scrooge spent the next hour visiting the workers and children at the heartbreaking place, making a special visit to Room 324, where an angelic boy slept peacefully, a lump on his chest covered by a blanket. A nurse stayed with the boy, and looked up from her chart as Michaelmorser entered the room.
“How is he?” Scrooge asked.
“Good as gold,” the nurse replied.
“If the boy were to go into cardiac arrest, is there anything I should know were I to be dispatched here in the dead of night?”
“Of course, treat him delicately, and caress his heart, and do compressions carefully, but no different than you would on an otherwise healthy boy.
“I’ll do that,” said Scrooge, “and learn all I can about him, and what ails him. And I’ll visit and see that he gets proper care should the need arise. And I also promise to keep Christmas in my heart all the year long, and not let my tendency toward depression get in the way of what I should be doing for humanity.”
Scrooge was as good as his word, and treated the drunks that had lost their way and lived on the streets of his city with kindness, and began learning anew the protocols and procedures necessary to keep fresh in a field that he had let go stale. People say that if anybody knew how best to keep Christmas, it was Michaelmorser Scrooge.
“And I have the spirits to thank,” he smiled to himself as he hung his troubles on “the trouble tree” that sat outside the doorway to his home. He opened the door, and it was warm, and the house reeked of Christmas, and the people that mattered to him most welcomed him in.

A deal is a deal

Loren over at I Saw Lightening Fall hosts a Christmas Ghost Story telling event every Christmas, it’s something I look forward to all year. Writers get 100 words, no more, no less! There’s little I like more than a creepy Christmas!

http://isawlightningfall.blogspot.com/2015/12/advent-ghosts-2015-stories.html

Here’s  my contribution  to the fun, hope it gives you a chill!

2015-12-19-11-20-39-346937537

 

“What am I doing here?”

“Spending eternity.”

“But, why here?”

“You made a deal.”

“I don’t  understand! I lived a good life, went to church, prayed, gave to the poor, I was a good man!”

“Perhaps. But a deal is a deal.”

“I would never make a deal with the likes of you!”

“Maybe I made a mistake. Hmm,  ah, there it is, December 24, 1952. ‘Dear Santa, I will do anything for a GI Joe.’ Did Santa deliver?”

“What does Santa have to do with it?”

‘Santa, Satan, what’s a letter here or there have to do with anything. Welcome home.”