Notes - Brothers 6 (final) / Grandma 6 (final) / Pouch 6 (final) drafts

         Shortly after noon. You read the Sunday paper during breakfast and completed an errand and a couple of household chores. You also appear ready to get on with the final draft of GMG Volume One.

         I am ready but it is not so interesting as it was not too long ago. I am curious so I will keep at it, but several recent readings are showing me that others are also doing such experimentation in a more scholarly fashion for eventual publication. It was fun thinking I was in an area all my own. I should have known better, of course. My desire is the complete the three works but mostly to show Owen and Brennan their Grandfather Orndorff could write a text when he put his mind to it.

         Mid-afternoon. You and Carol did more chores and are now mostly ready for Winter, except for taking rakes and such to the basement for storage. Carol is finishing up a load of wash and if there is time you will go a short distance for some reading and writing. You did exercises Friday and yesterday and today about half through chores and such. Tomorrow you have an appointment for your five thousand mile checkup at Joseph Toyota. This has not been an average seven weeks of driving, no question about it. Let’s go to Brothers Six. – Amorella

         1609 hours. I have the section completed.

         Add and post. – Amorella

***

The Brothers 6 ©2013, rho, ch.6, GMG.One

            The brothers walked to the hillside that dropped to the bottoms and river at a fifty-degree angle, looked down into childhood memories and then back towards the mausoleum. "Let's go in," said Robert.

Richard glanced to the right, the corridor closest to the entrance, which is at the north and saw the three pieces of stain glass at the west wall. “Look at the crypts,” he said, “lots of marble

            Robert said, “I think our relatives are interred in this next section. The last four on the second-shelf up.”

            Both walked to where they could see the names. “James and Mabel are on mother’s side, and Ron and Beatrice and David and Jessie are on father’s side. I wonder why they are all buried together on this shelf.”

            “I guess they were good friends,” replied Richard while thinking, the mystery is why would they be good friends? I didn’t know they even got along. Ron and Beatrice were dead before we were born, but I remember the others well enough. I don’t remember coming to the funerals though. They turned toward the center of the building.

            Robert commented, “The mausoleum was built in the twenties for friends and relatives I would imagine," suggested Robert.

            “True enough.”  Richard glancing over to the large centerpiece, “look at the angel with the emerald wings, just above her right hand is an orange Star of David. I wonder why she and her robes are tinted green. Look at the dark sky behind her; it is like she flew through a storm to talk to the child at her feet.”

            “Interesting,” responded Robert though matter-of-factly. “Is the kid in the glass Jesus or Moses?”

            “I don’t know.” Richard moved back to get a better focus. “He’s wearing a red robe but he is looking at her open left hand. Above her wingtips, on another plate, is the orange double eagle in a green background. A larger copy of the two side pieces’ double eagles.”

            Robert glanced at the opposing long east chamber and at the marble wall of the hallway between the four chambers. “The sunlight from the east chamber was still shining in like we are on a movie set, he thought.

            “I like that naked bulb hanging from the ceiling in the center here,” asserted Richard. “A nice piece of copper hanging above it but the outer bulb is missing.” With Robert on his left, he turned to peer into the other west chamber at the south section of the mausoleum. “This chamber is a lot shorter. I had forgotten that.” He glanced up and quickly counted, “It has twenty crypts on each side.”

            Robert reflected, "I like the marble design of the chamber as a whole. It is appealing.”

            Richard added, “And from out here in the hall the colors that are most striking.”

            “Why don’t you get a key made instead of using the loner from the city,” suggested Robert. “And we could come back anytime.”

            Robert stepped back to better observe, “With decorative markings above that. The rest are typical stained glass features. You see more purples at a distance. It is all rather somber.”

            “Don't forget where are we Rob?”

            Both chuckled, but the comment used to be funnier when they each had fewer of them. They turned and walked away from the south stained glass and the five stacked marble crypts on both sides. Then they walked passed the dark walnut podium with the black cross carved in its center and up the marble hall past the two north chambers and out the creaking brass door that had to be pulled to shut tightly for locking, and which Richard diligently locked.

            Richard was surprised but neither really looked closely down the southeast crypt chamber where all the sunlight was pouring in. That was the one that looked eerie from a distance, he thought, and maybe it was too bright to look into comfortably, but we didn’t. It is hard to believe there were be too much light in a mausoleum, but this morning there was. We probably missed something. He said, “This is a copy.”

            “Make me one, would you?” They quietly walked to Walnut Street where Robert declared, “I’m going home.”

            “I’ll head on up Grove to the house,” said Richard. “I like walking in the shade of these old trees and through campus.” The twins walked their separate ways, Richard to the east and Robert north. Their heartsansoulsanminds settled close together though on the deep of what their lives had come to be.  

***

           1613 hours. Now that I am back into it. I am enjoying this once again. 

         You had leftover Papa John pizza from a week ago for supper while you watched “The Mentalist” and “Major Crimes” of a week ago. After a couple more chores you sat down to work on and complete Grandma Six. – Amorella

         1944 hours. I just completed it without too many changes but it is clearer to read.

         Add and post. – Amorella

***

Grandma's Story 6 ©2013, rho, (final) draft for GMG.v.One

            Hello, Readers. I have another story from the Dead for you. It happened long ago on the large Isle off the coast of France not far from where the town of Canterbury would rise. Rolling hills and woods and streams and the coast not more than a day’s walk. Bracc had long black hair with roughly built limbs and a log like trunk. He had neither a comfort stage-like appearance, nor an unusual one such as a mask or prop that would benefit him in his storytelling.

            No listener expected any of the stories to be objectively true because stories are not like a hunter pointing to a deer and saying, "Dinner." Storytelling goals and objectives were the department of education and the focus, the premise, was how the individual might better survive on herorhis own and/or in a social group.

The shaman took young Bracc aside and said, “I will give you a project and a story will come from this that is entirely your own.”

Bracc’s face lit up, “I am ready, master. Give me the project, and I will test myself.”

The shaman charged, "Tell a story in gray,"

           

Bracc stoically tread a path to his thinking cave near a rabbit warren. 'Death is black but sleep is gray like stone. White and black make gray. I love dreaming about building higher and higher stone walls. Stories like stones are gray in dreams.' Bracc smiled like dawn and said aloud,  “I shall thus color my story in gray.”

***

Two full moons passed. Bracc stood looking out at his first audience. This is what life is, he thought, standing alone while the others are content to sit. Tonight I will make my love, my Erca, proud to be my mate and to have brought our child into this world.  He began. "The Living touch the Dead in many ways. The Dead cannot be seen but they can be heard whispering from time to time. This is a story One of the Dead told me in passing.

            People were suddenly amazed young Bracc would attempt such a difficult story. The audience of friends and acquaintances sat with anticipation. Most were skeptical because Bracc appeared to young to have heard an unknown story from the Dead. Even Bracc's wife Erca, holding their two-month old son nearby was dubious, as she had heard some of Bracc's tall tales.  

Bracc pulled his wooden story engine cube from the camouflage of green foliage and balanced it upright in his left hand and said, "What do you see?"

An elder replied, "It is a gray box with six sides."

"Yes, a box of six sides can easily be explained, but what of the color, gray? One might say it is a pigment mix of black and white. Black is the night sky, white, the ever-changing moon enumerable stars, sparkling jewels dancing across a black velvet sky. Nature in the heavens does not mix gray. Clouds may be gray but they interrupt the heavens like a gray stone wall. What then is gray if it is not a mix?

Another elder jokingly added, "I can only see one side of the box."

            "We have heard and seen a trickery of words in such a simple device before!" shouted yet another in the audience.

            Bracc stood suddenly realizing the man was right. There is nothing new in telling a haunting story of gray ghost in the box. I am a travesty, he thought. He face gave up on him and redden. Bracc glanced to Erca whose eyes were now cast down as she instinctively sheltered their child more closely.  Bracc's thinking grew ridged and stone-like. He quickly surmised, I shall be remembered as a storyteller nevertheless.

            Bracc quickly confessed, "I deceived myself to even think that I could reinforce a story with tricks and devices. The Dead cannot talk with the Living. This story is my imagination alone. But it will be remembered." Bracc stood before the crowd in a singularity of mind fully naked and empty. Bracc collapsed and singularly died.

Bracc's last thoughts may be in the genes of both the storyteller and the first listeners. Why? I am Grandma and within your species earliest DNA as well as the newest of newborn.

Bracc and Erca are now long reposed

With sons and daughters since surrogated;

Grandma's mouth would be forever closed

But for those strands and molecules correlated.

***

         2017 hours. I have reviewed and further corrected Pouch 6. I feel it is clearer. Doug had checked the flight description so I didn’t want to change any of it.

         Again, add and post. Tomorrow you will be busy. I conclude that “Grammar” will work for the theme word of the chapter but let’s add a reference in this last segment. – Amorella

***

Diplomatic Pouch 6 ©2013, rho. (final) for GMG.v.One

            After an efficient walk around the plane and inspection of the controls Friendly, using the pseudonym, Mykkie Carlson, glanced over the instrument and screen rich Cessna Silver Eagle control panel and pushanpulled the start toggle fumbled then pushed the toggle to the up position. Embarrassed that Pyl was watching she quickly smiled and commented, "It's been awhile." Then glancing at her watch and the clock on the console thought, we'll be in Cleveland before dark.

            "We all do silly things, Mykkie," said Pyl with a smile and then with enthusiasm  commented, “I love this plane and I remember this Cessna was Dad's favorite." She winked, "Isn't that right, Blakey?"

            He feigned a grumble, "Yeah, with Dad, Pyl was always the favorite."

            Justin looked to Mykkie’s sister Lindsey, a nom de plume, who was sitting next to him and said, "Pyl and Blake come from parents who were a bit dissimilar."

            "Pardon," replied Hartolite.

            Justin commented, "Dissimilar, you know, diverse."

             Hartolite pondered the specific definition . . . families that are ‘dissimilar' and ‘diverse’? Does Justin mean ‘heterogeneous’? This Homo sapiens’ grammar is full of personal interpretation and negotiation and also a clarity that can be cumbersome in verbal communication.

            With the flaps down Friendly revved the engine and confirmed the rpm status, verified the alternator and voltage and they were picking up speed while rolling down the runway, a lift of the nose, and with the flaps reset for a slow climb southwest Friendly tapped the brakes to stop the spin and retracted the wheels. Quickly nearing the Ohio shoreline she continued the climb while turning the yoke to the left. The Silver Eagle continued a steady climb with Catawba Island, then the Marblehead lighthouse were below the right wing and Kelley's Island and greater Lake Erie lay down below the left wing. The plane continued climbing due east until leveling off at nine thousand feet with a speed of 140 mph. Friendly felt her body immediately relax. "We're good for Burke," she said. "Beautiful day, beautiful scenery, one beauty of a plane."

            Pyl smiled without further response. The plane and the pilot were as one in the same. Pyl loved the flying.

            The flight continued, seemingly uneventful. Pyl fell into a catnap. Awakening to the drone of the engine she found that Justin and Blake had fallen asleep too. Pyl let be. She glanced over at Friendly, smiled and quietly said, "I can tell you are in love with this plane. I am in love with it too." Pyl closed her eyes in a ruse and let her mind moved into surreptitious quarters.

            Pyl recollected her thoughts. This tension began yesterday with the bird cracking the left wingtip light. Blake initially said it felt like the bird lightly tapped the wingtip light. I asked if it was a bird. Justin said it sounded like a piece of gravel hit the wingtip. When we inspected the wing at the hanger Blake said the gray remnants were bird guts but there wasn't any blood mixed in it. The gray matter reminded me of soot.

            Pyl continued her silent deliberation, Mykkie Carlson is clearly in charge. The only flight mistake she has made was the attempt to push the toggle switch in and then pull. She didn't fumble with the toggle to push in and then pull out. It was smoothly done, almost unconsciously, like she had done it a thousand times before; like I would turn a car key down to the right to start the engine.

            Pyl adjusted herself in the seat and relaxed with her eyes closed until she heard the thump of the wheels being lowered. She glanced at her watch and saw the time was 4:48 then looked at the time on the interment panel, it was 4:49. That's odd, she thought, we were synchronized when we left Put-in-Bay. Pyl pulled the cell phone from her purse; it also showed 4:48. "What time do you have Justin?" she asked.

            "We checked our watches at breakfast. Just what you have, 4:48."

            Pyl responded, "The plane says it is 4:49."

            Blake said, "I have 4:48 too. Now it's 4:49."

            "The plane says it's now 4:50," noted Pyl.

            "I have 4:50 too," said Friendly.

            Hartolite glanced at her watch that also said it was 4:50 but she lied saying, "I have 4:49. Maybe it is just a fluke of a few seconds."

            Polite chatter ruled during the smooth landing and exiting. Blake and Pyl quickly inspected and secured the plane.  While walking into the Burke Terminal, Ply spoke fully resolved, whispering to Blake alone, "I don't want you to sell our father's plane."

***