Mid-afternoon. Following your family’s
regional German traditions you had veggies, a baked potato, pork and sauerkraut
for the noon dinner. Presently though, Carol is taking a nap while you sit in
the nearby black leather reclining chair. The cats are napping downstairs.
1551
hours. I have been working on Grandma 9 and completed it a few moments ago.
This took you a bit longer than you thought
it would but it shows. Add and post. – Amorella
***
Grandma's
Story 9 ©2014,rho,for GMG.One
Grandma
here. Storms are a part of human life. People deal with them one way or another
because they have no choice. One can look the names and descriptions of
infamous storms in various places. The young woman in this story just has
confronted a major storm as is walking along a well ruffled beach now call
Australia.
Grandma
drew an aside. Abbatoot is trekking the beach the same time King Simon (Grandma
Story 8) is being murdered for revenge. This is a reminder that Grandma is
everywhere the human heart is and then some.
Abbatoot’s
ghostly remembrance is that of youthful aboriginal woman is trudging the
shoreline alone some three thousand years ago. Abbatoot muttered defiantly, “You
won’t ever catch me messing with Mother Nature,” shortly after the great storm
subsided. I am fortunate. The old shaman had told the tribe a great storm was
coming because ‘I feel it in my elbows and knees; and when I feel a storm in
all four joints at the same time it is going to be one doozy of a storm.’ He told the tribe to leave for higher ground
but half the tribe stayed.
It is very exciting to confront Mother Nature face
forward while in her fury, thinks Abbatoot; however, I as firsthand witness
soon realized that witnessing is not the same thing as surviving a monumental
typhoon that leaves such devastation.
Abbatoot
said to herself, I am still four limbs plus one. Observing her right hand
closely she realized, I have five points at the end of each of the four limbs.
She added those five points on each limb and gave a separate sound for each of
the twenty points and one more.
An
old vision re-flashed. Five of the tribe had not survived because were missing
body parts. Abbatoot suddenly wondered, what would I be without any body
points? I can see bodies without limbs and finger-point extensions. She missed
the irony, what would be the point of having no limbs or neck or any body
extensions whatsoever?
In
ever-living memory Abbatoot glanced her naked body. I have twenty digits on a
total of two arms and two legs; this equals twenty-four digits, plus a head and
I have twenty-five digits. Breasts don’t count. Plus, I have a nose and two
ears and thus I have twenty-eight digits, men have lump equaling twenty-nine.
Suddenly, Abbatoot’s memory became conscious; she
turned and headed back to her tribe. She returned to the remains of the half of
the devastated tribe that had not heeded the shaman’s warning. While alive in those moments Abbatoot
had had a sudden revelation: I realize
something no one knows.
Later, the Shaman sat watching the peaceful beauty of
the sunset. I am amazed at Abbatoot ability to count meaning in body parts. We
shamans do not make such associations. I know the story of the Ungambikula who
once arose in Dreamtime before we humans were fully created. The Ungambikula had
found the human-likes doubled over in clumps of shapeless sacks near the water
holes, and with stone knives the Ungambikula carved limbs and faces and hands
and feet and finished the humans with points not lumps. After this was
completed the Ungambikula went back into the Earth, into the eternal great
sleep. Only a shaman could know this great secret yet Abbatoot had discovered
it by counting the digits.
Grandma
laughed, “The Shaman listened and asked questions. Later that year on the last
morning of his life he suddenly understood what Abbatoot magic really had in
her head. The last morning of his life Abbatoot ran to the ancient Shaman and
said, “I thought of one more extension, the belly button!”
The
shaman laughed aloud then whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. The belly button is not an extension at all, Abbatoot it is less than
one. It is a zilch, a nada, a
diddly-squat, a zero."
Grandma bent down, slapped her thunder-like thighs;
then, as she stood and unconsciously readjusted her large bosoms, Grandma broke
into laughter, and while glancing at the reader with those sparkling eyes of
hers, she noted, "The shaman realized Abbatoot had discovered the zero,
but then he died and took it with him."
The button is rounder than a
digit of one,
And sits in the belly as a
visual lesson.
Today Abbatoot would be
quite a hero
For witnessing the
discovery, the wonderful zero.
Alas, she and others were
not that clever in the ancient of times,
But, in my calmer breeze it makes a fair rhyme.
***
You had nuked left over Papa John
pizza for supper, just as excellent as it was when made last night. You watched
the news and Carol is continuing to watch one of her recorded shows. You
completed Pouch Nine and are ready to post it. – Amorella
2019 hours. I didn’t think I would
work on this tonight but it was easy to just continue what I had been doing
earlier.
***
Diplomatic
Pouch 9 ©2014, rho, (final) for GMG.One
Blake
sat in the pilot's seat, sister Pyl sat co-pilot. Justin sat in the third seat
back. He liked it because he could better see out both sides equally. The
Cessna 210 is traveling east at 150 miles per hour at 16,500 feet above the
eastern Cleveland shoreline. The three were enjoying the visual pleasantries of
the sun behind the crispy clear blue sky above a layer of thickening rain
clouds below.
Blake’s
thought, such is the beauty of flying the Silver Eagle in full sunlight on an
otherwise cheerless, dreary day in early March, is interrupted by an
immediately direct turboprop failure.
Blake
and Pyl automatically checked the fuel, ignition and air to the engine.
Improper combustion. All three tighten their seat belts. Pyl attempted to work
the dead radio. 'Slow descent', thought Blake well conditioned for a variety of
outcomes, the first being a precautionary landing. He checked his headings but
Pyl was already ahead of him.
Pyl
crisply stated, "Ashtabula County should be below us shortly."
"We
are in a good, controlled glide," humored Blake. "How you doing back
there, Justin?"
"I'm
fine. You two do what you need to do. I'm fine." At least we are not going
straight down, mused Justine while riding the question – ditch on water or an
empty cornfield?
"Good."
paused Blake, "If we can't get it started we will land on a airstrip, road
or a farmer's field. We have time to think this out."
"Fuel
pump?" questioned Pyl.
"No,
it shouldn't be. I think it is vapor lock but I am not sure why. She was going
along pretty as you please."
"As
a kid we had vapor lock once in a car in Death Valley. We survived."
"You
visited the Valley in July, right?" countered Blake as he continued
checking the rate of descent . . .
"I
don't know what is wrong with the radio, Blake. We have electric except for the
radio." Time fell slower than expected, finally . . .
Blake
stated, "Cloud ceiling is about three thousand feet. We have plenty of
room, plenty of time." Here we go through the top.
"Ashtabula
County Airport, HZY in Jefferson; 924 feet above sea level," said Pyl.
"But we cannot contact them."
Making
adjustments Blake says, "They can spot us visually."
***
At-the-same-moment,
Ship sets itself thirty feet above the Cessna with blackenot narrow-banded to
camouflage the Silver Eagle as it drops below the clouds. The airspace between
Ship and the plane appears to thicken into a fractallized mirror. Seeing the
town of Ashtabula below Blake glides southeast towards I-90 and the Ashtabula
County Airport beyond. Ship remains parallel from above as the Cessna continues
a long steady glide for a safe landing. Blake then puts the wheels in down and
lock as he readjusts the flaps up.
Pyl
asks, "Why don't they see us?"
Dumbfounded
Blake replied, "I don't know. I don't understand. And no damn radio."
He attempted to restart the engine one more time hoping they would at least
hear the plane. It started. Flaps down for better control. The fuel appears to
have condensed, he thought. Then the plane began to slide in the air like it
was on a sheet of ice. He was going to overshoot the runway so he saw Rt. 193
just beyond, and slightly to the south he saw a deserted township road set
straight east. No traffic. Blake said calmly, "I'll land on the
road."
Pyl
added, "Do it."
"Go
for it, Blakie. Looks good. No one in sight." said Justin calmly.
"Land
where the road cuts through the woods. Nothing but fields before and after but
up ahead are houses," commented Pyl feeling the Cessna was under control
even though the engine again stopped suddenly. "You are on the mark."
The
wheels touched the rough tar and chip pavement. "Down." said Blake while
setting to brake as if he had landed at the airport about a mile behind them a
moment before. When the three climbed out no one bothered to look up as their
focus was on the engine.
An
older man walked up from near the tail section and said, "Can I be of any
help?"
He
was surprised that no one responded to his voice. He wanted to take a step
closer but froze with sudden apprehension. Behind him another voice, "Pyl.
Blake and Justin. How are you? What has happened? Why the forced landing?"
The
three turned. They could hardly believe their eyes. Here stands Mykkie Carlson with
an unidentified older man. No car nearby and here they are. The three thought
in unison, how is this so?
***
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