Wednesday, February 8, 2017

Trio: Miss Lei plus CJSM Day 72 plus Station Master excerpt part 3 of 3


Congratulations! Miss Lei!

(a Wedding-engagement celebration-wish)

 

 

Just reined-in exciting news. Wow! You go! Girl!

Saddle an enigma-delicious “Single-Union”-swirl

 

Wild-ride sacred Unicorn: Life-Love’s treasure

Wishing you happiness in eternal sweet-measure

 

All good things soon come to those truly deserving. Of course!

Probably not much more difficult than dressage-“ing” a horse

 

My ole friends Roy and Dale might sing, “Happy trails to you…”

Best wishes to Miss Lei and beau-Ron on a trek spectacular-anew

 

Have a great life! God bless!

 

Best wishes!

Candy & Carl (of Miss Becky-fame)
 
 
 
Plus:
 
 
 
 
Day 72
 
Pot pies for lunch. Mom was always home
from school when we had them. They were
always a treat, but they took forever to cook.
 
Nobody ever missed a “great” meal at our house. Lady Candy is an excellent chef.
Days off school were the best times for all of us; time together, free to play: working around our “hobby” farm, fun in the creek, horseback riding, picnics, building memories, growing in love, swimming, gardening, buying cattle, taking care of the myriad critters, cutting fire wood, planting trees, farming wheat and alfalfa crops, road trips, vacations, rough housing, building.
Even---more! How the collective human affliction can truly be: fear, boredom and loneliness is a curiosity to myself as an Independent-Individual; those conclusions are self-imposed exiles.
Being the I-I that I am, I make my own decisions; I prefer not to participate in that evil trinity.
There is a “secret” ingredient which all great cooks employ in their culinary efforts: Love!
Success has nothing to do with the cooking utensils or “classes” utilized in the process.
Lady Candice is blessed with a natural gift for Love; it is evident in her persona and being.
She “learned” the “secret” from her paternal grandmother, Lady Rose, who could whip up a fantastic meal with little sundries; her daughter related that story of her dear mother. Candy and our girls inherited those skills and share the “secret” of Love; the granddaughters have it, too.
Nanny saw that days off from school always resulted in “special” culinary treats; another of her favorites, and, also of the girls, is French toast! Mmm! Mmm! Yummy!
The simple things in life are always the very best---so long as they are bartered in…Love!
 
Amen!
 
Ah! Cookie Jar Sweet “Loving” Memories!

 
Plus:
 
 
 
All in all, the delicate, perfect petite package pretended a scandalously salacious suggestion.
“No! No! Madame. Not at all,” George epitomized the consummate diplomat, quick on his feet, fleet of mind, able to adapt, to flatter, finesse, finagle---George was a natural-born liar. She averted her big eyes, instinctively fearful to look directly at the suave, debonair male specimen.
Quick to appreciate another pretty face, George abandoned any memory of the French Monique; as always, directly to the “business” at hand, and this held potential promise to be quite a hand---full! Luck of the draw! He surmised in a surreptitious conclusion.
What he heard himself say next came as a surprise even to himself; often, his mouth ran faster than his mind. Whatever happened to pop out, George would turn it to his distinct, and immediate, advantage.
“Please! Madame. Pardon me.” His fake foreign accent silently slipped away as the New Jersey northeast colloquial hollow dialect automatically took over. “I can’t believe that someone as beautiful as you has only three children!” He smiled it as a query, expecting a reply.
The willing prey put on a demure composure hinting a coquettish proclivity; George had played this game many times, the result was nearly a foregone conclusion.
“Four, Sir,” she corrected, nodding toward the station window where a young girl, her distorted face pressed tight against the dingy pane, apparently watched for an arriving train.
“Yes, I see,” he replied, thinking that perhaps he had been a bit brash, even for one so impetuous as he where the female persuasion was involved; the Asian beauty waited.
“Perhaps, Madam, I shall endeavor to be more careful---around children…that is, in the future, of course.” Nodding curtly, he added, “I beg your pardon. If you will please excuse me?”
Diverting her eyes, she acquiesced to his retreat. “Most certainly, Sir.” She bowed, slightly.
George cleared his throat and nervously attempted a reciprocal bow of his own; it came off stiff and less than formal; he was not so practiced as the fine beauty. She smiled, slightly, not meaning to add to his embarrassment, but having the same effect as though she were purposely discourteous. He averted his eyes, grunted, and turned toward the Station Master. He desperately needed another swallow of the saving elixir from his silver flask with the golden deer motif.
For the first time, George surveyed the inhabitants of the station. It was a varied clientele, a throng of personages resembling a cross section of individuals he had encountered in his lifetime. But, there were incongruities, also. A grizzled man in a grey U.S. Civil War era Confederate uniform sat sleeping on a bench. Other military clad men and a few uniformed women populated the room. He spied a Roman Catholic priest, a handful of nuns in habit garb, a butcher donning a bloody, once-white apron, people in suits and dresses, swimsuits, bikinis, four mountaineers, a bicyclist, a magician, a cowboy, couples and men, women and children of every description of national origin and ethnic heritage. None seemed harried or impatient; the attitude was: Just wait your turn. Not at all like the world George had become accustomed to. He shook his head, trying to decipher the riddle; this confusion seemed to be becoming a nagging habit.
Then, behind him, at the very doors through which he had entered came Irish lyrics suddenly familiar, but the off-key tone became a lovely, clear tenor. George turned as the vagrant from the street entered, raggedy clothes and all. An aura around the green derby shone like a golden halo.
The bum walked right past George, not seeming to notice him and straight to the ticket cage.
The Station Master appeared to know the crusty panhandler and ushered him politely through the right side gate; he entered a door and George lost sight of him.  
Moving away from the dark-eyed temptress, the rushing sound of an arriving train caught his attention and he focused beyond the window where the little urchin, the fourth of the woman’s children, distorted her pert nose, smashing it against the dirty glass pane as she peered outside.
The child was to the left of the double doors through which he had entered and on the platform beyond the glass stood a gaggle of people dressed in drab, dingy, some downright dirty, all raggedy and a few nearly black robes or smocks of some kind. As the roar of the arriving coach grew, the people looked left and right and tore at their garments and pulled at their filthy hair, their arms flailing as though they sought escape from some unseen sinister monster come to gather a horde of lost souls. Their upper torsos bent as though to run, but they were frozen in place. The spirit seemed willing enough, but the flesh weak and unresponsive. And, alas, they could not escape their judgment; for each, all time had run out. Justice delighted as mercy wept.
Dark gray tendrils of smoke snaked in corkscrews from the wooden floor amongst the writhing passengers; the evil wraiths became four foot black midget demons, hitting, poking and prodding the miserables like pathetic piñatas displayed for the malevolents’ perverse pleasure. The tenacious tortures elicited horrid wailing cries like the vacant howling of an injured, cornered wild beast seeking refuge from the approaching carnage of impending death, but unable to find relief from the eternal evil torment.   
Before George’s wide eyes, a blur neared at a level which had to approach the speed of light, itself. He heard the horde’s collective cursing, screaming, pleading, in a cacophonous escalation until the hollow lost laments joined with the reverberation of the shrieking train.  As the wild wind passed the station, the gathered people on the platform were seemingly sucked into the vacuum of the blur. The little girl at the window flinched. Dapper George blinked his eyes in disbelief as the wraiths vanished. All was gone and done, vaporized, in an instant. His disbelieving mind said that he had witnessed a mere suggestion; to that, George shook his head in utter confusion; the enigma of his thought could not be processed in any meaningful logic.
As quick as the roar of the passing train had evaporated, as though it had never been, he noticed the platform filling with another growing group of passengers coming from a corner room within the station, this one situated behind and left of the teller’s cage. There was a door on his side, but no windows; the gathering would-be commuters seemed to be entering the waiting area of the platform from outside of the room, out of sight to George’s view.
He surveyed the station and noticed a similar-sized room on the right side of the cavernous building, the same one through which his itinerant tenor had entered. Through the sparkling glass of the windows on the right, a score of wraithlike passengers, the singing leprechaun among them, each dressed in gleaming, pure white robes, gathered in groups of two or three and conversed in happy social discussion.  They, too, awaited transport, but seemed to exude a freedom not evidenced in the group just departed. Curiosity and a sense of foreboding gripped him. Shaking his head to rid it of the troubling challenge, he headed toward the Station Master.
A line of people preceded him to the ticket window. Funny! He hadn’t noticed them before.
Three men stood single file followed by an elderly couple, a female Army infantry soldier, then the attractive Asian temptress and her four offspring and, finally, George. None carried luggage and that struck George as strange; suddenly, it dawned on him that he had none, either.
As he looked down at his feet and around the room in search, he silently cursed himself for misplacing the expensive alligator briefcase; it contained his precious order. Damn!
Unable to hear the conversation between the travelers and the Station Master, George contented himself with observing the deliberations; people-watching was a wisely invested practiced trait of any good salesman and George was one of the best.
Words were obviously exchanged between the first man and the agent who seemed to be shuffling papers, out of sight to George. Shortly, the customer raised his right hand toward the Station Master who peered at the palm, nodded and opened the right side gate. The gentleman entered and proceeded to the door to the room which exited to the outside platform. Immediately, George saw that the man came onto the waiting area of the platform in a pure white garment, reminiscent of a gown. He joined a group of two women and a man in pleasant conversation.
The second man approached the Station Master, went through the same routine as the first, showed his palm and was similarly ushered through the right gate as, shortly, was the third man and the elderly couple. The girl soldier followed their lead. Sammy-the-Singer greeted each as they eventually appeared on the outside rail-side platform where he waited in a splendid gown.
George’s Asian beauty approached the agent with trepidation and exchanged words with the avuncular man which could not be overheard. George saw the Station Master place several white pages from a book and numerous black papers on a scale before the woman; the children were not so judged. Finally, she and her progeny held their palms toward the Station Master who nodded and surprising to George, swung open both the right and left gates to the family.
The four children rushed through the right side gate, into the room and onto the platform in gleaming white robes while their overwrought mother reached in vain for her beloved darlings and reluctantly entered the left side passage. Her wails were interspersed with curses of the vilest nature. When the woman hesitated in her advance, a black corkscrew wisp of smoke emenated from the floor of the station; form it developed a “midget”-sized man dressed in a tuxedo complete with top hat, a devil’s hellish demon who took hold of her arm and forcefully escorted her through the awaiting left-side exit from the station leading to the threatening platform.
As she passed through the passageway of the left side room, she turned to the Station Master in one final desperate pleading for mercy. But, as He did not respond to her request, she passed through the door and onto the platform in a nearly totally darkened robe; her screams reverberating dreaded hollow sounds of dead-evil like a tortured, cornered, dying, helpless wild animal’s howling spirit who senses its eternal lost instant.
A strange, foreign, nearly perverted thought entered sophisticated George’s racing mind which had already deduced what reality fickle fate held in store for him.
Perfect George, with all the right answers, no matter what the query, even when he did not know the question, was quick to render judgment, to demand justice, to have it all his way, on his terms, in his own time. Oh! Yes! Indeed! Alas! But---Now!?
“Perhaps, just, perhaps,” he second guessed, even at the final instant of possible redemption, “he should not seek harsh justice-exacted; rather pray a final plea for tender mercy protracted.”
Amen!
But, alas! Too late! And, hapless, helpless George resigned himself to the reality of it all.
He dared not chance even a surreptitious glimpse at the palm of his right hand. He---knew!
George shuddered, involuntarily, and stepped to the counter to face his eternity and his---
  
Station Master !
 
*          *          *
 
For God so loved the world---For whoever believes in Me shall have eternal life. Amen!
 
 
 
 

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