Short Short Stories and Briefs

SHORT

SHORT STORIES

AND

BRIEFS

DOROTHY ALEASE PHILLIPS

Copyright © 2018 Dorothy Alease Phillips.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Taken from the King James Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2175-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2174-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906553

Abbott Press rev. date: 7/16/2018

D E D I C A T E D

TO MY

SEVEN GRANDCHILDREN

AND

FOURTEEN GREAT GRANDCHILDREN

Because of my age, I know I will not have the joy of spending much time with these beloved children, I leave with them my love for the Lord and my delight in writing. I’m sorry I cannot journal many wonderful stories about events in their lives. I want them to know that in advance I have undergirded them with prayer. I’ve asked the Lord to draw each one to Himself and to give guidance to a long, happy life. MAY ALL 21 BE HIGHLY FAVORED & BLESSED.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

TO VERY SPECIAL FRIENDS:

MASHICA ROBINSON, my faithful assistant in all phases of collecting, organizing, and finalizing copy

BETTY HILL, a dear friend who read my stories and noted typos and often gave helpful comments

SANDRA NAIL who offered technical assistance, and to

A HOST OF ENCOURAGERS

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Preface

SHORT STORIES

A Cry For Help

Heartbreak Operation

Colonel Beaman’s Reminder

The Escape

Fall Folly

Does God Know?

Remembering

Prepared For Naught

What Would You Do?

Cherished Box

Shortcut To Love

A Splash Of Class

When The Time Is Right

The Real Me

By The Way Of Water

Cannot Decide

The Return

Christmas Tree Magic

Smitten By A Name

The Great Revelation

HUMOR

Traveling With Hattie T.t.

Gerber Gooch

Mr. Bryant Pulley

Koota Town

Let Me Outta Here

Fat And Liking It

KID’S STUFF

Young Love

Katharine’s Chance

Fear Works

Wink’s Needed Friend

The Frog That Couldn’t Say, No

BRIEFS

Three Short Entries

Journals

Snow Honeymooning (1942)

Short Remembrances

Nick And Apple

Tyler And Pronunciation

Kent And Hospital Misunderstanding

The Heart Of A Grandson

My Son

My Beloved Children

Cindy

Dean

Kent

Chester: One Hundred Times

Chester And Gus

Chester And Chet

Our Meal Of Choice

ESSAYS

Lucky Me

Counting My Blessings

Name Dilemma

Wartime Farewells

Last Trip To See Granddaddy

Mother’s Blouse

Ha Ha Medicine

Wants Being Met

Like Or Love

All I Want

Never For Me

Confusing Lingo

Around And Around

Losing Our Cindy

My Childhood Love

1930’S Christmas Memories

What Makes Me Tick

What Next?

I’m Special

Close Call

Moving On Up

Defeating A Flaw

Assignment In Writers’ Group

Robber

Sole Saver

Name Dickering

Still Much To Explore

Chore Curse

Behind -The -Wheel Expert

My Doll

BITS OF POETRY

What I Know

When I Say Goodbye

Past Pretty

I May

WRITINGS FOR OTHERS

Norman Rockwell:

Wendy’s Surprise Story

Short Play: Love Triangle

MEMORIAL TRIBUTES

Turn-Of-The-Century Man

Robert Lee Bobby Hicks

SHORT NOVELETTE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

7⁵Th Birthday Thoughts

Personal Note From Author

PREFACE

WHY DID GOD NOT ANSWER MY PRAYER?

I am ashamed to admit that for a long time, inwardly, I was troubled that God had not answered a prayer I had prayed for years. I never voiced my disappointment, but silently I wondered why this prayer was not answered. I knew scriptures like John 15:7 – If ye abide in me and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto to you or Psalms 37:4 - "Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart."

I claimed such verses and waited, but the answer never came. That is, I thought the answer never came; but I was wrong. God was true to his Word. He did answer my prayer.

Let me share with you this prayer that formed in my heart when I was a teen. Shortly after I came to a saving knowledge of Christ at 17, I learned that I loved to write. I began by writing skits or plays for our church. I loved the way I could put words together to get across Christian thoughts and emotions. I was delighted that messages on paper could be read over and over. Seeking to know God’s will for my life at that time, I felt I had found an avenue of service.

When I went to college in the mid 1900’s, however, few schools in America had journalism or creative writing courses. Hardly any offered writing majors. I earned a Master’s degree, majoring in Secondary Education and minoring in English. I took every course that offered writing opportunities. In my college notebooks, I scribbled in shorthand (so that no one would know what I was asking) Dear Lord, please let me write. Years later, while going through college books, I was surprised to see how many times I had penned that same request.

Immediately after graduation, I did write. I had the opportunity to write and illustrate Sunday school literature and teen articles, but these ventures ceased when I became so very busy as a high school teacher, minister’s wife, and mother of three children.

My greatest classroom joy came when I accepted a job in a large high school to teach eleventh-grade English and Journalism I and II. My journalism students and I learned together, raking in many national awards.

Over the years, I wrote poetry, essays, plays, short stories, and even books and tucked them away. I never pushed to see my writings in print. I did not consider myself a writer. I was a typical English teacher who liked to write.

I attended writers’ conferences and came away inspired; yet I was not a true writer. To me, God had not answered my prayers.

BUT I WAS WRONG. Over the years, God had answered that simple prayer I had prayed over and over – Dear Lord, please let me write. I now know He did let me write. I have written stories about my parents, my husband, my three children, grandchildren, students, and friends. I have written accounts of births, marriages, and achievements. In my husband’s churches, I have written church newspapers and local newspaper releases. In addition, I have had the opportunity to write biographies and obituaries of deceased loved ones.

I have written poems, essays, short stories, newspaper stories, and books – some published; most unpublished.

God, in his wisdom and care, knew that, as a people person, I would not have been happy daily writing in seclusion. In truth, I now know how much I would, with my personality traits, have missed working with students, fellowshipping with church friends, and spending time with my children and grandchildren.

True, I have not written anything to make the New York’s Best Sellers list, but that is not what I asked. I simply prayed, Dear Lord, please let me write, and He did. I now say, Thank you, dear Lord for answering my prayer.

In SHORT SHORT STORIES and BRIEFS, I share with you a few of the short stories, articles, poetry, and journal entries I have been blessed to write. Many, though insignificant, have captured a memory, prompted a smile, or caused a tear. All, I trust, have honored the Lord.

SHORT STORIES

A CRY FOR HELP

Teresa Thurman quietly slipped through the front door onto the porch where she lingered, adjusting her eyes to the sudden darkness. Inky black, she thought. Much like the ominous darkness in Moses’ day – a darkness so thick that one could almost feel it. She hated nights like this, especially when she had to travel long stretches of road alone. She glanced at the one-bulb fixture beside the door and felt thankful for even a faint glimmer of light.

She heard the door squeak behind her and turned to see the fragile figure of Mr. Humphrey, the dear soul she had spent the last three hours trying to comfort. Ella, Mr. Humphrey’s beloved wife of 58 years, had finally surrendered to death after a courageous, but often painful, five-month battle with cancer. Teresa, as a Hospice nurse, had bravely waged the battle with her, giving love both to Ella and to her grieving mate.

She had received the final call at eleven-thirty that evening. Mr. Humphrey’s pathetic wail relayed the message even before he spoke a word. Teresa had slumped down upon the padded sofa and pressed her free hand over her mouth to stifle her own sobs. In the few months of this assignment she had learned to adore this aged couple – a sweet couple whose three children lived hundreds of miles away. Oh, they were honorable children who had begged their parents to move near one of them, but the older Humphreys had chosen to spend their last years at the old home place. The one son and the two daughters called daily to check on their parents and to visit as often as possible. Kevin was a Syracuse University professor; Diane, a teacher in Tennessee; and Megan, a stay-at-home mom in Alabama. The past several months had necessitated constant phone calls, texting, and hurried trips back and forth.

Now, standing on his porch, shivering, Mr. Humphrey zipped up his jacket as he adjusted his eyes and edged toward Teresa. I want to thank you again, Nurse, for all that you did for my Ella.

His voice broke. Teresa stepped to his side and patting his arm said, It was a great joy to be near your wife….and to you, too, Mr. Humphrey. You two have been so very precious to me. I think, maybe, I adopted you as my parents away from home.

Noting the chilled vapor that accompanied her speaking, the elderly man said. Oh, my dear, you’re freezing out here. Let me walk you to your car.

She had started to protest, not that she didn’t want help, but mainly because she didn’t trust her frail friend on the snow-crusted ground. Before she could speak, however, the door opened and Kevin stepped out. Hi, Dad, he said. I was looking for you.

Good, Mr. Humphrey said. You’re just in time to see Teresa to her car.

That I will be glad to do, but first, I must get you back into the house. It is far too cold for you to be out here.

Teresa eased out onto the road, once again shivering as she assessed the darkness engulfing everything, everything except the faint center line showing beneath the blurred gleam of her headlights.

Oh, well, she said aloud. Just twenty minutes and I’ll be back in civilization where, at least, there will be street lights. It was then that she noticed the shadowy form of a pickup truck parked on her side of the road. Oh my, she thought, I surely would hate to have car trouble on this deserted roadway. Poor soul."

She had barely passed the truck when she glanced into her rearview mirror, alarmed at seeing the truck lights come on. Instinctively, she increased her speed, remembering that two women in the surrounding vicinity had recently been found dead on roadsides. She had willed herself not to think of this disturbing media news when she had set out for the Humphrey’s home. Usually, her husband accompanied her when she had to make middle-of-the-night calls. But on this Friday, he was 100 miles away, hoping to lead his football team to a state championship.

It had been almost midnight when she had crept into her car, locked her doors, and bowed her head to pray, asking for divine protection. She knew she had to go. The Humphreys needed her.

Now, with someone tailing her on what locals called Sinister Stretch, she began to pray aloud. In seconds, her fears where intensified as she noted the truck advancing at an unsafe speed. Even though she accelerated quickly, she could not escape the sudden jolt, the sickening thud as the truck rammed into her rear bumper.

Reeling from the impact, Teresa reached up and jabbed the On-Star button.

A voice said, Good evening, Mrs. Thurman. Can we assist you with directions?

No. No, Teresa cried. I’m a Hospice nurse and I’m all alone! Someone is trying to run me off the road. Please get me help! Please! she screamed as the truck careened against her side.

Having heard the crash, the man spoke. All right, Mrs. Thurman. I have someone here who is going to contact the police. We have you pinpointed and we’ll send help from two directions. Just try to keep your car on the road. Mrs. Thurman, is there any other traffic on the road?

Her teeth chattering, Teresa found it difficult to talk. No, no, no. The road is deserted and there are no houses on either side for several miles.

Then get into the middle of the road. You will see any approaching cars and can move if you have to. Try to stay calm, Mrs. Thurman. Help is on the way.

A deafening bang broke the conversation.

Mrs. Thurman, are you still there? Are you all right?

Yes, she whispered and then she started praying aloud again, Lord, the missionary who came to our church told us about their house being surrounded by vicious savages. All night the missionary family expected an attack, but it didn’t come. The natives told later that they would have attacked if it had not been for the men in white who were sitting on top of the house. But there were no men in white!

Then Teresa sobbed aloud. Father, let that man see someone in my car. Send me someone to sit in my car.

Ohhhh, she cried. He’s speeding toward me and blowing his horn! What is he doing? Oh, I think he’s passing me! Yes. Yes, he ran off the side and passed me. He’s still speeding away from me.

Good, the voice said with a sound of relief. Now, listen carefully. Slow your speed down. There are police cars heading your way from both directions. Here is what we want you to do. We see a church a mile away on your right. Are you familiar with that church?

Yes. Her voice trembled, I’ve seen that church before. It sits off the road a bit.

Does it have a good driveway and parking lot?

Yes, I think so.

Good. Now unless you see the truck stopped anywhere, we want you to pull up into the church driveway and turn around. Go into the church parking lot only far enough to turn around. Do you understand?

Yes.

We want you to come out from the church and turn left. Go back the way you came. Two police cars will meet you soon. Can you do that?

Yes. Yes. I can do that. I see the church now. It’ s awfully dark but the churchyard is lighted, and I do not see the truck anywhere.

Good. Now, pull into the lot and turn around quickly.

I’m turning now and I’ll have to drive up a little to make a turn.

She had swung to make the turn when she screamed. From behind the church, the truck rolled out and headed down the driveway.

He was behind the church. He’s coming out after me.

Turn left, Mrs. Thurman, and go as fast as you can go safely.

She did as she was told, but then she shouted, Oh, Sir. He came out, but he turned right! He’s going the opposite direction!

That’s fine. He’ll have a welcoming committee waiting for him. You keep going. Your police escort is only five miles away. You’re safe, little lady. You can relax now.

Teresa did not cry until she was seated in the police car headed for home. She glanced at gray headed Officer Beaman and barely whispered, Sir, do you mind if I cry?

The officer reached over, patted her hand, and said, No, my dear young lady. Cry if you want to. A good cry might make you feel better.

No other words were spoken until the officer pulled into the Thurman’s driveway. He turned off the motor and sat quietly for a few moments. Teresa stopped sniffling and wiped her face with a tissue.

We’re home, Mrs. Thurman. Now, I would like to go in with you. I need to ask you a few questions. Not waiting for an answer, he opened his door and walked around the car to Teresa’s side. She stepped out and faltered, causing the office to reach for her elbow to give her support. Together they entered the backdoor.

Please go with me through the house, Teresa said.

Of course, the officer said.

Following her, he watched as she rushed from one room to the other, turning on lamps and overhead lights. When the house was ablaze, she sighed and headed downstairs.

I wish I could offer you some coffee, she said, but we don’t drink coffee. Could I get you a glass of milk and some cookies?

That would be fine, Officer Beaman said, taking a seat.

They sat at the kitchen table as he asked questions and took notes.

Twenty-five miles away, Captain Eckman and Officer Carns turned on their flashing lights and the siren. A dirty pickup eased over to the shoulder. Cautiously, the officers approached the vehicle. Captain Eckman motioned for the window to be lowered, relieved to see the driver put crossed, shaking hands upon the steering wheel.

Uh oh. This guy knows the ropes. He’s been stopped before. At least he’s not wielding a weapon.

Sir, the officer said, shining a light into the car, may I see your driver’s license?

It was only when the driver turned to hand him his license that the captain exclaimed, Grimey Joe, is that you? He glanced at the license. Excuse me, Mr. Garfield. I did not know your last name. I’ve only heard you called by Grimey Joe.

Yeah, it’s me, Grimey Joe, Officer, he mumbled, squinting in the light.

Would you mind stepping out and placing your hands on the car, Mr. Garfield?

Both officers stared in amazement as the driver emerged, wearing clunky, chained necklaces and bracelets over his customary dirty clothes. A braided bead band covered his forehead, making his hair bush out on top and around his ears, and accenting his bulging eyes.

Lock your car, Mr. Garfield. We need to take you in for questioning.

Mr. Garfield did not protest.

At the courthouse, the two officers busied themselves with papers, giving the suspect leeway to squirm, wipe sweat from his flushed face, cross and uncross his arms and legs, and mutter unintelligible rants.

They had barely begun their questioning when wild-eyed Grimey Joe blurted out, Ya see, at first, I didn’t see nobody in the car with that woman. They must have been sleeping. First, one sat up beside her in the front seat, and then two arose in the back! Yeah! Big, big guys! Now, I’m crazy, but I ain’t stupid. I ain’t never chased no woman with a man in the car. I ain’t never … He stopped in mid-sentence.

Captain Eckman stood and propped a foot on the wooden chair. Keeping his mouth closed, he gave a wide-stretched grin and lifted his eyebrows in his typical Gotcha fashion.

He turned to Officer Carns and said, Go call the other officers. Tell them we got our man. Oh, yes, and call Officer Beaman. See if you can find out anything about those men who were in Mrs. Thurman’s car.

Later, Carns walked into the Captain’s office. Captain, he said, Officer Beaman says there were no men in Mrs. Thurman’s car. He’s absolutely sure.

I thought that was what the On-Star gentleman said. He stated Mrs. Thurman was alone. Now, how do you suppose Mr. Garfield saw three men?

I don’t know, but I’m glad he did. Otherwise, we would probably have had another unsolved murder on our books.

The On-Star people have a recording of everything that went on in Mrs. Thurman’s car. Maybe, we’ll know the real story when we get that disc, the Captain said, pocketing his notebook. Yet, this may be another case that will remain a mystery. The kind, you know, we can’t explain.

HEARTBREAK OPERATION

I arose at 5:00, shampooed, showered, and sipped diluted coffee while drying my hair. I applied a little makeup, brushed my hair the customary 20 strokes, pulled on a rubber band, and fashioned a bun at the back of my head. As a surgeon, I knew my surgical cap had to fit.

It was 6:00 I wanted to arrive at the hospital before 23-year-old Sarah Morton was put to sleep. I really thought of her as Little Sarah, for I had known and loved her since she was born to Dave and Donna Morton, our next-door neighbors.

When our only daughter arrived a week after Sarah was born, we jokingly told her parents, We’re going to have to give our girl a biblical name, so that, from the beginning, she and Sarah will have something in common.

They had much in common, except for looks. Sarah had jet black hair and olive skin. Our Hannah was blonde with fair complexion. But the two loved each other. They entered kindergarten together and stayed best friends in high school. Both chose to attend the University of North Carolina for undergraduate and graduate studies, with Sarah majoring in journalism; and Hannah in foreign languages. Graduation, however, brought a sad separation Sarah came back home to become the feature editor of her dad’s newspaper and Hannah went over a thousand miles away to use her foreign language skills.

All these thoughts plagued my mind as I sped to the hospital. In the parking lot, I turned off the motor, put my head down on the steering wheel, and cried, Oh, dear Father, I don’t understand why one so young, so pure, so sweet should have a tumor, a tumor so very large and threatening. I don’t know why I must be the one to operate. I don’t understand but, Father, I know you are Sovereign and can control this situation. Help me, please. Help me.

Before entering the hospital, I dried my face and carefully wiped away damp eye liner. I took the elevator to the second floor and peered into the holding room, but Sarah was not there. I donned my cap and shoe covers and stood looking out the window as I waited.

When Sarah was wheeled into the room, I slipped by her side and whispered, Good morning, sleepy head.

She opened droopy eyes and smiled at me. I could tell the small amount of analgesia was working; Sarah was completely relaxed. Mama Sheeeeen, she slurred, calling me by the name she had always used, do a gooooood job now. I’ve been praying for yooou.

Even though I was acclaimed one of the most qualified neurosurgeons in the area, at that moment I wanted to leave the room. I felt completely inadequate. How I wished my colleague, Dr. Zoe Goldstein, were still on staff. I could trust him to take over if I faltered; but, regretfully, he was now teaching in a medical school out West. Why, oh why, had the Mortons insisted that I perform this operation? Didn’t they know the dangers? Didn’t they know how difficult it would be for me?

Earlier, when I had tried to protest, Dave Morton had said, Kelly, we know how you ranked in your medical class, and we know your superb track record for the past 25 years. Mary and I are confident you can do more for Sarah than anyone else. You see, you have an added incentive no other doctor would have. You love our child as your own.

I did love Sarah as my own, and that was the problem. The X-rays had shown a huge tumor, at least the size of a golf ball, resting on the auditory nerve beneath her skull. Couldn’t her parents understand the inherent dangers of brain surgery? Even if the tumor were benign, removing it could damage vital nerves in proximity. I pressed my hands against my stomach to alleviate pain.

I glanced at the wall clock. I knew I must have prayer with Sarah, for they would come for her in minutes. The surgery was scheduled for seven o’clock. When I told Sarah I wanted to pray with her, she smiled and closed her eyes. I held her hand and once again talked with the Lord. When I said, Amen, I opened my eyes to see an orderly standing close by with bowed head.

They wheeled Sarah into the operating room. Even though they were behind closed doors, I could visualize their placing small pads on Sarah’s body and hooking her up to the monitor. Mentally, I could see the anesthetist carefully putting her under. I knew that in a few minutes the circulating nurse would come to the door to tell me the patient was ready. Then I would begin my scrubbing ritual. I was known for being meticulous with the scrub before surgery. I was aware that the nurses behind my back had nicknamed me Dr. Kelly Sheen, the Super Clean. That did not bother me. I continued to ignore the minimum requirement. Carefully, I scrubbed my fingernails, my hands, and my arms up to my elbows. I concentrated on the rinsing process, tilting my arms upward under the water so that the rinse dripped downward, never to my hands.

Holding the upward-hand position, I