Writers Corner for August 26, 2011

PISTOL PACKING MAMA

By Uyless Black, Hayden

My wife and I are recent citizens of Idaho. We moved from Virginia to be near her mom. Our home back east was a few miles from our nation's capital. Our home here is a few thousand miles - and light years in perspectives - from D.C.

Take gun control:

Gun control is not an issue up here in Northern Idaho because ordinary citizens have control of guns. You want a gun? You can have one. You want to carry a gun? Permission granted. Unlike Washington D.C., where only crooks in the local citizenry carry guns, North Idahoans can sport a firearm as well.

I like the idea of being able to level the playing field with the opposition: those who deal in the nether world of assault, robbery, and intimidation. The way I look at the matter, it's only fair. It's equal opportunity shooting for both sides.

A few days ago, I pulled into a coffee kiosk in Hayden. These small businesses are as popular up here as doughnut shops are in Canada, a few miles north on Route 95. The coffee is served directly to the customer while he is sitting in his car. Pull in, order a cup, and pull away with a freshly brewed java. None of the inconvenience back east, where you have to walk to get a coffee.

The only establishments in the Idaho panhandle that outnumber coffee kiosks are empty buildings---thanks to Wall Street and its associates. I conducted a survey about the number of non-bankrupt businesses in the area. My (admittedly non-scientific) findings are listed below.

Most-to-Least in Number:

1. Coffee kiosks

2. Banks

3. Service stations

4. Bars

The coffee maker (and owner) at the kiosk I visit is a smart woman. She opens the place at 5 a.m. At that time, and given the location, she is pretty isolated. She told me her mate was concerned about her well-being during the early times of the day. Granted, her location is in a "safe" area in Hayden Idaho - which is pretty safe to begin with.

Still, one never knows. An unreasonable tea drinker, irritated that coffee kiosks actually serve coffee, might very well express his discontent by shooting the coffee maker. It's as valid a reason as any I've heard of about the motives of these sad, deviant, and disordered souls.

Not at this kiosk. You can get your coffee, leaded or unleaded. But if you threaten the help, you're going to get some decaffeinated lead. Here's a snapshot I took of this savvy business woman making my brew and protecting her self-interests.

I asked this savvy business woman if she has had any problems with robbers or other malcontents. She said "Nope."

Only in Northern Idaho? Maybe. But if we continue to experience shooting like that of Tucson, we'll see more pistol packing mamas and papas in America's venues.

More of Uyless Black's writing can be found online, UylessBlack.com.

•••

MY FATHER'S WORK

By Keith Sargent, Mullan

My stepfather and mother met when I was eight months old. They married when I was two. My first memory of my father was sitting on his lap steering a 1958 Buick through town. My father raised me as if I were his own son. He was a loving husband and an attentive parent. As I look back in retrospect, he seemed to do these things so naturally; however, I know it took real devotion and sacrifice.

His first job was being a father and a husband, and then a hard rock miner. He was a big man not only in size but also in heart. He was not well educated; however, he was gifted with the wisdom of life.

We had many adventures together. We would often go digging for rare stones or antique bottles. I remember when I was a young boy he took me everywhere he went, except his place of employment.

As a child, I did not understand why he could not take me with him to work. He would say, "Sorry son, I can't take you with me this time." The years went by and there was my first car, our father and son project; and the first elk I shot - I think he was prouder than I was! We went everywhere together and had a better father and son relationship than most.

At the age of seventeen I came home late from school one evening. As I walked through the front door, there were two men talking with my mother. She was crying and I asked what was wrong. My mother said, "Sit down, son. There's been an accident in the mine. Your father is trapped underground, and we don't know if he is alive." A few days went by and there was no news. On the fourth day I was exhausted. I lay down to rest and fell into a distorted state of mind, half awake and half asleep. Suddenly a faint voice came into my mind. It was my father's voice and I heard him say,

"Sorry son, I cannot take you with me this time." I drifted off to sleep dreaming of all the adventures my father and I had shared together. Not too long after that, my mother woke me. She had a heart-breaking expression on her face. As she started to speak, I looked up at her and said, "I know."

•••

The Press Writers Corner features original, creative writing submitted by our readers.

Send your Writers Corner submissions to Maureen Dolan, [email protected].

We prefer e-mail submissions, and we ask that you limit the length of your stories and poems. Please include your hometown with your submission.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, ID 83814.