For Ginger

For Fred

Two-thirds of the songs in this 3-Song-Playlist have embedding disabled. But they’re well worth clicking through.

Stray Cat Strut

Tempted

RRR: m & i

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.
This was originally posted on 17 Feb 2005.

we share colorful candy-coated chocolates
i hold your hand in mine
i melt into yours
here, m, have another green one

Vignette: Noodling

“I’m sorry,” Fred groaned, rolling onto his back. What didn’t happen had never not happened before. “Why do you have to be married?”

“It’s okay.” Ginger rests her chin on Fred’s shoulder and peers intently at his chin. “You know I want out of the marriage. It’s just… I have the kids… and I don’t have any money… and….”

“I guess your vows mean more to me than they do to you.”

“Ow! Hey, let’s not go there.”

“I’m sorry. Really.” After several moments of strained silence Fred stifles a laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“I have a new list,” Fred grins ruefully, “a pebble in my shoe, exhaustion, alcohol, age, and now guilt.” He takes her hand — reassurance or warding off a slap? “Things that make me limp….”

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

Vignette: The Big C

Ginger sits on the love seat, surrounded by friends. “Momma is sure he’ll get better,” she says of her brother Fred, “but the treatments are probably just buying a little time.”

She talks about how hard it is to see her brother so sick, so weak. Her eyes brim with tears, but she doesn’t cry. Not yet. Later. When she’s alone again. Then tears will flow freely.

“Fred has no appetite,” she goes on. “I try to make sure he eats regularly, but then he gets sick and brings it all back up. Then I feel guilty for making him eat in the first place. But I can’t just let him starve either….”

The words trail off and seem to land gently on the parlor floor. “Another mess to clean up,” she thinks.

“Remember when you set the dog house on fire?” Everyone laughs a little. They smile weak smiles.

“Yeah,” Ginger recalls. “I was carrying water out there in Dixie cups. Fred dragged the garden hose over and put it out.” Another weak smile. “Daddy was really mad about that.” Then they all remembered, her Dad’s gone five years now. Same disease.

Shared sorrow though is easier to bear.

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

Vignette: Spice of Life

Ginger shivers in the booth of the little diner. “Maybe eating somewhere new will break me out of this rut,” she muses to herself. “And didn’t another detective recommend it recently?”

The proprietor, Fred — a slight middle-aged man with a beatific smile — greets her warmly. “How about some nice, hot soup to warm you up, miss?”

“If that’s what you recommend, okay,” Ginger smiles back.

“Yes ma’am,” Fred gives a little bow. “This is the only place in the world you can get it. My own creation.”

Fred turns and leaves for the kitchen. Ginger closes her eyes and massages her temples. This case. This case has her mind in turmoil. No one in her detective squad has ever heard anything like it. Hell, no one she has talked to in any law enforcement agency anywhere has heard anything like it. And now it has happened for the third time. Three times in as many months.

Three times make it a serial, but serial what? Some madman is abducting young mothers with their infant children. He tortures the women — there’s no other word for it. He makes them watch their child being murdered. Makes them watch, the bastard. But then, moments later returns the child unharmed.

No one knows how he’s making such a convincing display of the horror. Hypnosis? CGI? The women all swear they saw their child die. It seemed completely real. And then, perhaps most inexplicable of all, when the children are returned he collects the mother’s tears. And then he let’s them go.

“Here’s your soup, ma’am,” Fred places the steaming bowl on the table. “Careful, it’s piping hot.”

“Thank you,” Ginger stirs the hot liquid. “This is your own creation you said?”

“Oh yes. And very special. One of the ingredients is very hard to come by. This is only the third time I’ve been able to make it.”

Third time. She turns her gaze from Fred’s inscrutable smile to the wall behind him where the diner specials are neatly printed in colored chalk.

Soup du jour: larmes de joie

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

Vignette: CSI

Fred stands by the shallow grave and wipes sweat from his face onto his sleeve. “We have a problem.”

Ginger stops scribbling on her notepad, the pen still poised. Squinting in the bright sunlight she grimaces. “One skeleton, two skulls. No shit we have a problem.”

“It’s worse than that.”

“What? Did you find a third skull?”

“Not exactly.”

The seconds tick by. If this isn’t his most annoying trait, it ranks right up there. “Well, what?” Not even trying to hide the exasperation in her voice.

“The body is that of a male. Both skulls are female.”

Crap.

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

Slow Movin’ Dreams

When we were kids we played cowpersons and Native Americans. [We didn't call it that, of course.] Dad watched Bonanza and Gunsmoke and since there was just one TV in the house, we did too. Yes, I grew up in the dark ages. But we had heroes:

Eventually, John Wayne was not just a cowboy. He was a Green Beret. He was a Hellfighter. In the end though, he was a Shootist. He was probably spinning in his grave when this came out:

Never ever though did I want to be a cowboy more than when I imagined one of these women singing this to me:

Five! Who’da Thunk?

Thanks!

five candles