Duck & Cover

Written on March 8, 2008


Bob and I were on the lake this afternoon. So were alot of fishermen (obsessions are funny that way). The day was dark and stormy. Then the clouds blew off and it became bright and sunny. We were many miles south of our boat ramp when the weather changed yet again. dark and stormy once again loomed up on the horizon.

A 90hp outboard seems mighty fast until you need some real speed. As rain lashed us in our faces and lightning tore the sky we streaked for home port. We got there moist but intact. As we pulled the boat out of the water my father called. "There’s a string of bad storms heading right for you" he said " tornadoes and large hail are coming upon you fast!".

All the other boaters must have had similar calls. the lake was alive with bass boats making quick getaways. Bob and I parted ways wishing each other good luck. He headed for Anderson and I back to Waterloo.

The storm and I headed east as fast as we could. I tried to gain some ground on it but there are no straight and fast routes from where I was to where I wanted to be. My father would check in from time to time. He was watching the radar on his tv.

The storm loomed up from behind and to the north of me. The clouds had that sickly green tint that potends a powerful blow. Trying to outmanouvere the storm I veered southeast and eventually found myself in the northen neighborhoods of the city of Greenwood.

I had hoped the worst of the storm would pass north of me. But not so far north that it would be aimed at my parents house where my son was waiting for me. I hoped in vain.

The wind began to whip the rain into horizontal sheets that buffeted my truck. I noticed that the winds were now coming from the south; an odd direction for this storm. Then, up ahead I saw the funnel.

Behind a line of trees in front of me the clouds twisted in the air. no vail of rain blocked my view. The spiraling clouds seemed to move slowly, majestically.

This was not the tight whirlpool shape I had seen on tv. But there was no doubt in my mind what it meant: tornado!

The funnel appeared to be very close and just up the road. I u-turned the truck and headed the way I came. The storm enveloped me. Rain sheeted down, the winds seemed to come from multiple directions at once. Then came the hail.

I have heard of golf-ball sized hail but this was the first I have ever seen. The balls of ice crashed down on the roof and the wind-shield of my truck. I began to worry about the glass breaking in front of me.

I needed cover. It was plain that the truck was not protection enough. I was in a bad storm, possibly with a tornado blasting up behind me. I was in a residential area; no public buildings in sight.

To my left I saw a small, brick house with the lights on. I decided to try for shelter there. I pulled into the drive and scrambled out of the truck and into a carport. Now protected from the hail, I knocked on the glass door in front of me.

And elderly man opened the door. I tried hard not to look like an axe murderer. "Hello, there is a tornado outside and I need shelter, may I come in?" It is hard not to look like an axe murderer when adrenelline is coursing through your bloodstream and the image of an approaching funnel cloud is forefront in your mind.

The gentleman (apparrently nearsighted) invited me in. "This is a strong house and this is the safest room in the house" he told me. I introduced myself and gave them many thanks for taking in this wayfaring stranger. He was Mr. Lowman and he introduced me to his very nice wife, Mrs Lowman (yes, they have first names but my memory only holds so much data).

The storm grew worse outside. the wind howled and the rain appeared to come from many directions at once. Inside it was warm and comfortable. Even when the power flickered off. I sat on the couch across from Mr. and Mrs Lowman and we spoke of my job and his (retired from CPW). As the thunder boomed and crashed we spoke of potatoes and the proper time to plant.
In what seemed no time at all the sky lightened and the shadow of Typhon moved off to the east. I called my father and got an update on the storm system. There was a break between bands of weather. I could make it home if I got moving now.

I thanked the Lowmans for their kindness and they thanked me for the visit. "Anytime, come back anytime" said Mrs. Lowman.

I got back to my truck (which was not battered and dented as I had feared). The drive home was fairly uneventful. Trees had come down but most were small or had fallen to the side of the road. While yards were in disarray not major damage was observed as I drove home. Police cars and power company trucks cruised the roads looking for problems.

I am home now and my family is safe and sound. Looking at the news, it is apparrant that other people around the South were not as fortunate. I am pleased to say, that today I depended upon the kindness of strangers.

My Ghost

Note: first written July 2007

A ghost has been haunting me lately.

I don't mean a floating sheet or lurking shadow that follows me around. My 12 year old self to the contrary, there are no such phantoms. I mean a real ghost.

What is a ghost but a memory? A deep lingering pool of thoughts, sounds, and images that persist well after the actual events are long gone. These are not usually good memories. They are full of loss and regrets; of bright possibilities cankered by tragic flaws.

I have many ghosts about me. So, I think, do you. When you lie sleepless in your darkened bed, do you not feel them swirling about you? Mostly our ghosts are too dim to disturb our thoughts. Sometimes they overwhelm you with their presence.

Ghosts are usually of our own making. We create them, feed them, give them a place to hang their ghostly hats. Here is the kicker: some ghosts arrive from outside our real experience. My ghost is such a one.

I don't know his name. He is a little boy of 3 or 4 years. He has inhabited my thoughts for weeks now. I don't know his name, but I know his story.

Several weeks ago on Lake Keowee in South Carolina, a loving father took his son sailing. It was a beautiful day on the lake with a warm sun and light breezes. I see the smile on that childs' face as if I were there. I feel the quiet pride of the father as he buckles the life jacket on him and shows the child how to sit safely in the boat.

The breeze glides the sail boat over the clear, dark waters of that high mountain lake. The surface reflects the forrested mountainsides that plunge down to the shore. What joy the little boy feels; to be alone on this boat with his All-Powerful Daddy. The father hopes to always remember this time with his child. He will.

Something happened to that little boat. I'm a bit vague on the details. The craft over turned, flipped over, began to sink. The father was thrown out of the boat. His lifejacket keeps him afloat. He yells for his son. He cannot see him.

The boy also wears a life jacket. When he visits me it is a cheerful yellow one with cartoon characters on it. Some part of the jacket gets caught in the rigging of the sail. As the boat sinks, so does the boy.

Did his father see his child dragged down? I do. I see his eyes looking at his All-Powerful Daddy, at me to save him. We cannot.

The search for the child took several weeks and hundreds of man-hours. The lake is well over a hundred feet deep and full of timber. When they found him, the boy was still in his life vest, still with the boat.

I am a new father. I have a two-year old son. I know why this ghost is with me. I see him every night. And every night I cry for his father.

Time is passing, and with it my ghost fades a little. The emotions are still strong but distant somehow. I find other things to occupy my attention, other bits of loss and regret to ponder over in the dark of my bed. Anything is better than looking too closely at my ghostly companion.

It wears my sons' face.

Do You Dream Of Wings?

I bet you sometimes dream of wings. When you close your eyes, can you see yourself with wings? Imagine the colour the shape the texture of your wings. Can you fly with them? Are they just for decoration?

No, don't just read these words. Close your eyes and feel your wings. Picture yourself. Where are you? What are you doing? Write and let me know. I'm just curious.
What about me? What do I see? Alright I'll tell you but only if you think of your wings first (don't want to jinx the experiment you see)…

…I see myself sitting upon a stone in a wheat-field gone to seed. I sit like Rodin's "Thinker". My wings are dark and leathery and torn. They encompass me in a parabola of shadows. The sun sits low and large and red upon the horizon.

What does that say about me? Maybe I played to much D&D as a child. Maybe it means something else. Oh well, at least it's picturesque!

Ozymandias II

A Note To The Reader:

I once was a writer. Back in the deep mists of time I wrote stories and poems and bits of fantasy and fluff. When I was in high school in the mid-to-late eighties my father owned an Osborne portable computer.
It was the size of a fully packed suitcase and weighed a least that much. It had a floppy disk drive and a 3.5" disk drive (those were state of the art back then). It also contained a fully functional plain paper printer and a five inch, monochromatic display screen.
I would spend hours on that machine. I would write short stories emulating my favorite writers. I make my apologies now to Messrs. King, Lovecraft, Asimov, and Tolkein. Eventually I became better in my craft (I still can't spell or type). I even attended the South Carolina Governor's School for the Arts.
What became of my writing? How many books have I now published? Well, none actually. As with much in my life, my writing waned as other interests waxed. These days I have not truly written for well over a decade.
Were it not for these blogs I doubt if I would have written again. Lately, I have discovered an itch to write that I have not felt in a long time. I am completely out of practice and have very little time now. But the itch won't go away.
In an effort to soothe my literary dermetitis (see what I mean!) I dug up an old prose poem of mine. It was written in my senior year of high school and was later published in "Portfolio", the student literary magazine at the University of South Carolina in 1990. I bring it to you now. I make no claims to its quality nor have I edited or updated it. Read on or turn back now. You have been warned.

Ozymandias II

by

Win Ott

In the upstate of South Carolina, an old dirt highway runs from

York County to the city of Abbeville.

Marching through wooded bottomlands,

Leaping across turbulent streams.

Over hills and under a great, green lake.

Always winding, never stopping,

A river of commerce from a lost age.

Once farmers in wagons and dandies on stallions traveled this

road.As the South was consumed by fire, Jeff Davis fled this way

en route to Mexico with the Confederate gold.

Some folks say he hid the gold somewhere along the

highway before

the Yankees found him. My father, he told me that the

gold

is buried near;

Maybe

Even

Here.

The Old South died and the New South was born.

Not so lucky the grand old highway.

Now it sleeps, deserted by man.

Forgotten by most.

Trout lily and trillium decorate the highway. No one

travels

to Abbeville on that road anymore.

Nothing walks that path now except nature's silent host

and me.

Under a cathedral ceiling I stroll.

Looking for nothing, 'cept maybe lost Confederate gold.

Yesterday, I spotted a clearing in the woods to my left.

Deep

green leaves of periwinkle covered the loam. Brilliant

rays

of sunlight reflected off the fragile purple flowers, giving

the air a violet glow.

Insects drifted on wings of lace;

enchanting me, whispering my name.

I stepped into the glade,

listening to half-heard secrets.

Then I noticed the grave.

Nestled among the roots of a grand old oak, it was little

more

than an engraved field stone.

Weathered stone, dying moss and part of a faded

inscription:

...MAY HIS NAME LIVE ON FOREVE...

An epitaph worked into the stone by an unknown hand for

an

unknown person.

A scrap of message from a forgotten past.

Time teaches a hard lesson:

"All things must pass"

The Old Abbeville Highway lies deserted and overgrown.

Nothing walks that path save nature's silent host.