It may be a coincidence that National Rum Day falls on my wife’s birthday. But, I’m not so sure it’s not Karma. Meg enjoys a glass of wine or six, but she won’t balk at the occasional Mojito or Rum Punch, or six. Maybe it’s her Irish-German heritage, but well… you know.

Anyhoo, today is the big day to celebrate her launching another adventurous trip around the Sun, made better by dinner in a fine restaurant that hopefully makes decent Mojitos. If not, there’s always Meg’s “go-to” beverage. A nice glass of White Zin or Chardonnay. Maybe Sangria? Depends on the entree.

About ten or twelve years ago, I thought it would be hilarious to buy a “Rolex” watch. I’m a minor wristwatch collector, in a casual sort of way. My friends and family know about my proclivity to buy classic watches and restore them or occasionally buy a certain watch for its charm or uniqueness. To get back to the “Rolex”, I thought it would be an amusing trick to play on my friends. You know, just show up one day sporting a Rolex. Of courwe, the joke would be that after all the oohing and aahing was over, I’d expose it as a fake. If they thought about it, none of my family or friends would believe that I could afford any genuine Rolex. The cheapest one at that time was well over four thousand dollars.

Long story short, the joke was played and the “Rolex” was relegated to the back of my watch drawer, and only taken out to wear a time or two a year to keep it from sitting too long and being damaged from inactivity. It has self-winding (automatic) works that needs to be exercised now and again. All this leads up to the point of my story.

The watchmaker who used to do all of my cleaning and adjustments retired a short while ago. Since then, I’ve been casually looking for someone to replace him. I need someone who does excellent work at a fair price. Not too steep a hill to climb, I wouldn’t think. But, alas, it seems to be. The watchmakers whom I’ve located so far, are both costly and far away. I prefer an in-person relationship with my watch guy or lady.

A couple of years ago, a new watch sales and service store opened in my area. I’ve stopped there for replacement batteries a time or two but hadn’t sampled their repair abilities. Until now. A couple of weeks ago I decided to take the “Rolex” in for a cleaning and adjustment. This is a routine operation and shouldn’t cost more than fifty to seventy-five dollars. A hundred tops. The counter guy took it in, calling it a Rolex. I corrected him twice. He said the repairman would pick it up on Tuesday, and the Tuesday following that, they’d have an estimate for me. Fine. I don’t wear it anyway.

The second Tuesday comes and I get a call from the store counter guy. They can fix the Rolex for two-hundred-ninety dollars. Wow! It was a decade or so ago, but I only paid fifty bucks for this knockoff, blatantly fake, Rolex.

I’ve been around wristwatches and watch repair for most of my life. Here’s what I think the repairman should have told me if the watch was that bad off. He should have said, “the cost of repair far exceeds the value of the watch,” and asked if I was sure I wanted to go that way.

Instead, he saw an opportunity to take some rube for a ride. He surely must know that anyone can replace that phony Rolex with an even better phony Rolex for about a hundred to a hundred-forty dollars, from several sites on the Internet. They are advertised as fake Rolex and even have a warranty. For two-hundred-fifty bucks, you can buy a nearly perfect clone with a high-quality Swiss ETA automatic movement. With the ETA works, it would be the last watch you’d ever need and could leave to your grandchildren. This watch repairman was trying to rip me off and had to know it.

When it comes to watch repair, WATCH OUT!

Shambling across the landscape 

searching for salvation

Wondering if it’s real

or a dream people have

How can the common man

know that there is or isn’t

such a thing in this world?

Or any world else that may exist

Not any organized religion

for that is but a scheme

To help people coexist 

though that is just a dream

Salvation from one’s self

can’t be faced in the mirror 

when you rise in the morn

But it keeps you awake at night

Instead of reading Grisham and posting about it, I should be writing. Therefore, I’m going to count this post as “writing” to assuage my guilt. Technically, it is writing, so I guess it’s okay. 

I received “The Judge’s List” for Christmas. That’s when I always get his latest work, no matter when it’s published. My loving wife enjoys seeing the smile on my shining little face when I open a package and discover a Grisham book inside. This year there were two Grisham’s in the package, but the second one is about sports, which automatically moved it to position number two on my reading list.    

“The Judge’s List” starts out a bit slowly. I discovered that when I realized that I’d read the early chapters in brief two or three-chapter sessions. Typically, once I open a Grisham book, I don’t lay it down until I read the last word. However, this difference was something I didn’t consider until I realized how I’d read the last two-thirds of the book. While I was laid-back about the first third, I burned through the final two-thirds non-stop. 

The lead character is making her second appearance in Grisham’s works. Lacy Stoltz works for the fictional Florida Board of Judicial Conduct. Her job consists of investigating charges brought against Judges within her catchment area of the state. She is approached by a woman who alleges that one of the Judges in Lacy’s realm is a murderer. Not just a one-off murderer, but a serial killer who targets people he has put on a list of those he perceives as having wronged him.

  Lacy wants to turn the evidence over to various police agencies, but the accuser has good reasons why that won’t work. Pursuing this case leads to disagreement and danger unlike any seen in previous Grisham books. Grisham sucks you into his character’s lives in a manner I covet and can never duplicate. Without realizing it, you eventually know more about them than you do the people in your own life. Your concern for them is so keen you can’t look away and their thoughts and emotions become your own. 

I know that my assessment of storytelling master John Grisham’s work is inconsequential, but I am blown away by “The Judge’s List.” I hope everyone who views this posting will read the book. It may start out a little slow but hang in there. It’s well worth taking a breath and forging on. Enjoy!

Buffett can’t reason with the hurricane season,
But I got no reason to try
The Gov’ner & Mayor are both on the air
They’re sayin’ “get out now or you’ll die.”

A hurricane wind is blowin’ hard, houses are fallin’ down
The boats out at sea are safe as can be, but I’m still hangin’ around.
Here on my island, chained myself to a pilein’
A fishin’ pole clutched in my hand.
The sky’s bright with lightnin’, the fish they ain’t bitin’
That’s somethin’ I can’t understand.

Buffett can’t reason with the hurricane season,
But I got no reason to try
The Gov’ner & Mayor are both on the air
Sayin’ “get the hell out, or you’ll die.”

It’s getting dark as hell, sea’s comin’ over the wall,
There goes my new bride, floatin’ off on the tide.
I’m still tied to my dock, so I don’t need a clock.
I’ve got time to kill. Should’a climbed the hill.

Buffett can’t reason with the hurricane season,
But I got no reason to try
The Gov’ner & Mayor are both on the air
Sayin’, “get out now, or you’ll die.”

This Big Storm is gonna blow away
But I’m just gonna drink and play.
We’ve got plenty of rum,
So let the Big Storm come.
While the wind’s still blowin’ outside
I’m not gonna run and hide, run and hide.

Buffett can’t reason with the hurricane season,
But I got no reason to try
The Gov’ner & Mayor are both on the air
Sayin’, “get out now, or you’ll die.”

Well, Jimmy can’t reason with the hurricane season,
Neither can I, you should know.
Gonna crank up the blender and go on a bender
At least I’m not ass deep in snow.

Told to my grandchildren ages 7 & 9

Don Winfield © 2020

Let me tell you about something that happened a long time ago when your grandpa was a little boy about your age. This story is about how some things that seem scary at first might end up not being scary after all.

It’s important to know that when grandpa was your age his family lived out in the country. Way out in the country far away from the city, on a dirt road. In those days, many houses didn’t have the indoor plumbing that you’re used to. We didn’t even have what people called “running water”. You see, there was no faucet on the sink to turn on to get a drink or to fill the bathtub.

If we wanted water, we had to go out in the front yard and use the pitcher pump. The pump sat on top of a pipe that went way down in the ground to where a stream of water flowed. There are streams of water everywhere under the ground. There’s even one under your house where your water comes from. When you pumped the handle on the pitcher pump, water came up the pipe and into a bucket you hung under the spigot. Maybe it was called a pump because you had to pump that handle to get water.

We had a bathtub, but we filled it with water from the pump. Our mom would heat the water on our wood-burning stove to make us a hot bath. But, that’s another story for another time.

Although we had a bathroom there was a bathtub but no toilet in it. Our toilet was in a little green shed out in the backyard, far away from the house. That little shed was called the outhouse.

Now that you know about our strange outdoor toilet, I can tell you about the Potty Monster.

As a little boy, I was afraid to go to the outhouse after dark. My brothers had told me horror stories about the Potty Monster that lived under the outhouse. They said he only comes up to “get you” after dark. If my big brothers told me so, it had to be true. So, I always tried to go number one and number two when it was daylight out.

But, in Winter it gets dark early and sometimes I couldn’t wait until the next morning to go. That meant I’d have to take a trip out to that little green shed in the dark. One cold winter night, it was darker than usual. The clouds were hiding the moon and stars, and it was getting ready to snow, and I had to go. I mean I REALLY had to go.

“Mom,” I said. “I have to go potty.”

“Number one, or number two?” she asked. She probably hoped it was number one because if a little boy had a number one emergency, it could be done in the bushes closer to the house. Remember, we lived way out in the country. But, a number two meant I’d have to make a trip to the outhouse.

“Number two and I can’t wait! Hurry up, mom. Let’s go.” I was begging. Mom had to come with me because like I said, I was afraid of the Potty Monster.

We got our winter coats on and mom grabbed a flashlight. Off to the outhouse, we went, trudging through the snow. I kept telling mom to hurry and whined about the Potty Monster all the way there. Mom told me that my brothers had told me the Potty Monster story just to scare me. “There’s no Potty Monster, John,” she said. Mom called me John which was my middle name.

I knew in my heart that the Potty Monster was as real as the monster that lived under the railroad underpass by our house. My big brother Al was my hero, and he told me so. I knew mom was just saying he lied so I wouldn’t be scared. I was sure that my brother wouldn’t lie to me.

Halfway to the outhouse, the flashlight quit working. Now, I was terrified. We were about to fall into the clutches of the Potty Monster and didn’t have a light to scare him off. We were doomed.

We made it to the outhouse and Mom told me to go in and do my business. “Hurry up, John. It’s cold out here, and I’m freezing,” Mom said, hoping my concern for her would speed things along.

“You’ve got to come in with me,” I said.

“Don’t be silly, John. You’re a big boy, and there’s nothing to be afraid of in there.”

“Mom, I’m scared of the Potty Monster. He’s under the seat. What if he gets me while you’re outside?”

“John, there’s no such thing. There’s nothing but poop under the seat. Poop will not ‘get you’,” she said.

“Come on, mom! I’m going to go in my pants!”

“I’m going to tell you a secret, John. You can’t tell anyone else. Promise?”

“Hurry, mom! What’s the secret?” I asked.

“Back when I was a little girl, your grandma told me this secret. I’ve never told anyone else.”

“Hurry up, mom! Tell me the secret.”

“Something that nobody else knows is that Potty Monsters are afraid of singing. If there happens to be one in there, you sing good and loud, and he will never come near you.”

At that point, I began singing “This Little Light Of Mine”, as loud as I could. It was a song I’d learned in Sunday School, so I knew it would work.

I sang as I stepped inside the outhouse and kept singing at the top of my lungs all the while I was doing my number two. I must have gotten through the song a couple of times before I finished going. As scared as I was I finished up my business in record time and got out of the outhouse fast as I could.

“Well, John, did you see the Potty Monster?” Mom asked when I came out.

“It worked, Mom. I didn’t see or hear anything but me singing the whole time.”

“I guess your grandmother was right then,” Mom said. “Singing chases the Potty Monster away.”

Well, kids, from then on I never went to the outhouse at night without singing at the top of my voice the whole time I was in there. The Potty Monster never got me. Of course, I later learned that my brother had been lying all the time. There was no Potty Monster.

There was a very scary thing that happened one night with a monster of another kind. That is if you could call a scared woodchuck that had wandered into the outhouse a monster.

But, as they say. That’s another story for another time.

The End

The real thing.

With hungry eyes afire

The Dream swells in his heart

The young man grows impatient

To quickly take his part

Quick and strong at twenty-one

His life has yet no past

He teases each moment and pushes

As though it were the last

Seasons flow together

The Dream will have to wait

At forty he knows reality

Wipes his brow and stretches his gait

Where did they go so quickly?

His ideals so real and alive

They’re missing now, but not the pain

For the man at sixty-five

Sunset’s fingers touch a weathered face

No friends to ring the phone

The Dream alive for ninety years

Now dies with him, alone

(c) 2017 – D. J. Winfield

     “Tammy,” Linda June typed with flying digits.  “Running late!  Can you tell Throckmorton that I’m picking up Dunkin for the office?”  The new BMW X3 SUV  swerved toward the on ramp’s right guardrail.  A flick of a long-fingered, well-manicured hand, deftly corrected the bobble.  Twelve hundred dollars worth of Michelin snow tires whined slightly from the strain of the rapid jerk to the left.