Christmas On The Range

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Christmas Tree: To Decorate or Nor to Decorate

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Christmas Tree: To Decorate or Nor to Decorate: “A Christmas Story: To Decorate or Not to Decorate” © I haven’t decided if I will decorate for Christmas this year. Last year on Decemb...

Christmas Tree: To Decorate or Nor to Decorate

“A Christmas Story: To Decorate or Not to Decorate” ©

I haven’t decided if I will decorate for Christmas this year. Last year on December 24^th, I promised I’d never do it again.

The seven-foot tree that cost me nearly $100 lost lots of needles driving home from the tree-getting place. Earlier that day, I’d spent two hours dragging boxes of ornaments, tinsel, lights and the tree stand from the attic. Twice I slipped on the pull-down stairs and cut my ankle in two different areas. The extra large Band-Aids stopped the bleeding.

It was already dark when I pulled my pick-up into the driveway. The motion lights illuminated my path to the garage where the stand was ready to accept my Douglas fir tree. I loosened the four screw-like holders by turning each one no less than fifty-seven times. They were in the closed position so the stand could fit into the original box. My tennis elbow flared up a bit.

Singing “Silent Night,” I walked back to the truck to slide the tree base into the stand. Crap, I thought. It didn’t fit. The tree’s circumference was too large for the base. I had to trim my seven-foot tree to a spot where the diameter would fit the stand.

My head hit the door jam in the crawl space under my shop when I was looking for my chainsaw. Something wet started running off my bald head and down the side of my face. I had cut my head entering the thirty-inch high opening. I wiped my face and smeared something red onto my shorts. The stain was a brighter red than the previous blood trails from my ankle injuries earlier. I used another extra large Band-Aid for my head.

Back at my pickup, I kept walking over to the motion lights so they would turn on and I could see exactly where to cut the tree. After some fifteen attempts to start that damn chainsaw, it finally cranked. My tennis elbow became more painful and my shoulder began to throb from my rotator cuff repair earlier that year. My fingers nearly stuck together from the sap and I had difficulty releasing them from the trigger on the saw.

A thump was heard when eighteen-inches of tree fell to the driveway. I shimmied. I pushed. I wiggled that five and a half foot tree into the stand. The tree base was so close to fitting into the stand. The ball-peen hammer dented the bottom of the stand slightly when I finally hammered it into place.

The throbbing in my left thumb from where I’d hit it with the hammer was tolerable. That pain was nothing compared to my elbow each time I turned the screws into the tree base. My shoulder didn’t hurt at all dragging that tree down the sidewalk into the front door. That’s because I’d used my other arm. There was a carpet of needles on the sidewalk behind me and into the living room. It sure enough smelled like Christmas.

Ten minutes later the scent of pine needles was replaced with the smell of 10% ethanol gasoline. I washed my hands in it to eliminate the sap. There was a little poof when I lit a cigar. The singed hair on the back of my hand fell to the floor and I noticed a small burn spot on my hand. Another Band-Aid covered the blister. I figured if I was going to be dumb, I had to be tough.

I spent the next two hours in the garage untangling lights and testing each one trying to locate the dead one. When one light goes out they all go out. I sipped on bourbon and smoked my stogie.

My wife, “Trixie” met me in the middle of a three thousand light string. The very last one was loose. She plugged the string into the electrical outlet and stood back up. “What happened to your eyebrows? They’re gone.”

More singed hair fell to the garage floor as I wiped my barren frontal bone. Oops. Moments later I looked into the bathroom mirror and smiled. I was void of eyebrows. Now, there was a bloodstain on my face and side of my head, an extra large Band-Aid on my baldhead, and another on the back of my hairless hand. I thought it was pretty funny.

The Christmas CD of the group, Alabama must have comforted out cats. They came out from under the bed and into the living room to help us decorate. I got another glass of bourbon.

Initially Trixie and I asked each other where one ornament and another was purchased during our twenty-five years of marriage. We took our time and talked of trips we had taken across America. It was our tradition to buy Christmas ornaments wherever we visited. The throbbing in my left thumb and the blister on the back of my right hand intensified. I sipped more bourbon.

The damn cats kept lying on the ornament boxes and shredding the worn out tissue paper that protected the trinkets. I managed to break three ornaments when I lost concentration while pushing the cats off the coffee table. It seemed like the Christmas music got louder.

After some forty-five minutes Trixie and I stopped talking about our special ornaments and were more focused with hanging them on the tree. I turned off the blaring music. Three times of hearing the same songs was enough. Twice I had to pull tinsel from the cats’ paws. “Peaches” scratched my hand and forearm. Darn it. I was bleeding again in more spots and I was out of the extra large Band-Aids. There were now two medium sized on my left forearm.

Then the critiquing began. We walked around the tree at least ten times each. Following our Christmas tradition, Trixie pointed to the tree’s bald spots. I didn’t care. I bumped my throbbing thumb and drug my blistered hand across branches to hook ornaments in places that Trixie said were barren. And then I quit. I sat down and glared at Peaches. She ran off into the bedroom carrying a small wooden ornament in her mouth.

 No fewer than nineteen times I must have heard the following statements. “How does this look? Is this straight? Do you see any empty spots?”

I rubbed the top of my head in disgust and made it bleed again. I sat on the couch giving pressure to the wound with a paper towel. My shoulder pain intensified and my elbow hurt from pushing down on my head. The other cat did a dive off my legs and I was scratched and bleeding in a new spot. I didn’t care. I finished my bourbon and fell into a trance.

Trixie turned off all the interior lights and went outside to admire our work. I tagged along. It was a pretty sight. I noticed how quiet it was walking on the sidewalk over the bed of pine needles.

We returned to the inside, turned the lamps on and Trixie’s eyes were fixed staring at the tree. She looked at me and said, “The tree is crooked.”

Our divorce is final in two weeks.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Fifty Coats of Grey: A Spoof

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Fifty Coats of Grey: A Spoof: Fifty Coats of Grey The crunching of the gravel under her tires was muffled by the sounds of the trailer skirting flopping in the wind....

Fifty Coats of Grey: A Spoof

Fifty Coats of Grey

The crunching of the gravel under her tires was muffled by the sounds of the trailer skirting flopping in the wind. Ana was looking for the exquisite bed & breakfast in the Smoky Mountains of East Tennessee called Abode & Beyond. She was to meet Christian Grey for a romantic weekend.

Instead, she was lost. The moisture on her lip was not from thoughts of some sexual seduction, but from the sweltering heat and heavy air that hung in that holler. She drove there by mistake. She was lost. The road narrowed as she approached the trailer owned by the local small town drunk.

There was no place to turn around on that graveled pathway. Instead, she was forced to negotiate the Mercedes past weeds that lapped against her windows and over rotted limbs that lay in the lane. She wondered if Christian would be upset if she scratched or dented the new car he bought for her a couple weeks prior.

She was reminded of the Burma Shave signs that once dotted America’s highways when she was about one hundred yards away from the grey trailer. One read, “Yankees and strangers will be shot on site.” Another hand-written posting was painted in red. “Killer dogs bees up ahead.” Ana wiped her lip and came to a complete stop to read a sign that was broken and hung sideways. She tilted her head sharply to the left and downward to read it. “Get yer ass out a cheer now.”

The fighting roosters screamed from their cages and the snarling pit bull dogs slobbered on the car’s fenders when they circled the vehicle. The dogs weren’t phased a bit stalking over the thousands of empty Bush beer cans that littered the drive. They were waiting for a leg to touch the ground so an attack could begin.

The rapid whopping sound from the loose skirting disappeared when the gun blast was fired. Ka-boom! It was a twelve-gage shotgun that he fired from the rotted, wooden porch landing.

Uncle Bubba Bobby held the weapon propped against his right hip and kept it pointed upward. He reached into the left pocket on his bibbed overalls and grabbed a half-empty beer. After chugging the remaining contents he let out a loud belch that made the rooters jump with fright.

One of the pit bull dogs yelped when it was hit in the head by an empty and crushed beer can thrown from the lopsided landing above. Bubba Bobby belched again. “Just who the hell are you? Why are you on my property? Are youins from the county again?”

Ana had to stretch upward to reach the partially opened car window. Through the two-inch opening she yelled out, ”Excuse me. I’m lost. I’m looking for Abode & Beyond. Can you help me?”

Lowering his weapon toward the ground Uncle Bubba Bobby stepped down off the wobbly porch. He tried to kick one dog in the side to make a path away from the car’s front door. He leaned forward toward the narrow opening of the window and smiled through the gaps that once contained teeth. “What’s an abode? I ain’t never heard of no such. It was a bad ideal for youin to drive up here in that purdy car. Lucky fer you that y’all didn’t stir up a waspers nest in the ground.”

Ana felt uncomfortable with Bubba Bobby’s eyes glaring at her cleavage seen through the opening of her blouse. Some fifteen-minutes earlier she had unbuttoned the top button in anticipation of seeing Christian. Her motive was to tease him when they first embraced. Now, she was being ogled by an old, shirtless codger who had globs of fat hanging out the sides of his overalls.

“Um, um the place I’m looking for is a bed and breakfast. The name of it is Abode & Beyond. It’s somewhere off Tuckaleechee Road. Do you know of it?”

Bubba slapped his left thigh and gave out with a cackle. “Why, heck, purdy lady, I’ll fix y’all some breakfast and you can sleep rat cheer fer the weekend if youins want to. Now, now don’t get scared, I’s justa joshing with ya.”

He wiped his nose with his left forearm and opened another beer. “Did ya see Troutfish Terry’s business out on the highway? It bees called, “Used Tires & Jesus Sayings Carved On Wood.” Tuckaleechee is that thar road next to Troutfish’s store.

Ana touched the electric window switch and lowered the glass just far enough that she no longer had to strain to talk through the opening. “Well, my friend Christian flew in yesterday in his helicopter. He said if I got lost I could call him and meet him where he landed. Do you know where he might have landed? Maybe I could find that easier.”

“Why, hell fire, lady there ain’t no cell phone service back in these here parts. I heared a chopper yesterday. I figered somebody was a being hunted for pot plants or some hiker needed saved. Speaking of saved, are youins saved? Have y’all found Jesus,” He asked and pointed to a sign at the front of his trailer.

Ana peered through the windshield and squinted. There was a three-foot wide by five-foot long sign with the Ten Commandments printed on it. A few feet away was a sign that read, “Jesus Is Lord.”

Her stare was interrupted when Bubba Bobby spoke. “I gots me a regular phone inside and you bees welcome to come in and call your friend if ya wants to.” He crushed the empty can and winged it at one of the dogs that darted to the left and missed getting hit. The can lay unattended with the others. “Hey, what do ya think about my paint job on the ole homestead? It must be about the fiftieth time I painted it. I always use grey. It’s purdy, ain’t it?”

Ana pondered Bubba Bobby’s offer to use the phone. She place her hand on the car door handle and… (To be continued)

Questions to consider:

·      Will Ana fall in love with Bubba Bobby?

·      Will Christian rescue her and buy the property in order to convert it into an aluminum recycling plant?

·      Will Ana be saved and find Jesus at the “Second Baptist Church of Hell Fire and Condemnation?”

Stay tuned for the continuing saga.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Day My Little Boy Ran Away

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Day My Little Boy Ran Away: “The Day My Little Boy Ran Away” “Suddenly my tiny hands burned as I was torn away from my fence perch while talking with our...

The Day My Little Boy Ran Away

“The Day My Little Boy Ran Away”

“Suddenly my tiny hands burned as I was torn away from my fence perch while talking with our neighbor Fritz. Earlier, I had climbed all the way to the top square of the chicken-wire fence so I could look Fritz in the eye. It was his fence and he never seemed to mind me climbing on it. But it sure enough pissed off my dad, Bushy.              

My fingers were still stinging when I heard the old man say, ”Goddammit! How many times have I told you not to climb on that fence? Get your ass upstairs.”

I knew I was going to be beaten again. Already crying, I looked back at Fritz for some redemption. He turned his back on me and walked away. I cried louder when I went inside hoping Ma would save me. She said nothing but set her beer bottle down on the kitchen table and belched. I cried louder and looked right at her. She turned her head and continued to watch television. I thought about those two adults, two grown-up people, who did nothing to save me and protect me, as I climbed the steps to my bedroom.

I heard Dad taking two steps at a time and most distinctly, heard him removing his belt. I was begging for mercy In fact, I was crying so loud all the neighbors must have heard me, and yet none came to my rescue. Dad shoved me to the floor so he could get long swings and pulverize me, not with the leather end, but with the buckle end of his belt.

My fingers no longer hurt from being ripped off the fence. Now, it was the pain of chunks of skin being torn away from my forearms as I protected my face. I felt my ribs crack when he kicked me with his work boot. I stopped crying instantly. I could not breathe. I was curled in a ball and did not care what happened next…”

Excerpt from “The Shade Tree Choir” by David Nelson

I was six years old when that incident occurred. Punishment like this was a regular occurrence until I was seventeen years old and had graduated from high school. This step toward independent living, away from the abuse, was my ticket to freedom. I left the house right after graduation. I remember it like it was yesterday. Children who are physically or emotionally abused remember many events exactly. There are other situations we force ourselves to forget. Sometimes later on in life, we remember in startling detail.

That day is clear in my mind for it was the exact time in my life that the little boy inside of me experienced genuine abandonment. Neither my neighbor nor my mother came to my rescue. That was the day the boy inside me ran away and hid. That was the day I knew I was on my own. It’s odd how one can actually pinpoint an event that has haunted him or her for life.

Fear of being abandoned is a common thread among abused children and adults whose parents were alcoholics. In my case, both of my parents were alcoholics and Ma was mentally ill with bouts of incapacitating depression.

Sadly, many adults who were abused as children have trust issues and won’t allow others to get too close to them emotionally. They may have difficulty sharing feelings, communicating openly or hiding behind a wall due to a fear of insecurity. Many formerly abused children will feel subconsciously, “If my own parents didn’t love me, then who will?”

Consequently, such individuals can have problems with interpersonal relationships. Some adult victims may try too hard to keep an attachment and in the process smother their partner. The abused person may try as hard as they can so they won’t lose their partner. They know the awful pain of feeling abandoned. Some adults waffle between the two reactions.

Each time a child is abused a pathway is set down in the brain as a life experience. The child may interpret the beatings as “deserved.” Because, after all, it’s the parent who is “all-knowing” and the one administering the punishment. The child then interprets the entire scenario incorrectly. When the child is abused repeatedly, the neuro-pathway becomes strong and leads to an inaccurate belief system. They may feel deserving of abuse, develop low self-esteem and live life being sad all the time. Some women accept verbal and/or physical abuse from their spouses – “because they feel they deserve it.”

Research shows that abused children have decreased serotonin, increased dopamine and increased testosterone. These chemical reactions have been linked to depression, anxiety and ideations of suicide. Many psychiatrists are of the belief that medications will stabilize the patient. Some psychotherapists believe “talk therapy” is the answer.

The adult may live life from the viewpoint of “I deserve to be beaten” – which translates into “I’m a failure.” Many abused children grow into adults with low self-esteem. Others take the opposite approach and spend their lives trying to prove the ghosts of the past wrong.

Those who refuse to accept that they were, or are, deserving of abuse often become over-achievers. These people will live their lives trying to prove to the ghosts of the past that they are indeed a good person and did not deserve the punishment they received.  I fall in this latter category and am thankful that I took that path. However, that aggressive lifestyle often leads to one of high anxiety and stress. I’ve written about Stress Management in other blogs of mine.

According to the National Child Abuse and Neglect Data Systems, in 2012, thirty-one children died each week from abuse, in the United States just alone. Thirty percent of States do not mandate legal representation for children in abuse proceedings. A review of relevant literature reported one research study that showed adults who were abused as children suffer from depression, anxiety, emotional behavior issues, suicide ideation and actual attempts at suicide.

My belief is that, the more we discuss the issue, the more we will help children who have been abused. Years ago it was taboo to even mention the term “mental illness.” We now know that clinical depression is a form of mental illness. I, for one, am pleased that society is finally talking about the issue. The tragic suicide of Robin Williams and unfortunately, the many school and workplace shootings have brought mental illness to the surface.

Personally, keeping the disease at bay has required considerable effort on my part. I continue to lead a life of never sitting still and having at least one major project happening at all times. I focus on that positive activity and that helps keep the doors of depression from opening. One of the problems with the disease is that people with the disease don’t look sick. That is why when someone commits suicide or kills someone, neighbors and friends are shocked.

I meditate daily, perform heavy exercises at the gym and begin each day with positive thoughts. A review of literature from the Mayo Clinic reported the benefits of meditation include:

·      Increase endorphin production (that are responsible for the all-encompassing sense of happiness).

·      Increase in a chemical called GABA (which is responsible for stabilizing moods).

·      Increase in a chemical called DHEA (which has proven to decrease depression).

·      Increase production of melatonin which is useful for proper sleep

·      Increase production of serotonin which has a profound influence over mood disorder

·      Boots HGH (a human growth hormone) which is also linked to a lack of motivation

Exercise creates many of the same benefits. Mental imagery has also been a useful tool for me. Research has shown many positive results from picturing yourself or a life event in a positive way. Elite athletes use this technique all the time. When I worked as a physical therapist I used to teach my patients the process of mental imagery. I told them every day to see or envision themselves walking again or using their hand or whatever the affliction was that I was trying to improve.

If you’re troubled by any of these psychological ailments, I suggest you speak with your physician as to the best approach for you. I simply show here what works for me. If it’s any consequence, there are numerous famous people who have suffered depression. Some of these include writer, Mark Twain, actor, Marlon Brando, astronaut, Buzz Aldrin, Athlete, Terry Bradshaw, world leader, Winston Churchill. As we know now, all walks of life are affected.

Another technique I use is to write. When I am creating, I’m too busy to dwell on any sadness. I have written books dealing with child abuse, reactions to the abuse and success despite the abuse. I wrote one book about how to manage stress. My web site is www.davidnelsonauthor.com

My life has been devoted to helping that sad little boy who was ripped from the fence and beaten; to the boy who ran away years ago seeking inner peace and to face life more fully.

I want to take him by the hand and teach him to suck the marrow out of life every day. Remember the Robin Williams movie, “Dead Poets Society?” Carpi Diem – Seize the Day. This is my mission.

For each of us the path to recovery is highly personal. Good luck with your own internal search. Peace.

Here is a link to a one-minute book trailer for “The Shade Tree Choir”

http://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU

Nelson Iowa Book Tour Final Schedule

Nelson Iowa Book Tour: Final Schedule

Part One: “The Shade Tree Choir- The Story Behind The Story”

This program will center on my book about the child abuse I experienced growing up in the North End of Dubuque, Iowa during the 1950s and 60s. “The Shade Tree Choir” http://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU has been described as, “A deep analysis of human relationships both positive and negative that contain a combination of tragic elements and subtle comedy.”

You will learn stories not in my book, coping skills and defense mechanisms I developed as a child in order to survive, my reactions to abuse, how I succeeded despite the past, how I learned to forgive and techniques I use to manage stress.

You will be exposed to stress management skills based on my years of research, practical usage and training others in my classes. The first 85 participants will receive a FREE copy of my out-of-print book, “Stress Management: Does Anyone in Chicago Know About It.”

Monday, November 3^rd, Tipton, Iowa Public Library, 5-6:30 P.M.

Wednesday, November 5^th, East Dubuque, IL Library, 6:30-7:30 P.M.

Tuesday, November 11^th, Denny’s Lux Club, Dubuque, IA, 6-8 P.M.

Thursday, November 13^th, The Book Vault, Oskaloosa, IA 7-8 P.M.

Saturday, November 15^th, Mason City, Iowa Public Library, 2-3 P.M.

Monday, November 17^th, Dyersville, IA Library, 12-1 P.M.

Monday, November 17^th, Preston, IA Library, 7-8 P.M.

Tuesday, November 18^th, Dubuque Carnegie-Stout Library 6-7 P.M.*

  *Limited Seating

Part Two: “Cowboy Comedy Show”

I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. This honor, was given to me by our Governor and the General Assembly. I’ve performed across America. My web site is http://www.cowboycomedyshow.com/

I will be performing my one-man act  consisting of storytelling and cowboy poetry at the following locations open to the public:

University of Dubuque

Thursday, November 6^th, Sylvia’s Coffee Shop, U. of Dubuque, Dubuque, IA, 12:15-1:30

Friday, November 7^th, Badka Theater, 3:30 -4:30*

·      I will teach a class to the students in the Fine & Performing Arts Workshop about my work as a writer and a performer. Come join us if you wish to hear about my careers.

Wonder of Words Festival Des Moines , Iowa

Des Moines Central Library, Friday, November 14^th, Noon- One P.M.

www.davidnelsonauthor.com

Songs written about "The Shade Tree Choir"

http://youtu.be/O5I_XS6xb70

http://youtu.be/oQApYp1S9O0