The Raspberry Post

The Raspberry Post

THE RASPBERRY POST By Eduardo Delgado It must have been the summer of 1925 or early 1926 when I was just one or two years old. Of all the summers to come, this one keeps coming back to me. Many years have elapsed since. I was in the care of my grandmother most days for the first few years of my life. Her best friend was Doña Pasquelita. Grandmother’s friend was an old Indian woman who was less than five feet tall and lived with rabbits, goats and chickens. She would grind corn every morning for the fresh tortillas she sold that day. She also had fresh eggs, goat’s milk and live chickens to sell. You only had to pick the chicken or rabbit and she would have it plucked or skinned when you returned. Everyone in the barrio knew Doña Pasquelita. She was an Apache Indian. http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/Raspberry-Post-Final.wav Every summer when raspberry season came, Doña Pasquelita and I, my grandmother, and my cousin Caroline would walk about two miles starting at daylight every morning to pick raspberries for Mr. Nakamoto’s berry farm. I was sitting on the ground next to the first post at the beginning of the row of raspberries. My grandmother took a yellow rope from her bag and tied one end to the post and the other end around my waist. She would say a few words, pick up her raspberry tray and start picking berries. I could see as she worked her way to the other end and back up the other side. When she returned she would wipe my nose and the dirt from...
The Change

The Change

The Change by Hans Lillegard Michael Kaspinsky stood on the cusps of a revolution, though he remained ignorant of it. There was a tension in the air like the tension before a thunderstorm except rife with the likelihood of results that could be good or bad. He was full of himself and didn’t see the hard world around himself. http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/The-Change-Part-1.mp3   http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/The-Change-Part-2.mp3   http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/The-Change-Part-3.mp3 Friends and acquaintances that he had formerly chanced to see while writing papers in the computer rooms or grading papers in the coffee houses began falling away. He knew that others around him were becoming angry by the rigid way they walked. He was a graduate student and he only listened to his students and the politics they espoused. He had of course superficially agreed with his students but in a disguised way he sacrificed his honesty. He sidestepped their clamor over the recent budget cuts and how it was nothing more than austerity. Like many of the graduate students at university he had played along with the radical notions of the younger students so that he wisely became the hypocrite, avoiding what he thought to be their circular thinking and so preserved the sanctity of a clear mind and direct thought. It was when he went to the registrar to take care of the next semester’s graduate payments that the reality came home for him. The woman at the counter stood opposite him impassive at the tuition hike so that he felt bludgeoned run headlong into a brick wall. He started to make his way from the office glancing at the ceiling in the...
All I Want For Christmas

All I Want For Christmas

  All I Want for Christmas by Rand Hunter Kreycik © 2013.  All rights reserved. I vaguely remember our first Christmas as a family without Dad.  The previous Christmas had been spent at my grandmother’s in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where she was attending beauty school.  It was my mother, father, sister, and me – enjoying Christmas Day at Grandma’s apartment.  We had never been there before, and it was a joy to see her and to be in her home.  I don’t remember much about the dinner, though it must have been a feast.  What I do remember is the toys and being together as a family.  My grandmother was a great music fan, so we would have been listening to Chmost likely Perry Como, Jim Reeves, and Bing Crosby.  It was a magical day that stays enfolded in my memory like a pungent pine bough in a blanket of snow. http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/AIWFC.mp3 The next year could not have been more different.  My parents had divorced, my mother, sister, and I had moved from our family cattle ranch to nearby Valentine, Nebraska, and the world as I had known it had exploded. It was Christmas Eve, and my grandmother was now living with us temporarily.  I remember many, many gifts.  Christmas music was playing this time also – but my mother’s choices:  Elvis Presley, Patty Page, and Glen Campbell.  The tree was radiant in the darkness of our living room, and we ate candy, opened gifts, and played with our toys and games until late into the night.  I still remember sitting in the midst of my train track,...
Fit For a King

Fit For a King

Fit For a King By Christina Jones Everyone gathered inside of the tiny church for what was supposed to be the best Christmas Eve service that they’ve ever had. There were promises of cookies and hot cocoa. The pastor lit the solitary room with candles and the piano played softly in the background. Slowly, everyone took his or her seat, waiting for the service to begin. They were cold and ready to get home already. You could hear the reverberation from everyone’s quiet chatter. http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/Fit-For-A-King-Final.mp3 “The night before our savior’s birth!” A voice boomed through the front door. It was the pastor, Mitchell. He was holding a large brown box. The wind from outside began whipping both doors against the walls and the snow was making its way inside. “Some storm we’re having,” Mitchell said. Setting the box down gently, he grabbed both doors and secured them tightly, shutting out the winter. “I’m sure glad that you’re all here. I was worried for a bit. You know, with the storm and all.” He said. The congregation looked at him and then back at the box, curious to know what was inside. “I’m sure that you’re all wondering what I’ve got in the box. Well, this isn’t what I had originally planned but then the storm hit and God lead me to a different plan. So, I had to grab a few things.” He said. The room sat quiet, more so than usual. They were all anxious to see what the pastor brought for the sermon. The box wasn’t big enough to hold a manger and you wouldn’t put that...
Only a Christmas Tree

Only a Christmas Tree

Only a Christmas Tree By Rand Hunter Kreycik “Here’s your paycheck, Pete.”  Isaac handed his warehouse supervisor the slip of paper that represented two weeks’ labor.  “There’s a little extra … you know … for the Holidays.  Sorry it’s not more.  Business has been slow … you know ….” Pete nodded and took the check.  “Things haven’t exactly been flying off the warehouse shelves this winter,” he agreed. Audio: Only A Christmas Tree, Part 1http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Only-a-Christmas-Tree-Part-1.mp3 Audio: Only A Christmas Tree, Part 2http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Only-a-Christmas-Tree-Part-2.mp3 Audio: Only A Christmas Tree, Part 3http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Only-a-Christmas-Tree-Part-3.mp3 Audio: Only A Christmas Tree, Part 4http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Only-a-Christmas-Tree-Part-4.mp3 Audio: Only A Christmas Tree, Part 5http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Only-a-Christmas-Tree-Part-5.mp3 Audio: Only A Christmas Tree, Part 6http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Only-a-Christmas-Tree-Part-6.mp3 Audio: Only A Christmas Tree, Part 7http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Only-a-Christmas-Tree-Part-7.mp3 Isaac shuffled awkwardly.  “Well, have a good Christmas!”  He tried to smile, but it was unconvincing. “You too.”  Self-conscious, Pete moved toward the warehouse door. “Good Christmas!” he muttered.  “This will barely pay the bills, let alone buy gifts.”  Pete had been a frustrated man for some time, and the dam of his discouragement broke loose as he got into his rusty pick up truck.  Without warning, hot tears filled his dark-circled blue eyes.  He pounded the steering wheel, turned the key, and listened to the click-click of the starter he couldn’t afford to replace. Wiping his flannel sleeve across his eyes and nose, he stepped out, grabbed a hammer from behind the seat, raised the creaking hood, and rapped on the starter.  Climbing back in, he turned the key again, and with relief heard “gr-rr-rr” as the engine fired to life.  Grinding the pickup into gear, Pete pulled out of the...
Another Dance

Another Dance

Another Dance By Eduardo Delgado It was in the summer of ’43 that I was somewhere in the Pacific.  We had been moving around from island to island, so that after a few islands I didn’t pay much attention to where we were.  I do remember the white coral, topless coconut trees and the land crabs that came out all night, crawling all over the island . . . Audio: Another Dance Part 1http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Another-Dance-Part-1.mp3 Audio: Another Dance Part 2http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Another-Dance-Part-2.mp3 I was nineteen, had two years of the war behind me and only God knew how many more would be ahead.  In those days I didn’t think about things in general.  After all, how much of a future was there to think about in times like that?  I joined the Navy in ’41, with all kinds of ideas on how I was going to win the war.  I got six to eight weeks of boot camp.  The next thing I knew I was in Astoria, Oregon in a PBY squadron. Within a month we headed for Alaska, arriving at Dutch harbor for our first lesson on Japanese style early morning call: “Air Raid”.   But like I said, that was two years ago. Now I’m down under, basking in the sun, dodging a few bullets.  A new squadron, new buddies, new SBD5 planes, faster than the PBY flying coffins . . .  Now here it is, 3 a.m., and I’m getting ready for the morning dawn patrol.  After a few routine flights of nothing but blue sky and ocean water everywhere, with the warm sun beating down on me I would...

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