Gimme Shelter

  • Gimme Shelter

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Gimme Shelter

    By William Frank Hulse III 

    When we’re watching a movie from the comfort of our recliners, relaxed and mellow, my bride will become frustrated when the hero does something physically impossible.

    For me it’s the magic of movies. I don’t believe it for a second, but the scenes are fun and allow me to freestyle through the adventure.

    Since I almost always immerse myself in a character, I want to enjoy moments of charmed innocence, believing everything I see and hear and feel.

     It has a gauzy sheer that stays in place, even when the curtains go up. It helps give the events an element of reality that only lasts until the closing credits roll. When Nancy gets uptight about the science friction, I remind her, “Suspend your disbelief.”

    I enjoy being drawn into the story. It is surely escapist, in the best sense of the word. It distracts me from the realities that loom on the horizon or are present and accounted for, clamoring for my attention – begging me to worry or fret. Not fair!

    I cannot solve all of the world’s problems; I can barely keep my own from bubbling over and scalding me with their persistent demands on my attention. And, I’m healthy! What a terrible price life inflicts if I can’t escape its anxieties for a time. But I can do better than escape. I can withdraw from the fray and enjoy sanctuary.

    It’s not like the escapist and vicarious enjoyment of some wild movie or book. It’s that still, quiet haven where I can preen – clear out the dust and grime and parasites and align my feathers so that I can fly again – better yet, soar again.

    There is a completely blue sky this morning. Try as I may, I can’t find that shade of blue in my box of crayons but when I close my eyes, it is shining brightly in my mind’s eye.

    And that sun, oh, that sun, is shining even brighter.

    I will soar again and warm my soul – but I’ll remember not to fly too close to the sun. My crayons might melt.

    I wonder what color would emerge from 48 crayons. That will keep me guessing and smiling at that wonderment. It’s not something I see into my immediate future, but I do plan to get a jar of bubbles and watch that tiny miracle unfold and then make tiny pops to end their flight.

    There now, isn’t that better. A moment of examination and another of reflection to set the stage and allow me to wend my way on this soul’s passage, right here and right now. Namaste…

    William Frank Hulse III is a native Oklahoman, born and raised in the Indian Cowboy Oilman community of Pawhuska. He began his college career at Central State College in Edmond but enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1968. While serving in the military Frank completed his undergraduate degree with the University of Maryland. Upon his return to civilian life in 1975, Frank was employed by Phillips Petroleum Company for almost 30 years. Since retiring he plays guitar and writes.

    Note From Marlene: You are welcome to comment on this story on my Writers Forum Facebook Page.

    Marlene C

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  • Dem Dry Bones

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Dem Dry Bones

    By William Frank Hulse III 

                In my hometown, the old hospital is where I was born. The same holds true for almost all of my 1947 vintage classmates. The old hospital was built in 1923 and razed in ’65 when the new hospital was completed. The memories I have of the old hospital and the memories I have of the old high school are sufficiently intertwined that I can hardly separate them. Both places were mighty scary after dark – mighty scary. Both buildings had basements with very little light from outside, so they were scary with shadows and dark corners, if the lights were out – even if it was high noon. There were classrooms in the high school basement – physics, biology, chemistry and home economics and student restrooms. The hospital basement was almost exclusively storage, as I recall. My memory of the hospital centers around three trips there for stitches. I wasn’t accident prone but I was adventurous and didn’t always look before I leaped!

              When we were 13 years, there were three of us who were far past adventurous. We were bold, audacious and mischievous in the extreme. We didn’t break the law but we sure bent it into a pretzel. We were thrill seekers. There was no leader of the pack. One day Larry would have a crazy idea, the next Robert would get an unwise notion – and on the third yours truly would have a flight of fancy and no parachute whatsoever. The only reason we didn’t get in trouble was due to the fact that we were nighthawks, typically on a Friday night.

              I’ve probably failed to mention the fact that my Dad’s dad, my grandfather for whom I’m named, was the high school janitor and a bus driver. Granddad knew more about me than he let on because I’d ridden on the school bus he drove for a year. I behaved – to be sure. Granddad didn’t brook any nonsense even from his favorite grandson. That would be me. I inherited Granddad’s gleam in my eye and a propensity to laugh from dawn to dusk and then some. Sometimes, I would help Grandad clean the school. I wasn’t looking for a job – I just enjoyed being around him. When he got back from his bus route, he’d go back into the high school and give it a once over before the next day’s activities.

              Being in the high school after ‘business hours,’ I figured out two or three different ways to do so – even when Granddad wasn’t around – especially when he wasn’t around. I’d been known to smoke in the boy’s room but hadn’t ever been caught. I figured I was bulletproof so I told my nighthawk pals we should invade the high school one night. We didn’t have vandalism in mind – we were just intrigued by being someplace we weren’t supposed to be. One Friday night, a senior with a large dose of ornery took a cow up on the top floor. He left hay and water but that cow roamed the halls for the whole weekend and dropped manure deposits about every 10 feet. School opening was delayed that following Monday while Granddad and I cleaned up after ol’ Daisy. Nobody thought it was funny – everybody thought it was hilarious. Most of the teachers and Granddad pretended to be upset but the truth is it was a heckuva prank.

              My memory is a little fuzzy here but I think the three of us brainstormed a prank to top the cow in the high school. It might’ve been my idea but Robert and Larry have graduated from this life and are probably smoking in the boy’s room in heaven. Bless ‘em. But back in 1960 we were full of enthusiasm for one particular prank. We wanted to ‘liberate’ the skeleton in the biology lab. We named him Mr. Bone-jangles. At first, all we wanted to do was bring him out for a weekend – a furlough of a sort. But try as we might, we couldn’t figure out a way to get old’ Davey Bones back into the high school biology lab. We knew Mrs. Ahrend would be calling the FBI and Scotland Yard to help recover her lab partner. Getting caught by the authorities – that would be bad. And for me, having Granddad and Dad find out I was involved would be a fate worse than death. So, just for the record and in case they’re watching down from one of Heaven’s fishing ponds, “It wasn’t me.” I’m just reporting the facts as best I know them. Sorry, Larry and Robert, but you’re on your own.

              Davey Bones somehow ended up in my basement. To this day, I’m still baffled how it happened. I was certain Mom and Dad wouldn’t find ol’ Bone-jangles because he was back in the darkest corner of the basement where my aunt and uncle’s non-essentials were stored. They had moved to Oregon and had planned to retrieve the goods when they came back to visit.  I think their junk may still be back in that musty corner. They’ve been gone for 20 years now but they might need that stuff – you just never know.

              On Sunday afternoon we put an old shirt and trousers on Davey and found two perfect blue marbles for his eyes. About 11:00 that night we all snuck out and retrieved our pal and took him up to the hospital and ceremoniously left him on the front steps. We had made a placard and put it on his lap. It said, Rest in Pieces. The skeleton was back in the biology lab later that week. Three years later, Mrs. Ahrend was our biology teacher. She looked right at us but warned the entire class to expect fire and brimstone if Mr. Bone-jangles ever went AWOL again.

              The old days were nothing short of amazing. I was careful not to tell my son about our shenanigans. He didn’t have the sense God gave a goose and that was like father like son.      

    William Frank Hulse III is a native Oklahoman, born and raised in the Indian Cowboy Oilman community of Pawhuska. He began his college career at Central State College in Edmond but enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1968. While serving in the military Frank completed his undergraduate degree with the University of Maryland. Upon his return to civilian life in 1975, Frank was employed by Phillips Petroleum Company for almost 30 years. Since retiring he plays guitar and writes.

    Note From Marlene: You are welcome to comment on this story on my Writers Forum Facebook Page.

    #amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting

    Marlene C

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  • Memories

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Memories

    By Frank Hulse

    Confession is good for the soul. So here goes:

    Something I’ve been gnawing on, off and on all day like a dog bone with just a little more flavor.

    I can remember my combination lock from my freshman year in college.

    I can remember what the locker room smelled like. It was directly adjacent to the indoor swimming pool so it was primarily chlorine—but there were more than a few other smells I won’t describe here.

    If I see a post or a picture from a high school classmate, I can immediately hear her/his voice.

    I can remember church camp out at Osage Hills State Park when I was in 8th grade and showing off in the swimming pool, more or less like a peacock when it fans out its train.

    I can remember going on a snipe hunt with all the kids and one of the girls stealing a kiss (given freely).

    I can remember the smell of frying bacon and coffee brewing on our first day of vacation and the new striped t-shirt, freshly laundered, ready to go, and corn on the cob from a street vendor in Estes Park, Colorado.

    I can hear Barbra Streisand singing The Way We Were (Memories).

    I’m happy to have these powerful memories . . . but I wish I could remember where I left my cell phone.

    Yep, a mind like a steel trap, rusted shut and stuck in the 60’s.

    William Frank Hulse III is a native Oklahoman, born and raised in the Indian Cowboy Oilman community of Pawhuska. He began his college career at Central State College in Edmond but enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1968. While serving in the military Frank completed his undergraduate degree with the University of Maryland. Upon his return to civilian life in 1975, Frank was employed by Phillips Petroleum Company for almost 30 years. Since retiring he plays guitar and writes.

    Note From Marlene: You are welcome to comment on my Writers Forum Facebook Page.

    Marlene C

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  • Dedicated to Dad

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    Dedicated to Dad

    By William Frank Hulse III 

    I was out on the back patio, grilling some hamburgers. After talking to the two dogs next door I sat down at a little café/bistro table my wife arranged as a little hygge spot for us. Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement and turned to see a beautiful yellow butterfly go passing by, on its way to a luncheon appointment I suppose. I smiled at the thought and then, for some reason, my father came to mind. He died 18 years ago but he has this clever way of making his presence known. Sometimes, it’s one of his nifty quotes that he borrowed from Will Rogers – a local hero of ours. Other times it’s his shadow that looms large when I’m guessing what next or what now. Those two questions seem to demand a little conversation with Dad. What would you do Dad? He’ll laugh and ask me, “What are you paying me?” He often said, “Free advice is worth exactly what you paid for it.” Isn’t that great! It was his theory that unsolicited advice had a hidden price tag, and I supposed there’s some truth in that.

    So, Dad shows up unexpectedly and inquires how I’m doing. I might as well be honest, he could always read me like a book. When he died, after a long battle with cancer, I was devastated. He had beat the cancer but the aftershocks just kept coming. Like a friend of mine said about her husband, Alan, “He was broken.” Neither Dad nor my lifetime friend Alan were emotionally or spiritually broken but their bodies just gave out. But, Dad left behind tangible evidence of his emotional and spiritual health in a number of ways. In Mom’s wallet, in which she almost never keeps money, Dad had folded up a tissue thin page, like from a Bible. It was a love letter folded and then folded again. When Mom opened it up she was overjoyed. It was a number of months after his death, maybe even a year. Dad was faithful and loving even in death.

    I could stop now and you’d be none the wiser about Dad’s big secret. Over the years he had the habit of stashing money in the oddest places. It was emergency cash that he kept at home in case one of his many friends came by and asked for help. The circumstances were varied but the loan had the same terms – no interest, pay me back when and if you can. He wouldn’t have made a very good banker but he was a fine friend. Time marched on after his death and Mom was doing a bit of downsizing. She asked me if I wanted a nice wooden, windup mantel clock. It hadn’t worked in years but I thought I’d take it to a clock repair person and find out if it was worth restoring. I asked my bride to give it a once over so that the dust and grime of a lifetime didn’t mar its finish. She opened to clock because Mom said the key to wind the clock was inside. Inside there was an envelope; no address or note but ten $100 dollar bills! We took it over to Mom’s and she was blown away but she knew the culprit! Dad visited that clock for some reason with $1,000. Mom insisted we take $500 as a discovery fee. We argued until I could see it was a lost cause. Mom wanted to share with us.

    Dad probably never heard the word hygge. But he had a knack for coming to the rescue when he learned of one of the little old ladies from church had a problem – money, snow shoveling, lawn mowing and the like. I like to think of him as a hygge deliveryman, always ready to bring comfort, contentment and grand memories.

    William Frank Hulse III is a native Oklahoman, born and raised in the Indian Cowboy Oilman community of Pawhuska. He began his college career at Central State College in Edmond but enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1968. While serving in the military Frank completed his undergraduate degree with the University of Maryland. Upon his return to civilian life in 1975, Frank was employed by Phillips Petroleum Company for almost 30 years. Since retiring he plays guitar and writes.

    Marlene C

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