A Child's Eye-View of Retirement

The Minds of Children

By Tom Morrow

 Just before Christmas break, an elementary school teacher asked her young students how they would spend their holidays. One of her students wrote the following:

“We always used to spend Christmas with Pa Pa and Na Na. They used to live in a big brick house, but Pa Pa got retarded and they moved to Florida, so now they live in a place with a lot of other retarded people. They all live in tin boxes. They ride in big three-wheeled tricycles and they all wear name tags because they don't know who they are. They go to a big building called a wrecked hall. But if it was wrecked they got it fixed because it's all right now. They play games and do exercises there, but don't do them very good.

“There is a swimming pool there. They go into it and just stand there with their hats on. I Guess They don't know how to swim.

“As you go into their park, there is a doll house with a little man sitting in there. He watches all day so they can't get out without him seeing them. When they sneak out they go to the beach and pick up shells.

“My Na Na used to bake cookies and stuff, but I guess she forgot how. Nobody cooks they just eat out. They eat the same thing every night, Early Birds. Some of the people are so retarded that they don't know how to cook at all, so My Na Na and Pa Pa bring food into the wreck hall and they call it pot luck.

“My Na Na says Pa Pa worked all his life and earned his retardment. I wish they would move back here but I guess the little man in the dollhouse won't let them out.”

Quite quotable:

“The two most beautiful words in the English language are check enclosed.”  --- author Dorothy Parker

“Don't tell my mother that I'm in politics. She thinks I play the piano in a brothel.” ---Author Jack Higgins, from one of his novels.

Fox news commentator Bret Hume once observed: “An old lawyers’ adage says when your weak on the law, argue the facts. When your weak on the fax, argue the law. When your weak on both, pound the table.”

The great Yogi Berra on what it takes to win: “You give 100 percent in the first half of the game, and if that is not enough, in the second half you give what's left.

World War II's Little Known Facts:

More U.S. servicemen died in the Air Corps than the Marine Corps. While completing the required 30 missions, an airman's chance of being killed was 71 percent.

Generally speaking, there was no such thing as an average fighter pilot. You were either an ace or a target.  For instance, Japanese Ace Hiroyo Nishizawa shot down over 80 planes. He died while a passenger on a cargo plane .

 It was a common practice on fighter planes to load every 5th round with a tracer round to aid in aiming. This was a big mistake.  Tracers had different ballistics so (at long range) if your tracers were hitting the target 80% of your rounds were missing.  Worse yet tracers instantly told your enemy he was under fire and from which direction.  Worst of all was the practice of loading a string of tracers at the end of the belt to tell you that you were out of ammo. This was definitely not something you wanted to tell the enemy. Units that stopped using tracers saw their success rate nearly double and their loss rate go down.

When Allied armies reached the Rhine, the first thing men did was pee in it.  This was pretty universal from the lowest private to Winston Churchill (who made a big show of it) and Gen. George S. Patton (who had himself photographed in the act). 

For some good reading, try these two novels:

Below, find my web site link for last minute “Holiday Shopping.” Both of my novels, “Nebraska Doppelganger” and the mystery novel, “Haunted Bones,” for free shipping:

http://www.tomorrowsnovels.com/

Here’s Chapter 10 of my novella, “Dark Angel.”

Chapter

10

       Shamus was at Danny’s desk when the detective arrived back at the station. This time his old mentor was dressed for business – slacks, shoes, socks, but he still was wearing an Aloha shirt. Danny thought it looked like the same shirt as the day before. But, don’t they all look alike? More and more Oceanside men were wearing them, almost year ‘round, as if it were the city’s status symbol or uniform. It definitely was that particular fashion statement for Shamus.

       “I’m glad you’re here,” Danny said to Shamus as he walked into the squad room. “I’ve been giving our sniper case a lot of thought. Maybe we should keep a close eye on known molesters and areas where snipers just might lie in wait to shoot at ‘em,” he said.

       “It’s a nice idea, but it won’t work,” Shamus told his one-time partner. “Do you have any idea how far a good sniper can shoot? The record is 1.5 miles by a Canadian soldier during the Afghan war,” he said. “But, those fantastic distances didn’t start showing up until World War II.”

       Shamus explained that Soviet and German snipers were strategic weapons during the fighting on the Eastern front. The most famous of the German snipers was Major Erwin Konig, who supposedly squared off against Soviet sharpshooter Vassili Zaitsev, a Russian farmer, who became a crack shot hunting rabbits as a boy. Zaitsev is credited with having 114 enemy kills during the Siege of Stalingrad.

       According to a TV documentary, Major Konig was sent to Stalingrad to hunt for Zaitsev, who was creating havoc by knocking off high-ranking German officers. Supposedly it was a duel to the death. At the end of the hunt, both sharp-shooters had each other in their scopes. Zaitsev fired first, hitting Konig with a shot down the scope and into his eye.

       But, as impressive as that shot was, probably the most stunning record was made by a female sniper during World War II, Lyudmila M. Pavlichenko, a Ukranian peasant girl. She killed 309 German troops, including 36 enemy snipers.

The most successful of all World War II snipers was Fyodor Okhlopkov, an ethnic Yakut. He is credited with as many as 429 kills during the winter war between Soviet and German armies on the Eastern front. By comparison, Allied snipers scored a small percentage of these numbers.

       Many of the Soviet-German sniper feats were recorded during the Siege of Stalingrad, as portrayed in a partially fictional Hollywood film, “Enemy at the Gates.”

       “It takes a highly-trained sharp-shooter to do that kind of work,” Shamus explained. “The most important aspect, other than being a good shot, is patience. A sniper may lie in wait all day just to be able to take one shot.”

       Shamus went on to say that even though sniper rifles have been developed to the point they’ll hit their target more than a mile away, during World War II, Korea, and even in Vietnam, a lot of Marine and Army snipers preferred to use the old World War I-era Springfield .303 bolt-action rifle.

       “It was far more accurate and lighter in weight. It did the job,” he concluded. “I would say that all indications point to our sniper friend using a Springfield. The retrieved slug bears that out. It could have been fired from another weapon, but my guess is it’s an old “oh-three.” Besides, it’s far easier to conceal than a more modern sniper weapon.” 

       Danny joined the department 10 years ago after a four-year stint in the U.S. Navy. He attended the police academy after taking community college.

       He not only is the first one in his family to graduate from college, but the first to join a law enforcement agency. Oceanside Police was perfect because he grew up in the city, graduating from Oceanside High before joining the Navy.

       Shamus O’Rourke was an enigma to most of his fellow officers when he worked at the department. Most just knew he had been in the Marine Corps. Few, if any, knew where he grew up or anything about his family.

       Numerous attempts on Danny’s part failed to expand that knowledge too much farther. Since retiring, Shamus kept pretty much to himself, but, he and Danny had many philosophical discussions over more than a few beers.

       Shamus had two secrets and Danny was the only one who knew the basics and little more: he had been in the thick of battle during the Vietnam War, and, he had been married twice with one daughter by the first wife. Probably the reason neither of the marriages lasted is because of the tragic death of the daughter. At age 7, she was abducted, molested, and murdered when Shamus was still a patrolman with the OPD. That much was recorded. Shamus never mentioned his daughter; barely mentioned his first wife; and jokingly referred to the second as a mistake that continues to have a friendly relationship.

       Nothing was said by either for a moment or two. Finally, Danny broke the silence.

       “Do you think our sniper here in town is on a vendetta, trying to right some wrong?”

       “Could be,” Shamus replied. “One thing’s for certain – if he doesn’t want to be caught you aren’t going to find him.”

       “Why do you say that?”

       “From the evidence so far, this guy is military-trained, and that means he knows things about camouflage and hiding tactics that you haven’t even thought about,” Shamus explained.

“You remember us walking up on the ridge?”

       Danny shook his head in the affirmative.

       “Well, he could have been within a few yards from us and we’d never know it.”

       “Do you think he was?”

       “Naw. He probably parked his car down on a street on the south side of the ridge. He did his business, then slipped down the hill and made his getaway. If he were to have been seen by anyone, which is doubtful, he could always use excuses as “I’ve been target shooting” or “hunting.”

       “Even though it’s illegal to fire a weapon in town?” Danny asked.

       “No doubt he’d be so innocent about the situation, probably no one would question it.”

       Shamus got up from sitting on the corner of Danny’s desk.

       “I’m going now. Rest assured, though, we haven’t seen the last of this guy’s work,” Shamus concluded. “And, believe me, this guy considers what he’s doing as an obligation.”

The Path Between Two Oceans!

Historically Speaking...

By Tom Morrow

     The so-called “Path Between Two Oceans,” more commonly known as the Panama Canal, is the result of a long-held 18^th and 19^th centuries dream by American leaders to shorten the trip by more than 7,000 miles from the East coast of the United States to its West coast.

     Travel by ship from East to West and vice versa required sailing around the southern tip of South America. The only alternative was to debark from a ship on the isthmus of Central America and traverse the jungle and board another ship on the opposite coast. The long, arduous and disease-infested trip made the “around the (Cape) Horn” voyage preferable.

     Ironically, back in 1878, it was a French company that first attempted cutting a canal through the narrowest part of the Panama isthmus. The private company was led by Ferdinand de Lesseps. Because of under-financing, disease, mudslides, and poor planning, the venture was abandoned. The French effort was disastrous as some 22,000 workers lost their lives in countless construction accidents, as well as battling the disease-ridden jungle and tropical heat.

     In 1901, President Theodore Roosevelt led the American movement to build a canal. The first choice was a path across Nicaragua, but volcanic eruptions caused that plan to be discarded in favor of one across Panama, which at that time was a province of Colombia. But, Roosevelt’s overtures for permission to build were rebuffed by the Colombians. Not to be deterred, Roosevelt encouraged a group of politicians in Panama to secede from Colombia and form their own country. To ensure Colombia wouldn’t interfere, Roosevelt stationed a U.S. Navy warship to patrol the coastline of Panama.

     Before any sort of trouble had time to erupt, the United States received a “sea-to-sea right-of-way” in perpetuity from the new Panamanian Republic. The treaty gave the United States a “zone” of five-miles on each side of the path for the canal. In 1903, the U.S. construction crews moved in and after 11 years of planning, fighting disease and the development of construction facilities, the canal opened for full operations in 1914. Although no longer in office, Roosevelt was there for the dedication ceremonies.

     The cost of building the canal was enormous. Some 5,600 lives were lost, mostly to disease. The cost was staggering and no exact amount has ever been placed. The canal is 48 miles long, 500 feet wide, and 40 feet deep. It was the most ambitious construction project ever undertaken in modern times.

     Not without controversy, the U.S. administered the Canal Zone as American  territory until it was handed back to Panama in 1999.

     Depending upon shipping traffic, it takes approximately 12 to 15 hours to traverse the canal. With no traffic, it’s a nine-hour traverse, but there is a constant stream of ships waiting to go from one ocean to the other.

     Going through the canal on a cruise ship is a popular vacation trip. It’s an adventure everyone should do at least once in a lifetime.

More colloquialisms

“The Whole Nine Yards,” as in: “Give ‘em the whole nine yards,” or “They took the whole nine yards.” This saying comes from the battlefront, probably World War I. Nine yards is the length of an ammunition belt for a machine gun. Taking the whole nine yards, indeed, would be quite an impact.

     The word “Nasty” comes from the late 19^th and early 20^th century. Thomas Nast was a popular newspaper political cartoonist. His drawings frequently would skewer politicians and business leaders. His work was often referred to as “Nasties.” Over the years, the word has become part of American vocabulary meaning anything distasteful or dirty. Examples: Parents admonishing their children to put something down because “that’s nasty,” or someone talking vulgar as in “he has a nasty mouth.”

     The following example is NOT a dirty or off-color saying: With all the chilly weather we’ve been having, it’s been “cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.” Now, before you get excited or offended, let me explain. During the days of sailing warships (16^th, 17^th, and 18^th centuries), the cannon balls were held in place alongside the guns for easy access to gun crews as they fired at the enemy. The cannon balls were held in place, sitting on an apparatus made of brass known as a “monkey.” What began as an entirely innocent saying, has morphed down through the years and taken on an off-color or nasty connotation.

     So, the next time you’re having a trivia discussion on history, try the above three slang examples to show off your knowledge … just a tad.

    Holiday Gifting...

     If you haven't any idea to get that special friend, try one of my books as a gift. Go to my web site and get free shipping. Go to the below link:

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   Now, continue reading my Novella, "Dark Angel."

Chapter

9

       Danny got little sleep that night. He tossed and turned to the point Yolanda wakened several times. Danny kept thinking about both murder cases, but Dr. Dobbins’ recall to the alleged attack at his home kept coming back to him. Something wasn’t right in the old physician’s account of what happened.

       The next morning back at the office, Danny told his partner, Joe Stein, they were going back out to the murder scene at the Dobbins home. The doctor remained in the hospital for observation, so Danny wanted to get back to the scene before anything was cleaned up.

       As the two detectives walked into the bedroom, the murder scene, Danny began looking closely at the walls, especially near and around the couple’s king-sized bed where Harriet Dobbins’ body was found.

       “What are we looking for?” Joe Stein asked.

       “Anything the field tech team might have missed,” Danny replied. “Hand me those photographs of the murder scene.”

       Stein thumbed through the folder he was carrying of the evidence summary. He handed seven photographs to his partner.

       Danny shuffled through all seven pictures.

       “Are these all we have?” he asked.

       “Yeah, that’s what they sent over from the lab,” was Stein’s reply.

       “I don’t see any photo evidence of blood specs on the wall behind the headboard of the bed, yet, I can see some right here,” Danny said, pointing to very faint blood spatters.

       “I can see how they might of missed ‘em,” Stein said. “Hell, I didn’t see them until just now when you pointed to them.”

       “That’s why they call us ‘detectives,’” Danny said with a sarcastic chuckle. “We’re supposed to see this stuff.”

       Danny’s eyes followed the faint blood stains up the wall. He got a chair from the living room so as to get closer to the ceiling.

       “You have to look very close, but you can see the line of blood up onto the ceiling,” Danny said, pointing it out to his partner. “I really need Sherlock Holmes’ magnifying glass to really see this stuff.”

       Stein laughed, thinking it was a joke.

       “I’m serious, Joe. This is significant.”

       “How so?”

       “Well, we can tell where the perp was standing when he beat the woman, and we may be able to determine the type of weapon. I’d say some sort of a stick or club.”

       “A golf club?” Stein asked.

       “Could have been. Let’s look around to see if the doc has a set of clubs. Don’t all doctors golf on Wednesdays?”

       Stein left the bedroom and started looking around the house, in closets, anywhere a set of clubs might be kept.

       “Check the garage,” Danny yelled so his partner could hear him from the other parts of the house.

       Within two minutes, Stein re-entered the bedroom carrying a set of golf clubs.

       “How ‘bout these?” Stein asked.

       “Anything missing?”

       Stein began going through the bag, checking the various clubs.

       “There’s no driver,” Joe said. “There’s a No. 2, No. 3, and No. 4, but no biggie.”

       “Whoever heard of a golfer with no driver?” Danny said. “So, if that be the murder weapon, where is it?”

       “Dunno,” Stein said. “I’ll look around some more.”

       Stein came back about 10 minutes later with the missing club. “I found it up in a storage bin over the workbench in the garage.”

       “Hmmmm. Now, that’s awful considerate of the perp to hide the weapon before he left,” Danny said, pondering the discovery. “Let’s get the tech team back out here and have them get everything they can off of these blood stains. Determine, without a doubt, they’re from Mrs. Dobbins.”

       Danny took off his rubber gloves. “Bag that golf club and give it to the techies.”

       “By ‘bag it,’ ya mean ya want it back in the golf bag, or into a plastic bag,” Stein said with a slight smile on his face.

       “In a plastic bag, ya dumb kraut,” Danny said, shaking his head.    

       “I know, I know. I’m just trying to put a little levity into our work,” Stein replied.

       “Yeah, well, I’ve been in homicide for the past five years and I’ve yet to find anything funny about murder,” Danny replied. “You stay here until the techies arrive, I’m going back to the station to get a closer look at what evidence they collected yesterday.”

       On the drive back to the main police station, Danny kept going over the evidence and Dr. Dobbins’ story in his mind. The detective pondered: why the murderer would hide the murder weapon? Why would he club Mrs. Dobbins to death, but just wound the doctor by shooting him and not killing him? Why would a perpetrator break into a beach home, kill one of the occupants, wound the other, and not take anything? Where’s the gun?

       Why and where, indeed?

Pearl Harbor Happened Only Yesterday!

Historically Speaking...

By Tom Morrow

Today is Pearl Harbor Day. As Franklin D. Roosevelt told Congress, it's a day that has lived "in infamy" for America ever since Dec. 7, 1941.

To younger generations, this important day in United States history has about as much significance as Columbus Day – something more or less important that happened long ago. If you're over 60 years of age, this day represents more than just another one of those "war stories" our parents or grandparents may have told us.

As we go through our lives, we have benchmarks that give us instant recall as to where we were and what we were doing when a dramatic or traumatic incident occurs. Even though I was a very small child, I vividly recall being at my grandparents’ home for Sunday dinner. Everyone suddenly huddled around the radio, then the women started crying. If you were remember May 8, or Aug. 14, 1945, or Nov. 22, 1963, you remember exactly where you were and what you were doing, and, you don't have to be reminded what happened. These are historic benchmarks that stay with us forever.

The day the Japanese attacked our Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor on the island of Oahu, Hawaii, was the beginning of the United States becoming the most powerful nation in the world. Until that day, this country was more or less satisfied with its isolationist status. The war raging in Europe wasn't our business, and the Japanese atrocities in Asia were ever so far away. After all, we had two great oceans keeping all of that bad news away from us.

We should recognize that the Empire of Japan awakened us to our tremendous vulnerabilities on that fateful day of Dec. 7, 1941. Only the timidity of the Japanese command saved us from hand-to-hand combat in Hawaii and probably here in California. The Japanese High Command hadn't realized just how successful they were when they broke off their attack and returned to Japan.

During that same time over in the Atlantic, if Nazi Germany had been able to launch just 50 additional submarines, our Navy would have been completely cut off from our allies in Europe. England would have most assuredly fallen. It was our tenacity and vital supply ships that kept that stubborn British island afloat.

Saturday morning at 9 a.m., a shrinking group of old survivors will gather as they do every year on this date throughout the nation. Locally, those who witnessed, fought, and survived the attack that morning 72 years ago will meet for a brief remembrance ceremony at Oceanside Harbor. The gathering is smaller each year. The club, if you want to call it that, is one that doesn’t have a membership chairman. If you were there, military or civilian, you are a survivor.

If you want to hear real war stories, talk with any survivor, if you can find or know one or two. You'll hear stories you won't think possible. Can you imagine yourself on the night of Dec. 7, 1941, standing watch on the dock of Battleship Row where the USS Arizona went down, and having to listen to pounding on the sunken hull from still-alive sailors trapped inside? There was no way to get them out. After a couple of weeks the pounding stopped. That's just one of many horrific survivor tales that was told to me on one of the many occasions I met with the local Pearl Harbor Survivors Association chapter.

It's been nearly 72 years, but for those of us who remember, it happened only yesterday.  

Below, find Chapter 8 of my novella, "Dark Angel." If you're looking for a literary Christmas gift, try my web site for my novels at the below link:

http://www.tomorrowsnovels.com/

Chapter

8

A slight mist was forming from the overcast sky. It was more than the usual evening marine layer that hung off the coast of Oceanside. It could mean a chance of rain, something seldom seen in Southern California, except in January and February. For the most part the song title is right, “It Never Rains in Southern California.”

Detective Danny Saenz had parked his unmarked police car in front of a Zip ‘n’ Split convenience market to pick up a half-gallon of milk to take home when he encountered three Latino gang-bangers standing in the parking lot. They were harassing a homeless man, threatening to take away his shopping cart filled with what appeared to be all of his belongings, plus a big bag of aluminum cans.

“Hey, let the old one alone,” Danny yelled in Spanish.

“Who’s gonna make us, asshole?”

“I will,” Danny shouted back in a commanding voice, pulling his jacket away from his waist, exposing his gun and badge.

“Stinkin’ cop,” the leader of the group of three shouted back.

None of the trio looked more than 17 or 18 – the youngest couldn’t be more than 13 or 14. All were wearing similar garb: baseball cap worn backwards, one had on an Oakland Raiders jersey, the other two were in white t-shirts, and all were wearing their pants low below their waist, with long, white socks pulled tight to just below their short pant-legs. Danny always wondered how anyone could wear their trousers that low and not have them drop around their ankles. This sort of fashion with the pants and caps started many years ago by Latinos and now was growing in popularity, as well as Blacks and some Anglos try to emulate the style as well.

“Oh, it looks like you ‘bangers are ex-cons,” Danny said as the three began backing off.

“Whadda ya mean, man? We ain’t never been to no prison,” the leader said in a defiant tone. The other two were shaking their heads in the negative.

“Well, I see you’re wearing your pants to advertise you were someone’s prison bitch while you were inside.”

The youngest of the ‘bangers, standing behind the other two, could be seen slowly pulling his pants up around his waist.

“Who says we were,” the second ‘banger shouted.

“Oh, you telegraph to everyone by just the way you’re wearing your panties.” Danny had no idea if wearing trousers in that manner meant anything other than the style of a bunch of youngsters wanting to be hip or tough. He had heard about the prison aspect, but had no idea of its validity. Nonetheless, it was effective in taking this particular trio off guard.

“Bullshit!” the leader grumbled. “Let’s go, man.” The ‘bangers walked across the parking lot. “I’ll remember you, cop,” the leader yelled over his shoulder,” looking back with a glare.

“I’ll remember you, too, Jose,” Danny smiled.

Danny slowly walked over to the old man, while watching the gang-bangers shuffle on down the street.

“Stay here in front of the store until those guys are out of sight,” Danny told him. “I’ll tell the manager inside you’ll be moving along in a few minutes, but don’t go anywhere until we know they’re gone,” Danny nodded toward the three young men walking east from the store.

Danny got the milk his wife had told him not to forget. He stayed, chatting with the homeless man for about 10 minutes. Before leaving, he slipped the old man a five-dollar bill.

“Here, don’t spend it on booze,” he smiled.

“Sir, I surely won’t,” the old man replied. “This will feed me in between meals at one of the shelters. These ol’ bones thank ya, son, they surely do.”

Back in his car, Danny got on his radio and asked to meet a patrol car in the area. When the patrolwoman arrived, Danny told her what had happened at the Zip ‘n’ Split and to keep watch to make sure the gang-bangers didn’t come back to harass the old man. Then, he continued on home. He didn’t want to present a carton of warm milk to his wife, because his five kids would be expecting cold milk with their dinner.

Yolanda was at the stove finishing up the evening meal when Danny walked through the door. Four of the kids were in front of the television set in the family room; his son, Daniel (Little Danny), Jr., was in his room doing homework. Little Danny, as he was known in the family, was a straight-'A' eighth-grade student, who, when at home, spent more time reading than anything else. His father and mother could see their eldest son becoming a college scholar in less than five years because he’s on track to finish high school in only three.

“A good day, dear?” Yolanda asked with a smile.

Danny smiled back, “I’m a homicide detective, what do you think?”

Yolanda went back to stirring some gravy on the stove.

“Oh, you found a body.”

“Two of ‘em,” her husband mumbled, sitting down at the kitchen table with that morning’s paper he had yet to read.

Yolanda shook her head slightly as she continued stirring.

“Other than that, I had a safe, normal day,” Danny said without looking up from the paper.

“Thank you, Jesus,” his wife said.

“Jesus had nothing to do with it, sweetheart. It was my keen eye, expert knowledge of police procedures, and a stunning personality that kept me safe,” Danny whispered with a smile, again without looking up. “Oh, and my good looks didn’t hurt.”

Again, Yolanda shook her head. “Don’t let your ego fall out of your ass and break your heel,” she replied, chuckling.

“Sweetheart, the children,” Danny smiled, looking up at her.

“They’re in front of the TV. They can’t hear or pay attention to anything else, and Danny, Jr., has his head in a book. So, I’m home free with that one,” she replied with a laugh.

“Not to change the subject, but we …”

“But you are?” Danny interrupted, continuing to read his paper.

“We need to talk about planning for Teresa’s quincienara,” Yolanda said.

To a Latino family, the daughter turning 15 is a right-of-passage into womanhood.

“How much is that gonna cost me?”

“Well, if we have it at the Elks Lodge so everyone in both families can come, I think it will be around $7,000 to $8,000.”

“Good god, can’t we just have a simple little birthday party for a 15-year-old girl?” he said in an astonished voice. He had abandoned the sports section and was looking directly at his wife.

“No, we can’t. She’s looking forward to it. Besides, your mom and dad, and my parents have agreed to help with everything.”

“What is ‘everything?” Danny asked in a non-believing manner.

“Well, they think they all can come up with maybe a thousand dollars -- and, don’t forget aunts and uncles.”

“There aren’t that many ‘aunts and uncles,’” he said, going back to the newspaper.

“Don’t forget her godfather, Shamus,” Yolanda reminded.

“Hell, he’ll probably put up more than all the others combined. By-the-way, I saw him today.”

       “How’s he doing?” she asked while beginning to set the table for the evening meal.

       “Same ol’ Shamus. Nothing ever changes with him. He’s giving me a hand on one of my cases.”

       “That’s odd. I thought he was retired?”

       “Yeah, well he is. I just wanted some fresh eyes on this particular case.”

       “What is it?”

       “You don’t wanna know.”

       “Of course I do. I’m a woman interested in her husband’s work.”

       “Trust me, dear. Let’s just have dinner without bringing my work to the table. Crap, the Padres lost again,” Danny said, going back to the sports page.

'Heavens To Betsy!' Where Did These Curious Sayings Come From?

By Tom Morrow

     There are many, many sayings in our American culture that are with us almost daily, but few people uttering them know from whence they originate. The following aren't necessarily the only sources these saying derived. There are always another version of each, but these are what I can find.

     Take for example "Lock, Stock and Barrel," as used in "Take it all, lock, stock, and barrel." The saying come from the fact that in early America, pre-revolutionary War days, guns weren't made in complete order. One source would make a barrel, another would hone a stock from wood, and a third would make the flint lock. Those wanting a gun would have to go to three sources to put the weapon together.

     "Jump on the Bandwagon:"  Derived from the 19th century when the circus would come to town. There always was a parade that led through town on the way to the huge tent for the performances. As the parade winded through town, young people would try to "jump on the bandwagon" containing the circus band. It has been used since as an expression for joining a movement or campaign.

     "Get the Ball Rolling:" One of the stories attributed to a Presidential campaign. Back in 1836, when William Henry Harrison was running for President, there were a lot of bills stalled in Congress. Democrat U.S. Senator Thomas Hart Benton gave a speech before voting for an important piece of legislation saying, "Solitary and alone, I put this ball in motion." Harrison's Whig party had been stalling many of the bills. He used Benton's words as a campaign motto, "Keep the ball rolling for Harrison."
     "Mind Your P's and Q's:" Back in the 17th century, the saying has been attributed to a saying that comes from English pubs. Grog was served in pints and quarts. When the barman or barmaid would fill the mugs, they would say, "Mind your Pint's and Quart's."

     "Fifth Columnist:" During the Spanish Civil War in 1936, a Spanish general broadcasting on the radio to the loyalist forces would tell them there would be four columns on the battlefield against you, and a "fifth column" within your rank.

       "Heavens To Betsy:" This one is a mystery. I was unable to find the origin. If anyone out there know the answer, share it with us.

     I'll have more of these in later columns.

     Below, find Chapter 7 of my novella, "Dark Angel."

Chapter

7

       Oceanside, California is one of the Golden State’s more pleasant beach-front communities. At nearly 200,000 in population, it’s larger than most state capital cities. The city enjoys mild weather year-round, with the temperatures averaging in the 60s, seldom varying more than 20 degrees of temperature either way.

       The city is the home of a historic Spanish Mission San Luis Rey built in the 18^th century.

Danny Saenz was proud of his police department. In recent years, it has been considered one of California’s best law enforcement agencies. That hasn’t always been the case. During the late ‘60s and into the ‘70s, local police had their hands full in keeping the peace on downtown streets. It was a time when a nearby military base was turning out as many troops as they could to meet the never ending quotas required for the Vietnam War. Many of the young recruits had less than stellar backgrounds, some criminal, others were school dropouts. At times things got so bad the Military Police was assigned to ride along with Oceanside police officers to help control things. The city’s crime rate was high and a bad reputation followed the beach town well into the 1990s. That was 40 years ago. The military adopted more stringent recruiting requirements and Oceanside had a better trained force – together, these two factors have brought peace, even serenity to the city’s downtown area.

Oceanside Police have a successful Senior Volunteer Patrol and community outreach program.

Still, the gang element continues to grow as it does in just about every community of size in Southern and Central California.

Fighting Arizona Drivers on Very Wet Freeways

By Tom Morrow

     I thought California drivers were maniacs while hurdling down wet streets and freeways, but you've probably never experienced anything like Arizona desert dwellers sailing jammed-pack drive-time freeways. I had that experience Friday morning.

   I was to be at a television station for an interview about my latest two novels. But, I thought I was gong to a "radio" interview. The station was supposed to be at 4646 E. Camelback Rd., in Phoenix, but when I found nothing but rich people's homes. (Through the pouring rain I could see they were dwellings that I couldn't afford). 

     I called directory assistance and found out the station was at 7760 N. 16th St. By this time I'm running late. I got to the address, but discovered the real address was 7740 N. 16th. I arrived with 10 minutes to spare before the interview. But there was a problem -- it was to be a "TV" interview. Where were the studios? Back across town at 4420 E. Camelback -- two blocks from where I was originally.

    Imagine if you will, Phoenix morning drive time -- bumper-to-bumper in a downpour. Needless to say, I wasn't going to make it by 8 a.m. I arrived at around 8:20. The producer understood because the radio station had called ahead to alert them of my dilemma.
    "Don't worry, we're going to tape your segment for airing next week," was the calm, polite response.
     Luckily, the interview was with an old friend, Pat McMahon, whom I have known for more than 40 years. It was a 10-minute segment and it was over. My blood pressure returned to normal, I ventured back onto the streets. Thinking things would calm down because it was after nine, I boldly entered Phoenix traffic. It wasn't any better.
     Let no one tell you California drivers are the worst. Phoenix has them beat by a mile and 20 mph.

     Check out my new web site where you can buy my books, as well as browse more than 100 titles at Inkwell Productions.com. Buy both Haunted Bones and Nebraska Doppelganger at:
www.tomorrowsnovels.com

   Below, find Chapter 7 of my novella, Dark Angel.

Chapter

6

       When it rains it pours. As Danny and Shamus were returning to the main station, a call came in on Danny’s cell phone. Another murder, but this time it was a far different kind.

       Danny asked his old partner to stay with the sniper case while he looked into this new death. Stein already was on the scene. It appears it could be a domestic violence crime, but, then again, maybe not.

       Stein was at the front door of an ocean-front home on The Promenade, a 10-block partial residential avenue skirting the Pacific Ocean. The house was a Sears Roebuck mail-order kit home that had been built in 1899. Such structures were popular back in the early 20^th century. You ordered the house of your dreams disassembled. It was shipped from Chicago via rail freight, then the new homeowner was left to figure out how to piece everything together. Somehow it worked.

       Harriet and Homer Dobbins had been married for nearly 30 years, according to Stein. The husband, who is 83 years old, is a retired medical doctor. At approximately 5 o’clock in the morning, the husband called 9-1-1 to report a break-in, a stabbing, and a shooting. His wife, 85, had been beaten to death, and Dr. Dobbins had received a gunshot wound to his right side. He had been taken to Tri-City Medical Center where he was reported in fair condition.

       “I’ll stay here at the scene, why don’t you go on over to the hospital and see if you can question the husband as to exactly what happened,” Stein suggested to his senior partner.

       “Good idea. In the meantime, check for any signs of entry and/or a struggle,” Danny said. “I understand the husband wasn’t able to tell us much when the paramedics arrived.”

       “Yeah, he was reported barely conscience,” Stein said, scribbling notes and directing the forensic team to photograph the entire crime scene. “Hey, be sure and have forensics bag and tag the doctor’s clothes,” Stein said as Danny walked back to his car.

       “Yeah, yeah. I’ve done one or two of these before,” he laughed, shaking his head. Stein was relatively new to homicide. He’d been in the dicks for about three years, but only the last year with Danny, who now was the lead detective in solving murders.

       At the hospital, Danny found his way to the emergency bay where Dr. Dobbins was being treated. He was conscious and talking with a hospital physician when the detective walked into the room. A uniformed officer was there taking a report. He looked up, pulled him aside and began telling Danny as much as he knew at this point.

       “According to the doc, someone broke into the home, shot him, and beat his wife to death,” the officer whispered.

       Danny looked a bit incredulous upon hearing this.

       “Why weren’t both of them shot?” he asked.

       “Dunno,” was the reply.

       “Can he talk?” Danny inquired.

       “Yeah, that’s how I got that much outta him.”

       “Doctor Dobbins, I’m Detective Saenz, how ya doin’?”

       The old man nodded in the affirmative.

       “I think I’ll live.”

       “That’s good news, sir. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

       “Well, sir, I awoke when I heard a noise in the other room from our bedroom. I got up and went to where I heard the noise. It sounded different than what our cat usually makes – he’s always prowling around throughout the night.”

       “Yes, I understand. We have three at home,” Danny responded.

       “Well, I was confronted by this big black man. I’m here to tell you it was scary. I asked him what he thought he was doing. He just pulled a gun and shot me.”

       “Were you unconscious at that point?”

       “No, not completely, but I think I heard him beating on Harriet in our bedroom, then I passed out and don’t remember anything else. How is she? Is she okay?”

Danny looked at the other police officer, who had just completed his report.

       “I’m afraid I got some bad news, sir. Your wife was killed.

       The old man got a strange look on his face, then shook his head side-to-side.

       “Poor Harriet, the dear,” was all he said.

       “Well, that’s enough for now, sir. We’ll talk more when you feel like it.”

       “Thank you, young man,” the old doctor said. “I hope you get this guy.”

       Then Danny turned back.

       “By the way, do you think you could identify him? You know, pick him out of a line up?”

       “Oh, I don’t know. It was dark and so was he. I remember thinking at the time that he looked very much like that man who sells insurance on television,” he replied.

       “Well, we’ll talk later.” Danny left the emergency bay and pulled the attending physician aside as they walked down the hall.

       “How badly is Doctor Dobbins hurt?” he asked.

       “Well, as you guys would say, ‘it’s only a flesh wound.’ A lucky shot, really – it went clean through, missing all vital organs,” the ER physician explained. “He should be able to go home in a couple of days.”

       Danny walked back to his car, pulling out his cell phone to call Stein.

       “Hey, you still at the Dobbins’ crime scene?”

       “Yeah,” came the reply over the phone.

       “If you haven’t found it, try retrieving the slug that shot the doc. From the looks of it, it would either be somewhere in the floor or low on a wall in the dining room where he was shot.”

       “Yeah, the field evidence tech already found it. Looks like a .25 caliber. Maybe from a Barreta,” Stein speculated.

       “Okay. Have ‘em check it against any previous gunshot crimes we have, maybe we’ll get lucky. I’ll see you back at the station in a couple of hours. I gotta meet Shamus on this other thing.”

       Back on O’Rourke’s yacht, Danny found his old partner sitting on the deck sipping a beer.

       “Any more progress on the case we’re working?” Danny asked.

       “Where do you get this Lindbergh stuff – ‘we?’”

       Danny had a puzzled look on his face.

       “You’re probably too young to know about that. When Lucky Lindy crossed the ocean blue in his ‘Spirit of St. Louis,’ he always said ‘We did it,’ meaning he and the plane,” Shamus explained.

       “You aren’t that old either,” Danny growled back.

       “Yeah, but we had history when I was in school. They don’t teach much of that nowadays.”

       “I had history. I know about stuff,” Danny smiled, getting himself a brew out of the ice chest Shamus kept just inside the cabin.

       “You probably think Santa Anna won at the Alamo.” Shamus chuckled.

       “Well, he did,” Danny said with fake indignity, then taking a long swallow of beer.

       “Naw, it was a strategic maneuver by ol’ Sam Houston so as he could defeat the pompus bastard and take Texas from Mexico. Why anyone would want that sand trap beats me,” Shamus teased.

       “Yeah, right,” Danny replied, taking another slug of beer.

       “So, how’d it go with your new case?” Shamus inquired.

       “It was a shooting and beating down on the beach,” Danny replied.

       “Who?”

       “Some retired doctor and his wife.”

       “What’s the name?”

       “Dobbins – Homer and Harriet Dobbins.”

       “Hell, I remember him. He cut out an ingrown toenail I had once back about 20 years ago. Pretty good doc as I recall. Real popular in town. A member of just about every organization you could think of – always getting his name in the papers,” Shamus recalled. “Are they alright?”

       “He is. Just a clean-through flesh wound by a .25 caliber slug. The wife’s dead – beaten with some sort of club.”

       Shamus thought for a moment.

       “Why shoot one and beat the other?” he pondered aloud.

       “That’s my question. Something’s not right about this one.”

       “Ya might ask around and see what kind of marriage they had,” Shamus suggested.

       “Well, they’ve been married 30 years. That’s a long time.”

       Shamus got up and opened another beer.

       “Yeah, but maybe the doc had a belly full of whatever,” he said, sitting back down on his deck chair.

       “Something’s just not right about it. The gunshot wound is puzzling. A flesh wound. A doctor would know where there would be no vital organs, wouldn’t he? Dobbins said he was shot by a big black guy – said he looked like the fellow who is a TV pitchman for the car insurance company,” Danny recalled.

       “Ah, hell, whadda ya expect. Most of us white guys think the brothers all look alike,” Shamus said with a straight face.

       “Yeah, that’s what you guys always say about us Mexicans as well, but, hey, amigo, you whiteys all look alike to us as well,” Danny fired back, chuckling.

       “Let’s get together tomorrow at the station on this sniper thing. Give it some thought and we’ll go over what forensics found,” Danny said as he climbed off the boat onto the dock.

       “Take care, it’s a dangerous place out there,” Shamus said with a smile. “I heard that once on TV, so I guess it’s true.”

       “Yeah, right,” Danny said over his shoulder as he walked down the dock and back to his car.