A Novella and Twenty-Seven Stories

To whom it may concern

Amsterdam, The Netherlands, February 2008

Lectori Salutem !

I have followed the writings of Christopher Bremicker of Saint Paul, MN, USA,

with great interest over the past decade. More and more I came to understand his recent motivation to give his work a wider audience.

His narrative skills, especially in his sharp dialogues interior, have over the years not failed to impress me deeply.

He, in my opinion, speaks from strongly felt very personal experience and, more important, from the heart as he takes his readers in often uncharted areas. Reading his works is sometimes a heart-rending experience, which nevertheless leaves a lasting impression of honesty and shows a great capacity to uplift the soul.

I warmly endorse him and his work, as it is my opinion that his unique voice deserves to be heard.

Sincerely,

(signed)

Niek Heizenberg (ridder O.N.)

Journalist/ Literary Critic (ret.)

Amsterdam,

The Netherlands

A Novella and Twenty-Seven Stories

A Novel

By Christopher G. Bremicker

Copyright 2013 Christopher G. Bremicker

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design by: Digital Donna

Reproduced, in part, from Veterans’ Voices,

A publication of Hospitalized Veterans Writing Project, Inc.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT:

This book is for Bart Baker,

Who stuck by me for twenty-five years,

For Sir Nick Heizenberg of The Netherlands,

Who took over, after Bart’s death,

And for Michelle Maloney, of the

Minneapolis Veterans’ Administration Medical Center,

Who took over, after Sir Nick let go.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

A NOVELLA:

THE PAS

Duck hunting in Canada, a father suffers a broken femur. He is flown out by Lear Jet to Duluth, where he dies in the ambulance.

TWENTY-SEVEN STORIES:

THE TRANSPLANT

A brother donates a kidney to his cousin-in-law’s adopted daughter.

A BROTHER’S TRADE

A brother buys a used motor from a man who rebuilds motors in northern Minnesota.

INSIGNIA

A boy blows up the plane of his father’s professional basketball team with the use of explosives smuggled into the country by a friend back from Iraq.

THE BIG ONE

A massive heart attack causes me to be at peace with the world.

HOSPICE

A mother’s Alzheimer’s disease and her pending death help a man forgive.

DAVID

A Marine who served two tours in Viet Nam dies of esophageal cancer.

MONTANA

A road trip gone badly, a long convalescence in a psychiatric ward and a veterans’ home, and resolutions on the ski slopes and in a coffee shop, help a man heal.

THE SCREENER

A security screening of a professional athletic team in the Twin Cities leaves a man feeling lonely.

THE THINGS I OWNED

I go on kidney dialysis, give away my possessions, and move to a veterans’ home.

MYRA

I write a letter to a friend, abused by her father, who dies of cancer at the age of forty.

BADIRIYA

A beautiful Muslim woman befriends me.

COFFEE SHOPS

A way of life I hope I never outgrow.

SONG FOR MY BABY

A car that finally collapses and the gift of another car are my tickets to ride.

PRECIOUS MOMENTS

A dating service results in no romance.

THE BUS STRIKE

I hitchhike to work in the Twin Cities.

A GAME FOR LIFE

A golf game writes off a son’s cocaine debt.

THE EXTREME SKIER

A man jumps off a cliff on skis and has a relationship with a ski instructor.

A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER

A grandfather drowns on a hunting trip.

THE JUMP

I almost lose my arm on a parachute jump.

HOOKED

An experience with a prostitute follows a visit to a Mormon church.

THE HANDBALL PLAYER

The greatest handball player in the world, a smoker, drinker, and womanizer, dies penniless.

CARS

The cars I have owned parallel my life, at the time.

THE CATFISH

My brother and I catch a catfish, while fishing on the Mississippi River.

HIDING THE SALAMI

My romantic escapades end in a life alone.

THE ROAD

A road in the woods yields two grouse for a hunter.

THE ’63 CHEVY

Hard times force me to refurbish an old car.

THE CART DRIVER

A cart driver at an airport loses his job, after helping a man late for his flight.

A NOVELLA:

THE PAS

Part I

It was late October in northern Wisconsin and the trees were orange and red. The big aluminum boat was hitched to the pick-up truck. The duck boat was strapped upside down across it. In the bed of the truck were six burlap bags of decoys, a bag of camouflaged netting, and three shotgun shell boxes. There were bags of hunting clothes and two boxes of groceries, also. My brother’s golden retriever was in the back seat of the truck with the shotguns.

Have we got everything? Dad asked my brother, Tim, and me. If so, let’s say goodbye to your mother.

Our mother came out of the house and stood at the door. Be careful, she cautioned. Drive safely. Dad kissed her goodbye. Good hunting, she said.

We got into the truck. We drove out of the cul-de-sac near the house, along the dirt road to the highway, and turned north. Tim, you drive to Proctor, Dad advised. We’ll get shotgun shells there. We’ll eat dinner in Bemidji. Chris can drive from there to the border. I’ll take her into Canada.

We drove through the Chequamegon National Forest with cars parked at the Black Bear Bar at eight o’clock in the morning. You’d think those guys would have something better to do, Dad commented. We drove through Grandview with its white meeting hall and down into the Bibon Swamp. The road then went up a hill at Mason onto a plateau of farmland. Tim turned west onto U.S. Highway 2. We drove through wooded country and past small towns below Lake Superior.

Superior was a town of fast food joints, old churches, shops, and a stop light at a street of flop houses and bars. The wide, smooth, blue bridge took us into Duluth. We were out of Wisconsin. We turned onto the interstate highway and went up a long hill to Proctor. We stopped at a Holiday gas station and bought twelve boxes of shotgun shells. I just paid two hundred and forty dollars for shotgun shells! Dad exclaimed. The manager at the station gave us a cardboard box to carry them. We put the shotgun shells in the back seat of the truck.

We drove through the farmland of northern Minnesota. One town on the Mississippi River had a catfish festival. Another town had an antique store with a gas station with an antique gas pump. Then we were in the lake country. Bemidji was on a large lake which extended into the dark. When we found a supper club, Dad announced, I’m going to have a drink.

The Pas is excellent duck hunting, Dad explained at the table over a Manhattan. A friend of mine slaughtered them there last year. I’m paying for the whole trip, everything, even the licenses. Let’s each have a Porterhouse steak and a baked potato. We ate dinner. Dad had a second Manhattan.

I drove toward the interstate highway that bordered Minnesota and North Dakota that would take us into Canada. The land was wooded then became prairie then farmland as we approached western Minnesota. We turned north onto the freeway. After two hours, we reached the Canadian border. The customs building was in the middle of nowhere. The customs agent looked in the back of the truck and motioned us into Canada. We’re not carrying booze so they don’t bother us, Dad explained. He took us up through the night along the highway toward The Pas.

Farmland extended for miles on each side of the highway. Two hours later we were driving alongside the western side of the city of Winnipeg. We could see the lights of its suburbs from the road. Then we drove around Lake Manitoba. The terrain was rolling with farmland and woods. Rivers drained east into Lake Winnibigoshish. Above Lake Winnibigoshish, the land was heavily wooded with huge expanses of spruce trees. There were thousands of lakes of good size. Some were huge marshes.

Ten hours after leaving the border, a small town appeared with low buildings that were dispersed for two miles along the highway. Wilderness on the east and west defined the town. Gentlemen, we are in the middle of nowhere, Dad stated. On the map, there were thousands of lakes all the way to the Arctic Circle. We were in The Pas. There were few lights on.

We drove a mile north of town and found a sign that directed us toward Swanson’s Resort. We pulled off the highway onto a road that curved around for a while. Then we turned into a driveway by a large house on a lake with three cabins off to the side. The headlights of the truck swept across the yard. A man came out of the house. We could see his figure in the bright light from the dock. Dad rolled down the window of the truck. Bill Swanson! the man exclaimed. He held out his hand with a grin.

Paul Bremicker, Bill, our father said. These are my sons, Chris and Tim. It’s a long way up here!

Yes, it is, Swanson said. You men unpack. The hunting will be good. The ducks are starting to migrate.

Where do you want us? Dad asked.

First cabin, Swanson stated. My daughter, Nancy, has got the beds made and your lunches in the refrigerator.

Great! Dad exclaimed. We look forward to meeting her.

Get some sleep, Swanson told us. I’ll be over with licenses and directions on where to hunt in the morning. Your cabin is warm. We unpacked everything from the truck. We got into bed and slept well.

Part II

I awoke to the sound of Swanson’s voice. Swanson was in the kitchen with Dad. Tim and I leaped out of bed and dressed into long underwear, hunting pants with suspenders, wool shirts, fur-lined hunting caps, camouflaged parkas, and hip boots.

Good morning! Dad shouted. Breakfast is pancakes, ham, and orange juice. It’ll be ready in a jiffy.

The cabin was small with white clapboard on the outside and birch paneling on the inside. There was a small window on each side of the cabin. A picture window looked out onto the lake from the living room. A stuffed canvasback duck hung on the living room wall next to a poster of North American migratory waterfowl. There was one bedroom with two beds and a pullout couch where Dad slept. His gear was on the floor. The kitchen was small.

I took the plate Dad offered and sat down to eat at the small table. Tim and Swanson discussed the preparations for the hunt. We would put the boat in from the ramp next to the dock. The point was two miles across the lake. It was a clear morning. There were still some canvasbacks around.

Here are the licenses, Swanson told us. He held out the non-resident Canadian hunting licenses. You’ll need permits and stamps, too, he added. There’s a bufflehead on the stamp. We looked at the stamps with a green-and-white-headed butterball required for hunting in Manitoba.

I said I’d pay, Dad explained. He went over by the couch, picked up his pants, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out three one-hundred-dollar bills.

That’s fine, Paul, Swanson said. I’ll get you your change when you come back. Let’s get going.

The night before dawn was cold. The stars were as big as baseballs. The Milky Way was a road across the sky. The light was on in the yard. We took the duck boat off the trailer, put it in the water, and transferred the decoy bags into it. We lowered the big boat in. Both boats were now halfway in the water on the ramp next to the dock.

The point is straight out that way, Swanson stated. You’ll see it when you get near it. We pushed the boat into the big lake. The motor started on the first pull. We drove away from the dock. The duck boat turned with the rope then pulled behind the boat. Swanson waved goodbye in the light.

The lake was black but the stars lit the shore. Dad gunned the motor. The dog sat in the bow sniffing the night air. Tim sat on one seat and I sat on a bag of decoys. The duck boat skied behind the boat in the wake. Soon we were near the point.

Chris, you and Dad set the redheads and canvasbacks, Tim told us. I’ll get in the duck boat and lay the bluebill rig. Let’s pull into shore and transfer the bags.

Dad and I waited offshore in the big boat for Tim to establish the line of bluebill decoys. He worked slowly. He unwound the strings and placed each block in relationship to the others. We could see his figure in the night. The dog was in the duck boat with him. There was a gentle wind. After a while Tim had fifty decoys in a line within gun range off the point. We could see their little figures in the dark.

Put the redheads down from the bluebills, Tim ordered. Put the canvasbacks in with them. Dad and I unwound the strings on each decoy and placed them in the water. Our voices carried above the splashing of the waves on shore. Let’s get in, Tim stated. We’ve got half an hour to shooting time.

We sat on huge rocks created by glaciers between the rushes and waited for sunrise. Ten redheads flapped into the decoys. We heard them swish into the water.

The sky lightened. We could see ducks working the east shore against the coming sun. The lake was big. Rocks surrounded the lake and there were low rushes all around it. The point stuck into the middle of the lake.

Ten minutes to shooting time, Tim whispered.

A flock tilted over the decoys. We could have hit them with our gun barrels. Next bunch, Tim said. We loaded our shotguns. Six redheads approached the decoys. Their wings tilted. Their feet reached and their heads looked down. Take them! Tim shouted. Drakes only. We rose and fired. Two drake redheads fell out of the flock. The dog trundled into the water and retrieved them.

Good shooting! I yelled.

I knew there was a reason we brought the dog, Dad laughed.

The day continued like that. The sun rose and the daylight brightened the rushes and the water on the rocks. It lit the field of wild rice in the bay off the point. We shot a few ducks once in a while. They decoyed well. They were mostly redheads. We shot a few canvasbacks, also, and several bluebills.

We had lunch, roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwiches, apples, Fritos, and brownies with white frosting. That Nancy must be some kid, Dad mused.

The flocks kept coming. By two o’clock we had our limit of redheads and canvasbacks. We packed up and motored back to Swanson’s Resort. The sun was warm on our clothing. The ducks were lined up on the seat of the boat. The redheads had deeply burnished, brown heads and the canvasbacks had wedge-shaped bills. We pulled into the dock. Swanson met us and smiled.

We heard your shooting! he shouted. You got something.

They poured in! Tim yelled.

Nice bunch of ducks, Swanson said looking into the boat. Nancy will clean them.

I’ll help her, I told Swanson as I got out of the boat.

Nancy came out of the house. She was blond, slightly plump, with a slight smile and bright blue eyes. She wore blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt that hung out.

Nancy, Swanson said. These are the Bremickers, Paul and his sons, Chris and Tim.

Hi, she said. I see you did well.

We shot well, I told her.

Nancy, Swanson explained, Chris is going to help you clean the ducks.

Great! she exclaimed and smiled at me. The paraffin is on the stove!

"Get the ducks up on