Remembering my Dad

My father, William H. (Bill) Satterlee, was 90 years old when he died last week. [January 13, 2013] He started having “spells” and was hospitalized just before Christmas in the southern Missouri town where one of my brothers and his clan live. Dad’s body and mind started shutting down and he never recovered.

I made a point of visiting him in the hospital that first week. It turned out that I was able to share some of his last lucid hours. I arrived in the early evening, shortly after the others had left for the day. I helped him finish eating his supper. We enjoyed several hours of sharing stories and catching up on news. The nurses made up a foldout chair and I stayed with him for the night. I fed Dad breakfast in the morning. He told me how to dilute his Cream of Wheat with milk just right so that I could hold it up while he drank it through a straw.

Bill worked hard and played hard too. He was a quiet and modest man, but his eyes could sparkle with mischief before pulling a surprise. He worked on a railroad bridge crew before going to prison in Fort Leavenworth during World War II as a conscientious objector.

I Told You So

I Told You So

A Fergus Johnson story of gender relations

You have to understand that discretion is often about what you choose to not say.

Fergus and his wife, Loraine, were on vacation in southern Arizona. It was more than a vacation, actually. They had decided that it was time to move to a warmer climate for him and a place kinder to allergies for her. So, they were also keeping their eyes open for climates and communities where they might like to live.

Fergus and Loraine enjoyed each other’s company and enjoyed exploring new places together. They noticed things and pointed them out to each other. They worked well together and they, especially, traveled well together. Sometimes, Loraine’s heart would swell with affection and she would spontaneously offer: “I love you.” More often than not, Fergus would be caught off-guard and look like a deer in headlights. Truth be told, getting that reaction might actually have been part of her motivation for saying it.

Essay: Psychic travels in my otherwhere

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Psychic travels in my otherwhere

From the book: Chum for Thought: Throwing Ideas into Dangerous Waters by David Satterlee

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Read or download this essay as a PDF file at: https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B4eNv8KtePyKNmtVdWRmdHRaNDg/edit?usp=sharing

Chum For Thought:
Throwing Ideas into Dangerous Waters

Psychic travels in my otherwhere

I have always enjoyed hiking, usually alone, in the woods. Twice now, when I had the chance, I have moved to the mountains of Western North Carolina. My wife and I purchased our present home because it was isolated and out of view of other houses. We cherish our “hole in the woods.” I could walk out the back door and follow paths, or just my nose, for miles. These woods are my comfort and respite from the anxiety, noise, and stress of living in cities.

Years ago, while searching for peace, I read a recommendation to create a detailed, imaginary, inner place of quiet refuge. Sitting down with a sketch pad, I developed a plan. It was filled with resources that I could only imagine. It has been my private safe place now for many years. It is always ready and available, but has to be approached methodically. I have never taken anyone there with me.

I am walking, slightly uphill, along a path. It may be in the rolling hills of Kentucky along the Appalachian Trail. It is late spring but the morning air is still tart. The trail is well-trodden and about 4 feet wide. There is enough room for two people to pass without crowding or having to pause to acknowledge the other. The path is densely lined so that no horizon is visible past this tunnel through the trees. Last season’s leaves still mulch the way, sliding gracefully ahead to an infinite destination. 

Every footstep is muted, the birds are hushed, no breeze disturbs the cathedral trees. Every step is comfortable and smooth. My small daypack seems weightless. The resolute scent of wild mint lifts the feet, the heart, and the spirit. A small squirrel watches from four paces off the way and is

Poem: Social Capital

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Social Capital

Life Will Get You in the End:
Short Stories by David Satterlee

from the book: Life Will Get You in the End:
Short stories by David Satterlee

Find out more, including where to buy books and ebooks

Read or download this story as a PDF file at: https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B4eNv8KtePyKVXVsQ1BmUkRfUXM/edit?usp=sharing

A traveling sage, in the Mid-east in Biblical times, makes a choice between building buildings and building relationships. 

Social Capital

He came to us from far away

Across the barren land —

Lonely and forgotten from

His trek across the sand.

The well refreshed his very soul

And so he praised it much.

He thought of wonders he had seen

And knew that this was such.

He spoke of joining trust in plans

And building mighty towers.

But, we could little trust to him

This land, which was not ours.

We bid him leave, with heavy heart

And, “Do you know the way?”

And almost knew, though, as he left

That he’d be back some day.

His goal would be less strong to build,

But more to give a smile.

Now, who’d begrudge a gift like that?

It’s good once in a while.