Story Time Thread.

Discussion in 'The Club House' started by texaswoodworker, Oct 3, 2013.

  1. texaswoodworker

    texaswoodworker New Member

    Ok, let's see how this thread will work out. It's simple. If you have a short story you like, or even a long poem, feel free to post it. Bonus points if you have an audio recording of it. :)

    I'll begin.

    The Cremation of Sam McGee - By Robert W. Service

    Read by Johnny Cash. (Thanks Vikingdad for the link)


    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.

    Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
    Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
    He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
    Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

    On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
    Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
    If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
    It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

    And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
    And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
    He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
    And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

    Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
    "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
    Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
    So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

    A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
    And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
    He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
    And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

    There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
    With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
    It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
    But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

    Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
    In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
    In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
    Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

    And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
    And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
    The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
    And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

    Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
    It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
    And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
    Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

    Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
    Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
    The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
    And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

    Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
    And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
    It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
    And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

    I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
    But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
    I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
    I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

    And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
    And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
    It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
    Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.
  2. terilafaye

    terilafaye New Member

    right up my alley :)


    A song I wrote called USED TO BE

  3. terilafaye

    terilafaye New Member

    Crayons and paper


    I wrote this back in 1988. I do character voices (little girl).
  4. terilafaye

    terilafaye New Member

    love it!


    Attached Files:

  5. terilafaye

    terilafaye New Member

    “How do you measure wealth?”

    “How do you measure wealth?”
    Said the young man to the old.
    “My Son, it seems to me,
    wealth is more than what we’re told.”

    When you’re young and just an infant,
    wealth is in your mother’s smile;
    and the world is full of treasures
    seen in midnight dreams, my child.

    All the riches in a whirlwind
    blow away just out of reach
    to be seen only at distances
    by those reaching as they seek.

    As the years grow in their numbers,
    springing summers into falls,
    the successful man may stumble
    where temptations crumble all.

    But ascending any ladder
    takes the courage of those brave;
    where the outcome Son, is measured
    when one’s words are carefully weighed.

    When the winter in its coolness
    fades into the chill of night,
    and the memories can be counted
    with a bittersweet hindsight

    then, all riches and their splendor
    can be added up my son,
    when the days are gray and scattered:
    wealth is measured when work’s done.”

    The wise man measures riches
    through Simplicity –
    with the senses, all makes sense now:
    wealth is measured through

    By Teri LaFaye
    © September 19, 1996
  6. texaswoodworker

    texaswoodworker New Member

    He is my favorite singer, and one of my heroes. :)

    I agree. He definitely was the real deal. I had to write an essay several years back for an English class, and I choose to do it over him. As a result, I learned a LOT about him.

    He is someone I look up to, and really wish I could have met.
  7. terilafaye

    terilafaye New Member


    in the pictures I posted that was him, me, and my mom.... in the smaller pic it is me and his sister JoAnn. When we lived in Nashville, Johnny went to a church his brother in law preached at. I met him there. He used to take my tape and sit in an old jeep he had in his yard and play it. I loved him. He gave the best hugs and had the best laugh! Good memories always.
  8. Drriley

    Drriley New Member

    “Why Do You Carry A Gun?”

    Best Of John Connor
    From July/August 2005 American Handgunner

    If I had a nickel for every time I’ve been asked that question, I’d have, uh … as many guns as his firearm-festooned Editorial Immenseness, Roy-Boy. It’s been asked of me by all flavors of folks in all slices of society, with attitudes and expressions ranging from angry-arrogant to curtly-contemptuous, to brainless an’ befuddled. My answers to it have sorta formed three phases in my professional gun-carrying life. During that first and longest phase, I answered all of ’em sincerely and articulately, often following up with stacks of historic and legal documents. After many years, I concluded only a semi-significant sliver of people even heard what I was sayin’. The rest had already made up their muddled minds.

    Finally, I just got sick of it, and moved on to Phase 2. If those asking seemed to have teensy open spaces in their minds, I gave ’em S & A: “Sincere & Articulate.” The more harshly-bleating sheep, however, often got exchanges like this:

    “So,” queried Snidely Snotworth III, lookin’ down his un-busted but needed-bustin’ nose, “Why do you think you have to carry a gun?”

    “Well,” bellowed the Brutish Neanderthal (that would be me): “Because you’re not QUALIFIED to carry one. You haven’t got the skills, the judgment, the sense of responsibility, or the courage for it.”

    This answer often popped out after I’d just returned from some Heart-Of-Darkness where every living soul knew that the difference between slaves and free people is having the means and determination to defend their lives, property and liberties. That meant having guns and guts and God-given rights. Most of those people would quite literally die fighting for the freedoms so many Americans casually give away, and proudly bear social responsibilities those sheeple* won’t even recognize.

    The Voices

    Then I matriculated to Phase 3, where I started having some fun with the Snidely Snotworth types. When they asked the Big Question, I’d go all hunchy-shouldered an’ secretive, then lean in close and mutter, “Because of the voices, ya know?” “The VOICES?” sniveled the Snidelies, suddenly scaredy-cattish. “Oh, yeah, the voices … They told me to be, you know, prepared for when the killer clowns come … ” I’d furtively goggle around. “The voices say the killer clowns are comin’ … They’re cannibals, some of ’em, and … ”

    About that time the Snidelies would be skitterin’ away like mice on polished marble.

    Yeah, I know, the “killer clowns” answer might not have been “helpful,” but it did just as much good as giving S&A answers to the sheeple, and it was a lot more fun for me. I know you already know why we carry these cannons. But sometimes, just sometimes, we all need a little reminder. That includes me, and I’ve got one to share with you. One that got me where I live.

    The Connor Clan has been nomadic, and we’ve lived in a number of places. In one of ’em, we shared a side yard and friendship with a young woman we’ll call Miss Maine, and her knee-high daughter, Little Lizzie. Miss Maine quickly bonded with the Memsaab Helena. Clearly, Helena’s Amazon-warrior spirit and skill with arms impressed Miss Maine mightily, and much of their time and talk revolved around that fierce self-confidence — and guns.

    As for Little Lizzie, the munchkin almost duct-taped herself to the Mem’s leg. She followed Helena everywhere, but always, always, kept glancing back to check on her momma, as though she were the worried parent.

    There was something guarded, something hurt and defensive about both of them, and that fearfulness extended to me for a while. They got over it, thank God. Then I sorta became a moving bunker for ’em, representing cover and protection. Finally, we learned the story.

    Miss Maine had been attacked — brutally and viciously. You don’t wanta know the details. As with so many such crimes, it wasn’t really about sex. It was about hate and domination, cowardice and cruelty. And an even younger Little Lizzie had witnessed it. I like to think the Memsaab and I helped them to recover emotionally.
    Then one day Lizzie came and snuggled into my shadow, visibly disturbed. That morning her kindergarten had put on “Frighten The Munchkins Day.” Some schools do a pretty good job of alerting children to predators — don’t go with strangers and that kinda thing — but others do more harm than good. All they do is terrify the tots and give ’em no operating options. Lizzie already had twin tears glistening, ready to fall when she grabbed a tiny fistful of my trouser-leg and asked, “Connor-Sir, will you a’ways be here? Wouldja be here … When the bad mens come?”

    My knees cracked on the sidewalk as she slammed into my shoulder, shaking with sobs as the hot tears came, splashing my neck and searing into my soul. “ ’Cause I’m a-scared!” she choked, and clutched me tighter.

    Oh, GOD! Who would not — who could not — fight without fear, suffer without sense of sacrifice, and kill or die deliberately, using the most effective means available — to protect life, liberty and a Little Lizzie? For God’s sake, who?

    Those who would not are no better than the predators.

    Maybe in Phase 4, when somebody pops The Big Question I’ll just smile and say, “For life, liberty and Little Lizzie.” You guys can fill in the details.

    *Sheeple: Sheep-like people, many of whom deny the existence of wolves, and vote to pull the teeth of the sheepdogs who protect the flock.