“Maura, did you hear a scream?”

 Our Neighbor Ann

by Wil Bosbyshell

Charlotte has absolutely perfect weather. I have lived in places with horrific weather, like Lawton, Oklahoma and Fairbanks, Alaska. In Charlotte you can open your windows open six months a year in the spring and the fall.

To take advantage of the wonderful weather in Charlotte we had screens on all our windows and doors. One evening in the spring my wife, Maura, and I were sitting in our living room reading and listening to music on the radio, windows wide open.

It was dark outside; the tree frogs and cicadas were staging their own ‘battle of the bands’ to compete with the radio. Through the music on the radio, the reptiles and insects outside mating outside, I thought that I heard something.

My ears picked up a scream, I thought. “Maura, did you hear a scream?” “What, no,” she said. I got up and went to our front door I walked outside onto our porch. I looked up and down the street. Nothing. A normal, boring week night evening in Charlotte.

I looked at my left a little longer. We had new neighbors who had just moved in. A young married couple. The woman, Ann, was pregnant with their first child. We were excited to have a couple as neighbors. Our previous neighbors had been two single men we knew from being in the Young Affiliates of the Mint Museum. We liked them and the wild parties they threw, but the house and the yard was not the most visually pleasing, if you know what I mean. Both men have since gotten married, moved away, and reduced the wildness of their parties.

Anyway, nothing going on in either direction on our quiet Charlotte street. I walked inside, “Maura, I swear I heard an exceedingly long scream. It was very faint, but distinct.” We went back to reading. I must be hearing things echoing at a great distance from the major highway in the distance.

Moments later all hell broke loose.

A ladder engine roared up, full siren! Followed by an ambulance and the Fire Chief car, all on full sirens. They all rushed into our new neighbor’s home with lots of first aid boxes.

We ran outside. The entire neighborhood ran outside.

The paramedics emerged from the house with Ann on a stretcher and strapped to a backboard. Oh no. They were in a hurry. The sirens blazed as the ambulance raced away with Ann and her husband.

“What do you think happened?” Maura asked. “I'm not sure, but it doesn't look good,” I said.

We got the full story from her then husband: our pregnant neighbor was moving things around her new attic over her new garage. She had two cats and one ran into the attic with her. Curiosity killed the cat, I heard said once. In this case, the curious cat almost killed the owner. The cat ran onto the rafters, bad cat. Ann went to retrieve the cat and stepped off the attic plywood flooring onto the garage drywall ceiling.

As she said later, she felt like Wile E. Coyote because she stood on the unsupported drywall garage ceiling for a second, then fell straight through. She hit the track of the garage door and bounced off stacked bicycles screaming on her way down to the hard cement garage floor. In a calm voice she asked her husband, who was looking down at her through the hole in the garage ceiling saying to, “call 911, dear.”

Ann was fine; her unborn child, Grace, was fine; the cat was fine. Bad kitty, very bad kitty.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

As I write this now, Grace is 17 years old and a very healthy and smart senior in high school. Ann is in the ICU at Duke Medical Center recovering from open heart surgery. The surgery was not caused by the fall, no, just genetics.

Her husband Greg is keeping us updated and I am worried for Anne. She has been and is a wonderful neighbor and friend. We love her so much. We prayed and she survived falling through her attic to crash on the garage floor when she was eight months pregnant. I'm counting on her surviving open-heart surgery. If you can bounce off a cement slab when you're 8 months pregnant you're pretty tough.

I'm betting on you, Ann.

A boy, his dog … and a monkey by Wil Bosbyshell

A boy, his dog … and a monkey.
By Wil Bosbyshell

I needed to leave on time to get to my 3rd grade class, which was 10 minutes away on my bike. Just like every day, I cautiously peeked out of our side door and looked across the porch. Nothing there. I was looking down as I crept, silently across the screened porch and opened the door to the side yard. The monkey howled just like in Tarzan movies, showing me his four big fangs as he shook the tree right next to the door! He got me again! This was a game we played every day, his game, and he always won. I was startled and truly frightened.

I jumped back inside. “Mama the monkey won't let me leave the house,” I whined. “He won't hurt you, and don't be late for school,” my mom said from the kitchen. No sympathy there; she knew the monkey was playing with me. I stared at the monkey. He stared back smiling a scary monkey grin and showing me his fangs again, In case I had missed them a few seconds ago, which I hadn’t. I took a big breath, ran onto the yard past the monkey and jumped on my bike.

In 1969, I was eight years old and lived in Newberry Florida. Newberry was a very small town then, one traffic light and the main road leading to Gainesville home of the University of Florida. Steve Spurrier won the Heisman trophy three years earlier as the college’s quarterback. My father was studying for his Ph.D. in psychology. We lived in a house that was originally built in 1890 for open pit phosphate mining company. Phosphate was discovered in 1883 in Alachua County in a town just a few miles away from Newberry. The mining was done with wheelbarrows, picks and shovels, then mule-drawn scrapers and finally steam shovels around 1905.

The mine office later became an episcopal church. The mine manager’s house, now the church rectory, had two porches: the front porch and a large wrap around porch that looked out to the back and side yards. Round wooden pegs served as nails and unpainted; cedar shingles seven feet long covered the outside. The mine closed in the early twentieth century and now it was the home of the Episcopal Minister and his family. The small church sat in the front yard of the house surrounded by 10 acres of woods.

On my bike, I rode down the dirt country road, farms and woods on each side. At Mrs. Hunt's house I pedaled furiously. Her dogs barked and gave chase. They never caught me that day or any other day. I thought it was because of my speed. Now I realized they just loved the chase.

Arriving home after school, I wasn’t going to let the monkey surprise me again. I quietly lowered by biked to the ground and peeked around the fence gate on my hands and knees. Where was the monkey? I looked in all the trees in our wooded yard. Nope. My sister was sitting at the picnic table in our yard reading. Ah ha! There he was sitting next to my sister Frances. He had his own book in front of him on the picnic table, turning pages in unison with her. He wasn’t a baboon, but looked like one. He stood 3 feet tall when he walked on all fours but stood close to five feet tall when standing on his two back legs. He sat taller than my sister.

I ran inside to my room. The house was big and dark, my room was the original foyer with double doors that had windows leading into the rest of the house. I threw my books on the bed and went out the front door to the front porch that served as the “puppy” porch. My dog Cissy always had a litter of puppies. I pet each one as they jumped all over me. One of my chores was to hose off the puppy porch every day. I called each puppy by name and cleaned up after them. Finished with my chore, whistling to Cissy, she and I ran through the house and out the back porch door, hoping the monkey couldn’t see me. Cissy was named after a character on our favorite TV show: Family Affair.

We were in luck! At that point, the monkey was busy raking leaves with a rake we left leaning on a palm tree in our backyard. The monkey imitated what he saw humans do in the yard: reading, pushing doll strollers, etc.

My mom insisted Cissy accompany me in the woods to protect me from the rattlesnakes. We passed the fence and entered the woods which were full of 100 year old open mine pits left over from the phosphate mine. The edges of the pits had softened over the years and trees grew tall from the bottom and the sides of the pits. The pit walls were full of caves. Some were just indentations, others too deep and scary for me to go in. Cissy ran around me to scare away the rattlesnakes.

My father and the other men on our street shot at least one six foot rattlesnake every week. My mom saw to it that we had lots of puppies and kittens to distract the snakes from me and my two sisters. My mother is deathly afraid of snakes to this day!

My sister Frances, my friends and I had created paths all through the woods. My mission today was to check each cage set out to recapture the monkey. We had learned he liked to eat oranges, not bananas. Our favorite TV show to watch while we got dressed for school each morning was Ranger Rick. He and his monkey lived in the Okefenokee Swamp and the monkey ate bananas like all normal monkeys were supposed to. We were afraid of our monkey, but we didn't want the research scientists from the University of Florida to catch him.

Continuing on my day’s journey, I stayed clear of the sinkhole pit where the edge could cave in and drag me down to a certain death. I thought about cutting across the cow pasture, but the bull was out in the field. He would surely chase me if he saw me. Again, certain death. I also stayed away from the electric fence that surrounded our neighbor’s hogs. I didn’t stop to swing on any of the tire swings or dig in the Boy Scout fort. After all, I was on a mission and it involved a monkey.

Each trap had been reset by the research scientist that day with fresh oranges. I used a stick and sprung the mechanisms, BANG the doors slammed down. I laughed. Cissy smiled like a dog and panted happy to be in the woods with her boy. Co-conspirators.

A man was standing in the yard talking to my father when I returned home. It was the scientist trying to catch the monkey that had escaped his lab a year ago. The men stood next to the church in our front yard. My father was the minister of three episcopal churches in the area. I stood next to him and listened to the conversation. The scientist was saying that all the traps kept being sprung mysteriously. My sister Frances came up and stood beside Papa on the other side. I looked at her. The scientist glared at the two of us. If adults were talking we were not to speak unless addressed directly. We knew not to make a sound. Papa assured him that we would not interfere with the traps. Papa didn't look down at me and Frances. The man looked hard at my father, with priest collar around his neck, deciding whether or not to accuse the preacher’s kids of tampering with University property.

Just then Mama called out the back door, “Dinner is ready.” Frances and I ran in the house. We escape, the “dinner bell” was just in time.

Our mother put food out for the cats and the dogs before we ate. The cats had a perch so their food was off the ground out of reach of the dogs and snakes.

The dining room had a big window facing the woods. Outside the window was a bird feeder so we could always count on birds to watch while we ate. It was not uncommon to see other animals: possums, raccoons, neighborhood dogs, deer, armadillos and one night even a herd of cows strolling through the yard at dinner time.

Frances and I had convinced our parents we needed to have “backwards” dinner that night. This was a scheme we had hatched so that we could have dessert first before the main course. I can't remember how we cooked up that scheme. As Mama served dessert of chocolate cake before dinner, our younger sister Mary Helen screamed and cried. We were breaking our routine and she was a baby just two years old and just couldn't handle the change. After dessert we had dinner: spaghetti and white sauce with spam cut into ribbons. The very best! In 1969, ministers got a house to live in rent free and free admission to Silver Springs, but the pay was pretty modest. As a boy I didn’t notice.

Frances and I were schemers, and at this point we instituted part two of our plan. “Mama, can we switch back to regular dinner?” we asked. “And have dessert a second time?” my mother inquired. She was not fooled a bit. I looked at Frances and gave her the ‘we tried’ look. “Sounds like a good idea to me” said Papa. We all laughed at how silly we were being. Mary Helen burst into tears again and knocked over her milk glass. She spilled her milk every meal and we were all tired of the spilling. Mama had had enough. She picked up the pitcher of the Carnation instant powdered milk and poured it all over the baby's head. Mary Helen was shocked, the milk ran down her face and onto the floor then she screamed even louder. Mama took her to the bathtub to get cleaned up while Papa, Frances, and I had second dessert of chocolate cake with chocolate icing.

“We like the monkey Papa” I said. “So do I” he said.

After dinner I got a jar and went to the edge of the yard where it met the dark, thick north Florida woods. There was a wall of light made by thousands of fireflies, which made catching them very easy. I put the jar next to my bed full fireflies, donned my pajamas and joined Mama, Papa and Frances in front of the TV. The whole family was excited to watch the first moon landing. We had a black and white TV with “V” shaped rabbit ear antenna on top. The screen was fuzzy with static on the one and only channel. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon, but I missed it. I had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the TV, next to my sister. My parents watched the rest of the moon landing after they carried us to bed.

“Bill, you know I saw the monkey walking down the street this afternoon. He looked back at me, turned around and just kept walking,” my mom commented to my father. She continued, “I don't think we will ever see that monkey again.”

The monkey sitting on the picnic table outside the side screen porch. 

 Wil, Frances and Mary Helen in 1969.

Best Fishing Trip Ever! by Wil Bosbyshell

Best Fishing Trip Ever

by Wil Bosbyshell

I dropped my baited hook into the water of the Cook Inlet, Alaska. I had only caught one small halibut that morning and was hoping to catch a much larger halibut now. We were in deep water, as my hook sank to the bottom, I felt something strange. My ears popped. The air seemed to swell and fill up in a way I had never felt before. I looked up just in time to see the volcano erupt.

Now, let me back up a bit. This story begins a little before the volcano erupted. You can relax, I lived.

I am a native Floridian and fished as a boy. But let me tell you, the fishing in Alaska is a lot different from fishing in Florida. In Alaska, many times after you CATCH the fish you must SHOOT the fish before you bring it onto the boat. (Of course, you try not to shoot the boat in the process.) Now that's what I call fishing! Halibut are like flounders, but as big as barn doors. If you bring them onto the boat alive, they can flip and break your leg.

I was living in Alaska and had gone fishing several times for salmon and white fish. My buddy, Dave Hall, and I wanted to go halibut fishing. Because it was the early 80s, Dave was referred to as Monty Hall of Lets Make Deal fame. We planned this trip on a chartered fishing boat out of Homer.

We set off early in the morning in broad day light and drove from Fairbanks to Homer on a Friday. The drive took 12 hours. We arrived around 7:00 PM in broad daylight, sun still high in the sky. When you arrive in Homer you have to pay homage to the “Eagle Lady”.

Once a month, much to the delight (or horror) of her neighbors, the eagle lady takes one of her cows down to the front of her property close to the road and shoots it. Sorry about all the shooting in this story, but its Alaska. The cow falls over dead in her front yard. Fortunately for her neighbors her front yard was quite large. Then over the next month, Eagles would come from all over the area and eat the dead cow.

Strange you say. In North Carolina or Florida this would definitely be against several city ordinances; however in Homer this was a major tourist attraction. On our visit that day there were over 80 bald Eagles sitting in her front yard. Some eating the dead cow, others just a basking in the endless summer sun.

After visiting the eagle lady we went down to the dock where our Charter Boat Captain explained to us that the other four people on the charter had not shown up yet. Dave and I had a drink at the bar on the jetty. We pitched our tent and camped out for the night, in board daylight, on the jetty.

Bright and early the next morning we arrived at the boat. The four Japanese businessmen who were sharing our charter had canceled at the last minute. They had paid in full, so we had beer and food for six people with only two people fishing in addition to the captain and the first mate. A great start if I say so myself.

Back to the volcanic eruption. I had never seen a volcano erupt in person before, but I know one when I saw it!

I looked in awe as black smoke billowed high into the sky out of an island in the distance.

“Shit,” I said.

My buddy Dave came up beside me, “Fuck,” he said.

A blast of warm air hit us. The first mate ran up, “Holy fucking shit.”

Not to let the string of expletives run down, I added, “Fuck shit fuck shit piss.” I’ll have you know that I learned to cuss from my father, the Episcopal priest.

The Captain rushed over. I thought he would join and extend our string of expletives. However, instead he bolted for the bridge yelling, “Pull up the anchor”, to the 1st mate. The Captain fired up the engines and did something I was not expecting he turned toward the volcano.

I looked at the first mate and said, “We're going toward the volcano?” He did not look back at me but said two words that were quite chilling, “title wave.” Fortunately, we were far enough away that we were not killed in the initial blast.

It was not like we were hiking near Mount Saint Helens and caught in the actual explosion. We were in pretty deep water, so the tidal wave was only about 3 feet high and not cresting. The boat lifted gently with the rolling swell. I breathed a sigh of relief. The captain yelled down from the bridge, “We're going in.” Dave said, “I need a beer.” He was, after all, a lieutenant in the US Army.

The sky turned black. Ash rained down on the boat. Not too bad, I thought. We were alive, we had beer, a little ash won’t hurt us. A flake of ash landed on my bare arm. Surprised, I screamed like a little girl. Wow, that hurt! I brushed it off quickly and we ran for the cabin. I would learn later that when volcanic ash mixes with water it turns to hydrochloric acid. My arm was wet, because we were on a fishing boat in the middle of the ocean, the boat was wet, and we were in big trouble. We got rain slickers on as the paint melted off the boat.

We made it into Homer. The dock had been damaged by the tidal wave, it was much larger by the time it hit Homer. The bar on the jetty was spared. With the dock mostly gone, the boat pulled up to the jetty and we just jumped out. We thanked the captain for a very exciting trip! Fortunately, my car was far enough up at the jetty that the tidal wave did not reach it, however the ash did take a great deal of paint off the roof and hood.

Dave and I looked at each other, “Best fishing trip ever!” we said in unison.