Christmas with the Avey Family

The first day of the year holds mixed emotions for me. It’s the beginning of a new year, but it’s also the day that my family and I traditionally take down the Christmas decorations. That always makes me a little sad.

Doesn’t it seem that all the buildup and hype for Christmas sometimes leaves the actual event a little flat? You work hard to get everyone the right gift and then the presents are ripped open and it’s over.

Well actually it isn’t. And if you celebrate the true meaning, it won’t be flat at all. During the New Year’s Eve service at church -- Asbury United Methodist Church https://asburytulsa.org Pastor Jay Henderson reminded us that December 25^th isn’t the end of the Christmas celebration, but the beginning. The Twelve Days of Christmas, also known as Christmastide and Twelvetide, begins on December 25 and ends January 5. This is followed by the festival of Epiphany – also Theophany, or Three Kings’ Day, which celebrates the manifestation of God incarnate as Jesus Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi. The four Sundays before Christmas, the buildup, is called Advent, a season of prayer and fasting to thank God for Christ’s first coming, His presence among us today through the Holy Spirit, and to prepare for His second coming at the end of time.

On the other end of the spectrum, while driving to the bowling alley one night during the buildup, my son, David and I drove past a house that had a reindeer in the front yard. Not an actual reindeer, but one of those wire/plastic, kind that are popular during Christmas. And that was it. No other animals graced the artificial herd, no lights clung to the house, no decorations laced the trees or shrubs, no inflatable Santa climbing into a hot tub with Rudolf or waving to the crowd while piloting a tractor; just a lonely reindeer, its tiny, white lights casting a soft glow across the lawn.

In keeping with the spirit, my sweet wife, Kathi, schemed up an idea to liven up the season by making our own Christmas cards.

“I’m going to buy Christmas shirts,” she explained, “and we’ll stand in front of the tree and take selfies with my I-phone.” 

With good reason, I expressed skepticism for the outcome of such a plan, but finally relented and agreed to go along with it. It won’t be so bad, I thought, imagining Kathi would procure sweaters created in somewhat tacky but tolerable Christmas motifs. However, upon completion of her limited-use clothing expedition, she further dampened my already unenthusiastic expectations by proudly presenting David and me with green, elf t-shirts. All was not lost. The menagerie of photographic selfies that ensued confirmed a suspicion I had been harboring: I-phones, and probably other smart phones as well, collect images and later use them against you. In trying to impose a timer upon the phone, we angered it into producing unimaginable shots in rapid bursts of ten, depicting us in awkward poses that could not have been of our own doing. In one, my head appeared to be spinning like Linda Blair’s exorcism, in another I was hunched over with arms dangling like Cornelius in Planet of the Apes. It was all good. I hadn’t laughed that hard in years.

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https://www.amazon.com/Bob-Avey/e/B002BM2VJ8

Twisted Perception is now out in audiobook. Please click the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/Twisted-Perception-Detective-Elliot-Mystery/dp/B00XZKFWDM/ref=la_B002BM2VJ8_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502197925&sr=1-3

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This article was written by Bob Avey, author of Twisted Perception, Beneath a Buried House, and Footprints of a Dancer. http://www.bobavey.com

 

 

Dreams and another Episode of Twisted Perception

Are dreams nothing more than twisted reruns of the day’s events, built in safety valves to relieve pressure from our minds, or is it possible that God uses these mental holidays to communicate with us?

Not all dreams lend themselves to this concept, but I believe that some do. Please refer to Getting Personal, a prior post archived on this site for a good example. The majority of these brain-related information dumps trickle through our consciousness as vague, fuzzy images that are easily forgotten. However, occasionally a gem comes along, one with enough substance, if you will, to stick with us. Here is one that I had recently.

I’m walking through an antique shop, though it more resembles a warehouse, an expansive building with isles that disappear into the darkness and are lined with metal shelves, crammed to near capacity with miscellaneous items. I’m searching for kitchen utensils, such as pots and pans, when I come upon what appears to be a tiny teakettle. It’s made of metal and obviously quite old, an antique in fact. However, a closer examination reveals the object to be a tiny 35 millimeter camera, designed to look like a tea kettle. Pleased to have uncovered such a treasure, I discontinue shopping and head for the front of the store to check out.

As I am preparing to leave the store, I see an acquaintance, of mine, who in reality has passed away. This seems to be the case in the dream as well. However, my feelings are not of shock but of happiness to once again see my old friend. He’s sitting in a chair, which is part of a display of lawn furniture, and I quickly run over to join him.

I hand him the camera and say, “Isn’t that the cutest thing?”

Cute is a word that I rarely use, and it strikes me as odd that I would describe the camera that way.

My friend seems unimpressed and this bothers me. He hands the camera back and says, “You’ll never find film for it.”

That’s when I wake up. I have no idea what the dream means, if anything. However, when I have one as vivid as this, I always feel that it should.

Twisted Perception - Chapter One continued -

He sat forward in the car seat and stared in disbelief. She was there all right. There had been no mistake. And when she crossed the parking lot, she saw him as well, her lovely blue eyes piercing the night as if they carried their own source of illumination. She seemed to look right through him, but he knew that was just an act. A smile played across his lips. The parking lot was empty except for the two of them. He’d planned on following her, but it wouldn’t be necessary. He did have a bit of luck now and then. He worked his hands into surgical gloves and grabbed the roll of duct tape. He tore off a six- inch piece then ran his hand through the roll, wearing it like a bracelet. Next he retrieved the sock from the floorboard. It was lined with plastic and filled with wet sand.

Opening the car door, he stepped quietly onto the asphalt, sliding the black-handled knife into his back pocket. He did not intend to use it just yet, but he would if he had to. With the torn piece of tape readied in his hand, he came up behind her. She was completely unaware of his presence, and he paused as the sweet scent coming from her hair filled his senses. He wanted to touch her, to take her in his arms and love her, the way he had always loved her. It was then that he saw her the way she had been, lying on her bed, wearing only the top half of her see-through pajamas while she pulled the covers back and shifted ever so slightly. It was not unusual. She often stayed that way after it was over, even getting out of bed on occasion to walk around the room, stopping close where he could see her, watch her through the cracks in the door.

He thought about the small room that had been his prison, where dust particles would dance in the sunlight that showed through the broken window shade, giving an impression of substance to the beams, making it appear as if he could reach out and grab them. But that, like so much else, had been nothing more than an illusion. The dust was not only in the light. It had filled the room. He’d eaten mouthfuls of it with every breath. They were casualties of their own fates, and he thought she must surely understand what he had to do.

He raised the sock, swinging in a high arc to give it more velocity, and when he brought it down against the back of her head, he remembered how the light would catch her pretty necklace as she walked about the room. It was an enlightening moment, for she dropped quite readily to her knees, not unconscious, but dazed to the point of incoherence. He pressed the piece of tape over her mouth then slid the roll from his arm. He pulled her hands behind her and bound them with several revolutions, then tore off another piece and slapped it across her eyes as he brought her to her feet. She offered little resistance and a delightful urge to take her now ran through him, testing his resolve. He pushed the thoughts away and guided her across the parking lot toward the car. Once there, he shoved her into the backseat. The lot was still empty. He started the car and drove away, pulling onto 31^st Street.

When he reached Yale Avenue, he turned south, traveling until he found a suitable location, an old house that had lost the fight for survival. It stood in a neighborhood that had been suburban but was now a mixture of banks, retail outlets, and, ironically enough, real estate offices. Acting as a reminder of the house’s fate, an industrial trash bin sat in the front yard, boasting the name of some construction company on its side. He thought that a ridiculous notion. What they were up to was anything but constructive.

He pulled her from the car and walked her to the front of the house, pausing briefly to check the door. It wasn’t locked. They seldom were. He pushed her inside, his heart pounding with anticipation as he switched on the flashlight he’d doctored for just such occasions. Its dim red glow revealed an old mattress on the floor. Some things were just meant to be. She had begun to struggle, even as he’d pulled her from the car, and he had no choice but to use the sock again. With a small shove she fell onto the mattress.

Kneeling beside her, he removed the tape from her eyes and studied her face, so pretty and yet so lined with fear he hardly recognized it. She could not speak. He’d left the tape on her mouth, but she shook her head and pleaded with every expression she had available. It had been cold in that room, a chilling dampness understood only by those left alone, not for moments, but for eternities in an unforgiving and infinite darkness. He would not go back. She would die first.

Grandpa Luke's Final Visit

Is it possible for relatives, or friends who have passed on to communicate with us?

This is a rather sad account with a broad timespan, but it ends well and I’ll be judicious with the exposition.

The story starts in Ardmore, Oklahoma, where my family and I were living at the time. Actually, I need to back up a bit further.  We’d been working and living near Houston, Texas when the landslide or avalanche began. The economy, especially the Oil & Gas sector, in which I work, had taken a nosedive and the company I worked for, a place that I had planned on retiring from, was gobbled up by another petroleum giant. This kind of thing was widespread. Thousands of people were losing jobs. I still had mine, but had been told it was being phased out. Out of the blue, I got a job offer in Ardmore, and we put our house up for sale and moved.  Things went well at first, but quickly began to turn sour. I was transferred from auditing, a job that I loved, into a supervisory position in revenue, a branch of the Oil & Gas industry in which I had little to no experience. It quickly turned into a nightmare.

To make matters worse, I received a letter from the Veterans Administration – I’d purchased the Houston house with a VA loan – advising me that the buyers had defaulted and that I owed the $12,000.00 difference between what they sold it for and the original loan amount.  I began paying them $200.00 a month, but they said this was not enough. I forgot to mention that our daughter had just started college, which further increased our financial demands. When a friend of mine, who worked for a rival firm, told me of an opening in her company with a much more attractive salary package, I applied for it and got it. At the time, it seemed like a blessing. It was not. The company went bankrupt and I was left without a job. A few months later, after exhausting my options, I, too, was forced into bankruptcy.

Not long after that, I received a phone call from my uncle, telling me that my grandfather, Luke Padgett, had passed away. I loved my grandfather. However, as a child, I was afraid of him. He was big, stern and didn’t speak much. My memories were of him sitting in a chair outside, smoking a corncob pipe. Occasionally, he’d lean down and stroke my head then say, “You’re a good boy, bus.” That’s what he called me. I dropped everything and went to the funeral.

After that, my wife, Kathi, and I decided to leave Ardmore and return to our home town of Tulsa, Oklahoma. We had family there, and we figured the job market would be better. I sent out hundreds of resumes without success. Then, at what we thought to be the apex of our misery, our daughter, Karen, whom we love and adore, gave us some news. It was almost Christmas and I’d left some ornaments for her to hang on the tree. Instead, she told us she was getting married. My wife and I were completely unprepared for this, so we took it kind of hard.

In an effort to shorten this, here is what happened next:

Our 13 year old Wiemaraner, Ginger passed away. Two weeks later, the cat, Mittens, left us as well. The vet said she’d died from a broken heart. I knew how she felt. A few days after that, I was sitting at my writing desk – yes I was attempting to write even then – when I heard a thump. I turned around to see that our final pet, the parakeet had just died as well.

This might sound comical to some people, but it did not seem that way to me. At that point I just gave up. I put down my pencil and stopped writing. My wife and son both had jobs so I was alone each day. I just sat in the living room, no television, no radio or anything. I could not find a job and I was getting nowhere with my writing. Each day I sat in silence, wondering what would happen next. Needless to say, I fell into a deep depression.

Then one day, as I sat alone, I heard a strange sound, as if someone was behind me. When I got up from the chair, I saw no one, but I was surrounded by an old, familiar aroma: The distinctive smell of my grandfather Luke’s corncob pipe. He spoke to me, not through a physical auditory sound, but his words formed inside my head. “Time to move on, bus, time to get on past this.”

I told Grandpa Luke that I would do as he said. I went into the bathroom, shaved and took a shower then went down and applied for work with yet another temporary employment agency. This time I got hired.

I often wonder if Grandpa Luke asked the angels if he could take a leave of absence so he could come down to help his grandson. Thanks, Grandpa. I’ll see you in Heaven.

Please feel free to comment, or, if you have stories of your own that you would like to share, please email them to me at bob@bobavey.com

Getting Personal

Welcome to my new blog and to what could be called the first real blog post of my career. I say this because I did have a blog once, a publication – and I use the term loosely being that publication means to Make Public and I have no knowledge of anyone ever actually having read the work – that I’ve long since abandoned because it turned out to be nothing more than a rehash of my newsletters, a lighthearted account of life on the road for an author. I can promise you with utmost sincerity that this blog will not follow in the footsteps of its predecessor. As to which path it might take, I am certain only that it will not be the most likely, the most traveled. I desire to learn about, and to explore that which is unusual. I hope you will join me on the journey.

Let me explain the twofold impetus behind this new endeavor. The joy of reading bloomed inside of me at an early age. However, the book, which captivated my imagination, causing me not only to want to read but to write as well, was a book of fantasy, titled A Wrinkle in Time, written by Madeleine L’Engle. After that, if the book didn’t have an element of fantasy about it, or something extraordinary, it just couldn’t hold my attention. Not surprisingly, the genre heavily influenced my early writing efforts. My reading preferences still lean in that direction. However, my two published novels, Twisted Perception and Beneath a Buried House, while no one has described either as being ordinary, contain no elements of fantasy. With my third book, I hope to change that.

As indicated, the inspiration for change involves more than getting back to my literary roots. The balance of the formula is better demonstrated through the relation of a personal experience. This should also reveal what I hope to be an important component of the blog, the sharing of personal stories and experiences.
When I was young, around the age of nine or ten, I dreamed of being in a forest where a comforting, golden hue enveloped the landscape, including the sky and the trees and everything that could be seen. The peace and contentment that I felt there, something that escapes description, convinced me, even as a child that I was caught up in something, which was on a deeper level than an ordinary dream. But it didn’t end there. Soon, I emerged from the forest where I began walking along a roadway. I was completely alone on the roadway, but as I continued the journey I encountered pockets of people, whom I recognized as friends and family. Each group seemed to be having a good time and without exception they called to me, trying to convince me to join them. I knew that I should not do that. My mission was to stay on the road, and that’s what I did. The last group of people included my mom and dad. They, too, tried to convince me to step off of the roadway. I found this very disturbing, and it was at this point that I woke up.

Please keep in mind that I did not come from a religious family. We went to church maybe three or four times during my entire childhood. Sadly, this unfortunate condition was also the norm for my aunts and uncles on both sides. I had a few friends who went to church, but none talked of it. In short, At least in my young mind, I had no one to turn to. I carried the dream around with me for a few weeks, and when I finally decided that I had to tell someone, I settled on my sister. After listening to my experience, she stared at me for a few seconds and then said, “You’re going to die.”

My sister is a story in herself, but I won’t go into that. She wasn’t being silly or sarcastic. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that hearing such words come from her little brother’s mouth probably caused her a few sleepless nights.
I finally decided to pray about it. I don’t recommend making demands of the Lord, but remember I was just a child. In the prayer, I asked God if He was trying to speak to me and that if He was to please give me a sign. I even gave Him the sign to use. You see, there was this girl who rode the same school bus as I. I was deeply in love with her, but I knew she hadn’t a clue that I even existed. I asked God to make her my girlfriend because I knew that only a miracle could do that.

The next day, I’d actually forgotten about it, so I bounded onto the bus as usual. However, when she called out to me and asked me to sit beside her, the smile that stretched across my face could have reached into the next county. Here’s the kicker: That girl had never spoken to me before that day, and she never spoke to me again afterward. The next day was business as usual, like nothing had ever happened.
I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. For me, it was pretty rock-solid. As fate would have it, though, as I grew older and life called out to me, I stepped off that roadway. I will forever regret taking those wayward steps, but all is not lost. It never is. Recently, life’s journey has caused me to rethink my position. I’ve asked Jesus to come back into my life.

Well there you have it. Before this, only a handful of people had ever heard that story. Now back to my fiction. What I hope to do with it from this point forward is to season the plot with thoughtful fantasy and weave into the fabric the power of faith. I hope I can successfully pull it off.
Most importantly, I hope that reader participation will become an important part of this blog. Please feel free to leave a comment, send an email, or forward a guest blog post. I want to hear your stories. I’m intrigued by stories of faith, but all things interest me, especially the unusual, the unexplained and the bizarre.

Next week I’ll touch on The Southern Death Cult of the Spiro Mounds, some of the inspiration behind, Footprints of a Dancer, the third book in the Detective Elliot series.

Please check out the link: http://www.amazon.com/Beneath-Buried-House-Detective-ebook/dp/B003SE7J6I/ref=pd_sim_kinc_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2