In this collection of stories we find the world's smartest dog that has senses not understood - he's also a killer. We find a mother who carries a fifty-five year grudge against her son to her grave, a beating that takes more than twelve years to revenge, a one-legged Vietnam vet intent on murder and an eight year old boy frightened by a thunderstorm and . . . This varied mix of short stories contains pieces of the author's life. The pieces, however, are not portraits but snapshots. Fred Shaw tells these in a style that is straightforward with little adornment, allowing the reader to fill in the blanks where needed. There is truth and there is fiction. Fred seeks truth in the reaction of the characters to guilt, greed and the many pitfalls of the human condition created by his fictional settings. Several of the stories are memoirs whose truth is blurred by time but nonetheless still seek the actual, true response to a situation. There is little presented for historical purposes but the places and the times are coincident with his life. The protagonist might be called Fred, Harry, Buck or Cliff but they are all distorted pictures of the writer. The title piece, "As the Mist Resembles the Rain", is a short reminiscence explaining to the reader that all of these stories are told through the filter of the many years of his life.

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

As the Mist Resembles the Rain

By Fred Shaw

AuthorHouse

Copyright � 2010 Fred Shaw
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-3628-7

Introduction....................................................viiThe Best Goddamn Center Fielder in Baseball.....................1The Two Percent Solution........................................16A Ring on Her Finger............................................38A Crack of Light................................................48Becky...........................................................74Traveling Light.................................................97Traveling Light - The Sparrow...................................98Traveling Light - The Con Artist?...............................103Traveling Light - Santa Barbara.................................108As the Mist Resembles the Rain..................................122The Snow Flower.................................................125Taking Care of George...........................................135It's Impossible.................................................137Reminiscence About a Small Town Girl............................152Looking Back....................................................153A Conversation with Jim.........................................178Introduction to The Blue Chair..................................183The Blue Chair..................................................186

Chapter One

The Best Goddamn Center Fielder in Baseball

The battleship New Jersey is the most decorated battleship in the United States Navy. It won battle ribbons for WWII, the Korean and Vietnam wars and the war in Lebanon in the 1980s. (In WWII it was the flagship for Admiral Bill Halsey in the largest naval battle in history, the Battle of Leyte Gulf.) It was decommissioned one last time in 1991. Since 2001 it has been a meticulously restored modern museum warship moored in the Delaware River at Camden, New Jersey. You must take a tour.

To me the museum warship is also a tribute to the thousands of brave men who served their country on this historic ship. In November of 1953, shortly after the Korean War ended and at the time of this story, the ship was in Norfolk. Two of the "brave" men who were in the ship's crew are casually slouched over a covered deck winch, smoking and talking.

"Why don't you start a touch league instead, Harry? You could come up with at least a half dozen six-man teams on the New Jersey."

"But these guys have a league going now, Gordy, with teams from at least three different ships."

"But tackle football without any equipment?"

Harry boasts, "I've done it before."

"Me too when I was a fucking kid. Nobody got hurt because instead of tackling, you grabbed a runner high and pulled him down. The injuries were rugby injuries. They hurt like hell but bones weren't usually broken or skulls fractured. Maybe a nose flattened. It was justified because we were only stupid ass kids."

"So now we are men, Gordy, and we should put away childish things?"

"Exactly! You'll have every boneheaded nutcase in the fleet playing-big nutcases-big in body and loose upstairs."

Harry Dice isn't happy with his best friend's response but he thinks he can still change Gordy's mind. "And this from the state of Kentucky's all-American high school running back! Look Gordy, baseball's my game but I also happen to be one of the finest football strategists in the country."

Gordy through a big grin says, "At least east of the Mississippi."

Undaunted Harry goes on. "Look, nobody practices for these games but I have an entire set of plays on three-by-five index cards. We'll have them in the huddle; I'll call the play and everyone on the team will see what they have to do. None of the other teams will be prepared like that. We'll kick ass."

Gordy looks into Harry's eyes. "Harry, you're my best friend so I think I can say this. Your problem is you were never an all-anything in any sport in high school. You've told me a dozen times you were a frustrated athlete. Now you're trying to make up for it. Right?"

"That's not completely fair .... but not totally inaccurate either."

It started in the eighth grade. Before that Harry was just a small, skinny, wipe the snot off of your nose onto the side of your jacket sleeve, smart-ass city kid. Oh sure, he caught balls bounced off neighbors' stoops or hit with bats or sticks- those sticks with previous utility as brooms and mops, not those cut off of trees- as did half the teenage boys in Philly, but he also had a bigger brother who loved to fungo hit balls to him. Harry wasn't big enough or strong enough to hit fly balls to the satisfaction of his older brother and so the two of them spent hours with his brother hitting fly balls and Harry catching them.

Then in the eighth grade he became part of a team. Not just any old team but an all-star team-of sorts. Warren G. Harding Junior High had a huge gravel schoolyard. There were no fences. Its width gave way to concrete sidewalks, a curb and then streets. Lengthwise it was confined by the school building and on the other end the back of the houses on Orthodox Street. It was big enough to accommodate four baseball fields. Philly was a baseball town and if snow didn't cover the ground there were four games in progress during the lunch hour.

There was one field, one game, reserved for the "better" players. Harry didn't play in this game until he became friends with a boy named Spider. Their friendship started in gym class when Harry helped Spider fight off some kids who were trying to de-pants him. Harry did this on impulse; he didn't know Spider or the kids. Spider was not only one of the "better" players but also one of the boys who chose players for the teams. He picked Harry every time. (If you don't get picked you glare angrily, and say, "Fuck you guys!" and go to play in one of the other three games.)

In October the ninth graders who made up the majority of the "better" players decided to pick two all star teams. Harry was the center fielder on one of the teams. With his side ahead by one run in the last inning, (the bell had already rung to end the lunch period) Harry caught a fly ball hit over his head with an over-the-shoulder running grab. What a catch! His teammates applauded and for that instant he was playing for the Phillies.

The next batter hit a towering fly to left far beyond the reach of the left fielder, but Harry had taken off at the crack of the bat and made the catch. The last batter was his friend Spider who launched a hit to right field. Harry had a jump on this ball too and just as the ball was about to land beyond the outstretched glove of the right fielder Harry dove and made the final out. From that moment on Harry thought himself to be the best goddamn center fielder in baseball.

However, his life changed that summer. Harry moved from the city to the country, where he had very few friends and they didn't play baseball during lunch hour. One year later he moved to a small town. During this period he grew taller and more awkward. He seldom played baseball because there were few boys interested in playing. Although the high school he went to was small and half the boys tried out for baseball, football or basketball, Harry did not try to play on any of the teams. He didn't like the discipline required, or the daily practices and then too he might not be good enough.

However, early in the summer before his senior year, the high school held a picnic at a park. There was a gaggle of boys standing around home plate at the small ball field....

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