Mag 6

I passed through the gates at the institution for the criminally insane, past thick iron bars, past stolid armed guards. I was told bluntly to stop, to raise my arms and was frisked thoroughly. As the guards eyed me, seemingly hostile, I felt a nervous tremor in my stomach. I was not a threat but they didn’t know that. They knew only that I was here to visit one of their most dangerous prisoners.

Burt Jensen had been born in a tarpaper shack on a dirt poor northern Wisconsin farm. He lived through his childhood in that shack with only a small iron stove for heat, sleeping on a ragged pad with one blanket on the floor in one corner of the single room that housed them all. His mother had died giving birth to him. He had one brother four years older, who used to beat him nearly every day and steal food from the tin plate on which he ate. Those were the good days. The day his father, Olav, didn’t beat him.

One night they both beat him, kicked him into a small bundle and left him on his pallet while they laughed and drank the evil smelling alcohol they brewed out of potatoes. Later that night, after they had passed out, he took a knife and cut both of their throats.

When the police came to take him away, he was hollow-eyed and chanting, over and over

Fratricide,
Patricide,
Cops call it
Homicide.

That’s all the authorities ever got out of him. Just that mad rhyme. That was all he had ever spoken since that horrible night.

So now he was here. In the bowels of this huge grey institution. And so was I.

I was a reporter. After months and months of effort, I finally had been granted this opportunity to talk to Burt Jensen. Was I fearful? Oh, yes. Even in spite of knowing that he would be shackled, hand and foot, and I would be "protected" by the armed guard in the same room.

So I entered. And waited. The room was empty except for a small wooden table and two straight-backed wooden chairs.

I jumped as I heard the door clang open. And Burt Jensen came in, with a guard holding tightly to one arm. His dark hair was disheveled and hung down on his forehead. His eyes were on the floor. The guard roughly pushed him down into the chair by the table opposite me. I sat and, slowly, his eyes rose to my face. They were blank.

My long sought interview was a disaster. Burt Jensen didn’t answer any of my questions, he didn’t respond at all, he just stared. Not at me, exactly, but through me. He sat still for the entire time, just staring.

Finally, I had enough. I gave up. I turned off my recorder, looked at the guard and nodded. He took Burt Jensen’s arm and raised him from his chair. And I turned to leave. As my back turned, I heard, for the first time, Burt Jensen’s voice.

Nails in his arms,
Spear in his side,
Jesus Christ
Was crucified.

I stood there, stunned, as he repeated the words over and over again as the guard shouldered him down the hall. His words grew fainter as my hands gripped the edge of the table in an effort to stop the trembling.

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This is the sixth in series of weekly writing exercises initiated by Willow, who posts a photo and invites people to write a poem or a story or an essay based on it. You can learn more and read other entrants' writings at Magpie Tales.

R.I.P. Stuart Udall

A son of Arizona, former U.S. Interior Secretary Stuart Udall, died yesterday at the age of 90.

My favorite line from his obituary in today's New York Times reads as follows:

"When he was 84, at the end of his last rafting trip on the Colorado River, Mr. Udall hiked up the steep Bright Angel Trail from the bottom of the Grand Canyon to the south rim, a 10-hour walk that he celebrated at the end with a martini."

That is a man I can idolize.

The Perfect Country & Western Song

A nearly private concert

My cousin, Bonnie, has become a musician, playing with a number of groups in Billings, Montana. She plays bass, fiddles some, some keyboard, maybe a little guitar and Lord knows what else. She and a group of friends decided a trip to the Southwest was due and they arrived this evening. After dinner, we all repaired to their motel where they had imposed on the night manager to allow them to do some pickin' in his lobby.

They are, from left to right, Larry, Cousin Bonnie, Clayton and LaLonnie.

LaLonnie plays a mandolin which was made for her by another friend in Montana.

Larry is a fine singer and guitar player as well as the comic virtuoso of the group. (Ask him to sing "I Don't Look Good Naked Anymore!")

Clayton is the true professional musician of the group, playing guitar and mandolin and singing with a sweet tenor voice.

Everyone sings. LaLonnie and Bonnie combine for some beautiful duos.

Several people wandered through the lobby during their one-hour pickup concert. During a break, one pleased young man said "I thought it was the radio!"

These talented musicians are on their way to Scottsdale where they have a couple of gigs planned, then home again to Montana.

Lot of talent up there in Montana.

Spring is here!

60 degrees at high noon, on its way to 70 today.

A fine day for a bit of drinkin' of the Guiness!

Update - 4 p.m. - the high reached 71 degrees (F). What a fine day it is!

Viva San Patricio - Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Mag 5

The Captain's Hand

It was made of smooth, tooled wood with amazing hinges at the joints of the fingers. It was a hand. Even the fingernails were delineated. When I first saw it, the fingers were half-clenched. It was beautiful. And it was hideous.

As I gazed at it resting on black velvet in it’s glass case in the seafarers museum, a chill ran over me.

I could only think of the captain.

Like the legendary Captain Ahab, he had lost part of his body in a battle with a whale at sea.

His "hand" was hand-crafted in Sweden by an artisan some years later.
It never worked very well. It was supposed to be controlled by nerves in what was left of his arm. But it didn’t. When he wanted to put it forth to grasp another’s hand, it frequently shot up the middle finger in what was thought to be an obscene gesture.

Needless to say, the captain had few friends.

His life became more restricted, more lonely, and he retreated to a small cabin near the sea on a remote coast.

He slowly became more remote himself, refusing to answer letters from family and friends of his former life. He eventually was thought to have died, passed into the beyond.

Yet he lived on.

Until. Yes, until. A long forgotten, nay, long ignored former love of his came to find him in his self-imposed exile. She had searched for years and finally learned the location of his self-imposed exile. And eventually she came.

But she was too late.

All she found was his artificial hand, floating in the surf, just offshore from his tiny cabin on the rocky crest of land.

It was slightly clenched, as if frozen and no longer defiant.

She took it and cleaned it and kept it.

In a small glass box, lined with black velvet.

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This is the fifth in a series of writing tests based on photo prompts put forth by Willow. You can read other entrants' offerings at Magpie Tales.