Writing

The Weed Whacker

Richard Rensberry, authorLeave a comment

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     Anyone who has to regularly deal with weeds and grass surely owns one of these whirly devils.  Sure beats the scythe I had to use as a kid when I worked for the county road commission clearing grass and weeds away  from road signs and guard rails.  At the time I was just happy to have such a fine paying job for the summer that would enable me to go to college in the fall.  If George Ballas had been  a little earlier with his weed whacker I probably would have been out a job.  I most likely would have not gone to college and I would have missed all the Coeds and the parties.  The education I mostly missed anyways, but the sex and excitement?  Thank George, for the weed eater a little later than sooner.

     Currently, I have a very large and unruly lot rather than a nice yard surrounding our house.  If not for the weed whacker I’d be the scourge of the neighborhood.  God Bless Mr. Ballas for sticking fishing line in a tin can and spinning it around.  Here in 2015 I’d rather deal with na bunch of irate neighbors than having to attack the lot with a scythe.  Not much can stop the weed eater’s whirling string from decimating the tall grass and weeds, quickly.

     As I chopped through the weeds on this very bright sunny day, I could only hope the guy was fortunate enough to get rich off this miracle of a contraption.  From what I have been reading over a cup of coffee, George was able to make it all happen.  Hallelujah!  He created and ran a very prosperous company for his blessed Weed Whacker.

Richard Rensberry, Author QuickTurtle Books®

The QuickTurtle® Band, The 3 String Wheezer

Richard Rensberry, authorLeave a comment

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`      Howie Burn from CCB’s Radio Show “Tune In, Not Out” was scheduled to pick up the band at the airport.  The QuickTurtles had just left the Philippines and Howie was to meet them when they touched down in Seoul.  They had an interview set up at the restaurant in the hotel.

Unfortunately TBone was in one of his more meditative moods when they debarked.  He commandeered Howie to drop QT and Robbie off at the hotel and then directed Howie to head for the ocean minus a camera man.  Howie really didn’t mind, if he could get a few questions answered on the drive.  He could then write his article in the air-conditioned rental car while TBone traipsed around in the heat.

“I heard your new song, The Blue Guitar.”  Howie remarked.

“Creepy,” TBone replied as he looked out the window at Seoul.

When nothing further was offered, Howie plowed ahead.  “Are you having Alcohol issues, TBone?”

“See that pagoda with the green roof?” TBone asked, “I think that is the place QT and I ate the last time we were in town.  They have great Korean Barbecue.”

“You hungry?”  Howie asked.

“Not now.  I want to get to the beach and look for materials for this instrument that is rattling around in my head.”

“That song, TBone, are you doing okay?”

“Howie, I’m doing great.  It was just a song.  It was at the end of our tour.  We were stuck at the Limbo airport with nothing to do.  I wasn’t drinking or standing at urinals all night except in my imagination.  That’s what song writing is about.  We make it up.  We create something that’s not there.”

“Art imitates life,” Howie said.

“No, life imitates art,” TBone replied and set out to build an instrument that mimicked the chirp of the yellow birds that had been hanging around the hotel courtyard while the band was in Manilla.

TBone built what he dubbed “The 3 String Wheezer”.   After several aborted attempts he was able to pick the bird’s notes almost perfectly on it’s strings.  Now those damn birds keep showing up in strange hotels in places like Norway or Iceland.  Makes you want to chuck a handful of sunflower seeds just to appease them.

Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books®

I Saw It Coming, Part 2

Richard Rensberry, authorLeave a comment

IMG_0984    I Saw It Coming, Part 2

I thought they were probably going to take me into the alley by Gordo’s Liquor Store.  I had been in there and knew there was a recess about half way down that housed the liquor store garbage containers.  It was smelly and full of shadows, a perfect spot for them to do their dirty deed.  I’m sure they had it figured to where they’d be long gone by the time I was able to pick myself up and scramble for help.

I was pretty certain I wasn’t going to need any help.  Of course a little doubt always seems to elbow it’s way in at times like these and this time was no exception.  What if Skinny had the rest of the gang sequestered away in the alley for reinforcements.  In that case, I would be overwhelmingly out numbered and in big trouble.  This wasn’t a Hollywood stunt.  This was real life, mine.

My antennae popped up and went on full alert.  I had to be ready for anything.

We paused at the alley and both boys looked around.  It was eerily quiet.  The street was mostly empty of pedestrians and devoid of cars.   Mrs. Cooley was putting out oranges in front of her tiny market and there was a lady walking her black poodle near the bank.  Other than those two people nothing was going on.  A surreptitious glance into the alley fortified my belief that it was also deserted.

“This way old man.”

Of course it was The Skinny One with all of his bravado that hissed and gave me a yank.  I had planned to take them by the garbage cans, but the yank disengaged me from The Vulture and I used the momentum to fall and roll.  I grabbed Skinny by the shirt, planted my feet in his groin and tossed him into the alley on the backside of my roll.  There was a disconcerting crunch.

“You Mo Fo!” he growled in obvious pain.

That was sugar to my ears.  I had him wounded but thankful that it wasn’t mortally.

I rolled back onto my feet into a crouch and braced myself to pounce on The Vulture.  But The Vulture hadn’t moved, he was standing frozen at the mouth of the alley.  His mind and eyes looked as if they were running on Meth overdrive.

“What the Hell you lookin at?”  Skinny railed from the alley behind me, “Get the old coot.”

Vulture mustered a hesitant lurch toward me and then stopped as we locked eyes.  He didn’t like what he was seeing and that was enough, he turned and boogied back up toward the bank.

I put my attention back on Skinny.  He had managed to get himself into a sitting position up against the brick of the liquor store.  His left ankle was clearly broken and was going to need a good surgeon to piece it back together.  He moaned.

“I am going to go into the liquor store and call an ambulance,” I said, “But before I do I want to give you a little advice to think about.  You do have the capacity to think, don’t you?”

He glared at me.

“I mean what I say.”  I emphasized.

He continued to glare but was obviously struggling with the pain.  I could see the beginnings of a crack forming in his facade.

“It goes like this,” I said, “The Vulture flew the coop.  It is not a bad thing to do when flying is called for.  He saved himself a world of hurt and a visit to the hospital.  I know in your mind that he saved nothing because he didn’t save you.  It is your intention to hurt him bad because you failed to hurt me.  I’m telling you to drop it.  You and your little gang.  Just leave him alone.  The consequences of dishonoring me and hurting him are not something you can afford.”

My eyes bore into him.  “Do we have an understanding?”  I asked as I pressed him harder with my will.

The pain was more than he could bear.  He dropped his head and looked away.  His body wilted and his bravado vanished into the broken lost child he truly was.  A sob suddenly escaped his constricted throat.

I knelt beside him and gingerly put my hand on his head.  It was a calculated risk I was willing to take.  He flinched but didn’t bite.  To his everlasting benefit, The Skinny One gave in.  He asked for help.

I rose and turned to go.

“Thank you,” he said or he didn’t.  I can’t say for sure, I can only hope.

Part 3 to come soon.  Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books®

The QuickTurtle® Band

Richard Rensberry, author2 Comments

image     The Little Pinky

While on tour in Japan, the instrument maker and bassist for The QuickTurtle Band, TBone Ditty was inspired by an instrument he saw being played by a youthful Geisha Girl in the hotel where the band was holed up.  The sound was very delicate and ethereal.  When QT Magnolia began to hum along and dance sensually to the melody, TBone had to cool down and vacated the premises.  He went for a stroll along the rocky shore of the Pacific Ocean and gathered an array of magical driftwood to construct what he called his Little Pinky.

The instrument showed up unexpectedly in their final show in Nagasaki along with the cute little Geisha Girl who played a lovely rendition of The QuickTurtle’s song “Heaven’s Day”.  With The Turtlettes singing backup and with QT’s convincing lead vocals they brought the house down.  Since this song was originally recorded as a punk song, it was a drastic deviation from what the young Japanese audience had been expecting.  To TBone’s credit, it turned into an overwhelming success.

As for the Japanese press, there’s a rumor going around that the beautiful Geisha Girl was stowed away on the plane for the band’s flight back to the British Isles.  Can we expect to see this young Asian lassie as part of their upcoming show at the Albert Hall?  Would they be so bold?  God save the Queen.

Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books®

I Saw It Coming

Richard Rensberry, authorLeave a comment

.    image           I Saw It Coming, The Series.  Part 1

I hike everyday.  It is energizing and allows my spirit to open up to my surroundings.  I am able to observe with the spirit’s eye and see universes beyond the physical reality of things.  I am delighted to take photographs and collect artifacts like feathers and wood for use in recreating what I have seen in my imagination.

On my many wanderings I have come to find hidden and secluded places where almost no human ever ventures anymore.   I am not talking about the wilderness, I am talking about within the city limits of San Francisco.  Most of The City is a massive tangle of abutted structures, but not all.  There are forsaken copses of trees and open spaces in this bustling cityscape.  Some appear forgotten as the now condemned Berlinski’s Hardware that sits forlorn with its boarded-up windows next to a twenty-first century Home Depot.  I used to frequent that old Hardware Store and it was way more interesting than Home Depot could ever dream of being.

My name is The Surest Sugar Maple.  The Elders christened me with the namesake as a young child because of my propensity to take calculated risks that none of the other kids could wrap their wits around.  I was the one that climbed the railroad trestle and tied the rope so we could fly out over the cliff and fall into the river.  I hunted and snared the rattlesnakes that were fodder for our moccasins.

If I wasn’t sure about a dare or a challenge, I wouldn’t take it on until I had it figured out to where the odds were in my favor.  I couldn’t be swayed but I could be bought.  It served me well in Hollywood where I spent many years working with the likes of John Wayne, Fess Parker, and Jimmy Stewart.  I was one of the Indians falling off horses, cliffs and bar stools.  I have an abundance of physical wounds to show for it, but I am alive and a very rich man because of it.

I am also old, but I am not as decrepit as the cocky little teenagers think.  They have begun to follow me at times and are over-confident, foolish and blind.  Their bodies are full of fast food and drugs.  They lack the power of observation.  They only see an old man, they do not see beneath the surface where I am fleet as a gazelle when and if I need and want to be.

The Skinny One and The Vulture had been waiting to ambush me when I came out of the Wells Fargo on Biscayne Street.  The Skinny One sidled up to me on my left while The Vulture nervously poked something implying a gun into my ribs.

“Gotcha old man,” The Skinny One hissed.  He was their teenage lips, their fear and their bravado all mixed up into one.  Of all the little gangsters that I had noticed he seemed like the one that was dangerous.  “Just do as I say,” he said, “And maybe you’ll live to tell your chess playing Bros about shitting your pants down at the Wells Fargo.”

What he didn’t have was the gun.  It was The Vulture that had the weapon in my ribs and I had  since surmised that he had no business as a hoodlum.  He was too sensitive, weak minded and a coward.  Besides that, I had purposely bumped him with my elbow and there had been no weight behind the supposed weapon.  It was either his finger or maybe a plastic water pistol.

They ushered me down Biscayne.  An old man and a couple of teenagers out for a stroll.   As they did so, I quickly concluded that I was probably in no real danger.  That’s the luxury of having made  a calculated risk,  the odds are in your favor.  When I added it up, one way or another they were destined to lose.  They were high on adrenalin and probably cocaine.  They were having visions of how they had already won.

To be continued.

Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books®

When War Comes, A Short Story

Richard Rensberry, authorLeave a comment

IMG_0921         When War Comes

He was my older brother by spirit, not by blood.  He could look through the eyes of the crow or the hawk and see you even when he wasn’t present.  He had what the elders called far vision.  He had the ears of a deer and the wings of a duck.  He could disappear at will.

I adored him.

He told me, “Stop being a puppy, young Night Bird.”

He often came decorated with paint in the colors of a warrior.  He pointed with a finger and spoke with his hands.  He would grab my tongue and give a shake of his head if I spoke too loud near the water where we fished.  He gave me feathers for lessons and beads rubbed raw by the swirling currents of the river.  He gifted me the paw of a weasel when I showed him a nest of pheasant eggs.

I looked up to receive his praise.

He told me, “Don’t put your eggs in another man’s basket.”

He helped me find an ash to carve a bow.  He taught me the way of sticks and how they bend just right when they plead to be an arrow.  He showed me rituals on how to ask the feather where it goes and how to honor flint when it is broken.  I was coached on how to say the words to make an arrow fly true to its kill.

I found truth in what he said.

He told me, “Truth is worthless to the dead.”

He tested me like the leather I used to string my bow.  He tested my patience and my will.  He approved or disapproved.  It all depended on the direction of the wind.  I could tell by the the lift of his chin when he knew that I knew.

I smiled at his knowledge.

He told me, “A lesson learned is a lesson you forgot.”

We practiced until I bled and my blood became a vessel that poured my spirit into the bow, until my hands were indistinguishable from the rose of the wood.  I shot arrow after arrow, day upon day two years in a row.  I could stand on my head or I could sit, I could run or I could crawl, leap or flip.  It didn’t matter to my arrows, they had learned to arrive where I had meant them to go.  They were I and I was them and in an instant I could snatch an arrow out of flight and whisk it back from where it came.

I was cocky with my aim.

He told me, “The pheasant that crows too soon and too loud gets eaten.”

He took me to the mountains and taught me how to hunt like the big cats and climb like the goats.  I was shown the camouflage of painted faces and the different spirits they conjure for their host.  He spoke the words behind the smoke and the rhythms of the tom-toms.  We danced the dances, chanted our chants and in the Spring I came to be a man in the arms of Silver Birch.

I went to her in the night.

He told me, “Love is a warrior’s strength and his weakness combined.”

We sat in silence amidst the bustle of the many young boys as they searched to retrieve our arrows.  They plucked them from the grass where we practiced and brought them back to our quivers by name.  We traded for their efforts with feathers and beads or candy for the ones that shook their heads.  One That Grows Fat In the Middle is my little brother by blood.  My Little Brother by spirit is Cloud In The Eye.  He too likes candy above feathers and often cries to my dismay.  I do not recall myself in his childish manners.  He seems to lack the will in search of his honor.

Older Brother clicks his teeth.  He points and gestures with his chin, “Some boys are men, some boys are squaws.  It’s good to know which,” he said, “when war comes.”

Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books™

The QuickTurtle™ Band

Richard Rensberry, author2 Comments

IMG_0033           The QuickTurtle Electric Bass

Built by the famed instrument maker and Stand Up Bassist of The QuickTurtle Band, TBone Ditty.  This bass made it’s first appearance in the initial recording of The Diagnostic Symptoms Blues.  It is now a part of Robbie Slades arsenal of instruments.  TBone built the bass at the St. Andrews Estuary while picnicking with QT Magnolia the band’s lead singer.

QT in a recent interview with Howie Burn from CCB Radio talked about TBone and his music making prowess.

“That was truly a glorious weekend,” QT recalls, “we had just finished our European Tour and needed to get out from under our road weariness.  We were having a nice little picnic when TBone spotted the bass’s soundboard calling out to him from a pile of sea strewn debris.  After a little more searching he had his little pile of gems all laid out on our blanket.  Not only did TBone build the bass right there on the spot, he wrote the lyrics to The Diagnostic Symptoms Blues after hearing from one of our fans that there was an epidemic of ADHD drugging of young QuickTurtles at his alma mater WestBank Elementary School.”

“Right into create mode!”  Howie exclaimed.

“It was.  We arranged and wrote the music that same day.  It was recorded the very next weekend.”

“I understand TBone builds all of his instruments by hand?”

“Yes he’s a naturalist.  He has great hands and an abundance of patience.  He also has a fabulous ear.  It’s a good thing because he needs it when it comes to me.”

“Thank you, QT.  Anything new on the horizon?”

“I’d just say, hold on to your toupee there Howie!”

Jane Finch

Richard Rensberry, author1 Comment

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Our book “It’s Black and White/A Turtle Quest for the Ages” is now available in the bookstore at http://www.bookchoice4u.com.  This is a website bookstore for authors to sell their books via a link to Amazon.

I like the way the books are displayed and the ease of the link straight to Amazon.

You can also get a free book review of your book via a link from http://www.bookchoice4u.com.  I recommend these sites as a resource for my author friends to take advantage of for book promotion.

Jane Finch is an Author with several books to her credit.  These can be found on her website http://www.finchlark.webs.com and http://crazyzoostories.weebly.com.

Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books™

Stoned and Depressed

Richard Rensberry, authorLeave a comment

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Drugs are tricksters.

Drugs are imps.   They’ll tickle you.

They’ll mess with your head.    They’ll stare you down

and win.   Drugs are hostile

with a smile.   They’ll make you cringe.   They’ll make you laugh

with a knife menacing your back.   Drugs are punks.

Drugs are demons.   They are

brothers with no compassion, sisters with no remorse.

Drugs remember.   Drugs forget.

They stink, they lie, they cheat.   Drugs

are the epitome of deceit.

 

Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books