EADIITORL DLIHGET 2

AUTHOR’S LETTER TO READERS:  On March 12, 2010, I posted a story entitled, EADIITORL DLIHGET, to this site.  Within the first seven hours of posting, I had a mailbox full of e-mail, the greater majority of it being positive in content.

There have been several e-mails going around, saying that the human eye does not read every letter in a word;  it only recognizes the first and last letters of each word.  For example:  the title, EADIITORL DLIHGET, becomes EDITORIAL DELIGHT;  the first and last letters of each word being where they belong, and ALL the other letters being haphazardly re-arranged.  Words of one, two, or three letters cannot be so changed.  I enjoy a good challenge, and found that figuring out the words was fun.  Therefore, I thought that I would challenge you, the reader, by sharing some of my joy.

Of the responses that I received, only two stated that the story was UNREADABLE.  And then I started thinking … ‘Perhaps the reader is blind or has some physical or mental disability that prohibits him/her from being able to read the words on the monitor’s screen and has to use a computer program that will ‘SPEAK’ the written word.’  With that thought alone, I discovered that indeed, the words WERE unreadable to some.

I beg, on bended knee, to be forgiven for not being so considerate to those readers, and I hereby submit the story to be read more easily, not as fun to figure out, but recognizably more readable.

Happy reading,

Gerry Young

YOUNG AT HEART-ONCE AGAIN

(The clarification of EADIITORL DLIHGET)

It was 10:40 PM. Over a mile high in a hilly pine forest in the Dakotas.

Stepping outside into the chilly night air for my final cigarette before retiring, I fingered the top button of my long-sleeved, blue-checkered flannel shirt, and pulled up the collar to keep the coldness off the back of my neck. But the denim Levi 501's failed to provide any warmth at all to my legs. Soon I would need my thermals.

Yes, it was cold; even the tree frogs were silent for the first time in weeks. Fall was in the air and browned oak leaves and myriads of dry pine needles covered the ground, shown only by the small light on the lamppost downhill at the corner of the property, some seventy feet away.

Not even a slight breeze rustled the dusty, musky fallen blanket -- a pleasant change from the grueling constant winds from the north for the past four days. Soon, perhaps, the dark, dry, brittle covering would change to sparkling, cold, solid white.

I inhaled deeply of the smoke, held it briefly, then released it, watching the plumes rise -- plumes not only from the tobacco, itself, but also from the warmth of the breath escorting them together, heavenward -- to the Great Spirit, "Grandfather."

A lone wolf cried -- deep voiced and recognizable by its tremolo -- and was quickly joined by that of another, and then yet other voices, coyote voices both cub and warrior.

A cacophony of tones grew louder and louder, more urgent, and even fearful and terrifying; tones signifying hierarchical warnings or fightings, perhaps over a small, warm-blooded late night snack. Neighboring dogs joined in the symphony, from soprano to baritone.

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, off in the distance, a solitary gun shot.

A few final yelps, and all was quiet. The silent voices of the frightened and ... could they be -- saddened? ... animals surely had joined together and sought a safe retreat.

I waited, yet heard nothing more.

Sucking in another warm drag of smoke, I tilted my head back, and offered the incense once again to the gods of the night, hoping it would accompany the life-energies of the newly departed animal/s to happier hunting grounds.

I looked into the blackness of the cloudless heavens and beheld the icy brilliance of millions of stars, usually not seen in a more polluted sky. I closed my eyes and drifted.

And remembered.

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Once again I was in the local restaurant and bar that my cowboy friend and I had only left an hour before.

Upon arriving, and waiting to be shown to our table, another couple was waiting to pay their fare before leaving. A young man, late twenties or early thirties, saw us come in. He glanced at me; I at him. Something stirred in my chest and in my loins. His friend, an older man, perhaps in his fifties or sixties, had turned his attention to the cashier.

Were they father and son? Or was their relationship something more?

From the Juke Box in the corner came the words ...

I saw you standing in the corner.

Come to me again in the cold, cold night-

in the cold, cold night. ¹

The young man looked away and then back at me. Was there just the very faint indication of a smile? Some recognition? Some sparkle in his eyes? I felt a guarded curve cross my lips. I fought to keep from allowing my breathing to become faster. I couldn't take my eyes off of HIM.

My partner, my lover, my companion, my ... friend ... and I have been together for more than four decades, with a decade difference in our ages, my being the younger. We've been monogamous now for most of our time together, but he knows that my eyes still wander-and there's nothing wrong with looking. I know he saw what was going on between the young man and me, though he hasn't, and probably won't, mention it.

Our souls are united -- my cowboy and I.

But I still couldn't get the vision of the young man's beautiful eyes, his charming smile, out of my head. I knew we'd meet again. At least I hoped. But didn't know what I'd do, even if we should. Would he forever remain a mystery? I wondered. I suspected.

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The noise of silence assaulted my inner-ears, there on the front steps in the chilly, autumn night air. I was hearing my own heartbeat, my own pulse. I took another drag and then extinguished the sacred burning tobacco.

I knew I had to write this down. I came inside and began.

The noise of silence continued. And my heart beat fast ... once again ... like the sound of the native Sioux dance-drum I had purchased years before.

Soon, the drumbeat would help me leave my body in sleep, and I'd dream again of things that were, things that are, and things that yet might be -- dancing around the flames that burst forth from the fire-pit of life.

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¹ From: The White Stripes Lyrics Song: In The Cold, Cold, Night

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