long time no see

its been 40 weeks since I last updated. I reckun thats been awhile. You got any biscuits wiff musturd? mmmm hmmmm. ahh, what can I say. I've been through 3 hand surgeries in the last 2 years.I started growing whats called Tenosynovitis on a flexor tendon, near the bottom joint of my right index finger. Foot still bugs me alot, especially after physical therapy exercises. Its better, but not best, and can still lay me up occasionally. I'm reliant on painkillers, which scares me, as I have seen first hand how they sap one's soul strait out of the mind and body. Plus the longer you are on them, the less they work.

Ah well, I'm not going to feel guilty about it. There was awhile when I was drinking heavily. I could have become an alcoholic, which is a common destiny for those with chronic mental and corporeal anguish.

I'm writing again, thanks to a small finger brace, created from molded plastic, keeps the bottom joint from hyper-extending, allows me to hold a pen, can type again too which keeps me my job, and thus that oh so precious insurance I could not ever forsake. It's the only thing keeping me from vast ocean of debt. Prob is, I only get about 10 minutes of typing or scribbling done before it starts to smart. At that point, if I take a break for about 15-20 minutes I'm good for another spurt. If I get so enthralled by what I'm writing and over do it, I have to wait at least a day. So breaks it is. I'll take what I can get. Sure beats the nerve wracking tortoise pace of writing and typing with my left hand, which takes months of practice.

Heres something I been working on:
Type

The Crystal Radio Gang first formed during the Young Men’s Auxiliary Camp, a 3 month long Summer Camp for Dunwhich Academy boys who were orphaned or unwanted by their parents during the summer vacation. It was located 4 miles away from campus at “Camp Wiki-Wak”, along the shores of the majestic Lake Beasly, a 580 acre body of freshwater nestled within the densely wooded ridges and hollows of the surrounding countryside.

Tad of course chose to stay at the Camp over the summer in avoidance of his father, who was just as pleased not to have to care for the boy just as Tad was to avoid Herman’s ridicule and abuse.

However, the Professor put in charge of the Camp was a one Colonel Scarborough, who during the school year was Instructor of Military History and Science as well as serving as a coach for several of the Inter-Academic Sports Leagues. He was a callous leader who thought of the camp as a sort of training ground for future soldiers, and as such would organize ruthless war games, moving squadrons of exhausted young men around the camp like his own personal puppets. Naturally, he was often disappointed when the boys failed to live up to his excessively rigorous expectations, and exhibited his anger by a series of early morning drills and bizarre punishments. And naturally, the boys at the camp came to hate him more and more as the summers passed.

Not all the counselors were cruel or narrow-minded as Scarborough, opting instead to focus on the Rough and Tumble Pioneer spirit, and wood-craft know-how, for many of the boys came from wealthy, dandyish families who considered such knowledge of the woods as “savage” or “unrefined”. There was one salt-and-pepper haired Professor by the name of Alexander Anderson, who preferred to go by the name of “Uncle Pappy”. During the school year he was head of the Mythology Department, and was loved by all the boys in school and out for his kindhearted exuberance and empathetic ear. Uncle Pappy was also quite interested in American Indian culture, and organized many activities involving Wilderness Survival, much to the chagrin of Scarborough, who was impotent to cancel such “Savage Frivolities” due to Pappy’s superiority. Pappy had even organized a secret society for the older boys called Order of the Tomahawk, who’s rituals culminated at the end of the year with a fire ceremony that included a real Indian friend of the Professor who would sit on a log at the bottom of the bowl-like amphitheatre and tell fascinating legends of his ancestors into the wee hours of the night while the lucky boys leaned forward on their benches spellbound.

The camp lasted from early June through late August, rain or shine. The boys encampments consisted of large, walled canvas tents, set up on wooden pallets, each with room for 4 cots and 4 storage trunks for personal possessions. The hundred or so boys who attended the camp were broken up into various clans based upon age. Tad was part of Company F, which mainly contained boys between the ages of 12-14. Each encampment was set off from one another, and contained a campfire ring, wooden benches, a large rain canopy, a latrine and long metal wash basin.

Everyday the boys were awakened at first hint of dawn, by means of bugler’s revile echoing across the valley. Each tent-crew would stand at full attention outside their shelter awaiting the arrival of Colonel Scarborough, who would walk up and down the rows inspecting each and every boys tent and uniform for even the slightest defect or violation of policy. When this daunting task was complete it was time for “Morning Invigoration” which consisted of the boys running around the entire lakeshore, all 2.3 grueling miles of it. Under the Colonels orders, the last 10 boys were to be denied breakfast.

By the time normal citizens would be awakening, the boys were trudging up the steep hill that lay behind their encampments, sore legs and all. At the top was the Flag Circle, The Counselors Quarters, The Chow Hall, The Activities Building, and a makeshift Infirmary. Before being permitted to break their nightly fast, the boys were first required to fall into to an elaborate formation, and “pay their respects to the dead” (as Colonel Scarborough had eerily dubbed it) by executing a complicated series of rituals that involved the unfurling and raising of first the Union Flag, the State Flag, and the Academy Herald. They then recited from memory an absurdly ridiculous “Oath of Tenacity” penned and drilled into their brains by none other than the Colonel himself. Then and only then did the already exhausted boys shuffle into the chow hall.

This brings us to the ghastly manner involving the food at Camp Wiki-Wak. The Academy, in their yearly budget had allotted for a generous amount (in Dunwhich standards) of funds to go into feeding over 100 boys 3 meals a day for 3 months. Privately however, Colonel Scarborough considered the allocation ridiculously high, and in an act of his insidious greed would pocket most of the money every summer. As a result the boys were fed some of the most atrocious dishes conceivable. An ichorous, gritty gray paste dubbed “Gruel” by the kitchen staff was the main staple, and was served in some form at every meal. Scarborough was friends with a local butcher, who for a nominal fee would truck in barrels full of discarded innards and offal that had been removed from gaping orifices of Cows, Hogs, Sheep, and Various Poultry. At first the concept of tripe disgusted Tad, but he eventually developed an taste for it, as it was one of the only sources of protein the boys ever had. Other delicacies such as expired knockwurst, half spoiled sweet breads, occasionally moldy hard-tack and lard gravy en mass were served up by the degenerate hired-cooks with relish. Breakfast was by far the largest meal of the day, lunch typically being quite scant, and dinner usually consisting of leftovers. Under the Colonels orders, boys who did not devour every speck of goo from their plates were denied the “privilege” of 2 days worth of rations. To top it all off each meal only lasted 15 minutes.

Tad’s first summer at Wiki-Wak found him quite worried who his tent-mates might be. He opened the flap warily and peered inside. The smell of musty canvas hit him in a wave. He squinted his eyes and caught sight of something in the darkness. A smallish boy with black hair and horn rimmed glasses peered back at him grinning. As his retinas acclimated Tad observed that he appeared to be tinkering on some sort of disassembled gadgetry.

“Greetings!” said the boy congenially. “The name’s Kip Keegan” he stated proudly, holding out a grimy hand.

Tad shook it anyway to be polite, and then wiped his own on his trousers.

“Tad Hollerith”

“Hollerith. The name rings a bell. Goodness, what happened to your hands?”

“Oh….” Said Tad embarrassed, pulling down his jacket sleeves. “Quick” he thought “make a joke of it.”

“I got into a fight with a furnace”

“Ha!” said Kip, looking at Tad with an expression of disbelief.

Tad quickly changed the subject. “Have any of the other Bunk Mates shown up?”

“Brewster came and went awhile ago. Should be back soon. He’s something else, I tell ya. We met here last year. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the other fellow yet, though. Hope he’s not one of those Meat-heads from the Rugby Squad.”

Tad was warming up to him already. Any hater of those idiots was automatically friend material as far as he was concerned. Kip sat back down on his cot and continued working on the small contraption. Tad was officially intrigued.

“What is that pray tell?”

“Oh, this ole thing? It’s supposed to be a mini-transistor radio. I built it last year with various parts I nicked from the engineering dept. Been awhile since it worked though. I stumbled upon it in my desk while packing. Thought it might be worth a shot if I could get it receiving again.”

Tad had heard about this new fangled technology called radio, but his knowledge about it was minimal. He had seen one at the Dungleburg fair once, paying a penny for the privilege of joining an audience of awed spectators who gathered around a hulking machine to listen to it play a staticy rendition of “Stars and Stripes Forever”. He was never quite sure how it worked though. Something about invisible wavelengths of energy plucked right from the ether by means of antennae receivers.”

“Incredible.”

Kip laughed. “You should see the Transatlantic Receiver I’m building back at Dun. When I finally get together enough scratch to mail order the parts, I’m going to be talking to chaps in France! Wouldn’t that be bully? Now where’d I put my watchmaker’s kit?” he said, digging around in his trunk. “Aha!”

“How does it work?”

(Kip goes on to give an elementary explanation of Radio Science)

“Remarkable”
“I think so at least. Good to meet someone as amazed by it as I.”

Just then the tent flap flew open with a flourish. In burst a tall, lanky lad with flush face. It appeared as if he had been in a hurry.

“Kip, Worthington’s got a full carton of Sassafras Doodles, we gotta shit and get while the…”

His voice dropped off suddenly upon catching sight of Tad.

“Oh, blast…”

“It’s OK Brewster,” explained Kip “this here’s our new Tent-mate Tad Hollerith. He seems on the level. Tad, meet Brewster McNutridge, alchemist extraordinaire.”

“What have I told you about referring to me with that term. I’m not trying to turn shit to gold here! It’s chemistry kip, chemistry! Not alchemy.”

“As you wish Nicolas Flammel” said Kip mischievously.

“Why I oughta….” said Brewster, shaking his fist in Kip’s face jokingly.

“Tad Hollerith huh? Is this your first year at Shitty-Shak?”

“Pardon?”

“Is this your first instance of attending camp?”

“Yes”

Brewster shot a sideways glance at Kip. “Oh boy…”

“What?” implored Tad nervously.

“Uhh, nothing, you’ll find out soon enough.”

Tad’s brow furrowed. Kip immediately attempted to assuage his anxiety.

“Don’t fret chum, we’ll stick with ya. Camp can be rather rough on the average neophyte, but your fellow tent-mates will be there every step of the way.”

Tad had met few boys his age so friendly. Most teased or bullied him for his physical weakness and delicate personality. To meet someone so congenial was quite a relief.

Kip eventually abandoned hope on the transistor, and the 3 boys began unpacking and tidying the tent for opening inspection. While they organized and swept, Brewster told several dirty jokes, one of which caused Tad to laugh out loud, something he did very seldom. He was beginning to consider how lucky he was to have such tent-mates, when the boys heard a terrible commotion outside.

“Let me go!” screeched the voice of a young boy.

“Stand up you little whelp, or I will be forced to thrash you again!” bellowed the voice of a man.

“If you so much as come near me with that switch I will notify my parents immediately, you…you insufferable brute!”

Suddenly came the sickening sound of flexible twig striking yielding flesh. The boy wailed in agony.

The 3 boys in the tent could hear footsteps crunching toward their tent.

“Get in there!” snarled the counselor, shoving the boy through the flap violently.
“Perhaps next time you shall know your place!” and with that he stomped off in a huff.

Tad and the others gathered round the wounded boy. Kip put out a hand to help, but the frightened creature swatted it away. “No! Don’t touch me!”

“It’s OK chum, I’m not going to hurt you. Is this your assigned tent?”

“Guess so…” mumbled the sniffling boy. As he looked up at them with teary eyes the others could see a bloody, diagonal slice traveling from his left eyebrow, across his nose, and all the way down to his right jawbone. His left eye was already beginning to swell shut.

“Merciful heavens,” said Tad aghast. “Did that counselor just do that to you?”

“No” said the boy sarcastically “I ran into a rosebush”

“Here” said Brewster, handing the boy a dampened washcloth. “Put some pressure on that, its still bleeding”. The boy took the rag and pressed it up against his wound.

“Thank you” he croaked

“What happened?” asked Kip, in genuine concern.

“Oh, it was nothing.”

“I say a switch to the face is much more than nothing”

“Jeez, would you lay off. I got into a tiff with one of those brutes out there. I told them over and over that I am not supposed to be here, but damned if they’d listen. Incredulous wretches! Once I’m able to successfully contact my father, he’ll have their jobs, every last one of them!”

Brewster shot another knowing glance Kip’s way. “Come now,” he said “let’s get you off the floor. Tad, can you lend a hand?”

Tad assisted his new tent-mate to his feet and over to the empty cot. They removed his boots and propped him up with extra pillows.

“Uhhnnn….those fiends….those miserable bastards…how dare they?”

“Here, have a swig of this” said Kip, brandishing a large glass phial. “It’s medicine. It will help you feel better.”

The injured lad took a big swig and nearly spit it out. “Dear god, what is that swill?”

“It’s Doctor Farmington’s Patented Nerve Tonic. It has a bit of opium in it. I got it last year when I had whooping cough. Never used it much but I thought it might come in handy.”

“Say…” said Brewster. “How’s about letting yer ole pal Brewst get a tug of that?”

“Not today.”

A few minutes later the wound stopped seeping. The boy’s breath grew deeper, and he seemed a bit more calm, considering the circumstances. Just as he was about to nod off Brewster whispered a query.

“Hey kid…psst…”

The boy looked up at him with his one good eye.

“What’s your name?”

“Dewey. Dewey Gillespie. Heir to the Great Gillespie Fortune.”

And with that he fell headlong into sweet slumber.

^^^