D.L. Koontz's Blog

The post Bikes, Cowboys and Other Goodness appeared first on DL Koontz.

Four years ago. Western North Carolina. “Clara* liked your books and wants to write to you.” My writer friend Jenna* from Colorado tells me this with a smile on her face. We’ve met up again on our last day at a writing conference in North Carolina. I’m touched. Humbled. A little pleased with myself. (Yes, […]

The post Meet Clara: Songwriter for the Angels appeared first on DL Koontz.

I’m rocking with my friend, Becca*. By “rocking” I don’t mean ‘girls gone wild’. What we’re doing is a more satisfying (and maybe age-revealing?) undertaking at this early morning hour: sitting in rocking chairs on my front porch. We face east. The dawning sun is a piece of melting orange crush candy as it peaks […]

The post How to Get Stabbed in the Front appeared first on DL Koontz.

…and I’m Always Happy to Listen These are other people’s stories. I’m telling them anyway. Because I’m a storyteller. And, my first book included ghosts. People assume I’m fascinated with the topic. The owners of each of these stories swear they are true. First Up: Illinois. A back road (that’s where all the interesting things […]

The post Stories They Just Gotta Tell Someone… appeared first on DL Koontz.

He slumped into the crowded barbecue like he had arrived at his own funeral. Early twenties. Medium height. Wrinkled pants. Scuffed shoes. Glazed eyes. Scowl that stood out stronger than the colorful tattoo peeking out from his sloppily cuffed sleeves. Another guy approached him. Also, early twenties. He offered a high-five and said, “Dude,” in […]

The post No Do-Overs for the Pivotal Moments appeared first on DL Koontz.

Our local small town. A map dot in coastal Georgia. In a county with an average of 6.6739 acres of pine trees per person. (Seriously, a statistician counted.) Early morning. My favorite time of the day. Around me, movers and shakers chug coffee and clamber to action. These are the people who build things. Houses. […]

The post Movers and Shakers Come in All Shapes and Sizes appeared first on DL Koontz.

They say life is made of special moments.

I don’t know who “they” are, but I’ve lived enough to know their thinking is correct.

One of my favorite moments occurred on Cadillac Mountain near Bar Harbor, Maine.

For about twenty years of my professional life, I lectured at Harvard University each August. The University flew me to Boston, covered hotel/food, and paid me for my expertise. It was a great gig.

Joe went along a few times. So did my son, Matthew.

When Matt was twelve-ish, I–as usual–rented a car afterward. We headed to Maine. Besides savoring scenery and good food, our goal was to spot a moose in the wild.

We took the scenic routes, driving the backroads and hugging the ocean on our right.

There were hamlets. Inlets. Coves. Jagged cliffs and hills that flowed into the sea.

We saw lighthouses. Old white wooden steepled churches. Quaint libraries housed in converted clapboard homes.

Also, boats and ships and buoys and lobster traps and every flotational device in between.

The beauty was endless. Scene by scene. Mile by mile.

We ate our way to our destination, surviving on Maine’s two culinary sacraments: lobster and blueberries. I gained a hundred pounds each trip.

When you grow up a landlubber on a farm over six hours from the ocean it does something to a kid. It rewires the human brain. Thereafter, when you’re at the ocean (for the rest of your life apparently), you think it’s a 5-star experience that could never be surpassed.

To be precise, I was having a great time.

More importantly, and despite seeing no moose yet, Matt was too.

Cadillac Mountain is located on Mount Desert Island, within Acadia National Park.

Its summit is the highest point within 25 miles of the Atlantic shoreline of North America between Nova Scotia and the peaks in Mexico.

For about six months of the year, it is the first place in the continental U.S. to see the sunrise.

Hiking trails and a paved road lead to the summit. It was dark and cold, so Matt and I drove up in the early morning to view the sunrise.

It was incredible. Reds, yellows, oranges and purples from the sun shot fascinating rays across the water and up the mountainside.

Matt, at Sunrise, Cadillac Mountain

We repeated the experience the next morning, too.

At lunch on our third day in Bar Harbor, we overheard two people talking. (That’s when you learn the best information.) They mentioned going to the top of the mountain to watch the sunset on the other side.

Duh-ohhh. We’d never thought of that.

So, we did—that evening we journeyed to the top again.

If you face away from the ocean while at the top, you can see a spread of more mountains that results in a beautiful sunset.

We arrived about twenty minutes early and plunked down on a comfy patch of ground. Around us, people gathered. Groups. Families. Couples. All waiting for the same thing.

Some lounged on the backs of rusty pickups, others on the ground. A few brought lawn chairs.

To our right, about a dozen people huddled on the ground, formed into a C shape. A man sat in the center, talking to them in hushed tones.

We figured he was teaching a class. Probably a nature course. After all, we were in a state park. Maybe they were rangers in training.

As sunsets are prone to do, this one inched slowly toward the horizon.

The colors proved breathtaking, turning the crevices and canyons of the mountains into a rainbow of colors.

Strangers around sighed. Gasped. Some called out, “Look at that!” Or “Look over there!” Their voices revealed delight.

Then, when you thought it couldn’t get any better, that group we thought was a band of wannbe rangers? They began to belt out, “How Great Thou Art.”

Voices harmonized like a band of angels, the collective sound echoing around us. It was incredible. Magical. Almost heavenly.

Clearly the group had prepared for this moment.

Goosebumps shivered down my back and arms. Matthew sat open-mouthed.

We experienced our own little flash mob, before that became a thing.

When they finished and the sun turned the world from the golden hour to blue, everyone applauded.

But no one said a word.

It was still barely light enough that I could see a few people (like me) wiping their eyes.

Everyone appeared momentarily speechless, moved by the experience.

No one seemed to want to leave.

We finally had the wherewithal to stand and thank the group, although our words came out a little blubbery.

We journeyed back to Boston the next day talking about the moment that would remain with us forever.

It was weeks before it hit us that we never did spot a moose.

But that’s okay. A God moment on a mountain trumps spotting a moose any day.

The post That Time on the Mountain appeared first on DL Koontz.

Years ago. Frederick, Maryland.

The woman sat on the curb siding N. East Street. Right outside a dull-looking brick building.

My task: help transform that building into a luxurious venue. My son’s private school planned to hold a gala night of fundraising there.

Attendees would be dressed in their finest. Coiffed to perfection. Prepared to spend outlandish money on items and trips that weren’t worth the price they would bid.

But, it was a fundraiser and that came with the territory.

What wasn’t supposed to accompany the experience was a homeless woman parked on a curb by the front entrance.

We—the planning committee—had a red carpet look in mind.

The woman didn’t fit our vision, with tattered clothes, greasy hair, rawhide skin, and odd collection of garbage-dived stuffed animals attached to her coat.

Feeling both concerned about the evening and ashamed at wanting this woman to move, I talked with the committee. We didn’t have the heart to get the police involved. The principal of the school couldn’t be reached. Likewise with any members of the School Board or the owner of the building.

Thus, I was tagged to talk to the woman.

With gut wrenching and total awareness the average bid that night would probably feed the woman for half a year, I stepped outside to ask if I could help her move to a warmer location.

A tarnished silver necklace at her throat read “Mable.” When I introduced myself, she pronounced her name as May-Belle, emphasizing each syllable equally.

I plunked down on the concrete a few feet away. Gave her personal space. Made small talk. Asked her where she was from (Raleigh). Told her about a shelter a few blocks away. Described what was happening there that night. Explained how crowded the sidewalk would be.

Her eyes lit with excitement.

“For the young’ens?” she asked, delight lacing her words. Her Southern voice sounded altered by a pack-a-day habit.

“Yes, for the… young’ens,” I responded. A vestige of hope rose in my gut. Perhaps she understood without me having to voice our druthers. Maybe she’d move along on her own.

“I’ll be right friendly to ‘erryone,” she said, squashing my optimism. She flashed a yellow-toothed smile for extra reassurance.

Defeated, I was about to stand when my heart reminded me she might be hungry. The caterers hadn’t arrived yet.

I opened my purse and pulled out two McDonald’s coupons. I carried them for people like May-Belle. Fast-food restaurants were everywhere. Coupons would ensure they’d get food, rather than drugs or alcohol.

She thanked me and turned to gaze into that far-off place I’d seen other homeless people stare before.

I felt dismissed.

I moved on, hopeful. Perhaps May-Belle would get a kick out of seeing the attendees come and go. Perhaps participants would be influenced by her on their way in and more generously open their wallets.

You know, for the young’ens.

We finished decorating, hurried home to change, and returned.

May-Belle was still there.

It was indeed a gala event. Full of fun and laughter and spending. Lots of spending.

And, concern for May-Belle. Before the evening was through, we passed a brass bowl among our committee (because posh parties call for brass bowls, not hats, of course), to collect money for her.

When the evening wound down, I carried the bowl into the night and offered it to May-Belle.

She grabbed ahold of it. I thought she was reaching for the money. Instead, she fossicked in the left pocket of her patched jacket and pulled out a wad of money.

She added it to the bowl and pushed it back to me. “For the young’ens,” she said, following it with an obviously cigarette-influenced chuckle of joy.

At my startled look, she explained, “Folks was real friendly goin’ in.”

“But… but…” I stammered, sounding stupid, “they meant for you to have this.”

“Pfaw,” she mutterd and waved it away. “I got all I need. Use that,” she pointed at the bowl. “Teach ‘em young’ens to be kind. We’ll all be blessed then.”

I swallowed hard and went inside, her words etched on my heart.

“We’ll all be blessed then.”

Yes, we will, May-Belle.

Even all these years later and living in a new locale, and down a couple backroads, I’m still blessed by the memory of her words.

 

 

The post Getting May-Belle off the Curb appeared first on DL Koontz.

As such, I want to honor one of our Corriente cows. Her name is Brindle.

We chose that name from the coloring pattern in her hide.

While an applicable name, it’s not very creative, I know. But keeping a sizeable herd that rotates in and out year after year sometimes requires resorting to the obvious.

Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of National Aggravating Cow Day.

I just made it up.

I needed a way to pay homage to Brindle.

She has displayed excellent leadership qualities: Show up with a bucket of pellets and she’s first in line. The other cows, then, dawdle along following her lead.

Brindle also has demonstrated a few qualities most humans respect: Fearless pursuit for the better things in life. Curiosity unsurpassed in many species. Desire to push through barriers in search of her quest. Regard for the traditions of routines and laws of nature.

These wonderful traits also make Brindle one giant pain in the butt.

You see, Brindle bows to that age-old universal decree of nature that the grass is always greener on the other side.

This means her fearless pursuit and curiosity galvanized her into pushing through the barriers we erected to keep her in. Our many downed fences attest to her search for greener pastures.

Usually in the wee hours of the morning.

Or when it’s raining.

Or right before we’re scheduled to go away.

Or when our 4-wheeler battery is dead.

In short, life with Brindle has been double, double toil and trouble.

So, she left us today. A cattle hauler friend of ours picked her up. We watched until his taillights hit the main road before we exhaled breaths I think we’d held for months.

Usually, our female cows are here many years. We sell our male cows (bulls) when they’re young, to show business. That sounds so much better than saying rodeos, or that they’re going to be chased and roped in an arena for the rest of their lives, doesn’t it?

Then again, it beats the slaughterhouse.

So, Brindle’s headed to Texas where the barriers are spread farther apart than here. Instead of 340 acres, she’ll have a couple thousand on which to explore.

And she’ll live happily ever after.

More importantly, everyone will be happier:

Three of our neighbors.The drivers she’s inconvenienced on the road at the end of our lane.The cop who stopped to help with traffic twice.Joe’s cousin Gene who has helped us get her back in numerous times.

But it got me to thinking (because writers have this annoying tendency to look for metaphors and allegories in every experience): How often do we encounter people with exemplary or quirky traits or abilities that might perplex us, but which might allow them to shine and grow if they were placed in a different setting?

It’s easy for us to cavalierly assume that one day those individuals might find their niche.

Or, that God put them in that “wrong” place for a reason.

Or, that they’re just too doggone weird to fit in.

I don’t know the answers to that.

But I do know I intend to be a bit more encouraging to these “outcasts.”

Perhaps a few kind words of comfort and reassurance will help them find their perfect Texas too.

It’s got to be better than remaining an aggravating Brindle.

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