October Turtle

by Thomas Keenan

I wrote this my senior year in college. 

With the cold wind whipping around her body, the tall red-haired girl walked silently, with a hint of a smile on her face. She should be feeling the icy grip of winter as it bites her nose and cheeks, but she has other things on her mind. Tucked under her arm was small square box, wrapped in green wrapping paper with little silver rocking horses on it. It was tied up with a large red velvet bow that just about covered up the top of the box. She was going to visit her boyfriend. The small box had been tucked away in her closet for a month now. She could barely contain the excitement as she thought about the look the gift would bring to her boyfriend's face. She smiled wider as she could hear the distant angelic voices of carolers.

A small boy in a bright green jacket stood by his mother's side as he tried to sing along with the large group of people. His long red stocking cap with the giant pom-pom on it draped over his red, chubby cheeks. He kept looking up at his parents with great joy and pleasure. He didn't know the words of the song, nor their meaning but liked the way they made him feel inside. Joy to the world . . . Not knowing what to do with his excitement, he started bouncing up and down with a smile and a loud giggle. His father stared down at him, still singing but with a smile on his face. He can see what Christmas is all about in the twinkling blue eyes of his son.

In a tiny little college apartment, a small group of friends, dressed in their best clothes, sat around a table. In the center of the table, flanked by two tall red candles, was a turkey cooked golden brown. Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer plays softly in the background, almost drowned out by the laughter of the students. Each one knows this is their last college Christmas together, yet it doesn't phase the festive atmosphere. They have tonight and the rest of next semester to deal with that issue. For now, they're just a group of friends, enjoying each other's company and the Christmas holiday.

In the silence of his room, a young man sits staring into the face of a beautiful young lady. They talk about everything but nothing. His only thoughts are about this special woman lying next to him. His hand softly caresses her face as the glow of a hundred colorful Christmas lights illuminates her gentle features. He had only met her a few months before, yet he felt he knew her for a lifetime. His face almost hurt from smiling too much. He thought he was going to spend this Christmas season alone. However, he suddenly found himself involved with this brown-eyed girl. He could feel Christmas in his heart. Suddenly, he could not take it anymore. He bent near her now and touched his lips to hers for the first time. She accepted them warmly, and his heart leapt through his chest.

A couple of old friends, a young man and woman, sit in a white beat-up "truck," talking about the past three Christmas seasons. They reminisce about old friends and wonder what is happening with them now. They remember how different they were three years ago and even just last year. They start to laugh together. He points out one house, completely outlined in white lights, and trees in the front covered in blue lights. They talk about how they might decorate their houses in the future. They wonder how long it will be before each of them gets to share the holidays with someone special. They both sigh deeply. It doesn't matter, though. Their friendship has survived so much; they are just thankful to have each other. Friendship. . . that is what Christmas is all about.

A small girl sits in front of the television, blankly staring at the screen. The Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the corner of the living room casts an eerie light across her face. In her eyes, a deep sadness remains. Her stomach rumbles in hunger. She fights back tears as she thinks about how all her friends were getting Barbie dolls for Christmas. She knows she won't be getting one. Santa Claus has always been pretty cheap when it came to her house.

About to burst into tears, she hears the doorbell ring. Her mother is standing at the door, talking to a Federal Express man. He holds a package slightly smaller than a shoe box. She gets to the door just in time to hear the package is for her. Her mother, confused, demands to know from where it came. She couldn't understand why her daughter was getting a package and was concerned. Standing in the cold with snowflakes falling all around him, the man says the package just came in, and the only other name on it is Santa Clause.

Before her mother could object anymore, the little girl grabs the package and rips it open. Inside she finds a beautiful new Barbie doll in a gorgeous green dress. Her eyes light up with the glow of a million Christmas lights, tears forming in the corners. Her mother, speechless, starts to cry herself. The hunger in the girl suddenly goes away, and The Charlie Brown Christmas tree suddenly seems like the Rockerfeller Center tree. Unable to express herself, the little girl hugs the legs of the Federal Express man, and then jumps up into her mother's arms, all the sadness drifting faraway.

The Federal Express man, unable to control his smile turns and starts walking away. He looks up and winks at a lady in a car across the streeet. She smiles back at him and drives away. Sleigh bells ring in the distance.

By Thomas J. Keenan 

I wrote this as a column for my college newspaper during my Junior year...more than 15 years ago. It was about walking in the woods behind my house in Hopatcong, NJ.

It was Good Friday. The sun was shining and the air was cool and still. I could feel spring in my bones. I went down to the woods behind my house to walk with my father and play with my nephew.

To my nephew Kevin, the woods and the stream and the giant "climbing rocks" were all so brand new to him. I, however, once knew the place well. It is where I had spent much of my childhood. It was where I went when I needed to escape as I got older. It was the place that I had abandoned when I went to high school.

After my father decided to head back to the house with Kevin, I decided to try to find something that was missing in a place I had once called, "The Woods of Life", in a poem written a long time ago.

The woods, for me, holds a special parallel to life. They serve as a parable to my views of life and a reminder of hope in the early spring. How? Let me explain.

The Dam: My friends and I used to spend a great deal of time trying to dam up this one part of the stream at the edge of the swamp. We figured that if we dammed it up, it would form a little pond where fish and other wildlife could live. We looked at it as a challenge.

We spent hours digging at the bank of the stream and dumping the mud and dirt on the dam which was made of everything from old wood to pieces of metal we found scattered around. But we could not stop the water. It would always find a way through the dam or around it. But we kept at it for what seemed like years. We were successful at making the stream wider, but we could never get the "pond" as deep as we wanted it. And anytime that we felt we had got it right, a rain storm would destroy the dam.

There are still pieces of metal and some wood there. The water runs through, not hindered by much. Looking at it on Friday, I would not have guessed that anybody had ever tried to dam up that part of the stream. I wondered why we had spent so much time at that one spot. I wondered why we had never given up. I wonder how such a huge failure to me and my friends now served to put a smile on my face as a warm feeling took over my body. I thought about it and came up with this conclusion.

Sometimes in life we become huge failures. Situations and our own bad decisions can hand us humiliating defeats. We may work very hard at something and give everything we have, yet sometimes everything is just not enough. However, we learn from those failures. It is the failures that teach us more about life. We take these bad times from our pasts and we refer to them in the future.

We also have to remember the old cliche: "It doesn't matter if you win or lose, it is how you play the game." My friends and I did not dam the stream, but I have such good memories from our endeavors. Digging and splashing and laughing and planning all are etched in my mind fondly. We failed at the dam, but we had a damn good time failing.

A year or two after we had failed creating that dam, I made an attempt at another dam, just to prove that I could do it. Sometimes, we have to know when to give up, move on, and start over. I did. I moved up stream to an area with higher banks that could form a natural barrier. I then rolled huge boulders into place in the water. After placing a pipe between the rocks to regulate water flow, I piled thick mud and moss in the gaps of the rocks. The dam was about a foot or two tall, and it was a complete success. I took my previous failures and used them to succeed. Eventually, the dam became too successful and was partially destroyed by someone else to return the rest of the stream's flow. Yet, even now, my dad had to build a little bridge out of old tires and trees so that my nephew could cross the once thin and shallow stream. I beat the stream.

The Swamp: In the woods, there is a swamp that spreads out over a relatively large area. Throughout it is scattered moss, covered islands of dead tree stumps or mud. In order to cross the swamp, you have to hop from island to island, hoping the island doesn't sink. Every so often, you may slip and find yourself up to your ankles in mud or water. As you travel through it, it seems like it will never end. The other side is so difficult to see and dead trees lie all around. You can get confused and lost easily.

There are times when life seems like this murky swamp. Things seem bleak and it seems that hopes and dreams lie dead all around. Like the waters, life seems stagnant, and sometimes you cannot do anything but pray that you don't fall into these waters. There are times when you don't feel like hopping to another island because you are afraid, afraid of what the next step may bring. You don't know if the next island will give under your weight or that you may not jump far enough and land in mud. It is this place in my life that I feel I am at now.

You know you cannot go back and sometimes you just want to stay in one spot. But you must move on. The swamps in life are stagnant and scary, but you have no choice but to continue on. You just have to realize that you will eventually find your way out. There is another side, a place where the footing is sure. A place where you can look back and feel proud at what you have accomplished.

The Hilltop: On the other side of the swamp in the woods is a steep hill that seems to rise above the tree tops. Climbing the hill is no easy chore. It is covered in dead leaves that may cause you to lose your footing.

But when you have made it to the hilltop, you can look out at everything around you. You can see clearly where you have been, and you can see what is ahead of you. On the other side of this hilltop, the stream flows smoothly and the water is crystal clear. The plants in the valley are lush and beutiful. From this hilltop, you can clearly see the beauty of the sunset. Being up on this hill is truly breathtaking.

In all our lives, we will make it to the hilltop. We may have to struggle through swamps and climb steep inclines, but eventually we will make it to the hilltop. We can look and see why we had to go through the swamps, and we can appreciate it. We can see where we are going. We can see the beauty of life and how wonderful it is. The waters are flowing clearly ahead of us. All we have to be willing to do is to climb that mountain and struggle through the swamp, because once you make it to the hill top everything is forgotten.

Although I believe I have a long way to go to get through this swamp that I am in now, I know something beautiful lies ahead of me. Although there are more struggles ahead, I know they will be worth it, and I can't wait.

The woods of life are beautiful. They are constanly changing and growing. Like trees, dreams die but are quickly replaced by other trees. There are different paths and trails through life; which ones we take are completely up to us. Streams don't always flow straight. They curve and bend. They run slowly sometimes and faster other times. This represents our hopes and our faith. There are going to be hills and valleys and swamps throughout our lives. We just have to muster enough confidence to make it through.

Perhaps one of the most insightful things I have heard lately came from my three-year-old nephew, Kevin. I went back down in the woods with him on Easter Sunday. He wanted to climb on these rocks. It soon became a tough climb for his little body but he kept on going. When I asked him if he wanted me to carry him, all he said was, "No, I am like the little train." Then he continued climbing, saying, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can..." Perhaps that is all we need to do to get through the tough parts of life: Keep reminding ourselves that we can do it. Life is beautiful.

by Thomas Keenan 

I wrote this about 10 years ago, inspired by a conversation I had with a friend in 1993 or 1994. 

"Pictures and graphics pulled up in a browser? What the hell is a browser?" I asked, letting the basketball knock me in the side of my face with a loud, audible THUD.

Now, I consider myself a computer savvy individual with a fairly active imagination, but I just could not believe that there is a huge network out there, criss-crossing the country, and the world, like a giant web, in which I could connect to through my parents old glorified typewriter, and view pornogr… er...I mean baseball statistics for free.

"Yeah, it's pretty amazing," my old high school buddy responded as he grabbed the rebound off my face. "They use it for the military to share information. I've been messing around with it at work. You type in an address like www.usarmy.mil and an informational page with pictures appears on the screen."

We were both home for the summer to work with our fathers. His father happened to work at a U.S. Army arsenal in our county. He was a computer major. I was a speech communications major meaning that he actually knew what he was talking about while I only pretended to know what I was talking about.

We went to high school together (thus, him being an old high-school buddy), and actually grew closer as friends after graduation. During the summers and on breaks, we tried to get together as much as possible to play a little basketball and catch up on each other's lives like the girls we had hooked up with in the previous semester. So, that would take about 15 seconds and being that we were both borderline geeks, computer talk did creep into conversation.

"So your saying that on my parents' old Apple computer, I can type in some magical phrase likes ‘abra cadabra' or set of numbers and plans for building my own F-16 jet will suddenly appear on my screen?" I half pondered, half proclaimed. Obviously he found me to be quit amusing as he tripped up, mid-stride of a lay-up, sending the ball careening off of the pole and back to me.

"No," he said through his snickers. "You need to have a program call Mosaic. It's a browser…An Ethernet card and …"

I interrupted, "Browser? You still haven't told me what the hell that is…And, Mosaic? I thought we were talking computers, not art history…Ether-what card? Can I use my Visa card?" (I prefer being a wise-ass to being patient. Although using sarcasm to cover for confusion or ignorance probably isn't a good trait.) I bounced the ball back to him, thinking somehow it might emphasize my point or to let him know that he needs my charity.

"A browser is a program that interprets code that is past to it from a server on the network or internet," he carefully explained as he sunk a fifteen foot jump shot, hitting nothing but net. "It is used to display text that is embedded in the code and gif files that are downloaded from the network or internet.

"Mosaic is the name of this browser software, much like WordPerfect is the name of word processing software," he announced, hitting the bottom of the net with another 15-footer.

"An Ethernet card is a piece of hardware that you plug into the motherboard of a computer, and then you plug a network cable into it." Swoosh went another jumper from 20 feet out.

Now, I might be a smart-ass, but he was just plain smart.

"So a browser interprets the code and displays whatever like WordPerfect interprets the code tag you use to bold or center text in a document?" I inquired while putting in an easy lay-up.

"Exactly," he responded.

"The Ethernet card is the hardware that allows the computer to communicate with the network?" I dropped in a short jumper from about three feet out.

"Right."

"And Mosaic is a browser software program that I can go to the computer store at the mall and purchase." I tried another easy lay-up that rolled around the edge of the rim.

"Well, not exactly." My shot fell to wrong side of the rim. "You have to download it off the Internet. And it is free."

"Your bullshitting me, aren't you? No software is free. Especially if it does everything you say it does. And the Internet? So, what, I get the program by using my school e-mail account? How do I do that? I'm lucky if my school's e-mail system can handle a two page letter. Your making all this up." My next shot hit the backboard like a brick.

"Seriously. You don't use your e-mail system. You connect to the internet, go to an address and download it off a server." Almost to further humiliate me he hit a shot from mid-court.

"So, almost like Telnetting. Someone gives me the address to go to. I would telnet out to that server. And then download the program to my computer?" I threw up a high awkward shot as I tripped over my own feet. Somehow, the ball went through the net in what is called in basketball, a "Hail Mary".

"Yes…Just about. You're very close." He missed the rebound, somewhat surprised that I was kind of getting the point. Of course, he did proceed to make minor corrections to what I said, but I was pretty surprised I was even on the right court.

Being a good American that I am, I asked, "But what the hell can it do for me?" I wanted to get past the technical crap and move the conversation a long. And, like any hot-blooded young man, I wanted to know how to get to the porn…I mean baseball statistics as quickly as possible. (Oh yeah, I also hit a beautiful 10-foot turn around jump shot from the right side of the basket.)

"I mean, if it can only be used by the military, how I am I going to be able to get anything truly useful off of it." Although the thought of floating out on Lake Hopatcong in a battleship while "studying baseball statistics" intrigued me.

"Well, it was designed for the military, but guys are using it for other stuff like pictures and stories. Like today, I downloaded some ‘baseball statistics' and photos of Darryl Strawberry," he gasped as he attempted to copy my shot.

I was less interested in what exactly he was downloading and more interested in why I didn't have the kind of job he had. He managed to get the rebound and sprinted to the top of the key, turned around and drained his shot. "And I think I may focus my major in college on it a little bit," he added.

Realizing that the complexity of what he was trying to tell me was hampering my game (I was sure that was indeed his intention); I decided that I needed to end the conversation. So I tried to dismiss it with the following proclamation, as I headed to the top of the key to copy his shot, "It will never make it big."

For an exclamation point on my statement, I launched the ball just as I finished the sentence. My eyes followed it's tall, graceful arc, until it bounced off the pole behind the backboard and ricocheted into a large oak tree and careened quickly right back at me and slammed off of my head and over the fence. Onto the street it rolled and down the hill. I heard my friend laughing so hard he could barely breathe as I gave chase to the ball that now appeared as a small orange dot in the night.

by Thomas Keenan

I wrote this in 2000 when Andrea and I lived in Hoboken.  It was intended to be three parts, but I left it together here so it is a bit long.  I have to admit when I wrote the first part, I thought it was completely original.  II would discover later that the same premise was used in a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip which I almost certainly had seen before I wrote this. 

Sunglasses 

The soft light of the autumn sun smiles across the back window of 323 Park Avenue lighting up a pair of chocolate brown eyes staring out from beneath a pile of blankets on a bed within. Like hot fudge and vanilla ice cream, the warm light mixes perfectly with the chilly October air that has seeped into the room. The big brown eyes seem to give off their own cheerful light.

Edgar especially loved the mornings just before Benjamin would climb out of bed. His mom would come in and stir him awake. Benjamin, all soggy with sleep, would hold Edgar especially tight, with his rosy cheeks pressed against the soft nappy fur of his hippopotamus (hippa-ma-pot-o-mus, as Benjamin would say it). "I’m too tie-red," is what Benjamin would always say after his mom stirred him awake, and then he would squeeze Edgar as tight as he could one last time before facing the day.

However, this day was different. After thinking he had the bed to himself, Edgar found himself staring into the bright hazel-brown eyes of the child. Edgar knew that look. It was the look that Benjamin always had when he had a plan.

Benjamin ran over to his closet and disappeared into it. Edgar could hear him desperately rustling around for a couple of minutes before he stepped out, holding a green plaid tie. It was Benjamin’s school uniform tie from last year that no longer fit him.

Benjamin then climbed over the bed and grabbed his favorite Mets hat from the bedpost. His tiny little fingers went to work on the adjustable strap, pulling it apart, then setting it to the smallest possible size. Benjamin then climbed back over the bed, and carefully placed the hat on Edgar’s head.

Next, he went to his desk and packed up all his homework, notebooks and pens into his burgundy backpack, zipped it up and brought it back to Edgar. Finally, he wrapped the shoulder straps over each of the hippo’s front legs.

Benjamin surveyed the hippo for a few moments with a concentrated look on his face. "There’s sumtin missin’, Edgar…" He then pressed his lips together and furrowed his brow, as he sat thinking for a few more moments.

Suddenly, the boy yelled out…"Aha, I got it."

 (More)

by Thomas Keenan

I wrote this at the start of my senior year in college for the college newspaper, in October 1994. 

After the long dark night, a faint glimmer of light appears low on the black horizon.  A chorus of crickets is replaced by an orchestra of birds.  They proclaim the birth of a new day.  The blackness hanging in the air turns to a dark blue.  The once blackened horizon is covered by a garment of orange and red.  It is the royal gown of the daughter of night.

Finally, like it has done for billions of years before, the sun rises, spreading its mighty arms and embracing  the vast  lands of its domain with its magnificent lights.  Morning has broken, and life stirs within its loving embrace.

Through a second-story window, the sun has cast one of her morning rays gently across the face of a tiny red- haired baby boy.  The small child stirs and opens his sky-blue eyes.  Like an angel spreading its wings, the baby spreads the corners of his mouth revealing a tiny but beautiful toothless smile.  His eyes open wide with excitement as he talks quietly with the sun ray in a language that only the two of them can understand.  Two hundred miles away, the little angel's uncle thinks about him and smiles, knowing that he is going home soon to see him.

The sun spreads her rays through a classroom window.  A student stares down at her notebook, doodling as she waits for her professor to stop talking.  It is her last class on Friday, and she thinks about her plans for that weekend.  She is going on a road trip, visiting an old friend from high school at her college in Rhode Island.  It is going to be a long trip, but who cares... at least she will be away from college for a weekend.

In her doodling, a number appears followed by a date:  220 days, May 13, 1995.  She has to use her long dark hair to cover her face as her eyes light up and a huge smile takes control of her lips.  People would think she was crazy if they saw her smiling that way in her Spanish class.  Not much time left.  A guy next to her just happens to catch her smile.  He smiles also, thinking she was smiling at him...

In another part of campus, the sun casts its light across a white envelope with one of those clear plastic windows.  A young man peers into the envelope.  As he does so, he jumps for joy:  he will be able to buy plenty of beer tonight.  Just as he does so, a young lady stops to talk to him.  It's the girl he has been flirting with since he first met her in his Geography class.  She asks him if he wants to study with her for the test next week.  It's going to be a good day, he thinks.

With the sun burning on her back, a girl dressed in green sprints down the field carrying her field hockey stick.  Her entire concentration is on the small white ball that is rolling and bouncing along the grass towards a predestined rendezvous point ahead of her.  She starts her back swing and fires.  Another unidentifiable girl covered from head to toe in protective clothing dives to her right.  The small ball rolls just beyond the edge of her stick.  The girl in green shouts in joy as she is mobbed by her teammates.  Laughter surrounds them.

With the sun reflecting off his glasses, a man talks excitedly on a pay phone with his mother.  He's telling her about the job he will have when he graduates in two and a half months.  His four and a half years at college have paid off.  Barely able to speak in his own excitement, he tells her about the black 1995 Camaro he is going to buy in January.  He tells her to tell Dad that he is getting in his car and is headed home.  He will be there in four hours with a bottle of champagne.  He tells her to be dressed nicely because he is taking them out to dinner.  Tears are now in his eyes.  His mother, her voice trembling in pride, tells him that she loves him.  He returns the sentiment, hangs up the phone, and jumps into his old, rusty Chevette.  He pauses, takes a deep breath and gently pats the dashboard of his car.  1995 Black Camaro, he thinks with a smile bigger than the Grand Canyon.

As the sun sits low in the western sky, two old friends talk comfortably on a small white bench beside the creek.  After weeks of fighting, they have settled their major problems.  A difficult road is ahead, but the worst is behind.  A peaceful silence falls upon them as they stare deeply towards the full moon that has risen early on the eastern horizon.  He finally turns to her and tells her that even in friendship, he will always love her.  They embrace.

Across the creek from them, a young man zips past on a green and black bike.  His Notre Dame hat sits a little crooked on his head.  As he rides through the center of campus, he thinks about tomorrow's game, the laundry he has to do, and the fact that he has survived yet another stressful week.  The cool, crisp autumn air feels good after the long, hot summer. There is just something about it that makes him feel so alive and free.  As he reaches the peak of the hill going toward his apartment, his eyes are met with a fiery red, orange and purple sky.  He loses his breath. No matter how many he times he sees it, he is always impressed by an autumn sunset.  He pedals faster toward the sunset, the light reflecting off his face.  He smiles, and then thrusts his arms in the air, as if he were flying.  LIFE IS GREAT, he thinks.  "Thank You, God," he says.