Newspaper Town

A gorilla-sized door centered between two hulking pieces of lumber parallelized a doorway, an entrance to Grandpa’s Old Barn. A shelter filled with newspapers from the yesterdays of past cities, silhouetted words from people’s past shadows, and events that shook the people's heads, turning them into cheers and important decisions.

Desert sand had been misted by a nurturing wind and a roaring had caused the fallen cottonwood leaves to be painted together like thick mud clumps, clogging the barn’s entering floor steps. Young grass recently had clung itself into the barn wood edges. Fresh and chalky smells would rise from the Summer’s September moisture, the soon to be Fall water, a lift of cooling droplets, a smell pressuring the nose for more. All the while the coming winds would sway the trees back and forth. Blushes of sandy grass would rise up in with the wind causing a dirty moist spring to linger inside fresh breaths. The air around Grandpa’s Old Barn was like a smooth, tasty river.

Dirt had settled across a long sandy road stretching itself from the treeline to the old barn. Cottonwood trees laid outside the front yard. They had large hand-sized leaves, the edge of each one was lined with tiny pokey edges, at least one hundred little teeth trimmed a leaf’s rim, enriching the texture with a coarse nature. Chloroplast cells represented themselves in large numbers, each filling the leaf with life. Each with a determination, each set to use every raindrop and each driven to use the shimmering sunlight’s every glimpse. Each determined to use every raindrop no matter the cost, never forgetting the sunlight’s shimmer, always capturing every glimpse.

Even though the entrance to the old barn was surrounded by life, a pungent spring, a sandy road deprived of life, a beached yellow road that had winded up to the barn. Years of rubber tires had woofed up sand, leaving misty splashes of sand expanding the barn’s driveway. Nearly sixty years and the fine sand was still taking sandy naps, stretching and preserving the windy roads direction to the barn.

Grandpa’s old man's legs had been kicked up and he had been perched up in his cushion reading chair, a long table littered with newspapers chilled out next to him. Grandpa, an old man, with a square head, a smooth plump face, and a man with hardly any wrinkles stared down his newspaper, glancing once up to greet me. With those stern eyes focused on the newspaper, a newspaper that filled his entire frame, and with legs crossed he coughed then mumbled something a little. There were hundreds of newspapers piled on top of one another. Piles of penguins he called them.

“ Would you like to check the weather in Antarctica with me today?” Of course, I thought. Why not joke about reading Antarctica, especially since the Old Barn captured all the September heat.

That gentle breeze from that one single window... The sarcasm of the jokes was intended to preach about dedicated intelligence. Cooling jokes springing to chill the heat, only to feel the heat press down harder, a barnyard containment.

“ You can sit close to the window if you’d like. “ his voice faded away just like the winter’s snow. I missed those days, they had chilly whispers and quiet chuckles, and now they’re gone, missing. It was stillness and quiet sounds that froze newspapers. Grandpa had passed away.

I had plumped myself on the long table, an exhausted sigh. So, I sat next to the window, staring deep at the empty chair. A moment of grey dust filtered past the sunlight and small specks of dust reminded me that there could still be gentle heaven for me.

Then I thrusted off the table with my two hands. I spun around away from the old man’s chair and snapped the window closed. More dust specks filled the room.

I had closed the window. My moment of self-reflection set itself up like a Christmas flashback. So I clicked the window shut, exiling the outside air, I gave another deep sigh, then opened the window back up, gently breathing in the fresh air again.

A girl had driven me mad, not angry,

Speaking to myself while more dust settled through the air.“ But I had to open up another newspaper for today’s new idea.” Then I thought, of course.

My hand placed and pressed itself downward grabbing a smooth but old newspaper placed next to the newly revived window. A small somber, kind of excited, and a little bit of boredom. So a crinkle was used to open the paper, a creak nearly fitting a tear. But before the paper would open all the way I sat it down immediately.

I already knew this paper I thought, I knew most of them. I didn’t even finish my center page opening before… Another rapidly collected thought gathered, February 20th, 1971 the Mississippi not so missing Delta tornado occurred. Several movies had been published, revised, and theorized; they all attempted to capture the same something, It was a windy torrent , a spiraling doorway to the sky, a violent exit to a new world. They, the film producers. captured her, the young girl, and her dog Toby, forcing her to endure galling tornado winds, lions, demons from Heaven, a sad scarecrow, and two different types of witches. A type of girl I always dragged to this old dusty barn. A long friend that bounced around like a video game, a newly refreshed modern city girl with a heart like a racecar and a chest like a castle. She had recovered from many hurtful newspaper headlines, not that she read any, but her timeline was filled with moments that caught a lot of attention and a lot of tears.

The sun was setting and she would soon be smoking up the sandy driveway, sliding up the road. I grabbed another newspaper desperate for a better romantic dream fire. October 30th, 1974 The ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ a boxing evening that took place in Kinshasa, Zaire. Muhammad Ali, knocks out George Foreman in eight rounds, regaining the Heavyweight title, a title ripped from him seven years prior.

She was pulling up to the five-star parking in the ever-green grass next to the CottonWood tree right outside the newspaper printing press, our old dusty barn. She knew the rules for the weekend play date, another night dressed up, I was to wear an old suspender with a white shirt underneath, my hair was already slicked back. She wore a white blue dress with white polka-dots. Each of us dressed to match an old forgotten friend.

She accelerated her car into a parked position, jolting startled white butterflies, they burst out the front lawn and flew away.

“ Hey loser! “ some pretty girl shouted from her Mom’s minivan. Her hair changed colors often, but today it was short to the ears and brunette.

“ Hah, you know my family usually calls me by my first name, but nice of you to finally show up.” I gave into my strong gallant tone, releasing my soft romantic voice straight down to my heart. She was rushing up to me in a blue and white polka dot dress. I reached my hand out and spoke with some laughter, “ Right this way dork. “

“ Haha okay, just tell me what you’re going to feed me this time. “ She placed her hand into mine and I gave her a quick dance spin. Then silliness began to run rampant again. We were left unchecked, she loved the friendly spins and I loved getting a small chance to hold her by the hand.

“ Wow, you're gonna make me dizzy. “ She didn’t stumble, but stopped like a newly placed table, a deep-eyed stare, a stare common to all not so dizzy girls.

“ Just don’t barf. “

The sunlight from the sunset had mixed its dim light in with the barn’s illuminated evening light. Her smile’s teeth sent out a white light. Then with a blurry how-do-you-do, the night quickly drew, and as we entered the old newspaper town, Thomas Edison’s lights filled our newspaper town streets. A leading restaurant tablecloth drooped for a dinner table, it was centered in the middle of the newspaper town square. Grandpa’s old chair was supervising us like the mayor and that single open window was sprinkling new chills towards the pretty girl. Freezing her out was a small part of the evil plan, but I had the stack of blankets ready for her, and I was preparing to show off! Her shivers were felt when she said, “ Burrrrr, is it always this cold in here? “

“ No way, here’s the blanket. “ With a quick swoop, she was warmed and properly sat down.

“ Ooooo, yummy. “ a simple cup of coffee wafted extra steamy steam towards her nose, it was wisping, tickling, fuming to a pointed tip, and lastly, the mist was licking her lips.

“ How was your day? ”

“ Well, I spun around a bunch, and then I was warmed up to this cup of coffee. “ She replied.

“ Excellent, I’m glad you enjoy the extra tasty coffee. Mwahahaha“

“ Sure, it's great. It’s cold here. Uuumm, why are you making an evil laugh?“

“ I know, right? And it all comes from that single window. Are you still cold? I can get you ten more blankets if you need? “

“ Ten more blankets?!? “

“ How about I close the window while the coffee heats us up.”

I went over to the window, closed it, and grabbed a newspaper. It said a bunch of random things from 1985 but it didn’t matter. I already knew the headline for tonight. October 30th, 1974 The ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ a boxing evening that took place in Kinshasa, Zaire. Muhammad Ali, knocks out George Foreman in eight rounds, regaining the Heavyweight title, a title ripped from him seven years prior.

“ Alright, get ready. I’m going to start boxing. “ I slap the newspaper down with a determined face.

“ Oh who are you going to fight? “ she wasn’t surprised by the randomness.

I started quoting the headline setting the stage… I was warming up my feet, bouncing from toe to toe, it felt great, I loved bouncing on my feet.

“ It was the Summer of 69. “

“ No it wasn’t don’t be dumb. “ She countered my pop culture song reference.

“ Alright Alright. “ I was still bouncing back and forth from step to step.

“ It was October 30th, 1974, The Rumble in the Jungle was taking place and I had to regain my Heavyweight title. Years of training had set me up for this very moment. “

My right jab struck out into the air. Then a featherweight left hook, boom, wiff, and then some small trips. Another few dashes backward, left and right then right and left again.

“ I was ducking and dodging imaginary punches, lunges, and plunges. “

“ Plunges? “

“ Shhhh, I’m boxing here. “

Jokes and jabs darted through our lips. Encouraging her to cheer on the fight. I would act out the fight taking shadowed heavy blows and towards the end. The referee would ring the bell and declare me as the winner. I would ask her to marry me after my victory. That would be this evening’s headline.

Instead, I fell down into the long table knocking down all the newspapers. She came rushing over and checked on my safety then, “ Well, I was supposed to win and ask you, but…” there was a brief moment of silence, “ Would you still marry me? “

“I’m sorry... but no I still can't marry you. “

As she left the front door she looked back at me on the floor, she huffed a smile and knew she had fun too.

I guess I’ll have to check the headlines tomorrow, huh Grandpa...