Damn Yankee by George S Geisinger (most read books of all time txt) 📖

and we wouldn't be here, anyway. He must not be a writer, and I know he's not comfortable on the phone. I moved, and our friendship is over.
My book is a 17 chapter volume, and I lost count of how many words it has, at somewhere around 33k words. I never counted how many pages there are in the book, and I've lost track of how many more chapters I've added to the work since I did my last word count. It's a sizable treatise.
But I sent it to him anyway. I figured he could delete it if he didn't want it. Now, I don't hear from him at all.
The “gentle giant” is a big guy, nice and kind, with a heart of gold. He has a good, responsible job, and is all into the end of the world and the rapture, and all that, as I've said. He's steadily investing in precious metals and rare gems. He has no confidence in the world financial situation. He also has no confidence in the idea that the country, or the world, has any kind of stability left in it at all. Poor guy is all up in the air about how the world economy and the Federal Government are going to collapse any day now.
But he does grill one heck of a good steak and buttered corn on the cob, and it's good eating. Anyway, the Lord tarries in spite of him, but getting together with the guy again is probably not going to happen anytime soon, unless he'd like to take a really long drive to come see me sometime, since I've relocated pretty far away from his place and don't drive anymore, myself.
Nonetheless, he's a friend of mine, and I found talking with him a very nice way to spend some time. I hope he calls me back sometime, or sends me an email.

Chapter 13

There's a new girl living here who is obviously not very smart, who is generally sweet enough and innocent in her own way, about ten, going on fifty. I had breakfast with her once, and have talked with her a few times. She seems real nice, over all, she's just a little behind herself. Also, I was told that her twin sister brought in some yarn to be given to me, because I crochet, and talking to the girl. She explained she likes crafts. I couldn't quite follow the logic there, except that she's probably not too diligent with anything she does, the little bit of intelligence she might have, not that I'm putting her down or anything.
She is what she is.
But today at lunch, she got a sandwich with pickles, said she can't have pickles, because she's diabetic, and proceeded to take all the pickles off her plate, and put them, by hand, into someone else's soup that they were eating, right then and there, right in front of us!
I couldn't help the nervous laughter that overtook me, but once I settled down, I realized that sort of behavior in the dining room is just a little dangerous. What else will she do with other people's food, when we're watching or not? She did that right in front of us, without any apparent idea the she did something she shouldn't do, and the person she did it to is one of those easy-to-get-along-with people that we need to have more of around here. It's nice to have easy-going folks around. But what will she do when we're not looking, if she'll do a thing like that when we are? She couldn't seem to understand there was anything wrong with what she did, so I talked to her like a child about it. She simply clammed up, stopped making comments out loud, either to us or to herself, and clammed up altogether. She just sat there and ate.
That situation reminds me somewhat of the old guy from around here who used to always ask people if they were married. He seemed to have the irrational belief that everyone should be married, or something must certainly be more wrong with them than people who are. When it was my turn to be cross-examined and called names by the old fart myself, I got so hopping mad at him, I could have done more than raise my voice at him, if I were that sort of person, but I'm not. He can't help it. His mind is gone, like the girl.
***
Then there's all the folks here who are hearing impaired. God bless them. I'm just grateful that I can still hear well enough, myself. But that's right down my alley, the hearing impaired folks, like being around the elderly, because my grandmother, great-aunt, and aunt were all hard of hearing at the home, where I grew up. I was constantly struggling to be understood when I was young. I'm used to it. I just make my voice good and strong, watch my diction closely, and hope for the best. I'm always ready to repeat myself, if I have to.
People get all bent out of shape there in the dining room, and we all, pretty much, have to take our meals there, or pay extra for room service. It's our one common ground at the Brighton Dam Apartments. Everybody has their own private space to live in, and a wide variety of people to be friends with, if we like, but we all get together to eat. I just can't understand why so many people feel they're being imposed upon whenever they're getting a meal. There are better than a hundred of us to feed all at once, and when you think about it, the staff does a pretty good job of getting us our meals. It's not like a restaurant, which gets different people arriving at different times. We all show up at once, and it's a tall order to feed us, all one hundred-and-some at the same time, a few times per day. My hat's off to the dining room staff.

Chapter 14

There's a girl, and her parents, who have become conspicuous fixtures here at the great Brighton Dam. Actually, it's her father who has come to live here. She and her mother simply hang out here a lot. He seems to be significantly disabled, with multiple medical difficulties, and doesn't seem to be doing well. I think they must be awfully worried about him, or have boundaries problems or something.
They all seem to be a close-knit family unit, constantly raising their voices at each other, and can't seem to let go of the old man for even a moment, as though his mortality is imminently in question. It may well be, for all I know.
They are frequently in the dining room, as well as out and about among us, frequently leaving his apartment door wide open to the hallway, with the TV blaring, beckoning us all to come in. They spend a lot of time and energy talking fluently with everyone here who will listen, with plenty of thoughts to share with us. with an apparent burden to tell everyone in the great Brighton Dam Apartments, every thought they have about things, as though their lives depend upon getting their story out and told.
They all eat our food frequently, as if the girl and the mother cannot bear to have their old man left alone here for a moment, almost as if they feel they can't let go of the old man, without being a part of his every moment. One would think he's terminal. Maybe he is?
One might marvel about the fact that they're exhausting a fortune to keep the old man here, just like the rest of us are doing. But why they're spending their money on expensive family meals here daily is beyond my comprehension. And there's been no statement that I've heard, about the source of their expendable fortune. I have no idea what the old man did for a living. He's fiercely “American,” even to the extent of stuffing a small flag and pole down his shirt when he attends breakfast, but whatever their activities in the world at large have been, those things have not been a part of their continuous chatter at all, since they've been here.
Sometimes I think they're making an investment in the girl's future, keeping the old man here, because the girl's getting to be “a little long in the tooth” to be single and not have a beau. The idea is that they're all hanging out, hoping she'll land some rich guy, for the purpose of her future happiness, and solve her old maid problem. Not with me she won't.
For my dollar, I'd be going to school and working, to build a future for myself at the age of thirty-something, if the idea was at all feasible for the girl, instead of hanging out around here with all the disabled old folks, talking a mile a minute with the whole lot of us, wasting her time on her old man. At least at a school or a job, one could hope to find a future for one's self worth having. Here, pretty much all she can hope to find are people with a past, and a whole list of difficulties for a questionable future, at best.
But no, the old geezer is too sick to be playing games wasting his money trying to marry off his daughter at a senior living home like this place. He's here because he needs to be. His health is his problem. The girl is just a daddy's girl, investing her heart-felt devotion. She's probably worried sick about him.
Nonetheless, those two women need to go home and leave the old man to the pro's.

Chapter 15

The great Brighton Dam is nestled in a quiet country setting. The waters of an active river collect here. One approaches the dam coming down hill from either direction. It's beautiful here. The forest and hills surround the entire area, while the collective waters focus on a major city's water supply somewhere to the south of this lovely wooded area.
Then, there are the people here.
There's this woman here who wants to fight the Civil War all over again, summon her armies, and start pounding on people to get what she wants. She doesn't like some people, and she's very combative about it. She tried to get into it with me awhile back.
She's all into power and control.
There was the day my writing mentor here had just finished reading some of the chapters of my first book, and I saw her on the way into the dining room in the hallway one afternoon. I wanted to talk shop over lunch. So I edged my way through the crowd to her table, and sat down, as she maneuvered her electric wheelchair to the table.
The combative one came up to me menacingly, demanding her seat, and I didn't get up. I wanted to talk to my friend about my book over lunch. I've been told there's no such thing as a reserved seat here.
“That's my seat,” she said belligerently. “That's my seat, and if you don't get up and let me sit there, I'm going to have my son come in here and kick