Measure Twice Cut Once
Michael stood alone in the center of his grandfather’s garage, breathing in the soft scent of freshly cut wood and varnish. He should be here, Michael thought mournfully. He should be over there making a birdhouse, or over there tinkering with the old tractor. But he’s not. And he won’t be again. The funeral had been but hours before; the church had been packed with family, friends and loved ones. Gerald Williams had touched many lives in his eighty-nine years.
“I miss you Gramps,” Michael whispered, as he walked to the workbench along the back wall and ran his hand across the much worn surface. Bins, drawers, coffee cans and mason jars lined the wall, all filled with tools. Michael instinctively reached for the measuring tape. It felt cool in his hand. He flicked the tape in and out with his thumb, as memories of long ago swirled around him. Michael was certain he heard his Grandfather’s voice
“I miss you Gramps,” Michael whispered, as he walked to the workbench along the back wall and ran his hand across the much worn surface. Bins, drawers, coffee cans and mason jars lined the wall, all filled with tools. Michael instinctively reached for the measuring tape. It felt cool in his hand. He flicked the tape in and out with his thumb, as memories of long ago swirled around him. Michael was certain he heard his Grandfather’s voice
Gramp's Voice
“Measure twice; cut once Michael. It’s important in carpentry and in life. Take your time, be careful, be prepared, and always measure twice.”
“But that takes so long, Gramps.” Thirteen-year-old Michael had replied. “I could make two bird houses in the time it takes you to make one. I measured once that’s enough.”
“You can do things the fast way or you can slow down and do them the right way. The choice is yours, but so are the consequences.” Gramps proceeded to measure the piece of wood a second time.
“Thanks Gramps, but I don’t wanna spend all day making this bird house. It’ll be fine.”
“Your choice. But Michael, it’s not a race. Quality takes time.”
The memory of that day caused Michael to chuckle. “Oh Gramps. I was such a know-it-all back then. How’d you put up with me?” He remembered the birdhouse he had slapped together that day. It was anything but quality.
“Measure twice; cut once Michael. It’s important in carpentry and in life. Take your time, be careful, be prepared, and always measure twice.”
“But that takes so long, Gramps.” Thirteen-year-old Michael had replied. “I could make two bird houses in the time it takes you to make one. I measured once that’s enough.”
“You can do things the fast way or you can slow down and do them the right way. The choice is yours, but so are the consequences.” Gramps proceeded to measure the piece of wood a second time.
“Thanks Gramps, but I don’t wanna spend all day making this bird house. It’ll be fine.”
“Your choice. But Michael, it’s not a race. Quality takes time.”
The memory of that day caused Michael to chuckle. “Oh Gramps. I was such a know-it-all back then. How’d you put up with me?” He remembered the birdhouse he had slapped together that day. It was anything but quality.
He kept the Birdhouse
Something on the uppermost shelf above the bench caught his attention. “I can’t believe you kept it,” Michael exclaimed, as he pulled the dilapidated birdhouse down. It tilted this way and that, the roof was uneven, and the floor tipped. No self-respecting bird would make that house his home. But his grandfather had kept it all the same. Michael flipped it over and read the words his grandfather had burned onto the bottom. “Made by Michael--July 12th, 1993--my grandson.”
“Oh Gramps,” Michael sobbed as he collapsed onto the stool behind him and clutched the birdhouse to his chest.
“I’m so sorry Gramps. You tried to teach me, but I wouldn’t listen. I thought I knew everything, and that you were just a persnickety old man. I’ve messed up so bad Gramps. My life definitely isn’t quality. I barely measured once, and now I’m living with the consequences. I need you Gramps.”
Something on the uppermost shelf above the bench caught his attention. “I can’t believe you kept it,” Michael exclaimed, as he pulled the dilapidated birdhouse down. It tilted this way and that, the roof was uneven, and the floor tipped. No self-respecting bird would make that house his home. But his grandfather had kept it all the same. Michael flipped it over and read the words his grandfather had burned onto the bottom. “Made by Michael--July 12th, 1993--my grandson.”
“Oh Gramps,” Michael sobbed as he collapsed onto the stool behind him and clutched the birdhouse to his chest.
“I’m so sorry Gramps. You tried to teach me, but I wouldn’t listen. I thought I knew everything, and that you were just a persnickety old man. I’ve messed up so bad Gramps. My life definitely isn’t quality. I barely measured once, and now I’m living with the consequences. I need you Gramps.”
Gramp's Unfinished Masterwork
A gust of warm wind blew through the garage causing the loose sawdust to swirl and dance around a partially completed bird feeder at the end of the workbench—Michael’s grandfather’s final, unfinished, masterwork. Michael set his birdhouse on the floor next to the stool and walked to the end of the bench. His hands gently stroked the perfectly measured wood. It felt smooth, and cool. His grandfather’s hand-drawn plans were tacked to a pegboard on the wall. Without thinking, or hesitating, Michael shed his black suit jacket, and white dress shirt.
Michael studied the plans carefully as he tied the straps of his grandfather’s gray, work apron around his waist. The wood and tools needed were still laid out—as if awaiting the touch of the master craftsman. “Okay Gramps I can do this. You taught me. And believe it or not, I listened. Measure twice, cut once.” A new confidence flowed through Michael as he measured a piece of wood-twice.
A gust of warm wind blew through the garage causing the loose sawdust to swirl and dance around a partially completed bird feeder at the end of the workbench—Michael’s grandfather’s final, unfinished, masterwork. Michael set his birdhouse on the floor next to the stool and walked to the end of the bench. His hands gently stroked the perfectly measured wood. It felt smooth, and cool. His grandfather’s hand-drawn plans were tacked to a pegboard on the wall. Without thinking, or hesitating, Michael shed his black suit jacket, and white dress shirt.
Michael studied the plans carefully as he tied the straps of his grandfather’s gray, work apron around his waist. The wood and tools needed were still laid out—as if awaiting the touch of the master craftsman. “Okay Gramps I can do this. You taught me. And believe it or not, I listened. Measure twice, cut once.” A new confidence flowed through Michael as he measured a piece of wood-twice.
Thank-you Gramps
The first shadows of twilight crept across the garage floor as Michael, with sweat dripping from his brow, held the completed bird feeder in his hands. The roof was straight; the walls true; the base even; and the wood sanded smooth. Michael carefully carried it out of the darkening garage, and sat cross-legged in the thick, green grass, just as he’d done when he was that know-it-all, thirteen-year-old. The evening horizon was aflame; red exploded into orange, orange into yellow, and on into violet. Michael reveled in its magnificence.
“Thank you Gramps. I get it now,” A soft breeze caressed Michael’s face.
(The work shop and the bird houses are much like my late father-in-law's. He was a man who measured twice and cut once in all he did.)
The first shadows of twilight crept across the garage floor as Michael, with sweat dripping from his brow, held the completed bird feeder in his hands. The roof was straight; the walls true; the base even; and the wood sanded smooth. Michael carefully carried it out of the darkening garage, and sat cross-legged in the thick, green grass, just as he’d done when he was that know-it-all, thirteen-year-old. The evening horizon was aflame; red exploded into orange, orange into yellow, and on into violet. Michael reveled in its magnificence.
“Thank you Gramps. I get it now,” A soft breeze caressed Michael’s face.
(The work shop and the bird houses are much like my late father-in-law's. He was a man who measured twice and cut once in all he did.)
You're Not On Candid Camera
(The challenge word was "Thump")
THUMP. CLANG. CRASH. The sounds seemed to come from all directions: upstairs, the garage, and outside. What was happening? “Jenny, check on the girls.” Amanda shouted up the stairs, to her sixteen year old daughter. “I need to check on Dad.”
“Okay.”
Amanda’s bare feet slapped the hardwood floors as she raced to the garage door. Had he fallen off the ladder? Was he lying unconscious on the concrete floor? Or had he merely dropped a tool? That was more likely, just a dropped tool. “Michael, are you okay? Michael?” The garage was empty. The metal ladder lay on the floor, the attic door pushed open. But where was Michael?
“Mom. They’re gone.” Jenny raced through the door.
“They can’t be. Check the bathrooms and my bedroom. They have to be here somewhere.”
“I already did. They’re not here. I just found Rachel’s big doll on the floor.”
Amanda clutched the stair rail; her legs felt like jelly, her heart galloped—what was happening? Closing her eyes, she forced her racing brain to slow down. She needed to think. Michael was probably at the neighbors. But what about the girls?
Hide-and-seek…Of course.
“They’re playing.” Amanda barreled up the stairs and ran from one room to the other. “Ally-ally-outs-in-free.” She called over and over as she looked in every nook and cranny. Jenny’s voice chorused her mother’s, but no giggling voices answered.
“Mom…I’m really scared. What’s happening?” Jenny grasped her mother’s hand, tears coursed down her face, washing over an unwanted pimple.
“I…don’t know.” This wasn’t making sense. People didn’t disappear into thin air. Amanda expected someone to jump out at any moment with a sly grin on their face shouting, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.” Or whatever the newest prank your neighbor show was. But there was no camera, and no laughing host.
“Okay.” Amanda took a deep breath. “Listen to me Jenny. I need you to look outside for your dad, if he’s not there check with the neighbors. I need to call Becky and Leah’s mom. I don’t know what to say…but I have to call her. Okay?”
“Okay Mom.” Jenny brushed tears with both fists, then, with one quick glance at her mother ran out the gray metal door.
Amanda grabbed her cell phone from the kitchen counter, and with a trembling finger, pushed the number five. “Come on, come on. Answer.”
It went to voice mail. “I can’t come to the phone. Please leave a message.”
“Marcia…this is Amanda…I…uh.” Amanda took a deep breath. “Marcia, you need to call me right away. It’s about the girls.”
“MOM. Come quick.”
The purple phone fell from Amanda’s trembling fingers, landing on the kitchen mat with a soft thump. What now? Michael was dead. She knew it. Heart attack, or, stroke. Amanda followed her daughter’s frantic voice to the front walk, fearing the worst. “Please don’t let him be dead. Please.” She prayed to a god she didn’t believe in. Or did she? “What’s wrong?”
“Look.” Jenny stood frozen, her finger pointing, her eyes wide. “What happened?”
“Oh God, no.” Amanda’s hand flew to her mouth.
It was Bedlam.
Children’s abandoned bikes scattered the sidewalks. A red ball rolled across the street. Mangled, unmanned automobiles and motorcycles cluttered the road. Dazed and bleeding people crawled from the wreckage. A stunned father stood with a baseball bat in his hand; his son’s mitt lay on the ground. Confused cries echoed throughout the town.
“Mom ?” Jenny wailed.
“NO,” Amanda shrieked.
Michael had tried to tell them. He had prayed for them. But Amanda and Jenny refused to believe. Jenny had followed her mother’s example digging in her heels. They put their faith in the visible. And Jesus wasn’t visible.
Jenny fell into her mother’s arms, sobbing. Amanda clung to her daughter. “I’m so sorry Jenny, I’m so sorry. God NO. Not Jenny. Forgive her. Please.” This was all her fault. Not Jenny’s.“Forgive us please,” Amanda sobbed.
THUMP. CLANG. CRASH. The sounds seemed to come from all directions: upstairs, the garage, and outside. What was happening? “Jenny, check on the girls.” Amanda shouted up the stairs, to her sixteen year old daughter. “I need to check on Dad.”
“Okay.”
Amanda’s bare feet slapped the hardwood floors as she raced to the garage door. Had he fallen off the ladder? Was he lying unconscious on the concrete floor? Or had he merely dropped a tool? That was more likely, just a dropped tool. “Michael, are you okay? Michael?” The garage was empty. The metal ladder lay on the floor, the attic door pushed open. But where was Michael?
“Mom. They’re gone.” Jenny raced through the door.
“They can’t be. Check the bathrooms and my bedroom. They have to be here somewhere.”
“I already did. They’re not here. I just found Rachel’s big doll on the floor.”
Amanda clutched the stair rail; her legs felt like jelly, her heart galloped—what was happening? Closing her eyes, she forced her racing brain to slow down. She needed to think. Michael was probably at the neighbors. But what about the girls?
Hide-and-seek…Of course.
“They’re playing.” Amanda barreled up the stairs and ran from one room to the other. “Ally-ally-outs-in-free.” She called over and over as she looked in every nook and cranny. Jenny’s voice chorused her mother’s, but no giggling voices answered.
“Mom…I’m really scared. What’s happening?” Jenny grasped her mother’s hand, tears coursed down her face, washing over an unwanted pimple.
“I…don’t know.” This wasn’t making sense. People didn’t disappear into thin air. Amanda expected someone to jump out at any moment with a sly grin on their face shouting, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.” Or whatever the newest prank your neighbor show was. But there was no camera, and no laughing host.
“Okay.” Amanda took a deep breath. “Listen to me Jenny. I need you to look outside for your dad, if he’s not there check with the neighbors. I need to call Becky and Leah’s mom. I don’t know what to say…but I have to call her. Okay?”
“Okay Mom.” Jenny brushed tears with both fists, then, with one quick glance at her mother ran out the gray metal door.
Amanda grabbed her cell phone from the kitchen counter, and with a trembling finger, pushed the number five. “Come on, come on. Answer.”
It went to voice mail. “I can’t come to the phone. Please leave a message.”
“Marcia…this is Amanda…I…uh.” Amanda took a deep breath. “Marcia, you need to call me right away. It’s about the girls.”
“MOM. Come quick.”
The purple phone fell from Amanda’s trembling fingers, landing on the kitchen mat with a soft thump. What now? Michael was dead. She knew it. Heart attack, or, stroke. Amanda followed her daughter’s frantic voice to the front walk, fearing the worst. “Please don’t let him be dead. Please.” She prayed to a god she didn’t believe in. Or did she? “What’s wrong?”
“Look.” Jenny stood frozen, her finger pointing, her eyes wide. “What happened?”
“Oh God, no.” Amanda’s hand flew to her mouth.
It was Bedlam.
Children’s abandoned bikes scattered the sidewalks. A red ball rolled across the street. Mangled, unmanned automobiles and motorcycles cluttered the road. Dazed and bleeding people crawled from the wreckage. A stunned father stood with a baseball bat in his hand; his son’s mitt lay on the ground. Confused cries echoed throughout the town.
“Mom ?” Jenny wailed.
“NO,” Amanda shrieked.
Michael had tried to tell them. He had prayed for them. But Amanda and Jenny refused to believe. Jenny had followed her mother’s example digging in her heels. They put their faith in the visible. And Jesus wasn’t visible.
Jenny fell into her mother’s arms, sobbing. Amanda clung to her daughter. “I’m so sorry Jenny, I’m so sorry. God NO. Not Jenny. Forgive her. Please.” This was all her fault. Not Jenny’s.“Forgive us please,” Amanda sobbed.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Thump--Amanda’s eyes popped open.
“Sorry Mandy. Dropped my shoe, go back to sleep.” Michael kissed Amanda’s forehead.
“Michael. You’re still here?”
“Where else would I be?”
“Oh God, thank-you.” Amanda grabbed Michael's hand. “Michael I believe. Thank-you Jesus, I believe. I need to talk to Jenny. Now. Then we’re all going to church.”
Michael fell to his knees. “Thank-you Lord.”
“Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding with a hand mill; one will be taken and the other left. “Therefore keep watch, because you do not know on what day your Lord will come.” Matt. 24:40-42
God Bless
Sandy Wells
Thump--Amanda’s eyes popped open.
“Sorry Mandy. Dropped my shoe, go back to sleep.” Michael kissed Amanda’s forehead.
“Michael. You’re still here?”
“Where else would I be?”
“Oh God, thank-you.” Amanda grabbed Michael's hand. “Michael I believe. Thank-you Jesus, I believe. I need to talk to Jenny. Now. Then we’re all going to church.”
Michael fell to his knees. “Thank-you Lord.”
“Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding with a hand mill; one will be taken and the other left. “Therefore keep watch, because you do not know on what day your Lord will come.” Matt. 24:40-42
God Bless
Sandy Wells
In The Nick Of Time
(The challenge word was "Time")
Detective Ralph Stone’s, six foot two, burly frame, dwarfed the narrow hospital bed. His normally sharp mind now fought to digest all that had happened, in such a short time. They couldn’t be right. There had to be a mistake. But his gut told him different. He was, in fact, dying.
Colon cancer they said. Inoperable. Comfort care. Maybe a week left. The words bounced around in Ralph’s jumbled brain. “If only you’d come in earlier,” the doctors had said. But he hadn’t. He’d been too busy burying his wife of thirty-five years, and trying to relearn life without her to worry about himself. Time enough later, he’d argued to himself. But time stands still for no man.
Detective Ralph Stone’s, six foot two, burly frame, dwarfed the narrow hospital bed. His normally sharp mind now fought to digest all that had happened, in such a short time. They couldn’t be right. There had to be a mistake. But his gut told him different. He was, in fact, dying.
Colon cancer they said. Inoperable. Comfort care. Maybe a week left. The words bounced around in Ralph’s jumbled brain. “If only you’d come in earlier,” the doctors had said. But he hadn’t. He’d been too busy burying his wife of thirty-five years, and trying to relearn life without her to worry about himself. Time enough later, he’d argued to himself. But time stands still for no man.
Ralph had always been a no nonsense kind of guy, which made him a great detective. He was intimidated by no man, but fought tirelessly for the victims. And, his arrest record exceeded most on the squad. He however had one regret. Pete Grimes.
Ralph knew Grimes inside and out. He knew everyone of his victim’s names, and their faces were engraved in his brain for all time. Grimes had taunted the entire department, but none more so than Ralph. It had become his obscene joke; leaving messages at crimes scenes. Even leaving a recording of his voice mocking, laughing and tormenting the Detective. Ralph swore he would one day see justice done. But time, it appeared, had run out.
“Lord, you’ve given me a good life and allowed me to do so much for so many hurting souls. But Lord, I just can’t get past Grimes. You know what he did. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, but if he is, I pray that justice be served. He has to pay for what he did Lord, whether in this life, or the next.” Ralph prayed, before sleep enveloped his body.
Ralph knew Grimes inside and out. He knew everyone of his victim’s names, and their faces were engraved in his brain for all time. Grimes had taunted the entire department, but none more so than Ralph. It had become his obscene joke; leaving messages at crimes scenes. Even leaving a recording of his voice mocking, laughing and tormenting the Detective. Ralph swore he would one day see justice done. But time, it appeared, had run out.
“Lord, you’ve given me a good life and allowed me to do so much for so many hurting souls. But Lord, I just can’t get past Grimes. You know what he did. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, but if he is, I pray that justice be served. He has to pay for what he did Lord, whether in this life, or the next.” Ralph prayed, before sleep enveloped his body.
His eyes hadn’t yet opened to the new morning, but a smile crossed Ralph’s face all the same. “It better be black, partner.”
“Still got the nose of a blood hound partner. Would I bring your coffee any other way?” John Morrow chuckled. “You’d have my head if I did. Hey, looks like you got a roommate last night.”
“Great. Probably snores.” Ralph grumbled, as he pressed the button to raise his head. “What’d ya’ doin’ here so early?”
“Not sure,” John answered. “Just got off my shift, and felt I needed to come here for some reason. Who was I to argue? So, here I am. Anything going on I should know about?” John tried to keep his voice light, but it wasn’t working.
“Don’t worry partner, I ain’t dead yet. Not goin’ on an empty stomach, or without my coffee.”
“Still got the nose of a blood hound partner. Would I bring your coffee any other way?” John Morrow chuckled. “You’d have my head if I did. Hey, looks like you got a roommate last night.”
“Great. Probably snores.” Ralph grumbled, as he pressed the button to raise his head. “What’d ya’ doin’ here so early?”
“Not sure,” John answered. “Just got off my shift, and felt I needed to come here for some reason. Who was I to argue? So, here I am. Anything going on I should know about?” John tried to keep his voice light, but it wasn’t working.
“Don’t worry partner, I ain’t dead yet. Not goin’ on an empty stomach, or without my coffee.”
“Nurse. Nurse. Where in the blazes is everyone? Nurse.” Ralph’s new roommate bellowed.
Ralph’s heart raced like a run-a-way stallion, his hands turned to ice, chills coursed down his spine. That voice. It couldn’t be. Yet he’d stake his life, regardless how short it was, on what he knew to be true.
“Got your handcuffs on ya’?” Ralph asked, as he fumbled frantically to loose himself from the sheets, and push the bed tray away.
“Yeah.” John jumped to his feet to assist his partner. “What’s up?”
“It’s him John. It’s Grimes.” Ralph’s voice was hushed. “I’ll never forget that voice. Quick, help me out of this danged bed.” Ralph was never so glad he was wearing his own pajamas, and not the flapping in the breeze gowns the hospital offered. He needed all his dignity at this crucial moment.
“You sure?” John asked, helping Ralph to his feet, and grabbing the IV pole.
“As sure as I’m dyin’.”
Ralph stood straight and tall, despite the pain. He forced his feet to walk steady, and his wobbly legs to remain erect. A thin curtain was all that separated him from his tormentor, and his hand grabbed that curtain with a renewed vigor.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
With one swift jerk, the curtain flew back. The two men, after a lifetime, were now face to face. Ralph grinned, as recognition and panic flashed across Grimes’ ashen mug.
“Peter Grimes.” Ralph’s voice was strong. “You are under arrest for the murders of: Betty Roland, Nancy Walker, Elizabeth Rogers, Ethel Woodstock, and Sharon Hanley. Cuff `im, John.”
Ralph sat down on the edge of his bed. “Just in the nick of time Lord.” He sighed contentedly, closing his eyes for the last time.
Ralph’s heart raced like a run-a-way stallion, his hands turned to ice, chills coursed down his spine. That voice. It couldn’t be. Yet he’d stake his life, regardless how short it was, on what he knew to be true.
“Got your handcuffs on ya’?” Ralph asked, as he fumbled frantically to loose himself from the sheets, and push the bed tray away.
“Yeah.” John jumped to his feet to assist his partner. “What’s up?”
“It’s him John. It’s Grimes.” Ralph’s voice was hushed. “I’ll never forget that voice. Quick, help me out of this danged bed.” Ralph was never so glad he was wearing his own pajamas, and not the flapping in the breeze gowns the hospital offered. He needed all his dignity at this crucial moment.
“You sure?” John asked, helping Ralph to his feet, and grabbing the IV pole.
“As sure as I’m dyin’.”
Ralph stood straight and tall, despite the pain. He forced his feet to walk steady, and his wobbly legs to remain erect. A thin curtain was all that separated him from his tormentor, and his hand grabbed that curtain with a renewed vigor.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
With one swift jerk, the curtain flew back. The two men, after a lifetime, were now face to face. Ralph grinned, as recognition and panic flashed across Grimes’ ashen mug.
“Peter Grimes.” Ralph’s voice was strong. “You are under arrest for the murders of: Betty Roland, Nancy Walker, Elizabeth Rogers, Ethel Woodstock, and Sharon Hanley. Cuff `im, John.”
Ralph sat down on the edge of his bed. “Just in the nick of time Lord.” He sighed contentedly, closing his eyes for the last time.
