Pat Ritter. Books

[patritter]

'Brilliant OMR Stories' - Page 32:

Man Hunt

In 1954 my family moved to live in Roma, a western town on the edge of the Darling Downs. We lived in a half-a-house, which now is commonly called a duplex.
At the time I was six years old and everything in my life was exciting. My parents worked and together with my sibling sisters we enjoyed our life.
I remember one night after my father returned home from his work, he spoke of a ‘man hunt’ in the town. This story suddenly took my interest.
I didn’t know what a ‘man hunt’ was only the fact my father held an empty large beer bottle in his right hand and proclaimed he would place the bottle beneath his pillow and sleep with it. If the man was to enter our small dwelling he would defend the family with the empty beer bottle.
Being a child of six years old, my mind took on all types of imagined scenes of a man breaking into my humble home, threatening our family, and good old dad standing up to him holding an empty beer bottle.
In those days I slept on a small single bed in my parent’s bedroom, in a corner near to the door. I couldn’t sleep for fear of being accosted by this man who was subject to the ‘man hunt’.
Obviously throughout the night I must have fallen asleep at some stage because in the morning I awoke with my father depositing the empty beer bottle into the trash can.
He’d heard on the local news the ‘man hunt’ was over and the police had apprehended the wanted man. I never found out why he was wanted by the police.
This memory has remained with me for the remainder of my life. I suppose when I think about the course of action my father did at the time, his intentions were to protect his family if the man entered our humble home.
Fear can put the wind up most of us at any one time or another. I know as a child of six years old, visions of being accosted by this man, certainly put the wind up me to feel fear. I didn’t know what the man would have done if he’d entered our home, or if my father would’ve accosted him with the empty beer bottle.
It was a relief to our family to learn the police had apprehended the man wanted for the ‘man hunt’ and Roma returned to a sleepy country town as it was known.
PLEASE CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/9221TO DISCOVER HOW I GOT MYSELF OUT OF DEPRESSION.

[patritter]

'Brilliant OMR Stories' - Page 33:

Que Sera Sera

My mother was a wonderful human being. I loved her dearly. She left us too early in our life to truly understand how gifted and loving individual she was.
I remember in my teens; for some unknown reason after I dated a girl, who I thought to be special; after three months for one reason or another, we broke up.
Each time I was heartbroken and honestly thought there was something wrong with me. My mother came to the rescue each time.
Her words still echo in my mind, ‘you’ll know when the right one comes along.’
Throughout my teenage years my mates meet and married their sweethearts, however, after a couple of years, they divorced. I suppose the words my mother told me were true, ‘I would know when the right one came along.’
A week before my twenty-third birthday my mother passed away. I grieved her loss. I don’t know if she was looking down from heaven to arrange a meeting with my future bride to be.
A friend introduced us and from the moment I saw her; my mother’s words rang in my ears, ‘you’ll know when the right one comes along.’
I don’t know if it was chemistry between us or my mother could see from heaven we should be together. She also said, ‘what will be – will be.’
Within ten months we married and were married for thirty-one years until her to cancer.
If it wasn’t enough to lose the love of my life; after a couple of years I was fortunate enough to find another person who came into my life. We have been together for seven years and love each day.
I wonder what my mother would say. Obviously ‘what will be - will be, the future’s not ours to see, Que sera sera, what will be – will be?’
PLEASE CLICK ONTO THIS LINK:http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/71550TO READ MORE STORIES I'VE WRITTEN AT POMONA WRITERS GROUP IN 2010.

[patritter]

'Brilliant OMR Stories' - Page 34:

If Ever I Saw Your
Face

A couple of years ago I went on a bus tour for a Christmas break. Instead of celebrating Christmas at home I decided to join people my age to celebrate it on tour.
A policy of the bus driver was, daily, instead of being seated next to the same person; you moved a seat to the rear of the bus and acquaint yourself with another passenger.
Whilst this new arrangement was suitable for some of the passengers; others didn’t enjoy the time spent with a stranger for the length of the day’s journey.
I, for one, didn’t enjoy my time with a female passenger who couldn’t help but inform me of her many trips around the world (at the last count she’d circumnavigated the globe fifty times).
To abstain from becoming frustrated with her stories of adventure and different cities she’d visited, she asked me ‘what did I do and where I lived’. This was my opportunity to explain my life in a nutshell.
At home we have ‘miniature horses’, I explained. She didn’t understand the expression, ‘miniature horses’. I went on to explain these unique horses grow to thirty-four inches in height; are a horse but smaller in size; similar shape and eats grass the same as a larger horse.
By her expression, I don’t think she believed my story and asked where we kept these horses. This was my opportunity to exploit her wise exploits of her global trips. Do one better, I thought.
‘We keep them in the house.’ I explained. ‘Each has their own small lounge chairs to sit in when they watch television. A sack is tied around their tales to catch any deposits which they may leave.’ I kept a straight face while explaining to her about her query.
Little did I realise other passengers in the bus were ears-dropping and looked around to where we were seated. This lady’s mouth opened and I continued to tell her they sat at the kitchen table when we have our meals.
By this stage many more of the passengers began to cock their ears to hear more information about these miniature horses. It was time to stop for a break.
‘If you don’t believe me, ask the driver. He’s been to my place and seen them.’ I informed her.
When we stopped I casually pulled the driver aside before this lady had time to speak with him and told him the story of the miniature horses.
By the time we returned to our seat, the lady leaned over to say, ‘I believe you. The driver backed up your story and told me you knit socks to put on their feet.’ I smiled and kept quite for the remainder of the journey.
If I ever see her face again it wouldn’t be too soon.
PLEASE CLICK ONTO THIS LINK:http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/120881TO READ MORE OF THESE STORIES WRITTEN BY ME AT POMONA WRITERS GROUP IN 2011.

[patritter]

'Brilliant OMR Stories' - Page 35:

A Square Peg

At the time we are born, we are given a life similar to a deck of cards. We’re not quite certain which card will benefit us or when. Let me share a story of my life to illustrate my analogy with a deck of cards.
I was born into a family in the late 1940’s. Three years after World War 11 ended. I’m a baby boomer. Life from day one was mixed with love and devotion shared among many relatives and my parents.
In those times, shortly after the war, life was tough for many families. My family first lived with my grandparents and eventually moved out to a housing commission estate in Zillmere. Unfortunately I can’t remember much of these times because of my young age.
When I was five years old my parents left the city to settle in a country town. There we remained for six years whilst I attended primary school.
Authority was strict in these times, not only delivered by parents, relatives, also by authoritative figures.
My deck of cards began to crumble at an early age. When I reflect on this time; I remember not being capable of speaking with either of my parents or close relatives without receiving their comments of me being ‘stupid’ or an ‘idiot’. From this moment I felt my life was a square peg trying to squeeze into a round hole.
Not knowing any difference between acting normal as a child, I continued to receive this verbal abuse from my parents and relatives. Actually, with this burden on my shoulders, I thought in all honesty I was an ‘idiot’ and in fact ‘stupid’ and knew no other way.
It was a time of my life when I lived in fear of doing the wrong thing and getting into trouble. Many a time I thought about ‘why’ I was this way and felt I must have been born with a defect for so many close relatives to think this of me.
It wasn’t until I turned forty years of age, I reflected upon my life thus far to discover I accomplished more than either of my parents and those close relatives who’d claimed I was an ‘idiot’ and ‘stupid’.
It was time to lash out and protect myself. I remember the moment as if it had recently occurred. My uncle, a close relative, commented how I’d achieved so much in life and wondered how because I was always ‘stupid’ and an ‘idiot’. I blasted back at him with such force he was lost for words.
From that moment onward I dispelled the cards I was dealt with as a child and now find I am a square peg in a square hole and enjoy the feeling of self-assurance and self-confidence it draws.
PLEASE CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/270499TO READ ALL OF THE STORIES 2012.

[patritter]

'Brilliant OMR Stories' - Page 36:

One Fine Day

The year 1960, a popular song blasted the airways - ‘One Fine Day’ sung by the Chiffons.
Christmas that year, our family visited relatives in Cunnamulla, a western town in south-west Queensland near the border of New South Wales. We stayed with my uncle and aunt. Cunnamulla around Christmas is over one hundred and twenty degrees the waterbag. It is so hot the bitumen melts on the road.
Flies a menace; this is why the ‘Australian Wave’ was invented by sweeping your hand across your face a thousand times a day to keep the little black monsters clear of your eyes.
I remember walking from my uncle’s home to the town centre, one fine day, being attached by these small flying creatures. My arms sore after trying to keep them at bay, however hard I tried, they kept buzzing around my head and face.
Playing in my mind was the song, ‘One Fine Day’. The melody kept playing over and over in my mind, until the words echoed from my mouth. I couldn’t open my mouth too wide because of the fly population. They hoped I’d open wider, enough to enter it. There is nothing worse than spitting dead flies from your mouth or even swallowing some which didn’t escape. I tried to ignore them as much as I could, listen to the melody in my head.
My cousin, John, whose parents owned a hotel, meet me in front of his parent’s hotel. We left the flies to their next target and escaped into the confines of an upstairs bedroom.
They were richer than my parents and had the latest record player, turn-table, which played vinyl records. John, that morning purchased the record ‘One Fine Day’ from the local record store.
Over and over we played the record turning the volume higher each time. The song indelible in our minds, it kept repeating over and over until each single word we knew by heart.
I’ll never forget the moment John’s mother entered the room to see us standing in front of the mirror, holding her hair brush in our hand singing along to the record. Instantly we stopped and replaced her hair brush and switched off the record.
The look in her eyes, together with the raised voice indicated we immediately leave the room and go outside and play with the flies.
Although it has been more than five decades ago since John and I played ‘One Fine Day’; this record and memories have stayed with me. It’s one of those life’s moments to treasure.
PLEASE CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/7688TO READ MY BOOK ABOUT ALCOHOLISM.

[patritter]

'Brilliant OMR Stories' - Page 37:

A Sea Story

Death is the final stage to our lives. I want to share a story about a wonderful woman, a dear friend, whose sudden death left a huge hole in our hearts.
Over the years our dear friend told us, ‘when I die, I don’t want a funeral. I’ve paid for a wake for my friends to enjoy and celebrate. I want my ashes shattered in the sea’.
Basically each time our dear friend repeated her wishes, we didn’t take any notice and thought it would never happen for years. Earlier this year she fell at home and broke her ankle.
Two days after her operation we visited our friend at the hospital and the operation was a success. We ed and joined in celebrations.
Two days later she never left the hospital. Complications arose from the operation and our friend passed away. To say it was a shock – would’ve been an understatement.
Without our friend, we felt sorrow and loss. She was with us – no more. Because she didn’t want a funeral, we found it difficult to say our final farewell and closure.
Six weeks after her death, we attended our friend’s wake. At ten o’clock in the morning we joined relatives, friends and acquaintances to board a ferry and rejoice her life.
Twenty-six mourners gathered on the vessel. Morning tea served and the skipper headed from the wharf. Slowly the vessel putted heading for open sea.
Fortunately it was a fine day with a cool breeze and the sun shining. You would almost think our friend had arranged the weather because of her request and wake.
Arriving at the desired spot, the skipper dropped anchor. No wind blew – it was calm and surreal. Words of grief spoken by a cousin about the life of our friend dug deep into our heart and soul. We missed her smiling face and especially her company.
Others spoke of our friend in their own way. We felt lost to witness her wish eventually came true. Ceremony of her ashes thrown to the winds of the sea; first floating, disappeared below the water; left us hollow inside.
Our friend was a member of a flower group. Each mourner chose a flower and cast it into the water in a flotilla of flowers in remembrance. This moment will never leave me.
Although our friend’s request was carried out to the letter, closure was difficult to feel. She continues to remain in our hearts and soul. May she rest in peace?
PLEASE CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/246166TO READ ABOUT DETECTIVE BUNDY QUICKSILVER.

[patritter]

'Brilliant OMR Stories' - Page 38'

What Took You So Long?

Imagination for a child of ten years old can at times be scary. I grew up in a country town where everyone knew one another and all children gathered and played on their neighbourhood corner without trouble.
Cricket in the late 50’s and 60’s; the order of the day using the rubbish bin as the stumps; an old bat, worn and seen better days with the bowler using a battered tennis ball which had seen more games than Rod Laver. We had no fear.
Sunday nights we’d gather at the gospel hall and listen to the preacher sing his sermon and scare the hell out of us young children with his blasphemy of words. If we committed a sin, we would go to the fires of hell, he told us. We believed him.
This was a good upbringing because we never feared anything, apart from the bogyman at night, if we didn’t go to bed when told by our parents. Peace and contentment ruled the world.
Looking back on these times I did feel fear – particularly loneliness and at times not knowing where my parents had gone. They regularly went to visit their friends and play cards. We didn’t have mobile telephones or the telephone in those times.
One particular Sunday night, nearing dark, I was home alone. I waited for my parents to arrive home so we could attend gospel. This particular night they didn’t arrive home to take me to gospel.
Images grew in my mind of my parents being taken by the devil because I’d done something wrong. A shape of a person dressed in a red coloured coat holding a huge fork, prodding my parents closer to the fires of hell sprung into my mind as an image.
Darkness grew over my home where each noise scared the hell out of me. Would they ever come home, kept repeating through my mind?
Our family didn’t have a motor vehicle, only pushbikes, one black and the other pink. My mother rode the pink one whilst my father rode the other.
Frightened to not seeing my parents again, I began to cry, tears running down my face like a torrent. Suddenly the front door opened and there standing together - my parents, my mother said, ‘are you ready for church?’
Between the sobs of seeing my parents again, I said, ‘what took you so long?’
PLEASE CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/5928TO READ MY MEMOIRS.