Jumpin' Jeremiah Johnson

  A collection of 50 short stories has just been released. The collection is titled, My People, My Stories. They are written by yours truly, Byron Lehman. The stories reach over 30 of his writing career; from my first to my latest. 

I hope you purchase and enjoy.  Here are the links to the Kindle version and paperback.  

Jumpin' Jeremiah Johnson

Uncle Walt died. He was my favorite uncle. For that fact, he could have been everybody’s favorite uncle. He was kind, generous, and just plain good. I always hoped to be like him but never made the grade. So the drive back from Florida loomed seriously morose.

I visited him six months earlier. I could tell his health was failing but not his spirit. He always had the right words to say. “You can take the bitterest fruit and make a refreshing drink,” he told me once. “Look for the good in all people. It’s there. And the man who finds it has found a treasure.”

I decided to take the State Highways back home. They offer more, especially when you’re in no hurry and you want to reminisce.

I stayed in an out-of-the-way motel Saturday night. Sunday morning I crossed into Alabama. There’s nothing lonelier than an Alabama highway on Sunday morning.

I found a small restaurant open. The Sunday crowd had not yet arrived. The eggs, sausage, and potatoes were tasty and greasy.

Near 11:00 AM I spotted a church the size of a small school. On the sign at the driveway, it read, “Pastor Jumpin’ Jeremiah Johnson.”

“Could it be?” I mumbled.

I turned the car into the driveway and a well-dressed man waved me to an open parking space.

I started first grade with Jerry Johnson. When he was 10, he told everybody to start calling him by his given name, Jeremiah. It seems he was saved and the Lord spoke to him when it happened. He told him he was destined to be a preacher and his name would be Jeremiah.

Of course, we all wanted to believe, because that’s what fifth graders do.

Changes occurred in Jeremiah. He stopped sneaking smokes, peeking in the girls' locker room, and saying bad words. He was quick to condemn the rest of us. He soon became an outcast.

Jeremiah’s only acceptance was basketball. He was good. The best we had. He was only good by virtue of his god-given ability to jump, thus Jumpin’ Jeremiah Johnson.

This had to be his church. What a coincidence.

Like my Uncle Walt used to say, “That boy couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a handful of stones, but he could touch the top of the barn door without using a ladder.”

I was one of the last ones into the pews. Two older men tried to usher me to the front. No way, I dressed in jeans, a sports shirt, and sneakers.

After a long prayer by the associate pastor, a nasal dweeb in his mid-twenties. The choir sang a rousing rendition of The Old Rugged Cross and One Day At A Time, Sweet Jesus. The dweeb instructed the congregation to turn to song 104 in the hymnal, Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus.

After the song Jumpin’ Jeremiah Johnson stood before the congregation with nothing but a Bible and his bombastic self-righteousness between him and the gathered sinners.

It was him alright. Still looked in good shape. He had a lot more hair than I remember. It was black with streaks of gray and combed backward in waves. As he preached the hair flopped in his face and he would brush it back. Everyone leaned in on every word. Hallelujahs were like applause lines.

He preached folks in and out of hell with a twist of a phrase. He was clever, much more clever than I remembered.

During the sermon, I could not help but return to those glory years when we were the representatives of our school battling in athletic competition for the honor of our community.

Jeremiah was a member of the team but not a part of the team. To him, if Jesus was not a part of the conversation, it was not a worthwhile endeavor. It was a struggle to be around him.

He considered that Catholic schools we played a part of the Antichrist. A nearby school was known for the number of bars in such a small town. He called them all heathens. Unfortunately, that was all they needed to beat us by 20.

Although his condemnatory ranting and arcane theology did not satisfy my need, it was nostalgic for me in a sentimental way. Good memories rose like balloons at a party.

At the end of his sermon, he said, “I’m Jumpin’ Jeremiah Johnson and I’m gonna ring the Lord’s bell.

He stepped to a small bell hanging on the back wall. Underneath hung a rendering of Jesus on a cross.

“Eleven feet!” he said and jumped.

He was short by less than an inch.

“That’s only happened one other time,” he said. “It’s when I had a twisted ankle.”

He jumped again and missed by more than an inch.

“Third time’s a charm,” he smiled uncomfortably.

He missed again. He swallowed hard. His face turned red.

Despite any bitterness I had toward him, he was a teammate. I could not help but feel the burden of his humiliation.

I removed my sneakers and walked up the aisle toward Jeremiah. I held out the sneakers. “Nobody can jump in those shoes. Here, try these on.”

Jeremiah smiled. He grabbed the shoes and put them on. He jumped and rang the bell.

Everyone praised Jesus. There was a song and a prayer.

The church cleared empty, leaving Jeremiah and me. We stood in front of the altar.

“Thanks,” Jeremiah said.

“Nothing I wouldn’t do for an old teammate.”

“The Lord sent you to me today,” Jeremiah said.

Jeremiah destroyed the moment with his self-indulgent piety.

I twisted my head and gave him a disappointed half-grin. “You’re the one who couldn’t ring the Lord’s bell.”

I walked away.

Like Uncle Walt used to say, “Look for the good in all people. It’s there. And the man who finds it, has found a treasure.”

Just not today.

Shepherd's First Winter; Ben and Izzy Visit, Ep[isode 29

This is the twenty-ninth episode of the novel Shepherd's First Winter. It is available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle 

format. 

Ben And Izzy Visit

The day after the blizzard abated Ben and Izzy drove to the cabin on their snow machines.

Shepherd stood on the porch with Pal and Trap.

They cut their engines.

“Dad wanted us to check on you,” Ben said, climbing from his snow machine.

“I was safe,” Daniel said. “I thought of you guys too. How did you do.”

“We were fine,” Ben said.

“How is Trap doing?” Izzy said, petting Trap.

“As you can see, he’s doing well,” Shepherd said.

“Do you think he’ll stay with you?” Izzy said.

“No,” Shepherd said. “He’s restless and wants to roam. It’s his nature to be in the wild. Someday, he’ll leave. He’s waiting, either for the right time or the right excuse.”

“Is that how you are?” Ben said.

“That’s a surprising question,” Shepherd said, “but it’s a good one. I like it here.”

“Aren’t you afraid of Amarok?” Izzy said.

“Are you?” Shepherd said.

“No,” Izzy said.

“Why?” Shepherd said.

“I don’t really want to talk about Amarok,” Izzy said.

Shepherd turned to Ben. “What about you?”

“No,” Ben said. “I don’t want to talk about him either.”

“That’s okay with me,” Shepherd said. “I’m not afraid of Amarok either.”

“Don’t you ever want to go out on the town, chase women, get loaded, or just hang out with your rich friends?” Ben chided.

“No,” Shepherd said seriously. “I’ll never go back to that. It is a vain, empty life. You have it so much better here.”

“We watch movies and it looks fun and exciting,” Izzy said.

“Have you ever seen a movie about natives in Alaska?” Shepherd said.

“Sure,” Izzy said

“Is it really like that?” Shepherd said.

“They portray us as being slow and dull and uninformed,” Ben said.

“Believe me,” Shepherd said. “They are the slow, dull, and uninformed.”

The boys spent another hour at the cabin. Shepherd prepared a meal for them, and they sped away; disappearing into the stream bed. 

Short Story Collection Just Releasedl; "My People, My Stories"

  A collection of 50 short stories has just been released. The collection is titled, My People, My Stories. They are written by yours truly, Byron Lehman. The stories reach over 30 of his writing career; from my first to my latest. 

  They are based on the people I have encountered during my lifetime.  Some friends and others only observed from afar. Nevertheless, there is something about each story and character that moves the reader to think of those who have touched their life. 

  The tones of the stories range from humorous, to reflective, and at times tearful. During the writing process, I sometimes find myself snickering or giving way to tears.   

  I hope you purchase and enjoy.  Here are the links to the Kindle version and paperback.   

  Warmest regards,                                    

Byron Lehman

Shepherd's First Winter; Lonely Universe, Episode 28

This is the twenty-eighth episode of the novel Shepherd's First Winter. It is available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle 

format. 

Lonely Universe

The wind howled across the meadow like a pack of hungry wolves. Throughout the day and into the evening Shepherd listened to the radio drowning the evil sound. It was programming from Ft Worth or someplace; nothing relevant to the conditions outside the door.

In a light-hearted moment, Shepherd held a large wooden spoon to his mouth as if a microphone. “Well, the conditions in the valley are bad. Ahem, ahem, very bad. They’re still bad and we don’t know when they’ll be getting better, but they’ll stay bad until they get better. Well, that’s our live report.” Pensively he confessed. “It’s much harder than one thinks.”

“Well, let’s go to our man or dog on the street.” He walked over to Pal, bent down, and shoved the spoon in his face like a microphone. Pal licked it. “That’s your problem, Pal, you have no imagination. And Trap I’m not ever going to try to interview you. I can’t trust what will come out of your mouth. All those years hanging out with the pack being an alpha male, your speech is probably salty and unbridled. Some in our listening audience have sensitive ears and prudish ways.”

Shepherd rinsed the spoon at the kitchen sink by pouring water from the pitcher over it. “Sorry, Pal, some of the things you do with that tongue…”

Shepherd’s mood turned serious as he heard the canvas that covered the woodshed flap like a beating drum.

Shepherd cracked the door and looked over the meadow. “No man could survive this,” Shepherd mumbled. He quickly shut the door. He retrieved an old blanket from the loft and stuffed it at the bottom of the door.

“There’s only one thing we can do boys,” Shepherd said to Pal and Trap, “Feed the fire and ride ‘er out.”

The snow pelted against the cabin like miniature meteorites from angry Inuit gods protesting the arrival of a man who does not belong. “Goooo baaaaack,” the angry wind seemed to say.

For three days there was no letup. At times the wind abated for a few minutes and then a burst was unleashed fiercer than anything previous. Pal and Trap took comfort being close to Shepherd as if they knew their existence was dependent on him.

There exists a feeling as if marooned on a faraway planet light years from Earth and human contact. It is like being alone and the only inhabitant of a far-off galaxy forgotten by time. Within that little world called a cabin, time does not exist, nothing lies beyond the doors. Shepherd imagined and felt as if he was alone in the universe.

He thought of truth. All that existed beyond this cabin and wilderness was a lie. “Dogs don’t lie. With intellect comes deception. Anything that humans tamper with becomes a lie or a deliberate manipulation of nature.”

In time the coarseness and brutality of nature felt more like a shield from the world beyond.

Shepherd sat in his chair before the fire; on his right laid Pal and on his left was Trap. “We are safe here, boys, but I‘m afraid old Trap you will leave us when the time is right for you. You have been a good friend. If ever you are lonely, afraid, and hungry you‘ll know where to come.”