Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Dear Editor Godfrey Logan

Please find several works for your consideration.

‘Zillion Bits of Light’ is a short bit of fiction.

‘Those Worry Free Years’ is a slice of a bitter-sweet time in my youth.

“Scott, you should not have stopped trying” was advice that eventually changed my life.

My writings come from having lived on three continents, meeting hundreds of people of all backgrounds. I have lived in Asia, Europe, and this country. At one time or another, I have parachuted, dived, rock climed and lived in wealth and homelessness.

Until recently, my writing has been confined to internal and public documents for the companies I worked for.

Now, I am able to write full time.

Should you find these pieces have merit, I have others from poetry to short stories.

Thank you for your consideration in this matter.


Scott Wyatt


Yesterday, I met a man who said he had talked with some Aliens. There was no need for me to ask any questions, because I was not a bit surprised.
I was born and grew up on a farm outside a small Midwest town. It was a youth filled with wonderful times and experiences. My favorite times were those warm summer nights when I would lie out on the back lawn looking up at those zillion bits of light. Those little specks and me have been friends ever since.
Even as a kid, I suspected things about those lights they didn’t teach in school.
I knew there were other kids out there, on those bits of light, lying on their backs, looking up at the zillion bits, same as me. Yep, I would have bet my best baseball card on that. Kids just know some things without being told.
Like many farming families, when I was old enough, I took over the farm. I married my childhood sweetheart and we had children. With the farming and raising a family, those memories of youth forever lost by time and other responsibilities However, as with many special things we discover in our youth, and later to forget or put aside, well, they just have a knack of coming around in ways we don’t expect. Mine came by way of my wife taking sick after children were grown and gone
During the last year of her life, after the supper dishes were cleaned and put away, we took to walking out the back door to the yard. She and I would lie down on that warm summer ground and hold hands as we talked about those zillion bits of light. In doing so, we recaptured those youthful memories which gave us strength to hold on during those terrible times.
I’m an old man now. Someone else is farming the land. With my wife gone and our kids busy with lives of their own, I have lots of time. I continued to go out and look at those zillion bits of light. Sometimes I forget or fall asleep in the in my easy chair... But whenever the weather is ok, from spring through fall, I go out and lie down in our spot and look up and wonder which light my wife is on, looking back at me.
Now, you know why I was not a bit surprised…


Yesterday morning while having coffee at the “Grind”, my friend and I got to talking about our youth. We agreed the years from 7 to 12 were the best. During that time we were neither children needing constant care, nor teenagers who were beginning to understand the world of good and bad. I know that there are many children during these years that do not have a happy childhood, however for me and others, those were the worry-free years of youth.
It was a time of impulse, a simple life – in which we seemed to run from one experience to the other. We measured everything by the minute, or hour; and anything beyond a day didn’t except. It was a gentle, warm time; we were safe and secure, our parents and authorities knew everything.
This part of my youth took place during the Mid-Sixties…that time of Make Love Not War. A message preached everywhere except Asia, where we were scarified our best and finest youth in a war not understood by anyone I have talked with since. When I grew up, I learned that that my parents and many other adults were as clueless as we kids but loved us enough to keep their ignorance and fears to themselves.
In most kids lives there are events, times, even friends that help define the more magical moments of those years. One such time for me was Beach Day which took begun on Tuesday about 9am. Our Uncle Kinney and Aunt Mariel would come to our rented house and pick up my sisters, mother and I for a day of sand and surf…and sunburns.
The sand and surf played a major part in the culture of the country at that time, regardless of whether you lived in the Midwest , down South, the North East or on one of the coasts. For many, the foremost influence was The Beach Boys-a West Coast band, whose message of sun, fun and freedom touched something deep inside most all of us. It was great if for no other reason than it gave us all a place to escape to, a place where everyone was athletic, tanned and free, as we hunted the world’s beaches for that perfect wave.
Those who embraced this message, mainly teenagers, were called “Surfers” and they became a click in the schools and colleges, adding to the Jocks, Bookworms, Socies, and malcontents and clueless. The ‘Surfer’ clothing was simple as their message; a white T-shirt, cutoff blue jeans and flip flops or sandals.
Whenever possible I would get into my surfer garb, walk around the neighborhood talking about the primo waves, hanging ten, waxing boards and the trips I would take when I got my Woodie Station Wagon.
With these thoughts in mind on those Tuesday’s at the beach, I lived the Surfer Dream. The fact that I used a cheap Styrofoam belly board-bought at the local drugstore, didn’t know how to surf and had no Surfer friends made no difference. They were times that I shall always look back on with satisfaction. It was one of my coming of age experiences when I began to see the beauty and innocence of life. I don’t remember when we stopped having those Tuesday beach trips.
I never became a Surfer, never got on a board in the mystical ocean where anything is possible. I missed living a life unfettered from standards imposed by others and didn’t get to that evening campfire on the beach, where the Surfers strummed their guitars, sang songs and kissed the pretty girls.
I have many memories of those and other times. I have since learned that most all of them are colored to some extent, not unlike the movie, “Wizard of Oz”. As you may remember the movie starts out in black and white, yet soon becomes a palate of color.
For many years I’ve heard ‘they’ proclaim that we cannot turn back the hands of time. But I wonder if by adding our own bit of color here and there, we could recapture a brief glimpse of those worry free years by seeing once again thru the eyes of our childhood...
Yesterday, as my friend and I shared coffee and our memories, I think that we both agreed that ‘they’ don’t really know everything…


A woman taught me; never give. Her last words to me were, “Scott, you should not have stopped trying.” [I can not reveal her name. Today, she is successful and well known.] This memory and others of our time together, I keep safe, deep inside of me, away for the shabbiness of everyday life. You see, for a little while, I lived a life given only to a few - a life of love. I have heard, “Lives can be turned upside down in a moment’s time”. I believe this. It happened to me…
I was invited to a dinner-dance. As I walked into the ballroom I saw her. Our eyes met. Instantly I was disorientated, breathless and felt a hot, not unpleasant sensation overtake me. It was love at first sight.
She was full figured, well portioned, possessing a beauty seen only on a Master’s canvas. Her wavy, light brown hair caressed a complexion, the color of fresh cream. With a gently turned up nose, full red lips, and eyes, the color of honey, she reminded me of a fairy princess’ picture, I saw long ago. She was wearing a blue and white gingham checkered blouse and flowing tan skirt. In my mind’s eye, behind her was a shimmering silver castle, lovingly outlined by a warm summer's eve painted from that abundant pallet of nature’s colors.
After dinner, we danced and talked like old friends. Later, we walked on the beach. Under a full moon we kissed with a fire, an awakening to intimacy that has never left me.
So many things I remember about her, about us. We held each other through the long nights and longer days, loving and resting, safe in each other’s arms. In such times we found a harmony, a symphony of the purest notes.
I loved ‘my princess’ with that, once in a lifetime passion that both fuels an endless desire and magically allows one to live a lifetime in but a few short moments. It was she who showed me the beauty of this world, the majesty of its people. Never before or since was I under such a spell. I was the Prince, she was the Enchantress.
Unlike many fairy tales, this one did not have a happy ending. In little under a year, we separated. Although I have not seen her for these twenty-eight years, I have followed her career with great interest. It comforts me, somehow, to know she found what she sought.
I wish I could claim that I took her advice to heart. I didn’t. It took many years to grow into that place where I accepted advice. These days, as challenges confront me, especially when tired, frustrated, when feeling that I can’t go on; from the gallery of my memories, I hear her last words…
”Scott, you should not have stopped trying!”

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...