Squirrel Trap (eBook)

C.A. Lien (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
164 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-8236-7 (ISBN)

Infos

A retired deputy sheriff, shot in the line of duty, recounts how he used the lessons from his youth to overcome being the target of a corrupt government agency. The author demonstrates how positive thinking, and imagination can help conquer negative thoughts supplied by difficult situations.

The author is a first-time book writer and a long-time book enthusiast, that wanted to share his story with the world in hopes it would both entertain and teach them.

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This biography attempts to blend a real story with fictional characters, in hopes of entertaining and teaching the reader. The book is designed to have something for everyone, from a love story to good versus evil. The idea is to tell the authors life story in a way that provides the reader a method of relating to his experiences. The goal is to relate to those with similar situations and help those without to better understand their trials and tribulations. Exposing the difficulties in working for the corrupt elite, the desire was to create something that dared to be different and stand out from the crowd. It has also been kept relatively short in an effort to retain the readers interest and respect their time, but still promises to tug at your heart, making you both laugh and cry. Enjoy this wonderful, exciting journey from the joys of love, good food and family to the depths of political corruption and back.

Textauszug

Chapter 1
Childhood

The cold, hard steel pressing against the back of my head felt like a synopsis for my adult life. “Click” was the next sound I heard; the misfire stunned me. Despite my confused state, I realized that if it had discharged and I was still alive, I would have been left with the distinct taste of gunpowder residue. Instead of being relieved, I became agitated; my plan had succumbed to failure. This was my fifty-first birthday and the second time I survived a bullet intent on taking my life. The first had been twenty years earlier.

The previous year, for my fiftieth birthday, I was the proud recipient of front-row concert tickets—a gift from my girlfriend. I was set to see my favorite rock band in Las Vegas, Nevada. It was the perfect gift; ever since my first live concert, I have been addicted to the crowd’s radiant energy. Unfortunately, the COVID-19 pandemic had a different agenda, causing the show to be cancelled. The beginning of what were supposed to be my golden years were quickly becoming wooden ones, providing complimentary splinters.

Thankfully, my childhood was not such a disappointing period in my life. I was raised in the small city of Gresham, located in the great state of Oregon. This was the ideal environment to grow up in for three young adventurous boys like my two brothers and me. I was the middle child, which often felt like riding in the middle of a single cab truck with two other occupants. I would ask my mother, “Why did you stick me in the middle?” Though she, of course, had no reasonable answer to my childish question. She is of German descent and has a stern but kind disposition. She stands only five feet tall with brown hair and brown eyes. My father was of Norwegian descent, a tall, slender man with sharp blue eyes and blond hair. I have many of my mother’s traits, while my brothers’ appearances are more like that of my father.

My parents met in Huntington Beach, California, where they were married, purchased a home and had two boys, my older brother and myself. Just before my second birthday, they moved to Oregon to start a new life. My younger brother was born a year after the move. I was against having another sibling, but at the age of only five I wasn’t old enough to have a vote in that decision. My mother said he was planned, though I thought differently. By looking at him you could not tell, but I believed he was an accident. Though as it turned out, if he was an accident, he was a good one; he became my childhood scapegoat and, as an adult, my confidant.

The reason for my family’s move to Oregon was the loss of my father’s job as a machinist in California. My mother worked as an accountant, which made her job more mobile. With no support from their immediate family, they set out in search of stable employment in this new state. Oregon was an easy choice for my mother because her parents already resided here, and her career was more flexible. Despite our new proximity to my grandparents, we didn’t visit them much, unless it was for a holiday or one of my father’s hunting trips. I believe this was in part due to my parents’ attempts at protecting us from exposure to my grandparents’ codependent relationship with alcohol. The area offered cruel winters and many here turned to the vice of alcohol to help ease the effect of the cold.

Oregon could be at times a harsh place to live, but my parents loved being surrounded by nature. The constant rain and occasional snowstorms were what made this place so green and beautiful. For a young boy, snow was the best part of growing up here. In winter, building snow forts and having snowball fights became a part of my daily routine. I highly recommend a good snowball fight to get your blood pumping. A huge grin could always be found on any kid’s face as they launched a perfectly made snowball at their opponent. This was particularly true if the snowball’s target was their sibling.

My older brother’s snowballs educated me on the benefits of staying out of harm’s way. I may have constructed the best forts, but my brother made the hardest snowballs. His snowball constructing talents helped me discover that I was better off in a well-constructed fort. This motivated me to make quality snow forts. While he made his snowballs, I would claim the highest ground to build my fort. My snow fort would keep me warm and out of his line of fire until he ran out of ammunition.

The trick to winning a snowball fight, like any fight, was not the ammunition but the quality of your protection. However, this perspective on life; choosing to pursue security over risk, may not have served me well as an adult. I would come to understand that taking risks was a part of life and the only way to truly prosper. I fear that the regret of not experiencing more of life by taking chances may plague many people.

Travel

Oregon winter storms may have supplied a source of entertainment for a young boy, but they were not as enjoyable for adults. I had many rainy days off from school, running and jumping into mud puddles. But for my father, having a safe commute to work meant scraping the ice from the windshield of his old truck, then driving several treacherous roads to reach his place of employment.

My father was a proud blue-collar worker. After arriving in Oregon, he started work as a lumberjack before procuring a position in his previous trade as a machinist. He made parts for heavy mining equipment, and his clothes all smelled of fresh-cut steel. He often found enjoyment in explaining the difference between a blue-collar worker and a white-collar worker. He would say, “A white-collar worker is the one with the garage full of tools who lacks the ability to use them, and the blue-collar worker is the one who knows how to operate these tools but lacks the means to access them.” He would conclude his statement by saying, “The right tools in the wrong hands will lead to a less-than-desired outcome.” Maybe in these statements he was just trying to express his disdain toward his supervisors, though I never asked, so I guess I’ll never know.

Even with his difficult occupation, he somehow always strived to maintain a kind disposition with his boys. He enjoyed surprising us and in his lunch box, he would bring home a daily treat for us. This is something he learned from his mother; the joy of a tasty treat when he came home from school. The snack was usually some type of candy he had bought from the vending machine at work. I am sure he did this to see the smiles on our faces when we ran to retrieve what he had brought for us.

His three sons meant the world to my father. Whenever possible he would share with us nature’s wonders, we went fishing and hunting regularly. He took us as far as his income would allow, from the Sea Lion Caves and Redwood Forest on the coast, to the Multnomah Falls on the Columbia River. The Multnomah Falls recreational area was a short drive from our home in Gresham. The first time my father took me to the falls, with my boyish energy, all I could think about was climbing to the top. Witnessing the cascading water falling from this massive cliff was truly inspiring. Although I never made it to the top, just being in its presence made me respect the water’s incredible power.

California’s Redwood Forest was also a wakening experience for me. Life can adopt a new meaning that will latch onto your soul, when watching eagles soar overhead, while lying under a redwood tree that rises three hundred feet into the air. My father sharing trips to places like this provided me with a meaning to the word respect. These are places I will certainly never forget and memories that have stayed with me, guiding me through the difficult times in my life.

My father understood that these places had to be seen to be experienced. He knew that life’s lessons were best learned outside of a classroom. I was very thankful that he took the time to show us these natural wonders. Seeing them helped me to realize that they were not just meant to be appreciated for their physical beauty, but they were also there to inspire and humble us. I now believe boys specifically need to see and feel nature to help us calm our zealous frustrations and find inner peace.

Driving

Most local destinations in Oregon were accessed by vehicle but travel here required caution as the weather determined the road conditions. Car accidents were common on Oregon’s rain-slicked roads, and my father was no stranger to this phenomenon. Though most were not his fault, he was involved in many car accidents where vehicles met their demise. His demeanor changed while behind the wheel of a car; to him there was no justification for bad driving. For most people cars were a form of transportation, but for him they were a tool used to teach other drivers proper road etiquette.

A large cloth bag full of small rocks sat just behind my father’s driver’s seat. I would often witness him reaching behind his seat into this old cloth bag to procure one of these rocks. When he encountered what he considered to be a bad driver, he would throw the rock out of the driver’s side window toward the other vehicle. I would cringe when the rock left his hand, waiting to hear the ting sound as it bounced off the side of a passing car. His intention of getting the other driver’s attention often worked, although the lesson he was trying to teach was seldom ever successfully achieved.

My...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 12.12.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-8236-7 / 9798350982367