Oak Valley - Intro

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After literally hundreds upon hundreds of letters about putting the adventures of Oak Valley on my Blog – I’ve decided to do it anyway.

 

Disclaimer:

 

Oak Valley is a completely fictitious place.  The people in it were born and raised within the confines of my cramped and twisted brain.  They are not real.  Even if they seem exactly like someone you know or have known, trust me – it’s not them and it is not you.

The mention of businesses and establishments herein are not intended to be shown in a negative light, nor do they encroach upon any rights or trademarks.

Any nationalities, religious beliefs and or blah, blah, blah, blah, blah that should arise and or offend – well, there you are.

Shut off your computer and have some ice-cream.

All Oak Valley episodes, drawings, logos, and most everything in the gift shop are copyrighted and remain the intellectual property of Zobostic Corwin.    

Oak Valley will appear one or two episodes at a time.

Those of you showing up late will have to scroll along the menu until you locate the beginning or simply read it in reverse order. 

 

All-in-all it won’t make that much difference.  

 

 

 

 



Oak Valley Logo drawn by L. Burmann

 (Thanks - Good-buddy)

Oh Canada

Last night’s ice storm has turned our Willow branches into wind chimes.  With the slightest breeze it sounds like hundreds of hockey players walking across a tile floor. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack, and then you see a few of the more brittle ones shatter with pieces scattering in all directions like little teeth sliding across the rink.


 

The Crows

 

 

 

Preservatives maintained the loaf

throughout the week –

 

Causing a noticeable absence of bread

tossed to the driveway –

 

Resulting in Duct tape repairs

to the trash bags –

 

 

 

 



I in a sailboat

 

 

 

without any wind –

 

could navigate freely

from island to shore-

 

with nothing but starlight

to travel therein  –

 

couldn’t ask

for anything more.

 

 

 

 

           zc

 





To this day she's still waiting...

 

 

 

It had been a long-standing feud.

 

 

 

Last year

 

they had shot his father when he was

in town getting supplies.

 

 

 

 

 

The rumor was –

they had come back.

 

 

 

 

He knew right from wrong

but he also felt the deep pangs of revenge –

 

 

 

He knew what had to be done.

 

 

 

 

 

She would wait behind for him to return

 

 

 

 

 

 

for he had strapped on his gun
and was headed into town

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Due to a Freak Sewing Accident

 

For the majority of their young lives

 they were joined at the sleeve.

 

 

 

 



Last Request

As a writer I’d like a shot at writing my own obituary.  The obvious problem is that I would tend to blabber on and on about the various aspects of who I had been while on Earth, none of which would rivet anyone to their seat. Mostly my life’s been a snore fest. Just writing this much and I’m already losing interest.   I've never scaled a hot air balloon or walked barefoot through a department store.  I haven't yet run my toothbrush under a chocolate fountain and then brushed.  I have, with limited success, used a run-on sentence stepped out of the moment and hooked one to the left.  Like I said, not all that impressive.

The other part that I’d like a little creative control over is where on the page it is to go.  Being me – I’d want it above the fold and I’d like it to run for at least a week or two; none of this one day stuff just read by apartment hunters and folks at the Senior Center checking for old friends.

Now here’s the important part:  What’s to become of the actual obituary itself?  Does it follow the rest of the newspaper into some land-fill?  Is it used to start some hiker’s campfire, or end up in a grade school papier-mâché project?

I don’t see that as a very fitting end.

So here is my last request.  Scan my obit and have it be the final post on my blog.

To me – that would say it all.

The end.

 

 

On second thought…

 

The more I think about that paper-Mâché thing the more I like it.  My little obituary could become part of an entire class project; perhaps a life-size statue of me - Zobostic Corwin, maybe standing in the town square looking stately.   Better yet, sitting in front of a large paper-Mâché computer, a small brass plaque on the side of my fuzzy house slipper that says,

 

Left to Write

 

The little obit part of the newspaper would be used to form a small comma somewhere on the monitor.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes at 30,000 feet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Exercising Caution

 

 

 

 

 

I have no idea what this means.

 

 

 

"One of us has to push the button."

 

 

 



Things you can't hear from where you are.

 

 

The giant Bullfrogs

 

 

 

 

 

The Flies

 

 

 

 

 

 

Traffic from the Highway

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Plane Flying overhead

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wooden boards Creaking as I walk

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Mosquitoes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My cell phone back at the car

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Song Birds

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Breeze rustling through the reeds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

People talking

 

 

 

 

 

 

The loud buzzing of insects

 

 

 

 

 

 

A slightly distorted voice mail message reporting that I am not

feeling well and will be staying home today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Cough - cough."

 

 

 

 

 



Feather in the sand

 

 

 

 



"Cut the Green Wire."

 

 

 

 

The story of my life.

 

 

 

 

As Seen on the Nature Channel

 

Wild office workers gathered at the community coffee pot are suddenly stalked by a lone manager hungry for juicy corporate rungs.  The workers scatter; some diving behind partitions, while others run for their cubicles, quickly trying to look busy. 

As is always the case, the weakest and slowest of the herd is caught and taken down by the carnivorous manager.  The chastising is not for the squeamish.  When it is over and the manager has grown weary and quite proud of her deed, she puffs out her mane and struts back to her corner office.

The devastated worker whimpers.  Small rivulets of dignity ooze from the gaping wounds in her ego.  She struggles to carry the stacks of useless reports she must quickly compile, complete with color presentations and totally fabricated statistics.

The general demeanor of the office is now back to normal.  Only a low murmur of gossip remains and a faint, lingering aroma of burnt coffee.

 

This was a reenactment.  No actual employees were harmed.

 

and that is the report that will be filed.

 

 

 

 



The Staircase

Gravity kept the coffee in the cup.  It was doing its job.  It was keeping the flowers in the vase, the vase on the table and it was holding the table to the floor. 

 

Gravity knew exactly how much to move the dial when I stood on the bathroom scale.  It wasn’t necessarily a friendly or kind gravity but like I said, it was doing the only thing it knew to do.

 

As there was no suicide note left behind the police had to do their investigation.  They had to examine everything, ask their questions over and over again.  They all walked through the house with their clumsy shoes.  They didn’t care.  They were looking for somebody to blame.  

 

Gravity was holding me onto the kitchen chair as they asked their questions and even though I knew why she had done it and I had a good idea what she must have been thinking as she climbed the stairs, I couldn’t help but focus on the scuff marks the investigators were all leaving behind.

 

 

 

 

 

 



What is it ?

They discovered it while on vacation. 

 

 

It was large and quite intriguing.

 

 

“What is it Mom?”

 

 

“Yea, what’s it for?”

 

 

Their Mom tried explaining what it was and that they once could be found all over the country.

 

 

They sort of understood but still thought they should stand back just a little

and take a picture of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



(Photograph submitted by Brooke)

 

You won’t believe what happened next…

 

            It wasn’t the kind of wind that would tip your hat or send it bouncing down the walk.  It was more of a slow, gentle breeze; the kind to carry with it the aroma of freshly baked cookies and that is exactly what Sally noticed as she was making her way to church that Sunday morning.

 

            In fact, the scent was so welcoming that it drew her completely off course.  With her eyes closed she kept following the sweet, heavy goodness that she had discovered in the gentle air.  It all seemed so real, like the very air molecules had themselves turned into chocolate chips.  It was drawing her down an unfamiliar street, far from the ringing church bells that were now just some distant annoyance.

 

            The scent drew her across the street and up to a front yard where a squeaky iron gate announced her arrival.  Margret, the large Irish setter on the porch awoke only long enough to see that it wasn’t someone who was dressed to toss a ball or play in the lawn sprinkler, so she lay her head back onto her paws and once again went to sleep.

 

            Mr. Banks, on the other hand, the very large house cat who had been snoozing on the living room sofa, knew all too well that the squeaking gate was an intruder alert and he was now scrambling from window to window, bouncing off table tops and dashing across the fireplace mantle trying to see just who dare enter his yard.

 

            It was the sudden thunks and clunks of Mr. Banks that Rebecca heard.  She was working down in the basement, much too engrossed in her work to have heard the front gate, but the ruckus being made upstairs was unmistakable.  Rebecca set her beaker back into its holder and turned off the flame on the burner.  By the time she reached the living room Mr. Banks had already fluffed himself up to look as big and scary as he could and stood hissing at the front door.

 

            Rebecca reached down and picked him up under one arm and pulled the front door open with the other.  There, standing on her front porch next to Margret stood Sally.  She was smiling widely and although Mr. Banks was still squirming and making a fuss, Rebecca pushed open the screen door.  “May I help you?”

 

            Sally blinked up at the lady holding a cat under her arm and said,

“I smell cookies.”

 

 

 

End of Chapter 1

 

           

Statistics

 

As tabulated by: I.C. Whatt / Uve Riten

 

Out of everyone who views this blog, more than 93% will have discovered it by accident.

 

81% will briefly scan the first post and then leave the site.

 

62% will wander into some of the older posts just out of the curiosity generated by the title of the post.

 

2% will view and or read every post within this blog, although only ½ will retain 1/16^th of what they’ve read and that retention will dissipate shortly after their lunch.

 

One tenth of 1% will find what they are searching for.  They will be excited and feel true joy every time they read it.  They will return often and subliminally establish some emotional bond with Mr. Corwin.

 

And only you.  Yes, don’t look around, I’m talking to you.  Only you will research Zobostic Corwin to see if he is a real person, where he lives and if he prefers cabbage over taking the bus.

 

 

Personally – I neither like nor appreciate the silliness sprinkled throughout this incredible waste of time.  I just come here for the amazing background music.