("You'll never be a man, George. You'll always be just a little boy.")

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Dated December 28, 2010/author: George Harold Fulks

(Kristal Vanessa, Jennifer Gail, and Tracy Denise were among several other children I loved, and dedicated to all of them is this composition)

That spry, peppy, and bouncy senior who's at entry to the super-center is somewhat like I- an incredible performer. He makes shopping at Walter Martin's a memorable experience. That man has somehow learned to sit and to balance himself atop his walking cane. Not only that! As he sits, he can juggle bowling pins, work two yo-yos and say "hello" to customers entering that retail store- all at the same time. I like and enjoy it.

More than rumor is that Martin's are worth billions. The newspapers, radios, store size and space, number of employees, and amount of merchandise all say it. I hear it!

Driving up and down three mountains from eleven miles East, this writer was there one day at Walter Martin's. What I was interested in that day were the three brands of computer monitors they carry in stock. On a shelf behind monitors were the "mice". On that same day not long ago, my chubby and bouncy neighbor and his teen-aged daughter happened to be in Walter Martin's at the same time as I.

After those two spotted me as they stretched and looked over the shelf separating computer monitors from where they were- in "mice", something unexpected occurred. Instead of "hello, neighbor," the two of them greeted me in perfect unison. Those sounds were within one of the highest of audible frequencies: "Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!"

That teen-aged girl had been expelled from school three times for "squeaking" that way. Somehow she had taught her father to squeak like that. The varsity football coach would also do that, and so do I. Her father never speaks to me. We both squeak like that. To be assumed and presumed is that squeaking like that is a contagious condition, and a psychiatrist or psychologist might also contact it. Neither of us have been evaluated; so far as I know. After that daddy and his daughter squeaked like that, I very cautiously exited computer monitors and "mice".

Desiring to end on good footing , I communicated to that neighbor and his daughter with a "hello-good to see you"!

Then making a rapid pathway to groceries this writer grabbed a frozen game hen and box of multi-wheat crackers.

Deciding to enter the speedy check-out lane, I'd done all the shopping needed that day at Walter Martin's. That lane is for ten items or less, and only one shopping cart was ahead of me there. It was a man and his mate. Oddly is that those two shoppers had a cart filled to capacity. As the man glanced back at my shopping cart and me, my frozen game hen and multi-wheat crackers, he pointed a finger in my direction. "Just bare with me now!" the man said.

For me, a statement such as that will cause panic- sometimes labeled a frenzy. His words placed this experienced bear handler on immediate alert.

"Sir," I said. "Did I hear you say there is a bear behind you? Those can be dangerous. I'd better try and locate it. I've had some experience in bear handling. I think I can get it out of this store. I spent a part of my life in and near The Great Okefenokee Swamp. Mr. Chesser taught me a few tricks on how to spook bear".

Then I abandoned my frozen game hen, multi-wheat crackers, and shopping cart. Hurrying to the sports section and locating a turkey-gobbler caller and tearing open its packing container, this writer began a bear hunt there in Walter Martin's that day.

Never spotting a bear that day at Walter's, it managed to keep just far enough ahead of me that I suspect the bear may have run out an open door and into the parking lot there at Walter Martin's. Pretty soon I gave up; satisfied that the bear was gone.

Anyway, that ended my shopping spree at Walter Martin's Super-Center for that day. Abandoning my frozen game hen and multi-wheat crackers, I made my way East eleven miles and found my favorite chair under a three-pronged maple.

Soon there came "Honey," my pet bee. First he lighted on my left hand. Then he flew to my right shirt pocket and to the left one. Crawling into that one and humming continuously, "Honey" remained there and reappeared less than a minute later. After that bee flew out of sight, this writer closed his eyes and dozed off into slumber where I had a dream.

Lovely and petite, young and sweet, Susan and I were seated on a table cloth within a Georgia forest. For our lunch were kool-aid, ginger-snaps, angel food cake with white frosting, banana and mayonnaise sandwiches and potato chips. When our lunch was finished, the two of us kissed and walked away into a part of the world we had not yet seen.

The End

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