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    Grandpa's Short Stories
    Grandpa's Short Stories
    Grandpa's Short Stories
    Ebook76 pages1 hour

    Grandpa's Short Stories

    By Norman Miller

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    About this ebook

    Ever wondered what it would be like to manage an apartment building? How about being a pro-wrestler? What if your house was suddenly surrounded by several feet of mud?

    The answers to these questions are in Norman Miller's collection of short stories.

    Norman's stories will have you laughing and crying. From his challenging of the Internal Revenue Service to the early boxing career of a champion, these stories will bring you to tears as you explore the zany world we live in through Grandpa Norm's eyes.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNorman Miller
    Release dateMar 13, 2012
    ISBN9781476306872
    Grandpa's Short Stories
    Author

    Norman Miller

    Norman Miller grew up in Alhambra, California in the 1940s, leading a band and working as a machinist. After advancing to tool and die work, marrying Peggy, serving three years in the U.S. Navy, he became twice a father. Having survived the destruction of his business by fire, he found himself in a comfortable home and in business again, still in California, until the winter of 1969 when a mudslide enveloping their home brought about a life-changing move.Norman and his family decided to sell the business, retire, and resettle in Bend, Oregon, a beautiful place they'd found on vacation the year before. There, Norman attended Central Oregon Community College to study writing, art, and photography and found that they were passions of his.In his time in Oregon, Norman wrote many non-fiction stories, painted many art pieces, took many photographs. On March 20, 2000, Grandpa Norm passed away, but left a legacy to inspire his children to create. Many stories, including the one you hold in your hand, were rejected by traditional publishers in the late 90's, but have since been revitalized and updated for your pleasure.

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      Book preview

      Grandpa's Short Stories - Norman Miller

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      by

      NORMAN MILLER

      Smashwords Edition

      ISBN: 978-1-476306-87-2

      Copyright © 2012 by Tyler Hanson

      Cover art, formatting and eBook conversion by Tyler Hanson

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      FOREWORD

      A Grand for a Main

      New Writers

      Are TV Commentators Omnipotent?

      Can I Help You, Son?

      Confrontation - IRS

      Fishin’ Impossible

      Gone with the Mud

      Norm and Peggy

      Sail Him Out to the Ticket Taker

      The Builder

      The Groom, Too, has a Father

      The Old Man with No Name

      Little Red Riding Hood

      So You Want to Manage an Apartment?

      FOREWORD

      My grandfather was a fighter. That's the first thing I think I remember about him. He was also a lover, a painter, an inventor, a fisherman, and a believer in Christ.

      The man was a large man, always had a beard, and had an infectious laugh that filled any room with a palatable joy. He was my own personal Santa Claus, and I loved spending numerous summers with him. He was my friend and I loved him and miss him. I really wanted him to see me graduate from high school, but with his deteriorating health, he went to be with the Lord three years before he could see that. I know he's fishing up in Heaven with his Daddy, Jesus. And I know he’s only fishing for trout.

      The Christmas he had passed away, my mom found a collection of hand-written and typed stories that were funny and personal and wrote us a letter that prefaced Grandpa Norm’s stories of her love, and Grandpa Norm's love - for all of us.

      I would be lying if I told you my Grandfather was a perfect man, but I will say that he lived every day of his life as if it were his last, and these stories reflect a golden-age sentiment that resembles such a simpler life. I pray that when you read these stories you can develop a picture of what kind of man my grandfather was - a fighter, a lover, a painter, an inventor, a fisherman, and a believer in Christ.

      God Bless You,

      Tyler Hanson

      A GRAND FOR A MAIN

      Pudgy Little Lou, dragging on an odorous cigar, followed O’Hara to the cellar locker room, his eyes coldly speculative.

      You certain you ain’t ever fought before, kid?

      O’Hara grinned, Yes, sir, I went two rounds just now, up in the stadium.

      Well, Little Lou said skeptically, You sure look like you’ve fought before. Here’s your hundred. Tell you what, kid. It’s wartime, ya’ know, and all the passable fighters are in the service. I have a helluva’ time raking up a good batch of dudes to put on a show every week. I’d like to see you take on the main event in two weeks if you can make it.

      O’Hara hesitated.

      Oh, Little Lou added, as though it weren’t important. Forgot to tell you, kid -- we pay a grand for a main.

      It hadn’t been long since Patrick Michael O’Hara, rugged flyweight champion of the Pacific Fleet first arrived. He was a born fighter -- sucked by the prize ring into its cradle of violence as a bitter raw recruit in San Diego boot-camp. The end of two weary years’ destroyer duty aboard the U.S.S. Parrott found him that Spring of 1943 in L.A. with thirty days’ leave just beginning. His first stop -- his first love.

      The Main Street Gym lay in the heart of skidrow in downtown Los Angeles. In front hung a faded black and white sign painted in stiff block letters; a long arrow pointed toward the entrance. O’Hara vaulted a flight of well-worn, carpetless stairs to the second floor where a monstrous being with grotesque cauliflowered ears rasped in a throaty voice, Dat’ll be two bits, buddy. O’Hara gave the being an extra quarter and stepped inside.

      Sparring matches were going on in each of three rings. All around stood stiff-backed folding chairs three-deep and from over-head stared narrow, dirty skylights no longer fulfilling their purpose. A smell of stale sweat hung in the air. O’Hara breathed deeply as though it were a tonic. Between the rings, fighters of all sizes waded through their daily rituals.

      O’Hara’s thoughts idled as he watched a clientele of ancient vintage train vigorously for bouts which would never come. One old fighter grabbed his arm... Wanna’ go a couple when the ring’s free, kid? I’m gonna’ fight again, he said confidently. Soon as I get in shape, I’m gonna’ fight again. Not waiting for an answer he turned to soak the air with a barrage of lefts and rights.

      O’Hara watched intently as the lonely fighter and others like him shadowboxed and flailed away with ineffectual pokes and jabs, emitting noisy explosions through blocked sinuses.

      And on this particular day, the locals were eager for Hammering Hank Armstrong -- the only man in the world to

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