The Lemon Aid Network Linked to WordPress

I own two or three domains. I am a non-profit company with an IRS EIN. I have now linked my WordPress blog to my domain at https://www.thelemonaidnetwork.com which is an educational/entertainment network featuring new, emerging talents.

My primary and oldest Internet domain is https://www.popspedster.net where I publish materials for the community with developmental disabilities.

I have accounts on these social networking sites –

YouTube – The Lemon Aid Network – YouTube

and – James Kemp – YouTube

Facebook – The Lemon Aid Network | Facebook

Vimeo – Vimeo

Patreon – The Lemon Aid Network is creating independent video content | Patreon

Teachers Pay Teachers – An Introduction to Developmentally Appropriate Instruction for Transition-ages (teacherspayteachers.com)

Linkedin – (17) LinkedIn

Ebay – popsp_9233 on eBay

Instagram – Instagram

Wistia – The Lemon Aid Network – dzinor (wistia.com)

Pinterest – https://www.pinterest.com/dzinor0580/?invite_code=6e2fefb84bc94218bb6b96d43356fc35&sender=342625621559524697

Log into one and check it out.

My business is registered with the Oregon Secretary of State at – Business Registry Business Name Search (state.or.us)

Thanks,

Jim Kemp

PS – I guess I pay for two email accounts on WordPress. I have never received or sent messages from either address,

Made Known – Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – Interrupted Dreams

 

It was the third second after Fizz Jergins had threatened Roy

Parker with a cold walk in a cow pasture, that Jergins realized there was

another vehicle parked in his line of travel; that the road surface was too

slippery; that sudden braking would cause a skid – perhaps into the ditch

or across the road and into a telephone pole; and that his striking the rear

of the hearse from the Butts Mortuary was as certain as the sun’s rising in

the east.

 

The metallic noises began in the fifth second when the hearse was

propelled down the road. If the palpitations of the human hearts present at

this scene, could have equaled the noise level of the metal being impacted,

the palpitations might have been heard all the way back to Black Hawk.

However, these noises were muted by piles of snow. Bothvehicles were

on slippery surfaces and the resistance between the two metal objects was

not as great as resistance between two stationary objects.

  

But the resistance was force enough to move the hearse about 75

feet down the road from its parked position. It was enough to force

the right fender of the pickup to contract within itself as an accordion will exhale

its last note.

 

It was enough to force the tailgate of the hearse to cave inside the cargo

area, to break the rear glass and to force the roof panel slightly upward.

The force of the impact was enough to move the copper colored casket which

contained the body of Dr. Phillip Olny against the back of the driver’s seat.

 

The force was certainly enough to arouse the driver of the hearse

from an intense daydream about trials and hangings and murders.

 

From within the cab of the pickup, the sound of wind outside became

the only sound to be heard for the seconds before the voices of its human

occupants split the sound track into two tracks.

 

“You O.K.?” 

 

“Yeah. Wait? Where’s my hand? My hand’s cut off. Where’s my fuckin’

hand?”

 

“Inside your sleeve, asshole.”

 

“Aprerl fools. What the hell was he doin’ there in the middle of

the road anyways? He coulda picked a better place to jerk off. “

 

“I spose that piece of shit he drives finely broke down. Look. He’s

got a casket in the back. Hope it’s empty.”

 

“Spose we better git out an’ see if he’s alright?”

 

“’Spect so. Kin you git yer door open, Roy?”

 

“Nope. I’ll half to git out on yer side.”

 

Roy Parker moved to the left side of the cab, and squeezed against

Fizz Jergins’ right hip. This caused Jergin’s to rip his own Stetson from

his head and to use it to playfully slap Roy’s left ear.

 

“Fuckin’ faggot!”

 

Then, both men dismounted from the pickup and sidled down the

road toward the disabled hearse. The Dreamer still sat motionless inside

 the disabled hearse as if he had not been affected by any of this. The two men

motioned to the undertaker to roll down his window.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Made Known – Chapter 3

Two Dream Catchers

“Goin’ to the auction when we get back to town?” Roy Parker

sprawled his lengthy frame against the floorboard of his friend’s new Ford pickup.

“Not goin’ to be any auction for a time, ijit. Maybe when everything gets settled and all,” said Fizz Jergins as he drew smoke from his unfiltered Camel.

“I hear Doc has a real big set of rare tools – stuff you can’t

even get anymore. I think I seen that in the sale bill’s been kickin’ around for a few days now. Said somethin’ ’bout tools. I think Doc was plannin’ to retire or somethin’ and jest move outa Black Hawk. Got tired of that big ol’ house or some such shit,” answered Roy as he drew smoke from his Marlborough regular.

Fizz Jergins reached for the track button on his new eight-track cassette player and flipped the sides of the Charlie Rich tape that had been providing the background music for this conversation.

Like the undertaker’s hearse, Jergin’s new pickup is headed south on the blacktop highway that runs to and from Black Hawk, Illinois.

“Guess it doan matter none.” Roy said. “Doc’ll do what Doc’ll do. What’s that letter you got there in your shirt pocket?”

“Some kinda ad.”

“Who from?”

“Beats the hell outa me. I ain’t even looked at it.” With this, Fizz flips the power window switch on the driver’s side door panel, pulls the envelope from his coat pocket and releases it into the rush of cold air that came rushing into the truck cab.

“Guess we’ll never know.”

“It’s just a fuckin’ advertisement. Doan get your bowels in an uproar.”

“Did it have any personal junk on it?”

“I doan have any fuckin’ idea. Ya want me to fuckin’ turn around and go get it?”

“Naw. If it was just addressed to “Box Holder”, it won’t matter.”

The driver’s side window popped shut. The two men rode in silence for a quarter of a mile.

“Was it?”

“Was it WHAT!”

“Was it just addressed to Box Holder’?”

“Fuck, man. I doan know. I didn’t even look at it. Shit. Do you want me to turn around and go back and get it? If I do, it’ll be your ass freezin’ out there while you chase a piece of paper around some cow pasture.”

As these two men talk, the pickup truck they are riding in roams

from side to side of the blacktop road. This blacktop road has never been

marked into lanes although it is understood that there are lanes whenever more than one vehicle is using the same stretch of the road.

The driver of the truck owns the pool hall and the woman who

lives above the pool hall. Now, he is dodging the puddles of ice and

drifting snow which have built up along either side of the road. His

passenger is Roy Parker this time, but it could have been any of the

cronies who regularly hide from their wives at the Jergins Pool Emporium

where they can buy the only illegal alcoholic drinks being sold in this “dry” township.

As two men are busy talking, the sounds of their voices cannot

be heard outside the cab of the truck where the noise of the truck’s engine and the bitter cold wind muffles the sounds from inside.

But the men are not aware that these sounds, all of them, are about

to coalesce into more metallic sounds of metal striking metal and

exploding into the sounds of squeals and screeches and thuds.

Unfortunately, at this particular moment, Fizz Jergins’ pickup truck is speeding up an incline in the road and the crown of that incline obscures any parked obstacle on the other side of the incline. The pickup is traveling at a relatively high rate of speed for the icy road conditions. Directly on the other side of the crown of the incline is parked the disabled hearse from the Butts Mortuary with its left rear quarter panel parked half onto the icy road surface.

Made Known – Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – ESCAPE IN RED WEATHER

Lester Almond directed his funeral hearse to the single, snow-covered road that led from Black Hawk to the state highway, 8 miles down that road. At the intersection with the state highway, a sign reads “Peoria” and “Monmouth”. Two arrows point in opposite directions with the Peoria sign pointing to the East.

With the body of his old friend in the coffin behind him, Lester’s plan was to visit a friend’s mortuary in Peoria where his friend would do the preparation of the doctor that Lester could not make himself do.

But Lester did not drive very far down that 8 mile snow-packed road until his hearse came to a noisy stop.

Lester thought to himself – 

you would not believe me if I told you that first there was the noise -air filled with mechanical rhythms – with metal sounds scraping other-metal sounds so that my brain was filled with the loud discord of steel being ground to filings and every manner in which I attempted to affect the machinery was met with dumb resistance – not even resistance but the complete absence of response as if all of the devices designed to project my will upon the machinery would not react, and it was with the utter sense of helplessness that I jiggled that I pumped that I steered without response from the will-filled tools about me and thus my purpose was already defeated then and I guided the mechanical beastie to the side of the road where I discerned that all its workings had been killed as I sit here still knowing that he is behind and they are all still behind me and our chase is nearly over before it even became a chase at all and that only moments earlier I had arisen early and had taken only those things which I knew I would need to do those things which I had planned to escape with him alone and had placed his box in the back of the hearse while the streets were Iit only by the incandescents and I drove off down this insular road to civilization to the highway beyond which leads to the world outside but never getting to my newly planned life out there where I would leave him to be buried properly and I might go on to effect the things I had planned and return to the town later and at night while all slept with their doors unlocked and thus to cheat them of their grief over not being able to see him at last exposed to them and as vulnerable as they would have wanted him to be so that I could then go about my plot of plots while they cast lots for his material wealth but now I sit here beside this road with the end so close to the beginning and none of it done and with this vehicle with him behind me here will not carry us away with the sun already up and to be certain certain ones of them have already discovered us missing from the flock and some demon shepherd will climb into his pickup truck with the gun racked in the rear window and will drive here to where we are and will catch us seated by the side of this road which has led us to no good place and he will drag us back into the town which is no town while the vast whiteness of this noplace in winter drops away in flatness at the horizon thus proving that the earth is a cubed place although they still think it is a flat place in December fields this sea of ice with crystals flowing like waves in the wind and with the snow waves rolling in about me on this stranded rocky place called a road in this frigidness like all Frigidaires do you suppose that’s where General motors got that name – like all the cold I feel now without him and which he must feel for all time now as we sit here and wait for some rube to come by where barbed wire separates that which belongs to one from that which belongs to some other and from the waves which belongs -yes ~ which I think belong to God from the wavelessness which these men have given to this place – yes God I said God and I grant that these waves are yours even if the barbed wire is not and even if they would have me believe that the land is not – is not God’s – but really belongs to those who wore red skins and were the first to suffer from its defiance of the human will and were the first to see that the land willed to grow whatever it would they’ll ply me with firewater like they did the Indians I suppose and take me to some dank Place in that noplace and try to extract a confession from me and get me to admit to that which I planned both in the letter and out of it here and they will treat me affably to spirits until they find that I will not to confess and then their ire will be so raised they will sit we up and display we two as they would lift behind me and display to all the rest of them they will likely sense the loathing that I feel for them all and have always felt for their little minds and I still will not to confess and thereby they will not know of my plans to murder them all as they sleep and systematically disassemble their torsos after stealing into their chambers and strangling them in their sleep or maybe with poison or with hot lead in their ears that would be an appropriate insult indeed you gentlemen can watch while I mop up the floors and I mop up the floors while you’re gawkin’ and maybe once ya tipped me and made me feel swell and so on I will be then Pirate Annie no Pirate Andy no perhaps Pirate Andy the undertaker I’ll undertake them alright I’ll break up their bones and make tripe out o’ the lot o’ them I will and all the while I shall profit from their misfortunes but now now now I sit here knowing that our fate is sealed while we wait for some battered pickup truck to pull up beside us here and roll down its windows to reveal the coarseness of its occupants as they coyly invite me to come ride with them back to the noplace where my escape began only so few minutes ago and they will take me back and set up a witness stand in some crude courtroom and since they cannot have my confession the ugliest of them will Judge me and the most self-righteous will prosepersecute me and not even she will be capable of lending me aid then and their pent up wrath and scorn will be vent out upon me and they will heat up the tar and the rows of rubes will jeer and guffaw and ugly Jergins himself will pound a pool cue on the table and call the court into session and the faithful from the gods spell church will come forth to witness that I am charged with the crime of being different of reading novels and poetry and of receiving mail wrapped in plain brown wrappers and Nettie will be next and accuse me of smiling beckoning at her promiscuous daughter and Potts will come from the prosepersecutor’s table and in high falsetto voice with his bible in hand will pronounce thus saith thy god in Ishmael 13^:5 that any man who sitteth in the backmost pew and then only when his wife drags him to church and who leaves before the benediction must be a communist Pinko and if any man goeth into god’s temple with the intent of nodding off before the sermon is finisheth then that man is surely red and is surely different and must surely be stoned to death yea even unto death by all who pretend to live in this no place where nobody really in any sense of the word lives and they will drag me back to my own mortuary and force me to expose you to them Phil expose you to their sense of indignity over your having been more than any of them could ever hope to be Phil and they will force me to comb your silver hair into some ridiculous pompadour style which they alone could understand to be a stylish look as they all mostly still wear crew cuts and butches and they will force me to drain from you every drop of the stuff which made you different from their miserable selves

 

Made Known – Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – This Place

This place is like other places, but it is not. This place has a pool hall. This place has a church. This place has a cemetery. It has then most of the necessary things which would make it some sort of a town. It is no longer a town —at least, not the one that it was because it no longer has its factory. And, it no longer has its town constable. And it no longer has its daily trains; so it no longer has many visitors nor very many new neighbors.

Still, it does have a few saints left around but these are outnumbered by the sinners. And, it does have a lawyer; and it does have an undertaker; and it does have a minister.

And it still has a whore.

And it did have a doctor.

They call this place Black Hawk and they all know that it is dying. But, they don’t know why this place is dying.

The abandoned train station is a dried bone which pierces the Illinois prairie. The business district is a starving herd of brick breathing its last sigh before collapse.

There once was an entire town here that its founders had named Black Hawk, Illinois. Now, there is only a road sign at the end of a county blacktopped road. But the sign only says, “W l  m  t  Bl ck   wk   m  f  nd  tt D n m.

The decay of the dwellings in this place progresses from the center of the town square which is intersected by the Santa Fe Railroad tracks. From this point, block by block, proud Victorians give way to Populist cottages, to Sears Roebuck precuts, to Depression bungalows, to the soffit-less, story-and-a-halfs of the Rural Electrification days. The progression ends with these.

There are no brick-and-frame ranchers, no mid-century ultra-moderns and no Farmer Home Administration split foyers. It is as if construction in Black Hawk stopped in 1948. It is as if the rest of the country went on into 1949 and the Cold War and the Korean War and the War on Poverty and the Vietnam War and Iraq I and Iraq II and the Afghan War, while Black Hawk was caught up in 1948. For Black Hawk, this was the year the rest of the world changed. But after the changes of 1948, this place did not change again.

The people in this place still go to bed at night and never think to lock their doors. Some of them still “red-up” the table after meals. Some of them still ask, “Are you going WITH?” Some of them still sweat on a summer’s day while they lift the hundred pound bales of hay onto the wagons. Some of them still sweat in the tenth inning of daylong, softball tournaments.

Some of the people who live here on Summer nights, still sweat when the one in bed next to them feigns sleep rather than talk about the possibility that soon, another day would begin; a day that would not differ very much from all of the previous days.

Since 1948, a couple of the people have put bullets in their heads. Three were found hanging from nooses in their garages. A few just never woke up, even though their families claimed they had been healthy enough.

Today, December 21, 1972, the town’s doctor has just been found dead in his bed. He had been getting up in years; had outlived his wife; and was known to be going to Peoria to see a heart specialist for the past few years.

The sheriff’s deputy who drove up from the county seat, told the small crowd that had formed in the doorway to the doctor’s home office, that there were no signs of foul play. The deputy said it looked like the doctor had just died in his sleep of old age. The crowd nodded and walked away.

Then, Lester Almond and Wayne, Almond’s trainee, quietly closed the door to the doctor’s bedroom. Moments later, a gurney emerged from the house. A purple shroud covered a humanoid lump on the gurney. The undertaker and his trainee pushed the gurney into the rear compartment of the hearse.

As the undertaker drove away, leaving the trainee on the curb, from his peripheral field of vision, Wayne was certain that he saw his boss wiping tears from his cheek.