Mack D. Ames
Bio
Tongue-in-cheek humor. Educator & hobbyist writer in Maine, USA. Mid50s. Emotional. Forgiven. Thankful. One wife, 2 adult sons, 1 dog. Novel: Lost My Way in the Darkness: Jack's Journey. https://a.co/d/6UE59OY. Not pen name Bill M, partly.
Stories (75)
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It's a good thing, ain't it?
You'd think that the brilliance of a sugar maple leaf in autumn would shatter all doubts about the quality of the season, right? Just look at this tree! I took this photo about seven years ago on my way home from work. I knew it was close to the end of the leaf-peeping season, so I purposefully took a route that would lead me past this particular beauty. I pulled into the weeds on the side of the road, climbed out of my 2004 Civic, and proceeded to snap some photographs with my ancient Samsung cell phone.
By Mack D. Amesabout a year ago in Psyche
E-I-E-I-O
In 1965, my dad and mom bought the farm. Not in the euphemistic sense of dying, mind you, but in the literal meaning of purchasing a modest farm and large house halfway between Dad's work and the church they had joined when they moved to Maine. I was yet several years from existence at the time, but when I arrived I had the distinct pleasure of spending eighteen years on the farm. Not all of it was fun and games, though. No sir (or ma'am). There was wood to cut and stack for the winter, and there was hay to mow, rake, bale, and haul up to sell. We didn't have animals of our own besides the occasional flock of chickens (and the one year we ended up with roosters by mistake--weren't they a mean bunch!), but Dad owned enough acreage to put in 2,500 bales or more every summer and sold the crop to whoever wanted it. He got good prices for his quality feed, and the profit he made paid our tuition to a Christian school.
By Mack D. Amesabout a year ago in Humans
Pushed Out
NOTE: The following is a rant that swings between calm facts and intense emotions. Dear Boss, I know there’ve been several occasions when I’ve told you about my depression and anxiety issues and specifically how they affect me at work. I’ve particularly expressed the need to have office space away from the classroom where I can control the light and noise exposure to reduce the sensory input, which is why I’ve been so glad to have an office for the last several years. Your predecessor comprehended that and fiercely defended my right to keep an office. He had my back on that. You threw me under the bus and tossed me out of the office space.
By Mack D. Amesabout a year ago in Psyche
"Suburban"ites
My son has his learner's permit, and he's a better driver than I am. He sometimes forgets to check his speed, but he is more cautious and less likely to fly into road rage than his old man. Speaking of which, my cell phone died this week, and we went to Wally World to get me a new one. He was checking out the Hot Wheels aisle while I looked at the Tracfones, and when he walked over to join me, he wasn't sure where I was. I'd shaved off my light brown hair that morning and was left with the gray stubble shorter than my beard--quite shocking for everyone around me. My boy's first words to me that day were, "Why are you bald?"
By Mack D. Ames2 years ago in Chapters
Dear John Letter. Content Warning.
Dear John, For more than 40 years, that sneaky move you made on me has plagued me. We haven't seen one another for many decades, but the agony has not gone away. Were we to meet and talk, you would probably have no memory of that, but my trajectory changed permanently, and not for the better.
By Mack D. Ames2 years ago in Psyche
Is Revival Always Good?
Hampson was a quaint village in the heart of eastern Maine, far from the hustle and bustle of economic activity and tourism that created enthusiasm for residents. "You can't get there from here" is a popular phrase among Mainers everywhere, but it was especially true of Hampson. It didn't seem to be connected to anything. However, it was just large enough to have an elementary and middle school, and whatever social activities could be found in the town happened there.
By Mack D. Ames2 years ago in Fiction
Deadly Dreams. Content Warning.
John Weston was the wildest son of a gun you could ever meet as far as I was concerned. At age 19, he could out-hunt, fish, wrestle (thumb, arm, or on the mat), and drink any other man in our county. I wouldn't call him impulsive, but he had a short fuse. He did not suffer fools gladly, and it didn't take long for one (or more) to earn a challenge from John to shut up, get out, or fight. As quick as he was to mix it up, though, when the matter was settled to his satisfaction, he'd stop the fight and move on with his life. "No need to humiliate anyone, Billy," he'd say to me. "Just prove your point."
By Mack D. Ames2 years ago in Confessions
