I often dream, some I usually remember, and there are dreams I don’t recall completely. I call this one ‘GOBBLE-GOBBLE’.

Thanksgiving is an autumn holiday in the United States. Abraham Lincoln made it official, and it carries some controversial baggage that I won’t get into now. Almost everyone enjoys celebrating every November, with pumpkin pie, cranberries, corn, mashed potatoes with gravy, and of course turkey. It’s even called, Turkey Day by some. The custom has been celebrated every year since then. In 1863, Abraham Lincoln made it the official United States of America national day of harvest, to be celebrated every fourth Thursday of November.

We all think it’s a celebration started by the settlers of Jamestown who were called the Pilgrims of Plymouth, Massachusetts, but they were actually Puritans who feasted with the Native Americans to celebrate the harvest. Some Native Americans consider it a holiday of mourning, and how a gift of food was repaid by stealing land. There is an account of settlers who found corn in the sand, which turned out to be buried in Indian graves, and took it because they needed food. So, the Native Americans did not trust the settlers, and the settlers didn’t trust the Natives. Now all the Native Americans have casinos on the reservation, a sign of progress, I guess.

As it turns out many cultures celebrate some sort of thanksgiving, the Greeks, the Romans, the Chinese, the Hebrews, the Egyptians, and the Canadians. On the American National Holiday, the President gives a speech, the Detroit Lions play football, and Thanksgiving, would not be Thanksgiving without a turkey. People eat more turkey on Thanksgiving Day than any other time of the year. Where do the turkeys come from? Mostly from the supermarket, but there are a few people who live in the country, or on farms where there is enough space to raise a few wild animals for food. 

Going to the supermarket for turkey is the easy way: there’s no butchering, no cleaning, just cooking. When we see the turkey in the freezer, we don’t think of it as ever being alive at least not in a sense that we can relate. But, if the turkey is raised from a fledgling, we might have a connection to it because we watch it grow and mature into a full-grown bird.

Usually, people think of dogs or cats as the easiest to care for, or becoming somewhat of a friend, but there’s one more animal, the turkey. Millions are eaten on Thanksgiving in the U.S., but what if a boy raised a turkey from birth? Could he eat the turkey on Thanksgiving Day?

This story is about a boy who raises a turkey and tries to save it from a Thanksgiving death. His name is Tommy Johnson. He lives on a small farm in the countryside near a fairly large city. His father, Robert Johnson, owns a small iron works company. He designs and welds stair and porch railings, trailers, ramps, or anything his customers want; all from iron. His specialty, axes, which are used to do a turkey in on Thanksgiving. Tommy’s dad started selling the, Thanksgiving Day embossed Ax.

Dad put his hand up to the front of his neck, drew his index finger across while holding out his tongue for maximum effect, showing it was curtains for the turkey, then continued the story.

     The Johnsons lived just outside the city on a small farm where he did the metal business, raised some cattle, a few horses, some dogs, numerous cats, chickens, a goat, and turkeys. These turkeys were not the kind found in stores. They were wild turkeys that Mr. Johnson let run on his farm. Every November he would hunt for the biggest turkey before Thanksgiving. He also let others hunt for turkeys on his farm for a small fee. Everyone who lived in the area called his place the Turkey Ranch.

A certain particular baby turkey wandered in the yard one day and was found by Tommy, Mr. Johnson’s son, who fell in love with it immediately, and started to care for it. The little turkey would follow Tommy around the yard eating the corn he’d drop on the ground. Tommy loved that turkey and gave it a name. He called it, Gary.

Sometimes Tommy and Gary went for walks in the woods. Gary waited with Tommy in the morning when he left for school. They’d walk down the driveway to the mailbox together and wait for the bus. When the bus would arrive, all of the kids would look out of the windows of the bus. Some would wave at Gary, shouting his name, Gary, Gary, Gary. Tommy would wave goodbye as the bus pulled away and drove down the highway to town. After school it would be the same ritual, as Gary waited by the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Tommy got off the bus, and they’d walked back home together, Tommy telling Gary about his day at school, and Gary gobbling as they walked side by side.

Gary started getting bigger and bigger as time passed. He was a plump turkey because Tommy always had some corn in his pocket for him to eat. Soon Tommy’s father remarked on Gary’s size, saying things like, “Son, that turkey looks big enough to feed two families on Thanksgiving. We’ll have to invite some friends over this November.” Tommy would hesitate for a moment, then agree with his father. “You’re right, Dad. He’s a big bird. I can’t wait until this Thanksgiving,” he’d say, and cringe.  

Gary got larger as the months flew by; he was a trophy bird for certain which was death sentence for sure. One day at dinner Mr. Johnson mentioned that there was a prize for the biggest turkey at a local fall festival and thought Gary would be perfect because of his size. It was a, guess the weight of the turkey; win the turkey thanksgiving contest. This meant Tommy would have to give Gary to the person who guessed closest to his weight without going over.          

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dad,” Tommy said as he choked up. “Gary’s a great guard. You’ve seen how he roams the yard up and down the driveway, haven’t you? I trained him myself. Gary knows every square inch of the place. He’s always watching, and when there’s something unusual, or he hears a sound, he gobbles. You’ve heard him, right Dad?”

Mr. Johnson listened to his son praise the turkey. Tommy was proud of Gary and thought it was great that he was so smart. “Tommy, I understand your attachment to Gary, but you shouldn’t take this so seriously, after all, he’s just a turkey, no different from any other turkeys we have on the farm.”

“He’s much more than just a regular turkey, dad. He’s part of the family now. I walk to the school bus with him every day. He’s my best friend. All of the kids at school love him, too. They always wave to him from the bus. We’ve got to keep him; he’s special.”

Mr. Johnson listened as Tommy tried to adamantly persuade his dad that Gary was part of the family. Although he wanted to please his son, Mr. Johnson felt Tommy was behaving oddly, always talking about the turkey, and spending too much time with it. He decided that one way to get Tommy out of this strong affinity with Gary was to have Tommy help butcher the thanksgiving turkey. Tommy had seen his father butcher and clean turkeys, but never helped. Mr. Johnson thought this was the opportune time for Tommy to get his hands dirty, so to speak. He sat down with him one afternoon to tell him what he had in mind.      

“Son, I want to talk to you, okay?”

“Okay, dad,” Tommy said.

“Let’s sit over here, son.” Mr. Johnson pointed at a stack of straw bales piled up in front of the barn. They sat and looked at each other for a moment.                  

Tommy smiled at his dad. “Well, dad, what’s up?”

“Tommy, I want to talk to you about Gary.”

“Okay, dad.”

“Gary is a turkey, Tommy.”

“I know, dad,” he said. “I’m not a moron.”

“Well, son, you know that you can’t keep him forever. Turkeys don’t live so long. I mean, well, you know what I mean. People usually don’t get so attached to a turkey.”

“Why not? Turkeys make great friends.”

“Now, that’s what I mean, Tommy. You talk about that turkey like he’s your friend. He’s a turkey,” Mr. Johnson said, “a plain old turkey.”

“He’s more than a turkey, dad. He’s special.”

“You’re just making this harder, son. You know what we’ve got to do, don’t you?”

“Sell Gary?” Tommy said.

     “Yeah, we could sell Gary, but also well, you know I think it’s time you started helping me get the Thanksgiving turkey ready. What do you say, Tommy! Help dad?”

Tommy looked at his dad. Mr. Johnson looked at his son, then they gave each other big hug. “I love you, dad, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Okay, Tommy, tomorrow’s the big day. We’ll round up Gary and get him ready for Thanksgiving.” Mr. Johnson got up and walked to the house.

Tommy sat on the bale of straw stunned. “Gary, Gary, Gary, what have I done?” he said, his hands over his face, tears streaming down.

Mr. Johnson told his wife and Tommy’s brother that they were going to butcher Gary.

“He said it was all right?” Tommy’s mother asked.

“No problem. Tommy said he wants to help.”

“I can’t believe he’s going to do it. He loves that turkey,” Tommy’s brother said.

“Well, we’ll see tomorrow morning after breakfast,” Tommy’s mother said.

That night Tommy lay awake all-night thinking about Gary’s demise. “I can’t do it, there’s no way, Gary’s my friend—I can’t kill my friend,” he whispered to himself, then fell asleep.

The next day was a beautiful autumn morning. The sun shone through Tommy’s window across his bed, and onto his face. Birds sang a pentatonic air that rang through the barnyard as Tommy rolled and stretched after his dad called him to down for breakfast. Tommy walked to the second-floor bedroom window, his eyes scanning the yard for Gary, but couldn’t spot him. “He must be in back of the barn,” Gary mumbled.

He threw on his clothes and made his way down to the kitchen, stopping at the foot of the stairs to tie his shoes. “Something smells good,” he remarked.

“If you want anything to eat, you better hurry,” his brother said as he walked out into the yard.

“Morning, mom,” Tommy said.

“Hungry, Tommy?” his mother asked.

“Yes, I am. What’s on the stove today?”

“Fried eggs or pancakes. You can have your pick.”

“Okay, I’ll have pancakes. Where’s dad?”

“He’s out in the yard getting ready.”

“Getting ready for what?” Tommy asked.

“Don’t you remember? You talked about it with him last night.”

“Oh, about the turkey.”

“You’re taking it quite calmly. We thought you’d raise a fuss and get upset.”

“He’s just a turkey, mom,” Tommy said with a groan. “Just a turkey,” he said again in a dismal way like the world would end soon.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Tommy?” his mother asked.

“No, I’d better get going. Dad’s waiting on me,” he said and walked out into the yard mumbling under his breath, “I can do this, I can do this.”  Tommy saw his father working on a tractor in front of the barn. “Morning, dad.”

 “Hey, Tommy. I’m almost done here, then we’ll get to the turkey.”

 “Okay, dad,” Tommy said.

 Tommy fought to hold back his emotions. He wanted to burst out and scream, NO, NO, NO, WE CAN’T DO IT, WE CAN’T DO IT, but he waited for his father, emotionless and calm.

 “Follow me, Tommy,” Mr. Johnson said. “Let me show you something.”

 They walked around to the back of the barn where Tommy saw a burlap bag tied to a post. The bag was moving around so much it stopped him in his tracks, because he knew what was in the bag. He looked at his dad. “Are you sure this is what we should do?” asked Tommy.

 “I’m afraid so, son. It’s what’s best. Here, Tommy,” he said and handed him the hatchet he’d made just for Tommy; it was heavy in Tommy’s hands. They watched the bag flopped around more and more as they got closer until it was almost air-born.

 “Okay, Tommy, I’ll untie the bag. Hold the hatchet, high.” Tommy looked at the hatchet with wide eyes. “I’m going to open the bag, let the turkey’s head out, and pull the rope tight around it, then I’ll put its neck on the block. You swing the hatchet, okay?”

“I don’t know, dad,” Tommy mumbled, his eyes watery.

“Come on son, it’ll be over in no time. Just swing the hatchet. Keep your eyes open so you don’t chop off my hand. Here we go.”

Mr. Johnson grabbed the bag. Gary was big and strong, so it took all of Mr. Johnson’s strength to hold the bag, and the turkey’s head on the block.

“I’m going to open the bag and let his head out. Wait—now get ready, Tommy.”

Tommy held the axe with both hands, moving it up and down practicing a chopping swing. “He’s making so much noise dad. He’s suffering,” Tommy said as he moved from behind, and around his dad to get into position next to the chopping block. He held the axe high in the air. “I think I’m ready, dad,” Tommy’s voice squeaked, and the axe wobbled.

“Okay, Tommy. NOW! SWING THE AXE!” Gary and the burlap bag moved all over. It moved up and down as Mr. Johnson gripped it. Dust and feathers floated in the air and flew everywhere. “SWING TOMMY—NOW,” Mr. Johnson yelled again.

Tommy raised the axe high over his head. Down it came as the bag kept moving. Mr. Johnson looked at his son, his hands were empty. They both looked toward the barn where the axe had landed—stuck in the side of the barn. “Tommy!” Mr. Johnson said, “Son!” Tommy stood there silent; his eyes glazed over. “Tommy, are you, all right? Son?  Are you all right?” his father asked again.

Nothing, not a peep, then Tommy turned and bolted. He ran through the yard, jumped over the small corral and across a pasture, but he turned one last time when he heard his name. Mr. Johnson shouted again, “Tommy, come back,” before he disappeared into the layers of trees.

Mr. Johnson went back to the house. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that kid.”

“Where is he?” asked Mrs. Johnson.

“He ran into the woods. I don’t know, I guess he freaked out when he saw Gary flopping around.”

“Are you going to look for him?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

“Yeah, I’ll give him a little time alone first. He’ll most likely come back on his own. Let’s just wait a spell.”

They waited and waited, but no Tommy. “It’s getting dark outside. We can’t let him sleep in the woods. We’ve got to look for him,” Tommy’s mother pleaded.

     “In the dark? What are we supposed to do in the dark? I’ll bet he’s in the barn. I’ll go have a look.” Mr. Johnson stepped out of the house. That kid, that foolish kid, he thought. What’s wrong him? Why did he run? Where is he? That stupid kid—I love that kid. Mr. Johnson wiped the tears that rolled down his cheeks. He held the light in the barn shining it all around while calling Tommy’s name. “Tommy, son, Tommy, please,” but there was no answer. There was no Tommy.

No one slept that night. The next morning, they searched all around the barn-yard, in all of the buildings, and in the woods near the house.

“I think we should get some help,” Mr. Johnson said.

“Let’s call some of the neighbors and ask if they’ve seen or heard anything,” Tommy’s brother said.

“Great idea. I’ll go call right now,” Mrs. Johnson said.

“Let’s jump into the pickup and drive through the valley. We might see him along the road,” Mr. Johnson said.

Mr. Johnson and Tommy’s brother got into the pickup. “Do you think he’ll come back, dad?”

“Don’t even think that way. He’ll be back. I know he’ll be back.” Tommy’s dad and brother drove slowly up and down the roads, stopping when they saw something moving in the woods. They drove all day without any luck. They thought the worst, but then Mr. Johnson said, “He’s coming back. I know he’s coming back.” He kept repeating the same mantra, over and over, because he couldn’t give up on his son.

It was the second day now without any sign of Tommy, so the Johnsons called the police.

“Hello, police station, Can I help you?”

“Yes, I hope you can. I’d like to report my son, missing.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“For two days now. We’re worried because he’s never been gone so long, and never run away before.”

“Why do you say? Never run away before. Was your son talking about running away?”

“No, no, he was helping me butcher the Thanksgiving turkey, got afraid and ran into the woods near our place.”

“Okay, let me get this straight. Your son ran away because you were butchering a turkey for Thanksgiving.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Johnson said.

“And he’s been gone for two days now.”

“Yes, that’s right, two days. We’ve checked everywhere, in the barn, and other places he could hide, called our neighbors and told them to be on the look out, but haven’t heard anything. We’re worried something may have happened to him. Please help us,” Mr. Johnson’s voice cracked.

“Okay, Mr. Johnson, here’s what we do first. I’ll come out, ask you a few more questions for my report, then we’ll get as many people together as we can, and scout the woods around your place. I’ll get a helicopter from the state police to fly over the area. We’ll get a search going asap. There’s a better chance of finding him if we cover the air and ground. I’ll head over to your place right away. See you in a bit. Bye.”

“The police are coming,” Mr. Johnson said.

“Thank goodness,” Mrs. Johnson sighed, embraced her husband, then rested her head on his shoulder.

Mr. Johnson caressed his wife’s head. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Don’t worry, he’ll come back. He’ll come back.”

Mr. Johnson went out in the yard and checked all of the buildings around the yard one more time. “TOMMY, Tommy, TOMMY, where are you?” He called and called, but there was no answer.

Neighbors rang to say they could help with the search, then they met at the Johnson place the next day. Car after car pulled into the yard. Soon there was no room to park.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” one neighbor said.

“I know we will. It’s just the waiting that drives me crazy,” Mr. Johnson said.

The sheriff pulled into the driveway, followed by five other patrol cars. “Mr. Johnson, I’m Sheriff Griffin.” He shook Mr. Johnson’s hand as he introduced himself.

“Really appreciate you coming to help. We’re going crazy,” Mr. Johnson said, and gripped the sheriff’s hand.

“Okay, when did you last see him?” the sheriff asked.

“It was Wednesday morning about nine.”

“How old is your son?”

“He’s ten.”

“Does he know the area well?”

“Oh, yes, he grew up here, and we’ve hunted the woods all around here. He knows the area.”

“Do you have a picture of him?”

“Sure, I’ll get one from the house.” Mr. Johnson went into the house and returned a few minutes later with a picture of Tommy. “Here’s the picture, sheriff.”

The sheriff looked at the picture and said, “Is this the turkey next to him?”

“What?” Mr. Johnson asked.

“You know, the turkey he was supposed to butcher.”

“Yes,” Mr. Johnson said. “That’s Gary.”

“He sure is a big one,” the sheriff said. “Okay, let’s pass this picture around. We’ll split up into groups and start searching the area nearby, then move out to the woods.” Mr. Johnson heard everyone commented on how big Gary was as the picture was passed around.

“I’ve got some aerial maps of the surrounding area that will help keep track of our search. Does anyone have any questions?” the sheriff said.

A hand went up from the group of searchers, “How long are we going to stay out today?”

“Every group will have a police officer and radio. If there are extra radios, we’ll pass them pass out. And, we’ll stay out as long as it’s light. Any more questions?”  There were no questions, so the sheriff said, “It looks like we have enough people for about ten groups. I’ll stay here. This will be our rendezvous point. Just follow police officers and listen to what they say. Okay, let’s get going.”

We would lie quietly listening to dad telling the story, sometimes ask a question, but if we asked too many questions he would forget where he left off, and it would take a few minutes for him to get back into it. Sometimes he would stop and ask us questions, like, “What do you think will happen next?” or “Why didn’t someone do something?”  Mostly we just kept quiet waiting for the big kicker at the end. Dad always had a big or unusual ending to a story. He would continue telling a story making up things until he thought of it, then wind down and hit us with the big smackaroo ending. If a story stretched on, we knew he hadn’t come up with the ending.

The search was launched. Mr. Johnson and his neighbors all started looking for Tommy. They searched all day until nightfall without any luck. “Okay. We’ll call it a night and meet here tomorrow morning at dawn,” the sheriff said. “We’re going to widen our search area. There’ll be a lot of walking, so be ready for a hard day. Okay, until tomorrow. Oh, just a moment, Mr. Johnson wants to say a few words to you.”

Mr. Johnson turned to the crowd of neighbors, “You all have been so great today. You’re truly our friends and we can never hope to repay your kindness.” His voice cracked and tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to hold them back, but couldn’t and fell down to his knees and cried, “TOMMY, where are you?” then covered his face with his hands and stayed there on the ground while everyone walked by patting him on the back.

Someone in the crowd of neighbors said, “We’re going to find him, Mr. Johnson, don’t you worry.”

“We’ll find him,” another person said.

Finally, he got up and saw his wife standing in front of the house. She had tears in her eyes too. They turned and walked into the house together.

Up came the sun the next day as cars pulled into the Johnson’s yard again. Everyone was ready for another day of searching, they all looked and sounded determined to find Tommy. “He’s out there. Let’s go find him.” A voice from the crowd barked.

“We won’t give up until we do,” another neighbor said.

Off they went into their groups, determined not to let the Johnsons down, leaving the Johnson’s yard silent except for the sheriff’s patrol car radio. He was monitoring all the chatter on the radio. Then the sheriff heard this conversation on the police radio.

“How many animals got away?”

What were the two police officers from the next county talking about, the sheriff thought? He listened closely.

“We’re not sure. One lion, some monkeys, don’t know what other animals got away.”

“A lion?” the voice said in a surprised tone.

“Yeah, a lion,” another voice said.

“Have you any idea where the lion is now?”

“No, not sure, but it’s somewhere in the woods near town. That’s where the circus was setting up. The trainers have been out looking for two days now without any luck.”

“Have you heard anything about that kid who’s missing?”

“Yeah, I heard about it. They’re looking for him today in the same area.”

“Hope that lion’s not too hungry.”

As we listened to dad tell the story we held our breath when dad said, the lion was lost in the same area as Tommy. We thought, poor Tommy, as he continued the story.

The sheriff sat in his patrol car stunned with disbelief. “A lion?” he muttered, “A lion in the same woods?”

The search teams, he thought. They’ve got to know about the lion. He grabbed his radio. “Team one, this is Sheriff Griffin. I’ve got some news.”

“Team one here. What’s up?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but some animals escaped from a circus.”

“What kind of animals?”

“Some monkeys, but they’re not the problem. The problem is the lion.”

“The what!” the search team leader said.

“You heard right,” the sheriff said, “a lion. It might be in this area, so keep your eyes open. I want to keep a positive attitude, but if that lion was hungry and it spotted Tommy,” the sheriff sighed, “I don’t know—we’ve got to let everyone know about it, so spread the word. I’ll let the others know, too.”

“Will do,” was the reply. “Team one out.”

“The word got around about the lion and finally to the Johnson family, but they stayed upbeat and positive. Tommy was nowhere in sight, and neither was the lion.

The search continued for a week, then news came that the lion was spotted and captured about a mile from the Johnson farm. It didn’t look good for Tommy. The sheriff called off the search. The news media reported that Tommy Johnson was eaten by a lion when he ran away from home because his father wanted him to butcher a turkey for Thanksgiving. It just got worse; soon the Johnsons weren’t able to go into town with all of the media people following them, trying to get a story about poor turkey Tommy. That’s what a headline in the paper said: POOR TURKEY TOMMY — LION’S LUNCH. The Johnsons were heartbroken.

Mr. Johnson felt worst of all. He had started this whole thing by asking Tommy to help butcher a turkey. Soon it came out about how Gary was Tommy’s pet turkey, and they were best friends. Tommy’s classmates gave interviews on the news and told about how Gary followed Tommy everywhere.

Dad saw we were in tears, so he had to end the story. We watched him intently while we cried. Finally, he said.

A tall man got out of the car and stood looking at the Johnson’s house. He was wearing a Fedora and a brown leather jacket.

“Dad, someone just pulled into the driveway.”

“More reporters, I bet,” said Mr. Johnson.

“I don’t think so; he’s just standing next to his car, and doesn’t look like a reporter to me, dad. There’s a sign on the door of the car. I think it says, BIG TOP CIRCUS.”

“Let me see,” Mr. Johnson looked out the window. “He’s just standing there, and it looks like there’s someone sitting in the front seat of the car. I can’t make out who it is.”

Mrs. Johnson walked out of the house without taking her eyes off the car. She walked closer and closer, then everyone else came running out of the house. The man introduced himself, “Hello, I’m Bob Smith from the Big Top Circus. I saw the story about your son, Tommy, on TV.” He gestured at his car and said. “The boy wandered into one of our tents and we’ve been trying to find out who he belongs to. We almost left town with him. He’s a quiet kid, and a bit different. I thought about putting him in one of our circus acts. Well, he’s all yours.”

The car door opened, and Tommy stepped out. The Johnsons wanted to rush over and give him a big hug, but they walked slowly, then stopped. Tommy stopped. They looked at each other and smiled.                

“Tommy—son,” Mr. Johnson cried. “You’re back!”

Tommy stared back at Mr. Johnson and said, “GOBBLE, Gobble, GOBBLE, Gobble, GOBBLE, Gobble, GOBBLE, Gobble, GOBBLE, Gobble”

“What’s wrong with Tommy?”  Mrs. Johnson asked.

“He thinks he’s a turkey,” Tommy’s brother said.

They watched Tommy walk around the yard walking and acting like a turkey and gobbling. For the rest of his life he thought that he was a turkey. Tommy and Gary lived happily ever after as best friends.

We were happy the story ended with Tommy safe but turning him into a turkey was kind of strange.




As I sat on the train, I glanced at the map I’d picked up at the information center, and scanned the places with Japanese names, Daibutsuden Hall, Nigatsudo Hall, Hokkedo Hall, Kaidando Hall, Shosoin Storehouse, Seven Story Pagoda, then got off at Nara station with a smile and high expectations of discovery.

The area now called Nara is where the first capital city of Japan was established in 710 at Heijo. The Buddhist monastery power influenced the government and capital to move to Nagaoka, then Kyoto, but Nara is where many historic treasures remain. It’s the place where Todaiji Temple houses one of the largest bronze Buddha statues in Japan. Being the world’s largest wooden structure in the world, it is a must see when in Nara, Japan. 

Walking into the park visitors encounter deer begging for food, then passing through the Nanaimon Gate see two Guardian Kings on either side. Surrounding the Temple are other structures of interest, and as you approach the large stair steps to the entrance, pass trees on either side with bad luck fortunes tied to the branches. Upon stepping in, you will be draped in smoke from incense giving a clear feeling of being in a special place as you face Daibutsu. Walking around to rear of the temple visitors will notice that at the base of one of the gigantic columns is a hole, the size of the Buddha statue’s nose, and through the center giving those who can squeeze in and out the other side will have enlightenment in the afterlife.

There are many places in Japan, and around the world where history is kept and guarded, so future generations to some degree can experience the way life was in the past. Like shadows, memories float over these places leaving visitors speechless on their sight. In books we read but being there allows a feeling of memories and dreams, and the chance for history to come to life.

The cover picture for my book “AWAKE ASLEEP DREAMING DEAD” was taken inside Todaiji temple. I reckon it’s still the same. Click the link to get a free copy.


Perhaps a figure of speech

Spoken in some non-literal way

Use of a metaphor, who’s to say

Interpolated, confusing word or phrase

Embellishment of a story that’s told

Songs sung from times that are old

Medieval world people have heard

Liturgies, pieces and plays

Turn around, come back, maze

Roots that have grown deep below

For some time, who can tell

Count the years, begin to yell

Unproductive course, dark blind alley

No hope to lose, against the wall

Last chance, a telephone call

After it’s made, part of history

Through a clear lens I see

I have a choice, think wisely

Use the language without regard

This you may come to regret

Into motion the wheels are set

Incongruity, we think it occurs

Asking Santa, while sitting on his knee

I got a rock, the irony

A fisherman tells a tale

Extravagant gross exaggeration

Hyperbole from father to sun

Metaphoric name we supply

Old English, Norse singing

Conventional but special kenning

An expression spoken to refer

Suggest a similarity between

We call the best the cream

We, they, them, the metonymy

Choose a feature to explore

An attribute lost in war

Calm storm, invisible border, oxymoron

Joined together, true words or lie

Contradictory as the migrating herds

Let’s make a person, a beautiful smile

Prosopopoeia, an abstract idea

A wish and hope to be free

Kick the bucket, doornail, daisies

Thirteen steps and then a rope

Legend, language, floating trope



Wet, moist, steamy rainwater

Falling, rolling onto the leaves

I now hold in my hand

On my port and starboard sides

In front and right behind

Glistening drops of radiant beads

Thunderous as they dive to earth

Sliding and rolling down my face

Over my eyes, across my lips

Down and off my fingertips

Falling in time with the beat

Of millions of other raindrops

A sound rumbles through my soul

Hear and feel drum humming waves

Tickling the bottom of my feet

Taste of heaven on my tongue

I feel each drop rise up through me

Now how can this be done

No mind on earth can conceive

Who knows the secret long kept

That drops through the trees


My Last Book Signing Event



Feb 22 was my last book signing event – I’m hoping arrange more events after this situation comes to an end. In the meantime if anyone would like a signed copy of my books let me know where to send it. My books are available online at most retail outlets, and available in e-book and audio formats. I’m also up for any live broadcast to discuss my books if you have a channel for interviewing writers. Thanks!



Next book signing

My next book signing is at Fair Trade Books in Red Wing, MN – From 11:00 – 1:00 – I’ll be signing copies of ‘DREAM KILLER’ book I, and ‘THE TRIBE’ book II, from my series – Bedtime Stories and Dreams- My other books will also be available for purchase- Hope to see you there!  Fair Trade Books


Book Signing at Paperbacks and Pieces

Bedtime Stories and Dreams

I’ve arranged a book signing at Paperbacks and Pieces in Winona, MN.

Details below

Jan 18, 2020


Community Information

Paperbacks and Pieces

429 Mankato Ave.

Winona, MN 55987

507 452 5580


Meet Wisconsin Suspense Author, 1:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 22, at Paperback and Pieces

Bookstore, 429 Mankato Ave., Winona, MN 55987. Author John Siwicki will sell and sign copies of his

psychological suspense novel, “The Tribe,” the second book in his planned Bedtime Stories and

Dreams: Memories of Michael Colt trilogy.


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Psychological thriller ‘The Tribe’ at Paperback and Pieces bookstore Feb. 22, 2020

Wisconsin author John Siwicki will sell and sign copies of his newest book, the psychological

suspense novel “The Tribe,” 1:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m. Saturday, Feb 22, at Paperbacks and Pieces 429 Mankato Ave. Winona, MN 55987

“The Tribe” is the second book in Siwicki’s planned Bedtime Stories and Dreams: Memories of

Michael Colt trilogy.

“The Tribe” synopsis: Grandfather’s bedtime stories aren’t as innocent as they seem, but those

dark tales could be a young man’s only hope. To transform the onset of events, he must alter the past.

A hidden secret granting freedom from the life he’s lived in a small river town leads to

the boundless power of his mind. A shadowy figure he dreams of reveals a vision that can set him free

and offer one last chance to return to the life he wants. Dreams take him to another world and memory

of them usually vanish by morning, but on occasion bits are remembered, leaving him a doorway to a

place to go — and control.

Siwicki also will sell and sign copies of his other books, including the first book in his Bedtime

Stories trilogy, “Dream Killer.”

Siwicki started writing poetry at a young age, has published five books of poetry, developed a desire to

write psychological suspense, and currently writing his fifth book “RIM STONE” book three of the series.


Book Signing

Jan 18, 2020

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Contact: Terri Fleming

Community Information

Fond du Lac Public Library

32 Sheboygan St.

Fond du Lac, WI 54935




Meet Wisconsin Suspense Author, 10 a.m. to noon Saturday, April 18, at Chapter 52

Bookstore, 52 Sheboygan St. Wisconsin author John Siwicki will sell and sign copies of his

psychological suspense novel, “The Tribe,” the second book in his planned Bedtime Stories and

Dreams: Memories of Michael Colt trilogy. Free. No registration.



Psychological thriller ‘The Tribe’ at bookstore April 18

Wisconsin author John Siwicki will sell and sign copies of his newest book, the psychological

suspense novel “The Tribe,” 10 a.m. to noon Saturday, April 18, at Chapter 52 Bookstore, 52

Sheboygan St.

“The Tribe” is the second book in Siwicki’s planned Bedtime Stories and Dreams: Memories of

Michael Colt trilogy.

“The Tribe” synopsis: Grandfather’s bedtime stories aren’t as innocent as they seem, but those

dark tales could be a young man’s only hope. To transform the onset of events, he must alter the past.

A key found on a body floating in the river leads to a formula that can create a device to change the

events of time. A hidden secret granting freedom from the life he’s lived in a small river town leads to

the boundless power of his mind. A shadowy figure he dreams of reveals a vision that can set him free

and offer one last chance to return to the life he wants. Dreams take him to another world and memory

of them usually vanish by morning, but on occasion bits are remembered, leaving him a doorway to a

place to go — and control.

Siwicki also will sell and sign copies of his other books, including the first book in his Bedtime

Stories trilogy, “Dream Killer.”

Siwicki started writing poetry at a young age. He soon developed a desire to write

psychological suspense.

Chapter 52 Bookstore is located next door to the Main Library downtown. The shop sells used

books, movies, magazines and music at bargain prices. Regular hours: Mondays, Tuesdays and

Wednesdays 2-6 p.m. and Saturdays 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. For more information, call 920-322-3957 or visit