Thomas Durbin
Bio
Raised in rural east-central Illinois, I appreciate nature and the environment. I'm a father, grandfather, professional engineer-scientist, leader, scouts leader, coach, stoic, minimalist, costumer, historian, traveler, and writer.
Stories (62/0)
Dead reckonings
You will never guess how I spent spring break of my senior year in college. What's your best guess? Partying in Cancun? South Padre Island? Miami Beach? A volunteer project? Squeezing in a special-instruction course? Hanging out and relaxing back home? Hiking in the mountains? Graduation party planning?
By Thomas Durbin3 years ago in Families
Idyllic Afternoon
The beauty of winter had long since melted away from the countryside. The surface of the little pond that had been frozen months ago calmly reflected images of the trees growing tall along the opposite bank. The stillness of the surface of the water was only interrupted when the boys cast their lines and the bait and bobbers hit the water. Momentarily more interested in the cookies, slices of chocolate cake, and orange pop Grandma sent with them, Theodore and Oliver let their bobbers rest quietly in the water.
By Thomas Durbin3 years ago in Families
Snowdrifts
The early winter storm brought several inches of snow. A beautiful blanket covered the fields and decorated the boughs of the trees. The roof of the old barn sagged a little under the weight of white snow that beautifully framed the fading red of the vertical planks of siding on the old barn. Morning sun and cold air combined to create icicles hanging from the eaves of the little white house snuggled into the edge of the woods. The rails of Grandpa's pioneer fence of lashed limbs lined with fresh snow and tree-trunk fence posts with white tufts atop each one added a rustic detail to the bucolic scene. Grandma's flower kettle was mounded with snow in place of her summer marigolds. The yard that had been glowing green and yellow with flashes of light from fireflies was now covered by that beautiful white blanket. Nature's fury painted a picture of beauty draped in a wonderful way upon the features of the farm and the woods around it.
By Thomas Durbin3 years ago in Families
The Bull's Run
Sitting on the swing under the majestic maple tree one sunny Saturday afternoon, Grandpa once told us the tale of the bull that found his way home from the county fair and crashed a birthday party. Grandma still had a photo Great-Grandma had snapped that day of Grandpa milking one of the dairy cows while Great-Grandpa supervised, casting his shadow in profile on the side of the cow. Chores had to be done regardless of the afternoon bedlam and it was his turn to milk the cows. It was the week of the county fair and Grandpa and his brothers and sister had taken their show animals to the fairgrounds, including one young bull they were going to try to sell. Fair week was always an exciting time during the summer. It was a time to see family and friends during the long break from school and the parents usually took vacation from work so they could be there every day and help prepare the livestock for showing. Fortunately, the county fair grounds were only a few miles from their home and they could take turns going back and forth to feed the pigs and chickens, water the garden, and milk the cows. There is no vacation from chores and caring for the animals at home and running a farm. The week of the fair had been a blast for all the kids and the adults. There were carnival rides and games of skill in a big oval near the grandstand. The side shows were there, too, including a haunted hall, a house of mirrors, and the freak show in a tent at the end. Thursday night, they each got a dollar to spend on rides and games and shows. The kids had also saved their earnings and allowances for spending money the rest of the week.
By Thomas Durbin3 years ago in Families
The Flower Kettle
Yellow-orange and rust-red leaves were falling from the majestic maples in the yard and the garden was barren except for the pumpkins and ornamental corn Grandpa had planted for Halloween. The last of the dried heads of the marigolds Grandma had planted in the old salt kettle awaited picking. The seeds were saved each year and planted the next after nature awakened from the slumber of winter. The salt kettle was a relic from a bygone industry, one of the first that European peoples engaged in when they arrived in the area that is now known as Vermilion County. Both our Native American and our European ancestors have long histories here and the evidence is recorded in the artifacts and nature around us. It would be fantastic to hear all the tales the old salt kettle would tell if it could talk as well as all the stories told around it.
By Thomas Durbin3 years ago in Families
Sharks of the Seas
"Wow! I can't believe we've gone this far. We've already gone farther than we should have gone. It's not as if we weren't warned. They told us to be wary at all times and to only venture forth when the coast was clear. Will they give us trouble?" Echo mused.
By Thomas Durbin3 years ago in Fiction
Rural Delivery
They had been playing in the old barn before they went to the kitchen for slices of chocolate cake that their Grandma had made that afternoon. When they finished their cake and milk they sped through the door to play outside. It was a beautiful October day. Bang...bang. The old screen door with a spool for a handle banged shut behind them. The spring sang its usual song as it stretched and then retracted to pull the door shut. Theodore jumped off the deck, quickly followed by Oliver, and landed in the big pile of leaves from the big maple tree in Grandpa's yard. Oliver nearly landed on him, but Theodore was too quick and rolled away before he could be pinned. They could hear Grandpa whistling while he worked in the garden. The garden was between the garage and the old barn out back. He couldn't see them in the leaf pile by the deck, but he grinned to himself when he heard the door bang and the crashing sounds of little ones landing and rolling in the leaf pile. He had raked the leaves to that spot purposely. Grandma stepped onto the deck with her camera and snapped a photo of the boys in the leaf pile. She hoped that one day they would find the photo and reminisce about great memories. She thought about her own childhood and the precious memories of life in the country with her parents and grandparents for a moment and then snapped one more photo as Grady joined the boys in the leaf pile. Grady, a loveable little wiry mutt, was another dog they rescued after he was dumped near their rural place. Pet dumping was far too common an occurrence out there. Pets and trash were left by city people with no respect for property, other folk, or the planet. Well, anyway, Grady was fortunate to be adopted by Grandpa and Grandma instead of being collected by animal control. Grandma doted on him and on the adopted stray kitties scattered around the place. Grady and the boys loved playing in the yard all through the year, but October was especially fun for them when the leaves fell.
By Thomas Durbin3 years ago in Families
Of Blades and Strikes
Sunlight glinted off the blades of the pair of swords moving strategically through the air as they maneuvered past the window of the ancient temple. Metal clashed with metal. One combatant lurched forward while the other stepped aside and deflected the sword thrust toward the middle of his chest. She had nearly hit her mark. It was an epic battle between two expert sword handlers who had spent decades studying the arts and honing their skills. A master and her former pupil, anxious to demonstrate his mettle, crossed swords with more than pride at stake.
By Thomas Durbin3 years ago in Fiction
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