STILL LEARNING

Recently I have had to buy quite a few fairly expensive, over the counter, items for my eyes. By chance I called one company for product information and learned they will send me coupons.

Since then, I have searched on line for 6 items, merely by putting in the name of the company.com. Voila, I get coupons either thru the mail or print out.

I bet if you need Advil, Band Aids, toothpaste, hair products, follow my lead and you will save quite a bit over the year. Nothing to lose, try it!

Today I printed 2 $2 coupons on $8 GenTeal eye drops. $6 is better than $8.

GLORIOSKI !!

For some unknown reason I find myself walking faster. I wake daily at at the ungodly hour of 3 a.m. Knowing it is useless to lie there, try to fall asleep again, I sit on the side of my bed, bend over to put my feet in my warm, cozy slippers. The room spins. A little voice I don’t recognize tells me to sit still. The room will stop moving in a minute.

The advice sounds logical so I do it. Sitting up slowly my senses are restored. The dizziness is gone. My soft lavender robe should be at the foot of my bed so I can find it easily in the dark, but isn’t. What the devil! Where is it?! I take quick, mincing steps searching for it and bango, I hit my ankle hard on the edge of the bed. My robe is on the floor on Mike’s side of the room. I pick it up and notice blood on my nightgown. It swims down my leg from the open gash I just made. In somewhat of a panic, I grab the robe and limp to the bathroom. Peroxide? Large Band Aid? Pressure? I’m sore but ok. My robe is not ok and will get to the cleaner when his shop opens–if I can walk without crutches.

Hell’s bells, I left my bifocals upstairs and go up to get them. Without thinking, I slip them on and see more clearly. There is little for me to do besides fix my breakfast and watch Lou Dobb’s re-play of yesterday’s commentary. At the top of the stairs, the dizziness strikes again. The same little voice tells me to sit still for a minute, hold tightly to the rail and go down. Putting my head in my hands increases the dizziness. I let go, sit up straight and focus my eyes , take hold of the railing and touch the floor safely to a point. I walk smack into the kitchen wall with a lot of force, shielding my eyes at the last second. My nose is not broken. My lungs still work. No sense denying it to myself. I am scared.

The street is still dark, has hours to go before sunrise. Think, think–what should I do? The helpful little voice is mute. Nobody is up as early as I am. I’ll wait. 911? Ridiculous! Go back upstairs, get an Ambien, try to sleep until Dr. Pierson’s office opens? Dumb! I might not wake up, ever. Drive myself to emergency? Another dumb idea!

The little voice tickles me. ‘Calm down, fix your breakfast, put the coffee pot on to brew, drink a large glass of OJ, scramble three eggs and throw in some cheese, toast a muffin and put raspberry preserves on it before it gets cold.’ Then go watch Lou Dobbs re-broadcast of last nite’s commentary.’ Hey, Fairy, you give good advice. Thanks.’

I obey without incident. My sleeve does not catch fire, no plate mysteriously falls on the floor, my banged up ankle doesn’t hurt any more and the bleeding has stopped. My tray and I sit down in the den and small talk the doofuses who email Lou Dobbs their stupid liberal thoughts.

Clunk, the newsboy has again hit the front door smack in the middle. I retrieve it, give the headlines a quick glance. It is all yesterday’s news. Today, almost for sure, I am canceling the Delray Daily and will get the news from my puter and t.v. It was a lousy paper even when it was in its hey day.

Before I take my tray to the kitchen I check the weather without the longitudes and high pressure systems. I open my door, see the sun shining, the sky blue, the temperature about 75 and I get on with the day. Shutting the door I notice orange and gold streaks of sunshine on the tile. Will I see that in the weather section of the Delray Daily? No, I will definitely cancel that paper today.

Everything is in order except my body. My internist of 25 years is too busy to see me today so I take second best, Dr. Martha Jonas, an associate. She too is scared and orders an immediate Cat Scan. Nothing there to worry about. My pressure is a little low but I know that is because I am nervous waiting for a simple answer. There are tests that have tests and I stay with Dr. Jonas all day. Two days more I wait and get a call, ‘Dr. Jonas would like to see you at 11 today. Don’t worry. Can you make it?’ ‘Unless hell freezes over, I’ll be there.’

I’m there at 10:30 in case she can take me earlier. She doesn’t. She smiles and says, ‘No tumors, no cancer, You are about four months pregnant!’ I literally scream at the top of my lungs. Waiting patients must believe I had a leg amputated without anesthetic. ‘My god, are you sure? That can’t be right. I’m almost 45. I thought my drooping belly was gas or normal aging. I thought I was in menopause. Are you sure?’ ‘Dr. Iman has confirmed it. Do you want to see your little boy’s picture?’

Tears rise. I vomit. I’m up a creek. I’m going to have a baby I don’t want. Was it my baby’s tiny voice that told me to hold the railing? It had to be. He was protecting us both. I need time to digest this news. I need to visit Mike. He leaves re-hab tomorrow. Oh, lordy, how can I spring this on him? We will have to re-do the spare room, make drastic changes in our supposed easy years. Our darling daughter is going to have a brother. She’ll be delighted, will help a lot. And most of all, we will have a son!

Mike glows with excitement, excitement I want to believe is honest. We do have many trepidations, concerns, but when we touch our special child’s tiny fingers in less than five months he will be ready for us and we will be ready for him!

PRESSURE POINTS

Another email from Donald, 3 in a row. Nobody can squeeze between his goofy emails to me. Usually I open one and delete the rest but today my fingers are getting telepathic cyberspace energy. The first one says,’Hello.’ The 2nd one also says ‘Hello’ and in bold it reads, ‘I’ve had enough. Donald.’ Without taking a moment to open #3, I email back, ‘Enough? Enough of what?’ My letter reaches him faster than the Tokyo express could. I had barely hit ‘send’ when # 4 arrives. ‘Everything. Everything!’

It’s 8 A.M. I am worried. Black, roiling clouds don’t let the sun come in. Huge raindrops make turbulent rivers down my kitchen windows. I call my friend, my long ago lover. He has caller ID, knows who it is but asks, ‘Who’s calling so early in the morning? You woke me up.’ My ears ring as he shouts into the phone, ‘I mean it. I’ve had it. I’ve got the big ‘A’. This isn’t right. I’m too young. Did we talk yesterday? I don’t remember. Were we married before went to Aruba?’ ‘Donald, calm down. What Big A do you have? Asthma, Arterial sclerosis, Aruba worms or a big, red Stayman Apple?’

His voice is shaky, trembles as if he were freezing. He is not playing a game with me. He’s headstrong, doesn’t think things out, just rushes his opinions and beliefs. With no discussion, no warning, he woke one morning, told me he had enough, packed his small traveling bag and disappeared for weeks. To this day I have no idea what ticked him off. It could have been my bright red toe nails or the way I slump at breakfast. The sad part is, Donald can’t explain his leaving to me because he doesn’t know. I can still clearly see him leaning on the rattan table, his eyes closed tight, taking a long drag on his Camel. The words came out staccato. ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough, more than enough.’ No explanation, no hug, no goodbye.

Aside from seeing each other once in a while when our urges urged us to meet, we continue our strange friendship, for instance, today’s loud, unexpected outburst. I grab my red and white golf umbrella and a light weight jacket from the hall closet and go to save him from himself-again. The non-stop rain is clogging the sewers. Donald is crazy and I’m crazier. I can get killed out here. Slow down to a crawl. Check your brights. Wham, a branch tears off a swaying tree and hits my roof. Oh, my god, I’m going to die, but I don’t. The rain slows a little, enough for me to make out Donald sitting on his front steps. He is shoeless, has on shorts and a soaking wet T shirt. His hair is plastered to his head. A closed umbrella lies on the pavement.

‘What took you so long, Chrisie?’ I can’t help but laugh at this pitiful man. ‘Didn’t you notice we had a whopper of a storm? Let’s go inside. I’ll dry you off.’ Rubbing him dry works well for both of us. The big ‘everything’ that pulled me here has evaporated. Donald is warm, loving and apologetic. He puts on dry clothes and starts to sing, goes back in the bathroom and comes out with a box of Rxes. He empties them all in the toilet, repeats, ‘I’ve had enough. No more medicines for me, Chrisie. Thanks for being here. Go home.’ ‘No, I’ll stay with you for a while.’ The ‘while’ passes and Donald takes me to the door, kisses me and sends me home.

I sleep easily knowing I saved him, got him back on track one more time. The phone rings at 3 a.m. It’s Donald. ‘Thanks, again. Goodbye.’This time he did have enough of ‘everything’. He must have had more medication someplace, took it all and has no more worries.

What did I do wrong? What should I have done? I am lost, empty and have had enough, ‘enough of everything.’

SMARTER?

‘Jamie, how about asking Alma if you can play in her house this afternoon? She’s in her yard playing with her new puppy. Mommie has someplace to go. Tell her you will eat lunch home.‘ ’Really, Mom?’ ‘Of course, really.’ Jamie puts her chalk board and damp cloth on the kitchen table and flies next door. The adorable fluffy retriever yips and nips at Jamie’s shoes. ‘Alma, can I hold her?’ ‘Sure, if you are careful. She’s just a baby. I’ll go ask my mother about today. Don’t worry, she’ll say ‘yes.’ Alma is back in a second. ‘I told you she’d say ‘yes.’ Mom will be home with us all afternoon.

The girls have fun. Fluffy takes short naps and wets the kitchen floor a lot. Alma wipes it up with newspapers and takes them to the trash can in the yard. ‘Jamie, how come your mother’s car is still out front? I thought she had to go someplace.’ ‘Maybe her friend, Miss Nicholson, called for her. Can we play mothers in your room? You choose the doll you want first.’ Alma puts Fluffy in the kitchen, closes all the doors so she can’t get into the living room and the girls go upstairs. They each take from the shelf one big doll that walks and talks and a small one that only says ‘Mama’ and wets like Fluffy.

Hours go quickly. Jamie looks out the front window and sees her mother get out of a shiny black car, wave to the driver, and hurry inside. ’My mother’s home now, Alma. I’d better go. Let me help you put everything back in place. If you want, you can come to my house tomorrow. I don’t know about Fluffy.’

‘Mommie, I’m back! Alma and I had a lot of fun. Her puppy is so cute. Wish I had one. Fluffy likes me, didn’t even bite. Did Mrs. Nicholson get a new car?’ ‘No. Why?’ ‘I saw you come home with somebody in a black car.’ ‘You don’t know Mrs. Lutz, Sweetheart. She and I had lunch together at Smitty’s, sat, talked, shopped and here I am. Please set the table in the kitchen. It’s easier than in the dining room. I’ll defrost a pot roast in the microwave in plenty of time for Dad to come home.’

‘Mom, I’ve invited Alma to come play here tomorrow and she said ‘sure.’‘You shouldn’t have done that, Jamie, without asking me. I’m not going to be home all day. Call her and cancel your invitation. Instead, tell her to come over at 11:30. I’ll fix an early lunch, then drive you two to the Stanley to see a Disney picture I saw when I was your age, ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’. I learned every song, still know them. The second kids’ feature will be ‘The Little Mermaid’. It is over at 3:30 and I’ll pick you up. Wait outside.’ ‘Swell, I’ll call Alma now.’

Before she can dial, the phone rings. A man says, ‘Hi, Hon.’ Jamie asks, ‘Who is this?’ The stranger’s voice says, ‘Sorry, wrong number.’ ‘Mom, Alma’s mother wants to thank you in advance. She will take care of Fluffy all afternoon so Alma can enjoy our afternoon together.’

The phone is ringing when Jamie and her mother come home. Jamie grabs it first. A man says, ‘Did you get the kids home on time?’ ‘Who IS this?’ she asks. The line goes dead. ‘Mom, the same man who hung up yesterday called. All he said was ‘Did you get the girls home on time? Then he hung up. Who was that?’ ‘I have no idea, Darling. Forget it.’ Jamie can’t. Each afternoon about 3 the phone rings twice and stops. Noone is there when Jamie answers. Once her mother reaches the phone first and in a low, soft voice whispers, ‘Stop calling now or ever!’ and slams the phone hard.

Jamie tells Alma about the strange calls. Alma tells her mother. Her mother tells Alma not to tell stories about friends but in the quiet of the night tells her husband.

Jamie’s parents argue a lot. He gets so angry he moves out. Jamie cries and cries. Her mother’s eyes are always red. She empties box after box of Kleenex. Mother and daughter are sad, lonely. So is Jamie’s father. It takes a long, long time but he does come back. Things are almost the way they used to be except– --Fluffy is full grown, doesn’t pee on the floor anymore. Janet and Alma no longer play with dolls. Instead they connive and talk secretly about cute boys, listen to rock music and make many decisions.

The ‘iron clad one’ is ‘We will never get married. We will each have two children and a puppy.’ Maybe they are smarter than their parents.

Maybe NOT.

A MUST-SEE TONIGHT ON HBO

"Taking Chance" is the most outstanding film I have seen in years. It has opened my mind and heart to those service men and women who have perished and those who survive. What is now being done, the honors given, the careful IDs, THE ACTING, should be a TV prize winner. It certainly wins in my book.

Try to find it and stick with it to the end.

A BROAD ABROAD

AH SO. Harry and I are headed west, northwest to reach the Far East. It is 1986. American Airlines, along with our travel agent, did us dirty from the start. We had been asked our seating preferences for the 25 hour non-stop flight. A few seats behind the wing, not over it, not close to the facilities and in the double seats, rather than the three seat section in the center of the plane. And what we get is a triple seat almost directly across from the facilities from which there is no doubt we will be drugged by strong deodorizers every time the door opens. My dander rises to the boiling point. The Steward Chief apologizes and says he will change us if he can find someone who needs a triple. That never happens. But we are moved forward away from the facilities which is better than nothing. Ha Ha!

Harry takes the window seat and I take the aisle. It looks like we are lucky and will have the space between to ourselves. The last stragglers get on and the very last one is our 250 pound tour guide. Carrying magazines, travel folders, she starts to crawl over my hunched up legs. My 12 ½ inches of tush room is about to be devoured by her bulging flesh. Being the nice person I am, I slip into the middle seat, giving her 12 3/4 inches and the aisle for her swollen feet.

Flying over Tokyo in the depth of night, the lit office buildings, Disney Land become part of the starlit sky. The Captain wakes us to prepare for landing. Thank you, Mon Capitain. I managed one hour of sleep. Will you taxi me directly to the Keio Hotel? He doesn’t hear me . Harry is wide awake. We wait until Miss Monster Mash gathers her papers and steps into the aisle before we make a move. My good deed starts to work. She gets our hand luggage down from the overhead, leads us directly thru a passport check and gets us, along with 40 others to our hotel in what she tells us is record time, 50 minutes. Room keys are ready. I grab ours while Harry stands in line to register.

As soon as I open the door to our room, I head straight for the bathroom, then for the bedspread that I toss on a chair, throw my clothes on top of it and fall into bed in my underwear.

At 7 a.m., I wake refreshed. Harry snores. He looks like an Angel, is an angel, as he hung up all of our clothes. As quietly as possible, I dress, get my pen and writing book and head to the lobby for some private, quiet note taking. A period after the first sentence and I am distracted by a woman coming thru the revolving door. She is wearing a white silk kimono with elaborate embroidered cherry trees seemingly growing from the hem to the shoulders. It is magnificent. She is a painted doll. Her headdress is ablaze with shiny sequins and her wooden clogs are almost silent. White face powder, crimson red lipstick turns her into a Christmas doll at Macy’s. Another young robed lady follows her in an even more elaborate kimono. Silver threads entwined with blue make a sky across her shoulders. Snow capped Mt. Fuji is embroidered on the back. Long, jangling earrings sound like music.Her cheeks have bright red circles dusted with gold. My pen is still, my eyes are wide.

As I look towards the door, I notice a nice looking slender, small Asian man watching me. He smiles. I get nervous. In clear English he simply bids me good morning. ‘Did you know that Saturdays are wedding days in Tokyo? You are seeing the parade. The grooms come later. Have you ever been to Washington, DC? He asks. ‘Yes, I live close to it, in Baltimore.’ Another nice smile. ‘I have been there too. I am a newspaper reporter and travel a lot. From here I am going home to Yokohama.’ I listen but my eyes remain on the brides. ‘Each bride comes from a different village, all wear the traditional dress. If you know the area, you can decipher what each kimono means. The colors, fabrics, even the kerchiefs in their sleeves are significant. ‘You are quite fortunate to be here on Saturday and have such a perfect view of the parade.’

We watch and chat for almost an hour. Harry comes off the escalator, waves to me, comes over to see what is gong on. After breakfast we will be going sight seeing so he has his name tag pinned on his jacket. My new friend stands and shakes hands with Harry. His small black eyes blaze. Excitedly he asks, ‘Your name is Sase?’ Harry nods yes. ‘My name is Sase, also.’ ‘You must be kidding.’ ‘ No, I am not. Here is my ID card. See our names are the same.’ Coincidences like this are rare, especially with an Asian and an American. Does Harry have a cousin 10th removed in China? We are all amazed.

Harry invites Mr. Sase #2 to have breakfast with us but he declines as he has a business appointment. We say goodbye, have our breakfast with the group and head for the bus. Just as the driver starts to close the door, Mr. Sase wraps heavily on it. I guess he spoke in Japanese because the driver turns off the motor and Mr. Sase gets on, hands me a large box of chocolates and a lovely bouquet of small blue and pink flowers that I cannot name. He also hands me his business card and asks me to write to him when we get back in the States. I promise I will and he is gone.

I do not wait to get back home, but write to him from Beijing. Perhaps he is traveling. Perhaps my letter will be lost. Perhaps he will be Shanghied in Shanghai. Anything can happen.

I have sent at least ten letters and five years have passed. I still scan each day’s mail hoping Mr. Sase, Harry’s Asian cousin, will miraculously knock on our door. If he does, I will be ready to show him our traditions, a Bar Mitzvah, an Orthodox wedding.

That will be almost tit for tat and a partial repayment for an unforgettable memory. Tomorrow I’ll write again.

TOO MUCH EVERYTHING

Blubber Belly won’t wake up. She wears her blinders like a horse approaching the race gate. Her ears are plugged while her mouth is open, accepting whatever is aimed at it. There are no full length mirrors in her home and she doesn’t believe the lying ones in dressing rooms. They are like the mirrors in fun houses. We are young old friends who don’t always understand one another.

She would disown me if she ever read my thoughts when I call her ‘Blub’ for short...but she IS at least fifty pounds overweight today. Tomorrow? I punish myself constantly for nagging her yet cannot stop. Never have I been told to mind my own business. . If it comes down to that, our friendship may die. If I don’t stop doing my best to wake her from self-destruction, she will die. So far, she goes her merry way and I go my disturbing, sad way behind her.

For an exceptionally intelligent woman, a member of Mensa, Blub is a Dumb Dora. Her husband bought her a stationary bike and a treadmill, set up a cozy exercise room for them both in the club room. With much enthusiasm they worked together–for two weeks, when Blub had a morning hair appointment and skipped the Monday session. Gradually she skipped Tues. And soon hubby exercised alone.

When Blub and I meet for lunch, I avert my eyes as her order of pork ribs with fries on the side appears. A fudge brownie with whipped creams broadens her smile and her waist. I almost gag.

We are nearing, I think, the break up of our 30 year friendship. Zipping my lip is almost impossible. Her holding her tongue against my constant criticisms, suggestions has to be at the breaking point.

For her 40th birthday I gave her a one month gift certificate to Weight Change that now delivers daily calorie counted, attractive, tasty meals. Their ad guarantees that sticking to the meals and doing mild exercises daily, 15 pounds will disappear the first month. That’s doesn’t sound like a lot which just may be an incentive to Blub. She was thrilled to lose 5, five that I know, but she won’t accept, was only water, not fat. I was not fooled. Surely my friend added tidbits of all kinds to every serving.

For her 42nd birthday I sent flowers to the mortuary. Blub had a massive stroke and died within a week. No longer will she hear my pleas to take care of herself. No longer will I have my oldest and dearest friend.

Her husband continues to exercise, probably more strenuously.

TAKE YOUR PICK

My mother sits in the shade facing me as I play in the park’s sand box. She waves to me, jumps up fast when she sees Tessie yank my shovel out of my hand, gets it back for me and loudly scolds her. ‘It’s too crowded in here, Mama. I’d rather go on the swings.’ ‘Child, it isn’t crowded here. The trouble is the sand box is too small.’ Mama laughs but I don’t think that is funny.

I get my bucket, and when I put the shovel in, I see it is bent it half. I’m mad. I push Tessie and she pushes me back.. Mama grabs my arm and leads me to the swings. Two are empty. She gets there before I do and holds one for me. There is no bench, no tree to shade her. ‘Go back where you were, Mama. I’ll be okay.’ Mama starts to go and stops. There is Tessie headed for the other empty swing. Like a frog, she leaps on it, grabs the side chains and starts twisting herself and the swing into a large knot. When she can’t turn further, she lifts her feet and the swing reverses, spins madly and starts a third turn. Mama tells her not to do that anymore. She is going to break the swing. No sense asking Mama if I can try it. I know the answer.

Well before I do, Mama hears thunder. It’s far, far away. ‘Let’s go, Dolly. Where there’s thunder, there’s lightning. Let’s get away from these iron links.’ It’s no good to me now so I take my broken shovel and throw it near Tessie’s feet, call her a witch and run home. Mama gets there first and has the door open for me. The storm hits hard and I am glad because Tessie must be getting soaked. I hope she drowns.‘For that nasty remark, Miss Big Mouth, no dessert tonight.’

Sunday is picnic, beach day. Beach is not exactly the right description as it is nothing like Atlantic City. Our public beach is along the Modesa River. Mostly it is brown mud. The water is green and the sun is on fire. There are shady trees, tables, benches, a hot dog stand, cold drinks and no Tessie. This will be a happy day. Mama, Daddy, my sister and brother, both more grown up than I, eat all the delicious lunch Mama had packed for us. The chicken disappeared fast along with potato chips, pickles, fresh peaches and sour Concord grapes. Daddy has told me before I have to wait an hour after eating before going in the water. If I don’t, I might get cramps and drown. I dig in the wet sandy mud or muddy sand. The hour is almost up and who do I see getting out of their car but Tessie? As they walk towards us, Mama says, ‘Did youhear that thunder? If there’s thunder, lightning is there too. Put the trash in the barrels and get everything into the car. We’re leaving now!’ ‘But Mama, I have to go in the river to get this mud off, please.’ ‘Make it quick. We’ll get your wet suit off in the car.’ We are barely off the camp grounds when big rain drops pelt the windows, then small balls of sleet. Daddy has to drive very slowly, carefully and gets us home safely. ‘I bet you my Betty Boop doll that Tessie is stuck there and I hope she never gets home’ ‘Shut that mouth, Dolly. Shut it now!’ ‘But, Mama, Tessie is bad luck. She brought this storm like she did at the playground.’ ‘Nonsense, utter nonsense.’

Baker St. Carnival opens tonight. Streets in all directions are roped off so I can walk there by myself. The first place I go with my pennies is the Arcade. They disappear fast but that’s okay as I saw Buster Keaton stand still while a big wooden farm house falls all around him and he doesn’t get hurt. I’ve seen it 3 times and still like it. Mama knows how much I want to go on the ferris wheel and is going to go on with me. On only the third time around, we get stuck on the way down and I know why. I saw Tessie and her brother get on. We sit there and swing a little, then start and stop. Each car empties at the ramp. The mechanic gives us all our money back but that doesn’t make me happy. I wanted to go higher than I do on the swings, maybe touch the sky.

Tessie really must be the witch I called her. Every place she goes, something bad happens. ‘No, Dolly, she’s not a witch. A better word is ‘Jinx’. Your description is perfect.’ I think about that most of the day. At dinner I ask my question. ‘Why are we saying Tessie is a jinx? Why, Mama? I am at the same places Tessie is when a storm comes. I might have made the ferris wheel break down. Maybe I stepped on my own shovel and broke it. I might be the bad jinx. Right, Mama? Right, Everybody?’

‘Dolly, you are not a jinx–but what you are is pretty smart. You’re smarter than I am. Next time you see Tessie, smile, make-up with her, both of you apologize. You’ll see, the Jinx Queen will disappear and you two will be friends.’

Mama was wrong as I am not smarter than she is but she is right that Tessie isn’t a bad girl and neither am I. ‘I bet you my Betty Boop doll, Mama, we girls will be friends, sooner or later.’

DIFFERENT STROKES

She’s a small woman, not abnormally small, about 5 feet with such a poor posture she looks almost childlike. Clara is comfortable with her appearance. Never have I seen her straighten her spine, pull back her shoulders. What I have seen her do since we became semi-friends 5 years ago is open a jar of pickles without a screwdriver or any type of gimmick. That was nothing compared to watching her remove the flat on her Honda, put on the temporary spare and nonchalantly drive herself to a garage for replacement.

She lives with her older sister, Joan, a few blocks from my apartment. Can these gals really be sisters? They were poured from separate molds. Joan is, I guess, 5'8", is always on parade even at her computer, ramrod straight. Not being an out and out snoop, still I am aware of the huge amount of mail they receive. It overflows the metal box near the front door. The mailman has left a canvas bag, right below the box that takes care of in and out going mail. What do they get? I can’t imagine.

Clara drives a high speed lawn mower once a week, digs any needed holes, removes debris. She can take that mower apart and put it back together whenever it throws a tantrum. Joan tenderly cares for the tea roses, wisteria vine and yellow Shasta daisies. The fair sized lot is almost worthy of being in House and Garden.

On hot summer evenings as I stroll past their house I often can smell strong, Italian meals baking. My mouth waters but have never been invited in, nor have they ever accepted my rare invitations. They don’t need me. I don’t need them. Now and then we meet at the super- market. Joan makes the choices, reaches the high cans and Clara pushes the cart, goes too fast for Joan who glowers at her. ‘Don’t rush me. Tomato sauce is on sale and I want a few more cans.’

Last week at Muvico I caught a glimpse of the girls in line. Each bought her own ticket. Clara, went in to theater # 3 to see ‘WWIII’ a rough film of annihilation, disease, the end of the world. Joan, wearing a soft chiffon blouse and wide silk slax went into theater #7 to see a remake of ‘Grease.’

My boyfriend and I decided at the last second not to stay. We opted for pizzas with lots of toppings and a glass or two of Chianti. Neither of us had much to say but our thoughts were evidently spinning in the same direction. ‘Know what I think, Sweetie. I think the Joan and Clara sisters aren’t sisters.’ ‘Yep, I think you are right. Do you care?’ ‘Why the devil should I care? They are what they are, can do what they want to do, Right?’ ‘Right!’

‘And we can do what we want to do. Let’s go back to your place. O.K.?’ ‘O.K.’

MERRY GO ROUND

Yes, he loves me. There is no reason for me to doubt it, but for me, his declarations make little sense. They fly in and out of my head like swallows off to Capistrano. There is no way I can be what he thinks I am. My mirror of truth shows me an old woman, alert, active, who without her realizing it, once must have been quite pretty–but is not now. Current, constant compliments don’t work, don’t make me feel good. Instead they eat into my very being. I hunch my shoulder, glare at him, ask him to ‘cut it out’ while this dear man rattles on.

Yes, I love him too. I am one of many. His heart is made of golden fibers, weaving themselves around his wife, family, friends, strangers. No, he doesn’t live in Calcutta, isn’t a rival to Mother Theresa, but is a far greater humanitarian than I am. We often talk on the phone, email each other. I ask, ‘What are you doing today, Jimmy?’ ‘ I had a golf game set but Harvey’s wife called to let me know that her husband had a heart attack last nite. ‘ Don’t move. I’m leaving now. I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes. I’ll be with you all day. Talk to you later’ He does exactly that, supporting, encouraging, is there for her, there for Harvey.

The next day he is at church, lighting candles for a child he doesn’t know who was shot by a stranger for no known reason. We meet for lunch. First words to me are, ’You look so pretty today. That blue is most becoming.’ His light meal is finished almost before I start mine. ‘I’m sorry, but Will, I told you about him, needs a ride to Johns Hopkins for more tests. I offered to take him.’ And he is gone, staying there with Will thru 5 hours of testing.

Somehow he works into his busy ‘doing unto others’, an occasional tennis match, a movie and time for me. How fortunate I am to have this man in my life who showers me with kindness, endearing words, sympathy, understanding, who ignores my pleas to stop flowering me with compliments I know I do not deserve. He does not see my side of what I see in him, is unaware of what his bright, happy smile does for whoever he touches. How do I respond to this remarkable person?

Easily. I silently love him back.

THE OVERSEER

Am I my father’s daughter, or not? I vote ‘yes.’ Dad was a dentist, back in the 30's to the 60's–a very respected one. He gently taught me how to brush my teeth, downstrokes for the upper and up strokes for the lowers. Floss, floss, floss, go easy on sweets. What he didn’t know didn’t hurt him but hurt me. Candy and cookies were magnates for me but I was careful not to let him catch me over-doing it. I must have had more cavities than normal but Dad checked my teeth so often, I was never subjected to the long novocain needle or excessive drilling, the whirring sound making my blood run cold.

Growing up teeth were an obsession for me. My girlfriend, Helen, fixed me up with her brother’s friend just for a Saturday movie. First thing I noticed, even before the pimples, were his yellow/green teeth. What a turn off! ‘Helen, how could you do this to me? I doubt Tommy has ever been to a dentist his whole life. I bet his breath smells bad too.’

Mary, fun to be with Mary, has a broken front tooth. It is not a pretty sight on anyone, much less on a pretty face. My father would cap it right away, but then again, Mary’s father is a shoemaker. On the other hand, when my shoes need soles, mother takes them in for repair.

I watch people chew, notice their jaws are out of line, some may have TMJ and not even realize they can be helped. My own teeth are not perfect but they are straight, aligned. Two months of uncomfortably wearing night plates worked. Dad and I were both pleased with my cooperation and the result.

My dental paranoia never really left me but abated when I became the loving wife of a haberdasher. White sox with trousers make me wince. Low sox, the naked leg showing when seated disgusts me. Suspenders, even though we sell them, remind me of hicks, sitting on rotting wooden porches, chomping lazily on scratchy dried hay, ruining the enamel on their teeth.

Where are the wives of men wearing checked shirts above plaid Bermuda shorts? My god! Tasteless creeps. I silently call them, ‘Fools, if you must wear those dumb looking caps with baseball team names, or foul words, put the visor in front and stop worrying about the nape of your neck getting sunburned. You really do look like first class jerks. Wait, I take that back. You don’t look like first class anything.’

For the young and many who think they are but are far from it, pull up your torn, washed out jeans. If you think for a moment the crack in your arse is sexy, think again. Get rid of your flip flops. The sound flips me out as well as your untrimmed toe nails and dirty feet. They look stinky and if I cared to take a whiff, I’m sure I would be right.

Mohawks, baldness, dread locks, scruffy beards, belie what’s inside your head, There must be brains. Look at yourselves, keeping up with other groups, other freaks. Look slowly, carefully. Maybe you’ll understand, but I’m not placing a bet on it.

I’m getting off my soap box now because tonight is a big one, a formal party honoring my parents’ golden anniversary. Handshakes, flowers, liquor, music, gala and then I see my brother, my good-looking, stylish brother and almost die of embarrassment. His gold cuff links are antiques, his bow tie is perfectly centered. He bends to brush off his shoe and I see his white sox! I avoid him the entire evening and pray over and over that nobody else has noticed his gaff.

I try to force myself to believe it, but don’t and he’ll hear about it from me tomorrow and maybe forever.

GRAND LESSON

I am standing on the edge of the Carnite Precipice at the Grand Canyon, the horns of my dilemma digging into my shoulder blades. No watery eyes but they are temporarily in a swollen ball in my heart and are ready to burst. Beauty surrounds me from the pink sky to the deepest depths of red, orange and brown boulders. The tour guide warns me to move back from the edge. I do it without an argument and fade into the group. We are preparing for a mule ride along the North ridge. More or less, I’m praying my mule loses its footing and we plunge over the edge, solving my problem.

This trip is my very first alone. From here on, if there are other trips, my Mike won’t be with me. He’ll be back in Omaha with his mistress of three years. What an actor he has been and what a fool I was. His sweetness and love were the food that nourished ‘our’ bliss. Now I smell his garbage, see the flies and worms on his words, his kisses.

Can I do it, get on the mule and kick it hard so we both tumble over the side? Mighty Mule and I are ready, in the center of the slow moving group on the way down. I hold tightly to the rope, touch the animal’s head, loosen my grip. We sway a tiny bit. I grab tight again. We are not going down to the river, unless I go alone.

The cliffs tower to the sky. The sun is high above them, shining directly on us. It is a beautiful ride back to the top and I have not done myself in–yet. There is no shortage of spots to make my exit but I keep finding excuses to wait for the next chance . It isn’t fair for me to ruin this trip for so many people. The guide might lose his job for not taking more precautions. More than one person will be assigned to go down and bring up my body, and the worst thing about my leaving is I’ll make Mike happy!

As the sun starts to hide behind the highest cliffs, the sky turns into a rainbow of colors and I drink them in. Whistles, alarms sound. ‘Visitors return to your cars and busses. Cold drinks are available.’ I take a coke and hand one to the lady sitting beside me. We start a polite impersonal conversation. Myra lifts her straw towards her mouth and her hand begins to tremble. The bottle spills on her lap and runs down her legs. Our guide instantly comes to help. While she wipes Myra’s clothes and legs, Myra apologizes to me, asks if she ruined my blouse. Without skipping a beat, she adds, ‘I have Lou Gehrig’s disease. It is progressing rapidly so I booked this trip with my husband. He had a stroke and died last month. Now I am taking it alone, and I have already booked a two week trip to China. I’m going to walk on the Great Wall before I can’t.’

I wake up from the Land of Selfish Stupidity. Those horns ease out of my shoulder blades. I’m healthy, wealthy and wiser, am not going to sacrifice my one and only life on a louse like Mike.

As soon as I get home, I’m calling World Tours and will keep my eyes peeled for Myra when I get to the Great Wall.

SOONER OR LATER

I didn’t grasp it. Cowboys and Indians got shot and were back the next Saturday in another movie. My school friend, Harold lost his father, stayed home from school all week. I was sure he would find him hiding someplace, but he never did.

The heat had not yet reached the radiators. Saturday I came downstairs early, dressed, ready for my breakfast and two street car rides to art school. My drawing board and other stuff were where I left them before going to sleep, by the front door. Mother and Dad were sitting in the living room. Only the small reading lamp was lit. Daddy looked up and softly told me I could go back to bed. ‘ No school today. Grandpa died last night.’ ‘But I want to go to school. I practiced a lot and think I know how to mix skin color right. My teacher will give me extra credit.’ I hear Mother crying. Daddy goes over and holds her close. I never saw him do that before so I go over and hold on too.I go downstairs, get my art things, take them in the kitchen to practice some more.

Earlier than usual, Sunday morning I hear my parents, downstairs. They are dressed. Daddy hands me the comics that are mine alone on Sundays. I wait for them every week and spend most of the day drawing the Katzenjammer Kids, Mutt and Jeff, Winnie Winkle. My friends live and talk to me. ‘ We’ll be at Grandma’s house, Esther. Aunt Mollie will bring you over later. Be a good girl.’

‘Aunt Mollie, did Grandpa really die? Why? You mean I’ll never, ever see him again?’ Aunt Mollie only nods her head, ‘Yes.’ I don’t believe her. ‘If he went away, where did he go? Why isn’t he coming back?’ ‘Esther, darling, I can’t answer your questions. Grandpa must be in heaven with god. We can’t see them but we know they are together and that Grandpa is safe, well and happy. We will have to believe that forever.’ ‘No! No! Grandpa wouldn’t leave me. Who is gong to buy me ice cream cones, tell me stories, going to color with me when I get the grippe again?’ ‘Esther, it’s time to go to Grandma’s house. Ready?’ ‘No, I’m not ready. If Grandpa’s not there, I’m not going. ‘ Aunt Molly takes my hand and we go.

Strangers are going in and out. I never saw any of them before. Most going in are carrying little presents, presents without pretty ribbons and bows. Nobody rings the bell or knocks. They walk right in. Aunt Mollie, tickles me, smiles and say, ‘Be quiet. Be a good girl.’ Mother is in the crowded living room, sitting on an empty wooden orange crate, next to my Uncle Maishe and Aunt Sally. They have black ribbons pinned to their clothes. It is easy to see Mother had been crying. Her eyes are red and puffed up. Mrs. Bonder puts a box of cookies on the old piano, next to other boxes. “Momma, can I have a cookie, please?’ ‘Not now, Esther. Maybe later. Why don’t you go play in the back yard for a while. Cousin Stanley is out there.’

‘Momma, where is Grandpa? Aunt Mollie said he is in heaven with god. Is he really? How did he get up in the sky? There’s Grandma.’ ‘Grandma, Grandma, tell these people to go home. It’s too crowded in here. Are you going to go see Grandpa? Can I go if you go?’ Grandma starts to cry, puts one arm around me and uses her other to blow her nose in one of the handkerchiefs I gave her for her birthday. ‘No, Darling, Esther. We can’t visit Grandpa now. We have to wait our turn. God will call us some day.’ ‘But, Grandma, I don’t want to wait. I want Grandpa to come home soon.’ ‘He is home, Sweetheart. He’s with us now. He’ll always be with us. Just keep him in your mind and heart. He’ll know your miss him. Now go out in the back yard with the other children. ‘ Grandma, please don’t you go away too. I love you.’

I walk over to the piano, take a big, unopened box of cookies, go out in the yard to share them with my cousins and strangers.
A strong credit score is 700 or above.

SURRENDER

Not by choice, I have become a loner. No, I don’t like it but it is now imbedded in my guts, guts that have tied me, strangled the years, the joy from my soul. That is, if I ever had a soul. If I did, it has evaporated, disappeared, leaving me with pens, paper and my computer to whom I am devoting my mind, my sanity. Sanity is still a surety but something, something big, is clouding my electric impulses to write 15, 16 hours a day. I had better listen to myself before it is too late and adjust my wires.

O.K., Self, go slowly, cut down to 12 first. Clock your writing time and stick to it down to 10. As a creature of habit, a lot of my ‘writing’ time is filled with thinking. Don’t try to wheedle out, count the time ‘at work.’ Tomorrow go for a walk, get outside, stop for lunch, tomorrow. Stop that. Not the next day–tomorrow. Do it!

Dragons breathing fire trample me. I try to get out of their claws and run, run to my wife waiting in the far off castle. The dream is an omen. Get out, get out from under. Live, you may find happiness. It’s possible, but not likely, a new love.

I do my usual in the early morning, have coffee, toast heaped with butter, a bowl of Shredded Wheat. Every time I eat that straw I think the same thing. Am I crazy? This is as bad as eating dried up hay must be. Who are the other idiots who keep General Mills in business producing this crap? I laugh at myself and finish the shreds, the cold milk and every last blueberry.

And there he is, my very best friend, Mr. Computer, ready to send me to Word Perfect by rocket ship. Yesterday’s notes seem to float on the screen. My internal clock has no alarm but my watch does. 11 A.M. already. I do one more page and send my friend to Hybernate Land. So far, so good. I shower, rub myself briskly, shave dress comfortably, good walking shoes that have not yet walked and I’m out the door.

The fresh air invigorates me. Blue skies excite my imagination and I turn back to the house to get my pent up feelings into print. An hour flies away. I grit my teeth and leave the house again. My shoes feel great and the blue sky is even bluer. I walk to Le Chaise for a rare, leisurely lunch. ‘ My waitress has on a yellow starched blouse with ‘Daisy’ embroidered on the pocket. ‘ Lox/ eggs and onions–Nova, lox, onions well sauteed, a bagel with everything on it and good, strong, hot regular coffee.’

‘Stupido! Why didn’t you bring your writing book? This place is a gold mine of characters.’ As I search the faces, I realize the table next to me has all the flatware for four diners on top of paper place mats. I ask nobody to do my dirty work, stand, move all the flatware to the middle of the table and confiscate the place mats I can write on both sides and accomplish a lot. Slyly, at least I think unobtrusively, I study some of the faces, moving mouths, outlandish caps and my pen moves on its own volition. I am almost, but not completely, unaware that others think I’m insane.

My lox/eggs and onions arrive. Miss Daisy takes me to task. ‘Why did you mess up the other table? If you needed paper for your scribbling, I would have given you some.’ ‘Daisy, I apologize. I’m really sorry. It was a spur of the moment foolish act.’ As she stood there I folded my two word covered pages and sat on them, handed her the two unused. It was ‘shut up’ time and I attacked my lunch before the eggs would be cold and tasteless. Daisy’s eyes burned thru my back as I neatly returned the salt and pepper to their place of honor, put my used fork, spoon and knife on my almost empty plate and set my wooden chair straight.

The walk home, combined with over-eating, made me sleepy. Was my hot coffee drugged? I put the messy writing next to my computer, waved so long to it and went upstairs for a few minutes rest. My walking didn’t stop when my eyes closed. A big, black bull was standing in a field of yellow daisies, snorting, pawing the earth. The bullfighter in the yellow shirt dropped her skirt and ran screaming from the charging beast. My heart was racing so fast, I woke up, a little dazed. The dream didn’t die as fast as most do. Was it a premonition, an idea to put into practice? Was the bull my bruised ego? Did the yellow bloused Daisy send me an invitation by dropping her skirt?

The digital clock blinked and changed to 3:35. ‘Go write,’ I told myself and myself answered, ‘Not now. I’m taking a vacation.’ The walk did me a lot of good. On the dining room table for tomorrow, I left my writing book, two published articles of mine from last week’s Niagara Star.

Under the chair, I left my walking shoes and clean sox, ready for a corned beef on rye, fries and a smile at Le Chaise.

MOVIN’ ON

Without giving a great deal of consideration as to what is inside, Bibby puts her key in the front door lock and turns it. Jeff, one step behind her, is holding a large, heavy carton filled with necessities. A strong, stale smell almost gags Bibby until the sunshine floods in. Jeff puts the box on a wooden table, the only piece of furniture the previous owners left. The table wobbles on its 3 matching length legs and one about 2 inches too short. ‘That’s nothing, Bib, I can saw off the 3 long legs, some day, or we can call Good Will and they’ll take it out of here. Let’s get all the windows open!’

The living room windows slide up as if they are on a sheet of greasy ice. The dining room’s big bay window, the place where dreams can be born, don’t budge. Bibby puts her arms around Jeff. Jeff enfolds Bibby. Their great expectations for their new old house crumble for a while. Impatient Jeff gets an extension ladder from their van and gives the bay window a careful exam from the outside. He pushes from where he stands while Bib uses all her strength from the dining room. No use. No use crying, being upset. They decide to check the kitchen and put away whatever they can in the pantry.

The moving van must be on its way. There is little to do. Mrs. McCarty left the place clean. Bib just dry mops the floors to get the accumulated dust out. All the lovers can do is wait. Jeff gets antsy, doesn’t like being unoccupied. ‘Bib, how’s your back?’ ‘Why? Nothing’s wrong with my back.’ ‘Then let’s go upstairs and see how soft the floor is.’ He winks and smiles. She gets the drift and takes his hand. They spread their clothes on the floor and never think about the missing mattress. There is no grappling, no rush. It is a warm, wonderful way to initiate their bedroom. With the van not yet there, they test the guest room.

Jeff had the house prepared for their moving in. The water, electricity, A C and heat are in order. The fridge is on low and cold. There is time for a quick shower but there are no towels, not a single roll of Bounty but there is toilet tissue in place and it suffices for their faces and other spots. Together they go outside, sit on the cool granite steps to wait. ‘Bibby, Mayflower moving van approaching from the West.’ It backs into the driveway and four hulks get out. All of the carefully marked cartons go to the right places. Jeff had prepared large simple drawings of each room and what furniture goes where. Those he tapes to every door. Within two hours everything is done.

The four Atlases are ready to leave when Jeff gets another great idea. He calls the driver over and explains about the bay windows. ‘Maybe you strong men can open them. Will you try?’ ‘No problem.’ Man #1 can’t do it and gives up. Man #2 looks over the situation, takes off his shoes and climbs up on the bowed window skirt. He feels around the inside panels, pulls a small screwdriver from his back pocket and releases an almost invisible safety lock, one burglars usually don’t see.All 3 windows open. The driver gives Jeff his bill. Jeff signs it and hands him a check in full, plus $20 to each of the 3 workers and $40 for the Bay Window Savior.

The van heads East. Jeff and Bib fix sandwiches from the contents of the carton still on the old table that might get fixed someday. They are drugged on tiredness, exhausted, plain tired.

Their mattress is clean, comfortable, even without the sheets in place. It’s just as good as the guest room floor, maybe better.

THE DICTATOR

Oh, no! That last page is blurry.Why doesn’t my printer warn me earlier that the ink cartridge is almost down to the last drop? ‘Bess, do me a favor, just slip on a pair of jeans, a shirt that isn’t too tattered, a sweater and old shoes. I’m out of ink again. Get me a black HP 240 right away. This story has to be at the editor’s by noon. Money’s on my night stand. Hurry!’ ‘Dad, for god’s sake why don’t you let me get a few cartridges instead of one every other day or two? You’re a pest. I’m doing my yoga exercises. I’ll be done in ½ hour.’ ‘ You can sit like a lotus flower when you get back. I need the ink NOW!’ The front door slams.’

A nice cup of warm cocoa with a sweet roll is what I need to relax, think, think. A new story? A new story? I’m blank. ‘Hi, Frank. I’ll send the hard copy of Chapter 2 right after Bess comes back with a new cartridge for me. I swear HP is putting less ink inside and charging more every time I run out. My daughter will have it in your hands before noon. I promise.’

‘Here’s your stinkin’ ink, Daddy. The next time you do this to me you had better have some bucks handy, or you will be going to Office Depot yourself.’ ‘What’s with you, Bess? I do plenty for you that you don’t even notice. Go do your yoga and by the time you are finished my printing will be done and you can take it to Frank’s. He expects you by12.’

The house is deathly quiet. I love it. My new chapter for ‘Road House’ will have to be read, re-read. The house erupts with noises. ‘Danny, turn that t.v. lower. How can I think with Sky Walker yelling gibberish? In fact, turn it off! Go to Pearsons’ for me. I used my last good blade this morning. Get me a dozen extra sharp- Atra. You know what kind I like. I think you have been sneaking one now and then. Ask Mom if she needs anything special while you’re there. She’s ironing.’ ‘Dad, can’t you wait? I’ve got my own things to do. Charlie and I are going to the driving range, hit a few buckets of practice balls.’ ‘No, I can’t wait. Get what I want first, then do what you want to do, or you won’t have my car to do it.’ My car purrs and Danny is gone. The house is quiet again.

My mind catches fire. ‘The Road House’ catches fire too. Chapter 3 starts to materialize. Hold on–smell the smoke, see the tiny flames burst into giants and shatter the windows. Feel the heat. Hear the engines. Write it down! Fingers fly over Word Perfect. Chapter 3 is done, 4 is maybe ½ done, maybe close to an ending. Think, think.

‘Maggie, get dinner going but make less noise, please. I’m doing a re-write and need to concentrate, do a little more research. Bring me a cold drink, please. The fridge opens, ice cubes dropping in my glass sound like the Titanic hitting the iceberg. Water trickles in. As I reach for the glass, the cold water is plunked over my head. What drops from it, falls on my papers, my story. What happened? Why did you do that, Maggie?’

‘Cause I’m tired of you ordering me around. Next time you want something, Honey, get it yourself. I’ve got other things to do besides kissing your rump.’ I don’t believe what she did to me, wipe off my papers as best I can and start my re-write over.

‘OK, Honey, that’s the way you want to play, go ahead ask me to do you a favor.’ Maggie asks me to take out the garbage and I give her the finger and the raspberries so hard, I spit in my own face.

That darn woman laughs at me and I don’t care. I still love her.

GEORGE’S DISTANT RELATIVE

I am not George Washington. I cannot say, ‘I’ve never told a lie’ because those very words would be a lie. What I must tell you first is this: over the years I believe I have become quite an accomplished liar. And let me add the most important point, my lies have never been malicious, have never meant to hurt anyone, whereas my truth would.

So many years have passed since I lied for the first time, yet I can go back to my early childhood and see my Aunt Rose, offering me a green lollipop. My eyes must have bugged out. I shook my head no and told her I don’t want it. My daddy doesn’t like me to eat so much candy and I have to stop. The green lollipop was my favorite kind, sweet and sour. I was up the creek , enjoy my gift or disobey Daddy. I lied. My Aunt Rose put that gorgeous green lollipop into a little brown bag, patted me on the head and told me what a good child I was.

When Theresa told Molly that I liked Harvey and wanted to marry him, I told Molly I hated that boy and he hated me and besides my mother wouldn’t let me marry him then. I had to get a lot older than six.

Then somebody flicked a switch and I was in junior high school, making good marks and good friends. Miss Swerdlin, the Vice Principal, asked me to help her Saturday morning. The stage for graduation had to be set up and she couldn’t carry all the chairs herself. It didn’t take me long to lie to her as I saw no reason for me to give up my Saturday when it wasn’t my graduation. Nat and I were going to see Superman Meets the Green Hornet. ‘Miss Swerdlin, I’m sorry I can’t help you. My cousin Marc is being Bar Mitzvahed and I am being dragged along. There is a big luncheon when the service is over so that will take up almost the whole day.’ Did I do her harm? Did I hurt her? No, she had plenty of schmos who were glad to get away from household chores with their fathers.

In high school lies became easier and more frequent. It was actually fun sometimes. I hated my history teacher because he was a lousy teacher and should have been de-teached. My avid dislike of English history was his fault. He made it boring as gray dust on a gray floor. Twice a week I lied to him and he never questioned my poor excuse.

Mr. Marsh knew I liked art so my lie seemed plausable.’ I and a few other art majors have been selected to paint original posters for the Red Cross. The posters will go on exhibition at Pennsylvania train station and people will buy them. The money raised will all go to the Red Cross.’ That was 1/4 true and the rest a big, whopping lie. Actually I did make one poster, a good one, and it was on exhibit in the school’s glass case near the principal’s office. Hardly anybody noticed it. Nobody saw my name on it and the Red Cross got nothing. Maybe I shouldn’t have used this one as an example, but it is too late now.

‘Hi, Zel. Do you like my hair like this?’ Oh, god. I looked at Bernice and her beautiful long blond curls that I had wished I had, were cut off. She looked like a freak. Her smiling face lost its glow, didn’t shine. ‘Bern, it looks great. I hardly recognized you. What a change.’ I never doubted she caught me, knew I was lying, but the alternative would have been worse.

And when I had a boyfriend, we did a lot of kissing, hugging and I did the lying. My mother would ask where we were last nite, yesterday afternoon, and I always was quick on the trigger. ‘Oh, we bumped into Sal and Becky at the park and just talked a while.’ We went to the movies with Jack and Jill. Merle Oberon is so pretty, isn’t she, Mom?’We were never in danger at the zoo, in the amusement park, walking along country lanes. Never did we go further than those tasteless, boring kisses, hugging, holding hands and I lied to my girlfriends about how in love we were. It was a really big lie. Two naive kids who knew nothing we should have known. I told my girlfriends how in love Bernie and I were and to myself so many times I believed me.

My best friend broke her leg. I visited her often. Watching her struggle to get out of her big easy chair was not easy for her. She managed to grab her crutches, lift her left leg that was enclosed in a ten ton plaster cast, take a couple teetering hops and sit on another chair. I did feel bad for her predicament, her misery and then uttered the most stupid lie of the year, ‘It hurts me worse than it hurts you. I can’t see you suffer so much.’ Hell, I could do the jitterbug, fly under my date’s legs, while she still had eight more miserable weeks ahead before the doctor took his saw and got that ghastly cast off.

And the final lie I’ll ever tell is this: If I am in the hospital, with no cure for whatever is wrong with me, I am sure I will have the courage to say, ‘Pull the plug. I am ready to go. I AM NOT AFRAID.’

My epitaph will be simple-just one word - ‘LIAR.’

IF YOU’VE GOT IT

Every bar stool is filled. Customers squeeze in a shoulder if they can, tap on the bar to get the main bartender’s attention. Eddie is a show, glib tongue, computer mind, fast and handsome. The place is The Gaggling Goose 2. The proprietor, Gary Gold, has a thing for ‘Gs’ and used it to open his 2nd drinking spot. From minute one, Gary knows Eddie will be a winner. He pays him more than the going rate and doesn’t care how much he makes in tips that aren’t reported to the IRS.

Tipsy, laughing drinkers fill the small dance floor. The music is loud, exciting. It pounds. Move it, move it all, let yourself go or go home. Ladies lean over the bar, vie with each other to let Eddie see whatever it is they have. He feigns interest, takes some time to fill the pistachio bowls, and places them close to the hungry women. Eddie plays Tom Cruise in ‘Risky Business’ to the hilt without knowing it. He is too young to have seen the movie. Tom Cruise, who? That old has-been?

Gary’s liquor license is clearly visible. The crowd seldom exceeds the limit. All possible fire protection, lit exit signs, unlocked doors are accessible. Drugs surely slip in but obvious wrong doers are put out as quietly as possible.

And then comes Saturday night, Aug. 8, an ordinary, busy, fun Saturday night. At 11 p.m. a hush starts at the front door and spreads fast. All eyes look that way. Bar stools spin. The music stops, A spotlight focuses, touches a gorgeous, knock-em-dead lady in a smooth, perfectly fitted white satin gown mostly covering a perfect size four body. She is holding the arm of a handsome gentleman, quite a bit shorter than she is. His hair is silvery gray at the temples. His broad smile and wink elicit applause from the surprised customers. The standing crowd moves back, opening a path for the couple to reach the bar.

Two week-end regulars rise and give the gorgeous lady their bar seats. The lady sits. The sparsely silver haired man pushes his stool away, agilely jumps on top of the bar and lands perfectly behind it, facing front. The applause shakes Gary’s license off the wall.

Tom picks up a cocktail shaker, pours in 2 ounces gin, ½ oz. dry vermouth, ½ oz. sweet vermouth and shakes it with a fiery flare. Eddie is ready and has lined up a dozen chilled cocktail glasses, plates of olives and lemon twists. Tom fills 4 glasses and mixes another batch. Noone takes a sip until all the glasses are filled. Together they salute Tom and the beautiful lady in the white satin gown. Tom takes out his money clip, puts most of its contents on the bar, shakes hands with Eddie, slipping him as quietly as possible, all that is left in his clip.

The smile on Tom’s face is not for the cameras. It’s for real. For a short time the years, his silver sideburns have disappeared. The lady takes his arm and they go home to tranquility and wonderful new memories.

OFF! OFF!

‘Turn it off, Paul. I’ve seen Lucy shows dozens of times. Change the channel or I’m going to go to bed.’ ‘So go.’ Paul stays put in his lounge chair, his naked feet on the ottoman. Next to him is his usual giant bag of marshmallows. I go into the den to take away his sugar fix. Gently he slaps my hand away and glowers at me. The factory packing belt moves faster and faster. Lucy stuffs another and another chocolate in her mouth. Paul stuffs marshmallows in his and guffaws until tears run down his cheeks. I cannot control myself and let a chuckle escape and then indignantly, do what I said I would do. I leave him looking like a happy chipmunk.

Sleep almost enfolds me. CNN is repeating the day’s news when the ceiling light glares in my face. My drooping eyes come to attention. ‘Damn, it Paul, turn off that light!’ He pays no attention. I put my blanket over my head yet hear thru it. The toilet flushes, stops, flushes again. Paul moans. Without getting out of bed I can see my foolish husband sitting on the bathroom floor. The toilet seat is up. His head is over the bowl and he’s gagging. Let him suffer, I think even as I wet a wash cloth and put it on his forehead. Paul takes his hand from his growling belly and pats mine in thanks.

Knowing that he will survive, I leave him, turn off the bedroom ceiling light, switch on a low lamp, and crawl into bed, curl up facing the window. Sleep is on the way and so is Paul. The bed shakes as he sits on his side of it, lies down, turns and spoons my back, whispering softly, ‘I’m sorry, Darling. Goodnite.’

In the morning, in the middle of the kitchen table, is a clean waste basket, holding last night’s ½ eaten bag of marshmallows and two not yet opened bags. It all goes directly into the garbage can in the garage. I fix our breakfast. Not a word is said about last night’s ugliness. The day is ordinary. The world is falling to pieces. Ice fields are melting. The stock market is see-sawing, flip-flopping, ending almost where it started. I fix a crisp salad, lamb chops, yams and string beans for dinner. Paul rewards me, apologizes with a lovely bunch of mixed flowers from our supermarket. The price is still on the cellophane wrapping. The stems are long so I cut them and make a center piece for the table. My anger and wish to get revenge for last night evaporate, go swirling down the drain as I rinse the dishes.

Done. I look in the den for Paul. He isn’t there. The garage door to the kitchen opens and there he is, holding two large bags of groceries. One holds only 12 rolls of toilet tissue. The 2nd has canned goods and 4 large jars of nuts, 2 of peanuts, one each shelled pistachios and almonds. He puts everything on the panty shelves for me, except the peanuts. That jar he empties into a large glass bowl and sits it on the table next to his chair.

The t.v. lights up, set to his favorite channel, ‘Comedy Oldies.’ Instead of Lucy, Sid Cesar and Imogene Coca are at each other again. Sid is talking jibberish and Imogene understands him. Paul is roaring with laughter. I’ve seen these shows too often and ask Paul to change the channel. Between his involvement and the crunching of the peanuts on his molars, he doesn’t hear me. I just take my bow, go upstairs, hoping he doesn’t choke, but visualize the possibility. My bed and the quiet welcome me. Robert Taylor in Waterloo Bridge, in amazing black and white, fills the screen.

It’s an oldie but I love it, don’t see the end. That doesn’t matter I know what happens.

DIRECT CURRENT

It’s tour time, DC tour time. My highschool friends and I live 40 miles from DC but none of us have ever visited the sights, the treats that are in our own backyard. Darla, Jim and Ada have visited family in NW now and then, see them and are stuck there while their parents jabber.

Ms. Goldfine, our home room teacher, plus 2 volunteer mothers will be taking us on a 6 hour bus tour, plus close to 3 hours traveling and parking time. It will be a long day. We have notebooks, pens, snacks and plans that may, or may not be written in stone. Our driver warns us about the crowds, the traffic and the difficulty in reaching the bus area. He knows from experience what he tells us. A third world war can’t be much worse.

We each jot down our bus number and location and are off–first stop the famous Smithsonian Institute. Ugh! That’s it? It’s old, ugly. It’s called The Castle and wasn’t finished until 1855. Now it houses Admin offices and information rooms. They are important but not to us. The paths to the many exhibit buildings are solid people. Robert somehow gets swallowed into the group ahead of us. Sherry’s mom notices he’s missing, pushes ahead, grabs Robert’s arm, drags him back where he belongs, all the while wiggling, jiggling her finger right in his face, No. No.’

‘Don’t touch any of the prehistoric animals, stuffed sea monsters.’ Don’t touch the first phone, the first radio. In fact don’t touch anything.’ There is no time to read what is mounted at each exhibit. ‘Step lively. Keep moving!’ the guards say. Celia stops in her tracks and gasps, ‘Slow down a second. That’s the Hope Diamond, isn’t it gorgeous?’ Nobody looks. Nobody cares.

The boys speed up as the next stop is the Air and Space Building. At the front, the Spirit of St. Louis, hangs overhead. ‘Lindbergh flew this little pile of junk all by himself across the Atlantic? How did he go to the toilet?’ Ms. Goldstein ignores the question.’Wow, that rocket is so tiny. How does a person get in there? Where is the toilet?’ Jonas asks. Ms. Goldfine looks the other way. ‘Look Class,’ she points out the Enola Gay. That’s the plane that dropped the first atomic bomb. I remember when that happened. Remember we studied that in History class? Let’s move, Everybody. The exit is straight ahead.’

It is already noon. We are all hot but won’t miss the Vietnam War Memorial wall. It hits us all deep inside. No one speaks. Families tramp back and forth, searching, searching for the names of their sons, daughters. Once found, they do word rubbings with charcoal, roll the papers carefully and carry them as if they were solid gold, back to their cars. Their tears could create a new Tidal Basin.

We are already on Independence Ave. There he is, sitting in his huge white marble chair, the mole on his cheek visible from the bottom of the steps. He looks strong, defiant, wise and sad. And then it happens! Marty yells, ‘Look, look. There he is. He’s alive. Look next to Lincoln’s right hand, where it rests on the arm of his chair. Look! Look! That tall, skinny man has his tall skinny hat on his head and he’s looking up at his statue. One shoe lace is undone. I’m telling you, Lincoln is alive. He’s right there next to his statue. I see him. He isn’t going to hurt us. Now he’s walking around the statue. I can see right thru him. Honest, Honest to Abe!’

Carl gives Marty a light tap on his head. ‘You’re goofy, Man. You’re ruining our visit. I’ve already missed a lot of what the guard was saying.‘OK, Carl, but you’re missing more than that. You are missing seeing the real Lincoln. Look harder.’ ‘Shut up! I told you to shut up!’ Marty almost slinks to the back of the group, talking to himself, trying to make us believe Lincoln’s ghost is with us. We don’t.

The Mall is solid people. Ms. Goldfine, the 2 volunteers and about 6 of our boys, elbow their way in the Mall mob, and manage to get enough cokes and dogs for all of us. They forget the straws so we slurp from the cans. It was the Battle of Bull Run all over.

Revived, our guide leads us to Pennsylvania Ave. where the White House stands. I don’t know about the others, but I look up, see Old Glory flowing in the breeze, and a patriotic lump fills my throat. I salute. As a group we take the long walk around the Capitol, being careful not to trip on the crooked, broken sidewalks. Almost attached is the Senate Building. A congressman is being interviewed by CNN at the entrance. We get lucky. The interview is over and the Senator invites us to follow him inside, shows us the halls, the brass nameplates of each Senator on the wall next to the office doors. Some are open and the secretaries are busy at their desks, oblivious to us looking in. We thank him. A few older boys promise to vote for him in 7 years if he’s still on the ballot.

I see Marty standing alone, still talking to himself. It’s a long walk back to the bus. Marty moves up and is first behind Ms. Goldfine. The driver holds back traffic for us to cross to the parking lot. We are all accounted for.

In fact, we have an extra passenger. He’s sitting in the seat behind the driver. Marty’s voice is picked up on the loudspeaker a few times. Another voice, an unrecognizable voice, comes thru. It is definitely a man’s voice, not the driver’s or guide’s.

Marty tells us who it is but we still don’t believe him. SHOULD WE?

LOST AND FOUND

9:30 in the morning, the phone’s ringing breaks my train of thought, 5 letters-like some gases. Inert doesn’t work across. A familiar voice says, ‘Mrs. Clayton, it’s 9:30.’ ‘Bill, I know the time. What’s wrong?’‘Where is your husband? That’s what’s wrong. He isn’t here yet. He’s always here by 9 to open up. I have a door key but not the safe combination number. What am I supposed to do? I can’t put the beginning money for today in the register?’

‘Maybe Mr. Clayton had a flat. He’ll be there in time, but I’ll call his brother Joe, you know him, don’t you? He has the combination and if he’s home. He’ll be there before opening time. I’ll call you back.’ ‘Joe, thank heavens you’re home. Bill called. Gary hasn’t arrived. Bill has the front door opened but can’t open the safe. He needs money in the register. Maybe Gary had a flat or an accident. Don’t shave! Don’t eat! Just get to the store fast. OK?’ ‘OK, I’m out the door.’

By 10 Gary has still not arrived or called. I am getting very concerned. Joe stays at the store. By 12 I am not only concerned, I am desperate and call the police. No accidents matching our car have been reported today. Gary has disappeared. I tear up the crossword puzzle section and sit by the front window, watching every passing car. Two are the same color and model as our Subaru and I jump excitedly, slump down as they go on their merry way.

At 3 I bring the A t & T telephone book to the kitchen table where the light is strongest. The damn words are so small I need my magnifying glass and get it from the desk drawer. Every hospital in the area has an emergency number and I call all of them, even the ones in the county. No one fits Gary’s description. What else is there for me to do besides worry? Ah, I call every repair shop, garage until my eyes are bleary. No one has our car. Gary would have called me if he were near I phone. Is he at a funeral parlor?

It is 6 o’clock and I am an absolute total wreck. I call my brother, Ron, my rock when I need him, and cry so hard, I would drown him if tears could go thru the wires. ‘Calm down. Calm down,’ he advises. ‘I’m finishing dinner. See you in 15.’ Ron arrives, holds me, consoles me but I feel no better. He calls Joe, ‘Ron, the store is under control. I’ll close up and make the night deposit. Wait for me if you can.’

While we wait and worry we uselessly call the police again. Ron doesn’t ask me but fixes a cheese and turkey sandwich for me, a cup of tea and forces me to eat. I try but swallow rocks.

5 after 10 Joe is at my door. He opens it. Before it closes, headlights come up my driveway. I see no police marking but instantly imagine they are coming with bad news. I turn away, don’t want to see them.Then I hear music. ‘What’s going on here? Why are all the house lights on? Ron, Joe, what are you doing here?’ Nobody answers. We shoot out our own questions. ‘Where have you been all day? Why didn’t you open the store? What are you, Stupid?’ We thought you were dead by now!’

Gary looks stunned. ‘Where have I been? I left a note on my office desk for Bill about the men’s wear show in DC. I had to order some new merchandise, get sale prices. Didn’t Bill see it? Vera, I left an envelope on top of this morning’s paper with your name on it. I told you where I would be and you should wake Joe, ask him to help me out. Didn’t you bother to read it? ‘Gary, you aren’t even aware of what I do in the morning. I put the news, ads, sports sections on the side and open to the puzzle page. If you left me a letter, it went to the recycle bin.’

None of us have the strength to argue. I hold my guy, hug him, kiss him and whisper low in his ear, ‘I’m sorry.’

REAL MAKE-BELIEVE

‘I am Princess Whatshername.’ ‘You are my Lady in Waiting, Charlotte. ‘Harold, you Sir, are Sir Runnamuck. Let’s see, kneel down, let your head touch the ground. No, I’ve changed my mind. You are Lord of the Castle.’ ‘But- but- I wanted to slay the Gray Speckled Dragon. What do I get to do as Lord of the Castle? ‘ ’You will be in charge of the castle, of course. Be sure the moat is filled, the kitchen is stocked, the battlements are armed. Do not try me. Do as you are bid.’

Charlotte hurries home, delves into the cellar, and brings back one panel of her mother’s old sheer bedroom curtain. She makes a dunce cap out of newspapers and tosses the curtain over it. Magic happens. She is Carlotta. ‘Jack, you are the Gate Master and Duke of the Dungeon. Watch out! There will be friends who are not friends trying to get in. Do what you must. Keep them away!’

The sun is almost at high noon. Carlotta is hot under her long veil. The new Sir Runnamuck, Harvey, bows to the Princess. ‘I will return with vittles, your Highness.’ From his mom’s pantry, he takes an unopened bag of Oreos and a six pack of Coke that has not yet been cooled. The Court devours the cookies and squirts each other with the warm drinks. Jack, the tallest, strongest of the group comes to attention, folds his arms against his chest, looks around and shouts, ‘I am the Gate Master. ‘Who goes there? Friend or Foe?’ Two girls he recognizes from class, wave and say, ‘Friends. Friends. Can we play?’‘Be gone, Ladies. We have no room for new comers. Go Away!’ ‘Please let us in. We have nothing else to do all day.’ ‘Out. Out. I say or the Gray Speckled Dragon will slay you. They make ugly faces at the Gate Master and run away fast.

At that very moment Frankie, the Sir Runnamuck replacement, appears. He brandishes a single white plank that he pulled off a neighbor’sdilapidated picket fence. She’ll never miss it. “Look up! Look up!’ he shouts. ‘There is the Gray Speckled Dragon. Take cover. I will slay him.’His sword zooms in the air. He runs in circles. Princess Whatsernameapplauds. Carlotta holds onto her veil. The Dungeon Duke cheers. The wooden sword stands erect in the grass. In unison, the friends shout, ‘The Gray Speckled Dragon is dead. Let’s go get cold Cokes!’

‘Carlotta whines, may I be Princess Whatshername Saturday? I’ve been lady in Waiting twice and I’m tired of waiting.’ ‘Sure,’ says the Dungeon Duke, ‘OR you can replace the Gray Speckled Dragon and be the Yellow Yawning Pipsqueak. Take your choice.’

They march out of their garden and head for those cokes.

THE LOST TREASURE

Her gown is soft chiffon, pale mauve in color. It is strapless and shows perhaps a bit too much decolletage. The folds of her dress fall delicately, just touch her sandaled feet. Her toenails are manicured, painted in the same lovely shade as the hemline. The lady is perfectly still, doesn’t glance at her surroundings. She can’t. She has no head.

Andrew doesn’t care. He wants, needs to be with his mother. His ten year old mind has conjured up his own mother’s head on the mannequin. His loneliness since she disappeared tortures him. Two weeks ago she tickled him until he yelled ‘Uncle’, kissed him, said good nite and then was gone in the morning.

Their small apartment has been living in almost silence. His grandmother came in the morning as soon as Andrew told her his Mommy was not home and has stayed with him since. She’s kind, talks to the police every day and tells Andrew she’ll be back soon. No news comes. No mother returns.

When school lets out each day he walks to the neighborhood mall, finds a phantom and sits cross legged on the floor staring and staring at the lady. He only picks hairless, headless figures because he is afraid inside of him that one will come to life and chase him away..

Grandmother believes he helps his teacher with books and erasing blackboards every day and is glad he is keeping busy. As soon as she hears the door knob turn about 4:30, she greets Andrew with warm open arms. His appetite is not good but her cooking is and he comes close to emptying his plate each evening. He never fails to thank her, but she is not his Mom. Where is she? Why doesn’t she call me? Why doesn’t she send me a post card? The police don’t come any more. They call sometime but never have news. ‘Grandma, do we have to move to your place? Can’t we stay and wait for Mom? I want to be here when she comes back. Please.’ ‘Sorry, Andrew, I can’t keep paying rent on this place and take care of my house too. It is going to rot away. We’ll take your bedroom set, put it in my empty sewing room, and you will be comfortable. You won’t even have to change schools or lose any of your friends. We have to do it. I have no choice.’

All night silent tears wet Andrew’s pillow case. In the morning he writes a long letter to his mom, asks her to come back, come back. ‘I am at Grandma’s. Come get me.’ As the movers finish their minuscule job and Grandma is about to close and lock the door, Andrew tapes his message to the wall where his mother will have to see it the moment she comes in.

He kisses the wooden door, carries a bag of groceries in his left hand and holds onto Grandma with his right.

They walk away together. They are still waiting.

BACK TOGETHER

‘It’s my bucket!’ ‘It’s MY shovel!’ Mother leaned over the sand box, dug a little and found my shovel. I gave Wendy hers. Together we built a castle with a moat. We walked to the drinking fountain and filled the bucket with water for the moat. In a second the walls fell in and all we had was mud. That made us giggle. So nobody else could use our castle, we stamped it flat. Mother wiped our hands with Kleenex and gave me and my best friend, Wendy, each one chocolate cookie.

When I was six years old I got very sick and had to go to the hospital. Children under 12 weren’t allowed to visit. I cried and cried, begged Mommie to bring Wendy in to see me. Somehow, she never told me how, but she did get permission for my friend to come in one time. Wendy stood at the door, afraid to come in. I saw her right away and would have jumped out of bed to hug her, but there was a tube in my arm and I had to stay still.

Wendy had a white shopping bag with her. She put it on the floor where I could see her take out a big, big doll, wearing a pink dress. Her long blond hair made curls almost to her pink satin belt. It’s eyes could open and close and if I touched her belly, she could say, ‘Ma Ma.’ I named her Wendy and kept her next to me every day until nurses put me on a rolling table. Mother walked on one side of the table and Dad on the other. They held my hands and kissed me. The next thing I remember was touching pink Wendy. She was in bed beside me. I didn’t feel good. My head hurt but Wendy was with me and that was almost as good as real Wendy, but not quite.

Wendy came to see me the day after I came home and every day after that for weeks. Then it was spring. The sun was warm. Tulips circled our only tree and I could go outside. Wendy had two new books and could read every word to me. We made up some of our own stories about naughty dogs and cats that scratch. Mother brought us chocolate milk and graham crackers and helped us make a cord cradle.

I was ready to go back to school. Wendy waited at my front door and we walked the four blocks together. What happy children we were! Sisters couldn’t be closer.

Once, twice, maybe three times we got angry at each other, didn’t speak for a day, maybe 2, maybe 3. But we always made up–except once. ‘I do not love Buddy. He is not my boyfriend! ‘ I screamed at Wendy who had drawn a big chalk heart on my pavement. In it she wrote ‘G.F.’ and drew a wobbly arrow. Underneath that she wrote ‘B.R.’ The whole city, the whole world could see it . Everybody knew G.F. was Gloria Fine (that’s me) and B.R. was Buddy Rosen. How dumb, how mean that was. Buddy and I hardly knew each other. Wendy was angry because I was angry. We stopped talking. A few nights later we had an unexpected rain storm. The heart was gone in the morning. Our mothers called a pow wow, took us to the movies Saturday and all was right between us again.

Going back is sweet and sour, happy and sad. Saddest of all was when I really did have a boyfriend and Wendy was considering possibly trying for a musical career. We moved because Dad had a promotion, and not around the corner but cross country to California. I was wrenched from high school, my friends, and Wendy. Leaving Joey was nothing compared to that.

We wrote, we called, we reminisced. It was years until Wendy and her family came to CA, hoping for Wendy to find what she was looking for, a career. After their tour of the west coast, they managed to eke out one afternoon for us. Our few hours were like an electric storm. We knew it was on the way, it rumbled, made a lot of noise, lit up the sky and then it was over, over too fast. Wendy was gone.

Our letters went thru cyberspace, eventually losing zest. March 2007, in all capitals, an e mail message from Wendy listed her flights, dates to LA. She was coming for a whole week, with her husband. ‘Let’s do lunch!’ My Lennie and I met them at their hotel. Seeing Wendy again, I didn’t notice how fat she had gotten and when I did, it didn’t matter. She had been waiting in the lobby for us holding a big doll with long golden curls, dressed in pink. We almost fell on the floor as I ran to her and hugged her too hard. I saw her tears. She saw mine. I wiped hers with my fingers and she kissed mine away. The years melted. We were kids again. Our husbands left us alone. The afternoon had flown, taking a rocket ride to the moon. They were gone and most probably would never be back.

My big pink doll’s dress doesn’t go well with my bedroom decor but I don’t give a damn. She stands on my bureau and I say ‘good morning’ to her as soon as I open my eyes. I get out of bed and barely touch her arm and she talks to me, winks one eye and says,

‘Hello, My name is Wendy. I love you.’ Time has marched on!

BACK TOGETHER

‘It’s my bucket!’ ‘It’s MY shovel!’ Mother leaned over the sand box, dug a little and found my shovel. I gave Wendy hers. Together we built a castle with a moat. We walked to the drinking fountain and filled the bucket with water for the moat. In a second the walls fell in and all we had was mud. That made us giggle. So nobody else could use our castle, we stamped it flat. Mother wiped our hands with Kleenex and gave me and my best friend, Wendy, each one chocolate cookie.

When I was six years old I got very sick and had to go to the hospital. Children under 12 weren’t allowed to visit. I cried and cried, begged Mommie to bring Wendy in to see me. Somehow, she never told me how, but she did get permission for my friend to come in one time. Wendy stood at the door, afraid to come in. I saw her right away and would have jumped out of bed to hug her, but there was a tube in my arm and I had to stay still.

Wendy had a white shopping bag with her. She put it on the floor where I could see her take out a big, big doll, wearing a pink dress. Her long blond hair made curls almost to her pink satin belt. It’s eyes could open and close and if I touched her belly, she could say, ‘Ma Ma.’ I named her Wendy and kept her next to me every day until nurses put me on a rolling table. Mother walked on one side of the table and Dad on the other. They held my hands and kissed me. The next thing I remember was touching pink Wendy. She was in bed beside me. I didn’t feel good. My head hurt but Wendy was with me and that was almost as good as real Wendy, but not quite.

Wendy came to see me the day after I came home and every day after that for weeks. Then it was spring. The sun was warm. Tulips circled our only tree and I could go outside. Wendy had two new books and could read every word to me. We made up some of our own stories about naughty dogs and cats that scratch. Mother brought us chocolate milk and graham crackers and helped us make a cord cradle. I was ready to go back to school. Wendy waited at my front door and we walked the four blocks together. What happy children we were! Sisters couldn’t be closer.

Once, twice, maybe three times we got angry at each other, didn’t speak for a day, maybe 2, maybe 3. But we always made up–except once. ‘I do not love Buddy. He is not my boyfriend! ‘ I screamed at Wendy who had drawn a big chalk heart on my pavement. In it she wrote ‘G.F.’ and drew a wobbly arrow. Underneath that she wrote ‘B.R.’ The whole city, the whole world could see it . Everybody knew G.F. was Gloria Fine (that’s me) and B.R. was Buddy Rosen. How dumb, how mean that was. Buddy and I hardly knew each other. Wendy was angry because I was angry. We stopped talking. A few nights later we had an unexpected rain storm. The heart was gone in the morning. Our mothers called a pow wow, took us to the movies Saturday and all was right between us again.

Going back is sweet and sour, happy and sad. Saddest of all was when I really did have a boyfriend and Wendy was considering possibly trying for a musical career. We moved because Dad had a promotion, and not around the corner but cross country to California. I was wrenched from high school, my friends, and Wendy. Leaving Joey was nothing compared to that.

We wrote, we called, we reminisced. It was years until Wendy and her family came to CA, hoping for Wendy to find what she was looking for, a career. After their tour of the west coast, they managed to eke out one afternoon for us. Our few hours were like an electric storm. We knew it was on the way, it rumbled, made a lot of noise, lit up the sky and then it was over, over too fast. Wendy was gone.

Our letters went thru cyberspace, eventually losing zest. March 2007, in all capitals, an e mail message from Wendy listed her flights, dates to LA. She was coming for a whole week, with her husband. ‘Let’s do lunch!’ My Lennie and I met them at their hotel. Seeing Wendy again, I didn’t notice how fat she had gotten and when I did, it didn’t matter. She had been waiting in the lobby for us holding a big doll with long golden curls, dressed in pink. We almost fell on the floor as I ran to her and hugged her too hard. I saw her tears. She saw mine. I wiped hers with my fingers and she kissed mine away. The years melted. We were kids again. Our husbands left us alone. The afternoon had flown, taking a rocket ride to the moon. They were gone and most probably would never be back.

My big pink doll’s dress doesn’t go well with my bedroom decor but I don’t give a damn. She stands on my bureau and I say ‘good morning’ to her as soon as I open my eyes. I get out of bed and barely touch her arm and she talks to me, winks one eye and says,

‘Hello, My name is Wendy. I love you.’ Time has marched on.

NOT DOING ANYTHING –MUCH

I was getting pretty antsy standing on the corner of Fayette and Madison, waiting for a break in traffic. A muddy green cheese- box bus stopped in front of me. The door pulled back and an authoritative, heavy voice called out, ‘Get on, Lady. I’ve got a schedule to keep.’ There was no other lady except me. What possessed me to obey, I don’t know but I got on. ‘25 cents in the box, Lady.’ Mechanically I took a nickel and 2 dimes from my purse and watched the coins click and disappear. Two people, sitting on the opposite side of the narrow aisle, didn’t even look up at me. They just stared out the window.

For the first few minutes I recognized the shops we passed, the theater, the main library, but not the painted houses next to it. They looked very odd, out of place. ‘Driver, where are we? I wanted to go to the market.’ ‘Lady, you paid your 25 cents and you are going where I am going.’ Heckles ran up my spine. Was I being bus-napped? Through the front window I saw a river. ‘What river is that, Driver? ‘Where you been, Lady? That’s the Pauxatomy.’ The bridge across it was one lane each way with ordinary chicken wire tacked to the wooden pilings. The long gray river flowed smoothly. My hands were clenched, my fingers in a death grip. One tiny accident, one bump, a flat tire and it would be my end and the end of this strange bus ride.

Safely across, the wooden houses all had wooden fences around them. There was a barber shop with a twirling red and white pole to announce open for business. A small red flag had a picture of a cow and a chicken appliqued on one side. It must have been a butcher shop. ‘Driver, What town is this? Where are we going?’, What difference does it make what town, we are already out of it.’

Another few miles over hills, we passed swaying corn fields. Traffic began to pick up. No cars at all, just horse drawn carriages. A few people waved to my bus. In reply, he simply nodded his head. That was when the two passengers that were on the bus with me left, not saying a word or glancing my way. ‘Out, Lady. This is the end of the line.’ ‘When is the next bus that can take me back home. I have something important to do there.’ ‘No idea, lady. On the corner is Mrs. Flander’s place. Go get yourself some of her delicious corn bread.’ With no choice, I got off the bus. Mrs. Flanders had a warm smile and twinkling gray eyes. ‘Welcome, stranger. Would you like a hot cup of green tea with my world famous corn bread? There’s homemade orange marmalade on the table? Before she got very far, I called, ‘Wait, wait, please. Let me look in my purse. I didn’t expect to be here and know I don’t have a lot of money with me.’ Mrs. Flanders walked away. I found six crumpled dollar bills and 75 cents in coins. What the? Where is my wallet? Who crumpled my bills? My lunch was one dollar. Mrs. Flanders refused a tip. ‘May I use your phone, please?’ ‘If I had one, you’d be welcome to it, but I don’t. If you need it, you can use our outhouse, right out the back door.’ I declined.

From there I started my walk back, hoping my direction was where the driver had been. My feet blistered, My legs cramped. The barber pole was no longer twirling and was behind me. The river stretched ahead with no lane for walkers. The sun was getting low, dying and I would soon join it. A few cars went over the bridge and then I blinked. I saw the green cheese- box bus coming my way. It was moving very slowly towards me. I took a chance and stood defiantly in the middle of the road. He stopped and opened the door. It was not the same driver. ‘50 cents in the box, Lady.’ No argument from me. I dropped my two quarters in the slot and we were off. ‘Hold on!’ the driver yelled. There was a bump, a loud bump. My eyes closed in fear.

I felt myself being lifted, smelled something antiseptic, saw a flash of white. Warm flesh touched my hand. The ‘white flash’ spoke, ‘Your mother and father are here. Your new son will be brought in as soon as he is cleaned up. Eight pounds, six ounces, all his toes and fingers. What a fabulous patient you were. You slept almost all the way through the delivery.

Come back again! The welcome mat will be out for you.’

OH MY, O’KEEFE

Nine mornings out of the ten I’ve been in this rented house, the sun has come thru the sheer curtains to warm my face. Each time I throw off the only cover on my naked body, a washed out blue sheet. It’s a left over from when we had twin beds and lots of arguments. Now I have neither but my king sized bed has plenty of room for company. So far nobody’s interested in testing the mattress. And I still argue with the t.v. and my psyche. The automatic coffee machine is perking. I’ll take my English muffins out of the refrigerator where they are safer than on the counter top.

I just love it here, almost isolated. The few white adobe houses are foolers. They aren’t white at all. I recall my high school art teacher trying to get the class to understand that black is the absence of color and white is the perfect blending of all colors. Finally I see what she meant. My eyes have been opened, my mind is still closed, locked in anger and hurt. I go outside, shake my head to brush away the ugly gray spider webs. It can’t be, the sky is falling. The rolling, tufted pink clouds move swiftly from the horizon, directly over my head. Surely, the marshmallow fluff is going to fall and smother me. The white houses are almost on fire. Blue gray shadows, yellow sun beams make an arced rainbow on my front door.

OK , Georgia, here I come. I’ll never out paint you but I’m going to dig in and see what comes up on my canvas. Look, look at that, I say to the breeze. Santa Claus is in a yellow chariot, pink horses push him East. There is only one narrow paved road to this little dot of nothing that lets me cling to my sanity. Yesterday I couldn’t even find it. Sand covered it with sand pellets that sounded like a machine gun as they pelted my house, numbed my sun burned face.

I look at my varied tubes of paint and squeeze the cadmium red onto my pallet. The slight squeeze sets me thinking about a woman, any woman, just not my ex. How soft and pliable they can be and how cold and cruel when they are empty, crushed and tossed away. All of the beauty I was going to capture, dried up and died. The red is blood. Marie Antoinette has quickly lost her head. I quiver in the heat and the ugly image is gone. Am I getting sick? I take my canvas chair, pallette and paint back to the ugly little house, I hate it. It’s emptiness, its loneliness destroys the colors, the glitter. The sun is high and I run inside to hide myself. My footsteps echo on the rugless floor. The beautiful day I planned has gone topsy turvy. What an idiot I have been to try to match Georgia, such nonsense.

A light tapping at my door and I remember the Mexican girl that is to straighten my house, wash a few clothes. Consuela has a mop, bucket, broom, fairly clean rags, plus a shopping bag. On top is a small tan wooden box. ‘What have you got there, Consuelo?’ ‘Senor, I have my oil paint, brushes, pallet, canvas and would like to paint the houses here when I am finished cleaning. Hokay, wit chou?’

And so Consuelo cleaned, went outdoors to paint and I went with her. She was a god send. I watched her splash the canvas with things I didn’t recognize, but her freedom, the sensuous feelings that came from my little housemaid brought me back to reality. We painted together every day for two weeks. My work looked like garbage to me but not to her. My confidence took hold.

Consuelo took hold, too. On the 14th night my too big bed was no longer too big. The faded little blue sheet wasn’t even missed.