‘Excuse me, Mister but you are annoying me. Either tell your girlfriend goodbye or take your damned cell phone someplace else where strangers don’t have to listen to your plans for the week-end.’ ‘Go what myself?’ I rise from the bench, let this pain in my rear look me over. I am 6'2", 180 pounds of solid sinew. Squirt is not impressed and continues talking. The choice is mine, knock him unconscious or walk away. Not wanting to go to prison for the rest of my life, I walk.
My wife and I are meeting for lunch at our favorite pancake house. She’s always prompt but I’m prompter. We bump into each other as a third person pushes us aside and goes thru the revolving door before we do. I make a fist that luckily he doesn’t see. Once in, we are again entranced by the smell of the warmed syrup, the batter swirling in the kitchen. Matty, 80 years old and still waiting tables, knows us well. I nod. Beverly nods and she writes my walnut pancake with triple walnuts, lots of melted butter, pitcher of syrup, on her order book, turns it over and adds one German pancake, extra thin, toasty but not burned, powdered sugar and lemon quarters. As that order goes in, our steaming hot, strong coffee comes out. Just as I reach for the cream, a large hairy arm seems to fly from the table behind my back, over my head, grabs my pitcher of cream and empties it into his cup.
‘Jack, sit still. Please, just sit still. Matty will bring another in a minute.’ I know how to close my ears and did so. I stand erect, fold my arms over my broad chest and look coldly at the pipsqueak before me. He is almost bald, wears wire framed glasses, actually wears a polka dot bow tie on a button down white shirt. I have no mercy. ‘Who do you think you are, Bud? Why didn’t you ask the waitress for cream instead of stealing mine.? You almost beaned me. Don’t you have a voice? You could have asked me for the cream. I would have given it to you. I’d like to punch you in the nose–maybe I will.’
Our waitress appears in the nick of time, puts a fresh pitcher of cream in front of Bev and nicely asks me to please sit down and be quiet. I sit but think I should have crowned that fool and let the cream stain his hideous bow tie. Yes, I would have been glad to spend the night in jail if Bev had let me do what I should have done. We devour our pancakes, have two refills of hot coffee, leave Matty a nice tip and head to the door. Bev and I, on the same wave length, notice the Sweet ‘n Lo holder is empty.
We are on the way home driving 48 mph on a four lane road. Traffic is moving smoothly until the car behind us suddenly pulls to the right, speeds up and squeezes in front of me. I slam the brakes hard. Cars screech behind me and to the side. I’m all shook up, hot as hell and laugh when the other car is stuck at the red light and I pull beside him. My finger is ready to stick in his jowly face. I fold the finger back into my fist and hit the horn as hard as I can. I see him jump with fright, open his window and give me the finger. Gunning the car, the Finger Man races past me and is gone.
I look at my suffering wife. Knowing I upset her too often, I apologize, shrug and ask her, ‘What can do I do Bev, turn away, be a constant door mat for the entire world?’
She shrugs, gives me the finger, small and helpless, and a kiss on my lips that still has syrup on it.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
THE PEACOCK: MR. FIX-IT
Renauldo is the maintenance man for a large upscale condo complex where 2000 residents will be depending on him, including me and my husband, Jon. He became part of the builders ‘package’ before the first residents (us) waited for our moving truck and furniture van to clear the security gate. We were excited and impatient.
In Renauldo’s electric orange cart, heralded by an orange and yellow striped flag blowing wildly in the breeze, he guided the trucks to our building, set up orange cones to warn any traffic coming in to go around us. He had prepared the lobby’s marble floors with long, wide cloth covers. The elevator walls were padded, ceiling spots protected with grills. The builders had a large bouquet of red roses welcoming us at our front door. ‘Mr. Wonder Man’, as Jon and I soon called him, was everywhere, guiding the cartons to their correct rooms, bringing us cold drinks from the stainless steel refrigerator he had set before we arrived. Plenty of ice cubes were in the bin. About an hour and a half later he disappeared as another resident was at the gate. Renauldo’s thoughtfulness, his knowledge, his smiles set the right tone for our new home.
We got into the swing of it but stopped when the door chime sang a tune. The Comcast service man arrived without our buzzing him in. The lobby door had been left wide open so he found our place without Renauldo. All that the service man had to do was set up our four T.Vs., be sure they were programmed properly. He started in the master bedroom, guest bedroom, kitchen and when he reached the den, he called us in. ‘There is no t.v. outlet anywhere in this room. Nothing else I can do. Call us when your connection is in. You’ll probably want your paint and wallpaper touched up first.’ I called Renauldo immediately but his message machine told us he was in building 2 and would not be available until the next morning at 8. He got an earful message from me. There was nothing we could do besides empty cartons and argue. ‘Jon, the A.C. works. The electricity is fine, hot water is good and hot, but–the master bath shower drain is missing its cap. I darn near caught my foot in the big hole as I steamed my whole body under the spray for rejuvenation. Get that idiot Renauldo up here early.’ Dry, still warm from the shower and hot from my near accident, I got a few pieces of computer paper out of a drawer and started a list, a to-do-list for the Man and the builder. Our heaven was already full of holes. Naughty imps were shooting arrows at our patience, or lack thereof.
Woodland Estates sent us a bottle of champagne, wrapped in yellow and orange foil that went in the fridge, but we were foodless. We dressed comfortably, casually, used the elevator to the delly on the mezzanine. It was open for business, almost. With Selma apologizing, we were given a choice of a dog on a bun, BLT or eggs, any way we’d like. It didn’t matter. Jon was sitting waiting for his hot dog, holding back as long as he could, blaming me for not seeing the faults during final inspection. ‘Were you wearing blinders, Smarty Pants?’ ‘Why didn’t you notice the shower drain?’ ‘Because I hadn’t yet taken a shower, that’s why. Jon, why didn’t you check the T.V. connections? You sit in front of that monster screen far more than I do, should know what is needed.’ ‘Vickey, it never dawned on me to check electric outlets. They are the contractors responsibility, aren’t they? What good are blue prints if the builder doesn’t check them?’
For weeks we kept adding to ‘our list.’ The list did not diminish. It actually grew a notch or two. Renauldo got a gift from a new resident, a huge, gray felt cowboy hat to top his 5'6" stature. He must have worn it even in the bathroom. It was ‘the new King’ who looked like a cartoon character to me.
As our first Christmas season at Woodland Estates neared, we wrote checks to our mailman, postman, service maids and the newspaper man.We hesitated over Renauldo’s gift but finally gave in sending a token amount. The change in him during our first year was blatant. His attitude of superiority, his growing power over us had been brought before the condo Board several times. Finally, when it was viable, they wrote a new contract, but the residents didn’t get to see it. ‘This is Board business,’ we were told, ‘ and does not call for a vote.’ It was signed by them and Renauldo and became a fait accompli. He got a $2000 a year raise, worked 1 Sunday a month instead of 2. On site he had to oversee all outside building painting next year. I shouldn’t complain about our Board, as I have never volunteered to be on it, don’t intend to either.
Our ‘List’ has changed dramatically. It now covers:1. A plumber whose name we took from the phone book. He came when he said he would, replaced a leaking toilet and was quite fair with the price2. An electrician who had to add a wall light switch so we could go in the kitchen from the hall and out the kitchen into the dining room3. A tile man who had to jack hammer ½ of our kitchen floor where the tiles had cracked two weeks after the guarantee was over4. A window company to replace at great cost to us the frames and glass in the den and living room. The building had settled a little and we could not open the windows5. A cardiologist because I’ve been getting nervous heart flutters due to so much guff from Mr. Man, Senor Renauldo, the King. It’s all my fault. I allowed this to happen and must take the consequences.
Jon and I have made many friends, love the neighborhood, the polite gate guards, the pools, golf courses, tennis courts. What’s not to like? The answer is short, one word, one glaring word, ‘Renauldo’.
We don’t even discuss it any more. We just haven’t sent him a Christmas check for ten years.
In Renauldo’s electric orange cart, heralded by an orange and yellow striped flag blowing wildly in the breeze, he guided the trucks to our building, set up orange cones to warn any traffic coming in to go around us. He had prepared the lobby’s marble floors with long, wide cloth covers. The elevator walls were padded, ceiling spots protected with grills. The builders had a large bouquet of red roses welcoming us at our front door. ‘Mr. Wonder Man’, as Jon and I soon called him, was everywhere, guiding the cartons to their correct rooms, bringing us cold drinks from the stainless steel refrigerator he had set before we arrived. Plenty of ice cubes were in the bin. About an hour and a half later he disappeared as another resident was at the gate. Renauldo’s thoughtfulness, his knowledge, his smiles set the right tone for our new home.
We got into the swing of it but stopped when the door chime sang a tune. The Comcast service man arrived without our buzzing him in. The lobby door had been left wide open so he found our place without Renauldo. All that the service man had to do was set up our four T.Vs., be sure they were programmed properly. He started in the master bedroom, guest bedroom, kitchen and when he reached the den, he called us in. ‘There is no t.v. outlet anywhere in this room. Nothing else I can do. Call us when your connection is in. You’ll probably want your paint and wallpaper touched up first.’ I called Renauldo immediately but his message machine told us he was in building 2 and would not be available until the next morning at 8. He got an earful message from me. There was nothing we could do besides empty cartons and argue. ‘Jon, the A.C. works. The electricity is fine, hot water is good and hot, but–the master bath shower drain is missing its cap. I darn near caught my foot in the big hole as I steamed my whole body under the spray for rejuvenation. Get that idiot Renauldo up here early.’ Dry, still warm from the shower and hot from my near accident, I got a few pieces of computer paper out of a drawer and started a list, a to-do-list for the Man and the builder. Our heaven was already full of holes. Naughty imps were shooting arrows at our patience, or lack thereof.
Woodland Estates sent us a bottle of champagne, wrapped in yellow and orange foil that went in the fridge, but we were foodless. We dressed comfortably, casually, used the elevator to the delly on the mezzanine. It was open for business, almost. With Selma apologizing, we were given a choice of a dog on a bun, BLT or eggs, any way we’d like. It didn’t matter. Jon was sitting waiting for his hot dog, holding back as long as he could, blaming me for not seeing the faults during final inspection. ‘Were you wearing blinders, Smarty Pants?’ ‘Why didn’t you notice the shower drain?’ ‘Because I hadn’t yet taken a shower, that’s why. Jon, why didn’t you check the T.V. connections? You sit in front of that monster screen far more than I do, should know what is needed.’ ‘Vickey, it never dawned on me to check electric outlets. They are the contractors responsibility, aren’t they? What good are blue prints if the builder doesn’t check them?’
For weeks we kept adding to ‘our list.’ The list did not diminish. It actually grew a notch or two. Renauldo got a gift from a new resident, a huge, gray felt cowboy hat to top his 5'6" stature. He must have worn it even in the bathroom. It was ‘the new King’ who looked like a cartoon character to me.
As our first Christmas season at Woodland Estates neared, we wrote checks to our mailman, postman, service maids and the newspaper man.We hesitated over Renauldo’s gift but finally gave in sending a token amount. The change in him during our first year was blatant. His attitude of superiority, his growing power over us had been brought before the condo Board several times. Finally, when it was viable, they wrote a new contract, but the residents didn’t get to see it. ‘This is Board business,’ we were told, ‘ and does not call for a vote.’ It was signed by them and Renauldo and became a fait accompli. He got a $2000 a year raise, worked 1 Sunday a month instead of 2. On site he had to oversee all outside building painting next year. I shouldn’t complain about our Board, as I have never volunteered to be on it, don’t intend to either.
Our ‘List’ has changed dramatically. It now covers:1. A plumber whose name we took from the phone book. He came when he said he would, replaced a leaking toilet and was quite fair with the price2. An electrician who had to add a wall light switch so we could go in the kitchen from the hall and out the kitchen into the dining room3. A tile man who had to jack hammer ½ of our kitchen floor where the tiles had cracked two weeks after the guarantee was over4. A window company to replace at great cost to us the frames and glass in the den and living room. The building had settled a little and we could not open the windows5. A cardiologist because I’ve been getting nervous heart flutters due to so much guff from Mr. Man, Senor Renauldo, the King. It’s all my fault. I allowed this to happen and must take the consequences.
Jon and I have made many friends, love the neighborhood, the polite gate guards, the pools, golf courses, tennis courts. What’s not to like? The answer is short, one word, one glaring word, ‘Renauldo’.
We don’t even discuss it any more. We just haven’t sent him a Christmas check for ten years.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
DIG THIS ONE: TWO ROADS TO ROME
‘Jerry, let’s have a drink on the terrace before dinner. I want to talk to you. I’ll have a Cabernet and fix your martini just the way you like it. Martha already has the grill hot. She marinated the steaks and guarantees you will love them this time.’ I put down my book, The Last Days of Pompeii. I know backwards and forwards but always find something new to think about. ‘Sure, Beth. Tell me when Martha’s ready.’ I go back to my reading.
‘She’s ready. I’m ready, too. We’re going again this summer to Rome, to Pompeii and everything is arranged, but I don’t want to go. The place suffocates me summer after summer. Thousands of tourists, crowds everywhere, especially in Pompeii, flooding every thing that has been excavated in Pompeii and Herculaneum. I’ve had enough. Jerry, look at the sunset. Isn’t it amazingly red? It looks like Vesuvius has flipped its lid again and is angry at me for not wanting to return.’
‘Beth did you know I have crowned you as my favorite barkeep? You make a super martini. I may rent you out! Martha serves a great Caesar salad but sometimes she puts too many anchovies in. Will you tell her to cut down a little?’
‘Jerry, Martha and anchovies are not what I want to talk about.’ ‘OK, Beth. I’m ready for you to talk to me and I will answer. What’s on your mind?’ ‘Don’t yell, just don’t yell. Think first. Do we have to go to Italy again just because you love it? You work hard and don’t even get paid. We’ve seen the houses, atriums, urns, unbelievable tiles on the floors, the walls, colors still clear. The explicit sex may thrill you but I’d rather participate than look at the same old cold tiles one more time. You’ve read, studied, dug. A found coin is a treasure. The ear of an urn still thrills you, but it is boring to me.’
‘Whoa! Whoa! What the hell are you talking about? Our reservations are complete. You are crazy nuts. We are going to Pompeii and if you don’t want to go, don’t. I’ll go without you.’ ‘I knew you’d get hotter than your sizzling steak. Cool down. Eat, drink and let’s be merry.’ ‘Merry? What is this, Christmas time? I’m upset. I’m mad and I am going as planned. Dr. Kilman from U of PA and his wife will be lecturing and will have 10 senior students with them. Another small town just about ½ way between Pompeii and Herculaneum is being excavated. New equipment is already there. I’ll be busy from the day I get there, doing new things, meeting new people. ‘ ’Ah Ha, Mr. I, I, I. You don’t even know I’m there. I don’t want to be another tile on the floor any more.
The 1800 papyrus scrolls are important, but they are badly burned and will take years of careful work to make out anything. I can live nicely without that information. And what about the concern, not knowing why of thousands of dead found there were no injuries? Cripes, Jerry, even a 6th grader would know death was fast and it was caused by the gases, heat of the explosion. Lungs must have burst. Right? So, Jerry, are you sticking to your guns? You are going without me?’
Beth, my darling, I do want to be with you. If only we had unearthed King Solomon. He would have told us what to do. Could ½ of you and ½ of me go and the other half stay home? We cant do that. How’s this? You stay home and oversee a great contractor to build us a huge pool with a fountain in the middle of our garden. Would you like that, Sweetheart?’ ‘Not really. Then again, maybe I can locate a really good contractor who is good in other things besides houses and pools. How would you like that, my Darling?’
‘Oh, Beth, we are talking, aren’t we? How about you go to Rome. You love it there, don’t you? Stay at the George X. Shop, practice your Italian. You can eat, go the opera, watch the cats at the Coliseum, be busy all the time. I’ll stay with my group for only the first ten days and will meet you at the George for ten more. How’s that? Come sit on my lap. I need a kiss.’
‘Jerry, I’ll do more than that. I’ll be your dessert. Let’s go see if Martha left yet.’
‘She’s ready. I’m ready, too. We’re going again this summer to Rome, to Pompeii and everything is arranged, but I don’t want to go. The place suffocates me summer after summer. Thousands of tourists, crowds everywhere, especially in Pompeii, flooding every thing that has been excavated in Pompeii and Herculaneum. I’ve had enough. Jerry, look at the sunset. Isn’t it amazingly red? It looks like Vesuvius has flipped its lid again and is angry at me for not wanting to return.’
‘Beth did you know I have crowned you as my favorite barkeep? You make a super martini. I may rent you out! Martha serves a great Caesar salad but sometimes she puts too many anchovies in. Will you tell her to cut down a little?’
‘Jerry, Martha and anchovies are not what I want to talk about.’ ‘OK, Beth. I’m ready for you to talk to me and I will answer. What’s on your mind?’ ‘Don’t yell, just don’t yell. Think first. Do we have to go to Italy again just because you love it? You work hard and don’t even get paid. We’ve seen the houses, atriums, urns, unbelievable tiles on the floors, the walls, colors still clear. The explicit sex may thrill you but I’d rather participate than look at the same old cold tiles one more time. You’ve read, studied, dug. A found coin is a treasure. The ear of an urn still thrills you, but it is boring to me.’
‘Whoa! Whoa! What the hell are you talking about? Our reservations are complete. You are crazy nuts. We are going to Pompeii and if you don’t want to go, don’t. I’ll go without you.’ ‘I knew you’d get hotter than your sizzling steak. Cool down. Eat, drink and let’s be merry.’ ‘Merry? What is this, Christmas time? I’m upset. I’m mad and I am going as planned. Dr. Kilman from U of PA and his wife will be lecturing and will have 10 senior students with them. Another small town just about ½ way between Pompeii and Herculaneum is being excavated. New equipment is already there. I’ll be busy from the day I get there, doing new things, meeting new people. ‘ ’Ah Ha, Mr. I, I, I. You don’t even know I’m there. I don’t want to be another tile on the floor any more.
The 1800 papyrus scrolls are important, but they are badly burned and will take years of careful work to make out anything. I can live nicely without that information. And what about the concern, not knowing why of thousands of dead found there were no injuries? Cripes, Jerry, even a 6th grader would know death was fast and it was caused by the gases, heat of the explosion. Lungs must have burst. Right? So, Jerry, are you sticking to your guns? You are going without me?’
Beth, my darling, I do want to be with you. If only we had unearthed King Solomon. He would have told us what to do. Could ½ of you and ½ of me go and the other half stay home? We cant do that. How’s this? You stay home and oversee a great contractor to build us a huge pool with a fountain in the middle of our garden. Would you like that, Sweetheart?’ ‘Not really. Then again, maybe I can locate a really good contractor who is good in other things besides houses and pools. How would you like that, my Darling?’
‘Oh, Beth, we are talking, aren’t we? How about you go to Rome. You love it there, don’t you? Stay at the George X. Shop, practice your Italian. You can eat, go the opera, watch the cats at the Coliseum, be busy all the time. I’ll stay with my group for only the first ten days and will meet you at the George for ten more. How’s that? Come sit on my lap. I need a kiss.’
‘Jerry, I’ll do more than that. I’ll be your dessert. Let’s go see if Martha left yet.’
Saturday, September 26, 2009
HE CAN
I’m sorry, god! But then again, why am I apologizing to you? You know very well why I left you. You are guilty. In truth, it was you who left me, us, wasn’t it? Where is your mercy, your understanding, your interest? I can go on as long as you let me with questions, questions you have never, will never, answer.
My parents, my teachers, my friends told me old wives tales about Adam and Eve, a snake, an apple. If you created them as a whim, you got off to a bad start. You gave them brains for thinking and then didn’t let them. They weren’t even afraid of that snake slithering up a tree. You didn’t explain a tree, a snake, the sky. You set them down in Eden, a heaven on earth and allowed them to have children and then did not show them what anger would do and let Cain slay his brother. You could have stopped him but no, you let the first war break out between them and must have liked it. Did you sit back on your golden throne, wave your hand and announce to the entire firmament, ‘Let the games begin.’ ? And so they did.
There is no stopping them. I believe you tease us. Give us oceans and let tsunamis wash away beautiful, innocent babies, houses. You take away sight, let diseases go unchecked no matter the money, the effort we give to erasing them.
We are more than monkeys, god. We study, we learn, we have tools, go forward and you send in a Nero, a Hitler, a Manson. Life flows too fast and we don’t know what comes next. Don’t put me down, god. I have given every religion a try, been to monasteries, synagogues, studied with Buddhists, enfolded Christ, swung a dead chicken around my neck and never found your hiding place.
Where are you? What are you? I am totally confused. Not believing in you or any facsimile, tortures me constantly. I stand in reverence, in awe, before you, and remain doubtful. Don’t suggest I find my own way. That is no longer good enough. Thousands, maybe millions of your puppets are gathering, waiting, for you to act, to destroy us all at once. Let us melt, disintegrate. You will not regret it. You will be free, free at last, much wiser and can start over.
Shall we set the date now? How is December 12, 2012? Good luck!
My parents, my teachers, my friends told me old wives tales about Adam and Eve, a snake, an apple. If you created them as a whim, you got off to a bad start. You gave them brains for thinking and then didn’t let them. They weren’t even afraid of that snake slithering up a tree. You didn’t explain a tree, a snake, the sky. You set them down in Eden, a heaven on earth and allowed them to have children and then did not show them what anger would do and let Cain slay his brother. You could have stopped him but no, you let the first war break out between them and must have liked it. Did you sit back on your golden throne, wave your hand and announce to the entire firmament, ‘Let the games begin.’ ? And so they did.
There is no stopping them. I believe you tease us. Give us oceans and let tsunamis wash away beautiful, innocent babies, houses. You take away sight, let diseases go unchecked no matter the money, the effort we give to erasing them.
We are more than monkeys, god. We study, we learn, we have tools, go forward and you send in a Nero, a Hitler, a Manson. Life flows too fast and we don’t know what comes next. Don’t put me down, god. I have given every religion a try, been to monasteries, synagogues, studied with Buddhists, enfolded Christ, swung a dead chicken around my neck and never found your hiding place.
Where are you? What are you? I am totally confused. Not believing in you or any facsimile, tortures me constantly. I stand in reverence, in awe, before you, and remain doubtful. Don’t suggest I find my own way. That is no longer good enough. Thousands, maybe millions of your puppets are gathering, waiting, for you to act, to destroy us all at once. Let us melt, disintegrate. You will not regret it. You will be free, free at last, much wiser and can start over.
Shall we set the date now? How is December 12, 2012? Good luck!
Friday, September 25, 2009
My daughter Ronnee, whom I affectionately call Ron, is in New York this week with her husband Evan (whom she affectionately calls Ev) for a big celebration for the 70th anniversary of "The Wizard of Oz." She is Vice President of Publicity at Warner Home Video, which is putting out a great new Blu-ray and DVD of the movie. They had a press junket at the Essex House hotel (that's Ron in the pic with four of the original Munchkins) and then a big party at the Tavern on the Green in Central Park. P.S. Ron told me the movie looks fantastic in the new remastered print of the movie. Can't wait to see it!NIGHT SWEATS
It’s 3 A.M. The t.v. in her bedroom is still on, just as it is every morning since 10 P.M. when Sally clicked it on as she got into bed.Fifteen minutes of CSI is all she can take. A switch to a re -run of Lou Dobbs CNN jabbering on and on lasts twenty, half hour Law and Order, a few pages of ‘Luck Be a Lady’, two trips to the bathroom, a sip of water, 10 refreshing cold green grapes and she tries again to fall asleep until at least six a.m.
With little hope she throws off her light weight thin blue blanket, followed by the matching blue sheet and reverses the two dacron pillows that lie there, one on top of the other for better comfort, more chance to snooze. She reaches to turn off the night table lamp and t.v. before trying again for an answer to her nightly ‘why can’t I sleep like normal people, get up at 6 or seven, do what I do during the day and sleep 6 or 7 hours a night, all at one time? ‘No pills, Doc.’
Her left foot goes right into her blue slipper next to the bed. The right has moved. ‘Where is that little Bastard?’ Down flat on the floor she searches under the bed but can’t reach it. She goes downstairs, gets a broom from the pantry and slides the slipper next to the other. It is not blue. It isn’t hers. Whose is it? Where is mine? A little cold sweat beads her forehead. Her heart beats faster. She hurries to the bathroom, turns on the tap and without waiting for the water to be warm, douses her head with the chill of night. It drips under her neck and down the lacy front of her nitegown.
The kitchen shades are tightly closed. Nobody can see her. ‘Let it drip!’ A semi-fog slowly rises. Her head feels a little more clear. Somebody, sometime left that slipper under my bed. Kirk’s Employment Agency will have some explaining to do and better have a new housekeeper here for me by Saturday.
OK. Now, let me see. Where is my slipper, the one I put right next to my other one, the one that is still there, before I got in bed? With doubt but determination she goes back to look again and there it is, exactly where it should have been, except they are pointing different directions. Who cares? Both slip on easily. .
The digital night table clock blinks 4:45. Not a car passes her building. The elevator has been idle for hours but will soon wake up. Nothing else to do, Sally gets dressed, nukes oatmeal with sweet cream and cinnamon, lightly toasts an English muffin, smothers it with strawberry jam, and skips the coffee. Feeling foolish but sated, Sally imagines the sofa is whistling for her, goes into the den and lies down .The blue slipper will be found sooner or later and she blocks it all out of her mind as the world disappears.
A soft breeze brushes her face and tickles her awake. Lordy, I slept two hours. I feel great. Her clothes aren’t even rumpled. As she walks toward the t.v. she screams out loud. In front of her former husband’s rocker is the slipper that isn’t blue. It’s tan mate is beside it. A soft knock sounds from the front door. Without opening it she calls, ‘Who’s there?’ A familiar voice replies,’ Open the door, Sally, I bought fresh croissants for breakfast. Her ex stands there holding a plastic bag of rolls and her legs buckle. ‘Where did you find that old slipper of mine?’ he asks her. ‘The pair look good together, don’t they?’
It’s 3:15 a.m. and Sally, as usual, can’t sleep–except sometimes. Sometimes she manages to squeeze in a quick dream
With little hope she throws off her light weight thin blue blanket, followed by the matching blue sheet and reverses the two dacron pillows that lie there, one on top of the other for better comfort, more chance to snooze. She reaches to turn off the night table lamp and t.v. before trying again for an answer to her nightly ‘why can’t I sleep like normal people, get up at 6 or seven, do what I do during the day and sleep 6 or 7 hours a night, all at one time? ‘No pills, Doc.’
Her left foot goes right into her blue slipper next to the bed. The right has moved. ‘Where is that little Bastard?’ Down flat on the floor she searches under the bed but can’t reach it. She goes downstairs, gets a broom from the pantry and slides the slipper next to the other. It is not blue. It isn’t hers. Whose is it? Where is mine? A little cold sweat beads her forehead. Her heart beats faster. She hurries to the bathroom, turns on the tap and without waiting for the water to be warm, douses her head with the chill of night. It drips under her neck and down the lacy front of her nitegown.
The kitchen shades are tightly closed. Nobody can see her. ‘Let it drip!’ A semi-fog slowly rises. Her head feels a little more clear. Somebody, sometime left that slipper under my bed. Kirk’s Employment Agency will have some explaining to do and better have a new housekeeper here for me by Saturday.
OK. Now, let me see. Where is my slipper, the one I put right next to my other one, the one that is still there, before I got in bed? With doubt but determination she goes back to look again and there it is, exactly where it should have been, except they are pointing different directions. Who cares? Both slip on easily. .
The digital night table clock blinks 4:45. Not a car passes her building. The elevator has been idle for hours but will soon wake up. Nothing else to do, Sally gets dressed, nukes oatmeal with sweet cream and cinnamon, lightly toasts an English muffin, smothers it with strawberry jam, and skips the coffee. Feeling foolish but sated, Sally imagines the sofa is whistling for her, goes into the den and lies down .The blue slipper will be found sooner or later and she blocks it all out of her mind as the world disappears.
A soft breeze brushes her face and tickles her awake. Lordy, I slept two hours. I feel great. Her clothes aren’t even rumpled. As she walks toward the t.v. she screams out loud. In front of her former husband’s rocker is the slipper that isn’t blue. It’s tan mate is beside it. A soft knock sounds from the front door. Without opening it she calls, ‘Who’s there?’ A familiar voice replies,’ Open the door, Sally, I bought fresh croissants for breakfast. Her ex stands there holding a plastic bag of rolls and her legs buckle. ‘Where did you find that old slipper of mine?’ he asks her. ‘The pair look good together, don’t they?’
It’s 3:15 a.m. and Sally, as usual, can’t sleep–except sometimes. Sometimes she manages to squeeze in a quick dream
WAILING WAUL
‘Siggy, Siggy, help! I see his hand reach out to me but it is a second too late. My ice skate lace loosened and has tripped me. Here I am, lying on my back, cold water splashing on my face, hair, as more adept skaters dip and glide past me. I am embarrassed. A tall, ugly kid purposely skids close to me so that shavings of wet ice go inside my jacket. I try to dig my skates into the ice while Siggy pulls me up. It doesn’t happen. I pull him down. ‘OOPS!’ A pretty teenager wearing a short pleated skirt can’t avoid Siggy’s prostrate body and falls heavily across his right leg. His scream comes from the depth of hell. It shuts out the recorded waltz coming from two staticky loud speakers. On my knees, I crawl to the railing, get a tight hold and rise, water dripping from inside my padded pants. Siggy’s in trouble. A crowd is forming around him. Whistles blow. An announcement asks everyone to clear the rink until the injured person is removed. ‘Skating will resume as quickly as possible.’
It seems forever as I worry, fidget, try to find out what has happened to Siggy. He is surrounded. I am ignored. The circle opens as four medics carry in a sturdy board, talk to Siggy, and somehow manage to get the board underneath him, throw a warm blanket over his body and skate out of the rink. I barely hear him yelling, ‘Mildred, Mildred call my,’ and he is gone. I sit on the wooden steps that lead to the exit, manage to remove my skates, soaked socks and go looking for my shoes and Siggy’s as well as his back pack. I spot them on the bench in the section next to me. I can’t believe nobody stole them.
The canned music is already playing The Blue Danube. Siggy and I are not missed. The skating goes on. Perfect timing. I reach the rink exit at the very moment Siggy is wheeled out, lifted into the ambulance, shouting, ‘Harry Golden, Yellowstone Dr. Going to St. Alphonso’s Hospital.’ The wailing sirens give me goose flesh right thru my soaked underwear.
‘ Mrs. Golden. This is Mildred. Siggy might have a broken leg. .He’s on the way to St. Alphonso’s. Tell him not to be worried. I have his shoes and back pack, but I don’t see his car key.’ ‘Mildred, surprise, Siggy’s home already. His leg isn’t broken, just bruised badly. He wants you to come over so he can beat you to a pulp for pulling him down on the ice. Come soon. I’ll have good hot chocolate with tollhouse cookies ready for you both.’
Relief overcomes me. I put Sig’s shoes and socks into his back pack. He must have still had his skates on when he was taken away. It is as heavy as a roasting 25 lb. turkey and just as hard to manage. Books, magazines, Game Boy, pack rat junk. I force my skates in and zip up, put the straps over my shoulders and walk lopsided to the bus. Street lights are on and I walk as carefully as I can, which isn’t carefully enough. My ankle gives in to a huge crack in the pavement where a sycamore’s roots came up for a fast taste of snow. I scream the scream from hell. My ankle has to be broken.
A few passersby stop to help me stand, but I can’t put any weight on my right foot. A woman, a complete stranger, kindly uses her cell to call 911 and leaves me there. The wailing sirens wail again. This time I wince for my own pain. I give the medics all the information they want. ‘Will you please call my mother, tell her where you are taking me and she has to call Mrs. Golden at 542-6112 to tell her I can’t come over. I’m at St. Alphonso’s.’
It seems forever as I worry, fidget, try to find out what has happened to Siggy. He is surrounded. I am ignored. The circle opens as four medics carry in a sturdy board, talk to Siggy, and somehow manage to get the board underneath him, throw a warm blanket over his body and skate out of the rink. I barely hear him yelling, ‘Mildred, Mildred call my,’ and he is gone. I sit on the wooden steps that lead to the exit, manage to remove my skates, soaked socks and go looking for my shoes and Siggy’s as well as his back pack. I spot them on the bench in the section next to me. I can’t believe nobody stole them.
The canned music is already playing The Blue Danube. Siggy and I are not missed. The skating goes on. Perfect timing. I reach the rink exit at the very moment Siggy is wheeled out, lifted into the ambulance, shouting, ‘Harry Golden, Yellowstone Dr. Going to St. Alphonso’s Hospital.’ The wailing sirens give me goose flesh right thru my soaked underwear.
‘ Mrs. Golden. This is Mildred. Siggy might have a broken leg. .He’s on the way to St. Alphonso’s. Tell him not to be worried. I have his shoes and back pack, but I don’t see his car key.’ ‘Mildred, surprise, Siggy’s home already. His leg isn’t broken, just bruised badly. He wants you to come over so he can beat you to a pulp for pulling him down on the ice. Come soon. I’ll have good hot chocolate with tollhouse cookies ready for you both.’
Relief overcomes me. I put Sig’s shoes and socks into his back pack. He must have still had his skates on when he was taken away. It is as heavy as a roasting 25 lb. turkey and just as hard to manage. Books, magazines, Game Boy, pack rat junk. I force my skates in and zip up, put the straps over my shoulders and walk lopsided to the bus. Street lights are on and I walk as carefully as I can, which isn’t carefully enough. My ankle gives in to a huge crack in the pavement where a sycamore’s roots came up for a fast taste of snow. I scream the scream from hell. My ankle has to be broken.
A few passersby stop to help me stand, but I can’t put any weight on my right foot. A woman, a complete stranger, kindly uses her cell to call 911 and leaves me there. The wailing sirens wail again. This time I wince for my own pain. I give the medics all the information they want. ‘Will you please call my mother, tell her where you are taking me and she has to call Mrs. Golden at 542-6112 to tell her I can’t come over. I’m at St. Alphonso’s.’
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
INSTILLED
'No, Shirley, I'm not going in there. If you have to go, go ahead. I'd rather pee in my pants. ' 'What's with you, Flo? You got the curse or the crud or something? '
Not wanting to make waves, start a general interrogation or sound like an idiot, I simply tell her I'll be waiting for her on the bench near the fountain. She gives me what I consider a disdainful acceptance. I keep my back towards the ladies' toilets as I'd rather not see who goes in and who comes out, sometimes with a strand of toilet paper hanging from the woman's slax.
Today I can't help but smell the toddler's messed Pamper as her mother forcefully drags her toward the pit stop.
This attitude is not new to me but has been in remission for years. My mother instilled it in me from when I could first walk, pull down my panties. Strange that today I felt David put a stone in his sling shot, wham it at Cloth and slay him fast. My mother was a killer when it came to personal hygiene and I was her student, or unexpected victim.
She bought, or inherited, a child's white porcelain potty with tiny pink rosebuds painted all around it. It became a crown under my bed, way up on the 3rd floor of our row house. The small bathroom was on the first floor where I couldn't go at night. Before I said 'goodnight' to my parents, Mother listened for my little tinkle, then carried it to the basement, emptied it someplace and brought it back to me. This was a routine
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Monday, September 21, 2009
ODE TO AMERICA: from a Romanian newspaper.
This is truly worth reading. It is right on the nose.
We did the same thing when Japan hit us at Pearl Harbor. Now we have turned into a bunch of nasty, arguing, unpatriotic fools. We are fighting ourselves and had better straighten up or WE will be the losers.
We rarely get a chance to see another country's editorial about the USARead this excerpt from a Romanian Newspaper. The article was written by Mr. Cornel Nistorescu and published under the title 'C'ntarea Americii, meaning 'Ode To America ') in the Romanian newspaper Evenimentulzilei 'The Daily Event' or 'News of the Day'.
~An Ode to America ~
Why are Americans so united? They would not resemble one another even if you painted them all one color! They speak all the languages of the world and form an astonishing mixture of civilizations and religious beliefs.
On 9/11, the American tragedy turned three hundred million people into a hand put on the heart. Nobody rushed to accuse the White House, the Army, or the Secret Service that they are only a bunch of losers. Nobody rushed to empty their bank accounts. Nobody rushed out onto the streets nearby to gape about.
Instead the Americans volunteered to donate blood and to give a helping hand.
After the first moments of panic , they raised their flag over the smoking ruins, putting on T-shirts, caps and ties in the colors of the national flag. They placed flags on buildings and cars as if in every place and on every car a government official or the president was passing. On every occasion, they started singing: 'God Bless America'!
I watched the live broadcast and rerun after rerun for hours listening to the story of the guy who went down one hundred floors with a woman in a wheelchair without knowing who she was, or of the Californian hockey player, who gave his life fighting with the terrorists and prevented the plane from hitting a target that could have killed other hundreds or thousands of people.
How on earth were they able to respond united as one human being? Imperceptibly, with every word and musical note, the memory of some turned into a modern myth of tragic heroes. And with every phone call, millions and millions of dollars were put into collection aimed at rewarding not a man or a family, but a spirit, which no money can buy. What on earth can unite the Americans in such way? Their land? Their history? Their economic Power? Money? I tried for hours to find an answer, humming songs and murmuring phrases with the risk of sounding commonplace, I thought things over, I reached but only one conclusion... Only freedom can work such miracles.
Cornel Nistorescu
We did the same thing when Japan hit us at Pearl Harbor. Now we have turned into a bunch of nasty, arguing, unpatriotic fools. We are fighting ourselves and had better straighten up or WE will be the losers.
We rarely get a chance to see another country's editorial about the USARead this excerpt from a Romanian Newspaper. The article was written by Mr. Cornel Nistorescu and published under the title 'C'ntarea Americii, meaning 'Ode To America ') in the Romanian newspaper Evenimentulzilei 'The Daily Event' or 'News of the Day'.
~An Ode to America ~
Why are Americans so united? They would not resemble one another even if you painted them all one color! They speak all the languages of the world and form an astonishing mixture of civilizations and religious beliefs.
On 9/11, the American tragedy turned three hundred million people into a hand put on the heart. Nobody rushed to accuse the White House, the Army, or the Secret Service that they are only a bunch of losers. Nobody rushed to empty their bank accounts. Nobody rushed out onto the streets nearby to gape about.
Instead the Americans volunteered to donate blood and to give a helping hand.
After the first moments of panic , they raised their flag over the smoking ruins, putting on T-shirts, caps and ties in the colors of the national flag. They placed flags on buildings and cars as if in every place and on every car a government official or the president was passing. On every occasion, they started singing: 'God Bless America'!
I watched the live broadcast and rerun after rerun for hours listening to the story of the guy who went down one hundred floors with a woman in a wheelchair without knowing who she was, or of the Californian hockey player, who gave his life fighting with the terrorists and prevented the plane from hitting a target that could have killed other hundreds or thousands of people.
How on earth were they able to respond united as one human being? Imperceptibly, with every word and musical note, the memory of some turned into a modern myth of tragic heroes. And with every phone call, millions and millions of dollars were put into collection aimed at rewarding not a man or a family, but a spirit, which no money can buy. What on earth can unite the Americans in such way? Their land? Their history? Their economic Power? Money? I tried for hours to find an answer, humming songs and murmuring phrases with the risk of sounding commonplace, I thought things over, I reached but only one conclusion... Only freedom can work such miracles.
Cornel Nistorescu
UP AND DOWN
The trail up the cliff looked doable, fairly easy, but became a mountain before I hit my estimated half way mark. My goal was the top. I had to look at the ocean beating on the red rocks below, sprinkling rain on my face. Dawn was just barely lighting the sky. A few loose pebbles skittered beneath my boots, click clanked backwards. I plodded a little further, breathed in slowly, deeply, smelled the salt. My back felt like it would crack in the middle, send half of me to the oblivion of the ocean. A mental picture drew itself as the rest of me was lifted by the strong upward draft. Blood dripped from the sky. My feet caught between two boulders and stood there like an AWOL soldier caught in a criminal act.
The beauty was gone. I sat there crying, just wanting to be with my mother, explain what happened and how much I didn’t want it to happen. I see her dressed for dinner, looking pretty, young. Her hand is soft as it tossles my wind blown hair. She feels my sadness. I feel she is trying hard to understand, even though I don’t. ‘Mother, I only wanted to kiss Rose Marie’s cheek. Why did she push me away, laugh at me? I thought she was teasing me so I laughed with her. That made her see red and she charged at me like a brazen bull. What could I do? I caught her, begged her to just sit down on the grass and watch the clouds go by. For a moment I thought she would. Instead, Rose Marie walked over to me and kicked me in my crotch. I became the bull and went after her, chased her, caught her. Accidentally I tore the front of her dress. Shocked by the beauty, I had to touch her, feel her beautiful breasts. No one was near us. Noone was within ear shot to hear her screams, except me. ‘Hush, Hush, Rose Marie. I’ll let you up and I did.
‘You son-of a bitch,’ she yelled and spit on me. ‘That’s what you are. Your mother’s a bitch and that makes you one. And besides that, your father’s a filthy drunk. Get away from me. Go, go, go to hell. I’m calling the police and you will go to jail for attempted rape for a long time.’ ‘Mother, I couldn’t let her say such things and couldn’t go to jail just for wanting to kiss her cheek, could I? I was so angry I punched her in her belly. She fell down and I picked up a gray, jagged rock and crashed it into her. Blood came out of her mouth and head. Looking made me throw up. I killed her, Mother, I killed her.’
‘Mother, I’m talking to you, to God, to Rose Marie, to her mother, begging forgiveness. No one is listening. I am near the top of the cliff. There are just a few more steps, the hardest of all. One, two. I put Rose Marie flat down and pick her up, facing me, put my cheek next to where I think hers must be and take step three.
The beauty was gone. I sat there crying, just wanting to be with my mother, explain what happened and how much I didn’t want it to happen. I see her dressed for dinner, looking pretty, young. Her hand is soft as it tossles my wind blown hair. She feels my sadness. I feel she is trying hard to understand, even though I don’t. ‘Mother, I only wanted to kiss Rose Marie’s cheek. Why did she push me away, laugh at me? I thought she was teasing me so I laughed with her. That made her see red and she charged at me like a brazen bull. What could I do? I caught her, begged her to just sit down on the grass and watch the clouds go by. For a moment I thought she would. Instead, Rose Marie walked over to me and kicked me in my crotch. I became the bull and went after her, chased her, caught her. Accidentally I tore the front of her dress. Shocked by the beauty, I had to touch her, feel her beautiful breasts. No one was near us. Noone was within ear shot to hear her screams, except me. ‘Hush, Hush, Rose Marie. I’ll let you up and I did.
‘You son-of a bitch,’ she yelled and spit on me. ‘That’s what you are. Your mother’s a bitch and that makes you one. And besides that, your father’s a filthy drunk. Get away from me. Go, go, go to hell. I’m calling the police and you will go to jail for attempted rape for a long time.’ ‘Mother, I couldn’t let her say such things and couldn’t go to jail just for wanting to kiss her cheek, could I? I was so angry I punched her in her belly. She fell down and I picked up a gray, jagged rock and crashed it into her. Blood came out of her mouth and head. Looking made me throw up. I killed her, Mother, I killed her.’
‘Mother, I’m talking to you, to God, to Rose Marie, to her mother, begging forgiveness. No one is listening. I am near the top of the cliff. There are just a few more steps, the hardest of all. One, two. I put Rose Marie flat down and pick her up, facing me, put my cheek next to where I think hers must be and take step three.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
YONTIF SMILE: FAMILY TALK
‘I found it! I found it! Daddy, I found it!’ ‘What, what did you find that makes you carry on so much?’ ‘Oh, Daddy, you know what I found.’‘No, I don’t. If it is so important tell me, what did you find.’ ‘I found the piece of matzoh.’ ‘Which piece is that, Becky? There are dozens of pieces of matzoh all over the kitchen.’ ‘I found the broken piece under your chicken soup bowl.’ Well, Child, I didn’t put it there and if a piece magically found it’s way there without spilling my soup, SOMEBODY put it there.’ ‘Selma, come close. Did you put the matzoh under my soup bowl?’ ‘Yes, David, if you didn’t, who else could have done it?’
‘Well, Daughter, that means you win and get a prize. What would you like?’ ‘I know, I know, I want what that lady on T.V got, the show that makes so much noise and you said you wish you could get on it. I want a million dollars!’ ‘Becky, be sensible for your six years. If I had a million dollars, I wouldn’t want to be on that show. Pick something else.’ ‘Oooh, ooh, I know. I want a little glass of red wine for YONTIF.’ ‘Sorry, you can’t have that either. You are too young to drink wine.’ ‘But Daddy, Sarah next door has some and she is the same age I am. Why can’t I have just a little bit?’ ‘I already told you why. Don’t ask again! Maybe next year I’ll let you take a taste.’
‘Becky, how would you like another piece of Mama’s delicious gefilte fish for a prize?’ ‘Oh, Daddy, it’s ichy. When Mama wasn’t looking I put my piece in a paper napkin and threw it in the garbage can.’ ‘Becky, Becky, that was not a nice thing to do, but as long as you were doing it, why didn’t you take mine, too?’ We both laughed. ‘So what’s so funny, Shmendrek?’ You should only know, Mama. You might laugh too or maybe cry. Don’t ask!’ ‘Becky and I just want this to be our secret. OK?’
‘Let’s get back to business. Selma, what should Becky get for finding the matzoh? ‘ I don’t know about that but do know she should get a whipping for throwing my delicious gefilte fish in the garbage. I saw you.’ ‘ You are wrong, Selma. Becky didn’t throw her fish in the garbage she threw mine for me. Your big, important Cha Cha cat helped herself to a big bite out of mine. That’s what our little girl did for me.’‘Excuse me, Becky, Dahling. I’m, sorry I accused you of doing something bad. How would you like a little glass of wine?’ ‘Yes, Mama. I would like that. Thank you.’
‘Becky, Mama and I have your Matzoh present ready. It is in one of my shoes and you have to pick the right one or get nothing because you took the wine from Mama when I said you couldn’t have it. Want to take a chance? Columbus did!’ ‘ What do you mean, Daddy?’ ‘Mama, come watch. See what Becky gets, a present or a spanking.’
‘Daddy, stand still. Stop wiggling your toes. How can I decide? OK, give me the shoe on your right foot.’ Sit down. ‘ Now, Becky, you have to untie the lace and pull very hard to get my shoe off my tired foot.’‘It’s off. I did a good job. Money, money! How much can I buy with $5 dollars, Daddy.’ ‘A lot, a lot!’
‘Can I look in the other show to see what I would get in the whipping shoe? Let me pull your other shoe off. Another $5 bill.’ ‘Daddy that is not fair. I did throw out Mama’s gefilte fish and you lied so Mama wouldn’t holler at me. We both should be punished Let’s do this, we wiil each have only one slice of mama’s honey cake, with a little bit of lemon sherbet and I won’t have any wine next holiday. I didn’t like it anyhow. You can have your second five dollar back and I won’t have to learn the four questions for the next holiday. Deal, Daddy?’
‘Can’t make a deal yet, Becky. I’ll have to see if your cousin Israel comes so he can ask the questions.’ ‘In the meantime, study.’
‘Well, Daughter, that means you win and get a prize. What would you like?’ ‘I know, I know, I want what that lady on T.V got, the show that makes so much noise and you said you wish you could get on it. I want a million dollars!’ ‘Becky, be sensible for your six years. If I had a million dollars, I wouldn’t want to be on that show. Pick something else.’ ‘Oooh, ooh, I know. I want a little glass of red wine for YONTIF.’ ‘Sorry, you can’t have that either. You are too young to drink wine.’ ‘But Daddy, Sarah next door has some and she is the same age I am. Why can’t I have just a little bit?’ ‘I already told you why. Don’t ask again! Maybe next year I’ll let you take a taste.’
‘Becky, how would you like another piece of Mama’s delicious gefilte fish for a prize?’ ‘Oh, Daddy, it’s ichy. When Mama wasn’t looking I put my piece in a paper napkin and threw it in the garbage can.’ ‘Becky, Becky, that was not a nice thing to do, but as long as you were doing it, why didn’t you take mine, too?’ We both laughed. ‘So what’s so funny, Shmendrek?’ You should only know, Mama. You might laugh too or maybe cry. Don’t ask!’ ‘Becky and I just want this to be our secret. OK?’
‘Let’s get back to business. Selma, what should Becky get for finding the matzoh? ‘ I don’t know about that but do know she should get a whipping for throwing my delicious gefilte fish in the garbage. I saw you.’ ‘ You are wrong, Selma. Becky didn’t throw her fish in the garbage she threw mine for me. Your big, important Cha Cha cat helped herself to a big bite out of mine. That’s what our little girl did for me.’‘Excuse me, Becky, Dahling. I’m, sorry I accused you of doing something bad. How would you like a little glass of wine?’ ‘Yes, Mama. I would like that. Thank you.’
‘Becky, Mama and I have your Matzoh present ready. It is in one of my shoes and you have to pick the right one or get nothing because you took the wine from Mama when I said you couldn’t have it. Want to take a chance? Columbus did!’ ‘ What do you mean, Daddy?’ ‘Mama, come watch. See what Becky gets, a present or a spanking.’
‘Daddy, stand still. Stop wiggling your toes. How can I decide? OK, give me the shoe on your right foot.’ Sit down. ‘ Now, Becky, you have to untie the lace and pull very hard to get my shoe off my tired foot.’‘It’s off. I did a good job. Money, money! How much can I buy with $5 dollars, Daddy.’ ‘A lot, a lot!’
‘Can I look in the other show to see what I would get in the whipping shoe? Let me pull your other shoe off. Another $5 bill.’ ‘Daddy that is not fair. I did throw out Mama’s gefilte fish and you lied so Mama wouldn’t holler at me. We both should be punished Let’s do this, we wiil each have only one slice of mama’s honey cake, with a little bit of lemon sherbet and I won’t have any wine next holiday. I didn’t like it anyhow. You can have your second five dollar back and I won’t have to learn the four questions for the next holiday. Deal, Daddy?’
‘Can’t make a deal yet, Becky. I’ll have to see if your cousin Israel comes so he can ask the questions.’ ‘In the meantime, study.’
Saturday, September 19, 2009
MOTHER NATURE
From my eighth floor window I can clearly see two large gray elephants locking their trunks together. No female they may be dueling over is in sight. I slide my Braun electric tooth brush to the end of the travertine counter, feel its tingle while I stare at the two elephants. The one on the right that seems stronger to me, lets go and disappears. The first rays of daybreak have sent him roaring away just as an unexpected lightning bolt electrifies its tail. What a show to start my day! The lightning has forced me to quickly shut off my shower, my toothbrush, close my window shades to wait out the storm.
I don’t wait long. No storm comes. There is no more lightning, not a drop of rain. A childhood image of elephants, circuses, friends rushes in, makes me wonder about my adulthood, my sanity. Something is going on. Too many childish thoughts come faster and faster. They make me angry, make me cry, make me smile, want to stay in that world.
My very best girlfriend appeared to me after the elephant left. We were on the Dangler in the amusement park, going faster than the wind until I was sure the chain would break and I’d go flying into the sky. My friend, what was her name? I try and try to remember but can’t. Going thru the alphabet letter by letter, putting names to each letter gets me nowhere. I try again, Betty, Barb, Brenda. She is with me but her name is not.
Shake it off, shake it off. Let go like the elephant did, I say so softly to myself that I don’t pay attention. That’s when I hear the shower still running. I drop my robe on the scatter rug and get under the spray that is now luke warm. The hot water is down the drain. Warm is good, too. I relax, suds myself to the max, let the tepid water wash all of me, open the shower door and yell to the ceiling, ‘Bess, Bess, I remember your name now. Do you ever think of me, of us, of the fights and fun we used to have? A certain satisfaction comes over me. I knew I knew her name so I feel cleaner and better.
At ten a.m. my phone rings and I think for an instant it is going to be mental telepathy and it will be Bess, the Bess I haven’t heard from inforty years. Stranger things have happened–but not this time. A supposed fireman asks me for a donation and I am ready with my usual reply, ‘Sorry I give no donations to phone callers,’ and hang up.
My mood turns to sour lemons. Today is another do-nothing day until an idea squeezes in. I go to my bedroom closet, appraise the top shelf, and see my grammar school autograph books, at least a dozen. Leaning against that stack are photo albums with many black corners dried up, the photos crooked, fading. Aha! Harrison High year books for 1942 and ‘43. I take them both down and walk slowly to the living room, almost tasting what I will see. The raised gold letters on the cover feel like magical stars. I feel the smoothness of the glossy pages. Page by page I recall every teacher, their voices, their courses, their old style dresses. The classrooms smell musty. There are so many committee pictures that I am not on. There I am, my long blond hair almost covering my eyes, Editor in Chief of the Harrison Herald, two years in a row.
Posed stiff pictures of all the graduates, alphabetically arranged, hold my attention. I talk to a few who wrote notes for the future under their names. And then, then I see her, she breathes, my very best girlfriend. Under her picture I blink, don’t understand. Her name is Gloria Graham, not Bess at all. I close the book and sob to Gloria. ‘Forgive me old friend. I goofed. I won’t forget your name ever again. It is etched in stone.’ Before I put the book back on the shelf, I take the time search, for a Bess.
I don’t wait long. No storm comes. There is no more lightning, not a drop of rain. A childhood image of elephants, circuses, friends rushes in, makes me wonder about my adulthood, my sanity. Something is going on. Too many childish thoughts come faster and faster. They make me angry, make me cry, make me smile, want to stay in that world.
My very best girlfriend appeared to me after the elephant left. We were on the Dangler in the amusement park, going faster than the wind until I was sure the chain would break and I’d go flying into the sky. My friend, what was her name? I try and try to remember but can’t. Going thru the alphabet letter by letter, putting names to each letter gets me nowhere. I try again, Betty, Barb, Brenda. She is with me but her name is not.
Shake it off, shake it off. Let go like the elephant did, I say so softly to myself that I don’t pay attention. That’s when I hear the shower still running. I drop my robe on the scatter rug and get under the spray that is now luke warm. The hot water is down the drain. Warm is good, too. I relax, suds myself to the max, let the tepid water wash all of me, open the shower door and yell to the ceiling, ‘Bess, Bess, I remember your name now. Do you ever think of me, of us, of the fights and fun we used to have? A certain satisfaction comes over me. I knew I knew her name so I feel cleaner and better.
At ten a.m. my phone rings and I think for an instant it is going to be mental telepathy and it will be Bess, the Bess I haven’t heard from inforty years. Stranger things have happened–but not this time. A supposed fireman asks me for a donation and I am ready with my usual reply, ‘Sorry I give no donations to phone callers,’ and hang up.
My mood turns to sour lemons. Today is another do-nothing day until an idea squeezes in. I go to my bedroom closet, appraise the top shelf, and see my grammar school autograph books, at least a dozen. Leaning against that stack are photo albums with many black corners dried up, the photos crooked, fading. Aha! Harrison High year books for 1942 and ‘43. I take them both down and walk slowly to the living room, almost tasting what I will see. The raised gold letters on the cover feel like magical stars. I feel the smoothness of the glossy pages. Page by page I recall every teacher, their voices, their courses, their old style dresses. The classrooms smell musty. There are so many committee pictures that I am not on. There I am, my long blond hair almost covering my eyes, Editor in Chief of the Harrison Herald, two years in a row.
Posed stiff pictures of all the graduates, alphabetically arranged, hold my attention. I talk to a few who wrote notes for the future under their names. And then, then I see her, she breathes, my very best girlfriend. Under her picture I blink, don’t understand. Her name is Gloria Graham, not Bess at all. I close the book and sob to Gloria. ‘Forgive me old friend. I goofed. I won’t forget your name ever again. It is etched in stone.’ Before I put the book back on the shelf, I take the time search, for a Bess.
Friday, September 18, 2009
DON’T WAVE YET
I have an itch, an itch that needs scratching. The maitre d’ looks at me, looks behind me, sees a young, laughing couple. This time I beat him to the punch, ‘Just One,’ I say. My table is not too isolated nor in the core of round ones for eight, bubbling with life. I don’t expect the Waldorf, perfect service. This place is usually good enough for me.
My children and ten year old grandson have tried to encourage me for two years to get away, fly to Paris, go on to Italy, Greece, be adventuresome. I’ve said I would so many times and have made no move. They haven’t mentioned it once this entire week. Tonight’s ‘Just One’ was bloody. It sliced into my brain so my ears could hear better. I think, am not sure, but I have made a startling decision to go away, see some of that big, wide world I’ve missed before I get my first Social Security check.
Between nibbles of my Caesar salad and crispy flat bread, my waiter reaches for my not quite finished salad. Gently, I tap his hand. ‘Uh, uh, I’m not finished.’ He apologizes, makes room for my entree, puts down my Veal Cutlet Alfredo with fried zuccini. I am in an awkward position. The Frommer’s Guide Book I bought at Barnes and Noble for $15 bucksis on my lap, waiting for me to scan the Pacific. Darn it. I’ll have to start it at home. For a moment I consider spilling a little Alfredo sauce on the cover to avoid returning the book. The moment passes. Nobody is rushing me. Dessert and coffee may sweeten my mind.
Frommer and I meet. Where might I like to go? Quickly I eliminate hot, sunny beaches, sun screen clogging my pores, Mai Tais and mahi mahi. Pages 100 to 140, Hawaii, Fiji, Tonga are out. Page 141 is Australia. Hmnn, that may be nice. I do love the barbies, the accents, what I hear is fantastic friendliness. The kangaroos and crocodiles I can skip. The big, beautiful harbor with the Opera House glaring white piques a little shiver up my spine. It’s my book and if I bend page corner’s down it’s nobody’s business. With fast pangs of guilt, I turn down the corner of page 141.
First thing in the morning I call my daughter about my tentative plan. Of course, she is thrilled, gives me her travel agent’s info. At ten I call for an appointment with Minnie Glick. Minnie is a surprise. She isn’t a fat, aging Jewish mother looking for something to do and earn a few dollars while doing it. She is stunning, tall, chic, knowledgeable and sunny as the beaches I don’t want to visit. ‘Call Me Min, everybody does,’ and that flows from my tongue. ‘Sandy is fine with me. I don’t need the Mrs. anymore.’
Arrangements are made so quickly there is hardly time to buy some new cruise clothes, to double check my charge account balances, add to my checking account, put a hold on mail delivery. Min comes with me and my daughter to acquaint me with the Harmony’s layout and to meet the Captain, Chief Purser, arrange for late dinner, get a safety deposit box. My cabin is mid section, 8 decks above water level, close, but not too close to the elevator. ‘Min, wish you were coming with me. All the officers know you. I’d be a queen.’ The ship shakes, rattles as the funnels sound three times ‘all ashore who are going ashore.’ The 12 piece band is on deck. Drinks are free, American and Australian flags are flying everywhere. A stranger grabs my body, smiles broadly and twirls me around and around.
‘Dinner at eight, please James. Madam will not be dining.’ The old song saddens me. I walk steadily on and say aloud, ‘Oh, yes she will.’ A couple walk by, look at me as if I’m already sea sick and walk on. The head steward takes me to my table and I am shocked to find the Captain and the Purser already seated, leaving space for me between them. Champagne flows. I send air wave signals to my daughter, ‘This is great, Honey. It’s gonna get greater.’
Every day is busy or not, as I choose it to be. We sail for a week into Sydney’s harbor. The opera house is like the snow house I tried to build so long ago, except it is pure, clean white. The Chief Purser and I have met every evening at one bar or another, strictly platonic, at least on my side. We chat, have a glass of wine and then go arm and arm into dinner. Let the couples and the single lady who never enters any conversations, think what they want.
After dinner the captain makes an announcement that goes into every room, suite, hall, bar. ‘Fellow Passengers, we will shortly be entering the Tasman Sea, said to be one of the roughest in the world. I can assure you I have taken ships thru here many times, and can vouch for what is going to happen. Ladies, wear lower heels, hold the railings along the walls, stairs. I suggest you take sea sickness pills now. The dining room empties faster than usual. The Purser and I are not ready to retire so we go down to Deck E for a last glass of wine with some pop corn, pretzels. We are the only customers.
We take our wine to the opposite end of the long and handsome room. Large, heavy leather seats surround the baby grand piano. The ship begins to sway, sway longer, harder. The leather chairs start to roll to the other end of the room, bang into the bar. The Purser and I laugh but know it isn’t funny. We head towards the glass door. A crashing noise behind us tells us to look out. The piano is going to crush us on its mad dash to the keel. The door is inches away. We think we are safe. It swings open, hard fast. The piano hits it and we are tossed into the hall. We do not stop to look back at the damage. I am not the least bit sea sick or frightened, the Purser is both. He asks me how I can be so calm. My only thought is if the Captain isn’t worried neither am I. I am politely and quickly left at my cabin. Inside I see the waves crashing into my veranda. The fruit that should be on the cocktail table is bruised and rolling around the floor. The Captain announces we are bucking 30 foot waves but are in no danger. I am foolishly unworried. Each time a wave hits my veranda, I watch its refuse slide back into the sea. Any one could be the one to break the glass door but my luck stays good..
It doesn’t take long for me to get into bed, close my eyes and go with the flow. I wake at 7, pick up the fruit, call the maid to clean up the broken bowl, dress and go outside into bright sunshine, take two turns around the deck and go in for breakfast. All the chairs are tied together. Hinged table edges have kept the Sweet n’ Low, sugar, salt, from falling to the floor. Not one single passenger comes in for breakfast. The Maitre d’ sits down with me and has a lovely spread brought out for both of us. I eat with gusto. I make a ship to shore call that I learn too late, cost me $200, but what the hell I am Unsinkable, have been thru such fantastic excitement, I have to tell my daughter how glad I am she pushed me.
I am now living before I die, instead of the other way around.
My children and ten year old grandson have tried to encourage me for two years to get away, fly to Paris, go on to Italy, Greece, be adventuresome. I’ve said I would so many times and have made no move. They haven’t mentioned it once this entire week. Tonight’s ‘Just One’ was bloody. It sliced into my brain so my ears could hear better. I think, am not sure, but I have made a startling decision to go away, see some of that big, wide world I’ve missed before I get my first Social Security check.
Between nibbles of my Caesar salad and crispy flat bread, my waiter reaches for my not quite finished salad. Gently, I tap his hand. ‘Uh, uh, I’m not finished.’ He apologizes, makes room for my entree, puts down my Veal Cutlet Alfredo with fried zuccini. I am in an awkward position. The Frommer’s Guide Book I bought at Barnes and Noble for $15 bucksis on my lap, waiting for me to scan the Pacific. Darn it. I’ll have to start it at home. For a moment I consider spilling a little Alfredo sauce on the cover to avoid returning the book. The moment passes. Nobody is rushing me. Dessert and coffee may sweeten my mind.
Frommer and I meet. Where might I like to go? Quickly I eliminate hot, sunny beaches, sun screen clogging my pores, Mai Tais and mahi mahi. Pages 100 to 140, Hawaii, Fiji, Tonga are out. Page 141 is Australia. Hmnn, that may be nice. I do love the barbies, the accents, what I hear is fantastic friendliness. The kangaroos and crocodiles I can skip. The big, beautiful harbor with the Opera House glaring white piques a little shiver up my spine. It’s my book and if I bend page corner’s down it’s nobody’s business. With fast pangs of guilt, I turn down the corner of page 141.
First thing in the morning I call my daughter about my tentative plan. Of course, she is thrilled, gives me her travel agent’s info. At ten I call for an appointment with Minnie Glick. Minnie is a surprise. She isn’t a fat, aging Jewish mother looking for something to do and earn a few dollars while doing it. She is stunning, tall, chic, knowledgeable and sunny as the beaches I don’t want to visit. ‘Call Me Min, everybody does,’ and that flows from my tongue. ‘Sandy is fine with me. I don’t need the Mrs. anymore.’
Arrangements are made so quickly there is hardly time to buy some new cruise clothes, to double check my charge account balances, add to my checking account, put a hold on mail delivery. Min comes with me and my daughter to acquaint me with the Harmony’s layout and to meet the Captain, Chief Purser, arrange for late dinner, get a safety deposit box. My cabin is mid section, 8 decks above water level, close, but not too close to the elevator. ‘Min, wish you were coming with me. All the officers know you. I’d be a queen.’ The ship shakes, rattles as the funnels sound three times ‘all ashore who are going ashore.’ The 12 piece band is on deck. Drinks are free, American and Australian flags are flying everywhere. A stranger grabs my body, smiles broadly and twirls me around and around.
‘Dinner at eight, please James. Madam will not be dining.’ The old song saddens me. I walk steadily on and say aloud, ‘Oh, yes she will.’ A couple walk by, look at me as if I’m already sea sick and walk on. The head steward takes me to my table and I am shocked to find the Captain and the Purser already seated, leaving space for me between them. Champagne flows. I send air wave signals to my daughter, ‘This is great, Honey. It’s gonna get greater.’
Every day is busy or not, as I choose it to be. We sail for a week into Sydney’s harbor. The opera house is like the snow house I tried to build so long ago, except it is pure, clean white. The Chief Purser and I have met every evening at one bar or another, strictly platonic, at least on my side. We chat, have a glass of wine and then go arm and arm into dinner. Let the couples and the single lady who never enters any conversations, think what they want.
After dinner the captain makes an announcement that goes into every room, suite, hall, bar. ‘Fellow Passengers, we will shortly be entering the Tasman Sea, said to be one of the roughest in the world. I can assure you I have taken ships thru here many times, and can vouch for what is going to happen. Ladies, wear lower heels, hold the railings along the walls, stairs. I suggest you take sea sickness pills now. The dining room empties faster than usual. The Purser and I are not ready to retire so we go down to Deck E for a last glass of wine with some pop corn, pretzels. We are the only customers.
We take our wine to the opposite end of the long and handsome room. Large, heavy leather seats surround the baby grand piano. The ship begins to sway, sway longer, harder. The leather chairs start to roll to the other end of the room, bang into the bar. The Purser and I laugh but know it isn’t funny. We head towards the glass door. A crashing noise behind us tells us to look out. The piano is going to crush us on its mad dash to the keel. The door is inches away. We think we are safe. It swings open, hard fast. The piano hits it and we are tossed into the hall. We do not stop to look back at the damage. I am not the least bit sea sick or frightened, the Purser is both. He asks me how I can be so calm. My only thought is if the Captain isn’t worried neither am I. I am politely and quickly left at my cabin. Inside I see the waves crashing into my veranda. The fruit that should be on the cocktail table is bruised and rolling around the floor. The Captain announces we are bucking 30 foot waves but are in no danger. I am foolishly unworried. Each time a wave hits my veranda, I watch its refuse slide back into the sea. Any one could be the one to break the glass door but my luck stays good..
It doesn’t take long for me to get into bed, close my eyes and go with the flow. I wake at 7, pick up the fruit, call the maid to clean up the broken bowl, dress and go outside into bright sunshine, take two turns around the deck and go in for breakfast. All the chairs are tied together. Hinged table edges have kept the Sweet n’ Low, sugar, salt, from falling to the floor. Not one single passenger comes in for breakfast. The Maitre d’ sits down with me and has a lovely spread brought out for both of us. I eat with gusto. I make a ship to shore call that I learn too late, cost me $200, but what the hell I am Unsinkable, have been thru such fantastic excitement, I have to tell my daughter how glad I am she pushed me.
I am now living before I die, instead of the other way around.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
MY JOURNEY
It’s time now. Either I do it now or I am done for. Madame B. told me if I am not prompt, there will be no other chance for me. I might get squashed or be put in a bottle. Nobody will feed me. Big eyes will stare thru green glass. When I can no longer crawl, I’ll be alone.’ Can you hear me Mother? Goodbye, I’m going now. You be careful too. I will look for you wherever I go.’ Crawling is slow. My long body aches. My fuzzy hairs are falling out. Ouch! ‘Mother, you didn’t tell me about the terrible headache I have. Are the black things on my head going to stop hurting soon? Oh, Madame B., why did you leave me?’ There is so much to be done and I’m not sure I will survive. Please come back.’
Shouldn’t there be a silk rug or something soft to make my journey easier? Every inch I move cuts into the green that is leaking out of me. The wind is getting stronger. When I do is hear my mother’s echo. ‘Curl up, son. Make yourself into a circle and hold on.’ This I did once just to practice and it worked.
The road trembles as the wind grows stronger. Help! Help! I’m falling. This is good. I land in heaven. Green food surrounds me. I’ll never be hungry again. When I am full, I stop and look around. There are thousands of me, other thousands just like Mother said I will be. The changes are coming faster and faster. The yellow and green that I was is turning into bright orange and black. I am pretty. No, I am more than that. I am beautiful! I am a Monarch, King of all butterflies.
The days to find my mother are short. Below me the green food is quickly turning orange. Life is fleeting. My wings weaken and I am helplessly pulled to earth to lie in Rhodes orange cemetery.
With great effort I flutter them one more time as I pretend the orange wings next to me are Madame B.-- and I die.
Shouldn’t there be a silk rug or something soft to make my journey easier? Every inch I move cuts into the green that is leaking out of me. The wind is getting stronger. When I do is hear my mother’s echo. ‘Curl up, son. Make yourself into a circle and hold on.’ This I did once just to practice and it worked.
The road trembles as the wind grows stronger. Help! Help! I’m falling. This is good. I land in heaven. Green food surrounds me. I’ll never be hungry again. When I am full, I stop and look around. There are thousands of me, other thousands just like Mother said I will be. The changes are coming faster and faster. The yellow and green that I was is turning into bright orange and black. I am pretty. No, I am more than that. I am beautiful! I am a Monarch, King of all butterflies.
The days to find my mother are short. Below me the green food is quickly turning orange. Life is fleeting. My wings weaken and I am helplessly pulled to earth to lie in Rhodes orange cemetery.
With great effort I flutter them one more time as I pretend the orange wings next to me are Madame B.-- and I die.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
KA NIPPLE, KA NAPPLE
Some women are unbelievable hoarders. They are terrified they’re going to end up as bag ladies because they don’t think their husbands know what they’re doing, or they don’t have husbands, so they spend almost nothing. Others, a phenomenal number, sock away money in secret. My grandmother, my mother and I did it. I still do.
I caught my mother sticking a dollar bill in her shoe when I was eight years old . She jumped a mile. ’Why are you hiding that, Mom?’ I asked. ‘Mind your own business, little one.’ ‘Ma, did you steal it?’ ‘Go away and don’t tell Daddy either. You are very young but I’ll tell you, if you keep those rose bud lips of yours shut tight. Promise?’ ‘I’ll try, Ma, but sometimes my promises get broken.’
‘Every woman, Jew, gentile, black, white should have a knipple, but, as far as I know just Jewish ladies have them. Here, I’ll spell it for you, k n i p p l e. Learn it correctly. It sounds like ‘ka nipple’ and the ka sounds like when you gargle with burning Listerine. Ladies, maybe even children like you, should have a knipple. This is what you should do. If Daddy gives you ten cents, only spend nine. Find a good hiding place and save the penny. Before long you will have 20 cents, then a dollar and your knipple will grow. Put in 10 cents, 25, and it will grow faster. Don’t even tell me where your knipple is. Mine is not in my shoe. You saw me put it there only until I put it in a very secret place.’ Mom unties her laced shoes and hands me the dollar she had put in her shoe.‘Start now, Mammeleh’. Someday you will thank me. Go, go play outside.’
My brother is snobbish some time. He tells people his name is Carl C. Cohen. The middle ‘C’ stands for cool, careful and confident. Dad and Mom want him to go to college but he says he is going into the world and make it on his own. Dad nags him, tries to have man to man talks with his son, but when Carl makes up his mind, look out! Mom is smart, too. She grabs Carl by his ear and says, ‘Nu? Mr. CCC. What will you do if you don’t get a good education? What, you don’t want to go because you think Papa doesn’t have the money? You don’t know from borscht. We want to move. The house is too hard for me to take care of. We’ve been looking at a re-sale and have found a three bedroom condo, with good kosher restaurants in walking distance. You come home from school, you’ll have your own private space. An agent is coming soon. Stay, you’ll learn we still have some life in our old bodies.’ ‘Mom, I’m going into business with Mr. Felser. He manufactures men’s sports wear, good quality, fair prices. I’m going on the road and I intend becoming his best traveling salesman before the summer is over. Now that you told me you have plenty of money, I’d like to borrow $3000 to buy a used car that still has umpteen miles left on it. I’ll pay you back with interest in less than a year. Please don’t even try to talk me out of it and I won’t butt into your selling this house. Do we have a deal?’
‘No, we don’t, Carl. I am not in the habit of lending money to my son. I have my knipple and am going to give it to you as a present.’ ‘Mom, I don’t want your knipple, whatever the hell that is. Dad do you know what a knipple is? ‘ ’Yeah, I used to hear my mother talk about hers but didn’t know Mom has been stealing from me year after year.’ ‘You are calling Mom a thief?’ ‘If she has a knipple, that name applies to her.’‘Sarah, where is it?’ ‘No sir, you can torture me, I am not going to tell you which bank it is in. Ooops!’ Dad laughs and tickles Mom under her overflowing breasts. ‘Get away from me you fedemphta blind man. My knipple I don’t need. Carl needs a car and I will buy it for him.’
The doorbell rings. ‘Carl, come meet the young and lovely Miss Stacey Goldfarb. Sit with us while we talk business. She’ll show you the lay-out and location of the condo we like. This evening she is bringing a customer to look over our house. Sit and talk with Stacey. I think I should go straighten the kitchen a little more and dust the dining roomset. ‘Stacey, my son is going to become a big business man very fast. He is a real mahker. I’m going to use my knipple to buy him his first car, maybe as soon as we sell this house. Tell me, have you ever heard of a knipple?’
‘Sure, Mrs. Cohen, I know my mother has one but I have no idea where it is or how much is in it. It’s none of my beeswax. Sometimes she buys a new dress for a party and surprises my father. I had one once and hid it so good I haven’t found it in the last 10 years. Maybe for me it will be better to marry somebody who will love me and together we prosper so I don’t have to start another knipple.
Your son sounds ambitious. He’s nice looking too. How old is he, Mrs. Cohen?’
I caught my mother sticking a dollar bill in her shoe when I was eight years old . She jumped a mile. ’Why are you hiding that, Mom?’ I asked. ‘Mind your own business, little one.’ ‘Ma, did you steal it?’ ‘Go away and don’t tell Daddy either. You are very young but I’ll tell you, if you keep those rose bud lips of yours shut tight. Promise?’ ‘I’ll try, Ma, but sometimes my promises get broken.’
‘Every woman, Jew, gentile, black, white should have a knipple, but, as far as I know just Jewish ladies have them. Here, I’ll spell it for you, k n i p p l e. Learn it correctly. It sounds like ‘ka nipple’ and the ka sounds like when you gargle with burning Listerine. Ladies, maybe even children like you, should have a knipple. This is what you should do. If Daddy gives you ten cents, only spend nine. Find a good hiding place and save the penny. Before long you will have 20 cents, then a dollar and your knipple will grow. Put in 10 cents, 25, and it will grow faster. Don’t even tell me where your knipple is. Mine is not in my shoe. You saw me put it there only until I put it in a very secret place.’ Mom unties her laced shoes and hands me the dollar she had put in her shoe.‘Start now, Mammeleh’. Someday you will thank me. Go, go play outside.’
My brother is snobbish some time. He tells people his name is Carl C. Cohen. The middle ‘C’ stands for cool, careful and confident. Dad and Mom want him to go to college but he says he is going into the world and make it on his own. Dad nags him, tries to have man to man talks with his son, but when Carl makes up his mind, look out! Mom is smart, too. She grabs Carl by his ear and says, ‘Nu? Mr. CCC. What will you do if you don’t get a good education? What, you don’t want to go because you think Papa doesn’t have the money? You don’t know from borscht. We want to move. The house is too hard for me to take care of. We’ve been looking at a re-sale and have found a three bedroom condo, with good kosher restaurants in walking distance. You come home from school, you’ll have your own private space. An agent is coming soon. Stay, you’ll learn we still have some life in our old bodies.’ ‘Mom, I’m going into business with Mr. Felser. He manufactures men’s sports wear, good quality, fair prices. I’m going on the road and I intend becoming his best traveling salesman before the summer is over. Now that you told me you have plenty of money, I’d like to borrow $3000 to buy a used car that still has umpteen miles left on it. I’ll pay you back with interest in less than a year. Please don’t even try to talk me out of it and I won’t butt into your selling this house. Do we have a deal?’
‘No, we don’t, Carl. I am not in the habit of lending money to my son. I have my knipple and am going to give it to you as a present.’ ‘Mom, I don’t want your knipple, whatever the hell that is. Dad do you know what a knipple is? ‘ ’Yeah, I used to hear my mother talk about hers but didn’t know Mom has been stealing from me year after year.’ ‘You are calling Mom a thief?’ ‘If she has a knipple, that name applies to her.’‘Sarah, where is it?’ ‘No sir, you can torture me, I am not going to tell you which bank it is in. Ooops!’ Dad laughs and tickles Mom under her overflowing breasts. ‘Get away from me you fedemphta blind man. My knipple I don’t need. Carl needs a car and I will buy it for him.’
The doorbell rings. ‘Carl, come meet the young and lovely Miss Stacey Goldfarb. Sit with us while we talk business. She’ll show you the lay-out and location of the condo we like. This evening she is bringing a customer to look over our house. Sit and talk with Stacey. I think I should go straighten the kitchen a little more and dust the dining roomset. ‘Stacey, my son is going to become a big business man very fast. He is a real mahker. I’m going to use my knipple to buy him his first car, maybe as soon as we sell this house. Tell me, have you ever heard of a knipple?’
‘Sure, Mrs. Cohen, I know my mother has one but I have no idea where it is or how much is in it. It’s none of my beeswax. Sometimes she buys a new dress for a party and surprises my father. I had one once and hid it so good I haven’t found it in the last 10 years. Maybe for me it will be better to marry somebody who will love me and together we prosper so I don’t have to start another knipple.
Your son sounds ambitious. He’s nice looking too. How old is he, Mrs. Cohen?’
CAN CATAR ACT?
I'm home now...at last. Doctor's place was like a factory. I never even saw him (haha), and I have no recollection really of what happened. I do remember lots of stuff that was done pre-surgery, similar to what was done to me in LA ER.
My vision isn't good now -- still blurred -- and I have drops to do, and I'm going to eat something .
Nobody gave me a date for the second eye, but doctor is to call me Monday.
I really was nervous but hoping to be less so next time.
Don't bother calling--I'm a Miracle Lady with wonderful neighbors.
Val
My vision isn't good now -- still blurred -- and I have drops to do, and I'm going to eat something .
Nobody gave me a date for the second eye, but doctor is to call me Monday.
I really was nervous but hoping to be less so next time.
Don't bother calling--I'm a Miracle Lady with wonderful neighbors.
Val
Monday, September 14, 2009
BIG SKY UP THERE WHERE ?
I’m not saying there isn’t. I’m not saying there is-but IF there is a god, he/she/it sure ain’t gonna listen to me. Are you god? What? I didn’t hear you. I have been trying to get a good night’s sleep for a week, really six hours will do, and you are unaware of my request to quiet Moe’s dog who barks all night. OK, I understand your denying me comfort when I ask you to stop the rolling, pounding thunder, turn off the flashing lightning that reflects in the mirror over my bureau right into my eyes, but the barking can’t be that tough, can it?
All of my life I’ve put my faith, my trust in the somebody my momma told me would always be here for me. You are it. Why haven’t you shown up? Have you moved to China, to help the poor learn to milk an ox or build a dam so huge it makes our Hoover Dam not worth a damn?
Yesterday my wallet disappeared even though I carefully had stuck it deep in my pants pocket for safety. I was in a hurry to get to the bank to pay my mortgage before a late charge would be added. Two blocks from my destination I went thru a yellow traffic light, yellow, not red. Didn’t you see how yellow it was? I did. Where did the policeman come from? I don’t know but he seemed to be waiting for me, not the lady who was behind me who did go thru the red. I reached for my wallet, my license and came up empty. Not only did I get a whopping $75 ticket, going to the bank would have wasted my time.
Am I a bad person? No, I don’t think so. Couldn’t you have at least had my wife call me on my cell phone to tell me what she told me when I got home? She found my wallet on the bedroom carpet under her chair. Did it roll there? I never sat on her precious chair.
What do you want from me, my life? I give as much to charity as I can without needing it myself. My children are well fed. They are smart and I am doing my best to save money for their college days. I don’t use drugs, get slobbering drunk except for a special happy occasion. I go to church on Christmas.
If you are really a god, maybe there are smaller ones. Have you met any? The world is too big, too complicated for one god to handle so many fighting countries, so many mutating germs, so many cocaine growers. So lord, the omnipotent, excuse me as I take back my foolish, trivial thoughts.
However, I have a new one, a small request. Try your best to introduce me to one of the smaller gods who may be hanging around looking for fools like me.
I might then go to church on Easter, too.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Tap Tap
No heads nod during our discussions. Nobody hides, cowers. Every once in a while we hit someone’s tender spot. Tears come, fists bang on desks. There can be long silences. We realize we are our own guinea pigs, learning and teaching at the same time.
Class is usually over at 9 p.m., but our discussion on manic depression keeps us riveted until 9:30. Dr. Taylor’s husband is fidgeting on the wooden bench in the lobby. ‘Let’s go , Lady.’ They don’t even look at each other, simply head to the glass/brass door and go.
We four ladies live on campus but in different quads. My place is furthest from psych class. It’s a pretty walk with weeping willows crying over the old iron benches. Lamp lights era 1930 pretend to be gas burners. Even between classes a serenity lets the dandelions come up.
Now I am alone and walk a little faster, not afraid but alert and cautious. In my purse I have pepper spray and a shrill whistle on a lanyard. My own footsteps sound as if I am walking on concrete, but the paths are cobblestone. My ears perk up. There are steps besides mine. I stop, look around, see no one. As soon as I take a step I hear one echo. My heart races. In a hurry to open my purse, it drops on the path. Footsteps hurry towards me. Danger is closing in. Running would be useless. Adrenalin is pouring out of my ears. I throw myself forward, try to cover my purse, touch only the strap. I almost die of fright as another hand has it.
I know I am supposed to scream my head off but my throat is drier than the Gobi, The hand yanks my purse from under my shoulder. Psych I, am I going to be raped, killed, stay calm. Some inner hidden strength oils my vocal cords. Without looking at my assailant, I yell,’ Get away from me, Mister, or I’ll kick you in your nuts!’ An angel replies, ‘Don’t do that Ms. Gordon. Take my hand. I’ll help you up.’ He leads me to a bench and I am able to clearly see his face. Embarrassment must be making me look rosy and healthy. All I can ask is, ‘Joe, why don’t you oil the squeaky door in Psyche?’
Joe walks me to my door, tips his tattered cap, puts his hand under his chin and flaps it, ‘ I’ll take care of that Monday. You take care of you. Goodnite.’
Saturday, September 12, 2009
UNPLUGGING
The slow, dragging voice is there when I lift the receiver. As soon as I hear the first ‘I’ a face comes along with it. Melanie has dark hair that once was blond before it turned gray. We have been neighbors, semi-friends, for five years. Now the point has been reached that I try to avoid her, lie a little, say ‘Sorry I can’t,’ when I can. The call continues crawling like a poisoned snake bitten by a more poisonous one. Melanie says she only called to say ‘Hello’. I laugh, say ‘hello’ back and hang up. Her stone face may have frozen but melts and she dials me again.
‘Did you know?’ she asks and waits. ‘Know what?’ I get that in fast so she won’t be disappointed. ‘Don’t rush me. I’m going to tell you.’ ‘Tell me, I’m listening.’ ‘Remember we had lunch at Saffro’s yesterday with Lois and Elaine?’ ‘It was only yesterday, sure I remember.’ ‘Well, I went home from there.’ ‘Melanie, tell me the story or get off the pot. We all went home. What happened?’
‘When I took off my brand new Alfonso tan jacket, there were big grease stains in the back.’ If I didn’t at least say ‘aw, what a shame’she’d surely complain to Lois. “Aw, what a shame.’ ‘How did that happen?’ ‘I don’t know. I didn’t do it. So you think I should take the jacket to Saffro’s?’ ‘That’s what I would do, Mel.’ ‘Ha, I didn’t do that. I took it to the new French cleaner in the mall. He worked on it for a long time and got the grease out, charged me $15.’ ‘Why did you ask me what to do if you already did what you wanted? Honest, Lady, you are a pain some times. I’m watching ‘One Life to Live’ and you made me miss the sexy part.’ Slam.
Lois calls almost as soon as I’m rid of Melanie. Her voice annoys me too. It reminds me of my mother making horse raddish on a little tin grater. I get goose pimples thinking about it. She says, ‘Hi,’ and I say ‘Hi, Lois.’ ‘How do you know it’s me (or is it I?) . Melanie’s jacket story doesn‘t change much the second time around. ‘ She took the jacket to the cleaner and spent $20 to clean it. Don’t you think she should have taken it back to the restaurant?’ First I have to tell her, Melanie said $15, not $20 and lash out at my friend. ‘What do I care what she did? I’m home worrying about our soldiers in Afghanistan, what our president is going to try to do next and when the repeat of ‘One Life to Live will be on.’ We don’t give Melanie much credit but she did make up her own mind and her jacket is repaired. Maybe she’s getting smarter and we should try to get her on the state ballot for something.’
By the way, did you see the sexy scene today. Was it really hot? I am firmly against these soaps being so open early in the morning. Kids know more today at 10 then I knew at 21. I think I’ll write to the sponsor. Do you remember who it is?’ ‘Moi? No. Don’t watch them.’
‘Thanks anyway. Maybe I can get it on the web. I might even find an email address, get a coupon for whatever it is and find out when that sexy scene will be re-run.’
‘Did you know?’ she asks and waits. ‘Know what?’ I get that in fast so she won’t be disappointed. ‘Don’t rush me. I’m going to tell you.’ ‘Tell me, I’m listening.’ ‘Remember we had lunch at Saffro’s yesterday with Lois and Elaine?’ ‘It was only yesterday, sure I remember.’ ‘Well, I went home from there.’ ‘Melanie, tell me the story or get off the pot. We all went home. What happened?’
‘When I took off my brand new Alfonso tan jacket, there were big grease stains in the back.’ If I didn’t at least say ‘aw, what a shame’she’d surely complain to Lois. “Aw, what a shame.’ ‘How did that happen?’ ‘I don’t know. I didn’t do it. So you think I should take the jacket to Saffro’s?’ ‘That’s what I would do, Mel.’ ‘Ha, I didn’t do that. I took it to the new French cleaner in the mall. He worked on it for a long time and got the grease out, charged me $15.’ ‘Why did you ask me what to do if you already did what you wanted? Honest, Lady, you are a pain some times. I’m watching ‘One Life to Live’ and you made me miss the sexy part.’ Slam.
Lois calls almost as soon as I’m rid of Melanie. Her voice annoys me too. It reminds me of my mother making horse raddish on a little tin grater. I get goose pimples thinking about it. She says, ‘Hi,’ and I say ‘Hi, Lois.’ ‘How do you know it’s me (or is it I?) . Melanie’s jacket story doesn‘t change much the second time around. ‘ She took the jacket to the cleaner and spent $20 to clean it. Don’t you think she should have taken it back to the restaurant?’ First I have to tell her, Melanie said $15, not $20 and lash out at my friend. ‘What do I care what she did? I’m home worrying about our soldiers in Afghanistan, what our president is going to try to do next and when the repeat of ‘One Life to Live will be on.’ We don’t give Melanie much credit but she did make up her own mind and her jacket is repaired. Maybe she’s getting smarter and we should try to get her on the state ballot for something.’
By the way, did you see the sexy scene today. Was it really hot? I am firmly against these soaps being so open early in the morning. Kids know more today at 10 then I knew at 21. I think I’ll write to the sponsor. Do you remember who it is?’ ‘Moi? No. Don’t watch them.’
‘Thanks anyway. Maybe I can get it on the web. I might even find an email address, get a coupon for whatever it is and find out when that sexy scene will be re-run.’
Friday, September 11, 2009
THESE SOUND LOGICAL AND INTERESTING SO DID ROBINHOOD.
I Didn't Know That...
Q: Why are many coin banks shaped like pigs?
A: Long ago, dishes and cookware in Europe were made of a dense orange clay called 'pygg'. When people saved coins in jars made of this clay, the jars became known as 'pygg banks.' When an English potter misunderstood the word, he made a bank that resembled a pig. And it caught on.
Q: Did you ever wonder why dimes, quarters and half dollars have notches, while pennies and nickels do not?
A: The US Mint began putting notches on the edges of coins containing gold and silver to discourage holders from shaving off small quantities of the precious metals. Dimes, quarters and half dollars are notched because they used to contain silver. Pennies and nickels aren't notched because the metals they contain are not valuable enough to shave..
Q: Why do men's clothes have buttons on the right while women's clothes have buttons on the left?
A: When buttons were invented, they were very expensive and worn primarily by the rich. Because wealthy women were dressed by maids, dressmakers put the buttons on the maid's right.! Since most people are right-handed, it is easier to push buttons on the right through holes on the left. And that's where women's buttons have remained since.
Q. Why do X's at the end of a letter signify kisses?
A: In the Middle Ages, when many people were unable to read or write, documents were often signed using an X. Kissing the X represented an oath to fulfill obligations specified in the document. The X and the kiss eventually became synonymous.
Q: Why is shifting responsibility to someone else called 'passing the buck'?
A: In card games, it was once customary to pass an item, called a buck, from player to player to indicate whose turn it was to deal. If a player did not wish to assume the responsibility, he would 'pass the buck' to the next player.
Q: Why do people clink their glasses before drinking a toast?
A: It used to be common for someone to try to kill an enemy by offering him a poisoned drink. To prove to a guest that a drink was safe, it became customary for a guest to pour a small amount of his drink into the glass of the host. Both men would drink it simultaneously. When a guest trusted his host, he would then just touch or clink the host's glass with his own.
Q: Why are people in the public eye said to be 'in the limelight'?
A: Invented in 1825, limelight was used in lighthouses and stage lighting by burning a cylinder of lime which produced a brilliant light. In the theatre, performers on stage 'in the limelight' were seen by the audience to be the center of attention.
Q: Why do ships and aircraft in trouble use 'mayday'as their call for help?
A: This comes from the French word m'aidez -meaning 'help me' -- and is pronounced 'mayday.'
Q: Why is someone who is feeling great 'on cloud nine'?
A: Types of clouds are numbered according to the altitudes they attain, with nine being the highest cloud. If someone is said to be on cloud nine, that person is floating well above worldly cares.
Q: Why are zero scores in tennis called 'love'?
A: In France , where tennis first became popular, a big, round zero on the scoreboard looked like an egg and was called 'l'oeuf,' which is French for 'egg.' When tennis was introduced in the US, Americans pronounced it 'love.'
Q: In golf, where did the term 'Caddie' come from?
A. When Mary, later Queen of Scots, went to France as a young girl (for education & survival), Louis, King of France, learned that she loved the Scot game 'golf.' So he had the first golf course outside of Scotland built for her enjoyment. To make sure she was properly chaperoned (and guarded) while she played, Louis hired cadets from a military school to accompany her. Mary liked this a lot and when she returned to Scotland (not a very good idea in the long run), she took the practice with her. In French, the word cadet is pronounced 'ca-day' and the Scots changed it into 'caddie.'
Q: Why are many coin banks shaped like pigs?
A: Long ago, dishes and cookware in Europe were made of a dense orange clay called 'pygg'. When people saved coins in jars made of this clay, the jars became known as 'pygg banks.' When an English potter misunderstood the word, he made a bank that resembled a pig. And it caught on.
Q: Did you ever wonder why dimes, quarters and half dollars have notches, while pennies and nickels do not?
A: The US Mint began putting notches on the edges of coins containing gold and silver to discourage holders from shaving off small quantities of the precious metals. Dimes, quarters and half dollars are notched because they used to contain silver. Pennies and nickels aren't notched because the metals they contain are not valuable enough to shave..
Q: Why do men's clothes have buttons on the right while women's clothes have buttons on the left?
A: When buttons were invented, they were very expensive and worn primarily by the rich. Because wealthy women were dressed by maids, dressmakers put the buttons on the maid's right.! Since most people are right-handed, it is easier to push buttons on the right through holes on the left. And that's where women's buttons have remained since.
Q. Why do X's at the end of a letter signify kisses?
A: In the Middle Ages, when many people were unable to read or write, documents were often signed using an X. Kissing the X represented an oath to fulfill obligations specified in the document. The X and the kiss eventually became synonymous.
Q: Why is shifting responsibility to someone else called 'passing the buck'?
A: In card games, it was once customary to pass an item, called a buck, from player to player to indicate whose turn it was to deal. If a player did not wish to assume the responsibility, he would 'pass the buck' to the next player.
Q: Why do people clink their glasses before drinking a toast?
A: It used to be common for someone to try to kill an enemy by offering him a poisoned drink. To prove to a guest that a drink was safe, it became customary for a guest to pour a small amount of his drink into the glass of the host. Both men would drink it simultaneously. When a guest trusted his host, he would then just touch or clink the host's glass with his own.
Q: Why are people in the public eye said to be 'in the limelight'?
A: Invented in 1825, limelight was used in lighthouses and stage lighting by burning a cylinder of lime which produced a brilliant light. In the theatre, performers on stage 'in the limelight' were seen by the audience to be the center of attention.
Q: Why do ships and aircraft in trouble use 'mayday'as their call for help?
A: This comes from the French word m'aidez -meaning 'help me' -- and is pronounced 'mayday.'
Q: Why is someone who is feeling great 'on cloud nine'?
A: Types of clouds are numbered according to the altitudes they attain, with nine being the highest cloud. If someone is said to be on cloud nine, that person is floating well above worldly cares.
Q: Why are zero scores in tennis called 'love'?
A: In France , where tennis first became popular, a big, round zero on the scoreboard looked like an egg and was called 'l'oeuf,' which is French for 'egg.' When tennis was introduced in the US, Americans pronounced it 'love.'
Q: In golf, where did the term 'Caddie' come from?
A. When Mary, later Queen of Scots, went to France as a young girl (for education & survival), Louis, King of France, learned that she loved the Scot game 'golf.' So he had the first golf course outside of Scotland built for her enjoyment. To make sure she was properly chaperoned (and guarded) while she played, Louis hired cadets from a military school to accompany her. Mary liked this a lot and when she returned to Scotland (not a very good idea in the long run), she took the practice with her. In French, the word cadet is pronounced 'ca-day' and the Scots changed it into 'caddie.'
SPEAK UP
I don’t know what my mother does all day. Her day worker comes in at 7:30 five days a week. I get the bus for school at 7. It is a mystery to me. When I come home at 3, she is still napping in her room. I go in, tickle her stockinged toes. She softly kicks me away and rolls over for a few extra minutes in bed.
My homework is usually finished by five when my daddy comes upstairs for supper. Only Friday evening do we have dinner, with a clean white cloth and candles for the Sabbath. Mother lights the candles, says the necessary prayer and we eat. There is very little conversation.When Daddy is finished, we are all finished. He goes on the porch for a cigarette, comes in to listen to his favorite funny man on the radio, Jack Benny. Three nights a week I can’t even listen to the radio as Aunt Mildred and Uncle Moe come over to play Mah Jongg in the living room. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in this family. I’m not important. My parents don’t ask me many questions other than ‘Did you brush your teeth? Wash your hands? Change your underwear?’
On some Saturdays I walk thru the playground, past Northern High’s four towers to visit with my cousin, Gertie We are the same age, 13. Gertie has a wind up record player and lots of wax records. She has Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Glen Miller, Bing Crosby and the latest Frank Sinatra. I don’t ever mind being the winder. Gertie and I dance together, jitterbug, bunny hop. Aunt Marie comes in, dances, claps the rhythm and sings. We have a lot of fun together.
This week Gert was allowed to invite two high school boys for lunch. She didn’t tell me. Aunt Marie suggests we all dance after we clear the dishes. My god, I get nervous, start to sweat. I never danced with a boy before, except my father. I sit on the sofa and watch them. It’s like when my family has supper, I’m invisible. I thank Aunt Marie for lunch, leave, cry all the way past the school towers, through the playground, into my house, my room. Loneliness crowds me into a corner.
Evening is not quite here. Mother must be playing Solitaire on the wide living room windowsill. She loves to watch the cars, our neighbors walking by. Something takes hold of me, sparks my courage and I interrupt her game. ‘Mother, why aren’t you more like Aunt Marie?’ I ask. She looks at me as if I am a monster from hell. ‘What do you mean, Betsy?’ ‘I mean you don’t talk to me. You don’t even know I have a boyfriend named Jimmy. Don’t get nervous, Mother. He has no idea I like him.’
‘Then what are you talking about? What has this to do with me not being like Aunt Marie?’ ‘Mother, you don’t talk to me, don’t know I’m growing up. The boys danced with Gertie and Aunt Marie- not me. She is a great dancer. Once I saw the top of her hose when she flipped over Sammy’s back. ‘ ’Miss Smartness, you don’t know much. Aunt Marie has problems. I don’t want you going there any more unless I am with you–and I won’t be. She’s a hussy!’
Daddy hears my story from Mother while we are having supper. He looks at me too much. ‘Daddy, wake up. You and Mother are old fashioned. Dancing is more than the fox trot, the two step.’ As usual, silence is his strength. ‘That’s enough. I heard you,’ and he goes into the living room to listen to Fibber Magee and Milly. Those he listens to, not me.
With no explanation, I tell Gertie I can’t come over Saturday. I play War with Mother, Solitaire solitarily. About noon a package comes to the door. Mother brings it in and tells me to get a screwdriver to help her slit the brown paper off the carton. I almost tell her to get it herself but hold my tongue. I pull the electric record player out of the box and almost faint with joy. There is a separate box enclosed that has twelve new jitterbug records and six slow ones. My parents are standing near the kitchen door, arms around each other, smiling, happy that I am happy.
Daddy walks over and makes what is a speech for him: ‘Betsy, Mother and I have decided you can invite two young men and Gertie for lunch next week (one of the guys can be Jimmy)–but we want to be able to peep in on your dancing once in a while. Then we can try some new steps in the kitchen. What do you say?’
‘Dad, I say Super!’
My homework is usually finished by five when my daddy comes upstairs for supper. Only Friday evening do we have dinner, with a clean white cloth and candles for the Sabbath. Mother lights the candles, says the necessary prayer and we eat. There is very little conversation.When Daddy is finished, we are all finished. He goes on the porch for a cigarette, comes in to listen to his favorite funny man on the radio, Jack Benny. Three nights a week I can’t even listen to the radio as Aunt Mildred and Uncle Moe come over to play Mah Jongg in the living room. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in this family. I’m not important. My parents don’t ask me many questions other than ‘Did you brush your teeth? Wash your hands? Change your underwear?’
On some Saturdays I walk thru the playground, past Northern High’s four towers to visit with my cousin, Gertie We are the same age, 13. Gertie has a wind up record player and lots of wax records. She has Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Glen Miller, Bing Crosby and the latest Frank Sinatra. I don’t ever mind being the winder. Gertie and I dance together, jitterbug, bunny hop. Aunt Marie comes in, dances, claps the rhythm and sings. We have a lot of fun together.
This week Gert was allowed to invite two high school boys for lunch. She didn’t tell me. Aunt Marie suggests we all dance after we clear the dishes. My god, I get nervous, start to sweat. I never danced with a boy before, except my father. I sit on the sofa and watch them. It’s like when my family has supper, I’m invisible. I thank Aunt Marie for lunch, leave, cry all the way past the school towers, through the playground, into my house, my room. Loneliness crowds me into a corner.
Evening is not quite here. Mother must be playing Solitaire on the wide living room windowsill. She loves to watch the cars, our neighbors walking by. Something takes hold of me, sparks my courage and I interrupt her game. ‘Mother, why aren’t you more like Aunt Marie?’ I ask. She looks at me as if I am a monster from hell. ‘What do you mean, Betsy?’ ‘I mean you don’t talk to me. You don’t even know I have a boyfriend named Jimmy. Don’t get nervous, Mother. He has no idea I like him.’
‘Then what are you talking about? What has this to do with me not being like Aunt Marie?’ ‘Mother, you don’t talk to me, don’t know I’m growing up. The boys danced with Gertie and Aunt Marie- not me. She is a great dancer. Once I saw the top of her hose when she flipped over Sammy’s back. ‘ ’Miss Smartness, you don’t know much. Aunt Marie has problems. I don’t want you going there any more unless I am with you–and I won’t be. She’s a hussy!’
Daddy hears my story from Mother while we are having supper. He looks at me too much. ‘Daddy, wake up. You and Mother are old fashioned. Dancing is more than the fox trot, the two step.’ As usual, silence is his strength. ‘That’s enough. I heard you,’ and he goes into the living room to listen to Fibber Magee and Milly. Those he listens to, not me.
With no explanation, I tell Gertie I can’t come over Saturday. I play War with Mother, Solitaire solitarily. About noon a package comes to the door. Mother brings it in and tells me to get a screwdriver to help her slit the brown paper off the carton. I almost tell her to get it herself but hold my tongue. I pull the electric record player out of the box and almost faint with joy. There is a separate box enclosed that has twelve new jitterbug records and six slow ones. My parents are standing near the kitchen door, arms around each other, smiling, happy that I am happy.
Daddy walks over and makes what is a speech for him: ‘Betsy, Mother and I have decided you can invite two young men and Gertie for lunch next week (one of the guys can be Jimmy)–but we want to be able to peep in on your dancing once in a while. Then we can try some new steps in the kitchen. What do you say?’
‘Dad, I say Super!’
Thursday, September 10, 2009
OUT IN THE WASH
‘Don’t make me go, Mamma. Don’t!’ I stood in front of my mother who was still wearing her flowered apron covered with flour. ‘Get up stairs, go into your closet, close the door and stay there until you apologize to me- good and loud.’ ‘No. I am not sorry and won’t say I am. I’ll stay in the closet until I die and then you will be the sorry one.’
Angry tears wet my cheeks, my chin, as I go to my closet full of ugly hand-me-down clothes. I push shoes that are too big or too little for me to the side, pull my long robe off a wire hanger and lay it flat on the floor. A bright chartreuse green sweater that I hate with a passion works well as a pillow. My anger stays hot but the floor is cold.
From downstairs Mamma calls again, ‘I’m waiting for that apology, Mary Jane.’ ‘Wait. I don’t care.’ The sky is almost dark. I’m getting hungry. My belly is growling. Daddy should be home soon. He’ll come up and find me. I know he will. ‘Daddy’s working late, Mary Jane. He’s not going to save you this time. Apologize and you can come down.’ ‘You started it, Mamma. You have to apologize to me.’
Without her permission I leave the closet and go to the toilet. I use the yellowish plastic cup that we all use to rinse out the morning toothpaste and take a few swallows of water. For sure Momma hears the toilet flush but doesn’t threaten me. Back I go into the closet.
We don’t have a garage so Daddy always honks his horn when he finds a parking space in front of our shingled house. Honk, honk! He’s home. The front door opens, then closes softly. ‘Mary Jane, Papa’s home. Where are you?’ In a voice our neighbors and god must hear, Mamma tells her side. ‘That girl is in her closet where I sent her. She threw flour at me and won’t apologize.’ Daddy asks Mamma which flower?
’Did you spend money again on more spring tulips?’ No, Bunky. Gold Medal flour. I had started to make a lemon cake when Mary Jane came home from school and started nagging me for a new dress. Her friend, Jenny, is having a 12th birthday party and all the girls are getting new dresses. Ha. I doubt that. Anyhow, I told her I’d take her to the Thrift Shop Thursday and get her a pretty used one. She screamed at me as if I ripped her heart out. I repeated my offer of a dress Thursday and, and, and, she picked up the bowl of flour and poured it over my head, the table, floor, and that’s why she’s in the closet.’
Like a roaring bear, he called to me, ‘Mary Jane, come down here now!’I’ve heard that one before and wasted no time going downstairs. He took my hand, gave me a hug and said what I didn’t expect. ‘No matter how much I love you, you were wrong. That was a nasty, rotten thing you did to your mother. Now, right this second, you apologize to her.’
Daddy was right. I did do a bad thing. I turned to Mama, lowered my head in shame and said, ‘ I apologize, Mama, for throwing the flour on you, wasting the flour, making a mess. I really am sorry.’
Before she had a chance to gloat, I added, ‘but you owe me an apology too, making me sit in that dark closet, underneath the ugliest clothes in the world. That was not nice either.’
Mamma said she was sorry and we sat down to a good fried kipper supper. The onion smell is what got me to give in, not Daddy.
Angry tears wet my cheeks, my chin, as I go to my closet full of ugly hand-me-down clothes. I push shoes that are too big or too little for me to the side, pull my long robe off a wire hanger and lay it flat on the floor. A bright chartreuse green sweater that I hate with a passion works well as a pillow. My anger stays hot but the floor is cold.
From downstairs Mamma calls again, ‘I’m waiting for that apology, Mary Jane.’ ‘Wait. I don’t care.’ The sky is almost dark. I’m getting hungry. My belly is growling. Daddy should be home soon. He’ll come up and find me. I know he will. ‘Daddy’s working late, Mary Jane. He’s not going to save you this time. Apologize and you can come down.’ ‘You started it, Mamma. You have to apologize to me.’
Without her permission I leave the closet and go to the toilet. I use the yellowish plastic cup that we all use to rinse out the morning toothpaste and take a few swallows of water. For sure Momma hears the toilet flush but doesn’t threaten me. Back I go into the closet.
We don’t have a garage so Daddy always honks his horn when he finds a parking space in front of our shingled house. Honk, honk! He’s home. The front door opens, then closes softly. ‘Mary Jane, Papa’s home. Where are you?’ In a voice our neighbors and god must hear, Mamma tells her side. ‘That girl is in her closet where I sent her. She threw flour at me and won’t apologize.’ Daddy asks Mamma which flower?
’Did you spend money again on more spring tulips?’ No, Bunky. Gold Medal flour. I had started to make a lemon cake when Mary Jane came home from school and started nagging me for a new dress. Her friend, Jenny, is having a 12th birthday party and all the girls are getting new dresses. Ha. I doubt that. Anyhow, I told her I’d take her to the Thrift Shop Thursday and get her a pretty used one. She screamed at me as if I ripped her heart out. I repeated my offer of a dress Thursday and, and, and, she picked up the bowl of flour and poured it over my head, the table, floor, and that’s why she’s in the closet.’
Like a roaring bear, he called to me, ‘Mary Jane, come down here now!’I’ve heard that one before and wasted no time going downstairs. He took my hand, gave me a hug and said what I didn’t expect. ‘No matter how much I love you, you were wrong. That was a nasty, rotten thing you did to your mother. Now, right this second, you apologize to her.’
Daddy was right. I did do a bad thing. I turned to Mama, lowered my head in shame and said, ‘ I apologize, Mama, for throwing the flour on you, wasting the flour, making a mess. I really am sorry.’
Before she had a chance to gloat, I added, ‘but you owe me an apology too, making me sit in that dark closet, underneath the ugliest clothes in the world. That was not nice either.’
Mamma said she was sorry and we sat down to a good fried kipper supper. The onion smell is what got me to give in, not Daddy.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
Edward, tall, is neither fat nor thin, muscular or flabby, young or old.I don’t know if he is rich or poor, clever or blah. He is not every man’s man, either. Edward is a man for all seasons, all reasons. Here he comes now! The swinging door opens far enough to let him enter comfortably, not so far as to make it look like he is somebody special. The door doesn’t creak or hit anyone going out. He doesn’t know my name but I love him in my own simple way. When we are in the same room, I feel warm, at peace.
Jerry is standing near the window, looking out at the long green lawn just as the setting sun turns the falling leaves to gold. All is quiet for a change. Mike and Harry are playing Chinese Checkers on a folding table. It shakes a little when moves are made. Soon the dinner bell will ring. Hands in his pockets, Edward crosses the room to see the end of the checkers game. He notices Harry moves one blue marble forward when he could have moved it two spaces. Softly he whispers Harry’s mistake in his ear.
At that very moment the dinner bell sounds. Most likely the two things happening together set off the shebang. Mike calls Harry dumb and pushes him off his chair. Harry starts to sulk, goes over to the corner of the room, faces it and pees on the wall. Jerry laughs and waves everybody towards dinner, ‘Let’s all go get the crappy meal before the rats get it,’ and he skips away.
There he is, my Edward who doesn’t know my name, walks over towards Harry. I take his left hand. Edward puts his right one ever so softly on Harry’s head. Harry calms down just as if Christ touched him. ‘I’m sorry, Guys. I’ll get a mop and clean up. Somebody save me a big slice of meat loaf. I’m hungry.’
Edward can fix everything without doing anything. He’s a special person. My thoughts are not always good but when I think about him, the bad ones go away. I’ve asked the Director, my doctor, but nobody gives me any clue, any reason Edward is here. I have decided that maybe tomorrow or the next day or the next, I’m going to tell Edward my name is Joseph and I like him. I’m going to ask him, too, if he would like to share my shower with me.
When you come next visiting day, you aren’t going to see my Edward any more. His friend Bruce came and took him away. I saw them as they walked hand in hand to Bruce’s car. Edward turned around and waved goodbye to me.
Jerry is standing near the window, looking out at the long green lawn just as the setting sun turns the falling leaves to gold. All is quiet for a change. Mike and Harry are playing Chinese Checkers on a folding table. It shakes a little when moves are made. Soon the dinner bell will ring. Hands in his pockets, Edward crosses the room to see the end of the checkers game. He notices Harry moves one blue marble forward when he could have moved it two spaces. Softly he whispers Harry’s mistake in his ear.
At that very moment the dinner bell sounds. Most likely the two things happening together set off the shebang. Mike calls Harry dumb and pushes him off his chair. Harry starts to sulk, goes over to the corner of the room, faces it and pees on the wall. Jerry laughs and waves everybody towards dinner, ‘Let’s all go get the crappy meal before the rats get it,’ and he skips away.
There he is, my Edward who doesn’t know my name, walks over towards Harry. I take his left hand. Edward puts his right one ever so softly on Harry’s head. Harry calms down just as if Christ touched him. ‘I’m sorry, Guys. I’ll get a mop and clean up. Somebody save me a big slice of meat loaf. I’m hungry.’
Edward can fix everything without doing anything. He’s a special person. My thoughts are not always good but when I think about him, the bad ones go away. I’ve asked the Director, my doctor, but nobody gives me any clue, any reason Edward is here. I have decided that maybe tomorrow or the next day or the next, I’m going to tell Edward my name is Joseph and I like him. I’m going to ask him, too, if he would like to share my shower with me.
When you come next visiting day, you aren’t going to see my Edward any more. His friend Bruce came and took him away. I saw them as they walked hand in hand to Bruce’s car. Edward turned around and waved goodbye to me.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
THE NEW MRS. RIPLEY
If you cannot believe the unbelievable, read no further. In this case, I swear to you every word you read is true. For those who are still with me, I begin.
My new born babe, Star, has come home from the hospital today with blond hair and the de rigueur large blue eyes. Her father is either Larry or Marc. Marc has agreed to take the paternity test and if Star is his, he will take responsibility. Larry will be tested if Marc is not the daddy. One has to be correct. There were no others. So far, I hope some of you hangers on are still here. Ready?
Star talks! I don’t mean gurgles, makes unidentifiable noises. She actually speaks. Her voice is soft and steady. Already she has told me what it was like to be in the dark in my belly, how she learned words to Rock-a-bye Baby. Coming out was hard, taking her first breath of delivery room air gagged her.
Both Larry and Marc saw her in the hospital, heard her loud cry. At that early time, Star had not yet spoken to me. It happened the first time when I laid her in her new crib. Nobody else was with me so it had to be Star saying, ‘Ma Ma,’ not at all like a doll says Mama. I laughed at my own foolishness, picked her up and kissed her tiny white throat. I looked around again and heard someone say, ‘Do it again.’ This time I did not take my eyes off of Star and actually saw her pink lips move as she said, ‘Thanks.’
In the mirror, I didn’t look insane. Am I going thru some sort of post partum phase? Should I call my OB? All he can tell me is to get hold of myself, take a tranquilizer and get some rest. I give that some serious thought and file it. No sense calling him or anyone else. What is happening is unbelievable.
Star empties her warmed 3 oz. of formula, gives a burp and clearly says, ‘More.’ I sit beside her crib a long time, watching, listening. There is only silence. For no reason I can find, she starts crying, stops and asks, ‘Who is my father?’ This is too much. It is insane but I reply, tell her the truth. ‘I’m not sure.’ Star cries harder and harder, kicks until she knocks her bootie between the crib bars and it falls on the floor.
Star has now gained 5 pounds, can turn over. When Marc comes to see her, she looks at him and asks, ‘Are you my father?’ He is stunned, thinks I am playing a trick on him, only says ‘NO’, turns and leaves without as much as a so long to me.
By day four I believe I am going crazy. Dr. Perry, Star’s pediatrician who checked her out in the delivery room, has to know about this, find out what is happening. His secretary hears my anxiety and connects me to him. I explain what I see, hear and he thinks I should call a psychiatrist but will stop by about 5 after he closes his office.
As soon as he sees Star he knows she is too big for her short life, should not be able to roll over and tells me to take her to pediatrics at the hospital immediately. He’ll meet me there. I look upward and thank the lord somebody believes me, get Star into a safety seat and go.
Several doctors are waiting in the lobby for us, tossing questions at me too fast for me to answer. A crib with metal bars waits for Star. I am given lots of papers to sign. I have told Dr. Perry what happened, when, changes, everything I know and all he tells me is to stay in the lobby until I hear from someone. I stay, fall asleep a few times, go to the desk to find out if there are any messages from Dr. Perry. ‘No, not yet.’
Star is 7 days old and still being prodded, tested. No one in the nursery has heard Star speak yet, except Dr. Perry who tells me I must be tricking him. I am not believed. Doctors from out of state are coming in to see my ‘freak’. I am given one short visit with her a day and must wear a gown, rubber gloves and a mask. Star has pulled herself up in the crib and can stand. Dr. Bernard from Chicago has a tape recorder with him constantly and he picks up Star saying ‘Hi, Ma.’ That was all. It clunked and died. I blow my baby, already as developed as a 10 month old, a kiss and drive home.
For whoever has come this far with me, you can leave now. Whatever there is to be told at this point, I have told you. Just believe it as it is isn’t over yet. When an explanation, an answer is found, keep your eyes and ears open to CNN. It is going to be a show stopper.
My new born babe, Star, has come home from the hospital today with blond hair and the de rigueur large blue eyes. Her father is either Larry or Marc. Marc has agreed to take the paternity test and if Star is his, he will take responsibility. Larry will be tested if Marc is not the daddy. One has to be correct. There were no others. So far, I hope some of you hangers on are still here. Ready?
Star talks! I don’t mean gurgles, makes unidentifiable noises. She actually speaks. Her voice is soft and steady. Already she has told me what it was like to be in the dark in my belly, how she learned words to Rock-a-bye Baby. Coming out was hard, taking her first breath of delivery room air gagged her.
Both Larry and Marc saw her in the hospital, heard her loud cry. At that early time, Star had not yet spoken to me. It happened the first time when I laid her in her new crib. Nobody else was with me so it had to be Star saying, ‘Ma Ma,’ not at all like a doll says Mama. I laughed at my own foolishness, picked her up and kissed her tiny white throat. I looked around again and heard someone say, ‘Do it again.’ This time I did not take my eyes off of Star and actually saw her pink lips move as she said, ‘Thanks.’
In the mirror, I didn’t look insane. Am I going thru some sort of post partum phase? Should I call my OB? All he can tell me is to get hold of myself, take a tranquilizer and get some rest. I give that some serious thought and file it. No sense calling him or anyone else. What is happening is unbelievable.
Star empties her warmed 3 oz. of formula, gives a burp and clearly says, ‘More.’ I sit beside her crib a long time, watching, listening. There is only silence. For no reason I can find, she starts crying, stops and asks, ‘Who is my father?’ This is too much. It is insane but I reply, tell her the truth. ‘I’m not sure.’ Star cries harder and harder, kicks until she knocks her bootie between the crib bars and it falls on the floor.
Star has now gained 5 pounds, can turn over. When Marc comes to see her, she looks at him and asks, ‘Are you my father?’ He is stunned, thinks I am playing a trick on him, only says ‘NO’, turns and leaves without as much as a so long to me.
By day four I believe I am going crazy. Dr. Perry, Star’s pediatrician who checked her out in the delivery room, has to know about this, find out what is happening. His secretary hears my anxiety and connects me to him. I explain what I see, hear and he thinks I should call a psychiatrist but will stop by about 5 after he closes his office.
As soon as he sees Star he knows she is too big for her short life, should not be able to roll over and tells me to take her to pediatrics at the hospital immediately. He’ll meet me there. I look upward and thank the lord somebody believes me, get Star into a safety seat and go.
Several doctors are waiting in the lobby for us, tossing questions at me too fast for me to answer. A crib with metal bars waits for Star. I am given lots of papers to sign. I have told Dr. Perry what happened, when, changes, everything I know and all he tells me is to stay in the lobby until I hear from someone. I stay, fall asleep a few times, go to the desk to find out if there are any messages from Dr. Perry. ‘No, not yet.’
Star is 7 days old and still being prodded, tested. No one in the nursery has heard Star speak yet, except Dr. Perry who tells me I must be tricking him. I am not believed. Doctors from out of state are coming in to see my ‘freak’. I am given one short visit with her a day and must wear a gown, rubber gloves and a mask. Star has pulled herself up in the crib and can stand. Dr. Bernard from Chicago has a tape recorder with him constantly and he picks up Star saying ‘Hi, Ma.’ That was all. It clunked and died. I blow my baby, already as developed as a 10 month old, a kiss and drive home.
For whoever has come this far with me, you can leave now. Whatever there is to be told at this point, I have told you. Just believe it as it is isn’t over yet. When an explanation, an answer is found, keep your eyes and ears open to CNN. It is going to be a show stopper.
Monday, September 7, 2009
I–THE WRITER?
It’s been several years since I began putting my pen to paper, followed by hands on my computer keys and I no longer know who I am, what I am, where I am. Yesterday I was on a ferry crossing the Hudson River when the boat lurched and hit a pier. A woman near me fell over the railing and disappeared in the wash of the floundering ferry. The brackish water was over my head. A whirlpool twisted me in circles. I gulped down too much water and drowned. The next day the New York Times page four told my story just as I had felt it happen to me.
Last Saturday the sun was shining gloriously until a strong wind came from the north. The sun went out. I watched it as its shine slowly turned to darkness. I was a raven fighting the weather, trying to reach my chicks. I cawed and cawed, heard their tiny peeps and flapped my wings faster and faster. They were safe. I was tired, covered them with my wings until the sun came back. Honest, honest, I was the bird in the story.
Chuck, Bill, Walter, Izzy, every man who exists because my pen gives him life, is my life. We live as one. I’m a lover, nag, designer. Sometimes I’m tall, sometimes fat, wear rags or designer clothes. I walk and the next sentence writes itself.
A dragon spits fire and I shrink behind a tree. The movement of the earth as it drags its tail closer and closer to me creates the lightning that slays the monster. Lady Guinevere is dressed in a green wool gown, golden threads weave thru the bodice, hurries to me and we lie down on the wet grass. The dress fits me perfectly. So did Lancelot. The melted dragon evaporated. Help me, somebody help me be a writer without becoming a caricature of my characters. I’m scared.
At a week-end Broadway opening, I arrive in a stretch limo. Spotlights blind me, seriously blind me. I do not fall. The sidewalk comes up to me. The crowd roars. The lookie loos want to find out what happened to me. The velvet ropes cannot contain the paparazzi. They snap pictures of my spread legs, my dazed look. Behind me stands James Cagney, his heavy old fashioned machine gun sprays the crazed crowd. They all turn into pulp. I hear their screams. I am there. I’m writing. I’m killing myself off.
Exhaustion comes at the end of each short story. The parts that come unbidden to my mind are wearing me into a frazzle. This is no joke. It is serious business. Sleep often eludes me as fear plays chopsticks on my spine.
While I am sure you can’t save me, know that I am doing my best to save myself, but if you make a single step to take away my pen, my computer, to throw me a life preserver, I may become the Beltway Killer and we will die together.
Last Saturday the sun was shining gloriously until a strong wind came from the north. The sun went out. I watched it as its shine slowly turned to darkness. I was a raven fighting the weather, trying to reach my chicks. I cawed and cawed, heard their tiny peeps and flapped my wings faster and faster. They were safe. I was tired, covered them with my wings until the sun came back. Honest, honest, I was the bird in the story.
Chuck, Bill, Walter, Izzy, every man who exists because my pen gives him life, is my life. We live as one. I’m a lover, nag, designer. Sometimes I’m tall, sometimes fat, wear rags or designer clothes. I walk and the next sentence writes itself.
A dragon spits fire and I shrink behind a tree. The movement of the earth as it drags its tail closer and closer to me creates the lightning that slays the monster. Lady Guinevere is dressed in a green wool gown, golden threads weave thru the bodice, hurries to me and we lie down on the wet grass. The dress fits me perfectly. So did Lancelot. The melted dragon evaporated. Help me, somebody help me be a writer without becoming a caricature of my characters. I’m scared.
At a week-end Broadway opening, I arrive in a stretch limo. Spotlights blind me, seriously blind me. I do not fall. The sidewalk comes up to me. The crowd roars. The lookie loos want to find out what happened to me. The velvet ropes cannot contain the paparazzi. They snap pictures of my spread legs, my dazed look. Behind me stands James Cagney, his heavy old fashioned machine gun sprays the crazed crowd. They all turn into pulp. I hear their screams. I am there. I’m writing. I’m killing myself off.
Exhaustion comes at the end of each short story. The parts that come unbidden to my mind are wearing me into a frazzle. This is no joke. It is serious business. Sleep often eludes me as fear plays chopsticks on my spine.
While I am sure you can’t save me, know that I am doing my best to save myself, but if you make a single step to take away my pen, my computer, to throw me a life preserver, I may become the Beltway Killer and we will die together.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
WHERE OH WHERE
‘Leenie, come on. Leenie, lunch is on the table. Leenie, this is the third time I’m calling you–and the last.’ My teen daughter has either lost her hearing, isn’t hungry or gets a kick out of torturing me. She’s impudent,strong minded and a pain in my neck sometimes. ‘Come in now or I’ll eat lunch without you and you can starve.‘ That did it. I put the slice of lemon meringue pie I had saved for her in the fridge and may decide to have it as a snack later. With heavy steps, loud enough for god to hear, I plod to the living room, my tongue ready to slash out at her.
The sofa is empty. Leenie was lying there a few minutes ago. Where in the world did she go? The book she was reading in laying open on the floor, some pages curled under. That isn’t like her. I search upstairs. Her bed is made. I check the basement, the garage, the back yard. No Leenie. I sit in the kitchen eating the lemon meringue pie worrying myself into a frazzle.
The phone rings. My heart jumps into my throat. Darcy wants to talk to Leenie. ‘Well, you can’t. She has disappeared. Any idea where she might be, Darcy? Do me a favor and call around. Somebody must know where she is. I’m calling John Belson Hospital and the police.’ ‘Don’t panic, Mrs. Greer. She’ll show up soon.’ I do not need Darcy to tell me what to do.
My Tommy has an important staff meeting this afternoon but I call and leave a message for him to call me as soon as he can. Next I call the police. An officer with no feelings tells me to call back in 24 hours. I plead with him to at least write down her description, name, address and my phone number. ‘Put it on your bulletin board. I see that all the time on Law and Order.’ I whine a drawn out ‘Please.’ The officer hangs up on me.
Darcy has everyone calling me. Nobody has seen Leenie. ‘Don’t worry, your daughter can take care of herself,’ Betty, George, 5 classmates tell me. They shouldn’t have passed 5th grade. Leenie is 16 and can’t even make a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich without burning the toast. ‘It’s me, Tommy. Is our daughter home yet? No? Well, I’m in the car and should be with you in 10 minutes. Stay put.’ He makes it in 8. ‘Any word?’ My silence is my answer.
The phone rings again and I jump like a marionette when its strings are too tight. ‘Mrs. Greer. This is Sgt. Young. I have someone beside me who wants to talk to you.’ Of course, my first thought is it’s the coroner and hand the phone to Tommy. A smile covers his face. I strain to hear who is calling. ‘Daddy, what are you doing home so early? I thought you had an important meeting today.’ ‘My god, Leenie, is this really you? Where have you been? How did you just disappear when Mom was making lunch for you?’
‘What are you talking about, Dad? Put Mom on.’ ‘Don’t hand me that damn phone. I’ve been on it for hours. I’m too upset, too nervous to talk to that girl.’ I stand there as Tommy holds the phone out and we can both hear Leenie’s explanation together.
Suddenly I realize Leenie is not the wrong doer. I am. She told me last week about the trip to the zoo the 5 best kids in each science class were taking today. The teacher collected $2.00 from each student(and I myself had given Leenie her share for the bus and lunch),then forgot about it. The kids are studying monkeys and apes and would be away all afternoon. Maybe I should be studied, be put under a microscope. Those animals have more brains than I do
I go into the living room and pick up the book Leenie had left on the floor. King Kong’s picture is on the cover. He is climbing the Empire State Building with Faye Ray in his hand. Had I glanced at it maybe my memory would have flared and all this worry wouldn’t have happened. I apologize to my daughter, my husband, Darcy. I called the police department and explained, apologized to Sgt. Young. I put a sign on our front door, ‘I thank all of you for your concern and apologize for my dead brain cells.’
I promise Leenie I will make another lemon meringue pie tomorrow and she can have my share.
The sofa is empty. Leenie was lying there a few minutes ago. Where in the world did she go? The book she was reading in laying open on the floor, some pages curled under. That isn’t like her. I search upstairs. Her bed is made. I check the basement, the garage, the back yard. No Leenie. I sit in the kitchen eating the lemon meringue pie worrying myself into a frazzle.
The phone rings. My heart jumps into my throat. Darcy wants to talk to Leenie. ‘Well, you can’t. She has disappeared. Any idea where she might be, Darcy? Do me a favor and call around. Somebody must know where she is. I’m calling John Belson Hospital and the police.’ ‘Don’t panic, Mrs. Greer. She’ll show up soon.’ I do not need Darcy to tell me what to do.
My Tommy has an important staff meeting this afternoon but I call and leave a message for him to call me as soon as he can. Next I call the police. An officer with no feelings tells me to call back in 24 hours. I plead with him to at least write down her description, name, address and my phone number. ‘Put it on your bulletin board. I see that all the time on Law and Order.’ I whine a drawn out ‘Please.’ The officer hangs up on me.
Darcy has everyone calling me. Nobody has seen Leenie. ‘Don’t worry, your daughter can take care of herself,’ Betty, George, 5 classmates tell me. They shouldn’t have passed 5th grade. Leenie is 16 and can’t even make a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich without burning the toast. ‘It’s me, Tommy. Is our daughter home yet? No? Well, I’m in the car and should be with you in 10 minutes. Stay put.’ He makes it in 8. ‘Any word?’ My silence is my answer.
The phone rings again and I jump like a marionette when its strings are too tight. ‘Mrs. Greer. This is Sgt. Young. I have someone beside me who wants to talk to you.’ Of course, my first thought is it’s the coroner and hand the phone to Tommy. A smile covers his face. I strain to hear who is calling. ‘Daddy, what are you doing home so early? I thought you had an important meeting today.’ ‘My god, Leenie, is this really you? Where have you been? How did you just disappear when Mom was making lunch for you?’
‘What are you talking about, Dad? Put Mom on.’ ‘Don’t hand me that damn phone. I’ve been on it for hours. I’m too upset, too nervous to talk to that girl.’ I stand there as Tommy holds the phone out and we can both hear Leenie’s explanation together.
Suddenly I realize Leenie is not the wrong doer. I am. She told me last week about the trip to the zoo the 5 best kids in each science class were taking today. The teacher collected $2.00 from each student(and I myself had given Leenie her share for the bus and lunch),then forgot about it. The kids are studying monkeys and apes and would be away all afternoon. Maybe I should be studied, be put under a microscope. Those animals have more brains than I do
I go into the living room and pick up the book Leenie had left on the floor. King Kong’s picture is on the cover. He is climbing the Empire State Building with Faye Ray in his hand. Had I glanced at it maybe my memory would have flared and all this worry wouldn’t have happened. I apologize to my daughter, my husband, Darcy. I called the police department and explained, apologized to Sgt. Young. I put a sign on our front door, ‘I thank all of you for your concern and apologize for my dead brain cells.’
I promise Leenie I will make another lemon meringue pie tomorrow and she can have my share.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
WAKE UP
‘Ms I don’t know’ sits down across the library table from me. For now I’ll call her Ms Mom. Immediately my shackles cackle. A baby in a pink fuzzy outfit is on her mother’s lap. I assume the young woman is the child’s mother but could be an au pere or a nanny and I don’t care. The baby doesn’t walk, talk or read, can’t even sit up straight. She fusses, cries, disturbs my making a decision about which books I should check out.
The mother removes an empty plastic bottle from her knapsack, unscrews the top that already has an uncovered nipple on it. Into the bottle she pours canned water and some yellowish powder, tightens the lid, puts her unwashed hand over the nipple and vigorously shakes the concoction.
My eyebrows furrow. What is that girl/woman doing? Did I sleep through 30 years? Don’t mothers sterilize anything any more? Don’t they have to warm the dextrose/milk in the already sterilized glass bottles, put a sterilized nipple on it and before feeding the baby, shake a few drops of the formula on her wrist to be sure the baby isn’t burned?
I look again at what is going on (or not going on) and the baby gives a loud burp. Before I can pull my books aside, curdled spit up polka dots Wuthering Heights, a book I have read three times and still love. My eyes glower at the mother who makes no move, no apology. The baby then heaves up most of her meal, on to my slax and into my shoe. While I’d like to give ‘Mom’ a good tongue lashing, I pick up the soiled book with a few sheets of wrinkled Kleenex I carry in my purse, wipe off the mess and take the book to a librarian, point out the culprit and head for the ladies’ room to salvage my slax.
Cool down, Fool , I tell myself. Water will make things worse. As I open the door, in walks Mom, dangling the baby by one arm. She looks at me as if she never saw me before and asks me to hold her baby while she uses the toilet. The baby really stinks and so do I. My heart has empathy for the child not for the mother. I turn into a bitch, ignore her and leave her to her own devices.
I go back to the book shelves, find another worn copy of Wuthering Heights and hate myself for days.
The mother removes an empty plastic bottle from her knapsack, unscrews the top that already has an uncovered nipple on it. Into the bottle she pours canned water and some yellowish powder, tightens the lid, puts her unwashed hand over the nipple and vigorously shakes the concoction.
My eyebrows furrow. What is that girl/woman doing? Did I sleep through 30 years? Don’t mothers sterilize anything any more? Don’t they have to warm the dextrose/milk in the already sterilized glass bottles, put a sterilized nipple on it and before feeding the baby, shake a few drops of the formula on her wrist to be sure the baby isn’t burned?
I look again at what is going on (or not going on) and the baby gives a loud burp. Before I can pull my books aside, curdled spit up polka dots Wuthering Heights, a book I have read three times and still love. My eyes glower at the mother who makes no move, no apology. The baby then heaves up most of her meal, on to my slax and into my shoe. While I’d like to give ‘Mom’ a good tongue lashing, I pick up the soiled book with a few sheets of wrinkled Kleenex I carry in my purse, wipe off the mess and take the book to a librarian, point out the culprit and head for the ladies’ room to salvage my slax.
Cool down, Fool , I tell myself. Water will make things worse. As I open the door, in walks Mom, dangling the baby by one arm. She looks at me as if she never saw me before and asks me to hold her baby while she uses the toilet. The baby really stinks and so do I. My heart has empathy for the child not for the mother. I turn into a bitch, ignore her and leave her to her own devices.
I go back to the book shelves, find another worn copy of Wuthering Heights and hate myself for days.
Friday, September 4, 2009
RECOVERY
He hardly had hands. His fingers were stumps. I saw our first child before the nurses had cleaned him, cleared his tiny nose and mouth. In my twilight sleep I remembered asking if he was ok, had ten fingers, ten toes. Did I not hear the nurse’s answer? Did I not see our son’s hands? Had the nurse walked away, unable to tell me the truth?
Barry stood beside my bed when our boy was brought to me the first time. He kissed me but was silent. ‘You’re sure?’ I asked. “We aren’t going to change it once we commit. He’ll be Keith L. Massey forevermore.’ Just as Barry nodded yes the door opened. Barry squeezed my hand too hard. I knew immediately it wasn’t a love squeeze.
Keith was wrapped in a thin cotton blanket. A tiny blue knitted cap didn’t quite cover the scraggly dark hair that was enough for us to know he wasn’t blond. I can still feel my joy when I looked at Keith and told the world how gorgeous he was. ‘Don’ tell me Barry that was gas. I know a smile when I see one. He’s happy to meet us.’
Nurse Fagan had quietly pulled down the blue blanket and had pushed back the sleeves of Keith gown. I saw but didn’t see. I tried to open his left hand. It wouldn’t open. The right opened just a little but didn’t grasp my finger. I felt his thumb, index and middle fingers and didn’t understand at all. Barry covered Keith up to his chin and rang for Miss Fagan. Before she came he was already teary. Large drops fell on the baby’s blanket. Not that we were in competition but when I realized it, I cried harder, longer than Barry.
Almost choking he told me that Keith weighed eight pounds and was strong and healthy. Most of what he said I understood but couldn’t grasp the seriousness of the 2nd part. When Miss Fagan came in, she jabbed my arm with a needle and I stopped wailing, even breathing for a second. Barry held me. It helped. He stayed by my side until Keith was brought in again for me to try to feed him. The moment that sweet little mouth touched my breast a warmth I had never known before enveloped me. I kissed his head, and held his hand that had only three fingers. The other looked like a miniature fist. ‘Barry, look!’ Keith is going to be a fighter in his own way.’
That was the moment of revelation. Ten fingers, three fingers, no fingers, our son, Keith, was going to be our beloved son forever.
Barry stood beside my bed when our boy was brought to me the first time. He kissed me but was silent. ‘You’re sure?’ I asked. “We aren’t going to change it once we commit. He’ll be Keith L. Massey forevermore.’ Just as Barry nodded yes the door opened. Barry squeezed my hand too hard. I knew immediately it wasn’t a love squeeze.
Keith was wrapped in a thin cotton blanket. A tiny blue knitted cap didn’t quite cover the scraggly dark hair that was enough for us to know he wasn’t blond. I can still feel my joy when I looked at Keith and told the world how gorgeous he was. ‘Don’ tell me Barry that was gas. I know a smile when I see one. He’s happy to meet us.’
Nurse Fagan had quietly pulled down the blue blanket and had pushed back the sleeves of Keith gown. I saw but didn’t see. I tried to open his left hand. It wouldn’t open. The right opened just a little but didn’t grasp my finger. I felt his thumb, index and middle fingers and didn’t understand at all. Barry covered Keith up to his chin and rang for Miss Fagan. Before she came he was already teary. Large drops fell on the baby’s blanket. Not that we were in competition but when I realized it, I cried harder, longer than Barry.
Almost choking he told me that Keith weighed eight pounds and was strong and healthy. Most of what he said I understood but couldn’t grasp the seriousness of the 2nd part. When Miss Fagan came in, she jabbed my arm with a needle and I stopped wailing, even breathing for a second. Barry held me. It helped. He stayed by my side until Keith was brought in again for me to try to feed him. The moment that sweet little mouth touched my breast a warmth I had never known before enveloped me. I kissed his head, and held his hand that had only three fingers. The other looked like a miniature fist. ‘Barry, look!’ Keith is going to be a fighter in his own way.’
That was the moment of revelation. Ten fingers, three fingers, no fingers, our son, Keith, was going to be our beloved son forever.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
SILENT WORDS
We decided together not to wait any longer. Half a day was already shot. It’s mostly her fault. Why can’t she stand up to Mr. Lathrum? I know she loves her job but he does foul up our lives.
Why didn’t Benjamin order our plane tickets? I did all the preliminary work, even wrote it down for him, American Airlines Thursday, April 12, Flight 417 to DC, arriving 8:45 a.m. I thought he did it. Mr. Lathrum approved the trip as long as I finished the last three chapters of Arlene Jamison’s book before I left and have e mailed him my critique. We agreed I could and would do that. Darn that husband of mine. He’s such a jerk.
O.K. Let’s go home. There are still two stand bys ahead of us. No sense waiting for a cancellation. It ain’t gonna happen. If Cassie told me Mr. Lathrum gave the ok nod, I didn’t hear her.
Cell phone in hand I called my Mom. ‘Ma, we aren’t coming today. Don’t go to the airport for us. Big shot Benjamin didn’t get our tickets. Put your onion meat loaf in the freezer. I’m madder than you!’
I heard that call. The Old Witch is rampaging around her kitchen. She must have asked Cassie when we are coming and Cassie is going to ask me. Why? Cassie knows I can go next Tuesday. Why didn’t she tell her mother that then? Cassie had better realize that if we don’t go next week the cherry blossoms will be gone and my Holocaust Museum pass will expire. I guess I have to remind her. I’m going to ask at the desk about next week’s flight.
What is that man doing now? If he is going where I think he is going, he’ll be dust before morning. Stop! Stop! Benjamin, don’t you dare ask again for stand by. I already told my mother we aren’t coming today and I put all the blame on you.
I don’t care what Cassie wants to do. I bought an extra Holocaust ticket for her mother and will lose that too if we’re not there by Tuesday. I hope that meat loaf freezes hard and Ma forgets to thaw it.
What did my husband do without asking me? What’s he waving at me? It looks like he has tickets in his hand. Let him go himself. I’m not calling Mom again.
Cassie and her mom are going to be happy, we’ll be there in time to see the cherry blossoms. Tuesday the 17th. I’ll spring for every dinner. I’ll see the horrors and the memories at the Museum.
He did it. I can’t go next Tuesday. Benjamin, Benjamin. I’m working for Mr. Lathrum five years and you still don’t know that is the day I get my weekly assignment? I’m due some sick leave time. I can fake it.
Benjamin tells me all the time he loves me. He’ll do it for me. He’s such a good liar.
Why didn’t Benjamin order our plane tickets? I did all the preliminary work, even wrote it down for him, American Airlines Thursday, April 12, Flight 417 to DC, arriving 8:45 a.m. I thought he did it. Mr. Lathrum approved the trip as long as I finished the last three chapters of Arlene Jamison’s book before I left and have e mailed him my critique. We agreed I could and would do that. Darn that husband of mine. He’s such a jerk.
O.K. Let’s go home. There are still two stand bys ahead of us. No sense waiting for a cancellation. It ain’t gonna happen. If Cassie told me Mr. Lathrum gave the ok nod, I didn’t hear her.
Cell phone in hand I called my Mom. ‘Ma, we aren’t coming today. Don’t go to the airport for us. Big shot Benjamin didn’t get our tickets. Put your onion meat loaf in the freezer. I’m madder than you!’
I heard that call. The Old Witch is rampaging around her kitchen. She must have asked Cassie when we are coming and Cassie is going to ask me. Why? Cassie knows I can go next Tuesday. Why didn’t she tell her mother that then? Cassie had better realize that if we don’t go next week the cherry blossoms will be gone and my Holocaust Museum pass will expire. I guess I have to remind her. I’m going to ask at the desk about next week’s flight.
What is that man doing now? If he is going where I think he is going, he’ll be dust before morning. Stop! Stop! Benjamin, don’t you dare ask again for stand by. I already told my mother we aren’t coming today and I put all the blame on you.
I don’t care what Cassie wants to do. I bought an extra Holocaust ticket for her mother and will lose that too if we’re not there by Tuesday. I hope that meat loaf freezes hard and Ma forgets to thaw it.
What did my husband do without asking me? What’s he waving at me? It looks like he has tickets in his hand. Let him go himself. I’m not calling Mom again.
Cassie and her mom are going to be happy, we’ll be there in time to see the cherry blossoms. Tuesday the 17th. I’ll spring for every dinner. I’ll see the horrors and the memories at the Museum.
He did it. I can’t go next Tuesday. Benjamin, Benjamin. I’m working for Mr. Lathrum five years and you still don’t know that is the day I get my weekly assignment? I’m due some sick leave time. I can fake it.
Benjamin tells me all the time he loves me. He’ll do it for me. He’s such a good liar.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
NO CROCODILES HERE
It was the first time I did it and am neither embarrassed nor ashamed to admit it...but I am already 39 and starting late.
A quite presentable gentleman, his short, graying, neatly trimmed goatee caught my attention. It was something about the way he was so totally absorbed reading ‘Egypt Found’. The title was in large, heavy red letters, easily seen without my bifocals. I had to squint to make out the author ‘Adim Bahali.’
Egyptology had fascinated me since I was 12 and visited Albany’s Institute of History and Art with my classmates. We were taken down several flights of concrete steps, into a room that had only stone walls, low level lights and two sarcophigus. A docent I could barely hear or see did her best to explain how mummies were prepared for their trip to eternity. That gave me the shivers. She told us some history of Egypt, about how beautiful Cleopatra was and I was hooked.
Here was a chance to delve deeper into the past, deeper than I had ever gone on my own. ‘Take it, Woman. He won’t bite.’ ‘Excuse me,’ I said to him. ‘You seem so absorbed in your book about Egypt, I wonder if you have ever been in any of the tombs, maybe been so lucky as to find one yourself. Have you?’
He looked up, gently closed his book. His soft gray eyes were like pearls just plucked from their mother’s shells. ‘Yes, young lady, I have been in many tombs. In case you hadn’t noticed the author’s name on my book, let me introduce myself. I am Adim Bahali. Would you care to join me for lunch? I haven’t ordered yet.’
Surprising myself and possibly Bahali, I sat down. My waiter appeared at my table, looked around to find me. I called him over to put my order on my new table and to give me my check. Mr. Bahali’s hand appeared faster than a cobra ready to strike an intruder. The check disappeared under his coffee cup.
The waiter was definitely amused and asked what the gentleman would like.’ Those pearl gray eyes twinkled as his smiled and exciting words startled me. ‘ Waiter, I don’t think you can give me what I would like to have. I’ll have to get that myself, but in the meantime, please bring me a large Caesar salad with extra anchovies and a bowl of Nile Split Pea soup.’ ‘That’s the main thing I came for, until now,’ he said to me and winked his right eye. ‘Have you ever tried the soup, Miss ?’ ‘I’m sorry, my name is Cleo Byers. No, I’ve never heard of Nile soup.’ ‘Well, Cleo, it is exotic, lots of cumin, ginger, cloves, sugar. Name it and it’s in there. Waiter, bring Miss Byers a cup to try.’ It came chilled but smoke came out of my ears. It was pungent, deliciously spiced.
A bit forward, I asked if I could call my new tutor, my friend by his first name, Adim. He took my hand, ‘Yes, you may call me Adim, and I am asking you if I can call you tomorrow.’ I handed him my card and he handed me his book. ‘Read a few chapters until we meet again, Thursday perhaps?’
I read all day Wednesday absorbing a lot and I was ready for Thursday. Thursday we didn’t have time to talk about Egypt or Nile Soup. Coincidence that it was, Aida was being performed at our Town Center Music Hall. Adim had two tickets in the center of the theater. The performance was glorious.
The night that followed was more so.
A quite presentable gentleman, his short, graying, neatly trimmed goatee caught my attention. It was something about the way he was so totally absorbed reading ‘Egypt Found’. The title was in large, heavy red letters, easily seen without my bifocals. I had to squint to make out the author ‘Adim Bahali.’
Egyptology had fascinated me since I was 12 and visited Albany’s Institute of History and Art with my classmates. We were taken down several flights of concrete steps, into a room that had only stone walls, low level lights and two sarcophigus. A docent I could barely hear or see did her best to explain how mummies were prepared for their trip to eternity. That gave me the shivers. She told us some history of Egypt, about how beautiful Cleopatra was and I was hooked.
Here was a chance to delve deeper into the past, deeper than I had ever gone on my own. ‘Take it, Woman. He won’t bite.’ ‘Excuse me,’ I said to him. ‘You seem so absorbed in your book about Egypt, I wonder if you have ever been in any of the tombs, maybe been so lucky as to find one yourself. Have you?’
He looked up, gently closed his book. His soft gray eyes were like pearls just plucked from their mother’s shells. ‘Yes, young lady, I have been in many tombs. In case you hadn’t noticed the author’s name on my book, let me introduce myself. I am Adim Bahali. Would you care to join me for lunch? I haven’t ordered yet.’
Surprising myself and possibly Bahali, I sat down. My waiter appeared at my table, looked around to find me. I called him over to put my order on my new table and to give me my check. Mr. Bahali’s hand appeared faster than a cobra ready to strike an intruder. The check disappeared under his coffee cup.
The waiter was definitely amused and asked what the gentleman would like.’ Those pearl gray eyes twinkled as his smiled and exciting words startled me. ‘ Waiter, I don’t think you can give me what I would like to have. I’ll have to get that myself, but in the meantime, please bring me a large Caesar salad with extra anchovies and a bowl of Nile Split Pea soup.’ ‘That’s the main thing I came for, until now,’ he said to me and winked his right eye. ‘Have you ever tried the soup, Miss ?’ ‘I’m sorry, my name is Cleo Byers. No, I’ve never heard of Nile soup.’ ‘Well, Cleo, it is exotic, lots of cumin, ginger, cloves, sugar. Name it and it’s in there. Waiter, bring Miss Byers a cup to try.’ It came chilled but smoke came out of my ears. It was pungent, deliciously spiced.
A bit forward, I asked if I could call my new tutor, my friend by his first name, Adim. He took my hand, ‘Yes, you may call me Adim, and I am asking you if I can call you tomorrow.’ I handed him my card and he handed me his book. ‘Read a few chapters until we meet again, Thursday perhaps?’
I read all day Wednesday absorbing a lot and I was ready for Thursday. Thursday we didn’t have time to talk about Egypt or Nile Soup. Coincidence that it was, Aida was being performed at our Town Center Music Hall. Adim had two tickets in the center of the theater. The performance was glorious.
The night that followed was more so.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
SMALL WORLD
It is too hot to walk far, try to find Alice in Wonderland prancing around in her heavy dress and wig. Maggie is crabby. She wants everything, stomps her foot if I say ‘No’. And she is smart, too. ‘Daddy, I want an ice cream cone, strawberry. I’ll give you a kiss.’ ‘Next time we come to an ice cream store, we’ll stop. Just wait.’ My eyes roll around in my head. My tongue clicks at Marty. Even if it was snowing, I’d still be hot. He disgusts me when he stands between Maggie and me. I’m always the loser and he gets the kisses.
‘How about going inside, take a ride?’ Maggie is ready. ‘After Daddy gets me a cherry ice cream cone.’ ‘Maggie, you said you wanted strawberry.’ ‘I changed my mind. Mom, can I have cherry? ‘No you can’t and not strawberry either. We’re going to stop for lunch at the first place that looks nice and isn’t too crowded. Isn’t that right? Daddy?’ Marty keeps quiet, takes Maggie’s hand and leaves me cussing a blue streak.
‘Right there, Guys. It’s wonderfully cool. The temp is set very low and I am thrilled. We easily find a cleaned table. ‘Mom, I have to make. Take me.’ My little girl is like a pointer, she can find the ladies’ room anywhere, any time by herself. This day she is after my goat. As long as I am there, as much as I don’t want to, I might as well use this place. Foolish Marty has a bowl of hot chicken broth ready for Maggie.‘Daddy, it’s too hot for soup, you eat it. Get me a chocolate milk shake and peanut butter crackers. Marty offers me the soup that is now almost cold and I accidentally knock it off the table.
I’m about ready to pop them both when in walks a former neighbor of ours. ‘What a small world,’ we say together. ‘Tagging along with Jayne are her 10 year old twins. They are polite, sit quietly, speak when spoken to and eat what is put before them.
My little imp is standing, ready to look for the Magic Castle and tries to pull me off my chair. ‘Zel, I’m sorry but Maggie has antsy pantsies. We have to go!’
‘Mom, Daddy, I want a Minnie Mouse hat. Please, please.’ ‘No, you can’t have it. It costs too much and you’ll lose it before we get home. Let’s all go into the next cool place we find.’ Maggie still nagged which made the vision of Zel’s well behaved children seem like god’s intervention. ‘No, hat and that is that!’ She looks longingly at her father, who turns his back on her. I won the bout.
The long rumbling electric cart stops. The three of us get in the first cart. All the rest fill and we go clanking into a small, small world. ‘Look, Maggie, look at that adorable little girl. Can you sing with all the children? I’ll sing with you, ‘It’s a small, small world.’ That’s all I know so I sing it over and over. Maggie points, ‘I want her, that one in the blue dress. I want her to take home.’ ‘Sorry, all the small ones live here in these houses. When we are all asleep tonight, they will come to life. They will eat dinner, play games and watch the Disney Channel. They will sing about their small world too. They don’t want to go away.’
The problem is settled until the ride ends and we go back into the heat. ‘Daddy, take me into the small world again, one more time, please.’‘Darling, I can’t leave Mommy out in the hot sun while we are cool inside. Let’s go and I’ll buy you the Minnie Mouse hat.’ I kick my husband hard in his shin. He lets out a yell, takes Maggie by the hand and disappears into the small world.
Under a tree on the other side of the path I find the edge of a bench available and sit there restlessly for 30 minutes. Marty has Maggie over his shoulder. She’s asleep. The sun is setting. A warm breeze swirls dust and rain clouds form. Maggie wakes and we start to run to the parking lot. An anaconda snake line waits to leave. The AC saves our lives. Maggie falls asleep on the back seat, never hears the rain, the thunder.
Our Sleeping Beauty looks like an angel. Her Minnie Mouse hat, with one ear broken off, is laying on the floor. There is strawberry, or maybe cherry, melted ice cream on her sleeve. Her panties are wet but there seems to be a small smile on her lips.
Marty and I hold hands. He looks at me. I look at him. Marty says ‘Didn’t we have fun, Bess?’ He must be out of hs mind but I don’t want to spoil the moment, his pipe dream. ‘Sure did, Honey.’
‘How about going inside, take a ride?’ Maggie is ready. ‘After Daddy gets me a cherry ice cream cone.’ ‘Maggie, you said you wanted strawberry.’ ‘I changed my mind. Mom, can I have cherry? ‘No you can’t and not strawberry either. We’re going to stop for lunch at the first place that looks nice and isn’t too crowded. Isn’t that right? Daddy?’ Marty keeps quiet, takes Maggie’s hand and leaves me cussing a blue streak.
‘Right there, Guys. It’s wonderfully cool. The temp is set very low and I am thrilled. We easily find a cleaned table. ‘Mom, I have to make. Take me.’ My little girl is like a pointer, she can find the ladies’ room anywhere, any time by herself. This day she is after my goat. As long as I am there, as much as I don’t want to, I might as well use this place. Foolish Marty has a bowl of hot chicken broth ready for Maggie.‘Daddy, it’s too hot for soup, you eat it. Get me a chocolate milk shake and peanut butter crackers. Marty offers me the soup that is now almost cold and I accidentally knock it off the table.
I’m about ready to pop them both when in walks a former neighbor of ours. ‘What a small world,’ we say together. ‘Tagging along with Jayne are her 10 year old twins. They are polite, sit quietly, speak when spoken to and eat what is put before them.
My little imp is standing, ready to look for the Magic Castle and tries to pull me off my chair. ‘Zel, I’m sorry but Maggie has antsy pantsies. We have to go!’
‘Mom, Daddy, I want a Minnie Mouse hat. Please, please.’ ‘No, you can’t have it. It costs too much and you’ll lose it before we get home. Let’s all go into the next cool place we find.’ Maggie still nagged which made the vision of Zel’s well behaved children seem like god’s intervention. ‘No, hat and that is that!’ She looks longingly at her father, who turns his back on her. I won the bout.
The long rumbling electric cart stops. The three of us get in the first cart. All the rest fill and we go clanking into a small, small world. ‘Look, Maggie, look at that adorable little girl. Can you sing with all the children? I’ll sing with you, ‘It’s a small, small world.’ That’s all I know so I sing it over and over. Maggie points, ‘I want her, that one in the blue dress. I want her to take home.’ ‘Sorry, all the small ones live here in these houses. When we are all asleep tonight, they will come to life. They will eat dinner, play games and watch the Disney Channel. They will sing about their small world too. They don’t want to go away.’
The problem is settled until the ride ends and we go back into the heat. ‘Daddy, take me into the small world again, one more time, please.’‘Darling, I can’t leave Mommy out in the hot sun while we are cool inside. Let’s go and I’ll buy you the Minnie Mouse hat.’ I kick my husband hard in his shin. He lets out a yell, takes Maggie by the hand and disappears into the small world.
Under a tree on the other side of the path I find the edge of a bench available and sit there restlessly for 30 minutes. Marty has Maggie over his shoulder. She’s asleep. The sun is setting. A warm breeze swirls dust and rain clouds form. Maggie wakes and we start to run to the parking lot. An anaconda snake line waits to leave. The AC saves our lives. Maggie falls asleep on the back seat, never hears the rain, the thunder.
Our Sleeping Beauty looks like an angel. Her Minnie Mouse hat, with one ear broken off, is laying on the floor. There is strawberry, or maybe cherry, melted ice cream on her sleeve. Her panties are wet but there seems to be a small smile on her lips.
Marty and I hold hands. He looks at me. I look at him. Marty says ‘Didn’t we have fun, Bess?’ He must be out of hs mind but I don’t want to spoil the moment, his pipe dream. ‘Sure did, Honey.’
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