I must have it. I have to. I can't stand it any longer. It is 11 p.m. My bedroom door is closed but open just enough not to click now. Quiet as a cat creeping toward a mouse hole, I pass my parents' door. No light peeps under it. Dad's steady stream of snoring takes care of him. Mom has pretty much learned to ignore it. Taking a chance, I reach the stairs, take my time going down to Nirvana.
The louvred pantry door is half open. Enough moonlight coming in the picture window over the sink confirms the location of the box of Oreos. Whoa! It is a new box, still in its plastic wrap. I don't remember finishing the last one. This is going to take some thought. The rustling may wake Mom. From the drawer I take a small paring knife, put it in my robe pocket and go in the powder room and with one swift swipe the crinkly paper is free of the box. The toilet seat is down and is as good a place as any to enjoy one or two cookies, nibble round and round the edges until they disappear. Numbers three and four get in my hands without me realizing it. Number three I eat carefully, working the sandwich apart so I can lick the sweet white sugar without breaking the chocolate. Then I have the two parts left. They disappear into my growing layer of fat.
I put the knife back in the kitchen drawer, the crinkly paper between sheets of the newspaper waiting to go in the recycle bin near the basement door. As I go back to bed, unable to brush my teeth, I use my finger to scrape the chocolate off my teeth and gums, and swallow the dividend.
'Joanie,' my mother calls. 'It's school time. Get up.' Breakfast is on the table and is not a pretty sight. 'Mom, any chance of you simmering a few strips of bacon for me and scrambling two eggs? I don't like Rice Krispies.' 'Absolutely not. You don't need all that fat and cholesterol.' 'But I'm hungry, Mom.' She giggles and says, 'Eat your heart out. I'll show you how. I eat mine every morning.' ' I decline her offer and take a poppy seed roll with raspberry jelly along with the Rice Krispies.
After school Grandma's house calls me loudly and on the spur of the moment I take the Belvedere bus to visit her. As usual she will have a gift of some kind ready for me. It's upstairs which gives me a chance to hurry to the kitchen 'sweet cabinet', stuff a dozen or so Hershey Kisses into my pocket and a few in my greedy mouth. 'Don't rush, Grandma. Hold the railing when you come down.'
She listens to me and hands me what feels like a small book. I rip off the ribbon and gift paper and almost laugh. It is called, 'Eating Sensibly' by Kate Smith's grand daughter. 'Thanks, Grandma. Mom is always on my back, begging me to stop eating so much junk. I'll try, Grandma. Honest I will.' But I know I won't try too hard.
Grandma does love me and goes to the 'sweet cabinet' to give me just two or three Hershey Kisses for my ride home. Startled, she sees the bag is almost empty and blames it on Grandpa. 'I'll get a new one for when you come again.' With a little ta ta motion I tell her, 'I have to go home now. Thanks for the book, Grandma.'
At the door she asks for a hug and a kiss and I am happy to make her happy. As she leans her frail body towards me, she sniffs, tells me to wait a second. I wait 3 or 4, not even a minute.
From the kitchen she bings back a damp Kleenex, says nothing, and wipes some chocolate off my chin.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
SO BIG
The morning promises sunshine sparkling on the lake. Yellow, orange, brown crags stand tall like soldiers on parade. The breeze is tender, just rustling the pine trees. Our children each have a swing made from worn out tires hanging from two brotherly old oaks that must have grown up together. From the kitchen window I often check on them so they never jump from the rocks. That is too dangerous. Their laughter and shrieks of excitement give me chills of joy.
The man of the house, Barry, is on the roof replacing a few cracked tiles. I can hear his footsteps swirling the fallen leaves. Our little nest is heaven until I hear him yelling, ‘Kids, quick, run get in the house. Now! Now!’ They are too far away and can’t hear him. I hurry out to see what the trouble is and Barry is coming down the ladder as fast as he can, motioning me to get inside. I won’t go and wait for him to get on the ground to tell me what is going on. He just keeps hollering, ‘Get in the house!’ as he flies to the lake.
And then I know. I hear a low groaning growl but can’t yet see what it is and know I don’t want to. Fred is at the edge of the lake and waving to Casey to come back but she is already half way across to see her girlfriend. Barry pulls our son by his bathing suit, lifts him in the air and runs. I am right on his tail. The growl grumbles again. A grizzly. It’s smell reaches my nose before I see it. We all make it inside. With its big ball of a black nose it sniffs the ground and knocks over the barbecue. It crashes on the flagstone path, startles the bear. A thundering roar fills the air. We three cling together, hardly breathing. I send out silent vibes, ‘Casey, Casey. Don’t come home. Stay across the lake until I call the Borgas.’
The bear hasn’t left. It brushes against the ladder, knocks it down. It falls and shatters, pieces hit the bear. It roars and roars. There is no food left outside, no garbage cans to break open. The monster goes slowly back to the woods.
Barry gets his Winchester rifle from the locked cabinet in our bedroom and a box of 20 XM193 cartridges, loads the gun, opens the door, looks around and heads for the lake. The sun is high, glistens on the mirrored lake. Large strides, rifle ready, he shades his eyes, searching for Casey. She is not in sight. He fires two shots into the air, unties the motor boat from its post and heads eastward. It takes ten minutes to get across. Casey, not quite dry yet, is waiting for him. ‘Get in the boat. Don’t ask questions now. Just get in.’ Once they get the power going, Barry tells her about the company they had while she was gone. ‘That grizzly only did a little damage. It could have been much worse. If you children were outside, no telling what might have happened. Mom must have already called the Game Warden. He and his crew are going to find that bear and get him back to his own territory. Until they do, no lake, no wandering around outside the house. Them’s orders. Got it?”
The first thing he does when he gets into the safety of their house, he removes the cartridges from the rifle, lays it on the table near the door. All of the remaining 17 cartridges he drops into a tin bucket, puts them on the floor near the rifle. He is stern and warns them, ‘Don’t touch. Just don’t touch. I may need this suddenly and it better be where it is now! Mother, let’s have a little supper, watch some T.V. and the kids can go to bed a little early. Don’t anybody worry. I’ll be here all night with one eye open. God watched over us all day and it is my turn now.’
Friday, March 27, 2009
MIND YOUR OWN BEESWAX
'Whatever you are doing, stop it now!' the decrepit, yellow-skinned lady says. Her crippled finger shakes at a small boy who couldn't be much more than five years old. 'Not doin' nothin', Lady,' the frightened black boy replies. 'Oh, yes you are. I saw you picking your nose. That's ugly. Do you want your nose to fall off?' 'No, Ma'am,' 'Then stop it and go wash your hands before you eat what's in that bag.' He jiggles the bag and says, ' I'm not going to eat what's in here, Lady. You can if you want to. I have some live earth worms in here. My friend, Billy and I are going to pretend we are butchers and are going to cut them into little pieces. Billy's mother gave us two red plastic forks so we don't cut ourselves.'
'I knew it. I knew it, Child, as soon as I saw you all by yourself, no mother, no father, nobody, standing on the street corner picking your nose and putting that finger in your mouth. You must be an orphan,' 'What's an orphan?' 'My, Lord, you don't know much do you?' 'I do so. My mother told me I'm very smart for five. I can count to twenty and know the whole alphabet. Want to hear me say it?' 'No, I don't. I know the alphabet already.'
'Now stop that squirming. You look like you have to go to the toilet. Stand still.' 'I do, Lady. Go away. I'm going home to wait for Billy.'
He turns away and starts to run down the street. 'Hey, Boy, stop that running. You might fall down. Walk and I'll walk you home.' 'No, I don't want to walk. Get away from me. You look like a witch.' 'Now, you apologize. That isn't a nice thing to say.' Instead he calls her a witch again. This time she grabs him by the back of his shirt. 'You nasty, nasty boy. Just for that I will use my witch power. You will never be able to fly.' She makes a wild motion in the air and shouts, 'Kazaam, Kazoo. Lord, never, never let this boy get wings. Don't let him fly.'
The boy starts to cry big runny tears. She takes his hand, not the hand with the nose picking finger, and he walks slowly with her to the corner. 'Want to go in with me? I'm going to have a chocolate nut sundae and you can have some. His deep brown eyes dry quickly and twinkle. 'Yes, Ma am, I'd like some ice cream.'
'Your mother doesn't teach you anything at all. Does she?' 'She does so. She's always telling me what to do and what not to do.' 'Then how come she didn't teach you not to go with strangers.' 'She did so teach me that but I am not going anywhere with you. I'm just going to have some of your ice cream, that's all.' 'You are dumb, Kid, I could steal you away and you would never see your mother and father again, not even Billy...but I won't.
She orders 2 chocolate nut sundaes, eats most of hers fast, puts three dollars on the counter, taps the little boy on his shoulder, smiles
and says,
'Goodbye, have a nice day, Little One. I did.'
________________________________________
Feeling the pinch at the grocery store? Make dinner for $10 or less.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
SUGAR TIME
I'm not peeping under the lunch table across from me but can't help noticing two legs wearing medium high heeled shoes, tap tap tapping on the wooden floor. My eyes follow them to a brown wool skirt and the table cloth's hem. Trying to look normal, nonchalant, I am not surprised to see her tan sweater over a brown turtle neck shirt. Her nice proportions make a pretty picture. Her face is blank, expressionless as she impatiently taps the table for her order.
My curiosity piques and I start looking under other tables. Next to the tapper a young lady has crossed her long legs showing a lot of skin above her knees. One high heeled shoe has been kicked off and lays close her. Manly, hairy legs keep her company. It seems he is comfortable in brown sandals. As he lifts his right leg to cross it on his left knee, I can barely see a price tag still on the shoe sole. The ladies unshod foot reaches over and runs up and down the hairy legs. No visible reaction from either do I see.
My attention has to turn to my corned beef sandwich that the waitress had put before me without me seeing her do it. I spread it too heavily with mustard and scrape some off. It is good but the view is better. My fries I over goop with ketchup.
With my sly eye, I sneak a look at the roving leg. It is inside her friend's Bermuda shorts. I know I should look away but can't. This is the best lunch I can remember. I eat. I glance. The male's face remains placid. He too eats his sandwich while the lady sips her tea and watches him. Not real loud, but loud enough for me to hear and semi-see, 'Janet, that was lovely. I enjoyed it.' He pushes his leftovers to the side . 'I wouldn't mind dessert if you'll join me.'
Now I am embarrassed but fascinated. I eat more slowly. Janet kicks off her other shoe, adjusts her skirt that I hadn't noticed was quite flared. She leans back, relaxes, uses her fork to get a few of the cold fries to her plate. The waitress interrupts to offer dessert. 'Yes, I would like something sweet, real sweet. I'll have chocolate chocolate cake with plenty of fudge. Her friend says, 'Ask and it is yours.' They share the dessert. I have stalled too long. The waitress gives me my check and leaves. I do too.
My lunch was worth the price, ten times over. Tonight I will go to sleep with out my sleep pill as I again envision the sweet, real sweet dessert those two had-at least twice.
My curiosity piques and I start looking under other tables. Next to the tapper a young lady has crossed her long legs showing a lot of skin above her knees. One high heeled shoe has been kicked off and lays close her. Manly, hairy legs keep her company. It seems he is comfortable in brown sandals. As he lifts his right leg to cross it on his left knee, I can barely see a price tag still on the shoe sole. The ladies unshod foot reaches over and runs up and down the hairy legs. No visible reaction from either do I see.
My attention has to turn to my corned beef sandwich that the waitress had put before me without me seeing her do it. I spread it too heavily with mustard and scrape some off. It is good but the view is better. My fries I over goop with ketchup.
With my sly eye, I sneak a look at the roving leg. It is inside her friend's Bermuda shorts. I know I should look away but can't. This is the best lunch I can remember. I eat. I glance. The male's face remains placid. He too eats his sandwich while the lady sips her tea and watches him. Not real loud, but loud enough for me to hear and semi-see, 'Janet, that was lovely. I enjoyed it.' He pushes his leftovers to the side . 'I wouldn't mind dessert if you'll join me.'
Now I am embarrassed but fascinated. I eat more slowly. Janet kicks off her other shoe, adjusts her skirt that I hadn't noticed was quite flared. She leans back, relaxes, uses her fork to get a few of the cold fries to her plate. The waitress interrupts to offer dessert. 'Yes, I would like something sweet, real sweet. I'll have chocolate chocolate cake with plenty of fudge. Her friend says, 'Ask and it is yours.' They share the dessert. I have stalled too long. The waitress gives me my check and leaves. I do too.
My lunch was worth the price, ten times over. Tonight I will go to sleep with out my sleep pill as I again envision the sweet, real sweet dessert those two had-at least twice.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
IS THAT RIGHT?
We’re sittin’ around, having breakfast in the Grille on a normal Sunday morning. The ‘Thugs’ as we call ourselves, are sixteen golf buddies who drink a lot of caffeine coffee, laugh and make up the pairings for today’s private tourney. The four time slots are arranged on Saturdaysthroughout the golf season, May 1 thru Sept. 8. Our Grille tables (2 round ones in the corner) are known as The Thugs Table. Invisible words are added- ‘Don’t you dare take these tables.’
This morning a non-thug approaches us. ‘Hey, Guys, have you seen those men along the 3rd and 4th holes?’ Together we shake our heads ‘no.’ ‘Well, I did,’ Donny tells us, ‘and we may be in for trouble. The boss said they are going to offer the club a deal so they can plant mulberry trees along the fence.’ ‘What’s wrong with the trees and flowers we have now?’ Other thugs chime in, ‘Yeah, what’s wrong with what we have?’ ‘’They told me they think they can grow silk worms here. Georgia’s climate is perfect. The club will profit and they will too. They are not kidding.’
‘Holy cow, Guys. This is preposterous. We can’t have workmen growing trees and worms on our course!’ Willie, the Thug president, stands, addresses both tables. ‘I will make an appointment Monday to meet with the Board president and stop this idea from going any further. Leave it to me. Donny go away, we are doing our pairings. Sorry, we have no vacancies.’ He goes away from us but manages to stop at every table to warn our fellow members of what may be happening. Another idiot replaces Donny, stops by to suggest we check this out. The Club can use extra cash so maybe we wont get another assessment this year.
Willie takes our pairings to the pro shop for our time slots. We’re lucky today, start front and back simultaneously, in 30 minutes, or as close to that as possible. In the meantime nobody mentions silk worms. Our Calcutta tourney is only a few weeks away and that is top priority conversation–after we decide what to do about Pakistan and N. Korea. We all agree, one more threat from N. Korea and we nuke them.
The Thugs play golf and have a damn fine time. My foursome comes in on the brown end of the stick. We each put in ten bucks for the two top teams. Win some, lose some. Nobody cares.
The locker room is busy. Tongues are even busier. The rumor of silk worms growing on our fairways has spread like an arsonist’s gasoline fire. Some guys don’t like worms. Sadly I say, some guys don’t like Chinks around. Some don’t want us to become a commercial entity. There are lots of reasons we should not go ahead. Only Donny pushes for further investigation.
Buzz, buzz. There’s a notice on the bulletin board. My team goes to the door together. In all caps. It reads:THE MULBERRY STORY IS AN UNFOUNDED RUMOR. THERE ARE NO MEN ON THE COURSE WHO DO NOT BELONG HERE. THE STARTER OF THIS RUMOR WILL BE CALLED BEFORE THE BOARD WHERE APPROPRIATE ACTION WILL BE TAKEN.
Regretfully, the assessment amount previously announced is insufficient. The increase will appear on your next statement.
This morning a non-thug approaches us. ‘Hey, Guys, have you seen those men along the 3rd and 4th holes?’ Together we shake our heads ‘no.’ ‘Well, I did,’ Donny tells us, ‘and we may be in for trouble. The boss said they are going to offer the club a deal so they can plant mulberry trees along the fence.’ ‘What’s wrong with the trees and flowers we have now?’ Other thugs chime in, ‘Yeah, what’s wrong with what we have?’ ‘’They told me they think they can grow silk worms here. Georgia’s climate is perfect. The club will profit and they will too. They are not kidding.’
‘Holy cow, Guys. This is preposterous. We can’t have workmen growing trees and worms on our course!’ Willie, the Thug president, stands, addresses both tables. ‘I will make an appointment Monday to meet with the Board president and stop this idea from going any further. Leave it to me. Donny go away, we are doing our pairings. Sorry, we have no vacancies.’ He goes away from us but manages to stop at every table to warn our fellow members of what may be happening. Another idiot replaces Donny, stops by to suggest we check this out. The Club can use extra cash so maybe we wont get another assessment this year.
Willie takes our pairings to the pro shop for our time slots. We’re lucky today, start front and back simultaneously, in 30 minutes, or as close to that as possible. In the meantime nobody mentions silk worms. Our Calcutta tourney is only a few weeks away and that is top priority conversation–after we decide what to do about Pakistan and N. Korea. We all agree, one more threat from N. Korea and we nuke them.
The Thugs play golf and have a damn fine time. My foursome comes in on the brown end of the stick. We each put in ten bucks for the two top teams. Win some, lose some. Nobody cares.
The locker room is busy. Tongues are even busier. The rumor of silk worms growing on our fairways has spread like an arsonist’s gasoline fire. Some guys don’t like worms. Sadly I say, some guys don’t like Chinks around. Some don’t want us to become a commercial entity. There are lots of reasons we should not go ahead. Only Donny pushes for further investigation.
Buzz, buzz. There’s a notice on the bulletin board. My team goes to the door together. In all caps. It reads:THE MULBERRY STORY IS AN UNFOUNDED RUMOR. THERE ARE NO MEN ON THE COURSE WHO DO NOT BELONG HERE. THE STARTER OF THIS RUMOR WILL BE CALLED BEFORE THE BOARD WHERE APPROPRIATE ACTION WILL BE TAKEN.
Regretfully, the assessment amount previously announced is insufficient. The increase will appear on your next statement.
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
Maisie goes into her closet, closes the door. A cold draft and a little sunshine peep under the slightly lop-sided door. She takes off hernight gown and lets it fall on the floor, feels for the plastic hangers and lifts the one nearest the wall, just where she put it last night. It holds her dress for school, with her underwear on top so she can put that on first. Opening the door she sees her sister, Daisy, putting her feet into her fuzzy slippers. ‘Again? I’ve asked you a hundred times why you get dressed in the dark closet. Why? If I see you, so what?’ ‘And I have answered a hundred times, I am skinny and have ugly legs and don’t like you seeing me naked!’ ‘Your legs are fine and I would love you even if they were made of wood. Wait for me. The kitchen smells good. Mom is making French toast.’ They go downstairs together.
Dad has already had his orange juice and French toast. His coffee is not quite finished. As he turns toward his daughters, cigarette smoke rings puff out of his mouth. Maisie runs and tries to catch one on her fingers but misses. Dad does it again and Maisie is ready. She gets a big one and rewards Dad with a kiss.
Mother serves her girls each two pieces of steaming hot toast. Maisie moves her plate close to the table edge, picks up her knife and fork but her knife slips out of her hand and falls on the floor with a surprising loud clang. Pointing straight at her sister, she tells her parents it fell because Daisy was watching her. ‘Tell her, Dad, tell her not to watch me all the time.’ ‘She was not watching you. Daisy was looking straight at me Young Lady, and cutting her own toast. Get a clean knife, eat and get ready for school.’
Daisy is in high school and today she has to stand in front of the entire class to give a report on the building of the Panama Canal. Her sister had watched her talking to the mirror until she knew the report well enough to do it without stuttering. In the mirror she sees Maisie smiling, urging her on. ‘Go away. I can’t practice with you watching me all the time. I need privacy.’ All the way to class she tries to gather confidence. It isn’t working. Two other reports are due before hers. John and Michael will surely get A’s. ‘Miss Daisy will now tell us something about the difficulties building the Panama Canal.’ Daisy’s throat suddenly goes dry. Her heart thumps loudly against her chest.She stands at the side of her desk, waits a moment and walks to the front of the room, looks up and sees 5 desks in rows, 40 classmates with their eyes on her. Taking a deep breath, knowing they won’t bite her, she begins. Words magically flow from her lips. The Canal was started in 1904 but workers were plagued with deadly mosquitoes causing malaria and yellow fever. De Lessups could not stop them. 25000 workers died. Gorgas Gangs beat the heat, the mosquitoes, cleaned the area so digging could begin...and then...a tickle in her throat makes her start to cough and cough and cough. Tears fall. Her nose runs. Miss Braddock comes forward and hands her a small packet of Kleenex. ‘Daisy, you are excused. Get a drink of water from the fountain in the hall. Come back when you are ok.’
Daisy covers her mouth and hurries from the room. The fountain doesn’t work. There is another at the other end of the hall. Still hacking, she aims for it. By the time she gets there her legs are weak, her chest aches but she manages to get some water down her throat. As she gains her composure and control, Daisy walks back towards her history room. The change of class bell rings sharply, scaring her half to death. Doors on both sides of the hall open almost in unison. She has to turn left across the swarms to get back to her room, gather her books, her brown bag lunch and pocketbook. Except for those things Miss Braddock has left on her desk, the room is empty.
The last class of the day for Daisy is Art. Easy, fun, no coughing. Her small joy is short-lived . Her mind roils. Tomorrow is tomorrow and I have to do the Panama Canal thing again. Why did I cough? I know my work and am not going to cough tomorrow. I’ll just stand up, speak slowly and clearly, picture my friends wearing blinders and will get through it. This is all my parents’ fault, not mine. and I have the same disease, Shyness.
Before she falls asleep she whispers, ‘Ok, sister, you can dress in your closet and eat any way you like. I’m not going to watch you any more...and don’t you watch me!’
Dad has already had his orange juice and French toast. His coffee is not quite finished. As he turns toward his daughters, cigarette smoke rings puff out of his mouth. Maisie runs and tries to catch one on her fingers but misses. Dad does it again and Maisie is ready. She gets a big one and rewards Dad with a kiss.
Mother serves her girls each two pieces of steaming hot toast. Maisie moves her plate close to the table edge, picks up her knife and fork but her knife slips out of her hand and falls on the floor with a surprising loud clang. Pointing straight at her sister, she tells her parents it fell because Daisy was watching her. ‘Tell her, Dad, tell her not to watch me all the time.’ ‘She was not watching you. Daisy was looking straight at me Young Lady, and cutting her own toast. Get a clean knife, eat and get ready for school.’
Daisy is in high school and today she has to stand in front of the entire class to give a report on the building of the Panama Canal. Her sister had watched her talking to the mirror until she knew the report well enough to do it without stuttering. In the mirror she sees Maisie smiling, urging her on. ‘Go away. I can’t practice with you watching me all the time. I need privacy.’ All the way to class she tries to gather confidence. It isn’t working. Two other reports are due before hers. John and Michael will surely get A’s. ‘Miss Daisy will now tell us something about the difficulties building the Panama Canal.’ Daisy’s throat suddenly goes dry. Her heart thumps loudly against her chest.She stands at the side of her desk, waits a moment and walks to the front of the room, looks up and sees 5 desks in rows, 40 classmates with their eyes on her. Taking a deep breath, knowing they won’t bite her, she begins. Words magically flow from her lips. The Canal was started in 1904 but workers were plagued with deadly mosquitoes causing malaria and yellow fever. De Lessups could not stop them. 25000 workers died. Gorgas Gangs beat the heat, the mosquitoes, cleaned the area so digging could begin...and then...a tickle in her throat makes her start to cough and cough and cough. Tears fall. Her nose runs. Miss Braddock comes forward and hands her a small packet of Kleenex. ‘Daisy, you are excused. Get a drink of water from the fountain in the hall. Come back when you are ok.’
Daisy covers her mouth and hurries from the room. The fountain doesn’t work. There is another at the other end of the hall. Still hacking, she aims for it. By the time she gets there her legs are weak, her chest aches but she manages to get some water down her throat. As she gains her composure and control, Daisy walks back towards her history room. The change of class bell rings sharply, scaring her half to death. Doors on both sides of the hall open almost in unison. She has to turn left across the swarms to get back to her room, gather her books, her brown bag lunch and pocketbook. Except for those things Miss Braddock has left on her desk, the room is empty.
The last class of the day for Daisy is Art. Easy, fun, no coughing. Her small joy is short-lived . Her mind roils. Tomorrow is tomorrow and I have to do the Panama Canal thing again. Why did I cough? I know my work and am not going to cough tomorrow. I’ll just stand up, speak slowly and clearly, picture my friends wearing blinders and will get through it. This is all my parents’ fault, not mine. and I have the same disease, Shyness.
Before she falls asleep she whispers, ‘Ok, sister, you can dress in your closet and eat any way you like. I’m not going to watch you any more...and don’t you watch me!’
Monday, March 23, 2009
UNSATISFIED
‘Mommy, where did I come from?’ Mommy doesn’t look up, just keeps peeling potatoes. I ask her again. ‘Mommy, where did I come from?’ She puts down her peeler, wipes her hands on her apron, pats me on the head and tells me to go next door and play with Charlotte. ‘O.K. Mommy. Are you going to make home fries for dinner? Oh, do, do. Daddy and I love them.’ The screen door bangs and Mommy yells at me because I always let it slam. Charlotte and I play with her dolls and then she takes out her new game of Chutes and Ladders and tries to teach it to me but it is hard on the first try. Her Mommy brings us lemonade and little cups of custard for a snack.
‘Want to come to my house now? We can color. I have a new book and new Crayolas. I have white and gray, too. Char, do you know where I come from? ‘Sure, Janie. You came from heaven. God sent you to your Mommy and Daddy.’ ‘But how did I get here? I can’t fly. ‘ ’Gosh, Janie. I never thought of that. I can’t fly either. Let’s ask my mother.’ We do but Mrs. Granger pays no attention. All she tells us is she is busy and can’t stop what she is doing. All she was doing was sweeping the kitchen floor. She could have told us while she was sweeping.
Char and I hold hands, close the screen door softly and skip next door.
‘Mommy, Charlotte and I are going to my room to color.’ I guess she hears me. We go up and I leave my door open. Mom walks in carrying two of my washed and ironed stiff dresses. ‘Why do you make my dresses so stiff, Mommy? I told you they scratch all the time.’ This question she answers, ‘Because that’s the way I like them. You look extra pretty when you are dressed right.’ ‘But, Mom. They hurt.’ Mom walks out.
‘Here, Charlotte, I have two kinds of red. You can use one. What color do you want for Sleeping Beauty’s gown? I’m going to color Cinderella’s dirty dress grey but I’ll make her hair pretty yellow.
Mom comes back into my room, carrying my clean underwear, sox and pajamas. As she puts them in the drawer, I ask again. ‘Charlotte’s mother told her she came from god and we don’t understand how we got here from heaven. Did we fly?’ ‘Do you kids want to watch T.V. for a while? Shucks, I forgot to get tomatoes at the A & P. I’ll be back fast.’
Char is in the bathroom. ‘Char, Char, Quick come down. Peter Pan is on. That’s my favorite movie. Peter can fly. Maybe if he can fly, we flew too and our wings melted.’ We sit on the floor and sing with Peter, ‘I’m flying. I’m flying. Look at me, can’t you see, I’m flying.’ Mommy laughs at us, goes in the kitchen and comes right out again. ‘Charlotte, your mother told me to tell you to come home soon.’
My friend leaves and I go in to see Mommy again. ‘Mommy, where do I come from? If I flew here from god, what happened to my wings?’
‘Janie, god had whispered to me that you were already on your way to us but he wanted the way you got here to be a secret until you grow up and can understand. Now go put the salt, pepper and napkins on the table. I’ll bring in the china.’
T.V. was still on and Peter was singing, ‘I won’t grow up, no, I won’t grow up. I don’t want to go to school.’
But I DO want to grow up so Mommy can tell me the secret she and god have together. I’ll just have to wait.
#end.
‘Want to come to my house now? We can color. I have a new book and new Crayolas. I have white and gray, too. Char, do you know where I come from? ‘Sure, Janie. You came from heaven. God sent you to your Mommy and Daddy.’ ‘But how did I get here? I can’t fly. ‘ ’Gosh, Janie. I never thought of that. I can’t fly either. Let’s ask my mother.’ We do but Mrs. Granger pays no attention. All she tells us is she is busy and can’t stop what she is doing. All she was doing was sweeping the kitchen floor. She could have told us while she was sweeping.
Char and I hold hands, close the screen door softly and skip next door.
‘Mommy, Charlotte and I are going to my room to color.’ I guess she hears me. We go up and I leave my door open. Mom walks in carrying two of my washed and ironed stiff dresses. ‘Why do you make my dresses so stiff, Mommy? I told you they scratch all the time.’ This question she answers, ‘Because that’s the way I like them. You look extra pretty when you are dressed right.’ ‘But, Mom. They hurt.’ Mom walks out.
‘Here, Charlotte, I have two kinds of red. You can use one. What color do you want for Sleeping Beauty’s gown? I’m going to color Cinderella’s dirty dress grey but I’ll make her hair pretty yellow.
Mom comes back into my room, carrying my clean underwear, sox and pajamas. As she puts them in the drawer, I ask again. ‘Charlotte’s mother told her she came from god and we don’t understand how we got here from heaven. Did we fly?’ ‘Do you kids want to watch T.V. for a while? Shucks, I forgot to get tomatoes at the A & P. I’ll be back fast.’
Char is in the bathroom. ‘Char, Char, Quick come down. Peter Pan is on. That’s my favorite movie. Peter can fly. Maybe if he can fly, we flew too and our wings melted.’ We sit on the floor and sing with Peter, ‘I’m flying. I’m flying. Look at me, can’t you see, I’m flying.’ Mommy laughs at us, goes in the kitchen and comes right out again. ‘Charlotte, your mother told me to tell you to come home soon.’
My friend leaves and I go in to see Mommy again. ‘Mommy, where do I come from? If I flew here from god, what happened to my wings?’
‘Janie, god had whispered to me that you were already on your way to us but he wanted the way you got here to be a secret until you grow up and can understand. Now go put the salt, pepper and napkins on the table. I’ll bring in the china.’
T.V. was still on and Peter was singing, ‘I won’t grow up, no, I won’t grow up. I don’t want to go to school.’
But I DO want to grow up so Mommy can tell me the secret she and god have together. I’ll just have to wait.
#end.
UNSATISFIED
'Mommy, where did I come from?' Mommy doesn't look up, just keeps
peeling potatoes. I ask her again. 'Mommy, where did I come from?' She
puts down her peeler, wipes her hands on her apron, pats me on the head
and tells me to go next door and play with Charlotte. 'O.K. Mommy. Are
you going to make home fries for dinner? Oh, do, do. Daddy and I love
them.' The screen door bangs and Mommy yells at me because I always let
it slam. Charlotte and I play with her dolls and then she takes out her
new game of Chutes and Ladders and tries to teach it to me but it is
hard on the first try. Her Mommy brings us lemonade and little cups of
custard for a snack.
peeling potatoes. I ask her again. 'Mommy, where did I come from?' She
puts down her peeler, wipes her hands on her apron, pats me on the head
and tells me to go next door and play with Charlotte. 'O.K. Mommy. Are
you going to make home fries for dinner? Oh, do, do. Daddy and I love
them.' The screen door bangs and Mommy yells at me because I always let
it slam. Charlotte and I play with her dolls and then she takes out her
new game of Chutes and Ladders and tries to teach it to me but it is
hard on the first try. Her Mommy brings us lemonade and little cups of
custard for a snack.
'Want to come to my house now? We can color. I have a new book and new
Crayolas. I have white and gray, too. Char, do you know where I come
from? 'Sure, Janie. You came from heaven. God sent you to your Mommy and
Daddy.' 'But how did I get here? I can't fly. ' 'Gosh, Janie. I never
thought of that. I can't fly either. Let's ask my mother.' We do but
Mrs. Granger pays no attention. All she tells us is she is busy and
can't stop what she is doing. All she was doing was sweeping the kitchen
floor. She could have told us while she was sweeping.
Char and I hold hands, close the screen door softly and skip next door.
'Mommy, Charlotte and I are going to my room to color.' I guess she
hears me. We go up and I leave my door open. Mom walks in carrying two
of my washed and ironed stiff dresses. 'Why do you make my dresses so
stiff, Mommy? I told you they scratch all the time.' This question she
answers, 'Because that's the way I like them. You look extra pretty when
you are dressed right.' 'But, Mom. They hurt.' Mom walks out.
'Here, Charlotte, I have two kinds of red. You can use one. What color
do you want for Sleeping Beauty's gown? I'm going to color Cinderella's
dirty dress grey but I'll make her hair pretty yellow.
Mom comes back into my room, carrying my clean underwear, sox and
pajamas. As she puts them in the drawer, I ask again. 'Charlotte's
mother told her she came from god and we don't understand how we got
here from heaven. Did we fly?' 'Do you kids want to watch T.V. for a
while? Shucks, I forgot to get tomatoes at the A & P. I'll be back
fast.'
Char is in the bathroom. 'Char, Char, Quick come down. Peter Pan is on.
That's my favorite movie. Peter can fly. Maybe if he can fly, we flew
too and our wings melted.' We sit on the floor and sing with Peter, 'I'm
flying. I'm flying. Look at me, can't you see, I'm flying.' Mommy laughs
at us, goes in the kitchen and comes right out again. 'Charlotte, your
mother told me to tell you to come home soon.'
My friend leaves and I go in to see Mommy again. 'Mommy, where do I come
from? If I flew here from god, what happened to my wings?'
'Janie, god had whispered to me that you were already on your way to us
but he wanted the way you got here to be a secret until you grow up and
can understand. Now go put the salt, pepper and napkins on the table.
I'll bring in the china.'
T.V. was still on and Peter was singing, 'I won't grow up, no, I won't
grow up. I don't want to go to school.'
But I DO want to grow up so Mommy can tell me the secret she and god
have together. I'll just have to wait.
UNSATISFIED
'Mommy, where did I come from?' Mommy doesn't look up, just keeps
peeling potatoes. I ask her again. 'Mommy, where did I come from?' She
puts down her peeler, wipes her hands on her apron, pats me on the head
and tells me to go next door and play with Charlotte. 'O.K. Mommy. Are
you going to make home fries for dinner? Oh, do, do. Daddy and I love
them.' The screen door bangs and Mommy yells at me because I always let
it slam. Charlotte and I play with her dolls and then she takes out her
new game of Chutes and Ladders and tries to teach it to me but it is
hard on the first try. Her Mommy brings us lemonade and little cups of
custard for a snack.
peeling potatoes. I ask her again. 'Mommy, where did I come from?' She
puts down her peeler, wipes her hands on her apron, pats me on the head
and tells me to go next door and play with Charlotte. 'O.K. Mommy. Are
you going to make home fries for dinner? Oh, do, do. Daddy and I love
them.' The screen door bangs and Mommy yells at me because I always let
it slam. Charlotte and I play with her dolls and then she takes out her
new game of Chutes and Ladders and tries to teach it to me but it is
hard on the first try. Her Mommy brings us lemonade and little cups of
custard for a snack.
'Want to come to my house now? We can color. I have a new book and new
Crayolas. I have white and gray, too. Char, do you know where I come
from? 'Sure, Janie. You came from heaven. God sent you to your Mommy and
Daddy.' 'But how did I get here? I can't fly. ' 'Gosh, Janie. I never
thought of that. I can't fly either. Let's ask my mother.' We do but
Mrs. Granger pays no attention. All she tells us is she is busy and
can't stop what she is doing. All she was doing was sweeping the kitchen
floor. She could have told us while she was sweeping.
Char and I hold hands, close the screen door softly and skip next door.
'Mommy, Charlotte and I are going to my room to color.' I guess she
hears me. We go up and I leave my door open. Mom walks in carrying two
of my washed and ironed stiff dresses. 'Why do you make my dresses so
stiff, Mommy? I told you they scratch all the time.' This question she
answers, 'Because that's the way I like them. You look extra pretty when
you are dressed right.' 'But, Mom. They hurt.' Mom walks out.
'Here, Charlotte, I have two kinds of red. You can use one. What color
do you want for Sleeping Beauty's gown? I'm going to color Cinderella's
dirty dress grey but I'll make her hair pretty yellow.
Mom comes back into my room, carrying my clean underwear, sox and
pajamas. As she puts them in the drawer, I ask again. 'Charlotte's
mother told her she came from god and we don't understand how we got
here from heaven. Did we fly?' 'Do you kids want to watch T.V. for a
while? Shucks, I forgot to get tomatoes at the A & P. I'll be back
fast.'
Char is in the bathroom. 'Char, Char, Quick come down. Peter Pan is on.
That's my favorite movie. Peter can fly. Maybe if he can fly, we flew
too and our wings melted.' We sit on the floor and sing with Peter, 'I'm
flying. I'm flying. Look at me, can't you see, I'm flying.' Mommy laughs
at us, goes in the kitchen and comes right out again. 'Charlotte, your
mother told me to tell you to come home soon.'
My friend leaves and I go in to see Mommy again. 'Mommy, where do I come
from? If I flew here from god, what happened to my wings?'
'Janie, god had whispered to me that you were already on your way to us
but he wanted the way you got here to be a secret until you grow up and
can understand. Now go put the salt, pepper and napkins on the table.
I'll bring in the china.'
T.V. was still on and Peter was singing, 'I won't grow up, no, I won't
grow up. I don't want to go to school.'
But I DO want to grow up so Mommy can tell me the secret she and god
have together. I'll just have to wait.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
A HOLE IN THE HEAD
Ben was frantic. Just a minute ago he was flying high. His great morning with his three best buddies culminated with hole in one on the 3rd, a birdie on the ninth and an eagle on 16, best lowest total ever, sixty eight. The group, partially thanks to Ben, set their own record of 3 hours of play on a Sunday. Jubilation all around. Pridefully, he accepted the $15 donation from each of his friends for lowest score. That money would disappear ten times over when he had to sign checks for drinks because of his first ever hole in one. Immaterial.
After lunch they'd play Gin, laugh, recall many memories, but the guys all were going to shower and dress first. Ben opened his locker with his personal private number, ready to put his worn clothes away and that was when the day changed into a nightmare. The first thing that hit him in the eye and made him gasp was his hair piece, always, always on a styrofoam head on the top shelf was missing. The styrofoam was there but no hair piece. The h.p. was gone!. He thought, who could have opened my lock? Why take my h.p.? Ben always left it in his locker because golf sweat would make a mess of it.
'Jerry, Bill, Sid!', he ran around the locker room, asking every naked man, every golfer getting ready to go to the pro shop, 'Have you
been to my locker today?' His friends looked at him as if he were crazy. Maybe he was. He returned to his locker and took out every item, razor, after shave, lotion, deodorant, clean underwear, a rain golf jacket and an old magazine. Empty- no h.p. He put everything back except the magazine and even that he shook out and trashed.
The pats on his back, congrats on his ace, were acknowledged with only a nod. All of his happy excitement was gone. 'Come on, Buddy. Calm down. It'll show up. It didn't walk away. Let's play cards, have a few beers, eat some cashews.' 'Leave me alone guys. I am naked without my piece. I can't go into work tomorrow. Nobody in the office knows I'm almost bald!' His friends kept mum, never telling him how obvious it was this his camouflage was unnatural.
'I'm going home, Guys. I'm too upset to play. Harvey will be in soon and will be happy to replace me. Just be sure he knows it is just for this one time. OK? I'll be here next week, maybe with a new piece.'
Ben's car was brought to the club's entrance but he was oblivious. The valet had to honk the horn. The five minute ride home seemed to take forever. As soon as he unlocked the front door, his wife, Joanie, asked, 'What are you doing back so early? You look awful. Are you sick?' Ben said, 'I sure am. Somebody got into my locker and stole my hair piece. Maybe he thinks that is funny, but I don't.' He plopped down into his favorite lounger but it felt like stone. Conversation died. He didn't even mention his ace. 'Joanie, did you hear what I said? Somebody stole my h.p. I can't go to work looking like this. What can I do?' Joanie doesn't answer. 'Where the devil are you, Woman?' She came down the stairs, walked to him and kissed him on his bald head and from behind her back she handed him his treasure, his necessity, his hair piece. 'Ben, you left it on the mannequin head in your bathroom but I didn't find it until you were way out on the course. You didn't need it and couldn't be reached. What's the big deal? You have it now!'
'Ben, next time you look in the mirror, take a really good look. You look much better au natural than with that mouse on your head. Haven't you noticed, Bald is Beautiful. It's in!' And he did look and did suddenly see himself as having looked foolish. He more or less hid the piece in a bureau drawer under some towels. It was like burying a former friend.
He called downstairs, 'Hey, Joanie, Guess what! I had a hole in one today and a birdie, won $45. Wish you could have been with me!'
Friday, March 20, 2009
Proof
‘I can walk., I can walk. I will walk.’ No matter how many times I recite my mantra, I have doubts it will work.
I turn over, sit up in bed and slide over to the edge, swing my legs to the chilly floor. My slippers aren’t there. Something is wrong. My feet won’t move. It feels like I am frozen to the floor, like I have turned into a marble statue. When I bend a little, I can touch my knee, see my hand on it but can’t feel anything. ‘Mom! Help! Quick!’ In a flash she has taken two steps at a time and opens my door. ‘Mom my legs won’t move. They don’t hurt, don’t burn. Help me. Help me.’
‘Mort, come in Lee’s room, fast.’ ‘What’s wrong? Where’s the fire?’ Dad forces my knees to bend but I cannot take a step. He helps me sit down on the bed, my legs look like broomsticks. We are all terribly frightened, worried. Dad takes charge and gives orders. ‘Bess, I’m calling Dr. Thompson to send an ambulance here for Jayson, PDQ, and to meet us at Forest Glen Hospital. You go in the ambulance with Jay. I’ll drive there and meet you in the lobby.’
Mother leaves me in my p.j.s but brings me a warm button front coat sweater and carefully puts sox on my feet. She sits near the window, tries to make conversation but nothing makes sense. Dr. Thompson worked fast. The ambulance siren turns off as the car stops in front of our house. Mom reaches the door at the same moment as the medics do. In short, clipped sentences she advices the medics, ‘Upstairs. His name is Jay. He can’t walk. I’m going with you.’ At 135 pounds I’m not a big burden to carry down the stairs. The turn is a little tight but I don’t fall off. Mom asks me if she locked the kitchen door, turned off the gas range. ‘I don’t know. Try to calm down. Go check.’
As the men gently lift me into the ambulance, I see several curious neighbors gathering on the sidewalk and wave. At least they will know who’s in trouble and I am not dead. The siren wails. For the 3 mile drive, the 2 medics regale Mom and me with jokes. I laugh politely without having paid attention to any.
Inside Forest Glen Mom has to answer insurance questions, give my ID info while I am being whisked onto the elevator and into a brightly lit diagnostic room. Dr. Thompson, in his white coat with his name embroidered in red on the pocket, is with me before I can catch my breath. I tell him all I know and show him the solidity of my legs. He asks many questions, gives no answers. Mom and Dad are kept waiting inthe hall. Another doctor, Dr. Clinton, comes in for a quick conference on the situation. It is easy to see they have no idea at all of what is wrong with me. Sitting on the side of the cold, uncomfortable examining table, I keep silently reciting my mantra, ‘I can walk, I can walk. I will walk,’ Doubts rumble like storm clouds thru my mind.
‘Pee in here. Lie down, Jay.’ Blood is removed from my too many places to mention. There is much probing, feeling. I need a break. Instead I am wheeled down the hall and put on the elevator. Several visitors have to move to the side to let me get on. I have a lengthy CAT Scan. Tomorrow my intake will be restricted as dye will be put in my arm for the MRI and the next day, more dye, for a brain scan. Even with the insurance, I worry about the cost to my parents of all these tests, the private room.
I seem to be the healthiest sick person in this hospital. Two weeks pass slowly. Mom slept in my room the entire first week and Dad the second week. I take charge and insist they come visit for an hour or two during the late afternoon. I have physical therapy most of the day.That doesn’t do any good but I go, always hoping they will see some improvement, no matter how small. They don’t.
By week four Dr. Thompson tells Dad he is releasing me the next weekend. They have found no reasons, no cause. All they do know is what my trouble is not. ‘Take him home, Mort. I’ll stop by, check on him and you can call me 24/7 if you see the slightest change, one way or the other.’ Why did he give Dad that disillusioning instruction in front of me? All of the doctors, tests, fear and I am still a bedridden prisoner.
My first Saturday home Dad brings a stranger to my room, and leaves us alone. The man is clean, wears a tan belted robe and floppy sandals. His long white hair and beard are a perfect picture of what a guru probably looks like. I’ve lost ten pounds and must make him think of Ghandi. Cross-legged he relaxes on the wooden floor, lowers his head and softly begins his ohms chant. This is silly. I scoff. He bows to me and leaves. Three nights in a row he sits in my room and exudes some kind of peace. There seems to be a little glow around him which starts me silently reciting my mantra again. He rises, leans close to my ear and says, ‘I can walk. I can walk. I will walk,’ the exact words I think over and over but have never said aloud, until now when we say them together. The guru leaves and never returns.
The therapist arrives as usual at 9 a.m., helps me stand, still like the statue I became months ago. Jimmy looks down and yells, ‘You moved a toe. Can you do it again?’ It moves easily. All of the toes on my left foot wiggle. ‘Mom, Mom, come quick!’ By the time she is at my bed all ten toes can move. The therapist makes me sit down, rest, not overdo myself. We are so excited we jabber like kids recess time. I fall silent, concentrate, ‘I can walk, I can walk. I will walk.’ My order to my leg, Step forward,’ is obeyed. It is slow but I am moving. Mom grabs my cell phone from the bedside and calls Dad. She has to repeat the story 3 times. Dad doesn’t believe her.’ Then she calls Dr. Thompson and leaves a message. ‘Mort will give you the name of the guru who did for Jay what you and your staff could not do. Jay walked today. He was Jay’s savior.’
And I believe she is right. Somehow my correct thinking, with Buddha’s help, my soul must have reached Nirvana that made my body pain and sorrow fly away. Thank you, Mr. Guru, wherever you are.
I turn over, sit up in bed and slide over to the edge, swing my legs to the chilly floor. My slippers aren’t there. Something is wrong. My feet won’t move. It feels like I am frozen to the floor, like I have turned into a marble statue. When I bend a little, I can touch my knee, see my hand on it but can’t feel anything. ‘Mom! Help! Quick!’ In a flash she has taken two steps at a time and opens my door. ‘Mom my legs won’t move. They don’t hurt, don’t burn. Help me. Help me.’
‘Mort, come in Lee’s room, fast.’ ‘What’s wrong? Where’s the fire?’ Dad forces my knees to bend but I cannot take a step. He helps me sit down on the bed, my legs look like broomsticks. We are all terribly frightened, worried. Dad takes charge and gives orders. ‘Bess, I’m calling Dr. Thompson to send an ambulance here for Jayson, PDQ, and to meet us at Forest Glen Hospital. You go in the ambulance with Jay. I’ll drive there and meet you in the lobby.’
Mother leaves me in my p.j.s but brings me a warm button front coat sweater and carefully puts sox on my feet. She sits near the window, tries to make conversation but nothing makes sense. Dr. Thompson worked fast. The ambulance siren turns off as the car stops in front of our house. Mom reaches the door at the same moment as the medics do. In short, clipped sentences she advices the medics, ‘Upstairs. His name is Jay. He can’t walk. I’m going with you.’ At 135 pounds I’m not a big burden to carry down the stairs. The turn is a little tight but I don’t fall off. Mom asks me if she locked the kitchen door, turned off the gas range. ‘I don’t know. Try to calm down. Go check.’
As the men gently lift me into the ambulance, I see several curious neighbors gathering on the sidewalk and wave. At least they will know who’s in trouble and I am not dead. The siren wails. For the 3 mile drive, the 2 medics regale Mom and me with jokes. I laugh politely without having paid attention to any.
Inside Forest Glen Mom has to answer insurance questions, give my ID info while I am being whisked onto the elevator and into a brightly lit diagnostic room. Dr. Thompson, in his white coat with his name embroidered in red on the pocket, is with me before I can catch my breath. I tell him all I know and show him the solidity of my legs. He asks many questions, gives no answers. Mom and Dad are kept waiting inthe hall. Another doctor, Dr. Clinton, comes in for a quick conference on the situation. It is easy to see they have no idea at all of what is wrong with me. Sitting on the side of the cold, uncomfortable examining table, I keep silently reciting my mantra, ‘I can walk, I can walk. I will walk,’ Doubts rumble like storm clouds thru my mind.
‘Pee in here. Lie down, Jay.’ Blood is removed from my too many places to mention. There is much probing, feeling. I need a break. Instead I am wheeled down the hall and put on the elevator. Several visitors have to move to the side to let me get on. I have a lengthy CAT Scan. Tomorrow my intake will be restricted as dye will be put in my arm for the MRI and the next day, more dye, for a brain scan. Even with the insurance, I worry about the cost to my parents of all these tests, the private room.
I seem to be the healthiest sick person in this hospital. Two weeks pass slowly. Mom slept in my room the entire first week and Dad the second week. I take charge and insist they come visit for an hour or two during the late afternoon. I have physical therapy most of the day.That doesn’t do any good but I go, always hoping they will see some improvement, no matter how small. They don’t.
By week four Dr. Thompson tells Dad he is releasing me the next weekend. They have found no reasons, no cause. All they do know is what my trouble is not. ‘Take him home, Mort. I’ll stop by, check on him and you can call me 24/7 if you see the slightest change, one way or the other.’ Why did he give Dad that disillusioning instruction in front of me? All of the doctors, tests, fear and I am still a bedridden prisoner.
My first Saturday home Dad brings a stranger to my room, and leaves us alone. The man is clean, wears a tan belted robe and floppy sandals. His long white hair and beard are a perfect picture of what a guru probably looks like. I’ve lost ten pounds and must make him think of Ghandi. Cross-legged he relaxes on the wooden floor, lowers his head and softly begins his ohms chant. This is silly. I scoff. He bows to me and leaves. Three nights in a row he sits in my room and exudes some kind of peace. There seems to be a little glow around him which starts me silently reciting my mantra again. He rises, leans close to my ear and says, ‘I can walk. I can walk. I will walk,’ the exact words I think over and over but have never said aloud, until now when we say them together. The guru leaves and never returns.
The therapist arrives as usual at 9 a.m., helps me stand, still like the statue I became months ago. Jimmy looks down and yells, ‘You moved a toe. Can you do it again?’ It moves easily. All of the toes on my left foot wiggle. ‘Mom, Mom, come quick!’ By the time she is at my bed all ten toes can move. The therapist makes me sit down, rest, not overdo myself. We are so excited we jabber like kids recess time. I fall silent, concentrate, ‘I can walk, I can walk. I will walk.’ My order to my leg, Step forward,’ is obeyed. It is slow but I am moving. Mom grabs my cell phone from the bedside and calls Dad. She has to repeat the story 3 times. Dad doesn’t believe her.’ Then she calls Dr. Thompson and leaves a message. ‘Mort will give you the name of the guru who did for Jay what you and your staff could not do. Jay walked today. He was Jay’s savior.’
And I believe she is right. Somehow my correct thinking, with Buddha’s help, my soul must have reached Nirvana that made my body pain and sorrow fly away. Thank you, Mr. Guru, wherever you are.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
TAKE YOUR CHOICE
An ungodly noise wakes me from a deep sleep. My sweet, loving dream evaporates in a second. I blink. The sun is barely up. The clock shows 6:30. Oh, that noise has to be Mrs. Harmon rolling her well-used black barbecue into the storage area next to the garage. Mr. Harmon will soon dis-assemble the picnic bench and table and stow that too. Another summer gone and the old lady got me again. Her back yard is almost ready for fall and the winter snows. I have yet to buy the yellow/orange tulip bulbs I have to bury around the mimosa tree. They will be the harbinger of spring. The garden shop opens at 8. Tomorrow I’ll get the bulbs or maybe- Wednesday.
The unborn dry tan/gray tulips have been on a kitchen chair for a week. Procrastination has always been my middle name. Today I will do the job. Garden gloves, kneepads, a small spade, and those babies will have a long nap.
It’s just about Florida time. Like the sparrows that fly back to Capistrano, we fly to Boynton Beach for the winter. Mixed feeling spread into the marrow of my bones. Falling gold and red leaves, branches overladen with ice and snow, logs sputtering in the fireplace have to go into hiding until we return.
Robert and I left our closets full the last time we headed north but we still pack a large suitcase with new items we got on end of season sales. We are ready. Tomorrow Chuck will put our golf bags and suitcase in our car, drive us to the airport, and proceed to drive our car all the way to Boynton Highlands. I laugh at that name. There are no highlands in Florida. This area is so level that a fire ant hill can be seen from across the street.
Why do I complain? This, according to Robert, is the best of two worlds. We have Northern and Southern friends, good weather, quiet and fun time. ‘Robert, I don’t like this nomad, gypsy life anymore. ‘Liz, let up already. Relax.’ I can’t. I go to sleep envisioning the tulips, the lilacs that are absent here and miss them. Up north, I think about the gorgeous colors of the hibiscus, the brilliant red bottle brush trees. I miss them. For ten years Robert and I have been living double lives and I am now ready to settle in one place. Which one should I push? The slightest mention of a change and we go at it, argue until we don’t talk for days.
I think I am going into a depression, one my husband will deny I am in. There has to be more than golf, luncheons, packing, unpacking. I watch the papers to do volunteer work and try a few that don’t fill the bill for me and then I spot an ad. Robert and I are having a light supper before Tues. Bridge night. ‘Look, Hon, look at this, a creative writing class starts Nov. 10. I think I would like to try it. What do you say?’ Carefully he thinks it over, shrugs, ‘Why not?’
And so I enroll and am intoxicated. My pen moves all the time except when I am emailing my stories to friends up north. Today I will be writing about the beauty of the yellow/orange tulips peeping thru the soil that we will enjoy seeing together in spring. I’ll surely also write about the long legged white egrets finding breakfast in the lake behind our apartment.
And most of all, I’ll tell them I am well, happy and can’t wait to be back up north.
The unborn dry tan/gray tulips have been on a kitchen chair for a week. Procrastination has always been my middle name. Today I will do the job. Garden gloves, kneepads, a small spade, and those babies will have a long nap.
It’s just about Florida time. Like the sparrows that fly back to Capistrano, we fly to Boynton Beach for the winter. Mixed feeling spread into the marrow of my bones. Falling gold and red leaves, branches overladen with ice and snow, logs sputtering in the fireplace have to go into hiding until we return.
Robert and I left our closets full the last time we headed north but we still pack a large suitcase with new items we got on end of season sales. We are ready. Tomorrow Chuck will put our golf bags and suitcase in our car, drive us to the airport, and proceed to drive our car all the way to Boynton Highlands. I laugh at that name. There are no highlands in Florida. This area is so level that a fire ant hill can be seen from across the street.
Why do I complain? This, according to Robert, is the best of two worlds. We have Northern and Southern friends, good weather, quiet and fun time. ‘Robert, I don’t like this nomad, gypsy life anymore. ‘Liz, let up already. Relax.’ I can’t. I go to sleep envisioning the tulips, the lilacs that are absent here and miss them. Up north, I think about the gorgeous colors of the hibiscus, the brilliant red bottle brush trees. I miss them. For ten years Robert and I have been living double lives and I am now ready to settle in one place. Which one should I push? The slightest mention of a change and we go at it, argue until we don’t talk for days.
I think I am going into a depression, one my husband will deny I am in. There has to be more than golf, luncheons, packing, unpacking. I watch the papers to do volunteer work and try a few that don’t fill the bill for me and then I spot an ad. Robert and I are having a light supper before Tues. Bridge night. ‘Look, Hon, look at this, a creative writing class starts Nov. 10. I think I would like to try it. What do you say?’ Carefully he thinks it over, shrugs, ‘Why not?’
And so I enroll and am intoxicated. My pen moves all the time except when I am emailing my stories to friends up north. Today I will be writing about the beauty of the yellow/orange tulips peeping thru the soil that we will enjoy seeing together in spring. I’ll surely also write about the long legged white egrets finding breakfast in the lake behind our apartment.
And most of all, I’ll tell them I am well, happy and can’t wait to be back up north.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
If I make it, I make it
ANOTHER YEAR
It’s 6:30 A.M. The sky still holds the sun prisoner. A few cars, mine included, wait a minute and a half at a red light with seeing not even one car transecting the main road. I tap the steering wheel, sing along with Old Blue Eyes, while the wait grows whiskers. The lead car moves. I and four others follow. A few more early birds step on the gas to make the light with us. Four blocks later a yellow light slows me just as I start a left turn. A quick glance both ways and I go for it, complete my turn, and there he is, a cop. I hold my breath and am surprised, delighted, he drives past me without even giving me a dirty look.
As I turn into my destination, I switch off the headlights. Only one other car, parked at the entrance to the building, is on the lot. Keeping my doors locked, I wait for company before getting out. A dark blue car pulls in and a fat lady wearing flip flops gets out. She struts thru the automatic glass doors as they slide open, with me right behind her. We take the elevator to the second floor together and go in the only lit room.
Two women are behind their desks, stapling papers, not noticing our arrival. The fat lady walks boldly to the desk, taps on it and loudly says, ‘I’m Sheila Blair. I have a 7:15 appointment. Should I go back?’ The curt reply is, ‘Sit down over there. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’ Not to be outdone, I approach the other woman. ‘Excuse me. I’m Sally Bardoff and I have a 7:15 appointment too.’ ‘Sit down. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’ Nasty bitch! Before my rear touches the hard cane chair, fat Sheila and I are called to sign papers and have a wide ID tape put on our wrists. We sit down again.
In that short interval eight more women enter, short, tall, black, Haitian, a motley group. Magazines rattle. Tongues wag. By now I call the fat lady Sheila and we have a mutual friend or two. ‘Let’s go,’ I tell her. ‘Our names were just called.’ We are led to a room full of empty chairs, medical magazines and a dark t.v. with no clicker. ‘This way Ladies.’ Sheila and I are put in separate small cubicles, that have lockers, and are told to put our purses, valuables inside and take the key with us. There is a hook for our blouses and bras, plus a stack of blue flowered paper cover ups are on a chair. ‘The opening goes in the back and the tie comes all around. Put yours on and come back out, take a seat. Someone will call you soon.’ Like Siamese twins Sheila and I emerge together, our cover-ups not covering either of us adequately. I wish I had not put my sweater in the locker. Sheila reads last month’s Time Magazine and I have my writing book and pen ready to observe, write.
The room fills rapidly. There is no question, every one is nervous, anxious to get this done, get the devil out of there. After I had been called in, a third lady follows right on my heels. She looks like she won’t make it thru today’s test. Her skin is sallow, her right upper arm very swollen. Bad signs and she knows it.
‘Ms. Bardoff?’ I’m called. A young girl who could be my granddaughter tells me to put my eyeglasses on the chair and come over near her. While I don’t recall the order of the instructions I’ve obeyed many times, I simply do as told. There is no modesty, no way to hold the paper gown over myself. In a friendly, almost nonchalant tone, the sergeant says, ‘Face front. Put your hand on the pole. Move up closer. Turn your head to the left.’ I wince as my right breast is lifted , squeezed onto a cold plate. No man has ever squeezed me like this before. I’d have beat his brains out if he had. The tech moves my breast around, pushes, pulls, clamps it as flat as a walked on worm. ‘Hold your breath!’ There is a fast buzz and I and my breast come back to reality. ‘That hurt, I exclaim to the air. The reverse process begins. I have a left pancake to match my right one. I keep my mouth shut except to inhale deeply for my intern al photo.
Done. I put the blue paper cover up on and sit again in the cold waiting area. This time I wait for an okay and the wonderful words, ‘You’re clear. We’ll contact your doctor.’
Fifteen semi-nervous minutes seem like thirty but I have my writing book and much to say. One patient in, one patient out. It doesn’t stop all day from 7:15 until five, five days a week, year after year in just this one lab. The waiting room is not comfortable, too cool. ‘Bardoff?’‘Here I am.’ The tech says wait. I waited to hear. ‘You are fine. Get dressed. Take this form to the desk on your right as you go out.’ I look around and am glad Sheila is gone. As I walk out, I hear muffled cries, soft conversation, a nose blowing. A tech pulls back a green curtain, puts her arms around Patient #3 and leads her out a rear door. The patient knew before being told what the result would be.
My emotions split into black snowflakes. I’m a winner. #3 has already been named Loser. I will be making an appointment for next year and #3 will not be here when I come.
And next year the office won’t have to send me a reminder card or call me the day before to be there at 7:00. I will be there earlier, perhaps see Sheila again.
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It’s 6:30 A.M. The sky still holds the sun prisoner. A few cars, mine included, wait a minute and a half at a red light with seeing not even one car transecting the main road. I tap the steering wheel, sing along with Old Blue Eyes, while the wait grows whiskers. The lead car moves. I and four others follow. A few more early birds step on the gas to make the light with us. Four blocks later a yellow light slows me just as I start a left turn. A quick glance both ways and I go for it, complete my turn, and there he is, a cop. I hold my breath and am surprised, delighted, he drives past me without even giving me a dirty look.
As I turn into my destination, I switch off the headlights. Only one other car, parked at the entrance to the building, is on the lot. Keeping my doors locked, I wait for company before getting out. A dark blue car pulls in and a fat lady wearing flip flops gets out. She struts thru the automatic glass doors as they slide open, with me right behind her. We take the elevator to the second floor together and go in the only lit room.
Two women are behind their desks, stapling papers, not noticing our arrival. The fat lady walks boldly to the desk, taps on it and loudly says, ‘I’m Sheila Blair. I have a 7:15 appointment. Should I go back?’ The curt reply is, ‘Sit down over there. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’ Not to be outdone, I approach the other woman. ‘Excuse me. I’m Sally Bardoff and I have a 7:15 appointment too.’ ‘Sit down. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’ Nasty bitch! Before my rear touches the hard cane chair, fat Sheila and I are called to sign papers and have a wide ID tape put on our wrists. We sit down again.
In that short interval eight more women enter, short, tall, black, Haitian, a motley group. Magazines rattle. Tongues wag. By now I call the fat lady Sheila and we have a mutual friend or two. ‘Let’s go,’ I tell her. ‘Our names were just called.’ We are led to a room full of empty chairs, medical magazines and a dark t.v. with no clicker. ‘This way Ladies.’ Sheila and I are put in separate small cubicles, that have lockers, and are told to put our purses, valuables inside and take the key with us. There is a hook for our blouses and bras, plus a stack of blue flowered paper cover ups are on a chair. ‘The opening goes in the back and the tie comes all around. Put yours on and come back out, take a seat. Someone will call you soon.’ Like Siamese twins Sheila and I emerge together, our cover-ups not covering either of us adequately. I wish I had not put my sweater in the locker. Sheila reads last month’s Time Magazine and I have my writing book and pen ready to observe, write.
The room fills rapidly. There is no question, every one is nervous, anxious to get this done, get the devil out of there. After I had been called in, a third lady follows right on my heels. She looks like she won’t make it thru today’s test. Her skin is sallow, her right upper arm very swollen. Bad signs and she knows it.
‘Ms. Bardoff?’ I’m called. A young girl who could be my granddaughter tells me to put my eyeglasses on the chair and come over near her. While I don’t recall the order of the instructions I’ve obeyed many times, I simply do as told. There is no modesty, no way to hold the paper gown over myself. In a friendly, almost nonchalant tone, the sergeant says, ‘Face front. Put your hand on the pole. Move up closer. Turn your head to the left.’ I wince as my right breast is lifted , squeezed onto a cold plate. No man has ever squeezed me like this before. I’d have beat his brains out if he had. The tech moves my breast around, pushes, pulls, clamps it as flat as a walked on worm. ‘Hold your breath!’ There is a fast buzz and I and my breast come back to reality. ‘That hurt, I exclaim to the air. The reverse process begins. I have a left pancake to match my right one. I keep my mouth shut except to inhale deeply for my intern al photo.
Done. I put the blue paper cover up on and sit again in the cold waiting area. This time I wait for an okay and the wonderful words, ‘You’re clear. We’ll contact your doctor.’
Fifteen semi-nervous minutes seem like thirty but I have my writing book and much to say. One patient in, one patient out. It doesn’t stop all day from 7:15 until five, five days a week, year after year in just this one lab. The waiting room is not comfortable, too cool. ‘Bardoff?’‘Here I am.’ The tech says wait. I waited to hear. ‘You are fine. Get dressed. Take this form to the desk on your right as you go out.’ I look around and am glad Sheila is gone. As I walk out, I hear muffled cries, soft conversation, a nose blowing. A tech pulls back a green curtain, puts her arms around Patient #3 and leads her out a rear door. The patient knew before being told what the result would be.
My emotions split into black snowflakes. I’m a winner. #3 has already been named Loser. I will be making an appointment for next year and #3 will not be here when I come.
And next year the office won’t have to send me a reminder card or call me the day before to be there at 7:00. I will be there earlier, perhaps see Sheila again.
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Stars Even Fell on Alabama
FALLING STARS
WHEW! I can’t believe anything can feel this good. My shoes lie helter skelter where I kicked them as soon as I got home. My legs, effortlessly rose and spread eagled on the sofa. This old stand-by sofa has seen a lot of days and nights. Tonight somebody in heaven pitied me and plucked the down from angel wings so I don’t feel the lumps at all.
That same blue heaven suddenly becomes hell! ‘Mom, Mom, quick, bring me a Quinine pill. It’s in the middle of the middle shelf in my medicine cabinet. Hurry. My legs and toes hurt so much I can’t stand.’ Writhing, massaging, twisting, turning, do no good. I mutter, help, this is the worst. The pill and a glass of water are put in my shaky hand. I push my back against the arm of the chair and manage to sit up, swallow the whole big pill without choking. It takes almost ten minutes, minutes that leave me sprawled on a Medieval torture rack, before the Charley Horses are gone as suddenly as they had come.
Our government has decreed that Quinine, a non-addictive, non-sleep producing drug, is no longer available. It has been the only salvation for victims of malaria and people such as I who get severe cramps in our legs, arms, even backs, with no idea of when they will strike. I don’t know what is going to happen to me when the last pill that is now in my cabinet is swallowed. Neither my internist nor pharmacist has an answer.
Peace, comfort, the soft cushions ease the distress. I hear Mom tiptoe to my side, feel the puffy comforter cover my body. She tucks the end around my feet and leaves me to recuperate before I go upstairs.
It is morning. The sun is bright enough for me to know I’d better get up, dress and be at the studio practice room by 10. It is 8:45. Hopefully, traffic will move smoothly, no accidents, not too many long red lights. Stan, the handsome, strong dancing teacher and Danny, my equally handsome, strong partner are chatting, having coffee when I arrive. I get a quick hug from each, no coffee. ‘Let’s get to it, Kids! We’ll start with the knee drop. That needs a lot of work.’ Stan starts the tape at high volume. I wait for my cue, step left, twirl twice, arms high, I almost fly to Danny. He too has twirled twice, coming towards me. He drops to his knees, slides and catches me, sits me on his left knee and lifts me over his head. Something goes wrong and we both fall on the floor. ‘Again. Do it again, Judy. Your arms were too high. Set your eyes on where Danny is going to be, not where he is. Do it!’ Twice more we fall. Tries 4,5,6 and we have it right. Stan is pleased.
‘OK, next step. Danny, do the tango leg stretch, 4 steps only. Stop suddenly. Judy, take long seductive steps towards him. Get close, but don’t touch. Face him. Bend over from the waist, legs taut, touch the floor with your fingertips. Danny, put your hands tightly on her waist. Now slowly try to lift her into a cartwheel over your head. I’ll be at that position to tell you what to do next.‘ We try it without music and fail miserably. An hour, a tough hour, later we almost have it.
Lunch break is more than welcome. Danny is as pooped as I am. Stan isn’t at all tired. In my next life, I’ll be the teacher. Our ½ hour lunch is unanimously extended to a full hour. Danny and I are not professional dancers but love dancing and do it well when not given routines. We were both surprised to be tapped by Dancing With the Stars. Dancing becomes secondary, learning acrobatics is first priority.
Busy, aching days disappear. Costumes are designed, made, fitted. Our routine is as good as it is going to get. I am sore, knocked out every evening as I drive home, anticipating the soft feathers under my back, but never find them. I ache all over, have bruises that are going to have goop put on them so the audience won’t notice them. Danny and I have talked about our experience and have little confidence that we stand any chance at all of winning but will give our performance all that we can. Separate dressing rooms hold our costumes, labeled on pipes. Accessories are near our make-up chairs. A buzzer sounds. Stan comes twinkling in, ‘Show time!’
Mom is beside me. She shakes me gently. ‘Judy, time to go to work. Your groaning half the night had me worried so I didn’t wake you to come to bed. Those tennis lessons you take are a strain. The Charley horses last night should warn you to stop. They must have given you those bad dreams.
Get dressed. I’ll have your crisp bacon with sunny sides up ready when you buzz and give me your cue.’
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WHEW! I can’t believe anything can feel this good. My shoes lie helter skelter where I kicked them as soon as I got home. My legs, effortlessly rose and spread eagled on the sofa. This old stand-by sofa has seen a lot of days and nights. Tonight somebody in heaven pitied me and plucked the down from angel wings so I don’t feel the lumps at all.
That same blue heaven suddenly becomes hell! ‘Mom, Mom, quick, bring me a Quinine pill. It’s in the middle of the middle shelf in my medicine cabinet. Hurry. My legs and toes hurt so much I can’t stand.’ Writhing, massaging, twisting, turning, do no good. I mutter, help, this is the worst. The pill and a glass of water are put in my shaky hand. I push my back against the arm of the chair and manage to sit up, swallow the whole big pill without choking. It takes almost ten minutes, minutes that leave me sprawled on a Medieval torture rack, before the Charley Horses are gone as suddenly as they had come.
Our government has decreed that Quinine, a non-addictive, non-sleep producing drug, is no longer available. It has been the only salvation for victims of malaria and people such as I who get severe cramps in our legs, arms, even backs, with no idea of when they will strike. I don’t know what is going to happen to me when the last pill that is now in my cabinet is swallowed. Neither my internist nor pharmacist has an answer.
Peace, comfort, the soft cushions ease the distress. I hear Mom tiptoe to my side, feel the puffy comforter cover my body. She tucks the end around my feet and leaves me to recuperate before I go upstairs.
It is morning. The sun is bright enough for me to know I’d better get up, dress and be at the studio practice room by 10. It is 8:45. Hopefully, traffic will move smoothly, no accidents, not too many long red lights. Stan, the handsome, strong dancing teacher and Danny, my equally handsome, strong partner are chatting, having coffee when I arrive. I get a quick hug from each, no coffee. ‘Let’s get to it, Kids! We’ll start with the knee drop. That needs a lot of work.’ Stan starts the tape at high volume. I wait for my cue, step left, twirl twice, arms high, I almost fly to Danny. He too has twirled twice, coming towards me. He drops to his knees, slides and catches me, sits me on his left knee and lifts me over his head. Something goes wrong and we both fall on the floor. ‘Again. Do it again, Judy. Your arms were too high. Set your eyes on where Danny is going to be, not where he is. Do it!’ Twice more we fall. Tries 4,5,6 and we have it right. Stan is pleased.
‘OK, next step. Danny, do the tango leg stretch, 4 steps only. Stop suddenly. Judy, take long seductive steps towards him. Get close, but don’t touch. Face him. Bend over from the waist, legs taut, touch the floor with your fingertips. Danny, put your hands tightly on her waist. Now slowly try to lift her into a cartwheel over your head. I’ll be at that position to tell you what to do next.‘ We try it without music and fail miserably. An hour, a tough hour, later we almost have it.
Lunch break is more than welcome. Danny is as pooped as I am. Stan isn’t at all tired. In my next life, I’ll be the teacher. Our ½ hour lunch is unanimously extended to a full hour. Danny and I are not professional dancers but love dancing and do it well when not given routines. We were both surprised to be tapped by Dancing With the Stars. Dancing becomes secondary, learning acrobatics is first priority.
Busy, aching days disappear. Costumes are designed, made, fitted. Our routine is as good as it is going to get. I am sore, knocked out every evening as I drive home, anticipating the soft feathers under my back, but never find them. I ache all over, have bruises that are going to have goop put on them so the audience won’t notice them. Danny and I have talked about our experience and have little confidence that we stand any chance at all of winning but will give our performance all that we can. Separate dressing rooms hold our costumes, labeled on pipes. Accessories are near our make-up chairs. A buzzer sounds. Stan comes twinkling in, ‘Show time!’
Mom is beside me. She shakes me gently. ‘Judy, time to go to work. Your groaning half the night had me worried so I didn’t wake you to come to bed. Those tennis lessons you take are a strain. The Charley horses last night should warn you to stop. They must have given you those bad dreams.
Get dressed. I’ll have your crisp bacon with sunny sides up ready when you buzz and give me your cue.’
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A WHODUNIT
The king size bed has new linens. Sorry, who has linen linens any more? The king size bed has high count cotton sheets, top and bottom. On that rests a soft, brand new rose colored blanket, two king never-slept-on pillows inside swirley, whirley patterned rose and blue cases.
All the lavish spread requires is warmth, coziness. That piece de resistance is the king size hand knitted afghan that seems artistically tossed along the foot of the bed, but I don’t know who tossed it there. Nor, can I imagine who left her old lined brown leather gloves in the middle of the bed. It looks like hands are still in them.
My cell rings. Neither the ID or the female’s voice gives me a quick clue as to what I am about to hear. ‘Sergeant, look under the bed.’ Slam. I do. All I see is darkness so I feel my way up to my shoulder. There is nothing but carpet. I repeat this on the other side of the bed. Something feels wet. Quickly I retract my hand and it is blood red. From the bathroom towel rack I grab a clean towel, use it to turn on the faucet and wash off the blood. Then I turn off the tap with the towel and dry my hand. It looks like I left a drop of blood under one fingernail. I call my precinct for back up, go down to my squad car for my heavy duty flashlight.
I walk carefully on the side edges of the stairs and bedroom floor, kneel down on the right side of the bed and turn my flash on. Something small and shiny stands out. I leave it for the lieutenant to retrieve. No sirens wailing, 2 squad cars pull into the driveway. The officers don’t bother to go inside. Joey yellow tapes the front door and Lou does the patio entrance. They put on latex gloves, duck under the tape, enter the foyer and climb the stairs. I tell them immediately about the cell call and instructions to look under the bed. Joey takes my flashlight and spots the shiny thing, too. We can’t move nor lift the bed and can’t crawl under either. While we try to figure out what to do next, we search the house. Nothing unusual glares at us. There is no visible sign of blood, gun fire, food on the table, foot prints on the carpet, except ours. There is no alarm system, broken window and no body.
Lt. Olsen photographs everything. A crew arrives with a special vacuum cleaner and goes over the entire house. My cell rings again. The ID caller number is different but the voice is the same, ‘Find the cat.’ Slam. The voice is gone.
What cat? I begin canvassing the neighbors. No one has seen or heard anything unusual. Yes, the Blakes have a cat. They are on vacation so most likely their cat is at their vets. A call to Simpson’s Cat Sanctum tells me the cat is not in their care. We are still at square one.
‘O.K., Men. Three of us on each side of the bed. On the count of 3, lift the bed together, take 3 steps toward the window and lower it. I think I can reach the shiny thing and we can check out the blood splatter.’ It works perfectly! Using small forceps he gets the shiny thing into a plastic bag. We all agree it looks like it came from a beer can. The blood must have come from the missing cat. It must have crawled under the bed to escape the monster that was after him. It was too late. Deep bite marks are clear to see.
We learn the next day that the vacuum contained rottweiler hairs as did the blood. Forensics was able to find tiny blood droplets from the front door to the bedroom that ended in the pool under the bed. No neighbor has a rottweiler.
We have partially solved this case, but have yet to figure out how the dog got into the house, why the cat had not been left with the vet, and who knew about the cat murder and tipped me off. My cell rings again. I have to report PDQ to a double murder scene at Sonny’s Super Market on 8th Ave. Sirens screaming, I head there.
At the next morning briefing for all officers, Head Honcho, Captain Ross, announces, ‘Men. The Blakes are home and they have explained almost everything. Their maid had a key and was to come by every day, feed the cat, clean its litter box and lock up. They believe she did everything except double check the door. The lock is tricky and she knew it. They fired her. Be advised, the Cat Case has been organized and boxed. It now is in the storage room under ‘Cold Case #1128, just in case you ever get curious. Dismissed.’
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All the lavish spread requires is warmth, coziness. That piece de resistance is the king size hand knitted afghan that seems artistically tossed along the foot of the bed, but I don’t know who tossed it there. Nor, can I imagine who left her old lined brown leather gloves in the middle of the bed. It looks like hands are still in them.
My cell rings. Neither the ID or the female’s voice gives me a quick clue as to what I am about to hear. ‘Sergeant, look under the bed.’ Slam. I do. All I see is darkness so I feel my way up to my shoulder. There is nothing but carpet. I repeat this on the other side of the bed. Something feels wet. Quickly I retract my hand and it is blood red. From the bathroom towel rack I grab a clean towel, use it to turn on the faucet and wash off the blood. Then I turn off the tap with the towel and dry my hand. It looks like I left a drop of blood under one fingernail. I call my precinct for back up, go down to my squad car for my heavy duty flashlight.
I walk carefully on the side edges of the stairs and bedroom floor, kneel down on the right side of the bed and turn my flash on. Something small and shiny stands out. I leave it for the lieutenant to retrieve. No sirens wailing, 2 squad cars pull into the driveway. The officers don’t bother to go inside. Joey yellow tapes the front door and Lou does the patio entrance. They put on latex gloves, duck under the tape, enter the foyer and climb the stairs. I tell them immediately about the cell call and instructions to look under the bed. Joey takes my flashlight and spots the shiny thing, too. We can’t move nor lift the bed and can’t crawl under either. While we try to figure out what to do next, we search the house. Nothing unusual glares at us. There is no visible sign of blood, gun fire, food on the table, foot prints on the carpet, except ours. There is no alarm system, broken window and no body.
Lt. Olsen photographs everything. A crew arrives with a special vacuum cleaner and goes over the entire house. My cell rings again. The ID caller number is different but the voice is the same, ‘Find the cat.’ Slam. The voice is gone.
What cat? I begin canvassing the neighbors. No one has seen or heard anything unusual. Yes, the Blakes have a cat. They are on vacation so most likely their cat is at their vets. A call to Simpson’s Cat Sanctum tells me the cat is not in their care. We are still at square one.
‘O.K., Men. Three of us on each side of the bed. On the count of 3, lift the bed together, take 3 steps toward the window and lower it. I think I can reach the shiny thing and we can check out the blood splatter.’ It works perfectly! Using small forceps he gets the shiny thing into a plastic bag. We all agree it looks like it came from a beer can. The blood must have come from the missing cat. It must have crawled under the bed to escape the monster that was after him. It was too late. Deep bite marks are clear to see.
We learn the next day that the vacuum contained rottweiler hairs as did the blood. Forensics was able to find tiny blood droplets from the front door to the bedroom that ended in the pool under the bed. No neighbor has a rottweiler.
We have partially solved this case, but have yet to figure out how the dog got into the house, why the cat had not been left with the vet, and who knew about the cat murder and tipped me off. My cell rings again. I have to report PDQ to a double murder scene at Sonny’s Super Market on 8th Ave. Sirens screaming, I head there.
At the next morning briefing for all officers, Head Honcho, Captain Ross, announces, ‘Men. The Blakes are home and they have explained almost everything. Their maid had a key and was to come by every day, feed the cat, clean its litter box and lock up. They believe she did everything except double check the door. The lock is tricky and she knew it. They fired her. Be advised, the Cat Case has been organized and boxed. It now is in the storage room under ‘Cold Case #1128, just in case you ever get curious. Dismissed.’
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HOCUS POCUS
Down near the meadow, in an itty bitty pool, I watch my itty bitty sister, playing like a fool. Three year old Lisa is adorable. Being ten didn’t matter, I loved her before I knew she was going to be a girl. Mother didn’t love her. Daddy never said, but I could tell, one child was all they had wanted.
There she is, sitting on a rock, looking for a frog that she is going to ask me to catch. My sister loves the story of the girl who kissed a frog and it turned into a handsome prince. I have to tell her that story almost every night. ‘Lisa, honey, why do you want a handsome prince. You are only three years old. He isn’t going to wait for you to grow up.’ My sister is very smart. ‘Princes live in big castles and can have all the cookies they want. That’s why.’ I fake a try at catching a frog and my foot goes in the pond. Mother is not going to be happy when she sees my ruined shoe.
Lisa is so little, light weight for me. I pick her up, give her a kiss. ‘Make out I’m a frog. Kiss me back.’ She puckers up, aims at my lips and hits the target. My lips begin to feel numb, my shoes fall off my feet. Lisa looks oddly at me and points to my hands. ‘Ethie, Ethie,’ she can’t say ‘esses’ very well. ‘Look!’ My fingers are starting to web. What is happening to me? My skin is green! ‘Lisa, help, help!’ Lisa can’t help.
I try to walk but hop instead. ‘Come back to the house with me. Run, get Mother.’ She runs as fast as her little legs can run and trips on the pavement. I hear her cry, see Mother come out of the kitchen. Not knowing what to do when she sees me hopping, croaking help, all she can do is scream. Father runs out. He is astounded and frightened. They send Lisa into the house but they stand bewildered, not knowing who to call. They gawk.
Lisa comes out laughing, singing,’ Ethie is a froggie. Ethie is a froggie.Let me kiss the froggie, Mother.’ She climbs on the kitchen stool that is near the cabinet that holds the cookie jar and waves me to come over. ‘Here, Ethie, here.’ I jump over and stand in front of her and her twinkling eyes.
Little dear Sister, leans to me and kisses me on the lips. In an instant my skin returns to normal, my hands become hands. I can speak. ‘What did you do and how did you do it?’ I almost moan with pleasure.Mother and father think they dreamed or hallucinated this whole crazy thing, but they didn’t. Lisa and I know it really happened. I tell her, ‘No more kisses, Lisa. We are going to just hug for a while.’
Lisa puts on her pouting face. ‘I wanted a prince, no frog. Please give me two cookies. They are in the cabinet.’
There she is, sitting on a rock, looking for a frog that she is going to ask me to catch. My sister loves the story of the girl who kissed a frog and it turned into a handsome prince. I have to tell her that story almost every night. ‘Lisa, honey, why do you want a handsome prince. You are only three years old. He isn’t going to wait for you to grow up.’ My sister is very smart. ‘Princes live in big castles and can have all the cookies they want. That’s why.’ I fake a try at catching a frog and my foot goes in the pond. Mother is not going to be happy when she sees my ruined shoe.
Lisa is so little, light weight for me. I pick her up, give her a kiss. ‘Make out I’m a frog. Kiss me back.’ She puckers up, aims at my lips and hits the target. My lips begin to feel numb, my shoes fall off my feet. Lisa looks oddly at me and points to my hands. ‘Ethie, Ethie,’ she can’t say ‘esses’ very well. ‘Look!’ My fingers are starting to web. What is happening to me? My skin is green! ‘Lisa, help, help!’ Lisa can’t help.
I try to walk but hop instead. ‘Come back to the house with me. Run, get Mother.’ She runs as fast as her little legs can run and trips on the pavement. I hear her cry, see Mother come out of the kitchen. Not knowing what to do when she sees me hopping, croaking help, all she can do is scream. Father runs out. He is astounded and frightened. They send Lisa into the house but they stand bewildered, not knowing who to call. They gawk.
Lisa comes out laughing, singing,’ Ethie is a froggie. Ethie is a froggie.Let me kiss the froggie, Mother.’ She climbs on the kitchen stool that is near the cabinet that holds the cookie jar and waves me to come over. ‘Here, Ethie, here.’ I jump over and stand in front of her and her twinkling eyes.
Little dear Sister, leans to me and kisses me on the lips. In an instant my skin returns to normal, my hands become hands. I can speak. ‘What did you do and how did you do it?’ I almost moan with pleasure.Mother and father think they dreamed or hallucinated this whole crazy thing, but they didn’t. Lisa and I know it really happened. I tell her, ‘No more kisses, Lisa. We are going to just hug for a while.’
Lisa puts on her pouting face. ‘I wanted a prince, no frog. Please give me two cookies. They are in the cabinet.’
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