I’m here at my desk 15 minutes early. Actually, I’m 15 minutes late because I usually arrive ½ hour early to check security, turn on the AC, fill the percolator. Today Carl’s first and is making coffee. My desk is ready for me. It has a large clean blotter, modern high intensity swingable lamp, and my right hand guy that is my everything, my Dell! There is a container of sharpened #2 pencils, ball point pens, paper clips, white out. My daily appointments, schedule are on my puter and I go over the list before I do anything else.
The heavy glass office door opens as tra la la, in comes little Pretty Miss Josie. She sashays to the ladies’ room to repair the make-up she just put on before leaving her house. I saw nothing wrong with it, but that is her daily routine. Damn, she’s cute and smart too. Mr. Jason, the Editor in Chief of the Tioga Tattler thinks so too. He tries to be blase’ but his hots show every time she walks past his desk. I don’t blame him. I feel Josie’s pulchritude and warmth from across the room. If I weren’t such a happily married man, I’d probably make a pass at her and so would Mr. Jason.
I’ve got a 10 o’clock appointment with a reporter, Bill London, recently back from Iraq. My files on him are already on my desk, still not looked at. He walks in right on the dot of 10. I take him directly to the interview room where coffee, bagels, cream cheese and do nuts are waiting. Bill’s a gruff looking man with a course small black beard. He has broad shoulders, dark eyes with thick eyebrows. We relax, talk about Iran, Iraq, Israel and then get down to business. Bill opens a large portfolio and starts to lay 8 by 10 glossy photographs over the tables, chairs. I glance and almost gag. I’ve seen many war pictures in my time but none like this. There are no faces, only pieces, severed legs, disemboweled bodies. These are bits and pieces of what were people and he was able to take the pictures, are too tough for me. ‘Please put them away, Bill. Talk to me!’ And he talks, shivers, cries. I cannot comfort him. He is distraught beyond words.
When he leaves, I put together my story that is not about Iraq. It is about Bill and what has happened to him without holding a gun, without stepping on a land mine. His soul seems to have died. To calm myself, I put my story on Mr. Jason’s desk and go outside for a breath of fresh air, look at the sun shining in the sky. And there is Bill, still in the office, close to Josie. They are laughing like two hyenas who haven’t seen each other in years. Josie asks me to take her calls for a while. She’s going out to lunch with Bill. He puts his arm around her waist and they leave.
An hour later Josie calls, asks me to set turn her message machine on. She won’t be back today. ‘Oh, tell Mr. Jason my mother is sick and I had to go home. Thanks.’
I tell him, hand in my story for tomorrow’s paper and will take a better, closer look at Josie tomorrow morning.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
STRANGER THAN FICTION
I’m stuck in this damn cab, right behind a shaved bald head with undetermined color. A line of cars, buses, as far as I can see, is at a standstill. If there are sirens, I can’t hear them. They may be at the opening of the Holland tunnel or else the police are out searching for another John Bundy.
I glance at the name on the driver’s license attached to the plexiglass shield between us. His first name has 23 unpronounceable letters. I don’t bother counting his last name. Gently I knock on the glass, get his attention as he looks me over thru his rear view mirror. I shrug my shoulders. He shrugs his. Should I get out and walk the 42 blocks I have to go? Maybe if I do get out and turn left, 8th Ave. will be open. I hold tight a while.
Arabejurdamukmahl is smarter than the back of his head shows. He slides the glass partition to the side, turns the AC lower and in perfectly beautiful English, says, ‘Isn’t this shitsville? How am I supposed to make a buck?’ A motorcycle officer advices the lined up cars that underground pipes have exploded, emergency crews are working. Traffic is slowly being diverted but it will take time to clear the street.
‘Hey, can I call you Arabe? I’m Mike. Where are you from?’ Born in the USA, Brooklyn!’ ‘That’s a surprise. Here’s one for you. I was born in New Delhi while my father was teaching there. I have dual citizenship I don’t need, as my American heritage serves me well.’ ‘You married, Araba?’ Am I married? Tighter than a corkscrew in a good bottle of French Champagne. I have eight children, four in college. You don’t believe me? Well, look at this.’ He opens his wallet and shows me his picture on an article cut from the NY Times Jan. 3/1999., ‘Cabbie hits one million lottery!’ ‘Arabe, if this is true, why are you still hacking?’
Because I am an educated man. My life is full of things to do, places to go, but the crowds bore me. I like one on one talk. I get smarter every day. Now, tell me about you.’
Not much to tell. I’m divorced. My son and daughter are in college. I still teach mathematics at Utica U. In 2001 I was on Jeopardy, stayed five days, one $250,000 and am going back for the season’s championship match. So , what do you think should be Israel’s fate?’‘They should be free of the constant threats, doom in the Mediterranean. They must stand strong and chastise America for its recent backdown of support. We can talk all day and never find a peaceful, fair way out because I don’t see one.’
‘And Arabe, where do you stand regarding, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Taliban, Egypt, Iran, Iraq?’ ‘I would like to see a nudity law enforced. Without uniforms, without religious clothing, with only two arms per person, no weapons, there would be no wars. It isn’t going to happen, but it would be nice if it did.
The line starts to creep forward. I lean over the front seat and invite Arabe to dinner this week-end. We exchange cards, quickly set a time, a place, shake on it and we move. As I am dropped at my destination, I take out my my wallet to pay Arabe. The fare box is dark. He smiles and calls out–
‘No charge. I own the cab!’
I glance at the name on the driver’s license attached to the plexiglass shield between us. His first name has 23 unpronounceable letters. I don’t bother counting his last name. Gently I knock on the glass, get his attention as he looks me over thru his rear view mirror. I shrug my shoulders. He shrugs his. Should I get out and walk the 42 blocks I have to go? Maybe if I do get out and turn left, 8th Ave. will be open. I hold tight a while.
Arabejurdamukmahl is smarter than the back of his head shows. He slides the glass partition to the side, turns the AC lower and in perfectly beautiful English, says, ‘Isn’t this shitsville? How am I supposed to make a buck?’ A motorcycle officer advices the lined up cars that underground pipes have exploded, emergency crews are working. Traffic is slowly being diverted but it will take time to clear the street.
‘Hey, can I call you Arabe? I’m Mike. Where are you from?’ Born in the USA, Brooklyn!’ ‘That’s a surprise. Here’s one for you. I was born in New Delhi while my father was teaching there. I have dual citizenship I don’t need, as my American heritage serves me well.’ ‘You married, Araba?’ Am I married? Tighter than a corkscrew in a good bottle of French Champagne. I have eight children, four in college. You don’t believe me? Well, look at this.’ He opens his wallet and shows me his picture on an article cut from the NY Times Jan. 3/1999., ‘Cabbie hits one million lottery!’ ‘Arabe, if this is true, why are you still hacking?’
Because I am an educated man. My life is full of things to do, places to go, but the crowds bore me. I like one on one talk. I get smarter every day. Now, tell me about you.’
Not much to tell. I’m divorced. My son and daughter are in college. I still teach mathematics at Utica U. In 2001 I was on Jeopardy, stayed five days, one $250,000 and am going back for the season’s championship match. So , what do you think should be Israel’s fate?’‘They should be free of the constant threats, doom in the Mediterranean. They must stand strong and chastise America for its recent backdown of support. We can talk all day and never find a peaceful, fair way out because I don’t see one.’
‘And Arabe, where do you stand regarding, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Taliban, Egypt, Iran, Iraq?’ ‘I would like to see a nudity law enforced. Without uniforms, without religious clothing, with only two arms per person, no weapons, there would be no wars. It isn’t going to happen, but it would be nice if it did.
The line starts to creep forward. I lean over the front seat and invite Arabe to dinner this week-end. We exchange cards, quickly set a time, a place, shake on it and we move. As I am dropped at my destination, I take out my my wallet to pay Arabe. The fare box is dark. He smiles and calls out–
‘No charge. I own the cab!’
Thursday, June 25, 2009
DON’T COUNT ON ME
I’m flying cross country to Seattle where I’ll be met at the airport and transferred to the Diamond Star for a fourteen day Singles cruise to Alaska. It’s mind boggling, exciting, costly and risky. I’ve been making plans for months and now I have only 12 days left before I go on my first big solo venture. The 12 day wait isn’t really 12 days as today is here and doesn’t count and I don’t count my arrival because I’ll be aboard. That leaves me 10 days to finish all I have to do. Yikes!
My closet is ready for me. The first hangers contain my sleepwear which I transfer to the end of the shelving. Be methodical, organized, Gal. Get started. I’ll need casual clothes, dinner, comfortable tourist outfits. Shoes, shoes. I need dress black, white and tan and at least two pairs of comfortable walking shoes, flats. I line them up along my bedroom wall, out of my way. Jackets. Which ones? Slax and shirts. Sweaters? It might be cold on board, at the glacier. For formal nights my pashima wrap should be perfect.
Testing them out in the two suitcases bowls me over. They are already full and I have barely started. Underwear, nitegowns, a robe, and/or a peignoir. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll cut down. I’ll slash this. I’ll slash that, wear everything twice. Nobody will notice. Ho ho. Gal. Who are you kidding? But I do need those shoes, every single pair. The black ones I’ve worn thin and they look dumpy. Checking the morning paper I am lucky and find a two for sale at Mandy’s tomorrow. My time is running out but I have to stop there before I fill my gas tank, in case there is a hurricane while I am away. During the last big one all the gas stations were out of gas. None had generators. This time I will be prepared and I won’t be a lost soul.
From there I’ll stop at Sunshine Super Market. My next to last day home will be in the kitchen. That is a must. The freezer is almost empty and has to be filled, in case there is a hurricane. If I fill it and electricity is lost for 24 hours, I will come home and have a freezer full of warm water and spoiled food. If not, I have meals for a month.
On top of all of these concerns, I am up almost all night, worried, wondering why I am going alone with 2000 people I don’t know. Add staff and crew -2800.
Tuesday I have to go to the pharmacy to refill my sleeping pills and get whatever is tried and best for sea sickness, in case. At Barnes and Noble I’ll pick up a few cheap paper back detective stories and 2 medium hard crossword puzzles. Time is flying and so am I. Tomorrow! Yikes! But tonight Edith, Morgan and Dani are taking me out for a bon voyage pizza treat.
My 2 stuffed suitcases are zipped closed by the front door. Oh, my lord. I almost forgot a second pair of eye glasses. I grab them and throw them in my purse. My driver arrives at 6 a.m. He rolls my stuff to the elevator and the show is starting..
On the way to the airport, I remove a pen and small notebook from my purse. The rest of the dozen I bought are foil wrapped in one of the suitcases. Why did I bring so many clothes? Nobody knows me. I don’t know anybody. But then again, I might meet an adonis, rolling in money. And then again, why would such a person be going on a cruise like this? Most likely he’ll be looking for big boobs, nice white teeth, plenty of cash from her divorces. There will be a raft of available ladies. The gold-digger men will be bald, pot bellied and dull.. I tell myself to stop these lousy thoughts, stop worrying.
I’ll have fun., eat too much, see a new world, ice bergs, glaciers seals. It’s going to be great! But–I don’t listen to myself and start counting on my fingers. 1, 2, 12. I’ll be home in 12 days.
My closet is ready for me. The first hangers contain my sleepwear which I transfer to the end of the shelving. Be methodical, organized, Gal. Get started. I’ll need casual clothes, dinner, comfortable tourist outfits. Shoes, shoes. I need dress black, white and tan and at least two pairs of comfortable walking shoes, flats. I line them up along my bedroom wall, out of my way. Jackets. Which ones? Slax and shirts. Sweaters? It might be cold on board, at the glacier. For formal nights my pashima wrap should be perfect.
Testing them out in the two suitcases bowls me over. They are already full and I have barely started. Underwear, nitegowns, a robe, and/or a peignoir. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll cut down. I’ll slash this. I’ll slash that, wear everything twice. Nobody will notice. Ho ho. Gal. Who are you kidding? But I do need those shoes, every single pair. The black ones I’ve worn thin and they look dumpy. Checking the morning paper I am lucky and find a two for sale at Mandy’s tomorrow. My time is running out but I have to stop there before I fill my gas tank, in case there is a hurricane while I am away. During the last big one all the gas stations were out of gas. None had generators. This time I will be prepared and I won’t be a lost soul.
From there I’ll stop at Sunshine Super Market. My next to last day home will be in the kitchen. That is a must. The freezer is almost empty and has to be filled, in case there is a hurricane. If I fill it and electricity is lost for 24 hours, I will come home and have a freezer full of warm water and spoiled food. If not, I have meals for a month.
On top of all of these concerns, I am up almost all night, worried, wondering why I am going alone with 2000 people I don’t know. Add staff and crew -2800.
Tuesday I have to go to the pharmacy to refill my sleeping pills and get whatever is tried and best for sea sickness, in case. At Barnes and Noble I’ll pick up a few cheap paper back detective stories and 2 medium hard crossword puzzles. Time is flying and so am I. Tomorrow! Yikes! But tonight Edith, Morgan and Dani are taking me out for a bon voyage pizza treat.
My 2 stuffed suitcases are zipped closed by the front door. Oh, my lord. I almost forgot a second pair of eye glasses. I grab them and throw them in my purse. My driver arrives at 6 a.m. He rolls my stuff to the elevator and the show is starting..
On the way to the airport, I remove a pen and small notebook from my purse. The rest of the dozen I bought are foil wrapped in one of the suitcases. Why did I bring so many clothes? Nobody knows me. I don’t know anybody. But then again, I might meet an adonis, rolling in money. And then again, why would such a person be going on a cruise like this? Most likely he’ll be looking for big boobs, nice white teeth, plenty of cash from her divorces. There will be a raft of available ladies. The gold-digger men will be bald, pot bellied and dull.. I tell myself to stop these lousy thoughts, stop worrying.
I’ll have fun., eat too much, see a new world, ice bergs, glaciers seals. It’s going to be great! But–I don’t listen to myself and start counting on my fingers. 1, 2, 12. I’ll be home in 12 days.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
GREAT EXPECTATIONS
Wanting, but not expecting him so soon, I am surprised to hear an odd noise that seems to be coming from the rear of my house, out near the apple trees. Can he be back so soon? I cross my heart, utter a short prayer and hope. I go downstairs, switch on the outdoor spots and wait. His thin, distinctive whistle escapes through a hole in the darkening night.
Milt has been sorely missed since he left a month ago. I begged him, cajoled him, to stay longer, but the Boss was King. ‘Come Now!’ Tears were in his eyes as he squeezed my cold hand. Sadly I kissed his dry lips. He turned his head to the side, whispered ‘Goodbye’ and left.
Milt’s funeral was small as he wished, no fuss, no stories, no songs, no crowds. I almost made sure only our immediate families came but made an exception for Ralph and Tony, Milt’s (and my) closest, dearest friends. We needed each other. They stood amongst the family telling stories of their youth. Milt would be glad I asked them to the service.
The first nite in my bed alone, I imagine him pulling my blanket off, playing toesies with me. The 2nd nite, the 3rd nite, are painstakingly lonely. That’s about when the weirdness begins. On the 7th night, I get up to go in the bathroom and trip on something. Without thinking, I blame Milt. ‘Why don’t you put your shoes under the bed or in the closet like I’ve been asking you to do for 10 years?’ A bulb goes on in my head. He didn’t leave a shoe there and neither did I. Who did? I turn on the bedside lamp and really get scared. It is Milt’s shoe, one of the pair that was part of his funeral wear. How can this be? First thing in the morning I call Aaron who was to take everything to the funeral parlor. Aaron has no explanation. ‘I gave it all to the funeral director. Suppose, just suppose, the director dropped a shoe and didn’t notice...’ ‘Aaron,’ I reply, Suppose, just suppose, that happened. How would the shoe get into our bedroom? Scratch that theory!’ I come to no conclusion. Aaron says I dreamed it and made it up. But I didn’t. The shoe is now in Milt’s closet. Dare I say aloud what I think? No, It’s too absurd. But from then on I keep the hall light on plus a small nightlight in the bathroom.
I am now taking an occasional sleeping pill, frightened, but longing for the other shoe to appear. It doesn’t. But the hall light is flickering. ‘Milt, is that you?’ At 2:30 a.m. I go to the basement, get a small stepladder and new 75 watt bulb, mumbling as I unscrew the light cover, ‘I’m insane.’ The bulb is not loose or weak. ‘Milt, are you here? Are you coming back? Please come back. I won’t tell a soul. It will be our secret.’ The ladder I lean against the wall and climb back into bed.
It is time for you to start this tale at the top again. It IS Milt. He is coming back. So far I’ve been told nothing, why god decided to let him return to earth, how many souls he is releasing now...and if I stay good and don’t tell, will god resurrect me too? I don’t even want to know. I’ll have to wait, like you, to get the answer.
Milt has been sorely missed since he left a month ago. I begged him, cajoled him, to stay longer, but the Boss was King. ‘Come Now!’ Tears were in his eyes as he squeezed my cold hand. Sadly I kissed his dry lips. He turned his head to the side, whispered ‘Goodbye’ and left.
Milt’s funeral was small as he wished, no fuss, no stories, no songs, no crowds. I almost made sure only our immediate families came but made an exception for Ralph and Tony, Milt’s (and my) closest, dearest friends. We needed each other. They stood amongst the family telling stories of their youth. Milt would be glad I asked them to the service.
The first nite in my bed alone, I imagine him pulling my blanket off, playing toesies with me. The 2nd nite, the 3rd nite, are painstakingly lonely. That’s about when the weirdness begins. On the 7th night, I get up to go in the bathroom and trip on something. Without thinking, I blame Milt. ‘Why don’t you put your shoes under the bed or in the closet like I’ve been asking you to do for 10 years?’ A bulb goes on in my head. He didn’t leave a shoe there and neither did I. Who did? I turn on the bedside lamp and really get scared. It is Milt’s shoe, one of the pair that was part of his funeral wear. How can this be? First thing in the morning I call Aaron who was to take everything to the funeral parlor. Aaron has no explanation. ‘I gave it all to the funeral director. Suppose, just suppose, the director dropped a shoe and didn’t notice...’ ‘Aaron,’ I reply, Suppose, just suppose, that happened. How would the shoe get into our bedroom? Scratch that theory!’ I come to no conclusion. Aaron says I dreamed it and made it up. But I didn’t. The shoe is now in Milt’s closet. Dare I say aloud what I think? No, It’s too absurd. But from then on I keep the hall light on plus a small nightlight in the bathroom.
I am now taking an occasional sleeping pill, frightened, but longing for the other shoe to appear. It doesn’t. But the hall light is flickering. ‘Milt, is that you?’ At 2:30 a.m. I go to the basement, get a small stepladder and new 75 watt bulb, mumbling as I unscrew the light cover, ‘I’m insane.’ The bulb is not loose or weak. ‘Milt, are you here? Are you coming back? Please come back. I won’t tell a soul. It will be our secret.’ The ladder I lean against the wall and climb back into bed.
It is time for you to start this tale at the top again. It IS Milt. He is coming back. So far I’ve been told nothing, why god decided to let him return to earth, how many souls he is releasing now...and if I stay good and don’t tell, will god resurrect me too? I don’t even want to know. I’ll have to wait, like you, to get the answer.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
BUTINSKI
I’m on my knees planting tulip bulbs to brighten spring, still five months away. My neighbor, Michelle, pauses on her way to the supermarket to say good morning. ‘Good Morning, Charlotte. I see you are on your knees again. Why don’t you use a cushion? I tell you every year. ‘ Ignoring her comment doesn’t shut her up. ‘ Did you get more white tulips? They didn’t improve your border last April. Yellow would be much sunnier.’ Holding my tongue, I give her my dirty look that she somehow never notices. Another hole, another white bulb drops in. It somehow gives me a slight satisfaction. What is she going to complain about when two dozen red ones circle the white?
With that job done, I get up off my knees, go inside, wash my few tools and self. A cup of instant decaf Maxwell House coffee is already on my kitchen table when a soft knock, knock sounds. Michelle opens the door before I do. ‘Caught you. Caught you, drinking that slop again. Pour it down the sink and come over to my house. I’ve got a pot of Columbia perking. You’ll taste the difference and love it. I’ll cut my delicious coffee cake I baked yesterday. It’s covered with sliced almonds.’ Saying ‘no thank you’ to her never works. Cheerfully as I can, I sing out, ‘Be right there’.
The coffee is much too strong for me but I manage to take a few sips. The almond ring is delicious, almost worth my short trip and anxiety. I’m somewhat relaxed. We chat amiably until Michelle suggests I ask her gardener to give me a few hours a week. She means well but really does annoy me. I don’t want to be Michelle. I want to be me. One day I will tell her to mind her own business. That day may be when she happens to make her chocolate chocolate cake too soggy.
Saturday Michelle and I are going jean shopping. Delly, who lives at the far end of our round about is joining us. She’s so sweet, she is like a bottle of whole grain saccharine. She’ll be the driver. To keep the peace we avoid discussing politics, stick to movies, who’s doing what to whom, sales. At Bloomie’s lunch room, Delly orders English tea with her egg salad sandwich on whole wheat toast. I order decaf coffee with my scoop of shrimp salad. Michelle stops our waitress and suggests I get regular coffee instead of decaf. The waitress looks at me and I repeat, ‘Decaf, please.’ Although I long for a large slice of coconut custard pie, I skip it, knowing Michellle will ask me why I have never learned to bake well.
Bloomingdale’s bulges with customers. Their back to school and jean sale is in full swing. We dawdle but don’t buy any cosmetics and head for the escalator. As we step off we are confronted by too many kids, without and without their mothers. I want to walk around the UP and head straight DOWN again. The usual neat racks and stacks of jeans are in total disarray. A few are lying on the floor. I pick up one and plop it back on the closest table. Not a salesperson is in sight.
Michelle tosses jeans around and locates three pairs in the size she thinks will be right. Delly and I each find two. The dressing rooms are all filled. Michelle notices the extra large room for handicapped people is empty, holds the door for us and pushes us in. ‘How many disabled people do you know who wear jeans?’ she asks. Maybe she’s right. We undress. Michelle asks me which style I like best on her.’ I tell her what I think. ‘The dark wash fits best. The straight legs make you look slimmer and taller. The other one is too tight, a lot too tight.’ As expected, ignoring my comments, Michelle charges all three. Delly asks us no questions, makes up her own mind and leaves her cast offs neatly on hangers in the dressing room. I look carefully in the three way mirror and like both, especially the one with slightly flared legs and a high rise. Michelle tsk, tsks at me and tells me I can look better. ‘Forget the sale. Come back and get a Shopper to help you. I’m not sure you are a jeans woman.’ This time I lose control, can’t stop myself and go at her. ‘Did I ask your opinion, Chelle? Mind your own business for once.’ I take the jeans that will soon be mine and head to the cashier.
Delly touches me on my shoulder. Her constantly smiling face shines even more as she winks her approval to me. ‘Good for you! Michelle needed that.’ My outburst is never mentioned again.
Delly leaves us off at our connecting houses and she continues to the end of the circle. I go thru my garage and find an old pillow to kneel on next fall.
With that job done, I get up off my knees, go inside, wash my few tools and self. A cup of instant decaf Maxwell House coffee is already on my kitchen table when a soft knock, knock sounds. Michelle opens the door before I do. ‘Caught you. Caught you, drinking that slop again. Pour it down the sink and come over to my house. I’ve got a pot of Columbia perking. You’ll taste the difference and love it. I’ll cut my delicious coffee cake I baked yesterday. It’s covered with sliced almonds.’ Saying ‘no thank you’ to her never works. Cheerfully as I can, I sing out, ‘Be right there’.
The coffee is much too strong for me but I manage to take a few sips. The almond ring is delicious, almost worth my short trip and anxiety. I’m somewhat relaxed. We chat amiably until Michelle suggests I ask her gardener to give me a few hours a week. She means well but really does annoy me. I don’t want to be Michelle. I want to be me. One day I will tell her to mind her own business. That day may be when she happens to make her chocolate chocolate cake too soggy.
Saturday Michelle and I are going jean shopping. Delly, who lives at the far end of our round about is joining us. She’s so sweet, she is like a bottle of whole grain saccharine. She’ll be the driver. To keep the peace we avoid discussing politics, stick to movies, who’s doing what to whom, sales. At Bloomie’s lunch room, Delly orders English tea with her egg salad sandwich on whole wheat toast. I order decaf coffee with my scoop of shrimp salad. Michelle stops our waitress and suggests I get regular coffee instead of decaf. The waitress looks at me and I repeat, ‘Decaf, please.’ Although I long for a large slice of coconut custard pie, I skip it, knowing Michellle will ask me why I have never learned to bake well.
Bloomingdale’s bulges with customers. Their back to school and jean sale is in full swing. We dawdle but don’t buy any cosmetics and head for the escalator. As we step off we are confronted by too many kids, without and without their mothers. I want to walk around the UP and head straight DOWN again. The usual neat racks and stacks of jeans are in total disarray. A few are lying on the floor. I pick up one and plop it back on the closest table. Not a salesperson is in sight.
Michelle tosses jeans around and locates three pairs in the size she thinks will be right. Delly and I each find two. The dressing rooms are all filled. Michelle notices the extra large room for handicapped people is empty, holds the door for us and pushes us in. ‘How many disabled people do you know who wear jeans?’ she asks. Maybe she’s right. We undress. Michelle asks me which style I like best on her.’ I tell her what I think. ‘The dark wash fits best. The straight legs make you look slimmer and taller. The other one is too tight, a lot too tight.’ As expected, ignoring my comments, Michelle charges all three. Delly asks us no questions, makes up her own mind and leaves her cast offs neatly on hangers in the dressing room. I look carefully in the three way mirror and like both, especially the one with slightly flared legs and a high rise. Michelle tsk, tsks at me and tells me I can look better. ‘Forget the sale. Come back and get a Shopper to help you. I’m not sure you are a jeans woman.’ This time I lose control, can’t stop myself and go at her. ‘Did I ask your opinion, Chelle? Mind your own business for once.’ I take the jeans that will soon be mine and head to the cashier.
Delly touches me on my shoulder. Her constantly smiling face shines even more as she winks her approval to me. ‘Good for you! Michelle needed that.’ My outburst is never mentioned again.
Delly leaves us off at our connecting houses and she continues to the end of the circle. I go thru my garage and find an old pillow to kneel on next fall.
Friday, June 19, 2009
QUE SERA
Once I was a multi-millionaire–but no longer. Now I am just air. I’m a floater without my 20 room home on Lake Ticcona. My former best friend, Jack, crosses the street when he sees me coming. Sally, my paramour, quickly found a new keeper. It is unreal to me that these people were fake friends. Now I have learned that not only does money talk, so do actions.
I’m smart. I’m a hard worker. I’m coming back with new money eventually and will be leery of those who hook on to my coat tails. What I’m not is destitute. Adjusting is tough. It hurts to go home to my small apartment and listen to the silence of the phone. Morton’s frozen crab soup made me gag the first time and last time I tried it. My scrambled eggs are light, full of butter, just the way I like them. The fridge is full. Fresh fruit is always handy instead of fancy restaurant meals where I stuff my self with pate’ de fois gras. Sure, my taste buds quiver when I think of that plate of pate’ with a big slice of Bermuda onion on top, crispy flat bread in a silver basket waiting for my pleasure. I am making strides to keep my mind off of all I have lost in Max’s Ponsey scam. It is fait accompli! Done! Over!
Joe Kellerman, one of my former agents at Schwab, located me and called last Thursday. He offered me an office opportunity. The money stinks, will never repair the damage I foolishly allowed Max to do to me. 75K a year will be a start, maybe let me get an order of pate’ once in a while. This small step up is better than the big slide down.
The group in my division at Schwab’s has been together for years. I’m a new-comer, accepted with handshakes and good wishes. My nine co-workers are all aware of what happened to me. They are friendly, warm, competitive, helpful and thankfully, discrete. I’m not in a hurry to be considered a ‘buddy’ yet am pleased to be asked to stop at McGilicutty’s after the market closes next Friday. I won’t have to out-do anyone on how many beers I can drink, how many times I pick up the tab. At first I missed the dart board completely. Now I can get on and score in the outer two circles. The guys poke fun at me and I shrug, pay off my dollar and then recover it at the pool table. Nobody gets hurt. With them the pressure is off my back. I actually feel young again. I have left my new tan Pontiac parked at the curb with no $10 valet tip to give. Somebody is driving what was my Benz and I don’t care.
For a month I’ve been laying out $5 a week on lottery tickets. Saturday mornings I bring my newspaper in from the hall where the maintenance man leaves it. After the headlines I turn to the winning lottery numbers, always believing I will see my number there, check it a hundred times. I look this morning and guess what I see! 10 winners and my numbers are not there....again.
Que Sera!
I’m smart. I’m a hard worker. I’m coming back with new money eventually and will be leery of those who hook on to my coat tails. What I’m not is destitute. Adjusting is tough. It hurts to go home to my small apartment and listen to the silence of the phone. Morton’s frozen crab soup made me gag the first time and last time I tried it. My scrambled eggs are light, full of butter, just the way I like them. The fridge is full. Fresh fruit is always handy instead of fancy restaurant meals where I stuff my self with pate’ de fois gras. Sure, my taste buds quiver when I think of that plate of pate’ with a big slice of Bermuda onion on top, crispy flat bread in a silver basket waiting for my pleasure. I am making strides to keep my mind off of all I have lost in Max’s Ponsey scam. It is fait accompli! Done! Over!
Joe Kellerman, one of my former agents at Schwab, located me and called last Thursday. He offered me an office opportunity. The money stinks, will never repair the damage I foolishly allowed Max to do to me. 75K a year will be a start, maybe let me get an order of pate’ once in a while. This small step up is better than the big slide down.
The group in my division at Schwab’s has been together for years. I’m a new-comer, accepted with handshakes and good wishes. My nine co-workers are all aware of what happened to me. They are friendly, warm, competitive, helpful and thankfully, discrete. I’m not in a hurry to be considered a ‘buddy’ yet am pleased to be asked to stop at McGilicutty’s after the market closes next Friday. I won’t have to out-do anyone on how many beers I can drink, how many times I pick up the tab. At first I missed the dart board completely. Now I can get on and score in the outer two circles. The guys poke fun at me and I shrug, pay off my dollar and then recover it at the pool table. Nobody gets hurt. With them the pressure is off my back. I actually feel young again. I have left my new tan Pontiac parked at the curb with no $10 valet tip to give. Somebody is driving what was my Benz and I don’t care.
For a month I’ve been laying out $5 a week on lottery tickets. Saturday mornings I bring my newspaper in from the hall where the maintenance man leaves it. After the headlines I turn to the winning lottery numbers, always believing I will see my number there, check it a hundred times. I look this morning and guess what I see! 10 winners and my numbers are not there....again.
Que Sera!
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A DIAMOND
She banged the high chair table hard. Did it again! Her pink plastic plate with the white bunny on the bottom covered with applesauce and pureed bananas fell on the floor and splashed the Nanny’s skirt. Lola wet a tea towel, wiped her skirt and with the same towel, but another corner, wiped the baby’s sweet, laughing face. The rinsed plate went into the dishwasher. The floor needed mopping but first Lola gave the ten month old child a pink sippy cup of warm milk. Sherry knocked it over, the milk dripped on the already messy floor. ‘That’s it, Baby. No lunch for you.’ Upset, but still gentle, Lola carried the baby into the living room, moved a few dolls to the side and deposited Sherry in her pink padded play pen.
A loud cry came into the kitchen just as the last swipe of the mop set that floor right again. Lola ran to the baby and almost gagged at her soiled Pamper being mish mashed around the padding. ‘Oy, Diablo, what a mess you made! Don’t move. I’ll get a towel’. An old rag towel from the basement enfolded all of little Sherry. ‘Come, Little One, Lola fix you.’
Upstairs she ½ filled the tub, used plenty of Castille baby soap, drained the water and refilled it. Sherry splashed, wet Lola’s hair, uniform and the tile floor. ‘Come to me, Sweetie. Stand up. Hold onto me. Let me rub you dry and make you smell good.’ Sherry laughed when the terry towel tickled her tushie. The tub water gurgled, emptied.
Dry pink pajamas covered the perfect little girl. Her fine blonde hair needed no toweling. It dried itself. ‘You must be hungry, Baby Dear’, Lola told Sherry who paid no attention. ‘I forgive you. You must be hungry. I will fix you oatmeal with little pieces of blueberries. Yummy. No more mess, you hear me. I feed you.’ Instant Quaker Oatmeal was ready in two instants. Lola opened her mouth to show Sherry what to do. Sherry did it and her little filled silver spoon came softly in, and loudly out, as the cereal and blueberries spattered on Lola. The blueberries most likely stained her white blouse but she remained calm. Sherry’s game went on. ‘Baby, don’t get Lola angry. You have to eat lunch. Open your mouth or Lola spank you. ‘ Suddenly Sherry decided she liked oatmeal, picked up her silver spoon and tried to feed herself. With a little help, the oatmeal was finished. The bowl washed and the re-filled sippy cup with just a little milk was thrown on the clean floor. ‘Time for your nappy. Come.’ Two soft arms reached up to Lola who carried the nodding little girl to her crib. While she slept the kitchen, playpen and tub were put in order.
At 2:30 Mrs. Morgan was due home. At 3:30 she yelled from the foyer, ‘Lola, Lola, sorry I’m a little late.’ In the kitchen she asked her usual questions, ‘How was your day? Was Sherry a good girl?’ ‘An angel, an angel. I love her. See you Friday.’
Lola’s son, in his junk heap car, was waiting to drive her home. He had to get to work at Home Depot and left her at the apartment curb. The front door of Lola’s 2 bedroom apartment on the 3rd floor of a city subsidized building opened as her footsteps were heard from inside. Her three daughters, ages 6,8 and 9 grabbed her, held tight as she kissed each one on the forehead.
Lola pried away, went in the kitchen to prepare supper for her family. The girls would clean up later.
A loud cry came into the kitchen just as the last swipe of the mop set that floor right again. Lola ran to the baby and almost gagged at her soiled Pamper being mish mashed around the padding. ‘Oy, Diablo, what a mess you made! Don’t move. I’ll get a towel’. An old rag towel from the basement enfolded all of little Sherry. ‘Come, Little One, Lola fix you.’
Upstairs she ½ filled the tub, used plenty of Castille baby soap, drained the water and refilled it. Sherry splashed, wet Lola’s hair, uniform and the tile floor. ‘Come to me, Sweetie. Stand up. Hold onto me. Let me rub you dry and make you smell good.’ Sherry laughed when the terry towel tickled her tushie. The tub water gurgled, emptied.
Dry pink pajamas covered the perfect little girl. Her fine blonde hair needed no toweling. It dried itself. ‘You must be hungry, Baby Dear’, Lola told Sherry who paid no attention. ‘I forgive you. You must be hungry. I will fix you oatmeal with little pieces of blueberries. Yummy. No more mess, you hear me. I feed you.’ Instant Quaker Oatmeal was ready in two instants. Lola opened her mouth to show Sherry what to do. Sherry did it and her little filled silver spoon came softly in, and loudly out, as the cereal and blueberries spattered on Lola. The blueberries most likely stained her white blouse but she remained calm. Sherry’s game went on. ‘Baby, don’t get Lola angry. You have to eat lunch. Open your mouth or Lola spank you. ‘ Suddenly Sherry decided she liked oatmeal, picked up her silver spoon and tried to feed herself. With a little help, the oatmeal was finished. The bowl washed and the re-filled sippy cup with just a little milk was thrown on the clean floor. ‘Time for your nappy. Come.’ Two soft arms reached up to Lola who carried the nodding little girl to her crib. While she slept the kitchen, playpen and tub were put in order.
At 2:30 Mrs. Morgan was due home. At 3:30 she yelled from the foyer, ‘Lola, Lola, sorry I’m a little late.’ In the kitchen she asked her usual questions, ‘How was your day? Was Sherry a good girl?’ ‘An angel, an angel. I love her. See you Friday.’
Lola’s son, in his junk heap car, was waiting to drive her home. He had to get to work at Home Depot and left her at the apartment curb. The front door of Lola’s 2 bedroom apartment on the 3rd floor of a city subsidized building opened as her footsteps were heard from inside. Her three daughters, ages 6,8 and 9 grabbed her, held tight as she kissed each one on the forehead.
Lola pried away, went in the kitchen to prepare supper for her family. The girls would clean up later.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
COLORFUL RAIN
A charmer. A charmer. I met him by chance. The morning was warm but breezy. The golden sun was only a few inches above the horizon. Buttercups were smiling as their yellow petals began to open to the glories of morning. Bikers, speed walkers, strollers, dogs on taut leashes were guided to trees. They passed each other as strangers, each being the only one there. I had tried a nod, a pleasant good morning to these strangers many times but they were locked in themselves, passed me as if I didn’t exist.
I sat down on an old green wooden bench that had warmth in its soul. Auras of silent people joined me. Some I’d met before. A white haired woman with miles of wrinkles and bony hands liked to sit close to me. When a young boy would join us, I felt his longing, his need to throw away his crutches. My imagination was my stage, my way to Magic Land.
The sun was higher, blinding me. I moved across the path so as not to miss the parade. The sun moved too, behind a scraggly gray cloud. Bikers pedaled faster. A young matron hurried her beagle to do his duty. I sat and watched the foolishness of rushing away the morning. There was no lightning, no thunder but soft raindrops kissed my face. They felt good to me. Were the runners going to shrink like cheap fabric in hot water? Go, go, go, all of you, go! I sat alone as the small black clouds became big black clouds.
There were things I was to do this morning besides wile it away on a park bench and decided to attack them soon. I reluctantly got up and walked to the unlocked park gate, saw traffic already heavy on McDowell St. Giant sized raindrops flooded the gutters. A florist’s red and white striped awning that had not yet been retracted beckoned to me. And that was when a handsome, middle-aged man with thinning hair came out and almost knocked me over. He apologized, clicked open his over-sized black umbrella and began to sing and dance. Laughing hard, he stepped into the gutter, spun and jumped, splashing the lamp post and me. He turned the umbrella upside down and let it almost fill with rain. Putting his hand out for me to join him in his play house, I eagerly grasped it and almost drowned when he lifted it above our heads. It didn’t matter. Wetter I couldn’t get.
My gentleman friend kept dancing and singing, ‘Raindrops are Falling on My Head’ Tone deaf that I was, I sang anyhow. It was such great fun!Cars slowed down to look at the two idiots. We waved and made silly faces at them
My shoes were overflowing with every step. The buckets from heaven slowed down, stopped. We stopped. My charming partner closed his umbrella, bowed to me, kissed my wet hand and said goodbye.
As he gracefully walked away, I poured the water out of my shoes and called after him,’ So long, Gene. You made my day!’
I sat down on an old green wooden bench that had warmth in its soul. Auras of silent people joined me. Some I’d met before. A white haired woman with miles of wrinkles and bony hands liked to sit close to me. When a young boy would join us, I felt his longing, his need to throw away his crutches. My imagination was my stage, my way to Magic Land.
The sun was higher, blinding me. I moved across the path so as not to miss the parade. The sun moved too, behind a scraggly gray cloud. Bikers pedaled faster. A young matron hurried her beagle to do his duty. I sat and watched the foolishness of rushing away the morning. There was no lightning, no thunder but soft raindrops kissed my face. They felt good to me. Were the runners going to shrink like cheap fabric in hot water? Go, go, go, all of you, go! I sat alone as the small black clouds became big black clouds.
There were things I was to do this morning besides wile it away on a park bench and decided to attack them soon. I reluctantly got up and walked to the unlocked park gate, saw traffic already heavy on McDowell St. Giant sized raindrops flooded the gutters. A florist’s red and white striped awning that had not yet been retracted beckoned to me. And that was when a handsome, middle-aged man with thinning hair came out and almost knocked me over. He apologized, clicked open his over-sized black umbrella and began to sing and dance. Laughing hard, he stepped into the gutter, spun and jumped, splashing the lamp post and me. He turned the umbrella upside down and let it almost fill with rain. Putting his hand out for me to join him in his play house, I eagerly grasped it and almost drowned when he lifted it above our heads. It didn’t matter. Wetter I couldn’t get.
My gentleman friend kept dancing and singing, ‘Raindrops are Falling on My Head’ Tone deaf that I was, I sang anyhow. It was such great fun!Cars slowed down to look at the two idiots. We waved and made silly faces at them
My shoes were overflowing with every step. The buckets from heaven slowed down, stopped. We stopped. My charming partner closed his umbrella, bowed to me, kissed my wet hand and said goodbye.
As he gracefully walked away, I poured the water out of my shoes and called after him,’ So long, Gene. You made my day!’
ADVICE
Unexpectantly I met two lovely ladies last night. Peggy and Angie came from nowhere. They were walking down the street in front of me, arm in arm. As I was about to go around them, like two automatons, they turned towards me, unlocked their arms, smiled and motioned for me to walk between them. There was a calmness, almost an aura, around them that encouraged me to be trustworthy. I blew caution to the air and we became a threesome.
Peggy reminded me of Carol Burnett. Her short, dark hair, heavy lips , a mouthful of pearly white teeth and a twinkle in her eye, put me at ease. No mugger, no killer she. Angie was not as effervescent as Peggy but her warmth toasted me, let melted butter roll down my spine. We had no leader, no particular aim and walked straight ahead, keeping almost a cadence.
This was perfect as it was where I was headed anyhow, home. 7267 Pine Lake Dr. It didn’t look like my house except for the blue house numbers on the white tile on the stucco wall next to the oak door. With a friendly, ‘So long.’ I waved goodbye to Angie and Peggy. They joined arms again, stayed where they were. My front door didn’t creak for once. I looked again for the ladies and they had disappeared, maybe blown away by the slight wind.
Mail was on the foyer table, mail I had never seen. A yellow envelope with no return address looked like an invitation. It was the first, and last, one I opened. All it said in fancy, curlicue green was, ‘Come join us in the dining room. Peggy and Angie.’ Was I drunk, demented? Did someone slip a Mickey into my latte? I felt dizzy, disoriented yet followed instructions.
And there they were, Angie and Peggy were sitting at my Stickley cherry table. ‘How did you get in? Who are you?’ My mouth moved but I didn’t hear the words come out. Angie stood and lovingly ran her hands over the table top. She caressed it as if it were her child, said ‘DON’T’ and sat down again. Peggy went over to the hutch, took off an old and cracked turkey platter that my mother used once a year. I never liked it but held on to it as a memory. ‘DON’T’ she said.
‘Ladies, all this old stuff of Stickley’s, the banquet table, eight chairs, hutch, cabinet are for sale. I’ve had enough of this old junk and now have an order in for a contemporary dining room, living room. Everything is going,’ I told these strangers and went on. ‘One neighbor has already offered me $1000 for just the table.’ Angie and Peggy cringed. ‘DON’T’ give away this treasure. You can get ½ million dollars for it. Don’t take it! Keep it for your grandchildren. By then it will be worth a million.’ And they were gone.
I woke from my dream, smarter than when I fell asleep. On the sidewalk, arm in arm, were Angie and Peggy. Peggy was smiling broadly, her white teeth bright. She pulled her ear and was gone.
My Stickley and the turkey platter will stick with me a long time.
Peggy reminded me of Carol Burnett. Her short, dark hair, heavy lips , a mouthful of pearly white teeth and a twinkle in her eye, put me at ease. No mugger, no killer she. Angie was not as effervescent as Peggy but her warmth toasted me, let melted butter roll down my spine. We had no leader, no particular aim and walked straight ahead, keeping almost a cadence.
This was perfect as it was where I was headed anyhow, home. 7267 Pine Lake Dr. It didn’t look like my house except for the blue house numbers on the white tile on the stucco wall next to the oak door. With a friendly, ‘So long.’ I waved goodbye to Angie and Peggy. They joined arms again, stayed where they were. My front door didn’t creak for once. I looked again for the ladies and they had disappeared, maybe blown away by the slight wind.
Mail was on the foyer table, mail I had never seen. A yellow envelope with no return address looked like an invitation. It was the first, and last, one I opened. All it said in fancy, curlicue green was, ‘Come join us in the dining room. Peggy and Angie.’ Was I drunk, demented? Did someone slip a Mickey into my latte? I felt dizzy, disoriented yet followed instructions.
And there they were, Angie and Peggy were sitting at my Stickley cherry table. ‘How did you get in? Who are you?’ My mouth moved but I didn’t hear the words come out. Angie stood and lovingly ran her hands over the table top. She caressed it as if it were her child, said ‘DON’T’ and sat down again. Peggy went over to the hutch, took off an old and cracked turkey platter that my mother used once a year. I never liked it but held on to it as a memory. ‘DON’T’ she said.
‘Ladies, all this old stuff of Stickley’s, the banquet table, eight chairs, hutch, cabinet are for sale. I’ve had enough of this old junk and now have an order in for a contemporary dining room, living room. Everything is going,’ I told these strangers and went on. ‘One neighbor has already offered me $1000 for just the table.’ Angie and Peggy cringed. ‘DON’T’ give away this treasure. You can get ½ million dollars for it. Don’t take it! Keep it for your grandchildren. By then it will be worth a million.’ And they were gone.
I woke from my dream, smarter than when I fell asleep. On the sidewalk, arm in arm, were Angie and Peggy. Peggy was smiling broadly, her white teeth bright. She pulled her ear and was gone.
My Stickley and the turkey platter will stick with me a long time.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
WHO’S AFRAID OF ----?
Isn’t everyone afraid of something, some things? If not, you can’t join my club. Right now at 3 a.m. I am lying in bed, afraid to get up without a first line to start my writing day. How nervous I am thinking maybe I am finished, dried up, blocked forever, but this is nothing compared to my really, really big fear.
How or when my world changed I can’t imagine as I used to love to lie on the grass, watch the white fluffy clouds, see Santa Claus, a wolf chasing a cat. Every gust of wind was as wonderful and inspiring as going to a museum. Often I took my art pad with me and sketched what I saw. And then the sky vanished, went so high I could no longer look upwards, can no longer look at a tall building from the pavement to the roof. Looking down is fine but not up. A psychoanalyst might, after my padding his pockets, believe he knows what happened but I decided long ago to just not look to the point of pain, and have saved a lot of money.
On a visit to the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiori (the Duomo) in Florence, Italy, I regretted my being a skinflint. There were 20 strangers on my tour, all of us anxious to see as much as we could. Wherever we stopped, I kept our guide’s red parasol in sight but she had to lower it to go in the cathedral. We were one group out of maybe twenty, with guides speaking many languages. Within a few minutes of going in to the candlelit, marble building, I panicked. The guide was out of my sight and the dome was in it. Everyone was looking up, gaping, gawking at its size, its beauty, and I couldn’t look. Just watching every one else looking churned my stomach. I was about to either faint or vomit. Head down, eyes glued to the large marble blocks in the floor, I blindly reached the door we had come in, sat down on the steps, from which an officer chased me. I was sweating ice cubes but could not go back inside. With little alternative, I paced, watched the bronze door as group after group came out while others went in. Mine must have died inside. A half hour dragged by. In an hour hackles were growing on my back. Either my group went out the wrong door or I did. Taking the blame on myself, I started to walk to the bus parking lot but all the buses were the same color and I recognized noone and noone called my name. Dirty alleys, run down houses, crooked streets. I was lost. With very little Italian money in my purse I couldn’t stop a cab and if I did, my fear had erased the name of my hotel. Blisters were on every toe. Fear fed my pain.
And then I saw in the distance the cathedral spires. Bells were chiming, announcing sunset or my funeral. There, there, a red parasol and somebody sitting on the steps holding it. It was my Mother Theresa, my Savior. She ran towards me. I hobbled towards her. Oh, yes, she was angry. Oh, yes I apologized over and over.
In my hotel room I turned on the 25 watt lamp, looked in the cloudy mirror and scolded myself for being such a stupid person who now is more afraid of looking up than ever.
The flight home was long, tiring but beautiful as I looked down at the clouds, the ocean. Back in my USA I’ve made an important decision and an appointment with a psychologist. I’m not afraid. I’m doing it.
How or when my world changed I can’t imagine as I used to love to lie on the grass, watch the white fluffy clouds, see Santa Claus, a wolf chasing a cat. Every gust of wind was as wonderful and inspiring as going to a museum. Often I took my art pad with me and sketched what I saw. And then the sky vanished, went so high I could no longer look upwards, can no longer look at a tall building from the pavement to the roof. Looking down is fine but not up. A psychoanalyst might, after my padding his pockets, believe he knows what happened but I decided long ago to just not look to the point of pain, and have saved a lot of money.
On a visit to the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiori (the Duomo) in Florence, Italy, I regretted my being a skinflint. There were 20 strangers on my tour, all of us anxious to see as much as we could. Wherever we stopped, I kept our guide’s red parasol in sight but she had to lower it to go in the cathedral. We were one group out of maybe twenty, with guides speaking many languages. Within a few minutes of going in to the candlelit, marble building, I panicked. The guide was out of my sight and the dome was in it. Everyone was looking up, gaping, gawking at its size, its beauty, and I couldn’t look. Just watching every one else looking churned my stomach. I was about to either faint or vomit. Head down, eyes glued to the large marble blocks in the floor, I blindly reached the door we had come in, sat down on the steps, from which an officer chased me. I was sweating ice cubes but could not go back inside. With little alternative, I paced, watched the bronze door as group after group came out while others went in. Mine must have died inside. A half hour dragged by. In an hour hackles were growing on my back. Either my group went out the wrong door or I did. Taking the blame on myself, I started to walk to the bus parking lot but all the buses were the same color and I recognized noone and noone called my name. Dirty alleys, run down houses, crooked streets. I was lost. With very little Italian money in my purse I couldn’t stop a cab and if I did, my fear had erased the name of my hotel. Blisters were on every toe. Fear fed my pain.
And then I saw in the distance the cathedral spires. Bells were chiming, announcing sunset or my funeral. There, there, a red parasol and somebody sitting on the steps holding it. It was my Mother Theresa, my Savior. She ran towards me. I hobbled towards her. Oh, yes, she was angry. Oh, yes I apologized over and over.
In my hotel room I turned on the 25 watt lamp, looked in the cloudy mirror and scolded myself for being such a stupid person who now is more afraid of looking up than ever.
The flight home was long, tiring but beautiful as I looked down at the clouds, the ocean. Back in my USA I’ve made an important decision and an appointment with a psychologist. I’m not afraid. I’m doing it.
Friday, June 12, 2009
WINTER WIND
I found a handwritten copy of this in a suitcase I haven't used for a few years, remember writing it in Balto. and reading it to my son as an example of what I do. He was driving me to the airport to come back to FL. I also recall putting it into my computer and sending it to others but don't see it in my documents. Do you recall reading it? In any case, I'll count it for today's story.
Gray is such a sad color most of the time but today I eagerly await the heavy December sky and fall in love when it drops thousands, millions of white snowflakes on my city, my house, my hair. Fingers stiffen, turn red. No longer blue, I cease to be an American flag. There is a snowman yet to be born who waits for me to put on my woolen gloves, make a snowball, roll it round and round my once green lawn. His belly gets bigger and bigger, too large for me to push further than the side of my front steps. Another handful of white flakes, rolled round to the perfect size I can lift and plunk down on my new friend’s body. My heart pounds, is over worked.
Inside my house a tingling warmth gives me the chance to fill a plastic bag with a long, orange carrot, two pieces of black string licorice left from Trick or Treat night and two glittery colored stones (treasures of mine stored in the garage). A felt hat, no longer worn, is pulled from my carton of give away clothes and outside I go.
The snowman waits, bare of face, void of lips. As I stick the carrot in the frozen top ball he starts to breathe. The black licorice opens his mouth and he says, ‘Hi, Mom!’ One stone in place, silence, but stone two lets him wink to me. He sees me, I see him and we are friends until one day soon the sun will come out.
I know without asking he feels naked and cover his bald head with my big floppy hat. He stands there, still stoic, sad to see me go back in the house to rest, fix hot chocolate, but I must. It’s still snowing, the wind is blowing, my age is showing. Looking out the window I am sad as this snowman will be the last one this 90 year old lady makes. Already his hat has blown away and I can’t chase it. Before long we will both disappear.
Perhaps we’ll meet again some bitter cold nite at the North Pole. I’m going to sleep now, worn out but content and looking forward to my flight to the Pole.
Gray is such a sad color most of the time but today I eagerly await the heavy December sky and fall in love when it drops thousands, millions of white snowflakes on my city, my house, my hair. Fingers stiffen, turn red. No longer blue, I cease to be an American flag. There is a snowman yet to be born who waits for me to put on my woolen gloves, make a snowball, roll it round and round my once green lawn. His belly gets bigger and bigger, too large for me to push further than the side of my front steps. Another handful of white flakes, rolled round to the perfect size I can lift and plunk down on my new friend’s body. My heart pounds, is over worked.
Inside my house a tingling warmth gives me the chance to fill a plastic bag with a long, orange carrot, two pieces of black string licorice left from Trick or Treat night and two glittery colored stones (treasures of mine stored in the garage). A felt hat, no longer worn, is pulled from my carton of give away clothes and outside I go.
The snowman waits, bare of face, void of lips. As I stick the carrot in the frozen top ball he starts to breathe. The black licorice opens his mouth and he says, ‘Hi, Mom!’ One stone in place, silence, but stone two lets him wink to me. He sees me, I see him and we are friends until one day soon the sun will come out.
I know without asking he feels naked and cover his bald head with my big floppy hat. He stands there, still stoic, sad to see me go back in the house to rest, fix hot chocolate, but I must. It’s still snowing, the wind is blowing, my age is showing. Looking out the window I am sad as this snowman will be the last one this 90 year old lady makes. Already his hat has blown away and I can’t chase it. Before long we will both disappear.
Perhaps we’ll meet again some bitter cold nite at the North Pole. I’m going to sleep now, worn out but content and looking forward to my flight to the Pole.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
DO UNTO OTHERS
He’s going to get me. I know he is. I can feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. But I’m ready, ready to give him a run for his money.I’ve got a few slick tricks of my own that will get him off my tail.
It’s cold out. Ice is on the sidewalks. The streets are slushy. I walk cautiously but get splashed and slip in the middle of the street. My scream reaches him I am sure yet I sense him backing off. Two men who I had noticed walking hand in hand stop, help me up. Nothing is broken. I am okay.
Santa, a much too skinny Santa, rings his bell. His thin, shrill voice blows away in the wind. ‘Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas!’ In gratitude for not being killed I take a five dollar bill from my purse and drop it in the black kettle. I don’t stay to watch if it stays there or goes slyly into a pocket of his too big suit. Trick #1 and I can breathe a little easier.
Macy’s walls are bulging but that doesn’t stop me. I still have a few gifts to get. Easy pickings on the first floor. Passion eau de toilette for Jane and a rhinestone cross on a silver chain for Molly. On the way to the escalator I, and others, see a little girl, no more than 3 years old, wandering around alone. Nobody cares–except me. Baby tears run down her cheeks. I am the first to reach her, hold her hand, give her a hug. ‘What’s your name?’ I ask. ‘Suzy.’ ‘Do you know your other name?’ ‘No, It’s too hard.’ I’m worried about this blond angel, wonder why her mother didn’t teach her not to go with strangers. ‘Let’s go over to that pretty lady behind the counter. She has a phone and I’ll have her find your mommie. She must be looking all over for you. We’ll find her.’ Suzy stoops crying when her mother’s voice rings out from the intercom system. ‘Suzy, stay with the nice lady who found you.’ Mother and wandering daughter are united. I buy her a child’s bracelet made of papier mache’ and wave good-bye. My follower is not around. Trick 2.
In the Woman’s over-size department my eyes spot a stack of V neck sweaters, XL. In the middle is a lavender one, Mabel’s favorite color. A fatsybumbalatze woman takes off the first 4 sweaters and is about to take the only lavender, when I grab it like my life depended on my having it. Wow! What a dirty look I get! I snottily take it to the cashier and give the angry lady the finger. Damn, I was good. My face starts to get warm. My hair accumulates electricity, crackles.
I am about done and head for the down escalator. A line to go downstairs? Yikes. I spent so much time with the little girl, I might miss the 8:30 bus back to Hanover. With no apologies I fake a limp, hold my packages close to my body, and get right on.
The automatic exit door opens and I step out into the refreshing cold air, but am not cold. There is a fire behind me. Something is burning. It’s red and it’s not another Santa Claus. This person, this thing, has black eyes and claws instead of hands. The ‘it’ has a tail and it is out to get me.
Across the busy street is the Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church. I aim for it. The traffic light is against me. I dart in and out. Horns honk. The red thing is catching up to me. I step over the curb, kneel down on the cold sidewalk. My packages scatter. Molly’s gift just about jumps in my hand. I hold the cross to my heart and the red thing goes up in smoke. Inside the beautiful church , I light a candle, put a $10 bill in the contribution box, sit down in the back row and give thanks, pray the only way I know,
‘Shema, Israel, Adenoi, Elohanyu....Trick 3
It’s cold out. Ice is on the sidewalks. The streets are slushy. I walk cautiously but get splashed and slip in the middle of the street. My scream reaches him I am sure yet I sense him backing off. Two men who I had noticed walking hand in hand stop, help me up. Nothing is broken. I am okay.
Santa, a much too skinny Santa, rings his bell. His thin, shrill voice blows away in the wind. ‘Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas!’ In gratitude for not being killed I take a five dollar bill from my purse and drop it in the black kettle. I don’t stay to watch if it stays there or goes slyly into a pocket of his too big suit. Trick #1 and I can breathe a little easier.
Macy’s walls are bulging but that doesn’t stop me. I still have a few gifts to get. Easy pickings on the first floor. Passion eau de toilette for Jane and a rhinestone cross on a silver chain for Molly. On the way to the escalator I, and others, see a little girl, no more than 3 years old, wandering around alone. Nobody cares–except me. Baby tears run down her cheeks. I am the first to reach her, hold her hand, give her a hug. ‘What’s your name?’ I ask. ‘Suzy.’ ‘Do you know your other name?’ ‘No, It’s too hard.’ I’m worried about this blond angel, wonder why her mother didn’t teach her not to go with strangers. ‘Let’s go over to that pretty lady behind the counter. She has a phone and I’ll have her find your mommie. She must be looking all over for you. We’ll find her.’ Suzy stoops crying when her mother’s voice rings out from the intercom system. ‘Suzy, stay with the nice lady who found you.’ Mother and wandering daughter are united. I buy her a child’s bracelet made of papier mache’ and wave good-bye. My follower is not around. Trick 2.
In the Woman’s over-size department my eyes spot a stack of V neck sweaters, XL. In the middle is a lavender one, Mabel’s favorite color. A fatsybumbalatze woman takes off the first 4 sweaters and is about to take the only lavender, when I grab it like my life depended on my having it. Wow! What a dirty look I get! I snottily take it to the cashier and give the angry lady the finger. Damn, I was good. My face starts to get warm. My hair accumulates electricity, crackles.
I am about done and head for the down escalator. A line to go downstairs? Yikes. I spent so much time with the little girl, I might miss the 8:30 bus back to Hanover. With no apologies I fake a limp, hold my packages close to my body, and get right on.
The automatic exit door opens and I step out into the refreshing cold air, but am not cold. There is a fire behind me. Something is burning. It’s red and it’s not another Santa Claus. This person, this thing, has black eyes and claws instead of hands. The ‘it’ has a tail and it is out to get me.
Across the busy street is the Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church. I aim for it. The traffic light is against me. I dart in and out. Horns honk. The red thing is catching up to me. I step over the curb, kneel down on the cold sidewalk. My packages scatter. Molly’s gift just about jumps in my hand. I hold the cross to my heart and the red thing goes up in smoke. Inside the beautiful church , I light a candle, put a $10 bill in the contribution box, sit down in the back row and give thanks, pray the only way I know,
‘Shema, Israel, Adenoi, Elohanyu....Trick 3
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
LITTLE THINGS-BIG THINGS
The two young ladies over there are not deaf mutes. They are shapely, attractive, happy. It’s a little late for breakfast, a tad early for lunch. Nobody is in a hurry. Service is lax. Across from my table for two, holding just me, is a pantomime show. A blond with a wide rounded low neckline is unconcerned (most likely enjoys) showing a lot of soft white flesh, of tempting men to look her way as they pass. Her posture in the bold plaid lunch booth is erect yet simultaneously relaxed. She wears a black cotton short set, unadorned of any frivolity. Even I, as a woman, can’t help noticing her the smooth symmetry of her shapely legs half way under the table. One leg crosses the other, making a swing for her new black flip flops.
The woman across from her, undoubtedly a friend forever, has almost blond hair, overly permed to kink. Her dress is an unusual combination of olive and blue in a soothing, soft pattern. It all becomes her olive complexion. Each lady has pierced ears, displaying tiny earrings of silver, or maybe tin. They are too small to identify from where I watch. Truthfully, I would not have noticed at all if I had something better to do at the time.
One talks as the other watches her face, her emotions and smiles. The other anxiously, but silently, waits her turn. Their arms flail wildly with excitement. And damn it, I can’t hear a word they are saying because I lost my hearing aid this morning. I am tensely beside myself, positive I wore both most of yesterday, hustling, bustling, trying to help in small ways the third service man Comcast has sent to my apartment. I must have my t.v. ready for the big change next week. New wires into 26 year old outlets do not work. I may have to live in the Dark Ages and skip the 8 channels of HBO.
Half of my hearing aid is exactly where I put it every night. That spot on my dressing table is my altar. 1 ½ were there today. The clear, tiny tube that connects with the battery came apart and disappeared. I search the deep carpets on my hands and knees, feeling every inch, seeing every spot with my high intensity lamp reaching into corners, even trash cans. Oh, it is here, but has holed up out of my sight. I panic to the nth degree, fear flies into my soul. This won’t help me find the treasure. To take my mind off my temporary disability I go for a short ride to Netty’s lunch room.
Easily I seat myself, look around, see the two enchanting ladies and order french toast. A burly customer walks in, notices the table behind me has three adults and 4 small children, all of whom he doesn’t want to be near. He chooses a table for four right beside my two. I could have asked him to sit with me, but it didn’t come to mind. My order arrives quickly. The stranger lightly taps his water glass to attract my attention. I see him glance my way. Looking directly at me he says, ‘Netty makes great french toast, doesn’t she?’ To my knowledge there is no Netty but I don’t want to spoil his illusion and reply, ‘Yes, she does. That’s why I ordered it but today it happens to be lousy.’
Thanks to the T.V. blasting in front of us, pretty soon we are in a hot and heavy political conversation. His voice is deep and quite clear as long as he faces me. We lose interest in our food, are simpatico on everything. He and his wife agree on nothing. Both of us order third cups of decaf. The room is almost full and our waitress is antsy. We surrender, relinquish our tables .
I had become so engrossed in politics, I hadn’t noticed the two ladies who had stimulated my attention had left. Mr Big, Strong Stalwart and I had not even introduced ourselves. I have no idea of his name and don’t care. Unknowingly he has served a purpose. I also forgot about my dilemma, pay my check and go looking for my car on the now packed lot. Of course, I know the general area and am confident I’ll go right to it. I don’t. I click my trusty do-everything-key and listen for the beep beep, see the back lights flicker. I see nor hear anything. Maybe my key is broken. At last I see my car, click to open it but it isn’t mine. I try the next row and see the lights flash but hear no sound even though I am less than 3 feet away. Instantly, I slide back into my deep blue funk. Safely home, unsuccessfully re-do my high intensity lamp search. Down trodden, frightened, I climb into bed, switch on the T.V. and set it at its highest volume. My neighbor bangs on our wall. I lower the sound just a little and softly tell her to go to hell.
I wake at 6 a.m., the T.V. is repeating last night’s news. By 9:30 the technician will replace the ½ of my hearing aid and I will have survived It all goes as I figured it would. Fast, no charge and I drive home, open the door, walk into my uncluttered office, slip off my shoes and step on something that shouldn’t be on the carpet.
Yes, it IS the missing piece of my hearing aid. The next thing I add to my list of things to do today–or maybe tomorrow— is call my opthamologist just in case my eyesight is going too.
The woman across from her, undoubtedly a friend forever, has almost blond hair, overly permed to kink. Her dress is an unusual combination of olive and blue in a soothing, soft pattern. It all becomes her olive complexion. Each lady has pierced ears, displaying tiny earrings of silver, or maybe tin. They are too small to identify from where I watch. Truthfully, I would not have noticed at all if I had something better to do at the time.
One talks as the other watches her face, her emotions and smiles. The other anxiously, but silently, waits her turn. Their arms flail wildly with excitement. And damn it, I can’t hear a word they are saying because I lost my hearing aid this morning. I am tensely beside myself, positive I wore both most of yesterday, hustling, bustling, trying to help in small ways the third service man Comcast has sent to my apartment. I must have my t.v. ready for the big change next week. New wires into 26 year old outlets do not work. I may have to live in the Dark Ages and skip the 8 channels of HBO.
Half of my hearing aid is exactly where I put it every night. That spot on my dressing table is my altar. 1 ½ were there today. The clear, tiny tube that connects with the battery came apart and disappeared. I search the deep carpets on my hands and knees, feeling every inch, seeing every spot with my high intensity lamp reaching into corners, even trash cans. Oh, it is here, but has holed up out of my sight. I panic to the nth degree, fear flies into my soul. This won’t help me find the treasure. To take my mind off my temporary disability I go for a short ride to Netty’s lunch room.
Easily I seat myself, look around, see the two enchanting ladies and order french toast. A burly customer walks in, notices the table behind me has three adults and 4 small children, all of whom he doesn’t want to be near. He chooses a table for four right beside my two. I could have asked him to sit with me, but it didn’t come to mind. My order arrives quickly. The stranger lightly taps his water glass to attract my attention. I see him glance my way. Looking directly at me he says, ‘Netty makes great french toast, doesn’t she?’ To my knowledge there is no Netty but I don’t want to spoil his illusion and reply, ‘Yes, she does. That’s why I ordered it but today it happens to be lousy.’
Thanks to the T.V. blasting in front of us, pretty soon we are in a hot and heavy political conversation. His voice is deep and quite clear as long as he faces me. We lose interest in our food, are simpatico on everything. He and his wife agree on nothing. Both of us order third cups of decaf. The room is almost full and our waitress is antsy. We surrender, relinquish our tables .
I had become so engrossed in politics, I hadn’t noticed the two ladies who had stimulated my attention had left. Mr Big, Strong Stalwart and I had not even introduced ourselves. I have no idea of his name and don’t care. Unknowingly he has served a purpose. I also forgot about my dilemma, pay my check and go looking for my car on the now packed lot. Of course, I know the general area and am confident I’ll go right to it. I don’t. I click my trusty do-everything-key and listen for the beep beep, see the back lights flicker. I see nor hear anything. Maybe my key is broken. At last I see my car, click to open it but it isn’t mine. I try the next row and see the lights flash but hear no sound even though I am less than 3 feet away. Instantly, I slide back into my deep blue funk. Safely home, unsuccessfully re-do my high intensity lamp search. Down trodden, frightened, I climb into bed, switch on the T.V. and set it at its highest volume. My neighbor bangs on our wall. I lower the sound just a little and softly tell her to go to hell.
I wake at 6 a.m., the T.V. is repeating last night’s news. By 9:30 the technician will replace the ½ of my hearing aid and I will have survived It all goes as I figured it would. Fast, no charge and I drive home, open the door, walk into my uncluttered office, slip off my shoes and step on something that shouldn’t be on the carpet.
Yes, it IS the missing piece of my hearing aid. The next thing I add to my list of things to do today–or maybe tomorrow— is call my opthamologist just in case my eyesight is going too.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
AN IMPLANT
The rare sound of a car pulling into my driveway eight in the evening alerts me. My doors are locked, no first floor windows are open, and still a slight shiver goes down my spine. With a single click on the switch near the door, the outside, front and back, look like Christmas without the colored bulbs. An unfamiliar blue sedan, several large dents on the driver’s side, increase my anxiety.
The rumpled driver gets out. His slightly disheveled hair is too long. He carries a black and tan suitcase in each hand. Jim, my wayward son, is back! I am in no hurry to welcome him. With the toe of his shoe he knocks on the door. Slowly, reluctantly I let him in. He gives me a smile a cheery ‘hello’ and a slobbering kiss on the cheek, followed by ‘How are you, Ma?’
What he says next I expect. ‘Ma, I need you. I need a place to stay for a while, me and Barbara. Wait, I’ll go get her. I am struck mute. In comes Barbara, carrying a bag of what looks like groceries. She’s fairly pretty, about 20, shoeless, wearing jeans. Her ample breasts are bound in a yellow too tight T shirt. We walk into the kitchen where I offer them cold drinks and refills. It takes a few minutes before Jim gets enough courage to ask more of me. I sit gathering courage to turn him down. ‘Ma, give us a few weeks. I’ve pretty much got a job at a Camry dealership sewed up. You know I can sell sand to Arabs.’
My previously applied ‘tough love’ wavers, but not completely. ‘Two weeks, Jim, not a day longer, job or no job, you and Barbara go. Now listen closely. This is how it will be or it will not be at all: I will fix dinners for all three of us to eat together, will not wash your clothes nor clean you room. Either you keep my home the way I do or you both are O U T. I will give you $10 a day, $10 I can ill afford to squander. You are to use it wisely. Do you both agree?’ They both nod ‘yes.’ I write my rules on a legal yellow pad and we all sign, making the Judge Judy contract viable.
In the morning I feign sleep, wait to hear them drive away. There are two washed but not dried cereal bowls on the table and a ½ empty carton of milk getting warmer by the minute. Strike one! My small chores done, a little gardening, a shower and a lunch time snack lead me next to the super market where I stock up for a week. We all eat a hearty, tasty meat ball and spaghetti dinner. I know better than to serve any wine. I ask questions, get unsatisfactory answers. Every day is the same. I silently wonder where they go, what they do.
Finally I ask, ‘ Jim, what about that car salesman job?’ ‘I’m workin’ on it, Ma.’ Jim, you and Barbara have two days left. ‘Where have you gotten money for lunch, for gas?’ No reply.’ ‘Don’t ask for more, Jim, you aren’t going to get it.’
Day 13, 9 a.m. I go to take the trash cans and recycle bins to the curb and darn near faint. Jim’s car is not in the driveway but right in the middle of my lawn is a big, fiery red, old fashioned bathtub on claw feet. Oddly its edges look as if they are finished off with molded plastic, making curly cued patterns so noone can sit on it. It is ghastly. Neighbors will complain. A police officer will make me remove it. I rush inside, upstairs and without knocking on Jim’s door start yelling. They are not here. The bed is made and on it a letter: ‘Ma, thought you’d like the bathtub. It hardly cost anything. It will look great if you fill it with red geraniums. Thanks for your hospitality. I’m on my way to sell Camrys in Trenton. See you some day. Jim.’
Over and over I tell myself that I was a good mother, that I still am a good mother, but constant doubts destroy the image. As soon as the garden shop opens, I drive over, get a price to fill the tub with fertile soil and red geraniums, tall enough to be seen from the street. The owner and I agree and sign a contract. I tend those flowers like new-born infants, just the way I cared for Jim, warmly, tenderly. When fall breaths the first touch of winter on my babies, I’ll uproot them, let the snow and hail pack down the soil.
Spring will come and I’ll turn the soil, plant new red geraniums, ever watching for a Camry salesman, a special Camry salesman, to come back and stay longer.
The rumpled driver gets out. His slightly disheveled hair is too long. He carries a black and tan suitcase in each hand. Jim, my wayward son, is back! I am in no hurry to welcome him. With the toe of his shoe he knocks on the door. Slowly, reluctantly I let him in. He gives me a smile a cheery ‘hello’ and a slobbering kiss on the cheek, followed by ‘How are you, Ma?’
What he says next I expect. ‘Ma, I need you. I need a place to stay for a while, me and Barbara. Wait, I’ll go get her. I am struck mute. In comes Barbara, carrying a bag of what looks like groceries. She’s fairly pretty, about 20, shoeless, wearing jeans. Her ample breasts are bound in a yellow too tight T shirt. We walk into the kitchen where I offer them cold drinks and refills. It takes a few minutes before Jim gets enough courage to ask more of me. I sit gathering courage to turn him down. ‘Ma, give us a few weeks. I’ve pretty much got a job at a Camry dealership sewed up. You know I can sell sand to Arabs.’
My previously applied ‘tough love’ wavers, but not completely. ‘Two weeks, Jim, not a day longer, job or no job, you and Barbara go. Now listen closely. This is how it will be or it will not be at all: I will fix dinners for all three of us to eat together, will not wash your clothes nor clean you room. Either you keep my home the way I do or you both are O U T. I will give you $10 a day, $10 I can ill afford to squander. You are to use it wisely. Do you both agree?’ They both nod ‘yes.’ I write my rules on a legal yellow pad and we all sign, making the Judge Judy contract viable.
In the morning I feign sleep, wait to hear them drive away. There are two washed but not dried cereal bowls on the table and a ½ empty carton of milk getting warmer by the minute. Strike one! My small chores done, a little gardening, a shower and a lunch time snack lead me next to the super market where I stock up for a week. We all eat a hearty, tasty meat ball and spaghetti dinner. I know better than to serve any wine. I ask questions, get unsatisfactory answers. Every day is the same. I silently wonder where they go, what they do.
Finally I ask, ‘ Jim, what about that car salesman job?’ ‘I’m workin’ on it, Ma.’ Jim, you and Barbara have two days left. ‘Where have you gotten money for lunch, for gas?’ No reply.’ ‘Don’t ask for more, Jim, you aren’t going to get it.’
Day 13, 9 a.m. I go to take the trash cans and recycle bins to the curb and darn near faint. Jim’s car is not in the driveway but right in the middle of my lawn is a big, fiery red, old fashioned bathtub on claw feet. Oddly its edges look as if they are finished off with molded plastic, making curly cued patterns so noone can sit on it. It is ghastly. Neighbors will complain. A police officer will make me remove it. I rush inside, upstairs and without knocking on Jim’s door start yelling. They are not here. The bed is made and on it a letter: ‘Ma, thought you’d like the bathtub. It hardly cost anything. It will look great if you fill it with red geraniums. Thanks for your hospitality. I’m on my way to sell Camrys in Trenton. See you some day. Jim.’
Over and over I tell myself that I was a good mother, that I still am a good mother, but constant doubts destroy the image. As soon as the garden shop opens, I drive over, get a price to fill the tub with fertile soil and red geraniums, tall enough to be seen from the street. The owner and I agree and sign a contract. I tend those flowers like new-born infants, just the way I cared for Jim, warmly, tenderly. When fall breaths the first touch of winter on my babies, I’ll uproot them, let the snow and hail pack down the soil.
Spring will come and I’ll turn the soil, plant new red geraniums, ever watching for a Camry salesman, a special Camry salesman, to come back and stay longer.
Monday, June 8, 2009
THE LAST ANGRY WOMAN
OXI CLEAN ! OXI CLEAN ! I can’t stand that drummer. Not only does his style, his shouting, offend me, his overly blackened hair and beard need shearing like a Merino sheep in July. I don’t know the man’s name as the second I even see Oxi Clean, my nerves jangle, my index finger hits the mute button and I take time for a loo trip or a java. Sometimes I console myself with a humongous bowl of pecan chocolate ice cream, on top of which I pour thick fudge. You laugh at me because you know what I know. He is in great demand. Sponsors are pleading with the new millionaire + to take their money. He’s rich and my finger grows shorter daily.
I boil over at the necessary t.v. interruptions. Who is fool enough to call in to 1-800 476-5457 to order the crappy wooden boxes that slide under the bed, hold 12 pairs of shoes, 6 large purses, sundry scarfs at the low, low price of $12.95? AND IF you call in during the next 7 ½ minutes, you will receive 2 of the boxes and a calculator . I do not feel tempted and even if I were, thank goodness my bed is on a pedestal and even dust doesn’t go under it.
Comes the little gecko, blabbering away with I think an Aussie accent. I did call Geico once, in spite of my detestation of the squirmy little beast. All I got was an animated ‘ Hi, there. Let us help you. Please speak or use your telephone pad for your responses. Thank you.’ I enjoy hearing my own voice once in a while and take that route. Reading from my current car insurance, I state all they want to know. I wait to get at least a $300 lower per year policy cost. Not so, not so at all. Geico was $350 more than what I pay now. The run around little gecko turned out to be Big–a big faking liar. (Faking is spelled wrong.)
Meeting Ron this morning may be the one to send me over the wall. His 1 hour spiel on his wondrous knives hypnotized me, held me spellbound in disbelief. There isn’t a knife made that he doesn’t offer, knives I’ve never seen, heard of, dozens of them. Each is guaranteed for life never to dull. After only ½ hour of dribble, I realize his guarantee, in my case, isn’t much of an offer as I might not even get thru the rest of his push. ‘But wait. There is more!’ With the boning knife, I will send you, free, 4 sharp steak knives, plus a paring knife. And what is the price? Right! $13.33 + S.H, in three easy payments. ‘Wait, there is more. If you tell a friend about my offer, I will send you a complete set of 25 knives as a gift.’ Every time he stops his action with ‘Wait. There is more!’ My mind turns in circles. Not that I want to but I cannot keep up with him. As I stab him with his favorite carving knife, I catch a few words, ‘Wait. I am going to repeat my offers in case you missed something.’
There is a large audience, applauding, giving testimonials. Let them wait for Ron. I DIDN’T!
I boil over at the necessary t.v. interruptions. Who is fool enough to call in to 1-800 476-5457 to order the crappy wooden boxes that slide under the bed, hold 12 pairs of shoes, 6 large purses, sundry scarfs at the low, low price of $12.95? AND IF you call in during the next 7 ½ minutes, you will receive 2 of the boxes and a calculator . I do not feel tempted and even if I were, thank goodness my bed is on a pedestal and even dust doesn’t go under it.
Comes the little gecko, blabbering away with I think an Aussie accent. I did call Geico once, in spite of my detestation of the squirmy little beast. All I got was an animated ‘ Hi, there. Let us help you. Please speak or use your telephone pad for your responses. Thank you.’ I enjoy hearing my own voice once in a while and take that route. Reading from my current car insurance, I state all they want to know. I wait to get at least a $300 lower per year policy cost. Not so, not so at all. Geico was $350 more than what I pay now. The run around little gecko turned out to be Big–a big faking liar. (Faking is spelled wrong.)
Meeting Ron this morning may be the one to send me over the wall. His 1 hour spiel on his wondrous knives hypnotized me, held me spellbound in disbelief. There isn’t a knife made that he doesn’t offer, knives I’ve never seen, heard of, dozens of them. Each is guaranteed for life never to dull. After only ½ hour of dribble, I realize his guarantee, in my case, isn’t much of an offer as I might not even get thru the rest of his push. ‘But wait. There is more!’ With the boning knife, I will send you, free, 4 sharp steak knives, plus a paring knife. And what is the price? Right! $13.33 + S.H, in three easy payments. ‘Wait, there is more. If you tell a friend about my offer, I will send you a complete set of 25 knives as a gift.’ Every time he stops his action with ‘Wait. There is more!’ My mind turns in circles. Not that I want to but I cannot keep up with him. As I stab him with his favorite carving knife, I catch a few words, ‘Wait. I am going to repeat my offers in case you missed something.’
There is a large audience, applauding, giving testimonials. Let them wait for Ron. I DIDN’T!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A WHIFF
My nose is long. Strangers turn their head in disbelief. Close relatives do their best to unobtrusively avert their eyes at holiday gatherings. They talk to the back of my head. I’m not happy about their inability to look into my face but accept it, am used to it since I was a child. They are unaware that my misfortune is my fortune and I am lucky in a way they can never be.
A simple, solitary walk in the park is an experience. Each tree, whether standing alone or in a forest, has it’s own odor. The sycamores, oaks, maples, weeping willows are my friends. Their arms wave ‘hello’, welcome me to sit in their shade. Sometimes they turn towards the sky and pray for rain. We know together rain is on the way. I smell it coming. The maple’s long feet tingle in the dry soil, unwilling to die. Its wait is almost over.
The strong oak smells of urine. Dogs love to stop there, get relief and then chase a squirrel up into the orange and brown fading leaves. The yelping dogs make the tree shake with laughter at their inability to run as fast as such a tiny, fast toy.
I smell it well before I see it. A couple, sitting on a wooden bench, are sharing a huge Subway salami sandwich. It has pickles, golden mustard and chopped onions. Its smell entices me. As I pass them, they glance at me and I am aware they have noticed my nose. They quickly look away, put their attention on their leaking sandwich. I smile at them, wave and tell them how good the salami smells.
Peanuts. I smell peanuts. My path winds and there are the peanuts and the pigeons and a kind elderly lady strewing them, still in their shells, as far as she can. The birds peck and peck, are not afraid of me and don’t mind my nosy nose at all. A few more blocks and I get a whiff of the delicious aroma of my green manicured lawn. It curls into my nostrils, twitches, commands that I sneeze. I give it freedom. Kleenex is useless. Quickly I pull my overly large trusty red bandana from my rear pocket, dry my sopping face.
Mother opens the front door and the smell of snapper frying quickens my step. She tells me to wash up. Dinner is just about ready. Mom doesn’t notice my nose, probably hasn’t since I was two when she must have thought the rest of my face would grow around my nose. My nose had a big head start and remained the leader.
I go upstairs, turn, look behind me and all I smell is ME. The fish smells better.
A simple, solitary walk in the park is an experience. Each tree, whether standing alone or in a forest, has it’s own odor. The sycamores, oaks, maples, weeping willows are my friends. Their arms wave ‘hello’, welcome me to sit in their shade. Sometimes they turn towards the sky and pray for rain. We know together rain is on the way. I smell it coming. The maple’s long feet tingle in the dry soil, unwilling to die. Its wait is almost over.
The strong oak smells of urine. Dogs love to stop there, get relief and then chase a squirrel up into the orange and brown fading leaves. The yelping dogs make the tree shake with laughter at their inability to run as fast as such a tiny, fast toy.
I smell it well before I see it. A couple, sitting on a wooden bench, are sharing a huge Subway salami sandwich. It has pickles, golden mustard and chopped onions. Its smell entices me. As I pass them, they glance at me and I am aware they have noticed my nose. They quickly look away, put their attention on their leaking sandwich. I smile at them, wave and tell them how good the salami smells.
Peanuts. I smell peanuts. My path winds and there are the peanuts and the pigeons and a kind elderly lady strewing them, still in their shells, as far as she can. The birds peck and peck, are not afraid of me and don’t mind my nosy nose at all. A few more blocks and I get a whiff of the delicious aroma of my green manicured lawn. It curls into my nostrils, twitches, commands that I sneeze. I give it freedom. Kleenex is useless. Quickly I pull my overly large trusty red bandana from my rear pocket, dry my sopping face.
Mother opens the front door and the smell of snapper frying quickens my step. She tells me to wash up. Dinner is just about ready. Mom doesn’t notice my nose, probably hasn’t since I was two when she must have thought the rest of my face would grow around my nose. My nose had a big head start and remained the leader.
I go upstairs, turn, look behind me and all I smell is ME. The fish smells better.
LADIES OF THE DAY
With my next two ‘Ask Sylvia’ columns for the Boston Traveler put to bed, approved, today’s gift of luxurious freedom lightens my step, allows me to make spontaneous choices. The first one clobbers me. On my side of Revere Street I notice Val’s. It sings a song to me, ‘Come on in, Forget the din. Be at ease, Come in please.’ A handsome young man, surely dressed in an Armani suit, opens the heavy glass door for me. Six people are in a loose line waiting to be seated. The Maitre ‘d speaks softly to the Wurzburgers and leads the couple to a lovely table next to the central fountain.
Not being a total stranger here, nor a regular, I am patient, let my eyes wander over the many autographed photos of well known diners who habituate Val’s. A threesome of two ladies and an elderly gentleman follow the first couple. This leaves a smart looking woman, about 30, wearing extremely high heels with ankle straps, a huge Coach avocado colored leather bag over her shoulders that almost over- shadows her slender body. The simple bodice, low cut, is dark brown with no adornments. She and I make eye contact. She speaks to me first. ‘I hate to eat alone. Perhaps you’d like to join me.’ I graciously accept and offer her my hand. ‘My name is Sylvia. Yes, eating alone can be lonely.’ ‘My name is Val, not the Val from this place but plain Val from New York.’ I instantly like her. The maitre ‘d is gracious and sits us close to the fountain. He’s no dummy. Two singles at a table for 2 is better than two singles at separate tables.
Magic begins to work. Val and I are instant new ‘old friends,’ She talks, I listen. I talk, she listens. I hold back telling her about my column, that I am well known in Boston. Val spurts out her past. She is in the theater, was in a revival of ‘Oklahoma’ three years ago and had a helluva good time doing ‘Mama Mia, last season. ‘Oh, yes, ‘I was in ‘Hairspray’, the lead dancer in 2001.’ I am impressed but it is my turn. ‘Do you read ‘The Boston Traveler’?’ Val says she has little time for reading, gets the current news on line. ‘Well, Val, pick one up and look for ‘Ask Sylvia’ on the page next to the comics. That’s my daily column. I’ve been doing this for five years and have a lot of readers.’ I can see questions forming in Val’s mind for me, questions I don’t want to hear.
There is a rock on Val’s left hand, ring finger, that must be five carats. It sparkles as the fountain lights caress it. Simple, definitely 18 carat gold earrings almost touch her shoulders. You don’t earn money for these baubles as bit players. I come right out and ask her what she does when she isn’t on the stage. ‘This and that. I keep busy.’ Hmnn.
My delicious veal picatta is no longer on my plate, nor is anything else. Val calls the waiter over and asks for two glasses of Valpolicella, her favorite wine. No wonder. It is chilled, fruity, a bit dry and has her name on every bottle. We split the check . I thank Val for inviting me to sit with her. ‘Let’s get together again soon. Here’s my card, Val.’ She does not give me one of hers. We walk to the glass door and I notice an elderly gentleman finishing lunch. He’s almost bald and paunchy. As we ‘girls’ pass his table he winks boldly at Val and whispers something. Val nods a yes to him.
Foolish though my thinking must be, I get a funny feeling about Val’s work, go home and start my search of the web. I list the shows and dates in NY that she said she was in, go over all cast members and find no Val. Call me a Prude. Call me old fashioned. Call me hasty, but I am not going to meet her again even if she calls me. What I may do is write myself a letter (incognito), change the circumstances somewhat and see what my readers think of me keeping my standards high. The Boston Traveler is now up to 75cents per daily copy on the street.
Buy one Monday and reply. I am in dire need of assurance that I am right.
Not being a total stranger here, nor a regular, I am patient, let my eyes wander over the many autographed photos of well known diners who habituate Val’s. A threesome of two ladies and an elderly gentleman follow the first couple. This leaves a smart looking woman, about 30, wearing extremely high heels with ankle straps, a huge Coach avocado colored leather bag over her shoulders that almost over- shadows her slender body. The simple bodice, low cut, is dark brown with no adornments. She and I make eye contact. She speaks to me first. ‘I hate to eat alone. Perhaps you’d like to join me.’ I graciously accept and offer her my hand. ‘My name is Sylvia. Yes, eating alone can be lonely.’ ‘My name is Val, not the Val from this place but plain Val from New York.’ I instantly like her. The maitre ‘d is gracious and sits us close to the fountain. He’s no dummy. Two singles at a table for 2 is better than two singles at separate tables.
Magic begins to work. Val and I are instant new ‘old friends,’ She talks, I listen. I talk, she listens. I hold back telling her about my column, that I am well known in Boston. Val spurts out her past. She is in the theater, was in a revival of ‘Oklahoma’ three years ago and had a helluva good time doing ‘Mama Mia, last season. ‘Oh, yes, ‘I was in ‘Hairspray’, the lead dancer in 2001.’ I am impressed but it is my turn. ‘Do you read ‘The Boston Traveler’?’ Val says she has little time for reading, gets the current news on line. ‘Well, Val, pick one up and look for ‘Ask Sylvia’ on the page next to the comics. That’s my daily column. I’ve been doing this for five years and have a lot of readers.’ I can see questions forming in Val’s mind for me, questions I don’t want to hear.
There is a rock on Val’s left hand, ring finger, that must be five carats. It sparkles as the fountain lights caress it. Simple, definitely 18 carat gold earrings almost touch her shoulders. You don’t earn money for these baubles as bit players. I come right out and ask her what she does when she isn’t on the stage. ‘This and that. I keep busy.’ Hmnn.
My delicious veal picatta is no longer on my plate, nor is anything else. Val calls the waiter over and asks for two glasses of Valpolicella, her favorite wine. No wonder. It is chilled, fruity, a bit dry and has her name on every bottle. We split the check . I thank Val for inviting me to sit with her. ‘Let’s get together again soon. Here’s my card, Val.’ She does not give me one of hers. We walk to the glass door and I notice an elderly gentleman finishing lunch. He’s almost bald and paunchy. As we ‘girls’ pass his table he winks boldly at Val and whispers something. Val nods a yes to him.
Foolish though my thinking must be, I get a funny feeling about Val’s work, go home and start my search of the web. I list the shows and dates in NY that she said she was in, go over all cast members and find no Val. Call me a Prude. Call me old fashioned. Call me hasty, but I am not going to meet her again even if she calls me. What I may do is write myself a letter (incognito), change the circumstances somewhat and see what my readers think of me keeping my standards high. The Boston Traveler is now up to 75cents per daily copy on the street.
Buy one Monday and reply. I am in dire need of assurance that I am right.
SIGN HERE
On my desk, staring at me for close to a week is the insurance form to be completed for changing my car policy to another company. In the meantime, my new car is covered. The three pages look like a fire eating dragon that will consume me if I don’t put an X in a box, fill out my personal statistics. Way down, probably on page 2, I will be asked what I ate for breakfast, how much I weigh, where my next trip will take me. ‘Stop diddle daddling. Fill it out, send it in and be done with it,’ my mind insists.
From the right hand side of my desk, mentally labeled ‘mail stuff’ I remove a sheet of name/address labels. The daily surge of them annoys hell out of me. Charities from foreign countries, places in America that must be back with the mountain moonshiners are torn to bits, except once when I decided to put a few sheets in my small shredder. As soon as I switched it on, there was big trouble. It shook and shook as did I. When I did shut it off, the teeth were jammed because of the glue on the back of the labels. Almost an hour later, with five long fingernails broken to the quick, I cleared it out and haven’t used it since.
The labels I do keep must suit me perfectly. Any thing addressing me as Mr., rip, any without the extra 4 letter zip code, rip, any that add curlicue large initials or flowers on the end, rip. I also don’t hold on to those that are printed too lightly or are too small for me to read without my bi-focals. Two of the approved labels I use. One goes directly where my name and address are called for. The other goes on the envelope as return address. A cold Coke gets me moving to line 3.
Checks go in boxes for widowed, age over 60. ‘Employed’ elates me. With a red pen I fill in ‘Yes’ and under that I smile and add ‘WRITER.’Silly but rewarding even though I have yet to make a buck from it. My letters to the Editor get printed, most likely without the Editor having seen them. He gets paid, I don’t. Any traffic tickets? No. Any accident claims? No. Any drivers besides you? One. How long have you been driving? I check ‘ over 40 years. The phone interrupts my deep concentration. A stranger’s voice asks me to contribute to the Police Assn. I hang up and go back to my unfinished form.
Current health- ‘Please include a letter from your doctor.’ Whoa, this form may not go in for a month when perhaps my doctor will see my request. At this point I attach a pink-stick on–‘Letter from doctor unavailable at present. Just give me cost of insurance.’
Laugh time again. My red pen is ready. Present income. I check ’over 1 million p/y.’ Will the agent’s mouth drop? Will he wonder why I am applying for insurance on a $20000 Honda instead of a Rolls?
The application calls for my driver’s license #, my VIN and my Social Security number. Here I take control and will not give my Social Security number to them or anyone else. I sign and mail it.
You know what happens, don’t you? I wouldn’t give my Social Security number and they wouldn’t insure my car.
So be it! I quit and will stick with my old insurance company, pay too much a year, and bury it under my new big red hat.
From the right hand side of my desk, mentally labeled ‘mail stuff’ I remove a sheet of name/address labels. The daily surge of them annoys hell out of me. Charities from foreign countries, places in America that must be back with the mountain moonshiners are torn to bits, except once when I decided to put a few sheets in my small shredder. As soon as I switched it on, there was big trouble. It shook and shook as did I. When I did shut it off, the teeth were jammed because of the glue on the back of the labels. Almost an hour later, with five long fingernails broken to the quick, I cleared it out and haven’t used it since.
The labels I do keep must suit me perfectly. Any thing addressing me as Mr., rip, any without the extra 4 letter zip code, rip, any that add curlicue large initials or flowers on the end, rip. I also don’t hold on to those that are printed too lightly or are too small for me to read without my bi-focals. Two of the approved labels I use. One goes directly where my name and address are called for. The other goes on the envelope as return address. A cold Coke gets me moving to line 3.
Checks go in boxes for widowed, age over 60. ‘Employed’ elates me. With a red pen I fill in ‘Yes’ and under that I smile and add ‘WRITER.’Silly but rewarding even though I have yet to make a buck from it. My letters to the Editor get printed, most likely without the Editor having seen them. He gets paid, I don’t. Any traffic tickets? No. Any accident claims? No. Any drivers besides you? One. How long have you been driving? I check ‘ over 40 years. The phone interrupts my deep concentration. A stranger’s voice asks me to contribute to the Police Assn. I hang up and go back to my unfinished form.
Current health- ‘Please include a letter from your doctor.’ Whoa, this form may not go in for a month when perhaps my doctor will see my request. At this point I attach a pink-stick on–‘Letter from doctor unavailable at present. Just give me cost of insurance.’
Laugh time again. My red pen is ready. Present income. I check ’over 1 million p/y.’ Will the agent’s mouth drop? Will he wonder why I am applying for insurance on a $20000 Honda instead of a Rolls?
The application calls for my driver’s license #, my VIN and my Social Security number. Here I take control and will not give my Social Security number to them or anyone else. I sign and mail it.
You know what happens, don’t you? I wouldn’t give my Social Security number and they wouldn’t insure my car.
So be it! I quit and will stick with my old insurance company, pay too much a year, and bury it under my new big red hat.
ONE TINY THING
The cloudless sky above is a heavenly blue. A long white contrail splits it in half. The superjet’s roar is soundless. I know it is roaring but I hear it not. Somewhere up there angels and spirits are drifting to the comfort of eternity with long gone beloved ones. I see them not.
A baby boy dressed in a blue knit suit, blue knit beret, is strapped in his stroller. As his Nanny rides him toward me, I hear her tell him, ‘Make Hi, bobby.’ Bobby doesn’t want to. ‘Make bye-bye, Bobby.’ Bobby pulls his beret off his head and drops it on the ground. The nanny stops immediately, raises the front wheel just a bit, and retrieves the hat. ‘Bad boy, Bobby!’ The hat, soil and all, go right back on the child’s head.
Aw, a little girl holding a Fairy Queen lunch box in one hand and her mother with the other hurry toward the orange school bus waiting with its STOP sign clearly visible. A silver Subaru wants to make the traffic light ahead before it turns red and shoots forward, missing the little curly haired girl and her mother by inches. I am fast and jot down what I could see of the license number NJ515 and give it to the bus driver. She stuffs it in her pocket where it will probably rot and the foolhardy Subaru driver will never get the big ticket he deserves.
The bus pulls out without seeing two boys walking fast with their mother between them. They are not dressed alike but surely are twins, most likely in the first grade. One of the boys is angry, stamps his foot as he yells at the driver, ‘Come back, come back!’ ‘Mommie, now we can’t recite the Pledge to the Flag today. We practiced so hard , didn’t we?’ The twin on the right has tears in his eyes. Giving it only a moment’s thought, I tell the boys not to worry. ‘My car is across the street in the driveway. Mother, may I drive all of you to school? We’ll beat the bus.’ There is some doubt in the mother’s eyes but the smiles on her boys’ faces puts one on hers–and mine.
It was so easy doing such a small thing that I am walking on air the rest of the day. I am taking a vow to do at least one small nice thing for a stranger every day, which may turn out to be a whole week.
Ralph, my beloved husband will be home at his usual six. Ten of six he opens the door, grabs me in a tight bear hug, wraps one leg around my thighs and kisses me passionately. Is this my bonus for the small good deed I did today, I wonder.
Wow! I’m planning to call the school bus line and cancel bus #12 for the next two days. I’ll be making 8 trips each day and can only imagine, hope, Ralph gives me more bear hugs. If not, I won’t be shy but will give them to him.
A baby boy dressed in a blue knit suit, blue knit beret, is strapped in his stroller. As his Nanny rides him toward me, I hear her tell him, ‘Make Hi, bobby.’ Bobby doesn’t want to. ‘Make bye-bye, Bobby.’ Bobby pulls his beret off his head and drops it on the ground. The nanny stops immediately, raises the front wheel just a bit, and retrieves the hat. ‘Bad boy, Bobby!’ The hat, soil and all, go right back on the child’s head.
Aw, a little girl holding a Fairy Queen lunch box in one hand and her mother with the other hurry toward the orange school bus waiting with its STOP sign clearly visible. A silver Subaru wants to make the traffic light ahead before it turns red and shoots forward, missing the little curly haired girl and her mother by inches. I am fast and jot down what I could see of the license number NJ515 and give it to the bus driver. She stuffs it in her pocket where it will probably rot and the foolhardy Subaru driver will never get the big ticket he deserves.
The bus pulls out without seeing two boys walking fast with their mother between them. They are not dressed alike but surely are twins, most likely in the first grade. One of the boys is angry, stamps his foot as he yells at the driver, ‘Come back, come back!’ ‘Mommie, now we can’t recite the Pledge to the Flag today. We practiced so hard , didn’t we?’ The twin on the right has tears in his eyes. Giving it only a moment’s thought, I tell the boys not to worry. ‘My car is across the street in the driveway. Mother, may I drive all of you to school? We’ll beat the bus.’ There is some doubt in the mother’s eyes but the smiles on her boys’ faces puts one on hers–and mine.
It was so easy doing such a small thing that I am walking on air the rest of the day. I am taking a vow to do at least one small nice thing for a stranger every day, which may turn out to be a whole week.
Ralph, my beloved husband will be home at his usual six. Ten of six he opens the door, grabs me in a tight bear hug, wraps one leg around my thighs and kisses me passionately. Is this my bonus for the small good deed I did today, I wonder.
Wow! I’m planning to call the school bus line and cancel bus #12 for the next two days. I’ll be making 8 trips each day and can only imagine, hope, Ralph gives me more bear hugs. If not, I won’t be shy but will give them to him.
FINDING EACH OTHER
A visitor came into my bed last night, a most welcome one, albeit she is deceased at least forty years. Why did it take her so long? I don’t know but do know why she stopped by at last. My eyes were drooping and about to close. I was warm, comfortable, watching PBS, semi-engrossed in yet another pitch to order their CDs of the Big Bands of the 40s. 1940s? MY 1940's? Frankie, aged 18, sang to only me, ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’, Tex Beneke, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Harry James, played for 2 hours. Helen O’Connell, Patti Page, Peter Marshallsang. My toes tapped and I sang along, loudly, badly, smiling, even crying a little. I fell asleep without ordering any CDs.
The groups, the vocalists disappeared just as Miss Bresler entered my world, my life, my high school and the music room. Short, shorter than many tenth graders, she turned out to be the tallest of all. She was overweight but her bulges were corseted in. Her deep brown hair was marcelled into tiny flat waves, tight to her scalp. Brown pencil lines filled in her eyebrows. Deep red paint covered her thin red lips. Tiny black button eyes sparkled.
The large music room had no desks. 40 wooden chairs with uncomfortable ladder backs faced another 40 with only a piano, bench, a Victrola and Miss Bresler separating us. The talking, paper clip throwing stopped as soon as the bell rang and our teacher took center stage. Usually we were introduced via waxed recordings to Vivaldi, Strauss, Beethoven. I yawned a lot, learned a lot. Little Miss Bresler endeared herself to 80 students six times a day.
Try out time for the Glee Club and it was decreed that each student, row by row, would sing for Miss Bresler the first line of ‘My Country ‘tis of Thee.’ As she neared my row I uselessly looked for an escape route. Enough ’friends’ had told me many times, I can’t sing. My voice stinks. There was no choice and I did the best I could, shut my mouth and heard Miss Bresler announce in a voice heard round the room, ‘You are an alto. If you must sing, do so softly.’ Nobody else within three rows of me was an ‘alto’. Plague upon me. My adoration of my teacher turned to hatred–but not for long. Her spirit, total devotion to teaching music to us lunkheads was overpowering. Her school Glee Club won first place in the state competition three years in a row.
Graduation was nearing with almost daily music classes after school, all I sang silently. Miss Bresler always smiled a smile of gratitude towards me. Being an honor student, I was assigned a seat on stage, in the very front row, along with thirty others. When the students sitting in the front 15 rows of the audience sang, we 31 students stood, sang along with them. I still followed Miss Bresler’s suggestion and only moved my mouth. There was a somber piece of music about god the omnipresent that was too high for me even if I wanted to sing. Our closing song was a rousing ‘God Bless America’ and I went berserk. I could not restrain my joy, my enthusiasm, my patriotism and I sang with great gusto.
We orderly left the stage. My parents had their eyes on me, hugged me and told me I was the only one who sang with her eyes shining, head held high, pride flowing from my heart and lips. I could see busy Miss Bresler hurriedly trying to reach student, say goodbye, good luck. She reached me while my parents were still with me. ‘Your daughter is a gem. It was a pleasure having her in my class. You should be very proud of her.’ Perhaps she said the same thing to every parent, it didn’t matter. And so she disappeared from my life until she came to stay with me in my bed. What a treat I had, Tex Beneke, Tommy Dorsey and Miss Bresler in one long, but too short night. I’m going to watch PBS, maybe get to meet Carrol Burnett or Lucy, maybe order a CD.
At worst it will be Dick Holloway, the class jerk, the class clown. Beggars can’t be choosers.
The groups, the vocalists disappeared just as Miss Bresler entered my world, my life, my high school and the music room. Short, shorter than many tenth graders, she turned out to be the tallest of all. She was overweight but her bulges were corseted in. Her deep brown hair was marcelled into tiny flat waves, tight to her scalp. Brown pencil lines filled in her eyebrows. Deep red paint covered her thin red lips. Tiny black button eyes sparkled.
The large music room had no desks. 40 wooden chairs with uncomfortable ladder backs faced another 40 with only a piano, bench, a Victrola and Miss Bresler separating us. The talking, paper clip throwing stopped as soon as the bell rang and our teacher took center stage. Usually we were introduced via waxed recordings to Vivaldi, Strauss, Beethoven. I yawned a lot, learned a lot. Little Miss Bresler endeared herself to 80 students six times a day.
Try out time for the Glee Club and it was decreed that each student, row by row, would sing for Miss Bresler the first line of ‘My Country ‘tis of Thee.’ As she neared my row I uselessly looked for an escape route. Enough ’friends’ had told me many times, I can’t sing. My voice stinks. There was no choice and I did the best I could, shut my mouth and heard Miss Bresler announce in a voice heard round the room, ‘You are an alto. If you must sing, do so softly.’ Nobody else within three rows of me was an ‘alto’. Plague upon me. My adoration of my teacher turned to hatred–but not for long. Her spirit, total devotion to teaching music to us lunkheads was overpowering. Her school Glee Club won first place in the state competition three years in a row.
Graduation was nearing with almost daily music classes after school, all I sang silently. Miss Bresler always smiled a smile of gratitude towards me. Being an honor student, I was assigned a seat on stage, in the very front row, along with thirty others. When the students sitting in the front 15 rows of the audience sang, we 31 students stood, sang along with them. I still followed Miss Bresler’s suggestion and only moved my mouth. There was a somber piece of music about god the omnipresent that was too high for me even if I wanted to sing. Our closing song was a rousing ‘God Bless America’ and I went berserk. I could not restrain my joy, my enthusiasm, my patriotism and I sang with great gusto.
We orderly left the stage. My parents had their eyes on me, hugged me and told me I was the only one who sang with her eyes shining, head held high, pride flowing from my heart and lips. I could see busy Miss Bresler hurriedly trying to reach student, say goodbye, good luck. She reached me while my parents were still with me. ‘Your daughter is a gem. It was a pleasure having her in my class. You should be very proud of her.’ Perhaps she said the same thing to every parent, it didn’t matter. And so she disappeared from my life until she came to stay with me in my bed. What a treat I had, Tex Beneke, Tommy Dorsey and Miss Bresler in one long, but too short night. I’m going to watch PBS, maybe get to meet Carrol Burnett or Lucy, maybe order a CD.
At worst it will be Dick Holloway, the class jerk, the class clown. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Very Close to Emiss (The Truth)
* Israel is the only country in the world where one need not check the ingredients on the products in the supermarket to avoid ending up with things containing pork.
* Israel is a country where the same drivers who cuss you and flip you the bird will immediately pull over and offer you all forms of help if you look like you need it.
* Israel is the only country in the world with bus drivers and taxi drivers who read Spinoza and Maimonides.
* Israel is the only country in the world where no one cares what rules say when an important goal can be achieved by bending them.
* Israel is the only country in the world where reservists are bossed around and commanded by officers, male and female, younger than their own children.
* Israel is the only country in the world where "small talk" consists of loud, angry debate over politics and religion.
* Israel is the only country in the world where the coffee is already so good that Starbucks went bankrupt trying to break into the local market.
* Israel is one of the few places in the world where the sun sets into the Mediterranean Sea.
* Israel is the only country in the world whose soldiers eat three sets of salads a day, none of which contain any lettuce (which is not really a food), and where olives ARE a food and even a main course in a meal, rather than something one tosses into a martini.
* Israel is the only country in the world where one is unlikely to be able to dig a cellar without hitting ancient archaeological artefacts.
* Israel is the only country in the world where the leading writers in the country take buses.
* Israel is the only country in the world where the graffiti is in Hebrew.
* Israel is the only country in the world where the "black folks" walking around all wear yarmulkes.
* Israel is the only country in the world that has a National Book Week, during which almost everyone attends a book fair and buys books.
* Israel is the only country in the world where the ultra-Orthodox Jews beat up the police and not the other way around.
* Israel is the only country in the world where inviting someone "out for a drink" means drinking cola, coffee or tea.
* Israel is the only country in the world where bank robbers kiss the mezuzah as they leave with their loot.
* Israel is one of the few countries in the world that truly likes and admires the United States.
* Israel is the only country in the world that introduces applications of high-tech gadgets and devices, such as printers in banks that print out your statement on demand, years ahead of the United States and decades ahead of Europe.
* Israel is the only country in the world that has the weather and landscape of California without the earthquakes.
* Israel is the only country in the world where everyone on a flight gets to know one another before the plane lands. In many cases, they also get to know the pilot and all about his health or marital problems.
* Israel is the only country in the world where no one has a foreign accent because everyone has a foreign accent.
* Israel is the only country in the world where people cuss using dirty words in Russian or Arabic because Hebrew has never developed them.
* Israel is the only country in the world where patients visiting physicians end up giving the doctor advice.
* Israel is the only country in the world where everyone strikes up conversations while waiting in lines.
* Israel is the only country in the world where people call an attaché case a "James Bond" and the "@" sign is called a "strudel."
* Israel is the only country in the world where there is the most mysterious and mystical calm ambience in the streets on Yom Kippur, which cannot be explained unless you have experienced it.
* Sunsets in Jerusalem gorgeous every evening.
* Israel is the only country in the world where people read English, write Hebrew, and joke in Yiddish.
WHAT’S FOR LUNCH?
Eight men, poured from one mold, stand impatiently in front of the glass door. It is 7:01 A.M. Miltie bends down to the inside of the glass door and unlocks it. The eight men wait until he has backed away before proceeding to a table already set for them. Cheap looking flatwear is wrapped in eight napkins, placed on paper doilies with Militie’s name printed in one corner. One carafe of decaf coffee and one regular await the anxious eightsome. A basket of kaiser rolls, cream cheese and tiny cardboard containers of grape jelly give them snack time to set up foursomes before their orders, not yet given, are taken. Tuesday morning get togethers are as fulfilling as dinner at the Ritz.
To a man, the men are nattily dressed in Bermuda shorts, appropriately colored or patterned shirts. They go off the back nine 8:15 and 8:25, time enough to chew before swallowing. . Julie, the youngest ‘old’ waitress is quick on the finger. The orders are usually the same except they change who gets which. Everything is good. Schmaltz herring with sour cream, eggs over light with kasha, 3 orders of kippers with fried onions, French toast, the thick eggy kind, not burned, not raw, and pancakes extra thin or don’t bring them. Julie salutes and turns in the orders.
The men laugh, ridiculing other golfers, even themselves, tell jokes. Every Tuesday is fun time. Their laughter brings Miltie out of the kitchen. He squeezes a wooden chair next to Max at the end of the table, tells a dirty joke and the men guffaw. He tells another, replaces his chair and struts back to the kitchen.
Two young men, regular breakfast customers, arrive, sit wherever they want as all tables except one are still empty. They wear crisp white tennis shorts. Their legs bulge with muscles and their arms look like Popeye’s. For the last three years they have been club champs, with no close contenders in sight. Miltie, followed by Julie, greets the celebs. She takes their familiar order, two tomato juice, 2 bowls of Quaker oats with blueberry sauce and warm milk, 2 glasses of Evian. Sol, 76, at the golfers’ table, quietly remarks to Buddy, 77, ‘Health nuts. They think that is going to keep them alive forever.’
Workmen begin to form a line at the take out counter. Miltie handles the quick orders for coffee, bagels, cream cheese, an occasional cheese sandwich on rye. Regular customers seat themselves. Everything is as it should be–normal. The golfers, first in, are ready to pay their check when a loud alarm goes off and water starts pouring from the ceiling sprinklers. Chairs scrape, diners cover their heads with paper napkins, while semi-calm empties the shop. Fire engines clang, block the street, divert traffic. Damage is bad but could have been worse.
Outside Miltie stands near the curb, He sobs, wrenches his hands and waits for doom. Carlos, the cook, grabs him around his shoulders and cries with Miltie. ‘Boss, there was too much oil in the pans for the kippers. Some ran over, reached the gas burners and burst like fire works. Look, my hat is singed.’ ‘Carlos, it was an accident. You didn’t do it on purpose. You could have been badly burned. Don’t worry, Carlos, my insurance will cover everything and I’ll be re-opened in a few weeks. Stick around, the police may want to talk to you.’
‘Mr. Miltie, you have to find a new cook for when you open again. I’m not frying any more kippers, not making matzoh balls that customers say are too hard, too soft. Maybe Taco Bell can use me. They let help take home left overs and my kids will love that.’
The eight wet golfers and two semi-pro tennis players are going to miss Milties for a while they think... but by the next Tues. their loyalty flags. The two groups meet at Abie’s Bagel Emporium only two blocks from Miltie’s.
NOBODY ORDERS KIPPERS AND ONIONS !
To a man, the men are nattily dressed in Bermuda shorts, appropriately colored or patterned shirts. They go off the back nine 8:15 and 8:25, time enough to chew before swallowing. . Julie, the youngest ‘old’ waitress is quick on the finger. The orders are usually the same except they change who gets which. Everything is good. Schmaltz herring with sour cream, eggs over light with kasha, 3 orders of kippers with fried onions, French toast, the thick eggy kind, not burned, not raw, and pancakes extra thin or don’t bring them. Julie salutes and turns in the orders.
The men laugh, ridiculing other golfers, even themselves, tell jokes. Every Tuesday is fun time. Their laughter brings Miltie out of the kitchen. He squeezes a wooden chair next to Max at the end of the table, tells a dirty joke and the men guffaw. He tells another, replaces his chair and struts back to the kitchen.
Two young men, regular breakfast customers, arrive, sit wherever they want as all tables except one are still empty. They wear crisp white tennis shorts. Their legs bulge with muscles and their arms look like Popeye’s. For the last three years they have been club champs, with no close contenders in sight. Miltie, followed by Julie, greets the celebs. She takes their familiar order, two tomato juice, 2 bowls of Quaker oats with blueberry sauce and warm milk, 2 glasses of Evian. Sol, 76, at the golfers’ table, quietly remarks to Buddy, 77, ‘Health nuts. They think that is going to keep them alive forever.’
Workmen begin to form a line at the take out counter. Miltie handles the quick orders for coffee, bagels, cream cheese, an occasional cheese sandwich on rye. Regular customers seat themselves. Everything is as it should be–normal. The golfers, first in, are ready to pay their check when a loud alarm goes off and water starts pouring from the ceiling sprinklers. Chairs scrape, diners cover their heads with paper napkins, while semi-calm empties the shop. Fire engines clang, block the street, divert traffic. Damage is bad but could have been worse.
Outside Miltie stands near the curb, He sobs, wrenches his hands and waits for doom. Carlos, the cook, grabs him around his shoulders and cries with Miltie. ‘Boss, there was too much oil in the pans for the kippers. Some ran over, reached the gas burners and burst like fire works. Look, my hat is singed.’ ‘Carlos, it was an accident. You didn’t do it on purpose. You could have been badly burned. Don’t worry, Carlos, my insurance will cover everything and I’ll be re-opened in a few weeks. Stick around, the police may want to talk to you.’
‘Mr. Miltie, you have to find a new cook for when you open again. I’m not frying any more kippers, not making matzoh balls that customers say are too hard, too soft. Maybe Taco Bell can use me. They let help take home left overs and my kids will love that.’
The eight wet golfers and two semi-pro tennis players are going to miss Milties for a while they think... but by the next Tues. their loyalty flags. The two groups meet at Abie’s Bagel Emporium only two blocks from Miltie’s.
NOBODY ORDERS KIPPERS AND ONIONS !
PARADE OF PARADES
Twelve newly born ducklings waddle like drunken soldiers behind Mama Duck. The line is absurdly crooked. The mama is alert, ever turning her black and red feathered head to make sure all are accounted for. She stops now and then, touches a straying straggler with her beak and he gets closer to his sisters and brothers. Their path is thru luxurious green and yellow grass that almost swallows them. They search for insects for breakfast, insects I am glad are too small for me to see.
As they reach the street curb, Mama jumps down the few inches first, moves aside and lets the little ones do their best to jump from the mountain. A few tumble over, right them selves and go to the side until all are in the road. I can almost see them grow as they go to investigate the bricks and the monsters coming towards them. A line of cars, drivers going to work, to the golf course, idle in the street. Not one horn honks. Mama Duck stands stoically in the middle of the road, making sounds I cannot hear. Her children come as fast as they can, line up behind her and move to safety.
Where is she taking them? I know but the babies don’t. They watch the big duck tail and where it goes, they follow while I bring up the rear. The goal is in sight–the Atlantic Ocean. First the tiny webbed feet must be strong enough to conquer a big slope full of weeds and burrs. Undaunted they go, disappearing in the tall grass. Mama Duck waits, going back and forth, maybe counting, to be sure no duckling is left behind. Amazing, absolutely amazing, the twelve ducklings reach the edge of the motionless lake. They follow their leader to a spot where the grass and water almost touch. Mama wades into the water and is afloat. She moves in small circles, watching her children wait there for her to come back. For her the climb back to the group looks easy. What makes her select one of the brood over another is a puzzle but she does and almost pushes the duckling into the water. It miraculously floats, tiny feet moving constantly. The eleven follow and make a circle. Mama paddles out, breaks the circle into a crooked line and they head for the other shore. They are brave, dip their heads into the water, maybe find tiny, tiny fish to swallow. At last they get across but the slope up is too great a challenge. Mama Duck soundlessly tells them ‘Follow me, Kids!’ The all hug the edge of the lake until Mama comes to a narrow path of moist earth. The babies manage to make it and are off on another adventure.
You don’t have to believe me, but I swear those ducklings gained weight, grew taller, walked with more confidence than when I first saw their parade a short hour ago. Maybe Mama Duck sees what I see, too, but isn’t yet convinced. Her babies follow her. She prods them, leads them to another road where she plants herself in the middle and traffic stops while the parade doesn’t get rained on and all make it across.
MAMA DUCK. I SALUTE YOU !
As they reach the street curb, Mama jumps down the few inches first, moves aside and lets the little ones do their best to jump from the mountain. A few tumble over, right them selves and go to the side until all are in the road. I can almost see them grow as they go to investigate the bricks and the monsters coming towards them. A line of cars, drivers going to work, to the golf course, idle in the street. Not one horn honks. Mama Duck stands stoically in the middle of the road, making sounds I cannot hear. Her children come as fast as they can, line up behind her and move to safety.
Where is she taking them? I know but the babies don’t. They watch the big duck tail and where it goes, they follow while I bring up the rear. The goal is in sight–the Atlantic Ocean. First the tiny webbed feet must be strong enough to conquer a big slope full of weeds and burrs. Undaunted they go, disappearing in the tall grass. Mama Duck waits, going back and forth, maybe counting, to be sure no duckling is left behind. Amazing, absolutely amazing, the twelve ducklings reach the edge of the motionless lake. They follow their leader to a spot where the grass and water almost touch. Mama wades into the water and is afloat. She moves in small circles, watching her children wait there for her to come back. For her the climb back to the group looks easy. What makes her select one of the brood over another is a puzzle but she does and almost pushes the duckling into the water. It miraculously floats, tiny feet moving constantly. The eleven follow and make a circle. Mama paddles out, breaks the circle into a crooked line and they head for the other shore. They are brave, dip their heads into the water, maybe find tiny, tiny fish to swallow. At last they get across but the slope up is too great a challenge. Mama Duck soundlessly tells them ‘Follow me, Kids!’ The all hug the edge of the lake until Mama comes to a narrow path of moist earth. The babies manage to make it and are off on another adventure.
You don’t have to believe me, but I swear those ducklings gained weight, grew taller, walked with more confidence than when I first saw their parade a short hour ago. Maybe Mama Duck sees what I see, too, but isn’t yet convinced. Her babies follow her. She prods them, leads them to another road where she plants herself in the middle and traffic stops while the parade doesn’t get rained on and all make it across.
MAMA DUCK. I SALUTE YOU !
Monday, June 1, 2009
Want to hear a great story?
I heard this from a good source and it checks out with snopes.com
The South Bronx in 1950 was the home of a large and thriving community, predominantly Jewish. In the 1950s the Bronx offered synagogues, mikvas, kosher bakeries, and kosher butchers - all the comforts one would expect from an observant Orthodox Jewish community.
The baby boom of the postwar years happily resulted in many new young parents. As a matter of course, the South Bronx had its own baby equipment store, Sickser's.
Sickser's was located on the corner of Westchester and Fox, and specialized in "everything for the baby" as its slogan ran. The inventory began with cribs, baby carriages, playpens, high chairs, changing tables, and toys. It went way beyond these to everything a baby could want or need. Mr. Sickser, assisted by his son-in-law Lou Kirshner, ran a profitable business out of the needs of the rapidly expanding child population. The language of the store was primarily Yiddish, but Sickser's was a place where not only Jewish families but also many non-Jewish ones could acquire the necessary for their newly arrived bundles of joy.
Business was particularly busy one spring day, so much so that Mr. Sickser and his son-in-law could not handle the unexpected throng of customers. Desperate for help, Mr. Sickser ran out of the store and stopped the first youth he spotted on the street. "Young man," he panted, "how would you like to make a little extra money? I need some help in the store. You want to work a little?"
The tall, lanky black boy flashed a toothy smile back. "Yes, sir, I'd like some work." "Well then, let's get started."
The boy followed his new employer into the store. Mr. Sickser was immediately impressed with the boy's good manners and demeanor.
As the days went by and he came again and again to lend his help, Mr. Sickser and Lou both became increasingly impressed with the youth's diligence, punctuality, and readiness to learn.
Eventually Mr. Sickser made him a regular employee at the store. It was gratifying to find an employee with an almost soldier-like willingness to perform even the most menial of tasks, and to perform them well.
From the age of thirteen until his sophomore year in college, this young man put in from twelve to fifteen hours a week, at 50 to 75 cents an hour. Mostly, he performed general labor: assembling merchandise, unloading trucks and preparing items for shipments. He seemed, in his quiet way, to appreciate not only the steady employment but also the friendly atmosphere Mr.Sickser's store offered.
Mr. Sickser and Lou learned in time about their helper's Jamaican origins, and he in turn picked up a good deal of Yiddish.
In time the young man was able to converse fairly well with his employers,and more importantly, with a number of the Jewish customers whose English was not fluent. At the age of seventeen, the young man, while still working part-time at Sickser's, began his first semester at City College of New York. He fit in just fine with his, for the most part Jewish classmates, hardly surprising, considering that he already knew their ways and their language.
But the heavy studying in the engineering and, later, geology courses he chose proved quite challenging. The young man would later recall that Sickser's offered the one stable point in his life those days.
In 1993, in his position as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, two years after he guided the American victory over Iraq in the Gulf War, General Colin Powell visited the Holy Land. Upon meeting Israel's Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir in Jerusalem, he greeted the Israeli with the words "Men kent reden Yiddish." (We can speak Yiddish).
As Shamir, stunned, tried to pull himself together, the then Secretary Of State continued chatting in his second-favorite language. Colin Powell never forgot his early days working at Sickser's.
I read on snopes.com that Powell is not entirely fluent in Yiddish. However, when he took to the stage at the American Israel Public Affairs Committee conference in Washington at one point, he made it clear that he believed he was among friends. He had even been rumoured to be fluent in Yiddish. "Well, yes, I do understand a bissel" (i.e., "a little"), he said to laughter. Even if Powell knows but a few words of Yiddish, it's one more admirable facet of a man who has led a varied and distinguished life in the service of his country.
The South Bronx in 1950 was the home of a large and thriving community, predominantly Jewish. In the 1950s the Bronx offered synagogues, mikvas, kosher bakeries, and kosher butchers - all the comforts one would expect from an observant Orthodox Jewish community.
The baby boom of the postwar years happily resulted in many new young parents. As a matter of course, the South Bronx had its own baby equipment store, Sickser's.
Sickser's was located on the corner of Westchester and Fox, and specialized in "everything for the baby" as its slogan ran. The inventory began with cribs, baby carriages, playpens, high chairs, changing tables, and toys. It went way beyond these to everything a baby could want or need. Mr. Sickser, assisted by his son-in-law Lou Kirshner, ran a profitable business out of the needs of the rapidly expanding child population. The language of the store was primarily Yiddish, but Sickser's was a place where not only Jewish families but also many non-Jewish ones could acquire the necessary for their newly arrived bundles of joy.
Business was particularly busy one spring day, so much so that Mr. Sickser and his son-in-law could not handle the unexpected throng of customers. Desperate for help, Mr. Sickser ran out of the store and stopped the first youth he spotted on the street. "Young man," he panted, "how would you like to make a little extra money? I need some help in the store. You want to work a little?"
The tall, lanky black boy flashed a toothy smile back. "Yes, sir, I'd like some work." "Well then, let's get started."
The boy followed his new employer into the store. Mr. Sickser was immediately impressed with the boy's good manners and demeanor.
As the days went by and he came again and again to lend his help, Mr. Sickser and Lou both became increasingly impressed with the youth's diligence, punctuality, and readiness to learn.
Eventually Mr. Sickser made him a regular employee at the store. It was gratifying to find an employee with an almost soldier-like willingness to perform even the most menial of tasks, and to perform them well.
From the age of thirteen until his sophomore year in college, this young man put in from twelve to fifteen hours a week, at 50 to 75 cents an hour. Mostly, he performed general labor: assembling merchandise, unloading trucks and preparing items for shipments. He seemed, in his quiet way, to appreciate not only the steady employment but also the friendly atmosphere Mr.Sickser's store offered.
Mr. Sickser and Lou learned in time about their helper's Jamaican origins, and he in turn picked up a good deal of Yiddish.
In time the young man was able to converse fairly well with his employers,and more importantly, with a number of the Jewish customers whose English was not fluent. At the age of seventeen, the young man, while still working part-time at Sickser's, began his first semester at City College of New York. He fit in just fine with his, for the most part Jewish classmates, hardly surprising, considering that he already knew their ways and their language.
But the heavy studying in the engineering and, later, geology courses he chose proved quite challenging. The young man would later recall that Sickser's offered the one stable point in his life those days.
In 1993, in his position as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, two years after he guided the American victory over Iraq in the Gulf War, General Colin Powell visited the Holy Land. Upon meeting Israel's Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir in Jerusalem, he greeted the Israeli with the words "Men kent reden Yiddish." (We can speak Yiddish).
As Shamir, stunned, tried to pull himself together, the then Secretary Of State continued chatting in his second-favorite language. Colin Powell never forgot his early days working at Sickser's.
I read on snopes.com that Powell is not entirely fluent in Yiddish. However, when he took to the stage at the American Israel Public Affairs Committee conference in Washington at one point, he made it clear that he believed he was among friends. He had even been rumoured to be fluent in Yiddish. "Well, yes, I do understand a bissel" (i.e., "a little"), he said to laughter. Even if Powell knows but a few words of Yiddish, it's one more admirable facet of a man who has led a varied and distinguished life in the service of his country.
PARADE OF PARADES
Twelve newly born ducklings waddle like drunken soldiers behind Mama Duck. The line is absurdly crooked. The mama is alert, ever turning her black and red feathered head to make sure all are accounted for. She stops now and then, touches a straying straggler with her beak and he gets closer to his sisters and brothers. Their path is thru luxurious green and yellow grass that almost swallows them. They search for insects for breakfast, insects I am glad are too small for me to see.
As they reach the street curb, Mama jumps down the few inches first, moves aside and lets the little ones do their best to jump from the mountain. A few tumble over, right them selves and go to the side until all are in the road. I can almost see them grow as they go to investigate the bricks and the monsters coming towards them. A line of cars, drivers going to work, to the golf course, idle in the street. Not one horn honks. Mama Duck stands stoically in the middle of the road, making sounds I cannot hear. Her children come as fast as they can, line up behind her and move to safety.
Where is she taking them? I know but the babies don’t. They watch the big duck tail and where it goes, they follow while I bring up the rear. The goal is in sight–the Atlantic Ocean. First the tiny webbed feet must be strong enough to conquer a big slope full of weeds and burrs. Undaunted they go, disappearing in the tall grass. Mama Duck waits, going back and forth, maybe counting, to be sure no duckling is left behind. Amazing, absolutely amazing, the twelve ducklings reach the edge of the motionless lake. They follow their leader to a spot where the grass and water almost touch. Mama wades into the water and is afloat. She moves in small circles, watching her children wait there for her to come back. For her the climb back to the group looks easy. What makes her select one of the brood over another is a puzzle but she does and almost pushes the duckling into the water. It miraculously floats, tiny feet moving constantly. The eleven follow and make a circle. Mama paddles out, breaks the circle into a crooked line and they head for the other shore. They are brave, dip their heads into the water, maybe find tiny, tiny fish to swallow. At last they get across but the slope up is too great a challenge. Mama Duck soundlessly tells them ‘Follow me, Kids!’ The all hug the edge of the lake until Mama comes to a narrow path of moist earth. The babies manage to make it and are off on another adventure.
You don’t have to believe me, but I swear those ducklings gained weight, grew taller, walked with more confidence than when I first saw their parade a short hour ago. Maybe Mama Duck sees what I see, too, but isn’t yet convinced. Her babies follow her. She prods them, leads them to another road where she plants herself in the middle and traffic stops while the parade doesn’t get rained on and all make it across.
MAMA DUCK. I SALUTE YOU !
As they reach the street curb, Mama jumps down the few inches first, moves aside and lets the little ones do their best to jump from the mountain. A few tumble over, right them selves and go to the side until all are in the road. I can almost see them grow as they go to investigate the bricks and the monsters coming towards them. A line of cars, drivers going to work, to the golf course, idle in the street. Not one horn honks. Mama Duck stands stoically in the middle of the road, making sounds I cannot hear. Her children come as fast as they can, line up behind her and move to safety.
Where is she taking them? I know but the babies don’t. They watch the big duck tail and where it goes, they follow while I bring up the rear. The goal is in sight–the Atlantic Ocean. First the tiny webbed feet must be strong enough to conquer a big slope full of weeds and burrs. Undaunted they go, disappearing in the tall grass. Mama Duck waits, going back and forth, maybe counting, to be sure no duckling is left behind. Amazing, absolutely amazing, the twelve ducklings reach the edge of the motionless lake. They follow their leader to a spot where the grass and water almost touch. Mama wades into the water and is afloat. She moves in small circles, watching her children wait there for her to come back. For her the climb back to the group looks easy. What makes her select one of the brood over another is a puzzle but she does and almost pushes the duckling into the water. It miraculously floats, tiny feet moving constantly. The eleven follow and make a circle. Mama paddles out, breaks the circle into a crooked line and they head for the other shore. They are brave, dip their heads into the water, maybe find tiny, tiny fish to swallow. At last they get across but the slope up is too great a challenge. Mama Duck soundlessly tells them ‘Follow me, Kids!’ The all hug the edge of the lake until Mama comes to a narrow path of moist earth. The babies manage to make it and are off on another adventure.
You don’t have to believe me, but I swear those ducklings gained weight, grew taller, walked with more confidence than when I first saw their parade a short hour ago. Maybe Mama Duck sees what I see, too, but isn’t yet convinced. Her babies follow her. She prods them, leads them to another road where she plants herself in the middle and traffic stops while the parade doesn’t get rained on and all make it across.
MAMA DUCK. I SALUTE YOU !
A HARD SALE
Mama’s angry at me, again. Three times I told her I’m sorry but she closed her eyes and mind. She’s going to tell Daddy that I was not supposed to go down the water slide and I went anyhow. That was bad enough, but my new bathing suit got caught on a piece of metal and the seat tore right down the middle. I had to hold it closed while I ran to the dressing room. I thought Mama would at least be glad I wasn’t cut to shreds but she didn’t mention it.
‘Mama, please can I go to the park Saturday with Alice? Her father is taking her and Lisa. Please. I’ll tell you a secret, Mama, if you let me go. It’s important.’ Mama keeps on peeling onions and her eyes are burning. ‘Don’t bother me with children’s secrets. Don’t you see how bad you make me feel? Look, I’m crying.’ Mama must think I’m three years old and don’t know the onions, not me, make her cry. ‘Never mind. If you don’t want to know what I know, you’ll be sorry.’
I go outside to look for Alice but don’t see her. It’s hot. If I hadn’t torn my new bathing suit, I’d be jumping rope with the hose turned on, getting soaked and cool. Cathy walks by. ‘Hi, Cathy. Want to come down my cellar and play Fish with me? It’s nice and cool down there.’ We play two games and she wins them both. ‘ Cathy, I have a secret. My mother won’t let me tell it to her. Can I tell you?’ Cathy says, ‘No’ so I keep quiet. We play 5 more games and I lose all of them. My whole day makes me angry, makes me sad. ‘I hear my mother fixing supper and I had better go to help her.’ I’m not going to but I was tired of losing and fibbed a little.
‘Mama, I’m really sorry I didn’t listen to you and then tore my bathing suit. If I tell you my secret, will you buy me a new one?’ The onions are finished. Without even looking at me she starts on the potatoes. I don’t let up. ‘Mama my secret is important, you should know. What an ugly look she gives me. ‘If you don’t listen to me, Mama, I am going over to tell Alice’s mother the secret. She’s always nice to me.’ ‘Go tell her. I know you won’t because you never do what I tell you. Drink your milk!’.I drink my milk, finish supper and try one more time. ‘I’m going now. You told me to go, so I’m going.’
Instead I go to see Mrs. Oland. ‘Is Mildred home?’ ‘No, Honey, she went to the drugstore with her father. They are getting a quart of rocky road ice cream. Would you like to stay and have some with us?’ ‘Yes, I would, but I came over to tell you a secret. My mother wouldn’t let me tell her and it’s important. You have to know. ‘Yesterday Mildred and I were playing wall ball and Jerry and Harvey came over, pushed Mildred down and made her take off her panties. Then they stood there and laughed at her. I was so scared, I ran away. Will you tell Mildred when she comes home that I am sorry I left her?’
Mrs. Oland thanks me for telling her, gives me a Hershey bar with almonds and best of all, she hugs me, doesn’t want to let go. That was the best thing that happened to me since yesterday.
The next best thing is I don’t have to keep the secret any more.
‘Mama, please can I go to the park Saturday with Alice? Her father is taking her and Lisa. Please. I’ll tell you a secret, Mama, if you let me go. It’s important.’ Mama keeps on peeling onions and her eyes are burning. ‘Don’t bother me with children’s secrets. Don’t you see how bad you make me feel? Look, I’m crying.’ Mama must think I’m three years old and don’t know the onions, not me, make her cry. ‘Never mind. If you don’t want to know what I know, you’ll be sorry.’
I go outside to look for Alice but don’t see her. It’s hot. If I hadn’t torn my new bathing suit, I’d be jumping rope with the hose turned on, getting soaked and cool. Cathy walks by. ‘Hi, Cathy. Want to come down my cellar and play Fish with me? It’s nice and cool down there.’ We play two games and she wins them both. ‘ Cathy, I have a secret. My mother won’t let me tell it to her. Can I tell you?’ Cathy says, ‘No’ so I keep quiet. We play 5 more games and I lose all of them. My whole day makes me angry, makes me sad. ‘I hear my mother fixing supper and I had better go to help her.’ I’m not going to but I was tired of losing and fibbed a little.
‘Mama, I’m really sorry I didn’t listen to you and then tore my bathing suit. If I tell you my secret, will you buy me a new one?’ The onions are finished. Without even looking at me she starts on the potatoes. I don’t let up. ‘Mama my secret is important, you should know. What an ugly look she gives me. ‘If you don’t listen to me, Mama, I am going over to tell Alice’s mother the secret. She’s always nice to me.’ ‘Go tell her. I know you won’t because you never do what I tell you. Drink your milk!’.I drink my milk, finish supper and try one more time. ‘I’m going now. You told me to go, so I’m going.’
Instead I go to see Mrs. Oland. ‘Is Mildred home?’ ‘No, Honey, she went to the drugstore with her father. They are getting a quart of rocky road ice cream. Would you like to stay and have some with us?’ ‘Yes, I would, but I came over to tell you a secret. My mother wouldn’t let me tell her and it’s important. You have to know. ‘Yesterday Mildred and I were playing wall ball and Jerry and Harvey came over, pushed Mildred down and made her take off her panties. Then they stood there and laughed at her. I was so scared, I ran away. Will you tell Mildred when she comes home that I am sorry I left her?’
Mrs. Oland thanks me for telling her, gives me a Hershey bar with almonds and best of all, she hugs me, doesn’t want to let go. That was the best thing that happened to me since yesterday.
The next best thing is I don’t have to keep the secret any more.
TOO CLOSE
‘Maybe’ is strong, only two years old but strong for his age. He’s stronger than I am which means I have to be extra careful. I wrap his leash around my wrist, hold the loop to near numbness. ‘Sit, Sit, Maybe,’ I command. Silly name but I knew from first hugging my new puppy, that maybe I’d lose him someday, that maybe he wouldn’t be smart, maybe training him would destroy my new oak floors or not training him would destroy me, maybe.
Usually Maybe is playful, fetches, catches the Frisbee, chases his own floppy tail but not always. We start out peacefully today on our early morning walk. He starts to growl deeply from his chest, strains to go forward. Trouble runs up a tree, hides its fuzzy gray tail amongst a green jacaranda tree, many of its fallen beautiful lavender flowers laying on the slippery ground. I hold onto Maybe, mostly for my own security. ‘Let’s go, dog. You can’t catch the squirrel.’ Surprisingly, the 100 lb. animal attached to my arm, turns his head, looks longingly once more into the tree and starts our walk again. Six feet (four of his) stand at the curb waiting until the four stop corner is safe to cross. Maybe doesn’t tug. He watches all directions.
No sooner do we cross than I’m almost knocked to the ground, still holding the leash. My knee is scraped but I get up quickly, believe I have control of Maybe, but knew at once, maybe I didn’t. On the other side of the street, two women in identical shorts and tee shirts (except one wears blue and one white), are strolling, walking, talking enjoying spring. The lady in white has an adorable gray poodle pup on an extension leash. They stop while the pup makes on a tree and go forward. Wham, I’m off my feet again, this time in the gutter. I scream. The surprise and force of Maybe’s mad dash pulls the leash from my hand. He drags it across toward the ladies with the puppy. I am still sitting on the curb, afraid to stay, afraid to move. The ladies shrivel up, scared of the dog eating monster coming at them. They don’t even see me. Maybe makes it across, stops short in front of the quivering women. I sit where I am, thinking, wishing, I had my camera with me. Maybe, his tongue hanging almost down to his collar, sits more still than I do. I see him move closer and put one paw on the puppy, being cradled in the arm of white shorts. He licks the little puppy with tenderness, puts his paw down and barks to me. Maybe sits as taught, don’t cross the street without me. Something he forgets too often. Finally I can get up, gather his leash that has been run over several times and go to retrieve my Retriever.
I must look pitiful but the two ladies are cussing me, swearing to sueme. ‘Sue me? I know you were frightened but Maybe didn’t hurt you. Either of us could have been killed. So cool it! Take your cute doggie home and be aware of what is around you.’ Inside I’m mocking myself and my own carelessness.
‘I’m going home now. As soon as I get there I will contact Maybe’s trainer who can refresh both of us on behavior.’ Maybe.
Usually Maybe is playful, fetches, catches the Frisbee, chases his own floppy tail but not always. We start out peacefully today on our early morning walk. He starts to growl deeply from his chest, strains to go forward. Trouble runs up a tree, hides its fuzzy gray tail amongst a green jacaranda tree, many of its fallen beautiful lavender flowers laying on the slippery ground. I hold onto Maybe, mostly for my own security. ‘Let’s go, dog. You can’t catch the squirrel.’ Surprisingly, the 100 lb. animal attached to my arm, turns his head, looks longingly once more into the tree and starts our walk again. Six feet (four of his) stand at the curb waiting until the four stop corner is safe to cross. Maybe doesn’t tug. He watches all directions.
No sooner do we cross than I’m almost knocked to the ground, still holding the leash. My knee is scraped but I get up quickly, believe I have control of Maybe, but knew at once, maybe I didn’t. On the other side of the street, two women in identical shorts and tee shirts (except one wears blue and one white), are strolling, walking, talking enjoying spring. The lady in white has an adorable gray poodle pup on an extension leash. They stop while the pup makes on a tree and go forward. Wham, I’m off my feet again, this time in the gutter. I scream. The surprise and force of Maybe’s mad dash pulls the leash from my hand. He drags it across toward the ladies with the puppy. I am still sitting on the curb, afraid to stay, afraid to move. The ladies shrivel up, scared of the dog eating monster coming at them. They don’t even see me. Maybe makes it across, stops short in front of the quivering women. I sit where I am, thinking, wishing, I had my camera with me. Maybe, his tongue hanging almost down to his collar, sits more still than I do. I see him move closer and put one paw on the puppy, being cradled in the arm of white shorts. He licks the little puppy with tenderness, puts his paw down and barks to me. Maybe sits as taught, don’t cross the street without me. Something he forgets too often. Finally I can get up, gather his leash that has been run over several times and go to retrieve my Retriever.
I must look pitiful but the two ladies are cussing me, swearing to sueme. ‘Sue me? I know you were frightened but Maybe didn’t hurt you. Either of us could have been killed. So cool it! Take your cute doggie home and be aware of what is around you.’ Inside I’m mocking myself and my own carelessness.
‘I’m going home now. As soon as I get there I will contact Maybe’s trainer who can refresh both of us on behavior.’ Maybe.
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