CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

Hello, Fan Club Members---No story Tuesday as I'll be winging it to FL-

Possibly I won't have time to write Wed. either--but return I shall. In the meantime, I had combined a few honest to goodness childhood stories that will let you young people see what  you have missed.

 

Ballow's Delicatessen was busy from the first day it opened for business, thanks to Mr. Ballow who yelled and raved an awful lot. He fought with all his countermen, wisely located his wife behind the cash register. AND he made probably the best corned beef sandwich in Baltimore. The store was long and narrow and had 'to go' cases to the right. When the boss told his men to straighten the smoked fish, they lined the revelation, whities and herring in perfect  rows, tempting all customers. Lox, both belly and nova, was sliced to order on the back wooden ledge. His loud commands, 'Slice the brisket thicker. Lay it out right !' made the clerks wince and get angry, but they learned to do things the way he wanted-the correct and proper way. On top of the counters were my kind of goodies, high tubs of halavah (chunks missing) sat with a long sharp knife sticking out the top, gallon jars of Indian nuts and polly seeds and firm, sour,  pickled onions. This was my heaven.

Near the grill stood the pickle barrels, half and well-done, with a long fork that almost nobody bothered to use. Reaching in was 1/2 the goodness.

The time Mama pulled out a pickle AND at the same time a diamond ring made her almost famous. I heard her tell Daddy about it as they examined the ring carefully, Mama a little more so than Daddy. In a matter of minutes the two of them went back to the store. Mrs. Ballow, sat in her usual spot and asked Mama what she had forgotten. Mama blurted out the story of her find, yet avoided giving a description of the ring. But Mrs. Ballow knew what it looked like--exactly. It was undeniably hers.

 

She was so happy to get it back and Mama was delighted to be the honest finder.

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"Ma, she's doing it again! Ma!' Mama came running to shoo Rose away and dry my reddened eyes. My hand hurt where my sister bent my fingers back as far as she could while I squirmed and kicked. That time, I got her good, right on her ankle.

I did an awful lot of things that got her mad. She hated me, especially when she had to help Mama and I sat on the floor in front of the radio from 5 to 6 every evening and listened to my programs. Orphan Annie, Buck Rogers, Jack Armstrong, all needed me. I needed them. I had to decode a message with my new ring; had to find out what Punjab was up to; had to know if  Buck reached Mars while Rose, Rose had to set the table. If Mama wanted the garbage out, Rose was handy. She wasn't as smart as I was about those things.

If I bit my fingernails, which I did as far as I could, she took off one of the gold stars I had earned on my chart. Sister, dear Sister, wanted me to be as good, as neat, as she was, so on a piece of cardboard, she made columns of Dos and Don’ts and hung it on our shared small closet door. Gold stars were best, blue barely o.k. Some days I ate whatever Mama gave me without an argument and once in a while I hung up my clothes without being told. My cut-outs laying around bugged her and I learned to put them away. A gold star was mine if I went to bed when told the first time. Her box of gold stars lasted for months.

She was so jealous of me and I of her. After all, she had a back brace and got lots of Mama's attention. She had eye glasses and Daddy wouldn't get me a pair. Besides she had such pretty, curly brown hair and a cute little rose-bud mouth while I had freckles and red hair.

 

I guess Rose really wasn't such a bad sister after all.

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Fortunately, my long winter underwear was already on when snow fell in early Oct. The faster the flakes swirled, the harder I shoveled. Daddy's steps must be clean and a path kept open for his patients, I decided. If anyone slipped, it would be on Buster's or Shirley's pavement, not ours. Wearing my heavy rust colored coat, leggings and a hat strapped under my chin, I barely felt the cold.

 

Galoshes, black and a size too big, kept my feet warm and dry. Only my fingers

and Mama knew it was time for me to go inside. When finally I obeyed, I entered the vestibule and tried to take off my frozen overshoes but couldn't unbuckle them. Mama did it for me and then gently rubbed my hands. In a small basin of warm water she soaked them until they started to tingle, burn, come back to life. What would I do without my Mama?

The next snow time I was a month older and much, much smarter. I wore woolen gloves and, with Roz and Stanley, shoveled pavement after pavement all day long and earned a lot of money--one dollar each !

As tired as I was, after supper when my gloves had dried and hardened on the radiator, I got around to doing Daddy's sidewalk and didn't charge him at all.

LET ME ALONE ALREADY: IN CHARGE

‘Do me a favor, Honey, while the morning is cool. Cut about nine roses from my garden for me. Will you? I want to use them on the dining room table.’ ‘Sure, Aunt Sylvia. Where’s the scissors?’ I’m staying with my mother’s sister for the week-end. She is eighty and admits her memory is not as sharp as it used to be and likes company now and then. ‘I don’t remember, Sweetie. Look around. It’s someplace.’ The kitchen what-not drawer is just that, but it has no scissors. I don’t even mention it to my aunt. She might just tell me she is glad I found them and I should be careful or the thorns will cause an infection in my hand.  For 15 minutes I go room to room. From down stairs, I hear her weak voice, ‘What’s taking you so long, Darling?’ My smile is internal, chuckling because my aunt cannot remember my name and simply calls me any sweet word that comes into her cob-webbed mind.

 

The scissors are on her bed, sticking out from under her pillow. This scares me. Why are they there? The reason is not important as long as she doesn’t hurt herself. I take them downstairs, try to make it sink into her brain to not take them into her bed. ‘I won’t do it again,’ she says, but who knows what she will do? My mother, my sister and I can’t watch her 24 hours a day.

 

The roses are still damp with morning dew. The odor is overpoweringly lovely, the colors alternating vividly red to soft, tender pink. Almost pure whites, barely, barely kissed orange on the petal edges envelop me. I stand there enjoying the moment. The sliding glass kitchen door breaks the spell. ‘Angel Face, I’m waiting for you.’ My haste causes me to prick two fingers. Tiny spots of blood break thru. Walking quickly, speaking loudly, I let Aunt Sylvia know I am coming in. She waits for me inside the kitchen, slides the door open, gives me barely enough time to get all of me in, closes and locks the door.

 

I hand her the flowers and she growls, ‘Why in the world did you cut my prize roses, Snookie? My mouth drops open. I am wordless. ‘Aunt Sylvia, try harder to remember my name. It’s Darla. Do you remember the Our Gang comedies when you were a little girl? Darla was the pretty little girl who had black curly hair. See? I do too. Maybe this will help you to remember my name.’ ‘Sugar Plum, you cut the wrong roses. Here, throw them in the trash can and bring me six of the right ones, please.’  Maybe I can trick her, please her.  Instead of roses I cut four giant, gorgeous, healthy, bright blue hydrangeas and take them to her. ‘If you had done what I told you in the first place, you wouldn’t have wasted my roses.’ Her eyes shine with happiness as she reaches the lowest shelf in the cabinet for a tall vase. ‘Thank you, thank you, Danni.’ ‘What’s the use? You’re welcome, ‘ I reply.

 

The phone rings. I pick up for her. My daughter is on the line and immediately falls on me. ‘Mother, I tried to get the dressmaker yesterday but you gave me the wrong number and I don’t know her last name so I can’t look her up. How can I set up a fitting for my prom dress without the right number?’ I snap back at her, ‘What number did you call?’ Careless Sharon tells me she can’t find the memo note and I tell her to look again. ‘Find it or walk there. You are old enough to take responsibility. Stop bothering me so much.’ She irritates the hell out of me. I hear her footsteps, can tell she has on flip flops and is messing up the kitchen floor. I am bursting to criticize her for wearing those sloppy flip flops instead of her soft, scratch proof slippers. It is tough to remain silent, but I do. ‘Mom, I found it!’ I break my silence and lam into her. ‘Why didn’t you look around for it and not bother me?’

‘Mother,’ Sharon says. ‘You gave me 572-4362 and that is wrong. My come-back is strong, angry. ‘No, I gave you 572-4342. Call Mrs. Fields and make your own arrangements. Drive carefully. Tell Mrs. Fields You’ll bring my check when the dress is ready. I almost have time to say, ‘I love you’, when Sharon says, ‘Mom, I forgot to tell you yesterday, Dad asked me to remind you about your dental appointment yesterday. I forgot.’ ‘Darn you. Yesterday is mover. I’ll have to explain  to Dr. Christo and wait two more weeks for an appointment. I do love you, Sharon but you really do aggravate me. Go get your dress.’

 

Looking deeply into the hall mirror, I can’t figure out who made me
Gate-Keeper of Aggravation Lane. I knew the answer but had trouble with the truth—

 

I DID !

Most likely before you were born: TEEN TIME

We’re dancing. We’re twirling.  His right foot goes forward. His arm supports my back and he dips me. I fall on my rear. Jerry quickly helps me up. Words, unneeded apologies, froth from his lips. My embarrassment is not important. I console him as if he were my child, accepting all the blame. ‘Honest, Jerry, my heel turned over. Look yourself. It’s cracked. No harm is done except to my shoe. We’re still in the marathon and I can dance shoeless. Just don’t step on my toes. We’re not disqualified!’ The rinky tink 4 piece band is still blaring out tangos. Jerry pulls me in close enough for me to wrap my leg around him, twist my body and look straight out to the audience. My silk stockings are slippery. I fall backwards with Jerry landing on top of me. From the wooden benches laughter sounds like Niagara’s roar as Maid of the Mist slowly sails behind it.

 

Two strikes against us. No other couple has any. One more and we are disqualified. Making light of our precarious predicament, I wave to the onlookers. Some wave back. Some boo us. As Jerry and I try to start smoothly again, I whisper,’ Come on. Let’s drop out.’ He reacts as if I asked him to assassinate FDR. ‘What are you, crazy or somethin’ ? I’ve got new jitterbug steps to try. We can knock those laughers dead, unless you fall again.’ His attitude enrages me and I answer. ‘Shut up, Mr. Dancing Machine. I’ve never fallen when Willy double dips me. Your lead stinks to high heaven. Just step on my shoeless foot one more time and it will be your last time to dance with me or do any of the other things you just dream you will do.

 

Rest/toilet time. Twenty minute break. The barker is selling Hershey bars, Peanut Chews and Ginger Ale. The time out has pretty much cleared my foolish head. Watching for Jerry to come back to the dance floor, I spot him holding Ruby’s hand. That cinches, clinches it. My anger, disgust pours from my mouth. ‘What did you do, Ruby, shoot your Harry? You can dance this session with Jerry but don’t expect even a blue badge. He’s a loser and he turned me into one too.’ I wave a tiny goodbye to both of them, go to my locker for my street shoes. My nose is in the air as I walk past them, go out the door to start my ten block walk home alone.

 

The evening is lovely, balmy and happily Jerryless. Milt’s Malt Shop is packed. Another person or two can get in and I become a squeezer. Some of the crowd that had seen part of the contest, hissed, laughed at me and go so far as to make nasty remarks about Jerry. To ignore them, I lean against the wall and call out my order, a large vanilla shake with whipped cream on top. Just as I see the soda jerk put my shake on the counter, the end seat empties and I get it. The tall glass is sweating, tingles my finger tips. The thick shake won’t pass thru the straw. I use my spoon to eat it and wait a bit for the rest to melt. Something that doesn’t hurt or bite flies at me. I’m not the only one being bombarded. The Wild Bunch, 3 noisy teens, are blowing straws everywhere. Soda Jerk Jimmy yells at them to cut it out. ‘Straws cost money.’ The bombardment slows down and stops. There are no more straws in the counter containers. I still have a little shake to slurp and do it until the noise is impolite.

 

Alone, I walk the last few blocks home. Sitting on the front steps is Jerry. I ask him, ‘What do you want. Won’t Ruby ‘put out’ for you? You want to try me again? Don’t embarrass yourself. ‘NO.’ My nasty voice gets nastier.’ ‘Jerry,’ sign up for dancing lessons.’ I call him loser and give him a tiny push. He falls backwards down the granite steps, gets up, makes an extremely childish ugly face at me and disappears. My power is great. I have become all of my idols at once.

 

 I have done the impossible, become a Mandrake, Merlin, Houdini magician. The fool limps out of my sight and never asks me to dance with him again.

LA does not deter my writing--enjoy: AS TIME GOES

Had I carried thru, I would have been a Mother Hubbard with too
many children. Michael, husband #1, supplied my body with nine growing embryos during five years of closeness. Only a daughter and a son were born, healthy, strong, beautiful and totally adored. Michael’s virility and the real possibility of being pregnant too many times, destroyed our marriage. I had enough, more than enough.
     
Joseph Langbaum, Attorney at Law, was recommended to me as being
THE best divorce lawyer in Pasadena. Joe was good, thorough and worked out an excellent deal for me to be independent for a long time, without destroying Michael. He also worked his wiles on me. We had a small, private wedding five months after I received my first alimony check and news that I was pregnant. Life was going smoothly. Our twin daughters were beautiful. We named them Stacey and Lacey. They cooed, spit up on me more often than they did on Joe.  I didn’t care. Marie, their Nanny, washed my blouses by hand and took bad stains to the cleaner.  Summer came and went and Joe went with it. He claimed he still loved me but needed a new bed partner. That was okay with me as long as I had custody of Stacey and  Lacey, and our son, still waiting, still needing time in me before he would be ready to come out to breathe on his own.  I demanded, and got, ample child support up to age twenty-one.

 

Any trick that might be played on me should be handled by THE best divorce attorney in Pasadena, my teen sweetheart. I liked him and signed on with Darin, still a bachelor, hopefully an honest one. He made it clear he was sterile and would give me a break on his fee if I moved in with him and was his mistress for a while. Actually, my young flame was being re-kindled, growing faster, hotter than my childish memory.

He had a large, handsome bachelor pad with rooms for my children. We moved in, for, as Darin had said, ‘a while’. My faith, my belief in  him, was working out perfectly, until the inevitable happened. Had Darin lied to me? Had his doctor made a mistake? I was pregnant again. He and I argued and argued. Our heat cooled.  This time the father was merely a passing fancy. Neither of us had wanted marriage and still didn’t. Darin carried a lot of our load. He bought everything for our son, a crib, carriage, clothes, Pampers, a toidy seat, infant clothes piled high in the corner of our child’s room. A brainstorm hit him. He had the baby’s room re-painted a soft blue and located a muralist, looked over books of his work and hired him to paint a circus scene around the room. ‘Put elephants, tigers, horses, clowns, lots of bright colors.’ His enthusiasm was contagious. I loved watching the circus come to life. Chuck’s hands were long, slender and seemed to glow with talent. He let me try to paint the elephant and told me not to make it gray which I would have done had he not told me it would be dull. I chose a bright pinky orange that pleased Chuck, me and Darin.

 

Birthing time was near. The smell of paint was into my skin, my nostrils. I couldn’t go in the room any more without coughing, serious coughing, making me gag, throw up. My distress weakened my insides so  our son was born a month pre-mature and only lived an hour. Darin and I were devastated. He wanted to sue the muralist but I wouldn’t let him. If anybody was to be sued, it would be Darin’s doctor who told Darin he couldn’t produce the right sperm to father a child.

 

Our baby was laid on a silk cloth that had embroidered circus animals. The lid of the tiny white coffin was sealed. Darin, I, Stacey, Lacey and the muralist got into the provided limo and went back to Darin’s apartment, where the circus scene had been painted over and

 

I decided to stay as long as Daril wanted me.

Come on in with me: A PLACE IN MY MEMORY

At the other end of our block from Weltner’s Drugs was a wonderland filled with tastes and smells strong enough to make a little girl almost glad to go to the store for Mama. Our grocery, first called Crooks, later the A & P, had a small sloped tiled entrance - perfect for skating down after the store closed. Around its corner was a vestibule-exactly right for hiding in when Buster was ‘It’. Inside, the odor was fresh and strong as customers put their red and yellow paper bags under the grinder’s spout as the beans clanked and banged and miraculously came out Eight O’ Clock Coffee. It was so much fun just watching. Sometimes ladies let me flick the switch to start that fabulous machine and I could feel the tingle of electricity as it gently tickled my fingers.

 

The screen door, ripped near the handle, slammed loudly as customers went in and out, music to Mr. Crooks ears. My eyes always widened and my mouth watered when I walked past the slanted cases holding big, thick, round cookies, thinly topped with dark yummy chocolate. Daddy loved them, too. Once in a while we’d have a treat and get a few in a brown paper bag to have with milk or hot tea. There were also lemon and sugar cookies with a hole in the middle. I ate those in circles, trying hard to keep the roundness even.  If the cookie broke, it wasn’t fair. I’d have to have another to try it again. There was a shelf of
boxed animal crackers, wafers filled with gummy marshmallows, fig newtons, and other cavity makers. I ate and loved them all.

 

The counter was so high I had to stand on my toes to pay the white-aproned man. When he was too busy, or didn’t see me, I didn’t care.

 

Alongside the counter burlap bags bulged with barley, rice, dried beans, split green peas. Each bag had its own silvery scoop. Digging in, watching the mounds rise and fall was a game to me, better than (and lots cleaner than ) sand. The crunch of the scoop as it plunged was a lovely sound.

 

On the shelves, Domino sugar and Gold Medal flour leaned against jars of chow-chow, pickles and rotten Ritter ketchup. (Mama said only Heinz was good–really thick.) Argo Starch, bottles of bluing, Fels Naptha, Octagon,  Lux and tall, blue boxes of Ivory Flakes (99 1/100% pure) were stacked on the other side of the store.

 

In the rear, the butcher shop consisted of a chopping block, a few meat hooks and a small wooden refrigerated walk-in case. It didn’t smell very good back there. Mama never bought meat in that store. She only used the two kosher shops near by. Merely thinking of all those pigs feet made me shudder.

 

Against the always locked side door were all the things any schvatze could need–scrub brushes, wash boards, wet and dry mops and thick brooms, their skirts tied with red and green twine. The two or three white fly-specked light globes had pull chains, but no matter how hard I tried, I could never jump high enough to reach them. I knew it but kept on trying (I was growing, wasn’t I?) I ground the coffee, played with the beans and Daddy had a longing for cookies.   

IT WAS ALMOST AS GOOD AS MY BIRTHDAY!

Wave Fast: THE BACK OF THE FUTURE

It’s 5:30 a.m. in West Palm, FL. June 10, 2010.  Traffic on I 95 is already moving along at a fast clip. Blocks away from the curbside check in area of Delta Airlines I see a line of would-be travelers. There are 4 lanes and I wait in line three, watch the others move smoothly while I am stuck behind one woman with four suitcases who has mis-placed her confirmation and is insisting on a wheelchair that she swears she ordered in advance. There are new people already increasing the other lines while I stand where I am hoping for a miracle. It doesn’t happen. I begin to worry about the future security tie ups, the distance to gate # 14 that has to be the furthest of all. I get more and more upset as each minute flies off to Never Never Land. Angry, ready to burst, I calm down  as a wheel chair appears and the lady disappears.

 

Fortunately and wisely I came totally prepared. Driver license, Delta’s confirmation notice, tip money, my charge account card for one bag ($25) are all paper clipped together and are resting in my deep pants pocket. Twice I have to show my driver’s license and boarding pass to guards before I even reach the security endless lines. There must be 500 people ahead of me, pushing roll on’s, being counted off and divided into several lanes. I think momentarily of the Jews with their Star of David being sent to the ovens, blink, blink and I almost come back to reality, except I don’t like where I am and wish I were back in 1980.

 

With my heavy purse over my shoulder, a large cloth bag of magazines, medications, notebooks, I manage to get hold of 4 gray plastic trays, toss my jacket in the first and get it started toward the x-ray machines. In the second tray I drop my shoes. With the next person in line breathing down my neck, I get my over-loaded purse in tray 3, but cannot lift my small travel case that holds my pride and joy computer, necessary wires, a book and odds and ends.

 

Using my best interpretation of being decrepit, woe-begone, I shrug, meekly ask the nice looking black man with a small gray beard behind me to lift my case onto the conveyer belt for me. With no hesitation he does. His 2 trays move quickly, so quickly I don’t notice he is next to me and has my puter sitting on the floor waiting while I’m just able to tie my shoes. ‘Many thanks.’ ‘Thanks a lot.’ ‘Enjoy your trip’, I call to him.

 

Gate 6 is miraculously close to me which makes my heavy load bearable. Delta’s waiting area is huge but I don’t see a single empty chair. Inconsiderate, oblivious travelers rest their packages on seats while one entire wall is held up by people resting, sleeping on the floor. An Asian woman  has taken ownership of an entire length of a bench by covering it with an extremely bright colored sheet, blanket and pillow. Her  young daughter is cozy, comfortable. The mother is oblivious of all those standing. Noticing a husky, balding man, his legs splayed out as if to trip the next person coming near him, I sweetly ask him to put his paper bag on his lap or under his chair so I can sit down. His eyes roll and he sends daggers into my heart, but moves the bag.

 

The wait to board is endless. Time has taken a holiday. I’m edgy, talk, smile, wave at every passing child who turns her head in my direction.
At last boarding is announced and I stand first in line for early boarding, stand where I am told in the Special line. I wait and wait until am told I am in the wrong place. I’m in  First Class ‘Special Passenger Entry’. These people ARE first class.? ‘Please move over and let them thru, burns my ears. Looking straight at me, the ticket taker tells me  ‘After the 5 wheel chairs are safely on board,  you may follow.’ Making no fuss I wait and have the highlight of my morning. Slobs like these big shots, big wheels, amaze  me. Hair uncombed,  pants well below the waist display big bellies with underwear clearly non existent. Ragged jeans, perhaps purposely and foolishly worn, should have been tossed long ago. Flip flops flip off. A tall gal, at least 6 feet 3, broad and strong wears khaki short shorts that are cutting her crotch into a larger than normal slit. Her white shirt has something down the front that doesn’t belong there. It is deep red and has dripped from her over-sized boobs to her waist.

 

I wonder if she has spilled cherry coke or is lactating blood. Grateful I am, I will not be sitting near her. As the last 1st class passenger disappears , I pull up a mental picture of what has passed me by and realize that I belonged in the first class line and all of the raggedy, unkept group that is wending its way to their slightly wider seats than my group will have suits me fine. The privacy door between the 18 passengers and the 158 is to my advantage.

 

Aside from crew and the lowly 1st class passengers I am third to board, check out my seat C3 aisle, sit down on a hard, ungiving seat that barely lets my slender, bony rear end fit in. The middle and window seats have a bit more room. Right behind me is a young fellow I had noticed in the waiting area. He had his white MacPod puter open, earphones already dangling around his neck, an almost empty Dunkin’ Donuts paper cup of coffee in one hand. He took a moment to stuff  a decent sized piece of a previously large blue berry muffin into his mouth, brush off his fingers and start typing. He had no carry on luggage. Nada. He faced the 5 ½ hour flight totally involved with his pod. I liked him. He asked me if I needed help getting my luggage in the overhead and didn’t wait for an answer. Up and in it went, fitting perfectly, right above my lowly, tiny seat. Almost silently he whispered he would get it for me when we land.

 

I sit in my minuscule seat, bitching aloud that I never saw a plane seat without 2 arm rests until then. Is the person who will sit next to me going to hold my hand? Should I call the stewardess and bitch? No, she wouldn’t be able to get thru the 185 passengers less one as I already had my 12 inches of space. The couple next to me appeared. Nice looking, talking to each other until I butt in and mentioned my not having a right arm rest. The pretty and warm woman who would sit next to me smiled and in an instant pulled an arm rest down that I hadn’t noticed. I was terribly embarrassed but we all three made light of my stupidity. There are wiser, more trained people than I but the head of Delta isn’t one of them. Delta has no plan, no sense, no control of how passengers should  board. Just get on when you are pushed to move it and find your seat. Ho ho ho. Chaos rocks the plane. We lose  a miserable hour of delay as the aisle is constantly blocked by overheads being filled. I begin mentally typing a letter to the President of Delta to suggest he fly South West where passengers board according to seat number. When those people are organized, seated, another large group comes on. The aisle is free and movement is easy. I will do that when I am home safely and a bit calmer but still smarter than Mr. Wickfield, Exec. President is.

 

Across the aisle from me the window seat is taken and finally the center and aisle people sit down. The handsome man on the aisle seat has an odd hair cut that reminds me of a mohair only it is extra long and stands up like the petrified trees of Arizona. He rings for a stewardess, who I see battling her way thru the disgruntled trying to reach their seats. She gets to him and asks Mr. Indian Chief what the problem is. I don’t hear his reply but see him show her his confir- mation slip. Then she looks across at me and asks for my seat assignment and I show it to her C23. ‘Madam, you are in D23. You are on the wrong side of the plane.’ I inhale deeply and ask how that can be. ‘I looked very carefully and was sure I was correct.’ ‘Madam,’ she replies, ‘You have to move over here.’  I am abashed, want to crawl in a hole, but feel Mr. Mohawk touch my arm to tell me he is perfectly fine where he is and I can stay in my seat, leave my stuff under it and enjoy the flight.’  My thanks are pay enough for him. Somewhere during the hours of discomfort on that flight a crazy thought comes to me. If we crash and I am killed, my family will wonder why my body was in a man’s seat. No matter how many irritations I have had so far today, my scale of justice, good luck is heavy and to my good.

 

I try to re-set my small watch to LA time and break a finger nail into a jagged mess. My file is in my luggage and won’t be seen again until I unpack at my destination-----if it reaches there. With whatever mind eclat I still have, I can’t figure out how to use the t.v. screen on the back of the seat in front of me. Other hands around me touch it and all sorts of things appear. I touch it and quickly realize I don’t want to watch pay for old movies that I didn’t want to see when they were new movies. I don’t want to order anything listed for lunch as my little cheese sandwich is ready for me when I am ready for it. To the devil with this semi-new technology. With no fingers willing to move the menu elsewhere, the screen goes black and stays that way while I write this story, work some puzzles, read about Carol Burnette’s life and talk and talk to the young couple beside me. My mouth has found wonderful ears. If they want me to shut up, they have been most discreet, and let me tell them tale after tale for 3 hours. I never tire. They never fall asleep. Chalk another one up for me, I tell me.

 

Although it is a sunny, clear day and we are 35000 feet above the earth, 95% of the plane is dark. 100% of us, including staff, have been at the airport since 5 a.m. My guesstament is 15% of us is still alert. I have not heard one mother say, ‘Hush, Tootie Pie,’ to a crying babe. The tots must have a code. One screams, wails at a time and when it runs out of wailing juice, another let’s go. It is a welcome phenomena.

 

My eyes are weary from too much people watching. My pen, one of 5 I brought along, is running dry, but I can’t recall in which bag the other 4 are. The stewardess passing me has a bag for trash and I have only my one pen to discard. As I stop her for a second I honestly thank her for her for her constant happy smile, the interest I have noted she has given every passenger who rings her bell. While I am still in the beautiful blue sky with white candy clouds far below me, I make a wish that the time machine will accept my quarter and let me go back to the world I knew and loved.  ‘Come fly with me, fly back to 1980. Get your best suit pressed. Be sure to wear a handsome silk tie and shine your shoes. I’m flying to London wearing my black wool dress, suede wedgie shoes, black nylon panty hose and a brimmed felt black hat with a white silk gardenia on the band. I’ll also have the new black leather short kid gloves you gave me and will casually sling my mink stole over my shoulder as if it were golden sunshine. Pan Am has us in wide leather seats, 23 A and B. There is lots of leg room and the seats tilt way back. You can probably snooze all the  way to Heath Row Airport. I’m suggesting you not bother bringing  anything to eat. Lunch is going to be hot, tasty and free. Are you in?’ Pete looks dazed, isn’t sure what he wants to do‘ Just be careful. You will not remember 1980 once I leave you.  If you decide to stay in 2010, 2012 will be upon you soon.
There will be an Apocolypse and you will have nothing, no memory, no place to hang your gray fedora. ‘

 

Slowly Pete raises his arm and waves to me.

 

Whoosh! Whoosh! I am gone.

‘Come fly with me, Pete, fly back to 1980. Get your best suit pressed. Be sure to wear a handsome silk tie and shine your shoes. I’m flying to London wearing my black wool dress, suede wedgie shoes, black nylon panty hose and a brimmed felt black hat with a red silk gardenia on the band. I’ll also have the new black leather short kid gloves you gave me and will casually sling my mink stole over my shoulder as if it were golden sunshine. Pan Am has us in wide leather seats, 23 A and B. There is lots of leg room and the seats tilt way back. You can probably snooze all the  way to Heath Row Airport. I’m suggesting you not bother bringing  anything to eat. Lunch is going to be hot, tasty and free.

 

Are you in?’

Surprise, surprise: CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN

I could feel my eyes closing just holding off a second or two to give me time to sink into a lovely spring nap. A shrill sound pierced my ears. Damn that phone. Pretending I hadn’t heard it, I stuffed my index fingers into my ears. That helped but not enough. Shaking my head, I managed a few wobbly steps to the phone, reached it too late. All I got was a dial tone.

 

That upset me enough to nauseate me. I blinked,  sighed and I yelled to the empty room, ‘Oh, my god.’ On the chaise I had left clean, easy to slip on and off clothes for my doctor’s appointment today. Never have I showered so fast. I didn’t even give the water a chance to get warm.

In, out, almost dry and on with my clothes. Going out the door I realized I left my keys upstairs on the bureau. Taking two steps at a time, my spirits drop. There are no keys. Something jangles in my pocket. Am I going off the wall? When did I put them there? ‘Idiot, idiot,’ I call myself and self answers, ‘Right you are.’

 

I’m not too worried about being late for Dr. Sorenson as he keeps me waiting all the time. Still, I drive a little faster and clip a parked blue Saturn on its rear left fender, making just a long but narrow scratch. It was my fault. There is noone in the car and I can’t sit in mine for heaven knows how long waiting for the owner. In the glove compartment I keep a note pad and pen for emergencies. Small though this one is, I contact my insurance company, leave a note under the windshield for the car owner and go on my less than merry way.

 

Nausea again overcomes me as I realize I have to prepare myself for telling Eddie what I did. The Medical Arts parking lot is almost full. I circle it twice and then get my first lucky break of the day. A shiny red Lexus pulls out of a nice wide space and I get in. I sit there for a while, gathering the words I’ll need to talk to Eddie. My cell phone connects us. Thankfully he is away from his desk and I leave the minor accident message.

 

Inside the marble lobby, I ring for the elevator and I am the only one on it going to the tenth floor. Dr. Sorenson’s waiting room is empty. There are no open magazines on the table, no music is playing. The t.v. is dark. Twice I knock on the secretary’s walnut desk. ‘Just a minute,’ she calls. I’ll be right out.’ Sherry, the tech who has escorted me a few times to the examination table, appears wearing street clothes. I hardly recognize her with out her rose colored uniform. ‘Where have you been, Mrs. Bagnid? I tried to reach you several times. Don’t you have a message recorder?’ I reply, ‘We do but don’t. It fell off the kitchen cabinet last week and is out of order. My husband, Eddie, is supposed to bring a new one home tonight.’ ‘ Mrs. Bagnid, the doctor had an emergency and had to leave. You are the only patient we couldn’t reach. We’re sorry.’ ‘Well I’m sorry too,’ I tell her and explain about my rush and small accident. “Nobody was hurt but I am going to get hell tonight. Eddie will be mad because our insurance will go up.’ Sherry ignores me and asks me if I want to reschedule. ‘Of course. I haven’t been feeling well lately and definitely want to see the doctor soon. ‘Can you fit me in tomorrow?’

 

Safely at home, I prepare our dinner with extra thought, hoping to subdue Eddie’s anger. His favorite Bordeaux I place between two long white candles, matches at the ready for the moment I hear him open the front door. My wild pattern cotton blouse is low and revealing, my slax a little tighter than usual but Eddie likes them this way. Ribs are spiced, ready for the broiler. Salad fixings are set but he is King of Tossers and never trusts me to do it right. The dressing is hot and spicy, chilled just enough.

 

The front door opens and my husband barely starts to rant at me before I shut his mouth with mine. When our bodies part, I meekly,  honestly tell him how sorry I am I hit the Saturn. He holds me close,  and asks me what Dr. Sorenson said. I explain about not getting the call from his office, which makes the accident semi-forgotten.
The Bordeaux lasts right to our coffee time. I am dessert.

 

At 9 a.m. I wake. Eddie has left. The phone rings and I get there before it stops ringing. ‘Mrs. Bagnid? This is Dr. Sorenson. I apologize for yesterday but the emergency couldn’t wait. Do you recall seeing Mrs. Sollod, the lady with the long blond hair and over rouged face in my waiting room? Well, anyhow, she needed me to deliver her twins, C section. I’m glad to tell you, all is well. And I know you would expect me to be with you if you ever get pregnant, won’t you?’  I don’t remember exactly what I answered but it wasn’t very nice. ‘Okay, then I won’t make any special effort when ,’ and he stops talking. ‘ Mrs. Bagnid, your last report is back from the lab. You ARE pregnant, very pregnant. There are 3 distinct bodies in your pictures. You have time to prepare for triplets.’ I believe I hear myself scream. I am sure I passed out. I remember a black nothing for a while and when I open my eyes, I am lying on the floor with the phone dangling off the cradle.

 

Putting it back in place, I dial Eddie, tell him the news. He gasps as if he were shot in a dozen places. Then there is total silence until the phone rings again. ‘Honey, I was so excited I think I blacked out. Don’t lift anything. Don’t do anything. Go lie down. I’m coming home now, just as soon as I hang up!’

 

He comes in with a small box, wrapped in aluminum foil tied with a shoe string for a ribbon. He hands me a new message recorder for the kitchen. In a separate box, wrapped professionally, is a new polor camera to take before and after pictures of our enlarging family.

 

Sometime, I don’t know when, he takes care of the little damage I did and  never brings it up again.

Wondering about Wonderland

I have been in the hospital a long time. Mommy comes to see me every day and Daddy comes at night. Sometimes the tall, skinny nurse lets Shannah, my friend, visit me. There are lots of medicines I have to take that taste awful. Miss Fields, my favorite nurse, gives me a taste of Hershey’s syrup before I have to swallow a big spoonful of the icky, sticky bitter stuff and then she gives me a clean big spoonful of chocolate.

 

Yesterday, for the first time, I don’t  have to do that but wish I did. Instead Miss Fields, in her starched white uniform and nurse’s cap, rubs  my arm and sticks it with a big needle, tapes it and leaves it there. It has a thin rubber hose that comes out of a big bottle hanging next to my bed. I can see whatever is in the bottle as it drips slowly into me. It doesn’t hurt but I can’t hold my coloring book or reach my wooden crayons. Mostly I watch television and talk to Mommy. She loves me, cries because she misses me when she goes home.

 

Daddy smiles and pulls his chair next to my bed and my supper tray. He tells me to stop making ugly faces and eat everything so I can get strong and well. ‘Alice, do you want me to feed you your tomato soup? You like that. I’ll break some  crackers into it like we do at home. O.K?’

I tell him, ‘Daddy, I don’t feel good. I think I am going to vomit.’ He takes away my tray and puts a metal wash basin on the table and pushes the nurse call button. He’s so smart. I hadn’t thought of that. A new night nurse comes in and lays a cold wash cloth on my forehead, gives me a paper cup of ice chips that I can suck on when I feel bad.

 

In the morning Mommy comes and tells me I have to have the needle in my arm for two more days. I make a nasty ugly face. She hugs me, kisses me, cries but gives me good news. After the needle is out I can go home! I kiss her and hug her back a lot of times.
Daddy turns into our street and I see our house with lots of my school friends on the lawn. He carries plants, flowers that I didn’t want to leave in my hospital room and all the books and dolls that family and friends had sent me while I was sick. Hanging from the porch railing is a big sign, ‘Welcome to your Tea Party’.

 

The hallway has pink ribbons and lots of crepe paper decorating the walls and ceiling. It is beautiful. The dining room table is long, fixed
like it is for Thanksgiving. A fat lady in a fancy long dress and a gold crown with lots of hearts pasted on it seats everyone. I have the seat at the end of the table, sit on soft, fluffy rainbow colored pillows. Pretty teapots, topped with glass sundaes, ice cream cones are at each party plate along with small play mirrors and real peanut butter cookies. Daddy brings in my birthday cake with six lit candles and the lucky 7th one bigger than the rest. He lets me light the big one.

 

Mommy is right behind him, something white in her arms. She hands it to me. ‘Alice, this is your own white rabbit. Take good care of her and she will bring us all good luck.’  A small person inside a cat costume, its face having a big grin, leads everyone in singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and I am really, really happy.

 

This is the best day I have had in a long time and sing out loud.

‘Happy Birthday, dear Alice. Happy Birthday to me.’

YEP, I'M HERE IN LA AND PLUGGED IN: DONALD

Another date at a new place, the marina ! I’d never been to the lovely restaurant there, right on the water’s edge but followed directions and made it. Of course, I was a little early and not sure where to go, but as I got out of my car, there was a tall, swarthy, nice looking man leaning against a post, with his eyes on me. ‘Are you Val?’ he asked. ‘Yes. You’re Donald?’ A nod of his head and he said, ‘ Wow! I’m so glad to see you. I saw this hot babe getting out of her car and hoped against hope.’ I was wearing the only jeans I owned, snug but not too much, a great looking light blue polished cotton shirt AND my terrific straw hat with a wide blue band around the crown. That was a great start to a delightful lunch and walk long around the area commenting on the yachts.

Two hours went quickly in pleasant chit chat. I could sense his interest as I gave him a lame excuse I had to be back at my apartment by 3. First thing in the morning Donald called  wanting to see me again. It was easy to say ‘Sure’. Then we had to decide where and when and he asked if I had ever been to the Miami zoo. ‘No.’ ‘Would you like me to take you?’ That was a different approach and sounded good to me.

Two days later we were on our way, down I 95, getting lost twice, but did get there. What a zoo! What a joy to stand for almost an hour just looking at, commenting on, the silver backed gorillas. Donald’s sense of humor about them kept me laughing all the way home. We had some lunch and saw a lot of other fantastic animals in what looked so natural habitats. The day was a treat for both of us.

 

And so Donald was into my life and stayed there for a few months. First he mailed me a very good drawing of the gorillas with a joke under it and soon he was coming to my apartment often, most of the time sitting on the lounge in my den, never making any advances to me. I sat on the sofa. We watched T.V.,  played Board games and mostly listened to Sinatra sing away evening after evening. We never got bored with that.  Family joys and problems were endless. He was divorced and had two grown children, each involved in things he didn’t like and they had little communication with him. It was very easy to feel his pain.

 

He took me to the public golf course he used and hit a ball out of sight. I think at one time he was about a 4 handicap and that is darn good. Once he invited me to a dance at the club house there. I dressed up and he looked very nice.. We danced and danced, or at least I did–especially the Twist. He stood there and watched me shake my booty and laughed at me. In some ways we were so close, without ever touching other than holding hands.

 

Then he heard his mother died. She had a small house in a fishing village in New Foundland. He had to leave to take care of things and begged me, begged me again and again, to go with him. I would have my own room, total privacy if I wanted it. He showed me pictures of the place and I knew I could not go there. I would hate the environment, the old maple furniture, the lack of Jewish people in the town didn’t bother him as even with a very Jewish name, I learned quickly he was a Baptist. He was very disappointed and hurt but I had to stand my ground and so ended Donald.

 

Two full years later my phone rang one evening and the voice was Sinatra singing ‘Come Fly with Me’. I listened and knew, knew it was Donald. He began to cry as he told me how sick he had been since I left him, had been hospitalized because he still loved me and couldn’t get me out of his heart and mind. He HAS to see me !

 

That was going to be trouble so I told him ‘No, please go on with your life and don’t try to see me. I’m not calling you into my building.’ I was really frightened. Even though he couldn’t get in, he could wait outside my complex. I was very watchful for weeks but finally relaxed.

 

Now, even with about eight years gone since he called and sounded so pitiful, I still feel bad about our ending and keep on the lookout just in case he is lingering someplace near by –

 

maybe the marina.

Shave & a Haircut, 2 bits: OUR NEIGHBORS

Now I've already told you about Mrs. Alasha's Beauty Shop but not about Tony's Barber Shop. Tony  was Mr. Alasha. They had 3 olive skinned children, Sammy, Genevive and Theresa. Tony, Tony, I still hear you. You had a whistle everyone on North Ave. recognized. You stepped outside your shop, took a stance near your green wooden bench, put two fingers in your mouth and let go. The shrill undulating notes announced lunch and dinner. There was no hiding place, no escaping your call. The kids came at once--they had better.

 

Although Mama sometimes got a manicure from Mrs. Alasha, Daddy never went to Tony for his haircuts. But then again, neither Tony nor his family ever came to Daddy to get their teeth fixed. Daddy went across the street to Blumberg's. (Sam was our second cousin.)

 

Actually, Tony's shop was a nicer shop, having white octagonal tiles on the floor, 3 chairs, a barber pole outside that sent red and blue stripes forever turning AND a shoe shine stand with brass foot rests. On the wall were hooks for coats and hats, and under them a few black wooden chairs waited for customers. Mr. Alasha  used one when his chair was empty so he could catch up on the Police Gazette. In fact, the three reclining, turning, rising chairs only had two barbers, but I guess Tony had hopes.

 

Hand trimmers, straight razors, blue bottles with silver spouts, silver bottles with blue spouts, white neck brushes (soft and tickly), stood staunchly with the shaving mugs, doubling their quantity in the big mirror.

 

To the rear was a domed silver basin, its curved door letting rolls of steam tumble out when Tony needed a fresh hot towel. Each chair was equipped with a leather strop, good for sharpening razors or whipping bad kids.

 

Next to sitting high on the bootblack's seldom used chair, the nicest thing was the wide floor broom, especially when the pavement was heavy with the day's dust. The broad, soft sweeps and the moving line of dirt intrigued me, hypnotized me, begged me to take over.

 

Tony never understood the longing I had for that broom. When the shoeshine boy wasn't in, Tony did the sweeping himself and never once asked me to sweep.

 

Maybe Tony was just waiting for his chance, too.

Family: OUT OF THE DARKNESS

Once upon a time, long, long before Cinderella was born, a little girl lived in a cave. She had only her hairy father and mother to keep her company. Maa stayed in the cave most of the time but left Chaa alone when leaves and twigs had to be gathered for the fire. Faa was not there many moons as he had to hunt for food to survive. When there was almost nothing left for the three of them to eat, out he would go again. Neither the hot sun or wet drops that fell on him held him back.

 

Little Chaa liked to sit by the small fire to look for faces like hers in the flames. The cave’s floor had many rocks and small stones that kept her busy. Rubbing the rocks together she learned to sharpen them into points. Not as sharp as Faa’s but good enough for her to draw pictures on the cave walls. With the brown stones she made a ring around the fire. Trickling down the wall was a narrow stream of wetness. Both Maa and Faa kept leaves filled with it so they could drink it with the cooked meat.

 

No one had a watch. Days were days. Nights were nights and Chaa was growing up. Soon she would be ready to leave the cave with Maa and gather with her. Grunting, jumping she made a basket out of an animal skin and taught her Maa how they could carry more that way. On the third day they went out together, Chaa saw something move among the greens that Maa was breaking off. As one, they dropped their baskets and ran back towards the cave. Noise followed them.  Once safely inside, Maa grabbed a heavy stick, poked it into the fire until it caught on and flamed. A shadow went past the cave’s mouth, made a howling noise, and came back. With its arms dangling to the dirt floor, it moved close to Maa who poked it with the hot stick. It backed into Chaa, knocked her down and climbed on top of her. He shook her and shook her until he was tired, made no sound and left.

 

Nothing had changed. Father, mother and Chaa gathered and hunted until Chaa was fat and could not work hard.

 

The fire in the cave was very low. In the near darkness Chaa screamed and screamed. Her parents woke, believing a bear had come in the cave. They gathered rocks, ready to chase the bear. There was no bear. A tiny, tiny hairy thing was on the floor, with a snakey thing attached to Chaa. Maa took one of the sharp rocks Chaa had rubbed into a point and cut off the snake.  Maa lifted the hairy little thing that looked like her except much smaller. Chaa sat up and looked too, then took it from Maa.

 

And so the three became four and Chaa soon had someone to keep her company, make arrows, draw on the walls, and was happy.

Have you met Dorian? THE VISITOR

It’s 7:30 p.m. and I am already dressed formally for the special celebration of our 50th anniversary. Most of our guests surely have wondered over the years how Donnie and I have stayed together and we have wondered ourselves. It is just one of the many miracles we have shared. Just last year, the 14th of November, our 49th anniversary, we were at the point of ending it all then and there but eventually kissed and made up.

 

Seated at my marble-topped  dressing table, I put a light foundation all over my face, dust it with powder, a soft brush pinky rose blush and look deeply into the magnifying mirror to apply the important eye make-up. Everything I need is neatly laid out in order of use. Just as I am ready the room lights blink and come right back on. Staying calm, I look at myself and smile. For 71, I look darned good. My lips do not smile back at me. I try a toothy smile again with my own pearly whites showing off my still not painted lips. The white teeth are yellowed. ‘Donnie,’ I scream. ‘Come in here fast!’ He comes in holding his cuff links and asks me to fit them in his cuffs. ‘Later, later,’ I say with a mean, nasty tone in my voice. ‘Look at me. How do I look?’ Donnie looks at me strangely and tells me I look lovely as usual. ‘Come on, fix my cuff links,’

 

My heart pumps loud enough for me not only feel, but to see my chest jumping. ‘Stand behind me, Donnie, and tell me what you see.’ I watch him and see a shadow behind him but can’t make it out. ‘I already told you, Tessie, you look lovely, almost the way you looked 50 years ago.’ At that I laugh. ‘Come on, finish up, Old Lady. We have to be a the hall first, you know.’ I look in the mirror again and my skin is wrinkled, gray. The eyelid skin is drooping. Blonde #407 with brown streaks has gray streaks. There is a crack in my top front tooth.

 

Being so frightened, I foolishly put my special lit mirror on the floor and hit it hard with Donnie’s golf shoe. It does what I meant it to do- shatters to shards. I start to cry and my make-up runs.

 

With no choice left, I go to the bedroom bureau, put all the ceiling lights, table lights on. This is miserable. I have to bend over the bureau just to see myself at all. There is a shadow in there that won’t go away. All of my applied make-up is gone. My skin is soft and white like a baby’s. My blue eyes sparkle. Whatever is happening is more than I can understand but am not complaining. I feel rejuvenated, younger, happier. Taking my blush brush I barely touch my cheeks. With no foundation is just glides on nicely. It’s hard to see my eyelids from my position so I skip all three shades of color I usually use and add only a taupe eye liner to the top and bottom of my lids and onto my brows.
I lean in closer to the mirror, almost kiss it as I smile at myself. My white teeth are white again. The coral lipstick I was going to wear flies into the trash can and I put on instead a soft rose.

 

Donnie yells from downstairs, ‘Come on. Let’s go.’ My diamond drop earrings fit easily, quickly into my lobes as if I had buttered them. My husband is tapping his foot at the bottom of the stairs. He whistles, comes half way up, takes my hand and escorts me to the car.

 

I feel super, look my best, am happy. Turning my head to the window so Donnie won’t see my mouth move, I thank Dorian Gray for helping me, give him a subdued wave as Donnie and I  go to celebrate our golden anniversary.

DOWN ON THE FARM

Aunt Lottie, dear Great Aunt Lottie, called me ‘Goldeneh’. That meant I was like golden sunshine. I loved her too, and her farm. It was real, just like Old Mc Donald’s. There was a well, dark and deep, with a bucket that brought up cold, clear spring water. Mama held me very tight in her arms and let me look down the hole, warning me sternly to keep away from it.

 

The house was hot, stifling hot. Sitting on the screened in porch was better but the tiny, tiny black oat bugs squeezed in thru the fine mesh. Aunt Lottie didn’t mind them but Daddy and Mama were miserable. They constantly swatted and complained.

 

The hen house smelled absolutely horrible so I only stayed in there only long enough for Aunt Lottie to show me how to feed the noisy pecking birds. Outside, ah, the air was clearer. Then she showed me a secret, one I couldn’t tell the chickens. Under the grey front steps, we crawled. Eggs, three eggs. Aunt Lottie found three eggs, 2 still warm. The third glass. She used it to fool the chicks as they would only lay where others had. As we put the delicate treasure in a basket, Sheba came bounding out of the cornfield. Don’t ask me what kind of dog Sheba was because I already asked Aunt Lottie and she didn’t know.  I fell in love with Sheba and wanted her very badly but Aunt Lottie wouldn’t let me have her. Mama was glad!

 

If Mama and Daddy had come with us, they would have cooled off a lot. Down the hill, just off the road, was a one room shingled hut. We had to step down and duck to go into its near pitch blackness. Dimly I could make out baskets and crates filled with fruits and vegetables, large milk cans against the wall. Aunt Lottie gathered onions, potatoes, beets and carrots and off we went, back to the house.

 

Daddy had his camera set on a tripod to take a family picture. Chairs were in a neat line on the lawn- seven of them- for Mama, Rose, me, Aunt Lottie and Cousin Esther- none for Sheba. Daddy said,’That’s one too many. Rose, move one away.’ My aunt was coming from the porch carrying a cold pitcher of lemonade and a cane with a white pearl handle. She set the drinks on a tree stump, put the chair back with the others and tenderly laid the cane against it.  When Daddy develops the pictures, she told us, her dear departed husband would be seen sitting in what seemed to be an empty seat. Nobody laughed. Nobody said anything.

 

After dinner we made ice cream in a churn with milk right from the cow and peaches picked from the trees.  I helped lift and plop, lift and plop. It turned out to be the best ice cream in the whole world. Old Mc Donald must have been a very happy farmer. And–do you know what? Mama and Daddy were kind of happy, too, because of the eight pictures on the roll, one and only one, came out blank, black.

 

I think Uncle Benny didn’t want his picture taken.

HANDLE THIS ONE

This strange story began with 3 lines and I was locked out. I couldn't find a way to follow through for 2 days and finally closed with one that didn't really please me. I documented and numbered  it for my files and relaxed with a TV. one hour documentary  show. It was a medical story of people becoming physically similar to my character and what can now be done about it. I was fascinated,  stunned, and think I may have missed my calling.   

 

She’s dangerous. Her body and her walk stop traffic. Horns honk. When the cars pass her, they turn, see her face and just keep on going. Something is strange. I am taunted, teased and walk faster to get well ahead of Miss Gorgeous and when I do, I turn and look at her. Either she is having some kind of goofy fun or she is a freakin’ freak, an anomaly. Her nose is long and her salt and pepper beard is longer.
My mouth dries up like a windblown desert. I cannot accept what I am seeing.

 

‘Get away from here,’ I say to me but she/he puts her hand out to stop me from running away. In a gravelly tone ‘it’ says, ‘Sonny, did you have a  good look?’ Feet move, I command and they take me across the street. This is not the way I expected the morning to be and mentally lecture myself. ‘You were too excited. You were too fast. You were rude. AND you are a big jerk.’ Eyes straight ahead, I reach the curb. ’Snowbeard’ taps me on my back and starts to talk even though it must be clear to him that I want to get away. ‘Let me tell you something, Sonny. You aren’t the only one shocked. If you had seen me when I looked in the mirror yesterday, you might have thought you were going off the deep end. ‘

 

He goes on. ‘ I need help now or I will be dead in a few minutes. I’ll turn around and let a car kill me, even though the driver will be punished for it.’ There is no way I can avoid the passing cars slowing down, honking, waving, and rushing on, hoping not to be stopped at a red light. As much as I’d rather this he be a she, looking into his sad face, I must accept what I see and ask why, when, did this happen. He explains how distraught he has been for weeks, having learned the wife he loves so dearly has been having affairs for years. Stopping to catch his breath he asks my name. ‘Jerry, Jerry Kahn.’ Ok. Jerry, Jerry Kahn, I’m a peaceful man but won’t kill my wife. I know I can’t do that but would like her to hurt, hurt as badly as I do. How can I hurt her?’

 

There are a few East Indians who live in our neighborhood. Mr. Abdullah told me he can put a strong hex on her. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘bring me the entrails of a chicken, two twigs from a thorny cactus and five brown shiny stones. I will fix her good.’ I go to his house with the chicken entrails, cactus thorns and brown stones. Abdullah puts them in a large black metal bowl and chants strange words. My entire body gets cold and numb. The fakir leans over my shivering body, removes my check for $500 from my jacket and tells me to go home. As I walk out of his door, he gives a deep cough and explains. ‘Your wife is going to be punished when next the moon rises.’

 

It pours for 3 days and nights. Surely the moon rises  but I can’t see it until the sky clears. The moon shines almost as bright as the sun only white. ‘Mr. Kahn. Look again at me. Abdullah’s hex is on me. I am being punished and I did no harm. ‘ I listen but am hand tied. Yes, something is around my wrists. My robe belt is tangled. I reach to free myself and only have half of our blanket. I gather my half around me and get a swift kick in my rear.

 

I wake fully, hug my wife and fall back to sleep.

Don't say never ever is too late.

This lady looks just like me! Only I walk better, have my own teeth, am 5 1/2 years older than she is---and can't carry a tune in a hand basket.

 

Enj(oy)!

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAwOZvvGsRs

 

 

1930's to ? - YEARS FLEW

No matter how sparse the shelf space, there was always room for hat boxes in Mama's closet. A trip downtown for her, dragging me along, meant she would get a pretty hat from its box and take a pair of gloves from the drawer. We each put on clean clothes and took the noisy, smelly streetcar to downtown Baltimore. By the time I was eight, I knew the importance of hats having received one to match the red and white sun outfit Mama bought me. My best friend and cousin, Roz, got the same set in blue and weren’t we the cat’s meow in our twin beach HATS !
       
Mama and her friends wore small clinging ones, which they could stack on top of each other when not in use. Just to sit on our front bench to watch neighbors walk by or to see to it we kids didn’t run in the busy street demanded a hat.  Lots of ladies wore big ones and had to be  reminded to take them off in the movies.

 

Tony’s barber shop was a few doors away from our house. Even in there was a brass rack for the men to have a safe place to put their hats. Still they feared as a sign right above the rack said ‘Watch your hat and coat.’ My Zadie had a straw boater that he wore until summer was long gone. Mr. Binder, a fat cigar-chewing family friend, was very special walking up and down our block with his bowler jauntily set. My Daddy had a gray fedora that slouched at an angle making him a bit frightening to some–but not to me.

 

The hat industry was huge. Every department store had salesladies trained to say, ‘That’s you, that’s really you!’  Their charm usually worked. My second job out of high school was with a large men’s hat firm where I recorded the hundreds of hats shipped out daily. A new casual hat was designed and  employees had a contest to name it. My suggestion did not win. The leisure hats ended up being called Flip-It and did extremely well in the market place. I didn't and quit that boring job.

 

Not until I was engaged to my husband-to-be did I truly realize how important hats were. His knowledge of color, style, fabric made him top man. He sold hats, and everything else, to sailors in town for the day. Mr. Average Man, anyone who stopped to window shop, many already sporting head wear were fair game to the salesmen.

 

As years went by we opened our own stores, with special care to the hat department. It was given priority space.  But then Kennedy, in his bare headed glory, destroyed the industry. The country seemed to rally around him, ‘Hats off to Kennedy! The shelves in our store held less and less hats as customers relaxed and could feel the wind thru their hair.

 

The ladies took their cue and doffed theirs making every day elegance go the way of the dodo. Manufacturers, distributors, packaging firms went out of business.

 

Nobody gained except the sun tan lotions companies.

FUZZY FEELINGS: ARNIE

From the lounge piano, lilting, soft music caressed the diners in a posh, busy, lovely restaurant. Beautiful yellow and blue fish swam laps in the aquarium. The appetizers were appeteasers. Dinner, service and the articulate, interesting man across from me made me glad I came.  Far from an Adonis, 5 inches shorter than tall and hair as surely darkened by a bottle as mine was lightened, didn’t make Arnie a struck-out-again date. Conversation flowed easily without a single lull. Much of it was about his recent achievement, the publication of his book. That didn’t matter. I was at ease, relaxed and gave some thought to hoping he felt the same way. No, I didn’t FALL in love, or even ‘like’ , but there he was, the first guy who had something going for him. He wanted to take me dancing and I surprised myself by agreeing eagerly. However, when we got to his favorite place, they were closed. Our disappointment was evident to each other. Instead of dancing, we enjoyed ice cold watermelon in my kitchen . What made me feel so at ease? I couldn’t figure it out until much later.

 

In the meantime, I heard a very tragic tale of his daughter’s death, his divorce, break-up of a one year relationship. Listening was easy as I knew it was all laying inside of him, waiting for release. What wasn’t easy was hearing him apologize several times for being ‘down.’ Time flew quickly as did his gentle goodnite kiss. There were no dreams of him, no over-powering urge to see Arnie again, but I did want to further our relationship. He had given me a copy of his book, asking  for my opinion, and that was my ‘in’ if he didn’t call. And that ‘in’ came in handy as my phone was silent until I called him Wednesday, having searched for the right positive words to describe what I felt was not a good book. Not having quite finished it, I suggested he be my guest for golf on Sunday so we could discuss it in its entirety. And so our second date was arranged.

 

Sunday morning he came a little early. The moment I opened the door I took a deep breath and understood my feeling good with him. Arnie was wearing an exact pair of Sansabelt slax as my husband had owned, a cotton knit shirt of perfect coordination and a little white golf cap. In his change of clothes, he had brought along was another outfit, same pants, different color, an unusual one but a duplicate of Ray’s. On the tee Arnie’s build was so much like my husband’s before cancer shrunk him to almost skeletal size, that I couldn’t watch Arnie’s shot. It was good! I was bad! I was confused but Arnie didn’t sense my mixed feelings. He was soft spoken, funny, encouraging, generous and I was soon able to separate the two.

 

After golf and a drink we shared a tasty pizza. I laughed at his Myron Cohen jokes and then beat him at Gin. Time to go home was nearing and when at the door, his kiss was not as friendly as the first peck. I returned it emotionlessly, nervously, thinking as our lips touched, IF he calls again, what will he expect that I will not be able to give? I really want him to call me. I want to go out with him again, or just sit home, listen to music, maybe dance a little, play cards. I think with a little persuasion, a little extra attention, I could learn to care about him but it would take time.

 

Sadly, and rightly, I didn’t think for a moment he would give us that chance and figured he would fade away like all the others—only this time I would have some small regrets.

Acceptance: JENNIE MAKES HER MIND UP

Who is that woman in my mirror? Whose long thin legs are going into the handsome tan wool gabardine slacks? ‘It’s , me!’ I say, then mutter to myself, Correction-‘it is I.’ As usual, I am early and will sit and wait to greet my daughter arriving on Delta 107 at 5 p.m. My watch tells me what I knew, I’m early. It is only 4:30. Early is better than late. Just once my flight back from Paris arrived twenty five minutes early. I still have visions of Carla, one of the two stewardesses, almost flying on her own down the narrow aisle to prepare us for the early gift. The girls were cleaning up, waking the few who could sleep thru most anything. Captain Mc Court made an announcement that actually could be heard. ‘We have been cleared for an early landing as Stewardess Carla is getting married today and has to catch a flight to Wilmington. She came twirling down the aisle, extending the trash bag, as we passengers applauded.

 

Thrilled, itching to get off early was for nothing. There was no reason to scratch. At our gate the exit runway didn’t appear until it’s normal time. The exit door was stuck and had to be worked on from the outside. Grumbling, we all got off never knowing, never caring, if Carla got married or not. Did I learn to not rush to the airport, in case, a plane is early? No I did not.

 

My daughter, Jennie definitely knows I will be at the luggage area first. Her flight docks on time. Passengers, in all sorts of frenzies  begin entering Bay L40 to grab their luggage and run. Jennie evidently did not manage to get a seat up close to the exit like I always tell her to do. People surround me, pushing for a spot to grab the turning luggage, golf bags. I pace as best I can, watch and then spot Jennie’s 3 plaid bags...but not Jennie. Her things go around again. They are the only cases not recovered.  I am shaking like Kellogg’s pouring from a new box. Where is Jennie?

 

‘Mom, Mom,’ music to my ears. ‘Here I am,’ she yells as she runs and almost knocks me over. I’m out of control and shout back at her. ‘Where the hell have you been, Jennie? Why do you have to worry me all the time?’ Indignantly she puts me down. ‘Mom, stop that cussing. You taught me better and do it yourself.’ ‘As I was freshening up my lipstick, combing my hair to look extra nice to see you, I noticed my right diamond stud was missing and panicked.’ Slowly and carefully I look at her two diamond less lobes. ‘Kiss them goodbye, Jen. Let’s go home. Gone is gone is gone. Let’s get out of this f’n place. ‘Mom, stop using that language. You are a pain in the neck. And you have no faith, no confidence in your daughter. I found the one under the seat two in front of mine. The landing bump must have made it roll forward. I had already taken the safe one off and put it in my wallet.’ ‘Come on, Mom, let’s go home. I’m starving, Are we having your fantastic lasagna and garlic bread for dinner? 

 

Walking side by side, Jenny pushes the cart I had brought for her luggage and I handle her roll on case. She’s bubbly, effervescent, no
sign of being tired. Me? I’m pooped from being too early, from worrying why my daughter was late getting off the plane.

 

I love her so very much but I let her get to me too often. ‘Jennie, you haven’t even asked where Dad is, why he’s not here.’ We reach my car. She handles the lifting and waits until I start the motor before she says another word., Mom, where’s Dad? How is he? Why didn’t he come with you?’

 

I reply. ‘Ask him yourself or not. You know he won’t give up his evening basketball games on t.v. You have me. Isn’t this enough?’ Jenny takes my right hand  off the wheel, squeezes it and bends over to kiss my cheek. Hubby has set the oven on low and the lasagna is heating.

TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES

Almost naked, I was standing on a rock, its surface smoothed by pounding water, rain and wind. The sea en-isled us. Many yards away was a golden beach. To its right the tongue of a cliff moved in the crystal clear water. Huge palm trees looked like green parasols. The salty air and warming rays of the sun on my skin sent me heavenward. In my hands was a fishing rod, but I wasn’t fishing. I just stood there watching the colorful fish play games with each other.

 

From the moaning of the waves came a strange, deep, monotonous sound. It disturbed, angered me. Out of the sea came a line of black robed people, their heads shaded in hoods. Maybe forty or fifty of them appeared, dripping wet, walking in a slow rhythm. When they reached the beach, they began to chant a monotonous dirge. I could not understand the words. Why couldn’t I see their faces? Who were they? Where were they going? The procession stopped, formed a semi-circle around me. My near nakedness embarrassed me. The drone of the voices grew louder until I began to hum along.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, the semi-circle formed into a straight line and disappeared behind a sand dune. The last figure seemed to hesitate and turned towards me. Without understanding why it was happening, I became sad, depressed and hurried to catch up to the group.

 

As I neared the last one, reflections of the sun lit the face under the hood. I was shocked, It was you, my beloved. I tried to speak to you but my voice failed. You smiled a sad smile, stayed still, as if waiting for me. My legs took wings and I ran to your open arms. You untied the heavy knot around your robe, and let your cover drop in the sand. It was easy for me to inhale so that my bathing shorts fell next to your robe.

 

We embraced with a strong ardor and I lifted you, carried you back into the sea. The sun was low setting into a deep red horizon. You grabbed my hand tightly as we walked out to the dying sun and died with it.

Whoa Woe: MISSING PEACE

It’s quarter to two
There’s no one in the place
Except me and you........

 

And you are just a figment, hiding behind your photo on the night table. You taunt me, memories make me cry for what I’ve lost, for what I have not found, a new, exciting world. What I have is fairy dust. Where is peace of mind? Where is calming sleep? It’s okay to feel sorry for myself, isn’t it? I don’t look for sadness. It finds me, comes unbidden.

 

The widows’ golf cart talk, the lunches and dinners are empty holes. Alone I put a small plate on a tray, add some cottage cheese with saltine crackers, have a cup and tea, finish it, wash the plate, fork and cup and sit down at the kitchen table to play true Solitaire until it becomes unbearable. I am trying hard to keep busy, smile, enjoy my many blessings but nights are too long, too lonely.

 

My daughter thinks she isn’t nagging me but she is. ‘Take a step, Mom. My friend, Frieda, has a nice gentleman for you to meet. She’s told him how pretty you are and talented. Can he call you?’ His description tells me to say ‘No, we will have nothing in common,’ but I agree. I go to lunch with him and he goes out of my life. Thank heavens my tongue was not frozen. Had it been, there would have been no conversation at all for forty-five minutes.

 

‘Oh, god. Oh, Harvey. I want o-u-t. Out of everything! You promised me I’d have a good life. Men would be falling all over me in six months. You were so wrong. Remember when we used to argue and one of us was declared right, the winner made an imaginary ‘chalk one up for me’ motion in the air. My chalk mark is choking me..’

 

The search for a new friend, male, female, who can make me smile again seems hopeless. My still married lady friends stay yardsticks away from me, afraid I will steal their husbands. Stupidos all! There isn’t a husband there who would interest me. I have been replaced in our golf foursome. They new foursome is content and I am glad for them while still being hurt and angry.

 

‘Harvey, you left me so much, three children who are as old as we were when we married, security, good (and bad) memories and a huge cavern in my heart. It feels like Death Valley, dry and dull. There are fleeting times when I manage to accept the now, loosen up a bit but blink and there I sit, next to you, day after day, holding your hand, while chemo drips into your arm.

 

Once I saw you  looking in the mirror on the back of our bedroom door. You had nothing on but your boxer shorts and you tried to raise muscles in your biceps, muscles that you had like an Atlas. You saw my reflection and said quietly, ‘Look, Babs, look what has happened to me.’ Words were impossible. I turned away and cried and cried.

 

Your skin yellowed. You became a bag of bones, hairless. It was  unbearable for both of us. And then you went away. ‘Hear me, Harvey. I miss you so very much. Sleep is fitful. I don’t want to be so sad.’

 

‘HELP!’

A happening: BLACKOUT

It’s a lovely day today. I know where I am, know what to expect. I also know danger lurks in Rock Creek Park and am prepared. Mace is in my left hand and my cell phone in my right. My eyes are everywhere, especially on the red sun rising over the cherry blossoms that are already winking to a few visitors. My lips pucker to whistle Yankee Doodle Dandy but my expertise seems to have left me. All that comes out is spit and bubbles. I try it again but my lips must be broken.

It’s only 6:30 in the morning, perfect for a walk around the Lincoln Memorial. With it in sight, I almost trip and fall. My shoe lace must be undone. There are plenty of empty benches. I take the first handy one, bend over to tie my bulky walking shoes. There is a thud, a crack.  My face feels wet. My fingers turn red with blood when I touch my nose. The redness runs fast down my face. It is all over my jacket before I can pull a Kleenex out of my purse.

Darkness covers me. With the slightest amount of light leaking in, I see bikes and a few men in work clothes around me. A soft voice asks my name. All I can say is ‘please’ and the blackness washes over me again. I’m too scared to be scared and tumble into a gray swirling abyss.  My hand touches grass that is still damp with dew. I feel dizzy.
A soft voice tells me to lie still for a few more minutes.

In a trembling voice I ask questions. ‘What happened? Why am I here? What happened to the sun? Who took it away from me? Did somebody  tie my shoe?’ A teen sitting near me tells me I’m wearing flip flops with no shoe strings. He asks me where all the blood came from that is on my blouse. ‘Egads!’ I yell. ‘Who hit me? Why? With what?

A tall policeman asks the crowd to move back, give me some air. ‘Officer, I have plenty of air, what I’m missing is some blood.’ He asks, ‘Are you dizzy? Anything hurt you?’ ‘Damn right, Ossifer, if it’s still on my shoulders, my head is going to split. Somebody conked me. How about my nose? Is it all in one piece?’ The officer looks closely and he regretfully tells me it looks like my nose is broken. ‘Do you want me to call an ambulance, Ma am?’ ‘Thank you but no. I would appreciate a ride back to my car, Lot C4 near the Lincoln Memorial.’ ‘I’m on patrol duty but will call the station and a car should be here in about ten minutes. Come sit over here on a bench. I’ll wait with you.’ He looks at the folks still watching the action and tells them to go on about their business. ‘The show is over.’

Everyone is gone is except one young man, standing behind the bench I am using. Sheepishly he comes around to face me, to apologize. He threw a stone, a big one to chase away a dog that was chasing him and it accidentally hit me. Tears were in his eyes. He apologized over and over. The officer took his name, address etc. and gave him a citation for misconduct.

‘Lady,’ he said. ‘Please, please excuse me. I wasn’t even going to hit the dog, just scare it away. I have a part time job on week ends, so don’t worry, I’ll pay your doctor bill. It will be slow, but I’ll do it.’

Surprise, surprise! He did do it and I donated the money to his church.

 

TRUE TALE: Horst

 

Back when I was enjoying the simplicity of going in a Chat Room, when, to my knowledge, there was no porn, I met a man who lived in FL. We mostly chatted openly but often went into ‘privacy’ just to get away from the boring and constant talks about the weather, what chatterers had for dinner, their pets. After checking with an email pal of his, Bob offered me the name of someone else who might like to be my email pal. Horst, in Norway, was delighted to correspond with me, and there the story begins.

 

Very computer literate, he worked out a way to get me into a totally private Norwegian chat area, gave me my own password, etc. And we wrote and we talked, endlessly, more than an hour a day. It was mind expanding as I learned the differences in cultures there and in his homeland, Germany. Horst was a very small child during WWII but he had memories of the train he was on being strafed by US. We didn’t get into a great deal about his parents, Nazis or not, but they had been very wealthy people. After his good education and years had passed, he moved to Norway where he married, had 2 children and a grandchild.

 

He threw me for a loop when he turned on a camera that was attached to his puter and waved to me. I was able to watch him write to me, see him pour a glass of wine and make toast me, blowing a little kiss on his hand.  He turned the camera to the window and I saw the snow laden pine trees in the forest near his large house. Horst pleaded with me to get a camera too but no, I strongly refused without telling him why. I knew he was at least ten years younger than I- enough to ruin a great friendship.

 

More about him: he was retired as a CEO of a large American firm with a base in Oslo. He loved being a home husband while his wife taught in the university. All the house work, shopping, cooking was his responsibility. Social life in the small town was amongst neighbors, soirees, seldom going out to the only town restaurant which  had one sitting an evening. No long lines, no grumbling customers. Calm, easy life style.

 

Something else Horst had was a very tiny private island, rowing distance from his home. How he loved it ! Contemplating the beauty around him, falling asleep, he dreamed about me. E mails flew faster than peregrine falcons. Many I printed and still have, including a picture of me (from his imagination-nude) which looked nothing like me but it was fun getting to meet his dream lady.

 

As weeks became two years, he began to tell me of suspicions he had about his wife being away so much. I put thoughts in his head I should never have done. He pressed her until she  admitted she had been having an affair for a long time with their closest friend. While he seemed relieved to finally know the truth, I regretted interfering in his personal life.
There was business to do in Germany where his 90 year old mother still
lived and he had to go there for two weeks to close a deal on their factory. Horst was to contact me as soon as he returned to Norway...but I did not hear from him, not in two weeks, three, ever. I wrote to his house, where I had previously sent some photos he requested, but whoever lived there either couldn’t read English or wanted no connection to me in the USA.

 

The puzzle of his swift and total disappearance from my life has puzzled me for years. He was terribly distraught about his wife’s infidelity which makes me still believe he had a nervous breakdown, either killed his wife or himself.

 

What else could have happened? I see no other possible scenario.