A Puzzlement: GOOD BYE

Summer is ending. The beautiful sycamores and maples have not yet turned colors. My Dad  has already had our 2007 Subaru gone over thoroughly. It waits at the end of the gravel lane to our summer house, getting heavier by the minute. Mom stripped the bed linens this morning and has packed them in cartons. One of the first thing she’ll do when we get back to Burlington is wash them and put them in our new dryer. She has packed lunches for all, emptied the waste cans, pulled the plug on the refrigerator, washed it thoroughly inside and out and left the door open so mold shouldn’t grow before we return next summer. Closets are bare. All of the windows are closed tightly and locked. The back door, too, is secure. Yesterday’s newspaper remains on the kitchen table for last minute packing. We are almost ready.

Dad comes in, closes the front door and inspects everything. He starts to roll a few tools, a hammer, small saw, two screw drivers and a collapsible tape measure in the newspapers. The papers start to flutter, shake, fall off the table. Dad runs upstairs to check the windows again, finds them all closed and orders us to try the downstairs locks once more. ‘Unlock them and re-lock them,’ he calls.

When I reach for the papers still on the table, they fly like birds ready to soar to the sky. I can’t catch even one. Mother manages to grab a single sheet. She stops still. ‘Something is weird. I think god is trying to tell us not to go. This is an omen for sure.’ ‘Your mother’s looney,’ Dad tells us all. ‘Let’s go, Kids. Georgia won’t like waiting for us.’
My little sister, Barbie, is holding her favorite doll, Mopsy. It’s loved even though it’s ragged. Jodie, my brother, older than I am, passed his driver’s test last week and wants to drive first. Dad tells him he can drive after lunch when we are on the straight away of 101 north.
The sun is almost out of sight as we reach the Bideaway Motel. It is no palace but no slum either. Dad tells Jodie he did a good job driving and can take the wheel when we head out after breakfast. When Mom opens the door to gather our clan for breakfast, the Georgia Tattler is unfolded and starts to blow into the living room. The front page wraps around her foot. She slams the door with force.
All of the fluttering newspapers have been captured and taken outside to the dumpster at the end of our row. Dad again urges us, ‘We’re set. Let’s go. ’He opens the door again and a single  page of the Palm Gazette hits him in the face. More papers fly in. We all chase them, hold on to the few Dad still needs. The rest he folds carefully and puts in the hall closet.

Dad is upset, angry. ‘We’re wasting time. I’ll have to do 65 to reach Georgia before night fall. In, in, get in the car,’ he demands. Jodie must wait to take the wheel. We are driving only a few minutes when Mom feels something tickling her leg. She reaches to find out what it is and shows us a fairly small bird feather. ‘Ed, I thought you had the car cleaned, oiled, checked before we left. You should report this to Subaru service when we get home.’

S. Carolina, N. Carolina, into Virginia and we are ½ way to Vermont. Mother finds  a bird feather on the night table at Bideaway Motel and laughs when she asks, ‘Who’s molting around here?.Maryland is a breeze, a breeze that blows in a few more feathers. With no explanation, we are all getting nervous. The free Morning Baltimore Sun unfolds and feathers come out, flutter and fall to the floor. ‘This is insane,’ Mother says. ‘I don’t want anyone to open  the daily papers before we get home. Do it and there will be trouble.’

One more night on the road with Jodie and Dad taking turns driving and we are back in the heavenly Green Mountains and Burlington. Dad is already planning next summer. ‘We are going to fly. I’ll have the car shipped down.’ Our big house welcomes us. Dad pulls into the garage, opens the door that goes into the kitchen and we take turns going to the loo, coming back to unload the car. We know what is coming next. ‘Everything in its proper place, Children,’ Mother says and we start. It is easier unpacking than packing. Mom has more to do than any of us. She will fix a good enough meal out of canned sardines, canned soup, crackers, delicious fresh vegetables and fruit bought along our journey and a tin of cookies.

Just about the last thing to be unwrapped is Dad’s tools. He calls us downstairs, ‘Come quick!’ We hurry and find him holding a blue shell that had somehow gotten in with his tools. A very tiny, dried up robin is half in, half out of it.’ Mother examines it carefully and announces the flying newspapers were an omen, warning us not to hurt the little chick.’ How could we. It was quite dead.

Mother gets a small white gift box from a much larger gift box. She is a saver and never knows when she will need one. In the box she places a few scraps of the old newspaper, the ½ of the  blue robin’s egg and the deceased tiny bird. Mother turns to Barbie and tells her to save the box. ‘Save it for your children to see and tell them about the fluttering newspapers. Maybe they can come up with a sensible answer as to how the bird in the egg got into our house. I don’t even want to try to figure it out.’

DO YOU?

If you don't get it, ask me a kvestion -- LOOK FOR IT

If I have to say it myself (and I do) I’m very good at what I do, and mostly what I do is wait–wait for an inspiration, a new slant on an old idea, an exciting way to sell whatever Mr. Baron, CEO of Advertising Zingdom, offers me.

My days start uneventfully. Mr. Baron, Jr. unlocks the door to the inner sanctum, with me on his heels. Nobody has suggested I be a custodian but I have assigned the job to myself. The ceiling lights must all work. The temperature should be the perfect 76 degrees. The water cooler has to be filled by Harold, a slightly mentally handicapped senior citizen. It isn’t always done so I get Harold to do it. I set the dials for the coffee machine and my unassigned work is done.

Grace Mullins is, as usual after me, is the first office worker to arrive. I watch her every morning take a key on a gold chain from her purse, put the purse in the large drawer in the bottom of her sleek, modern desk, and lock it. The chain goes around her neck with the key deep down her bosom.  She starts her computer and attacks the day’s work like a lion tearing a wapiti to bits.

As I walk towards the ‘Planning Room’, I smile, nod to each employee. A few know my name, wish me a good morning. A few seem to always be too busy to acknowledge my existence. The drawing room is empty, except for the sketches I foolishly left on my desk. I look them over carefully, see no evidence they have been handled and sit back in the comfortable leather chair that tilts, swivels and even lies flat.

Pigeons have made a nest right above the outside of my window. Feathers drift down towards the street. Bird poop is on the windows that won’t be washed for months. There is no way to chase the birds. During my blank hours, I watch the mama birds fly to the chicks and drop food in their beaks. She protects them when it rains and pushes them out of their nest when she thinks they can fly. I watched one fall
down five stories, until its weak wings began to flap. The other five must have made it too.

Not a thought, not a beginning, reaches my dry mind. Harold brings me hot coffee and a chocolate donut. Malcolm, my co-worker, walks in, says nothing and takes half of my donut.  ‘Let’s get going, Mal. I’m still dry. Want your own do-nut? I’ll call Harold back.’ Mal’s mouth is full. He nods a strong ‘yes’ to me. Harold returns with a full tray of all kinds of do- nuts and tells us what he has said too many times. ‘You know these do-nuts don’t come out of boxes, don’t you? They come right straight from Dunkin’ Donuts, still warm.’ Mal takes a coconut and two walnut covered ones, starts stuffing his mouth. ‘What the hell are you doing, Man? When did you eat last?’ I ask. Mal tells me two days ago. Yesterday he had a colonoscopy and is still empty. I stare at him, amazed at his gluttony and get a tiny tingle in my brain. I lower my chair, reach a small pillow in a desk drawer that I keep for just a time like this. ‘Mal, get out of here. I’m thinking.’

Something is niggling at me. ‘No food, starving.’  Advertising Zingdom has a contract with Golden’s Golden Matzohs for a  Passover promotion to out do Manischewitz this holiday season.

I set my drawing board on the easel and start drawing a streamlined, colorful Moses. Color is important. No dirty rags for my Moses. I leave his beard, long, shaggy and very white. Stylized D #40 script may work. I try the word ‘Passover’ in bold. It is okay but not great. I keep at it until I am bleary-eyed, have lost my spunk, close my eyes and nod off. Dreams of chocolate matzos dance for me. They speak. ‘ Get to it, Mister or Passover is going to pass over and you will have lost the contract.’ A broken piece of matzos hits me on my head and I wake.

I’m alive. My hands work magic. In a swirl I design ‘Don’t Let Passover Pass Over.’ I add the dancing pieces and an inset that Zingdom Advertising will donate $1.00 to Israel for every box of Golden’s Golden Matzohs purchased. If it weren’t a good product, my idea would be useless but it is good, if you like to eat cardboard. I work on my idea all day and the next two. It turns out clever, colorful. Both Mr. Barons approve. They are pleased to give the dollars to Israel. Ads go into every Jewish newspaper, magazine within one hundred miles of Zingdom. Golden’s adds two to the gift to Israel.

Although Manischewitz may have sold more Matzohs than Golden’s in America,  the campaign was successful when the Israeli’s all over the world bought, and mostly enjoyed, Goldens. They figured it was cheaper than the price as $2 went right back to them.

In the morning after that job was complete, I came to work, checked the ceiling lights, the temperature to be the perfect 76 degrees. The water cooler was filled by Harold and Dunkin’ Donuts sent a variety of 3 dozen donuts to our office.

The Sequel: THE 101

The other day I sent you the story, “Blues In The Night” (see below). Janet Keller, my small fan club V.P., who often replies to my tales, asked for more. I suggested she write a Chapter 2 to “Blues In The Night” and she did. I think she did a terrific job -- very professional -- don't you agree?

         

The noise was deafening the car that had just been sitting in front of her now a mangled lump of metal.  God they had kids in that car.  Bile rose suddenly and Mary felt her dinner rising.  Swallowing hard she bit back the desire to throw up.  Black smoke was everywhere and the full realization of what had happened came crashing in.   Screams for help, children crying, confusion all around...Mary told herself to focus trying hard to get gather her thoughts.   From the debris she could tell it wasn't your normal chain reaction to a freeway fender bender.   Getting our of her car she wondered how she came through unscathed.  Looking ahead she saw what looked like an overturned big rig with a  plane engine next to it.   Is that what happened one of those jerks was carrying those huge loads and it had overturned causing this mess.  But how did the car in front of her get so pulverized.  She turned to see the damage behind and that was when it hit home.  Not a truck but an actual plane had crashed on the freeway and it was all behind her....

 

Have no fear: A LONG SHORT TRIP

The setting sun turned the sky into a blistering red world. As I drove West I imagined a gigantic fire dead ahead of me,  calling me closer  to be consumed in the flames. I relaxed, in fact, was ready for the conflagration to suck me in, turn me into toasted crumbs.

With my elbow I was able to push the button to automatically open the left window. Fresh, smokeless air flooded in, fogged the windshield. The wipers wiped for a few minutes and stopped midway in their assigned task. My right foot (on its own) eased off the gas pedal. With no choice, I was forced to pull over to the side of the road and cut the motor.  Surely going no less than ninety mph, a bright red Ferrari flew past me. The driver had no interest in me, nor I in him and that was how it was supposed to be. He will be incinerated before I reach my pyre.

It was time for me to go forward. My Jag motor purred. The wind- shield wipers  worked again. The sky had turned into a giant navel orange. It’s edge had brown blobs that rose out of sight. They reminded me of decay. I kept a steady pace, 80 mph, a little less than the Ferrari but well over the speed limit here.

San Francisco, the Golden Gate, were coming towards me. My front wheels began to tremor, shake wildly. Cars behind me were no longer there. What magic was happening? Where had they gone? I, and my useless Jag, were alone, balancing on a small piece of isolated road. The Golden Gate Bridge had almost disappeared into the Bay. Only a few  bent steel girders stood tall enough to be seen from a helicopter that I heard but couldn’t see, yet he saw me, dipped his wings, flew lower and waved to me. Clearly I saw his door open and a ladder come down towards my car.

I waved back, opened my door. The tiny speck of remaining road beneath me quivered, crumbled. It, I, my car, dropped into the bay.
The red sun’s reflection pulled me under.

I went peacefully to my future home.

Dinner-no winner: BLUES IN THE NIGHT

Six circa 1890 gas lights burned on each side of the entrance to La Luna, purported to be Belvedere Township’s top restaurant.
Danny pulled into valet parking. We walked just a few steps to the foyer, quickly feeling the coziness of porcelain sconces with lovely bone china figurines in ballroom gowns seeming to dance with the stars.
‘ Your name, Sir?’  ‘I am Milford, your host at La Luna. Please follow me.’

He took us to a lovely table for two, next to a small fountain. Colored lights turned the steady stream of water flowing from a nymph’s breasts to a dazzling rainbow. Danny was entranced. There were three couples, drinking wines at another table and 4 overweight men with heavy jowls, accompanied by 4 overly made-up young,  possibly evening companions, at another.

My eyes watched four waiters standing idly, silently, by the bar, not even glancing our way. We were in no hurry but after ten minutes of no service at all, Danny did me a favor and motioned to them. They ignored us, walked to an empty table across the room and sat down. Danny and I laughed at ourselves when we realized that wearing tuxedos didn’t mean they were waiters. I became edgy, puzzled. ‘Are we in the right place, Dan? For this we came so far?’ I started to get up, to investigate, find somebody to talk to. ‘Sit down and be patient,’ I was told. I started to tap the white tablecloth with my fingers. ‘Stop that, Anne. You’re making me nervous.’ I stopped my fingers tapping but my mind was over-active.

Something strange was going on. ‘Dan, let’s get out of here. This place is creepy.’ Dan agreed. As we started to stand so did the four tuxedoed men. Together they walked back to the bar where two bottles of wine were waiting for them. The maitre’ de appeared and took the two bottles to the table the men had just left, removed the corks for them, put the bottles on a small tea cart, turned and went back outside.

Danny had enough. ‘Let’s go now. They don’t need us. We don’t need them.’ No valet parker was out there, nor was our car in sight. Several of the gas lamps were dark. A bright beam from an extra large flashlight came slowly from beyond a path we hadn’t noticed before. It’s carrier told us not to be frightened. I hadn’t exactly been frightened but became so then. ‘What’s going on here? Where are the customers? What have you done with my car? Why is it so dark, so empty?’  Words stormed out of Danny’s mouth. Questions ran on. Answers had to wait until my husband calmed down.

‘Didn’t you hear the dreadful news, Sir? A small plane crashed on 101,
Sir, about a ½ an hour ago. The road is entirely blocked. The secondary road to here is 414 that has been under repair for over a month, unusable. Until 101 is cleared you are the guests of La Luna. Our kitchen is well stocked but only our emergency electric lines are working so we can’t prepare our wonderful meals for the few of you who fortunately were not entangled on 101. If you don’t have a cell phone with you and you have to notify anyone that you are with us and safe, use ours.

Would you and your wife like a sandwich, coffee, tea, wine? Our pastries are wonderfully, delicious. Forget the calories and have our mousse, our cherries jubilee, anything you like is yours, except a quick way to go home. Your car is safe. Which of these keys is yours?’ Danny instantly recognized his red one and felt a bit more secure with it in his pocket. He and I went back inside, got somewhat chummy with the tuxedoed men and the few other guests. We were free to explore, find the lavatories, inspect the kitchen. Never in our lives have we seen so many shiny pots and pans at once, three double refrigerators, separate freezers, stuffed with partly prepared foods that take just minutes to be finished and served, i.e., if service is available. It wasn’t and none of our small, but getting more intimate friends, were willing to try.

Mental pictures of the plane crash made me (and Danny) willing to forego the mousse and get home. The wine bottles magically  became empty bottles that temporarily made us feel less and less guilty about where we were and why we were safe and others were already morgue bound. Hours drained away. Most of us slept on chaise lounges in the parlor’s lavatory rest areas. The overweight men’s ladies of the night did not sleep with them, but I figured they got paid any how.

At 6 a.m. a little of dawn was peeping in thru the front glass door. The maitre’ de had fallen asleep at a dinner table, head resting on his folded arms. I saw him stand, stretch his arms, yawn and head right to the phone on the bar counter, heard him only say, ‘Good. Thank you.’ He woke us all, offered  breakfasts, that one and all accepted. Help was coming in. He had three man set up one squared off table for us and we ate as if we had been starved in a desert for weeks.

Our cars were lined up in the driveway. The lady in the fountain looked very ordinary without the colored lights and rainbowed water. As soon as Danny started the car, he turned on the news. ‘Twelve travelers died in the crash, including the pilot and  2 children. Route 101 is open now and running smoothly. Details will follow on the 10 a.m. news broadcast.’

We were home by nine. I put a container of chocolate mousse in the fridge along with two large, already seasoned pieces of wild salmon, that only needed butter, lots of butter, to broil for dinner.

Danny, who never to my knowledge, had thanked god for anything, said a little prayer of thanks to him/her/it when I served dinner.

 

An Inside Story: CLEANLINESS-GODLINESS?

The busiest room in our house was meant to be sunny, a bright, happy room. However, it had a taskmaster in charge of it, my Mom. A tin ceiling with Grecian patterned squares gave the ceiling class, but it didn’t. Daddy told me not to tell my Mom but he hated that ceiling. I told him not to tell Mom that I didn’t like it either. We had a secret, my Dad and I.

Mom got handy Mr. Gelfan to paint the big walls yellow, liven up the house. It didn’t take long before Mom’s old black gas range, with four burners (one of which was always clogged and sent whirls of smoke into the kitchen) began to turn the sunny yellow into gravelly gray. Dad said he could almost watch it happen.

‘Bob,’ she called. My Dad’s name is Robert but she insists Bob is better. We have all gotten used to it. ‘Bring the tall ladder up from the cellar and the big scrub bucket, too’. At five one, even on the highest rung, Mom had to stretch to barely reach the wall/ceiling juncture. By the time just a few swipes of Mom’s wet rag dripped down her arm, the bucket of water needed changing. Down she climbed, poured the cloudy mess in the kitchen sink, she refilled the bucket and climbed up the ladder again.
Every time Mom wrung out her rag, I got rained on.

The project consumed Mom. The rest of the house was going to the dogs. My sister, Lilly, had to grocery shop in the A & P. ‘Don’t forget a new box of Ivory Flakes, Lilly.’ I had to go to the bakery for a rye bread, (sliced, please) every day. Daddy did nothing except take care of his sick patients.

Mom’s internal clock was magical. With no watch on her wrist, at 4 p.m. every day, she climbed down the ladder, emptied the bucket and refilled it with clean water and Ivory Flakes. Three good, strong twists of the rags and she hung them out to dry on the back porch. ‘Mom, I asked, ‘Why do you have to dry the rags? You are just going to wet them again in the morning. Mom just said, ‘It feels better when I start out fresh. Now stop bothering me. I’ve got wall washing to do.’

At night I often heard Mom and Dad arguing. ‘Millie, stop washing the damn walls, You are going to fall off that ladder and break your neck. For god’s sake, get a day worker for $5 a day. It’s going to cost a whole lot more if you fall.’ ‘But, Bob,’ she whines. I can’t leave the job unfinished. Three or four more days and the kitchen will be nice and bright again.’ The arguing stopped. Mom beat Dad to his knees.

The three days came and went. Dad took the ladder to the cellar. The rags he tossed in the big can in the yard that had lost its lid. Dad never put food in that one. On the fourth day, Mom went to the A & P herself. The real sun was shining into our kitchen, the walls still damp. On the seventh day, when they were as dry as they were going to get, we were shocked, upset  Mom felt worse than all of us. Swipe marks were everywhere. It was so ugly it made me want to puke. Streaks of arm movements were like gray ghosts laughing at Mom. They rode into and over her. Some of the blue paint that was there before Mr. Gelfan made the room yellow, made the room look even worse.

Mom lost her cool. She cried and cried. Dad held her, sympathized with her and sent me out of the kitchen. I moved up close to the door and listened. Dad wanted to hire  Mr. Gelfan to re-paint the entire room. He cajoled and tempted Mom. ‘What color would you like, Wifey, mine?’

‘Bob, first, before we do anything costly again, I would rather we get rid of the damn gas range. Let’s get a new one that I read about.  The new  burners come on automatically, no matches. AND they don’t clog. After that you can ask Mr. Gelfan to bring me paint samples. No yellow.’ Dad agreed. I heard Mom say, ‘Stop that, Bob. The children will   hear you.’

We finished growing up in that same house and the kitchen was always    blue. 

 

 

 

Par for the Course: FORE

In my excitement to be in a team money tournament, my first, I muff my first drive. No gimmies today, no tantrum. I have to play the ball where it lies, a few feet off the elevated tee. There is barely room for me to use my five iron. The hair on my arms must be standing up like reeds in a cess pool. I’m nervous as hell. No audience follows us unless you count the two marshals, four caddies and my wife.

How I hit that shot like a real pro, I will always wonder, but it flew on magic pips to fifteen yards off the green. I was there in two, my team mates behind me in one. The three of them make the green with no effort but poor direction. My shot hits the green and rolls into the cup. Yippee! I parred it! Two more pars and a four do not bode well. Resounding applause comes from only one person, my Julie. Jim’s caddy quietly speaks to her, asks her not to do that again. I feel she is hurt, insulted, even angry and one does not anger Julie.

Predicted clouds begin to gather. There is a distant rumble of thunder and a quick flash of lightning. The club siren sounds forcing the players off the course immediately. The caddies carrying heavy bags full of irons, perfect lightning targets, walk the fastest to the club house. The team, minus me, the marshals stay clear of single trees. I see the marshal’s nasty look that I am hurrying, with Julie, to the clubhouse. Once safely and still dry inside, Julie has no problem and sits with other wives who evidently are not golf enthusiasts and prefer gab, gossip.

The lightning streaks for hours, slashes the sky from all directions. Strong winds bend trees. Bunkers have to be mud, the fairway unplayable. An announcement comes to the Grill and dressing rooms that play is canceled. The tournament resumes the following day. Tee times are being posted in the men’s locker room. Nobody wants to get their own cars but have to or spend the night on a locker room bench. Valet parkers have been sent away while the waiters and waitresses remain. Drinks begin to flow. Opponents tell jokes, play gin. Ladies just talk about things women talk about, clothes, maids, affairs, (parties, too). The kitchen is busy. Sandwiches, salads , burgers, dogs, fill us. Just the way the storm started, it ends. By 6:30 the sun is shining, a rainbow over the lake at the par five 18th hole brings down the curtain.

Getting our cars aggravates us all. We don’t know where the valet left them.  It takes half an hour until I spot ours, that looks like dozens of others. If I didn’t have a small fuzzy brown bear on the edge of the dash, we might never have reached home.

Team # 7, that’s my team, plays well. We have hope of coming in for some of the money invested. Even I make two birdies. Major tie ups on a few holes, break the tempo, the wanted smooth play. Lost balls, a turned ankle, one caddie throws up and has to leave. Sadly, that team gets disqualified. There aren’t enough roaming carts to be sure we all have plenty of water, a paper cup of lemonade.

Twilight surrounds us as we sign our cards, hand them to the officials and wait, and wait for the final results to be posted. Julia waits with me. Spotlights brighten the board but not me. Team # 7, my team, comes in 10th. That really stinks.  Julie embarrasses me with a big wet kiss and tight hug. I rub her kiss into my skin and hug her back. She suggests I sign up for the fall tourney.

‘Don’t push me, Julie. I’m not ready for that, won’t ever be.’ Let’s go out to dinner....and dessert.’

 

 

 

 

I'M BACK: THE SNAKE AND THE APPLE

From my third floor bedroom I have a view of the luxurious gardens and white gazebos of my neighbors’ properties,  north and south of my house. We are all considerate, conscious of being sure no lawn mowers are run before 10 a.m. The second house north is only partially visible to me and it matters not as it has been unoccupied for over a year. The owner, an acquaintance of mine, is touring the Far East and left the property with an agent to rent it for six months. The shrubs are trimmed, the grass manicured. It amazes me that it has been vacant so long.

My time is consumed by my business, family, hobbies. Seldom do I take the time to watch the gatherings, hot tub antics out of my window. Today it happens to be raining, not hard, but enough to keep the pool users inside. I guess they don’t like being wet. My eyes are blurry from reading the small numbers in the Wall St. Journal.  And trying to make a dent in the Sunday NY times crossword puzzle. I lie down on my bed to just relax and amazingly sleep for two hours. The gardens are empty. No one is about. I feel dirty, hot, need a shower. I shower and shower, let the warmth caress  my body. The turning of the knob to cold excites me. I switch back to warm. If I stay much longer I just may wash myself down the drain.

My overly large white terry robe hangs just in my reach from the shower door. Before I even put my foot on the black shack rug, I am 95% dry. From this point I picture a do-nothing day just preparing myself for Monday’s chaos.

I switch on my disc player. Barbra serenades me. Linda Ronstadt envelopes me. I dance with each of them. By the time Linda belts out ‘Blue Bayou’, I am at my window. The sun is hiding behind a weeping willow tree. It’s sad, beautiful, mournful boughs wave in the light breeze.  Something is moving under the tree. At first I think it is an animal, maybe a cougar, down from the hills. Neither of my neighbors, nor I, have dogs. I stare long and hard at the spot where I saw something or other. It is gone. The disc changes and Barbra sings, ‘Love Me Tonight.’ The ‘thing’ steps out of the shadows. A lady, a lovely, lady, naked as a skinned cat, gets to me fast. She is voluptuous, firmly endowed. Her blond hair is short, straight, strikingly perfect. My eyes are glued her way. I can barely see the pods in her ears, the iPod in her hand. What can she be listening to, dancing to that makes her smile? I pretend she is dancing with me and Barbra, and enfold her naked body inside my robe. At last she stops. I get the low footstool my former wife tapestried for me from the closet and place it under my window, stand on it and drop my robe.

I whistle to her and watch her search the trees looking for a bird. I whistle again. She looks in my direction but doesn’t see me.  Rosemary Clooney is pitching ‘C’mon My House, I’ll give you everything.’ And I picture the lady doing just that–ringing my bell. It is on the verge of ringing when the lady sees me posing in the window. She waves to me, points to her bouncing breasts and poof, she is gone.

I step off my stool, pick up my damp  and fall spent on my bed. As I gather my wits and strength together the doorbell rings once, waits a minute and chimes again. No time to dress, I put on the damp robe again and answer the door. My heart quickens, leaps out of my chest. There in an old chenille robe stands the dancing lady. ‘May I come in?’ she asks. I don’t even reply, just open the door with a sweeping bow, and she enters.

I set re-play on my discs, have an absolutely wonderful, thrilling Sunday evening and never once think about Monday.

 

FW: HUH? EVERLASTING

We were having dinner in our dining room, just the two of us, Mildred and I. Nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Mildred simply enjoyed setting a nice table, an attractive table. She used our silver and crystal almost every night, never forgetting to put a book of matches near my left hand so I could light the tall many different colored  candles she collected. No matter what the day had brought, happiness, anger, frustration her gentle smile made the sun shine during dinner.

Last night, she laid down her fork, shook her head and looked at me quizzically. ‘What did you say, Dear? I didn’t hear you.’ ‘Nothing unusual, Mil. All I said was ‘I love you.’ She kissed her palm and blew the kiss to me. I felt it touch my lips. I licked them, tasted the honey and then tasted Mil’s always delicious vegetable soup.  Simple, plain continuous joy filled my soul. The travails of my work day disappeared. I reveled in our time together, knew sweet blueberry pie was warming in the oven and my belly  was ready for it as was the rest of me prepared for our ecstasy to follow.

Sunday evening the table was set with our ordinary china and stainless flatware. Low, inexpensive candle holders lit the flowers she picked from our garden. Whatever Mil did, she did with panache. We were both comfortable. Salmon cakes, baked potatoes, string beans and a perfect touch, home made bread, was more than good enough for me. It was perfect. ‘Mil, may I have another salmon cake,’ I asked. She looked up from her plate and asked, ‘What did you say, Dear? I didn’t hear you.’ ‘ I asked for another salmon cake. You didn’t give me a chance to say I love you. I’m saying it now, good and loud, ‘I love you!’
After dinner I helped clear the few things off the table, left the flowers in the center, blew out the candles. We walked hand in hand to the living room to watch Tov. I turned on Netflix and we selected an old Robert Taylor film, Waterloo Bridge. As soon as the grainy black and white movie began, Mil asked me to make it louder. I thought it was too loud and pretended I turned the volume up. ‘How’s that? Better?’ I asked. ‘No, Dear, make it just a little louder, please.’ This time I did increase the volume and watched her face. She was twitching, leaning in towards the Tov. ‘Better?’ I asked again. ‘Oh, much better,’ she lied.

‘Sweetheart, I think it is time your go for a hearing test. Suzy will go with you. How about it?’ Mildred told me then that she has an appointment with her internist. ‘He’ll check me out, Dear. I’m a little tired. You don’t have to come upstairs with me. Watch your shows.’
Reluctantly, I let her go.

Two weeks passed and Mil was still asking me what I said even though I had raised my voice much louder than normal. Finally, I could not stand it any more and questioned  her as if she were a common thief. ‘Did you see Dr. Lending?’ Yes,’ ‘What did he say?’ ‘He said my arches are falling and I need lifts.’ ‘What else did he say, Mildred?’ ‘He said my cholesterol is too high and increased my statins.’ ‘Come on, Wifey, what about your hearing?’ ‘Only that I should have a CAT scan to be sure there is nothing going on in my brain. I told him not to charge a lot as my brain is empty.  Dr. Lending thought that was funny. My CAT scan  is next Monday. Want some ice cream?’

I didn’t wait for the Monday scan and called Dr. Lending myself. ‘What’s this stuff about Mildred’s ears and a CAT Scan, Doc?’
He quickly told me not to alarmed but Mildred’s ears checked out fine so we have to make sure nothing else is happening. There were several times she asked me to repeat what I said. The report should be ready by Wednesday. My office will call you.’

Would Wednesday ever come? Being tricky, elusive, has never been my style but I was this time. I kept my concerns boarded up inside of me.
Dr. Lending’s office didn’t call until Thursday with the wonderful report that nothing was found to worry about. ‘Mildred, the doctor’s office just called,’ I sang with a merry note. ‘Your scan is all negative.’
He wants you to see Dr. Hulett, an ear specialist, 415-260-5777. Lucky number, Mil. Call him now. I’ll go with you!’

No appointment was open for the next week. We took the 8th day. Busy waiting room, enough to turn our one o’clock appointment to 2. Lots of magazines, none that I read. The Tov. was on but not the sound. Mil said she couldn’t hear it and asked me to make it louder. My explanation was loud enough for all the waiting patients to hear me. ‘Mil, the sound is off.’ She looked at me as if I were deranged. ‘Why are you shouting. I can hear you.’

Dr. Hulett was efficient, at least it seemed that way to me. He had his assistant hand him a long, frightening looking instrument. As he gently put it deep into Mil’s canal, he told her not to cringe. This may hurt a little. My brave soldier didn’t move a muscle. Dr. Hulett dropped something in the tray his assistant had been holding and showed it to us. A small piece of one of Mil’s earrings must have come loose and lodged in the canal.

Why didn’t the first ear doctor find that? Why didn’t the Cat Scan show something there? I shook my head, went tsk tsk, and Mildred gave me a dirty look, told me not to be nasty. Her hearing was perfect.
The Cat Scan went to Medicare for $3500. The tech department received  $1115  and our subsidiary insurance policy paid $40.. The first doctor received a nasty letter from me and half of his $175 fee. I marked the check ‘paid in full’.

At dinner I didn’t have to yell, gently said, ‘I love you, Mil’ and she answered, ‘I love you too, Dear.’

 

SMILE TIME: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF -

The day is warm but gray. Mindy Fairchild has collected the ten children from the foster homes in her district. This is their outing day. In the jitney bus she has a basket for each child with a peach, a plum and a few sweet grapes. In plastic bags she has peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and in a large thermos, cold lemonade to wash down the sticky peanut butter. There are paper napkins to spare.

‘Jamie, would you like to be the leader to take us to the playground area today?’ she asks. Jamie’s big blue eyes pop wide open. Jumping up and down, she happily replies, ‘ Yes, Yes, Miss Fairchild. May I start now?’ ‘Come on, Kids, follow the leader and I’m it today. Two boys in the rear start a scuffle. Miss Fairchild separates them by putting Will with Bill and Harry with Barry. Rhyming the names when she can, makes things easier for her sometimes. Jamie swings her arms and walks faster.  ‘Miss Fairchild, I think I just felt a rain drop. Should we turn back? ‘Not yet, Jamie. Look over there. The sun is fighting with the clouds. Let’s go a little further to see who wins.’ She turns to the group, ‘Let’s count,’ The children sing out, ‘One, two, three four, Who are we for?’ Joseph calls out, ‘Miss Fairchild.’ Barry yells, ‘Superman.’
Each child has a favorite. Jamie is the only one who lifts her eyes, looks at the heaven and says loudly, ‘ My Mommy.’

‘How about snacks now, Kids? Anybody ready for lemonade? The voices harmonize, ‘Can’t you guess? Yes, Yes.’ Jamie leads her friends to the path near the street, but not too near. There are wooden benches and tables for small children and big adults. The little children take the smaller seats while the boys give then the raspberries and call them babies.

‘Children look,’ says Miss Fairchild. ‘Then sun is winning. The clouds are on the run, flying to lands far across the ocean.  Twenty hands clap. ‘Jamie, will you help me give out the baskets today? Her little mouth smiles and shows two spaces where her baby teeth used to be. ‘Barry, how about you. Will you pour the lemonade while Bill holds the cups?’ Kimberly, who hasn’t said a word since she was picked up this morning, whispers to me, ‘I have to make.’ “ Joseph, will you kindly walk Kimberly to the rest room? Wait outside. Don’t go in, don’t walk away from the door. You are her policeman. When she is safe back with us, the boys can go. The rest of the girls go after them. OK, everybody?’ Raise your hands if my plan is OK. All 10 hands rise. Bill guards the door for the rest of the girls, including Miss Fairchild.

As she is the first out, she hears a noise, a loud noise, the noise she came to hear. ‘Bill, Bill, get the girls out quickly. Now!’ Chaos. Some of the little girls haven’t been able to pick up their panties all the way. The boys giggle and point. ‘Hurry, Hurry, everybody. Stay close to me. The noise gets louder, the sun brighter and brighter. The drummers closer and closer. Children holding hands with their parents seem to come from nowhere. Traffic has been detoured. 100 Boy Scouts come marching down the street, carrying green banners with red troop numbers emblazoned on the felt. Girl Scouts in short green skirts with white blouses wave American flags. One surrey, pulled by a Palomino horse, slowly follows the girls. Miss Fairchild explains, ‘ That’s Mayor Bosworth, mayor of our fair city.’ The mayor waves to us. ‘Wave back children.’ All ten hands follow orders. All twenty hands clap.

Clowns in ruffles, white painted faces come last. The skip, they stop.
They bring balloons to all the children. They do somersaults and hit each other with the balloons. One, a fat one, dances over to Kimberly and bops her head with a blue balloon. It scares her but when everyone laughs, Kimberly laughs too.

The parade has passed. The peanut butter jelly sandwiches have been eaten. There is only a small amount of ice left in the jug. Miss Fairchild gathers her charges and lines them up two by two, beats on her chest like Tarzan and proclaims, ‘I am the leader! It’s time to go back to our bus. Everybody hop, hop as far as you can. After that we’ll all jump like kangaroos. Ready, set, go. Hop, hop.’

Once on the little jitney bus, she stands next to the driver, faces the children and asks, ‘Did you all have–‘ They answer before she finishes the sentence. ‘Yes, we did. We love you Miss Fairchild. Please come for us again next week.’ She starts to whistle a merry tune. It’s something else she does well. Some of the kids pucker up but only bubbles come out of their mouths. The driver opens the door. The children leave, throwing kisses, giving hugs. ‘Don’t forget us,’ they order.

‘I won’t forget any of you,’ she promises. AND DOESN’T.   A DAY IN THE LIFE OF ----

The day is warm but gray. Mindy Fairchild has collected the ten children from the foster homes in her district. This is their outing day. In the jitney bus she has a basket for each child with a peach, a plum and a few sweet grapes. In plastic bags she has peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and in a large thermos, cold lemonade to wash down the sticky peanut butter. There are paper napkins to spare.

‘Jamie, would you like to be the leader to take us to the playground area today?’ she asks. Jamie’s big blue eyes pop wide open. Jumping up and down, she happily replies, ‘ Yes, Yes, Miss Fairchild. May I start now?’ ‘Come on, Kids, follow the leader and I’m it today. Two boys in the rear start a scuffle. Miss Fairchild separates them by putting Will with Bill and Harry with Barry. Rhyming the names when she can, makes things easier for her sometimes. Jamie swings her arms and walks faster.  ‘Miss Fairchild, I think I just felt a rain drop. Should we turn back? ‘Not yet, Jamie. Look over there. The sun is fighting with the clouds. Let’s go a little further to see who wins.’ She turns to the group, ‘Let’s count,’ The children sing out, ‘One, two, three four, Who are we for?’ Joseph calls out, ‘Miss Fairchild.’ Barry yells, ‘Superman.’
Each child has a favorite. Jamie is the only one who lifts her eyes, looks at the heaven and says loudly, ‘ My Mommy.’

‘How about snacks now, Kids? Anybody ready for lemonade? The voices harmonize, ‘Can’t you guess? Yes, Yes.’ Jamie leads her friends to the path near the street, but not too near. There are wooden benches and tables for small children and big adults. The little children take the smaller seats while the boys give then the raspberries and call them babies.

‘Children look,’ says Miss Fairchild. ‘Then sun is winning. The clouds are on the run, flying to lands far across the ocean.  Twenty hands clap. ‘Jamie, will you help me give out the baskets today? Her little mouth smiles and shows two spaces where her baby teeth used to be. ‘Barry, how about you. Will you pour the lemonade while Bill holds the cups?’ Kimberly, who hasn’t said a word since she was picked up this morning, whispers to me, ‘I have to make.’ “ Joseph, will you kindly walk Kimberly to the rest room? Wait outside. Don’t go in, don’t walk away from the door. You are her policeman. When she is safe back with us, the boys can go. The rest of the girls go after them. OK, everybody?’ Raise your hands if my plan is OK. All 10 hands rise. Bill guards the door for the rest of the girls, including Miss Fairchild.

As she is the first out, she hears a noise, a loud noise, the noise she came to hear. ‘Bill, Bill, get the girls out quickly. Now!’ Chaos. Some of the little girls haven’t been able to pick up their panties all the way. The boys giggle and point. ‘Hurry, Hurry, everybody. Stay close to me. The noise gets louder, the sun brighter and brighter. The drummers closer and closer. Children holding hands with their parents seem to come from nowhere. Traffic has been detoured. 100 Boy Scouts come marching down the street, carrying green banners with red troop numbers emblazoned on the felt. Girl Scouts in short green skirts with white blouses wave American flags. One surrey, pulled by a Palomino horse, slowly follows the girls. Miss Fairchild explains, ‘ That’s Mayor Bosworth, mayor of our fair city.’ The mayor waves to us. ‘Wave back children.’ All ten hands follow orders. All twenty hands clap.

Clowns in ruffles, white painted faces come last. The skip, they stop.
They bring balloons to all the children. They do somersaults and hit each other with the balloons. One, a fat one, dances over to Kimberly and bops her head with a blue balloon. It scares her but when everyone laughs, Kimberly laughs too.

The parade has passed. The peanut butter jelly sandwiches have been eaten. There is only a small amount of ice left in the jug. Miss Fairchild gathers her charges and lines them up two by two, beats on her chest like Tarzan and proclaims, ‘I am the leader! It’s time to go back to our bus. Everybody hop, hop as far as you can. After that we’ll all jump like kangaroos. Ready, set, go. Hop, hop.’

Once on the little jitney bus, she stands next to the driver, faces the children and asks, ‘Did you all have–‘ They answer before she finishes the sentence. ‘Yes, we did. We love you Miss Fairchild. Please come for us again next week.’ She starts to whistle a merry tune. It’s something else she does well. Some of the kids pucker up but only bubbles come out of their mouths. The driver opens the door. The children leave, throwing kisses, giving hugs. ‘Don’t forget us,’ they order.

‘I won’t forget any of you,’ she promises. AND DOESN’T.

Whoo! THE MEETING

I imagine there is a light tapping on my bedroom door.  There is a short pause and the tapping repeats itself. Fright makes my heart jump into my mouth. My lips are cemented together. Aiming for my cell phone on the table less than a foot away, I twist my shoulder, utter too loudly, ‘Ouch!’ The phone falls to the floor. Simultaneously the 60 watt reading lamp burns out. I will not be murdered, I won’t let it happen. As silently as possible, I slide off the bed and crawl under it as far as I can go. The plastic box I keep there to store an extra quilt blocks my way.

There is no more tapping. Did I imagine it twice? I ask myself. ‘No, you did hear it. Lay still, very still.’ The door opens slowly, silently, and closes again.  A whiff of sweat curls towards my nose. I try to lift my arm, smell myself, but can’t. A gentleness, slight warmth, begins to surround me, calm me. My fear eases and I lie there waiting, waiting for what?

When I finally wiggle my way out from under the bed, I get a mop from the storage closet to push the plastic box out of its summer sleep. The blanket goes on the closet shelf and the box I take to the basement. Being trapped is not what I ever want to happen again. Downstairs, I turn the Tov. to loud as I assess last night’s weirdness. No explanation comes to me. The day moves along normally.

Night does not. It is close to midnight when I get brave enough to go to bed alone again. I put a heavy iron door stop in front of the open door so nobody, no thing, will tap on it. Wearing only my usual birthday suit I crawl into bed. The day, the evening, had been extra long. Heavy
eyes begin to droop and close. Almost asleep, the same warmth I felt last nite, surrounds me. It touches my skin, runs up and down my spine, touches my breasts. It is wonderful. IF this is a ghost, I whisper, ‘Stay, stay with me.’ I know what is happening, feel slightly embarrassed, but go with it. A dim yellow light moves slowly to the door, stops, begins to form into a transparent body. My hand tries to feel it but I feel nothing except empty space. ‘Come back, come back,’ I plead. My body, all of it, is sweaty, warm outside and in.

Dawn comes and I writhe waiting for the spirit, the ghost, to come to me. Just as the first rays of the golden sun rise, so does my phantom ghost. I overcome my scruples and lie there waiting for him to touch me again.

He does not. I touch myself and smile.

Memories are made of this: THE MEETING

I imagine there is a light tapping on my bedroom door.  There is a short pause and the tapping repeats itself. Fright makes my heart jump into my mouth. My lips are cemented together. Aiming for my cell phone on the table less than a foot away, I twist my shoulder, utter too loudly, ‘Ouch!’ The phone falls to the floor. Simultaneously the 60 watt reading lamp burns out. I will not be murdered, I won’t let it happen. As silently as possible, I slide off the bed and crawl under it as far as I can go. The plastic box I keep there to store an extra quilt blocks my way.

There is no more tapping. Did I imagine it twice? I ask myself. ‘No, you did hear it. Lay still, very still.’ The door opens slowly, silently, and closes again.  A whiff of sweat curls towards my nose. I try to lift my arm, smell myself, but can’t. A gentleness, slight warmth, begins to surround me, calm me. My fear eases and I lie there waiting, waiting for what?

When I finally wiggle my way out from under the bed, I get a mop from the storage closet to push the plastic box out of its summer sleep. The blanket goes on the closet shelf and the box I take to the basement. Being trapped is not what I ever want to happen again. Downstairs, I turn the Tov. to loud as I assess last night’s weirdness. No explanation comes to me. The day moves along normally.

Night does not. It is close to midnight when I get brave enough to go to bed alone again. I put a heavy iron door stop in front of the open door so nobody, no thing, will tap on it. Wearing only my usual birthday suit I crawl into bed. The day, the evening, had been extra long. Heavy
eyes begin to droop and close. Almost asleep, the same warmth I felt last nite, surrounds me. It touches my skin, runs up and down my spine, touches my breasts. It is wonderful. IF this is a ghost, I whisper, ‘Stay, stay with me.’ I know what is happening, feel slightly embarrassed, but go with it. A dim yellow light moves slowly to the door, stops, begins to form into a transparent body. My hand tries to feel it but I feel nothing except empty space. ‘Come back, come back,’ I plead. My body, all of it, is sweaty, warm outside and in.

Dawn comes and I writhe waiting for the spirit, the ghost, to come to me. Just as the first rays of the golden sun rise, so does my phantom ghost. I overcome my scruples and lie there waiting for him to touch me again.

He does not. I touch myself and smile.

YUMMY! - THE STREET

Until I was nearing age eighteen, I didn’t understand, wasn’t too curious, about where almost all of our neighbors went every Saturday night around seven p.m. A few of the places like the drug store stayed open when the migration began. Mr. Goldman, the shoemaker (who never made a shoe in his 70 years) worked alone and seemed to always have shoes lined up for new heels, re-soling, needing taps on the toes.

On Saturday nights my parents usually went to a movie or on a hot summer evening, would drive my little sister, Rhoda,  and me to Bayland Amusement Park.  I became tired of asking them about where everyone went and hearing the same answer ‘to Carole St.’ and gave up. By the time we would get home from wherever we went, cars were all parked in their usual spots and most houses were dark. Once or twice I sensed a sort of spicy, greasy odor. I liked that smell but the slightest breeze would blow it away.

Two days to go and I would be eighteen, no party, no fuss. I was a young lady who had her eye on Brian who lived on my street but was blind to my existence. Yesterday I saw him park in the spot my father usually parked, right in front of our house. This was my chance. I walked over to his car and introduced myself. ‘Hi, Brian. I’m Rhoda,’ and pointed to my house. I hoped my eyes weren’t fluttering but think they moved on their own. I asked, ‘ Would you mind moving your car? My father parks here and will be home for dinner in a few minutes.’ ‘Well, Rhoda,’ my pretend amour said. ‘Sorry, I can’t do that. I’ve been around the block twice and this is the only spot I could find. I have to get home to dinner myself.’ I was shocked, felt electricity stab me in my chest. Brian went on, ‘Since there was no harm in your asking, there isn’t going to be any harm is my asking you to come with me Saturday night to Carole St. Is there?  Mom needs a lot of stuff for a little get together Sunday and I’m her obedient slave. How about it?’

I couldn’t say ‘yes,’ didn’t want to say ‘no.’ ‘What’s there, Brian? I’ve never been but have heard of it.’ He stopped me before I could say anything else. ‘Just say ‘yes. I’ll pick you up at 6:45. Don’t get dressed up–in fact, dress down. See you then.’

‘Mom, guess what. I have a date, a real date, for 6:45 Sat. With Brian. I don’t even know his last name but he lives near here and he is dreamy. What’s on Carole St.? Why haven’t you ever taken me there or told me what lurks in the dark?’  ‘Rhoda, there is nothing there except noisy, pushing people. You can’t even get in the best places. Everyone gets a number, the husbands and wives each get one. There are loud arguments, sometimes fights. Dad and I just don’t like the commotion and manage well without it. You want to go, go. Be home by 10:30.’

Brian was here right on the dot. As usual there  were lots of parking spaces. The street looks like death walked down it and took everyone to hell. ‘Mom, this is Brian. Brian, what’s your last name?’ He answers, ‘Himmel’ like Guut in Himmel.’ I knew that meant god in heaven and thought that was beautiful but a silly name. ‘This is my mother, Brian. Her last name is Cohen, the same as mine.’ ‘Nice to meet you Mrs. Cohen. Can I bring you anything from Carole St.?’ My mother actually said, ‘Yes. If you don’t mind, bring me a big, thick slice of chocolate halavah–not those skimpy little pieces in Jake’s.’ She handed  Brian a dollar and thanked him. ‘Brian, I’ve never seen a big chunk of halavah. What wrong with Jakes?’ ‘It isn’t what’s wrong with Jake’s, Kid. It how much better and cheaper everything is on Carole St. I feel so dumb, actually stupid. ‘Where is Carole St.? That’s where everybody goes on Saturday night except my parents, sister and I.’

‘Rhoda, little kula lemmel, baby, dumb person, there is NO Carole St.’ I guess my eyes popped open as far as my mouth. ‘Then where are we going? ‘ ’Rhoda, you aren’t going to see any Carole St. signs. They will say, ‘Lombard St. It goes for six blocks, both sides of the street and ends at a brick wall. There is a memorial plaque on the wall to Carole Lombard, a fine, funny actress in the 1920's to forties. Her most famous husband was Clark Gable. Carole was killed in a plane crash and Clark had the wall built and the bronze memorial to his beloved wife put on it and it. Slowly Lombard became Carole St.’

‘Stay close to me, take a ticket and when I get to the counter, I’ll place ½ of my mother’s huge order and buy us each a ‘to go’ order of the darn best lean corned beef sandwich ever made. The bread will still be  warm. Do you like well done or half done pickles, mustard? How about slaw and potato salad? You can’t get this stuff in Jake’s.  Here, here’s the second part of my mother’s list. You give it to the clerk. Don’t let me forget a separate package of halavah for your mom. I’ll get some for us too. You’ll see what to do. Take a big basket as soon as we get inside and hold on to it for dear life or somebody will steal it.’

I am pushed, shoved, almost stepped on. These shoppers, my neighbors, act like starving maniacs. I am appalled but excited. The entire neighborhood smells like sauerkraut, garlic. Bread baking adds warmth to everything. I see the Browns and the McDougall’s, and love the interplay of religions and tastes. Nobody would get me to eat Haggis or corned beef with mayonnaise but maybe mayo isn’t bad.

Brian meets me near the curb and we have to shlep our packages 3 blocks to reach his car. We put all the packages, except our sandwiches and halavah on the back seat and floor. We open the car windows, and devour our sandwiches. It took strength, but we did manage to rest a moment before we ate all of our piece of halavah.  Before we got to my house, I managed to sneak another sliver off of Mom’s Halavah.

First thing I say to Mom, is ‘ Next Saturday we are going to Carole St.’

 

 

 

MY INHERITANCE: A STORY TOLD

After my father graduated college with high honors he didn’t know what to do with himself. His minimal income was from a part time job as a barber who, three mornings a week, administered leeches to customers who needed them and wanted a light trim. Plus he worked as a postal clerk, sorting mail on week-ends. What he also had was a big out- go. Charles R. Bowman had a wife and two small children, aged four and two. They lived in two rooms on the third floor of his father’s house, sharing the bathroom on the second floor with his parents, getting to use the rubber hose that connected to the footed tub so his family could shower now and then. His mother, my grandmother, was in charge of the kitchen. I wasn’t one of his children yet but my time came soon enough. How many of the stories I heard were true, I don’t know, but my father told them over and over until they became reality. Surely, at times, he fantasized, exaggerated, but his way was always convincing.

To bring in a few dollars my mother, using a heavy scrub board in the cellar, washed clothes, mangled her hands. Her left one was scalded, scarred, when she burned it on the heavy iron that had a wooden handle and was heated on Grandma’s gas range. Still she labored, took care of the children and Dad’s libido. Dad found a job as a waiter in a little restaurant within walking distance of his family. The owner allowed him to take home what was left on the tables, including fresh bread. It wasn’t much but helped. Some of their meager earnings went towards the gas bill, sometimes, late though it might be, for a doctor’s bill.

After two years of getting no place, Dad realized he needed some time for himself, to do something of interest and began to write stories he had been told of the horrors his parents lived thru in Russia. The shtetels, the Cossacks riding thru poor struggling towns, slaughtering children. He saw, he felt, the blood mixed with mud on the unpaved streets. The raw, acrid odor of straw roofs burned eyes, burned people. He thought and he thought, had to preserve the past for his children. As poor as they were, he was grateful for what they had. And so he wrote, every spare moment he could find. Anger, hurt, love, real and imaginary, filled his soul. My mother didn’t believe her eyes and carried on like a wild woman when she saw him bring a typewriter home. ‘You didn’t, you didn’t really spend money on that machine, did you? How could you? Betty needs new shoes, you need new shoes, we all need shoes and you buy a typewriter that you don’t even know how to use! I hate you, Charles.’ Dad told me that particular story so many times that I can hear my beloved mother’s voice screaming at him. The yelling ended and the beginning began.

Dad sold newspapers on the corner to make enough to buy writing paper, typewriter ribbon. He sat on the only bedroom chair they had, hard, straight backed, cane seat. He clicked and clacked and clicked some more using only his index fingers, moving faster and faster every completed page. Mother told him to find a good job or move out. He did neither. When the first typewriter was worn out so was Dad. So was his first story. Excitement poured through his body as he titled it ‘Rich-Poorman’. Where could he get a large, strong envelope, free, to send his story to the Saturday Evening Post? Miss ‘old maid’ Dalton at the library knew him from the many times he took out reference books, a dictionary, and was kind enough to sell him one for five cents. Rich-Poorman was heavy, needed twenty five cents postage. My grandfather loaned it to him and wanted twenty seven cents back when Dad got a few dollars in his pocket.

Weeks barely moved. Dad was dejected, about to give up. One month had passed before a white envelope with his name on the front and Saturday Evening Post on the back, was slipped under the front door. Carefully Dad opened it, read each word as if it were molten gold. Editor, James L. Lewis was in capital letters. ‘Your submitted story ‘Rich-Poorman’ has been accepted and will appear in the March issue of Saturday Evening Post. Enclosed please find a check for fifty dollars.’
Yours truly, James L. Lewis.’ Dad ran in circles, up and down the three flights of stairs, waving his check, shouting to the walls, yelling as loud as he could out the window. ‘My story is being published!’ Mother came running, sure he had gone insane. As she came into their bedroom, he grabbed her, tossed her on their lumpy bed, kissed her long and deeply until she could barely breathe. They were both flying on air.

First thing in the morning the clicking, the clacking began again, and woke the family. Dad had thought it over and decided to have a more illustrious name and that he should look the part of a published author. He went to the Bureau of Statistics and changed his name to E. Hemingway. That name seemed to need a beard so he cultivated one, white and scraggly for a few weeks. And so he typed and typed, wrote about more current things, American places, France, Spain. His success was phenomenal. When Dad’s parents died, Dad moved Mother, my sister and brother to a new place, way down at the end of the United States, Key West.

We all lived happily together for fifteen more years. The Saturday Evening Post sent Dad checks monthly for ten years, until they too drew their last breath. In a special box I have on the top shelf of my bedroom closet are several cashed checks made out to Ernest Hemingway.

Dad’s old, old typewriter may soon be shown on Antique Road show, with a high value. After all, it DID belong to Ernest Hemingway.

ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzz: NO CONTROL

I sleep, sleep the sleep of the child I am. The glass of warm milk my mother has left for me near my bed remains as it was, except it is no longer warm. The Oreo cookie has long ago reached my belly. It grumbles, almost cries for more.

There are no bad people in my dreams but just the same I feel frightened, kick off my blanket, and wake just enough to pull it tight around my shoulders. Mary Sue, my biggest, prettiest doll, waves to me, calls me into her garden. I shake my head, don’t want to go in her garden. The grass is too high. Loud grunts, groans, roars, snorts are coming out of there. An ugly face, red paint circles its eyes, red and white twisted striped horns aim at me. Over a long nose, white circles cover its forehead. Its crooked open mouth, sharp teeth top and bottom, seem to be smiling at me. Mary Sue comes out of the tall grass carrying the ugly head on a tall bamboo pole. She laughs at me. ‘Gotcha good. Gotcha good, didn’t I?’

I can tell I have kicked my blanket off again, reach out and pull it up where it belongs without losing Mary Sue. A tall giant of a man walks out of the tall grass right into my face. I think he is made out of gold but isn’t shiny. His chest is bare. He wears a grass skirt on top of strange looking ankle length wide bloomers. No shoes are on his feet. Both strong arms hold a tray over his head that has ½ of the sun and ½ of the moon glued on. Strange words I cannot understand come out of his tiny mouth as he fades away.

Mary Sue looks at me. My eyes follow where she points. There, on the edge of my dream, is a tall wooden pole. It has carved animals, people sitting on each others shoulders until they reach the sky. ‘Don’t fall, don’t fall,’ I cry out to them. A strong shake like I imagine an earthquake would cause rumbles. Everyone, everything that is on the pole falls, one at a time, to earth. How can I save them? I can’t.

Mother is shaking me.’Wake up, Honey. You must be having a bad dream. You woke up Daddy and me.’ I put my arms around my mommy. She holds me close. ‘Honey, it is too early to get up. Can I sleep with you?’ Not waiting for an answer, she straightens my mussed up covers and climbs in.

We sleep tight and I dream my mother has a beautiful red and black Indian blanket around her as she brings me a whole tray of Oreos.

A solution???? TEST TIME

We have shopped, prepared me and my family, for the inevitable. I am flying their coop, starting college in August. I am excited, bursting with energy, some thoughts are depressing. What is really ahead of me? Will I do well, be proud of myself? How will my parents cope living with an empty nest? No doors will bang, no wet footprints will be in foyer. My closet will be almost bare except for a few things I may use during spring break.  Saying goodbye to childhood, my early youthful life is a heavy load.

Mom has been lecturing me for weeks to take it easy, don’t pledge a frat right away. Leave the girls alone. Let them hunger for you. Ha ha! We laugh together at that idea. Call home every week-end, more if I want to.’ Mom even thinks about who my room mate will be. ‘It’s important that you get along, become friends. Don’t get sucked into beer drinking, drugs, sex.’ Usually her love shows thru as she goes to put dinner on the table. ‘Jason, we are so proud of you. Don’t tarnish our dream.’ On the drive to U. Of V., Mom doesn’t lecture me. Dad does. ‘Jason, the school store will have all the books you need in the used book section, ½ price. Get yours there. If you can’t get what you need, buy a new one.’

It takes us over an hour to load our SUV. There is barely an unused inch of space. Mom had bought a wild, multi-colored bedspread for my single bed, a blanket in bright orange, sheets and pillow cases more purple than mountains. I have towels, wash cloths, new leather slippers, good wearable clothes, jeans of my choice. She added a small frying pan, paper plates, just in case. The piece de resistance is the curved brass reading lamp that is wrapped safely in its own box. I love that lamp.

The Quad is lovely. Dazed students follow the many posted direction signs. Parents tag along. My shared bedroom is in C12, 2nd floor. We park in the correct area, lock the van and empty-handed walk in and up the stairs. The door is open. Paul Dodsford, my soon-to-be roommate, is there before us. He has already claimed the narrow bed near the window. I am left no choice and will be on the side near the door. Paul has a 6 drawer bureau . I have a four drawer one with a knob missing. There are two folding tables for class work. A drab brown rug that has seen better days is on the floor.

My mother’s face is long. It clearly shows the disappointment of the three of us. Paul’s parents come in quietly. They are lugging boxes, bags and a very preppie simple brass floor lamp that looks like it might be an antique. They try to smile, shake hands warmly. Dad says, ‘We are the Shapiro family from NJ. Sarah, Melvin and Jason, our son.’ They are Paul, Martha and Mr. Dodsford. I do not ask his first name nor where they are from. ‘Before we start unpacking, let’s go to the commissary and have a snack,’ Mother suggests. I already see a problem and hope my parents see what I see.

Mr. Dodsford orders a BLT and Mrs. orders ham and cheese with mayo on white bread. Dad orders a kosher style hot dog, chow chow, pickles and a coke. Mom gets an American cheese on rye with mustard and coffee. We all order fries. I know what I am sure my parents already know. Definitely my feelings are correct. The same problem  has been facing people like us for thousands of years. Dad picks up the check. There is a lot to discuss about the university, sports, courses, frats, costs. Dad breaks up the solemnity with a mild Jewish joke. I give Dad’s leg a nudge. The Dodsworths have no idea what the joke means, don’t even pretend to laugh.

We return to our room, help as best we can to arrange things. My mom puts the sheets and wild bedspread on the bed. I am sure I see Mrs. Dodsford go pale. Paul makes a snide remark that he will have to buy new sun glasses to stay in this room. I personally love the brightness. It takes away the doom and gloom of Paul’s area. The atmosphere grows chillier by the minute. ‘It’s time we get going, You guys might want to walk around, get the lay of the land, see where the sorority houses are. Right, Paul?’  With no enthusiasm at all, he answers, ‘Right.’ Hugs, kisses, handshakes and our parents leave us to fill the drawers, put our personal things in the shared bathroom. Our room feels stuffy. I open the window half way. A slight fall breeze helps.  Paul closes the window and tells me he is in charge of it because it is on his side of the room. My fist clenches. I bite my tongue, plug in my snazzy floor lamp and start to read. My roommate goes out and doesn’t ask me to join him. ‘F’ him!

Our instructions, class assignment papers are slipped under our door. He and I will be in the same Economics class. I open the window again.
The first thing Paul does when he returns is shut it. I am an inch away from  punching him in the face but somehow hold my temper. In the morning I manage to purchase all of the economic material I will need from the used department. Paul ridicules me, calls me cheap, a kike. I clobber him and the die is cast.

My first class is the World Bank and his is ‘whatever.’  Professor
Atkins was articulate but still the info was over my head. Returning to the stuffy room, I try to open the window, but it won’t budge. There is a large nail sticking in the frame. The louse has nailed the window shut. He has also moved my snazzy floor lamp to the other side of my desk. I move it back.

Four frat letters slide under the door, two are very prestiges and are for me. The third is from Hillel. There is one envelope for Paul. I tear it to tiny pieces, take them outside to the trash can. I pry out the nail in the window frame with my handy Swiss knife, tackle my notes and wait for Paul. I put on airs, show him my three invitations to pledge and put my nose in the air to tell him I am accepting Hillel’s, for service to mankind and Jews in particular. ‘And, Paul, you will be seeing my brilliant Jewish new friends often. I suggest you try to change your room if you can.’ It takes him two weeks and his father’s anger to have him moved to a new room. My parents aren’t angry at all. They are proud that I stood up to him. They made a nice big donation to Hillel.

Since then I have washed the bathroom, taken over the bed near the window, put my flat things in the six drawer unit and my clothes in the larger closet.

I have also learned that Paul’s new roommate is named Jonathan
Hopper, of the Philadelphia Hoppers and it is also said that Jonathan likes boys. I send a Jewish condolence card to Paul.