The Learning Process: FATE

I shoulda’, coulda’ been Queen of Sheba but I was born too late and far away from Sheba. I coulda’ been, shoulda’ been Queen of England but her dresses were too heavy for little me and she was ugly. I am cute. I coulda’ been The Queen of May but Greta had longer blond curls, a prettier face and was a senior. I was a lowly high school freshman who got only one vote—my own. I did get to hold the May Queen’s long train out of the wet grass and ruined my new white shoes.

I was beginning to realize that what I was a Shmuck. Mother told me that was an ugly word and I shouldn’t say it. ‘What’s so ugly about it?’ I asked her. ‘Well, it means the person is a fool, doing nice things for other people who do nothing nice in return.’ Gremlins and toads walk in my footsteps. They point me out to neighbors, supposed friends and turn me into a fool, to be used whenever they need a shmuck. I get used and abused and it is my own fault.

I shoulda’, coulda’ been Florence Nightingale but I’m not allowed to carry candles, even when we have a storm and the lights go out. Mother has bought me a flashlight of my own. So far I haven’t told her I played ‘Spooks’ in my closet and the flashlight won’t work any more.

I shoulda’ been, coulda’ been Cleopatra. I’d have had servants do favors for me, take me for a boat ride down the Nile, but hating earth worms as I do, how could I let a snake crawl up my body? No way could I do that.

When it snows and our next door neighbor, Mrs. Bloomburg sees me outside, she opens her door and hands me a shovel. I take it and shovel a nice, clean path across her pavement for her. Two fingers of my new woolen gloves get holes in them. I ring Mrs. Bloomburg’s doorbell and return her shovel. She pats me on my head and says ‘thanks.’ The sweet smell of butterscotch cookies reaches my bright red nose. Old lady Bloomburg doesn’t bring me even one. Maybe I am a shmuck. I should have told her right away my making the path will cost her one dollar. I didn’t do it.

Mr. Carruthers lives at the end of our street. He has the biggest lawn and a beautiful brown and white sheltie. Almost every afternoon he throws a frisbee for Baron. When Baron misses it and it falls in the dirty gutter, Mr. Carruthers motions to me to bring the frisbee back to him. I do. He takes it and tosses it again and yes, Baron misses it again and I retrieve it for him. Yep, it is becoming more and more real to me. I must be a shmuck.

I should be, could be wiser and am working on it, so-------
If you don’t like my story, don’t read it. I’m not going to spend forty-four cents to mail you a copy. I’ll spend it on myself.