Good taste

CHANCING IT

 

He likes me. I know it. He likes me. I like him, too. We haven't spoken to each other, nor even met yet but I can feel him looking at me, watching what I order and how I eat it. Let him watch. I do nothing special, just eat my tuna salad on fresh rye bread the way I always do. Off comes the slice of tomato that tends to make the bread wet. I cut it into quarters, cover it with pepper, and eat it separately. Using a knife and fork to eat the too small dill pickle garnish would be sacrilegious. It tastes so much better if I pick it up and nip at it slowly to enhance the salty flavor. Trying not to look nosey, too interested, I pretend to be engrossed in the latest Newsweek mag that somebody left on the chair next to the one I now have my keester on.

 

Steaming hot oatmeal is placed before him. He sprinkles it liberally with cinnamon and blows on the first few tablespoons full. I can almost feel the warmth going thru his body. The waitress times his thick, yellow French toast just right, hands him the maple syrup container, which he lavishly pours all over it. It slops and sops over the edge of his plate. He seems to enjoy black his naked hot coffee as he dawdles over his folded copy of the morning Sentinel.

 

What guts I think, as he gives me a full blown wink and broad smile. His white, white teeth dazzle me. Unable to wink, I blink at him twice. My effort does not work so I look straight at his handsome face, close one eye with my index finger until I believe he has my message. And he does. Before standing, he takes a moment to neaten his table, fold his paper napkin, set the cinnamon next to the ketchup, place his chair where it belongs and step across the narrow aisle between us. 'My, lord, I think. I'm letting myself be picked up like a street walker. What am I doing?'

 

In a warm, friendly way, the semi-stranger introduces himself. 'Call me Willy. May I have a second cup of java with you while you finish your pickle?' I do my best impression, flutter my eyes and tell him I am Lady Ashley and fan myself with the Newsweek magazine. Pausing, I go further, 'Mr. Willy, what do you think I am, a bawdy street walker? I am not that, Sir. Believe me, I am a lady. It just so happens my name is Lola.' He laughs and laughs, showing me his pearly whites again.
Our waitress gets the picture and wordlessly brings us a carafe of hot  coffee with a clean cup for Willy.

 

Lunch time is nearing and tables are filling. Our waitress is uneasy, wants us to leave. Willy calls her over and asks her to clean our table.' I am now ready for lunch, Miss. I'll have what Miss Lola had but leave the tomato off. Let me have a large dill pickle and potato chips. When you bring that, bring a fudge sundae with nuts on top for Miss Lola.' The waitress follows orders She swipes the cleaned table with a not so clean rag, lays out the cheap flat ware and two clean cups.

 

'Willy, I really don't want that sundae.' 'Tough,' he replies. 'I didn't want the tuna sandwich either but my ruse worked. Here we are. Let's play Twenty Questions. I'll go first.' He gives me no time to reply. 'O.K., are you, were you married?' I can't help it and get quite huffy. 'I was not, am not married and I'm not an easy pick-up, until today.' 'I didn't ask  you that, Mister and don't, at the moment, care about your past. My question, are you healthy, wealthy and wise?' Again he smiles, 'I'm two of those. Which do you think I'm not?' I think a minute and answer. You look healthy, you paid for your breakfast, lunch and my treat. Sooooooo,you must be stupid. Right?' Willy's face turns red. He has trapped himself yet manages to put me on the spot. 'Are you a happy, contented, intelligent lady?' he asks me. I simply smile, let him see my deep dimples and tell him, 'Yes, I'm all three now.'

 

It's one o'clock and only a few tables are still being served. Willy gets the check and we leave together. When he takes my hand, I don't pull it away. 'Where's is your car, Lola?' 'Just two blocks from here. I walk over when I need a tuna fix.' Nothing else needs to be said. In silence he accompanies me home. I hand him my pink personal I.D. card. He glances at it quickly and simply says, 'I'll call you,'

 

And he does.

smile

LITTLE BIG MAN

 

'Mommy, Mommy,' his tiny voice wakes me from my needed quick nap. The beige afghan I had finished just last week falls off my shoulders onto the carpet.  My foot catches in the fringe and I fall on it. 'Jason, don't cry. Mommy's coming.'

 

His bedroom door is open. He's sitting straight up in bed, sobbing his heart out. 'Buddy scratched my arm and kicked Poopsy.' When I tell him he must have had a bad dream, he shows me a long scratch with tiny drops of dried blood on his arm. 'See?' he asks. Indeed, I do see it and explain as best I can that he must have done it to himself when he turned over. 'Jason, Poopsy is in the kitchen so Buddy couldn't have kicked him. He was in the kitchen pooping. I guess he needs more training. Let's go see him. Hop on, I'll take you down piggy back.' That satisfies Jason but cricks my back.

 

'Want to watch cartoons with me for a little while,' I ask. That fast he forgets Buddy and his scratch. 'Is Shreck on now?' I fix him a PBJ on fresh black bread, put it on a metal tray with ½ glass fortified milk, and we sit ourselves down on the living room floor. We do not find Shreck. PBS has a reprisal of the original Mickey Mouse cartoons. He doesn't like them in black and white and switches to Dora the Explorer. He already knows more Spanish words than I do.

 

Poopsy  barks, yelps, demands my attention. I put his collar around his neck, attach the leash and open the door. He pulls me to the closest tree, a tall, still sturdy maple.  As Poopsy raises his leg, I turn away. Too embarrassed to stand there holding onto to him. Poopsy is finished. I return to my son.

 

Jason is holding the remote control and is clicking away. When he likes something, he stops, stares.This time I stare with him. Dr. Oz is on, talking, explaining in color and action the parts of our sex organs. He uses words I don't even know, shows parts of us that shock me. Jason loves the hurrying red corpuscles, wiggly sperm, the pulsating heart, while I am almost at the point of vomiting. 'Let's change channels, Jason. Mommy doesn't like this cartoon.'  He refuses to give me the clicker so I turn off the t.v. manually. His ½ glass of milk he takes into the kitchen, pores the milk down the sink and returns to the sofa. I silently watch him like a mother hawk, catch him putting the remote deep between two pillow cushions.

 

He looks at me sideways, takes it out and starts clicking again until, merely by chance, he finds Dr. Oz again. Moving closer to the screen, he yelps out loud. 'One.' The amazing doctor is playing a game with two of the audience. Each gets a chance to guess what is the best thing to do if someone is having a fit. The contestants agree with each other and write 'two' on their drawing pads. Jason gets it right and claps for himself.

 

After the commercial, it is diet talk. Jason points out the very, very fat man and calls him ugly. Dr. Oz can make him skinny he said. Tell Daddy he should try to meet Dr. Oz. He's almost as fat as the man on  t.v., isn't he? Holding back my laughter is impossible. It's catching and Jason laughs with me. Our son, somehow, gets Adam to try to change his ways, use vinegar and wine salad dressing, instead of Russian. He barely tastes his ½ of a butterless baked potato and foregoes desserts except for fresh fruit. Beer totally disappears from our refrigerator.

 

Jason sometimes stares at his father, or peeks in his suit coats looking for candy. 'Why are you still fat, Daddy?' he asks and is told his Daddy has already lost twenty pounds. 'But Daddy, you still look fat. Why don't you send Dr. Oz a Christmas card and ask him to help you? I know he can do it. He's very smart.'

 

In Walmart Adam finds a funny picture of a fat man with a skinny wife and asks me to send it to Dr. Oz for him. I think that is a good idea, better than writing to Santa Claus.

 

If you aren't busy, Wednesday Dec. 23, tune in at 10 A.M. WLTV. Adam and Jason have been invited to be on Dr. Oz's show. You will see Adam fat and slimmed down. Jason is getting all the credit.

 

I will be in the front row left side.

 

Outside- lookin' in

WHEN THE LIVIN' IS EASY

 

Sherry's birthday is on Thanksgiving Day. Mine is on New Year's Day. She's going to be six while I am still 5 3/4, so she bosses me around a lot. Sometimes we fight and don't talk to each other for a whole day. Yesterday was one of those days. On the way to the bakery to get a fresh black bread for her mom she rang our doorbell twice so I would know who it is. I'm glad she's at the door because I am sure she is going to apologize for taking the Milky Way my mother put in my lunch bag. Before she steps in our vestibule, she waves a box of Walnettos at me. I take it and we are friends again.

 

Sherry asks nicely, 'Can we go on your garage roof and watch for the watermelon man?' I don't bother to answer and just lead the way. My mother is in the kitchen sifting flour for something and has some on her nose. I tell her and add that Sherry and I are going to wait for the watermelon man, his bowlegged son and brown boney horse. Mom warns us to stay away from the roof's edge. 'Mary and I are bringing the big trash cans up there soon and have to get them over the railing. 'Don't worry, the watermelon man will be able to reach us. Go play.'

 

I call her, 'Hurry up, Mom, the trash men are coming.' The truck makes a lot of noise and leaves more mess than it takes away. Cardboard boxes have been opened and pushed against the truck barriers so a lot more can go in than fits. It all stinks too because some neighbors (not us) put garbage in with the trash. My Mom doesn't do that. Two dirty men follow the truck, shovel up loose newspapers, old magazines, horses poop.

 

My Mom is sitting in the sun on the second floor porch. She's working a crossword puzzle. Every time she makes a word she puts her yellow pencil point in her mouth, scratches her head and tries another word. I can't read the words yet but know when Mom gets one right. She slaps her knee and smiles as if she just found ten dollars.

 

Sherry jumps up. 'He's coming!' I hear him too. 'Watah melon, Wahta melon, red to the rind. Twenty five cents.' Neighbors hurry to his wagon. His son waters the bedraggled horse and fixes his straw hat right between its ears. The horse's name is Nag, but he doesn't nag. My mother does. 'Watah melon, watah melon, twenty five cents. Four customers and my mom want their melons plugged, want a juicy taste. They act as one, nodding, yes or no. Mrs. Davis makes a sour face so the old man hands her the plug from a melon on top. Ah, she is happy and so are the others. It takes five trips up two flights of stairs for the water melon man to get each melon to the right house. Four hand him their quarters that he puts in a little leather pouch tied to his belt. The fifth one haggles with him and wants a nickel change. She doesn't get it. With a slight bow and a 'Thank you, I'll be back next Wednesday,' he tells Nag to giddyup and goes down the alley to the next street.

 

My mother gets her biggest, sharpest knife out of the kitchen cabinet, warns Sherry and I to stay back and whack, whack, she cuts off two small slices for us and puts the rest in the ice box to chill until dinner.

 

'Ma, Ma, Hymie's coming. Hurry up.' Hymie is the fruit, vegetable, fish man who's store is the alley. The fruit and vegetables go on one side of his open truck and fish on chopped ice sleep on the other. He has only one white, round-faced scale that my mother watches carefully, making sure his fingers are not on the scale and that the dial is exactly on zero. Today she buys 3 big, red, solid Maryland tomatoes, weighs them, splurges on luscious  red strawberries in little paper baskets, twenty cents a quart. 'Ill have six of those beautiful white shoe peg corn, each row even.'

 

'Hymie, Fish, fish, what have you got that was caught this morning?' My mother looks and tells him in no uncertain terms, 'these fish died yesterday, Hymie. They already smell bad.' Mrs. Baldo, I wouldn't lie to you, would I? You are my favorite customer. I swear these trout came in, still wiggling,  on the train last nite.' 'Scale them, cut in five pieces. Throw away the head.'

 

She takes a small change purse out of her apron and a little book to write in. 'How much do I owe you, Hymie?' Two dollars and 10 cents.'
She hands him two one dollar bills. He thanks her and moves on down the alley. What she spent is noted in her little book.

 

Daddy peels the corn on the back porch and finds a monster green worm in one. He picks it up with his bare fingers, puts it on Mama's crossword page, covers it, stomps down and squoosh comes out.

 

At dinner I could not eat the corn but ate everything else. For that Mama let me have an extras big piece of watermelon after she took out all the seeds. A seed would have been better than the worm, so I am happy.

 

Travelin'

EUPHORIA

 

Peter Pan and I are holding hands. We're flyin', we're flyin' so high we'll reach the sky and won't come down until the fourth of July.

 

I met Peter quite by chance at a Halloween party. The small man was wearing a Peter Pan costume that was too big for him. He kept tripping and falling, tripping and falling on his nose. I was only inches away when I saw blood gushing from his nose. My beautiful white fairy queen gown was  almost splattered. To make Peter feel better, I tapped his bleeding nose with my magic fairy wand. He smiled at me, said, 'Hold on tight and together we floated right out the open window. 'Your Highness, we are going to Always, Always Land and you will be my best friend forever.'

 

'Peter, I am getting sticky. My hands feel glued together. Are these clouds  really, truly, marshmallows, are they? Can I eat some?'
He scowls a bit and tells me, 'No. If you eat some, you will make a hole in the cloud that will get bigger and bigger until rain comes down and spoils all the Trick and Treat fun. Look over there. See those tall buildings? Now take a look at the golden sun and the gray buildings. The sun is so pleased with his warmth and beauty, that he just blessed  them and turned them into gold.'  'Real gold, Peter?' 'Of course, real gold. Can't your highness tell real from fake?' I got a bit snarly and advised him who my father is, Midas, and has so much gold he can't find a place to keep it all.

 

'Peter, do you know what my father did? 'Tell me, Queen.' 'He chopped off the head of my son, Prince Charming and put a huge orange pumpkin in its place. The Prince makes me laugh with his big smile and only two teeth in his gash of a mouth. The Prince likes to dance and so do I. He twirls me, spins me. We twist. We turn and best of all, we laugh. Can you fly us to meet my father, Peter?' 'Your Highness, don't talk, just look. The golden buildings are gone. Our world is now silvery blue. It's so lovely I could stay here forever. The moon has two cusps tonight. You sit in the lap of one and I'll sit in the other. Maybe the old moon will ride us completely across the sky. Let's ask him.' He is pleased and whisks us to Rainbow Land, the end of the sky. 'Before you go,' he says, 'Would you like to have a slice of my green cheese?' Peter and I take a piece for our trip home. Skeletons, witches, Superman, angels, their trick & treat bags full to overflowing, are being called in by their mothers and fathers.

 

Peter and I look up, up, high above us and thousands of stars are twinkling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Growing UP

BLUE MIMOSA

 

Spring and Aunt Mollie arrived on the same day. I was not exactly prepared for either. Baltimore had barely peeked out of a late twelve inch snow storm. Gutters ran like rivers. Sewers overflowed. From our cantilevered patio, I saw a robin. Unless it was the wind, the poor thing was shivering. My whistle was dry as usual so I just stood still and talked to her. 'Redbreast, are you alone? Have you already made a nest in our ancient oak tree near the fence?' She chirped once and flew away.

 

Chunks of snow and ice fell from our roof, crashed loudly on the flagstone path. I had shoveled it clear yesterday and now could see a face, an old lady's face in the snow. She had a long nose that kept getting longer as she melted into a puddle. 'Go inside,' I told myself. The automatic coffee maker was ready for me. Being Sunday, Jeff and Bonnie were still fiddling around in their bedrooms. Jeff had downloaded what he calls music that, thank heaven, I could barely hear. Most likely Bonnie was submerged in books and magazines about plants, flowers, trees. At sixteen she had her future planned. She would be a horticulturist or open a garden shop that had flowers of all kinds all year long.

 

Jack and I were enveloped in our new home, completing the decor, concerned about too many overly tall trees to be trimmed or removed. Bonnie nagged if not to remove more than two or three of them. Make room and plant new ones so we could watch them grow, see our grandchildren pick cherries. I stopped arguing, left her alone with her books.

 

The doorbell rang simultaneously as somebody used the heavy brass doorknocker John I had toted around Morocco in that fly covered town of Fez. It cost us a lot of bucks and a whole bottle of liniment before it finally was put on our new front door. From the den window I saw an elderly woman holding a large cloth shopping bag in her right hand and her pocketbook, almost as heavy as our doorknocker in her left. 'Hey, let me in,' she called.' I answered, imagining she might be hard of hearing, I shouted, 'What do you want? I'm busy.' In a staccato voice, she replied, 'Let me in, Dummy.  'It's Aunt Mollie.' If I didn't faint then, I never would. 'Mollie? Aunt Mollie from NY?', 'Yes, did I ever live anywhere but NY? Let me in. My pocketbook is so full of stuff I'm leaning like the Tower of Pisa.' My lord, I thought she died five years ago.

 

I opened the door. Immediately she dropped her belongings right in the foyer. Then she grabbed me and almost squeezed me to death. I was totally dumbstruck, at a loss for words. When I thought of some, they came out rough and unpleasant. 'How did you know where we were? Why didn't you call?' With a little lump im her throat she chastised me for not keeping up with the family like Aunt Esther does. 'Esther knows everything and everybody. She can tell you in half a minute where Lincoln is buried.'

 

I took her coat and called Jeff and Bonnie down to meet their Aunt Mollie (really a great aunt but I didn't want to make waves.) 'Are you hungry, Aunt Mollie?,' I asked and she snapped back at me,' Ask a dumb question and you'll get a dumb answer. Sure, I'm hungry but don't fix anything for me. Give me a plate and fresh bread and if you want some,
you can have a chunk of this pig I slaughtered yesterday. 'Aunt Mollie, you brought all of this on the plane?' 'Sure,' she said, 'do you think I pedaled my bike this far? Aunt Esther told me you have four bedrooms in a beautiful new house. May I use one for two nights?' Was there any possible answer besides yes? 'Our pleasure, Aunt Mollie.'

 

At that she called Bonnie to see what she had brought for her. From her big bag she found a small plastic bag and handed it gently to her niece. 'Do you know what this is, Girl?' she asked. Bonnie studied it carefully and replied, 'I think it is a tiny, tiny mimosa sapling.' Aunt Mollie applauded. 'Right you are. Tomorrow it will be a bit warmer so you and I will plant it. While I waited for your mother to let me in, I saw the perfect spot for your present. Want a ham sandwich?'

 

Bonnie was up early, anxious to get started but had to wait for Aunt Mollie, who came to breakfast at ten with instructions for Bonnie. 'We'll need a small trowel, about two quarts of warm water, a support stick, apiece of sturdy cord and about 15 or 18 small, smooth stones. I'll dig the hole right in the middle of your front lawn. Oh, how beautiful the mimosa  will look this summer. Here, Bonnie, hold the stick steady and straight. Pour the water in slowly, let it soak in. Now the stones, evenly around the bottom. Brace your baby tree while I surround it with fresh potting soil, NY potting soil! Let it settle by itself. Done. Now, all you have to do is wait for it to bloom.'

 

Wednesday a cab pulled up to our house, honked and Aunt Mollie, with the load she was carrying now much lighter, hugged us all, especially Bonnie who is to be the custodian of her gift. As the cab started off, she opened the window, waved and called out in a still strong voice, 'Bonnie, it's a BLUE mimosa. Goodbye.'

 

By June the mimosa was an extraordinary five feet tall. Tiny blue buds began to open their faces to the sun on July 4th. The air smelled sweeter than yams baking. Right before school started, September 5, Jonah, our landscape man arrived to remove the millions of leaves clogging our rain spouts. It didn't take him long to climb down and get me out of the kitchen. 'Mrs. Gordon, have you looked up at your roof, your gutters lately?' I told him I hadn't,  looked up, blinked and could not believe my eyes. ' Jack, come quick.' He must have jumped over the candlestick because he was by my side in an instant. 'Look at our rain spouts!' 'Jonah, clear those new trees out of there right away or we may have a forest for a roof. Burn those sucking mimosas. Then cut down the big one on our lawn and burn it, too. Bonnie had heard the commotion from her bedroom and came running out, blooming mad. 'Don't, don't do that, Mom. It is a beautiful tree. I love it! Aunt Mollie will hurt if you hurt the only blue mimosa we've ever seen.' Jonah had just about removed the leaves and the saplings and was beginning to wash down the gutters. At exactly one in the afternoon, the phone in the kitchen rang. Jonah had just cut down the mimosa. Bonnie was crying, calling me the killer of her child.

 

''Hello,' I said and waited for a 'hello from the other end of the line. It came. 'Hello, Clara. This is your Aunt Esther calling from NY. Aunt Mollie had asked me to call you, find out how Bonnie's mimosa was doing
yesterday.

 

She died this morning. So how is the mimosa?'

 

 

 

 

The outing

LION COUNTRY

 

Catherine and Carol are anxious, waiting at the front door. Their daddy, my husband Andy, is almost all set. Wrapped in a blanket, he puts both his Nikon wide angle lens and the long range one in the locked trunk .The girls sit in the back of our fairly new blue Honda guarding his precious rolls of film and our cooler that will give us nourishment if we are stranded amongst the buffalos. I have a cloth bag with Band Aids, Iodine, Neosporon, and a paper bag with chips and foil wrapped pickles on the floor, just big enough to make me uncomfortable. 'Girls, don't snack yet. We haven't even started our ride.'

 

Andy asks me, 'Did you bring the coupon?' I know I have it but have to show it to him. 'Children free on Sundays 1 to 4.' We will be there about 1 and leave before 4. Perfect. 'Adults , $5.00 each.'There is a line at the gate when we finally reach it. We are given maps and strict instructions of what to do and not do. I read it loud and clear to everyone and memorize the rules myself. 'Follow the signs.' Stay on the car routes.' 'Do NOT open windows.' 'Do NOT feed animals or birds.' 'Do NOT leave your car for any reason once in Lion Country.'

 

Andy hands the coupon to the guard. He takes it, glowers and shows it to Andy. 'Mister, this coupon expired last week. That will be $10 for each adult and $5 for the children. You don't have anyone in the trunk, do you?' Andy thinks he's cute and tells the guard,' Yes, my grandmother is in there with her oxygen tank.' The guard laughs, puts out his hand for the $30. Andy asks if he can put it on his charge card and is surprised when he can.

 

Caged exotic birds make noises I have only heard on Animal World. Yellow, red and even bright blue beaks, white feathered tails go by dragging in the sand. Andy, the ornithologist in our car, says 'Look, Girls, that's a bald eagle, our American symbol. He's really big and strong. Look at those talons. I'd hate to have them dig into me.'

 

Cars are piling in. Andy finds a pretty good spot, carefully writes its location inside of the car. 'Andy, for god's sake. What good is putting the location IN the car? Here, give it to me. I'll keep it in my purse.'
We start to get out and Andy yells, 'Wait, wait, let me get my cameras!' He puts one on each of his shoulders and we're off.

 

A siren blares. Whistles blow. Jeeps come rolling down the paths. 'In your cars, everybody inside NOW! The guards are dressed in safari clothes. They carry rifles. The girls had only stepped out of the car when they were quickly swallowed up, carried away. In a second, Andy, heavy camera on his left shoulder, jumps out of the car intending to find our daughters. He pauses long enough to drop the car key on the ground and doesn't see it. 'Move, Andy, you are standing on it. Give me the key. I'll keep it in my purse and wait here for you and our babes. Go, Go!' I am really frightened for lots of reasons, my children are being carried away to White Slavers digs; Andy won't find this car for a long time; and I am here alone in a crowd. I see Catherine and Carol, wave frantically, open the door and they climb in. Andy is god knows where.

 

The chaos is clearing. We open all the windows to hear the announcements that were merely muffled static. 'Ladies, Gentlemen, Children. Lola, our favorite lion, was frightened by a large flying peacock and got a little wild, went where she wasn't supposed to go. We found her hiding under berry bushes in the elephants' playground. There are no casualties. If you want to see Lily get her dinner, drive slowly thru Gate 6. Stay in your cars or you may be her dinner. Ha Ha. I'm only kidding. Go slowly and enjoy yourselves.'

 

We are going nowhere until Andy finds us, sit and sit, waiting. Where can he be? And then I see him. 'Look, Girls, Daddy's in the jeep with those guards.' The two strong men bring him to our car. One sticks his head in the front window and suggests I drive. 'Your foolish man could have been hurt but instead he got lucky and has tons of good pictures. Maybe Time will buy a few.'

 

I thank the men, give Andy a look that could kill faster than Lola. Sheepishly he gets into the driver's seat and I show him the rolls of film he left in the trunk.

 

He doesn't realize what I just showed him and asks for a turkey sandwich, pickles, chips and a cold drink. I give it to him and he is happy.

Nag, nag, nag

FIT TO BE

 

Thirty minutes, twice a day, every day, I'm on my stationary bike. Don't laugh. Don't even mention what a whoose you think I am. First of all, turning the rusty pedals on this twenty year old relic would be tough for a young buck, but I am already sixty, have had two 'mild' heart attacks and am fifteen pounds overweight. Just lay off laughing at my big derriere. If anything, you should encourage me to buy a treadmill and to stop sneaking cold chocolate milk shakes.

 

Rosie's on my neck almost always because she's bored and hates me since I made her preg forty years ago. It was her fault as much as mine. The baby being a premie and dying when he was only a week old is a craw in her mind. Trite as it is, she's bored out of her gourd and takes it out on me.

 

Today she just about orders me to go to the mall with her, walk it twice, rest and then go clothes shopping. 'You really need a new sport coat or a suit, decent trousers that zip all the way up, a sport shirt or two, and T shirts don't count. You need a dress shirt, too, just in case we go someplace or another friend dies. AND Mr., You should have it in case you die too. I don't want to see you laid out at all, but in your yellowed white shirt, I might lie down next to you in embarrassment. We can pick out two silk ties, too. You have two, I know, but one is only two inches wide and went out of style long ago and the other is 4 inches wide, big stuff in the 50's. This century 3 ½ " is in.' God damn, she's such a nag.'

 

I pedal an extra fifteen minutes today, huff and puff and seriously begin to think things over, without listening to Rosie's meowing. A brain storm hits. I'll ask her to go with me. She reads ads and knows who has what and prices of ladies clothes and surely knows more about men's wear than I do. My Social Security and Workmen's Comp checks are in the bank, there is still some of our inheritance money left. We can swing it. Something just pops out. 'Rosie, Rosie,' I call. ' I'll be there as soon as I straighten the bedroom.' That might mean never but I let her know I heard her. 'O.K., Rosie, just come down before lunch. I'll be on my bike.' Sweat is pouring down my back. I don't hear her come in until she puts her hands around my eyes and says, 'Guess who.'

 

I stop pedaling and make an effort to be nice. 'Honey, how about going clothes shopping with me, for me?' I butter her up. 'You are right, you're always right. It's time I open my eyes.' Rosie's face gets rosy. Her blue eyes twinkle and she gives me her Carole Burnet big laughing smile. 'Let's go to Macy's first. They always have sales.' What has come over me? 'Whoa, Babe, I have to shower and put on clean underwear.'  Maybe George's dying so suddenly has snaked into the all of me.

 

Try this, try that. It comes at me like a starving lion. The salesman talks a little swishy so I don't let him come in the dressing room with me. Rosie makes sure everything fits a little tight. I know her. She thinks I will lose weight that way. The salesman talks her out of it and I take the next size, feel more comfortable. My new suit needs a bit of alteration, sleeves shortened ½ inch and the bottoms hemmed.

 

Smug, proud of herself, Rosie insists we stop at Smart House, a new store that sells exercise equipment. 'Come on, Rosie. I've had enough. We can do this another time.' No, now is the time. Try that treadle. It will fit where your old exercise bike is. Try it!' She just won't stop. 'Rosie, I'm tired. I want to go home.' She insists I try one that has a steeper walk.' I try it and have trouble breathing. That is all I remember.

 

The mortuary is filled and I see myself lying in my coffin, not a lot of flowers or friends around me, but god has let me see myself and I think I look darn good in my new suit.

 

The silk stripe tie is perfect. 

Friends

Today is a special day for me. I'd give a party if you'd come. The story I send today is my 1000th story in a row. I have about 500 others in different areas. What oh what will become of them? Not much. They'll just wrinkle up and die like we all do and be forgotten. In the meantime, stick with me, offer opinions, advice, and enjoy. Val

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OUT, IN, OUT

 

The members of Les Copans Club did not advise me, their president for two terms, that there was to be a meeting Saturday afternoon at Julie's house. Having learned about it apres le fact, I realized they chose Saturday afternoon because that is the day my mother, younger brother, Harold, and I spend Saturday afternoons together, 52 weeks of the year. That does mess up much of my social life, but tradition is all important to my dad. His name is Mike and he is a Nam veteran. He marches in every American parade, even if it is for the last soldier from World War I. I am allowed to go to movies on Saturday or a party, but not until I have spent at least five hours as a close knit family. I've gotten used to it, dawdle, go to the ladies' room more than I have to, leave something valueless on a counter and must go back to get it. So far, I have not been questioned about where and why I go and come back so often.

 

As to the secret kept from me, the Copans meeting was over and I remained in the dark. Our next scheduled meeting will be Wednesday, after school in Gerry's living room. Her mother will, as usual, have bowls of warm pop corn and orangeade ready for us and ask only that we don't drop the popcorn on her carpet, then will she leave us our privacy.

 

The twelve of us have no old, business. We have no new business so the secretary records nothing except Randy has closed the meeting at 4:30.  We gab, talk about boys, which of us has been kissed so far. No hands go up. Liars, liars, all. 'Who has a date next Saturday night?' This time every single hand goes up. Liars. Liars. 'Who wants to watch the end of Oprah?' Just about everybody so Gerry switches it on. We gather round on the floor, finish our popcorn. Clara and Sophie say together, 'Wow! She sure got fat again, didn't she?' I say it looks like she is going to have twins and get some giggles going. Randy asks us to turn her off so we can talk about who's had sex. 'Anybody? ' Each of us looks left and right, raise no hands, but I for one, think some eyes look guilty.

 

Sophia volunteers an idea. 'Let's put 12 identical squares of white paper in a box. Whoever has had sex can turn down one corner and we'll drop them all in my empty lunch bag. Our president can count them. We all agree to try it. The count is two. Oh, my god, the buzzing, the wild accusing eyes upset our meeting. Whoever the two sexpots are, they are pretty good actresses, show no sign of guilt. I clap my hands for order. 'Girls, girls. I admit, that was a stupid idea. Let's put it to rest now.'

 

'Any new business come to mind?' Gerry raises her hand. She brings up the four Bat Mitzvahs coming up in January and suggests we not chip in for gifts anymore because our allowances don't cover them. 'I think our parents should let us select the gifts and charge them to their accounts.' Randy says. 'We should set a limit of $20 or $25 a gift. There isn't anything I can think of that is less.' I clap my hands for silence. We vote and pass on it, needing only to explain our decision to our parents.

 

I call for order again, take a deep breath and ask, 'Why wasn't I told about your meeting last Saturday? Don't even ask how I found out.' Slowly, Randy stands. 'Because we wanted to talk about a gift for you for starting our club and being such a good president for 3 years. Now you know and have spoiled the whole thing!'  Each member, friend, hugs me and when Randy comes close, she whispers two words in my ear.

 

'I HAVE.' My jaw drops. I know just what she means.

booze

PAY OFF

 

Three men, wearing black uniforms and badges, pound on my Uncle Rob's door. He scoops me up and puts me in the hall coat closet. 'Be very quiet. Don't make a sound,' he says. The door closes on me. It is dark except for a tiny bit of light under the door. I am scared, very scared. There is loud talking but I can't understand the words. A mean, rough voice leaks in thru the keyhole. 'Rob, the price has changed. Pay up NOW.' Something falls on the kitchen floor. My Uncle Rob screams, 'O.K., O.K.'  I hold my breath until the porch door slams, slowly turn the closet door knob. Once I adjust my eyes to the sunlight coming in the kitchen window, everything looks the way it did before I was put in the closet. Nothing new is laying on the floor.  

 

'Uncle Rob, what price went up?' I can tell he is thinking about his answer. 'Uh, Uh,- -Hershey bars, Timmy. They cost more to make and now will be 8 cents instead of five.  Here's a quarter. Go to Zinnie's and buy three, bring me one, you keep two and the penny change. Save one of yours until after your dinner. Go, go, already.' Mommy has taught me manners o I thank my Uncle Rob and get him the Hershey bar he asked for.

 

As soon as I get home I tell Mommy about Uncle Rob's visitors and the price going up on Hershey bars. 'Mommy, Mr. Zinnie never heard about that and gave me five Hersheys for my quarter. Here's one for you. Save it for after dinner.' She pats the kitchen chair next to her and tells me to sit down a minute. ' Melvin, I have to tell you something. I don't want you to visit Uncle Rob any more. He and I had a bad argument, almost a fight, and I've told him you won't be coming there anymore.' 'Why, Mommy? I didn't fight with him. You did. You stay away.' Mommy's eyebrows make big Vs on her forehead. She gives me a hug and a slippery kiss on my cheek and tells me why. 'Because I told you and that is all there is to it.'

 

I go to my room and eat one of my Hershey bars, can't resist another to spite her. Daddy will be hurt if I don't give him one. Thinking it over, I come to the conclusion that it was a dumb thing to do and am angry with myself. I did what Uncle Rob said and gave Mommy one, and he already had one.  Now I have none left for myself, and my allowance is almost gone.

 

Uncle Rob stops by our house to tell us he is moving far away soon. He'll visit when he can. It may be a long while. I beg him not to go, tell him how much I'll miss him but he goes where he has to go. Months become years, my fond memories stay with me.

 

Sometimes I walk past his old house, that has been re-painted, has different curtains on the windows. There are children playing in the back yard where Uncle Rob used to play catch with me. The children's mother notices me once, twice then becomes concerned. On my third silent visit she asks me who I am and why I am watching her children. I introduce myself, 'I'm Mr. Frankowich. My uncle used to live here years ago when I was a kid. He moved away and I never found out where he went.' The lady looks a bit puzzled, 'Oh, my. Frankowich? That sounds familiar. You are a Frankowich?' I nod a yes. 'That man went to jail. Maybe he's still there.' she tells me. I am stunned. Never did I hear a whisper of that. 'Ma am, my uncle would probably be elderly now. I used to come when he was still a good looking man. I told him once he should become a movie star. Thanks for at least this much info.'

 

As I walk towards the gate, a beautiful boy with curly blond hair runs to his mommy. His hand holds a pretend gun. 'O.K. Lady, Pay Up,' he says in a loud voice. His mother raises her arms high. Twists her mouth and says, 'O.K., Pal. You got me. Don't shoot. I'll pay up immediately. Your allowance is on the kitchen table. Take it. Don't spend the quarter all in the same place.'

I laugh, wave goodbye and lay Uncle Rob to rest.

Boo!

CHAMELEON

 

The tall black pointed hat, long black flowing dress and a large wart on her chin told me, without a single doubt, I had landed in a witches coven. In the middle of circle of unclad skeletons was a large seaming cauldron large enough for a tall muscular man to get in. Cackles and whistles sounded. Two skeletons straightened up, lifted two others and tossed them into the boiling water. They just melted into the steam. More black hats and wrinkled faces walked across burning coals. Robes caught fire, fire the witches couldn't feel. At the end of the burning embers, the black clothes, the witches were nothing but a pool of water.

 

My screams bring my father running to my rooo. 'What's going on, Bella? Bad dreams again? Bella lies as still as she can but the bed shakes with fear. 'Leave the light on, Pop. My dream hasn't left me yet.' He calls my mother. 'Mildred, will you come in here and stay with Bella? She had another terrible dream and I have to leave the house at 5 a.m.
We're opening the gates for the new cemetery at nine for the first six burials. Everything has to go like clock work. The mourners at Menorah Lakeside aren't going to need more problems.'

 

Mildred switches places with Pop Keller, Bella's step father. She lies down on a pillow wet with tears and cuddles Bella close to herself. They sleep until six. Pop Keller has set the kitchen table for them. Bella, unsuccessfully, begs to stay home from school. Her day is busy, rushing thru her science report, eigning an interest in Ivanhoe until an eternity later the dismissal bell rings and she can get on the yellow bus #13 to go home.

 

As soon as she opens the front door she gets Pop's big emergency flashlight and goes into her closet to make sure nothing is in there except her clothes. She shines the light under her bed. All is well. Mom's closet gets the going over, too. Behind the shower curtain there is nothing but shampoo and a back brush. Mildred calls her daughter down to set the dinner table, fix the salad. Bella begs off and wants to go to be early. 'I'm leaving my light on all night. Please, please don't turn it off, Mom.' Her mother suggests she stay up to watch her favorite show, 'Dancing with the Stars', tells her she can even vote if she wants.' 'No, Mom. I need some sleep.'

 

The full moon shines on Bella's eyes. They glow yellow. She starts to itch and scratches her body until tiny drops of blood run down her arms. Tears burn the scrapes. The wicked with pointed black hat leads the skeletons into Bella's room. Bella grabs her blanket, rolls it around herself, covering every inch of her being from head to toes. The night creeps slowly. Twelve skeletons circle her bed. Two sit on the headboard. There is a crack in the sky when the first light of morning comes thru.

 

Mildred and Pop come in to check on their daughter. 'Where is she, Pop?' They go downstairs together calling, 'Bella, Bella, where are you?' There is no answer. Pop leads the way back upstairs with Mildred close behind him. They rush into Bella's room and there, there in the middle of her bed, sitting on Bella's pillow, is a cat, a heavy black cat with exceptionally long whiskers. It is licking its paws. The sound it makes seems to say 'Pop, Pop'. Mildred tries to shoo the cat off the bed but it won't go. It takes Bella's blanket in its teeth and rolls it around itself until only a tiny bit of its tail is showing.

 

It's pitiful meow can barely be heard. It sounds like a crying child. Mildred unwraps the cat and finds nothing. The blanket disappears, so does the cat and Bella !

 

 

Strong

EXITITIS

 

My eyes, I am told, are a beautiful Irish green. Often I wear solid green blouses, all kinds of prints, both long and short sleeves. Our garden grass is velvety green, soft manicured weekly. To all of that, I must admit, I am somewhat green with envy. It's inside of me but I do make a concerted effort to not let it show. Once in a while I cry myself to sleep, ashamed of my jealous thoughts. Lying in bed in our cozy, paid for three bedroom, two bath house, I can see Wanda's house across the street thru the bedroom window. It's bigger than ours,  made of stone and it has a large white door with a fancy Georgian style brass knocker. Freddie, I and our three children live in a grey shingled house that is really blah, in spite of the brass door knocker.

 

Wanda's husband, Leon, is tall and has sparkling light blue eyes. When he dives into our neighborhood pool, those abs of his almost knock my bathing suit straps off. I've never counted their money but their life style tells me they have no financial worries. Leon is the represent-ative in Congress for District 22 . He drives a black Caddy, last year's model. Our Camry is five years old and is an ordinary tan color with no oomph. They employ a full time housekeeper and surely enjoy a fun social life. My Freddie and I are at the mercy of our busy sixteen year old baby sitter if we want to go out to dinner or just a neighborhood movie. My gripes are internal. They lie churning my gut into gray, greasy ribbons. 

 

This is not smart. It is not right. Right or wrong, I am jealous, envious and expect punishment some day. Until then I will have sexy dreams of Leon, walk on his shady side of the street, sit on the edge of the pool when I see him doing laps. Am I hurting anyone besides myself? Freddie is always nice to me, takes care of the kids on Saturday mornings so I can have a break. He's good looking too, sweet, tender in bed. He makes a decent living, may get a bonus this Christmas. He'll give me most of it for myself and the children. Even if I burn a roast, he doesn't complain.  Freddie not only hangs up his clothes, his bureau drawers are neater than mine. And what a fixer he is! A loose door knob, the toilet is stuffed and he manages to get little Bobby's teddy out of the pipe. The constant compliments, his devotion to us should be enough, so why, why, do I think so often about Leon?

 

Tuesday afternoon I answer the phone, don't recognize the voice but know the name. 'This is Leon,' he says. 'Leon who?' I ask. 'Leon across street.' My mouth goes dry. My heart leaps into my throat. 'Hello, Leon. How may I help you?' He asks if my husband is home and I tell him the truth. 'No, he doesn't get home until close to six each evening. Can I give him a message?' 

 

Leon pauses and then offers to come over, keep me company for a while. 'Your green eyes intrigue me and I'd like to delve into them. How about it, Carole?' My knees shake but my words and actions are right.
'Neighbor mine, you are barking up the wrong tree. Don't come over now or ever. I'm a married woman who loves her husband. Go fiddle someplace else.' The sound of my hanging up seems like thunder.

 

I go upstairs, shower, wash my hair and come down stairs to wait for my children and fix a special dinner for Freddie. I am careful not to burn anything.

Holidays

REINDEER

 

What happened to the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas? Did turkeys gobble it down? And-now that I think of it, did all of the Halloween goblins have fun scaring Thanksgiving into Christmas?

 

On Dec. 15th the meteorologist on channel WRMA promised us a snowstorm, a big one. It was on its way down from Canada to Massachusetts just in time for the holiday. Oh great! I sighed. Who wants it? Did Jesus have snow in Bethlehem? Will the city workers have to spend the holiday clearing streets and driveways while their families have dinners without them? I doubt it, truly doubt it. I wouldn't mind shoveling our pavement and steps so much if Clarence, my dear husband, hadn't had a mild heart attack last April and is babying himself until I'll have to get a play pen for him.

 

My house must be in order, the table, with the two leaves added, ready for 14. There is a lot of food shopping to do, cooking, the Christmas lights on the tree and around the front door have to be put up, all the gifts spread out so nobody falls. Where oh where do I begin?

 

Donny, our youngest son is only 10. He has been watching the weather reports and the gray sky all week. 'Ma, it sure doesn't look like snow is coming, does it? I agree but tell him the weather man is smarter than both of us.

 

Just in case he is right, I shop early, have a fresh 18 lb. turkey on order at Terry's market. My list is long. My anger boils over when Terry tells me the biggest tom he could get for me is 12 pounds.' My god, Man, that is a big chicken, not a turkey!' I am forced into buying a frozen bird at 18 lbs. and have no idea how to thaw it without just leaving it at room temperature and sending my family and guests to the hospital.

 

Donny sees me sitting at the kitchen table in front of the frozen bird, just staring out the window. I have to gulp to answer when he asks me what's wrong. 'Donny, go away. You can't help me thaw this turkey. I'm stuck.' Little man that he is, he immediately suggests I go on the web and find out how to thaw it safely.''Come on son, you know all I can do on the computer is email.' 'OK, Mom, I'll turn Dad's on and you watch what I do. Don't be afraid. It's really easy.' Bing, bang, he types in at the top of the page, 'how to thaw a frozen turkey' and as fast I can blink, BOOM, there are the directions. 'Thaw in refrigerator or submerge in cold water. Allow one day per four pounds. DO NOT THAW AT ROOM TEMPERATURE. That encourages bacterial growth.'

 

Another trip to Terry's on Dec. 21 for 4 boxes of bread crumbs, 3 cans of cranberry sauce, carrots, onions, bags of pre-washed salad, walnuts a 12 inch pumpkin pie and 2 Dutch apple pies, cinnamon, 4 assorted pints of Ben & Jerry ice cream, at least 8 medium sized yams to candy, and whatever else catches my eye. I have to honk the horn to get
Clarence outside to help me bring in this load. I give him the lighter bags.

 

Our once a week worker comes in Dec. 23 and sets the table for me. Oh, heavens, I forgot to buy flowers. I start another list, more Cabernet Sauvignon, a bottle of Scotch, ginger ale. Della also is handy with lights and is able to connect the wire in the foyer and the lights around the door.  She doesn't open the gift I had professionally wrapped for her. It's the  robe she told me she loved in Macy's window and I am sure she will be pleased.

 

Donny doesn't look good. He is as ashen as the sky. 'Mom, look, it's raining, It looks like it will rain all day and night. The weatherman should get fired.'  It rains right thru Christmas, up to the 28th.

Our smart son is miserable. 'Why didn't it snow, Mom? It was supposed to snow.' I have no statistical reply . 'Donny, You got all the things you asked for. The Rain didn't hurt you, did it, Dear? See you had gifts and rain-dear and we still have January when you can have Snow, Deer.

 

Come here, Give me a kiss.' That was my extra special present.

A True Story

RE-LIVING

 

Not so far back in 1961 or 2 one of the popular mournful songs of the day was 'The Loneliest Night of the week.' It began with 'Saturday night is' but for me, my husband, George, it was the best night, the fun night, the weekly night we shared with old and new friends in our Philly country club. It was always dress-up night. We ladies had slews of evening gowns in our closets, immaculate white leather gloves of three different lengths, fashionable shoes and knock-out jewelry. I had only my 1 ½ carat diamond ring, and very real looking rhinestone necklaces, bracelets that worked for me. I lost no sleep about the fakery. Every male member had at least two handsome tuxedos, soft colored, pleated dress shirts, patent leather pump shoes. Simple, easy for them.

 

From nine to one Wood Valley Country Club's long walnut bar was two deep in thirsty members. I didn't really like the fakery, the 'What'll you haves' and used my secret to lower my inhibitions every week. I would order a shot of Jack Daniels and a glass of ginger ale, send
Jack down the hatch', relaxed and nursed the ginger ale all evening.

 

The big band sound reverberated thru the bar and into the lobby. The dining room offered large round tables covered in long white cloths with a flower arrangement in the center. The nights were made for dancing. Unfortunately for both of us, my George had no rhythm. He was always off beat We argued about it all the time. Not a dance did we do that he didn't tell me to stop leading. If I stopped, we would have to sit down. He danced now and then with Jan, a long time friend of ours. Jan, without a doubt, was the best dancer at Wood Valley. She could make a stick of wood look like Fred Astaire. To me George looked like a handsome pile of fire wood.

 

Suddenly I was a hot shot Twister. I could shake my booty against anybody else's booty and was hot to trot. Popularity was my middle name. I was whirled and twirled and constantly busy dancing with members I barely knew. It took at least ten days for one Saturday to follow another. The new rage was not for everyone and the bandleader interspersed slow, close body dancing often. It gave us all a chance to settle down, breathe. George let me be while keeping an eye on harmless me.

 

It was 11 p.m. The crowd was beginning to thin out when Harold, a member I had seen at the pool but never met, asked me to dance. With a surprised but warm smile, I rose and we walked a few steps to the dance floor. Harold was tall, nice looking, well built and a smooth, easy dancer. He surprised me with his soft, pleasant singing voice as he just about whispered the words to 'After the Lovin'–I'm still in love with you.' In the middle of the number, coming from nowhere, Harold's wife, heavy and buxom, grabbed his hand off my back and pulled him away from me. She lead him like a horse to water back towards the table they shared with intimate friends. I was stunned, stunned beyond comprehension, turned 'fat stuff' around and smacked her face so hard she almost tilted over. Louder than the music, I ranted, 'Don't you ever do anything like that again to me. Take your husband and get out of my sight!' I wanted to crawl under the table to hide my shame and anger, but didn't. George neither defended me or judged me. I stayed in my seat and nursed the flat ginger ale.

 

Before it was all over Harold approached my table. Surely he wanted me to apologize to his wife. No, he brought me her apology for being so rude. Hah. I didn't believe him.  For days I heard whispers about me, skipped going to the club the next Saturday night. The following Friday
my phone had a menacing ring. Truly, I just knew something was not right. Jan told me that Harvey was dead! He had been in his office preparing Saturday's payroll, when a man (at least the police think it was a man) came in, shot Harvey twice in his head and once where he thought Harvey's heart was. He could have saved a bullet. The two head shots were enough. Disbelief filled my mind, my heart ached. It just couldn't be true, but it was. The club closed Sunday in respect for Harvey. There was little merriment the following Saturday, a much smaller crowd than usual. I was no longer the topic of conversation.

 

Sadly but truthfully I wished I were.

 

 

 

       

Not easy

LOVELY STREET

 

The sun and I are barely up. Robins with fat red breasts peck in the grass searching for breakfast wiggly earth worms. Fascinated, I watch them and get a slight urge to vomit. Twice a week Mr. McGregor who lives catty-corner to me and my two teen-agers is oblivious, absolutely must start his lawn mower at 7 a.m. twice a week. The robins, the swallows fly elsewhere.

 

My house smells stuffy. I open the kitchen door, let the morning freshness in. Its sweetness fills my lungs. I hum softly, 'June is Bustin' Out All Over', even though it is early May. It's time to get Margie and Freddie downstairs. I hustle to their rooms and touch each one with a good morning kiss and a command to get ready for school. Usually I fix them a tasty, healthy breakfast in time to meet their school bus in front of Mr. McGregor's house. Once in a while one dawdles and I am forced, still in my house coat, to drive them to school. Not a neighbor in fifteen years has chastised me, mentioned my inappropriate dress.

 

'Good morning, Charlotte. Your tulips are even more lovely this year than last, and that's saying a lot.' I thank Ellie, a dear neighbor, and tell her I'll bring her a dozen assorted in the afternoon. With a wide grin she tells me I am fishing and will expect her Red Sun roses in June. 'You shall have them.' 'I'll have to be patient if I want my kitchen to glow. See you later.'

 

Two neighbors are already replacing Spanish tiles that broke off their roofs during a winter storm. Painters have started freshening entire houses in soft colors. There are no written rules about which are allowed but we respect each other and keep our homes soft, easy to live with shades of white, gray, very pale blue. One is yellow, softer than the earliest sunrise.

 

There are neighborhood barbecues, get togethers for cards, special birthdays weddings and sad, much too sad, funerals. The worst, hardest funeral was, is and will always be, my husband's. I don't want to talk about the tragedy but can mention the mental support I, Freddie and Margie got for months. It helped on the surface but a huge, sad hole remains inside of me.

 

Four years have passed like snails crawling up my rose bushes. I believe I have become a good enough actress to go on the stage. My tears dry before I go outside. The excitement of both of my children graduating high school, going off to Community colleges has left the house quiet and me alone most of the time.

 

Oh, yes, I tend my flowers, go to lunch with the ladies but I no longer am able to tell people I live on Lovely St. When I say 'Lonely St., I act and say, 'OOPS, I meant Lovely' and they don't even wince.

Good Choice

WRITTEN IN STONE

 

We're curled up in bed, spent from our arduous love making. 'Scott, Do you really love me?' my lovely lady asks. I move far enough away from her so I can breathe and reply. 'Didn't I just show you Lauren?' He answer puts doubts in my mind. 'Yes and no. What we have doesn't mean you love me, really love me. You know you can be replaced, don't you?' Scott gives me a sharp wrap on my rear. I can feel his anger and more rising. I'm caught. He's a wild man. Coldly he tells me to shut up. I talk too much. In the morning he is gone.

 

The man in my life, the only man for the last six months, is thirty-six years old. I'm twenty-eight. He's trim, quite good looking and is V.P. in his father's lucrative ladies' high fashion firm. I feel Scott and I are meant for each other while he never brings up the subject.

 

I teach English at Westerson High. My students are 95% American but don't speak English They talk to each other with words that are not yet in the dictionary. How did these idiots make it to high school? I'm tough on them and on myself. I mark papers, plan the week's classes, try to spark some interest in writing. I wait and wait for Fridays when
Scott stays for 2 days and nights. After our quiet dinner and our dessert, we listen to Frankie. Tony. I lean close. 'Scott, this is the last time. I want a definite yes or no. Do you love me?' There is no grabbing, no pawing, no reply. With vehemence in my voice I tell him to go home, don't call me, don't come over. 'Your silence is a clear answer.' His face contorts into an ugly grimace. I am frightened. If looks could kill, I'd be dead. I go on a rampage. 'Don't leave anything. I don't want to find one of your sox under my bed or your briefs wherever you've dropped them.. Scott is angry. His fists are clenched, his lips silent. 'And don't slam the door.' Red daggers fly from his eyes into my aching heart.

 

Mr. Finklestein handles his art students with kid gloves. He stops me in the hallway and asks me to join him for lunch in the cafeteria. It is better than sitting alone so what the heck, why not? Our classes don't jibe so we only meet on Wednesdays. It takes him two more Wednesdays  before he invites me to lunch at The Gables, a quiet, unpretentious place in the suburbs. What the heck, why not. 'Harvey, this is a nice place. I like it here,' I tell him. He smiles and asks me not to call him Harvey. 'I'd rather you call me Hank. It's warmer, friendlier, don't you think, Lauren?' Two more lunches and dinner at The Seasons and we barely know each other. We have just about exhausted art discussions and English grammar, poets.

 

I finish my glass of Pinot Noir. Hank reaches over the table and holds my hand. I don't push it off. After my second Pinot, my mind repeats itself. What the heck, why not? 'Lauren, can I see you two weeks from now? I have to go someplace important but want to see you when I come back on Saturday the tenth?' I smile, enjoy having him kiss my fingers, and tell him, 'What the heck. Why not?'

 

At 5 p.m. as daylight is turning to evening, Hank knocks on my door. I open it and see him holding something heavy and ask, 'What in the world is that?' 'Lauren, will you go into your garden with me? I want to show you what's in here.' 'Sure,  Hank. Why not.' He cuts the cord off, unties a red ribbon from the white gift box and tells me to turn around. 'Don't look until I say O.K.'

 

There is a scratching noise like digging but I do not peep.' It doesn't take long before Hank says, Turn around.' I look and don't see anything.
'No, Lauren, not up there. Look down where I'm pointing,' he says.
I see a smooth brown rock about a foot square. Hanks says, It is carved in stone forever and reads in Old English 'I love you, Lauren.' He asks, 'Will you marry me?'

 

What the heck. Why not?

An afternoon

HELLO!  GOODBYE?

 

The mirror-like lake is still. There isn't a breeze, a ripple. I hug my knees as I day-dream , see swash buckling pirates , blood flowing, heads rolling into the pristine water. I give myself a talking to, 'turn the record over! Relax.' A butterfly, it's black wings interlaced with gold threads alights on the table of my legs. I don't move an inch, inhale gently and give this lovely gift a chance to get to know me.

 

It's wings flutter a little as it rises and circles my head. I feel it touch down, then stop, on my ear. I can't see it, am afraid any motion,  sound
I make, will leave me alone again. Holding steady, I concentrate on the stillness of the lake. Can the red water be the reflection of the burning sun or is it blood from the bits of pirate bodies? That dreadful thought frightens me. My butterfly feels it and flies away. It makes me feel sad.

 

The sun is burning thru my polo shirt. I lower my knees and make my way through yellow striated rocks, flat, marbled with intricate black and brown veins that border the lake. A perfect seat calls my name.
I lie here awhile, listen to the birds, watch the sun turn the tiny lake ripples into silver bud kisses.

 

There isn't a honking horn within miles of my refuge, no screaming ambulances, sirens, spoil my solitude. My cell phone is shut off. Errol Flynn jumps down from the yardarm and bellows, 'Hark. The enemy sails too close. Man the cannons!' I am into my reverie, have left the seclusion and peace I find here. It is always the same, my two worlds collide and I am whole. A cannon ball rips through the main mast. The sails crumble, catch fire. The ship is engulfed in flames. As it sinks into the ocean, Errol waves to me and drowns.

 

I sit up and take a long drink of cold lemonade from my thermos, the one with Errol on it. I am refreshed and dismiss the pictures that come and go in my mind. Nobody knows where I am. Nobody cares. The sun tells me it is 3 in the afternoon and my day is ending. It's almost time to re-enter the hub bub world. I linger on the cooling rock and watch shadows begin to fall.

 

Something light touches my hair. It cannot be a leaf. It flutters and lands with a gossamer flair on my naked shoulder. 'My god,' I say to the sky 'this has to be the very same black butterfly that kissed me this morning.' Without flying away, it sits and flutters and flutters those see-thru wings of his. Another butterfly joins in, settles on my arm. This one's wings are pale green. Dark green veins go in all directions. I thrust out my arms towards the lake and the two friends fly away.

 

I wave goodbye, put on my polo shirt and hit the road for home.

Hi, Fan Club

I apologize for sending you 'Mother Times' today. I had checked off the wrong story and realized too late that I had already sent it to you.

 

Val

Ancient?

WHIRLING

 

It's 3 a.m. I open my eyes. My big t.v. is still blasting. The bed lamp is on. The waning moon looks pale, almost lost in the dark sky. I am alone in my bed as I have been for 15 years and am reluctant to start my usual dull day again. 'Self,' I tell myself, 'Don't get up, don't even put one foot on the floor. Not yet. Not yet.' My good sense perseveres. The digital clock silently tells me it is 3:18. I take a chance. Before my foot reaches the carpet, finds my slippers, the wooziness begins. The room spins like a dervish and I fall back on my pillows. I know I am  not ill because my internist told me this dizziness is normal. It comes with being old. 88 IS old.

 

With my choices being pass out and maybe die or just lie still and let the dizziness go away, I choose to lie still until 9:30. Slowly, carefully, without looking down, I hold my breath and try again.The dizziness is less but not gone. This time I move even more slowly than the last and must lie back again, barely getting to my pillows, before I start to cough, unwittingly close my eyes and spin like a top, calling as I whirl, 'Daddy, Daddy, I'm home.'

 

The smell of Sen Sen draws me into his office. My daddy always has it in his mouth when he fixes teeth. I take some from his little black shaker when he isn't home. It isn't sweet like candy but it makes my mouth feel cool.

 

Mrs. Morgan has a paper napkin on her lap and a black band attached to another napkin wrapped around her neck. Daddy sees me and shoos me out. The sound of the drill he is using to fix her back tooth gives me goose pimples. I am happy to leave. I sit on our marble steps that are like all the others on my block and stare at Daddy's sign. It says, Harry B. Gold, DDS-X-RAYS. Thru the frosted windows I can make out Daddy finishing with Mrs. Morgan. As soon as she leaves I hurry back into Daddy's office to catch him before the next patient is seated. 'Daddy,' I ask. Can Shirley and I have some quicksilver? We love to play with it.' He tells Mrs. Courtney to sit down, gets her fixed with the paper napkins, and takes a minute to pour some quicksilver into two see-thru containers for Shirley and me. He gives me a quick kiss, turns to the sink and washes his hands with the bar of orange Lifebuoy soap that smells so clean. I love the smell and breathe it deeply into my nose.

 

At the heavy front door my precious quicksilver slips out of my hand. The silver slides everywhere. With a piece of note paper, I gather some of the slippery round balls and drop them back into one vial. Most of it is under the radiator and I barely have enough for just me. I don't mention my carelessness to Shirley.

 

Fridays are Daddy's days off. I hardly see him but can hear him typing madly all day long as he writes books. Mother has to call him for lunch over and over until he finally stops that tap, tap, tapping for a while. I have lunch with them and wait downstairs until I hear the typewriter start again.

 

I go into his office, open every drawer of instruments, even the glass cabinet where the pliers are to pull out teeth. When I am sure, positively positive, he will not come downstairs, I pump up the dental chair, stand on it so I can reach the drill. I lower it, take out the little thing on the end and put a brush in its place. On it I put a little pink polish, that tastes better than baking soda to brush my teeth in our bathroom. I step on the starter and brush the lower teeth first and then the top, rinse my mouth from the paper cup I have filled and spit it in the whirling water. Carefully, I dry all the wet places I made and put everything back just the way it always is.

 

If my Daddy ever finds ou what I do, he will definitely, positively , finally give me a barber strop whippin'. He has warned me of that whippin' many times for many reasons but hasn't done it yet. Now that I am old, the memory remains so strong, I can still hear the swish of it in my dreams as he hits the kitchen table. My eyes open slowly. I rub them a little, hear my t.v. still blaring. Daddy and I had a short, sweet time together.

 

With no trouble, I can sit up in bed, turn off the t.v., bend over slowly and step into my slipper.

 

I move, the room doesn't.

mother stress

MOTHER TIMES

 

Mommy tells me it's raining too hard so I can't go on the back porch to blow soap bubbles. 'You're mean, Mommy. I can stay dry if you let me use the little umbrella you gave me for my birthday.' 'Cut it out, Dorothy. When I say 'no', I mean NO. Find something else to do and leave me alone.' I sass her back. 'There's nothing for me to do in this stinky house and you're the biggest stink of all.' Furious, she turns around and slaps me hard on my rear, hard again and harder still the third time. I start to kick her but she grabs my leg, lifts me almost to her shoulders and plunks me down on the only kitchen chair that doesn't have a padding and disappears in tears.

 

Her shoes make a lot of noise going up to her room, a little less coming down. She brings me my wooden cigar box that holds all of my  squeezed in Winnie Winkle paper doll cut-outs. 'Here, play with these while I go out in this awful rain to buy a fresh trout for dinner.' 'Mommy, I don't like trout. Daddy doesn't either. Can't you get something else?' Her eyes get narrow like Chink eyes. She says, 'Yes, I can but I happen to like trout once in a while and that's what we are having.'

 

The rain keeps pouring down. I don't have any more cut out books. Daddy promised he'll bring me a new one Friday. That's three days away. It might as well be never. 'Mommy, let's make up. I don't like when we fight.' A tiny smile comes to her face. 'I promise, Mommy, I'll be good all week if, while you are getting that delicious trout for dinner, you buy a great big tin box of cookies.  You and Daddy can have all the cookies. I won't even take one. All I want is the tin box like Theresa has for her paper dolls. Please, Mommy, please.' Mommy doesn't pay attention and comes back at me. 'You have a box for your cut-outs, Dorothy.' 'But, Mommy, mine is a cigar box that I took out of the drugstore trash. It is crooked and the lid won't stay shut. Did you know Theresa has two boxes, a long wooden one with a clasp on the front and a really, really big tin one from cookies she got for being such a good girl? Theresa's mommy gives her all of her old movie magazines to cut up. The movie stars are in the long box and Blondie Bumpstead and Winnie Winkle are in the round box. Please buy the round cookie box for me.' She scowls, does not even look my way.

 

I go to my lonely room and listen to the rain beat on the window. It plays a sad sound, like drums with no words. My cigar box sits on my bed, falls to the floor when I try to sit beside it. My tears add salt to the raindrops.

 

From the bottom of the stairs, I hear Mother call me, 'Dorothy, Dorothy, I'm going to the fish market. Should I get you salmon instead of trout? I leap off my bed, run to the hall, and lean over the bannister. 'Yes, Mother, yes. I love salmon. Daddy does too. I'll set the table before you get back.' As she opens the door to leave, I call her, 'Mommy, thank you. I apologize for being nasty.'

 

I stay in my room, dress and undress Winnie Winkle and Blondie. We talk together. Blondie whispers that her blue dress is missing a belt. I look on the floor, under the bed and there is the tiny belt. I put it in the cigar box and tie a piece of cord around it so nothing else should get lost.

 

The kitchen table is set as good as I can do. I've placed what Mother calls 'fish knives' where our usual plain knives go. Daddy gets his extra big coffee cup. I watch out the living room window for Mommy to come back and thru the still wild rain I see her park in front of our house. My yellow raincoat is ready and with my little umbrella, I go outside to help Mommy bring in the salmon. She has too many bags to get everything in at once, leaves a big one on the back seat and sends me inside. She manages to get the last sopping wet bag and brings it in.

 

'Help, me undo all these things, put what goes in the pantry, in there. The toilet paper rolls just put on the stairs. I do whatever she asks.
'Dorothy, you are careless. You haven't put away the big bag that is still near the front door. You never do anything right.' Yes, I do, Mommy. I try to be good. I'll get the big one for you.' The bag is really wet, is falling apart. It's not heavy. ''Bring it into the kitchen, Dorothy.'
I obey and lay it on the table. 'Well, child, it won't open itself, won't go where it belongs by itself. Put it someplace and throw the wet bag in the trash can.'

 

The bag is so wet it rips before I can lift out whatever is in there. The brown paper smells like wet cats. I reach for what is in there, take out 2 cans of corn, a bottle of Heinz ketchup and something chilled and round. If a policeman had been walking by, he would have heard me scream, rushed in to stop my being killed.

 

I rip the rest of the wet bag off and see a two pound metal box of cookies. Shirley Temple's picture is on the top. Her curls flop and her eyes smile. 'Dorothy, you may have two cookies after you finish your salmon, help clear the table. Dad and I will join you and each have two cookies with hot tea. After that, if you think you can do a good job alone, ok, but if you want help, ask me. We can empty the cookies into the cookie jar and you can have the tin for your dolls.'

 

I run to Mommy, hug her, kiss her, thank her and tell her, 'Mommy, I love you.'

The Stranger

MRS. GOLDMAN MEETS HOOVER 

 

Whether a gremlin, leprechaun or poltergeist has moved in with me, I don't know. What I do know is I can't explain the crazy things that are happening around here. I have checked my family history with the Dept
of Emigration going way, way back to 1865. Right after the Civil War ended my great, great, great grandparents came to America from Riga, Latvia and there wasn't a single O'Shaunessy or Cassidy among the Goldbergs.

 

Oh, oh, somebody is ringing the doorbell, but I am not getting up. I can see from where I am sitting in the living room that nobody is outside. It rings on and off at fifteen minute intervals almost daily. Jimmy, an electrician whose name I took from the Yellow pages, is intrigued by my story, hears it himself but after hours of searching finds no reason for this phenomena. Nice guy, refuses to charge me. He asks if he can bring another electrician to see if he missed the trouble spot. 'It won't cost you anything, Mrs. Goldman.' 'Why bother. He isn't going to find anything so I tell Jimmy 'no.'

 

When my husband, Danny comes home for dinner, he swears on our son's head, that he can hear his mother talking to somebody in the kitchen while he watches the Nick game. 'Don't swear, Danny. That's unlucky,' I tell him for maybe the umpteenth time. 'Mrs. Goldman Sr. has been dead for twenty years, so I figure she's left her grave and is now a gremlin bothering us. Right, Danny?'

 

'Danny,' I call from our bedroom. 'Did you happen to see my single strand of pearls on the dresser table before or after your shower?' 'No,' is all he says but I forgive him because he seldom looks further than his nose.

 

As he is about to take his first taste of my delicious noodle pudding, I hit him with another gremlin story. 'Danny, I definitely put my pearls on my bureau as soon s I heard you pull into the garage. I took ½ sec to dab on fresh lipstick and came right downstairs to kiss you hello. My necklace has disappeared. I've looked everywhere while you were watching that dumb wrestling match.' His brilliant reply is, 'It will turn up sooner or later.' And Danny is right. In the morning I find it in an old purse on the top shelf of my closet. I haven't used it in years and have now put it where it belongs, in the Goodwill box and my pearls are around my neck. I can't understand what made me look in that purse.

 

I'm in the basement ready to put a load of clothes in the washing machine when I hear the vacuum running in the dining room. How did it get out of the hall closet and who is using it? I am very frightened and hurry out of the house thru the cellar door. From the back porch I can see the entire dining room and the vacuum is not there.

 

So far neither Danny nor I have been hurt but I, at least, care about what is going on. At dinner I tell Danny I have made a decision and contacted the Ghost Gazette. 'Ghost Gazette? What the hell are you talking about, Woman?. Where did you find a ghost paper?' His attitude annoys me and I call him a stubborn fool. 'Too many strange things are happening. You are away all day and I see and hear them. You don't hear the door bell ring, think I'm getting senile and put my pearls in the closet but I didn't. You don't want to be here when the people from Ghost Gazette come? Don't. I'll take care of everything.'
I'm not quite finished my tirade against my husband when the vacuum upstairs starts itself, rolls into the hallway with nobody pushing it. Danny laughs and blames me for not turning it off. 'Annie, I'll turn it off for you.' He goes upstairs and finds the vacuum in the bathroom. It stands upright and silent against the bathroom wall. I can hear him cuss all the way back to the kitchen. He looks pale and asks me how the devil this Electrolux got in our house.' 'I thought you had a Hoover.'

 

'Right. I did have a Hoover. So am I goofy? Well, you're the goof. We have spirits in the house. The Ghost Gazette group will be here at noon tomorrow. You can go to work or stay home to support me. What do you want to do?' He surprises me and promises to stay home.

 

I give Danny breakfast, straighten the bedroom. At 11:45 I take the wet towels from the bathroom to the basement and start to go upstairs. Everything gets dark, pitch dark. I can hear the doorbell, Danny letting people in. He calls my name but can't hear me answer. The vacuum cleaner starts by itself and I am sucked into the brushes. Danny calls me again, 'Turn off the damn vacuum and come upstairs. The Ghost Gazette people are here.'

 

I breathe in the dust until there is no breath left in my chest and there is no more me.

OLD MEMORIES ARE NEW AGAIN

WHIRLING

 

It's 3 a.m. I open my eyes. My big t.v. is still blasting. The bed lamp is on. The waning moon looks pale, almost lost in the dark sky. I am alone in my bed as I have been for 15 years and am reluctant to start my usual dull day again. 'Self,' I tell myself, 'Don't get up, don't even put one foot on the floor. Not yet. Not yet.' My good sense perseveres. The digital clock silently tells me it is 3:18. I take a chance. Before my foot reaches the carpet, finds my slippers, the wooziness begins. The room spins like a dervish and I fall back on my pillows. I know I am  not ill because my internist told me this dizziness is normal. It comes with being old. 88 IS old.

 

With my choices being pass out and maybe die or just lie still and let the dizziness go away, I choose to lie still until 9:30. Slowly, carefully, without looking down, I hold my breath and try again.The dizziness is less but not gone. This time I move even more slowly than the last and must lie back again, barely getting to my pillows, before I start to cough, unwittingly close my eyes and spin like a top, calling as I whirl, 'Daddy, Daddy, I'm home.'

 

The smell of Sen Sen draws me into his office. My daddy always has it in his mouth when he fixes teeth. I take some from his little black shaker when he isn't home. It isn't sweet like candy but it makes my mouth feel cool.

 

Mrs. Morgan has a paper napkin on her lap and a black band attached to another napkin wrapped around her neck. Daddy sees me and shoos me out. The sound of the drill he is using to fix her back tooth gives me goose pimples. I am happy to leave. I sit on our marble steps that are like all the others on my block and stare at Daddy's sign. It says, Harry B. Gold, DDS-X-RAYS. Thru the frosted windows I can make out Daddy finishing with Mrs. Morgan. As soon as she leaves I hurry back into Daddy's office to catch him before the next patient is seated. 'Daddy,' I ask. Can Shirley and I have some quicksilver? We love to play with it.' He tells Mrs. Courtney to sit down, gets her fixed with the paper napkins, and takes a minute to pour some quicksilver into two see-thru containers for Shirley and me. He gives me a quick kiss, turns to the sink and washes his hands with the bar of orange Lifebuoy soap that smells so clean. I love the smell and breathe it deeply into my nose.

 

At the heavy front door my precious quicksilver slips out of my hand. The silver slides everywhere. With a piece of note paper, I gather some of the slippery round balls and drop them back into one vial. Most of it is under the radiator and I barely have enough for just me. I don't mention my carelessness to Shirley.

 

Fridays are Daddy's days off. I hardly see him but can hear him typing madly all day long as he writes books. Mother has to call him for lunch over and over until he finally stops that tap, tap, tapping for a while. I have lunch with them and wait downstairs until I hear the typewriter start again.

 

I go into his office, open every drawer of instruments, even the glass cabinet where the pliers are to pull out teeth. When I am sure, positively positive, he will not come downstairs, I pump up the dental chair, stand on it so I can reach the drill. I lower it, take out the little thing on the end and put a brush in its place. On it I put a little pink polish, that tastes better than baking soda to brush my teeth in our bathroom. I step on the starter and brush the lower teeth first and then the top, rinse my mouth from the paper cup I have filled and spit it in the whirling water. Carefully, I dry all the wet places I made and put everything back just the way it always is.

 

If my Daddy ever finds ou what I do, he will definitely, positively , finally give me a barber strop whippin'. He has warned me of that whippin' many times for many reasons but hasn't done it yet. Now that I am old, the memory remains so strong, I can still hear the swish of it in my dreams as he hits the kitchen table. My eyes open slowly. I rub them a little, hear my t.v. still blaring. Daddy and I had a short, sweet time together.

 

With no trouble, I can sit up in bed, turn off the t.v., bend over slowly and step into my slippers.

 

I move, the room doesn't.

Wait-your chance is coming

MAGIC CITY

 

All the lights went out at once. From my tenth floor office. I saw flashlights flare, candles, matches light to make sparkling stars beneath my feet. I did not run. Where would I go? 'Self, don't be a fool. Wait. The situation will be resolved soon.' From above the Empire State Building I could see the full moon still shining its loveliest glow. Tiny moonbeams comforted me. Sounds of running feet, the hall emergency doors opening, closing, made me doubt my choice of staying put. Hesitantly feeling my way, touching my desk, the filing cabinets, I made it to the leather sofa without banging my knees. I sat down, tossed the decorative pillows under my head and made myself as comfortable as possible.

 

An unexpected brilliant flash of lightning made me shiver, rub my eyes and blink, then blink again. When I focused, I didn't understand where I was. Total blackness surrounded me. Not a moonbeam lit the city. The Empire State Building had been gobbled up into a void. There were no more flashlights, flares. The footsteps outside of my door had ceased.

 

A stupendous clap of thunder shook me off the sofa. Lightning followed. In the momentary glare stood Disney's Magic Mountain. Giant balloons of Mickey, Minnie, Pluto floated outside my tenth story office. In my fear, astonishment, I could not hold back a smile, a giggle. I did what old ladies say to do, I pinched myself to be sure I was awake. I was. All that happened was I pinched too hard and must have bruised my arm.

 

Music reached my ears. Children's squeaky voices sang 'It's a Small World.' Visions of taking my daughter on the long ride to see the happy dolls dressed in frills of soft pastel colors took away my chills. I thought again how Peggy Sue begged me to buy her one. I bought her a ten inch high doll from the Disney shop next door. It  wore a pale yellow dress with an orange wide silk belt and a matching summer hat. Peggy Sue's kisses lingered on my cheek. I laid very still, remembering again the simplicity, honesty of those kisses.

 

Lightning, lots of lightning turned out to be fireworks. They exploded and burst into falling stars. I was twelve years old again. A huge red, white and blue flag rippled in the wind. The U.S. Marine Band marched down America Avenue. My arm rose easily as I saluted the vision. Dumbo thumped, clumped behind the Marine Band. Children sat in a large howdah on his back while one child, held securely in his trunk, waved wildly to the other children waiting for their turns.

 

Jingles tingled in my ears. An unmanned ice cream truck floated near my window. A rubber arm came and tapped on the glass, didn't wait for me to answer and came thru it without the glass shattering. It laid a chocolate fudgcicle and a red striped lollipop on my desk. I could not resist the temptation and walked over to enjoy myself. I licked the popsicle until nothing was left but the stick.

 

That was the moment the lights came back on. There was no Empire State Building. There was no Broadway, no Fifth Ave., no Central Park.

 

Those places didn't matter to me. I stayed in the new world I had miraculously found and am living happily ever after.

Round and Round

ANY TUESDAY

 

Time has gossamer wings, oft times filled with cement. It flies silently in circles. All hours, all days are a merciless merry-ground. The white wooden horse I ride on goes up and down, up and down. On the rare evenings when my special horse is angry, doesn't hear the tinny music, he refuses to move. I get off and change to a brown bronco bursting with energy. Buster is the name I have given him as I have to hold tightly to the metal bar that lets us move in unison with other horses or fall off, maybe to my death.

 

It matters not to me that during summer I am usually the only adult rider. More than once a parent has asked me to switch animals. His crying child wants mine, just my white one. 'Sorry,' I say. 'He may have it any time except six to seven on Sundays.' The fathers get riled up. The mothers accept the way it is and pull their children away from nasty me.

 

I ride and dream as I recall Eddie Cantor's radio show and his closing melody. My mother and I always sang it together. 'Each Sunday night, I spend an hour with you. From friend to friend, I'm sorry it's thru. Let's make a date for next Sunday nite. I'm here to state 'twill be my delight.' Mother would  turn off the radio, hug me, give me a glass of chocolate milk and send me to bed.

 

The 'then was then' has messed up my 'now is now.' All Jimmy and I had together was six lovely, happy years. Without him I will curl up and die.
He lives within me. I see his emerald green eyes, feel his small soft hands. My Eddie outwardly has conquered most of his grief, has packed Jimmy's clothes, toys, books and taken them to the Federation Re-used Shop to be sold for a pittance. I don't understand why Eddie has never asked me where I go every Tuesday evening yet am glad he hasn't. Most likely he would try to stop me and I don't want to be stopped.
The air is misty, damp. The merry-go-round is not filled. It creaks, shakes a little. I jounce. My hand slips and I fall, bump into the empty swan's big wooden wings and probably have bruised my shoulder.
Jimmy calls me. 'Mamma, don't cry. Let me kiss it, make it all better.' The shoulder pain is insignificant. Feeling Jimmy fall off his horse brings a torrent of tears. The film is clear. I lunge to grab hold of his foot before he slides off the carousel and is dragged until the master of the turning zoo jams on the brakes. It is too late. My son is dead and I killed him.

 

A bit of sanity clears my vision. The master asks me if I am hurt. Stupidly I tell him,' No, I don't think so.' He hands me his card and a large role of tickets. 'Bring the neighborhood children any evening.' That does it!

 

I blurt out, 'Thank you, but I have outgrown the horses. This is my last Tuesday ride.'