Winner

REDQUEEN

 

Her mother began dressing her in pink, scarlet red, burgundy, maroon from age ten to the present. By the time she was sixteen she had been nicknamed Redqueen as one word. Friends, relatives thought she would bitch about it, hate it, but boy, were we all wrong. She took to it like flies to molasses. Laurie, deceased and buried, loved being different, outstanding to her peers. Grimaces, hound dog looks appeared when someone lowered her class to Laurie or even Queenie.

 

We all got used to her odd ways, gave her birthday gifts wrapped in red paper, sometimes garish red lipsticks, not so garish pinks. All eyes went to her burgundy skirt and sweater with a pink blouse. She looked like a lovely rose that just came into bloom.  In summer she was seen in the park wearing fire engine red shorts with a white blouse that had big red polka dots. Her head was always held high, queen-like.

 

At the library I heard her turn down a date with a really great looking stud who had mousy brown hair, and accept Chas's offer. His being called 'Carrot top' was of no consequences as she felt his hair was red, parted on the right and was most becoming.

 

There were times Redqueen had to bend a little, like graduation day at Vermont Sharkey High when gowns and mortarboards were bright blue.
She wore the required outfit but underneath was a neat deep pink dress that had two rows of burgundy cloth buttons on the blouse. As soon as the ceremonies were over and her class picture taken, off came the blue 'uniform'. She was the first to turn hers in and get her $10 deposit back. 

 

Breston Junior College was waiting for Redqueen. The school colors happened to be red and white but truly was not the reason she chose it. What she had confided in me was she liked the freedom promised there, all religions, all colors, all nationalities were welcome. Her credits were no problem, the cost was not too heavy for her parents, she could live on campus or commute. She chose to live on campus, set up her room with a new friend, a dark skinned guy named Obie. His head was shaved almost bald. Dread locks hung over both ears, similar to what Orthodox Jewish boys over 13 years of age wore. Redqueen's parents didn't talk much about their daughter's arrangement, but news went around fast. It was told that Obie and Redqueen shared the same quarters on friendly terms for two years and remained just friends.

 

One evening after their studies were taken care of, they decided to relax, have a beer, play cards, watch a bit of t.v. Redqueen put on her red flannel night gown, covered it with a soft, down-like robe and sat down on the side of her bed, a small folding table in front of her. Shuffling, shuffling, the sound became music. She dealt Obie his eleven cards, she got ten. He played a very safe six of clubs first. Redqueen slapped down a 7 of clubs and took the pair. Having in her hand the ten and jack of diamonds she tried to get his queen out.

 

 Instead, he slammed down his king of clubs and yelled too loud, 'King of Clubs slams the Redqueen,' laughed gently and pushed her back on her bed.

VISIONS

GLASS VELVET

 

The sun gleams, glistens all day into the windows on the east side of our house. It's warmth and beauty never bore me. Often I watch it disappear for a short time. About 5 p.m. it comes out from behind the house to the west side and wears a new face. It can be brilliant red, orange as a fresh tangerine or lemon yellow. Once in a while it looks so pale, it is almost transparent and I search for a bird, perhaps an angel to appear. It is important to me to keep my windows spotless, at least inside the house. I used to climb our tallest ladder to do the outside ones until the ladder and I fell in opposite directions. Andrew, my husband of 51 years, can't wash the windows either but he would bring me the sun, if he could. He has hired a window washer once a week as long as the weather is clear.

 

The gray skies of winter chill me. The sun's flames go out. I don't. My days drag. My chores are not neglected. I prepare delicious, full dinners every night for Andrew and me. He goes to the super market for me three times a week and buys whatever I have listed. When tulips bloom, I can expect sunny yellow ones, brilliant red ones from Andrew. They soothe me, tide me over until the days are longer than the dark nights.

 

I am definitely getting crotchety, long for the grass to grow as high as an elephant's eye, for the trees to bud, their long arms to turn all shades of green. In the pantry I have a long, light weight squeegee to reach the top of our high narrow windows, to take away the moisture that sneaks down the glass from the inside when it is cold and damp. That time has just about passed this year. The very first pale green blades of grass are strong enough to come up to see my sun. I hear the wind blow down the chimney before I feel it. The pale, almost ashy white sun disappears. In the morning the tender blades of grass have died. Brown winter still holds on. Andrew and I challenge each other with separate decks of card. We play Solitaire to see who gets the most points on top, penny a point. I do believe he throws the game to let me win as often as I do. The full moon shines into our kitchen. It is so beautiful but I cannot bear to watch the dark clouds over it, leave the starless sky empty.

 

The time finally arrives, as it has for many years. The sun glows, the lost tips of grass begin to raise their heads. Each blade thrives. In two weeks our lawn is green, verdant. It flourishes, is luxurious. I smile. I talk to my new friends, watch the tulip bulbs sprout and soon the colors clash or blend. The sun tastes good to every growing thing.
And I am in my glory, forgetting temporarily what will happen again next October. Now is now. My windows are sparkling. I look through them again and seethe grass is not grass at all. It is a sheet of velvet, a gift from my clean windows.

 

I take off my shoes and go out for a long walk on my glass velvet.

 

 

Good night, All

TIME TO GO

 

I am unaware it is 3:30 in the morning. It's always dark in here. There are strange sounds and tappings, not much for me to do but sleep and kick when I can. Once in a while I manage enough strength and start to punch my way out of this dungeon. Water is all around me. Maybe I can swim out. Twice I have tried it and got no place. There is some kind of door that has locked me in, just won't let me go. Then without warning, it opens and it is time for me to escape, to go.

 

Hands grab me, pull me out of the water. My eyes open a tiny bit. All I see is a glaring brightness. I am borne away to a strange place with odd pings, clanks. They are forbidding but better than the water. My mouth opens. Something warm and sweet comes in. I like it. Lips touch my head, make a sucking sound, send shivers up my back. Wherever I am, it never gets dark. 'Please, Mr. Magic Man, let me stay here forever.'

 

He lets me stay a very long time, smooths me, soothes me, touches my nose, covers me with soft things until, with no pushing, no kicking, I am moved. Strange things come out of me. I kick and hear laughter, feel touchy, touchy fingers. My wet body is dry, my eyes close for a long time. When I open them, it is dark, but not as dark as before. This darkness is far away, slowly changes to light. My mouth turns up and I make out words, 'He's smiling.' It is time for me to go, be in a new place.

 

So, here I am, using my feet to walk, to run instead of kick. The warm milk has stopped coming from the pink cup. Both were good. My Mommie loves me, kisses me, takes me to school, feeds me good things to make me grow and be happy. She bakes a big chocolate cake for me, puts ten white candles on it, lights them and I have to blow all out in one breath. I am only nine but Mommie tells me one candle is to grow on. All ten go out at once.

 

Books fill my room. Words mean so much to me. They consume me. I think, I write about everything, flowers, people, love, airplanes, the sun, the moon, the world. Mom and Dad give me a watch that has a silver colored expandable band. I learned to tell time when I was much younger than I am now. My watch runs on a battery and I don't have to wind it. The clocks in our house are digital, always right. My computer, Mom's microwave, electric range seem magical. A touch, a click, and everything works. I'm lucky. It's easy being me. My luck pales. Neither my mind nor my wallet can keep up with progress, new life styles, wars, destruction,  science, archeology, the past, present and future.

 

It is 3:30 in the morning, still dark. There are humming sounds, click, clicking sounds. White shadows come and go. Hands holding metal things touch me, feel my wrists. Whisperings are too low for me to understand. Morning comes slowly. My wife is asleep on a hard leather chair near my bed. She jumps up when I try to turn over, bends over me, kisses my head, holds my hand. I smile as best I can. A loud beep rings out, becomes a steady wail. The love of my life stands, holds my hand between her two cold ones. I can barely make out the tears rolling down her face. The beeping stops,

 

It is time at last for me to go. I GO.

Vacation's almost end

CELE-BRAKE-SHUN

 

Our old tin lizzy, Mathilda, gets her twice a year check-ups just as Gary and I do. We have great confidence in Wonka's Car Service Agency, maybe more in him than in our doctors. Wonka never pushes us, makes time to explain what we must do to keep Mathilda healthy, fine, for yet a few more years. She's only eight, has almost no dings, good tires, a new battery and only 20000 miles. Why trade in? We don't

 

This year we aren't driving to Florida in December. Instead we are flying to Martinique with our two best friends, Stephen and Lille' 
Bouchard. I've bought new shorts, jeans, swim wear and am really excited about the whole deal. Gary is so-so, laid back, freshens his wardrobe with a bare minimum of items. He is content. I cringe at most of his clothes but manage to hold my tongue.

 

Our flight is as smooth as Merano glass. La Corniche, the hotel recommended by our travel agent, can't be cleaner, more comfortable. We have a lovely view, casinos in walking distance, the calm ocean at our toes. The one thing none of us like is the presence of pets in restaurants. At Le Cockoteel, a chicken, held by a very thin chain, walks across my foot. It's owner oblivious.

 

Before entering the attached casino, there is a charming bistro with entertainment. Stopping in for a glass of wine and wonderful camembert cheese and meet the new sensation, Neil Sadaka. We have never heard of hi, stay an hour as we know he is going places. The casino has very strict rules gaily colored on the glass entry doors -'Formal Attire only.' Our travel agent has alerted us so we are A Okay.
All gamblers look elegant except one dark skinned gentleman playing 21. He wears a T shirt and a baseball cap. I pretend I have dropped something and glance under the table, am not too shocked to see his Bermuda shorts. I am offended, angry, complain to the casino Director, where I learn the man improperly dressed is Joe Louis and the director learns that I don't care if the guy is Jesus Christ. He tells me to mind my own business. Behind Monsieur Louis is an attractive woman and I tell her what I see and feel. She happens to be Mrs. Louis and is quite upset because nobody tells them anything. I do not tell her the sign on the door could have bitten them. In any case, she is sweet, apologizes and the next evening Louis is suave in his well-fitting tux.
My traveling friends and my husband did not appreciate what I did.
The next morning, after a really delicious French breakfast, (with no pets visible) we rent a car for a scenic drive. My Gary will drive one way and Stephen will get us back to our hotel. We can barely tell the blue ocean from the blue sky. The varied colored houses are picturesque. Our cameras click away. Gary points out the upcoming hills, slowly carefully, tests our brakes. They seem fine. Within a mile the paved road ends. The already narrow road shrinks to barely let us climb. Going forward does not seem possible. Backing out IS impossible. Stephan gets out and paces the small area around our car, believes that with extreme care and his directions, maybe, maybe Gary can back up by inches by using the small projection out over the water. It's dangerous. None of us want to die but somebody has to drive. Gary stays inside. Stephen will talk to him. Lille' starts walking down to warn other cars not to come up the hill. I pull myself tight to the wall and barely breathe. One slip, one mechanical failure and we three die.

 

When finally the car is turned just enough to scrape down the mountainous hill, we find Lille' standing in front of a small red sign that has a lot of graffiti on it, manage to make out the French-translate it
' DANGEROUS- NO CARS.'

 

Dumb tourists, we return the car, hire a driver, and have quite a story to tell when we get back to the United States. Next year–Florida!

 

 

SURPRISE

QUESTION MARC?

 

Where is he? Marc was due home at eight for dinner. It's now nine, no call, no cherry red Corvette in our garage. My grandfather's clock in the foyer chimes ten. I've hated that clock since I was a child, then had the misfortune of inheriting that monster from my Grandpa. Now I hate it more. The Corvette's lights shine around our circular driveway. The double doors open automatically. The key to the Jacuzzi door turns in the lock. Marc comes in soused, waves to me and heads for the stairs. He trips on the second step, steadies himself on the railing and makes it to the top.

 

'Marilyn, where are you? I'm in bed already. Where are you, Kiddo?'
Having expected my new husband home for dinner at eight, I am dressed in very little, just a lacy thong under my peignoir and a snit on my face. Either I go into him or sleep in my room. Neither choice will be comfortable. I choose his bedroom, hear Marc snoring, and I am left alone, almost falling off the edge of our king sized bed. My aggravation eats a hole in my stomach. I can feel it writhing. Maybe I should try a Tums or Aleve, get some rest. I take both and eventually fall asleep.

 

I wake when Marc gets out of bed and lovingly taps my rear. He's already dressed in his Captain's uniform. He is top man at the E. Franklin Ave. Police Station, #305.  Marc looks so handsome, sharp, alert, I can't help myself and give him a very hot goodbye kiss. Last night's anger has gone–until the next time.

 

Al, my twin brother, does not like Marc, doesn't care what a prestigious position he holds. He calls him a dodo who happened to know somebody who knew somebody who got him on the force. After that Marc passed every test with flying colors. Several times this past month Al has warned me that Marc loves his growing gun collection more than he loves me. I tell him the same two words every time he starts picking on Marc. 'Shut up.'

 

He's home on time tonight, comes in the front door, tosses his white cap on the stereo cabinet and tells me to bring him a shot of Seagram's Raspberry Vodka, no ice. 'Marc, don't order me around, ring for David and tell him what you want. I'm not your servant. Remember, I'm your wife, your wealthy wife, so be good.' David brings the drink with ice and Marc flies off the handle, cusses,. 'Get it right next time, David or there won't be a next time.'  I am angry at Marc for treating David so badly. He's been around since I was born and is as close to me as Al.

 

Caroline has prepared one of my favorite dinners, a crisp salad with just about every veggie I adore, a tender, lean fillet minion, home fries,  asparagus and one thick slice of a Maryland red tomato at its height of delight. Marc doesn't like to slice his own steak and, not  roughly or too condescendingly,  asks her to slice his steak and not take too long. He likes it hot. Ha, does he ever. I have hot tea and am ready for bed. So is Marc. He carefully hangs up his Captain suit, straightens the slax first and hangs them up. His trustworthy Glock, as always, is in his night table drawer

 

I have a peculiar slight taste in my mouth like salt, rinse it with Listerine and the taste goes away. Marc cuddles close and I forget the lousy dinner talk. Now there is a smell. I am sure it's Elizabeth Taylor's Diamonds but say nothing.

 

On the weekend we attend a dinner party given by my long time friend, Frieda Glass. Again I get the salty taste. This time my stomach hurts too. Marc asks me if I want to go home. I tell him I think that is a good idea. Al wanders by talking to a young lady I've not seen before. Mark's eyes look her over from toe tip to her green eyes. He calls Al aside for a minute, returns to me, and lets me know Al will drive me home. He has to get back to the station. The more often things of this nature happen, the more my stomach hurts. My internist's tests show nothing. He prescribes Valium to calm down what seems to be anxiety attacks. I doubt that is the answer and cut the pills in half. With the concern Al has about Marc wanting to murder me, I am frightened, definitely frightened.

 

The pain goes on for weeks. Marc is out until 11, 12 almost every night. He doesn't get into my bed because, he says, he knows I don't feel well.
Ha!  On Friday, October 24th, I am in bed early. It is dark outside. There is the tiniest rustling sound from my terrace. It stops. I wait. It starts again. Somebody is there. Marc is coming to kill me. I get out of bed a s quietly as I can and hug the wall. The door opens slowly, doesn't creak. I see the tip of Marc's glock but not Marc. It's my brother, Al.
'Goodbye, Sister,' he says and inches closer. The shock is so great I can do nothing, not even move away.

 

There are more sounds, moving sounds. Marc, with a squadron of his men, take Al into custody. He hurries over to me, tells me how he has been watching Al for months, knowing Marc's in gambling trouble and was going to blame him for killing me.

 

It's like a fairy tale, and it is one I don't believe. Al has pleaded guilty but only gets fined as he didn't shoot me, didn't poison me. Marc give himself an accommodation, lets the press know he saved my life and Al's.

 

The next time I smell Elizabeth Taylor's Diamonds, (or any body else's) on Marc, I may get the courage to divorce Marc and find husband 4.

 

 

 

 

Searching

THE GRAY HOUSE

 

We stop to ask a stranger if he knows where the Grays live. 'Sure,' he says, turns his back and walks way. Damn country smart aleck. Aaron and I are left sitting in our car, confused and tired. Some one in a nearby grocery store may be more helpful than that snot nosed nasty guy. I ask a lady poking cantaloupes, trying to find one ripe enough to eat this week. 'Do you know a family around here named Gray?'Rutherford Gray?'Mrs. Cantaloupe, circa 1975, tells us all the Grays live out on Gray's Point, near the lake. 'Go east for about five miles and start watching for a sign that points to the Point. Follow the arrow. Then start looking for a mailbox with your friend's name on it.' Aaron drives while I look for a big sign with an arrow. At eight miles I have still seen no big sign. Aaron makes a tight U turn and I see the sign. It is small, dull gray, stuck on a wooden pole. Black letters just say 'That way.' 

 

'There's a mailbox with R. Gray,' I shout. Aaron tells me he is neither deaf nor blind. He turns right. There is no view of a lake. The driveway is narrow, made of what looks like crushed oyster shells. We fear for our tires. 'Paula, look, all of the few houses are the same dull, boring gray. They are so sad looking. Rutherford Gray can't possibly live here, he just can't.' I look at mail box 110. 'Aaron, this Gray doesn't show even an initial.' Box 112 shows Mrs. Lindsey Gray. ' Does our Mr. Gray have a wife now?' My husband has no idea. The next mail box is so gray I think it is black. No name is on it but there is a low light in the front room. Only a dog barks when I knock. We walk together across the shelly road to the odd numbered three houses. 111 has a large R. Gray painted on one side of his box. 'This must be it,' I tell Aaron. He rings a woebegone rusty bell that we don't hear so I knock hard, get a small splinter in my finger. The door opens slowly. Two blood shot eyes stare at us. Cracked lips tell us the man doesn't want to buy anything. He says, 'Go away,' but I persist. 'Are you Rutherford Gray?' A sharp ,'No.' with an added expletive seems right. He adds, 'That man's a loner. He is the last house #115. The door closes.

 

The same kind of crushed oyster shells lead to the same kind of painted gray house, except it is a little bigger. Aaron knocks softly, gets no reply. I tap a bit more loudly and give it a little triple tap at the end. A most pleasant male voice responds. 'Who is calling on Rutherford Gray?'  'Mr. and Mrs. Harold Siegel from NY. ' Mr. Gray speaks thru his closed door. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Siegel. I never heard of you and don't allow strangers into my home.' Aaron won't accept that and asks, 'Are you the Rutherford Gray who wrote the book 'Rainbow of Life?' 'Yes, why?' I add my feminine voice with a plea. 'Please let us in, Mr. Gray. It is important that we meet you. Please, open the door.
It opens slowly, then all the way. Sunshine pours in through high skylights and white shuttered windows. Two caladiums with white spiked flowers sit on a teak table in front of a yellow and white striped sofa. Hot orange and lime green throw pillows look warm, inviting. Aaron and I are overcome by the colors, the fragrance of lilacs and white roses in tall clear vases standing in corners.

 

Aaron is so stunned he can barely speak. I can. 'Mr. Gray, Aaron and I have been trying to find you for three long years. May we sit down and talk to you?' Mr. Gray almost bows to us and  touches a button on the dining room wall. Sliding glass doors open wide. 'Come sit down in my garden. You willl find it delightful. I spend hours each day just watching the blue jays feed in their wooden houses. This is my haven, my heaven. Jasmine climbs up a latticed wall. It intoxicates us.
                              
We sit. I begin. Mr. Gray, we lost our darling daughter, Alice. After a long battle with leukemia. How we cried, together, separately, constantly. Our lives had lost their meaning. Life wasn't worth living. My deep depression sent me to a sanatarium for six months. It didn't matter to me if I ever got better or not. Aaron suffered for me and with me. Alice was everywhere I looked.

 

On a Friday in June, my long time friend who visited me weekly, came again. Molly brought me a box of chocolate fudge, covered with walnuts, placed on top of a book, wrapped in pink paper with wide pink ribbon that had yellow silk buttercups strung all over it. The ribbons made me smile. I unwrapped the book and most carefully saved the buttercup ribbon. Somehow it brought a ray of sunshine into my life. I held on to that special feeling and began to read your book, Mr. Gray. Your warmth, the passion for living enfolded me. The beauty of life that I had lost was still there. Aaron stayed by me, encouraged me. We read your book together, healing page by page. It was our medicine. I saw your rainbow, slid down it and found the pot of gold. I gave Aaron ½ of my pot and he covered it with chocolate fudge and walnuts.

 

Mr. Gray, we had to tell you personally how your book saved us. Surely others have found peace in it too. Our Alice didn't die.  I swear she is in your garden now, with us, listening to the bluebirds, enjoying the smells, the sun.   

 

She's in Wonderland.'

Hungry

TASTE MY DAY

 

The Italian restaurant just opened its doors at 11 a.m. A customer needing a pizza so early in the morning, follows me in. A talkative elderly couple comes next. They are led to the middle booth. I'm here to pick up baked ziti and a lasagna that I ordered last night. Company is coming for lunch today.  My old age and solitude have destroyed my ambition to cook, don't even want to scramble eggs for myself. Nothing tastes good. There is no flavor, no spice that can sneak its way past my tongue. Instead the aromas twine around my nose, making me inhale deeply to capture the past that I cannot retrieve.

 

The only waitress lets out a yelp as she slips on something that should have been cleaned away before the doors opened for business today. My attention leaves my own unhappiness as I have to stifle a giggle when I see the old bald headed man wearing a wig of very hot, red, saucy spaghetti that is sliding to his shoulders. The pizza tosser loses his concentration and his flying pizza hits the hot oven, hangs there for a moment and plops on the floor. The restaurant is a mess and I have not moved an inch as I wait for my baked ziti and lasagna to go.

 

Even though the cashier has no one at his register yet, Antonio stands there, oblivious of what is happening around him. His eyes stare. He looks at his watch, nods to himself and makes a phone call. 'Hello, Boss. I didn't want to call you so early but we have some problems at the Pasadena store. You'd better come over soon, real soon.'

 

My patience is eating a hole in my gut. I ask Antonio to check the kitchen find out how much longer my order will be. 'Tony, I need it for lunch, not dinner.'  His answer upsets me. 'I can't leave my station, 
Ma am. The boss told me I can leave it only if I need to use the can and I can get Lola to man handle the register.' I straighten my back, ask no permission and go behind the counter, avoid the pizza still laying on the  rubber mat and head towards the kitchen. The cook looks to be no more than nineteen years old, surely hasn't graduated from any any chef's course. I clap my hands to get his attention away from sifting flour. No introduction is needed. ' As difficult as it is for a woman of my sensitivities to roar, I roar, 'Where is my baked ziti and lasagna.
It only takes twenty minutes to bake and I''ve been waiting forty. Do you know I am the only customer in the store?'

 

He gives me a very nasty look, tells me to get out of his kitchen and adds, 'Besides I have received no ticket order except one for spaghetti and meatballs with extra sauce.' It's a stand off. 'Cook, I saw Angie put my order on the spindle and somebody came and took it off, walked back here with it. If you come across it, cancel it or eat it yourself. I'm not paying for it.' As I leave the kitchen a busboy is cleaning up the unbaked pizza that fell off the oven door onto the rubber mat. I have to walk around the mess to get out.

 

I leave Antonio's, cross the street to Siggy's Sandwich Parlor, order a large tray of assorted delly sandwiches, enough for eight, all the extras, pickles, slaw, potato salad, Dr. Brown's colas with straws. Siggy oversees everything, takes my money and carries the order out to my car for me.

 

My company arrives on time. We chat. We eat, criticize each other's hair, finger nails and get around to playing bridge.

 

I eat too much. My belly is full. I have a bad case of heart burn and nothing really tasted good.

Curiouser and Curiouser

 CURIO

 

In 1924 my dad found a piece of a German helmet in an almost barren Munich field. Part of a swastika was still visible as well as two initials underneath, an aleph and a himmel. My god, he thought. Could this piece of junk have belonged to Hitler? He stuck it in his jacket pocket, sat down on a wooden deck lounge chair and mulled over his find. When he looked at it again he was angry, overcome with grief for the poor soldier who was blown to bits. The rough, salty Atlantic waves burned his cheeks. From inside of him, sympathy brought tears and soft words to his lips. They changed rapidly. 'Damn, all those German bastards. They should have died before they started the 'war that would end all wars.'

 

Naomi, who was going to be my mother, was waiting for her Louis when he reached New York again. He told her who and what he had seen, how his relatives had disappeared, that graveyards were ransacked, times were bad there. 'But, we are together now, Naomi,' he said and so they were wed.

 

Louis still had the piece of helmet he had found and wanted to display it so others would perhaps get the same feeling of hatred and pity the way he had. In the basement of the small house he and Naomi had rented, he built a rough hewn shadow box, let some dark red paint run down its sides and attached the piece of helmet to a chain and let it hang into the red blood. Naomi didn't like it, wanted him to destroy it but no, not my dad. He brought it up into the livingroom, put the shadowbox on their fake fireplace mantel and invited whoever he met to come see it.

 

Word spread and neighbors, strangers, knocked on the door, came in, studied the curio. Conversations teemed with different thoughts. Jews, gentiles, blacks were welcome. Louis's curio caught the attention of the NY Herald and a story was written about what the find and the shadow has come to mean to so many.

 

This week, at the beach, he was idly digging a hole big enough for my baby sister to sit in and be buried, when he hit a metal clunk. With Amie's little tin shovel, he slowly, carefully, removed what he had found. It was an empty rusty can with what looked like a picture of General Patton.

 

 He took it to the lake, washed it carefully, dried it on his jeans and decided to make another shadowbox, a patriotic one for the finest general America had in WWII. He cried a little, thinking about the insanity of war.  It would stand up well next to the woebegone Helmet.

 

 

 

 

Happy holidays on earth

CLOUD NINE

 

Please don't think because you can't do it, nobody can. Let me tell you something, Mister. I CAN fly. I'll prove it to you! Close your eyes tight, really tight and count slowly to sixty. That's one minute, in case you didn't know. Then open your boring, blood shot eyes and look for me. Don't waste a lot of time because I'm telling you, you won't find me. Are you in or out? If you're out, get away from me now. I don't want to waste what god gave me on the likes of you, a non-believer.

 

I stand with my arms akimbo, daring this human to doubt my veracity. He does not close his eyes. He does nothing, says nothing. I leer, I sneer. I draw my saber, swish it around his puny head. The man is frightened, closes his eyes tightly and waits to die. I have no intention of killing him. In 60 seconds his eyes open. He blinks and blinks, does not see me fly out the window. From outside I can watch him writhe.

 

I laugh at him as he looks in his closet, under the bed, goes down the hall to the bathroom, and vomits his shock into the toilet. While he is cleaning himself and the floor I quietly return to where we first met.
It was a pleasant enough small white gazebo near the entrance to the neighborhood park. One minute he was sitting alone and when he turned to watch a fat assed lady riding a bike, he made silent fun of her. The moment he looked elsewhere, I fluttered down beside him.

 

With great savoir faire, he looks me over and asks what planet I flew in from. I tell him Xlixhem. A wicked, evil tongue lashes at me. 'Go back to that planet, Mad Man, you need help.' That is the beginning of our verbal discourse. We don't like each other at all.

 

'So you think you can fly, Mister? I don't see any wings.' My cue. 'I can swim, too, but have neither fins nor gills.' He gets huffy. 'You know what? You're a nitwit and belong in the looney bin. I know a nice quiet place that still gives electric shock treatments. If you're nice to me, I can get you in at a discount.' That does it. I reach out and touch his arm and he jumps a mile. 'I don't need to get electric shock  treatments. I can give them myself. Behave, watch your mouth, or I'll give you a dose that will knock you out forever.' It is easy to tell, now he believes me. And he should.

 

His curiosity burns a hole in his brain. If you are really from a planet nobody here has ever heard of, how did you get here?' 'I took the subway.' He whines. 'Don't mess with me, give me a straight answer.'
'I did. We have large tunnels in the clouds. Going thru can be difficult, but we haven't lost a Ilixhem yet.' 'Okay, how do you get back up in the sky to go thru clouds?' I ask him if he is the Great Inquisitor and he doesn't seem to know the word. 'Why should I tell you what you won't understand. I'm sick of you. I think I will fly home and tell my compatriots what idiots live on the earth.' This makes the earthling very angry. His face turns red, his fists form and he aims at me. He boxes with nothing. I am invisible.

 

There is much I have to report when I get back to my planet. They will not believe anything I say

 

DO YOU? YOU SHOULD.

Lost

FAR AWAY

 

Evening is closing down. Night is falling fast. I am so tired I could lie down in the gutter, use the curb for a pillow and sleep as if I were in my warm soft bed. My legs are aching. My feet are swollen, bursting out of my sandals. I can't find her, my darling, my darling daughter grown into womanhood. I don't remember eating today yet am not hungry, don't care at all if I die of starvation, as long as I can find my daughter, hug her, tell her how much joy she has brought into my life.

 

Where is she? Does she live in New York or in D.C.? I know I knew, but can't remember. A young lady walks past me, stops to ask if I am alright. 'May I help you, Ma am?' she asks. My lungs burst as the words pour out. 'Yes, yes, help me find my daughter. She's all grown up and I am supposed to meet her for dinner.' The nice lady asks me my daughter's name and I start to tell her–but can't. I don't remember. Handing her my purse, I ask her to look in it as I always carry emergency numbers in the middle section. It's too dark to see well but she has a small pocket flashlight in hers, looks carefully in mine and let's me see what she sees. There is a roll of Tums, a pen, one lipstick, a set of keys and a money clip. She counts it for me, two hundred dollars in assorted bills, looks at me and asks, 'What do these keys open?' Tears fill my eyes. 'I don't know, I don't know.'

 

'What is your name?' I ask her. 'Toby,' Toby asks me if I would like to go in the coffee shop on the corner, get something to eat. I don't want to go. I want to find my daughter. 'I told you my name,' Toby says, 'Now you tell me yours.' My lips move but no word comes out. 'I can't remember my name, Toby. Call me Toby 2.' 'Stay right here for a minute Toby 2.' I shuffle my aching feet but stay right where she told me to stay. It doesn't take her long to come back with a policeman.
'Toby 2, I have to go home now. This handsome officer is going to take care of you. You will find your daughter. Goodbye.'

 

I look at the policeman she called handsome and don't think he is good looking at all. 'Mr. Policeman, I can't remember where I am to meet my daughter. Am I in NY now or Washington, DC?' 'You are in NY and I am going to try to help you. Let's go into the coffee shop where it is warm and light and you can tell me what you do remember.' He holds my hand and we walk in step. I feel stronger by his side.

 

'What is your name? Where do you live?', he asks first. 'Oh, I do remember that. Toby 2.' He looks at me, smiles, does not write that down in the book he is carrying. 'I don't remember where I live but maybe if you drive me around a while, I'll see my house.' 'Miss Toby 2, I can't do that. I have to listen for messages and do what the Chief tells me to do. I am going to take you to NY City Central Hospital and will stay with you until somebody can help you. How's that?' 'That will be fine,' I reply,' but I've looked everywhere and don't remember where else to tell them to look.' 'Don't be frightened, Miss Toby 2. If you can't find her and the hospital can't find her she must be someplace looking for you.' 'That makes sense, maybe she is looking where I have already been and won't find me.'

 

Riding in the police car feels good. I take off my shoes, wiggle my toes.
'Do you know how to play Tiddlywinks, Mr. Officer. It is such an easy, fun game but I haven't played it with my dau----I stop—daughter Evelyn.' Officer my daughter's name is Evelyn.' 'Evelyn what?' 'I don't know. I don't know. Wait, I'll do the alphabet. A, B. C, D, no her name doesn't start with those letters.' 'What comes after D, Ma am?' 'Is it 'L'?'. We play this game while driving to NY Central Hospital. 'I get to
W,X, Y, Z and shout out Waldman. My daughter's name is Waldman. Now I don't remember her first name.' He tells me her name is Evelyn Waldman,' and asks if I am Mrs. Waldman. 'NO, I told you I'm Toby 2.'
'Maybe you are Toby 2 Waldman,' he says and I tell him, 'Maybe.

 

There is so much traffic in NY that our drive to the hospital takes a long time. The policeman's radio comes on and  he is being told to look out for a senior citizen who has wandered from her home. Her daughter is frantic. The mother is about 5'3", weighs about 130 lbs., is 85 years old and has bleached blond hair. She was last seen leaving her room for lunch and has been missing since 1 p.m. yesterday.' 'Toby 2,' he shouts with joy. 'That sounds like you.  I have to call my station.' He clicks something and I hear a lot of static but he seems to understand what is being said. We stop at the next red light, make a U turn and drive to the police station. The captain has an old picture of me and I have to explain that was taken 20 years ago when I was young. What are you doing with my picture?'

 

'Mrs. Walgreen, your daughter is on her way here to get you.'
'My name isn't Walgreen. It's Waldman, isn't it?'

HAPPY TIMES TO ALL-

THE LIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

 

Since Thanksgiving I've been begging my true love, Larry, to go with me to select this year's Christmas tree. Every time I suggested we go before dinner, after dinner, he found some kind of excuse to avoid the job. His back was bothering him which meant he couldn't carry the tree into our house-or-he'd rather wait for a fresh shipment-or-since Jimmy couldn't make his regular Thursday night card game, Larry offered to sit in for him.

 

Half a week passed and I gave my husband hell. 'For god's sake, do something, get us started. We can't wait until Dec. 22 to get this place ready.' My semi-lecture shook him up because he squeezed in time to bring up the boxes of outdoor lights from the basement, plus our papier mache' Santa that will be on the lawn again even if it snows. The next morning my nagging began in earnest. I called Larry at work, nagged before and afer dinner. 'Let's get the house decorations done.

 

Larry griped but brought up the tinsel boxes, ribbons, the fake rhinestone covered star, antique and new balls of all colors, angels and stacked them in the foyer. When he thought he was thru for the night, he asked me why I wasn't doing anything. That's when I almost clobbered him with a ten inch frying pan. 'Listen to me, dumkuf, I have to clean the whole house, grocery shop, prepare a festive dinner for twelve, plus for ten kids who will sit in the foyer.

 

He gave in and started to hum while he tried to set the beautiful, veryfull and tall tree firmly in the wooden stand. I was all the help he had and I was too heavy for me. It tipped and buries him on the carpet. Larry pushed, I pulled and we got the tree to stand upright. Together we strung red and green lights that we hoped would still twinkle on and off. I hung the tinsel and my ornate and religious ornaments from the top to the bottom of the tree, breaking only one.
'Larry,' I asked. 'Will you please carry the folding table for the children up here? It's behind Jilly's old bed. Let's get rid of that old thing. I didn't like it when we bought it for her first big girl's room. I'll call Good Will after Xmas. They still do pick-ups.' Larry stopped his work to yell at me. 'Don't you dare give that bed away. One day Jinny will give us a grandchild and will definitely want her bed.' I lost control and laughed like a hyena. Rather than argue, I stopped the discussion, knowing Larry will never notice the bed went bye bye.

 

All the guests came carrying in boxes, shopping bags, ribbons flying loose. Larry and I served egg nog to the adults and creamy shakes to the kids. The children were ready to open their gifts but I insisted we eat first, The 'aws' and 'nos' could be heard outside. I was the cook and knew everything was ready, shouldn't dry out. 'Sit everyone, sit.'

 

The preparations, the expenses, arguments were unimportant, evaporated. We sang Christmas carols while our tricky red and green bulbs winked like heavenly stars. There was lots of female help clearing the tables, stacking dishes, getting the few left overs into plastic bags. Oh, I was tired but happy and satisfied with our Christmas together with family and a few friends.

 

We stood by the front door as everyone was leaving and saw some children pelting our papier mache' Santa Clause with ice cubes. As they ran away the wetness disintegrated Santa. The water must have hit a dangerously exposed line of wiring to the house outdoor lights. Half of them went dark.

 

The moon was at its height, almost round and extra bright. Larry and I were glad the over-used Santa had dissolved and decided we would look for an after Christmas special sale, something new next year.

How Green It Wasn't

GARDEN OF NEEDIN'

 

I can almost see the crabgrass growing. It spreads faster than Danny,  the neighborhood garden maven, can kill it. He has done wonders for the new residents who live across from us on Alpine Rd.,  but somehow he can't beat the moles, worms or gremlins who must adore the constant cool shade our semi-detached houses provide. Amongst the tough crab grass dandelions thrive. They are perky, tall enough to sway and are a nuisance.

 

Our neighbors, Mac and I, have contracted with Lawn Care Specialists,
Inc., to get to the root of our problem. Two trucks, each with two workers, arrive together. Pipes, hoses, tools, bags of herbicides are stacked on our sidewalks. The men drill holes every 3 feet, pump in chemicals, advise us not to worry. Pets will not be harmed. We are told to 'Give Scott's MSMA Ortho-weed -B-GN time, two weeks at least, and you will see the crabgrass fade away.' Scott's stuff does nothing but raise our heckles. In just one week, Adele's dog dies and she wants to sue Scott. Scott pays for a vet's autopsy which shows the poor animal had cancer.

 

Lovely shrubs, lilac bushes, thrive in the beds around the houses in the sun. We have to drink their beauty in by osmosis and thank god for what we see from May until October.

 

Mary and George Poland, friends for umpteen years, live directly across from us. Every Sunday, about 8 a.m. our garden maven, Danny, starts mowing the lawns that have verdant, healthy grass while we  mumble and grumble about the noise and lack of progress getting rid of our crabgrass. I admit, I'm jealous. I take a chance and go to 'Crabgrass' on the web and learn that it should not be watered, that it grows from seeds and they must be destroyed. 'Apply Scott's (so and so) for a healthy lawn.' The Lawn Care Specialists surely know this and have applied Scotts and other brans. All unsuccessfully.

 

My mind goes into over-time. I ask no one, not even Mac, and invite my neighbor's dogs to use our lawn to do their business.  After I have contacted the masters of 12 dogs, all of whom are delighted not to have to walk their pets for blocks and blocks, I tell Mac. 'And who is going to clean up our stinking lawn every day, maybe twice a day?' Mac asks me. I grimace and reply, 'Nobody, that's who! We've tried everything except this. We'll give Danny a bonus to do it once a week . In the meantime, we can use the back entrance.' 'That's the dumbest idea you have ever had, Brenda. Do you still have some of the old wooden clothes pins your mother gave you in case our clothes dryer breaks down one day? We may need them for our noses.'

 

My determination and avoidance of using the front entryway lasts thru July. August 2nd, I look thru our picture window and believe I see brown, dying  crabgrass, a tiny film of light green grass replacing it.
'George, come quick. Look at our lawn. What do you see?' He looks and replies, 'Crab grass and dog crap.' It is impossible for me not to choke up. My idea smelled as bad as our lawn and I start to cry, brighten in a moment.

 

'George, I have another idea. Let's get the top layer of what is supposedly our lawn removed and then cover the whole thing with cement. We can put heavy concrete planters down our path, use colorful hanging plants around the front porch.' George mulls it over and tells me the Board would have to present it to both sides of the street for approval. He agrees to type the letter, present it to his pal, Willie, an attorney at law and president of the Board. The vote goes 98% against us.

 

The invitation I had extended to my neighbors for their pets dutyfication is canceled. I know it, George knows it, the neighbors know it. Only the dogs don't.

 

I call two more lawn care firms, every company that manufactures products to kill crab grass, get some samples that don't work for us.

 

'Mac, I have a new idea. Let's boil gallons and gallons of water and pour it over the crabgrass lawn we have.' Shock waves roll. Mac agrees to try it.

 

I am now visiting him in the hospital where he is being treated for burns on both legs and have decided to learn to love the crab grass.

 

 

 

 

A long heal

THREE FIGURES

 

She didn't say 'boo', didn't drag chains. In fact, she didn't show herself, but I felt her, just as real as real could be. My grandma, so small, so old fashioned, so sweet, came into my room last night, sat down beside me on my bed. I glance and see no impression in the mattress but there she sits. Her cold, bony hand reaches out to touch me and the cold becomes warm. She has been missed over many long years. I do believe she knows how much I loved her. Bubby wore no scary white flowing sheet when she came in. I recognized her brown dress down to her ankles, her heavy black shoes laced tightly to touch the hem. The night she died she was wearing that dress. My mother returned from having been with her Mom as she breathed her last breath, gave me the sad news and handed me the fabric belt from Bubby's dress as a reminder of her. I never needed it. It remains a treasure of mine in my secret hiding place.

 

With Bubby sitting on the side of my bed, so close to me, I definitely smelled almonds. I looked into her soft gray eyes, saw the deep wrinkles on her cheeks and spoke to her. 'Bubby, were you baking cookies in heaven? Mamma still has the cookie cutters you used to use, hearts and diamonds. She gave me clubs and spades. I bake almond cookies for your great grand children. Have you seen my Eric and Betty?'' There are no words but a soft draft crosses my forehead,
envelops all of me.

 

A face, a most handsome face, formed slowly. In a hushed voice I said, 'Zadie, Zadie. Where is my vanilla ice cream cone? Where is your straw hat that smells of your summer sweat?' Did you see the big maple tree in front of my house? I planted it a long time ago to remind me how you liked to see the baby leaves unfold, to feel spring coming.  Every single April I see you but not as clearly as tonight. Look thru my porch window and you will see the rattan arm chair you bought for Bubby. My mother got it  when Bubby died and she put my name on it for when she would leave me. It's been mine for fifteen years and I paint it a different color every spring, always colors I knew you liked. Can we go outside so I can sit on your lap like I used to do? My beloved Zadie grows lighter and lighter and evaporates.

 

Bubby has sat near me while Zadie was here. I think I feel her fading away but hold her hand as tight as I can. 'Bubby, don't go. Maybe my Mommie will come to us soon. Stay, stay, a little longer. The dimming stops. Bubby stays. 'Bubby,' I say, 'can you hear that tinkling sound? Mommie must be coming. She put a little bell near the porch gate so if I opened it, she would know and make me come back home.

 

'Mommie, Mommie, I hoped you would come. Bubby is still here but may have to leave soon. Do you miss, me Mommie? I was a good daughter, wasn't I? I still have Bubby's belt, your cookie cutters and the rattan chair you left for me. Do you forgive me for all the mean, nasty things I must have done when I was little?' Mommie looks like smoke. She swirls and twirls around me and is gone–too soon gone.

 

My eyes open into slits. Jerome is sitting on a hard folding chair. He squeezes my hand. I feel him push a button on the side of my strange bed. Without making a sound a woman in white who I don't recognize comes in. She says not a word but takes my pulse, looks at a lot of machinery around me, says something into my Jerome's ear and leaves us.

 

I can barely mumble but think I ask him if my grandparents left and is my mother home making her gefilte fish for the holiday.

SOME SORT OF EXPLANATION WILL FOLLOW

DRY TEARS

 

It is noon when I reach Santa Monica and 12:20 when I find a vacant metered parking space. Andy must be furious because I'm late. There's a long lunch line outside of Allegro's that I side step, go inside, to the outside gardens. Almost all the colorful sunbrellas are open. Charlie McArthy mouths move but I can't make out the words. Waiters bring in hot coffee, cold beer. Andy and I see each other at the same moment. He stands and waves to me. 'Where the hell have you been?' are his welcoming words. 'I had to order or be thrown out. Here, try a cold English muffin with marmalade. It sucks but that's all I have left.'

 

'Come on, Andy. I was here on time but circled the streets, alleys for 20 minutes before I found a meter and then ran 5 blocks to meet you.
Sorry.' He only says, 'Order.' I tell the waiter blueberry pancakes with plenty of blueberries, a side of crisp, not burned bacon, coffee strong.'

 

Then–the boom, the explosion, the screams reverberate into the garden. Tables over turn, food slides across straw mats. Hot coffee spills on my arm. I hold it with a cloth napkin and run with the others into the front area. It is almost empty. The front window is shattered. Salamis that were hanging on chains a few minutes ago are on the floor. Patrolmen are everywhere, moving us outside in orderly fashion, down the street to Franie's Flop Shop. Franie displays only bedroom sets, sleep sofas and loungers. There must be 40 of us former diners now calm and comfortable. Officer Jackson interviews me and finishes the big deal in two minutes. When I hand him my driver's license I shriek, 'Oh, my god, my meter's run out. My car may be booted.'

 

Captain Fine gets our attention. 'Ladies and Gentlemen. There was no bomb. It looks like the main gas line to the ovens and range broke open. The heat of the cooking caused the explosion. You are lucky people. We have a few bruises, one broken leg and a lady's hair piece has disappeared.  Mr. Alle thinks he can reopen for business in ten days or less. You may all leave now. Watch channel 10 tonight. Maybe some of the cameras caught you.'

 

I walk the now six blocks to my car that is no longer at the meter. It has not just been booted but taken to the DMV where I have to go and pay my fine.

 

'What a day,' I say aloud. I have no car to drive there. I had no time to spend with Andy. I still haven't eaten lunch. I was almost killed by a heated salami sandwich and now I need car bondage money. On top of it all I wasn't even visible on the 11 P.M. news. Andy was in front of me. So it came and so it went.

I AM FRIGHTENED

This morning I clicked on 'My Documents' and they are all gone! Over 2000

stories I have printed and many old ones I didn't. I have tried everything I know to get them back but no luck so far. 

What does show are items going back to 2006, that I haven't glanced at since then.

 

I don't even have an inkling of where to turn.

 

Val

 

 

 

 

Want a taste?

DEEP FRIED FROGS LEGS

 

Every other Sunday is 'treat nite out.' Dad and Mom take Carrie, Jean and me to dinner. They alternate who picks the place. Each time it's Dad's turn, I eat little and make a sandwich when we get home. He's a tryer. I am content with McDonald's, ham, turkey, cheese, a steak now and then. Dad has declared tonight as 'Seafood Special.' That's all I had to hear and have to think up a way to look and feel sick, maybe stick my finger down my throat and vomit. 'Patty, My, Boy. Don't try any of your tricks on me. The Fish Bowl has a big selection of all kinds of seafood. You'll find something you love and will ask me to bring you again. You'll see.'  Dad was right. I can't fool him. I am trapped. 

 

The Fish Bowl has a huge sign on its roof. Blue and yellow lights blink on and off which makes it seem the painted fish of all weird varieties are swimming. A tall plastic Captain Hook stands near the entrance. A fake croc, its jaws open wide, is ready to gobble down Hook. Dad acts like a child, pets the stupid blown up croc. Neither I or Mom laugh.

 

We are given a nice large table, plenty of room for all of us. Carrie and Jean are given crayons and paper place mats to color the octopi, sharks, sea snakes, electric  eels. Carrie is cute. She scribbles green over all the creatures. I ask her what fish is that big and all green and she calls me a dummy. 'That's not fish. It's sea weed, Patty.' Mom orders stuffed trout and it is served before Dad makes his selection. The trout is served on a big platter. It's head is still attached. It's black lifeless eyes still bulge. How did the cook stuff the trout without slitting it open. Oh, god, I think. He couldn't have stuffed it down trouts open mouth while it was still living, could he? Mom offers us each a taste of her fabulous trout but has no takers.

 

Dad, having been studying the huge menu until Mom finishes her trout, calls over our waitress, points at what he wants. I still have not even thought about selecting anything, get the idea to order one Maryland crab cake, broiled, lots of fries and one corn on the cob. A light goes on in my brain when I realize what crabs eat–dead people. I hide my crab cake under some of my fries. Dad's dish comes and it looks pretty good. 'What is that, Dad?' I ask. 'Just chicken fingers, Son. Want a taste?' 'Dad, this place doesn't serve chicken and besides, chicken's don't have fingers.' He ignores me and digs in. He won't stop bothering me until I give in and taste one finger and am surprised it is chicken–and very tasty too. Mom looks delighted that I like Dad's choice. She wipes her chin and asks me how I really liked the frogs' legs.' I stop dead and get a sick feeling in my stomach. I almost cry to him, 'Dad, what did you give me? He asks what's wrong. 'You enjoyed them, didn't you? That's really all that matters.' I am so angry, I can't argue with him, almost run to the men's booth and throw up in the toilet.

 

When I gather my wits and my insides, Dad who is as bright as a burned out fire cracker, asks me if I want to go frog hunting next week. 'If you can manage to kiss one of the jumping toads, it might turn into a fairy princess. Come on, Son, let's try it.' I beg off, explain I am not interested in having a frog princess in my life and would like to just go home.

 

Two weeks later I feel something strange on two of my fingers. They don't hurt but are growing so fast, I can almost see them rising. I call in a panic, 'Ma, Ma, look I have warts on my hands from those darn frogs. Get them off of me, Ma.'

 

Ma winks and apologizes. She can't remove them. They grow back. 'Don't fret, don't worry. You are darn lucky. You should see where Dad's warts are.'

Promise Broken

STATE OF THE ESTATE

 

J. R. Curoso, Esquire, Attorney at Law-Estates, advertises on t.v. much too often and I am sick to my stomach seeing his outlandish ads nightly on the four channels I watch most often. My mute button is my salvation.

 

Memories of my dad, a riotous, honorable M.D., cling tightly to my heart and spine. Stored in boxes of his early beginnings  are carbon copies of the letters he wrote to defend or condemn attitudes, actions people took or didn't take. In all caps, hunt and peck on his clanky Remington typewriter, he challenged doctors, lawyers, of any kind, who managed to get ads published in the Raleigh Daily, when it was illegal to advertise them.  My father, an M.D., would never do such a thing. He was so proud that his patients remained loyal to him. Not one ever left to get a 'special' job at a lower cost than his. He stayed with us as long as he could and left only a week ago. I cry a lot but have my family, my memories.

 

Maury and I have three grown children, who have four children who have two children. Most of us still live in or near Raleigh. Only our middle daughter moved to NY. None of us can be called rich but we are comfortable, manage nicely, meet as a group for Christmas and Fourth of July. I bring some of Dad's letters and we laugh together. It's warm outside, warm enough for the AC to be running and I am in our basement going thru browning papers looking for things I've missed over the years.

 

Ralphie, our precious miniature black poodle, goes wild, yips and yips, when he hears the mailman drop our delivery in the white metal box Marty attached to our brick outside wall. I have learned not to scream at Raphie to be quiet because that makes him yip more. It's easier on my mind and spirits if I just give Ralphie half a treat and take in the mail. There are my magazines, statements from Macy and Bloomingdale, a letter from NY that I open first and see a bunch of scribbling done by Felicite', aged three. I hang that on the fridge door and feel warm every time I see it.

 

Our mail consists of a large brown business envelope, addressed to me. It is in red ink, old English style. The sender's name is familiar but I can't place it. The envelope alone presents an air of great importance. It looks serious. It won't be easy but I lay my curiosity, with the letter,  on Maury's desk and  wait until he finishes dinner. By the time I am ready to serve an apple dumpling with green tea, I'm sweating bullets.

 

He comes into the kitchen where I am rinsing the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher and hands me the brown envelope. 'This is for you, Joan. How come you didn't see your name on it? Lordy, that red ink should have caught your attention.' I tell him the truth. 'It scared me. Wait 'til I dry my hands and we can see what the man is trying to sell us.'

 

The letter head in embossed gold tells me he has some importance somewhere and I should not discard this communication with me. It begins:

 

Dear Mrs. Binder: Please accept my condolences on the passing of your father, Wilbur T. Yates on July 3 2007. Your father and I go back 30 years and I have known about you since you were a tot. He made me Executor of his will and I would appreciate it if you contact me at 326-4949, Ex. 200, at your earliest convenience. Your Dad was a careful man, updated it frequently and you should know where it and you stand.
Thank you. (Signed in a flourishing script) J.R. Curoso, Esq.

 

First thing in the morning, I call Mr. Curoso. He won't be in until noon. I leave a message for him to call me and at 12:05 he calls. In a most business-like manner, he thanks me for my quick attention to his letter and asks me if Maury and I can be at his office Friday, July 12th for a meeting that will take no less than an hour, more if necessary. I ask if there is any chance we can meet on Saturday as taking time off from work may be difficult for Maury. My suggestion is not practical for Mr. Curoso so I agree to his arrangement.

 

I tell Maury about my having been upset with all the t.v. ads Curoso runs that are legal and recall my dad's anger, disgust of the few professional men who scammed the newspapers back in the 20's and got their ads published. My attitude is foolish, I know as that does not apply now yet but I have some hesitation meeting Mr. Curoso. 

 

His office looks as if royalty resides there. Every item is carefully hung, placed where light will reach it. The heavy walnut desk has piles, very neat piles, of many folders stacked precisely on each side of his red blotter, several pens in marble bases at the ready. He does not rush us but does glance at his watch often. There is some small talk about my father before  Mr. Curoso gets down to business, removes documents from a large folder, quickly (too quickly) tells us what each packet is about.

 

'Mrs. Binder, you, your husband, you children and their children are beneficiaries of your father's will.' My eyes and mouth pop open. 'Will? My dad was a frugal man, took good care of his needs, has never been much of a gift giver to my children but always sent a birthday card with a five dollar bill included. What kind of will are you talking about?'

 

Time stands still, as does my heart and my brain waves. 'My dear Mrs. Binder, your dad owns business properties, real estate all over Raleigh. I have not yet taken a financial count of the will's value, but I estimate twelve million dollars.' Maury blinks his eyes, hunches up his back and asks, How much did you say, Mr. Coruso?' 'Ten million, Sir,' he replies.

 

'There are many legal papers that must be filed, several already put into action. Have you taken care of his funeral expenses? I cannot go into details yet but want you to know you, your children and grand children will have a large inheritance. Of course, I, as Executor, get a yearly fee which I will explain in detail within the next week or two. Of course, you are free to tell your immediate family, but advise you tell as few people as possible or you will be inundated by others wanting some of your good fortune. Salespeople, insurance men will call you, write to you, knock on your door day after day. Give nothing. Say nothing and I can assure you, I will handle your estate just the way your dad and I decided will be best for all. Check with my secretary as you leave and set up our next appointment. It will be best if you are here, too, Mr. Binder.'

 

Maury and I don't need the elevator. We walk on air. I don't even speak until we are home. Both of us are dumbstruck. My nerves are a wreck. My nose twitches. My mouth is dry.

 

'Maury, let's have a cocktail and relax.' In less than five minutes we are toasting each other. One sip of my vodka opens tear ducts that let out Niagara Falls. 'My dear, dear Daddy never mentioned money, gave us none, took none from us. I don't understand.

 

 Don't get up, Darling. I have calls to make and then I will change clothes and we are going out to dinner at the Paradiso. Be sure you have your Visa card with you because I just may order two desserts.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

No latkes

LUNCHTIME?

 

The waiter stands beside me, order pad in hand. I don't need a menu and am ready for him. 'I'll have a tuna melt and decaf coffee.' Simple, right? Wrong. 'Do you want potato pancakes or fries?' he asks and I reply, 'I really don't want any potatoes.' He gives me a very dirty look and doesn't budge. Finally, reluctantly, I tell him. 'I guess I'll have the fries.'

 

It's close to noon and the delly is nowhere near as full as it used to be before bad times hit us all. It is depressing sitting here, looking around, aware of the wait staff doing what they are doing–waiting, waiting for diners to fill the room. This is Friday Special time.(I could have ordered the very reasonable whitefish platter but don't like whitefish.)

 

What I enjoy, besides tuna salad, is seeing the parade of mostly seniors, looking them over, mentally rating their attitudes, dress, selections. Not until this slow down time have I realized someone may be criticizing me, seeing if I need a paper napkin around my silk blouse or if I stuff a few Sweet 'n Lows in my purse. It's 11:30 a.m. and aha! my first 'victim' comes in, sits across the aisle from me. He seems to be a clean cut gentleman. I write this description without being certain of his persuasion as his little finger, right hand, is sort of swishy. The man who is brought to the table for two next to mine is a bit older than the swisher. He's wearing a chocolate brown cotton shirt with a wide zipper down the front that is open almost to his cowboy belt buckle. White, almost new heavy walking shoes and especially his hearty appetite, hold my attention. I look away as he looks at me. I avert my eyes by checking my watch to see why my tuna melt is taking so long.

 

In a large booth for six, sits another senior citizen. Evidently he is a regular customer, maybe a relative of the owner, as his order is taken as soon as he sits down. There are many tables for two vacant yet he eats alone. I don't like the color of his windbreaker jacket. It reminds me of the mustard jar on my table. A large bowl of soup, probably chicken, is placed before him. His Ben Franklin eye glasses steam up. He clears them with the lining of his jacket. His waitress sits down with him for a few minutes, tastes his soup, plants a kiss on the top of his bald head and goes into the kitchen.
    
My tuna melt must be burned dry by now. Not having really looked at my waiter, I call the wrong one over to appease me, bring me my lunch or cancel it. Waste of effort. He ignores me. Next time a waiter, any waiter passes, my foot is already practicing how I can (accidentally)
trip him.

 

Quickly I count the group of senior women coming down the next aisle. Eight magpipes drown out any other sound. It takes two of the best waitresses to seat them at the biggest table in the delly. Once seated, three or four get up and switch their positions. One woman, I guess about a hundred and sixty pounds, drops her purse as she moves next to someone she likes better. At least ten of the sixteen eyes, not knowing or caring if the men eating alone do so by choice, need or are married, they check out the single ones.

 

Hooray! Hooray! My tuna melt with an enormous plate of fries is placed before me. The cook must have realized how long I waited, threw in a whole large half done pickle and a dish of too creamy slaw. The shoe string fries are pale and not hot. No problem. I don't want them anyhow. I praise the lord instead of the 'chef' that the tuna melt turned out perfectly. However, the first cup of coffee I had has been empty for twenty minutes. The devil with it. My waiter is in sight and I lasso him. 'Skip my coffee, take away all of this food I didn't order and let me have the check.' That he has, lays it on the table and disappears.
I gather my few belongings, take my car keys out of my purse, put them on my table, look over the check . I really don't think he deserves a tip but I'm a good person and leave him a buck. Near the register are lots of goodies, halavah, chocolate mint paddies, small boxes of bon bons. The halavah mentally calls to me. I add two pieces to my check, charge everything and leave. Well, I was going to leave but couldn't find my car keys. 'Oh, my heavens,' I tell the cashier,'I  must have left my car keys on my table. 'I'll be right back.'

 

As I hurry towards my table, I look and don't see them. They have to be there. Nobody wants my keys. I pull my chair out and search under the table. No keys. I am about to go to the cashier who probably has them by now when Bang, I hit my head under the table and much too loudly use an expletive, 'Aw. Sh- ite.' The laugh of the man sitting across from me, the one with the zipper to his shirt exposing a lot of skin, dangles my keys as if it were carrots for a jackass. I reach for them but he doesn't give them to me. Instead, he tells me his name, Vic Johanson, and he has been intrigued by my patience and my roving eyes.

 

'They're green, aren't they?' he asks.

Far, far away

WHERE TO, PAL?

 

Her long golden hair coils down her back. She speaks. 'I have been here a long time, taught you much. You have taught me also. Now I must go. Goodbye.'

 

I watch her walk, almost drift, away into the horizon. I try to walk in her footsteps but they disappear just as she does. The sky turns an eerie green, unlike any I have ever seen. A thunderous whoosh rings thru my skull. As the noise fades away, the sky returns to azure blue. The sun makes a successful attempt to come out from behind giant, billowing white clouds. My head drops to my chest as a sadness, a loneliness envelope me.

 

The building I walk to is my home base, Dept. Of UFO Research. As usual everything is hectic but under control. Phones at every station ring off the hook. Frightened, curious voices report sightings.
Computers calculate. I fall into a silent frenzy. What I have been sworn to, absorbed in for six months, is still between the golden haired visitor and myself. This mission has been dangerous, unreal. It may one day open doors but may just as easily cause a world panic.

 

There are coded reports I must make immediately. Four Star General Courtney stands waiting ram-rod straight in front of my controlled office. Our fingerprints and eyes are scanned before the heavy metal door flashes 'go.' I have noted the General's fingers are exceptionally broad and permanently stained from years of smoking. I believe I still can detect the yellow smell of smoke. He seats himself in my reclining chair and silently goes over my demeanor as I consider his.

 

I start. 'The lady has gone. Her vehicle is already out of our range. It's speed far exceeds anything we have on hand or on plan. General, I will refer to the lady as N12. She claims to come from a planet we have not yet discovered. It is called Napir, the largest one in her galaxy. Their advanced rocket ships have power and speed twice what we have accomplished. However, N12 advised me that the speed is cut to half on her return to her land. I am assuming would apply to us, in reverse, if and when we can attempt such a feat. '

 

My mind is bursting with the accumulation of information I must pass electronically. I take a chance, state my case of needing time to be prepared to be in the mold for several hours. I gather the guts and ask the General if I may be excused. His brows wrinkle. His face contorts but he agrees, lifts the red phone on my desk. He speaks quickly to President Baylor, 'Copious mental notes that you require from D210 will be ready for you tomorrow, 4 a.m. Stand by.' As he hangs up, he says only, 'Have a calm evening, Officer Herado.'

 

My room is immaculate. I shower, dry the steamed mirror and am overcome by a strange sweet smell that closes my eyes. Sleep comes of its own accord. Something grips my arms, my legs. I try to scream but no sound comes out.

 

Then I see her, N12. Her long twisted hair curls around my throat. It is choking me. Her laugh cackles The last thing I hear is, 'Thanks for the information. President Baylor will never have ours.'

 

My eyes close for the last time.

HIDE & SEEK

LOST AND FOUND

 

'Where did I put them? I had to have had them when I came in or I wouldn't be in here now, would I?' It's a tune I've croaked many times and each time I'm ready to tear my hair out. Yesterday I actually cut a pretty large strand off, underneath the back where I wouldn't see the mess I made. The idea was it would teach me a lesson. It doesn't. Today my keys are not hanging in the front door lock. They are not in
any of my many desk drawers. I have emptied and searched my purse three times, always feeling the linings, the corners. My unconscious mind speaks to me. 'Don't bother looking in the living room. Schmaltzhead, you haven't gone in there yet.' Frantic, I cry out loud, 'Damn you, Keys, where are you?' They lie absolutely still until I open the fridge door. Bam, they slide off the packaged salad I hadn't yet put in the hydrator, hit my shoe, snag my panty hose. The big sigh that rises from my chest is one of pure self-hatred. I straighten my spine and make a vow that I will never mislay my keys again. Under my breath, I add, 'or anything.' My canned and packaged groceries are arranged neatly in the pantry. Perishables go in the fridge or freezer, odds and ends in odd places.

 

On my desk are two high stacks of mail, yesterday's and today's. This is a 'must do' project. I turn on my computer, download music, push up my sleeves and get to work. After I empty the overflowing trash can under my desk, I separate pile one into more trash, coupons, statements, donation requests, personal mail. The coupons I start to shred and stop just in time to retrieve one for $5 off a $15 car wash. It doesn't expire until June 16 which gives me two weeks to use it. I file it under 'coupons'. Empty, useless envelopes add to the trash can build up. It takes over an hour to get the job done.  I feel great, powerful, mistress of my mind and body but a little pooped.

 

Dr. Oz comes on t.v. twice a day. I lie back on the sofa, reach for the remote on the side table where I always put it and feel a mushy banana skin that I meant to put in the garbage last night. This is a no brainer. The remote is in the garbage. I remove it, use a barely damp cloth to clean the salad oil and banana skin that have enshrouded it. Dr. Oz jumps around, gets hugs from his audience, talks too much, shows too many insides of humans and I want to switch him off. Where did the remote go? I haven't been off the sofa. I get off, feel the floor, look in the garbage can and don't find the clicker. But–I do, it slid down between the cushions I had been lying on it. Whew!

 

Joseph, my beleaguered husband, lost his patience with me long ago. I no longer tell him when I mis-lay something. Today I must. 'Breakfast is ready, Joe.' He hears me, pauses to tie his shoes, plops in his chair and asks for his O.J. 'Sorry, I apologize. I had a bad night and morning is already worse.' The only sound is the refrigerator opening and the O.J. pouring into his extra large glass. Non-stop he guzzles it down and waits for his once-over-light eggs to be served.

 

He knows me, knows I am seldom as quiet as I am this morning. '. Reluctantly he asks, 'So what have you lost now?. A leaden lump goes from my throat thru my heart and lays in my gut as if I were shot.
'Sylvia, the eggs are done. May I have them before the house burns down?' I can feel a quiver. My knees begin to knock. Joseph asks again, 'Well, what can't you find?' No words come out. He eats his over-done eggs and slightly burned toast and is ready to go to work. When I blurt out my answer, he stops. 'Joseph, the beautiful Parker pen you ordered from Paris, just for me, isn't in its box or in the glass that holds all my other pens. It's not between the sofa cushions or in my purse. I can't remember when I used it last–maybe a month ago. Joseph, I'm so sorry. I adored your thoughtful gift. It wrote so smoothly, it made my rotten writing look great. It's gone, really gone.' So is Joseph. His frustration shows. I don't blame him.

 

To no avail most of my day I open drawers, move chairs, go thru pockets. After our delicious but silent dinner, I clear the table, tidy up, kiss Joseph on the top of his balding head and get ready for bed. My clothes go neatly in my closet, my undies in the hamper. I do my normal ablutions, don a soft flannel nighty and step into my comfy, fuzzy white slippers. Something hard is up near the toes. Whatever it is I dump on the carpet. 'Joseph, Joseph,' I scream at the top of my lungs. "Joseph, Joseph, come up here now. I found my beautiful pen. Somebody, not I, put it inside my bedroom slipper.' He doesn't come upstairs to share my joy. I use the pen to write him a short note., 'I love you, Rat,'  put it on his pillow and climb into bed, snuggle under the quilt. He'll understand. 

 

Wednesday will be June 14 and I want use my $5 off coupon to get my car washed. I look and look, can't find it. I know I saved it someplace..but never find it.

 

I get it washed anyhow and pay full price.

SHOW OFF

THE BIGGEST

 

His thumb is in his mouth. Mama takes it out. Joey defies her and returns it so he can suck, suck on it until his teeth get crooked. The dentist has warned Mama that will happen if she can't control Joey. She does try but Joey does what he wants to do. Mama explains again and again that braces are going to be uncomfortable, ugly and he won't be able to eat Milky Ways, English Toffee. Usually she adds, 'AND- Joey, they cost a lot of money that we can't afford.' Does Joey care, pay any attention to her? Of course not. He's only four years old but old enough to be a big thorn in my life and a pain in my butt.

 

When my 'little' brother was big enough to toddle, he reached things he shouldn't touch, broke Mama's favorite vase, her bi-focal eyeglasses and knocked my dolly's eyes back inside her head where Daddy couldn't fix them. Whenever Mama says, 'Who did this?' Joey points to me. Of course, she knows he did it, but blames me, shames me, in front of him and then when Joey isn't looking, gives me a cookie from the pantry. I don't want the cookie. I want her to punish Joey. She never does so I take the offered cookies.

 

Where have I been, I wonder, while Joey grows taller than I am? He's almost two years younger and has become my lord and master. 'Mama,' I cry. 'I hate Joey. He's mean and bossy.' 'Angie, don't talk like that. It isn't nice to hate anyone.' Tough, I think and now I hate Mama. I'm glad, too, that Joey is wearing braces but sorry Daddy had to take a Saturday job to help pay for them. Joey feels sorry for nobody except himself. I don't tell on him when I catch him opening a bar of English Toffee. In fact, I sort of hope he breaks a tooth.

 

He doesn't break a tooth but does break my arm. Mama tells me it's my fault. I shouldn't have pushed him on the cellar steps. 'Ma, I didn't push him. He just stood there, blocking me from going down to get my jeans from the dryer. 'Honest, Ma. I even said excuse me but he didn't and assisted me in falling 3 steps. Ma, take up for me sometime, will you?' Mama turns away and lets me stew.

 

Joey is the tallest boy in the 8th grade. He's 5'10". The next tallest boy, Roland, is 5'7" That makes Joey feel even more superior to the immediate world than ever before. He gets special desks in home room,  English and Chemistry. The gym teacher has given him new exercises to do at home to become more muscular. Daddy buys him a BoFlex and works out with him on Sundays. Mama offers me an apron so I can help her prepare Easter dinner.

 

My brother still loves chewy candy, lots of chocolate, gooey icing. The BoFlex may be giving him more strength but the junk makes him fatter.
For a while we don't notice but the gym teacher does. Joey shows him quickly that he doesn't take orders from anybody and will eat what he wants. He is tossed out of any plans Mr. Grundy, has for him.

 

It happens soon. Joey grows in just two months two inches in height and three inches around his waist. Some of my girl friends tell me he is cute and I tell them they have horrible taste. If they get to know him, they won't like him at all. Joey gets to be 6'7 and gets a bug up his keester. He decides he can be the best basketball player at Charlotte High and can then go Pro. He doesn't even try to cut down on sweets, colas and reaches 205 lbs. His legs have waves of fat. His chin is doubled over. There is more of him to hate and it writhes inside of me.

 

Christmas, oh happy, happy Christmas nears. Mama and I shop for gifts, plan Christmas dinner. I plan on sending invitations to aunts and uncles. Joey sits alone in front of the t.v. eating Hershey bars, bitching about the Macy Day parade, not liking the smell of the ham Ma is baking.

 

While Mama and I are planning seating arrangements, we hear a loud thud and run to the living room. Joey is lying on the floor, his eyes closed, saliva running out the corner of his mouth. I don't wait for Mama to tell me what to do. I dial 911. It takes them seven whole minutes to reach us. They try to revive Joey, do everything possible to make him breathe again but lose the battle.

 

Dad has arrived before Joey is taken to the mortuary. The funeral can't be until after Christmas he is told because no coffin is large enough for Joey. Thru tears, Dad and Mom choose what they think Joey would want. They order a double extra large box so Joey will have plenty of room and always be the biggest man in the cemetery. 

 

He could have been if he ever realized he was a total jerk

Lollipops are dandy

SWEET DREAMS

 

The old fashioned wooden cradle rocks slowly, evenly. Snookums sucks her thumb. Amethyst eyes are closed but I know she is dreaming as rapid eye movements contort her face. A little whimper, a sigh, make me bend over, kiss her cheek, play with her tiny fingers. Stillness, calm return. I sit entranced by the gift Mike and I have been given. For a brief moment I see again our Lonnie's white coffin being lowered into a grave big enough for me both of us. It's a vision that just won't die.

 

Snookie blows tiny bubbles. I wipe them off and rub the barely wet Kleenex over my cheek. It feels like creamy body lotion. My new alarm wrist watch with diamond chips around its face buzzes for exactly two seconds. I come back to reality, whisper in Snookum's ear, 'Stay where you are, Sweetie, Mommy will be right back with your breakfast.' Mike has turned the heat to 78, just enough to warm the cool night air, make our daughter comfortable. Mike has the coffee brewing, English muffins ready to toast. A jar of raspberry preserves , with knife, awaits me. We sit and talk about our blessing, unable to mention our loss.

 

'Wah, wah!', Snookums is awake, hungry, wailing, wanting her Mommy. A quick kiss to Mike, a happy wave out the front window, and I hurry to my daughter. Do my eyes deceive me? She has already rolled over on her back. Tiny booted feet kick towards the ceiling. Her wet Pampers need attention before I give her the warmed bottle of formula that will disappear quickly. Something is amiss. Baby spits up, won't drink her milk. Worries stab my heart. I carry her, pace with her, pat her back to get out a deep burp. It doesn't work. Soft songs don't appease her. Am I going nuts? I talk to her as if she were a grown up. 'Want to go downstairs, Honey? We'll sit in the sunny kitchen where you'll be warm and cozy and drink your milk.' It can't be my singing but something makes her smile, a big real smile. Her amethyst eyes open wide, fasten on the sun shining thru the red raspberry jam jar. I am sure a tiny dab won't hurt her, put it on my pinkie and let her lick it off. If she had teeth, she would have bitten my finger off. A strange rumble comes from her belly. It sounds like, 'mmmmore, mmmmmore.' Baby talk? Is she telling me something? I don't know. Her legs kick the side of the table. Her nose wrinkles up like a miniature Venetian blind as her stomach says 'mmmmmmore' again.  'One more tiny taste, Honey Bunny.' A speck of a dab goes on her silver baby spoon. A pink tongue licks it clean. 'No more, all gone,' I tell her. 'Drink your milk and maybe I'll give you one more lick.  Is it possible she understands me? Her little arm reaches for her bottle. She sucks it until it's empty. A burp and a cry escape as one.

 

Mike calls me at noon and I gush about the exciting news.'Snookums turned over on he back all by herself. She's a genius.' He laughs about the raspberry jam and warns me not to give her any more. She might get diabetes. It's my turn to laugh. 'Mike, you know darn well one doesn't get diabetes from eating sweets.' We must wait for evening and so we send phone kisses over the wires.

 

Snookums is good all day, takes a long nap while I watch 3 soaps. At two I hear her cry, turn off the t.v. and get her orange juice ready. As soon as I lift her out of her cradle, I notice something odd on her blanket. It looks like a medium sized dab of whipped cream but can't be. Neither is it spit up cheese. I smell it and decide it is whipped cream. 'Snookums,' I ask. 'Where did this come from? Who brought it into your room?' Her crying is loud enough to wake the dead. I stop asking questions she isn't going to answer. Her sheet needs changing so I put her  on my bed for and watch her closely. The crying gets louder. Her adorable pink lips open wide. She howls. I scream, 'What's in your mouth? Let me see!' I hold her head still and get two fingers inside. There is definitely something way in the back.Before she can swallow it, I get hold and pull it out. It can't be, but it is shaped like a tooth, a red sugary tooth. I put it on  a piece of aluminum foil to show Mike when he comes home. He is as baffled as I am. We take it to the baby's pediatrician who doesn't know either.

 

Snookums becomes Shelley, grows up fast, goes to school, gets married, gets fatter and fatter. We feel sure she must have simply been born with a real sweet tooth. She never gets diabetes.

Mom's secret

SHOO FLY PIE

 

The big jug of lemonade clunks with ice cubes as my daddy puts it and our wicker basket of lunch into our Olds roomy trunk. It's sound is musical and makes me thirsty even though I had a big glass of orange juice just ten minutes ago. The greasy smell of the still warm fried chicken fills the air.'Sit down, Gloria,' Dad says as he starts the motor and we are off on our Rock Creek Park picnic.

 

Mom is the direction giver even though Dad knows the way. 'Harvey, turn right after the next Big Boys' sign: Harvey, the traffic light is turning yellow, slow down; Harvey there's a gas station two blocks away. Maybe you should fill up. Start maneuvering left.' Dad comes back at her, 'And Selma,  maybe you should shut up for a while. I filled the tank yesterday.'

 

I start to sing 'One hundred bottles of beer on the wall' and Mom stops me. 'What do you know about beer, Gloria? Choose another song.' 'Mom, all I know is 'Row, row, row, your boat' and that's a baby song.' There is silence for a while. My nose itches, my belly shouts for a piece of chicken.  I ask, 'Mom, can I have just a chicken wing now?' Why did I ask? I knew what her answer would be. 'No, not now!'

 

The ride gets prettier and prettier as we enter the park grounds. Dad warns us, 'Be ready everybody, we're crossing the Creek in a minute.'
The car bumps over rocks. The water reaches almost to the car doors. Mom is the only nervous one. Six year old Sonny is trying to color in his new Superman book and gets angry because the bumps made him go out of the lines. Dad lowers the windows half way. 'Smell the green air, Everybody.' I am the only sniffer and the air truly does smell like pine trees, green Christmas pine trees.

 

From the moment we get through the picnic ground gates, Mom has her eyes on an empty table. Dad finds a parking space and Mom turns into Wendy flying to Never Never Land. Off she dashes to claim that table, her lucky # 10. Dad sends me over to hold the table so Mom can come back and carry the heavy basket. He'll bring the lemonade and Nathan. By the time I reach Mom, she is arguing with a lady who insists the table is hers because she and her husband get it every week.  Mom tells her we got here first and she had better move her rump someplace else fast.  I whisper to her that Dad needs her to carry the basket and I should watch the table. Rebuttal, 'You get Nathan. Dad can carry the lemonade and basket. I'm not moving. Go!' Abruply she climbs on the bench and plops herself down in the middle of the table, her arms over her chest like big Squaw Pocohantus. The angry woman has met has match and moves to another table.

 

I get Nathan. Dad brings our lunch basket and lemonade. Mom is ready for us. She spreads a red checked tablecloth, lays out plastic white plates, forks, knives and paper cups. Dad pours everyone a cup of lemonade. It is cold but won't be for long. The cubes are almost melted. A big platter of fried chicken goes in the middle of the table. Mom surrounds it with pickles, home made slaw, chips and tomatoes. Our mouths water. I grab a chicken leg first. It smells great but is no longer hot. The grease remains. We devour everything as if we had been on a desert island for a month. I note a look of pleasure on Mom's face.

 

Dad takes care of Nathan who has to go to the toilet. When they return, Mom and I are swatting at a horde of flies that are hovering over our garbage. We have black trash bags, dump in some of the bones and skin, plus some flies. Mom goes back to the car for our dessert, opens the box and displays a twelve inch apple pie. It's crust is sprinkled with sugar. Dad tells her it is the most wonderful looking pie she ever made. He cuts the first slice and the flies do the rest. They swarm, they alight and almost cover the crust. Where the one slice has been given to Dad, the flies get stuck in the sweet juice of the apples. It is an ugly sight. We all wave our arms at the pests while Nathan colors Superman. Dad goes wild. He pulls off his left shoe and aims at anything that stays still for a second. He shouts, 'I gotcha, Damned Bug.' His hand slips and his shoe, the pie, the flies, fall into the black plastic trash bag. 'Leave me alone, Selma. I can't put that shoe on now.' Dad insists he can drive home wearing only one shoe if Mom will shut up for a while.

 

We head home. Right after we cross Rock Creek again, Mom speaks up.
'Harvey, we passed an Arundel Bakery shop just a few blocks before turning into the park. Let's stop, relax and have some dessert. I'll go in and bring something nice out for all of us.' She doesn't say another word until she sees the shop ahead. 'Harvey, there is a parking area behind the store. Pull in there.'

 

We all wait for Mom to come out. She is carrying a large box and a bag of paper napkins, plastic forks and a wide plastic knife. Dad is too upset to say anything, doesn't notice the new pie looks identical to the first one and easily manages to eat two big slices. Mom wipes the sugar off his face and zips her mouth until we get home.