A FUTURE? MAKING THE MOVE

I am a changeling. My mirror, my mind make music together. Minus the Schnoz, I am becoming Jimmy Durante. I dream while I’m awake. ‘Did you ever have the feeling that you wanted to go, yet you wanted to stay?’ He flapped his lazy, crazy fedora and continued, ‘Ha Cha Cha.’ I’m flapping my visor. If he were in a boat, I’d be rowing with him.

 

Life has been good to me. I have been good to it but now a need is clawing at my spine. It’s scratching bejesus out of me . Solitude is elusive. Three teen age children outsmart me in academics, in theories, in simple games. Tim, my husband, works ten hours a day. Our maid cleans. I cook, play Bridge, take quiet walks along the Susquehanna, watch the oarsmen glide down the river.  Our family is close, loving, considerate, one I have to get away from when the mood envelops me so tightly I cry, always alone. The inside of me begs for a place of my own, a creative place where noone yells, ‘Ma, I’m home,’. No phone rings, there are no emails to read and delete. What I need is growing clearer.

 

My wants and actions are two different things. The thirty year haze is clearing away. I want to write ! I’ve tried it many times and end up with trash, rolled up scraps of garbage. High school kids do better than I. My reading Hemingway, Stoker, Dickens, Berry even Patterson, does little to no good. I do not learn technique, structure or expletives (except my own). They are all far above me. My brain goes into melt down...and then a match flickers.

 

Houses, apartments, rooms to rent fill three columns of the Sunday Philadelphian. Rain is battering the front of our house. All the rose petals have flown away. Tim sleeps late and lord knows what the teens are doing. Surely texting, celling, perhaps studying, but I doubt that.
Newspaper print has become too small, too pale. Sunday ads are minuscule. While my vision is 20/25 I still  have to get Tim’s magnifying  glass from his bedroom desk. The three columns become readable. None grab me and my spirits hit the fan. Monday morning’s paper has only one column of rental ads. I don’t need 500. One promising one will due. ‘Room to rent. Unfurnished Single/F. 2nd fl. Pvt. house/facilities, river view available by the month. 411-392-0518 noon to 4.’ I cut it out and scotch tape it to my writing book. The line is busy but I get thru at 1:30. Mrs. Freeman suggests I come right over as others are interested. Bull, I think, but go. The location, fifteen miles away, is great. Elderly Mrs. Freeman keeps a clean house and is most accommodating. The downstairs furniture is dated but makes no difference to me. I will be upstairs a few hours a day whenever I feel like it. She asks if I want meals too and I tell her no and that I won’t be sleeping in the room either. My writing explanation suits her.

 

The very next day I take a folding aluminum table, a usable lamp that was laying around in our basement forever,  a coffee maker and mug over, stop in Office Depot to buy a swivel chair to be delivered the next day. My ipod with the music I love is in my purse. In MY room I open the shade and there is the river, a tiny part of it, but enough for me. My little experiment will remain my secret.

 

In the family  house I gather some toiletries, hand towels, Kleenex, toilet tissue, a bag of pretzels and most important, pens, notebooks, a Thesaurus, paper clips, scotch tape and make my move.

 

The silence surrounds me. I shake with excitement and begin:

 

‘The man was already cold, quite dead. I walk carefully, wait for the ME and..........’

The Range Battle - ATTENTION, ATTENTION!

The tall stainless steel refrigerator stands like a soldier next to the stainless steel dish washer. They give me security. I wear dark glasses as I peel and chop onions, lots of onions. The glasses do keep my eyes from burning through to my brain. Fresh ground sirloin waits in a large stainless steel bowl. It is already seasoned and has felt the A1 sauce slide thru its pores. The last ingredient, onions, plops directly in from the cutting board. My hands knead it all together, form a dozen good sized burgers that fit perfectly into my Pyrex baking dish that has been with me for many years. 

 

The oven has been pre-heating at 375 degrees. I open its drop door and no light is inside, no heat hits me in the face. ‘Gordon, come quick. Help!’ I call to my husband. The T.V. is blaring in the living room so I go there to get him. He is sound asleep,  snoring. The newspaper sport page is laying on the floor. I clap my hands as hard as I can close to his ears. It takes two claps before he asks me if dinner is ready. Why did I even bother him? He can’t fix anything. Even a nail goes in a board lop-sided. Still, I can do nothing and drag him to the kitchen. Gordon opens the oven door and sees what I told him I saw, no light, no red coils. My setting is as it should be. ‘Go find your GE contract, maybe there is a service number on it.’ ‘Christ, Gordon, our range is 18 years old, what service would GE give us? Give me a better idea.’

 

‘Okay, first, put those raw delicious smelling burgers in the freezer. Then scrub your hands to get the onion stink off and then get a jacket and we’ll go to Burger King for supper. How’s that?’ I glare at him. I flare at him. ‘You go to Burger King and I’ll divorce you. You get a jacket and we go to Best Buy for a new range. Maybe they can deliver it tomorrow. I’ll put the burgers in the fridge, not freezer.’ He doesn’t argue because he knows I won’t give in.

 

‘Appliances to the rear on the right, Madam,’ We head straight for it. An elderly couple seems upset as they search for a salesman. There doesn’t seem to be any. ‘Wait here, Gordon. I’m going to find a manager.’ It’s a big store. Two young men in electronics tell me he is in the t.v. area, but I can’t find him. It’s 7:30 and I am beginning to panic. The store closes at 9. By a circuitous route I find my way back to Appliances where Gordon is talking to a salesman. ‘Marcie, this is John. What do you think of this Malan range? ‘ Are you nuts, Gordon? Our newish fridge and dishwater are stainless steel, why would we buy a white range?’ ‘Because it’s on sale, that’s why.’ ‘Go sit down, Gordon, I’ll handle this.’

 

I ask John if GE makes a stainless steel oven and give him the size we will need, 36" high, 30" wide and 25" deep. Gordon keeps quiet as he should. John takes me, with Gordon following, around the corner of regular appliances to all GE offerings. My joy is clearly visible. I point to model LX107 and ask the price. $1250 with the attached microwave,
$1100 without it. ‘Gordon, we might as well get the microwave and get rid of the small counter top one we have.’

 

I look at him and see numbers running madly thru his head. His brow is wrinkled like an overstuffed pig’s belly. His eyes squint. He takes me aside and tells me to be quiet, don’t butt in. The surprise comes when he asks John if $1250 is his best price. John takes a pen and small pad from his apron pocket and starts to figure. ‘I can give you a 10% discount as a final amount.’ ‘Sold,’ Gordon says. ‘Wait a minute, Sir. There is an 8% sales tax, $150 delivery charge/installation and another $50 to take away your broken oven. Do we have a deal?’ I could see Gordon was about to say ‘yes,’ when I stopped him cold. ‘John, can it be delivered tomorrow morning?’ ‘We can’t do that Madam. We close in 30 minutes. Delivery can be Friday, not Thursday.’ I don’t stop. ‘If it isn’t delivered by noon Fri. I won’t accept it.’ ‘We’ll try, that’s all we can do.’

 

Gordon gets out his Master Charge card, gets his receipt, shakes hands with John and we drive to Burger King.

 

Friday the oven arrives 11:45. The kitchen is complete. All stainless steel soldiers are at attention. General Fridge is tall, mighty and commands the room. Captain Dish Washer controls Central Quarters while 1st Lt. oven is on guard and  heats up the area.

 

They make a handsome army that is meaningless without me, PFC. I control them all plus Gordon.

Livin' and the alternative: PAIN, PAIN-GO AWAY

I’m embarrassed telling you this story about the strangeness of my  husband, but am going ahead with it anyhow. He was a hider, par excellence, a faker, my heart breaker.

 

Ray Milland playing a sotted to his gills alcoholic, hid his whiskey bottles in ridiculous places. In one scene his wife finds a bottle in the glass ceiling light fixture. My husband, Larry, stored that info is his smokey brain. Whiskey was nothing. 4 packs of cigs a day had him trapped in their web. There were ash trays in every room in our house, even the laundry room where I never saw him lift a finger to take clean clothes upstairs. The stench of cigarettes seeped into the furniture, the drapes, clothes. Opening windows gave no relief. Holding my tongue, my temper, caused arguments. Letting loose caused arguments. There was no winning on my side and none on Larry’s.

 

In July 1948 the sneak, the hider, had bad chest pains but didn’t bother telling me. Our family doctor notified me that Larry had had a mild hart attack and needed bed rest for at least two weeks. I was there for him, every moment. I threw out all of the ashtrays, fixed his meals, made his bed, gave him peace and quiet by staying out of our room as much as possible. Did a bad heart cause eye trouble? I never heard of it but Larry told me not to turn on our bedroom ceiling light because it strained his eyes. After three evenings of babying him, I switched on the light and at once noticed the room was not as bright as usual. I brought in a new 75 watt bulb, balanced myself on our mattress and reached for the bulbs. Cellophane crinkled. The light in my head lit up. 2 full  packs of Lucky Strike plus a ½ empty one were stashed above my head.  I flipped, I yelled, I threw them at Larry. He hustled to pick them up. That nite I left him, went to stay with my mother. Against her good advice, I came home to Larry in the morning.
Nothing had been accomplished. Promises were broken, new hiding places found. On day 12 of Larry’s bed stay, he and his car were gone when I returned from the grocery. First thing I thought of was he had a bad heart attack and the ambulance had taken him to the hospital or the morgue. I died a little. Looking as at ease as a child eating a chocolate sticky apple, he took off his jacket, pajamas and got into bed, declaring he was bored and just had to get some air. I checked his pockets. They were empty. The car trunk had a carton, a damn whole carton of Pall Mall.

 

There was no alternative for me except to call Dr. Sachs who admitted him to Landsdown Hospital when he should have gone to the insane asylum.  His room was semi-private and had the same cigarette smell as our house only much less. ‘Larry, where did you get cigarettes here? You are killing us both.’ The young man in the next bed admitted he gave Larry a pack as he had no idea that it was verboten. I gave it back and got a promise he wouldn’t give away any more.

 

This went on for years. At home there were burned matches in the trash can but no sign of cigarettes. A pocket of Larry’s best sport coat had singe marks. Oh, lord, how miserable we both were. The cigarette battle came to an abrupt end when Larry learned he had cancer, prostate cancer–not heart disease or lung cancer. I always felt he hid cigarettes up his ass.

 

With his many treatments in radiology, later chemo, the taste for everything disappeared. I cared for him, cooked for him, sheltered him, not as a martyr, but as a wife who, in spite of everything, still loved him.  I accompanied him to every oncologist visit, to the radiation unit, sat by his side for hours as chemo slowly dripped into his arm. I held his other hand, gave him hard candies to wet his dry mouth. He was able to eat my chicken soup with noodles and I had a small bowl for him every night, plus rich vanilla ice cream that went down and stayed down. My prayers never reached god’s ears,’ give Larry peace already. Let him go.’ It took another three years before god put his hearing aids in his ears and freed Larry and me.

 

Well, not exactly. Two of my friends asked me why my head was shaking. I couldn’t answer as I was unaware that it was. They added, ‘Your right hand shakes too.’ ‘Thanks a lot, Friends. That’s perfectly wonderful news. Have you been saving this up to tell me for my birthday?’

 

Sleeping became fitful. I was sure, almost sure, I had Parkinson’s,  made an appointment with a well known neurologist. In the busy waiting room, I filled out forms and waited to be called. Other people were couples or grown children with a parent. I was alone. Somebody opened a spigot and my eyes overflowed. Movies of Larry’s suffering, my being there for him 100% thru it all, hit me like a bolt of lightning. I was glad not a soul came over to see what was wrong. All of the Kleenex in my purse  was slop.

 

Finally I was called in, had test after test, my reactions put on a chart.
My mind was only on being alone. I was scared, needed my Larry. I detected a smile on Dr. Moore’s face when he sat down behind his big oak desk. ‘Mrs. Krone, you do not have Parkinson’s. What you have is a familial nerve problem. I sighed deeply but contradicted him. ‘Dr. Moore, I know of no one in my family who had Parkinson’s or this familial nerve thing. How can I have it? The shake stopped by itself in a few weeks. The doctor was wrong and I am alone, with no one to holler at, watch like a hawk–

 

and have nobody to take care of me except my Insurance Home Care Co. 

FANTASY FUN: COME AWAY WITH ME

The moon looks greenish to me tonight. I get my binoculars from the car trunk and gaze, stare at the green moon. There are wiggly things all over it that look like worms. ‘Professor, Professor Black, come quick. See the moon. It looks green. Now do you see the little black things? They are worms eating the stale cheese. Our moon is going to be devoured!’

 

‘What can we do?’ a miniature dwarf who is only ten inches high asks.
His brother who was only six inches high was stepped on by a Great Dane. ‘Can you find the little mark near the rock with the white circle? The little mark that is in the middle is the squashed six inch dwarf. His Big Brother visits him every day and leaves him a teeny, tiny cookie.’

 

The moon is now a cusp, a yellowing cusp. Everyone applauds. The moon is saved. It’s going to grow again.

 

‘No, no, Mrs. Cow. Please don’t try to jump over our moon. It has been sick and needs time to get well. Stay still.’ A little dog wags its long, long tail and runs in circles. ‘I will find a fiddler and we can all dance, have a party.’ The fiddler plays. A string breaks. ‘Oh my, we can’t have our party,’ he cries. ‘Stop, stop that little pink cat. I can cut her open for a piece of gut to make a new string.’ The cat mews and runs to hide between the fiddler’s feet.

 

‘Mr. Dwarf, are you wondering what that bright thing is in the sky? It gets shiny, then fades. See? It’s doing it again. It keeps doing it, on, off, on, off.’ The fiddler dances to his own tune and tells all who are around him, ‘The thing in the sky is a star. It twinkles and twinkles and when it doesn’t, it sprinkles water on us and we all get wet.’

 

Henny screams. ‘Everybody hide, quick. Hide, hide. The sky is falling, it’s really falling. A piece of it fell on my tail. My sister is over there in that glass bottle. She’s being saved for the rainy day that is coming soon.’ ‘Are there any more pennies around here?’ the fiddler asks. ‘Just jump in the jar.’

 

They do. He puts a lid on the jar and walks away.

Caring for myself: THE WORLD ACCORDING TO ME

I feel lonely and terrible. In fact, I feel terribly lonely. Trying to analyze my situation I’m a blank. My home has a welcome mat at the front door and another on the side porch. Three days a week I am busying volunteering  at the Sheriff’s office only a mile away. True, it is a dull place. Criminals aren’t brought to ‘my’ office. It’s all a paper mirage where I straighten files, make new folders, e mail a few messages and answer the phones. In three hours my shift is over and I drive home to an empty house.

 

There are always messages from my 2 married children and once in a while, Gil, my seven year old grandson, says, ‘Hello, Grandma. How are you? I am fine. Goodbye.’ No question, he has been prodded to do even that much. Don’t tell me that I should be satisfied as long as he calls at all. That’s nonsense. I am not. I dote on that boy, send him gifts, cards, insist he come to the phone when I get a chance to talk to my son, which is usually Sunday.

 

Not long ago, although it feels like it was back in the Middle Ages, I had a husband, lady friends who had husbands. Henry and I had social connections that filled many afternoons and evenings. Life was pleasant until the guillotine fell on my world. In less than a month I had leprosy.
Did I accept it, put up with the emptiness? Yes and no. I invited the ladies to lunch, offered them the season tickets Henry and I had for the ballet, Cabaret, Jersey Boys, Barber of Seville. Little handwritten thank you notes arrived and should have been enough but they weren’t. All I had hoped for was that somebody, anybody, would be a true friend and invite me someplace. It hasn’t happened yet.

 

Thanksgiving is almost here. I put on my boxing gloves and refused to accept my children’s excuses that they have already been invited else where. Sternly, I told them to apologize and cancel their commitments. True, I was a bitch and let them hear my croaking voice, my tears dropping on my chin. I shamed them for the first and last time. They came. Darla brought her delicious candied sweets and home made pumpkin pie. Elaine brought hors d'euvres and a string bean casserole. Evidently, my daughter and daughter-in-law had already planned on taking these items to their other dinners and I grew jealous.

 

Something, a lot of things, were missing for our first Thanksgiving without Henry. My inner glow, my joy were just two on the list. Dinner and conversation were over. They told me how much they miss Henry and invited me to their homes whenever I want to come. I suggested Christmas to Elaine. There is no hesitancy. ‘Sure, Mom, we’d love to have you but we are going on a cruise to the Bahamas. I guess we forgot to tell you.’ Darla is silent and waits for Ira to find a way out of my coming for the holidays. Ira couldn’t come up with  an excuse, came over and hugged me, ‘Sure come on the 24th and you can help Darla fix dinner.’

 

I drove the 110 miles myself, enjoyed working in the kitchen, the delicious dinner we had without Elaine and Eddie. Neither Ira nor Darla had told me when I was to leave so I told them when I intended to go home, Dec. 27 as I had a date for New Year’s with a man I met at the Sheriff’s office. They were very pleased.

 

I wasn’t. I lied.

I'm getting older--and bolder! (FOOLS RUSH IN)

I know very well there are eight wide steps with wide railings to my brownstone apartment on 35th St. Most likely I’ve been up and down them a million times in the year since Haley and I began sharing our comfy apartment. We have been friends forever, back to college days.

 

As usual I looked behind me before putting my key in the lock and did  it again tonight. But I guess I wasn’t careful enough because I heard what sounded like someone jumping over the balustrade. Then I felt something in my back and screamed, ‘Don’t shoot. Don’t kill me. I’m a writer!’ ‘You’re a what?’ a soft pleasant male voice said. ‘A writer- a writer. Here take my purse.’ The gun came away from my back. ‘ I sternly told the person I won’t even turn around, he should just go away. I managed to see a black hand fumble through my bag and then toss my belongings on the step near the door. ‘I don’t want your purse,’ he said. ‘Are you Shirley, Shirley the writer? You must be. I’m Clinton, Haley’s new, shall we say ‘roomer?’

 

I’m still scared. Haley never mentioned Clinton. I’m not letting him in without her okay. ‘Clinton, I want to buzz Haley so we can get in. I won’t tell her you’re here but will say I lost my key.’ ‘Go ahead. It’s getting cold out here.’ I buzzed two longs, one short and there was no reply. Clinton knew that. I suggested we go to the corner coffee house to wait for Haley but he only want to go upstairs to be comfortable. This was awkward but I held my ground. ‘Either we go for coffee, a hoagie or stand here all night. I was angry. ‘Mr. Clinton, or whatever his name was, grabbed my arm and told me in no uncertain terms to unlock the door. Somehow I still had the key in my hand. Without blinking and faster than the little gray mouse that lives in a hole in our wall, I threw the key as far as I could towards the street. It clunked some distance from the curb but couldn’t be seen from where we stood.

 

Idiot that I was, I pretended to have Simon Legree’s long black moustache and snarled at Clinton, ‘You are foiled, Sir. Leave before I sic a policeman on your foul head.’  His reaction was not what I semi-expected. From nowhere I thought he had produced a box cutter and my neck was what he was going to cut. Instead, he burst out laughing. ‘Jenny, you are not a writer. You are a comedienne. Come on, let’s find your key.’ I was indignant. ‘You go find it. I didn’t throw it away because I felt like scraping my knees on the red brick pavement.’ Darn if he didn’t go looking for it. In the meantime, I felt in my purse and found the spare key in the make-up spot. I got it and left him in the semi-dark evening. Once upstairs I called for the police right away. If there was a siren, I never heard it. My ears are attuned to let them pass in silence.

 

Our buzzer rang, two long, one short. That had to be Haley. I buzzed her in. The sound of her key in our apartment door felt calming.
‘Hi, Doodle, look who I found crawling over our pavement. This is Clinton. He’ll be staying in my room with me until he doesn’t.’ Clinton smiled to me and told Haley we had met ouside.

 

This had been my night to fix supper for Haley and me but I had been side-tracked. I suggested we go out for pizza, my treat. Haley went in her room to wash up, change her clothes. Clinton, unconsciously asked me to relax, pointed to the sofa. I sat. He sat next to me, almost on my lap and expressed himself right away by groping my breasts. My indignation flared for a minute, only a minute, as I realized it felt good and I was overly excited. That doesn’t mean I told him to stop.

 

Haley’s heels clicked on the wooden floor. Clinton adjusted himself. I straightened my skirt. We moved apart on the sofa before Haley came in. She said, ‘I’m ready.’ Smart aleck Clinton said,’ I’ve been ready waiting for you. I need a shot of Jack Daniels before we go.’ ‘We young ladies don’t have hard liquor here. Lets’ go tie one on with Chianti  at the pizzaria.’

 

We did just that, almost wobbled down the few blocks to our brownstone. Haley didn’t ask for my key and used her own. Upstairs we three used Haley’s room together. It had been a great nite after all.

 

I went to the hardware store the next day to get a new key for myself and one for Clinton. He already learned that Haley has the nite shift on Thursdays.

WILL ROGERS HUMOR

Someone sent me these. I LOVE THEM. The humor and good sense of the old cowboy remain worth pondering.

Will Rogers was quite the cowboy, with all the wisdom of simple, honest folk. His words still ring with common sense today...

Simple but Brilliant and full of truths! Enjoy!

Will Rogers, who died in a 1935 plane crash with his best friend, Wylie Post, was probably the greatest political sage this country ever has known.

Enjoy the following:

1. Never slap a man who's chewing tobacco.

2. Never kick a cow chip on a hot day.

3.. There are two theories to arguing with a woman . . Neither works.

4. Never miss a good chance to shut up.

5. Always drink upstream from the herd.

6. If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.

7. The quickest way to double your money is to fold it and put it back into your pocket.

8. There are three kinds of men: The ones that learn by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence and find out for themselves.

9. Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.

10. If you're riding' ahead of the herd, take a look back every now and then to make sure it's still there.

11. Lettin' the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier'n puttin' it back.

12. After eating an entire bull, a mountain lion felt so good he started roaring. He kept it up until a hunter came along and shot him. The moral: When you're full of bull, keep your mouth shut.

ABOUT GROWING OLDER...

First ~ Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it.

Second ~ The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for.

Third ~ Some people try to turn back their odometers. Not me; I want people to know 'why' I look this way. I've traveled a long way, and some of the roads weren't paved.

Fourth ~ When you are dissatisfied and would like to go back to youth, think of Algebra.

Fifth ~ You know you are getting old when everything either dries up or leaks.Sixth ~ I don't know how I got over the hill without getting to the top.

Seventh ~ One of the many things no one tells you about aging is that it is such a nice change from being young.

Eighth ~ One must wait until evening to see how splendid the day has been.

Ninth ~ Being young is beautiful, but being old is comfortable.

Tenth ~ Long ago, when men cursed and beat the ground with sticks, it was called witchcraft. Today it's called golf.

And, finally ~ If you don't learn to laugh at trouble, you won't have anything to laugh at when you are old.

Standing tall is good for the backbone: ON THE UP AND UP

Our four year old son, Daniel, is tall for his age–and strong. He works out on his daddy’s treadmill when daddy Vincent goes to work. Already I see muscles developing in his soft calves. Dr. Sanford has told me to stop worrying, let Daniel be himself. What he is doing isn’t going to hurt him. I have no comeback and just hope he is right and I am wrong.

 

When I come into the kitchen the following morning, I am shocked to see the refrigerator door wide open, the butter soft. I didn’t leave it open and Vincent had gone up to bed when I did. He didn’t leave it open. Only one other person, the culprit, could have done it. Daniel.

 

I call him down for questioning. ‘Vincent, Darling, did you drink all of the milk I bought yesterday, the whole quart? ‘ ’Yea.’ ‘And you didn’t bother closing the door? Shame on you.’ ‘Ma, I had my banana and jelly sandwich in my hands.’

 

Our son, from what I can see when he brings his playmates into our basement clubroom, is close to two inches taller than any of them. He and his friends just play, don’t notice that he is taller than they are, but Vincent and I do. Every four months or so I have to take him shopping. His play pants are short and tight. Recently he wears his bedroom slippers not only in the house but in the yard. My insisting he wear his shoes makes him cry. ‘No. They hurt, Mommie.’ ‘Put them on so I can check the toes.’ Sure enough, the shoes are outgrown.

 

This calls for another visit to Dr. Sanford. He seems a bit annoyed at my questions, my overbearing concern for Daniel and tells me again not to worry. ‘Mrs. Karlin, you know that kids don’t all grow the same way. He is either going to slow down or be taller than your husband. Here, let me show you this ‘average’ chart.’ I pull my chair close to his desk, put on my bifocals and read aloud with him, Average for‘Caucasian males, age four is 37", weight 35 to 37 lbs. Daniel is 38 ½” and weighs 40 lbs. Does this mean your son is a freak? Absolutely not. Take him for new shoes and be back in 6 months. I’ll check him again. I suggest you not let Daniel see you are worried. Good day, Mrs. Karlin.’

 

Days, weeks, months go by. The little black lines I make on the kitchen door frame get wider and wider apart. Vincent gets upset with me and spray paints over them. ‘Cut it out, Woman. Nothing you say or do is going to change anything–except-you may become a divorcee.’

 

The sixth month wait is almost over but I can’t wait. I make the appointment with Dr. Sanford for 5 ½ months. Daniel doesn’t want to go there anymore. I have to bribe my own son. ‘We can go to the mall later, get you new school clothes and we can stop at Dad’s gym so you can shoot some low baskets.’ Reluctantly, he answers, ‘Ok, but this is the last time.’ All vital signs are excellent. ‘Mrs. Karlin, Daniel measures 42 ½ inches and the average is 40. His weight is 43 lbs., average is 41 ½. Do you have any problem with this?’ He makes a copy of the chart and gives it to me. ‘As long as Daniel is well, we will notify you for his yearly check up.’ He gives Daniel 2 new comic books of Spider Man and a disc of an old Mickey Mouse cartoon. ‘Have fun, Son. You probably don’t even know anything about Mickey Mouse. He was one of the first cartoon characters when movies started to talk, way before you were born. So long.’

 

My comparison paper is getting shabby. I use it again when Daniel is 10.
The average male Caucasian is 51" tall and Daniel is already 55" tall. For the last three years, I’ve been making lines on the door frame again. Our bathroom scale shows he weighs 20 lbs. more than other boys his age. He is not the norm. So far he has had his tonsils, adenoids and appendix removed, had some pretty bad colds but is remarkably healthy. I count our blessings and stop making lines. At 18 he graduates high school on the honor list. He’s almost finished growing and stands 6 ‘ 6'. He’s the tallest senior to walk down the aisle. We see his head high above all others. Daniel has been accepted to MA State College,  has never had an interest in playing basketball, doesn’t even watch it on t.v.

 

Our son has his heart on becoming a surgeon and we assure him he can because he IS ABOVE AVERAGE.

A Worthwhile Day at no cost: WORD SHOPPING

I am seated on one of five stone benches, artfully positioned around the main fountain at City Central Mall. My writing book is on my lap, my pen in hand. Inside my shoulder purse are three new pens, just in case I get carried away writing about what I see, feel, smell, absorb today. Shoppers walk past, quizzically wonder what I am writing, if I’m a reporter or doing office work. That is fair as we look at each other. They don’t see the me of me but I will try to see them.

 

My attention is drawn by the plip plopping of the drops into the fountain’s basin. There is an almost tribal rhythm. Each drop has a distinct sound as if music is being composed. It sounds nothing like rain. The gurgling is from the cold water I feel as it bubbles over rocks, almost mesmerizing me.

 

The spell is broken but a new one starts. A young  woman’s heels make static as she chases her toddler around the pool. Their laughter joins the music of the water.  ‘Stop, Angela. Wait for Mommy. I have a penny for you. It’s my last one.’ Angela waits, puts her little hand out and takes the shiny penny, throws it toward the water but it falls on the Spanish tiles and rolls, stops against my foot. Her blond Shirley Temple hair teases me so that I want to run my fingers through its silk. Instead, I pick up the penny, give it to the child and add two of my own. One at a time, they drop in the water, close enough to the edge that if I want to, I can pull them out again–but no, I don’t do it.

 

Coffee, I smell coffee. It smells cold and uninviting. It is brown and curdled under my bench. Why didn’t I smell this sooner? There are no empty seats waiting for me Why didn’t I condemn the pig who hadn’t bothered to dispose of it in the large waste can within a few feet of the fountain? It is disgusting and I don’t want to touch it. It can lay there forever.
Two ladies get up from the bench next to me. A fat lady on the end, having rested her feet,  also gets up, gathers her shopping bags and leaves. They are filled but do not seem heavy. Her rear wobbles. Her underarms are perspiration stained and I can smell them. For sure she is somebody’s grandmother so why the dreadlocks, I wonder. Is she making a statement or does she believe she is ‘with it’? A new odor chases the perspiration. Pancakes are sizzling on a griddle. The dreadlocks disappear, supplanted by a red and white polka dotted bandana. A white bib apron covers her spreading torso. Her grin is wide and full of glee. A pitcher of maple syrup is about to be poured when she suddenly vanishes. I make a quick note to use her in my next story.

 

Two promenaders come towards me. Their black shoes are almost identical. The sound of the platform soles make the small tiles echo. The girls walk briskly, each talking on a cell phone. Both phones are black as are their jeans that are bursting at the seams. The girl nearest the stores pops her phone into a bright red tote bag she managed to loop around her hips. My hearing is extraordinary today. As they come closer, Maisie tells her friend to slow down. ‘Why?’ ‘Because I’ve got a big oozing blister under my toe thong.’ Jilly offers no consolation and nastily says, ‘I told you to get the 6 1/2. The 6 looked too tight. I have a Band Aid in my bag, want it?’ ‘Sure, thanks’, says Maisie. ‘Let’s go sit on that bench over there near the fountain.’

 

It just so happens their choice of a bench is the one I am using. I have room on each side of me, room for my purse and writing supplies. I am comfortable, don’t want to move. Maisie asks me to ‘scoot over’ so she can talk to Jilly. These girls are barging in on my space. And I don’t like them, didn’t even like them when they were too far away for me to hear. They are close enough now for me to see 10 very red painted toes on Maisie and  10 black as pitch on Jilly. Their hair is spiked and their eyebrows pierced. Stop being so critical my conscience says. I don’t pay attention, gather my writing supplies and move away from them and their unpleasant smell. I’m not sure but I believe their hair is tainted with pot.

 

It’s lunch time and California Pizza is right around the next corner. I head there and am lucky to get a small table in a fairly quiet spot. In 10 seconds flat an adorable, clean waitress is offering me all kinds of pizzas. I ask for a few minutes to decide. She smiles and says, ‘Sure.’ My writing book is ready. It begins with the sweet glow of the young waitress. It comes out of her pores. Her yellow uniform, along with the dozens more flitting around the place, become fireflies dancing in moonlight. I order an extra thin medium pizza, lots of sauce and cheese, plus a few anchovies thrown in. Someplace it is baking with all sorts of sauces and toppings. My nose itches. I suck in the aroma, let it envelop my entire mind.

 

My pages are filling, getting spotted by dripping sauce, but I am feeling, seeing, smelling and tasting my afternoon.

Don't give up the ship: THE WAIT

The noisy click clacking of the metal cart in the hall stops at my door. I can tell it is a knee that gives it a little push, just enough for the door to open wider and allow five slender, delicate fingers to open it all the way. A lilting ‘Good morning, Mr. Devlin, precedes the rest of Florence. Her candy stripe blouse, cap and breakfast tray start my morning needle free.

 

‘Would you like a warm cloth to wash your hands and face before I uncover your breakfast?’ Of course, I nod my head ‘yes.’ She goes into the minuscule bathroom that is merely a convenience, no shower, no tub. Florence returns with a stainless steel bowl of water, a wash cloth and hand towel. ‘Will you do the honors?’ I ask. We smile at each other as our routine is familiar every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning when she comes in to volunteer at Bradley G. Hospital.

 

‘Let me adjust your mattress, Mr. Devlin. Lie still.’ My body moves in rhythm and I am almost sitting up. ‘Lean forward, Sir. I have a fresh pillow for you. ‘ I am slow but she doesn’t hurry me. As if I were a child, she asks me if I am comfortable, would I like my toast buttered before it gets hard. Some mornings I feel like a puppet on a string,  doing things without thinking. It is not bad. ‘Nathan, your male nurse will be here soon. He’ll help you change your p.j.s, take you down stairs for more blood work. I’ll see you lunch time.’ Almost childishly she waves and says toodle oo,’ stops and asks if I need anything else before she ½ closes the door.

 

Nathan has little to knock on. Instead he does a soft shoe shuffle and walks right in. Pulling the really loud, colorful curtain around my bed, he strips me as if he were plucking a chicken. I manage to dangle my feet so he can get my p.j pants on my thinning legs. He closes only two of the top buttons, ties the waist string and brings in a wheel chair to take me to the radiation lab. We should be friends as he has done this almost every day for two weeks, less Sundays when everyone gets a rest. I have laid on the cold table and been bombarded with radiation rays until part of my skin is turning black. Thoughts are never pleasant, hopeful. It will be weeks before the results are known and I admit to myself that I am frightened. So far nausea, tiredness have not happened to me. Maybe that is a good sign, but I doubt it. I speak too soon to myself.

 

Florence with her little noisy cart brings my lunch to my room and I sit straight up, am ready to eat. The bowl of tomato soup smells tangy, good. It isn’t but is edible. A cheese sandwich on white bread, 2 sad looking slices of tomato and a side of green beans not 100% de-frosted are almost ½ eaten. I feel sick, can’t control myself and heave over my tray, my thin blanket and my pajamas. Lying back in the mess, I manage to reach the call button. Apologizing is impossible. Miss Gold, head nurse, calls Nathan and together they thoroughly clean me, make me feel and look human again. While they wash the bed and put fresh sheets and pillow cases, I sit in a chair near the window and watch the traffic go by. Nathan hands me a clicker in case I need help and leaves me on my own. Internally, my insides have calmed down, mentally I’m a friggin’ wreck. All I can think about is I am going to die. The upchucking has proved the radiation isn’t working.

 

After my two week stay at Bradley G. I am dismissed. My release and freedom is punctuated with alternate days of radiation, another CAT scan, another lung scan, more blood work until I feel drained. I force myself to go to my business, a high class men’s apparel shop. Every day I spend time with my effective manager, go over records, place special orders, keep as busy as I can for as long as I can.  I go over my will with my attorney, make a few changes, talk to my accountant, cry over the goodbye letters I write to family and friends. My weight is ten pounds lower than a month ago and I look to myself like I died already. But I believe I am keeping my worries and fears deep inside of me and try desperately hard to wear a happy face.

 

Radiation treatments end in three days. Dr. Polanski stays behind the lead shield as usual while the rays concentrate on the marked area that will soon be bones. On my final day he tells me it will take a week to ten days before the results are finalized. He shakes my hand, wishes me well. I walk thru the waiting area, pass men and women anxious to be called, open the door to the parking area and there I see a familiar sweet person waiting for me. She has a bouquet of red roses in one hand and a huge peppermint lollipop in the other. Florence gives me a friendly hug, a smile and a handshake along with her best wishes for my future health and waves her cute little toodle doo. I stand there feeling a bit foolish and disappointed.

 

Instead of being delighted, I unashamedly cry. In my car I pray to god, pray harder than I’ve ever prayed for god to take care of me. Then I wait for the ten days.

 

The roses have faded. The peppermint lollipop has been licked a few times and thrown in the trash. Each ring of the phone gives me jitters. I jump. Trying to be brave, thinking lovely thoughts does not work. ‘Mr. Devlin. This is Dr. Polanski. Your results are back. Sit down. Are you ready to believe me?’ I do not remember answering him but do know what he says. ‘Mr. Devlin, all of your tests are negative! You and I have beaten that damn cancer. Go, live a good life. Make an appointment for 6  months for now just for a check up.’ The excitement, the relief makes me pee in my pants. I don’t give a damn. I take them off, put them in a large paper bag and into the trash can on the terrace. I shout to the sky, to god, ‘Thank you. I am going to be alright.’

 

It’s Monday. Florence is on duty. I’m happy, whistling, driving to Bradley G.  I ask at the reception desk where I might find Florence and am sent to the third floor, section C. I see a lunch cart outside of room 404 C, walk towards it, glance in the room and there is Florence, wiping the face and hands of another male patient, smiling, smoothing his hair.

LIE DOWN: I saw her nose - -Honest

I am sitting between my husband, Jason and his younger brother, Roy. The day is gray, mournful. A disc of Bette’s favorite song, ‘Pennies From Heaven’ barely hums through the chapel. My mother-in-law is lying in a walnut casket. It is open, exposing the cream colored soft silk pillow. A matching cover reaches from her toes to her waist. Friends walk slowly past, touching cold fingers, dropping a few white rose petals around her. Two out of state cousins who only come to weddings and funerals kiss her forehead.

 

The family sits in the first two pews. I can barely see Bette’s little pug nose above the edge of the casket. My brain snaps a picture of its ashiness, imbeds itself forever. Shutting my eyes so tightly they hurt, but do not erase that image. This upsets me. I don’t want to see Bette dead . For me she is destined to stay alive, smile, be warm, loving. Shaking my head does not clear the sad lifeless image. 

 

When I stare into empty space, Bette sits up, sees my sorrow. She holds onto the sides of her resting place and works her way out. There she is alive, walking towards me. Jason pokes me and tells me to wipe that silly smile off my face. People are looking. ‘Was I smiling, Jay?’ ‘Darn right you were. What’s wrong with you? That’s my mother in that box, show some sorrow for god’s sake.’

 

Bette looks with gray almost lifeless eyes at her son. ‘He loved me, loved me a lot. Don’t upset him. Jason’s going to really miss me.’ I put my hand over my mouth and pretend a cough. In a whisper I say, ’Ill miss you too, Bette. Stay with me a while, please.’

 

There is music, loud music. The mourners look around to see what is going on. They see nothing out of place, but I do. It is Bette, holding her flowing dress, inside the Family Room. She had put the disc of Pennies from Heaven on loud and was skipping in circles. Reverend Blackmore hurries in to turn it off. She turns it on again. He pulls the plug and leaves perturbed, unsure of how this disgraceful thing happened. The mourners are outside waiting for the family to get into the limos behind the hearse for their ride to the cemetery. I look for Bette and can just see her nose protruding from the coffin.

 

Jason looks disheveled, angry, blames me for the music. I protest and he starts to pull me outside when he sees a penny on the floor. He says nothing, picks it up and puts it in his pocket. I say nothing either as I have already found nine pennies around the disc player. My husband and I go to the limo in silence.

 

I wave goodbye to Belle, put my fingers in my purse, and silently count the present she left for me.

PAGES: A Long Time Ago

Who are these 48 teens standing in tiers, side by side, on the six broad steps of Forest Glen High in 1941? They are children, pipsqueaks who aren’t wet behind the ears yet. The photographer can’t be seen but I can still hear him. ‘Quiet. Everybody quiet. I want no laughter, not even a smile. Look straight at me. I’m ready. Don’t move.’ The shutter of his big, black Kodak clicks. We all relax. ‘Did I tell you to move? As you were.’ This time, to be spiteful, all the boys in the top row smile. Mr. Rogers rages. ‘Get silly just one more time and your class picture will not be in the yearbook.’ Our class president steps forward and warns us to follow instructions or we will take the consequences.

 

Dusting a place in the closet that really needs my attention, I had taken my yearbook from the shelf thinking I’d give it a quick swipe with my freshly washed dust rag but that doesn’t work. I sit down on the carpet, cross my legs and cradle my year book in them. Susan McDonald’s drawings fill the fly leaf and 2 more pages. We were in Art Major class together and I was, in retrospect, jealous of her talent. Now her work seems so amateurish I momentarily believe the art committee made a poor choice. I should have been the class artist. I’m being mean, like I was way back then because she was good and we were friends. Often we shared a twin popsicle, sometimes orange, sometimes chocolate.

 

I turn the colorless pages. Black and white looks so blah now that the world is madly in love with color. Ah, here are the Major teachers. They sit around a bare oval table. Most likely the photographer told them not to smile either. Without color, I still see Miss Nelson, the art teacher, wearing her purple dress with a bolero jacket. Never in two years had I, or any one in art class, seen her wear anything else. Did she have a dozen of them all the same? I wondered then and still wonder. Two pages stick together. Carefully, I get them apart. My god. There I am standing in front of an easel that holds my prize winning poster for our Junior show. I received two free tickets. Pages begin to move more quickly. Sports teams, shots of the gym, the track, don’t interest me. The next section begins with Pearl Harbor. My shoes are visible amongst all sitting on the floor in the school hallway, leaning
against the wall, our heads down between our knees. This was to be our bomb plan. We might be safe if we know what to do. Ha ha! Chills make me shiver. I put the year book down and start going through one of many photo albums. They are all well organized but many of the little black corners have dried up so the pictures are loose and cracked.
My grandmother’s photo I kiss tenderly as I had promised myself I’d do whenever I saw it. Over the years her wrinkled face has become pink from my lipstick. Her memory sends juices into my bones and my heart. She wears a dark brown cotton dress with little squares as the design. Her shoes have laces, the left one is undone. Long, soft silvery white hair is piled on top of her head. How we loved each other. I kiss the photo again and put the album back on the shelf.

 

As I start to put the yearbook away, a picture, 4 x 7, falls on the floor.
Where did this come from? I don’t recall ever seeing it before. The young face stares at me. Neither the eyes nor mouth move, but the face talks to me. ‘Annette, why wouldn’t you walk home with me? Why didn’t you sit with me at the Junior show?’ Harold was the first senior in our year who didn’t graduate, who joined the army the day after Pearl Harbor and the first student we knew was killed in France.

 

I tell Harold that I wish I had been nicer to him, kiss his picture, get a tiny, tiny bit of lipstick on it and scotch tape the picture on the page it would have been had he survived.

Almost True: Welcome Back

The tour bus moves at a snail’s pace towards the Coliseum and I am low enough, depressed enough, not to give a damn if we get there at all. Under happy, excited conditions my dear husband and I had been here eight years ago. Now my daughter sits beside me trying to make conversation, force my mouth to smile more often. She has hope. I don’t. Our bus is one of hundreds, all indistinguishable from each other except for the large white number on the windshield and rear of the bus. #101 is easy to remember but I note it on my hand. We move quickly, fall in behind #100.

Flags of all colors, shapes and sizes make a colorful sea. Our guide has an overly large red and white striped one that keeps us in line like prisoners in a chain gang. She has our tickets and we enter the Coliseum. I watch out for broken stones, cats which mean rats and catch a few strangled English words from our guide. My daughter insists we stay close to the guide, wants to learn more about the gladiators, feel the swords going in and see the blood coming out. Dini makes me cringe. My almost new tour book is handy. I give her facts. ‘This falling down historic relic was started in 72 A.D. , held 50,000 spectators, had 80 entrance ramps and could be totally emptied in 5 minutes. Dini, how can anybody know about the 5 minutes? Here take my book. A new section was found recently with tiles and plaster figures. It isn’t open to the public yet, so if you want to see it, come back with a husband.’

‘Avanti, avanti!’ Signora Catherina waves her flag and leads us right to our bus. The jabbering, excitement of what we had seen fills the gassy air. I am well aware I sit still, feel like a marble column with a huge crack going up from the ground to the cornice. The couple seated in front of us turns to tell us how awful it must have been to watch the gladiators die. For once I laugh. ‘The spectators loved the gore. That’s what they came to see.’ Dina grimaces at me. I shut up.

We head to the hills of Rome, make pit stops, look out to see the Golden Dome, hear more history. I make a mighty effort to show interest, to smile, to sometimes make a remark. Dina prods me to do more.

Maybe I doze off for a few minutes or else I got involved in my own memories. Visions of our club dances, parties, jokes bubble in my thoughts. I loved to tell and listen to jokes, loved to dance, do the cha cha, the twist. But I knew my limits, never, never joined in singing. My self imposed limits let me know I sound like a screech owl being clawed by an eagle and I refuse to pretend I am a canary.

Evening has fallen over Rome. Our bus almost chokes going up a narrow dirt road where 42 of us, the driver and guide will have dinner al fresco. Spotless white table cloths cover wooden tables. Candles protected from the wind in glass containers have are circled with violets and greens.  It all looks so romantic. Dini and I are the only singles in our group and we both feel a void. A waiter in a white apron, covering his shirt to his ankles offers red or white wine. I shake my head to decline. Dini points to the red  and shows him duo fingers. My glass is filled. Our dining companions, in fact, I guess the entire travel group, must be aware that I am a recent widow. How could they miss the melancholy in my eyes? ‘Dini, somebody drank my wine,’ I whisper. When I look again, it is full. Dinner is excellent. My plate is empty but my wine glass remains full. The cannoli is far better than what I get in the bakery at home.

I sip my first glass of wine as if it were nectar of the gods. The twinkling stars are my roof. A gnarled old man with a winking eye walks amongst us, playing an accordion that has seen better days. So have I. I don’t recognize his songs but  sway with the fun and drink ½ of my wine.  Yes, I do feel better, stand to stretch my legs and hasten to catch the music man. ‘Can you play ‘Hello, Dolly?’ I ask. He nods and begins. I grow wings and float behind him, go table to table, flailing my arms to come follow me. ‘Sing, sing’ everybody sing.’ The sheep follow me. ‘Well, hello, Dolly, hello Dolly’ reverberates through the hills. America is listening. Dini brings me back to the table as those behind me and the duds who didn’t get up all applaud. I bow and rush to the bushes to vomit. Catherina finds me helps me to the bus. Even in my dizziness, I hear applause. It’s a long ride back to our hotel, I am told, but don’t feel it at all. I sleep until we pull up and Dini shakes me.

We have an early morning start as we are headed to Florence. As soon as the bus starts I ask the guide if I may use her mike. Not being able to whistle, I stand there smiling and surprisingly enjoy full silence. All I want to do is apologize to all of you for being a sourpuss, singing like the drunken fool I was. You all seemed to have survived my singing. Catherina, have you taken the roll yet?’

Mrs, Brodsky, seat 12 on even days, 13 on odds, pipes up, ‘Why in the world are you apologizing? You were super. Every body had fun, even the accordion player. The driver and Catherina add their ‘yes’ to the chorus. There are a few possibilities. Maybe I was wrong and I’m not a screech owl. Maybe the wine was drugged somehow.

Or maybe, ear plugs were distributed. I don’t know but won’t be singing on the radio any time in the future.

 

Foolish Folks: BLACK SUN

It’s a gray morning in Ft. Lauderdale. I sit by the motel window and stare at the line of cars headed to warmer Key West. My grilled cheese sandwich cools and tastes like shoe leather. The weather channel warns that rain, heavy rain, is due from Boca Raton to the Keys. I watch the gray sky turn grayer, take off my bikini I had expected to wear, deposit it on the twin bed, put on jeans and a non-interesting T shirt with nothing under it except my bouncing boobs.

 

My roommate, Jason, is doing laps, unaware, uncaring that the beach will be blah today and we have no plans for such unexpected tragedies. Ashley, in a sunny yellow thong, her long blond hair almost the same color, lets it blow itself into knots as she steps out of her doorway. She’s slugging a can of Miller’s Lite and I gag at the thought of this so early in the morning. She gives me a toodly  wave and goes to sit on the edge of the pool where Jason will soon be breast-stroking by.

 

More beer cans, attached to sun-tanned arms, are ready for a sunny day, a wild volley ball game or 10. For the sunny day they’ re expecting
they will have to drive north to Boynton.

 

‘Come on, Guys, let’s get a volley set up while we can.’ Abbey and Jason go to sign for it. Reluctanty, I join them. ‘Did you hear that?’ I scream.’ ‘What, that little bit of thunder? No, we didn’t hear it or see the lightning either.’ Jason, I’m going back to our room. You idiots want to stay out here in an electric storm, stay. I’m gone!’

 

I get to the door, start to put the metal key in the lock and a tingle goes from my fingers to my elbow. I turn the key, jump back and leave the door unlocked so Jason can come in safely. The AC is on and we don’t need it. I’d like to have 15 minutes of heat instead. The AC is turned off. I put a blanket over my shoulders and lie down on the bed.

 

A thunderous clap of thunder shakes the room. My phobia is digging in. I look out the window and still see the volley ball players at it, not caring about the lightning hitting the waves. The thunder excites the volley players. The t.v. takes my mind off the storm for only a few minutes. ‘Bulletin: water spouts have been sighted in the Ft. Lauderdale area. They may mean a tornado is forming. Seek shelter.’ The players don’t hear the warning so dumb little me, waves her arms frantically, tries to yell over the wind, ‘Come in NOW.’ They ignore me.

 

I’m scared. I’ve never seen a water spout but see one now. It is grey, taller than tall, and spins like a well-wound top, only faster. Jayson, Ashley, the other 4 players hear the whoosh and start running. The dervish is at the ocean’s edge and starts to rise. It rises as far as we can see and disappears in the unknown.

 

Beer cans are on the beach. The volley ball net has much bigger holes than it had a few minutes ago. There is silence as the unexpected phenomena came and went and we are all safe. Sans moi, the group returns to their game.

 

A crack of thunder, brilliant lightning and they follow me into me room.
Sam, the Silent, opens his usually sealed lips to thank me for the warning. Jayson tells his buddies and Ashley how brave I was to try to save them. My modesty evaporates, ‘Thanks everybody, I DESERVE YOUR THANKS. Now will you all leave so Jason and I can play tiddlywinks?’

 

They get the message and go. Jason does the winks and I tiddle around.

Learning: ONE PLUS ONE

Kindergarten class has a graduation party. Miss Rose, the round-faced pretty teacher gives each kid a Tootsie Roll, a lollipop and a paper flag she made with a big black one painted on. We march around the room, stop at the American flag, salute it and return to our tables. In September we go to first grade but I want to stay with Miss Rose, but can’t. I heard my mother talking to my Aunt Sarah that she is glad I will be in school all day and she won’t have to worry about keeping me busy in the afternoons.

 

Summer flies faster than Robert can run. Mother takes me to the 5 & 10 cent store and lets me pick out my first companion. I choose a red one that has 3 yellow pencils and an eraser on the top row and under that are crayons and white and colored chalks. Daddy lets me look at it again and again but I am not allowed to use it yet. He buys me a copybook with a picture on the cover of Mickey and Minnie Mouse. They are standing in a class with other tiny mice saluting the American flag. Daddy sits me down at the kitchen table, opens my new copybook and hands me a pencil. ‘Take your time, Honey,’ he says. ‘Be slow and careful. Make a ‘D’ on this line.’ I try but my ‘D’ wiggles a little. ‘That’s pretty good, Dolly. Now stay on the line and finish your name.’ I make an ‘O’ and half is on and half is under the line. Daddy makes an ugly face and asks me what comes next. ‘Don’t tell me, I know, two els.’ I do them just right and Daddy claps his hands. ‘Please help me with the ‘Y’, Daddy. I get mixed up.’ He holds my hand and we do it together. I get a kiss on my cheek and return it to Daddy’s head.

 

‘Mother, Naomi sits behind me in class. We’re in aisle two. Today she tapped me on my shoulder and asked me if I know where I came from.
I told her nowhere. We’ve always lived in Rochester.  Miss Colbert, my new teacher, sent Naomi to the coat room because she couldn’t stop laughing. Why was our living here always so funny?’ Mother winks and tells me she has to fix dinner and will explain later. I do my homework, letter my name clearly 25 times and the alphabet A to Z twice. Daddy comes in, looks at my work, and tells me I will have to do better next time. I promise I will and ask him why what I said was so funny. 
Daddy says he has no idea why Naomi laughed. ‘Ask your mother, Child. She might know.’ ‘Daddy, I already did and she told me she’ll explain later.  Will you please do the dishes so Mother can talk to me?’ ‘Sure, Sugar Pie.’

 

Dinner is good. Mother broiled lamb chops, put green beans and little red boiled potatoes on our plates. She didn’t bake today but bought my favorite cake in Grayson’s, strawberry shortcake. I had a piece and a half and got to lick the whipped cream off the spoon.  Mother cleared the table and started to wash the dishes. Daddy told her he will do them because she said she wants to explain something to me.’ ‘Go ahead ladies, talk. I won’t bother you.’

 

Mother takes me to my room. She sits on my bed. I sit next to her, listen and laugh. I tell her I know babies are in their mommies’ bellies. ‘Mrs. Klein let me feel her baby kick one time. I remember asking her how the baby got inside and how it will get out. She told me to ask you but I forgot all about the questions.’ Mother looks a little strange to me. Her hands don’t stay still, her eyes close and don’t open right away. Deep breaths make her titties go up and down. Maybe I should call Daddy . At last my mother starts to talk and tells me how much she loves my father, how much my grandmother loved my grandfather.
I ask her what that has to do with Naomi laughing at me.

 

She gets up, goes in her room and brings a little book with her. ‘Look thru this, Dolly.’ The pages are small, the printing I can’t read at all except for words like be, the, dog. ‘I can’t read this yet, Mother, read it to me.’ ‘Im tired, Darling. Let’s forget the whole thing and I’ll tell you when you are eight years old.’ ‘Okay but don’t forget.’

 

Naomi didn’t wait until I was eight. She told me the very next day.                      

Nice Sentiment

A refresher on how some of our former patriots handled negative comments about our country.

 

JFK'S Secretary of State, Dean Rusk, was in France in the early 60's when DeGaulle decided to pull out of NATO. DeGaulle said he wanted all US military out of France as soon as possible.

 

Rusk responded, "Does that include those who are buried here?" DeGualle did not respond.

 

You could have heard a pin drop.

 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

When in England , at a fairly large conference, Colin Powell was asked by the Archbishop of Canterbury if our plans for Iraq were just an example of 'empire building' by George Bush.

 

He answered by saying, "Over the years, the United States has sent many of its fine young men and women into great peril to fight for freedom beyond our borders. The only amount of land we have ever asked for in return is enough to bury those that did not return."

 

You could have heard a pin drop.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

There was a conference in France where a number of international engineers were taking part, including French and American. During a break, one of the French engineers came back into the room saying, "Have you heard the latest dumb stunt Bush has done? He has sent an aircraft carrier to Indonesia to help the tsunami victims. What does he intend to do, bomb them?"

 

A Boeing engineer stood up and replied quietly: "Our carriers have three hospitals on board that can treat several hundred people; they are nuclear powered and can supply emergency electrical power to shore facilities; they have three cafeterias with the capacity to feed 3,000 people three meals a day, they can produce several thousand gallons of fresh water from sea water each day, and they carry half a dozen helicopters for use in transporting victims and injured to and from their flight deck. We have eleven such ships; how many does France have?"

 

You could have heard a pin drop.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A U.S. Navy Admiral was attending a naval conference that included Admirals from the U.S.., English, Canadian, Australian and French Navies At a cocktail reception, he found himself standing with a large group of officers that included personnel from most of those countries. Everyone was chatting away in English as they sipped their drinks but a French admiral suddenly complained that, whereas Europeans learn many languages, Americans learn only English. He then asked, "Why is it that we always have to speak English in these conferences rather than speaking French?"

 

Without hesitating, the American Admiral replied, "Maybe it's because the Brit's, Canadians, Aussie's and Americans arranged it so you wouldn't have to speak German."

 

You could have heard a pin drop.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

And this story fits right in with the above...

 

Robert Whiting, an elderly gentleman of 83, arrived in Paris by plane. At French Customs, he took a few minutes to locate his passport in his carry on.

 

"You have been to France before, monsieur?" the customs officer asked sarcastically.

 

Mr. Whiting admitted that he had been to France previously.

 

"Then you should know enough to have your passport ready."

 

The American said, "The last time I was here, I didn't have to show it."

 

"Impossible. Americans always have to show their passports on arrival in France !"

 

The American senior gave the Frenchman a long hard look. Then he quietly explained, ''Well, when I came ashore at Omaha Beach on D-Day in 1944 to help liberate this country, I couldn't find a single Frenchmen to show a passport to."

 

You could have heard a pin drop.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

If you are proud to be an American, pass this on! If not, delete it.

 

I am proud to be of this land, AMERICA

Sat. offers me no rest: I CAN DREAM

I don’t choose it. It chooses me. There is no alarm clock, not even a ticking one in my bedroom, other than the one in my mottled brain.  My sleep is deep, some exciting enough to write about. That is when I get the brown end of the stick. At  1 a.m. my body rebels. I sit up, damning, cursing my lack of control over myself. The dream, a possible basis for a short story or a chapter in my book lies idle on the night stand. It flies away like leaves on a windy October morning. I throw it at the closed window, knowing exactly how hard and how far I can toss it without breaking the glass. Ah, satisfaction. This morning’s toss is perfect. It drops harmlessly on the carpet.

 

Maybe I should burn my woebegone book. I am only kidding myself that I will finish it someday. If I do, my agent, Charlie Ross, will have it air expressed to Random House and ‘Untitled’ may be born. In a week Mr. Random FAXES Charley. ‘Good going! Bring Miss Julian to my office  Saturday, October 24, 2 p.m.’ And my dream then  becomes a soap bubble and bursts before my eyes.

 

That’s it. I push away my soft down quilt, dangle my feet into warm, cuddly slippers, remnants of my being a teen. An hour of darkness is diddled away. There are 4 more until five and I can watch dawn yawn, the paper boy tossing his wares from a funky car that must have taken hundreds of tosses to get the cost. I reminisce, wonder where all the paper boys went, how many might be doctors now, teachers, bums, criminals. How many were killed in Saddamland, Afghanistan? ‘Morbid, morbid. Sun, come out, brighten the sky and my lousy disposition.’

 

‘Hell,’ I yell. I forgot my car is do at Lexus by 8:30. I liken my lovely car to myself, ‘We both need a tune-up.’ Mr. Donald is standing near the large glass door as it automatically opens for me. ‘You are a few minutes late, Madam. Cappacino is hot. The croissants are warm and there is home-made raspberry preserves a treasured client brought us. Your wait will be less than an hour. Relax and enjoy yourself.’

 

The waiting area is filled. I love it. I look around, look and write. A lady about forty sits opposite me. She wears pink, a really pink, pink pair of cut off cotton pants topped by a nameless plain white T shirt. Glam sunglasses aren’t really needed in the building but to each her own. My Glams are in my shoulder bag. My fascination is she has a Writing Book  on her lap with a pink cover. Her fingers barely hold her pink pen as her hand glides from line to line, page to page. I wonder if she is writing about me writing about her. ‘Mrs. Courtney, you car is ready.’ The lady is escorted to the cashier where I ask Mrs. Courtney’s phone number. ‘Sorry, Ma’am. There are strict privacy restrictions.’ Rules, rules. This world has too many rules. Did I miss a great chance? Does she have an unfinished book doing nothing but waiting for me?

 

Three very senior men, unknown to each other, are hogging cyberspace. Their cell phones sound like Quasimoto tolling the chimes. One is almost sobbing as his computer hard drive has to be replaced. One humphs  and apologizes that he will be home late for dinner. The third says nastily, ‘I’ll be there when I get there.’ His cell goes in his back pocket. He hurries out to find somebody important to complain to about something.

 

Impatient readers are engrossed in heavy hardbacks, crumpled newspapers, magazines. The man who took the pink lady’s seat still has some tufts of thin gray hair on his head. He smooths it every 3 seconds. Under his navy blue windbreaker, a white knit shirt with wide red stripes peeks at me. Propped on his crossed legs is a tome that he most likely won’t finish before he wears out the remaining tufts on his head. As a non-qualified M.D. I believe his has Palsy or else he is simply trying to find out who the murderer is in Patterson’s latest mystery. I can see his eyes move as he checks  off one character after the other. He leaves and won’t know whodunit until he pays for the car service and gets to where he wants to go.

 

I take a moment to rest as I feel writer’s cramp coming on and realize another senior gentleman has been staring at me, perhaps amazed at my concentration. When he sees me look at him, he quickly  averts his eyes. His actions lead me to believe  he sees frogs coming out of my mouth.

 

A name is being called but I can’t catch it. It’s called again. On the third time I walk over to a young woman who has no seat and ask if she could hear it. ‘Yes, Wilson.’ I thank her and explain my name is Millison and I thought I was being called. ‘Sorry,’ she says and I wonder why she is sorry.

 

‘Millison, Millison,’ rings loud and clear. I follow Buddy to the cashier window and am delighted, ‘No charge. Your warranty will be over next week.’ I had been so into my writing, I hadn’t realized it was noon and I could use a sandwich. Buddy tells me there is a little eatery across the street, one block to the left. I leave my car on the lot and walk over. The place is busy but there are seats at the counter. Chills run down my spine. Between two empty stools is the lady in pink. This is fate. I speak to her at once as she is almost finished a slice of apple pie.

 

She is attractive but that is not important. All I care about is her Writing Book. The lady is a high school English teacher and the book contains exercises for her students’ homework. Kindly she lets me glance at them. We talk a few minutes about form and story writing. She takes her check, wishes me good luck with my book, and leaves me sitting there eating a hard boiled egg sandwich. I am disappointed but glad to have that now off of my mind.

 

We would never collaborate. I am a far better writer than she is. My day was well spent and I am ready to dig into ‘Untitled’ tomorrow.