'Oh, where have have you been, Billy Boy?'

HILL BILLY

 

Black and gray roofed farm houses dot the rolling wheat fields. As I look down from my narrow window seat on Southwest Airlines I recognize the tall red silos with their silver caps, standing like soldiers on a chess board. Soon my feet will touch Kansas where my heart has always been. I will see it, feel it, touch it, breathe it in. Mom, my dear widowed Mom, will be waiting for my huge hugs at the luggage rack.

 

Need I have worried? Of course not. There she is looking none the worse. She does, however, notice me noticing a new slight curve to her back. Quickly she lifts her shoulders, smiles like an angel and reaches me as I reach out to her. We are both so happy we can't stand each other and pull apart. 'Mom, leave my suitcase alone. I'll carry it, not you, ' means little until she tries to lift it. 'You win, Willard. Then she adds, 'Wait here, I'll get a cart for you.' 'Let's go, Mom.' Leaving the parking lot, she tries to hand me two bucks that I refuse.

 

'Will, are you ready to meet Uncle Harry's children?They're good kids. Be nice to them. Jake is the older boy. He's fifteen and a lot smarter than Billy's whose 8. But I love them both. They keep me busy, never sass me or talk back.' Guess what I'm making for dinner. Your favorite Jambalaya!' Jake likes it too but the boys will get roasted chicken with my super roast potatoes.' 'Mom, I'm already salivating.'

 

The house is cool, comfortable without air conditioning. Gentle winds come in the windows from two directions. Uncle Harry enters thru the kitchen door. Holding the tail of his plaid shirt is Billy. Uncle Harry and I shake, have a few insignificant words and he heads to the kitchen for a glass of ice cubes and dash of water. Jake shakes my hand. 'Glad you're here, Uncle Willard. Maybe you'll play tennis with me one afternoon. ' He leaves Billy with me and Mom. Billy is a good looking boy, kinda cute. His face is moon shaped, his eyes a soft blue. He looks at my Mom and with a question mark on his face he asks her if he can go outside to the hills again.  Before Mom answers, I ask him, 'What's on the hills, Billy?' He looks at me as if I am stupid and tells me the gnomes are on the hills. I look straight at Mom and ask her, 'What is Billy talking about. Gnomes?' Mom turns her head so Billy can't see her and winks to me. 'Don't you remember Willard, I wrote you about the gnomes who moved onto our hilly land. They're Billy's best friends. Now you be nice to them if you see them.' Billy, shyly thanks her and goes outside.

 

When I see him walking down the path to the fields, I ask her what gnomes. 'Can't you see, Son, can't you tell Billy isn't exactly like us? He's a bit backward, not 100% up to his age level and has no friends at school so he made up the gnomes. Lord, he has me believin' in those things already.'

 

Dinners, lunches, breakfasts made and served with love, clean towels in the bathroom, empty hangers in the closet waiting for my things, all tell me I am home, but I am not. My week flies by. Each day I watch Billy going into the fields, walking up hills until he disappears. Jake waits for him to come down every afternoon, well before it gets dark. One day I notice Mom packing lunch and later see Billy walking up the hill carrying the brown bag.

 

My short visit is over. It has been a wonderful respite from city life, being with my family, watching the wheat sway and dance in the sunshine. I say good bye to Uncle Harry and Jake, almost crush my Mom with tender love but don't see Billy. Uncle Harry calls him, Jake leaves me at Mom's car and goes searching for Billy. 'It's time, Mom. We better go.' I put my suitcase in the car trunk and head to the airport.

 

As I get out my plane ticket, I find two one dollar bills my Mom got into my pocket when I came. I can't help but smile. I find something else, a tiny piece of wood that somebody had shaped into an ugly person–maybe a gnome. It has a little leaf for a hat and chicken feathers for a beard. I fold it carefully in my white handkerchief and put it in my shaving case. On the plane I write a simple letter in all caps to Billy.

 

'Thank you, Billy. Next time I visit, please take me up your hills so I can meet your gnome friends.

 

Love, Uncle Willard.'

A Whopper !

ON LINE

 

'Wendy, take this. I have another.' Chrissy hands me a a straw hat with a wide red ribbon around the crown, the stem of a white silk rose stuck under it. 'Thanks, Chrissy but I don't need it. I'll be fine. There's plenty of shade aboard.' 'Wendy, take it. You'll thank me.' I don't thank her then and don't expect to later. Now I am cursed, in charge of her hat. My boyfriend, Mort, carries the first ice chest to the car. It looks really heavy. Wally, Chrissy's betrothed, has the other chest that must hold the beer. It leaks a little. 'Everybody ready?', Chrissy asks. Saying 'No' was wasted breath. My neck is almost broken when Mort steps on the gas and the car jumps into action.

 

Milton Blvd. is busy. After less than a mile, Mort slows down, asks Wally if he noticed an Exxon station on the right. Wally hadn't noticed it but replies, 'Yeah, there used to be one here but it's been gone for about two years.' With a definite snarl in his voice, Wally says, 'You already missed our turn. Go down to the next street signal and make a U.' An argument is brewing. Mort's face turns red. 'You want to drive, Wally? Be my guest. I know the way. We'll make it with ease.!' He turns his head halfway to the back seats to tell the girls to keep their eyes open for a big red arrow on the right side. 'It should say Ocean Dr. Just tell me before we pass it.' 'Sorry, Mort,' Wendy says. 'We passed it five minutes ago.' Mort's hot, yells at Chrissy and gets yelled at himself. 'Don't you get so ornery with my Wendy, Mort. I'll clip you one when we get out of this cheese box car of yours.'

 

Mort pulls over, stops the car just as Chrissy sees the red arrow pointing the opposite direction. Turning just his head around he has to stop for traffic. Slowly he drives about 100 yards and there is another arrow and the Exxon gas station. 'See, I told you I knew where we are headed.' We open the car windows, smell the ocean, see the fishing boats, the packed parking lots. Wendy gets their parking tag from her purse and hands it to Mort. We look at the endless rows of piers, the drift boats loading. Our wharf is #12, five from where Mort will try to park. 'Calm down, Everybody.' Drivers honk, are loud, obnoxious. 'I can reach the beer,'Wendy announces. 'Anybody want a cold one?' No one does. ' Let me out. I'll check us in. Mort you and Wally keep looking for a decent parking space. Bring the chest to meet us at 12's boarding gate.' As soon as she starts to get out of the car, Chrissy gives her a dirty look and asks , 'Who made you Queen of the May?' There is nothing else for the girls to do except pay for the reservations. 'Hey, Chrissy, where's my hat?' 'Damn, all the arguments–I guess I left it in the car. Maybe Mort will bring it, if, he finds us.' The girls wait impatiently at the gate and eventually see the big straw hat with the red ribbon coming towards them. Mort looks like a sweating fool.

 

We board the boat, find seats together on long hard benches. The boat workmen are fast, give each person a fishing rod, inadequate instructions on how to use them, put small frozen fish bait on the hooks of the uninitiated newcomers. Lines are not dropped overboard until the captain reaches what he believes to be a good spot to drift, maybe be in a whole school of fish. Only a modicum of hooks have anything. The motor starts as well as a cooling breeze to the next spot where we drift and sweat in the shadeless heat. The old man sitting next to Wally hooks little fish, over and over, throws them back in the sea. Not a nibble do we friends get. Our lines are pulled in, with nothing on the hooks except seaweed. Joe puts another frozen fish on our hooks while we sit like automatons, bored, bitching about our bad luck.

 

Something is up. Fishermen are reeling in their lines. The workers are running back and forth pointing into the water. Somebody had caught something big. 'Look, look! It's jumping. Get your lines in fast so they don't tangle.' Wally and Mort pull in theirs while Wendy and Chrissy barely stir to wind in theirs. Joe runs down the line of benches, stops dead in front of Chrissy, grabs her hand and loudly tells her to hold her rod tight and, 'Wind, Lady, wind.' She tries hard but the line pulls her to the edge of the boat. A stranger holds on to her and tells her to wind, wind. Everybody aboard is on the lee side watching Chrissy trying to wind. Joe has the line in his hand and pulls hand over hand until the fish is seen. Chrissy has to keep winding. Wally holds on to her waist. The monster fish comes closer. Joe lifts as it struggles but it loses the fight. He holds it right in front of Chrissy's face and everyone applauds her catch. Joe starts to hand it to her but she screams, 'Take that ugly thing away from me.' Cameras come out from nowhere. She and her fish are the stars of this drift boat.

 

The captain, who we had never seen, comes out, shakes hands with Chrissy. With his bullhorn he tells the 100 people staring at the fish, 'Ladies and Gentlemen. I have been captain of this boat for twenty years but I have never seen the likes of this fish. It has evidently come from across the Atlantic. It is called a Houndfish.' Addressing Chrissy he asks her what she wants to do with it as it is not an edible species. Calls reach her. 'Can I have it?' 'How much do you want for it?' "Let me have it. I'll mount it on my den wall.' Chrissy talks it over with the Captain, Mort, Wendy and ends up telling Joe to put it in the ice bin until we land.

 

As we approach the pier, Chrissy must decide what to do with it. The very next person who congratulates her and wants the fish may have it.
It happens to be a handsome young man who limps and evidently has an artificial leg. 'You, Sir, may have my Houndfish. Just do me a favor and send me a picture of it when you get it mounted. OK?' She hands him her card.  He is thrilled, Joe gets the fish out of the ice bin, puts it on a cart and wheels it to the car for the injured man.

 

Weeks go by, months go by, but no photo comes from Vermont. It becomes no more than a dream except when Chrissy has the chance to describe her adventure to new friends, strangers the fish has grown larger with each telling. She relishes her semi-fame but never goes drift fishing again.

HAPPY/UNHAPPY FIND

PAPA'S HIDEAWAY

 

'Marc, have you seen your father? He's disappeared.' 'Sure Ma, he's in the living room, snoozing on the sofa.' I can hear her stacking the dinner dishes on the kitchen cabinet, the every night ones. Her small footsteps on the tile warn me she is coming. 'Marc, your father was not on the sofa.' 'I'll look upstairs, Ma.' From the hall, I call her, 'Ma, I don't see him here either.' A sound I have heard a million times sounds like her dentures are slipping, 'Tsk-tsk,' she goes.

 

'Look outside, in the garden, Marc. He's supposed to put the garbage near the fence on Wednesday.' 'Ma, this is Tuesday. He'll do it Wednesday like always.' I'm called again only this time Pop has materialized from no place and asks me where his bamboo rake is. 'Leaves are starting to fall, Marc. I don't want to let them ruin what's left of summer's greenery.' I get the rake for him from the basement where he left it after I mowed the front lawn last week. Ordinarily, I clean up when I'm finished, but with no explanation Pop asked me for the rake and told me he would take care of it. I watched him carry it into the basement.

 

'Sam, Marc, dinner is almost ready. Wash your hands before the salad gets soggy.' My hands are clean but when I sit down at the table, Ma  examines them like my kindergarten teacher used to do. To avoid further discussion on the subject, I rinse them in the kitchen sink and get walloped with a damp tea towel.'

 

'Sam, I called you once. Twice is once too much. Come downstairs now or you will have dinner by yourself.' This scenario is not new. I grin and bear it. Ma is distraught, calls again, 'Sam, Marc and I are starting to eat. When you're ready, come down. You can warm your own meal and eat in the rec room.'

 

Pop does not come down. Ma doesn't have to tell me to go get him. My salad will wait. Purposely I stomp up the stairs calling, 'Come on, Pop. Let's eat.' No answer comes. Ma calls again,' Sam, what the heck is keeping you? You could at least answer.' He doesn't. She tells me to go look for him. 'Your salad can wait, young Man.'

 

I start in the closets. Everything is neatly hung. I look behind the shower curtain. Nothing, noone is there. The tiles are dry. A tough job lies ahead for me as I have to tell Mom Pop has evaporated. She gives me a list of neighbors to call. I walk around the block see no sign of him. When I come back Ma is sitting at the kitchen table. Her color is ashen gray. Tears have dropped on her blouse. "Pop's gone, isn't he? You found him dead, right?' Words of sympathy, consolation are meaningless. I don't say them.

 

In spite of Pop's disappearance, her fear, Ma's mind turns to me. 'Sit down, Marc. We'll have dinner together now, just the two of us.' 'Ma, I'll find Pop, warm our dinner myself and we'll have dessert together. Stop worrying.'

 

It's not quite dark yet, so I walk almost aimlessly, having no idea where Pop might be. I don't bother looking in the super market, barber shop, pool hall, just keep my eyes open, see no ambulances, no police cars. What draws me into Dreyfus Funeral home, I don't know but quickly realize I am not dressed for this 'occasion.' Mourners are standing around an open casket in a private room. There is a familiar cap on the back of one head that looks like my Pop's. Hugging the wall, I try to be invisible as I look for the face on the man with the cap just like Pop's lawn mowing cap. Yes, it is my Pop. Backing out to the hall, I just stand there waiting for family and friends of deceased to leave. That takes fifteen more minutes while I worry about Ma.

 

With his arm around the shoulder of grieving stranger, out comes Pop. He sees me but does not speak. I walk slowly behind him to the exit where he hugs his companion, shakes hands with a dozen or so other people I am sure he doesn't know. At last he gives me his attention, scolds me for being at the wake. We say barely a word until we are in sight of our home.

 

'Pop, Ma and I have been frantic, couldn't find you. I've been looking for an hour. How, why, did you disappear when Ma called us for dinner, just like she always does?' 'Marc, that was exactly why I left. Ma always calls us the same way, threatens me, annoys me. I come to sit with Mr. Dreyfus some afternoons. There is a peace about him, a warmth that comforts me as I wait for my time to happen.

 

Let's go home. But please, Marc, let's first think of a little white lie to tell Ma.'

 

 

OUCH!

EXIT

 

He'd been a dentist for fifty years. There's hardly a person in Ruxton, VA who hasn't sat in his pump-up chair, opened wide, to get a prophy, a filling or two, a root canal done. The smell of the Lifebouy soap, his Sen Sen breath, his pleasant smile put just about everybody at ease. They more than liked him. They respected him.

 

A more modern costly X-ray machine did not mean his fees rose. Patients were more than patients. They were his friends. Dr. & Mrs. Bachman were invited to dinners, weddings, funerals too, graduations. And boy, could he tell a joke, clean or dirty, laughter came thru his almost closed office door.

 

With all the simple wonders, he could be the captain or a lackey, sterilizing instruments, licking statement stamps, mopping the vestibule where rain leaked in. And prompt! Only the wildest, worst emergency would cause his patients to not be seated, draped, on time. He told me often how much he disliked waiting anywhere, especially when he had a legitimate appointment. Mrs. Fink had to wait when she heard him yowl while he worked on her husband. Mr. Frank started to laugh just as Dr. Bachman was going to novocaine his right lower molar for a root canal. Dr. Bachman pulled back fast, but not fast enough. He anaesthetized his own thumb. It was about four in the afternoon which meant he had to close the office, give his patient another appointment.

 

What he loved more than anything was having parents bring their toddlers in for an up and down ride on his dental chair. He would spray their noses with a tiny bit of Listerine, put a napkin around each little, darling neck, show them how the faucet worked without touching it.
It didn't take long for the children to come in for a check up, get a small toy and a hug. As soon as Dr. Bachman heard one of his patients gave birth, he wrote a personal welcome letter to the babe. Included would be a miniature plastic set of dentures.  My children still have theirs.

 

I have wondered over the years why Dr. & Mrs. Bachman weren't rich. His practice was large, the chair occupied seven hours a day. Saturdays the doctor spent at the Penitentiary fixing prisoners' teeth with no remuneration and probably without a thank you either. Once I saw him at his back garage door, just as twilight was to become nite. He let in a black man, in pain, holding his jaw. I wouldn't venture a guess how many times he did that. Some of his patients, had they known, would have found another dentist.

 

Gradually he realized it was time to retire. Still trying to please everyone, he mailed individual letters  announcing his full and complete retirement on Sept. 1, 1958. His and his wife's luggage were at the front door, waiting for a cab to take them to the train station. He didn't make it. A heart attack killed him even before an ambulance arrived.

 

Dr. Bachman's son, already a well accepted dentist with a practice growing fast, handled all the many details of donating the office and waiting room furniture, giving the silver and gold, all supplies to teaching schools. The last thing Dr. Bachman, Jr. went over were a few remaining bills belonging to eight patients who had been with his Dad for the entire fifty years. Seven sent checks with condolence notes arrived. Only Mrs. Brodsky whose full mouth dentures were billed at $50, never paid for them.

 

Dr. Bachman would have forgiven her the debt. I can't.

Risque????

LOLA'S WANTS

 

Well, that Lola gal can want all she wants but she ain't gettin' none of it from me. I don't trust those shimmy, long haired blonds. They think all they have to do is blink their eye lashes, let go of only one 'come on' look and men will drown drooling. There are plenty of takers, for sure, but I've got brains in my head that half the guys graduatin' law school this spring don't have. I can make money faster than that Lola dame can spend it. The bouncer at the Starlight Casino caught on to my superior 'card count' ability and threw me out when my C note reached 1/4 mil.

 

That don't worry me none. I have new clothes, dyed hair and a sorta neat Van Dyke beard. I smack my dough on the green felt pad–five thou to start at the International. I let myself lose for a little while, whine a bit, walk away and come back to get hot. The Guvnor looks me over, pats me on the back and suggests I leave.

 

Neil Facockta is singing in the Willow Room. I always liked him. He's a taste of home. I go in, have a Jack Daniels, two ice cubes, and listen to Neil, send him a drink. He toasts me and I ask him to sing a medley of anything he wrote. The noisy crowd cools down and listens. What's gettin' into me? I've got an itch I haven't had in too long. My itch needs scratchin'. 'Hey, Honey, bring me a Smirnoff Raspberry neat. Her ass wiggles. I lay a fifty on her tray that she takes so fast I don't even see where she put it. She winks and hurries away. Win some, lose some I mumble and exit the Starlight.

 

Headed back to my nest at The Excelsior, I catch sight of Lola. She notices me, moves slinkily around the Ambassador's driveway, stops to wait for the doorman to admit her. I give her room to do what she does best, get a stack of five buck coins for the slots. My first coin rings bells sending me a shower of $1000. Lola hears the clinking and gives me the look I've been waiting for. I turn in my winners that is no big deal for me but impresses Lola. 'Hey, Big Shot, feel like dancin', she asks me. 'Know how to tango? Jose' Rivera is in the lounge.' I ask, 'Your name's Lola, isn't it? I've seen you around.' Lola shocks me. 'You ain't seen much of me yet.' If that isn't an invitation, I don't know what it could be. 'Okay, Lola. I'd like a look.' She'd know where the elevator is if she were blindfolded. Her door card appears from nowhere and slices easily into 2024, the Penthouse. A filled ice bucket is on the bar and the bar is unlocked and stacked.

 

We pretend not to be in a hurry but I am itchin' for what I came to get. It turns out to be damn good, too good for me to leave immediately. 'Ok if I bunk here 'til after breakfast, Lola?' Damn if she doesn't flutter her fake eye lashes and give me a hard-on. I use it up and leave my one night stand gal what I think she was worth, open and close the door silently.

 

Down the hall I whistle a happy tune as I head back to my hotel not being upset that Lola got what she wanted because so did I.

My Boy

NO MERCY

 

'Dad, will you please help me with my algebra assignment. I just can't get the whole idea.' He throws his World Report on the floor and growls at me. 'Alvin, let me alone. Don't you see I'm reading? Crapo, Son, algebra's easy. Put your mind to it. You'll get it!'

 

My evening relaxation has been shot to hell. I pick up the report and sit down next to Alvin and explain the theory again. He continues to look confused. Holding back my frustration, I call him 'Al' and ask him why he won't get a tutor at school. 'What a stupid reply he makes, 'I don't want to look dumb to the class.' I almost tell him the truth, 'You are dumb.' but don't. I spend another half hour with him, repeating what I have said a dozen times. Glory be, suddenly I see a sparkle in his eyes. His brain has latched on to something. He hands me the three examples I gave him to work out and they are all correct. His joy, and mine, result in his fixing us each a banana split with a cherry on top.

 

Alvin is a basketball fanatic, especially with his high school team. Somewhat sheepishly he asks after the dinner table has been cleared,
'Will you please, please, let me have ten bucks? I really need it.' I can feel my mouth drop open. 'Ten bucks? What for?' 'I don't want to be the only shmuck when Jeff, Eddie and I take dates to the malt shop after Gwynns wins. Their Dads already gave them date money.' I know I have to stop this new idea before it gets out of hand. 'Alvin, suppose, Gwynns loses the game, are you still the girls for a 'victory celebration?' My inexperienced son tells me he hadn't thought of that but most likely they'll go and try to sit in the back booth. 'See, Dad, I really need the money.' I give him two fives. 'Now get away from me and let me watch Gorgeous George bring Handsome Harry to the floor. Don't forget to give me the change!'

 

I am anxious to know if Alvin's team won, how he made out with his date and wait up for him. It's barely 11 o'clock and Alvin's home. 'Dad, here's your change, $2.52. We bought pop corn at the game that we lost, had burgers and malts at McDonald's. That shot a big hole in your ten bucks.'  I wanted to ask him if he kissed his girl good night, but didn't.

 

Alvin was home on Sunday, my almost fatal Sunday. I was cutting the lawn with our new electric mower and my hand slipped. Just as I was sure the mower was going to run over my hand, Alvin ran out of the house. 'Dad, Dad,' he screamed, 'roll over, roll over.' His voice sounded like he had a bucket over his head, but I rolled. Alvin had hold of the mower and was guiding it towards the basement. He brought me a damp towel and a cold drink. 'Stay still, Dad. I'll take care of you.  Mom will be home from the Farmer's Market soon and we'll both take care of you. I hoped Alvin didn't notice the big tear that must have mixed with what was running out of my nose. When I was again calm, cool and collected, Al put his arm around me and told me he had kissed the girl the night he, Jeff and Eddie went to the basketball game and lost.

 

'AL, you are a chip off the old block. I kissed your mom on our first date, too. How are you doing in math, Son? '

A Day Makes

THE DIFFERENCE

 

Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled, knocked down dozens of ten pins. The sky dwarfs have been busy all night. The heavenly souls have lost all control. Hail ratatat-tated on the roof, cracked the small window in the guest powder room. Pellets turned to rain drops bigger than my thumb nail. In all of this miserable weather I could still make out the fountain of nymph, Diana, spewing pink water out of her breasts in the circle entrance to my building. It's a circus, a goddamn circus out there. I can conjure up no reason at all to get out of bed. I lie here, my heart almost pounding the rhythm of the rain drops. Thunder shakes the ceiling fixture hard enough for me to duck under my quilt.

 

Without seeing a single ray of sunshine, my watch lets me know morning is outside the window. 7:30? The sky is still ominously black. I can't believe it and change my thinking, call it dark blue, mixed with a bit of gray. It's creepy. Diana still assists the storm god to overflow the fountain, make busy rivulets to the entrance way. I worry. Is the lobby flooded? Will the elevator work? Will the morning papers come before the evening edition? Should I get dressed or simply lie here, wait to die?

 

A bright flash lights up the big screen t.v. on the wall opposite my bed. I almost jump out of my skin. Did I leave it on all night?  My semi-senses tell me that it must have gone off in the storm while I was still able to sleep. Evidently, Comco is back in service. Now where the hell is my clicker? There, it's on the floor, close enough for me to reach without getting up. I hit channel 58 for the weather report. 'Today will be sunny, high 80. Rain tomorrow. Take your umbrellas.' Comca is behind times. Maybe I should let them know and they can fire Johnny Lightfoot. By a long shot, this is not his first blooper.

 

Johnny had erred. Somehow he got his days mixed up. The storm that wracked Gainesville for twenty four hours comes to an end. As the 8 a.m. sun shines on my bed, its warmth brings comfort and peace. With pleasure my feet slide into my slippers. I walk to the window, open it all the way and feel a slight breeze kiss my cheek, tease my hair. Diana looks healthy. Pink fountain water still flows from her breasts, making a double rainbow on the sidewalk. George, the maintenance man, has a crew clearing broken branches, retrieving loungers that had blown into the pool. I feel exhilarated, so good, so happy I yoohoo to George, wave, salute him. T.V. promises a perfect day. Coffee, coffee, I must make coffee, fill the percolator and hit 'on' Instant gratification. It works. A fast shower, a clean, soft towel tingles my body. I'm ready for that perfect day. 

 

Outside George is taking a break. I wave to him again. He waves back and nods. The coffee finishes perking and so have I. There's a knock at the door. George hands me two red roses he managed to rescue.

 

I never report Johnny Lightfoot to Comca. Waiting for that perfect day came.              

Open Palms

BUTTERFLIES ARE FREE

 

I'm sweating it out. Three weeks ago I called EzDuzIt for two $2 coupons for my dry eye drops. The last of my .0511 oz white plastic dropper will be empty by Friday. This will not be a catastrophe but why does a firm as huge as this one make promises it doesn't keep? Even with the $2 off, one week's supply costs $8. What I am doing today is calling Ez's 800 number and will ask to speak to Mr. Goodman, the president of the firm. I want to give him a mouthful of hell. That will accomplish one thing, my satisfaction.

 

My super market, most likely you have the same kind in Altoona, has weekly specials. Buy one, get one free. In the basket near the thin spaghetti boxes are jars of Morrelli's Spaghetti Sauce.  The label is particularly inviting. The sauce in the jar looks rich, full of peppers. What the heck, I'll buy it, try it, put four in my basket to  use one on the spaghetti and the meat balls I froze last week. Dinner will be a cinch tonight. My mouth already waters. I picture my husband's pleasure when he comes home from work and smells the spaghetti sauce warming.  Harvey and Doris, our teenagers, hold off snacks after school, anticipating a delicious, belly filling meal. The simmering sauce perfumes the house. I have a large bountiful, inviting bowl on the table, full of inviting, crisp veggies and lots of toasty croutons.

 

Donald, my starving husband, digs into the red Vesuvius first. I help Harvey and Doris so they don't make my white dinner cloth red. 'Wow! 'Whoo!' after Donald's first forkful of spaghetti he drops it on his plate, covers his mouth and spits the spaghetti in his napkin. I gasp in horror, know at once the stains won't come out. He manages to cough and advise the kids not to eat any. 'It's too hot, way too hot! Susan, taste this, but take only a tiny taste.' I get the empty jar and go over the minuscule directions. There is no warning. All I can do is dump the whole thing down the disposal. I manage to save the meat balls, nuke jams and string beans just to stave off starving. The unopened sauce jars go back to the super market. The manager tells me I am the only complainer but gives me a refund.

 

In the mail David receives a gift card for two to see a new Fox film, Tuesday 11/1. 'The End' is at Muvicom, ten miles each way for us. It's a traffic mess but we have nothing else to do so go for it. A long line of freebees like us waits impatiently to get in. We manage to get fairly decent seats, sit back and nibble greedily on our $5 bag of popcorn. There is a delay of some kind before the lights go down and the uninviting eight trailers, the big ad offering snacks in the lobby and three different instructions to be considerate, turn off your cell phone are completed.

 

'The End' starts. The invitation had not noted this film was made in Thailand and had English sub-titles. Another problem becomes evident quickly. The titles are not balanced properly making the words unseeable. Several viewers walk out, evidently complain, come back and let us know the projectionist is aware of the trouble and is working on it. After ten minutes of non-understandable dialogue, we and everybody else exits. Free tickets be damned! We wasted our gas, our time and ate the bucket of pop corn that we didn't need.

 

Harvey is in the ninth grade and studying wild animals, insects,  and thinks he may become a biologist in the future. At dinner Friday he tells us about Butterfly House that received new Monarchs. His teacher suggested to the class that those interested go see them.  David and I let it lay open as a future project. Oddly, the very next morning I see an inviting ad in the Saturday Post for Butterfly House, teachers and students free.  'Want to see them, Harv?' Dad asks. 'Sure, great.' He gives up his Sunday baseball game, invites his classmate Bernie to come along. Adult admittance had not been mentioned in the half page ad. It turned out to be $10 per, $3 for the booklet to explain what is on view. We also are confronted with baskets of very ripe fruits to hold in our hands for the Monarchs to come to feast on us. The boys each take half a soggy peach, just like the ones I throw away, and David lays out two more dollars. Counting back, our little trip to Butterfly House cost $28 and two hours of our Sunday morning. Today's cost wouldn't have been so devastating except not one single Monarch ate any of Harvey's peach, didn't even flutter around it. In fact, we never saw any Monarchs at all.

 

David is upset. He asks to speak to the Manager or Director of the Butterfly House. The Director explains that they do not have leashes on the butterflies, can't force them to eat the peaches and offers David the two dollar cost as a refund. He does not take it.

 

David and I have learned a lesson, Butterflies are not free at all. Very little is.

GROWING SLOWLY

ELBOW ROOM

 

The lines to everything that's fun are too long for me and Larry.
Daddy gave me a quarter, thought again and gave me another one for Larry. Mommy gave me a quarter too and told me not to tell Daddy. She's such a good Mommy. My Daddy's good too but Mommy's better. Daddy can't bake cookies or make very thin blueberry pancakes. He could but won't, take me to the movies on Saturdays. Going with my buddies is swell and Daddy's giving me candy money sort of makes up for his staying home with just my Mommy.

 

The amusement park is a short street car ride away. The line to get in is at least a whole block long. We uselessly  look for somebody we know who might buy our tickets. While we wait, we decide on our rides.  I want to go on the giant ferris wheel. So does Larry. Because we each bought ten tickets, the ferris wheel man gives  us an extra five. I ask him for one more so Larry and I will be able to go on rides together. The boss man in the fuzzy red hat with a yellow feather tail pats me on my head and tells me to have fun. He stops  smiling, lowers his voice,  warns us not to shake the seats or lean over. Buckle up and stay buckled!. After three times around, my stomach starts to make gurgle so we get off.

 

Larry decides we should go on the racer dip next. What a long line. We wait and wait until we don't want to wait any longer and walk over to the Fun House. We stand in front of curved mirrors and laugh at ourselves. Larry tells me I look dopey and I tell him he looks weird. We call it a tie. The giant sliding board waits for us. It is really, really slippery. Just as we are going around a bumpy curve I almost slip over the side. Larry grabs the seat of my pants and saves me from certain death.

 

I make the next choice. 'Hey, lets go in the Haunted House. The last skeleton that I know will drop down on us, still scares me.' The ride goes thru coal black tunnels. Our carriage holds six people. We were the last to get in this train so have the back seats. The bats and ghosts make noises, come off the walls right at us, but we have seen them before. The show in front of us is more interesting. When we come out of a tunnel for a split minute and are going into another, Larry asks me what the boy and girl in front of us are doing. I tell him I think they are kissing. Together we both say 'Ich.' Another tunnel and we don't see them at all. We are almost at the end of the Haunted House. Larry and I both are scared this time. Where are the boy and girl who were in our carriage? Larry tells me to tell the man outside that the other people have disappeared. 'You tell him,' I growl back.

 

As we step into broad daylight and adjust our eyes, I point out the two boys and two girls. One boy is wiping his mouth on his shirt tail. The other is buttoning his shirt. Both girls are fixing their belts and pulling up their nylon stockings.

 

'Larry, maybe their carriages were smaller than our back ones and they got squooshed.'  'Yeah, Casey, I guess they didn't have enough room and messed up their clothes. They aught to complain to the ticket taker and get their money back.'

 

'Go tell him yourself, Friend. I'm going back on the ferris wheel. Want to come with me?

 

 

Merry Xmas?

GRAND OPENING

 

His crying had stopped. Tommy was holding onto his mother's hand. Pointing to Macy's Christmas window, he showed her the three bears playing a toy piano. What they were playing could be heard outside. Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer' tinkled, made Tommy laugh and clap. The too thin Santa standing near the revolving door watched Tommy  and smiled thru his long, fake white beard. Pulling his mother's arm, Tommy didn't ask, but told, his mother he was giving Santa his last Hershey bar. Then sheepishly, lowered his head and added, 'Is that ok, Mom?' Without waiting for her answer, he dropped it on top of some coins and a one dollar bill. Santa spoke to Tommy. 'Thank you, Sonny. Your nose is as red as Rudolph's.' He winked and offered Tommy ½ the Hershey. Tommy refused it and showed Santa the Mounds Bar he had saved for himself.

 

Macy's was holiday busy, wild with customers. Every step on the escalators was filled, until the 4th floor toy department, where all kids dragged their moms. He pulled her past the wagons, bikes, baseball bats, games. As soon as he caught sight of the beautiful black toy piano with the three bears sitting on a bench he yelled louder than anybody. 'Mommy, Mommy, over here.' He reached under the red velvet rope and touched the keys. There was a soft tinkle but the keys didn't move. The bears didn't either. 'Mommy, this one is broke. Don't buy it. I want one like the one in the window.' His Mom ignored him.

 

Tommy had something to say and said it. 'Mom, my friend, Josh, has a real piano in his house. He played a whole song for me by someone named Moses Art. Isn't that a goofy name?' 'Tommy the man you mean is Mozart, M O Z A R T. He was a very famous composer who died a long time ago. 'Mom, I sure would like to play a real piano, not like Mozart but my own way. I love music. Can I have a real one for Christmas? Next year you won't have to buy me anything.' His face got red, angry, when his Mom told him pianos cost too much. That closed the subject.

 

Tommy pulled his mom towards the escalator.' Let's go buy a shirt for Dad.'

After the Big Bang

MONSTER MASH

 

The earth shakes. Roaring lions run thru the blue white clouds. I walk behind my father knowing I am safe. Pink  and white clouds float aimlessly toward the snow-capped purple mountains. It is a calm, lovely day until a bolt of silver lightning zig zags over the eucalyptus trees. In one big flash flames engulf them. I believe I hear them crying as they disappear in black dust. The Lightning God is pleased.  My father is not. He has his big eyes on those trees, turns his giant horned head to be sure our tree lunch is gone. I almost frozen in fright. I scratch the earth with my small horn . Rex, the Mighty moves on with me trying to go faster.

 

My father is our leader. He is the oldest, biggest, strongest of our family. I am the youngest, weakest, still suckling my mother. His one tooth is much bigger than I am. My mother walks with the other lady Rexes while my father sinks his teeth into a lepidoptortist, slays it with one vicious bite. He eats almost the whole thing but leaves two hind legs for my mother. With that short rest, we trudge on. My father is still hungry. He is always hungry. He leads us down toward the river. The sun is still warm.

 

The earth shakes again. My father is still hungry. We plod through rocky places, wet and treeless places until he sees a baby mononykus, grabs it in his mighty jaw and swallows it whole. Two more don't see what happened and walk right into Rex's mouth. They disappear except for the feet and leg bones that are left for later or until my mother can get them.

 

The red sun and the shiny moon watch us. Animals run when they hear from far away Rex 's jolting steps. If they can run, jump they do but 20, 30, 40 steps are not as big as one of my father's. There is less and less to eat. He can smell food. We wander. A few baby Rexes, about my size, disappear. My mother, the one who still cares for me, feeds me, has moved on. Where she used to be behind Rex, only I walk and have to climb over bones that may be my mother's. I am thirsty. I am hungry, see no food, taste no mother. My father's big head looks behind him, sees something to eat.  He is not particular.

 

What he sees is me.

Cluck, cluck

OLD MA- DONALDS

 

Daddy took the faded paper flowers out of the two blue vases in our black Buick and put in bright yellow buttercups he cut from our back yard this morning. They don't smell good or bad but do make our car look prettier than the paper ones had. We are going for a long ride to visit Aunt Katherine in Harrisburg. Mama doesn't want her to be bothered fixing lunch for us and comes staggering out of the house with a large cardboard box. I know what is in there. Fried chicken  wrapped in waxed paper, a thick fatty corned beef sandwich on fresh rye bread for Daddy, wrapped in waxed paper, and then put into a brown paper bag and a sliced pickled tomato will be  wrapped in a double layer of waxed paper, too. Mama always has extra rolls of waxed paper in her pantry as she finds something that needs to be protected every day. In our lunch carton there will surely be a jar that still says Peter Pan Peanut Butter but in it will be enough potato salad for all of us. Every day kitchen forks will be wrapped in waxed paper too. There will be plenty of paper napkins but only one package of Oreo cookies.

 

By ten o'clock Daddy wants to pull off the road for lunch. He knows just where to stop. There is a very high hill that meets the road. People stop to drink the healthy spring water that runs constantly from someplace we can't see.  Mama has four Dixie paper cups on top of our lunches. Daddy fills all of them and we sit in the car eating lunch for breakfast.

 

We are just about at the half way mark to Aunt Katherine's farm. Mama talks to Dad, warns him about cars behind us, in front of us. Daddy tells her over and over, 'Keep quiet, Blanche. Driving is tough enough without you telling me what to do.' My older sister, Caroline, and I try to play 'I see something blue,' but that is no good because we pass it too fast.' Mama reads license numbers to us and we have to add them fast before another car comes close. We try counting telephone poles, play 'A my name is Alice.' That gets us to the outskirts of Harrisburg and whoosh we are thru the little town. Daddy tells us to be quiet. 'Mom watch for a sign on the right side, your side, that says
'Farmer's Market. After that we go straight for two miles and we'll see a sign that says, 'Ma-Donald's Farm.' Katherine will probably be in the chicken house or down the underground storage room.' She isn't. Dad honks a few times and out she comes from the chicken house carrying a chicken in her arms. It is skinny and making a lot of noise. Aunt Katherine talks to the chicken as if it were her baby. 'Poor little thing. You didn't eat today. You must be sick.' In a minute she says hello to us, tells us to go in the house. 'There's a big pitcher of tea in the ice box. Help yourselves.' I can't help it but I feel the fried chicken I had for lunch hating me.

 

The kitchen table is set with pretty plates. Aunt Katherine tells us  her husband,

 

Donald, who has been in heaven for twenty years already, bought them for her when they were rich.  'You told me not to fix lunch so I fixed you a 'welcome snack.' From the oven she brought out 4 roasted chickens, their heads still on. Zip, zap, her razor edged knife cut off the heads. With the same swift motion, the wings and feet joined the heads on the largest platter. What looked like a ton of slaw and potato salad over-flowed two bowls. Home-made bread she warmed for ten minutes in the oven where the dead chickens had been. Daddy ate some of the chicken breasts. Mama took one thin drumstick. I took only a plate for the salads, told a fib to Aunt Katherine that I had been car sick  and just couldn't eat anything.

 

 

 

'Want to feed the chickens, Mildred?' I could not say 'no thank you' because she already had my hand in hers and was almost dragging me there. Just ten little steps and I was at the hen house door. Before my aunt opened it, I already felt sick. The smell made me hold my nose.
The best part inside was the chickens clucked so loud I couldn't hear a word my Aunt was telling me–but I saw–saw too much. As she walked thru the hen house, I saw her pick up a fat chicken. With her elbow, she nudged me towards a big wooden block and honest to heaven, offered me a great big knife. 'Watch me. I'll show you what to do.'
With that she put the chicken on the block, raised the big knife, kerplunked it down on the chicken's neck. Only one squawking sound froze me to the floor before  blood spurted out. There was no way she was going to catch me. I ran faster than I ever ran before and got out of the hen house.

 

Back with my parents in the house, I couldn't tell them what I saw. I begged them to take me home but no, Aunt Katherine was fixing dinner for us. 'Ma, I'm not staying. I'll walk home.' She laughed at me. 'We are going to have ice cream for dessert, peach, real peach ice cream that Aunt Katherine churned herself.' Ma, you can have mine. I'm sick. Please take me home.' Dad felt my forehead and declared, 'Mildred, it is a long ride home. Maybe we should leave.' Aunt Katherine was upset, angry, disappointed.

 

Just the same she fixed a big box of fried chicken for us to take home. Dad put the box on the floor of the car right near my feet. The ride home was at least twice as long as getting there. I never went to visit the farm again , don't eat chicken any more and may stop eating beef soon. The memory of the beheaded chicken, its last squawk, the blood, the empty eyes was too much, much too much.

 

I eat vegetables, fruits, nuts. They don't bleed, make noise and I am now  a healthy, happy teen, eating my meals alone most of the time.

The OUT-come

STELLA'S  STARLIGHT

 

The full moon goes into hiding just as Stella pulls back her bedroom drapes. Prepared with her new digital long range camera to get a clear focus  on the especially bright moon tonight, her spirits sag. But she stays at her window, hoping against hope, that the blackness with turn to gray and brighten more. Stella drops to her knees, starts to mumble to Diana. It doesn't matter that her throat is dry, parched from crying. Diana is going to hear her. 'Diana, please, please come out. You can be my salvation.' Saliva begins to dribble from the corner of her mouth. With her hand, she wipes it off, clears her throat and moans. 'Diana, Goddess of Fertility and Childbirth, I need you. Help me!' Diana ignores her. 'Listen to me, see me. My Tony is going to leave me. His mama wants a grandson, three or four of them, and I am barren. Doctors can't help me. Tony's money has been wasted. He calls me bad, ugly names, no longer wants me.'

 

The sky remains dark. Not a sliver of a star twinkles. Stella puts her camera in the closet but still does not give up on reaching the Goddess Diana. Many times during the long night she gets out of her half empty bed to look for the moon. At two a.m. an edge, barely an edge of the moon, appears. She hurries for her camera, focuses, clicks, clicks again in case the first picture isn't good.

 

A distant roll of thunder makes Stella shiver in fright. She stares at the sky where Diana the Moon Goddess should be, chastises her.' You are not fair. Tony's grandmother had eight babies, all boys. I can't even have one. I'll take a girl. Once she told me how unlucky she was until she prayed to you, lit candles at Saint Joseph's Church of the Immaculate. What has happened to you? I am a good Italian woman calling on you. Help me, please.'

 

Exhausted from her praying she lies down on her half empty bed. The door begins to open slowly. 'Who's there?' she whispers. Tony answers, 'Who do you think it is, Woman?' Without another word he tosses his clothes, all of them,  on the floor, climbs in bed with Stella. The slight smell of Estee' Lauder makes her nose run and her eyes tear. The night is almost gone. The sun shines in through the curtains Stella forgot to close. The warmth enfolds Tony who is lying nude. He rolls over, feels the emptiness beside him, whispers just loud enough for Stella to hear him, 'Come here, Wife!' He takes her to his body like a wild man, climbs on her, darn near kills her. He is spent. Stella is stunned into silence.

 

She feels like a miracle has happened. Tony stays home every night. She makes wonderful meals for him. Each morning, the sun shows her changes in her body. It is softer, smoother. The faded color of her hair has brightened to ash blonde. Her broken finger nails get longer, stronger. There is a radiance in her eyes.

 

Tony, too, is different. He is kinder, more talkative, sexier. He has gone as far as apologizing for the way he has been. Little important words like 'I love you' tingle Stella's ears, make her heart quiver. When the moon is full again, Stella goes to her window, calls to Diana to ask her forgiveness for nagging her and to thank her for the gift she and Tony have been given. She is pregnant. Tony, his mom and most of all, Stella are all in heaven.

 

Stella goes to church, kneels before the altar and gives thanks to Diana, Goddess of Fertility and Childbirths. She adds a donation to Father Capella for the orphans.

I couldn't believe it--but do

THIS LITTLE PIGGY

 

My 'surprise' 21st birthday party is set at the Algonquin for Oct.  1. I am alerted when my mom asks me to help her find a new gown for Dad's initiation dinner into the Mason Lodge. Why all of a sudden? She doesn't need me as she is a stunner, only nineteen years older than I am, and her double closet bursts with dresses, suits, gowns worn once or twice and then relegated to the end of the row. Another clear hint that something is up is my dad has never mentioned the Masons before except in revulsion, nor has he ever joined any political group.

 

I'm on to Mom, am quick with an excuse not to attend the Mason dinner. Just to annoy her I tell Mom Evan's cousin Nancy is getting married that afternoon and we already accepted the invite. Mom's face grows cold, long. Her hands shake a little and her long face turns white, then red. 'Holli,' she exclaims. 'Dad has a new tux and absolutely must be at the Mason dinner. It starts at eight. Can't you leave the wedding reception before that?' She goes on and on. 'Hell's bells, you and Evan will already be dressed right. All you have to do is be careful not to spill anything on your dress.' I cannot hold back my laugh and give her a thread of hope that maybe we can make it.

 

I am positive that Evan has no idea I am on to the subterfuge my parents are planning for me. He shows me the invitation to his cousin's wedding and asks to confirm I'll go with him. I act excited, tell him about the Mason dinner and we can go to both affairs. He gives me a warm, tight hug and the subject is dropped.s dropped.

 

By September 20 my Mom starts nagging me to shop with her as so far she hasn't found anything appropriate for Dad's standing. I beg off until she pulls her ace. 'Holli, Dad and I want you to look extra nice. Did I tell you he is one of five inductees and will be making a short speech? We'll treat you to a new dress this time.' Ordinarily I select my own clothes and pay for them myself, but this time I give in.

 

Mom wants something smart, stylish, body hugging, a little on the sexy side. 'Mom, don't you think those men are at least Dad's age. What kind of sexy do you mean?' She comes at me full force. 'Holli, I dress for me, not men. I don't intend drying up like a sliced apple that turns brown overnight.' We tramp from one boutique to until she smiles at a clinging, simple silk gown in a pale cream shade. I don't dare tell her the neckline is a little too daring. Thin rhinestone straps are the only adornment. The skirt is slit to her knees. She could easily be my sister.

 

The specialist saleslady brings out a soft, svelte, pale blue gown for me. There are peacock feathers near the hemline. The bodice is deep but not as deep as Mom's which is no problem as she fills hers out better than I fill mine. Mine she adds to her personal charge account. As we leave, Mom is humming 'It's a lovely day today,' and keeps humming until we get home.

 

October 1 seems to come right after September 20. Our dresses have been altered to perfection. Dad has new patent leather shoes for his tux. Evan and I leave for the wedding at noon. I feel slightly over-dressed in my gown, am careful not to spill anything on it or snag the peacock feathers. It is a lovely wedding. The young couple have been in love since high school. I, and I believe Evan, may be getting thoughts of our own about marriage but have not yet said anything definite.
As we say goodbye to the newlyweds, Evan's family, I begin to get a case of nerves. Am I going to be able to act, be surprised, overwhelmed like Meryl Streep, Judi Dench, anybody besides myself?

 

Compliments keep coming. I become Super Woman, relax, dance, have fun. The buffet dinner is gorgeous, sumptuous. My Mom has out done herself. Dad is dancing with one of our neighbors. I happen not to have a dance partner at the moment and wonder where Evan is. I sit down at our table and nibble,fill myself on chilled, delicious steamed shrimp. Dad comes and sits beside me. 'Dad, where is Mom?' 'Probably in the ladies' room, Holli.' I pardon myself and go to find her. And I do! She is in a dark corner near an exit door. Evan is with her, pushed up close. Her dress is raised and Evan is sweating. I can't believe what I am seeing. I sneak away quietly, tell my father that I couldn't find her.   h  
My mother, my dear, beloved mother has been my father's wife for thirty years. I have been in love with Evan for one year and my mother has taken him away from me. Nonchalantly she returns to our table. I look straight into her face and go 'Oink, Oink,' tell her I release her from being my mother. Call her a pig, a thief.

 

Writhing inside, I play out my surprise party, thank my guests, am forced to ride home with my parents. I make up some ridiculous story about Evan having to leave early. For my Dad alone, I bubble, hug him, thank him for the lovely party.

 

If he notices I don't talk to my mother, he says not a word. Maybe he knows what I know and this was not her first time

Walter Wins

WHITE ON WHITE

 

Where were my parents' mind when they named me, their first child, 'Warren White'? During my early years it made no difference, but just about when I grew up and proudly could say, 'I'm eight,' my dad asked me, 'Where were you, Warren White?' and his jaw locked for a minute. We both were frightened. Then he laughed and I decided to hate my name forever.

 

I showed him the present Jeb gave me, the biggest box of Crayola crayons I ever saw. 'Dad, I can't read the names on all of them. What does this one say?' 'That's mauve, Warren, sort of pink with purple in it.' He asks me what the dark one looks like. I tell him 'dirty brown.' Dad asks me if I know anything that is about this color and all I can think of is 'dirt.' 'Warren White, use your brain and your eyes. Aren't the Sun Maid raisins Mom puts on your oatmeal about this color?' I make a few lines on the white sheet of paper Dad hands me and ask if the word on the crayon is 'raisin'. He gets me to spell the word out loud, learn it, and I do but I don't like that color and don't think I'll use it except maybe for tree trunks.

 

My favorite Crayola is white. I color the white paper white, add white chalk on that and sprinkle salt on top. 'Dad, look, what I did. I drew an all white picture that shows snow and ice. Dad looks at it and immediately thinks I am god's gift to the art world.  He keeps me waiting seven years, going to school, doing well,  before he takes me to the Virginia Institute of Art to discuss with the Provost whether I have talent or not. Smelling the oil paint, watching students work, I can barely stand still. My hands itch, my youthful soul cries out for a teacher, a good teacher, to lead me, help me. My world grows smaller and larger at the same time.  I don't play ball after school, have few friends, don't date. I know what I want to be, do. I want to be an artist, a real artist and spend Saturdays at the museums, studying, studying Pollack, Cezanne, Degas. Straight lines, simple, bright colors, thick paint runs thru my veins. Each painting is an adventure. The Provost displays two works of mine in the yearly raise funds exhibition. John Galt, writes his Sunday column in the Virginia Ledger about a young kid named Warren White who may be another Franz Kline. I work mostly with my white on white canvases,  painting thick majestic deep blue squares tumbling in from the top edge. Dad and Mom are very proud of me, invest the fantastic sums I am paid for everything I produce.

 

And who is the proudest, still talks about his giving me my first taste of art when he brought me the box of Crayolas. Jeb, Jeb, my childhood friend. I paint a black and white watercolor with bits of glitter as a belated thank you to Jeb.

 

All of what I sell is dated in the bottom right hand corner and signed W.W.U.W.W. for 'where were you, Walter White?'

Give and Take

TWO SIDES

 

There are times Goldie bubbles like champagne when the cork pops. Words tumble from her pouting lips. I want to squeeze her, kiss that inviting mouth. Once, only once, I try it and get kicked in my manhood. With her eyes closed, she turns a little left, doesn't apologize for the pain she has inflicted on me and aims again. This time I am ready, grab her leg, hold it tight as she tries to make a hopping escape but I trap her. Goldie drops to the floor ready to succumb to my desire but I am no longer interested. I slap her hard across her face, warn her to never kick me again, nip at her lower lip and leave her crying.

 

My going peacefully to sleep now requires a strong, warm shower, a mild non-addictive sleeping pill, and enough bed space so I can not feel the tail between my legs. I can control my emotions just so long. I was wrong, so was Goldie. A little bug whispers in my ear. 'Be the big one, Neil, call Goldie, clear the stuffy air.'

 

Still hesitating I go into the den, look at the monster white phone and click on #6 speed dial. It rings so fast at Goldie's I lose my nerve and hang up, lean back in my leather desk chair and bring my friendly computer to life. Before it gets a chance to offer me the world my phone rings. Without considering who might be calling me nine p.m., the simple word 'hello' is recognizable. I don't give her a chance to speak, I tell her the truth, more or less. 'I was thinking of you and was getting ready to call you and coincidence, has happened, like telepathy.'
You called me.' Goldie hesitates, lets me know , 'You DID call me Neil.'
I start to deny it but am told my number was on her phone as caller ID.' My denials would be meaningless but explain I don't have that or call waiting either. There is a silent lull until I drag out the word, 'Sooo,' Goldie replies with her own 'Sooo,' Simultaneously we say, 'I'm sorry.'

 

The week goes by, two. I don't know where Goldie is, what she is doing wit whom and try not to think about the many possibilities too often. I've come to a lousy conclusion. She must be going out of her way to avoid me. The possibility is eating into my gut. My libido is just about dead. I revert to my teens, carry my cell everywhere, sit by the phone at home and wait. I can't, just can't call her. I showed her that I cared about her yet she kicked me in my gonads. Her little 'Im sorry' didn't heal my body.

 

Valentine Day is just a few days away. I force myself to acknowledge it, check out the price of a dozen roses. Too steep for me. A red heart box of chocolates? She's a nut about her weight. I stop in the card store look over hundreds of cards, none strike me right until I find a  cute one of two teens arguing. On the outside a pretty girl and handsome boy are wearing huge boxing gloves. Each has a black eye. Inside they are making up with words of 'Forgive me. I REALLY do love you.' I pay two bucks for it and send it to Goldie in time for the 14th.

 

On that very day I have a lot of mail, magazines, ads, a letter from my Dad and a red envelope, a Valentine. I open it before I get in the house. It is the exact one I sent to Goldie. Nothing will stop me now. I grab the phone, speed dial Goldie.

 

She  answers on the first ring. 'Hi, Neil, I was just going to call you.'

Magic Somehow

EXIT

 

Her arms look old, wrinkled. She pretends she doesn't notice me staring at her, gently pulls her navy blue cardigan sleeves down to her fingertips. I feel like a slithering snake waiting to grab a little mouse as it runs thru the tall saw grass. Yet, I cannot stop glancing at her, mesmerized by the beautiful lady with old arms. How could I not stare at this wingless angel? Her face so soft, creamy smooth. It is the background that makes her amethyst eyes glow. They send a silent, imaginary message of love to me. 

 

For a foolish moment I have a gnawing desire to speak to her and take a single tentative step in her direction. I stop as she picks up her basket of daisies and turns her back to me. How easily she walks, almost floats towards the empty bandstand in Central Park. Dare I follow her? I have no choice. Her magnetism pulls me but I am careful not to intrude, frighten her and sit a few minutes on the first battered green bench along the path. After my second 'rest' I watch her stop at the small kiosk, just a dozen or so yards from the bandstand, where she buys a cola and a movie magazine. Just standing there, magazine under her arm, slowly she sips her drink, and drops the empty cup, along with the unread mag into the trash.

 

Time crawls. I give her five minutes head start before I trail her. My guess seems right. As we near the empty bandstand, she hesitates, walks more slowly, while I linger behind a giant elm tree. The gazebo that protects the visitors from the heat, the rain, has a new coat of white paint. Makes me remember old Andy Hardy movies. I'm Mickey Rooney. The lady before me is Judy Garland and I have a crush on her. She's my Polly! Polly puts her basket of daisies on the bandstand, walks up the wooden steps, takes off her cardigan and starts to sing, except no sound comes out of her mouth. That doesn't stop her. She dances around, almost falls off the stage, and silently sings her heart out. This is just like Andy and Polly giving a show, becoming big shots, the stars. I can see it in her teary amethyst eyes, the way she smooths her wrinkled arms. Buried ambitions raise their horned heads. It is an unbearable situation that needs rectifying. Polly slows down to breathe and I show myself by applauding. Before she can run away in fear, I take her waist, hold her hand and dance with her. She follows my lead just as if she hears what I hear. The band is playing, 'My Blue Heaven.'
I can't carry a tune but it doesn't matter. I sing, 'Just Polly and me, and baby make three.' We stop. We smile. I help her down from the platform where we part company.

 

Odd, her arms  felt smooth, soft, tender while we danced.

Mis-placed nightmare

THE OTHER SHOE 

 

From a deep unexpected afternoon sofa nap, I wake screaming. My right leg kicks towards the ceiling. I roll off the sofa, hit the oak floor hard. Was I shot? Blood trickles down my chin. My tongue hurts and I taste the redness. Breathing is shallow, labored. I lie on the floor like a  bump on a twisted log and gradually come back to reality that what happened was I had a day-mere.

 

Getting to my feet, I am nauseated, gag, limp to the powder room, barely make it to the toilet and throw up my guts. I am as sure as I can be that the burger I had at Mendie's was tainted and chastise myself for having the sauteed onions on top and maybe too much ketchup. A headache is forming on both temples. 'Lie down, try to relax,' I tell myself and go back to the sofa.

 

A low rumble of thunder follows a sudden flash of lightning. How am I going to relax when any moment rain, hail will probably smash a window somewhere in my apartment? I wait feeling pretty sure this storm will knock out the electricity, there'll be no t.v. for hours and worst of all, how will I nuke my supper? Get up, Bumblehead. I get ready for any emergency, hard boil three eggs, thaw a couple of slices of black bread that I am not yet hungering for, make a pot of coffee that if it comes to the worst, I can add a few ice cubes that may still be in the freezer.

 

Back to the sofa, where I find James Patterson's newest book, 'One, Two, three, stuck between the cushions. I lie back against the leather arm of the sofa and start to read. Patterson ropes me in again. By chapter three two doctors have been murdered and their wives have flown together to Equador.  My eyes start to droop further. I shake my head, blink a few times and try to read again. Either my senses haven't recovered from my day-mare or Patterson has finally written garbage. I let my eyes do what they want to do–droop all the way.

 

In the middle of my trip to Paradise, there is a terrible banging noise.
'Who the devil is banging on my door like that?' I shout. A rough masculine voice answers, 'Where the heck have you been? You've ruined our afternoon. Mackey and Billy Boy have gone home.' I really must have hit my head on the floor. I don't know a Mackey or a Billy Boy and tell it to the caller without opening the door. He bangs again, has to hear me tell him go away or I'll call the police.

 

When the pounding stops I am sure I hear a key go into the lock. I see the knob start to turn, then click and open. Two brawny men dressed in white coats don't say a word to me. One, the taller one, has something behind his back. The other one gets my attention, does a few boxing jabsand that is when the first bozo grabs me, wraps me in something that has buckles in the back. I am tied up but can walk. When I get to the stairs, I try to run but am caught. The white coated men take me outside, put me in a big white car that has red writing on the side. 'What does that say, Mr.' I ask. '

 

He looks straight at me, tells me to keep quiet, my mother has been waiting for me all morning at Bon Chance Sanatarium. She has a lovely room reserved for you.

 

 

Advice

OUT OF THE WASH

 

The screen door slams. Good. For a little while the noise will keep the flies away from the hole Robbie, our sweet, lovable golden retriever made two months ago. Time has already flown. It is 9 a.m. and my husband Irv and Harry who lives next door, have left for work. Two men, friendly neighbors, share little except their wives. (OOPS-I didn't mean that figuratively). We ladies are the best of friends, buddies, as close as sisters. My arms are full, the laundry basket of just washed clothes is heavy as lead. Irv wants to buy a dryer for me but I won't let him. He knows, as seen first hand a few times, how much Lily and I enjoy hanging our clothes out at the same time, Mondays ands Thursdays.

 

We have a simple routine. At 9 we start our washing machines, usually needing two loads. While that is taking care of it self, Lily and I have coffee and usually a homemade piece of pie or cake. Once I cheated, bought an un-iced chocolate cake from Barty's, put my own icing on it and was hurt badly when Lily complimented me, told me that was the best cake I ever made. I have held  my tongue on that fiasco for a long time.

 

You must think I'm a weirdo, don't want a dryer in our basement,  I do but not if it means Lily and I won't have our uninterrupted time together. No phones, no kids hanging on our skirts, Robbie lying on the cellar tile, it's Nirvana., that's what it is. If there is a storm, we have a contingency arrangement, going to an early movie, lunch out and wash clothes the first decent day. In three years, we had to switch times for only two major blizzards.

 

'Hey, Lily, I need a few more clothes pins.' From our her identical clothes bags, except hers is blue and mine is green, she sends them air mail over to me. What we both dislike is hanging king sized sheets. They take up so much room, usually drag on the ground and need another rinse. Shirts, underwear, p.j.s, dish towels, bath towels are like tulips popping up in spring. The colors, the soft winds, we never want to give this up. Once in a while one of us needs a little more line space, so we work it out. We hang the wash out even when the temperature is 35, stand together and watch everything freeze. The shapes fill out. It is easy to picture Irv in his frozen p.j.s I see him as a striped scarecrow, his ears flapping like wings. It's a challenge to undo frozen clothes and re-hang them on the lines in the cellar. As they melt, the floor becomes a wading pool. Lily and I don't give a damn. While we mop, we perk fresh coffee.

 

Spring breezes blow. It is close to ten and I am in the yard starting to worry. I don't see Lily yet. I wait a few minutes and 'yoohoo' to her. She doesn't answer. I go thru the alley into her yard and look in the kitchen window. No Lily. I phone her, hear it ring. There is no reply. My heart beats so fast I can hardly walk a straight line to her front door. The door is locked and there is no sound from inside. Before I get the house key she gave me for an emergency, I call Harry. 'She should be there. Maybe she is in the cellar. Go look. I'll hold the line.'

 

I look and I scream. Lily is lying on the cellar floor partly covered by the wet clothes she was bringing outside. Her eyes are open but sightless. The shock is unbearable and I react stupidly, taking the wet things off my dear friend, stuffing them back in the basket. 'Oh, my god,' I say over and over to myself, remember Harry is hanging on the phone and run upstairs to give him the terrible news.

 

Her funeral is swift, my sorrow, loneliness, everlasting. Irv means well and two months later, without discussing it with me, has a white Whirlpool clothes dryer delivered. It looks like a behemoth in the basement. I cannot bring myself to use it and continue hanging the wash outside until the first snowfall covers the ground. The little booklet of instructions, warranty, are still on the closed top of the unused dryer. I don't recall picking them up yet believe it was Lily who handed it to me. She smiles. I smile back and set the drying process in motion, don't overload the machine, set for 25 minutes and the soft hum runs itself.

 

As soon as Irv comes home I show him the dry, folded items, all done.  I tell him, 'The basement floor never got wet and I love my new dryer.'
That is when I look out the window in the cellar door and see Lily's clothes line still standing. So is mine. They both have snowflakes on them.

 

'Lily,' I say, 'I miss you so much but if you can get a dryer in heaven, get one. You'll love it.'

Bruised

BLACK AND BLUE

 

Lance lies in bed, putting off for just a short time, facing the day. What's going to happen to me now? Where will I go? Hell, I'm comfortable here. He looks up at the ceiling, sees the brown water mark that has been there for at least five years. A little chuckle escapes from deep inside of him as he pictures his buddy, Taylor Q. Hardesty, sleeping in his bathtub while the water overflows, floods his apartment and Lance's ceiling. Had it not dripped right on Lance's head, it might have been 'Goodbye, Pal.'

 

Lance rolls over, takes his familiar ten steps to the small but efficient bathroom, turns on the shower and waits for the water to be hot, nice and hot. He thinks again about the possibility of drowning in a tub which is worse than slipping in the shower and breaking a leg. For eight comfortable years at 702 Rawlings St. he has avoided the tub.

 

There isn't a family, an individual who lives in 'his' building that he hasn't come to know. As building Captain he meets, greets, says goodbye to every resident. Times changing slowly don't worry Lance. He lets Reagan take care of the country while he takes care of 702.

 

Lady friends are as abundant as he wishes but he is not a hog. Male friends are many, some like brothers to him. He is adept with computers, constantly changing modes and is a perfect example for youngsters who have much to learn in this friggin' world.

 

Chrisie Albertson, a knock-out gal, is his current squeeze. She maintains her own apartment and dignity, has refused to move in with Lance even if he repaints the ceiling.

 

Lance's outside door buzzer sounds. 'Mr. Crawford. This is the mailman. I have a registered letter for you. You have to sign for it. Want to let me in?' Lance tells him he doesn't have to go up the stairs and takes the steps two at a time. He signs for the letter and looks it over as he goes back up. Sure enough his name is on the envelope as well as the sender's. He feels nothing inside except paper and a staple. There are no lumps, bumps or paper clips. The sender's name is unfamiliar, George Watkins, Inc. As he starts to open it, his phone rings. Instantly he knows it's Chrisie. He can recognize her breathing, puts the envelope on the kitchen counter. The two chatter, gab, arrange their next date. At last he says,  'Kissie, kissie, Chrisie' and they hang up.

 

Lance is hungry, fixes a snack, scans thru the latest Time Magazine. On page twelve he notices an ad for George Watkins, Inc. What a coincidence he thinks. It is a small ad in bold print. George Watkins, Inc. is a real estate group, ready to buy, sell, private and commercial property. Wrinkles, puzzlement cover Lance's brow. He worries. Where did they get my name? Why contact me? The old cuckoo clock his Dad gave him sounds six cuckoos. Fox news is coming on. He lays the letter down again and fixes himself a dry martini to ease the pain the world news lays on his shoulders.

 

The letter waits for him. 'Buildings 702, 704, 706 Rawlings St. have been purchased by The California Condo Assoc. These buildings will be gutted and turned into new townhouses within one year. Work is expected to begin by Thanksgiving 2010  Any leases held by current residents are open for negotiation. Further information will be sent to you within the week of May 5, 2008 and May 12.'

 

Our email address is: ca.bldr@calif.com
Phone:1-888-702-3333

 

Douglas Barton, Pres.

 

Lance panics inside but takes the best control possible, makes copies if the letter and delivers each to the personal hands of a neighbor. He includes a note from himself asking for a meeting Sunday at 2 p.m.

 

The residents agree they are stuck with it. They don't want to be put out like dogs who crap on the carpets. They don't know where they can go. Each one must contact the California Condo Assoc. on his own. Lance waits for no one, sends  a long email to Douglas Barton as soon as 702's Sunday meeting is over. He demands, for all residents, the blue- prints, breaking lease arrangements, what the expected costs will be for new apartments. His blood boils.

 

Skimpy information arrives on Monday. It is far short of what will be needed but Lance is ready financially. Mentally he is a walking wreck. Too soon he tells Chrisie what is happening, asking her if he moves into a new apartment when it is ready, will she move in with him. Chrisie is no dummy. She does not commit to his offer, yet. Lance worries, can't sleep, doesn't want to change anything. He stays away from his computer, doesn't answer his phone or doorbell. Depression sets in. He is blue, really blue. If he wants a new apartment, will the builder sell one to a black man? Will he be the building's token black instead of his being somebody, the building's Captain? A new building will probably have a concierge, an elevator.

 

Chrisie feels his pain, offers him a few of her anti-depressants. He turns them down. They have long talks, long walks. Out of the blue Chrisie suggests she and Lance get married, buy a new apartment together.

 

THE END –becomes their beginning.

The Coukoo Nest

CRAZY COULAHAN

 

The party is zipping along. Almost all of us have had at least two Buds, some 4, 5. The big drinkers are sitting together at a big round table in the club room. They have little interest in mingling with anyone. All that brightens their lives is being sloshed.

 

Nobody disturbs the big screen wall t.v.. It is permanently set on porn, all porn. A DVD disc plays rock and roll music from the 90's, 1990's. A couple of the wives shake their booties and anything else that is loose.
I count 28 of us having fun, letting our hair down

 

Suddenly the t.v. with the porn goes dark. The guzzlers at the big round table  bang their beer cans , whistle, stomp their feet. One of the ladies, Mary Anne by name, yells 'Come on wise guys, fix the t.v. How do you expect us ladies to learn anything. You don't teach us nuthin'.' That's when the front door opens and in struts Coulahan,  Crazy Coulahan. He's wearing a polka dotted clown suit with a big frilled collar. The red ball on his nose blinks on and off. His face is one big painted on smile. He heads right toward the dark T.V., takes a little screw driver out of his small white straw basket. 'Don't worry, Folks, he shouts. 'Coulahan is here. I'll fix the t.v. pronto.'

 

Big Bob raises his 6'7" from the round table, takes a few long steps and lifts Coulahan off his feet, carries him to the back door and drops him over the porch railing. Coulahan falls into the empty trash can, wiggles out, brushes off his polka dot suit, smiles at Big Bob and tells big Bob he had fun. 'Do it again, Bobby boy.' Bobby gives him a look dirty enough to kill and sends him home to play with his baby dolls.

 

Coulahan does what Big Bob tells him to do. He skips home and gathers 3 baby dolls, all dressed just like him in his polka dot clown outfit. From a closet he pulls out a pump and pumps each doll full of air until it is as big as he is and he makes sure the plug is tight so no air escapes. He goes back to the party and finds Big Bob at the table he was at before. When cards are dealt, Coulahan releases air from his clown doll  and all the cards and beer fly off the table, end up broken, torn and dirty. Oh, how he laughs, sings,  as Big Bob chases him into the alley. 'Run, run, as fast as you can, you can't catch me, you big bad man.'
Just as Bob reaches him, the two remaining gas filled clowns go up in the air, taking Crazy Coulahan with them.

 

Coulahan sails high over Big Bob's head. He can barely be heard when he calls down to his nasty friend, 'Look up, look up, it's going to rain yellow rain. He opens his fly and pees on Big Bob's head, holds a little in, and adds a touch of it into Bob's beer.

 

'Isn't this a fun party? Where did the girls go? I want to boogie with the tall dark haired one.' That does it. All the guests chase him, send him running home to his Mommy.

 

She enfolds him close to her striped apron, asks him what he has been doing all afternoon. 'Mama, I went to a party and had a lot of fun. I made pee pee on Big Bob's head and he couldn't even catch me because  his eyes were burning. Did I do good, Mama?'

 

'Yes my smart son. You did good. Let's sit down and talk to Daddy for a while. He told me to tell you he misses you and next time you can fly, come up to his cloud, and bring along your polka dot clown outfit.'

 

Crazy Coulahan has had a busy day, lies down, looks forward to tomorrow and sleeps away the night.

Big Man?

OPEN WINDOWS-CLOSED MINDS

 

Joey got married in a hurry three years ago. He and Julia don't get along at all and already have three kids. In the summer when the windows are open, everybody knows their business. Joey has a pretty good job, head chef at Baroni's Trattoria. His wife is grateful when he brings home dinners a few nights each week as she hates, amongst other things, cooking. In just their three years she has already gained twenty-five lbs. Jason and Mason, their twins, eat some of the brought home pastas cut into tiny pieces or mashed. They get their milk, ripe fruits and soft boiled eggs. Already they look like baby Humpty Dumptys. Sometimes when I walk past their house, I am tempted to call the police before somebody gets murdered. So far nobody has. I turn my head, walk away and end up minding my own business.

 

Joey's success at Baroni's is surely based on his pleasure in giving customers his personal interest. Now and then my wife and I have dinner at Baroni's, never tell Joey we're coming, want no discount or special treatment. Tonight is our tenth anniversary. Deana and I stop in Carlson's for a quiet cocktail hour, then head down the street to Baroni's, also called 'Joey's. He struts out of the kitchen with his big white chef hat wobbling on his bald head. When he is aware of a special evening, he sends a bottle of wine to the celebrants or a fantastic chocolate mousse covered with whipped cream for dessert. Neither I nor Deana mentioned our anniversary but he knows somehow, sends us a bottle of Brut champagne. The woman at the table next to ours leans over to Deana to tell us what a wonderful man Joey is. If she only knew perhaps she would dine elsewhere.

 

Julia is made from the same slimey mud as Joey, caring more about her own unhappiness than the abuse and wrath she and Joey pile on each other and their children. Recently I have seen rinsed out diapers hanging out the front windows of the apartment. Neighbors are complaining to each other. As far as I know, no body has complained to Julia, until Joey sees the white flags blowing from his building. At one a.m. when he gets home from work, I hear him honking his horn, making a racket, yelling at the top of his lungs, 'Julia, Crazy Woman, take those diapers inside before I get upstairs or you're dead meat.' She opens the window and lets a few fly to the pavement. One falls right in Joey's face. Shards of glass break out of the slammed window. I can see Julia standing near the window, ready to take on Joey. She's holds a big bread knife like a dagger, just waiting to finally be rid of him.

 

I pull my cell phone from my back pants pocket, get 911 and stutter out the emergency. Nothing else I can do but wait for the patrol car. There is little traffic so I take a chance and stand in the street, waving my arms as soon as I think I hear a siren. The officers pull over, get a very brief description from me about the murder that may be happening, slam their car door and race into the house. I stand still, waiting to hear an ambulance, the M.E. arrive. No other emergency equipment comes. The police have left me downstairs, worried, frightened, aware I am not wanted upstairs.

 

I am pretty sure I have gone out of my mind when the two officers come out of the house smiling, holding coffee cups and donuts. They approach me, tell me to get in their car. We sit at the curb while I get a lecture about making a false 911 report. 'What did you think you were doing, Mr.? Those two lovebirds were tossing off their clothes, getting into bed when we got there. That big knife you reported happened to be on the kitchen table next to a chocolate mousse that was covered with whipped cream. Mr. Joey has invited me and my partner to Baroni's for dinner next week. He's a really great guy.'

 

He continues chastising me, 'and you, Mister, better not make a false report again because you're now listed as a trouble maker in our files. Second one and you won't have a chance to make a third one. Goodnite

DAILY STORY IS TODAY #1101!

BERMUDA TRIANGLE

 

As much as Mel and I enjoy, really love our home in Burlington, VT, ski between November and February, hike thru the Green Mountains in spring and summer, we realize (at least I do) that we really need a break, should let our skis rest in the basement while we find out what the warmth of the sun is like instead of wind burn. We can  run through the white sand, frolic in the ocean. I am enthused, am ready to state my case to my Mel.

 

The cool delightful summers here in Vermont, have kept me from buying a new bathing suit for five years. I decide to check it out and retrieve it from the bottom drawer of our double bureau. The tissue paper is still crisp. My bathing suit is faded, out of style and surely will not fit my current dimensions. I might as well put it aside for my Good Will box. Then again, they might not want it–but neither do I.

 

At dinner I bring up the subject of a warm vacation.  Mel seems to listen but I doubt he hears me. Half heartedly he says , 'O.K.' adds 'maybe next week.' 'No, you waffle about everything. I'll call Travel World tomorrow.' His silence gives me a chance to put on my antiquated bathing suit, come downstairs in my warm, comfy robe as Mel is stirring the dying embers in the fireplace. Little sparks hit the mesh screen and go out. Mel can't help but notice the almost naked me when I interrupt his fiddling and let my robe drop to the floor.

 

His surprise makes me laugh. His second glance at my bod makes him laugh. The suit is faded . Slight bulges push my skin against the black elastic. I tell it like it is, 'No sense saving this old thing, Mel. I'm tossing it and we are going on a trip.' I can almost see his brain studying the situation. He lets the last few embers take care of themselves. I can't believe what he says, but I do love hearing it. 'You win, Honey. Where would you like to go? When?'

 

It just so happens I have secretly accumulated travel ads from the Burlington Sunday Travel Guide for a few weeks. I hand the folder to Mel with the ones I think will be perfect for us all clipped together. The devil twinkles in his eyes. 'Put your robe back on, go upstairs and take it and your woebegone bathing suit off too. Then wait for me.'

 

When we cool off, we start making decisions. No cruises. We'd have to fly to New York and sail thru Hatteras. Hatteras can be rough, really rough. He puts all the cruise ads into a pile and tears them up. I feel a bit sad as Tahiti and Fiji really attracted me. Barbados, St. Johns, Trinidad, St. Bart, St. Maarten go in a pile to study again. We agree that when the pile is down to three we will go together to Travel World. In the meantime, I know we have to have passport photos taken, get our birth certificates out of our safety box at the bank. I tell him,  'Mel, I'll watch the paper for luggage sales. You just keep our funds liquid.'

 

Carrie, at Travel World, is ready for us. She is a charmer, well traveled herself, and offers several suggestions. St. Maarten heads her preferences as we would have a Dutch and French choice of dining, shopping, gambling,  great beaches. Trinidad and Tobago she thinks are not what we would enjoy. St. Bart is a tiny French town, high on a mountain. There is just about nothing to do there except rest and watch the sea. 'St. Johns? Well if you like quiet, a most gorgeous beach with the beautiful ocean, excellent meals, and practically no entertainment, no place to go except on long walks, see the goats.'

 

I can see Mel's interest in our traveling fading fast. Carrie comes up with an idea. 'You will absolutely love Barbados and it isn't too far from  Bermuda.' She stops and adds, 'Well, it isn't around the corner. You can't swim there but there is always something going on. The British are a group unto themselves. With your available two weeks, I can give you figures and check on what is available for the dates you have in mind, arrange air travel. Believe me, you will enjoy this trip and will come back for more next year.' Carrie does not wait for our okay, suggests she get everything together and we come back the following day. Mel tells her we can't. We have a skiing date. 'How about next Monday?' Carrie does not look happy. Tough. Mel and I take home several brochures, stop to get our passport photos taken and drive home.

 

I fix a light supper, fried salami and eggs, marinated tomato slices, hot tea and me. We lie in bed and discuss our spring trip. Mel shows little emotion but underneath I smell his changing attitude. Barbados and Bermuda are in the same direction, which will make our costs a little less. 'Let's vote, Mel.' We do and there is a tie. Done!

 

Carrie has everything temporarily done. The price almost knocks my socks off but Mel says we can handle it. Jet Blue and American Airlines from NY travel daily. We can drive to NY and leave our car there but the lot will cost more for two weeks than getting a chopper. Mel has skied with the chopper pilot and we get a good price on that. Our choice, Jet Blue, is late. We wait impatiently with the rest of the disgruntled travelers. Take off is smooth.

 

The flight is almost motionless until we begin to shake. The seat belt light goes on. Stewards and stewardesses walk the narrow aisles, checking everyone's belts, nothing can be on our laps. The floor from the windows to the narrow aisle must be cleared. No explanation comes from the captain. The lady across the aisle from us is praying. I look out my window seat, see only blue skies and white clouds but feel our plane going lower and lower. My watch lets me know we have been in turbulence for 15 god awful minutes before we  we start to rise.

 

The praying lady sits up straight, explains what she thinks she knows, 'We just went thru the Bermuda Triangle so thank me for my prayers. They worked.' Silly, stupid, but I thank her anyhow.

 

From then on it is smooth flying, fantastic meals, sunny, delightful days, win some, lose some at the gambling tables. Mel and I used enough sun-block that we don't burn. The two weeks fly like the wind.
Mel loves my new swim suits, both of them,  more on the floor than on me.

 

He has already made plans for next spring. We are going to hike thru the Green Mountains. We'll see after Christmas.