Holed up

COMING ATTRACTION

 

Warning, warning. Hurricane Ronald is gaining strength. It may hit Miami, go north to Georgia by Saturday!  Be Ready! Stock up! One can't escape weather reports every hour and all day and night on Channel 56.
The meteorologists have all gone nuts from listening to each other. Overhead the normal sky blue remains cloudless. The ocean is calm. Surfers whine they can't surf.

 

A few scaredy cats are buying portable stoves, Sterno by the carton, all arranged smack in the shopper's face when he/she enters the store.
Maybe they will be needed for some other hurricane but Ronald is a fizz-out. I do feel a tinge of sadness for all the store managers who may lose a bundle for the chain owners. Then I look in the mirror, see a nerd, and my compassion flies out the window. Our wait lasts over a week and passes uneventfully. Hurricane Ronald is simply not coming–but a new hurricane is beginning to form off the coast of Africa, so far it has no name and since it must remain a boy's name, I christen it 'Schmuck.' The weather channel goes to sleep and I head to the beach. My little kit has lots of sun screen with all the PF's anybody should need and I am hoping a 'somebody' comes along. I'm slothered, slippery, attracting gnats but don't want to go in the warmish water and waste all of my lotions and balms.

 

Finally, I have to talk to myself. 'Get off your keester, prowl around.' I hear myself and actually walk languidly along the water's edge, noticing the little sand crabs. After ten minutes going north, I turn south and walk twenty minutes with Holly beside me. She has a large red, white and blue beach towel spread out and a firmly set sunbrella standing at a slight angle in the dry sand. She also has a covered basket that gives off a wonderful aroma that must be fried chicken. My twitching nose hints to her that I would love a piece of chicken. When Holly lifted the lid, I blurted out, 'I'd love a breast, please.' I got it, along with a dirty look. Something was already stirring in my mind. I felt it was in hers too. Right on the button! 'Let's go to my place,' Holly suggests. 'It's not too far. Will you return the sunbrella to the stand over there while I clean up, shake out the towel? ' I don't have to be asked twice. We walk back to my towel and sunscreen but either I was lost or they were stolen. With my car in plain view, the key in my bathing suit pocket, I simply had to accept my losses and think about my gain.

 

Holly and I have been 'a thing' for two weeks. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the meteorologists have found some new smart men. Not only is hurricane Stanley coming soon, palm trees are already lying in the streets, traffic lights are out, Holly's apartment house has no AC or electricity, but she has me and I have her and the hell with the super markets.

 

This shall pass, MAYBE!

Good intention

FUZZ BUZZ

 

Gerald first encounters two yellow caterpillars minding their own business eating the leaves off his mimosa tree. 'Come see, come see,' he calls to his five year old daughter. 'Cassey, see what I found!' Cassey is engrossed, busy nibbling on an Oreo and coloring Shrek in her new book. So much for that, Gerald thinks, waves goodbye to his wife and she waves back. He heads for a tiring, bitchy day at his chic, cosy restaurant on Albemarle St.

 

The Centaur group had made no bones about there being too many bones in the monkfish yesterday. Soothing their feathers wasn't easy. He lost use of the table for eight in his busiest time  and was embarrassed when Mrs. Hi-hat faked a lot of loud coughing to prove her point. Rather than dwell on yesterday, Gerald talks to himself, 'Today will be better,' and snickers as he doesn't really think it will.

 

Meanwhile, back home, wifey dear, paces the kitchen, circles the dining room, and worries where Ronita, Cassey's nanny can be. This is not like her at all. 'Mommy, where is Ronita? The little piglet who eats everything and anything put in front of her expects a treat, probably a chocolate one and to learn how to count to twenty this afternoon. No chocolate, no anything is in the nanny's hand. 'We're going on a field trip today, Sweetie, to the park. There is a lot to see there besides the sand box and swings. Let's go in the house so you can change clothes. Want to wear your long polka dot pants, the one with the matching shirt? That way I won't lose you.'

 

Their first stop in the park is not the one Cassey wants to make. She whines, forces a few tears from her green eyes and begs to go on the swings. Ronita does not give in, hold's Cassey's hand and they skip down the tarred path to the Garden Gate.'See those beautiful rose buds and the chrysanthemums just opening? Tulips, tulips, like we each have two lips. Did you ever see so many tulips in so many colors? Don't answer. I know you haven't. Doesn't it smell wonderful out here? Count the number of tulips in this pot, Cassey.' Cassey gets to twelve and can't remember the next number. Before Ronita can stop her, she tears all the tulips out of the pot except twelve. 'I'm hungry. What should we eat?' she asks. Ronita takes the torn tulips to the counter and pays for them.

 

Cassey won't let go of her sprinkling can that she has to have, because she needs it for something. Her spirits are high. 'What in the world will you do with that, Child? I explained that we aren't going to the play- ground today, didn't I?'  Ronita asks. No answer. Lunch comes to an end. It is time to go home. Cassey has covered the top of her sprinling can with paper napkins. She shakes it over and over but whatever is in there makes no noise.

 

As soon as the car is parked in the driveway, Cassey pulls her nanny to the back steps, whips off the paper napkins and  Ronita gets sick to her stomach. There must be 25 crawling caterpillars in there. All she can say is, 'Yuk, Yuk.' Cassey looks at her as if she were goofy.  'I did good, didn't I? Daddy told me he found two yellow ones in our mimosa tree, and I have a lot of black ones, brown, and green. Daddy will be so proud of me. I'm going to put them in our tree.' Ronita grabs the sprinkler. It falls on the grass.  She hasn't the stomach to squash them and hurries to tell Mrs. Hobson.

 

Poor Gerald has to spray everything, do a lot of the dirty work  and hopefully drowns them all.  Cassey cries but stops when her mom gives her a piece of chocolate cake.

Cinders

ELLA'S FELLA

 

Ella and her stepmother have never gotten along well. That old lady is a witch, Ella thinks. All the drudgery tasks, cleaning, mopping, ironing fall on her while her father's wife primps in the hall mirror and shops for funky clothes for her two daughters, Bess and Josey. They both torture Ella even more than their mamma. Ella's only real ally is her older brother, Chris. Once in a blue moon her father may growl and order Myrtle to get off his daughter's back.  Of course, her father, who is nicknamed 'Bloke', is ignored.

 

Ella has a good wit about her and cracks a lot of sarcastic answers at the family that was thrust upon her five years ago. Of the three girls, Ella is by far the prettiest. She has black shiny hair that Dad's barber, Lester, keeps straight and even. Her bangs barely touch her dark eyebrows, clearly highlighting her round bright black eyes. A raving beauty she isn't but does win a beauty contest at City Hall. Had there been more than fifteen contestants she might not have won  a fantastic trip to Hollywood and a glamourous job at a movie studio. Overnight Ella becomes queen of the household. Her step-sisters are green with envy. Bloke gives her money for a new wardrobe and his blessing.

 

Arriving in Hollywood, searching for the studio, she is shocked to find it closed, defunct, out of business. Still she realizes she is no longer a Cinderella and will have to make the best of her awful situation. Rolling her suitcase along the street, she locates a small, seedy motel. With little choice, goes in and lets honest tears run down her face as she explains her position to the desk clerk. The old man in charge calls someone on his intercom, a Mr. Gordon, who has a kind looking face, she bursts out, 'I need a place to stay, a job. Can you help me?' Most of the desk cubbyholes have keys in them and smart Ella understands at once that business is awful. 'Mr. Gordon, let me stay here at no charge, until I can find a better job in the movies, and I will keep your rooms clean, change the linens, do whatever I have to.' Mr. Gordon tells her that may be forever. 'I'll give you one month tryout. You can have room 302, a single, and the desk clerk will take your bag up the steps for you.' Ella wipes the sweat off her forehead and the tears from her eyes and walks up the threadbare carpet to the third floor.

 

She was never thrilled with her bedroom at home, but it was paradise compared to this hole in the wall with a single bed, a nite table with one lamp, no shade, one locked window, a chair and a bathroom that turns her stomach which is empty. It growls. Ella had noticed a few eateries before finding this clap trap, locks her door and goes out to get something substantial to eat. When feeling a little stronger, she locates a public telephone and calls her father collect. Actually gulping, swallowing her pride, she explains the closed movie lot, where she is staying and is stopped mid -sentence. 'Ella, you have a choice. I will wire you $200 dollars first thing in the morning, IF, you give me your address, call me every evening, and promise to come back here if you are not okay, comfortable, safe, in two weeks. What do you say?' 'I say, Yes, Father. I love you. I am at Jack's Shack, 1110 34th St. Wildwood, CA 90026- Room 302. They have a phone but I don't know the #. I'll let you know night when I call you again. Remember, CA is on PDT. Thank you, Daddy. Thank you. Goodnight.'

 

Ella cleans the few rooms plus her own and heads out for breakfast early in the day. By chance she walks past a large building that says
Watner Movies, sneaks in the gate when the guard is talking to a gorgeous young lady wearing an old fashioned costume. This must be a movie lot. It is busy. Rolls Royces, Audis are parked under palm trees.
Her heart beats so fast she is sure it will explode. A few young males, possibly extras, wear cowboy outfits, tip their hats to her. One, tall very handsome man with a dark moustache catches up to her and says, 'Hello. Are you new here?' With a bit of vinegar in her voice she responds, 'What do you think?' His grey eyes look right into her black ones when he says, 'Howdy, Miss. My name is Grable.' Ella almost faints dead away. ' Clark Gable?' Mr. Grable pouts and tells her he is Mr. Grable with an 'R', Mr. Gable's understudy, or Extra for dangerous roles. Ella keeps a straight face, offers her hand to shake, tells him her name, and off they go for a hearty breakfast.

 

Ella relaxes, eats everything but the tablecloth and thanks Clark a hundred times. He has a suggestion, 'Ella, would you like me to try to get you a job at the commissary as a hostess? They are always busy, stars hang around relaxing. You won't wait tables, just welcome diners and lead them to tables. It sounds easy, but it isn't, at least not until you recognize people.' Surprising herself, she gets up, hugs him and gives him a peck on his cheek. 'How wonderful you are. Of course, thank you.'

 

Now, Dear Readers, I believe you can easily guess where my story is going so I'll cut it short–Yes, Ella gets a job and she gets Grable too.
Her father stops sending her hand-outs after the two weeks are up and comes to visit California for her wedding to Clark Grable.

Flyin' high

PILLOW FLIGHT 

 

We 240 people have been sitting on this plane that is sitting on the tarmac for forty minutes, give or take two or three. No explanation has been given nor even a paper cup of cold water. There is no doubt in my mind that flight 707 is in trouble. Twenty more minutes finish a full hour and we are still buckled up, our legs are cramped over and beside our small carry ons. The fat man between me and a nice looking black woman snores. He gives me the creeps. The plane suddenly begins to shake, to grumble. If it were human, I would bet a buck it was going to vomit. If not the plane, I'd pay myself a buck to let go of the queaze that is on the verge of easement.

 

Finally, through the somewhat unclear loudspeaker, comes an  announcement. 'Ladies and Gentlemen and the little sheltie in seat 205 window: We apologize for the delay  but all is ready now. We are fifth in line for take off.' Groans and moans fill the overly warm plane. We have, I guesstimate 65 yards to be first. After no more than 20 we stop again. Mr. Snorer, eyes still closed, humphs and raises his hand, puts it down on the arm rest, right on top of mine.

 

The starts and stops total five. We are all still sitting seated when suddenly the ground is moving fast. Other planes disappear. There is only a little space between #707 and a lot of white marshmallowy clouds. We go in nose first and are engulfed in what must be heaven. The sheltie in its small cage across the aisle from me whines, its shaking legs, let me know he too is frightened. It's master is oblivious and has his nose buried in the Wall St. Journal.

 

I might win a contest of flyers who are shaky all the time, feel we are invading space that was not meant for humans. Nevertheless, It doesn't hold me back too often if there is something I truly want to see. This is the destination I have been hungering for since I was a kid, saw lightning, eclipses, thundering, blundering storms, rainbows. The long flight from Miami flies out over the Atlantic to Baltimore for a 25 minute stop-over. With no chance at all to see Ft. Mc Henry or tour the Harbor Mall, I stay aboard and out of the sweepers way, use the just slightly cleaned loo before anyone else has a chance to get in. Good old reliable Baltimore. Twenty five minutes from touch down, we take off again. I bless those Baltimoreans.

 

The travel pillow I had seen on line for $2.99, I didn't buy but, once seated on Flt.707, I knew I had goofed. I call the stewardess over to  ask if neck pillows are available on board. 'Yes Mam. What color would you like? I select light blue from her list. It arrives with a bill for $14 and looks just like the $2.99 one on line. If I want it, and I do, I give her my charge card and sit back, try to close my eyes but can't. Just then coffee with little cheese crackers are served during the long, dull flight to Salt Lake City. There is nothing much to see, down, up or in front of me. The fat man has left and was replaced by a fat lady who has a lovely smile and body odor. We introduce ourselves but barely speak. She hands me a napkin and a coffee stirrer and I hand the small tray back when the stewardess starts to clean up for our landing. I have to wait in line again to use the toilet, wash my face and hands, put on fresh lipstick. I don't take long.

 

The pilot announces the safety rules to land in Anchorage and when I can see the stony gray mountains out my window, I double check my seat belt and start breathing heavy, holding an arm rest for security.
I also send up a silent thanks to god and the pilots for getting me this far safely.

 

My luggage arrives in tact, but my new pillow must have fallen on the floor. It is gone. I catch sight of the lady who was sitting near me when I bought it. The bitch is carrying my pillow. I chase after her, know she sees me, but ducks into any number of places. My anger almost erupts but what can I do?

 

A driver named Akuha, holds a sign with my name and I am ready to be driven to Hotel Borealis. The air is clear and very chilly. Akuha asks me if I have a good, warm jacket and hiking shoes. 'The walk to the top is difficult, breathe slowly, stop and rest. You are in for a treat, one you will remember forever.' My excitement rises. I have a two hour rest before I am to be met by the guide who will position us to see the magnificent aurora borealis. It only appears once a year.

 

The shoes of a tall, very strong looking Eskimo, squeak on the hard packed snow as he approaches our group. 'Stay together. It is a long and difficult walk. If you need to rest, signal me with this red flag.' He hands one to each of us, only twenty in number. He spoke the truth. The walk almost to the top of our appointed spot was tiring, even for him. We sit on snow covered boulders and watch the sky. It is coal black. If there is a moon, it is hiding. We sit and get colder by the hour. A flare shoots across the sky. Our director gathers us to take us back to our starting place. He makes many apologies for what he cannot show us. 'This happens once in maybe ten years and it has happened now, tonight. There will be no borealis show.' Twenty of us yelled at once, 'Robbers, thieves. We want our money back, including everything! He has nothing to say except we must speak to our travel agents.

 

My disappointment is humongous but no greater than the others. All we can do is trudge, slip, slide down the mountain, go to our rooms and be ready to fight in the morning.

 

Before I decide who to call, what to say, I locate a guide, a teacher, who will take me out for a dog sled ride, let me hold the reins, perhaps take a skiing lesson. There are small shops selling tourist garbage and I go in several just to warm myself. A very sweet pleasant elderly saleswoman suggests I buy a neck pillow before my flights home. How can I say no? Hers, identical to the one I had stolen from me on the plane is $2.99, just like the t.v. ads.

 

I buy a green one to remind me of the green grass in FLorida.

Regretful Twinges

KOSHER-SMOSHER

 

The word 'kosher is a Judaism meaning 'clean or fit to eat according to dietary laws.' It has taken on new meanings such as, 'all right, proper, correct.' The Orthodox are required to live and die under strict Yiddish rules. For the millions who tend to be like me, aware, but not caring, living easy, we do pretty much what we want. With no schooling on the subject, I made up my own childish rules, tried to abide by my mother's while my father paid no attention to either of us.

 

In looking back, way back, I recall my daddy thinking I was going to be the 20th century's Michelangelo. He would make me show my little drawings of the funny paper cartoons to his friends and patients. At the age of eight I had no say in anything and he just enrolled me in the Boston School of Art. My mother almost burst a blood vessel. 'Betsy can't go to art school on Saturday. You know that is Shabbus (sabbath)!' His angry face still burns in my soul. 'Sophia, go ask the Rabbi if Betsy can go to school on Sat.' 'Go ask him yourself,' she replied and he came right back at her, 'I told YOU to go, so go.' My mother went and the Rabbi said, 'If it is to improve herself, she can go.' So I had to go, take two street cars on the Sabbath, a no no: buy art supplies, a no no: carry the heavy drawing board and then spend the whole day drawing, making snakes out of clay; God was going to slay me before I was nine.

 

Once a year our house was in turmoil. Passover does not pass over our house. It stops. Everything stops except the hard work. Fortunately, Mama tells me to stay out of her way. She has to wrap all of our milkic dishes, pots and pans in old newspapers and carry them down to the cellar, then bring up the Passover ones that were down there since the year before. I have to undo the pots and pans but not the glass ware. For that I am glad I am still eight. All drawers, shelves in the kitchen must be spotless, no bread crumbs anywhere, not even in the toaster.

 

Mama walks around in a daze. Daddy follows her as she seeks out every corner, moves rugs and still worries she didn't do enough. Daddy tells her to go ask the Rabbi if she did everything required. Mama is back very quickly. The Rabbi asked for a donation to the shule. That will take away any sin my mother may have committed. She gave fifty cents.

 

With a clean record, Mama makes a sedar. Daddy hides two pieces of Matzoh so my little brother and I can each find a piece after dinner. The first one to find it gets ten pennies. The other gets five. I catch daddy pointing his finger under his sponge cake plate so my six year old brother, Harold, can find his matzoh before me. I go crying out of the room and Daddy brings me a sip of Mama's home-made kosher wine to feel better. It's terrible and I am so mad because I could have had the ten pennies if my daddy didn't cheat.

 

He was allowed by my mother, queen of the house, to bring non-kosher food into our house, under the condition it be kept in the dank cellar, warmed if necessary, on the black stove that had two gas burners. She let him keep a box of large safety matches on a shelf so he could eat warm crab cakes and canned chili. My father, a traveler, made sure a hard boiled egg, a glass of orange juice was always available for my mother as she would not eat non-kosher foods and lived mostly on that diet wherever they went. I, too, ate little even at a five and ten counter, only wanting an ice cream sandwich or fudge sundae. My mother cringed that we ate off the plates that were 'maybe' washed with soap made from pigs.

 

By age fifteen I began to be my own person, had to, just had to, go to my high school's Friday night championship football game. I knew I would not be allowed to ride on the sabbath for such nonsense  so lied to my mother. 'I'll be over Ruthie's house. We're planning a Halloween party.' My clothes were at Ruthie's before I was. We took the bus with my classmates to the game and never had so much excitement, fun in my life. That did it. I became a Reformed Jew. It took courage, to give up on almost everything but I did when I again got a whiff of the wonderful odor of crabs steaming  every time a customer went in or out of the Suburban Restaurant when I walked to the movies. In my little purse, I was taught to always carry emergency money, a dollar. I had it, walked into the Suburban, trying to act very adult and ordered one crab cake on crackers with ketchup–to go. It went down like sweet molasses, was  heaven on earth and I was hooked forever.

 

So I rode on the Sabbath, ate non-kosher food, enjoyed Friday night school sports, told lies that hurt no one most of the time, never went to religious services except for Bar Mitzvahs and weddings (one of them mine.)  I eat what I like but have never, not ever, tasted any part of a pig.

 

After all, I have to at least keep in touch with my up-bringing, remember my parents, the good and bad times and still remain a Jew at heart.  'T'ain't easy but I, like Popeye, 'Yam what I 'Yam.

Connected

AMAZING DR. RUDO

 

The hallway lights are dim. The rooms on each side are dimmer, almost blacked out. In #507 behind a door opened only a tiny crack is a soundless t.v. that plays until morning. It is against the hospital rules but is taken by staff with a spoonful of honey. Tommy's mom and dad sit next to their son's bed. His dad holds his small hand and gently squeezes it every few minutes. No sounds come from the child's lips, no tears from his eyes. The door seems to know it must not creak when the night nurse enters carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, two Sweet 'n Lows and a piece of sponge cake for the exhausted parents. Tommy takes no notice of the offering, keeps his half opened eyes on the t.v. where only paid for ads fill the screen. At 11 p.m. his parents hug him as best they can, kiss his fingers and go home.

 

Dawn comes on silent wings. The hospital kitchen staff is busy. There are always 'special' trays to make, explicit orders to follow. Large 
laden down carts rumble to the elevators. Fresh women in white uniforms, go over the trays and, where needed, add the proper medication. #507 gets a small dish of oatmeal with cinnamon on top and a separate dish of Jello, plus two green pills to swallow with water. Tommy says nothing, he is used to what he gets but surely thinks of ice cream, candy, chocolate milk.  He motions to the nurse to make the t.v. a little louder. Nurse Fleming leaves the door open a little so Tommy can see people passing by. The only people he wants to see are his parents.He lies still, as comfortably as he can, and waits for his mother.

 

It is not his mother who opens the door all the way. First, one big foot in a brown and white shoe enters, followed by another big shoe that has rainbow colors all over it. Above those shoes are wide, orange shiny pants, a long sleeved sunny yellow blouse topped with a big ruffled collar. A horn goes beep beep and the clown comes in, takes a seat on the side of Tommy's bed. Neither speaks. The clown waits long enough and starts pulling balloons out of his many pockets, all colors, long and round. He is so fast Tommy doesn't get a chance to see him blow into the balloons. Fast, faster, still faster, he makes a cow, a moneky, an umbrella, a tree and when he has just about no air left in his lungs to blow any more, he covers Tommy with them, gives him a long pointed nail and warns him to stick the balloons not him. 'Go, Tommy, go!' he shouts and jumps around with his floppy shoes making as much noise as the popping balloons. They are both zonked. Both are smiling. The clown introduces himself to Tommy. 'I'm Dr. Rudo, young Man, and I am your new doctor.'

 

Tommy starts to sink under his thin blanket but Dr. Rudo stops him. 'Tommy,' he says. 'I am not going to hurt you. I promise, really promise to always tell you the truth and I start with this. I am going to have to put a needle in your thigh. It'll look scary when you see it, but it will absolutely not hurt you and may get you better faster. Will you turn over on your right side and let me do it?' With great reluctance, Tommy turns over the wrong way. As he corrects himself, Dr. Rudo sees fright in his face and a runny nose. Quickly he puts on rubber gloves, shows his patient how the serum squirts out of the needle, cleanses the small area where the shot will go, taps it several times before any real tears can come down those pale cheeks. 'Done, the big deal is over. Your breakfast is on the way, Kid. Now and I have to go blow up some balloons for little Susan who is in room #511. She needs me too. I'll see you tomorrow.'

 

Tommy's mom arrives before his lunch tray is removed. Each plate is empty except for the spinach and the ice cream. The spinach will still be there when the candy striper comes in for the tray but not the ice cream. That he ate first. A light tap on the door and in comes a leg and then another. They are a stranger's legs. 'Momma, tell the policeman to go away. She shakes her head 'no' and says, 'Come in Dr. Rudo.' Dr. Rudo is wearing an officer's suit. The badge is bright red and almost as big as a watermelon. Tommy is happy to see him. 'Should I turn over now?' he asks. 'What's the hurry, Boy? I came to see how much better you feel, so tell me.' 'I had ice cream with my lunch and I ate it before the noodle soup. I feel better, Dr. Maybe if I get ice cream again for dessert later with chocolate sauce, I'll be even better tomorrow.' Dr. Rudo writes on a prescription pad an order for him to give to the next nurse who comes in. Sure enough, he gets the chocolate syrup on top of vanilla ice cream in the afternoon and again at dinner. He just loves Dr. Rudo. 'I'm ready, Dr. Rudo. He turns himself over and waits for the painless shot. ' Mom. Watch!' 'Tommy, you don't need another one. Mom and I are going into the hall to talk about you and will tell you what she wants to do. Okay?'

 

'Mrs. Bondie, you didn't tell me about Tommy bruising his leg some time ago. Why not? That was crucial information you should have given me. I may be a clown, a policeman, but can't be a seer. I believe Tommy has a hematoma in his thigh and needs surgery. It is a minor operation done as an out patient. I have already discussed this with Dr. Fontain who had recommended you make an appointment with me. The shot he got yesterday alleviates pain but is no cure. Talk it over with your husband and let me know this evening. If you both agree, your son will be good as new in three or four days at home. I can have him released from here first thing in the morning.'

 

Night comes. Night goes. Tommy's parents are waiting for their car when Dr. Rudo happens to come in for rounds. He is wearing a lady's evening gown and has on a blond wig. 'So long, Tommy, I have other patients to see but will see you soon.' With that he shows Tommy his high heels and goes into the hospital.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Right (Write) On

ARTHUR MULLINS

 

His coffee has been re-heated twice. It's flavor is gone. So is his mind. It is blank. Not a single idea comes from it to his fingers. Chapter one of 'Booze Days' is dead after just two pages. That he lived thru Prohibition days had inspired him but instead he is depressed, bored with t.v.'s overkill of the subject. Arthur rips his scribbling into bits and hurries to the toilet where he gags, throws up the blueberry muffin he almost enjoyed. 'Calm down, 'Arthur,' he says aloud to the mirror. 'It will come, it always does. Be patient!'

 

After the torture of a wordless day, he enlarges the misery by tossing and turning until daylight shows its face. The carpet on the stairs looks shabby. Capone wouldn't have accepted that and may have had Bugsy shot down just because ????? On his desk is Arthur's writing book, right where he left it overnight. It leaps at him like a rattler ready to kill. It's hiss, sharp bite send him directly into a busy, loud speakeasy.
Cab Calloway is at the piano singing 'Minnie the Moocher', young ladies are dancing wildly. Their silk hose are held up by fancy flowered garters. Their long hair has been bobbed. Spit curls are glued to their cheeks. Arthur asks for a double Scotch.

 

He is comfortable there, decides to stay a while until there is a raid. The bouncer opens the window in the door and sees a regular customer. As soon as he opens the door, in rush cops, tall ones, fat ones. A few of them pull up chairs and sit down with the illegal drinkers. They don't even have to ask, hootch is before them, fresh money slides over the tables. A knock-out blonde who had been in the chorus, takes to Arthur, approaches him with a big smile and a low cut costume. Just as he reaches for her, Arthur's lights go out. His story fades. He makes a new pot of coffee.

 

This coffee is hot, real hot, but not as hot as that dancer he was visualizing.  From his night table drawer he takes out a porn mag. and plays 'let's pretend.' It invigorates Arthur enough for him to be able to add an entire chapter to Booze Days. It takes several writings before it reads right to him. This still could be a winner, he thinks, but it will take time, a lot of time.

 

For info he Googles Prohibition and gets plenty of Ness stories, how the illicit booze reached Europe, what the moonshiners  made and delivered, where much of the raw alcohol came from. It all has to be categorized, plans laid out, more characters brought in. Arthur is no longer on that sweet high. His head starts to throb forcing  bloody screams from his dry throat.  For sure he is being electrocuted. The buzzing stops when Mokey arrives, a bootlegger he remembers as a delivery man for his grandfather's five gallon cans of liquid poison.

 

The green wondrous odor of stacks of money being arranged on the kitchen table set Arthur on a new track. He steals a wad or two, stuffs them in his pants and get whacked hard over the head when his grandfather catches him. That sets up his last chapter. Arthur is about ready to re-read all of Booze Days, locate a proof reader before he submits his story to Argosy. He makes only minor changes, adds  Officer Hornsby, the real guy he heard of who had the biggest 'horn'

 

It takes three full months before all of the small details are accomplished, the book cover designed and printed, radio and magazine ads, streetcar posters filling the eyes of those who are interested and those who object. The first day of distribution is in NYC and is off the charts. Window displays invite readers to meet Mr. Arthur–a real authour. Five hundred books are autographed and paid for.

 

Arthur is absolutely surprised and delighted, stays until the last lookers leave. He heads down to Bally's Bar for a real man's legit real drink and waits to see what happens. New thoughts begin to tease him.

Earned time

BARRY'S SECRET

 

Barry pounds the drums, all kinds of drums. He's so loud when he plays with his sloppy, messy group that my teeth ache. When he got his first gig, he spent $30 of my money to buy himself a goofy black straw hat, punched out the crown enough so his hair flies out of it when he jumps around. Then he  hung two unused tea bags from the brim. They have become his trademark. In his asymmetric performances, his hat falls off, making the crowd stomp and scream. They love him the most. He's the leader, the star.

 

My husband, Thomas always, never Tom, is proud that Barry has become a star but admits to very few people that the kooky drummer on Saturday Night Live, who worked so hard to become a star, is his son.

 

In the beginning, Thomas knew his boy (our boy) was special and offered to get him a good teacher of drums. Barry's appreciation was evident as he already knew who he wanted, who the best teacher around was, Ivan Dinton. And so it came to pass that the lessons became eternally louder and longer. As soon as each lesson ends, Barry practices holding the sticks, feeling, always feeling what is pent up inside of him and letting it run free. Every clash of the cymbals makes the front door vibrate a little while Barry gloats with his virtuosity.

 

If this isn't enough to take, it grows worse. Barry's high school friend, Tony Maroni, has been taking bass lessons since he got to high school.  He plunks and plunks and seems to be very talented. They get together and form  a good alliance. Both have to drag their clumsy musical instruments to wherever a possible job exists. Mr. Dinton offers a suggestion that they find a super guitar player and work as a group. Thomas sees the logic in that and wants to do right by his son, but because Barry's drum set is so difficult to handle – practice time is always in his house, at least twice a week. Mr. & Mrs. Thomas Sharp leave the house those nights, plus Saturday afternoons. Bones,  whose real name is Jones, plays the guitar as if his fingers are made of feathers. His music can be heavenly or strident, depending on Barry, the leader of The Red Flyers.

 

Sometimes Tony and I think we have been dreaming too long. Where did the years go? When, how, did our noisy, rambunctious trio get this far? Stars we are. We are everywhere, t.v., on disc covers , in the scandal mags. Paparazzis, surround other paparazzis waiting to get candid shots of our group. They are looking for dirt and we don't give it to them. Boys, girls, women, some very young boys trail the group wherever they go. Barry doesn't complain and why should he? He's  independently wealthy and is too old for us to still warn him about sexual diseases, gold diggers. He knows far more than we do.

 

'No, thanks, Barry,' Thomas and I have said several times when he offers us a new home, a cruise to nowhere. He still stays with us for Thanksgiving, Christmas or just when he can manage to relax, get away from it all. The impossible happens. Barry disappears. Tony contacts the police. Every news program makes up stories. 'The Red Flyers split up: Barry jumped out the window in his Stanford suite: Barry and Tony are queers and have gone off together: Bones thinks Barry is having a hot affair with Glenda Robinson: Barry's parents are returning immediately from England.

 

The maid and the police enter Barry's suite first thing in the morning. Everything is in order. Music is soft. Old wax records are stacked on the cocktail table. Barry is wearing Dobbi sound ear pads and humming along with Frankie. His hands are busy with unseeable drum sticks. He is startled when tapped on his shoulder, seems to be in another world.

And he is. He orders everyone out. 'You are disturbing me and Frankie. He knew what good listening music was. Now get out of here, all of you. Let me be where I want to be, the way I want my life to be, soft, easy. I'm entitled to my cave, right?' The maid holds the door open for everyone. Barry waves 'toodleoo' and lies back and listens to music.

Buzz buzz

IN A JAM

 

How do I get into trouble all the time? I don't sleep well and that is because there is a constant hum in my ears that drives me crazy. Two doctors have chased me out of their offices. Mrs. Mcabe's house is comfortable but she won't let me stay long. In spite of my unhappiness, I do have a lot of friends, some so close I even go to their funerals. It's sad but there are so many, my eyes bulge out. I can't cry, wouldn't if I could, because my turn will come.

 

What should I do? Where should I look for the murderers? The Jackson Jail is one place but it is a secure building. Once I got caught sneaking in and thought 'This is it!' But I'm still fast and maneuvered when the sergeant fell asleep on his watch. He was a brute of a guard chased me down the hall, didn't see me hiding on deck two. Not a single convict ratted on me. In fact, there was plenty of left over goodies in the cells and I nearly burst stuffing myself on brownies.

 

Life is picking up. There is great excitement today, Monday, garbage collection day. All the neighbors have their messy food, empty cans ready for the big green trucks. They do as told and leave the lids off to make pick-up faster. It's a lousy, dirty job but somebody has to do it. I watch my chance and get thru the smell, the turmoil, end up in the Malcolm's back yard. Her children have left the screen door open. What a break! I am so fast, sure nobody sees me, and am in the kitchen before breakfast is on the table.

 

I stay in the pantry, hear Mrs. Malcolm open the fridge and move closer to the door. She calls, 'Thomas, which do you want, strawberry or blackberry?' Thomas is busy trying to zip his fly and almost falls down the steps. By the time he sits down at the kitchen table for his glass of milk, toasted muffin with jam, his mom has the tops off of both jars. He takes a heaping spoonful of strawberry, smooths it on the toasted muffin  with a dull knife and devours the sweet in an instant. I am now in a predicament. He takes another piece of toast, covers it with blackberry preserves, finishes his milk, wipes his blackberry moustache with a paper napkin and closes the lids.

 

It is very dark in here. I can't move at all. I am stuck. My wings just won't move. There is a terrible grinding noise that shakes me loose. I see light when the jam lid comes off. The lady sees me struggling trying to free myself. She lets out a scream, shuts the jar and tosses it, with me inside, into a garbage can.

 

This is it! Lots of the garbage swarmers will die when the cans are washed out. With no choice, I will stay still and die happily.

Shave and a Haircut

BARBER OF DE VILLE

 

Barcelona is wild, music comes out of every open window. Tortoise shell combs decorate the senoritas' hairdos. Carriages carrying fine ladies and gentlemen roll nosily to the bull fights. It is Saturday. Peasants, carrying stiff brushes behind their carts, clean the cobblestone streets  non-stop. They complain their jobs are endless, pay is almost non-extinct. Nobody of importance hears them.

 

Don Dorado, in hopes of finding work, has walked many miles to Barcelona. His feet are blistered. His facial hair is scraggly. He is ashamed but has little choice, holds a tin cup out to passers by, and collects a few coins, barely enough for a cup of soup. He sits thru the night on a hard bench, gets little rest. The morning sun, the horses clomping by, wake him. Already his stomach growls. He spots a bodega along the street, opens the door, bows his head in reverence and asks for work. 'Clean the toilets, all of them and you may have breakfast here.' Senor Don scrubs and rubs the toilet rooms until they look as good as new and is treated royally to a full breakfast and a small bag of cheese and rolls to take on his journey.

 

Journey? Journey to where? he thinks. The day warms. It only takes that one long night to let him realize he could never be happy in so big a city. In a small city, a much smaller town, he can make friends, be somebody and so he plods the long road, watching for signs of friendship, possible growth. Often the Madonna visits him, urges him forward. The first town he comes to, La Compana, is not little. They already have a bullfight ring, a museum. Smaller, smaller he thinks. I want to become somebody, not rush myself to my final resting place.

 

Several  men are leaning against an old fashioned lamppost. They smell of cigars, cheap cigars. 'Signors, Donde esta' barbero tienda? Bano casa?' Each man shrugs and points in another direction. 'E quiero empleo, trabajar.' The biggest, sloppiest man speaks in broken English, 'You want a barber and a job? Well, tourists come here from America and you had better learn to speak some English.The worn out walker senses what is being said and nods his head yes. The big man points East tells him in Spanish ' rel manero.' With a sweeping polite bow, the traveler says 'Gracias' and moves towards the painted white hand on a tree limb that says Ahedo. From there he walks some more. Joy jumps from his eyes and heart as he comes to a small village with a red and white barber pole. The stripes turn.

 

Inside are four  barber chairs, only one is empty and calls his name. The barber's big moustache twirls at its ends as he invites the stranger to take the empty seat. From a back room two more mustachiode barbers appear with steaming towels for their customers. Looking around Don Dorado sees potential, space in the rear of the shop. The boss man removes too long neglected facial hair with calmness, tenderness, wraps the face in a steaming towel. The waiting chairs are again filled. Customers stick their heads in, glance at their watches and wait outside to be called. Excitement grows in Dorado's mind. As he steps from the chair and pays from his beggar's pants, he asks the boss man for a job. His voice almost pleads. The barbero explains he needs no help. What he needs is more chairs.
'Let me see what is in the back room,' The barber removes the sheet around Dorado's neck and leads him to a large almost empty room that has glass windows, a wooden floor and one lone electric light with a long string hanging from the ceiling. Impolite as it may be, he asks the barber if he is rich. 'Yes and no,' is the reply. 'I have a nice home, many children and a fat wife who is a good cook. So I am rich. But I m tired of cutting and shaving and unimportant talking, so I am poor.'

 

That is just what Dorado is hoping for. 'Senor Barber,' 'I look like a ragged poor nobody to you but back in Castille where my family lives, they have gold to invest in what I want to do. My padre told me when I know for sure what I want, to write to him. To be a barber, the best, most sought after barber in all of Spain, that is my desire. Let me tell you what I already see in my mind for myself, and you if you wish to be my partner.'  When evening comes and the shop is closed, plans form.

 

'The shop as it is now will become a relaxing area, with soft chairs, mirrors, a small bar with fine Spanish wines, Sangria. There will be excellent books for customers to read while they wait their turn. We will take out the wooden floors and have fine Spanish tiles, each colorful and bright, laid down. I envision perhaps ten chairs that revolve and can be pumped up and down and drop back for comfort. Steam, soft brushes for powders, perfumes–elegance that is what I want for my future. '

 

'And you, Senor, will have to be second in command of our hermoso investment. I shall be the best barber. I will be the leader, the gold giver. Shall we talk further?' The barber does not seem sure and asks for time to think everything over, ask questions. 'What do we do while the new place is being built? Where will you live? When would we get the gold? ' 'How do I know you are a great barber?' Dorado has a quick reply. 'Because I have told you I am. And if you don't believe that, we cannot be partners.'

 

'Then I am afraid Senor Dorado, I do not believe the wonders you offer me are real. I believe that you may be a barber but not as good as I am, so I guess we cannot be partners. But you are welcome to have dinner with my family and stay the night in bed with my daughter. What do you say?'

 

An answer takes a long time. 'I will accept your hospitality and be gone in the morning when the sun rises. I will walk to Jaquada and find another partner. Shall we go to dinner now?'

Pray

MONSTER ROCK

 

Mt. Shapiro is erupting. Magnum is flowing down the volcano. Trees have disintegrated. Flames fly, fall into the magnum and become destruction partners. Screams can't be heard over the flowing red death. Does anyone think for even a nano second that our town may one day be unearthed again like Pompeii? I leap. I jump, I crawl, don't want to be found as a barbecued shell of me. My house is far to the left of the red river  but I will be toasted before I can even wave it goodbye. Sweat is pouring out of every inch of me. Yet, I keep my senses, waste no time praying to god, promising I'll be a better person if he stops this Apocalypse.

 

Fie! I try it. 'Oh, Heavenly Lord, I, my parents, children, the entire town of three still living families, promise to be god-fearing, never lie, cheat, steal. Please, please, if you have a switch, turn it off. Leave the old synagogue in good shape and I will go to services every Friday night and Saturday morning. I will save the holy Torahs somehow.'

 

What is that sound? My god, it is silence or else I have gone totally deaf from the roar.  Am I seeing things? Can the magnum be flowing backwards into the volcano? I have lost my shoes but not my mind. The red hot air is still red hot. Breathing is a struggle. Quickly I turn my eyes to the left and catch a glimpse of a tree, not a very big one, but a tree that has leaves. A yellow bird circles over it, dives down and drops what may be baby food into a nest, or part of a nest. I can't be sure.

 

The earth still shakes but not as violently. There can be only one explanation, my god, yahweh, has heard me, knows I am a man of my word and will keep my promises. He reads minds too and lets me know that the magnum has not, will not stop. The side of the volcano that I am on, grows higher. Ashes cover it and me and I am as ready as I will ever be to die. God is a teaser, plays tricks on me, gives me strength to  stand and survey the situation that is not a good one at all. My worries are almost over. Everything rumbles, crumbles as the other side of the volcano explodes. It is as if we few remaining people are watching the atomic bomb change the world from what it had been to what it has  become. I have to pray louder, more fervently. 'God, stop this devastation. I will give away all the wonders you have been so kind to bestow on me. Just guide me, lead me, to be a true believer in the history of our people, not quibble with the rabbi about the parting of the Red Sea, King Solomon, all that was stuffed into my brain for my Bar Mitzvah. It happened and now this upheaval is happening. Who will write about it, find the torahs that must be burned to cinders? Oh, god don't desert me. I fall on the ground that is somehow cool, rise and fly down the volcano that is at last resting quietly.

 

Our town, as small as it was, is smaller now. There are no friends, relatives, pets, but then I see a miracle and call to god one more time. 'You did this for us, God. Our synagogue has only half of one wall standing, the bema holds a clean and holy Torah. Across it lies the Christian Cross that had been on the top of St. Michael's Parish since I was a child.

 

Good night!

Warning- Read to end !

HUSTLE BUSTLE

 

The lady is dressed in shabby finery. Her parasol is tightly furled and dangles from her wrist. A bustle, no longer bustling, is almost flat. It is easy to see she spends much of her time lying down. Fool, fool, turns a corner and enters Ellis St. Where the only gas lamp is out of gas. She stumbles and starts to fall. What an opportunity for me! I grab her, plunge my dagger directly into her heart. It gurgles, blood spurts out but I jump back before it touches my long grey coat. The whore's eyes are popped open but she is quite dead, sees nothing more. I peel back her body skin, rip out her intestines and with no conscious thought, leave them on the broken sidewalk, waiting silently for a bobby to find her on his first morning tour of duty.  I am not going to be interrogated.

 

I am home. I am comfortable. I am not yet satisfied.

------------------------------------------------------------

DEAR READERS:

 

I cannot continue this true story. I have frightened and upset myself. It just so happens, my name is JACK.

 

Have a good night.

Managing

BED TIME BAD TIMES

 

The choking, the moaning, rises between the floor boards. Our furnace begs for coal. I can hear my dad scraping the cement cellar floor with the only shovel we have. It is useless. The bin is empty, has been since yesterday. He stomps on the wooden orange crates he smuggled out of the corner A & P back yard. Tossing them into the furnace's hungry mouth, a small flame ignites and dies quickly.

 

Tonight I have the best place in the bed my brothers and I share, the middle. We have one double blanket that doesn't cover six legs. Only my two get thru the night without losing a toe or two. My brothers wake up a few times and double, triple, their socks. Each time they return, they cuddle next to me and any warmth I had managed to have, turns my blood to ice. No sense complaining. I take what I can get and give it away tomorrow and the next night. The warm smell of coffee climbs the stairs. Dad has done all he could to get the furnace going. He is disappointed and surely miserable for all of us.

 

By the time the sun rises at 6, my day is planned. Mama has oatmeal and one scrambled egg ready for my breakfast. She suggests I eat slowly. I try but am too hungry to dawdle. Corduroy pants that have seen much better days, a flannel shirt I inherited from my brother Bo and a pullover over all wool sweater prepares me for my hour work before school opens.

 

Mama has her hand-sewn large black and white shopping bag ready at the door for me. 'Sydney, this is Wednesday, try 4th and 5th streets first. Those blocks have a chance of getting their coal orders filled. Just don't get in the way.' 'Aw, Mama, I know what to do. You don't have to tell me every time I go out early.' She opens the door and a blast of cold air takes my breath away. Before I can even say, 'Bye,' the door is closed again.

 

The sky is starting to turn blue yet offers no hope of the temperature rising above 14 degrees, with no chance of snow. If only it would come down, thick and heavy, I could use our still strong shovel and clear pavements, bring home a dollar or two. By 7 the little amount of traffic changes as milk and coal trucks get busy for the day. When I reach the corner of 4th and Avalon St., two coal trucks are parking, one behind the other. This is very good. Someone in each cellar has already unlocked the windows. The coal chutes are being put in place so the coal slides down and goes directly into the basements bins. The driver of truck #1 tries to make me go away but I stand still and wait for the tumbling coals to find a new temporary home. A chunk falls off here and there and I grab each fast, put them in the bag I've been carrying. In less than ten minutes my bag is half filled. Truck #2 still is sending coal in and I am getting whatever doesn't make the window.

 

I think of my mother, waiting for me. Why didn't she give me two bags? ' Ha,' I talk to my self, 'I couldn't have carried two loads.' My walk home seems a lot longer than getting to my goal. Just as I reach our front steps, the handle on the bag breaks and the coal falls everywhere. My Mama sees this happen and runs out with our trash can that she empties as she runs. In her other hand are her two soup pots.
Together we manage to retrieve the precious golden black coal.

 

Bo, while I was hustling from truck one to two for coal, he was trailing the Cloverdale milk truck. He's swift, that brother of mine, manages to cop two quarts of milk while the milkman  was getting paid for the one he was delivering. He puts the milk in our ice box. 'My lord, Ma,' he shouts. 'We are almost out of ice.'  Mama looks a t him with such soft loving eyes. 'Boys, let's not be worried or frightened. God will provide.' She bows her head, crosses her heart and counts on god.

 

Bo laughs at her. 'Mama, don't ask god. He's busy. Sydney and I will find ice someplace.' She smiles and goes looking for a big bucket.

Just baby and me ...and

PRESSURE POINT

 

I gather my growing family around me before school time. Our kids range in age from three months to twelve years and they do keep me stepping. Carla is the youngest, cutest. Of course, I realize that I say the same thing each time I bring another babe home from the hospital. Carla really is the cutest, lying in her bassinet, tiny bubbles spilling out of her rose bud lips. She burps from both ends and I have to laugh.

 

Our other two daughters have dark, straight hair that is soft and easy to manage. The boys, looking almost like twins, except for an extra inch in height, have curly blond hair that they like keeping very short. And now our newest and hopefully last child, Carla,  has blue eyes and Titian red hair. It's still too sparse to put a ribbon in it but is an uncontested red. She's going to cause trouble in this family.

 

Our friends (?) and neighbors are already making up stories, stories that come back to me. Adele, my most trusted friend, has told me that there's a rumor circulating that I have a lover. I would like to knock a few people off their feet, but know that won't come to pass. So far Phil hasn't mentioned what Adele told me, nor have I told him about it. I worry that he must be talking himself into believing such nonsense. Last night I noticed him opening my underwear drawer. He's never done that before. Why now? The idiots who are spreading lies are trouble-makers. I have no time for a fling and if I did, I would not use it and would be a faithful wife.

 

At the super market, I sense fingers pointing at me, mouths pressed against ears of my neighbors and heads nodding in agreement. Melinda, a friend from childhood days, greets me with 'Hi, new mama. How's that red-headed daughter of yours getting along?' I pretend I am not aware of her slyness and just tell her the truth. 'Carla is adorable, growing fast, almost ready to try a sippy cup. Stop by and see us soon.'

 

Eyes follow me everywhere. I know I am becoming paranoid and have to stop this nonsense but don't know how. My Phil asks me questions he never asked before like 'What do you do all day when the kids are in school? Where were you when I called this afternoon? 'Why didn't you get my jacket from the cleaner's today?' Feeling the tension, I try to stay calm but don't. 'Phil, I clean, I cook, I watch t.v. diaper Carla, play with her. You know damn well what I do all day.' He sticks his nose back in the latest Time magazine and ignores me until I ask him to collect the children for dinner. That he does without comment.

 

Saturday mornings Phil usually stays in with the boys for an hour or two and I take the girls with me to do my marketing. We always bump into somebody I know. Just today Sarah mentions what beautiful hair my children have and adds on, 'but where in the world did your baby's red hair come from?' So smooth, so easy, so nasty, I don't bother answering and walk away.

 

An idea grows in my mind and as soon as I get into the house, am settled, the kids are all okay,  I take a few minutes of private time,  go to Phil's computer and type in a little poem, ' I love my husband. He loves me. And we're as happy-as we can be.' My idea is to print this and put it in my neighbors', my friends', mailboxes. Stupid, childish. I delete it and pout to my mirror.

 

That's when a visitor arrives, my great grand-mother, 98 years old and still holding onto her sanity and walker. Her usual black leather pouch purse is over her shoulder. Whichever children are home and hear her arrival, rush to her, know her bag has some goodies for them. After the hugging, the goodies distributed, great grandmother puts aside her walker, asks me to hold her arm, take her to the sofa. The children have disappeared like magic.  She hands me her pouch, sits down, breathes calmly and asks me to bring Carla down to her. 'I want to see that great-great red-headed grand daughter I have.' 'She'll be awake soon, Granny.' We chit chat until I hear Carla's cry for attention. 'I'll change her, Granny and give you a sensational kick when you see how she has grown in only two months.'

 

Still holding her, I puff with pride and joy and start to hand the baby to her great-great grandmother and am stopped. From her worn black pouch she pulls out a large envelope and hands it to me. 'Open it!' I oblige and see a fading photograph of a man in a derby, holding onto a studded cane. I had never seen it before. I learn that the picture is an early linotype that had been colored by hand. Carla and my granny smile. ' Look carefully, Sweet Lady. See my dear departed Manny? He had red hair, a red mustache and beard. That's where Carla got what will become her crowning glory!'

 

This explains everything except the rudeness of my friends, who I'll have to forgive. It will take longer for me to forgive Phil, but I will.

No ordinary day

PICNIC TIME 

 

It's 8 a.m. Sunday. Joseph and I are just gathering our wits so we will do nothing special for once. Our first decision is to stay in bed a little longer. Next, we are not going to get dressed all day and will hang around in our nite clothes, maybe sit on the veranda while the air is shady but still warm. I'll make pancakes. Joseph will clean up my mess and we can both gorge on whatever I don't burn and delight in the gobs of creamery butter we will slather on them and top that with flowing rivers of real maple syrup. Just the thought of our Sunday freedom is a well-earned blessing. We have our breakfast, look over the heavy Sunday newspaper (that has little news and too much flamboyant advertising) and just watch the grass grow.

 

The chiming of our doorbell at 10:15 disturbs our doldrums. 'Who goes there?' I ask before I open the door. 'Surprise! Surprise!' shouts our daughter, Zel. My eyes open wide seeing her sunshiny face. She glows, looks beautiful, could be a model. Hell, I forgot for a moment, she is a model.

 

I know I have shocked her, disappointed her, barely dressed at 10:15.
'Where's your new husband, Zel? Did you two split already?' 'Oh, Ma, here he comes. We have something for you.' I call out, 'Joseph, we have company. Zel and Barry are here to visit.' It takes Joseph ten minutes to appear, say 'hello.' He looks spiffy in white duck slax, a brown and white striped crisp shirt, no shoes.  Just as he is showing Zel that he doesn't go around in his sleep wear all day, Barry appears carrying a large wicker picnic basket. He and Zel hold it together, lift the lid. Jospeh and I gasp. The lid is stocked with a red and white checked tablecloth, large napkins and shiny forks and knives, a brand new cork screw that had to be a wedding gift. Two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon are tucked on the side with plastic wine glasses. The smell of fried chicken arouses our interest. There is a can opener for Heinz beans, pickles carefully wrapped in Saran, a big bag of Schultz potato chips, cookies and slices of cake. ' Get dressed, Ma', I am told. 'We have a table reserved at Rock Bottom Park. This is Picnic Day for all of us.'  Zel knows I am not a picnic lover, hate ants, but I hurry to change, bring socks and shoes downstairs for Joseph.

 

Our reserved table is waiting. Zel spreads the checked cloth on top, sets the table as if we were having a banquet. Everything looks inviting. The chicken is still warm. The paper plates are sturdy. None crumble. Zel won't let me do a single thing as she tells me over and over, how good I have been to her and to Barry.

 

Barry taps an empty wine bottle with his spoon and makes an announcement. 'Dear New Family. We are not done with you. We are going some place else. It's only twenty minutes from here. Let's go!' We drive without the AC as the early fall air is cool and friendly. I ask questions. 'How are you doing? How do you like married life?' Imbecilic questions.  Zel utters wistfully, 'Ma, It's wonderful. Barry is kind, down to earth but our schedules give us little time together.' I lean over the front seat, reach Barry and give him an uncomfortable hug.

 

In only fifteen minutes we pull into a forest of trees, dark green, light green, tall, spreading, bowing down, loaded with apples, apples of all kinds. Small signs tell the pickers what kind of apples are on each tree. Ladders lean against the trunks. Barry has extra large black plastic bags in his car trunk, hands one to each of us and gives orders. 'Everybody go! We'll meet here at the Granny Smith arbor at 4 o'clock. This place closes at 4:30. There will be a line at the scales so don't be late.

 

Pickers walk along, inspecting, eating big red Delicious apples. They are so crisp and sweet. I stop, take a chance and climb a few steps, reach six luscious ones that have no worm holes.  I remember my father telling me a worm hole is good. That means the worm came out. Zel has disappeared. This is fun. A sign points to the Gala apple trees. I love them, have to spend a lot to get them in the super market and they aren't always juicy.  Romes are mealy to me, so I skip those, climb, reach high for Winesaps. Never had a bad one in all my years. They can be tart, make my lips curl but these feel solid. Plop into my black bag.

 

A whistle blows, pickers climb down. I do as they do and head towards the scale. There are several lines that move fairly fast. Zel finds me and I let her in. Barry and Joseph are in the next line, arguing about who pays for all the apples. Barry wins, or loses. It depends on how one feels. He pays with a smile.

 

All four bags go in the trunk, minus one of our choice for the ride home. Without the signs, I have no idea what I am eating. One was juicy, one was surely not ripe yet.

 

Back at our house, Zel and Barry hand us our heavy bags of apples, hug us almost to death, thank us over and over for being such wonderful parents and drive away.

 

For the entire next week I am making applesauce, apple pies for the freezer. I bake them. I puke on them. Enough apples. I give them to neighbors. The apple stock seems to be growing in the bags. Joseph thinks I don't see him drop a few in the garbage can and cover them with trash.

 

At the super market, I am aware of the prices of apples and realize I have enjoyed a real bargain, IF one doesn't count the gas and manicures to fix my broken fingernails.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Miracle?

CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER

 

'Look at this, Alma. Isn't it adorable?' Judy holds up a small, supposedly porcelain pig, for me to coo over. I reply, ' It's nose is black and cracked and should be pink. It's a piece of junk. Put it back on the table.'

 

'How about this, Alma? It fits perfectly.' A shiny, surely fake, emerald ring is on her pinkie. 'That does look pretty. Let me try it on Alma.' I watch her struggle and struggle but she can't get it off. I scare the dickens out of her. 'Well then, I'll have to cut your finger off, Dummy!' Fear makes her eyes bulge out and she starts sucking on her finger, slobbering on her blouse. Finally the ring comes off and rolls on the floor. I chase it and grab it just as it is about to go under a table that has old fashioned oil lamps on display.

 

The neighborhood sidewalk sale is getting busier by the minute. There are lots of folks looking over old books. I glance quickly and decide against spending my money on something I'll never read. I stand on a rickety rattan chair looking for Judy. Mrs. MacPherson probably owns the chair and hopes to get it out of her basement. She tugs at my slax and motions for me to get down, taps me not too hard on my rear end, and tells me to go bother somebody else.

 

Hats fascinate me. A neighbor I've never seen before has two card tables taped together. On them are hats, hats from the early 40's, 50's, feathered hats, felt ones with big and little brims, silk flowers in the bands. I learn the lady's name is Crawford and ask her if I can try a few on. 'Of course, dear Child. Help yourself.' There is only one mirror available and I hog it. The mirror speaks to me, 'Hey, dope, where will you wear any of these? Go someplace else.' 'What?' I ask the mirror and almost fall over unconscious. The mirror speaks again. 'Go find your friend, Judy. She's in trouble.' One more look and I watch it  fog over. Mrs. Crawford stashes it under her table.

 

Toys, my lord, how many kinds, for all ages, right up to second childhood are falling off the tables. I have no wish to get close, to touch any fuzzy panda, check out a Monopoly game that surely has missing pieces, smoke a bubble pipe. Mrs. Blitz has the busiest table of all. She must be making a mint and will probably buy toys for her great grandchildren with her boodle.

 

A strange sensation is coming over me. My right leg is twitching as if something is inside it, trying to get out. I spot Judy over near the same table where she found the fake emerald ring. 'Judy, Judy!' I call.
'I need you.' She waves but doesn't come over. While I wait for her, my
finger begins to itch, to feel hot. I walk over to a pitcher of water some kind neighbor has on her table with paper cups. 'May I have a drink, Ma am?' I ask. 'Sure, have ten cents?'

 

I nod and reach in my pocket for a dime and find the fake emerald ring covered with a piece of used Kleenex. With ease it slips on my finger, off and on. It is just right so I leave it on and cover my finger when next I see Judy.

 

I spot her spinning around and around a long wooden table that is covered with an embroidered cloth. Its color is still vibrant . Little pink fairies dance around flower beds. The cloth almost sings to me. I want to buy it for my grandmother but she has a round table with big claw feet. The owner of the cloth approaches me, realizes I look interested in it, tells me its been used for 75 years. Her aunt Tillie had embroidered it and she was always its caretaker. Now she has looked at it long enough and is ready to sell it.

 

My grandmother has an identical cloth but hers is round. 'Our family uses ours on special occasions It doesn't get rubbed in our cellar tubs, but go right to a fancy dry cleaner after we use it for Xmas. I explain again that my grandmother's old table is round so this one fit. A soft, pleasant look comes over her face. 'Wait right here,' The lady says. I move around but return to the table when I see her coming. She is carrying a large white box that has a silver bow on top. Laying it on the table, on top of the rectangle cloth, she removes the ribbon and pulls out the new cloth. It is identical to the first one except it is round. I am stunned., don't know what to say. Eventually, with close. careful scrutiny, I see the cloth maker's initials in the center of a yellow rose. T.R.L, my grandmother's name is Theodora Rosalynd Langford..
My god, My god, my grandmother made this round cloth. How much is it?' 'I'll accept a dinner invitation as payment so cloth can again meet its maker and we can check further into our history.'

 

With  quick thinking, I believe you, young lady may be my great, grand- niece. ' Call me Aunt Beverly and invite me for dinner next week to be served on the round cloth.' Right or wrong, memories will fly and we'll all have pumpkin pie, a la mode for dessert.' I start to walk away and am called back, 'Here, don't you want my name , address, phone, cell, Apad info?'

 

She  takes out her bright yellow calling card  and hands it to me. I open my purse and get my bright yellow card out of my wallet. We can't believe we both have the same color cards.  I tell Beverly to look up 'Believe it or Not' by Ripley.' I think we have a chance of getting in the files.
 

 

 

 

 

Yummy !

WELL DONE 

 

'Get away from me, Mother! You're mean! I hate you!' I look, see her burning up in anger. Slap, slap, she whacks me across my face. Not a sound do I make. I'm used to her tantrums but that doesn't take away my misery, my aching bones.  I wait in silence for her to grab me by my ear and throw me out the door. The wait is not long.

 

The path to our house is made out of pebbles and broken shells. They hurt my feet, cut the soles and make them bleed, but I will not let the old witch see me cry. I run, run as fast as I can, and am saved. My brother, swinging his school books, is coming down the road. Without a 'hello' I swear to him that one day I will kill our mother and that day is getting closer and closer.

 

'So what's the problem, Gret?' What's different about today from all the rest?' To him I can cry and do it without trying. 'Did you know she didn't give me supper last night and only a slice of bread for breakfast? Do you have anything in your pocket left over from your lunch? I am so hungry my belly is playing mean music.' My brother hands me two broken graham crackers which isn't much but taste like apple pie to me.

 

'Come sit near me under the weeping willow, I am hurting for you. We can make a plan to fix her good. Want to try?' I jump for joy, dropping my few graham crumbs on the ground. What does mother like to do best in the world?'  I think out loud. 'She likes to be mean to me, to hit me, to starve me.' My brother thinks those things over, stares at me and asks, 'Gret, doesn't she like to bake so you smell the good things, but  gives you none? You hate her and I hate her for being so mean to you. I am going to take her for a long walk and let her get lost in the woods. Maybe she'll find her way out, but she isn't too  smart, is she?'

 

My dear brother tells me to go in the house, don't even talk to our mother. 'Watch out the window in her kitchen and when you see Mother and me out of sight, you come out and follow our footsteps. I am going to take her to the family bakery, let her start to bake her cookies and then hide. Be very quiet. She must not suspect what I am going to do.' He leaves me there, worried, frightened but sure he will do what he says he will do.

 

It is almost dark when I finally see Mother and my brother go into the family bakery. I drool when I smell the cookies. The front door opens and my brother comes out. He is holding hands with a huge gingerbread lady he baked just for me. She is flat, steaming hot. Her apron and cap are flat too.

 

My brother asks me if he did the right thing and I say, 'Hans, you are a truly wonderful brother. Thank you. Let's go home and eat all of the cool cookies.'

Clearing of a Brain

CLOSED DOOR

 

'Let me in! Let me in!' A child's small, frightened voice begs me to unlock the front door. From my kitchen window I see no one, make no move towards the door. Day has barely begun. No school buses have yet gone past. Cautiously, I crack the door open enough to be sure I have made no mistake. I have not. No one, nothing, is there.

 

My percolator perks the same tune it does for me daily. Chase and Sandborn bubbles into the glass pot waiting for its dark brown color. This is the favorite part of my morning. Nobody bothers me. Traffic is almost non-existent. Nothing of dire importance is on my calendar for today.

 

'Chessie, come. Come.'  White, soft angora fur rubs against my leg. She and I have been friends since she was born. I think, Wow, eight years ago. Where have they gone? Her bowl of milk with a raw egg beaten into it awaits her anxious tongue. It is lapped up quickly. She rubs my leg again and heads for her clean litter box.

 

My neighbor, Mrs. Bardoff, tells me I look silly, foolish, when a put a leash around Chessie's neck and we walk around the block, sometimes as far as the Bijou movie house. She can see her reflection in the front door and often stops to purr, talk to her double. During those few moments I look at myself too and see a woman who lies to herself and her friends. When Mary or Jane or anybody offers to 'fix-me-up, my spine gets tight. I recite. 'I am happy, content, the way I am. Chessie and I don't argue, don't ask for anything from each other. I don't have to go to bed with anyone unless I choose to. Now leave me alone!' I have said it so many times it is engraved on my brain.

 

Chessie, on her pink leash with a small but perfect satin bow on the collar take a walk. I am still uncomfortable about the childish voice telling me to let her in. My precious cat looks neither here nor there, staying near the curb while I meander in the middle of the sidewalk. When we reach the corner of Applebee St., a man almost bumps into us. I shrink back in surprise as he looks Chessie and me over. He, surely not realizing what he is saying, looks right at me and says loud enough for the world to hear, 'Miss, what a lovely pussy you have.' My god, I can't believe that, raise my arm and slap him in the face. He has no idea why I hit him and starts to hit me back, but he checks himself and stops suddenly. I swear his face must be redder than mine.

 

I am all aflutter. He's really very handsome and apologetic. I ask him, 'Would you like to hold my—CAT? She's a sweety, won't slap you or even scratch you. Her name is Chessie.'He asks me what mine is and I tell him, 'Miss Charlotte Glass. While he's deciding if he likes my name, I hear the child's name again. 'Let me in! Let me in!' I look and see no child .

 

Had god spoken to me this morning? Had he tried to make me understand that Chessie is not enough? I should have more than a cat in my life. I do believe that is possible and ask the gentleman what his name is.

 

'Jess Waterhouse.' 'That's a nice name Jess.' He takes Chessie's leach and I lead him to my house.

Puffed Up

NO SMOKING

 

The Balmer diner reeks with cigarette smoke. It disgusts me. I hate it here but this place, Jeff's,  is THE place to hang-out. My eyes burn. I cough and I know I am getting a double dose of nicotine and germs. It's a dilemma. I get Durante's feeling, don't know if I want to go or want to stay. We, all eight of us, are squeezed into one booth, the last booth in the place. No windows open. The door doesn't open often because once we get in, we stay in, have our malts, shakes, burgers, play the old nickelodeon. And smoke!  Almost everybody does but I'm not everybody and am a loner in that respect.

 

My dad used to buy cigs by the carton, lots of freebee coupons inside. We had more blue glasses, great little perforated knives, ash trays than any of my friends. Our walls were grimy yellow. My dad's fingers matched them perfectly. Once, only once when I noticed he had left a stub smoldering in the ash tray that already had far too many stubs. I took it, pulled that stuff into my throat and thought for sure I'd die right then and there. That was my smoking start and end at the same second.

 

I hold the large menu in front of my face and try to clear the stink, the smoke away but it is almost thick enough to cut with a spoon. ''Charlie,' I say to my current beau, 'Let's get out of here.' He gives me a look like I just got out of the looney bin. I repeat, 'Charlie, it's just too smokey, too hot, please let's go.' I cannot convince him, sit there and suffer just to hear Frankie sing, 'I'll Never Cry Again' on one of the  juke box wax records.

 

Charlie asks if I want another root beer float, but I don't and tell him once again,'All I want to do is get out of this smokey place.' He tells me to go outside and he'll be there as soon as he pays our part of the check. With one big sweep of my arms and a huge smile on my face, I 'toodleoo' my group and squeeze past the fatsos, step over feet in the aisle and begin to breathe again.  And what do I breathe in but smoke. Not only do I smell it, I see it, coming out of a vent in the tiled roof. It doesn't mean a lot for a minute or two and then my senses revive. I scream, run to the nearest corner for a fire alarm box. There is a mail box but no alarm. I toss off my shoes and run faster to the next corner, break the box, turn the key but don't wait for the engines.

 

Customers are already streaming out of Jeff's. Chairs are thrown against windows. Clouds of smoke come through with the diners. The fire department is only a few blocks away and appear like Christmas after Halloween–fast. The only serious injury is to Jeff's wallet and esteem. He is cited by the officers who check to be sure all diners and help are safe.

 

I am a heroine, have my story and picture in the morning paper. I don't know what Jeff will do in the future, but I know what I will do, try to make my daddy stop smoking.

The then- the now

THE DYING TREE

 

The sun is shining. I can feel its warmth hug me, chase away my aches, the doldrums of my days. Time creeps like a wounded caterpillar, creeping along, losing its way. It finds no juicy leaves to eat but keeps moving, slowly, ever more slowly. I am quite sure my sharp mind is inching along beside it. By now it has reached the 'shut down' mode. Tears don't come often, but come they do. Today is one of those times.

 

The green wooden park bench I sit on most every day, in a way, has become mine alone. Nannies pass me by without a glance. They hold the hands of adorable children who don't even see me. But I see them.
I stay where I am while my mind goes to the hopscotch playground with them.

 

An adorable little white Pekinese on a pink leash parades in front of me. Its master guides the dog to a tree. A memory appears and I can't help but giggle out loud. A mature bulldog, held by a teen, decided my skinny legs were a tree and managed to water me. Its owner apologized profusely. There were no words I could offer to make the lad, the dog or myself comfortable. Being as dignified as I could be under the circumstances , I had no choice but to return home and clean myself up. It was an unpleasant happening but the dog didn't bite me, didn't have a friend with him. That incident comes to mind fairly often and I wonder if the young man tells the story and laughs at my shock and discomfort.

 

The oaks and the maples begin to shake a little. The sound of the wind is music to my ears. The nannies hurry back the way they came, dragging along the children who don't want to go home yet. I watch them, and realize that I don't want to go home either. It's lonely. My aged friends have moved to retirement homes or with children who do their duty and are already trying to send their parents to a home.

 

The wind gets a little stronger, a lot stronger. Leaves twirl, spin to earth. I gather my small case, look around to make sure I have left nothing on or under the bench and a fit of foolishness makes me laugh. What could I have dropped, lost? All I had with me was a paper bag with a peanut butter sandwich in it and I am quite sure I ate that.

 

My watch has stopped but I know the time is right. There is a crack, a loud snap and a tree dies and falls. I was that tree.

Where's Alice?

THE RABBIT HOLE

 

It's my brother Jerrold's duty, his job, to keep our lawn mowed all summer. He gripes every week and I feel sorry for him. Why our father is so strict that the lawn can only be cut on Thursday, we don't know. Saturday would be a lot easier for Jerrold instead of working after school. One time Jerrold was going to pay his best friend to do it for him and that was when the trouble started.

 

Mike was almost half finished, when he stepped into a hole and broke his ankle. His parents made my father pay the doctor bill and poor Jerrold had his allowance cut in half until the bill was paid. We both hated our father for being so lousy, so mean. I took up for my brother and told my father that Jerrold didn't dig the hole, a rabbit did. Dad said as the lawn cutter, he should have been aware of it. I stood against my own father and insisted we have never had a rabbit around here, aren't even sure it's a rabbit hole. Jerrold and I pitched in a few times and brought Mike a chocolate sundae, a comic book. There wasn't much else we could do.

 

I, a girl, was exempted from man's work but had to wash the kitchen floor on my hands and knees Mondays and Thursdays. There was no sense arguing. I got up extra early on those days and was finished before my father would find a spot I missed. One of the dreams I had over and over was that my father got re-married. I'd wake smiling and then think about the possibility. Who would want him? How could my poor mother have taken his abuse so long? My friend, Erma, suggested I leave music on when I go to bed. 'It will relax you,' she said. It did, really did, until about the fifth night, when I heard a noise and my ceiling light came on. My father was standing near the door and gave me the devil.  'Don't you know you are wasting electricity? Want to see the  gas & electric bill I get every month? No? Well, it's a lot and I don't want it to be higher. Turn off the radio and go to sleep.'
Finally Dad nagged Jerrold enough that on a Saturday, he borrowed a wheel barrow from our next door neighbor, bought with his own money, a large bag of dirt from the hardware store. He shoveled it all into the hole. It didn't nearly fill it. He asked our father for another few dollars so he could fill the hole and surprise, surprise, Dad gave him three bucks.  That was like throwing his money down the sewer because bag two didn't fill the hole either. 'Here, get one more bag,' and  haughtily told my brother that he would handle the rest of the job himself.

 

Would my brother turn down that order? No way. He brought the last bag over, cut the top of the bag off and walked away. Dad finished the meal I had made, as usual didn't thank me, and headed for the back yard.   We all watched from the porch while shovel of dirt followed shovel of dirt. As night fell fast, we heard our father breathing loud, thought he might have over done the shoveling and went out to the hole to tell him to let Jerrold finish...but father wasn't there.

 

He had disappeared. One of his shoes, the old one that needed new heels, was sticking out of the dirt.

Royalty ?

KING  FI ONYU

 

The trumpets are adorned in hanging gold braid. The blare, lets us all know the king is awake and will be waving to us, his 'country men', from the palace balcony at exactly noon. By 11:30 the gardens are filled with the curious, those asking favors, the angry peasants, most of whom would slay the king with one mighty stroke if the chance would somehow come. The lack of smiles, happiness, is evident to all but the king. Those of us who have so little while he and his wives live like gods who sleep at ease on silken sheets, are hungry, angry, full of  hatred and jealousy.

 

He appears, our mighty king. All heads bow. The Queen is absent. Another woman dressed in satin and lace is tall, taller than the King. She stands one step in back of him yet is very visible. There is a buzz of garbled voices as we talk to each other, wondering what is happening. Once the guards appear around the King, we need wonder no more. The taller guard lifts his arm high and displays a wired cage holding the queen's head. Not a sound escapes from the peasants. One yell, one objection, and there might be another cage with the head of whoever spoke out of turn.

 

The new woman looks around, doesn't smile. She claps her hands for attention and there is silence at once. Regally she speaks, 'I am Queen Forrah Wile. You be good or you will lose your head too. The taxes on your little pieces of ground will double in one week. King Fi Onyu still gets half of your wheat and I will get the wine you make and hide from your King. The haughty queen has nothing else to say. She turns her back on the peasants, spits on the head in the wire cage, and
disappears inside the castle.

 

There is sudden turmoil. Strong, mighty winds blow in from the west. Thatch roofed huts blow away. Cows and goats are lifted into the air. Mooing, grunting, they soar out of sight. Mothers hold their children as tightly as they can, tie them with their apron strings to the sparse trees that remain standing. The boys and men who are able rush to the castle, use their rakes, rocks and pound on the great gate. It is as if the God of Peace and Harmony sees them, comes to their rescue. The gates are opened by no one. A mad rush of peasants first find the great kitchens, stop and fill themselves with loaves of golden bread, roasted pig, pomegranates, grapes. Bottles of sweet burgundy wine wash down the sand in their throats. On the swords of dead soldiers are the bodies of King Fi Onyu and the new, late queen, Forrah Wile.

 

There is much merriment and glee, singing, dancing. Young, handsome, virile Count Onmee is made the new king. He distributes, as fairly as is possible, the remaining food, the gold and jewels from the chests in the former King's bedrooms.

 

Every peasant receives something. Count Onmee and his wife move into the castle, have two huge separate bedrooms with their own chambermaids, ewers, silk sheets. Their good intentions last for many years. The town flourishes, becomes a city.

 

When his time has come and Count Onmee breathes his last breath, his son, Viceroy O. Migh, declares himself King and is shot down with an arrow before he ever has a chance to rule.

 

 

Open for Suggestions

SLIDE JESSIE, SLIDE

 

'Hello, all of my friends, relatives and even enemies. I'm writing to let you know I'll be away for a while, no idea how long, but when I return, I hope to have a special present for all of you.'

 

It's still summer in Georgia. The air smells like peaches stewing on the front burner of an ancient gas range. I love it here! Old plantations have been restored. As the sun goes down the cobblestone streets are almost empty, leaving plenty of room for lamp lighters to mount their ladders, add a pale yellow tinge to the sidewalks. My imagination opens wide. Ladies in hoop skirts, carrying parasols, sashay down Appleby St., flirting with any gentleman who walks by. 'Oh, Lord, if this is a prelude to paradise, I am ready to go now.'

 

Little drops of rain begin to fall. They are as small as baby tears. My palm opens and I let them touch my skin. I taste their sweetness, then wipe my hand on my skirt.

 

The trees that line Alameda St.  begin to sing softly yet I can make out the words to 'Georgia On My Mind.'  Ray Charles, so sadly blind, holds my arm and walks beside me. 'Just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind.' He sways and I almost fall over. I sing along,' it's sweet and clear as moonlight on the pines.' The big yellow moon comes from behind a silver gray cloud. Rain drops stop.

 

My mission has not yet clarified in my mind. I know what I would like to do but don't know how to go about doing it. My experience is zilch.
A distant flash of lightning, a quick roll of thunder, gives me thought to ponder. A camp bus with children banging on its windows drives by. It is like somebody up in heaven overheard my plight and sends me a subliminal message. I wave at the children, hasten my step to the nearest public phone, desperately needing a directory. There is only a battered one, that doesn't have the yellow pages. A corner drugstore, surely not much different than it was fifty years ago, beckons. I sit at the counter, have a cold iced tea, and a four step walk to the phone booth where I find five names of art schools in Macon. The largest ad attracts me. 'EXPERIENCE NOT NECESSARY. We'll teach you what you want to learn. Kirby Art School, Forsyth Rd. 602-849-491.' It's not far. Something, somebody, kicks me in the ass. Off I go on a hunt to find a way to bring you the gift I've promised.

 

Mrs. McDonald, Kirby's provost, greets me, listens to my idea and tells me out right, 'Forget it.' The legalities would take years to accomplish, would probably never get thru. 'Are you a trillionaire?' she asks. My hasty and loud reply, 'NO!' ends it all. She suggests I lower my ambition, really lower it, so that the idea works. I listen and my heart breaks. I might as well tell you all now what I had wanted to do. Don't laugh.

 

I wanted to have a steel  arch made, similar to, but smaller than, the Atlanta Arch. Colored red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet.  It would look like a rainbow on both sides. I imagined low steps with railings so children could climb the rainbow to the top and slide down the other side where there would be a pot of candy wrapped in gold foil. In my dreams, I saw the smiles, heard the laughter, prodded the kids to 'Slide, slide down, Jessie.'

 

I apologize to all of you. I have no special gift but do have a lot of chocolate candy bars wrapped in gold foil. Stop by before the first snow fall hits and listen to my next idea.