The waiting

BLACK MOON

 

There's more than a wind chill up here. I can almost taste the ice in the air. Tiny spots of it land on my robe and grow into icicles. All around me there is a loneliness, empty of voices, except the wind's and the songs I try to hum. Down below me I see fields of green, a green so lovely my arms wallow in its warmth. Why am I here? What must I do to free myself, return to the greenness?

 

From my perch on a drab, colorless rock, the night sky falls with a terrible roar, strikes the green and nothing is left but frightened me.  A rainbow of grays from white to whiter to a white that may blind me as it forces my eyes to close without my help. Something that smells like Elmer's glue leaks into the corners of my eyes. It does not burn but locks them tight. The blackness is beyond any words I can dream up. It is a void, a nothing, yet I still feel safe sitting on my rock, try to touch it with my hands and there is nothing there. Am I floating? I feel no soft breeze.

 

From nowhere I think of Yankee Doodle who went to town, riding on a pony. I think I am slobbering, trying to whistle the tune. Oh, he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni. Macaroni. I don't like macaroni but my belly suddenly feels empty. It is so empty I might eat dog curds, if there were a dog somewhere is this strange place I am in.
I've tried to cry but with my eyes glued together, now I think I may have drowned them, never see again.

 

Carefully, ever so carefully, I lean backwards, hoping there is something, anything, and there is. It feels soft and fluffy. A little air touches my cheek. A gym reeks of sweat, there are grunts and groans. An ouch', a 'stop it,' buzzes into my ears. Then the most heavenly noise fills my heart with hope. An old memory of the first time my mother took me on an elevator, draws  a rainbow thru my brain. 'First floor, Ladies' hats, jewelry, cafeteria.' The smell of a fudge sundae makes me writhe with delight. With my eyes glued together, I can still see the sundae dish it came on, feel the sweet chocolate, smothered with whipped cream, gliding down my throat. A woman in a brown cotton dress is standing near the elevator door. She speaks loudly, 'Basement, cheap clothes.' I get out with the few people looking for bargains. 'Mama, Mama, I missed you. Take me home. ' Her arms enfold me.  A cool cloth wipes my forehead. My mother's sweet voice tells me to open my eyes, but I cannot. One by one she kisses each of my fingers and tells me I can.

 

At last her lips kiss my eyelids and they open slowly, very slowly. It is night time. Something is wrong. 'Mama, Mama, where is the moon? I can't see it.' 'Little one, it is almost morning. The moon is on the other side of this building. Sleep a little longer and you will see the sun out of that window over there when you wake up.'

 

'No, I won't, Mama.'

Got him

MIDNITE

 

We're riden' around, eyes peeled for a White House Shake Shop that's still open. Mickey is driving his grey Ford with the rumble seat. Karen sits close to him because she has to. The car must have been made for midgets. Sol and I are in the open air, target for rain or bird do. I am not happy being groped, let Sol know it and finally am forced to twist myself to the right and give him a hard kick in his shins. His howl darn near scares Mickey out of his pants, forcing him to jam on the brakes. They screech, sound cheesy, maybe rusty. Karen is thrown forward, into the windshield but thankfully neither her head nor the window collapse.

 

From the curb side where we sit and wait to catch our breath, calm down, I see a familiar neon sign on a white building just a few blocks ahead. 'Yahoo, lookie,' I call out. Sol tries to stand up and literally jumps out of his seat, puts his hand out to me so I can get down too. Mickey tells us to get back in the rumble seat so he can drive us all to the Shake Shop. I don't want to hurt his feelings about the tiny rumble seat so just tell him I need to stretch my legs and we'll meet him and Karen there. 'Order two strawberry floats for us.'

 

Mickey and Karen get there first, just manage to get in before the boss lady locks the door. Sol and I knock several times but the jerky lady wants to go home. No motions, no words, no praying on our knees sways her. We can't get in Mickey's car because he locked the door so sit on the fender and wait. Finally, our 'friends' come outside, each carrying a big shake for us, straws and packaged peanut butter crackers. 'Take your time, Folks,' Karen says. 'Let's do something exciting.' That was all Sol had to hear and he was 'up' for it.

 

'How about Druid Cemetery?' Mickey suggests. 'We can read the names, sit on some of the head stones, maybe see a ghost or two, or do something else even more exiting.' Sol helps me climb back in the doggie hole, steps over my legs and is ready to roll. The cemetery gate is closed but not locked. I don't like it here and stand outside until I like it even less by myself, hold my purse extra tight. 'Who do you think wants to steal your money, Karen? Relax.' A shadow crosses the path and I scream. They make fun of me, show me it is the shadow of a weeping willow tree. Yes, I am embarrassed but that doesn't stop my heart from thumping through my blouse.

 

Sol manages to look me over, tries to calm me down. He rubs my back and his hands move slowly to the front of me. I know what to do. My mother told me a lot of stuff she thought I should know and inside of me I laughed, people couldn't do such a thing. It's ugly. My mother's advice comes in handy. Sol lets out a scream that would raise the dead when I knee him right between his legs.

 

No dead rise but the cemetery caretaker comes running. He has a big shovel in one hand and what looks like a rifle in the other. Three of us run like hell while Sol hobbles his way to the gate.  Mickey drives. Sol sits up front with him. Karen and I sit in the little rumble seat and can hear Sol's moans.
 

Gone with the Wind

                                   JULE

 

Ten little Indians, and now there were eight. Jule went down right after Emile.  That he was tall, straight, active, busy meant little as he was also a liar.  68? Sweet? Understanding? Considerate?  Loves Conversation? None of these. Somewhere in his two hour long-winded, one-sided conversation with himself he admitted to being eighty-one!

 

Oh, he looked good, remarkably good, unbelievably good, but a man 81 is not the man with whom I had arranged a date. Had I been aware, I would not be sitting here right now, in a lovely restaurant, a view of the lake in front of me, tuxedoed  waiters  graciously tending to our simple needs. Those things paled in the sunlight. Had I been aware, I wouldn't now be bored listening to his past escapades, family problems, health conditions, stock market investments.

 

My hopes of making a friend, at best a relationship, crashed quickly,
dashed against the rocks of Jule's total absorption in himself. Our getting-to-know-you calls were promising , offering a bright light, someone who really sounded like the right man, one with whom I would strike a spark to warm our shared lonely world. His efforts at rubbing two sticks together managed only to rub me the wrong way, extinguishing any small flicker that might have grown.

 

May Jule live many more years but for me he is dead, buried and I will await the next Indian, peace pipe in had, tomahawk at the ready.
 

Ready or not

ALIBI  IKE 

 

Ike is dressed perfectly. His dark suit with a very pale, narrow stripe, is pressed. A light grey oxford shirt, silk burgundy tie and he is almost ready. Bending to tie his shoes, he double checks that the loops are even. His hair seems a bit quarrelsome but he will fix it when he gets to Calvin K's, before he sees Calvin, the man himself. Men's wear, the smartest, most fashionable, has been Ike's field since he graduated from Chicago U. ten years ago. He is proud of himself as he started at Ross's as a stock boy and here he is, the soon-to -be Manager with Calvin.

 

I watch him from my front window as he struts towards his car,  inhale sharply when Ike trips on his own broken sidewalk. His yowl could wake the dead. In my house coat and slippers, I run to help him, cussing a blue streak as I do. First thing out of my mouth is a reprimand. 'Why the heck haven't you had your broken sidewalk repaired? You already had two notices from the city. You're ripe for a penalty and maybe this fall is it. 'I meant to call, already wrote a check and then I got this golden opportunity.' Ike is holding his left foot, rubbing it, trying to stand. 'Josie,' he says to me. 'I think I broke my big toe. Do me a favor and call this number. Ask for Mr. Calvin, or Mr. Traub. Tell whoever, I'll call and re-set my appointment. Will you do that for me NOW?  Fool, maybe jerk, that I am, I let Ike hold on to me while he hops home, but hold my tongue, about making his call for him.

 

Plopping down on his sofa, he smiles and tells me he doesn't think he broke anything, then asks me again to call Calvin. 'I ask him why I should do it and his glib tongue explains,' 'I can't go for that job with my shoes messed up, maybe a swollen ankle. Look at me, I look like a dirt ball. Tell Traub I broke my leg and I'll call for an appointment when I'm off my crutches. 'I'm steaming and let Ike know it. 'I hand him the phone and wave so long.

 

His bedroom lamp is on all night, at least the times I struggle with my own dreams, and like to watch the moon move cross the black sky. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I am sound asleep, living a powerful exotic dream, when my darn phone jangles me awake. Without as much as a 'Hello, Josie,' with a pleasant tone to his voice, Ike asks me if he can borrow my car for the morning. His excuse is, 'My battery seems dead and I have an 8:30 appointment with my attorney to sign some very important papers. Bristles run up and down my spine. They get strong and tough enough for me to tell Ike to call a garage, get towed, call a cab,  his attorney, do something without making excuses.. I believe I am totally in control until, until, Ike makes up a cock and bull story and tells me his mom is meeting him at the attorney's to sign her will. Aha! I feel great. 'Ike, I need my car. You call your Mom and let her pick you up.' I add a nasty note, 'Be sure all of you, including your attorney, sign the will or it'll mean nothing.' He slams down the phone and is out of my hair until?

 

I watch out of the living room for a full half hour and finally see a cab stop at Ike's. As soon as it drives away, his mom arrives , honks a dozen times, storms to the door, and paces. I can't help it, I'm a patsy, a do-gooder, walk across the street and tell Ike's mom he drove away in a cab. Smoke rises from her hair. She is boiling mad. 'Why didn't he wait for me?' she asks.

 

I reply, 'I'm sorry, Mrs. Finklestein, your son must have somehow run out of excuses. Don't be concerned, he'll have one ready for you when you find him.'

Life Goes on

ANGELINA'S CRABS

 

We are anxious, elated, salivating for tonight's treat in an area of our city we don't know very well. Izzy is our driver and I am Izzy's wife, Sadye. Two other couples, our very best friends, are with us. I'll introduce them later. Right now I have to keep my eyes peeled for Albemarle Ave. Izzy is trying to drive carefully, slowly but not too slowly. The Goodmans and Goldfarbs behind us are almost glued to our trunk. Izzy is superb, sees ahead a traffic light about to turn red, he slows down, so Jerome driving behind us stays behind us.

 

I take  my miniature flash light out of my purse, read  directions  aloud just to confirm to Izzy that he is going the right way. We have been to Angelina's twice before but were always passengers, paid no attention to where we were until the high stone steps to porches that had large planters filled with heavy ferns said, 'We're here, Folks.'

 

Angelina's can barely be seen.  Her haven is in the lowest part of the house, ordinarily called the cellar, but in this case a red neon sign blinks, 'Crab Cakes'. Angelina is there to welcome us in. There is a small vestibule, its walls covered by out-dated ornate tin patterns, up to the ceiling. I get the feeling this was from the speak-easy times when booze, hootch was readily available for a handshake and paper money.

 

I call the Friedmans and Brodmans over. 'Come meet Angelina. She'll see to it that we have a fantastic dinner. From outer space comes Trixie, our waitress, who guides us to our reserved table, motions to the one next to us that is waiting for our friends. We wait. We wait. The Goldfields must be lost. While we worry, we order beer, lite beer, ice cold. Before a single bottle is empty, the door opens and Angelina brings in the Goldfarbs and Goodmans, blabbering loudly they couldn't find a parking space in that damn tiny alley. Angelina looks ready to strangle them, but smiles and seats them next to us.

 

Removing the grumpy attitude that shows on Alan Goldfart's face, isn't easy. 'Ooops.' I work at it by ordering crab soup, a big bowl. I start to tell her to put lots of lump crab in it and Izzy kicks me under the table. Like a chorus, we all order the crab soup, talk, laugh across the aisle. Queen Trixie carries six steaming bowls on one tray without spilling anything. I don't care that it is impolite to blow on one's hot soup, I do it anyhow and relish it's warmth, hot seasoning. Each huge crab lump is a gift from the bay. It is certainly not from our god who must be putting black marks next to our name for eating unkosher crabs. None of us cares too much. We take a breather with cold, cold beer.

 

I can see steam rising from the tray of crab cakes headed our way. I cover my mouth so I won''t dribble. Two each, humongous, tanned, shell less crab cakes. By their side there is 'home-made slaw that does not slop up our plates with too much mayo. French fries, big, thick, toasted smell as good as they will tate. I look up to the ceiling and say aloud, 'Oh God, I'm on my way to heaven. Look, out. I'm comin' in.' It was dumb but we all had a laugh. Trixie offers dessert. I order a double rich piece of chocolate layer cake to go. Craving it meant saving it.

 

'All done! All over! Angelina thanks us, takes us to the door and hands us each a flyer. 'Thank you for your patronage. It has been a pleasure serving you. This location closes November 1. 'COME VISIT US AT OUR NEW LOCATION, ALBEMARLE SKY LITE IN THE NEW TRANS-LUXE MALL. Bring this flyer. You will have your first dinner at the new Angela's on us.'

 

She is a great cook but bad actress. Angelina is crying.

 

 

 

 

The Search

COLD CASH

 

'Damn, it's hot in here!' Johnny Toledo, foreman at Halman's Elite Air Conditioning, Inc., paces back and forth, sweats like a pig. The thin coarse hairs on his balding head make him look like an aging swine. His arms flail in anger, desperation,  as he pushes the meeting alarm. Silent words wait anxiously on his lips for the gathering. The loud mike stirs the bewildered staff. 'All officers, personnel, assemble by 10:10 a.m. Malingerers will not be tolerated and will be out of here pronto!'

 

Johnny wipes the sweat off his forehead, tries to smile, and starts the meeting. 'Ladies and Gentlemen: Does anyone here have a clue as to what is going on at Halman's? Can you understand the consequences if our dilemma isn't cleared up today? Not tomorrow–but today, NOW!' His anger, fear, are evident. He addresses Laura, 'Bring in a few pitchers of ice water and glasses, not waxed cups, –that is if we have ice. Step on it, please.'

 

He starts without Laura. 'Do you men and women realize that Halman's Elite Air Conditioning, Inc, has been for twenty years, the very best AC company in Gainesville, until today. Nobody can hold a candle to us for prompt service, A1 workers, fair prices, free check-up twice a year. Anybody besides me sweating your rear off?' There is no laughter as every hand goes up.

 

'OK, Guys, let's check again. Are our compressors compressing properly? George and Sylvan stand to say that they personally went over the compressors several times. 'Johnny, their smooth, workin' like a dream.' 'Who checked, double and triple checked the refrigerant?' Harry, a fairly new mechanic at Halman's, announces  he is almost willing to taste the stuff. It is clear and the pipes are filled.'

 

'Don, what about, all vales humming, coils clear of dust?' And so th meeting goes. No problems can be found but yet the AC is not running efficiently. Johnny accepts the load and hopes to placate his employees with a bit of a recess. 'Well,' he says to all. 'We're not going to stay in this hot house much longer. Let's go for lunch down the street at Calendar's, on Halman's, then back to the sweat shop, more checking, more going over and we will find the trouble. Right?' Every employee, including management, leaves as one. Johnny locks all the doors, checks the windows, sets the burglar alarm, and brings up the rear as Calendar's arranges and re-arranges their space. Deep breaths of cool contentment upset Johnny but he doesn't mention his pleasure, his business yet.

 

The ladies put on lipstick and make a quick stop in the loo. The men don't even thank Johnny for lunch and  return to Halman's. The thermometer in the lobby is kept at 71 degrees but reads 82. 'Every man here is to re-do his inspection right now! Don't miss a tack, a crack, an unlit bulb, a leaking copper line. Whoever finds the problem by four p.m. and is able to fix it, will receive a $500 bonus. Goods luck!'

 

There is no question staff is inspired. They hurry to their places, use high intensity lights to delve into, under, around all possibilities and even places that are so far out of the picture, they just cannot exist.
Johnny himself is on his knees, crawling from station to station. He cannot concede to failure but finally has to let the help leave at five, before they broil to death.

 

There is no one left at Halman's except Johnny. He has a small electric fan aimed at him as he re-thinks every possible thing that can be disrupting the AC. His watch shows six. The temperature, even with the fan, is 85, when the phone rings. He lets it ring itself to a stop but it starts again. 'Halman's Electric Air Conditioning Inc.' he says.

 

'Granpa, Granpa, where are you? Granma is worried,' Len says. 'Are you coming home soon?' 'Yes, soon, Len. There's a little problem at the plant, but I'll be home before long.' 'Granpa, do me a favor, will you?'
Johnny asks what the favor is. 'I lost the two Mexican coins you gave me last week and think they may have rolled under that big, noisy condenser in a place you told me never to go to. I'm sorry, but I went anyhow. Will you try to find them for me?'

 

Johnny promises Len, hangs up and almost flies to the condenser. His hand goes under it and comes up with balls of dust–and two thin old Mexican coins. There is a deep grinding sound, then a chugging and the condenser starts working, the entire plant is operating again.

 

Oh the joy in Johnny's heart. He calls all of the managers, legal staff, everybody. As he heads for the door, he stops, goes to the safe, puts in the combination and removes five never- used hundred dollar bills, puts them in his pants pocket, sets the building alarm and goes home to hug and unabashedly kiss his grandson.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another truism

                                  IRVING

 

The worst part of my 'blind but semi-arranged' date was
he liked me-liked me enough to ask out again. That made the other worst parts pale. I knew from the first introductory phone call, from his voice, to his inability 4 times to understand the simplest of directions to my home, from his lack of desire to learn anything about me or to tell me about himself, to the sure knowledge that nothing would ever develop once we met AS HE DIDN'T DRIVE. Yet holding on to a very dim spark of hope that maybe she was not thinking straight, Ms. Pollyanna accepted a Sunday date.

 

One thirty, right on time, in came Irving, small, cheesy portfolio under his arm. While he was far from good looking, he was at least slim, acceptable, neat, but oh, those new white tennis shoes stuck out like Dorothy's red slippers. Nice smiles to each other, and a very definite surprised look of pleasure when Irving realized my weighing  300 pounds phone joke was far from reality. Getting to know each other was not easy as in just one minute the two of us became three!  From what he called his 'briefcase' came his son's calling card, his son's book (one of six already in print), articles on his son. AND from his mouth began a four hour salute to his honorable, devoted, famous offspring.
No question, I was impressed. The international notoriety of Richard's abilities amongst the political elite, his T.V. appearances, meetings with maharajahs, princes, kings, presidents while still being a devoted son, husband, father deserved every accolade which rained on my ears too long.

 

There were some respites, dealing with Irving's busy life on eight Boards of Directors of large firms. Each story was a prelude to more stories, and more stories. His flair, excellent vocabulary, remarkable recall, held my attention for a long, long time. Once in a while I was able to squeeze in an anecdote of my own but Irving's arm would fly up, hitting his knee in its descent and in a surprisingly loud voice, he'd exclaim, 'That reminds me of a story!' Off he'd go, his mind pulling out another and another.  Finally, at last, it was time for his designated driver, ME, to take him back to his area for dinner at his clubhouse.

 

On the way I learned why he didn't drive. His wife had been an excellent driver and was happy being the family chauffeur. She was gone. Besides that, Irving's peripheral vision had weakened and he was smart enough to give up his license. For that I gave him a lot of credit.

 

While we waited for our entrees, I managed to ask if he liked to travel and learned his son had been to every state in the union on business, plus London and Israel. In fact, oh, my lord,  had been to every country in the world. 'But what about YOUR travels?' I asked. 'Have you ever been on a cruise. Would you like to go out of the states?' He replied 'Not much...BUT when Richard was flying to the Persian Gulf with president Bush, blah, blah, blah.'

 

His recollections were becoming too long winded and began to upset me. I felt then very, very bad because he was nice and was taken by me, thought I was a good listener (who happened to have no choice.) I was much prettier than he expected me to be. I made him comfortable and he was totally pleased that he met me.

 

Yes, I was the first lady he took out since his wife died so I knew it had to be a difficult time. He was proud as a peacock at dinner, asking me to take the long way out of the dining room just in case he'd see friends and could introduce me. Would I come to his club to play golf, have lunch and drive home in daylight. Does he have a chance? Can I call you?

 

I had tried several times to make him understand that his life is no longer what it was and he should go out, meet lots of ladies, enjoy 'the brisket brigade' which would surely come as soon as his availability spread.  He should join the men's golf group, travel. The tiny microcosm which I quickly had become should not close his eyes to the new world that was available to him. But did he pay attention? No!
Did my mind and mouth work as one? No! Stupidly, instantly regretfully, to let him call me again.

 

However, I  made it clear I would not be his driver.

 

Two days past,  no call, and I clung to the  hope that his promise to work it out would not only be harder than he thought, but impossible, totally impossible.
But that didn't happen and I became a rat who had to beg off enough times that he finally got the message. 

 

And I got one, too. I gave up writing and reading ads that might brighten my life.

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

True--I see his son on T.V. often, representing the U.S. He's strong, respected and his last name is Haas. I can tell this story because my 'date' has surely left the building.

Partial Fool

HOTEL LIMBO

 

Roz and I share our July fourth birthdays, except Roz will be twenty- one next month and I will be twenty. We have been pals, enemies, close friends on and off for at least fifteen years. Her Mom died recently but mine, who I lovingly call 'Dummy,' is surely going to get on Willard's Schmucker's 110 year old Happy Birthday list. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of Willard on t.v. and silently hope nobody sends my picture in to him someday. Oy, it would devastate me. Right now I am young, pretty (if I say so myself) vibrant, a good dancer,  probably one of the few twenty year old virgins left on this big earth. Roz is everything I am and more, except my last announcement. My mom knows me, trusts me, but if I could crawl into her mind, I'm sure I'd see a big doubtful sign clinging to her brain matter.

 

Thunder is banging thru the skies this morning as I try to lay out a plan for Roz and me to take a trip together. I'll do all the investigating by mouth, email, web searching, travel agents. We have made one tentative decision, the date, June 30th, a Saturday this year. It will be a birthday gift to ourselves. Roz isn't sure where to start but tells me she is already making a list of places. I have no doubt it will be too long, too sloppy and the job will end up on my broad shoulders.

 

An advertised 'five day cruise' turns out to be a cruise to nowhere. The ship docks at the 3 mile limit and sits there, in the sun, while  passengers surely bitch, throw up over the railings, eat too much just to pass the days away. Strike one. A cruise thru the Panama Canal takes hours. According to an acquaintance of mine, Bess has gone thru it and back and has been bored to death, never met a single person she liked. All there is to do is sit and watch tugs creep along, pulled by ropes, chains, humans. That's strike #2.

 

Roz is still pfhumfing around, checking islands. Martinique is intriguing but we are not too thrilled with France's politics. Barbados is too, too British, actually too American. Aruba, sparkles for a minute until I learn that the island often reeks of oil. We don't want to chance that. St. Johns sounds mah-ve-lous, beautiful but quiet, great for elderly people.Tobago and Trinidad, twins, close together are unable to pay their help a decent amount. A neighbor of mine told me he had a barefoot native carry his golf bag for 18 holes and the desk limit for a tip was listed at one dollar. Charley slipped him a fiver when they shook hands, but the caddy  wouldn't take it.

 

Roz and I don't really want to get involved with travel agents so we keep plugging away on our own. I have found the answer, I think. JAMAICA! It is bursting as it grows. New hotels, fine restaurants, nestled pathways near the ocean, steel drums, Limbo, Limbo every night. I google Jamaica and almost burst with excitement, call Roz before I do another thing. There are lots of hotels, all prices from one end of the island to the other. Some are too hoyty toyty. A few cater to children, have counselors, art classes, story time. We spend a lot of time  googling. Our place-to-be jumps off my puter screen–Hotel Limbo, Limbo every nite, double room facing the ocean $85, all you can eat.

 

Roz calls American, Delta, and Eastward Ho. Eastward Ho fits our budget perfectly. We google again and on line get a real deal at Hotel Limbo. We're  booked.  For dinner we decide on Subway, cheap and tasty. Talking between bites into their long stuffed sandwiches isn't easy but we do it. My mom gets nervous, has so many goofy ideas of what might happen to us girls by ourselves with all the blacks running around in almost nothing. I show her a photo on line of La Mirador, one of the newest, biggest hotel in Jamaica. I tell her that is where we will be and she seems satisfied. So I lied a little to make her happy.

 

Shopping for shorts, scanty tops, a sweater just in case, platform shoes, flats, two bikini bathing suits, keep Roz and me busy. We decide not to show each other what we bought and just hope we haven't duplicated anything.

 

Our jet, Flight 600, taxis down the runway. We are fourth in line for take off. It seems to take forever until we are in the white clouds. As Jackie Gleason used to say, 'And away we go!' eventually touch down, escape the planes constrictive seats and follow the line to heaven. The path to luggage claim pulsates with steel drums, singing, straw hats for sale. We look for the car to take us to the Limbo Hotel and it isn't there . Roz calls them and is advised the hotel does not supply transportation.. And so we join others in a similar predicament and wait.

 

The ride is somewhat bumpy but we call it atmosphere and hardly complain. Beautiful hotels, the ocean waving to us pumps up our hearts.. Roz sees the hotel sign before I do, asks the driver if we are in the right place. 'The sign says 'Hotel Imbo'. The driver turns his head and tells her, 'This is it, sign broken for long time.' He carries our luggage into the hotel lobby, stares at us as he waits with his palm open for our tip, gets it and is gone in a flash.

 

The lobby is less than magnificent. In fact, it is small, sparsely furnished, barely bigger than the bedroom Roz and I will share. We hear the steel drums banging directly under our third floor window. At first we love it. In an hour we hate that damn tin noise banging in our heads. We complain to the front desk and ask where is the beautiful ocean view your ad promised? 'Madam, you must walk thru the dance area you see from your room, to the gorgeous palm trees that have been growing in the same place for many years, walk slowly, enjoy and you will come to the sandy beach. Be sure to use sun screen all the time.' The sun is broiling us. We turn and sit under the trees until a young, handsome, lightly tanned man carrying strands of el cheapo glass beads and bracelets approaches us. We turn him away but he decides to sit and become friends with us. I give him a dollar, own a string of junk and send him away.

 

A siren frightens us. Guests we hadn't noticed come from behind shady palms, beckon us to come to dinner. I tell a young woman wearing tight, too short shorts, we will have to dress first. She laughs in our faces. 'Go as you are and you will be over-dressed.' Other couples parade to dinner, but we ignore them, go to our room, dress as we please in long skirts, platform shoes, costume jewelry. As we walk down the stairs. Roz and I feel eyes staring at us. Ours eyes stare at them. Nothing is as we had expected it to be. The steel band bangs endlessly.

 

Dinner is pretty good. By the time Roz and I finish desert we are almost alone. Everyone has gathered around the pool. Limbo time!  Naked white women push to be in line. They shake everything they have. We won't limbo, don't even want to watch and go to bed.  It is peaceful. The full moon shines on our tiny patio. Roz shakes my shoulder., 'Hear that?' I hear something, don't know what it is. Roz knows. The people next door are f–n around. I'm shocked, disturbed. There is laughter and  heavy breathing thru the thin walls. It stops. We are sure we hear the door open, close. The stillness last just a few minutes. The door opens, high heels cross the floor. There is silence, then the bed start to creak, bump our connecting wall. 'Don't tell me, I know what they are doing, Roz.'

 

We dress, with anger in our eyes, fall on the nite clerk. 'This is advertised as Hotel Limbo and what you have here is Hotel Bimbo.
Get us a good room at the Mirador hotel and you cover our cost–or you can bet your name will be muddier than it already is.

 

At home my mom enjoys looking at our Mirador photos. So do I.

 

 

Charmin'--My Dear

A LITTLE BEHIND

 

As usual, I walk behind her. Pretty soon she is way ahead of me. There's nothing I can do except cry loud enough, 'Mama, Mama, wait for me.' Her head turns. Her foot taps the curb. She puts her heavy grocery bag on the pavement and motions for me to hurry, hurry. Just as I reach her, the traffic light changes and we can't cross over. I can almost see her hand getting ready to slap my tush.

 

A tall man carrying a brown brief case won't wait for the light to turn green, pushes past us and accidentally kicks our grocery bag. It falls into the gutter. Our bananas fly into the street. Two jars of pizza sauce roll to the curb and break into bits of glass. Mama stands still, too upset to do anything. The man we never saw before reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, hands her some money, and hurries to make the Third Ave. bus. Mama grabs my hand, and what's left of her grocery shopping, and pulls me as hard as she can to make the next light. 'Let's go, Let's go, Rhona. Street cleaners will take care of this mess before you get married.'

 

Everything changes. This time Mama needs me instead of me needing her. Mama's shoe slips in the pizza sauce and she slides on her rear, but doesn't fall. What she does do is limp. I can keep up with her, carry the twelve rolls of tissue paper myself. It isn't heavy but people laugh at me. Once Mama looked right at a laughing lady, pointed to me and told her, 'It's all for her. She's not trained yet.'The lady laughed too. I didn't think it was funny.

 

Mama is surprised to see my daddy's car in the driveway. I watch her and am happy her limp is a little bit better. 'Daddy, Daddy, come help me,' I call. Mama's voice is much louder than mine so she calls him too. When the door opens, he skips a step and runs down to help us, but stops half way, long enough to laugh his head off. 'Rhona, what are you going to do with all that toilet paper?' I tell him he can have some of it if he needs it.' 'Thank you. Do you need some help. Rhoda?' Without waiting for my answer, Daddy takes most of the big package into the house. Holding the remains of our shopping, Mama leans on me, leans a little too hard and I fall in the driveway, skin my knee. Still limping, Mama manages to get up our  wooden steps and into the house.

 

'Mama, Mama, help, help. I'm going to die.' Daddy runs out to me, tries to stop me from crying, but I am the center of his attention and cry louder. 'Daddy, look at my leg, it's bleeding, bleeding a lot.'
Oh, my god, Child. I will have to cauterize it, stop all of your blood from rushing out.' 'Don't, don't do that thing, ' I plead.

 

'Rhoda sit where you are. I'll be right back.' I sit. He's back fast and is hiding something behind his back. I just bet it is a cauterize. I'm wrong. Daddy tears open a brand new roll of toilet paper, dabs the blood off my leg and carries it and me into the house.

 

Mama is on the sofa, an ice bag on her knee. Daddy will set the table for dinner and maybe they will play a game of 'Fish' with me before I go to bed.

Cold Shoulder

EXIT LAUGHING

 

The story went:

 

At the age of twelve, with my birthday still six months away, I began asking, begging, my father to get me a pair of ice skates. He closed his ears and told me if I asked again, I would 'nt get anything at all. Of course, I asked again. He went immediately to his closet and brought out the old barber strop he kept for emergency, gave it a big crack and I ran for my life.

 

There were reasons I wanted ice skates so badly that I couldn't tell him about. The first, but not the most important, reason was my good friend Theresa and I had seen movies of Sonia Henie that made skating look so beautiful and easy, AND, Theresa, one year and three months older than I, had white high top ice skates and  a boyfriend, in fact, more than one. I had zero.

 

Some nights I thought about her, her skates and boyfriends and barely got any sleep. Why did she have all the luck? OK, she was taller than I, had long, blondish curls that reached her shoulders, and small breasts starting to show thru her clothes. On top of that, her father had a black Buick that he kept in the garage behind their house and paraded himself, wife, Theresa and her two brothers up and down the street on Sundays, keeping the windows open so they could wave to everyone.
My father told me never to wave back because the Waltons were big show-offs. I'd watch for Theresa and just wave to her, then go back in the house.

 

Early in December, 1947, my mom used a thumb tack to put a 1948 calendar on our kitchen wall. With my soft lead pencil I made a tiny dot under Saturday October 1, because that would be opening day at  Kennison's Skatedome and I wanted my ice skates ready to go.
Theresa showed me her brand new ones because her feet grew and her shoes no longer fit. I actually was glad about that but not her breasts. They showed a lot. My blouses still were flat. Before I asked her the question that came immediately in my mind, I went home, asked my mom if she could possibly buy Theresa's skates for me, if Theresa's mom will sell them. 'Mom, Mom, can I, can I, ask?' A shrug of her shoulders only told me she would have to ask my father. 'Ask him, ask him, Momma,' I begged.

 

We were having fried sole for dinner and I never liked it, always left my spinach on my plate, but I ate everything, and waited for Mom to mention the skates to my father. I gave her a little kick under the table and nodded towards my father to wake her up, make her ask him.
Being ignored put me on the spot. If there was something I wanted badly enough, and there certainly was, I'd have to plead, make promises to my father I might not keep. A little fairy inside of me, pushed and whispered in my ear, 'Now, now or never. Go.'

 

Dad sat still, heard me, but paid no attention, walked into the living room to listen to Jack Benny on the radio. I didn't help Mom clean up but followed him, sat on the floor next to his favorite big chair. When he turned off the radio, I asked again and got his answer. 'Why do you want to ice skate? You might break a leg. You'll never be good at it and how often do you think I am going to give you fifty cents to skate for an hour?'  He went on and on about the dangers, the long walk to the rink, night before I would get home. I felt so low, sad. He was turning me down. 

 

'Bring me a cup of coffee. Don't spill it on the rug or burn yourself. Then we'll talk.' Did I walk to the kitchen? I don't remember but think I flew. 'Daddy, I didn't spill it and have a Mary Sue cookie for you, too.'
Then my personal little fairy must have talked to him. 'How much does Theresa want for her shoes? Did you try them on with heavy socks? Could you stand up?' 'Her mother told me nine dollars but, Daddy, maybe if you offer her seven or eight, she'll be happy to take it.'
He needed time to think it over.

 

Neither he nor my mom told me they had bought (or hadn't bought)
my heart's desire. September was just a few days away. Not a peep from them, or from Theresa. Ten a.m, August 28th our door bell rang. 'Answer the door, Child., my father grumbled. On our door step was a big box, tied with a white satin ribbon. A white card dangled from it,  addressed to Sonia Henie. Oh, my god. Daddy must have bought Theresa's shoes for me. Overjoyed I raced inside, up the stairs, jumped on my dad who was still in his p.j.s I hugged him almost to death and then got to my mother. They we re very quiet. ' Dad told me to try on the ice skates and I realized these were brand new, not Theresa's at all. Two pairs of new high socks were also in the box. I put on the red ones, wiggled my feet into the skate and clomped around the room. 'Take them off. You might be tearing our carpet,' Mom said.

 

Saturday is just a day away. Theresa and her latest boyfriend take me with them to the rink. She helps me, ties the strings so tight, I have to loosen them a little. Holding my hand, she helps me go down the two wooden steps onto the rink. Swoosh, down I go before I take a single step on the ice. They laugh at me, pull me up, let me hold the rink railing just to get used to everything. I am sure every skater is laughing at me. Half a turn around the rink, holding on for dear life, I chance it and let go. A few steps out and my ankles turn over. I'm soaked thru and thru. Theresa and Tony are hysterically laughing at me. 'You thought this was easy, didn't you?' she asks. 'When Sonia did it, I knew it took a lot of practice. When I saw you skate, it all looked so simple. Theresa, I'm wet right thru my underwear. What should I do?' Pointing to other beginners near the outside wall, she tells me to be careful, go where they are and stand in front of the heater. 'You'll warm up.' I think about that, doubt it but go. She goes spinning, twirling around doing what she told me was an axle. I watch her for a while, have a bit more confidence, go out on the ice by myself. It gets easier and easier. Two laps and I have had enough for a while. The tops of my new white skates are wet, grey, very uncomfortable. I hobble to the steps, manage to loosen the strings, put on dry socks and my regular shoes.

 

Through the noise, the music, I hear Theresa above all others.
She is laughing so hard I think tears are running down her face. 'To Tony she says, 'That little dummy, thought this was a cinch. She'll never be a Henie. Neither will I. Let's take her home where she can check her bruises, let her shoes dry.'

Man tales-#2

                                   JULE

 

Ten little Indians, and now there were eight. Jule went down right after Emile.  That he was tall, straight, active, busy meant little as he was also a liar.  68? Sweet? Understanding? Considerate?  Loves Conversation? None of these. Somewhere in his two hour long-winded, one-sided conversation with himself he admitted to being eighty-one!

 

Oh, he looked good, remarkably good, unbelievably good, but a man 81 is not the man with whom I had arranged a date. Had I been aware, I would not be sitting here right now, in a lovely restaurant, a view of the lake in front of me, tuxedoed  waiters  graciously tending to our simple needs. Those things paled in the sunlight. Had I been aware, I wouldn't now be bored listening to his past escapades, family problems, health conditions, stock market investments.

 

My hopes of making a friend, at best a relationship, crashed quickly,
dashed against the rocks of Jule's total absorbtion in himself. Our getting-to-know-you calls were promising , offering a bright light, someone who really sounded like the right man, one with whom I would strike a spark to warm our shared lonely world. His efforts at rubbing two sticks together managed only to rub me the wrong way, extinguishing any small flicker that might have grown.

 

May Jule live many more years but for me he is dead, buried and I will await the next Indian, peace pipe in had, tomahawk at the ready.

Goody

PWEEZE

 

'Be an airplane, Donny.' My three year old honey bun puts his hands out to the side and runs as fast as his little feet can take him. Puckering his lips, he blows out a funny noise trying to sound like a jet and makes crooked circles around the living room. I clap, give him a high five and a kiss right on top of his golden hair. My Mom is visiting and dotes on Donny but she 's not too thrilled with my husband, Rudolph.

 

'Donny, be a car,'  she tells him and off he goes, running in his same small steps, turning his imaginary steering wheel. I smile to Mom. She smiles back and we both applaud. He's happy, can't yet say a lot of words but 'ice cweem, ice cweem.' It just  rolls easily off his tongue. 'Want some strawberries on your ice cream?' I ask. ' His head shakes yes and no, yes and no. 'Want withski.' 'What did you say, Donny? 'Withski, withski. Daddy gives me.' Mother's face has turned ashen.  I give her no time to make a remark but she squeezes in a helluva zinger.  'Marsha, you are fooling yourself. Your husband is teaching Donny something wrong.' I leave her words dangling in my heart and go back to Donny's asking for withski.

 

 'Mom, 'I just  don't understand him. He must be trying to say 'bithkit', he loves warm biscuits, right out of the toaster oven. Maybe my ear wax needs cleaning.' Mom repeats herself. 'Marsha, you are fooling yourself. Watch out for that Rudolph of yours. You have been warned.' I am left standing alone by the window, staring into space, puzzled, confused.

 

'Donny, be a bike. Go ride it someplace.' 'Watch, Mommie!.'  He doesn't hesitate and quickly climbs on a dining room chair, pumps his legs as I showed him only one time. 'Beep, beep,' he goes.' Move, Ganma.'

 

The sunny day has lost its warmth. Black mental clouds rumble as I work myself up into a lather. I totally forget to get Donny his ice cream. There is a tug on my skirt. A little voice says, 'Boo, boo!, I skeeered Mommee.' 'Oh, my little one, how about a glass of chocolate milk instead of ice cream? It's almost time for supper. We have your favorite, little, tiny hot dogs with fries and Grandma bought us all little cinnamon donuts for dessert. How about that?' Donny wants withski not hot dogs.

 

'Come on, Rascal, can you show me where the withski is that Daddy gives you?, I ask. His little hand takes mine. He tries to pull me but I stand still. Another pull and he lets go. 'Mommie too big. Carry me.'
He's like goose down, soft and pliable. His hair still has the faint odor of Gold's Golden blond shampoo. I breath it in deeply and see him growing up, going to school soon, doing what little boys do until they turn into big boys and do other stuff.

 

The wail of Donny's fire engine snaps me back to now. 'Fire, fire,' he yells but I am the only one who can hear him. He grabs my hand again and leads me to the Oriental liquor cabinet in our den, tries to open it but the catch is complicated. I call Mom to help me figure out what might be a secret code.  'Withski, withski,' Donny is excited. 'Open Sesame,' I say and the door obeys me. The entire middle shelf is filled with colas, coke, pepsi, orange, root beer, sassparilla in gill bottles. All of the tops are still sealed. Above those, out of Donny's reach are liquors, liquers, whiskeys, brandies.

 

Mom and I have a hearty laugh, let Donny pick what he wants with his tiny hot dogs. He takes cherry vanilla.

Teacher Needed

TOO STOOPID

 

Lenny is a baby. He's scared of the dark, scared of worms, scared of his mommie and scared of me. And I don't blame him. I call him ugly names and he starts to cry. I tell Fred where Lenny is hiding and the dummy just stays put in the cardboard box. I know he closes his eyes and thinks he can't be seen. When he's found and laughed at and gets bopped time and time again on his head, he whimpers and prays for his big brother, Donald, to come save him. Fat chance. Donald has no desire to be a baby sitter. Actually, Donald is a bully. He teases the little girls, makes them sit on the slate steps with their legs spread open wide. My father caught him doing that once, called Donald's father and warned him he would report his son to the police if he does it again. Big braggart, Donald is ten and does what he wants to do.

 

Joseph is six and gets in trouble. He's only six and has learned a lot of swear words. Once I actually saw the brat kick his mother's shins and then he told her to go to hell. I told my father about Joseph (he already knows about Donald)  and I  was loudly warned  to stay away from him or he would send me to the Greenspring Reform School and I might stay there forever.

 

I am losing my friends. My father has warned me and my mother about everybody I know. He thinks he's smarter than the whole world and knows what is good for me. With the chance Greenspring Reform School is where I might be sent, I stop tattling to my father or my mother. Summer is almost over and I haven't one kid left who will play marbles with me unless I bring my good aggies. I am desperate and take my two favorites to the park marble circle to wait for dumb Phil to show up at noon but he doesn't. Instead his brother, Donald, takes his place. He's carrying a very small bag of marbles. 'Where's Phil?' I ask. 'I don't know. Do you want to shoot or not?' I don't want to play with Donald but know he'll do something bad to me if I say 'no.' 'Sure, and I'll beat you,' I reply. Amazing, amazing,  I do beat him the first game, take four of his shooters. I can see he's angry but I am not afraid, watch him closely. His fingers twitch a little and I win the next game. Ha, this is a cinch, I think. Donald wants to stop to get a drink of water from the fountain. He goes and I wait, think he won't come back. Wrong. He walks towards our circle fast, warns me he is going to beat the shit out of me. I tell him not to use that word again. The very next thing he says to me is, 'Shit, shit.' He laughs, bends and knuckles down, closes one eye and stares at my aggie. Crack. It spins across the circle and stops dead, right at Donald's feet. My clear red aggie goes into his pouch. 'Shoot, little boy,' he tells me.

 

Big feet with black shoes, stand to the side while I decide to use my crystal clear marble to start. They are my father's feet. I shoot,  make my shot do a trick spin. Donald is delighted, claps, lets me know his shot is a sure thing. I watch his style again, peep at the big feet near me, and just as Donald starts to aim, the foot shakes the earth and Donald  misses . His marble is only inches from mine. I know I will win this round but I don't. Donald says 'shit, shit' again and my father erupts, hands me all the remaining marbles in the circle.

 

For a few minutes I am happy. Then my father calls me stupid, too stupid. 'I have told you to keep away from Donald or you will go to the Reform School. You didn't listen, so–

 

Oh, well, son, I'll give you one more chance to get smarter. Fluff it and you will have a new home. Come on, let's get ice cream cones before we go home.'

Fresh Air

CABBAGES AND WINGS

 

From where I get off my clinky yellow school bus, I can get a whiff of what my mom is making again for dinner. Our kitchen window is open and the stink of boiling cabbage sails down the block. Alberto is
the first kid, besides myself, who I notice inhaling the odor I detest. He taps me on my shoulder and almost pleads with me, 'Maria, may I come for dinner tonight? You know cabbage is my very favorite veggie, don't you?  My mom will be glad to be rid of me.' 'I'll let you know later but think you can count on it.'

 

We separate. He goes left. I go to the right, hoping, hoping Alberto can come so I can give him at least half of my hot cabbage before Mama catches me. Sometimes I see on her face how happy she is that I enjoyed my cabbage so much, she refills my plate and I refill Alberto's as soon as she turns her back. It's a game for me and I always make my school friends laugh when I tell them the same story over and over.

 

I am now working on a plan to lessen the smelling up of our house and to stop my belly from expanding so much I add to the cabbage smell. My daddy laughs, puts his big red handkerchief over his nose and burps from two places at once. There are no smiles on my face. I find the laughter disgusting and my family unaware of how embarrassed I get.
Instead of buying Good Humors, a double decker vanilla/cherry cone with jimmies on top, I hide part of my allowance under my stretched out panties in my bureau drawer. It will take months before I have ten bucks but I'm going to count on helping dad do lawn work, iron a load of clothes my mother has washed and dried on the week-end.

 

My goal is reached. I buy three cartons of chicken wings at Colonel Sanders Chicken factory. For Mom's birthday Friday I tell her not to fix dinner. I will take care of it if she will bake a chocolate cake for our dessert. The oven temp I set at 400 and put the timer on 15 minutes, have a big bowl of fresh greens with carrot curls, tomatoes and radishes and two kinds of dressing on the table. 'Dinner's ready,' I yodel. 'Come in now!' I watch their noses twitch, listen while my parents ask me why I didn't make boiled cabbage. Being unable to actually say the word of what the cabbage makes me and them do, I spell it slowly and backwards. 'Ma, Dad, we all TRAF too much. The cabbage meals must stop or we may explode. Sit down and try something new and so easy.'

 

At first they are hesitant and berate me for changing what they enjoy so much. 'Taste one wing, Daddy. Don't chew the bones. You'll cut your tongue.' 'Ma, come on taste these wings. They are really good.' She tries one and complains, bitches she'd rather eat cabbage.' I get up, go in the kitchen for a re-fill of Diet Pepsi and come back to find one entire platter is filled with bones. I have a few wings, lick my fingers, clear the table and bring in Ma's chocolate cake. She slices it. We eat half of the big cake in our semi-silent dining room with only a slight odor of chicken fat around us.

 

I feel super, intend having chicken breasts next week. I might have to invite Alberto who asked when we will invite him again for cabbage.
'Don't know, Alberto, but you are welcome to try Colonel Sanders chicken breast with us next Fri.'

For Naught ?

SLIM JIM

 

Not only does my first child, Jimmy, weigh only three lbs. 2 oz.  when he finally leaves the warm home he's had in my belly for eight ½ months, he looks like a long, not fully cooked noodle. I turn my head when I see a nurse cleaning him up, getting him ready for the family showing. None too gently, she washes away my blood and I am grateful. Had she not been so adept at her job, Jimmy would have looked like a long strand of spaghetti with too much marinara sauce all over him.

 

The whole scene fades quickly into darkness. When next my eyes can focus, I am in my room, propped up on two lumpy pillows. I smile to my family and Bob's. Not one of them smiles back. Thru my dry lips I squeak out, 'What is wrong with Jimmy?' Five or six family members say in unison, 'Nothing.' I stare at each one, glare hard and ask again, 'What's wrong with Jimmy?' My Bob smiles and tells me our boy is okay but is under weight and has to stay in the hospital for a few days until he gets stronger. There isn't much more to say. Bob's father puts a white envelope tied with a blue satin ribbon in my hand. 'Take good care of our grandson, Olivia, or you will have to answer to us.' Why I got snippy, I don't recall but have been told by my father I was rude when I replied, 'I don't need to answer to you, Bob and I will bring our son up the way we see fit.' Oh, yes, my father was painfully right.

 

My plans have gone astray. I am in such good physical condition, I am released from the hospital first thing in the morning, with nothing to hold in my lap except a potted fern from a neighbor and already wilting roses from Bob who has my small suitcase in hand and a pair of new soft, fluffy blue bedroom slippers for me. He laughs when he tells me 'You'll need them when you get up during the nights to feed and change Jim-bo- I now call him that. I not only take possession of the slippers, I get a nice, soft kiss on my cheek from Bob.

 

For an entire week, Bob drives us to the hospital where we can spend a few minutes with Jim-bo in the premie  section. He is full term but not quite strong enough to go home. I have made, unmade, re-made his crib too many times. The baby gifts we don't open, just pile in a corner of the big boy's room. On the ninth day, the first morning phone call comes in at 7:30. My heart starts to pound. Something is wrong. A familiar voice sing-songs a 'Good morning, Mrs. Crone. Your son is doing remarkably well, now weighs five lbs, 4 oz. and you may come get him when you are ready. When should we expect you?' 'As soon as I can call my husband and he comes for me, in about half an hour, we'll be there!' Speed dial. Speed drive, fire engine speed to our house and our family will begin.

 

While we already love our boy, life is dramatically changed. I weigh him every other day. Some days he loses a few ounces, seldom gets them back. Dr. Blacksburg, the esteemed pediatrician, insists on keeping a more accurate weight chart of Jimmy than I do and I'm angry about that, take him in to Dr. Blacksburg three times a week where his calibrated scale shows almost the same numbers I submit. Jim is a little longer than the average child his age, somewhere about an inch and a half. This too must be considered. Bob and I, and our parents who try their best to not bring up the subject, fear he will be a skinny, very tall person, be put on the side when his schoolmates form groups, choose teams.  We can't help ourselves but really try hard to visualize Jimmy at five, at 10, growing more solid, having lots of friends, finally winning an Olympic medal for back stroke swimming. They are all sugar-coated pipe dreams that have to suffice as Jimmy grows taller, never much heavier–and sadly, has no brother to emulate., nor a sister.

 

For Jimmy's third birthday, Bob and I have planned a surprise birthday party for him. It won't be one of those grandiose, pony and clown afternoons but will be pleasant with games, ice cream., Shreck movies on a DVD.  About 12:30 Jimmy's first guests arrive. I am surprised the mothers come too. I don't feel good, go in the bathroom and throw up.
I tell Bob what happened and we both have a surprise. I am preg again, thrilled to death but worried. Our son has been a concern every single day of his three years with us. What will happen if our next baby needs the care we have given Jimmy? Dr. Blacksburg is glad to see me. I am not totally thrilled seeing him again.

 

By the fifth month the world can tell how preg I am. My belly suggests our baby will weigh fifteen pounds. I'm put on a strict diet which is nonsense because I continue having morning sickness that should have stopped by the middle of the fourth month. My intake would make Mahatma Ghandi look like a big eater. Bob has hired a nanny to be with Jimmy until our daughter is born. We could see Barbra, that will be her name, wiggling around when I had my ultra sound. She is big, looks like she might walk her way out of me. The coming birth may be caesarian which is certainly not something I want to go thru, but then again, maybe I'll sleep thru it. I don't

 

Barbra weighs in at nine lbs, 10 oz., is soft and very cuddly. Jimmy adores her, admits to his nanny he wishes he were not so tall and skinny. Conchita listens to his lament, finds an almost new blender under the kitchen cabinet and begins making a concoction of sweet cream, strawberries, peaches, chocolate ice cream every day except Sunday that is her day off. Bob makes it for Jimmy who in one month has gained five pounds.

 

Bob and I are just about positive that Conchita's formula is infused with magic. I tell Dr. Blacksburg how nicely Jimmy is doing, how he is no longer a bean pole and how beautiful Barbra is. There is no doubt in my mind he is genuinely happy for our family. He hands me his new office card with his new address. I thank him, wish him luck in his new place, make a big deal out of putting the card carefully in my wallet and leave.

My Never-never Land

THE BRASS MONKEY

 

The door chime sings 'Happy Days Are Here Again', and as usual, I cringe. Chas, I call my husband Chas instead of Charles because he doesn't intend fitting the everyday mold of 1975. At 11 a.m. he casually strolls to the front door and without the slightest clue as to who is outside, flings it open. He calls me. 'Darla, we have company.' 'Who is it, Chas?' I ask and he snips, 'Don't ask questions, just come see.'

 

This is usually my special personal day and this one is my turn to bake the pies for this evening's Ladies' Bridge Tournament. There is no way to get out of either, baking or meeting the stranger. For the now my hands to the wrists are covered with flour. What can I do but water them down, scrape off the paste I have made, and go to the door?

 

I have no idea at all of who the stranger is that Chas has already made comfortable on our sofa. The tall, very dark skinned man is almost bald, has a small grey goatee and a briefcase from which he has strewn on the carpet magazines, pamphlets, brochures. 'Darla, this is Mort. I can't pronounce his last name so Mort will be fine with him.' Mort looks me up and down, winks, and makes me cringe. He takes the initiative and asks if he may call me Darla. 'I'd rather you not, Mort. You may call me Ms. Bierfeld for now.'

 

'Well, Ms. Bierfeld, your husband already has an idea of why I am here but I don't mind repeating it. I am the general manager of Travel Extra Ordinaire and have a fabulous collection of trips for you that I doubt anyone you know has taken. I stop him dead in his speech. 'Please don't waste our time or yours, Mort. We aren't going anywhere in the near future.' 'It will cost you nothing to listen, explore, what we can offer you. Prices are not negotiable but, if you want to check, you will find Travel Extraordinaire so unique, so exciting, you will be glad forever that you didn't rush me away.' I try again to get him out of my hair and our door but Chas is almost ready to jump into the fire. He suggests Tom leave the brochures so we can study them and discuss any possibilities over the week-end.

 

Saturday morning, really early, 6:30, I hear him making coffee, putting cups and cereal bowls on the table. I don't connect that with what else he has ready for me. The first thing I can't help but see is a large map of Indonesia, Asia, and Russia taped to the pantry door. He has a loose leaf notebook, colored pens and our check book on the counter. My gut warns me Chas and I may end up divorced if he pushes me too hard.

 

'Darla, dear. I have already searched the web for Travel Extraordinaire and they have an A++ rating. I also have searched for information on Indonesia and am going to burst if you don't keep an open mind. That land has more active volcanoes than any place on earth. In 1882 Krakatoa erupted and almost destroyed the world. Scientists work deep in the earth day and night to learn what the future may hold, and Honey, it ain't so good. I want to see the island and go down into the depths of hell before I go for real and never come back.'

 

I am stunned, almost mute, ready to put Chas in an institution. All I can manage to say is, 'You are nuts, out of your mind. I'm not going there or any place else with you.' He sits down, eats a full bowl of Cheerios with blueberries, doesn't even put his bowl in the sink.

 

Mort shows up at noon and gets a strong handshake from Chas and a snub from me. I don't bother looking at his offerings or listening to his spiels. There is no doubt in my mind my husband will go without me. Within an hour Mort has a check in his hand for a deposit for one. He isn't fooling and neither am I. I make sure Chas hears me call our attorney for an appointment to discuss a divorce. Both of our plans begin to take shape.

 

While he is probably burning his feet to a crisp on the lower level of Krakatau, I am making my own arrangements. I keep the house and he can go to hell or move in with Mort. I close out our checking account and hope he gets stuck on the barren island with no funds to get off.
But get off he does. The dumb door chime I have had disconnected and a normal one installed rings exactly one month after Chas flew away. Stunned, angry, upset, I barely acknowledge his presence. He walks in and I tell him forcibly to get out. The house is mine and he had better find a new place. That's when he puts down a large box that  he had been holding, puts his arms around me, his lips to mine and I melt.

 

As soon as we each catch our breath he hands me the box. 'Open it, open it now, Darla.' I refuse but that doesn't hold Chas back. He sits down on the floor and rips off the tape, pulls out something shiny and weird looking. 'Look, Sweetheart. I brought you a gift nobody else you know will ever get.' I'm not too sure of what it is but it looks like a monkey, a golden monkey. 'Darla, it is brass, solid brass, surely made a thousand years ago from the magna of Krakatoa. Isn't it gorgeous?'

 

It isn't gorgeous at all but its eyes sparkle at me. Maybe the brass is a cover-up of gold. I put it on the middle etegere shelf where it does have a certain charm.

 

In the morning I find the brass monkey lying on the floor, a small crack down its back. I put it back on the shelf three days in a row. Then I put it in the cellar.

The Route

HILDA AND THE GYPSIES

 

I count five horse drawn wagons, tailed by carts, plodding down the dirt road to Gadonya The sounds that come thru the canvas tops sometimes give me stomach cramps. Babies cry incessantly. They screech like banshees. Whips slash at the struggling mules, skinny dogs that follow along the sides of our ever-hopeful  gypsies longing for a place to settle down. Toilets are holes in the ground. Shovels don't get washed. Once, maybe twice a day, when that is done we move onward, ever onward, not knowing what will be at the next road.

 

For many miles we ride beside a slow moving muddy river. Our brave men manage to wade in, snare as many fish as they can. Petrie stands and waits on shore, his scimitar ready to slash off the heads, toss the remaining, still moving parts, in the fire. Before they can become charcoal, small tree branches pierce them, are divided among us, become our meal.  Poor Michaella, one of our beautiful dark haired women, whose skin is the darkest of all of us, burns the palm of her hand. Hilda comforts her, stays with her for three days and nights, reciting magical words. She stops only long enough to eat a little, take a few sips of Romany wine from a community tin cup. Few notice that Michaella's hand is healed without the slightest scar. She wants to give Hilda a few coins, has none,  but does have a small unadorned silver ring and gladly gives it to her.

 

'Everybody look, there is Gadonya. See the lights?' There is dancing in the road, twirling, spinning, falling to the earth. We are all hungry for action, badly need to tell fortunes again. The bravest (or dumbest) may pick a few pockets. New Tarot cards are still in their boxes. We will gladden hearts, bring tears and fears to those who have never met real gypsies from Egypt and Romania. There will be believers and doubters, fools who mock us. I, myself, have been astounded as words, strange words, slide like a slimy snake from my mouth, or could they be from  Cleopatra's?

 

Only I am a true gypsy, born in Egypt, very near the huge Sphinx, I was told. My great, great, great–many great grandfathers ago, labored in the broiling sun, tasted the sand between his teeth. The story of the millions who died so that King Tut could reach eternity must be a fairy tale but I, a believer, must soon make the people in Gadonya into believing in us, in me.

 

If they do, we stay a while. If not, we move on to Hariscoja and get rich.

Don't push

 

SO IT GOES

 

I'm almost ninety, have a 26" waist and boobs almost to my knees. My mind is as sharp as a rusty nail but I know my name is Charlotte, uh, uh? Charlotte What?? When I go mentally thru the alphabet, as soon as I come to 'R' I clap. I know my name, Charlotte Russe! Something is a bit fuzzy. Russe? Rae? I decide on Rae and then remember she was my teacher in the seventh or eighth grade–or on a t.v. show.

 

My great granddaughter is going to the mall. Dolly, that's her name, asks me if I want anything. My eyes light up, my dry mouth starts to water. I tell her what I'd like to have and hand her a one dollar bill. 'Get me a package of Walnettos, a pound of those great big chunks of Hersheys (maybe twenty cents worth). And I'd absolutely love to have a pink and black box of Good and Plenty. 'But, Dolly, dear, whatever you do, don't bend the box or it won't be good for a whistle.'

 

She gives me a bewildered look, 'Gran Ma Ma, tell me those names again. Where will I find them?' 'Dolly,' I reply, ' why in Wapner's corner drugstore, that's where. And don't let the soda jerk cheat us when he weighs the chocolate. All the candies should be in the glass cabinet near the medicine department. Now go, Darling. If there's change, you may keep it.'

 

That young lady comes back without any of my candy but offers me
something else. 'Gran Ma Ma, there is no Wapner's drugstore or any of the candy you asked for in the super market.' 'What did you say, Dolly?
I left my hearing aids up stairs. Will you get them for me?' Dolly raises her voice and asks me where they are. 'Don't you remember? I keep them in my bureau drawer in the right hand, or maybe the left hand, corner under the blue silk kerchief my mother used to carry. I'd get them myself but my arthritis is bothering me again and the steps are getting higher.'
'Dolly, dear, did I forget to tell you or were you not paying attention when I asked you for a brighter light bulb in that lamp next to my bed? I can barely read the print in the Time magazines I have saved. 'Grand Ma Ma, I did change it to one hundred watts last Saturday. Don't you see better?' 'I would see better if I could find my eye glasses. Have you seen them?. She's cute, my great-granddaughter but fibs a little. The light is no brighter at all in my room. 'Grand Ma Ma, your eye glasses are right on your perky little nose!' Aha, I catch her. 'So they are but these aren't my reading glasses. These are good for t.v. not tiny writing.'

 

To save an argument, I head for the stairs hoping to find my other eye glasses and dang, I slip a little, grab the handrail, and hold tight while I scream 'Dolly, Dolly, quick, I may have broken my leg on the stairs. She is on the phone and yells something to me that I can't make out. 'Did you hear me, great grand daughter? I'm scared, may be having a heart attack. Dial 911 just in case I am.'

 

It's no use. That child must be talking to her newest boyfriend or yapping with her oldest girlfriend. I might as well just sit down on the step and wait for her or sit here forever. 'Forever?' That thought does me in. My mind goes haywire as I picture myself in my grave forever. Instead of calling Dolly again, I look up to the hallway ceiling and start my night discussion with god.

 

'God, listen to me. You have your plans and I have mine. I want you to know that I really have had as good a life as I could conjure up and when you  point my way, I'm not afraid and am ready to leave the building. Just don't let me know in advance. Thank you, God.'

 

 

 

 

 

A fast smile

ENCHANTED SNOOKUMS

 

It's holiday time. Easter has come around again to our small, happy, religious town. We have approximately 20000 residents from April to the end of August and 12000 into the wintry days that take forever to go away. When I think about those numbers, I wonder why the hell I'm one of the residents who sticks out 365 days here, year after year. In sixty-five years I've never found the answer and have accepted my fate.

 

This spring starts out special. With Easter we will have the company of the BlingBling circus for ten days. The children who are aware of their fate if they don't get out of Maplewell before they are in their early twenties get busy. They rush to our supermarket to get as many cartons of large white eggs as they can afford. In one day the refrigerated cases are bare. Jimmy Schue, who owns our only five & dime store had to triple his order for egg dye.

 

Miss Slatko, the matron of The Lord's Baptist House, runs a tight ship. Seats are filled for all services. I've never been in there but I hear nice things about the  warm feelings, closeness of the whole parish. Her brother, Samson, has a special room behind the organ where he keeps his artist brushes and makes room for the dyed eggs that are not cracked. What might be a pretty pink egg might have a band of gold around its middle and tiny dots of blue, or a green egg may have orange wavy stripes. No two are exactly alike but all the smiles on the children's faces and their parents, give Samson an extra star in heaven.

 

On a Monday morning, less than a week before Easter, the calliope comes riding down main street. Clowns dance and prance around, throw confetti in the air. Amidst it all, the ground rumbles a little. There is a strong not too pleasant odor following the clowns. Children and adults applaud as two men with bullwhips lead a huge, really huge elephant down the main street. About 20 dwarf clowns dance, prance, do somersaults around the gargantuan elephant. Her trunk lifts and she sneezes blue bubbles out of it. The dwarfs call her Snookums, 'Go, Snookums, go!' they shout.

 

 Snookum's hard grey skin turns into a swirling, melting rainbow as the air inside of her escapes and Snookums flies away.

The Leader

THE ROUTINE

 

The large fake crystal chandelier dims. Twenty-five or so musicians in the pit are tweaking their instruments (or anything or anybody they want to tweak) while there are still a few minutes before the red velvet curtain opens. John Holiday, the maestro, is hit by the central spotlight from the balcony and polite applause from the filled audience. Candy wrappers and crunchy popcorn can still be detected as the rude audience nibbles and gets fatter by the minute.

 

The men stop nibbling as soon as the chorus girls enter, kicking in unison as high as their feathered hats. That is, all kick in unison except the end one, stage right, whose left leg is the same height as the other dancers whose right legs are at full extension. Laughter roars from the ground floor. Guffaws echo from the balcony. The poor befuddled dancer pulls back and the line closes as she disappears behind the curtain. Chorus girls smile with wide bright red lips. Only those in the first few rows can tell they have pencil thin black eyebrows. Tap shoes with big black satin bows click in military perfection. Routine is re-established and all is going well. The single long line breaks so smoothly it is almost un-noticed.

 

Suddenly still tap tapping, the girls have formed two lines alternating into a red and white stripe with a corner blue field. Fourth of July sparklers light and the stars twinkle as the production number leaves the stage. It's awesome until those in the balcony start stomping their feet, calling out ,'More, more.' Those who can whistle, whistle. The balcony begins to shake. The chandelier shivers.

 

John Holiday signals the orchestra to stop playing. They understand and sit in their places like frozen snowmen. Another private signal and the group stands as one, begins walking and playing their instruments as half go along the right wall aisle and the other the left. Only the pianist and the drummer stay put and continue playing. All lights are on except the chandelier that is totally dark. Trumpets blow. Saxophones join in and the dancers, somewhat out of step, a few feathered hats crushed, do another routine. The drummer does a double paradiddle, does it again. Its ear splitting enough to stop what could become a deadly panic. Holiday makes it to center stage, adjusts his cummer- bund, uses a hand mike, calls the one dancer who had been the laughing stock of the show to come on stage.

 

Out she comes, in a dressing gown, her face glowing in the spotlight. She nods to the orchestra that plays the opening music from the show
'Hello Dolly.' Blond wig askew, Carole Channing belts out the tune, parades back and forth across the stage to whistles and applause, no foot stomping. The thunderous clapping reddens hands. Smiles are on every face.

 

John Holiday is the hero. Miss Channing the icing on the cake.

Like lightning

LOST YEARS

 

It can't be more than yesterday that ladies leaned over my carriage and kitchey cooed me. I loved when my mother smiled and told them I was already able to hold on to my play pen and pull myself up. Oh, the tongue clicking would make me gurgle, blow tiny bubbles. Then the ladies would disappear and mommy would get angry at me because I sometimes would throw my new rattle out of the carriage. I wanted to tell her I didn't mean to do that. It was just an accident, but my words are still unformed inside of me. They are anxious to come out but will have to wait a long time.

 

How did those hard things get in my mouth? They hurt, make me cry. Daddy looks in and Janet, my mom, two of my teeth are starting to come thru and that is why I cry so much.  She sticks something in there for me to suck on. I don't like it at all but every time I spit it out, Mommy keeps sticking it back in.

 

It doesn't feel good to me when my bottom is all wet, and sometimes smells bad, but it isn't my fault. It happens even when I am sound asleep. It upsets my mommy and me too but that's the way it is.

 

I think I sleep too much because one morning I woke up and Mommy was all excited. She was getting all ready for company. Children I see but can't yet talk to are coming to my first birthday party. The house smells good and pretty flowers are on the table. A funny man is dressed in all different colors, has a red ball on his nose and does tricks with balloons. Everybody, except me, has a plate of ice cream with stripes in it, pink, white and chocolate. It's my birthday but I don't get any ice cream. My bottom is wet again and I'm tired, want my milk bottle and to be left alone in my crib.

 

A walking, talking, loveable, cute me goes to kindergarten. Mommy walks me there or if the weather is bad, daddy drives me. If my mommy weren't my mommy, I would be happy to have Miss Wolfson, the kindergarten teach, be my mommy. She is taller, stronger, prettier, plays piano and hums songs I don't know but like, so we can take naps. This is the class I hope to stay in for my whole life but when I am six I am not asked, but am simply moved into first grade, then second and am skipped the third because Miss Chowning I'm two smart for second grade. Daddy was so pleased, proud of me that he took me to the corner drugstore and bought me anything I wanted. I chose a three decker sundae, chocolate, vanilla and cherry, lots of fudge and walnuts. I was glad he sat with me because I couldn't eat all of that without getting sick and he helped me.

 

Did I know I was cute? No. Did I know I was smart? No but when I was sent from the 6th grade to a special school that I would be able, if I stayed smart, finish in two years instead of four. This time Mommy bought me a leather book bag, three new school dresses and shoes that tied instead of having buttons. I earned them by getting honor marks and going on to high school at age 13, just about the youngest in the huge, brick school. It was very hard to make friends because I lived far from this special school but I made one special one, a less than cute Italian girl named Mary Balford. We paired up in less than a week. We studied and we laughed every day. Once when we accidentally spilled an entire bucket of dirty floor washing water over the Home Ec room, as we mopped and mopped, we actually peed in our pants from laughing so hard. What a memory. I wonder even now if Mary is alive, well, principal of some foreign school and if she remembers our slogan, 'Save the Bucket.'

 

Boy chasing came into my world. The cute ones most likely avoided me because I was younger, smarter than they were. Sometimes I cursed my good fortune. My high school prom date, who I thought I might eventually marry some day, stood me up. I paced our living room, almost wore a hole in it, kept watching out the window, but Donnie never called or showed up. Would you believe his excuse the next day, he broke his leg and was in the hospital? I didn't–but it was true. I came to visit him when he came home. Like an over-weight king he lounged back on a chaise lounge, his heavy full cast to his knee itching all the time. His dad unwound a coat hanger so Donnie could get inside the cast and manage some relief. It took almost three months before he could use crutches, get around a little. Of course, he didn't get around to me and that was no problem. I had just about forgotten him by then and was open to other opportunities.

 

Getting my MBA at U of PA, a great job with an elite accounting firm, taking care of my home, my husband, I enjoyed then and now my Sunday walks, pushing Andy and Tandy in their heavy perambulater.

 

I have their rattles tied with short pink ribbons hanging inside so I don't have to keep picking the toys up from the dirty pavement–and the ribbons are too short for the girls to strangle themselves.

 

There are so many moments, seasons, times in my thirty nine years, but most have not survived, are surely lost in a maelstrom but once in a while a new one peeps out and I smile or even shed a brief tear.

The Town

FEELING G00D

 

I don't even have to open the bedroom curtains to know it's a lousy, gray, weeping day. The chilly rain has been filtering down on Rosedale for almost a week. And why not? Our small town was here first and eventually we became a middle sized town. With that came the German measles and house after house lost family. The minister of our only church, God's Way, semi non-denominational, used enough of our contribution funds to purchase a large lot as a cemetery behind our church. He assigned himself the center spot and allowed for a circle around him to hold his family and the elders of Rosedale.

 

The cemetery quickly became a place to relax, sit on a stone bench and meditate about god, eternity and how much rake-off our minister was getting as lot after lot was quickly covered with black loam and a sheet of green plastic grass. Within ten days or so enough real green fuzz would be visible, freeing the ground cover for the next 'guest.' Reverend Flannery stayed with us as long as he could, four years, and then ceremoniously filled the center plot. He certainly wouldn't be lonely.

 

Reverend Jackson came to us quickly and was immediately a hit. With a pleasant smile, clean shaven face, twinkling eyes and a voice that could be heard throughout our church without a mike. But we had one small problem. Jim Folley and Sally Donner, both elderly folks, have never given in to buy new fangled hearing aids. They take advantage of us all by being graced with the use of the front row seats whenever they deemed they would honor us with a Sunday visit.

 

Our circular cemetery made it to the CNC network show, 'Strange Places' and an article in Time magazine appeared on page six, a prime spot. All of the hullabaloo set off an influx of lookie-loos. Our super markets stayed open until nine at night. Our barber shops and hair dressers seldom had empty chairs. The piece de resistance was little Rosedale lost its thorns when we began to get donations for a new, bigger, better, hospital. I personally felt we were hurting ourselves because the more people we buried, the more famous we got. Why make our residents healthy? My thinking really sickened even me so I put in my $500 donation that allowed me to have only my name on a bronze plaque over any patient's door on the fourth floor. If I'd have put a thou, that I couldn't afford, I'd have my name on the first floor above the offices.

 

Sadly, Jim Folley who's hearing was bad, lost his sight. No sense his coming to services which released the seat next to Jane Folley. She met a nice old man, a widower, who moved here, didn't know a soul so Jane took him under her wing and soon they were a twosome. Her new man bought her hearing aids for her 68th birthday and now she stays home with him and no seats are left empty for 'special' people.

 

Winter hit Rosedale like a witch with a switch. My god, it was cold. We had more snow in two weeks than we have had in two years. People at the super market were coughing on their hands and selecting tomatoes, Georgia peaches. The flu spread itself. Schools closed but not soon enough. Three children passed in one week and had to be buried at  Ridgeway, a small cemetery near the up and coming town of Blacksburg.

 

Without knowing the children or their parents I drove over to the funeral just to support those suffering enough in their grief. On the way home from there, my chest started to ache and I had a bad coughing spell, had to pull over to the side of the road just to calm myself. I admit, I was scared I'd fill a hole soon but as long as I am writing and telling you about it, I'm still here. And I want you to believe me because you have to-I made up my mind years ago.

And so far I'm keeping my promise to myself.  I AIN'T GOIN'

 

 

Brr Brr

THE TRAIN

 

As the train rattled thru the dark, stormy night, it often slowed to a stop. The passengers and I sat uncomfortably thru each ten to fifteen minutes of boredom. Noone seemed to know the reason, not even the porter. Reaching the first legitimate stop, Verbana, I just guessed that the engineer saw a high stick with a red flag blowing wildly near the depot. We screeched almost to a halt. The steel wheels slid a little and finally stopped.

 

Only one person was waiting for the train. I could barely see the shivering body and could not make out if it was a boy or girl. Wiping the frost from my window I saw a man in a heavy plaid wool jacket help her on. He gave her a brown paper bag, evidently a snack to get her thru the night. He stepped on the train, just far enough to open the car door for the girl and show her to her seat. He turned, waved goodbye, hopped off the train and disappeared before we pulled out for Ashford. I felt a little motherly and approached the still shivering child. I asked where she was going on such a cold nite but received no reply. I asked again and in a small squeakish voice she told me she is going to see her mother. 'That's nice,' I replied. Why she got nasty and told me it wasn't nice at all I didn't know.  Her attitude stumped me, particularly when I noticed tears forming icicles on her cheeks.

 

There was little heat on the train which kept riders mostly staying still in their seats. When someone had to use the toilet, an awful smell  came out of the door. I would rather wet my underwear than go in there. The child, however, squirmed. It was easy to see what her problem was so I rose and walked slowly down the aisle to perhaps help her. My approach had to be calm, friendly but not too friendly. I intended touching her arm gently so as not to frighten her, but as I moved close enough, the train swayed, coughed  and slowed down again.
I almost fell on her but managed to tell her my name and asked hers. She looked right into my eyes and said 'Melinda'. 'That's a pretty name, Melinda. My last name is Carruthers, what's yours?' Like a worm, she squirmed and moved closer to the cold window.' 'Melinda, would you like to come sit with me? I am alone too. Time will move faster if we keep each other company.' What a surprise she gave me. 'O.K. but can you take me to the toilet first? I have to go real bad.' Just opening the door was bad enough but to send that child in there almost broke my heart.

 

Back to my seat, I waited about ten minutes for Melinda to come out.
The odor had managed to get in her wool cap and on her clothes. Did she even notice? Maybe, maybe not, but I did when she curled up, put her head on my lap and quickly fell asleep. The porter came thru the car saying in a modulated tone, 'Next stop Ashford, in approximately thirty minutes. It is snowing hard. Our telegraph has notified us there is already six inches of snow on the ground. Be prepared as best you can.' Off he went to the next car, surely reciting his short speech.

 

Mumbling, grumbling slithered thru the car and thru my mind. Was my brother going to be waiting for me as he had promised? Where will I stay if he doesn't make it? Will Melinda's mother and father be waiting? Is there food service of any kind in the station, a cleaner lavatory? We riders all had the same dilemma.

 

The engineer hit the brakes hard. The car swayed and stopped. Every eye opened, every body was nervous, unsure of what the next hour would bring. Someone in the last car ran thru all six on this trip, shouting, 'I can see sleighs with horses racing to meet us. Let's be ready to go as they pull up.' Applause, applause! Melinda woke up when she heard the commotion. 'Melinda,' I asked, 'will your parents be meeting you?'  She replied, 'Only my father, if he can.' 'Do you have
sisters, brothers at home that your mom has to take care of?'

 

'I have no sisters or brothers but Dad will be waiting for me.' He sent me my ticket to come to Ashford plus ten dollars to buy roses for my mother. She is being buried tomorrow and I have to find someplace to buy roses for her. Momma loved them so much.'

 

'Oh, Miss Crutters, what am I going to do with the money my daddy gave me? He's going to be angry that I didn't bring the roses.' I held the child close, warmed her shaking body a little and told her he will be so happy to see her, he won't think about the money at all. I helped her get off the train and be assigned to a sleigh. A tall, robust man wearing a black coat and hat that had earmuffs spotted her slid most of the way to reach her.

 

They met and held each other so close, so lovingly that I could not help but shed tears with them.  Melinda looked at me, gave me a great big hug and introduced me to her father. 'Daddy, this is Miss Crutters, she is my very best friend. Can she stay with us until the snow melts and I can go see Mama?' 'Of course, Darling.' 'Mrs. Crutters, please stay with us. You will have a warm, dry place to stay as long as you like.'

 

'Thank you, I shall be grateful for your hospitality, but my name is Miss Jean Carruthers.'