Coming & Going

WRITINGS
TIME AND TIME AGAIN-in retrospect

 

For there are stars that fling a veil across my heart' and my little eyes saw them. They chased away the Bogey Man who hid under my bed or lurked in the closet waiting for me to fall asleep before he came to get me. White fluffy clouds scudded to become grey elephants and miraculously changed into Santa Claus., complete with tumbling beard hugging his chubby face.

 

And I felt the warmth of eggs just laid in Aunt Lottie's hen house. Her shaggy black dog romped playfully towards me as I came out. Potted plants grew tall and strong because I helped water them for my teachers. Niagara's roar and stinging spray didn't even scare me because Daddy held me in his arms as the Maid of the Mist drew ever closer to the mighty power of the falls.,Those same arms lifted me to his shoulders every evening as we sang, 'Here comes the king's daughter, she wants a glass of water' even when I wasn't thirsty.

 

 Once my big brother pushed my swing so high I almost touched the sky. The wind and I yelled together, 'Higher, Higher! Push me higher!' How wonderful the dirty river smelled when the ferry boat hit the big tires rather than the pier. Daddy, strong Daddy, lifted me so I could see over the railing the churning green circles getting bigger and bigger and bigger. My new ball bearing skates made me as tall as my tallest friend and much faster.

 

There was a moment, a most remarkable moment, when my 12 year old eyes, mind and heart felt god's presence. I sat alone below the round synagogue window with its huge Star of David. He was there, all around me. What happened to him?

 

What happened to that child's world of 'me'? I know the answer. The world got bigger, included grown up sensations, thoughts, dreams, and many nightmares. Marriage, the pain, the miseries of pregnancies culminated in overpowering devotion, caring for my family, seeing them thru their growth and their weddings. The complexities spread like the silk of a tarantula's web, grasping, holding the good times, the bad times ready to be plucked out, freeing everlasting memories. Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy, Little Orphan Annie, Bulldog Drummond, inspired my imagination and the coming of T.V. opened unbelievable possibilities. Dreams of Buck Rogers became reality when man took his first giant step on the moon.

 

Waving flags, kissing strangers, dancing in the streets on V.J. Day are deep within me. I've mentally photographed a Jamaican turquoise sea touching a wide white beach, donkeys prodded by smiling natives as steel drums rang thru the clear morning's air. A huge fireball of a sun sank into the waiting ocean so quickly I thought I only imagined it. Tons of rock and stone surprised me as my cold, very wet walk on a glacier removed the pre-conceived vision of the purity of the ice.

 

Into gossamer threads of my spider's lace come crowds of tourists plodding around me on China's Great Wall, of slippery rugged paths to the Acropolis, of riding a fierce giant of a mule to Santorini's white-washed village with carless twisted streets and a dazzling view of the sea. So many wonders, hypnotizing pictures painted by my mind are master pieces which will live with me forever.

But with all of the awesome things my eyes have seen, I feel strongest, most pleased by what I alone have created. My world without my husband, my children in far away places, with December years enfolding me, life has not ended.

I'm carrying on, going new places, doing new things and I feel like I've put fresh, untouched film in the camcorder of my brain–knowing for sure, wonders will never cease!

Big place

GRAND CENTRAL ?

 

Over there, near the clock, I look at the curly-haired kid tugging at her mother's scraggly coat. She's tired, she wants some popcorn: she has to make pee-pee, she doesn't want to go on the train, she whines. She's a pain in the neck. Shut her up, Lady...but mama smiles and off she goes looking for the ladies room. Ugh!

 

Toilet paper is all over the floor. The johns are overflowing. The sinks are dirty and clogged with paper towels. Women are not exempt from writing graffiti on the walls. Mama lifts Honey Bun over the mess, holds her high enough so her tiny tush won't touch the foulness. Her eyes     dart all over the sloppy room as she hastens to get out. Mouth barely moving, I make out her words, "Pigs, pigs, such pigs!"

 

On a wooden bench a bag lady cradles her  possessions, putters amongst her treasures and pulls out a spangled, lop-sided star. Her gloved hand holds it up to a neon sign and she turns it round and round, watching the colors change and bounce from point to point. It is a magic star, lighting up her world. There is a little twinkle in her otherwise drab eyes that wasn't there before. She's a very lucky lady. Does anybody else in this whole stinkin' station have such a thing? Yes, this is a very good day, better than yesterday, a day of small pleasures.

 

Here comes the Florida crowd, coming home for the holidays. Are they all crazy? What's up here? Cold, slush, muggers, pimps. Who needs another cousin, a niece, an old friend? I guess these sun-tanned folk do. If they had any sense, they'd invite all of New York south. Wouldn't that be something? A peaceful, quiet New York. Wow! The thought is
exhilarating. Go, go, on your merry way. Take your wrinkling faces to the top floors of the glass condos, to the farms out of the city's reach, to the re-modeled brownstones. Watch all the families smile. Eat yourselves into a frenzy. Take snapshots, lots of snapshots as you madly open fancily wrapped packages. Enjoy, enjoy. As long as your are here, enjoy!

 

The crowded escalator carries travelers up, down. They are coming. They are going. Nothing and no one stands still very long. The world is rushing to be somewhere else. Greasy smells of chicken, pizza and hot dogs send me quickly past their open doors. Visions of better things dance before my eyes. Roasting turkey, succulent ham, a table set with silver and crystal, laid out for kings, pull me toward my exit.

 

Then I stop. Think, re-trace my hasty steps and return for a slice of pizza, hot, oozing with cheese. My purchase, trivial, cheap, brings joy to  the  bag lady, still doodling with her star. The feelings are special.      Christmas does things to people, things that they'd not consider the rest of the year.

 

Ah, yes. It's Christmas in New York alright

Hi, Everybody

A story will follow this note of explanation--

 

While in LA I could not connect to my daughter's printer but continued  to write and may have possibly put stories on my blog (which I only do AFTER I write and address all of you in a group.)

 

Tues. I spent hours trying to straighten my records but don't know if I did.

 

In the meantime, bear with me, and if you receive one I've sent you before--forgive me- stick with me.

 

Thanks.

Fwd: Wide Awake

                           DUSTY, MUSTY DREAM

 

Waking from a dream of parents, long dead, former homes filled with families I don't know, jewelry I never had and my double bed occupied by one, I realized the grimy windows that covered years needed washing.

 

Only semi-awake, I tumbled, I rolled back 53 years and there I was taping gardenias to the narrow arch between the living and dining rooms of my parents' house. Bossy I, arms across my chest, was telling my sister how to walk down the stairs, where to stack the folding chairs, how to decorate the delly platters. Where was my brother-in-law's best friend who was to be early to take 'formal' pictures? Where is the pillow to hold my ring? 'Don't let Sophia bring little Doris. I told you 'No kids!' In the quiet of my room I stand in my blue satin dress, size 12, trimmed down to a 7, by a seamstress in an elegant shop. With the extra fabric she made a hat with a birdcage veil to top my wedding outfit and I looked great.

 

I can hear the chatter downstairs. Get rags, more rags. My dusty mind is bleary. I can't see Ray. I don't see anyone. But here I go–step down , bring the other foot forward, another slow step, hear the violin. Walk with it. 'Daddy, are you there?' There's my boss, my wonderful Aunt Lil, a friend, a few relatives sitting in those folding chairs–and I walk to the arch, my little white bible dripping white ribbons and tiny flowers. Rabbi Landers waits for me. The vocalist sings badly. And then silence.

I stand beside my groom with thoughts of my teen love bursting in the door, stopping the marriage. He doesn't come. Bam, the towel covered wine glass shatters. Noise, applause, people crowd around me asking foolish questions. 'Is marriage hard?' 'I don't know, I just got married!'
Too many people, too little room.

 

Downstairs Daddy set up a bar and even hired a bartender. Nates, my brother-in-law and two help, filled and re-filled the potato salad bowl, brought out more and more kosher corned beef, salami. My newer brother-in-law tells me I gave one sick look at my husband during the service and I had thought it was a lovely, romantic look like Loretta Young might have given. . How am I feeling? Am I enjoying my wedding? Am I happy, frightened? I don't know.

 

And then the shadows fall again. I emerge in my purple suit, big brown hat, patent leather pumps, brown leather gloves and outstanding white lynx muff. Daddy's car waits. Where is Mama? We go to the train station. It is chilly waiting for the N.Y. bound train. There's Rose, Annette. I can't see Ray's mother or even Ray. He has to be here but I don't feel him near. I'm not wearing a coat but I must have one. Where is my suitcase? Did I buy one or did I use Daddy's tan one with brown stripes? Did Ray have one or did he pack his things in mine?  When did I pack? What did I pack? My boldly patterned orange and brown dress, a black lacy night gown and a pink one too have to be in something. What? Where is my underwear, my clothes for daytime, a sweater? I am wearing earrings and should have packed two more pairs, all alike except for colors. Did I bring them?

 

On the train I see rice fall from my orchid corsage. The lady sitting across the aisle from us smiles. Ray sits close by my side and we open envelopes, counting the checks, making notes on little tan pads that have covers of Petty girls.

 

New York! New York! We pull in, finally find a porter and head for the Astor–not the Waldorf Astoria–just the Astor. A bellboy takes us to our 5th floor room that has twin beds! Ray is embarrassed but I insist he call the desk and change our room to a double bedded one. The bellboy snickers but moves us.

 

We decide to take a walk. Broadway lights, Chesterfield smoke rings from a huge billboard. Maxwell house coffee steams above us. So exciting. Our taste buds quiver and we stop for a dozen donuts to take back to our room. I become a vulture and eat far more than my share. The box gets emptier and emptier until only one is left. I leave it. In the bathroom I  put on my night gown, come out to find Ray in his striped pajamas sitting on the edge of the bed, eating the last donut.

 

What is happening? My lights are growing dimmer. The spider is weaving a heavier web. I keep trying but that moment is elusive.

 

I open my eyes and find my face wet with tears.

Moooooooooooo

PURPLE COWS

 

Little Pinky, the newest born calf on the Bronson's farm, is absolutely adorable. Breeders and farmers Joe Bronson has never met, are invading his territory, disturbing his herds, his very life. Pinky is still wobbly, still nursing from his mama but is alert and kicks away any one who gets close enough to take a picture of him. He seems shy, wants to be left alone, not bothered. But– what he wants and what he gets are two very different things. The Cranston Globe has somehow managed to get a full photo of Pinky, highly enhanced color, on the front page of their evening paper. A parade of strangers, mother's pulling along toddlers, teens on bikes, veterinarians, medical bags in hand, bring up the rear of the line, just as the sun sinks below the horizon.

 

Pinky is a phenomena, good enough for Ripley, but Joe wants no part of the hullabaloo and hires a few big bruisers to keep the nosey people off his property. They are privy to the changes going on. In only a week, Pinky is about as big a cow as it should ever be. Grammar school teachers bring their classes on busses to see the strange pink calf/cow, hurry them back to their busses when Little Pinky suddenly gets antsy, aims himself right at a full grown calf and has his way with her.  Joe is dumbfounded but pleased.

 

The new calf is a lighter pink that seems to get darker every day. In a week it is a deep purple. It's extra long tongue is pink with two fairly large purple dots. More lookee loos flock to Joe's cattle ranch. He keeps a pitchfork handy to scare them away but never really means to jab anyone. His older cows keep their distance, may wonder who, what, these strange creatures are.

 

Fall falls. The winds blow hard. The cows are taken inside the huge barns where they are still milked by hand. Little Pinky has become Big Pinky and will not be disgraced, embarrassed to have cold metal clamps on her udder, waits for Joe Bronson to use his warmed hands on her private part. Joe obliges all thru the fall until his hands begin to itch badly, bad enough for him to visit the county's best dermatologist who writes out an Rx for some kind of white ointment and tells Joe to wear plastic gloves when he does the milking. Dr. McCormick has no idea what is causing the itching. Money thrown out, time wasted. The itching increases, purple dots begin to appear on Joe's hands, move up his arms. Food doesn't taste right. A long look in his bedroom mirror scares him almost to death. His face is red, no, it's purple. Timidly he sticks out his tongue, looks at it from as far away as he can get from his mirror and still see himself. He screams to noone, throws his tube of salve at his image and faints.

 

As he gathers his senses he hears his herd of cows mooing, wanting to be fed. Joe has sort of come to a solution of why he AND his cows are turning pink and purple. When they only grazed on grass, enjoyed the outdoors, they were black, brown, white, all normal cow colors. Then a new vet suggested Joe's herd would fatten up, do better if he switched to soy, legumes, corn. Joe trusted that vet, added soy and corn to their diet. He too loves corn on the cob, corn soup, corn fritters. His redness faded slowly.

 

However, he realized something else was bothering him when he sat on a hard wooden chair. His rear end hurt, worse and worse. His regular doctor suggested he not wait any longer and see a proctologist. Good old Joe, did as told. The proctologist advised him immediately to have surgery as something like a tail was growing from the end of his spine. 

 

Joe didn't know what to think, to say, but as he left the doctor's office, his intended 'goodbye', came out as a moo. He has passed now and surely  would be proud to be included in the latest 'Believe It or Not.'

A Love Story

BUBBY

 

I know she is home. It's Saturday. Bubby doesn't cook or clean on Saturday. That's a day of rest she tells me and I shouldn't write or ride on our Sabbath. Today I can smell something wonderful coming from her house but can't say the word. She calls it stzulent. It's a big pot of cut up meat that goes in a huge pot with lots of cut up potatoes, tomato sauce, onions, water, spices and, and,  and, I don't know but a lid covers it and Bubby puts it in the oven, lights the burner with a safety match, and lets it bake all day and night so we have it for dinner on Saturday night after the Shabus is over. I love it. Everybody loves it. Friday, before it's dark and Sabbath begins, my dear Bubby has washed the kitchen floor and put newspapers all over it so nobody should even walk in there and open the oven.

 

By the time I am nine years old, I am as tall of my Bubby. She lets me button her shoes when I visit every Saturday. The city's biggest playground is only a few blocks from her row house and her tiny almost bare back yard. No grass grows, not a flower or weed–except a lilac bush that planted itself. It hardly ever gets any lilacs but one Saturday I saw two on its skinny branches and broke them off to take to my fourth grade teacher on Monday. Bubby saw me and came screeching out of her kitchen. 'This is Shabus. You have disturbed the dead. God would not like what you did.' She yanked the flowers out of my hand and put them in the garbage. I still loved her but really wanted those lilacs for Miss Bernbaum.

 

My Bubby had silver white hair, down to her waist. It was like silk and she let me comb it. Then she wound it into a beautiful knot on the top of her head, until an ugly thing grew there that she always covered with her silky hair. It grew bigger and bigger until my Mommie took her to a doctor who operated on it. Mommie used to go to her Mommie's every day to take care of it. I went along but couldn't look at the top of her head anymore and missed the silver hair. I seem to remember it grew back by the time I was ten.

 

The only dress I ever saw her wear was brown, dark, dreary brown, with buttons down the front. A belt made out the dress material was almost worn out. I could tell her slow walk, her brown dress from two blocks away and when I saw her, I'd run to help her carry her small paper bags with peas in the pod or half a bunch of celery that she would buy on sale at the grocery when they were ready to close for the day.

 

After my Zaidi died, Bubby came to live with my mom, dad, sister and me. My mother borrowed  a cot that had gray metal legs, a very, very thin mattress, and no blanket, but my mother had an extra blanket, too big for the little cot, but that didn't matter. It dragged on the bedroom floor and made Bubby sneeze. The cot, with it's dragging blanket, was put along the wall in my bedroom. Every nite I was afraid I'd wake up and find my Bubby dead. I would close my eyes real tight and wait to hear her cough or move around.

 

My daddy fought with my Bubby, didn't want her to stay with us forever and called my aunts and uncles together for a meeting in our house. I was not allowed into the meeting, stayed outside the closed kitchen door and heard a lot of arguing, banging on the table. When Daddy walked out and saw me standing there trying to hear what was happening, he sent me right up to bed and warned me not to come out until he said it was ok.

 

Morning came. Bubby, my sweet Bubby with the once beautiful silver hair, was putting her few things into a grocery bag. She saw me, called me to her, hugged me tight, kissed my cheeks, my nose, my fingers.
'Come see me. I'll be living with Aunt Sophia for a while.' My father called her, 'Let's go, Lady.' Mama gave me a nickle twice a week for me to take the street car to visit my Bubby. Oh, how we loved each other. I saved my pennies and one time bought her a big bottle of orange soda. We drank it out of the same glass and she told me a story about Russia when she was a little girl. We hugged so tight I thought maybe she hurt herself. It was eight o'clock at night and I had to take two street cars to get home. On the street car platform, I saw her in the window of Aunt Sophia's bedroom. We waved goodbye just as the street car stopped for me and some strangers.

 

That Saturday, Shabus, I was dressed, ready to go to art school, came downstairs and found my mother and father sitting silently in the living room. Mama called me. 'Darling, you don't have to go to school today.' 'Why, Mama?' I asked. 'Bubby died.' Then Mama began crying, 'Right in my arms, she died.'

 

Then I cried and cry again to you as I still see her with an orange soda moustache waving goodbye and in my drawer of treasures, I still have the ragged brown belt of her only dress.

Learning

                                       THINGS HAPPEN

 

I watch the girls in shorts, blue knit shirts coming out of the kitchen, bringing coffee, scrambled eggs. They walk swiftly, smile even though their feet may be aching. It's late for breakfast, a little early for lunch. Near the front register their breather lets them chat, maybe about me, sitting alone, writing, as I await my good friend. When he comes, will anyone wonder if he is my husband, my lover. Well, maybe one person will but only for a split second. Those that thought we might be lovers will change their minds.

 

Even with my writing pad and 'Writing Down the Bones' exposed on my table I am isolated. Then a miracle happens!! Two ladies, having finished breakfast, stop. The blonde comments on my writing book and that she uses it often teaching creative writing classes...close to my home. Classes start soon. We exchanged cards and will be email each other today. If I take the course, what can I learn? Surely I have written far more than the teacher, more than any student. The tricks in the book are old hat to me. None of my unanswerable questions will stop me from taking the course–except the location, the hour. I already feel myself refusing to take a nite course, one with teens, one too short or too long. I revolt myself.

 

In the meantime, my friend has not come. I forgot what time he said, which is my fault, and sit watching out the front window looking for his car with a little green ducky hanging from the windshield. Time, too much time, has elapsed. I order the special raisin bread cooked in a homemade batter, with vanilla, cinnamon, brown sugar, cream, and eggs, then topped with butter and powdered sugar.

 

If he still isn't here, I'll pay my check and head straight for the
pharmacy to refill my cholesterol Rx.

Memory

ZAIDI

 

I'm a big girl, aged eight, and my daddy calls me a 'whippersnapper'. My Zaidi (Jewish for grandfather) calls me 'Angel. He loves me almost as much as I love him. Zaidi is old, very old, but sits on our living room rug with me and plays War, Fish, Solitaire. He's so nice to me I almost always win. Zaidi makes out he's angry, makes strange noises in his throat, sometimes he softly spanks my tussy. He pretends he's upset, but pays me in pennies. Walking down our wooden stair case, he always walks in front of me just in case I slip, he can catch me. Sometimes when we pass the window on the landing and the sun is peeping in, his bald head looks damp and shiny. I stop, ask him to bend down to me and I kiss him right on the very top. Zaidi wipes my lips first, then his head and we go for a walk to the drugstore.

 

Zaidi buys himself a double decker ice cream cone, vanilla and cherry and I can have any kind I want because I won the War game. My choice is never like his. My favorite is one dip of chocolate fudge with jimmies on it. Really I'd like two but my Mom has told me I am a pig and one big scoop is enough. She's  probably right but I'd like to try it sometime.

 

An important big Jewish holiday is coming, one I don't know about yet but Zaidi will explain it. Carrying a paper flag on a wooden stick that has a big red apple stuck in its point, he hands it to me with a warning not to let the apple fall off. 'Let's go, Angel, we're going to services at our shule.' Inside, I hold his hand and start to walk up the many wooden steps to sit upstairs where ladies sit. He stops me with a loud, 'Whoa!' This is Shimcus Torah and children can sit downstairs with the men. Come, My Angel. My seat is near the aisle and when the Torah scrolls come around, I'll hold you tight while you lean over and kiss one. After that you can eat your apple. The men wear yalmukas on their heads. I have one in our cellar but mine is brown and fuzzy. Mama calls it a beanie and has tried to throw it away a lot of times. I find it, hide it until the last time when, most likely,  Mama hid it in the garbage can right before the truck came on Wednesday. I can't find my beanie any more.

 

Zaidi takes me to the playground, swings me high. We sit under a big, drooping tree and he shows me animals, people, Santa Clause in the clouds. I saw a big cow with horns one time and pointed it out to Zaidi. He told me that was a bull, a big bull, and I was special to find it. I climb the sliding board ladder and Zaidi catches me before my feet get sandy at the bottom. Every time he grabs me, I get a big hug and a kiss on my nose.

 

My ninth birthday comes and Mama gives me a very little party, just two friends, Margie and Goldie. We sit at a card table, decorated with crepe paper around the legs and two balloons hanging from the chandelier. 'Where's Zaidi, Mama?' I get no answer. I ask again and still no answer. I tell Margie and Goldie to drink their soda, I'm going out to find my Zaidi. Mama makes me sit down. 'Zaidi is sick, Darling. He can't come today!' I cry but know I have to stay with my friends. We drink our sodas. Mama lights the nine candles on my birthday cake. It takes  three  puffs to blow them out and I will surely have three babies. My little party is ruined without Zaidi. I want to go see him but Mama won't let me because I am too young to visit him in the hospital.

 

A lot of days pass and I still can't see my Zaidi. 'Come, Darling, we are going to Zaidi's house but he won't be there,' my Mama says. 'Well, where is he? I'll go there, Mama.' 'No you can't, I can 't, nobody can. Zaidi is in heaven with god.' I am not stupid, know what dead means. I've seen cats and dogs run over, smashed dead. Mr.Tamres who lived next door to us for years, died and I never saw him again.

 

By myself I go in Zaidi's room, cry my eyes out while I talk to him. How am I ever going to grow up without my Zaidi?  Mama comes into his room and hands me a little gold and blue Star of David on a gold chain. She puts it around my neck, tells me my Zaidi had it made for me and I should wear it  always. ' He also left this silver dollar for you to buy yourself a double dip of chocolate fudge ice cream with jimmies.'

 

I am now fifty years old, have had to replace the short chain around my throat, have cut down my ice cream consumption–but there is still a big spot in my heart where my Zaidi will live forever.

ICING

MAKING A CHANGE

 

Before Doomtown was born, it was called 'Boomtown.' Those were the days the air reeked with the smell of oil, clothes were never clean, windows too small but comfortable homes  were streaked, turning pictures of the outside world into waves of greasy air currents. And then catastrophe hit. The gushing oil began to spatter, rise from the earth in staccato disorder. It took two years to slow down to nothingness. Esso dismantled its sea of steel towers. The deserted fields held onto the odor of oil, loss of money, hard work that paid well. It took close to four years before Doomtown was actually born.

 

Roy, Marty, Sam, Jessie, Buck and their wives, unhappy children, still live there. Esso sent in noisy, large machinery that cleared the ground, paved most of it, but little blades of grass still try to poke their 
skinny necks thru the cracks to taste the sun, grow into tall, rangy weeds. Thru the pangs and years of griping, complaining to each other, the few hangers on tightened their belts and called No man's land, 'Home Sweet Home.' 

 

On a Thursday, about one p.m., Roy and Marty were tossing horse shoes. Marty was ahead and was disturbed by a dusty black car that stopped near the championship game. Two strangers were inside. A flat tire was easily visible. The driver got out, asked politely if there was a service truck available to help him out. His face was crestfallen, clearly worried, until Marty told him, 'Sorry, NO, sir. But I can do it for you.' A smile, a hand into his his pocket, the stranger put a ten dollar bill into Marty's hand. At first Marty said, 'No thanks,' but with a little prodding, did accept a twenty. Roy was glad for Marty's good fortune but kept his slight envy private.

 

The lady in the car got out while Marty tended to the tire. She struck up a conversation with Roy. 'Is there a lunch room near-by, Sir?' She asked. 'Not one you would call that, but you can get a cheese or a chicken sandwich, on fresh Louie's bread in our bake shop–and an eclair like none you've ever tasted. Louie and his wife run our only lunch room/bakery. It's what you folk's might call a few blocks away. Walk up to the NO fishing sign on the right side of the road, turn left and you'll almost fall into Louie's. We were there no more than fifteen minutes after they got there. On  the counter was a box, not yet tied, that surely held about a dozen eclairs. The car lady had a smear of chocolate on her cheek and bright shiny eyes. She offered Marty and Roy each one, but, as tempted as they were, they declined.

 

Two weeks later bedlam hit Doomstown. Louie ran down the street like a wild man, waving a piece of paper to any and everyone he saw. A crowd of about 15 neighbors circled around him. Louie lisped, a bit of saliva flew out of his mouth. 'Somebody wants to buy my little lunch shop and bakery, if I'll bake the eclairs and other good sweets. I'm sure it's the people whose flat Marty fixed. 'Jessie, you have a lap top, don't you? Look at this on the letter. Isn't this an e-mail address?'  Jessie e-mailed the Glicks, briefly told them that Louie was interested.

 

In just one week The Glick's returned to Doomstown, with an attorney and suggested Louie get one too, a good one. Another week, another week, and the deal was made. Everyone in Doomtown was delighted for Marty but miserable when the details were in order. Marty has his little (empty) shop and house for sale, may never get a customer but will have a large, fully equipped bakery in Newark before Thanksgiving. During the wait to move, he has been working on a great recipe for pumpkin pies.

 

The town is a wee bit smaller.

TOO CLEVER

                          SUCKER ?

 

If I don't do it, who will? NOBODY, that's who! My four year old two door, super Camry had only 20000 miles on it but my two single lady friends didn't like sitting in the back. I was the appointed night driver as they professed cataract profusion–questionable to me. After a year of their bitching I decided, only to please them, to trade in my car for a four door. Don't tell me I was a fool, that I was the one taken for a ride. I knew it.

 

It took one trip to Toyota to find the color I wanted. My price was fair to me and I was not going to budge. As soon as the agent started for the back to get an okay from the manager I strongly said, 'Sit down. You take one step out of here and I'll be gone when you return.' He sat. We re-negotiated until I was satisfied with the trade in, inclusion of taxes and all fees. 'Make another suggestion like  a sun roof, tear up what you have. I'll be out of here.' We came to an agreement. I gave my large deposit and drove away in a new pale green Camry. Was I suckered in? To this day I don't think so.

 

The car was a charm except for a few dings here and there. Why don't you ask me if my friends appreciated the loss I took to please them? Don't bother. I'll tell you. One moved  and the other got married!

 

By its tenth year,  prodding friends hounded me to trade in for a Lexus. I didn't want a Lexus. I begged them to get off my back but they stayed there digging ever deeper. By its 14th, with no plan at all, on a warm March morning, I just took off and ended at the same Toyota dealer, to see the new colors. Before I even got inside a salesman approached me. I could see dollar marks shining in his eyes. 'Come inside. Look around.' The big pitch was going to start. We sat down and he brought me a cup of coffee and chocolate covered donut. How did he know that was my favorite kind? It did not make any points with me. I told him exactly what I like in a car and he told me I can get anything my little heart desires. UGH.  'Jack, I am NOT buying a car today so don't push me. OK. You can show me what's on the lot.' Up and down the rows of reds, blacks, dozens of tans, whites, my head shaking 'no' at every slow down. I almost scared him to death when I loudly said, 'Stop!' There sat a shiny light blue car, the color of a summer sky. The sticker price made me laugh. I got in, I got out, never tried the motor.

 

Back to the show room to talk price. And I pulled the same 'Don't go talk to the office manager stunt. 'Sit down or I'm gone.' My price did not sit well with him especially when I included all taxes, fees, check ups, road insurance, all the little hidden items that add up to big dollars. 'If I buy this car, it is a cash deal, so don't give me rental prices including interest.'

 

Jack wasn't too happy but struck a deal. He wouldn't have done it if he didn't come out okay so I felt fine with my power. Once the new style automatic keys were computerized to work, I drove home in my new light blue car and haven't been happy with driving since. Jack had told me the new car was a little smaller than my green one but it is larger and is making it more difficult for me to get into and out of my assigned condo parking space. I don't like the new gear shift, back window that I can't reach to clean, the AC system and gadgets......but I DO love the color and in a year I have only seen one other like mine. I don't even have to click my key to find it on a crowded parking lot.

 

Since this is definitely the last car I will ever buy, I guess I will eventually make friends with it but still wish I had my old car back.

 

As a single very senior woman I can't help but wonder if I had been smart or was I suckered in by a young, friendly salesman who expected to 'sock it to me?

 

Maybe.

Gutsy

COURIER AND WIVES

 

The UPS big shots have decided to ban delivery people from ever making left turns as they do their daily rounds. The shipping monster rules and the plan goes into effect the first day of October.  The very first day Jackie Dunne is caught on tape disobeying the rule. He gets a strong lip lashing and  warning. October two he makes his regular left hand turn, drives two blocks and stops at Susan Seinfeld's house. She is at her front door waiting for him. He carries in a large pox marked with her name and address on the label. It is empty. Susan is wearing only a, silky nighty and a gargantuan big smile. In no more than ten minutes, Jackie, carrying the empty box with a black X inked on, wrong address, and heads to his truck, smiling as broadly as Susan smiled.

 

At five minutes of two, he squeezes in the left turn lane and heads to Velma Dirkson's apartment. She lives on the tenth floor. Her kitchen door is open a few inches. Carrying a medium sized empty box, he enters, walks directly to Velma's bedroom where she lies unembarrassed, stark naked. Jackie needs no directions. The box is tossed aside, he's a whiz speedster and is all over her in seconds. 'Don't go, yet Jackie. My husband is working late tonight. Can't you stay a while?' He hands her the empty box with instructions to break it in small pieces and put it down the trash vent. 'Here, Vel, sign this little receipt for the delivery.'

 

Back at his truck, he believes an UPS car is parked a few cars away.
He's right. The driver calls him over. 'Hey, Jackie. Didn't you take a left to make your last delivery?' With much bravado he denies it, tells the guy in the UPS vehicle, he already was warned and wouldn't be fool enough to repeat his error.'

 

Forewarned, October 3 it is raining, raining hard. Traffic is slow, tied up in spots, so he goes with the green light right. No problem.  His route this day is just what he hoped for. He will be going right past Millie's. She has her own two car spacious garage in the rear of her house. Jackie drives past Millie's, tooting his horn twice. The front curtain moves. His emotions are high, ready and he pulls into the alley, into the garage. There's fat Millie, waiting expectantly for a quick roll in her king bed. Something bothers him and he realizes he really doesn't enjoy himself so much with her any more. Her fat is getting fatter, her lips pout and flap. His mind is already trying to find a way to exchange her for somebody new. In the meantime, he caresses her, pats her on her rear and heads for his truck parked in the garage.

 

Something isn't exactly right, one side of the door won't open. Getting
out of the UPS truck, he pushes hard to open it but it won't budge.
He tries it again with the same result. All he can do is go back upstairs to ask Millie for another door opener but she must have left quickly. The apartment door is slightly open. A knock, knock, knock on her door and it swings open. A giant of a man, weighing, for sure, at least three hundred pounds, grabs Jackie by his arm and yanks him inside. 'Sooo' the fat man roars, 'So you're the UPS man. Well, Buddy, now you're the DOWN man.  You're out for good.' He keeps yelling, 'Run, you're dead meat,' if you ever sniff around my wife again.'

 

The UPS truck? Jackie calls the head man at UPS, reports his truck stolen and quits his job. It may still be in Millie's garage. Who knows?

-----------

courtesy of Currier and Ives

 

 

I DARE YOU

NO REFUNDS

 

Robert, my fifty-two year old husband, has been driving me crazy for close to thirty years. He still hasn't out-grown some of his youth and is beyond control when his id suddenly smacks him across his face and makes him try something he has never tried before. I've argued so many useless times that my tongue has gone numb.

 

Because it's Mothers' Day, I know something that shouldn't happen, will. Harvey, our adult son, will be making a special effort to stop by for a few minutes, hand me a beautifully wrapped gift that he hasn't seen. Varoom, varoom, it's noon and the sound of a motorbike enters through the open, inviting front door. Robert's ears catch fire. He waves a tiny wave at Harvey, doesn't notice my unopened gift and stands up close to the motor bike, turns the steering wheel a speck and calls out, 'Harvey, can I take a short ride?' As he mounts the bike, Harvey grabs him and orders him to put on his helmet. 'I don't need that, Harv, I'll just scoot down to the end of the path, turn around and be back in a jiff.' Forced to wear the helmet or get off, Harv puts it on, doesn't strap it and gets another scolding and zooms away for no more than two minutes.

 

There is a terrible crash, no yelling, just the sound of the motorbike's wheels spinning. Robert is lying in the street, unconscious. 911 appears from heaven, rushes Robert to the hospital where he stays for days.
The doctors there take a cardiogram and insist Robert has had a heart attack. What an argument ensues only because the last cardiogram that Robert had was back in our bedroom. I had to get it and show the doctor nothing had changed. Robert was not having a heart attack. Mother's Day, Harvey's dare-devil, catastrophic short bike ride ruined everything. My present has yet to be opened.

 

The St. Maarten's beach beckoned. The sand was cool, the sky iridescent blue, the waves more formidable than we expected. I was content going into the water up to my knees, letting the waves fight for the right to knock me over. They won many times, enough that I went back to our little private hut to compose myself. Robert was there, taking his morning siesta. My effort to be quiet didn't work when I tripped on his beach sandals and let out a yell, 'Damn it!'  Before he asked if I hurt myself he let me know he rented a sail fish and was going out on the beautiful sea –alone. 'Oh, no you're not!' 'Oh, yes I am,' the back and forth argument jangled my nerves and I gave in. 'Go,
Robert, go drown yourself.' As he left me standing in the doorway, he told me to come down to the water's edge to see how far out he could go.  'I'm going to the horizon, way, way out, as far as, maybe further than anybody else out there.' Head high he walked to the sailfish rental area, listened to instructions for maybe one minute and was set adrift on his dream boat.

 

For what seemed forever, I watched that little boat get smaller and smaller until Robert was gone. My eyes stayed glued to the horizon, watching. Pandemonium broke out among the life guards. They couldn't see Harvey any more. I kept my camera aimed where I believed I last saw my husband. Was that a whale or a seal or flotsam rolling in? Life guards heard my yelling, surrounded me, looked where I was aiming my camera and hurried back into their own boats.

 

I ran to meet them as they were pulling, pushing Harvey and his sailfish up on the beach. He saw me, walked slowly, sort of just ambling. The wind carried his voice to me. It  was over-flowing with excitement. 'I did it, I reached an atoll. What fun I had!' My camera, later showed me that particular moment of exultation, my foolish husband experienced. I didn't speak to him for two whole days, didn't know what new thing he would try to do, tried not to care–but did anyhow.

 

Saint Helen's was to be our last cruise stop. It was the most beautiful, peaceful resort we had been to so far. For our grand finale, Robert signed us up to snorkel in an area that usually swarmed with gorgeous colorful fish. It was to be a fantastic ending to our trip. I can't swim but that nutty husband of mine insisted the water would be so salty, I could float to heaven. The native who handled the boat that held forty one people, believed all were good swimmers and that included me. When I was handed my snorkle and mask, I asked how deep the crystal clear water around us was, learned it was sixty feet and I was only five feet two. Nothing, not chains nor whines nor arguments would get me overboard into the turquoise water. One by one each of the signed up swimmers slipped gently into the sea, The captain, wearing not much more than a loin cloth, handed me a bag of broken up pieces of bread to attract the fish to make friends with some, take pictures of everything. I hadn't noticed an anchor dropped and sat there alone
in the boat wondering if I would be adrift and out of sight before the swimmers returned and could never find me. Hell, I was really frightened, dumped all the bread into the water and saw rainbows swirling around the boat. I was entranced until–until in the distance I recognized my husband floundering in the water. He went under, took too long to come up. My other fears disappeared. Harvey was choking, coughing, trying to wave. No swimmers were close to him. From the depths came the captain of our boat who got his arms around Harv's chest and pulled him closer and closer to me, to salvation.

 

And where was I all of that time? Sitting alone in the boat taking  pictures of the group swimming away from me, the fish swarming for the treats I had tossed them....and Harvey doing what comes naturally, being a dare-devil, going outside the box.

 

If anyone wants to see my excellent photos of an insane man, ask soon, because Harvey laid out $2000 to be a possible astronaught – and I will not be there to take pictures of his final disappearance.

MY Way

ONE WAY

 

This did it! I'm angry. My heart is racing. I'm out of control. It is definite this time, absolutely definite. My planned traveling days are over. They are on the heavy side of 85 and I have had enough. Decision finalized, written on my waiting tombstone,  I am ready to take on any relatives, friends, a few enemies,  who still wish to see me, to come to me as flying is great- for the birds- not me. My wings were clipped on my last flight to New York. Now as I try to catch my breath, find even one of the five extra pairs of eye glasses I so carefully packed, I consider myself lucky that I found even one in the bottom of my pretty but overloaded hand bag and see the tip of my boarding pass under my check book. Already my mind is too far ahead, contemplating my return trip.

 

Arriving at Virgo AMC Airlines for flight 910, leaving 7 a.m. for Las Vegas I was early, had plenty of time, if I felt the urge, to have a ridiculously high priced cup of coffee and a brioche but was saved the $5 cost when I was placed by a porter in the wrong, long, line. Two lines moved, I stayed where I was told, frozen for fifteen minutes, until another porter informed me that I had to go inside for my boarding pass. Yes, he took me and my one piece of luggage inside where I waited for a mortuary attendant to print my coveted, very necessary 5"X 7" piece of paper with my name, flight number and seat. Another fifteen minute of pre- boarding time went up the chimney.

 

'Take the escalator all the way at the end on your left, follow the arrows to Security, then arrows thru the tunnel, check in with a flight attendant, if you need a wheelchair. My brain was shocked with electricity. Why did she think I needed a wheelchair? It would have been a great luxury, but I didn't need it, thank god. One look at the height of the escalator I was about to get on, still pulling my roller carry on, topped with my humongous, bulging, heavy purse, visions of both of them dragging me down two flights of moving stairs, truly, truly frightened me. Noone could have been more surprised and delighted than I to reach ground level all in one piece, unless I count the purse and roll-on, then three of us arrived safely.

 

And there it was, after I showed my driver's licence and boarding pass to three guards chatting together, paying little to no attention to me, were the tiers of stacked tubs for everything but my birthday suit. Not an attendant, guard, offered me any assistance to get all of my 'stuff' into the tubs. The scenario began. The curtain was going up and I was already drowning in a tub of anxiety. Off came my black flat sandals, their velcro straps grabbing my nylon ankle-high nylons, ripping them to shreds. Into almost filled tub #2 went my light weight jacket for traveling, one with lots of good pockets to hold directions, times, phone numbers when I land. It was half way thru the first x-ray lap, when my precious computer had to emerge from its roller suitcase. The double zipper jammed. Three supposed guards, those who could help someone in distress, were oblivious. A kind young man behind me saved me from certain extinction when he unjammed it and disappeared before I could even say 'thank you.'

 

A strong recorded voice blared at me. 'Remove watches, all jewelry, everything that is in your pockets.' While I was doing that and getting more upset than I every would believe possible, I found space in my addled brain to try to watch for someone stealing my over-loaded purse that was waiting at the end of the converter belt. Or was my puter to be there when I was finished being photographed, right thru to my bones, raising my arms, being patted down? Frazzled, frightened, exhausted, I gathered all of my belongings and was actually escorted by a stranger to an empty bench when he noticed big tears free- falling down my cheeks. The possibility of my passing out for a moment or forever seemed possible to him. His interest, caring brought me back to reality. I thanked him with all of my heart. All he said was de nada as he led me to Gate 9  at the very end of the airport, which I believed might also be my end. 

 

Every single seat on my flight to Boston was filled. There was mo more than two inches between knees and the backs of seats in front of passengers. A refreshment cart could not make it thru the aisle. In flight for one hour and the stewardesses asked their charges what they would like to drink. I chose black de caf one sweet & low and that had to be enough for the 1500 mile flight. We were not even give a small bag of peanuts or a cracker.

 

The flight was smooth as glass and I complimented the captain as I finally reached the exit door. He smiled from ear to ear, stopped short when I finished my sentence. 'The flight being smooth doesn't mean I enjoyed it.'

 

 I was sure he was shocked but didn't care. I won't be flying any more any how. 'So E- friends e-mail me as often as you can, want to,  send snail mail unless the postal service ends forever. I'll be here at 1777 N. Alhambra Rd., Boston, MA. As long as the good lord doesn't cancel my lease.

Have to try

                                  LEONARD
'I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date!' And so another give-it-a-try evening. Due for a pre-dinner drink, a few peanuts, cheese and crackers, Leonard finally arrived, non-apologetically, cool, calm and glib. His NY tongue, short stature and $75 silk tie did not impress me. Our little leisure time was non-existent as we hurried to keep our reservation in the very busy, swinging, fairly expensive restaurant that he had selected. I was grateful he refused our table next to a private party  whose boisterous and loud laughter was not contained behind the folding privacy door. At that point Leonard was up 1 point, down 5. He'd have to be a Superman to come out even or a God to be a winner.

Before I adjusted my chair and put my purse on the empty one, he had already called for coffee, DECAF, with MILK not cream. For the moment I thought I was at McDonald's. The coffee came, the coffee went--out of his cup onto the sparkling white table cloth., avoiding the saucer which he deigned not to use for any of his 4 re-fills. Bread and salad were delicious, served before my choice of entree, which was one of the least costly on the menu. It wasn't very good, but conversation was--up to a point. Between the dressing dripping down his chin and another call for coffee, DECAF, MILK not CREAM, Leonard pushed pork bellies, foreign exchange with great enthusiasm for his field. I thought he wanted me to get involved, perhaps invest $5000 for a month which could miraculously turn to $50000. I wondered and asked if it is so easy, how come he was struggling so hard to get on his feet after his ex-wife stripped him of his previous wealth. "Well,' he replied, 'it isn't THAT easy. You can lose it." My strong feelings against such dealings were made loud and clear so we got off that subject just about the time the last call for coffee, DECAF, MILK not cream, reached our waiter's ears.

Back at my house we talked of god, reincarnation, karma, health, politics, movies, travel, books, being single and his fantastic sex relationships. Suddenly 11:45 appeared on my digital clock. During the evening I had mentioned my disapproval of men who cliche they will call and don't, suggesting they should merely say, 'I had a lovely evening- Good night.' As we neared the door, Leonard said, 'I'll WILL call you' and I silently prayed he wouldn't. He gave me a good night kiss that I quickly wiped off as soon as the door closed behind him.

Crazy thoughts came of him wanting to show me his prowess as he balanced a cup of coffee, DECAF, MILK not cream' on his head. All he had on was the $75 silk tie. An innocent chuckle wouldn't stay silent and followed me to my bedroom.

Well, Leonard never became a god, a Superman or even Clark Kent, but who knows, maybe the next guy will start out on a higher plane and not have so far to climb?

 

 

Wonderful Town

BROADWAY FATS

 

The streets are clogged with workers, lookeeloos visiting New York City for the first time, hungry people, panhandlers, svelte, rich women manage to get thru their long days and short nights. Busses exude tons of fumes. So much to see, to do, places to go, Janet and Buzz, on their honeymoon, are bewildered, have not yet made plans besides staying in their big double bed at the Taft Hotel until after lunch.

 

A bit worn out but happy, Buzz pushes the down button for the elevator. The red light doesn't light nor is there any sound of movement coming from the elevator shaft until the door opens suddenly. An empty elevator awaits them,  makes no stops until they reach the lobby.

 

The sun is dazzling. Their bellies are crying for food, for vitamins. They stop at the first busy eatery they come to, The Brass Rail. It's revolving door turns and turns, people coming in and leaving at the same time. It's like a non-stop merry-go-round.There is no doorman, no white tablecloths, no waiters. Buzz smiles to his bride, shrugs his shoulders and walks around in a daze hoping to find an empty table.

 

Something that looks like buttered toast whizzes past Buzz. It lands on the floor next to a table where one gargantuan man sits alone. There isn't an inch of space between the many things this man is devouring with enough haste to make people believe he was just saved from a deserted island. A youngish looking woman pats the man on his back to maybe burp him. He pats her on her cushiony ass and she goes on to clean someplace else.

 

The family at the table next to him seems ready to leave. The mother stands first and approaches Janet. 'Your orchid is lovely,' she says to Janet. 'Are you newly weds?' Janet is serious when she asks, 'How can you tell?' 'We're leaving. Take our table. Good luck, Kids!' They are gone, lost in the crowd. Buzz clears the table, puts everything in a cart as it is pushed out of the room. He and Janet select their brunch, tell a counterman to divide their hot pancakes with blueberries and French toast with maple syrup and bacon in halves.  He returns to their table and waits for a signal to 'come and get it'.

 

The huge man ogles their brunch. When Janet leaves ½ a pancake, the man leans over and asks if he may have it. Fork in hand, he walks over, stabs the piece of pancake, goes back to his table with an empty fork.
Eyes from every section of the Brass Rail are on him. As he stuffs himself he seems oblivious to being watched. In fact, he seems to
 relish it.

 

Amidst all the noise, the hub bub, clattering of dishes, a siren darn nears scares some of the crowd to death. It is then that the huge man stands, removes the stained cloth napkin that has been around his neck, waves his arms, hushes the room. In a deep baritone voice that can be heard from one corner of the room, around the walls and to the ceiling, looking at Janet, he starts to sing. 'If I Were a Rich Man' . His face gets fuller, his nose turns miraculously into a rhinoceros. He twirls cloth napkins around his gut and finds something 'Funny Happening on His Way to the Forum.'

 

Neither Janet nor Buzz have the slightest idea of what is going on but applaud with the crowd. 'That's Zero Mostel,' they hear. The name is meaningless. The fat man hears it, becomes indignant and announces, 'I am NOT Zero Mostel. He stole my character, imitated me, worked his way onto the Broadway stage and here I sit with you all, getting bigger, fatter, preparing for a new roll, opening this fall at the Ritz Cracker Auditorium.

 

I will be Broadway Fats. Tickets are already on sale. Come join me before I explode.

 

 

Go Fish

SUNSET LAKE

 

The sun is just setting in Lake Louise. It's reflection shimmers, turns the blue lake into a spectacular heavenly blue. Gary puts his arm around my waist as he gazes deep into the water. He shouts like a banshee when he sees a big fish moving slowly along the bottom of the lake. 'Look, look, Millie! That fish must weigh fifty pounds.' I look, see no fish and tell him so. He jumps excitedly up and down, points again and again. 'Down there. I tell you it's down there. Believe me! It's belly is almost white, its slippery, silvery. That thing is moving so slowly the bottom sand barely rises.' I move a bit closer to the water's edge where there is a large, brownish orange flat rock that looks like heaven found this picturesque spot and just dropped it here. My purse makes a less than great pillow but I use it to lie back, reach for the stars just beginning to peep thru the early night sky.

 

'Anything left in our basket?' Gary asks. 'Sure, dirty paper napkins, 2 empty cans of Millers' beer, some cookie crumbs.' 'Yow!,' yells Gary as he tells me to be careful, careful, hand him the crumbs.' 'You don't want the beer cans, Gary? There aren't any birds to feed now.' He doesn't answer, rolls up his slax, takes off his shoes and wades a few feet into the lake, puffing when his feet touch the water.  'Cold, cold as hell,' he bitches.  'Gary, hell is hot and you may find out before I do. Let's go home. Nobody even knows where we are. My mom will be worried.'

 

The stars get brighter. A shooting one makes a huge arc right above us and disappears. 'Gary, don't go in the water. Don't you notice it's getting rough?' There is no answer. I don't see him, pick up some stones and throw them as far as I can into the lake. No response.
The small emergency flashlight I always carry in my purse lights little. Its beam gets nowhere near the water's edge.

 

There is a loud splashing noise, a yell that sounds like Gary's voice, 'Help! Help! I almost have him!' Silence again. The stars are hiding now. The big yellow moon lights part of the sky and I can see a few puffs of white clouds. They come. They drift away, leaving the moon in charge.
It shines on the lake enough that I see a a bent figure that has to be Gary struggling, pushing, pulling, trying to lift something to the shore. Thanking the good lord, I grab Gary's hand and help him over to the rock we had been sitting on.

 

He has a special present for me, he says, and hands me something or other that I instantly throw on the grass. 'What the devil was that, Gary?'  It's a fin, the fin of that big fish I saw. Now do you believe me?' I shine my useless flashlight light on it. Damn if it isn't a fin, Gary? Where's the rest of the fifty pound fish?' I ask.

 

'I'm not sure, Millie, but I swear there is an alligator in the lake that maybe ate it.'

 

 

 

 

Moo

UDDERLY SILLY

 

Our dairy farm takes a lot out of us. The whole family, Dad, Mom, my three brothers, Tim, Howie and Mike, and I, Sally, the youngest, break our backs milking, tending to our meal tickets. Each cow is an individual, with its own likes and habits. We have 22 now and that's more than enough to get to know. Each has a name and most of the time responds  to it.  Of course, we have to push, pull, cussed at them, before they'll move an inch. And cows are smarter than anyone would believe unless he took the time and effort, and stupidity, to hang around them.

 

Bess is one of the ficklest. Depending on her mood, she will or will not let me milk her. I have to clang the triangle to get Tim's attention, make him come say hello to Bess. She likes him and swishes her tail, always knocking his ratty visored cap off his head. Actually, I think she hates his cap more than she likes Tim.

 

If we had to depend on just our herd, we'd die, die with our bellies full of choice steaks. However, Great Grandma Caroline had the foresight, before she married, Great Grandpa Moses, to plant with her own two hands, dozens of sapling Winesap  apples along the border with the Simpson's, who eventually, Ma told us, used to steal them and made wonderful applesauce for their family, then had the guts to give Great Grandma a jar full now and then and  pretend she bought it from the country store.

 

Sure of her fate, she still could not stand cleaning away the cow dung, held her nose like a child when she would have to go in the barn. The stench of the gas those animals expelled out in the otherwise lovely spring air, could have taken out the entire German army at Dunkirk. Too often we heard her wish we had elephants instead of cows.

 

Before I was born, my mom planted corn, tended to it, sprayed, took off the deformed husks and the field prospered, Mom did too. Grandma did more than her part in our success and is now living on her own time table, just about ready to leave this earth when she reaches  ninety. That date means  something to her but to us all it is a sad,  fearful thing to consider. We have had our cows, our new calves,  hooked up for mechanical milking for a few years, have two big tractors to till the soil for planting the spring crop of corn.

 

The shindig begins Nov. 30. Grandma attends wearing overalls under a black heavy sweater she knitted years ago and clomping shoes with laces. I take the lead and put a small harness on her and let her lead us all to the cow shed. Water paint decorates every cow, bull, calf, in bright shades, some polka dots, zig zag lightning strokes. Grandma puts an old clothespin on her nose and  pats each animal, hugs the smallest. We applaud.

 

We laugh. Grandma wants to take a short walk by herself, reminisce.
A half hour is enough re-thinking, we all agree, and I, Sally, am sent to bring Grandma back.

 

I find her leaning against a Winesap apple tree that has borne its fruit. Saliva is running down her chin. Her eyes are open, an almost smile is on her wrinkled face ----but--- she does not see me.

 

 

 

 

The Family

TEENIE WEENIES

 

Mama came back from her GYN appointment (whatever that was) and walked right past me like I was invisible or something. I grabbed her sweater's edge and tugged, almost knocked her over. Her nasty look at me was what I must have deserved. 'Mama,' I asked, 'What did Dr. Fleishman say?' 'Julia,' he said, 'Children are too nosey, ask too many questions. Tell your daughter what you want her to know.' With that Mama disappeared up the steps. I heard the toilet flush and think Mama was throwing up. She groaned a little, coughed, and came downstairs with a nice smile on her face. 'Mama, are you okay? You're not going to die are you?'

 

If I could have looked in a mirror, I would probably have looked like a ghost when Mama said, 'Yes, Sweetums, I'm going to die, but not soon. We, all people, animals are going to die someday. Today is not my day.'
'Do you have time to play 'Fish' with me, now? I'm tired of coloring. Sesame St. is over. Clara may have mumps so her mama won't let her come outside until the doctor says it's ok. Am I going to get mumps?'
'Maybe, maybe not. We'll see.' That didn't satisfy me. 'Will you play one game of War with me? Daddy put some new cards in the dining room. We can play with two decks.' Mama looked at me and told me to leave her alone. Those new cards are for Daddy's friends, not you and me. Come in the kitchen and we'll play Fish for a few minutes.' I went with her, played and lost.

 

I had to set the table for supper, not the plates, just the spoons and stuff and paper napkins. Mama never liked plain things, including paper napkins. Once Daddy bought a package of 1000 white ones and Mama was going to exchange them at Ralph's Super Shop, but kept them, used them to wipe up spills, shine the thing where water comes into the sink, you know, that hard word I forget, 'fakeits, fancies, something like that.
Daddy came home and didn't see my mother. 'Where is she, Julia?' I looked up from the jigsaw puzzle I was working on, stopped, kissed Daddy's cheek and went back to my puzzle. He asked again and all I knew was she wasn't in the cellar, or in the kitchen. I told Daddy to look upstairs. He told me to go upstairs and tell her he's home early. Would I not do what my Daddy asked me, told me, to do? Uh Uh. I went up and found her lying in bed, right on top of the pretty rose colored bedspread she bought last Christmas. My shaking her just a little made her half sit up, cough and gag. 'Go away, Julia. Tell Daddy I'll be down soon.' I told him but he didn't wait for her.

 

I heard them laughing. Daddy was jumping up and down so hard that the light in the hall shook. He came down stairs first with Mama right behind him, called me to sit in the living room with them because they had something really, really important to tell me. We sat on the sofa, with me in the middle. Daddy poked Mama a little and told her to tell me. She shook her head and told him to tell me. 'What, what? Tell me, tell me,' I hollered. Each held one of my hands. Mama spoke first.

 

'You are going to have a baby brother in a few months.' I wasn't sure if I was happy about that or not. Daddy added, 'We aren't going to give you one brother. Momma and I are giving you three at one time!' I had so many questions that stuck in my throat, I couldn't say anything until finally I asked Daddy if Mama is going to get real fat. He hugged Mama and me and patted Mama's flat belly. 'Where will they all sleep, Daddy?
Not in my room, right?' Mama answered, 'We don't know but will figure it out.'

 

Days, weeks seemed like forever. Mama did get fat, went to see Dr. Fleishman every week and still played Fish with me. When Mama could hardly walk anymore, my Bubbub came to take care of me. The spare room had been emptied for the little boys and three little basinets put against the only empty wall. It had fresh coat of light blue paint on it. A picture of me was hung over the three basinets. Mama had found a toy magic wand in the five and dime and had me hold it for my picture to be taken. 

 

Mama told me there was going to be a big party in our house called a Bris. It was a Jewish tradition to cut little boys little dingies a certain way. I cried and cried. 'Don't let anybody cut my brothers, Mama. Please don't!' She told me not to be afraid, it won't hurt them very much. 'Can I watch, Mama.' 'Mama said 'No, but when my brothers were brought into the living room on pillows and everybody crowded around, I wiggled between my Uncle Mannie and Aunt Dorothy and could see everything.  My Daddy was standing near Allen on the end. When the rabbi came in with a prayer book and a little glass of wine, he bent over Allen, did something and I saw a drop of blood, heard my little brother cry and stop almost at once. Then I looked at Daddy. Everybody did. The rabbi moved away from my brothers so somebody could help my father to his feet. He had fainted dead away.

 

I had never seen a teeny weeny boy's thing cut or not cut and I never saw anybody faint either. What a party it was! 

Green to Black?

CHANCES ARE

 

The quarter in my jacket pocket is handy, if I really want it. My brain vacillates, leaves me dissatisfied with the insecurity that lives within it. My choice of whether I want to stay in Boomtown, GA, USA maybe forever or get the hell out while I still have a lot of living to do. The 'lucky' quarter I twist and turn found me when I was sweeping the gutter in front of my tiny apartment. It was under damp mulberry leaves and ordinary gutter dirt. It struck me as being my personal pirate treasure and has been in my  bureau hosiery drawer for a long time. To my knowledge it has not brought me luck of any kind. It is a 1954 coin,  larger, than the 2008 one just reaching circulation. The new one is as big as an Indian head nickle was when I was a kid. It surely has no silver in it and doesn't even cover the cost of an ice cream cone.

 

Phil Darwin and I have been betrothed for close to a year. Betrothed? Heck, we've been sharing our heavy breathing and beds a long time but have not set a date. Why do we need a ceremony, invite family we rarely see, make a big megilla out of it? We don't. I am the major player in our marriage game, have been calling the shots. My stand is we should spend our money on a luxury cruise, see what else is outside of Boomtown beside our stifled world. It must be at least three months since either of us has brought up the topic. My homework tells me June thru September can be iffy in the Atlantic. Hurricanes can wipe out ships, entire islands. When Phil isn't looking, I toss my old quarter and call heads we cruise. It comes out tails. I toss it again and get heads once more, change my silent call to tails. Chances of it coming up other than I hope for are small but it comes up heads.  The quarter goes back in my pocket, then into my hosiery drawer before I fall asleep.

 

I am a Google nut and ask the freaks behind all the info they spit out in five seconds, if London is too foggy, too cool in March. 'It varies.' I could have saved some cyberspace and not asked what any fool knows. Phil wants to see the palaces, the Beefeaters, take a boat ride down the Thames, a tour of Shakespear's house. It sounds boring to me. Montmartre, the cafes, the Opera House, a walk up the Eiffel Tower excites me. We take a vote, decide not to take chances, stay in the USA, maybe go to the Green Mountains of Vermont in July. It is heavenly there in the summer we are told. Feelin' good about this idea, I push it on Phil. He admits it won't cost anywhere near as much as going overseas and he can take golf lessons from somebody who speaks English if he chooses.

 

The ball is in my court. I locate an ad in Cosmo that looks fab. A Mr. Hollifield answers the phone, and all of the questions I throw at him, location, price, facilities, car rental, glider flights. His two story condo is only one year old and is decorated in excellent taste. It is close to fine restaurants. He names a few, none of which I recognize. We have to give this Vermont trip some serious consideration. He calls Mr. Hollifield back, goes over a few more details and is ready to give him
our charge account info.

 

'Whoa' Darlin', let's not jump into anything so fast.' Phil's dander is up. 'So fast, we have been talking about getting away for two years. Let's do it.' I am not sure yet. 'Phil, I have to give this a little more thought. I'll call the Chasons who have been to Vermont, or, if you insist, I'll give in and take a chance.' Something gnaws at my gut but I have agreed and won't be a ninny backing out.

 

I get my lucky quarter out of my drawer and in privacy toss it in the air. Heads will be a 'yes.' Heads it is and I chance leaving Boomtown. USA. Southwinds Air Flight 106 flies us and a few Vermont lovers to Sugarbush where, we have been told, super skiing is available, but it is summer. Golfers are everywhere. They think they are supermen because their shots go further than ever. It's the mountain air that gives them the lift, but I tell no one. Let them have their kicks.

 

Phil and I are going gliding with a pro. The Green hills are the greenest green imaginable. Our pilot guides the plane and we just relax, soar silently up, up and over the mountains. The only noise is the pilot chewing bubble gum. I want to bash him but keep quiet.

 

Phil is extremely quiet. He is surely thinking about our black Jewish pilot who, when we land, is going to perform a small, very small, wedding ceremony for us. The heebee jeebees envelope me as we soar, come so close to each mountain that I lose my breath. The rabbi is sweating a lot. So am I. The mountain moves, comes closer and closer to our glider and the three of us.

 

I am frightened as we go down. The mountain comes up to meet us.  I have just a second before my eyes close as I wonder why I took this chance and who will find my lucky quarter.

 

 

Class Dummy?

THINKING CAP

 

Miss Bartlett opens the creaky door to let bright sunshine into my eyes. It takes a few minutes for me to see my classmates lined up in their desks like robots. At first there are snickers, then loud laughs. I am quite sure she hates me and the rest of our third grade class. She has a few favorites like Rosa, Dorothy, Chuck and Thomas. They usually get to wash the blackboards, answer easy geography questions. The tough ones get thrown at me, like where is Vladivostok, how many moons does Jupiter have. Of course, I don't know the answers, nor do any hands rise, wave to reply. She is on my back again, gets the tall white dunce cap out of the cloak room, puts it on my head and leads me into the darkness. 

 

I yell thru the door, 'Miss Bartlett, 'I'm not a dunce. I'm not! Let me out of here.' The rest period bell sounds and I am grateful to be let out of the dungeon for the fifteen minute recess. A temporary relief is better than none. I must stand in a corner while she puts the dunce cap on me again, leads me directly into my 'punishment cell' Laughter works its way under the door into my unhappy world.

 

Amazing. I am almost dumbstruck. I can tell by the sound of Miss Bartlett's clunky shoes, that she is about to free me. Mistake. The door opens and in comes cry baby Johnny Walker. Forever, I listen to him boo hoo. It is a bit better than hearing, or feeling mice nibbling at my shoe strings. He sits in one corn, I in another. Our toes almost touch diagonally across the rough wooden floor. My dunce cap is on the floor, Johnny is on my nerves.

 

'What the heck', Johnny lets do something. How about we feel thru the coat pockets, maybe find something interesting, maybe some milk money or a left over cookie.' Together we crawl from side to side of the little cloak room.  I find a nickle in what feels like a girl's coat. She won't miss it so it goes in my pants pocket. My cell-mate Johnny taps on the door, calls to Miss Bartlett, 'Please let me out. I have to go pee pee.' The class roars with laughter. Restraint is not my strong suit. I laugh too.

 

As soon as the door is opened for him, I push my way out and wall slowly over to my regular desk. The look on my teacher's face should be captured on film. Standing straight and 5 feet tall, I look right into her bewildered face.

 

' Miss Bartlett, I have the answers. Vladivostok is in eastern Russia and Jupiter has four moons and two satellites that are in orbit around it, taking ten earth years a revolution. There is a stillness, a lovely silence. Next she applauds, congratulates me, tells the class I am not a dunce, am surely going to be a scientist one day. She applauds and urges the class to follow her lead. I bow low and sit down. One day she will realize how smart I was to trick her so completely. If she asked me to spell Vladivostok, I couldn't do it, nor do I have any inkling about Jupiter's moons and satellites.

 

I dream about this day time and time again and think that maybe I will be a scientist. I'm definitely smarter than my teacher.

Hi Ho

I have found this a.m. my short story HI HO with a check next to the 'sent' spot but can't find it on my blog.

 

Ergo, it is your mailbox now. If I already sent it several days ago, I apologize.

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

I may as well also tell you this: I am leaving for LA Sept. 15 to 27 and intend to continue my daily stories. However, my wonderful daughter has recently  made changes in her wireless/phone set-up and I don't know how I will connect into her lines. It may take some doing for me to avoid 'dial up', but I have faith I can get on wireless, call in the Geek Squad if necessary.

 

I'll shut down my puter in FL on the 14th and will need a day or two to catch up with held mail, etc. when I return--bear with me--like McArthur, 'I shall return.'

 

Val

The Jackpot?

HI HO

 

I don't amble. I don't rush. My distance from the Brooklyn Q bus to my office is only five busy blocks away. I am not worried or frightened but keep alert, listen for footsteps coming towards me too fast. My purse slides off my shoulder and I hold it tight across my chest, sigh a little as a teen ignores me and crosses the street where he shouldn't

 

The Hudson View Building is my destination, twelfth floor, room eighteen, desk six. Taking as few chances as possible, the building owners and tenants installed tight security a few years ago at each of the entrances. Finger prints, all packages, drivers' licences, photos, passes are scrutinized. Usually the system moves quickly and efficiently. I don't even gripe mentally but do resent the fact that I've been here ten years and still go thru the daily process. A 'good morning', a smile and a wave should suffice as most of the guards have been here five or more years. They do now and then take a tiny bit of leeway.

 

Over the years, especially in slow summers, I've shared short conversations, questioned the guards about possible problems and am now much more wary than ever. Jack has confiscated ten guns from customers, patients, who want access into my building. Two guns have been loaded. Knives of all shapes and sizes, white powders by the pack are just about routine. It is too tough to comprehend which makes me believe Jack is pulling my leg.

 

This building has been here for twelve years, is kept in fantastic repair. The tenants are attorneys, physicians, accountants, architects. No shlemiels are accepted, so, my problem is with whom  are these armed people meeting. Do the same ones return in disguise, do their dirty stuff, get out fast without, so far, killing anyone?

 

Peacefully on the elevator, leaving for the day, just dreaming the elevator will go non-stop to the ground floor, I get off when someone I don't know gets on. My paranoia is strangling me.  Dr. Shackman, a psychologist ( maybe a psychiatrist) has taken over Dr. Rollin's practice. He is the proverbial tall, dark and handsome man that lonely women hope to just accidentally meet and conquer. My thoughts are not too far from theirs but I do have another- the need-- to get over my fears, stop the nightmares, the foolish looking around.

 

Jack introduces Dr. Shackman to me early on a Friday. Those wanting 'in' are few for the moment. Almost immediately the doctor tells me to just call him Bill and with a silly smile, adds or call me for ' lunch.' His name is before me, Bill Shackman but already I have his number his initials, 'B.S.' No question, he is full of it. Dr. B.S. starts to get off on the tenth floor, pushes the 'hold' button and, I almost die laughing when he asks me how my bowels are, adds he's a proctologist. A wink and he is gone.

 

I don't need a proctologist or Dr. Shackman either. I can't help wondering though where Dr. Rollin's went. It seems I recall him being a psychologist or psychiatrist.

 

Maybe Jack knows.

Fooler again

                                            ARNIE

 

From the lounge piano lilting, soft music caressed the diners in a posh, busy, lovely restaurant. Beautiful yellow and blue fish swam laps in the aquarium. The appetizers were appeteasers. Dinner, service and the articulate, interesting man across from me made me glad I came.  Far from an Adonis, 5 inches shorter than tall and hair as surely darkened by a bottle as mine was lightened, didn't make Arnie a struck-out-again date. Conversation flowed easily without a single lull. Much of it was about his recent achievement, the publication of his book. That didn't matter. I was at ease, relaxed and gave some thought to hoping he felt the same way. No, I didn't FALL in love, or even 'like' , but there he was, the first guy who had something going for him. He wanted to take me dancing and I surprised myself by agreeing eagerly. However, when we got to his favorite place, they were closed. Our disappointment was evident to each other. Instead of dancing, we enjoyed ice cold watermelon in my kitchen . What made me feel so at ease? I couldn't figure it out until much later.

 

In the meantime, I heard a very tragic tale of his daughter's death, his divorce, break-up of a one year relationship. Listening was easy as I knew it was all laying inside of him, waiting for release. What wasn't easy was hearing him apologize several times for being 'down.' Time flew quickly as did his gentle goodnite kiss. There were no dreams of him, no over-powering urge to see Arnie again, but I did want to further our relationship. He had given me a copy of his book, asking  for my opinion, and that was my 'in' if he didn't call. And that 'in' came in handy as my phone was silent until I called him Wednesday, having searched for the right positive words to describe what I felt was not a good book. Not having quite finished it, I suggested he be my guest for golf on Sunday so we could discuss it in its entirety. And so our second date was arranged.

 

Sunday morning he came a little early. The moment I opened the door I took a deep breath and understood my feeling good with him. Arnie was wearing an exact pair of Sansabelt slax as my husband had owned., a cotton knit shirt of perfect coordination and a little white golf cap. In his change of clothes, he had brought along was another outfit, same pants, different color, an unusual one but a duplicate of Ray's. On the tee Arnie's build was so much like my husband's before cancer shrunk him to almost skeletal size, that I couldn't watch Arnie's shot. It was good! I was bad! I was confused but Arnie didn't sense my mixed feelings. He was soft spoken, funny, encouraging, generous and I was soon able to separate the two.

 

After golf and a drink we shared a tasty pizza. I laughed at his Myron Cohen jokes and then beat him at Gin. Time to go home was nearing and when at the door, his kiss was not as friendly as the first peck. I returned it emotionlessly, nervously, thinking as our lips touched, IF he calls again, what will he expect that I will not be able to give? I really want him to call me. I want to go out with him again, or just sit home, listen to music, maybe dance a little, play cards. I think with a little persuasion, a little extra attention, I could learn to care about him but it would take time.

 

Sadly, and rightly, I didn't think for a moment he would give us that chance and figured he would fade away like all the others—only this time I would have some small regrets.

 

 

The Inside Storm

THE MANIAC

 

The sky is a most heavenly blue. Its clouds are a fluffy white and look strong enough to hold a thousand angels. I sit in the park, watch the children make sand castles around and under the sliding board. A tall cloud becomes an instant giraffe and changes in the wink of an eye into a fat Santa Claus. Before I can find Santa's big, black leather belt, he becomes a roaring lion. Clouds darken around him. Just a few moments ago the sun was like shining buttercups and now is an angry orange/red.

 

Shorty, our neighborhood clown, full of tricks, stands on a green bench like the one I was sitting on, and adds his initials to the others already carved in the bench slats. His go into the top slat of the back rest- all alone for the time being. Shorty is seven feet, 3 inches tall, towers over all of his friends and enemies too. The people he really dislikes are the fat ones, the Sumo wrestlers, the knahshers who live on sweets, mostly hand-outs, and go to the clinic to have their cavities filled, while tax-payers cover the costs. Sometimes he is so full of anger, I fear he will explode.

 

Thunder begins to rumble far in the distance, gets louder and louder. Lightning zigs once and I run as fast as an elderly lady can to my car. In my rear view mirror I catch a glimpse of Shorty defying the sky, the blackness, even a god. The bolts of lightning do not deter him as he  waves his long arms, clenched fists into the air, surely shouting curses.
I honk my horn to him, try to get him to my car but he stands firm. Heavy rain drops begin to pound on my roof, the windshield. Trees are swaying, worry me enough that I take off alone, try not to picture Shorty frizzled like an over-baked waffle.

 

Getting traction on my balding tires spits a stream from my two worst back tires. It warns me, screams at me to watch for a special sale at Goodyear. Like a jerk, I kiss my pinky finger, get too good a look at a bolt of lightning maybe miles away that is aiming at me, and swear to a god, any, all gods, that I'll get new tires tomorrow, if tomorrow comes.

 

Oh, it comes alright, but Shorty is not around his usual haunts. I doubt anyone beside myself cares. The morning paper, packed in a plastic wrapper, is bone dry so I can comfortably read the morning ads. Heaven has sent one that fills page 22C. 'BIG SPECIAL SALE–GOODYEAR---Buy two A1A tires and we will install them, balance them at no extra charge and give you the third one free!' My check book says I can do it but my mind tells me I am smarter than some people and know I will have to buy a fourth tire at regular price to be balanced. The ad gets folded, put on the side, so I can call Goodyear before I make an ass of myself and complain.

 

From my window, from my sidewalk, I still don't see Shorty anywhere.
A few neighbors are outside, cleaning sopping leaves out of their gutters. No one has seen him since before yesterday's storm. It comes down to I must have been the last person who saw that fool fooling around with lightning and god.

 

My eyes pop out on page 36, the next to last page of section one, is always the obituary page. Every single time I happen to see it, I smile because my name isn't there. A box in the page's right corner describes the death of an exceptionally tall man, found in the park when the storm was over. His hair is singed off and his clothes, most of his body is burned.

 

To myself I begin to cry, can't think straight,  but I have no doubt the body that is at the morgue has to be Shorty's. Paragraph two requests calls that may identify the man. The city will have to pay to have an extra long casket made and they aren't going to do it. They will dump him in a pauper's grave with no name at all.

 

I take it upon myself to call on neighbors, ask for donations to have a  casket made for that god defying maniac. Some sort of eulogy should be said. Nobody asked me to do it but I am ready to stand up for Shorty.

 

'Percunus and Zeus, forgive Shorty, for defying you, mocking you. Thor is angry, too. Hermes, the god of good luck, smote Shorty down. He was a little tetched in the head, ashamed, mortified at being so different from other people. I speak to you for my friend. Let him rest peacefully. Try not to fill his grave with mud. He never liked water too much. It frightened him and that is why he put the blame on you gods in the sky. Thank you, Mighty Gods and I know Shorty would thank you too, if he could.The sun comes thru the gray sky.

 

Fluffy white clouds float like marshmallows in hot chocolate milk.The slight wind bows a tree and I hear its bark say, 'taddy, taddy, Friend.'