Catching on

THE HAY RIDE

 

My Mom stomps her foot. Her lips let out a loud, mean yell. 'NO! she bellows. 'You are too young to go on a hay ride. Boys will be there and they might try to do bad things to you. You can't go. You're only thirteen.' I know when she gets red in the face and forbids me to do anything I want, I won't get to do it. This time I don't let up, go over her head and wait for my Poppa to drive into our garage. I'm at the laundry room door until his car makes a sad sound and stops.  He sees me, puts out his arms and tries to lift me off my feet. 'Poppa, stop that. I'm not a baby anymore. Momma explained to me that I am already a woman. 'Please, before you talk to Momma, I want to go on a hay ride and she won't let me. Didi, Marjorie and Phyllis are all going. They already have dates. I don't have one --yet. Can I try, Poppa? It's next Sunday. The truck stops in front of Bridge's store every week-end and this is the last week before school starts. You've seen it when you go for bagels. Please let me go. Can I try to find a date? Mama said 'no, but this is what I really want. Marjorie may have somebody for me.' It's time for me to quit nagging. Pouting works well usually. I pout.

His reply comes quickly.' Sure, Honey, go.'  

 

Supper time is very quiet. My daddy's face is very serious. He finishes his coffee and goes upstairs, closes the door to the bedroom. When Mom and I finish straightening the kitchen, Poppa comes down with a broad smile on his face. He glances at Mama ,turns to me and tells me he has found a date for me and I can go on the hay ride. Mama's face turns fiery red this time. She's fuming . I'm happy inside but don't let it show too much.

 

'Sheila,' he says to me, 'Your date is Harvey, my cousin Bobby's son. You've seen him, tall and he plays football. He'll call you tomorrow.' Dad gets a cigar from his humidor and goes outside to smoke it. As much as I hate the smell, I follow him to the front steps. 'Poppa, I can't go with Harvey, he's my cousin. I'll be laughed at.' 'Honey, he isn't really your cousin. His father married a 2nd cousin of my mother who was a 3rd cousin of Joe, the guy that's in jail. Harvey's far from being your cousin. I already gave him money for the tickets. Go, you'll have a good time.'

 

Harvey comes to get me. My mother, against her better judgement, has packed us a big lunch. The smell of her fried chicken already makes me hungry. She wraps it all in Saran , adds two slices of apple pie, a bag of potato chips, a small jar of gherkins, a handful of paper napkins and puts it all in a  green cloth shopping bag. Every other girl has a wicker picnic basket. Most have satin bows on the handles. I want to crawl in a hole and just die.

 

Overflowing with musty smelling hay, the back entry drops with a loud clang. Our driver, BoBo, puts out a step ladder for the girls. The boys don't need it. They jump, pull themselves up and grab their dates, find a place where they can lean against the high side of the truck. I feel like a shadow, like a worm. Harvey spreads a bath towel out for me so I won't get too messy. When I thank him, he grabs my hand, pulls me towards him, tries to kiss my cheek.  I don't stop him with words or a slap. I simply turn away and hardly say a word to him, or anyone else as my adventure begins.

 

Our destination is the Swinging Bridge in Virginia. It's a long ride. With no roof to our truck, the air gets chilly. Harvey offers me his sweater. A little lie of not needing it keeps him at arms distance. The moon is shining and I show what looks like a man sitting on its edge to whoever isn't messing around. That seems to leave me and Harvey looking at the moon.

 

It seems forever until BoBo pulls over to the edge of the road, gets out and lowers the back exit. He points the way to the Swinging Bridge, announces he'll blow his whistle  in 30 minutes, three times, and we had better all come back to the truck fast. Nobody, I mean nobody, heads for the bridge. Harvey just about ignores me and vice versa, until a tall, fat boy I don't know comes over to me, sits down on the grass and tries to hold my hand. I use that hand to slap him hard on his face. He is warned by Harvey to get the heck away from me. There is a lot of kissing and hugging going on. I am not part of it, nor is Harvey. Margie and Didi are someplace, but not in my sight. We haven't even said hello to each other and we will soon say goodbye.

 

Back in the city, the streets are quiet. As we near Bridges, the boys pull the straw out of their dates hair. The girls have pretty much buttoned their blouses. Harvey helps me down and walks me home. He waves so long, whistles a happy tune and tells me he'll call me in the morning.

 

HE DOES.

UNBIDDEN IT COMETH

Although it is only 6:30 P.M. the sky has turned black. Winter has hidden the Miami orange moon. I am lying on my den sofa. My legs are raised, looking like two crumbling mountains. I relax just a speck and they fall kerplop - flat. Like a god, I command them to rise again, sway and stop. Something takes hold of my hands. Something holds my skinny legs steady, as my  thighs twitch and my eyes glue themselves to the wide spread of my long fingers resting on them. Unpainted finger nails need the bright red color that I recall so vividly from my sixty year ago memory.

 

A loud thump hits the wooden floor beneath my bed. Leaning over the side I cannot help but smile when I see an open manicure set replete with red, pink, white, even colorless, nail polish. A card on a square of white typing paper flutters to my hand. Reading aloud the words I see again, 'For those beautiful hands. Love, Joe,' I hold back joyful tears as long as I can.

They soon take control of me, run like a wild stream down my cheeks, drop on my plain, boring, nightgown.

 

Those memories fade and so do I. I can feel my legs slowly lie down. My head tilts to the right and my eyes close yet I can still see thru my thin eyelids. Sleep comes quickly. Dreams do not. There is nothing more to see, to feel again.  One more deep breath escapes my lungs as the past and I dissolve together.

 

 

 

The Heirloom

PRESSURE POINT

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

HELLO, HOME

                            ESSAY ON COMING HOME

 

As daylight neared, still weary feet had no reason to tip toe to the bathroom. This tiny pleasure was told to the lady in the mirror who softly said, 'Ah, it's you, really you! I'm glad you're back. Nothing has been the same since you left me in my silver cage a month ago.' A slight warmth and coo of contentment flooded my being. Even knowing there was nobody here to share my delight, to whom I could tell my adventures, didn't dampen my first morning back. Everything felt and looked so perfect, just the way I like it to be, just the way I had left it all, knowing this wonderful semi-euphoria would overcome me when at last I opened my apartment door.

 

All of the fun things, the happy times, the stress, the weariness , the longings, were quickly relegated to deep recesses of my brain, stored only until contact would be made again with all the people left behind.
For a bit they would switch places and become important again, routine.

 

I had to relish the foolishness of 'getting down to it.' Clothes seemed to have a mind of their own as they quickly flew from my suitcases into piles of needing washing, cleaning, ironing, hanging in their usual organized patterns. A few important letters that the post office carelessly left with neighbors beckoned–but so did Jeopardy, so I did the unthinkable, stopped cold in my tracks, nuked instant coffee, took a few cookies and spent 30 minutes with Alex Trebeck. I was home! The uncomfortable den sofa felt like a pink cloud as I met my old friend, called out questions, some that even the contestants didn't know, more I didn't know. This was the simplest of joys. As early as it was, I bid him goodnite and retired to my neat bedroom where tossed pillows bid me a welcome, hop in, the t.v. clicker so close I barely had to move a muscle.

 

Sleep was short, things to do. My time with Alex let me retrieve my bearings and like a tornado pushing me forward, my jewelry went back in the drawer, toiletries in the medicine cabinet and under the sink. I looked around and saw not a towel, a piece of paper, a dish was anywhere it shouldn't be, letting sleep easily kiss me as I squirmed comfortably in my own small spot on this big earth.

 

In the morning routine cereal was icky as the defrosted milk was warm but it could have been nectar of the gods as it was in my own bowl, rinsed and put away the moment I finished eating. The calcium and Mevacor I forgot to take as I traipsed thousands of miles were now back on schedule. Nobody had to tell me where the iron was, nor what was in the refrigerator–very little. The dust buster had nothing to suck down its throat. The room temperature was set to MY satisfaction. My phone messages were listed, waiting to return them. My leftover money was counted and bills accumulated filed in orderly fashion. A wonderful CD of 40's music lilted thru every room.

 

The usual, 'It's great to go away but much greater to be home' was never said more enthusiastically than I said it to myself. Yet, with all the joy of returning home, I was overcome knowing that it would be a very long time until I would see my family again–maybe never.

 

Off to look over the new year's calendar to start planning my next visit once more—not just the going–

 

BUT THE WONDERFULNESS OF COMING HOME !

Hard Work

INTERIOR DECORATORS-GOD BLESS 'EM–I DON'T

 

Over many years I've come to realize that interior decorators and I are not good for each other.  Way back in time, when we began to see the financial light, my first association with one should have been a warning. Oh, David was nice: David was capable, probably, but David had a ceiling light fetish (or, stock in a fixture company). Wherever there was a wall hanging, a chair, a drape, above each and every one he designated high hats, spots. The ceiling would have looked like the Astrodome if I hadn't switched him off. With his ego only slightly crushed, he got so cutsey wootsey he wanted to turn our den into a french café or primitive Tahitian hut. That's when I said, 'Aloha,' and we parted company.

 

Several years went by and Florence came into my life. Florence liked flowers. Probably her mother told her about the derivation of her name and never let her forget it for a moment. As Florence was more knowledgeable in her field than I (it turned out to be full of weeds) I
went along with her tulip suggestion for our bedroom walls. God and I knew, in only one night, that flowers belong in certain places; in the garden, in vases, on tables, bouquets and graves.–not my walls. My burnt orange and silver tulips became alive and grew and grew, devouring me, covering me like a bier. Three coats of paint finally saved my sanity. I uprooted Florence and planted her in an ex-friends house.

 

John, swishy, swingin' John- the exact opposite of David–was a lulu. No light! He wouldn't place a good reading lamp in the living room and told me to read in bed. My beautiful view of a wide golf course fairway was to be hidden because he liked the sofa back to the view so people could look at each other. 'It's a good line,' he said. 'Sit sideways and you'll be able to look outside.'

 

 Where do I find these jerks? I don't know but they seem to come out of the woodwork when my pocketbook opens. Whether John approved or not, I saw the light and he saw the front door from the inside out.

 

My next episode involved a southern kook, Betty. From this one we ordered window treatments and almost everything else we needed eight months in advance. Two days before we were to move in, she advised us that all of our window selections had been discontinued three months previously and we would have to make other selections. The first one we made, was a new decorator–MYSELF. In our fishbowl  house, our aggravation compiled as almost everything we had done with Betty had to re-done., including the wall into which her delivery man had  made a gaping hole as he stupidly tried to carry in a sofa unaided. We patched that up, but not our association.

 

Simultaneously to working with Betty, Richard took over the decor of our new northern condo. Who recommended him? I honestly, and luckily, don't remember. If I could, she'd be on my 'kill' list. Richard's paperhanger put my lovely perfect pattern on the foyer wall and included the words 'cut here'. Every three feet the paper cried out to all visitors, 'Cut here, cut here,' He didn't believe me when I called but, when faced with proof positive, he was so upset and embarrassed , he walked off the job, leaving me with ½ the wall to take down and a whole wall to do. Try it sometime! With all of Richard's slide rules, tapes, scale models and expertise, I still ended up with a sofa ten inches too short, or maybe it was ten inches too long. I then had to have a table made to fit the area. Now be honest–what good is a ten inch table? The answer is –just about as much use as Richard.

 

Do you think that was the knock-out punch? Hell, no. We had decided to move permanently to Florida and were having a house built for us. I was smarter. I interviewed three highly recommended people, put my money on the middle-of-the-roader, not too far out, not too blah, but my luck rode on the same track. Somehow I picked a dog, another loser. Lois turned out to be a despot, the Czarina of Florida.  She wanted to put my husband's wishes, my likes and dislikes in a dungeon so she could rule us both. Her likes HAD to be my likes and they weren't always. Off with her head! She thought. What price are these fabrics,' I asked–and you will love her answer–'Expensive. Everything I show you is expensive.' When I insisted on bronze glass instead of smoked gray for the dining room table top, she went up in flames and burned herself right out of a hefty commission.

 

And here I sit, waiting, thinking, dreading the sound of the doorbell.

 

"Hello, Bob"

Depression days

OUR BLOCK, OUR TIMES

 

Our house is just a house, one of twenty-two three story buildings  that look glued together. Only five are used strictly for families. We are almost one of those, except that the first floor of our house is for my daddy's office. He's a doctor. Behind his office and waiting room is our big kitchen. It's painted light green. We have an ice box and a gas stove that Mama has to light with a match every morning.

 

Some of my best playmates live upstairs from their father's businesses. Goldie's father is a shoemaker who doesn't make shoes. He just fixes them, adds heels or soles on the shoes of his few customers. Most of the time he only has a small yellow light in his shop so customers know he is there. They live on the second and third floors, have a skinny gray cat that Goldie has mentioned catches mice.

 

Anthony's barber shop is two doors from us. His wife has a beauty parlor behind it. My mother get her nails painted red there once a month. I saw her give Mrs. Belagos two quarters once but never told my daddy.

 

The place I love most is all the way at the end of our block. It's called Wally's Drugstore. Wally lets us kids go thru his trash before the trash truck comes on Friday mornings. We almost always find empty cigar boxes, lids from Dixie cups with pictures of movie stars on them and lots of crepe paper. Once I got lucky and found a tall cardboard stand -up figure of the bellboy in his red suit calling for Phillip Morris.
Richard wanted to buy it from me for ten cents but that was my prize find and I had to have it for the bedroom I share with my two sisters.
Evelyn is fourteen and has a boyfriend and didn't want it in our room. Mama made her leave me alone.

 

Four doors away is Dr. Tyler's office. He had his brick house painted white and it stands out like a broken hand. I watch and watch but have never seen a patient go inside. But, every evening, rain or shine, he comes outside with his two little tan pekenese  dogs on separate leashes. He says they bite, 'Stay away.' I do.

 

Near the corner that has a tall green mail box is Mr. Franzoni's hardware store. I love it. He let me look in all of the brown burlap bags he keeps on the floor and I find tools, nails, clips and can have a few of anything I want. My mother always knows when I have been to see Mr. Fransoni. I smell like putty. He always give me a clump so I can make dishes or snakes out of it. Mama makes me scrub my hands good before I come to the table for supper.

 

One night the noise of fire engines wake me. They stop right in front of Franzoni's. From my window I can see flames and smoke pouring out the broken front window. It's horrible, scary. My parents come to get me and we all leave our house, go to the end of the street near the drug store. It takes forever for the fire to be put out. In the morning there is much sadness when we neighbors, friends, customers,  learn that Mr. Franzoni died in the fire.

 

Nobody really believes it but we finally do. A sadness fills the air. We kids play more quietly. Our parents buy heavy ropes that can be tied to the legs of our beds so we can escape from our windows to the ground.  Mr. Franzoni's family has emptied the building, removed all signs of the fire and put a sign on the new window-STORE TO LET

Dancing ?

TIME TO GO

 

'Yes, yes, yes, the door is wide open and I'm going in! Who unlocked it? Why tonight, a Saturday night like all others...Great! Fun! My evening gown is lovely, black chiffon, empire bodice with classy elegant black beads that sway a little as I walk into the clubhouse, my husband's arm around my waist. There are no bumps or scars on my milky white arms that noone sees. White suede gloves reach over my elbows. As usual, I feel like Cinderella  going to the ball. Tonight Doug and I enjoy the company of about 300 of the 400 club members. There are no strangers. The band plays loud and the floor rocks. My 'beloved' husband, as usual, has not complimented me. He has never said, 'Honey, you look ravishing. Let's dance!' Doug doesn't realize he's a lousy dancer, never with the rhythm, skipping beats. When we do now and then dance together he always, always tells me to stop leading. He's right, I do lead because he can't.

 

We locate our table for ten where four beaded or sequined evening purses rest. The Twist has almost everybody on their feet. Doug leaves me standing at my place, squeezes onto the dance floor and cuts in on Jack and Ruthie. Ruthie, petite and perfect is considered the best dancer in the club. Her husband is so so. We switch partners. When we return to our table, Doug barely speaks. His color is almost ashen. He whispers to me that he doesn't feel well and wants to go home. From that moment on the open door begins to slowly close. The healthy man's
health disintegrates. His pallor becomes yellow. Doug has cancer that doesn't stop us from traveling, being with our friends, trying to pretend all is right with our world.

 

We don't go to our Saturday night socials every week but manage it as often as possible. On June 15th, 2001, as we say goodnite to the stragglers in our club lobby, Doug squeezes my hand and tells me to listen. Echos of the band playing Blue Bayou, Doug's most favorite song, drift to us. He looks at me with what I believe are tears and asks me to return to the dance floor to dance  with him. My heart breaks. We make it and he holds me close, tells me he loves me. I let him lead and he adds, 'You look so gorgeous tonight.' The valet has brought our car and we head for home.

 

The door closes slowly, never completely shuts.

Ending of story

COLORLESS

 

My mirror has to be lying. I feel perky, chipper–fine but my eyes look a little rheumy.  Maybe Grandma Jessie's mirror needs its back re-silvered. If I take it off the wall, I might as well have the brass flowers polished. Grandma insisted the flowers were gold and I believed her until I inherited it and learned the truth.

 

'Well, Kiddo,' I tell myself, 'you can't do it today. Take care of the more important stuff first.' What's more important than my treasure? Nothing. I go right to the Palm Frond's yellow pages. Under 'Mirrors' there are three ads, each for 'installed.' Mine was installed in what used to be Grandma's bedroom thirty years ago. Along with the mirror, I inherited her large walnut etagere that holds all of my heavy winter wear and a box of camphor flakes. I take one more glance at my face and am quite sure my eyes are droopy and rheumy. Little bags have come from nowhere.

 

My shopping plan must be altered slightly. I make my first stop Phyllis's Beauty Salon. She's a long time friend of mine, knowledgeable about hair, skin, and carries a full line of creams, lotions, make-up. After our warm hi's she cuckolds me in my 'no hit' zone when she asks if I've been ill. With no hesitation, I reply at once, 'No. Why?' and just as fast she asks me if I've been ill, adds, 'Your eyes don't look so good to me. You should try this new cream emulsion I'm carrying. I guarantee you will look better in a week.' If Phyllis is right, my twenty buck donation to her purse is a mere bag of shells.

 

With my hair restyled, I already feel better, skip stuff and go home to start using the elixir. Most likely I haven't used enough or maybe too much. In a whole week I see no improvement and return to Phyllis' to get my money back. Instead she gives me a free tube to try again.
It works for sure, but the wrong way. My rheumy eyes lighten and I can barely see in the mirror. The loud pumping of my heart scares me half to death. Any moment expecting to faint dead away, I reach for the phone and it falls on the floor. Thru a miracle I manage to dial 911. The loud noise of an ambulance stops at my door. I hear banging. The front window crashes and voices call to me. At the top of my lungs, I manage 'help', over and over, but am not heard. Heavy footsteps come towards me lying on the basement floor. The man in the white cap must be the captain. He puts his arms under my back and gently helps me to sit up.
 
'Lady, you're drunk as a skunk. Here's your ticket for calling us for less than a true emergency.' I look thru my rheumy eyes and can see 'Payment due in ten days or penalty doubles.'  When everyone has left and I am comfortable in my bed, I gag and throw up all the booze.

 

In the morning I write a check to cover the warrant.
 

Go for it!

MOTHER GOOSE

 

Using the field glasses my loving wife, Gloria, gave me for no special reason, I scan the lake behind our condo apartment. 'Yeow!, Gloria, quick come here. You have to see her. It's like she's on our terrace!'
She rushes to me shouting 'Who? Who?' I say nothing, just hand her the binoculars and point, thataway. Gloria is not often awkward but is this time. She almost drops my glasses on the concrete floor.  I show her, 'Hold them this way, look over to the left. What do you see?' I do love her but she isn't always too quick. Of course she saw nothing, the glasses were backwards. My nasty tone infuriates her. That makes us about even. What does she finally see? Scum, scum on the water!

 

I try again. 'Don't you see that big white goose?' 'Oh, that little thing. It looks like a duck to me.' 'Gloria, look at her and all her little babies floating behind her? Aren't they precious? I can't decide if the mama is a swan or a goose. Which do you think?' She makes no quick judgement since she claims she hasn't seen a swan since we went down the Po in Italy.

 

The day is warming. It's red rays tempt me to go down and just walk around the lake, really relax. 'Want to go with me, Gloria? We can get a good close look at the family.' Her reply is just about what I expect. 'Go yourself. If it's a goose, catch I, wring its neck and we can eat for a week.' Nausea riles up from my gut. Pictures of those little babies not able to climb the small hill to get on land, worry me until the mama gets behind each, one at a time, slowly, carefully, and prods it up on the bank. It is , oh my lord, I think 'Glorious' and if the action is anything like my Gloria, there will be a black moon tonight.

 

I go back to our apartment, watch for a single second, my wife putting   a fresh coat of very red polish on her fingernails. They look like they are bleeding. Sounds of laughter come in thru the patio door. My binoculars are still around my neck so I go to look over the railings and see a sight to behold. 'Gloria, Gloria, come quick. You have to see what's happening.' To who?To who? Mother Goose?' I do not dare say 'to whom.' I watch and I smile, see the French couple who live just two apartments over from ours, drinking, smiling, naked as jay birds.

 

Gloria has finished her red fingernails and has done her toenails too. Between each toe she has put small tufts of cotton. 'See you, later, Gloria, I'm going down to watch the swan/goose.' Instead, I go downstairs and then up the elevator just two buildings away.

Holiday time--repeat

GREEN CHEESE

According to legend, it is said that on Christmas Eve not a creature is stirring not even a mouse. It's been seventy years since I heard that ridiculous claim. My mom and pop lived then (and to today) in a land so white, so still, that icicles drop from our roof, race to the earth and crack loudly. Our roof shakes, some times makes Pop look up and cuss a blue streak, shiver, shout, ' 'Shut up, Everyone and every dang thing. I can't work in this infernal noise.'

After a little pause, he just might blurt out, 'Sarah, boil some cocoa and get it here to me before it has icicles floating on top. The marshmallows will break one of my false teeth. Hop to it! Michaelmas, have you seen any little elves around here?' The answer he gets is, 'What nonsense, Pop. They'd be buried in the first six inch snow.'

 

''Come on, then, there's still much to do. That big fat man in the red suit might be early for once. Do we have any of that flying reindeer food left from last year?'Michaelmas shrugs his shoulders and denies knowing anything about it. Mom overhears the conversation and lets the guys know they ate it weeks ago.

'Sarah, light a fire. My hands are like icicles and I still have some carving to do. Michaelmas, go get me some cedar, not a lot, just little pieces and maybe a handful of pine needles. I have in mind a very special gift I want to make for my little friends. Put a muffler around your neck and stay close to the house.' Michaelmas opens the side door and is sucked out into the snow and ice, imagines he is being pulled into a frozen vacuum cleaner. His voice is lost in the wind. Crawling along on his hands and knees, he is dumfounded when he almost bumps into a single tall, straight pine tree. He forces himself to stand and slowly work his way up to the lowest branches. Ripping off the pine needles, blood starts to come out of his fingers, drops on the snow and spreads like a tiny, fiery lake. The pine needles and his hand go inside the lining of his seal jacket, fit into a furry pocket. His youth and super strength lead him home. Pop mumbles a 'thanks' for the pine and needles, and heads to his sanctorum where he gets busy sawing the pine into small triangles, covering them with glue, sprinkling the green needles all over them. When he knows Michaelmas and Mom are in bed, covered right up to their ears, he sets his green carvings on the kitchen floor, banks the fire, and goes to bed. Before he falls to sleep he is sure he hears the fat man in the red suit, reindeer, flying overhead. 

Just as daylight comes, he hurries downstairs, straight to the kitchen, hoping to see his presents to his little friends scattered, enjoyed. Instead, all twelve little mice lie dead. Their whiskers curl so their tiny faces seem to be smiling. Like a small child, he sits on the cold floor beside the dead mice and cries and cries. His present to them that looked like green cheese were to be played with, not eaten.

 He folds the small bodies into pages from ads for Christmas toys and mumbles, 'And not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.' With a ladle from Sarah's kitchen cabinet, he digs a hole in the cold, frozen ice near the front door, lays each mouse tenderly in a circle, and says a prayer for them. 

He goes inside and starts carving little gravestones for his friends.

My Travail

HELP, PLEASE HELP

 

No, no, not again! There's an Indian bug eating me. Killing me. His name is Aadi Shalandria. I figure somehow he is connected to the Maharanee of Rashmeri. She has become the highest female president of any company in Mumbai. Her control is total over employment of computer technicians.  From Aadi himself I have learned there are 40000 technicians working 24 hours a day. Each one has hundreds of large books in every known language at his finger tips. They explain what to do, how to fix computer problems. Shalandria, for some unknown reason, seems out to destroy me.

 

My computer is only four years old. I've had three others before I bought my current Dell.  Netscape and AOL are my carriers. The Dell is my personal puter and my best friend. It keeps me alive, offers me the world –most of the time. Today trouble began. Suddenly and without me touching a key, my icons went crazy. The tool bar that has always been on the bottom of my screen, went unaided to the top. It is most uncomfortable for me and I see no reason for the puter to rule me.

 

At 6 a.m. I dial, 1 800-246-7216 and an automated voice says, 'Thank you for calling Netscape.'To be rotten, I don't say to anybody, 'Glad to be here.' The hidden person gets the action started. 'What are the first seven letters of your screen name? I tell it, 'Sweet52.' He comes back and tells me that is incorrect and reads me what he recorded. The bout goes on. 'Of course it's wrong. You left off the 52.' I do feel stupid talking to nobody and the nobody is making mistakes. When that gets straightened out, I am asked for my home phone number in case we are disconnected.  To dead air I say, 'Good idea,' and add '562-7417.' The phone seems to be getting heavier and heavier, hurts my ear. Then I realize I goofed and didn't give him the area code. Immediately my phone goes dead and I almost wish I were.

 

Instead I got a big slice of chocolate cream pie from the fridge, gobbled it down with a glass of cold milk. Unsatisfied, I took another smaller slice. Being so angry and upset I knew would solve nothing. I washed my hands and dialed Netscape again. Everything went well until a technician asked if he could help me. Another automated voice said, 'Your wait will be approximately eight minutes.' I told the shadow to go to hell and hung up again.

 

A t.v. break and quick nap and I dialed 1-800-246-7216. Finally thru with all the technicalities, I was able to discern a human voice. It asked if I would mind if he called me Harold. 'No problem,' I reply and ask' What is yours?' He told me what sounded like 'Oh Cash'. 'Will you  please spell that for me, Oh Cash?' I asked. ' A like in apple, a like in apple, k like in king, a like in apple, s like in sugar and h like in hall.'
I couldn't help but laugh, 'That's a lot of applesauce Aakash.' He didn't get it. 

 

The tech called me Harold and asked me what the problem was. Before I was going to be disconnected again I sped through my trouble. He listened to my tale of woe about the icons and tool bar moving by themselves and asked me to please hold on. He would be back quickly. After he found the correct book, he began to give me instructions to follow on my computer. I could not understand his accent, complimented him on its softness only to be told he couldn't understand me well either. That was it. I quit.

 

In the morning I checked the want ads and found dozens of computer techs who would come to my house. I chose one who sounded knowledgeable and his price was fair. In one hour he was seated at my computer. He put the cursor on the tool bar, clicked the left one once and then the right one twice and the task bar switched to the bottom of the screen. Each icon he locked in where I wanted it to be. I almost could have kissed him.

 

Instead I gave him a check for $50 and the last piece of chocolate cream pie that had been laying on the kitchen table for hours. He went away happy and I was back in business ready to email my tale of woe to my entire address book of friends.  My phone rang. 'This is Netscape calling you back. We were disconnected this afternoon, a slightly familiar voice explained. 'May we help you?'

 

Loud enough for him to hear me across the Atlantic Ocean, I shouted, 'NO!' and hung up.

Wake up call

DREAM HOUSE

 

Howard is rich, so rich, (via his inheritance and his own prowess). He's smart and quite handsome. I can't turn him down. He loves me, showers me with gifts, diamonds, anything and everything. We have cruised the islands, done Europe or what's left of it. I love him, I think, and try hard to differentiate between love and greed. Bits of our wedding are shown on t.v. The Society column of the New York Herald tells the world about our honeymoon 'hideaway'. I try to believe readers don't notice, but I do. There is not a word anywhere about my parents. There is no 'daughter of Drs. Vanderbilt or Morgan' because I am not that at all.

 

We are barely in Howard's house, settled down, when for my birthday we fly in his private jet, named Babs after me, to Paris for dinner and 'fun,' as he calls it. I have heard enough chanteuses, seen more than enough anti-Israel posters, floated down the Seine and now lie on our spotless, comfortable king size bed at the Metropole 'L 'Hotel' Our chambermaid has delivered a magnificent vase of red roses from the manager. Its fragrance saturates the room, my brain, as I try to avoid the mental pictures of the wealth that is lavished on me.

 

I tell no one at all about my feelings. Old family friends, my college class mates,  surely must be jealous and would turn me into mince-meat, remind me how I used to paper bag it to class, watch for sales of school books. Sherry, my first cousin, has actually called me snot-nose  and walked away as if I had a bad case of leprosy. I wonder if there is a good case of leprosy and wish it on her.

 

We are having, no Howard is having, twenty for dinner tonight in 'our' dining room. There will be an entourage of help, the food prepared in a trailer in our garden. We aren't going to eat. Howard tells me often, we are going to 'dine.' The odd thing is he is unaware, totally unaware of my distaste for the way he has been brought up and his disdain for those who have less than he has. How, why, where in the world did he find me and take me as I am? I cannot believe he doesn't see that I don't need or want so much. This evening may turn out to be our end. Oh, I'll act, play the part of a happy-go-lucky spoiled wife—then suddenly  stop dead in my own tracks. 'How am I going to do this, break up our marriage? ' A little voice tells me and I prepare my new plan. It takes thought, deep, tough thought, and I go for it.

 

Lowering my voice to a soft sweety pitch, I approach him as he is finishing his cocktail. 'Honey, I have come up with something I'd like you to give me for us.' He looks as me with a curious grayness in his eyes. 'What is it that we should have that we don't have, Darling?'
Pulling no punches, I reply, 'A cozy little nest, near a park where our son will play in the sandpile, and he'll have one, not ten, clowns for his first birthday. I want us to have a fireplace where we can watch the flames curl around cedar logs, not have those fake logs warmed my gas until they burn a bit. I'd like to fix a good omelet for you with bacon strips. We can both use a lot more privacy. '

 

My husband listens politely, seems to mull my thoughts over. He starts to call for Aida, our housekeeper and semi-friend, to bring him a brandy but stops, goes to the liquor cabinet and gets it himself. He offers me a sniff but I say, No thanks.' His reply is a yelp,'What, what did you just tell me? I wasn't listening too well. Are we going to have a son?!'

 

'Yes, Howard in six and a half months. I have already found a perfect medium sized new house with three bedrooms, a pool in the back yard, a school within walking distance and I  bought a small dog house for our  first puppy in the large back yard.'

 

Howard mulls my ideas over and over, enlarges them until I scream. 'Husband, I will be moving out and of course, with Brad already in my charge, he'll be going with me. When he is two, you may want to have him in your care every other week-end. Otherwise, I will be speaking to 'our' attorney this Friday.'

 

And that is the way it stands. He is rich, so rich, and smart and quite handsome and I am willing to give him a chance to step down a bit, actually a lot, from the way he was reared, take off his halo and live with me and Sammy, or Larry, or, or, whatever name he selects for our son. He asks to be given time to think it so we can  work something out.

 

I give him a month and a half and a son. He acquiesces , learns to holler at the men mowing our back yard, walks our little chow and is home five evenings a week. The other two evenings ???????

Time marches on

PATHS

 

The little wooden church on the corner of Elmont and Second Ave. is on fire. Flames burn wildly through the front door. Smoke rises in the air, aims at the morning sun. Sweating firemen struggle to save the rear area of the church where the ancient cemetery has welcomed parish members for almost one hundred twenty five years. The rotting wooden crosses disappear first. I am mesmerized, believe I see ghosts flying up to heaven. Rising, rising. It takes hours to check and double check so that no hiding embers can start another conflagration someplace near-by.

 

Long time members of Michael's Missionary Church weep quietly or sob hysterically. I do neither. Already I begin to visualize a new heated, air-conditioned simple church rising from the ashes of hard and loving usage. Looking around I may be one of the few who doesn't enjoy the backward game and I am willing to lead my neighbors, my friends, forward.

 

Seven of us men and two women meet at Bill Bagley's house. The women are members in good standing of our former church and headed the Social Committee. There is much to discuss, the first being the clearing away of debris. Our funds are limited but are good enough to get the cleaning-up started. Unfortunately we are stopped at once by The American Insurance Co., newly named AICO. They will send a team to go carefully thru the debris, be sure arson had no hand in the fire before any payment is given to us. Our hands are tied as we wait thru all of hot July for an insurance check. It finally comes and we are dismayed that the payment is correct but is an insignificant pittance.

 

The main library downtown has been kind enough to let us hold our weekly committee meetings in their study room. The going is slow. We have decided to build our new church on the same lot where it has been  forever. There were some votes to change the name but those folks lost. Construction will be started in September, six months from today, we believe. It doesn't happen. My birthday does and I will be 85 on that date-- 12/24/14, a lucky number, right? Wrong. My heart flutters, it hurts, it dies.

 

I look down from a place so high, I can barely see our beloved church growing taller, stronger every week. Little children love the playground. There is a study hall. A beautiful altar rises several feet above the floor. I can hear the prayers read in three languages, see blacks and Asians talking to each other, praying to different gods, getting along well together.

 

The loss of Michael's Missionary church has been forgotten by almost every one except me. I am here in god's world, watching, remembering the flames, the extinction of the old church and am content where I am now.

 

A few old timers will be with me soon and we might play Gin.

Crash, bam, alacazam

BEAUTY AND THE FEAST

 

She easily winks one emerald green eye at a time. Rose bud lips
pucker as her long, fair, white hands wave a 'hello' to Joseph, host superb. It's Sunday and that means Family Night at Maggie's Place. Slanting rays of evening are already bringing night too fast. It takes effort for her to oversee the kitchen, taste, suggest, a little more salt, perhaps a drop or two of lemon on the salmon, without upsetting the cooks.

 

Her five waitresses arrive within ten minutes of each other. That is good. They all are wearing their new outfits, medium green with tan cuffs, belts, tan sandals. Dolly's skirt is not good. It's too short and too late today to do anything about it but do something soon, she will. As soon as Maggie's back is turned, Dolly gives her the finger and acting like a spoiled child, sticks her tongue out at her boss.

 

Tonight's special is roast beef, cut to order, good, rich gravy,  with the house's unbelievably delicious roast potatoes. Maggie's mother used to do them a special way and taught her daughter her secret. There is a choice of three veggies out of six presented, plus a side dish of pasta, beverage and a dessert, all for fifteen bucks per person. Children's meals are only six dollars.  Maggie doesn't like prices with ninety-five or ninety-nine endings. No reservations are accepted. Maggie's Place is full every Friday and almost full the other nights of the week.

 

Joseph is everywhere while he is still able to keep Maggie in his view.  His huge almost teen-like crush on her is consuming. He fights his mind that is begging him to take a chance, ask her to the theater, to a football game, to his apartment. Ha, he laughs at himself when threads of desire work their way through him as if he were a needle with a big eye. Movies unreel in his head. What move can he make?

 

 From what was to be a delightful, cool evening, at 6 p.m. on the dot, thunder begins to rumble, lightning electrifies the sky.The expected dinner crowd melts, dissolves into a few stragglers who drip all over the clean floor. Joseph attends them, confers with the cooks, the waitresses, right before the electricity goes off. He brings candles to each table and with a bit of charm lights each one. Cooking ceases as ranges, ovens automatically shut down. While some of the specials remain hot, the waitresses bring dinners to the meager few, sit down themselves and enjoy their freebees. Maggie mumbles under her breath as she blames god for the poor timing of his raging too long storm.

 

By eight o'clock the candles have burned down to globs of melted wax. The few families ate, paid for their meals and surely struggled through the storm to get home. Street lights are out. Traffic is minimal. The waitresses they may leave if they wish, and they all wish. Joseph stays.
Maggie stays, has hundreds of things to take care of. Cash into the safe, dishes cleared, stacked with the remains of the few meals still clinging to the dinner plates. She will not use the tap during the electrical storm, stays away from the windows.

 

This is no big deal to Joseph. He is delighted to be alone with Maggie, lights a few candles as he builds up his courage to make a move. Words come slowly, discussions are short. The candlelight on her face is magic. He takes her hand, holds it gently across the table for two, waits a moment expecting her to draw it away from his grasp. She does not.

 

Rain still pummels the street, the roof. Flashes of lightning electrify her green eyes. Joseph looks up, silently thanks his god for this opportunity and for the delightful feast of dinner alone with Maggie.

They indulge themselves, don't think about the storm, are there when the sun rises. Maggie gets the kitchen cleaned up, ready for the cooks.

 

 

 

 

A gift

UGLY MUG

 

The three barber chairs are occupied. Tony opens the screen door and walks in. He plops down on the somewhat rickety shoe shine stand and before he can blink, Joe has his can of shoe polish and a rag, a brush,  ready for him. 'Whoa, Brother, not today. I'm just waitin' on Mickey.' Oh, yes, he'd like a shine but is too embarrassed to say he can't afford it. To Mickey, the owner of the shop and somewhat a friend of his, he asks him if it's okay to just stick around and read the new Gazette.  'I'm out of work again , Mick, and just need a little company this mornin'.'

 

Tony is serious but also knows Mick has a big heart and sits patiently waiting for his freebee cut. As soon as Mick's customer steps off the chair, he motions for Tony to sit down, have a steam treatment and a close haircut. His big twirling moustache always makes Tony giggle. The white, black striped protection cover is around Tony's neck in a second. Mike gives the chair one fast spin, turns to take the wet towel out of the steamer and he still yells, 'ouch' every time. Most customers try not to when their faces are shrouded in hot steam, but painful squeals escape.

 

The hot towel cools and Mickey strops his razor, lathers Tony's face without asking if he wants a shave. He can watch the magician in the big mirror. Blue, red, bottles of toiletries have silver hats and stand in rows on the shelves. They take Tony's mind off of his penury, his accepting again the kindness of Mick. Dozens of shaving mugs are on shelves, mugs of all colors, sizes, some with names. They always fascinate him. There is one in particular he has asked for but doesn't get. It was his grandfather's.

 

The haircut is perfect, the shave soothing. He even smiles as he is spun around in the chair. As he begins to again realize his position, all he can do is thank the small man whose heart is so big and moustache too long. Something seems missing.Tony looks again and again directly into Mike's face and realizes while his face was being steamed Mike must have shaved off his own moustache. He doesn't look like himself. Words blurt out. 'Why did you do that? Where is your moustache? I loved your silly moustache.'

 

Mike turns to the mugs, takes down two and explains. 'Tony,' he says. 'I've' never really liked my moustache. It's been a pain in my ass  and a nuisance so here is the ugliest mug on the shelves, mine. I won't need it any more and as long as I'm giving you mine, here's your grandfather's.

 

You look a lot like him, Boy.'

 

 

Crumbled cookies

WISHES

 

Wishes are for fools, probably the largest group of people on earth. Some call wishes, hopes, dreams, fantasies, but add them up and you will find a big fat zero. Believers in their value abound. They declare coincidence is non-existent and continue to rely on faith, gods of all kinds, luck, both good and bad. They are all bananas growing on the same bunch and I must be overseer of the farm.

 

Has there been a day in my life I have not uttered or merely thought 'I wish ...this, I wish... that? Right now I wish I could play the zither as the Third Man Theme lilts from my stereo. I never could, never will play the zither. Before that, I wished for a parking space close to the supermarket and that wish came true. The market was closed for Easter, giving me a pick of 1000 places. Was the Monkey's Paw working?

 

Underlying those wishes was my desire for calls from out-of-town, from a lady with whom I would like to become more friendly and responses from an ad I had placed. The phone sits beside me, quiet, ringless, unaware of my fading wishes. Did I not wish away my childish freckles only to get big, brown liver spots on my arms and hands?
Did I not hate my red hair, wanting it to be blond, and getting my wish right out of a bottle as the red turned to gray? What a busy monkey!

 

How many times did I wish to be invited to a prom or to get a great guy for my own? Those dreams washed away with so many high school dreams. I wished, I wished. I wished, 'oh, Husband mine, kiss me, tell me you love, surprise me with words not money.' No god above whispered in his ear but that is because I offered god no help. 'I wish you would get out of here. Leave me alone.' That was easy. I leave.

 

I wish all the wars would end. Peace should come.' That was hard. Nobody listens. The power of the masses doesn't work either. I am learning to be more careful as I wished he would lose a few pounds and he got cancer. My faith, my longing to make magic happen is gone yet—

 

I wish–I wish–I wish I could make my dreams come true