Passing time

BROTHER JOAN

 

The sky is a dismal gray, really leaking. Rain has been constant half the night and all day. Any desire I might have had to go grocery shopping or even just walk to my car has fallen flat. I sit by the front window getting gloomier and gloomier, knowing too well how stupid this is. Today's Saduko is too tough for me. I roll it into a tight ball and toss it towards the trash can under my desk. It falls way short and I don't care, let it lay there. A little voice whispers, 'Dust the dining room table or write your epitaph on it.' The idea does not appeal to me nor does watching the rain pour off of the roof, make rivulets thru the zoysia grass the Greenery laid out front just two weeks ago. Three hundred bucks are washing down the sewer.

 

Like the lawn, I am soggy too. By 7:30 I had finished my eight ounces of daily O.J., three bland cups of Starbuck's LA coffee, two six oz. glasses of tap water to get down my Valium, Aleve and calcium. The powder room is my temporary respite from ennui.

 

I jump up from my lounger when I realize the afghan I finished knitting just last week that warms my chilled legs has the pattern the wrong way. 'Self, fix it right.' Self tells me to jump in the lake and I sit staring at the rain. What's left? Read a book, call somebody, write a letter, go on line and search the damn web. Mildred doesn't answer her phone; Emails have stopped my letter writing and I have nothing important to send thru rainy space. What should I search for on the web? I saw enough on t.v. about Krakatoa last night to stop me from wanting more info than I need to know. It scared the bejeesus out of me.

 

Got to do something. Thaw the salmon, set the kitchen table, stew the tomatoes that are beginning to soften, open the peas. Figure out dessert. While I'm doing that I hear a truck, look out the window and barely make out the UPS truck pulling in as close to the garage as it can get without coming inside. The driver opens a big black umbrella and steps out. He's carrying what seems to be a light weight tan carton. I inch the front door open so he doesn't have to stand in the rain. The box is a little wet but I sign the received 'ok' slip and swoosh, I am alone again.

 

As I walk to the kitchen to get a knife or scissors to open the box, I snag my thumb fingernail on the tape and cuss. I am baffled. There is no return address on the label. Who sent this? Why? I slit the tape and bubble wrap is about all I can see. I toss it on the floor to get to the red tissue paper. That lands close to the bubble wrap. A big red velvet heart lies there, with a white card. The writing is in red making me think a woman wrote this. What man would be so snickitty? It says simply, 'I love you, even more than last night, if that is possible.' It is signed 'BROTHER JOAN.'

 

 Question marks swirl around my mind. This isn't Valentine's Day. I have no brother and if I did his name could not be Joan. I call UPS who informs me that since I don't have a tracking number they can give me no information. Now I have lots to do, make phone calls, file my damaged finger nail, get rid of the damp box and have a candy treat or two.

 

With the grey sky getting even grayer, evening finally sets in. John comes with it. I give him a quick hello and short kiss, wave the red and white card in his face, 'Look at this, John. What do you make of it?' He  laughs hysterically, slaps his knees in jubilation, 'I gotcha,' laughs hysterically, slaps his knees in jubilation.'I gotcha, really gotcha, didn't I? You needed mind medicine so I UPSed you some.

 

If you ate all the chocolate covered marshmallows, I'll give you a spanking like I never gave you before.' What's for supper?'

Chances are?

RANDY ANDY

 

Creamy soap is burning my eyes. My clean hair drips down my back. The lovely warm water chills before it reaches my toes. I open the shower door, pick up my favorite big towel and dry myself enough to reach my heavy white terry cloth robe that lies on top of the covered toilet seat. My terry slippers  await me. Ah, it feels so good, I breathe with contentment until a slight draft surprises me. I follow it to my bedroom. Out loud I say to myself, 'What the devil is this? How did my window get opened? I didn't do it!.' I'm scared, close it quickly, take a fast look around the room and see nothing out of order. I just don't understand how this can be. I step into my closet, take off my robe, get clean underwear from the shelf and dress right there. I'm afraid to go down stairs, embarrassed to call the police who will surely make fun of me, tell me I opened the window. I decide not to call them –yet.

 

Should I chance it, be my own investigator? It's morning. The sun is shining. What can happen to me? The N.J Bulletin is at my door as it is daily. There are no strange footprints on the living room carpet. Nothing is missing from my new G.E. refrigerator. I stop to have a large glass of tomato juice, spiked with pepper, two cups of Jasmine tea, a toasted croissant with a touch of strawberry preserves and am ready to joust with trouble.

 

Why I take my broom outside with me I don't know but without a gun maybe my broom will scare away whoever opened my window. Flo Feldman, my next door neighbor, is taking her recycle bin to the alley for pick-up. 'Hi, Flo!', I call. She waves and I motion for her to meet me at our fence. 'Flo, did you see any stranger near my house yesterday, probably in the morning?' 'No, why?' I explain and she tells me I must have left it open myself. No sense belaboring the point. Walking lightly I look at the ground outside my window and see two diagonal marks, possibly ladder marks, yes, ladder marks.  I and my broom go inside.

 

My coffee cannister needs refilling. The pantry looks normal until my eyes pop and I see the box of Oreos I bought last week has been tampered with. The top layer is empty. Mice are not neat so who ate my Oreos? I am just about ready to call the police when something drops on the bathroom tile. To a woman at 911 I explain and tell her I am getting out of the house PDQ. 'Send help.' I hurry to the curb, wait the longest five minutes of my life, and greet two officers in their black and white car. Foolishly I start to take them into my house but they, in unison, say 'Stay here.'  At my door I can see them take their guns from their holsters, slowly go inside.

 

It doesn't take long for them to bring out the interloper, Andy, a neighbor's young son, who can't be more than nine years old. One officer holds him by his ears. The handcuffs he had on slip off, drop on the sidewalk. Andy is crying. The shorter officer asks him what he was doing in my house. 'That is breaking and entering, you may go to jail.' He adds, 'Why did you go in Miss Gordon's house, open her window?' Andy's voice shakes. 'Talk, Kid or you're going to jail. Tell Miss Gordon what you told us, now!' Andy looks at me and mutters, 'I like to watch you take showers. You are the first naked lady I ever saw. You are very pretty. I ate your Oreos because you don't always lock your front door and I was hungry.. I won't do it any more, Miss Gordon, honest I won't.' The officers  walk him down the street, hand him over to his mother.

 

I can only imagine what was said but am concerned. Curious Randy Andy is young, so very young

Eddie isn't ready

PROFESSOR UNCLE

 

Mama is busy in the kitchen. Company is coming. As always, Mama plans on serving salmon croquettes for lunch. I watch her open three cans of Sockeye red salmon, drop them in her big yellow bowl that she uses when she has the urge, and time, to bake a cake. Four large potatoes are already boiling on the gas range. While they are getting soft, Mama mashes the salmon until all the little bones have been mixed in and the salmon is smooth. A dinner fork lets her know when the potatoes are ready. Her flour sifter is handy so she drains the potatoes, lets them cool a few minutes, mashes them and mashes them into the salmon until the glob looks to me like pinkish paste. Two eggs, salt, pepper, bread crumbs she bought at the A & P, go into the bowl and she is ready to form the croquettes in her hands. Mama won't let me help. What is left is frying them lightly in Crisco and voila, the basis for lunch will be ready when company comes all the way from Philadelphia.

 

We don't have a dining room so I help set the big round table in the kitchen. 'How many plates, Mama?'  'Let's guess three. Our family is five. Eight should be enough. I don't really know, Lottie. We can always add another place if we have to.' 'You sure made a lot of croquettes, Mama.' 'Better too much than not enough, Honey. We can eat what's left tomorrow.'

 

Our door bell rings at 10. I open the door for our company. Two men I never saw before are standing there. One is tall with yellowish skin and an unpressed suit. The other is bald as a billiard ball and has a huge smile on his face. He's Eddie, my mother's uncle. The yellow one is Meyer. Both are my great-uncles. In a clean wrap-around dress Mama invites them in. They have no suitcases but Eddie holds a heavy cloth shopping bag in his left hand. It looks to me like it holds a treasure or some presents.

 

We all go into the living room to wait for Dad who has the afternoon off to meet Mama's family. I am bored listening to stories of when my mother was little, growing up in Philadelphia. Eddie has to go to the toilet and takes his heavy shopping bag with him. 'Eddie, my mother says,' 'leave that here. I'm not going to steal it.' His answer surprises her and me too. 'You would if I let you. You'd be rich and known all over the world.' 'Cut out the nonsense, Uncle Eddie. What have you got in there?' He pretends he doesn't hear her and goes upstairs to the bathroom. Mama starts in on Meyer, 'What's Eddie got in that bag, Uncle Meyer?' He won't say until Eddie gives the okay and that won't be until maybe tonight, after he sees Dr. Mason, head of the Cancer unit at Johns Hopkins. He said we may have to stay overnight. Don't worry about us. We'll go to a rooming house on Broadway, right across the street from the hospital.' Mama tells me to go outside and play. Uncle Eddie may want to speak privately to her. I go.

 

Daddy comes home for lunch and finds me sitting on the front step. 'Are your uncles here?' he asks and I tell him I was chased out so they can talk to Mama. I think Uncle Eddie has cancer and is going to die soon, Daddy.' He takes my hand and says, 'Come on, let's go have lunch.'
The house smells good. The croquettes are warm on the table. Mama has canned peas mixed with corn in a serving bowl, real red sliced tomatoes sitting on crispy lettuce, a basket of saltine crackers and a giant size bottle of Heinz ketchup and a smaller one of mustard waiting for us. Coffee is ready. I get chocolate milk, eat three whole croquettes, save my apple pie for later.

 

When the table is cleared away, Uncle Eddie suggests I go out to be with a friend while he, Meyer and my parents talk. Perfect, I think and skedaddle, come back in thru the cellar and listen in to what Uncle Eddie has to say, find out when he will die.

 

Uncle Eddie has a big jar, a really big jar in his bag. He has invented a sure cure for cancer and wants to get a lot of money for it but first has to give Dr. Mason all the names and figures he has saved for three years of people who had cancer who took his medicine and all are still living. I can tell my parents are excited as they talk real fast. 'What's in it, Eddie? Can we put money into your invention if Dr. Mason says he will give it a try?' 'We'll see, Lou. It won't be overnight. Meyer and I have an appointment with the doctor at three and it is a long street car ride to Hopkins. Doctors are never on time. I'll sit there until the moon turns purple if I have to.' I'll call you after we talk.'

 

'Thanks for the croquette lunch, Mildred. Everything was delicious.' Uncle Eddie almost falls on me when he opens the door. He gives me a quarter, smiles his big smile and tells me not to spend it all in one place. I go to the streetcar line and wait with them, wave goodbye.

 

I am already in my night gown when the phone rings at about eight o'clock. Mama sounds like she is crying. Daddy takes the phone and listens to Uncle Eddie's report of his meeting with Dr. Mason. He repeats it to Mama–and me. Dr. Mason asked him what was in the mixture, what new chemicals he had mixed, who his 'patients were', what proof did he have that they ever had cancer.

 

Dr. Mason opened the big jar of medicine Uncle Eddie brought from Philadelphia, tasted it, laughed wildly and poured Eddie's mess down the laboratory sink and had the guts to tell Eddie to go home and make mud pies.

 

Poor Uncle Eddie has to sleep across the street from Johns Hopkins with my Uncle Meyer and start his experiments again when he returns to Philadelphia.

The Dancer

OPENING UP

 

Between 7:30 and 7:50 p.m. ten strangers walk up the black metal stairs to Darla's Dance Studio. I am one of them. I am filled with trepidations and determination. Darla's name jumped out to me in the Yellow pages as it sounded somewhat euphoric, was within a ten minute ride from my small apartment and the price fit my wallet. Above all is my need to meet new people, circulate, make friends, have some fun.

 

Red and blue lights shine from the second story windows. I can see a swaying shadow, then another, make out two women dancing together. My shoes clank on the iron steps. The door opens easily but is caught by the wind and bangs loudly as it hits the back wall. Cha Cha music blares from a disc player. Quickly I count five women and Darla. She cannot be missed. By far she is the most attractive. Her ruffled black skirt splits almost to her crotch. The top is tight and well-rounded. She approaches me, gives me a big, wide smile and I can't help but notice two upper gold teeth centrally placed. They remove any exciting thoughts I had for too short a time.

 

Until 7:55 I am the only male. By chance the five male strangers arrive at the same time. Darla hurries them in, checks off their names on a yellow pad and makes quick introductions. The Cha Cha disc repeats itself. Darla's head, her body pulsates to its rhythm. She moves to the middle of the floor and beats her hands to the Cha Cha chachacha music. As she pairs us off, my feet turn to cement. My partner is about two inches taller than a midget. I am 6'2". Already my confidence in Darla has disappeared.

 

My head swirls wondering why these ladies are taking dance lessons. They dance as if they were born to be lithe, willowy, feel passion, music. The men, including me, are all klutzes, clumsy, wooden. Our teacher motions for us to change partners. I laugh at us men who stand rigid while the ladies make the decisions. My midget moves, grabs Jerry. He knows the basic step, but looks clumsy. Darla stops everyone except the midget and Jerry who give us a demonstration.

 

We do the same cha cha chachacha for an hour. New muscles begin to ache. I'm not sure about the rest of the men but I am certainly a little better than I was before this one class. I am singled out as I am always one beat ahead or behind the beat. Darla changes the disc, same pace but much louder. She puts her arm out, signals me to come in close. Who am I to deny myself such pleasure? I move close to that smooth, luscious body. The two gold teeth turn me off. Her rhythm leads me. I feel her moves that pulsate thru my loins.

 

Sensually she moves, breathes deeply. I hold her tighter and forget the gold teeth.

Look out!

BLUE BLACKBIRDS

 

Ma is making her great beef stew. I can smell it from my loft in our big house. Pop gave me my choice of sleep space when we first decided to leave the busy city, ten years ago. He sorta made up his mind in a hurry to be a farmer, till the soil, for ever and ever. He paid cash and dug right into the rich healthy soil. Mr. McCall, the real estate man,  had sold us all on the move and things and life got better than ever. In just one season we had tall green sugar corn that had us singing, laughing, that it was as high as an elephant's eye. Ma corrected us, 'as high as a baby elephant's eye.' There was plenty of corn to shuck, boil, eat and sell.

 

Together we made a huge strawberry patch that thrived well before summer was done and have juicy pies all summer with a few left over in the freezer. Peach trees, Pop and I labored and got forty eight planted in two weeks. In four weeks the delicate limbs were sprouting leaves, then the tiniest of peaches. Mom and I believed Pop had his calling from god and god gave him a special blessing.

 

What a breakfast we had this morning! Mom bought a big bag of fresh oranges at the super market, squeezed each into my grandma's big tin pitcher. That gave Pop the idea of having orange orchards but that would have to wait until we moved to Florida, which we had no idea of doing. Anyhow, Mom made pancakes for us, almost as thin as french crepes. Maple syrup from Maine drowned them. Purple blueberries swam around. We three talked, told stories, exaggerated, had a perfect morning.

 

Pop went outside to read the paper, smoke his meerschaum and then walk a mile or two. He came back, looking a bit worn out, and relaxed on the screened in porch. I always have things to do and rush to the loft to read science fiction stories, I hear the screen door open and close. Something is bothering Pop. I wait–give him a chance to tell us what is wrong. He taps the dregs of his pipe on his shoe, stares at the blue sky. I look slowly, carefully, see only the blue and a few feathery white clouds. He comes inside, to the kitchen table. Ma is rolling pastry dough fo the Christmas treats she gives to kids and the church Christmas time. She freezes balls of it so the hard work is done in advance.

 

The only sound in the room is her rolling pin going back and forth and her breathing that is a bit harder than usual. Pop's silence creates a strange eeriness in the room. 'What's wrong, Pop?' I ask. He doesn't answer but rises, opens the window as far as it will go and leans out to scan the sky. For a second I see his eyes close. He opens them. With desperation he points, 'Look, look, don't you see that thin black line on the horizon?' We see a line that enlarges even as he speaks. It moves quickly. The sky is black in all directions. Pop slams the window shut and tells us to go with him to the cellar. He drags Ma. I refuse to go.

 

A noise, a loud, loud noise, flies above our house. The cawing and cackling is deafening. Thousands of black birds, ravens or crows, I can't tell which, have turned our sunny day into midnite. As fast as they appeared, that's how quickly they were gone.

 

Our strawberries are speckled with white stuff. The peach trees are laden down with it. Pop, Mom and I will have a lot of watering to do to clean up. We go on the porch and are grateful those dirty birds have left.

 

As the sky lightens, its blueness dazzles us. Flocks of blue birds fly and chirp away. They sound like music. I re-set the water timer to start at once. Ma goes back to rolling her dough and Pop gets the phone book and starts looking for a list of agents who can sell our house. He wants to move to Florida.

Semi-conversion

FRANK AND STEIN

 

Let me be frank with you. Most likely I'm the frankest Frank you've ever known. I haven't always been this way but now I am letting it all hang out. I can't stand Stein any more. My not liking him goes way back  to forever ago when we lived on the same block of brick row houses in Hagerstown. He was a goof then and still is.

 

My parents knew that Stein and I didn't get along, argued all the time about everything. We both refused to be on the same baseball team at our cocky-locky playground. Stein was different from all of us. He couldn't eat ham or bacon, ride or go to the movies on Saturdays. His father refused to buy him even a small Christmas tree. My dad worked on me, tried to explain Stein's craziness because he was different from  all of us. He was Jewish. I remember clearly telling him that Stein should move someplace else, be with more Jewish people, not mess up our fun. Boy, my Dad shut me up fast with just a dirty look and mean words. 'They are living where they want to live, and can in America, so don't be a smart aleck!' After that I stopped telling my dad the dumb things Stein did. By the way, I haven't mentioned Stein's name. I didn't know it until I was twelve. Shmuel (two syllables). What kind of name was that?

 

When my folks gave me a tenth birthday party. I had to invite Stein or there would be no party, no barbecue. And, now that I am so frank, I was glad when Stein told me he couldn't come because he had to go to Saturday services at shule with his father. I knew that word. It was something like our church but different, real different.

 

Good neighbors, the Carter family, were moving away and the new family, named Myerson, was moving in. I was among the watchers as furniture was lifted on ropes up to the second floor window and pulled inside by hands I couldn't see. Shmuel and his parents were watching too. I saw the Meyerson's daughter and that was better than the boxes, the mops, the ironing board that went past me. She had dark brown hair, so dark at first I thought it was black. And her skin reminded me of the sweet cream I put on my Quaker Oats. The Steins walked over to talk to the Meyerson's, welcome them to their new home. They all hugged each other except Shmuel,  who just shook hands with the pretty girl.

 

It didn't take long before the Braxtons, the Landers, the Dawsons moved out and the Schloss's, the Bergdorfs, the Goodmans moved in. Everything was changing. Before I went to college I had learned to love gefilte fish with red horseradish. The first time I tried the red stuff, I thought for sure I had burned the inside of my nose. It ran all day. In the summer, when doors and windows opened wide, the smells that came out made my stomach growl. Schnecken, briskets, cakes and pies were like perfume from heaven. Almost every week a Jewish neighbor invited me to dinner. When my smart dad passed on, our house was full of neighbors, bringing in enough food for Coxy's army. They coddled my Mom, understood her sorrow. Our church was full of friends wearing yarmulkas. Oh, yes, there were tears, many of them running down the faces of other widows who had been in my mom's shoes.

 

I am going to be frank again. I fell in love with a shikseh once, but not madly enough. A Jewish girl is what my life, my world needs. I'm still living with my mom in the same house we shared with my dad. I'll be frank and tell you a secret.

 

Now we are the only non-Jews in a three block radius. I have a tiny fake Christmas tree back in the den and a big menorah in our front window for Chanukuh no matter if it comes early or late that year.

MEOW!

CAT PARTY

 

I shall never understand, be able to figure out, how my precious, pedigreed, white Persian cat met Prince Gozo, a Maltese cat, and gifted me with five orange Maltese kittens, 4 males,  and one scraggly white female Persian. Arana, my precious, afforded me no hint of what was coming. Her soft fur, plump body, seemed normal to me. During her daily brushing, she purred with pleasure. After her healthy breakfast served in a most special cut glass bowl, any slight change in her belly had to be due to over-feeding. I cut back a tad on her favorite meal, PurrFect Cat Food.

 

After a short nap, routinely, Arana climbed her scratch pole. It was designed special for her in a soft blue fabric like the sky on an ideal morning in May. Many times I've found her sitting on top of the pole a lookout on a pirate ship. Her yellow eyes survey the kitchen , the refrigerator door. She can lap up a full cup of milk faster than I can pour a cup of coffee. I settle down to watch her toy with her toys.

 

Prince Gozo had been scratching at my locked kitchen door, ruining the brown stain. Finally I had to speak to Senor Aiden who lives around the corner from my house. I rang the front doorbell.  'Senor, your cat is ruining my back door. He has scratched off most of the shellac and he disturbs my Persian cat, Arani, who does not go out into the street, into gardens that clearly are out of her area. I would appreciate your cooperation by keeping him indoors or accompanying him when he needs a long walk. With your cooperation, I won't bother you about the cost of repairing my door.' I leave him agape.

 

A week after my spitting tongue had done its work, I found Arana birthing the kits. I almost fainted dead away. The kitchen was a mess. Tiny, tiny kittens were not washed clean yet. I was in a whirl, not ever had I experienced one birth and there in front of me were four, then five, then six really scrawny looking baby cats. Arana began licking them clean, laid down and let them try to nurse but it was too soon. I called Dr. Applebee, Arana's vet, to find out what to do but couldn't handle it. I called him again and had him come over. He wanted one of the kits as a gift for a niece and selected the one Persian. I refused but gave him a choice of one or two Maltese. Thank heavens he took two. I left Arana caring for her kits and I went to see Senor Alden again. He was almost as shocked as I. In his Spanish accent he agreed to take the remaining 2 Maltese off my hands. I kept the white tainted one and one Maltese, so Arana will have a playmate before long.

 

Arana pined for the missing kittens, barely ate, stayed off her scratch pole. She took good care of her own blood, the white Persian, who was soon able to stand. I bottle fed the Maltese. She did not compare in beauty to my Persian pet but was so cute, he stayed .

 

I was ready to call an exterminator when I found mouse dirt in my pantry. In all the years I've kept house no such intruder ever dared to come inside. I knew, knew for certain, this was not outside dirt. There was a mouse in my house. I could not put out mouse poison or a trap, possibly catch one of my wonderful cats.

 

At 2 a.m. on a Friday the 13th there was a lot of noise in my kitchen. For a moment I was going to call 911 but then I heard meowing, lots of meowing, ran downstairs to the kitchen and my entire cat family was running in circles with the mouse in the lead. Once I saw Arana grab the mouse's tail and let it go. I sprinkled grated cheese on the floor and the cats had a party.

 

So did I.

 

 

Perfect Blendship

EMPTY CHAIRS

 

Lyle and I are lovers, comfortably entangled in a spider's web of adoration, pleasure, from which we don't want to escape, not ever. Life is treating us well. He's a successful accountant and I am involved in raising funds for the American Heart Assn. Sometimes I think my work is tougher than Lyle's. There are never enough volunteers, too many people 'already gave' but when I can wangle ten bucks, a thousand bucks from the reticent, my heart feels happy.

 

I'm good at a lot of things besides loving and fund raising. If I say so myself, and I do, I'm a darn good cook. Lyle loves weekends when I wear my white chef's hat and apron that has big pockets and ties in the back. He also likes to watch me 'potchke' in the kitchen, never knowing for sure what I am making, how it will turn out. It won't matter because Lyle will devour it, wipe any gravy that remains on his plate with the heel of the fresh bread I have baked. Before serving us our demitasse au lait and chocolate mousse in the den, I take only enough time to put left overs in the fridge. Then I go to sit very close to him on the sofa. We let the coffee get cold while we get warm and have our dessert upstairs. Morning will be time enough to rinse the plates, fill the dishwasher

 

Tuesdays and Thursdays we give up our exclusivity and go out with  Milt and Millie, Sam and Bertha. We each have a favorite dinner spot, don't muck around looking for new ones. Chez Cinque has wonderful, reasonable wines, always crisp salads and steaming hot bouillon. Their fresh fish au noir draws us like humming birds to honeysuckles. We eat, overeat, drink a bit more wine than we should, sit and let it wear off so no drunkard drives. Letting our friends into our web was a good deal for all of us as they recognize the specialness between Lyle and me and never overstay their welcome.

 

The night of the big snowstorm, December 10, 2009, is a disaster. We know it is coming but don't believe it.  Milt and Millie pick up Sam and Bertha. Lyle and I drive alone. Ooops, I mean 'slide' alone. Only six idiots are out in this mess. Lyle skids into a pile of shoveled snow and we are stuck. The wheels smoke in their effort to pull out. We have no shovel, nothing but our hands and they don't make a dent in the packed snow. A plow passes, makes no attempt to ease our predicament and disappears. We lock the car and start to walk, a distance Lyle believes to me about six blocks. I'm wearing black platform suede shoes which give my freezing toes no heat at all. The wind is blowing wildly, bowing the bare trees almost to the ground. Lyle wants to give me his warm jacket which would leave him in shirt sleeves. I don't accept his offer.

 

We huddle together as close as we can, hug the walls of the few dark shops.  'Lyle, Lyle, there it is, ' Tom's Ribbery.' We each take slow easy breaths, reach the front door and see that the inside lights are very low. A few candles are lit in raffia wrapped empty wine bottles. The door is unlocked.  Applause breaks the stillness when we enter. None of the tables have cloths. Long-faced Tom is sitting at the only occupied table, between Milt and Sam. They recognize the frozen us, we feel the warmth of their bodies and plop down in the two empty seats.
No complaints.

 

We sit there and are grateful, eternally grateful, to our faithful dear friends who are now permanent members of our web site.

 

 

 

 

So what? Sue!

BLAME MAME

 

'I did not!' 'You did, too!' Joanie scratches me and I kick her ankle. 'Stop it, Mamie. That hurt.' We're good friends but don't like each other. We're always fighting about something. Today she extra spilled her sassparilla soda on my new skirt. My mother is going to be furious, probably make me wash and iron it even though she knows I am not a good ironer. I can feel the cold soda go through to my petticoat and guess I'll have to wash that too. 'Ma,' I start to tell her what happened and she shuts me up. 'Don't tell me you spilled something on your own skirt. I know who did it, your friend Mamie. Right?' 'No, Ma, I accidentally bumped into her and her sassparilla. She wants me to pay for it. Do I have to buy her another soda? It cost her 25 cents.'

 

My mother knows a lot of rules. 'No, Joanie darling, not if she purposely spilled her drink on you. But now think about it, why would she do that? I bet her hand slipped or somebody pushed her.' 'Ma, nobody was there except me.' Putting her hand in her apron pocket, she hands me a quarter and tells me to find a new friend. 'I'll wash and iron your skirt for you.' What a nice surprise that is. Quick before my mother takes back the quarter, I drop my skirt on the floor, add my petticoat and run upstairs in my panties.

 

For a few days I do my best to avoid Mamie but feel her hiding behind a tree or in the vestibule of the project house where she, her 2 brothers and parents live. The quarter Ma gave me for Mamie is wrapped in a handkerchief and tied around my wrist for when I see her someplace. A loud 'BOO' scares me. I jump. Mamie is right behind me. Before she has a chance to ask for the twenty five cents, I show it to her in my handkerchief. Like an octopus grabbing a big fish for breakfast, she pulls it out of my hand and puts both things in her pants pocket. I beg her to give the handkerchief back because my aunt Lil gave it to me with a dollar wrapped in it for my birthday. 'It's mine,' I cry. Mamie ignores me.

 

'Let's go to the playground, Joanie. It won't be crowded yet. I'll push you on the swings first. Then you push me.' Why not, I think. Laughing, singing, we hop, skip and jump all the way. The sliding board is wet so she takes my hand and walks me to the seesaw. Mamie weighs about ten pounds more than I do so I refuse to get on with her. Once she held me in the air for a long time, jumped off and let me crash to the hard dirt. My knee was bruised and my wrist hurt so bad, Ma had to use ice on and off it for the entire day. She told me again to stay away from Mamie.'She's nasty, Joanie.' I do for an entire week.

 

Mamie rings my doorbell the next Saturday and asks me to come outside to play cards. She has a new deck. 'Let's play war.' My mom comes in from the kitchen and suggests we play in our living room. 'Girls, it's too windy outside, Your cards will blow away.' Mama brings us each a glass of chocolate milk and goes into the pantry to re-arrange the cans alphabetically, fill in empty spots.

 

I win the first game of War, and the second. Mamie isn't happy and quits. She asks me if we can play in our cellar. I go in the pantry to ask Ma. There is no smile only stern words.' Don't go near Daddy's tools, the furnace, the washing machine, dryer. "What should we play, Mamie?' I ask. Mamie stands up straight, walks around and suggests we are builders and are making this house. We will need a pretend hammer, saw. We can use the white paint cans that your Dad must be finished with by now. 'Mamie, just don't break anything. Don't go near Dad's things!' She makes me the carpenter and she will be the painter. We are good builders and make out we have reached the second floor.
I go to the top of the cellar stairs and tell her to send up the panels for the wall. I hear a loud noise, a crash, almost jump down the steps.

 

Mamie is sitting in the middle of the cellar. White paint is in her hair, on her clothes, on the floor. Ma hears my screams and comes running down the stairs.

 

Mamie is hysterical. 'Mrs.  Collins, my mother and father are going to sue you. That can fell off the top of the pile of paint, opened by itself, and spilled on me and the floor.' My mother sends her out the back door, doesn't even give her any turpentine and tells her to tell her mother not to sue us.

 

Daddy contacts his lawyer. The case will be heard before Christmas.
Mamie and I no longer are friends.

 

 

Which way ?

WHICH WITCH?

 

I'm a bored, somewhat wimpy person who can well use a new interest, a little excitement in my life. My favorite T.V. show is the History channel. I am always learning new things from it. Just last Tuesday there was a full hour of the history of witches, warlocks, covens and how they came to be, and where they are now.

 

Google offered me scads of info. Several groups exist close to where I live in Salem, the perfect place to begin. Emails fly from me to Cass Ket, as the main witch likes to be called. Her coven meets in secret in a secluded cove, complete with a dry cave. Cass will meet me at the fountain in Walden's Mall 7 p.m. Sat. September 10. The meeting itself is thirty minutes away and she will get me there. Inside of me I wonder if we go by broomstick. My new friendly witch will be wearing all black, a large velvet hat with a red rose so I will recognize her. I should also wear all black and a hat with a red silk rose. I don't have one but Walden's does.

 

My god, is she ugly. Cass Ket has a really big wart on the tip of her nose. I can only imagine how bony, skinny she must be under her coarse witch's robe that barely touches the ground. Pointed shoes elongate what seems to be a size much larger than most shoe stores carry in stock. And her voice scratches, cackles like a bad electric connection. Yet, I have already learned that Cass has been president of Witches and Bitches, Inc. for two consecutive years.

 

No broomstick. A limo with a driver, also outfitted in black, awaits us as we exit the mall 's back entrance. The half hour drive to the meeting is taken in almost total silence. Cass leads me over sea shells, large pebbles to the cave. A little past the entrance I can see figures in white robes holding lit torches. Hoping my slight fright doesn't show I enter behind Cass. There is applause and bowing to her and a quizzical look on some faces as they see me. I take a deep breath and surely turn white when I see a body lying on a large elevated stone bed. Both the white and black dressed members hum, kneel and pray. The body moves. A pretty young girl, about 25 I guess, sits up and looking straight at me, orders all who did not pray to be lashed. Cass saves me, orders her to not give orders. She is a lowly, mean, nasty witch and will soon be excommunicated.

 

This befuddles me. Cass, the Black witch is the Good Witch? The woman in white is the Bad Witch? It isn't necessary for me to speak, and I couldn't if I were called on. Chains clank. Torches light the outside darkness. Dragging feet come closer and closer. There is much excitement in the cave. The Warlocks enter wearing halos made of briars. Recorded music plays softly. Cass opens the awkward dancing to the first Warlock. The other witches take their choice and soon all have partners, all except me.

 

I am a lowly guest. I remove the red rose from my hat and before me stand two warlocks dressed in white. They argue in a strange tongue, come to the conclusion neither wants to dance with me. Slowly I inch my way to the cave's exit, wait an eternity for Cass to take me back to Walton's where my car waits.

 

It is already Monday and the History channel will be on at 7 p.m. I'll check it out to find something else to stir my innards. This one was exciting but I have had it with witches. Maybe History will do fairies.

 

If so, I will try it.

It's time to speak up

DEAR  EDITOR:

 

Mr. Russell,

 

It is okay with me if you get upset because I get upset too, about a lot of things...one is YOU and too many other editors of quickly dying newspapers. Yours, The Dallas Star, should have passed away long ago.
You have been a careless editor, not checking facts in your rush to beat the New Orleans Speed to publication.

 

Case in point: Last Friday your headline, meaning to gain readers fast, got me and too many others with your simple big, blast of nothing. The story was NOT 'once upon a time.' It happened at least five times in one week.

 

Case in point: There was no 'goose drinking wine' I checked Snopes and it was a swan having a Coke, floating beside her eternal mate, enjoying her drifting and you turned her into a drunk. Shame on you. On page two you had Pete, a gibbon from Venezuela, chewing tobacco. He was not. He was chewing a piece of Wrigley's spearmint gum, enjoying himself when you wrote he had cancer due to his ugly tobacco habit.

 

Page 3, after the gibbon goof-off, you mentioned the San Francisco trolley broke down at the turnaround. It did not. The trolley needed cleaning, a new seat here and there. Are you taking notes, Mr. Russell?

 

And tell me, who told you (and you printed without checking) that a monkey choked. That little monkey had a cold and coughed. He did die of pneumonia and you didn't bother to mention he was to be buried in the Gettysburg National Cemetery. I checked and very few people attended.

 

The piece de resistance just the week of July 2 thru the 9th was why you were negligent going to your opthamologist for a check up? The boat was yellow, not green and its sails did not open quickly. It never got to heaven at all.

 

So, there you are, sitting in your big editorial office, waiting to be jobless soon. I must add I will be sorry to lose your paper as well as all the others who are about ready to throw in the towel, but then a gain, think about the good you will be doing.

 

Millions of trees are going to thrive and grow tall, beautiful. They will have time to let their seeds re-plant themselves and before we former readers have time to be blue, our land will be green again.

 

UNTRULY Yours,
John Frazier, Esq.
2214 Hazel Rd.
Dallas, TX 34275

Little Me

SHOW TIME

 

I'm scared to be 'It.' I get mixed up counting to ten, can't run fast. I'm only five. Mama gives all the kids Walnettos so they will let me play. 'But, Mama, they are all bigger than I am. I can never catch anyone.' She gives me a push towards the green mailbox on the corner that is home base. 'Cover your eyes and count. I have ironing to do.' Under my breath, I say, 'I hate you, Mama. I hate you.'

 

Shirley runs like lightning, touches the mailbox and me and yells for everybody to hear, 'In free.' Beverly and Alice, everybody runs in free and I have to be 'It' again. This time I count faster, '1,2,3,4,5, 6,7- skip 8 and 9, yell 'TEN, here I come, ready or not.' Slowly I walk to the corner A & P, look in their vestibule and see only myself in the glass door and hurry back to base. Everybody but Maggie is in free. I quit and go home to sprinkle clothes for Mama to iron.

 

On my little white wooden table that has fold down legs, I put the tin dishes my sister, Razel, gave me for my fifth birthday. Peggy, my best baby doll has lunch with me. I talk, she listens. Mama's ironing is done.

 

'Adele, it's nap time,' she tells me. I answer fast. 'But, Mama, I'm too big to take a nap. I'm already five.' Her ears don't hear me. 'Take off your shoes and sox and get in bed.' 'That's not enough, Mama.' She tells me to do what I want. I want to take my play clothes off, be naked and just be covered with a sheet and big, pink blanket. The house is very quiet. Fairies dance in my dreams. A princess gives me a magic wand. They all disappear when Mama wakes me up and hands me a big red apple. 'It's healthy, eat it, Adele. Then get dressed. Your friends are already outside. They are going to play Charades today.' I start to cry a little. 'Mama, I don't know that game. The kids are not my friends. They call me 'Baby, Baby, Mama's Little Baby.' She surprises me, gives me a hug and admits that's what I am, her Little Baby.' I take a bite of the apple. It's red, sweet and juicy. I take another bite. 'Mama, Mama, come quick,'  I call.  'My apple's bleeding.' Mama gets very excited. Where is your loose tooth?' I didn't know but offered, 'Maybe I swallowed it.' We get down on our knees and search the floor, under the bed, can't find it. Mama tells me not to worry, it will come out the other end by itself. She takes what is left of my delicious apple and throws it in the kitchen garbage pail when I go in for my bath.

 

The tub is big, has legs that look like lion's paws. I don't fill it high because I'm not dirty and Mama has told me I can drown in there. 'Mama, I'm done. Can I wear my clean yellow dress?' 'Yes, you may.' she calls from the basement. 'Just play games on the steps. No running.'

 

Outside I try not to talk a lot. My missing baby tooth leaves an ugly hole in my mouth. Lucky I don't have to be 'Out' and try to do the Charade words. Everybody joins in except me. I sit still, my hands folded on my lap and say nothing. Finally the game is over. The boys go in one direction, the girls in the other and I am left sitting by myself
on the gray granite steps. My shoe is untied so I practice tying it over and over.

 

The boys come back together, look at me sitting by myself and laugh. They make me feel bad. They walk past me and laugh again. The third time they stop and sing to me. 'Shoo shaw shame, Shoo shaw shame. Adele isn't wearing underpants. We can see what she has.'  Then they all run away, so fast, I could never catch one if I tried. Mama must have heard them. She comes storming out the front door, grabs me by the ears and pulls me into our house.

 

I get a whippin' from Mama and a long, long talk from my Daddy. He  calls it 'a lecture'

 

All I can say is ' Mama, Daddy. I just forgot. I'm only five.'

Time moves forward

CHESTER'S FIELD

 

Chester liked the sound of her voice. He imagined its softness, its lilt, touching his ear. How he longed to feel her lying beside him, his taking her clothes off little by little. Hurrying would spoil the moment, the future. He stood on his toes, tried to peep in the window but regretted his childish action, turned and walked home.

 

The sun was playing tag with scudding gray clouds. The wind was picking up. Nancy McPherson was out on the small plot of land her father had left her. Red Delicious apples were starting to fall off the trees. She had to pick them up, put them in baskets before they rotted on the ground. Chester waved to her but she didn't wave back. His last glance at her was a godsend. He tripped on a broken branch. Laying on the sidewalk he yelled loud enough for Nancy to hear him, 'Damn, damn.' Nancy didn't turn his way as the wind must have carried it east. Her head down, eyes on the apples and the three steps into her house, she was gobbled up in October's beginning.

 

Chester inherited the  large, empty, lonely house when his Dad passed a year ago. His Mom had re-decorated it from attic to club room just 10 years ago. Never did Mr. Field Sr.  think his wife would be run over by a tractor, squashed to blood and guts. He pined for her, pined himself into just about starving  to death. When his Dad told Chester Dr. Coolahan found the reason he wasn't eating was because he had the fourth stage of stomach cancer, he refused surgery, refused chemo and just wanted to go meet his wife wherever she was. Chester goes to church almost every Sunday, has been sitting alone in the last row talking to his parents for close to two years and can't stand the lonli-ness, the quiet, much longer.

 

Nancy looked prettier and prettier to him every single day. At night she may become an angel wearing a diaphanous silver dress. Her hair is long, yellow as fresh shucked corn. Dr. Coolahan gave him a single shot of testosterone three weeks in a row. Chester's mind, his body woke up. He went to call on Nancy in the way his folks used to call 'courtin'. Boldly for him, he picked violets for her, deep, grape luscious violets, cut a hole in one of his mother's paper doilies and tied a pink satin ribbon around the stems. The new man  wore a new navy blue blazer with well-fitted grey trousers, knocked on Nancy's door. Nancy knew why he came to see her. His feelings were quite visible.

 

It took an entire month before Chester felt her softness beside him. Had her whisper in his ear. The little plot of land she had for her apple trees is now a field of wheat.

 

Chester does not allow her to go near the tractor.

Peter Pan's relative

WONDER WANDERER

 

The Stanford River is not much of a river. It's more like a creek except when the rains come every spring. That's when the ripples over rocks become torrents, tear the sawgrass from their banks. The water swells to within yards of abandoned farm houses.

 

I'm not a meteorologist, didn't have to be, to know what was on the brink of happening. The brilliant orange sun began to look dirty. Night fell faster than usual. Although it is rare, I get a stroke of luck, when a strong wind forces me into an empty, dilapidated barn. The rusty barn lock isn't even closed. A few signs of the previous owner are scattered around the floor, in corners where the wind whistles thru rotting boards.

 

Fortunately, when I trip on a rusty pitchfork, I don't take my eyes out. There is a bent shovel that, if I had a hammer, I might be able to straighten out. But I don't. An empty tin can smells like gasoline. In what was a pile of straw that is now in small piles in corners, beds of spiders have spun their webs, catching insects I have not seen before.
I take possession of my new, hopefully temporary, home.

 

My few clothes and needs are in my army sack. I have a clean,  sharp can opener for my Heinz baked beans, tomato soup, sardines, paper cups, a small thermos that is just about empty. I have a scissors to trim my slow-growing beard now and then, packets of soap, a flashlight, band aids and a long walk to my destination.

 

My biggest concern hits me like a ton of bricks. Is the river water safe to drink? There is no one to ask so I take a cup and walk to it, try one sip and don't die. I fill my canteen and hope for the best, return to the farmhouse. Before darkness knocks me out, scares me, I manage to dig a hole outside and a big one in my palm as I need a toilet someplace. Everything aches, my bones, my head. My stomach growls. The unheated soup is foul but no sense complaining to myself. Through the glassless window, lightning flashes wildly, laterally instead of the normal perpendicular. It must be an omen. I curl up in a ball, praying to anyone who might be listening, 'Turn off the lightning, God, my flashlight is good enough.' He drops a clap of thunder on me. Either the earth is shaking or I am going to pee in my pants.

 

If I am here, and if the sun rises in the east when I wake, I will get the devil out of this place that I thought would be my haven and return to where I belong, with my family, in an air conditioned house, with great meals, clean clothes, a  few birthday dollars in my pocket.

 

I just grew up.

Shivers

ALERT

 

As usual, I have to walk six blocks from my bus stop to my apartment. In spring, it is still daylight, holding its breath as darkness strikes. My route is blessed with beautiful, healthy maple trees planted about twenty feet apart. They stand on a plot of grass between the cement pavement and the gutters. Their branches reach out, touch each other, make a rain canopy for me. The sweet fragrance of lilacs mingles with spicy Italian dinners that escape to the street thru partly opened windows. It's such a lovely route that it is often the highlight of my entire day.

 

Although I seldom am out in blustery, snowy weather, when I have to be, I know the pavements will have been shoveled clean, as soon as  the storm has stopped. In fall the colorful maple leaves drop from their branches, fly in little twirling whirlpools, and are raked up by the residents, bagged, and left at the curb for pick-up twice a week.

 

In spite of all of this, I am careful, wary, keep my purse against my breast, mace in my pocket, and a whistle on a lanyard I made back in my Girl Scout days. It feels secure around my neck. While I don't like it, my cell phone is in my purse, not really handy. I've taken a few Tai Quoin Do classes and feel as assured of my safety as possible. Yet, somewhere in my mind I let fear creep in when I walk alone.

 

And tonight is the night I hear them, footsteps behind me, male footsteps that are duplicating my rhythm, not coming closer nor falling behind. I stop suddenly, turn quickly to confront the follower. No one is there. My heart pounds. I feel a bit wobbly. Something brushes my arm. Instant movies reel out in my brain. I am going to be raped, killed. A maple branch rises as its heavy load of crinkled leaves falls all over me. Nevertheless, I sweat on this cool evening.

 

The steps behind me kick up the leaves, make them crackle like sparklers on the Fourth of July.

 

This time the touch on my arm is real. It is human. It is light. I can barely see the person but manage to make a tall person wearing heavy black shoes. A small female voice asks if I want company. She tells me her name is Margaret Jennings and she sees me on the bus almost every day. 'You really scared me, Margaret. How come you wear such heavy shoes? You sounded like a man stalking me would sound.' There is a moment of silence as the tall woman comes closer to me. I am definitely not comfortable with this situation. She takes the time to answer my question. 'My walk sounds like a man because I am a man who happens to have a woman's voice.'

 

That is enough for me. I mace her/him, run the rest of the block home and dial 911.

My present

PATTY CAKE

 

'Ma, Ma, please let me do it!' My mother's attention leaves what she is doing and drops her mother's rolling pin on the kitchen floor. How she howls, how she scowls at me. 'Look what you made me do, Patty.' The rolling pin takes a ride and stops under the kitchen table. 'Get it, Child. Give it to me. Now I have to scrub the dough and dirt off. It's ruined and I have to do a new crust. I hand her the icky pin and she swipes my tush hard.

 

'Here, Child. Do you think you can sift the flour into the big yellow bowl without knocking anything over? Most of it goes in the bowl but some drifts to the floor. Ma Ma steps in it and leaves footprints across the room to our ice box. 'Go play with your dolls, Patty. Get out from under my feet. Daddy wants hot apple pie for tonight and if you want a piece, you had better leave me alone.'

 

"Ma, Ma, just let me sprinkle the sugar and cinnamon on the sliced apples and have some with lunch.' She hands me a small saucer and walks away. I put it on the kitchen sink, lay my favorite silver baby fork next to it, and wait. As soon as Ma Ma gets busy re-rolling another crust I sneak a graham cracker out of the cookie jar, go down the cellar to cut paper dolls out of old Saturday Evening Post magazines. Ma Ma keeps after Daddy to throw them out but he won't as they are great for starting the furnace. When he does that, he makes me stay far away where I can watch the little pieces of fire fly in the air.

 

It's time to get my cinnamon/sugar apple slices. The wonderful smell of them baking wraps itself around my nose and pulls me to the kitchen. Ma Ma is sitting at the kitchen table. I hear her crying. 'Ma Ma, are you sick? Want me to bring you the castor oil?' She doesn't answer, just shakes her finger at me. 'It's all your fault, Patty. You ruined my pie.' I know the best thing for me to do is keep quiet. When looks at me, I ask her what I did. 'Did? You annoyed me, Child, made me drop my mother's rolling pin. The dough I was making was perfect. Then I had to scrub the pin, get off all the dough and start over. And the wood had a crack in it. Waste, waste. Patty, Child,  my mother in heaven will be so mad at me for ruining her mother's rolling pin. Here, you can have it. I don't want it any more.' 'Ooh, ooh, thanks, Ma Ma. I can use it to make clay cookies for my dolly if Daddy buys me a box of clay. Can I have my cinnamon and sugar apples now?' No answer.

 

She turns her back on me, brings me the saucer with the heathy apples, hands me my silver fork and kisses the top of my head. Then her face grows mean.  When you finish your treat, rinse your plate and  fork, dry them and put them away. Then go upstairs and brush all the sugar off your teeth. In the pantry is the lace cover for the rolling pin. Get it and put it on. I do everything Ma Ma tells me to do and then hide my present under my bed.

 

If a Boogey Man ever comes to get me, I will be ready and bop him on his head. Ma Ma and Grand Ma will be glad Ma gave me the not so smooth anymore rolling pin.

 

 

Smiles show up

WILD DAZE

 

Walking down the picturesque lane again, I see my mother sitting alone on a newly painted, but dry, white wooden bench. She makes a lovely picture until I see her picking small, invisible pieces of something off her sweater. It doesn't surprise or worry me as I've seen her do it many times. Just loud enough for her to hear me without becoming frightened, I call out to her. 'Hi Mom. It's Caroline come to visit you.' A smile makes her eyes shine. My hopes for at least a bearable visit rise. I hug a stranger, sit down beside her and help her remove whatever she wants taken off. A good sign. Mom calls me by name. 'Caroline, what are you doing here? Where are the children?' It's useless to explain they are grown, have given her three grandchildren. As usual, I make up a story, concoct a fictitious name for their school and explain how well they are doing. My little fibs make my mom happy so my visit has purpose.

 

An attendant wheels an elderly black man past us. He has a snow white short beard. On his head is a battered dark brown fedora. He tips it to her. 'Mrs. Reagan, how is Ronnie?' He asks. 'Why, Mr. Johanson, how nice of you to ask. Ronnie is well. He is out horseback riding this morning.' 'That's nice, Mrs. Reagan. Tell him to be careful.' 'I will, Willie. See you later.' My mother and I both wave so long to Willie who disappears down the curving lane.

 

New sounds, new noises erupt. Although I never heard shots anywhere but in the movies, on t.v., I fear what I hear is not fireworks. It has to be gunfire. 'Mom, get up. Get up now! If you want your lunch chicken soup to still be hot, I had better get you to the dining area.' Mom doesn't move an inch. I take her arm and give her a tug. She flails and tells me to leave her alone. 'I have to clean my sweater,' she says. 'Give it to me, I'll clean it for you. We have to get to the dining room now.' My voice disappears in the next bang.
Nurses, attendants, cleaning women, wheel residents inside. Visitors panic, head for the parking area and pull out with their wheels screeching. The wrought iron front gates open automatically. One behind the other five or six police cars enter, drive slowly and line up in the front driveway. The officers get out, blow their whistles, motion to the staff, the residents, remaining few guests, to come close. This is all crazy, the whole darn place is crazy. Thru his bullhorn the officer in the white hat asks for quiet. That does not come easily but eventually does.

 

'Ladies and Gentlemen, a bad mistake has been made. Today was to be a special treat for patients and staff but somebody, maybe a lot of people, did not notify Happiness House of today's entertainment. Let's all go together to the amphitheater. The police cars will drive slowly. Follow us. Lunch will be served in the dining room after the show.'

 

I guesstimate at least 100 of us take the ½ mile walk and find seats.
Drums bang. Clowns in brilliant colors tumble, blow horns. Cannons that shoot confetti make the patients dizzy as they reach for them. A beautiful white stallion parades with a clown dressed as a cowboy on its back. I recognize Mr. Johanson's voice above the others. He shouts, 'Ride 'em Mr. President.' Balloons float to the sky. A magician makes his partner disappear in thin air. There are gasps, worried words. And poof, the missing partner is standing on the front porch of Happy House. He waves and calls everyone to come inside. 'Lunch is ready.'

 

I don't stay for lunch but do leave dazzled, in a daze, and will be back to visit my mother next week.

Oh, my Ma Ma !

ACT I

 

The Singer treadle works overtime. Mama is a terrible sewer. I hear her say naughty words, watch her pull the gray material out of her machine, straighten it, then take a tiny sharp scissor off the table and cut her crooked stitches away. 'Get out of here!' Mama yells at me. 'You make me nervous.'

 

Picturing her chasing me with the scissors open, I run as fast as I can to my daddy. He's reading the Sunday Clipper but lays down the sports section as soon as he sees me. Putting me on his lap, he shows me where to sit. Daddy hugs me and I hug him back. 'What's wrong, Honey Pie?' he asks. 'Mama is what's wrong. She told me I make her nervous so she makes mistakes. Honest, I don't even talk to her. I just watch. Daddy, Miss Bierfeld told the class our costumes have to be ready for Monday, and I don't think mine will be finished on time? It's barely started.' I don't want to but cry anyhow.

 

Mama walks past us, doesn't glance our way, say a word, but she looks angry. Daddy aks her what is wrong and Mama blames me for bothering her so she can't sew right. 'Nancy, do you want your costume ready for Monday? If you do, stay away from Mama when she sews. Will you do that, Honey?' I have to tell him yes.

 

'Hannah, what's for lunch?' Mama tells him 'air'. I can't make lunch and sew too. Fix pbjs for the two of you. There's an unopened bottle of chocolate milk in the fridge. I have to iron the fabric again before I get back to work on that rotten material.'

 

I stay as far away as I can from Mama all afternoon. Daddy plays 'war' with me. Sometimes I win and get a penny. If I lose I have to pay Daddy a kiss. There doesn't seem to be any sound from the sewing room for a long time. Daddy goes up stairs and finds Mama with her head on her arms, leaning against the sewing machine. She hears him open the door and sits up straight, starts pedaling. 'Did you open the chocolate milk, Eddie? Did you save me some?' He asks her how the costume is coming along but gets no reply, closes the door and comes downstairs to try to read the morning paper that he never got to.

 

Sunday morning Mama calls me. ' Come in here, Nancy. Your costume is finished. Come try it on.' I am happy, skip to the stairs taking my clothes off as I almost run to her. Mama tries to help me get it over my head but it won't go. The hole is too little. 'Nancy, bring me your comb and brush, I'll try to smooth your hair down a little.' I do it but even if she puts kitchen grease on my hair, the neck won't fit. Mama whacks my behind and blames me for her mistake. Daddy hears the commotion and comes to protect me and calm Mama.

 

'Hannah, what the devil is going on up here?' He is very upset and angry.
Mama tells him she worked hard on it, did a good job, but the pattern was wrong.' 'What can be done about it, Hannah?' he asks. Mama has no answer. She just sits in front of the sewing machine and twiddles her thumbs.

 

'Look, Eddie, see how nicely I put the big white collar and cuffs on. My stitches are all straight, no threads are pulled.' Dad and I examine Mama's work and agree it is well done but if it doesn't fit, I can't wear it, can't be in the play. 'Don't worry, Sweetheart,' he tells me. He'll think of something. 'But, Daddy, it's Saturday and I have to take it to Miss Bierfeld before school starts Monday.' Daddy has his breakfast and as soon as he is finished and Mama has gone to the cellar, he makes a phone call.

 

Sunday morning the doorbell rings and Daddy tells me to answer it. A young lady in a blue winter coat is standing on our stoop. In her hand she is holding a wire hanger with my costume neatly ironed. I call Daddy to come see what this lady has. 'It's a surprise, Sweetheart. I looked in the phonebook for 'dressmakers', found Miss Jackson's name and explained the situation. She asked me to bring it to her home so she can see what can be done immediately. And here she is.' 'Come in, Miss Jackson.' 'Nancy, take your costume upstairs and try it on.' And I do, coming down stairs like a ball of fire. 'Daddy, Daddy, look it fits just right. Miss Jackson made a slit in the neck put a tiny gray button there and it is great.' Daddy thanks the seamstress, pays her and all is well, I think.

 

Monday I am the first one to  bring my costume to school on a hanger.
Miss Bierfeld tells me my mother did a good job. Everybody's mother did a good job. We Pilgrims walk proudly  onto the school auditorium stage to perform the annual Thanksgiving Day program.

 

The little button the seamstress put on my neckline falls off but nobody notices it. My hem is crooked, lopsided. My toe catches in it and I fall. The pail that I had been carrying makes a lot of noise as it rolls across the stage. There are giggles. I leave my place and get the pail back and go on with the program. The audience applauds me.

 

When Daddy, Momma and I get into our car, Mama immediately starts to brag. 'Didn't I do a great job for Nancy? Is it my fault she tripped on something and fell?'

Helping the stupid doesn't always work

GOLDIE AND ME

 

Don't let Goldie's name fool you. She's not an adorable child with golden hair whose mother combs and brushes it every day until it shines like the sun. Au contraire. Goldie has been, and is still, the best friend I've had in many years. Age has wormed its way into us. Sometimes I picture her eating everything, including worms. Now at 65, she weighs in at 195 lbs !  I dwarf beside her. We must look like aliens from outer space. It doesn't bother her but bothers me –a lot. Understand, please. I am not ashamed or embarrassed to walk beside her, to finish my low cal lunch while she finishes a greasy whopper burger, fries, a cola and a piece of fudge cake. I sit, try not to stare at her, and worry, care about her. Yeah, I nag her, can't control myself. Goldie seldom tells me to 'lighten up, never calls me 'bean pole.' We are friends. We had our childish arguments, fist fights. We kicked. We scratched yet defended each other just as lionesses take care of their cubs.

 

When I got 'the curse', something my mother had forgotten to tell me about, who did I run to but Goldie? I whined pitifully. ' Goldie, help me. I must have torn something out of my insides. Save me, take me to the hospital before I bleed to death.' Not a word did she say. Softly she took my hand and walked me to her house, just a few doors from mine.
Her mom was playing Bridge with three guests. A pretty flowered teapot with cookies on a doilied plate were handy. Goldie whispered in her mom's ear. Mrs. Goodman apologized to the ladies, took me into the bathroom and explained enough for me to calm down and face my own mother.

 

Once I really got angry at Goldie, pushed her down her own front steps. I cried more than she did when I heard her scream when her arm hit the railing, saw her new Orphan Annie wrist watch broken in
half. I gave her a quarter out of my 50 cent allowance every week until she could order a new watch. What the heck, I thought. What are friends for. After all, it was my fault she fell.

 

The fights, arguments, games slowed down, stopped when we entered junior high school. Boys were there. That was when we used to giggle a lot, pretend Joey or Bobby or whoever sat near us in class, wanted to be our friends. They didn't. They kept dropping things on the floor and picking them up until we realized they were trying to look up our dresses.

 

Yes, we are still friends. We have graying hair, married children, grandchildren and I still worry about Goldie. I give her a birthday gift of membership in 'Lose It'. Goldie goes on a strict diet, not because I pushed her but because her internist warned her again, she is going to keel over one day soon if she doesn't properly take off fifty pounds. I tell her about Dr. Oz on T.V. and how many he has helped lose weight sensibly. It seems to me, Goldie is ready to try. I write to Oz, send him her photo along with the dr's comments, and of the thousands of letters Oz must get, he invites Goldie to his show, one month away. I am amazed. Goldie tells me she is too fat to show herself on T.V. and will have to lose a few pounds before going to NY.

 

At 183 pounds Goldie appears on national television. I am right there with her. Oz assigns her a physical therapist, gives her instructions, when to return. It is unbelievable to see Goldie, after so many years, really put effort into her health. The therapist flies with us back to Philly and sees to it the exercises get done, that the food and in-take is right. Pounds slowly but surely disappear.

 

150 pounds is not the end. I call Goldie at 7 a.m. to be ready to go to the airport at 8. Goldie doesn't answer the phone. I hurry to her house, find the front door unlocked and rush in. She is sitting at her kitchen table, crying. Why didn't I make her lose weight long ago. The blame had to go someplace and I was, and am, her friend. I took it. Relief seemed to remove her wrinkles. We both laughed. Her luggage is ready. I carry it to the front step. The cabbie takes it from there.
Goldie comes out, looking happy. She sits in front with the driver, turns to thank me for all I've done for her and my eyes pop wide.

 

I recognize it–a dab of chocolate icing is still on her lips.

Love conquers all

ALEXANDER-THE NOT SO GREAT
 
Alexander the III, the Great Alexander, was born in 356 BC. One of his small accomplishments was to become King of Macedonia. Now  2356 years later he is still considered to be the greatest military genius who ever lived. Even if I had been around way back then, I would never have dared to refute his strength and brilliance. He was a man through and through.

 

Our Alexander was born at a most prestigious, exciting moment around the world. Things that were going to happen to computers, to businesses, to clocks, didn't happen but the birth of our son, to whom we had assigned the name Alexander, is born the very second Greenwich Mean Time turns the year to 2000, a new millennium. Fifteen seconds later his sister emerges. They are the first twins born in 2000 and become world celebrities. Every t.v. channel in the United States and Canada flash films of me in bed with the twins. Emails and calls reach across the oceans. Even little Wabash where I was born thirty two years ago makes the news.

 

Congratulation gifts flood our house. Name splattered cartons of Pampers arrive. Gerber's baby foods will be stored in our basement for a few months while the twins get personal nourishment from me. Shampoos and soaps, powders, a crib that must be assembled and a bassinet are gratefully accepted, but Buddy and I had been prepared for the twins and donate duplicates to the Red Cross. They promise to pick up and give to the needy. I feel a bit of distrust in this plan but have to do something and do it quickly.

 

An email from the Pope arrives, translated to English, wishing us peace and joy. Little does he know Alexander will have his Bris, be circumcised in five days. Rabbi Steinhorn will recite the traditional prayers and Mohel Weinstein will do the simple cut, give Alexander a piece of gauze that has a bit of wine on it to ease his pain. I cannot watch the ceremony. Buddy, standing next to the Mohel, falls over in a dead faint. He is revived quickly. His embarrassment becomes a joke.

 

More gifts pour in from our friends. The best ones are offers of help so I can relax, breathe easier now and then. Sharon, our sixteen year old niece, is giving us free sitting service for three months. That is a blessing fine enough to come from the rabbi. We are not hogs and accept no more than one evening a week.

 

The babes seem to grow like weeds. They are twins but very different. They do not have any physical similarities that we see so far. Alexandra turns over faster than her brother. She babbles and gurgles more, starts eating baby food sooner. Alexander eats but spits it out while her little mouth seems to smile as the mashed peas, custard slide easily down her throat. Dr. Wolfson, their pediatrician, has noted that our son is growing a bit slower than our daughter but tells us not to worry. Of course, we worry. If it is nothing, why did the doctor mention it at all?

 

'Quick, come here, Buddy!' I call while he is still dressing for work. As he tears down the stairs, I realize my tone must have been frightening. 'Look, Alexandra has pulled herself up from her playpen, is holding on and walking around it. Aren't you excited?' Buddy says nothing. As he leaves us both in the den, I see a worried look on his face. He goes upstairs and I hear him talking to Alexander who is awake but just lying quietly in his crib. 'Grab my fingers, hold tight. One foot, then the other.' I feel bad. My joy seeing Alexandra testing her legs vanishes. Buddy and I try hard to show no favoritism, but it doesn't work all of the time. I have less control than he does and know I get carried away.

 

As we thought might happen, the day comes when our son says 'Mama, Dada, gimme, No, I won't' weeks before dainty Alexandra. He sits erect, turns the pages of all the magazines, books within his reach.  I give him my attention. His word usage begins to flow. I show him pictures of all of the presidents of the United States and he learns to say them quickly, memorizes them with ease. Buddy is in heaven. So am I but why isn't Alexandra progressing? Dr. Wolfson is appalled at us, comparing our children, tells us to stop. We do try but it is impossible.

 

What we realize eventually is that Alexander's mind is growing far faster than normal. By the time he is 3 he can name every state in our country alphabetically and spell most. That is far more than I or Buddy can do. Not once does he mess up Misssissippi. I do believe that god, our god, any god, is touching Alexander. We leave his name alone, finally begin calling his sister just 'Alex' when she is ten.

 

He doesn't like sports, silly movies, books that are too simple. By fourteen Alexander is accepted at Harvard, goes on and becomes a Rhodes scholar.  His younger sister, Alex, grows into a lovely young woman, marries and is happy.

 

Buddy and I talk it over, never regret Alexander not playing baseball, fighting battles, becoming the president of the United States.

 

He found his own way and has made us proud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don't knock it, try it

YELLOW STREAK

 

'I'm not going in there, Johnny, no way.' It's too dark. Christ I told you I don't like bats and snakes.  Do what you want. I'm leaving. I'll be seeing you, maybe.' Johnny comes at me. 'Turn your ass around here, Daniel. You agreed to spelunk with me, didn't you?' That gets me. 'No, I did not agree, Pal. You threatened me, told me you were going to tell all of our friends that I'm a  baby, a sissy, a ninny. You really painted an ugly picture of me. That was not what friends do to their friends.' Johnny looks sad, woebegone, comes at me with his fists flailing, stops on a dime and lowers his arms. He gets down on the stony ground and apologizes, begs me like a child wangling an ice cream cone from his Mommy.

 

I feel myself slipping by inches, ready to give in. All of the supplies are divided equally except Johnny gave me an extra large flashlight with ½ dozen new batteries and put his cell phone in my duffle bag. 'Johnny, I don't want your damn cell phone. What good would it do either of us? No signals can go in or out of this cave.' From his back pocket he hands me a net to put on over my helmet to keep the bats off my face. 'No thanks, Johnny, ' I say and toss the net on the ground. 'I'm staying here. I'll give you thirty minutes to go in and thirty to come out, then you will be on your own.' Johnny's Irish temper spurts up. 'You want to go, go. What I said about you being a baby, a sissy is true and I'm not taking it back.'

 

The noon sun is bright. Its rays penetrate a few feet inside the cave's opening. My determination to hold my ground evaporates when I see my friend about to disappear in the darkness.  'Johnny, let me get my stuff. Don't move a single inch.' He signals me with three toots on his whistle. Now I am committed. His flashlight beam is  strong and lights a wide path for me to follow. The air is cold and rancid. Dampness creeps into my shoes, my mind. The atmosphere is foreboding. Johnny signals  me look to the right. Previous spelunkers have left a heavy rope tied around a narrow, high rock. I take it willingly and move closer to Johnny. He's sitting on a stalagmite (or tite) looking at the ceiling (roof?) I look, too and damn near gag. Thousands, maybe millions, of bats are hanging down. They are ugly and still. 'Johnny' what if they take off all of a sudden and we are still here?' He makes fun of me and tells me, we will catch some for bat soup.

 

A gurgling, tinkling sound bothers me. It's definitely water but I don't see it until Johnny comes walking towards me, stepping on some rocks, missing many. His shoes are soaked, his pant legs rolled up to his knees. There is a cut on his left leg that is bleeding but not too hard. 'Johnny, lets get out of here,' I beg. We haven't gone far but still it is further than I relish going. I scream loudly and hear my echo. A human skeleton  leans against a high rock. Johnny's laughter explodes. 'Donald, Donald, calm down.' He puts his arm around me and tells me a group of Boy Scouts put it there to do just what it was meant to do–scare me.

 

I put on a false bravado and walk forward a few steps, follow a small stream, see tadpoles swimming. My flashlight catches something shiny in the water but I don't intend putting my hand in there. 'Johnny, come here. What is this in the water?' He looks, looks again, puts his hand in and brings out a large gold colored coin. There is a face on it that we don't recognize. Even though the coin is shiny it still looks old. 'Let's get out of here, Donald. You are no fun at all.' Slowly we make our way to the safety rope, see a glimmer of sunshine  and exit back into reality. I am so glad to be out, I don't notice what Johnny sees. He is pointing at what looks like a rusty mail box on a pole.

 

We walk up to it, see a hand made sign on its side,' 'Donation's to the BSA will be appreciated, including any fun gold coins you find.'I put ours in. Johnny adds a dollar bill and we both give up spelunking.

Careful, B'hoys!

I DON'T WANT HER

 

I've given this problem a lot of thought, can't figure out just how what happened, happened. There I was enjoying myself, chatting with my long time friend, Clinton, at a pleasantly quiet bar. We each had a Miller's and smiles on our faces. Clinton told me a really dirty joke and I burst out laughing. My laughter was so contagious that Clinton had to run to the men's room or pee in his pants. That added to my laughing tears. While I waited for him to come back, I ordered another round of beer. Clint saw the sweating bottle and got right to it.

 

A luscious looking lady (pardon me but I may have mis-used a word there) walks in alone. I poke Clint in his ribs and give a silent 'Wow!' We just look, wouldn't touch if she sent us an engraved invitation. However, we do keep our roving eyes right on her. If she notices, I'll be surprised.

 

An acquaintance of ours, Gabe, comes in the swinging door and sits down beside her. As she turns her head away, I catch Gabe drop something in her drink. Is it my business? Should I talk to Gabe, warn Miss America? My clever friend, Clint, tells me to keep out of it. Reluctantly I follow his advice and suggest we get the hell out of this place, grab the check and skedaddle.

 

Only one block down the street is Tondelayo's Bar and Eats. Clint and  I like it there. There's  karioke fun, a little dancing, just a friendly warm mixture of strangers. A few round tables are still empty. We take one that is two rows back from the small stage. One of the bar's most attractive waitresses feels at home in her Pago Pago hula skirt, bra and thongs on her flat feet and offers us a menu and drinks. Clinton and I feel comfortable, relaxed. The old nickelodeon plays non-stop.

 

Our Millers sweat and so do I and Clint when a good looking muscle man swishes over to our table and asks to join us. As one voice, Clint and I say, 'Sorry, were waiting for our girlfriends.' He gives us a tiny salute and sits elsewhere alone–at least for a while. That leaves me and my friend with time on our hands. We get too serious, start talking about the world coming to its end in just two years, storms, N. Korea, S. Korea. Both of us realize the air has changed, and drop the world's problems.  I go to the bar and change a dollar bill for quarters, feed them one at a time into the old Nick. It's my money so I get to pick the music I want to hear. Hell breaks loose when I let Como, Crosby, Frank breathe again. Couples stamp their feet, call nasty things to me. 'Where's your beard, Old Timer?' 'Stay where you are. The morgue car is on its way.' I turn away, sip my beer and talk only to Clinton.

 

A hip cutie steps on to the small stage, jumps for you and shouts, 'Everybody, It's Karioke time the titles are on the screen. Let's have fun!'  Clint and I get into it, applaud wildly. Pretzels and peanuts stay untouched. Too many unclean hands have wandered thru them. We order steamed clams and more beer. Our moods definitely improve as the squeaking, shrieking performers are poor examples of talent. Nobody minds the boos. It's part of the fun. I prod Clint but he has turned to stone. Won't budge.

 

Two girls who know how to shake their booties approach our table. Without asking, they pull up chairs. Their sugar coated fake Southern drawls bore us. Sally Mae announces she is doing very well in spite of having the first stage of Aids. 'I'm gonna beat this thing. There's lots of people livin' thru it these days.' She clams up. I don't know, don't want to know, if she's kidding or not. Darci Jean, leans across the table and almost lays her boobs in my hand. My stomach turns when a tattooed dragon and a swan almost bite me. She looks me in the eye and tells me she has a condom in her purse. It is my turn to fake it. 'Clint, How about this. You pay our check. I'll bring the car to the front entrance and the girls can meet us there? What do you say, Ladies?'
I manage to kick Clint under the table without touching any extra legs.
Clint tells them he'll make a pit stop first. They can do the same. I tell them specifically my car is a silver gray 2009  Camarro. We'll be waiting.

 

Oh, we are good, really good liars. As soon as we get in my car and are out of sight, I ask Clint if he'll be satisfied with Darci Jean and in a most serious tone says, 'No, I'd rather have Sallie Mae. But we are such good friends, I'll give you first choice.' Together we laugh and say in unison, 'I don't want her, you can have her. She's not the one for me.'

 

We sing it all the way home and don't go back to Tondelayo's for a long long time.

To each his own

TONGUE ON RYE

 

It took a long time for Roger to convince me to start dating again.
One broken marriage filled with fights and foul language was enough for me. Two were more than enough. My first Ex, Lola,  got custody of our three year old daughter for 6 days and nights of the week. She also got our house, my Jag and half of our joint bank accounts...and all the jewelry I gave her for five years. What did I get? Debts and misery.

 

While meaning well, my buddy, Roger's  set-ups stink. Pretty, vivacious and dumb or fair looking, smart and way too fat just doesn't work. I stay home a lot reading books I always meant to read but didn't. I've just about covered Hemingway and hit upon the old genius, Mark Twain, in the main library. Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, easy, light. They were great pals. Roger and I were, too. Now we are iffy. I try Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged again and still can't understand a damn thing she wrote. That one I closed on page 150 and wasted my eyes on that much.

 

Once a week I meet Roger at Johanson's Crab Shanty or Millie's Doll House. They take care of my natural urges.

 

One day and night a week I spend with my darling daughter, Adeline. I get so angry every time I call her that. How in the world did I let myself be talked into that name? That makes me realize I was a real hen-pecked husband who gave in to Lola's whims rather than argue. Either way, I was a loser.

 

Tonight I should be toasting Judge Reinhold for not awarding Lola any alimony. Instead, he gave me a big monthly nut to crack, $100 a week, upkeep. Adeline's medical bills are covered by my insurance so what costs $400 a week? How much does this one little child with only baby teeth in her mouth eat? How many clothes can she wear at one time? Her dolls are so fruitful, they have babies. Life isn't treating me well.

 

Roger is a true friend even though he gets on my nerves more often than  before my marriage hit the fan. Today's call is about the 'dish' he wants me to try. I tell him I prefer Johanson's to see if the soft shell crabs are arriving yet. 'Loosen up, Pal. Bonnie is a winner. I've checked her out carefully with Jack Fine. He rates her A-1, smart, pretty, athletic, 5'8",  knowledgeable about politics, art, music, no drugs, a wine now and then. Give ger a try, Hal. She has a two bedroom apartment on 5th and Madison. Jack vouches for her cooking, too. Call her, 470-2517.  'Roger, that's enough about Bonnie. If's she's so great why is he passing her around?' Roger thinks about that a minute and actually sees my point. He pats me on my back and tells me to forget her.

 

That should be the end of that but it isn't. I go to bed at eleven, wake at twelve, one, two and get up, turn on the t.v. disappear in dreamland from four until seven. I decide to call Bonnie in the evening. She has heard about me and would love to get together soon. I'm not quite soaring on angel wings yet, but her voice is soft, pleasant, soothing. 'How about Thursday, lunch. Where do you work?' Bonnie springs this on me, 'I don't have to work. I am involved totally doing volunteer work whenever, wherever I'm needed. Thursday is clear.' How's Mike and Ike's Delly on 6th and Preston? Noon? Whoever gets there first stand close to the bakery department. We'll know each other.' I'm pleased but concerned. She is sort of strong, maybe too strong, a rein holder for sure.

 

'Hey, Roger. I've got a lunch date Thursday with the Bonnie Jack was selling. She selected Mike and Ike's, didn't give me a chance to say okay or nay.  'Sure, that's a good place. Ike was Ike Solomon, original owner and Mike Feinberg, partner, her Dad.' Eats are great. Fill me in at night.'

 

I reach the delly at 11:55, walk over to the bakery department and see a beauty checking out the service. Everything goes smoothly. We are seated quickly at a table to the left that isn't scrunched between others. Our waiter says hello to her and introduces himself to me.'I'm Doug, been here a long time. Whatever you want, we will have it.' He walks away. I love their lean corned beef sandwiches with Russian dressing and am about to give my choice to Doug, when Bonnie tells him to bring me a tongue on rye.' 'You'll enjoy it, Hal.' I instantly feel ill. Tongue on a roll, on an English muffin on anything sends my belly into fits. It is foolish, I've been told, but something about seeing a cow slaughtered, its tongue hanging out, being sliced and put on rye is about as horrible a thought as I can imagine.  My stomach is roiling. I am as close to vomiting as the last time I got drunk. I start taking deep, slow breaths which frighten Bonnie. She suggests I go see a doctor and call her another time. I apologize, take out my wallet to pay for our lunches and she pooh poohs it away.

 

The last I hear her say is, 'If you need a good consultant, an internist, let me know. My Uncle Maish is a whiz.'

Long ago

DANCING WITH THE TARS

 

The Saint Lindstrom floats on the quiet sea tonight. Our sails are tightly furled. The decks are scrubbed. Grog is spewing out of kegs.
Bradley is high in the crow's nest watching the moon move against the starless sky. His horn blows and his deep voice calls out, 'Ship ahoy, NE 16 degrees. No flag visible.' Captain Lindstrom, dressed in his evening wear, takes the wheel, orders us seamen to unfurl the sheets. There is little wind and no need to work so hard but we don't argue with the captain. A mist comes from nowhere and hides the phantom ship. We deck hands relax and wait for dawn. Before it comes, we go below for grub. It's all slop but we have no choice and make do. Finding rat dirt in our porridge is not unusual but Mac once found a whole rat. He pulled it out of his dish, threw it away and ate his breakfast. Today a part of a potato swam in my sour milk.

 

The wind picks up a bit. England waits for us. Our families surely think we are goners. Sickness is aboard.  Shank, Billybud and Blake were fed to the fishes days ago. Captain Lindstrom announces we expect to reach England in less than one sennight. 'We must be careful of our words when we arrive. Do not gripe, complain. At three bells our cook  will slaughter our last goat and prepare it for dinner. We are out of salt so eat hearty anyhow.' The goat meat is tough but is better than gruel. Henry's gums begin to bleed badly. He covers his mouth with his hand and goes below to his hammock.

 

The last few nights drag. There is little for us to do. We play tiddlywinks, start a game of Faro that is short-lived, fight amongst ourselves and pray a strong wind moves us faster. The wind has shifted. Clouds and swallows guide us to London. As we approach it, a loud, familiar clopping, pounding noise alerts us to watch the ladder rise from the hold. All eyes look. A foot, the one we know belongs to Big John, appears. On his right foot is his hard shoe. Right behind it is his left clog shoe, then the bulk of him. In his hand is his treasure, the one his grandfather had left him, his Celtic hornpipe. He blows it and starts to dance. No one joins him as the dance is very complicated and is usually done alone in a small area. We follow Big John to our only cannon and wait. Casey holds tight to his slightly battered fiddle and almost plucks it to death. Little John moves far enough away from the other seamen and dances wildly, twisting his body as he folds his arms over his chest. His rhythm clashes with Big John's hornpipe but nobody cares. The plug from the last keg of grog is pulled. We drink, do the hornpipe dance, forget our troubles, our losses. London and our silver await.

 

Sea gulls, horns and flags of other lands welcome us into the harbor. Captain Lindstrom sets us loose while he stays aboard to complete many forms, put our coins in gray cloth bags. Ashore only the women parading, selling their wares matter. We long to buy their services and for the captain to give us our bags of silver.

 

Cloggers' shoes are heard in every alley, every busy tavern. Sailors are happy. The ladies see the captain walking towards his men. His arms are laden with their pay. The women are happy too.