Watch yourself

CRACKS

 

I walk proudly down our white marble front steps. In one hand I hold up my brand new double  box of white chalk. In the other I have a surprise little gift from my dear Mom, a box of colored chalk and a used rubber heel from Carol's father's work shoes. Mr. Myers Shoe Repairary usually has one or two for us kids. Many times he tells us to send our Moms in for the old heels. He admits sometimes they bring along their own shoes to be soled.

 

Zel and Irene are waiting for me. Irene holds up a small paper bag for me to see, doesn't have to tell me what she has. I recognize it and know she must have candy cigarettes in it to share. We are great pals, great pretenders when we lean against the tall green mail box on the corner as we send imaginary smoke rings from our mouths. Carol is peppy, ready to play hopscotch, lets her cigarette melt in her mouth. We set off around the corner where there is little traffic and go eenny meeny for who plays first. Carol wins, tosses the heel and it rolls away, lands on a big crack in the pavement. She drops to her knees, picks up the heel and whines. 'That wasn't my fault. It was the pavement's,' and starts to toss again. We don't let her. I have to pull the heel away and throw it perfectly. It lands on sevenzees so I hop and I jump, can rest, pick up the heel and hop back. However, I do not finish first and break up the hopscotch game.

 

The bad boys from Hansom St. are playing wall ball as we walk towards Irene's house. Jerry's throw hits a crack in the wall and the hard pinkie flies back, swirls in the air and hits me in my eye. The boys don't care. They keep on playing and tell us to go someplace else. I feel my face, make sure I still have both eyes and we girls skip away.

 

Somehow the morning gets used up and we have to all go home for lunch. I hate the lousy lunches my mom leaves for me when she is working. Usually it's a pbj or a Campbell's can of tomato soup, already in a small saucepan so I won't cut myself. Once in a whole there is a surprise for me and this is the day. Passover is almost here and there is a big bag of groceries on the kitchen cabinet with a note for me to put everything away. I do as told until I come to a treasure, a large bag of walnuts (still in their shells) and another of almonds. Darn it, I can't find the nut cracker, go down the basement and bring up Daddy's hammer. Sitting on the floor, I take careful aim at the first walnut, bring down the hammer on it, and it jumps, slides under a chair. I try another and it does a double hop, a roll and disappears. On my third try, I hit the middle and the splitting shell sounds like music. One half of it is in one good, tasty piece, the half is ground to smithereens. I wipe it up in a paper napkin with the broken pieces of shell and trash them together. After dinner, I watch, try to learn how my daddy can put two walnuts in one hand, squeeze and crack both shells with one blow, know I'll never be able to do that. He sees me watching and cracks a few nuts for me. I do love my daddy.

 

Irene wraps at the front door. 'Common out. Let's take a walk , go past the Catholic church and try to see if any of the nuns have hair under their big white hats. 'Who cares?' I ask. 'That's a silly waste of time.' 'How about going over to the Palace, see what movie opens Monday. If Brad Pitt is in it, let's all save our candy money. Right near the box office, the pavement is cracked  a little. Naturally, clumsy Zel trips, falls on her rear end. As soon ass she stands up, I notice her dress is torn. 'Bad luck, Dummy. You let the old crack get you.'

 

I watch my step as we go home but can't help it and step on another crack. I walk faster and faster worried that I broke my mother's back. Irene and Zel try to hurry with me but gall back, calling out to me, 'Wish your mom good luck!' Ma, I shout from the street. Ma, Ma, where are you?' She hears me, opens the door and I see her apron flutter in the wind, catch the door know and the door slams my mother hard but she doesn't complain and tells me to get washed. 'Daddy will be home soon with a surprise.' Nobody on earth can wash as fast I do when a surprise is coming. The kitchen table is set. The wonderful smell of pot roast with fried potatoes smothered in onions makes my belly growl.

 

'Hey, Every body, I'm home,' shouts my father as he comes in the back door. He has a shopping bag that looks heavy and a  box of chocolates. My heart sorta sinks. That's the surprise? Daddy and Momma talk about his work day and what she did the whole day long. Momma tells me more than once to eat more slowly but I can't. I know there's something coming after we clear the dishes. Daddy turns on the basement light and tells us to follow him. 'Bring a big glass bowl,' he shouts from the bottom of the steps.

 

When Momma and I see him, he is sitting on newspapers that cover ½ of the floor. 'Sit down, Ladies..' We sit and he brings a big, heavy hammer out of the bag he was carrying. Then he shows us what else was in the bag–a really great big coconut, still in its shell. Little brown whiskers make it look like a monkey's head. 'Move back, Ladies. Give me room.' Crash! Baam! With one mighty swing, the shell cracks wide open. He tries to catch the juice in the bowl. Most of it is on the newspapers but Daddy says, the milk is very healthy. 'Vivian, bring us three glasses from the kitchen. Don't fall.' While Momma is upstairs Daddy starts getting the shell off the small pieces of coconut. He tells me it is so healthy we could live on nothing else but that forever.

 

I hear it coming. Momma's bedroom slipper reaches the floor before she does. She falls, hit the edge of the furnace but isn't hurt very much. No, I don't explain, but I know for sure it was the loud crack that almost did her in.

 

Shhh. Don't tell Daddy or he'll never buy a coconut again.

Unfinished Lesson

TEENIE WEENIE

 

Here comes my daddy! He looks tired until he sees me. I run to him and am swept up in his arms. Oh, what a big crunchy hug he gives me. Up on his shoulders I go, squirming, calling for help. Mommy comes running in to save me. Daddy twists me, makes me do a somersault and land on my feet. Once in a while I miss and he makes a funny face at me . That gives him time to go upstairs, take off his shoes, his tie and his leather belt. The belt he hangs on the bathroom room door knob. He keeps it there just in case I get snooty, won't help Momma with the dishes. He thinks that belt scares me but it doesn't because he loves me a lot and won't ever hurt me.

 

Daddy never complains about Mommy's cooking but I do and get a dirty look from him and a little pepper on my tongue. Before I even try to swallow it, Daddy hands me a glass of water and warns me not to complain or there will be hotter pepper, maybe the red kind, the next time. Actually I think I would rather have more pepper than smell Daddy's stinky pipe. Instead of telling him how bad his meerschaum smells, I hand him a big ashtray and a cold bottle of beer, wait for him and Momma to go in the living room to listen to Jack Benny on our new big radio while I cut Winnie Winkle paper dresses out of my fun book.
Daddy tells me to go in the other room because my scissors makes too much noise.

 

It's lonely in the kitchen and I just don't know what to do by myself. Daddy and Momma laugh and then I hear them sing the whole ending song, 'I'd love to spend each Sunday with you.' We can't see the audience but hear them clap and clap. I clap too because Daddy is going to bring me a glass of cold chocolate milk and some kind of cookie, then maybe tell me a story before I go to bed.

 

Instead of a story he tells me to sit on his lap. He wants to draw for me. There isn't much room on that lap of his because, as Momma says, he drinks too much beer. First he lets me take off his heavy work shoes and of course, he shakes both of them until some pennies fall on the floor. I get to keep all I can find and save them in my yellow jar that looks like a chef. Daddy has a little green book that has drawings on the first few pages. They aren't very good drawings but Daddy explains that they are eggs, strange eggs and there are others that have little tails. The ones with tails swim after the egg ones and when they catch the eggs, sometimes babies hatch. Well, he laughs and I keep quiet, until I ask, 'What kind of babies? Chickens? Fish?'

 

Daddy really guffaws out loud, calls Momma to tell her what I said.
I don't think my question is funny at all. Well, I get so mad, I jump right off of Daddy's lap, stamp my foot and go to bed.

 

He never finishes his story and I have to wait a long time to find out for myself how the babies got there.

Short Ride

THE END OF THE LINE

 

The 8th Avenue bus stops right in front of me. Inwardly I smile as I feel this is going to be a great, a lucky day for me. As the door opens, some jerk with a closed umbrella jabs me in the ribs and tells me to 'step on it. You're holdin' up the line, Lady.' As I grab the door bar, she gets a really dirty look from me. Making the one high step with little trouble, I drop my four dimes into the coin box. They jingle and disappear. The driver gives me a dirty look and says loud enough for the world to hear, 'Lady, you're short one dime.' Surely my embarrassment turns me into an Indian. I refute the driver, tell him I did drop four in as I had been holding them in my hand while I waited for him to appear. He argues with me and I argue back. I know he will win because those behind me are already complaining.

 

My wallet is in a fashionable huge purse, way at its bottom. Standing on one leg, trying to feel around the bottom of the purse, I want to crawl in a hole and die. I can't find a coin and my purse falls on the dirty floor. A heavy hand touches my rear end, reaches under my arm and holds out two nickels for me. He hands me my purse and my indebtedness may last a lifetime.

 

The bus is almost filled when we start off towards 12th St., our normal next stop. Fortunately I am able to find a seat, any seat, but one at the window cools my distress, lets me relax, use the aisle one to hold my big purse. The bus hits a small bump and darn if my purse doesn't fall over, land right in the middle of the aisle. Scwooching over, I bend down to retrieve it and it jumps up to bite me. Of all the people on the bus, about 40, the gallant giver of perhaps his last two nickels sits on the outside of the seat across from me. He hands me my purse.  It isn't heavy at all so I hold it tightly on my lap and offer the seat to my assistant. He takes it and I start fooling with the inside of my purse. Why am I carrying so much stuff I don't need? Where the devil is my wallet? Three lipsticks, a small unopened package of Kleenex, two pens that I know are dry and worthless, one that still writes, my house and car keys, a small but decorative hand mirror, my cell phone, all there. As I retrieve the phone from almost inside the purse lining, I hold it up and mumble, 'My heavens, where have you been for two days? You need charging.' Mr Noname, my new best friend, seems to be entranced by passing cars, annoyed by an adorable but noisy child, yet I wonder, am I imagining things? Is he glancing at me. Is he going to make a pass? 

 

The bus is about to reach 16th St. where I get off. I excuse myself and start to climb over the nice 'gentleman.' He stops me, looks squarely into my face and speaks, 'Miss. While you have your purse handy, will you try to find a dime down there in the dark? 

Re: A Leader? Some rewrighting.

I really, really really did much of this--starting off with  green  steps.

Neighbors thought I was causing trouble but I didn't care. I actually hung out my second floor windows and painted the outside wood frames a very pale yellow.

THE YELLOW DOOR

 

Things are changing around the single home division we live in. Everybody knows everybody. We have two schools, grammar and high. They sit side by side near our little lake that freezes in the winter and in summer we can dangle our lines in for small fish. Sometimes they are so small we let them go. Once I caught a frog and my daddy couldn't get the hook out of its leg. He had no choice at all except throw the frog and the hook back in the lake.

 

Daddy is a mailman. He never misses his route unless he is very sick or the weather is too much for any man, woman or child to go walking.  Momma is a good cook and she can paint walls, furniture, pretty pictures. I love to help her or just sit and watch the magic she makes.
         
When school let out for the summer of 1968, Dad came back from his route, rumpled, tired, with news of what he learned. The empty dressmaking shop, next to the empty barber shop, had a big sign in the window. He showed Momma and me the pamphlet he had taken from a table inside.  'Coming to Kirks–Charles Lansing Lm. Brick row houses to be built along Maine St. Construction begins August 1, 1968. Come in and talk to us, see our model plans, get the best locations.'

 

I could see Momma's face turn all colors. She said loud and clear, 'I'd rather die than move away from here.' Daddy sat at the dinner table, praised her meat loaf, the crispy fried onions, kissed the back of her neck, and managed to drink two large glasses of iced tea. Sunday we three went to look at the drawings of the row houses that were available, if one wants a change in lifestyle and has a customer who wants to buy our house. It took a long time but the Manor's showed up eventually and a bargain was struck.

  Unhappy, bothered, we moved in. I really, really really did much of this--I started trouble. Neighbors called on me , told me I was causing trouble but I didn't care. I actually hung out the second floor windows and painted the outside wood frames a very pale yellow.

Momma wouldn't talk to Daddy or me. She walked around the house, around the block, looking like a washed out ghost. Soon it got too cold to walk around so we stayed inside. I helped collect cardboard boxes for moving. Momma carefully put her paints and canvases in flat cartons, turned the rest over to Daddy who had a heck of a lot to handle even after he gave so much furniture, odds and ends to Good Will.  His retirement fund from the Post Office helped. Every Saturday we rode over to see how our block of houses was coming along. The grass lawn in front was tiny but Momma bought small sections of a picket fence and hammered them into the dry sod. She hated our concrete porch with a steel railing. It was drab, colorless until she painted it a shiny bright green. New neighbors complained. That didn't bother her. In a few weeks other porches were green, all shades of green which took away our 'oneness. '

 

 Unhappy, bothered, we moved in. I really, really did much of this--I started trouble. Neighbors called on me , told me I was causing trouble but I didn't care. I actually hung out the second floor windows and painted the outside wood frames a very pale yellow

 

As spring neared, Momma asked no one and decided to paint our white door, a sky blue. Neighbors rang our bell, a few threw eggs at our door. But did Momma get upset, angry, no? She just waited until other doors were blue, all pretty shades of blue.

 

What was left for her? Momma re did our blue door for yellow, added small orange polka dot and was very pleased when the editor of House and Garden stopped by, discussed our row houses and ran a two page article, complete with Momma and her paint brushes on the cover.

 

I am grown, married and have no regrets for what My mother did to bring anger, then calm, then pleasure to our neighborhood. Inside our house Mama just had to do something else, something pretty, something precious. She painted a picture of my young sister on her bedroom door, as a messenger from god. Tiny gossamer wings, pale pink and blue  shimmered from her tiny shoulders. An angelic face belied the twinkle in her eyes.

 

Daddy bought her canvases, pallets, paints of all soft colors, Japanese brushes, many shapes and sizes. Momma 's desires, abilities, faded slowly, so did the portraits. They seemed to disappear without our realizing they were fading or that Momma was fading too. She did not look well, was tired. Her skin color changed to muddy yellow. She stayed in her room too long, finally came out in a box. On her chest were directions to paint her coffin in wild, colorful swirls before it goes underground. 'I will be safe, happy and remembered. 'I bequeath my love of color to all of you. When the rain stops and a rainbow glows, I will be there helping god keep his sky beautiful.'

 

The blue and white casket is taken to its home

A Leader?

THE YELLOW DOOR

 

Things are changing around the single home division we live in. Everybody knows everybody. We have two schools, grammar and high. They sit side by side near our little lake that freezes in the winter and in summer we can dangle our lines in for small fish. Sometimes they are so small we let them go. Once I caught a frog and my daddy couldn't get the hook out of its leg. He had no choice at all except throw the frog and the hook back in the lake.

 

Daddy is a mailman. He never misses his route unless he is very sick or the weather is too much for any man, woman or child to go walking.  Momma is a good cook and she can paint walls, furniture, pretty pictures. I love to help her or just sit and watch the magic she makes.
         
When school let out for the summer of 1968, Dad came back from his route, rumpled, tired, with news of what he learned. The empty dressmaking shop, next to the empty barber shop, had a big sign in the window. He showed Momma and me the pamphlet he had taken from a table inside.  'Coming to Kirksville–Charles Lansing Lmt. Brick row houses to be built along Maine St. Construction begins August 1, 1968. Come in and talk to us, see our model plans, get the best locations.'

 

I could see Momma's face turn all colors. She said loud and clear, 'I'd rather die than move away from here.' Daddy sat at the dinner table, praised her meat loaf, the crispy fried onions, kissed the back of her neck, and managed to drink two large glasses of iced tea. Sunday we three went to look at the drawings of the row houses that were available, if one wants a change in lifestyle and has a customer who wants to buy our house. It took a long time but the Mandorf's showed up eventually and a bargain was struck.

 

Momma wouldn't talk to Daddy or me. She walked around the house, around the block, looking like a washed out ghost. Soon it got too cold to walk around so we stayed inside. I helped collect cardboard boxesfor moving. Momma carefully put her paints and canvases in flat cartons, turned the rest over to Daddy who had a heck of a lot to handle even after he gave so much furniture, odds and ends to Good Will. His retirement fund from the Post Office helped. Every Saturday we rode over to see how our block of houses was coming along. The grass lawn in front was tiny but Momma bought small sections of a picket fence and hammered them into the dry sod. She hated our concrete porch with a steel railing. It was drab, colorless until she painted it a shiny bright green. New neighbors complained. That didn't bother her. In a few weeks other porches were green all shades of green which took away our 'oneness. '

 

As spring neared, Momma asked noone and decided to paint our white door, a sunny yellow. Neigbors rang our bell, a few threw eggs at our door. But did Momma get upset, angry, no? She just waited until other doors were yellow, all pretty shades of yellow.

 

What was left for her? Momma made orange polka dots on our door and was very pleased when the editor of House and Garden stopped by, discussed our row houses and ran a two page article, complete with Momma and her paint brush on the cover.

A meeting

BLUE JEANS BLUES

 

What a sight! Tight really tight blue jeans expose her belly button in the front and the crack in her back. Our gang dribbles. I cough and almost choke on the excitement. Johnny Q.  whistles and the dish turns full face to us. Our spirits turn into ice cubes. Her nose is long, crooked, surely broken at least once. Lips, red as just spilled blood, are not kissable. We guys walk faster, get a few steps ahead of her and hear cuss words as foul as any sailor would ever use.

 

Slight pangs of guilt and regret slow me down. I wait for her to catch up to me, apologize, but she ignores me,  decides to cross Holly St. catty corner. Brakes screech, tires smoke while Red Lips makes it unscathed to the other side. She is untouched, doesn't seem to realize how close she came to being a messy pancake.

 

Sure of my ability to go undetected, I hug the wall of the stores but she sees me. Tight jeans stops abruptly, waits in front of the Croisantery, wiggles her fingers at me and invites me inside. My head strongly shaking 'no' upsets her and her vile cussing upsets me. Nevertheless, I am intrigued and, perhaps foolishly, pull up an old fashioned ice cream chair and introduce myself. 'I'm Wally,' is all I get out of my mouth before she tells me her name in Florence Klutz. 'Klutz, your name is really Klutz?', I ask. 'No, it is really Katz but I am so clumsy, my parents use the Jewish word for me. I trip often, twice I burned myself on a easy to use toaster oven, fell over my own feet when I was ten and broke my nose. And I almost got run-over today.'

 

I say silly things like 'tsk, tsk,' 'oh, no.' My eyes wander down her blouse and she gives me a dirty look. ' Florence, why do you wear such horrible red lipstick?' Before she answers, she pulls at least ten paper napkins out of the holder on our small table and wipes her lips down to their normal color of soft pink. A fat waitress finally shows up at our table. I'm not hungry but order a raisin croissant, very lightly toasted and a cup of steamy hot cocoa. 'Sprinkle a little cinnamon on it, will you please?' 'What would you like, Florence?' She seems astonished, surprised,  thinks a minute and comes up with, 'Make that two.' While we wait I ask more questions. 'Why do you use such un-lady like ugly language?' 'Because I damn well, f'n want to, that's why.'

 

Our hot cocoa without the cinnamon takes fifteen minutes to get to us. Florence uses several of her cuss words, but lifts the hot drink to her pink lips, and drops the cup. The hot drink goes down her chin, down her blouse and she starts to cry. Florence stands, puts two dollars on our table, and waves goodbye to me.

 

I wave  back and call after her, 'See you around soon, Klutz.'

Looking glass

THE GIRL ON THE SECOND FLOOR 

 

Eighteen? Twenty-one? I don't know, don't even have an inkling of who is at the wheel of the shiny silver Lexus purring at the curb. She walks slowly, carefully as she goes down the wide ten steps of the brownstone building we share with other owners of all five floors. The lay-out of each is identical. A full, large kitchen equipped with now semi-new appliances, cabinets, room for even an old fashioned large round oak table, plus a living room/den that has a cozy working fireplace facing the busy street. We each have a large bathroom and a guest room with its own facilities. AC, of course.

 

I am somewhat of a loner, slow to make friends. I have published three books on the history of Egypt, the income from them has barely covered my basic needs, but the investigating, the love of research kept me alive and still interested in delving further. As do others, I believe the Egyptians were visited by aliens who taught them all they knew and left abruptly to find others in our world to teach. My current book should be finished before the first snowfall covers New York.

 

Traffic has not yet reached its morning climax when I see the young lady who lives on the second floor catch her heel on the pavement and fall to the ground. Her position is frightening even from my third floor view. She is twisted over, left leg seems to be going the opposite direction of the right one. Both shoulders are hunched while the right arm is squashed under her rump. The driver of the Lexus gets out of the car and as he approaches her, I can see him use his cell for help.
He is a brute of a man, tall, muscular, with a small graying goatee. Perhaps he is her father.

 

How I wish I looked like him, had a luxury car like he has, maybe have a lady friend as attractive as the one I see clinging to the goateed gentleman, her uncle, her dad? 'Oh, Nefertiti, come to life, to me,' a lonely man in need of you or the lady who lies almost still on the broken pavement right in front of my dull gray eyes. Enough of the Egyptian workers, building pyramids, dark, silent, airless walkways to bury kings, princesses, children too numerous to count. I do nothing but stand and watch and despise myself for being a writer of little consequence. My loneliness appals me.

 

I look in the bathroom mirror and smile as I realize at last I do get joy out of being pathetic. It is better than no joy at all, isn't it?

 

 

sending an oldie just for a test

                          SEEING-FEELING

 

A sea of mauve surrounds me. The over-sized desk top holds stacked items which are incomplete. They beg for attention. Silent phone and adding machine sit side by side. The stillness makes the ticking of the automatic lamp lighter pulse in my ears. The dark computer screen (eye and window to my soul) is tired from over use on a lonely Sunday. It rests now but I sense its anxiety and desire to have its buttons pushed so it can hum to life again. The large mirror across the room reflects furnishings, cherished memories but I am out of range and can only see myself thru cobwebs.

 

Behind me lies a bed, hard and ungiving. It, too, is empty. My beloved lies there, hurting, sweating, still as death, and in a puff of smoke he disappears., but I still feel his presence. A lawn mower begins to roar. A leaf brushes the window. An invisible plane can only be heard as it flies too high to be seen. There is no traffic.

 

It is quiet and I can hear my pen talking to the paper.

Waves

FINNEGAN''S FINS

 

Freddy Finnegan is a happy drunk. He doesn't give a fig what anybody thinks. He feels secure in his own fuzzy world. Kids play jokes on him, tie his shoe laces together while he's snoozing on Westwood's hard, slatted bench. He can pretty much avoid a thunderstorm conked out in a doorway or vestibule, holding the skeletal remains of an umbrella he found in Marcy's trash can, way before the summer storms began. Where his booze comes from is unknown. Freddy keeps his lips sealed on that question, yet he has never been seen begging on street corners. I've seen him try to tap dance before prodding teens, lie down breathless on the sidewalk while he holds his sides in painful laughter.

 

Freddy keeps his few clothes in fair condition. If he has body odor, nobody knows how he prevents it, who gives him toiletries.  We kids follow him, try to find where he lives, who feeds him, pays for his haircuts, shaves. If anyone ever finds out, he, too keeps his mouth shut.

 

The hot summer sun seems to be the one thing Freddy finds miserable. He disappears from the streets into what seems to be thin air. We look in the library, the corner bar, movie lobbies but he slips away.  That is, -- until– Fannie saunters past him on a hot July evening. Without slowing down, stopping his walk, almost glides over to her, takes her arm and  introduces himself to Fannie. Down the street they meander and simply disappear.

 

A huge blue bird neither has ever seen, swoops around them. The wind from it's powerful wings knocks Freddy into an oncoming wave, rips his clothes to pieces. He laughs, moves his arms and Fannie straddles him. Another wave pulls them out to sea. Their bodies slither, scales form and they swim, swim to oblivion. Neither is ever reported missing to the police.

Yummy

PATTY CAKE

 

White organza window curtains in the kitchen rustled a little in the spring breeze. The room smelled fresh and delicious at the same time.
They were about to touch the hot oven when Daisy walked in and saw tragedy about to happen.  She slammed the window shut so fast and hard, a little crack zoomed to its top. Miranda, the day worker, got holy hell and started to cry. From her apron pocket Daisy pulled three one dollar bills and fired her. Putting her filled  scrub bucket and brush to the side, Miranda gave Daisy the finger and answered back, 'I quit! Give me the two dollars you still owe me.' The boss lady told her she would see the two dollars burn in hell. The window cracked because you left the window open.' Miranda came right back at her with a big, sour smile and a wheeze of spittle towards her face.

 

A burning odor stopped Daisy from batting Miranda over the head with a frying pan. As she backed away a screeching, pathetic whine came from Miranda. 'You clazy, Lady. I go now. I hope your cute little daughter don't grow up like her stupid Momma.' With that the argument was done–and so was the cake in the oven. It was burned and no good as a birthday cake or anything else except the garbage can.

 

Jenny got off the yellow school bus right in front of her house. She expected to see her Mom icing a magnificent birthday tiered cake. No bowl of custard was waiting on the table for her to clean the edges with a spatula and enjoy the warmness of the vanilla. Instead she was hit in the nose by a burned odor, saw Miranda's mop in the filled bucket, but no Miranda. 'Mom, Mom, where are you?' she called.

 

Oh so sweetly Miranda answered. 'In the kitchen, Darling.'  Jenny pushed the swinging door open and found her mother scraping a cake pan, chocolate icing dripping from a bowl in the sink. Sweet words disappeared as Jenny listened to the tale of woe, the story of her birthday cake going to have to come from Dolfield's Bakery instead of from her Mom. 'What's the big deal? Darling? Mr. Dolfield makes hundreds of cakes a week. You've always loved them.' 'Sure, Mom, but this is my special birthday. My dress, the lawn, the tables, everything was going to be perfect and you were going to bring in my favorite cake with seventeen lit candles. Mom, come on, I'll help you, we'll make another one.' Miranda insisted she had already ordered the cake and her friend Patty would have it here for us by three tomorrow. Dad has all the chairs and tables ready and I hired a lady to help serve and clean up. Everything is going to be great!'

 

When night had passed and Saturday woke the family to a lovely sunny day, the concerns disappeared. The phone at 7:30 a.m. brought them back. Mr. Goldfield had a heart attack and the bakery was closed but they were getting a similar cake from My Son's to arrive at 6 p.m. with their compliments and best wishes.

 

Jenny looked like an angel in her peach colored suit. Everything was ready. The doorbell rang at exactly that time. Jenny opened the door, saw no baker, but saw her best friend, Patty, with her father. The two of them were carrying  a chocolate layer cake that had to be six layers high. It looked beautiful, smelled delicious. They carried it to the central table on the terrace. 'Wow, that new little bakery really came thru, Patty. I'm going to put a big piece in the fridge for you before everyone has gone'.

 

Her dad spoke up. 'Jenny, My Son's didn't make this fabulous cake. My daughter Patty and her Mom did. They were up half the night doing it. Enjoying it!'  He left Patty and the cake. Jenny was overcome with surprise and pleasure, so happy to know for real what 'Patty Cake ' means. It means years of warmth, the depth of friendship, the wonders of truly caring about others. 'Lucky me. Lucky us" She hugged Patty tight and opened the door for the rest of her guests.

Young of Art- I and 2

YOUNG OF ART

 

It's hot. My wax crayons are melting away. I scootch into the vestibule where the sun doesn't reach, but it is stuffy and my nose drips on my blouse. Arthur, my smart older brother, opens the door without noticing me inside. I yell, 'Damn you, you broke my back and my best red crayon.' He bows, hollers at me for using a bad word, then he gives me a broad smile and begs my pardon. I really don't pardon him at all and let him know he owes me a new box of crayons. Arthur pats me on my head as if I were his pet dog and walks past me down the hall to the kitchen. As usual he disappears down the cellar. A sour smell from his huge clump of clay escapes and slithers across the kitchen. It makes me almost vomit. Our parents not only let him piddle with the clay, they encourage him, supply his needs, make sure a large piece of damp mesh cloth covers his clay while Arthur is in school.

 

Every day that he's down in the cellar digging his hands into the oily, smelly stuff, he gives me a clump of it and I make long snakes. Comes the day, he shows me how to make a small turtle, grapes, lots and lots of grapes. He's tried to teach me how to make a vase but mine always looks like an ash tray.

 

Mother calls me. 'Come upstairs, Joanie. Let Arthur alone. He needs to concentrate on his project.  I get angry and tell him to take his stinky clay someplace else and add–'Arthur, if I want grapes, Mom will buy them for me. What in the world are you making?' He ignores me, gets some metal pieces out of a cardboard box and connects them.  Again I ask him, 'Watcha' doin', Arthur?' He fiddles with the bars, bends them, straightens them, bends them a different way. As if I were bad, he sends me upstairs because he has to think. I tell him not to let the wood burn. On the stairs, he waves to me and promises to buy me new wooden crayons and show me how to color better. 'Just go away for a little while.'
'What should I do, Mama? I'm bored.' Turning to me she hands me a potato peeler and tells me to get busy. My potato peeling seems to be a punishment, but what did I do wrong? A loud scream comes up the stairs as Arthur calls, 'Help, help, I'm bleeding.' The door flies open and there is my big brother, holding his hand over his head. Mama grabs his hand to see what Arthur did to himself, drops it as if it were a dead mouse. 'What, what' so terrible? Band Aids are in the bathroom cabinet. Get one for yourself, a little one.'

 

The excitement stops. Arthur survives and goes back to what he was doing. I sit on the cellar steps and watch. The metal pieces get moved around and become something I think I recognize. 'Is that a giraffe, Art?' Oh, my lord, he gets angry, 'No, it's NOT a giraffe. Don't you know giraffes have long necks?' As he makes faces at me, I watch and watch how he puts the clay on the metal bars. He stands back and looks at them over and over, adds a clump of clay, smooths it over with a little tool that looks something like my potato peeler and I shout, 'It's a cat or a dog? Isn't it?' I don't think he hears me at all and keeps adding, taking off, smoothing, chopping. At last he covers the 'thing' with a damp cloth and we go upstairs for supper.

 

Mom starts keeping the door to the cellar locked. Unless Art says I can go down there, I can't. I look in the small window from the outside whenever he's down there and he knows it, keeps his back to the door so I can't see what he's making. Days go slowly. The smelly clay doesn't fill my nose anymore. Mom and Dad seem happy. They smile and talk nice to me. For my birthday on Sunday, July 7, Mom bakes a four layer chocolate cake for me. Cousins, my Uncle Jim, come over, bring me little presents, crayons, water color paint, brushes and a book with pictures of cute little animals for me to enjoy.

 

Arthur has a big box, wrapped in aluminum foil. He carries it slowly, carefully, and offers the box to me. 'Open it, Kid,' he says but be very careful. The foil crinkles makes a lot of noise, Daddy slits the top of the carton open. Art pushes back the flaps, reaches deep into the box and slowly brings out a beautiful dog he made out of clay. It has hardened, been painted lots of pretty colors, mostly red. He shows me the medal he got for the best clay work in his art class. Around the adorable statue's neck is a brass ring with a tag that says 'Joanie.'

 

I hug him, go so far as to kiss his cheek. My dog Joanie sits on the floor near my bed and every night when I say my prayers, I thank god for giving me such a good brother.