Zela Bop

(no subject)

2012-02-10T03:29:00.000-08:00

NO CHAINS

Nothing scares me. I've heard the moans, the noises since I was abandoned by my supposed mother. Through my narrowed eyes I watched her gather leaves of all colors, sizes, pull them into what should have been a nest for me. As she bent to kiss my little fingers, I tasted her breath, seemed to rise to her touch. Then the wind came and she disappeared in a trail made from my unfinished bed. They followed her until the sky threw away the stars and went dark.

A large bird with huge eyes and spotted wings flew low, cocked its head, turned it almost a full circle, and forgot about me. A new, very soft noise was coming from my hungry body. I realized how thirsty I was, needed water, better still, milk. No mother, no milk. As my insides made more noise, an even louder sound turned my ears towards the trees. Their boughs were creaking, bending. Dazzling white specks dropped onto the trees, softly, uncomfortably wet. They tortured me. My mouth seemed to call for my mother but no noise left my lips. I curled myself into a ball and waited for what? For freezing? For dying?

The ground moved. It shook. Something was coming close to me and I was very scared. The 'something' had sharp nails on four strong legs. I knew I was going to be the animal's next meal, closed my eyes and awaited whatever was going to happen. Wet, black fuzz touched me gently. As wet as it was, it warmed me, held away the cold wind. Were the clouds bumping together, roaring wildly? My tongue touched the black thing and I lapped at it, had a drink of water. Little bubbles burned as they floated down my throat. I tried to roll over, let the bubbles escape but they wouldn't go.

Far away where the sky touched the trees, the earth. Rain was falling, making a small lake or perhaps the beginning of a river, an ocean. I was lifted by the black warm, wet thing, held between its huge jaws that remained wide open as I clung to the grizzly teeth. Was it forever I was carried or just a dream? The sky was barely turning reddish as the sun rose and I was laid on the edge of the lake. The fuzzy black thing put me down in the water. It turned and walked away leaving me to take care of myself or drown. I chose to live, spread my four skinny, long legs and paddled myself across the water. What was there? A rock, some stones. I hopped, jumped got on top of the biggest rock and burped, burped loud and often.

'Mother, where are you?' I cried. Anger rose inside of me and I coughed, croaked a new sound. Fear and anger poured out of me. I hiccoughed, could not stop. When finally I did, I was mad enough to spit frogs and old enough catch a few and have the first good meal I had in a long time.

Fixed

2012-02-06T01:42:00.001-08:00

DOUBLE TAKE

It's June, Promenade Ball time. Excitement fills the air. This season forty of us young, mostly attractive, young ladies have shopped until the majority of us want to back out of the whole cotton-picking nonsense. We've had fun but, the 'but' is ruining everything. As of May we have become society and need escorts. Escorts are not easy to find. My blue eyes are wide open while my 'escort card' is still blank. I'm not the only eighteen year old girl who, just four weeks ago before the formal invitations were hand delivered to each of us, had dates. Not every week-end but now and then we got lucky. Right now I am worried, afraid I'll never find an escort, won't be in the procession.

I sit at the dressing table in my bedroom, quickly turning pages full of acquaintances, school mates, friends, even second and third cousins. My stomach churns into twisted knots. I seriously pray I catch pneumonia or break a small bone in my foot. Either will release me from being embarrassed, not having an escort or of having a dweeb for one.

My parents are more generous than I expect. My mom hands me a personal charge card with my name and a long number on it. She watches me autograph the back and pats me on the head as if I were a kitten. I try to give it back to her, insist I don't want that responsibility yet, but wax is in her ears. She throws me to the wolves. 'Stay away from Macy's, Child. Check out Alexander's, Nordstrom's, C'est La Vie. Ask for the department manager or a shopper. Oh, and this is important. Go by yourself so you won't be looking for dresses for your friends, stopping for cokes too often. Just don't grab the first thing you like. Choose carefully!' and poof, Mom goes into the kitchen and tells Tillie, our cook, what time to have the fillets ready. She is so bossy, sometimes I'd like to put tape over her red lips

My new charge card gets hidden in my top bureau drawer, underneath my regular stack of every day panties. Often I find my few lacy ones in disarray, yet never have I caught my brother, Jimmy, in my room without my ok...but I know he goes in. Sometimes I am sure he squirts my small bottle of Heavenly Bliss toilet water on the back of his ears.

As much as I dread shopping for school clothes, I am going to detest searching for a Promenade gown. For my high school graduation prom Mom decided I should wear something very simple, preferably in cotton. 'Pale yellow or light blue will be nice.' I cried when I went to bed with the plain Jane dress hanging like a shroud on the closet door. My date didn't bring me a wrist corsage or any flowers at all. His disappointment in my outfit was almost as great as mine seeing his empty hand.

There are walking rehearsals, holding the escort's arm lightly, keeping one's eyes straight ahead. It's all easy, a waste of time. I'm not going to have an arm to hold and I'm not going shopping for a gown either. Two whole week ends in a row my mom is on my back. I can't escape her nagging. The big night is right around the corner. Food doesn't tempt me until Tillie serves us each a gorgeous piece of broiled salmon. I can smell the lemon before my plate arrives. French string beans, thick slices of Maryland juicy tomatoes, roasted potato wedges and I eat like there is no tomorrow.

Still I am at a loss. It's too late, impossible to find an escort. Tillie brings in the pie and my father stands to salute her. He walks over to me, stands quietly next to my armless chair and offers me his arm. His voice is raspy, almost as if tears are running down his throat. 'Fair daughter of mine, will you give me the honor of being your escort for the Promenade?' I don't know if I should laugh or be grateful and choose 'grateful'. Dad wipes a few raspberries off his goatee and escorts me to the den. Mom has my high heels waiting so I can practice walking on carpet. Somehow I feel I have managed to make my parents believe I am happy about the situation

A little bit of sharpness finds its way from Mom's mouth to my heart.
'So, Daughter, no escort, no dress, no Promenade?' Ice runs down my spine. 'Mom, enough is enough. I'm not going!' Her face droops. From nowhere I realize she needs a face lift already but wouldn't dare mention that now or ever. My closed mind opens, it's partly my fault. I get behind her chair, lean over and whisper in her ear, 'Mom, I love you. I'll go to C'est La Vie tomorrow morning. Mrs. Horney will have a special dress left in my size. If not, she'll search the other shops for me.' A gorgeous white satin gown bowls me over. It doesn't need a single alteration except the rhinestone narrow straps have to be shortened 1/4 inch.

The lights are bright in the club house. Valets take away the new cars. Old classmates walk towards the lobby while I hold my father's arm securely, keep my head high, and enter. He and I are not alone. The best kept secret ever stuns us all. Every girl has her father as her escort. Each and every one smiles broadly, including the fathers, including the mothers who have circled the floor.

Indeed, it is the best night of our lives, so far.

Watch yourself

2012-01-29T02:05:00.001-08:00

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

2012-01-24T05:38:00.001-08:00

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

2012-01-22T08:52:00.001-08:00

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.

2012-01-21T03:19:00.001-08:00

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?

2012-01-19T08:46:00.001-08:00

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

2012-01-18T07:37:00.001-08:00

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

2012-01-17T02:07:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-13T06:45:00.001-08:00

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

2012-01-10T01:22:00.001-08:00

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

2012-01-09T03:30:00.001-08:00

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

2012-01-07T03:14:00.001-08:00

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.

Catching on

2011-12-31T07:16:00.001-08:00

THE HAY RIDE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HE DOES.

UNBIDDEN IT COMETH

2011-12-30T03:51:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

The Heirloom

2011-12-21T01:42:00.001-08:00

PRESSURE POINT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HELLO, HOME

2011-12-19T02:06:00.001-08:00

ESSAY ON COMING HOME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BUT THE WONDERFULNESS OF COMING HOME !

Hard Work

2011-12-17T01:52:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hello, Bob"

Depression days

2011-12-14T06:00:00.000-08:00

OUR BLOCK, OUR TIMES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing ?

2011-12-13T01:34:00.001-08:00

TIME TO GO

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

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

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

The door closes slowly, never completely shuts.

Ending of story

2011-12-12T02:22:00.001-08:00

COLORLESS

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

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

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

With my hair restyled, I already feel better, skip stuff and go home to start using the elixir. Most likely I haven't used enough or maybe too much. In a whole week I see no improvement and return to Phyllis' to get my money back. Instead she gives me a free tube to try again.
It works for sure, but the wrong way. My rheumy eyes lighten and I can barely see in the mirror. The loud pumping of my heart scares me half to death. Any moment expecting to faint dead away, I reach for the phone and it falls on the floor. Thru a miracle I manage to dial 911. The loud noise of an ambulance stops at my door. I hear banging. The front window crashes and voices call to me. At the top of my lungs, I manage 'help', over and over, but am not heard. Heavy footsteps come towards me lying on the basement floor. The man in the white cap must be the captain. He puts his arms under my back and gently helps me to sit up.

'Lady, you're drunk as a skunk. Here's your ticket for calling us for less than a true emergency.' I look thru my rheumy eyes and can see 'Payment due in ten days or penalty doubles.' When everyone has left and I am comfortable in my bed, I gag and throw up all the booze.

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

Go for it!

2011-12-11T05:07:00.001-08:00

MOTHER GOOSE

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

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

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

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

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

Holiday time--repeat

2011-12-10T00:25:00.000-08:00

GREEN CHEESE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Travail

2011-12-06T01:44:00.001-08:00

HELP, PLEASE HELP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wake up call

2011-12-05T01:39:00.001-08:00

DREAM HOUSE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time marches on

2011-12-03T23:57:00.001-08:00

PATHS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crash, bam, alacazam

2011-12-03T01:29:00.001-08:00

BEAUTY AND THE FEAST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift

2011-12-02T00:51:00.001-08:00

UGLY MUG

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

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

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

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

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

You look a lot like him, Boy.'

Crumbled cookies

2011-12-01T01:45:00.001-08:00

WISHES

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

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

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

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

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

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

Help!

2011-11-30T00:28:00.001-08:00

MERCY, MERCY

Daddy is waiting for me near the cellar door. He's a smart man but this time, I am smarter. I put on wool sox, leave my slippers in the hallway and sneak down the steps to the landing, stop, stand very still, very quiet. His cough and loud voice calls me again. 'Come down here, my little Chickadee, NOW!' I slip my feet into my new high top tennees and, not caring too much if he hears me or not, run out the front door.CooperationI know he hears me but doesn't chase after me. Mother calls me too. 'Come back in here, Child. Daddy promised me he won't hurt you.' Maybe he will, maybe he won't, I don't know and run around the corner, wait there until my daddy drives away. Whew! That was close.

There's a strange taste in my mouth. I spit on the pavement and just see spit. My pal, Shirley, sees me, stops to talk about the geography work we had to do for homework today, She looks at me and asks, 'Why is your mouth bleeding? Did your father hit you?' 'Bleeding?' I ask. 'It's not bleeding. Mom knows I hate it but gave me tomato juice instead of orange for breakfast.' Shirley makes no comment and we walk the rest of the way to school in silence.

I don't raise my hand to answer any of Miss Crawford's questions. In fact, I try hard not to open my mouth at all. For weeks I've been teased called 'snaggle tooth' because I ate an apple and lost a tooth. My father tells me he can already see a new one growing in but I can't and can't feel it with my tongue either.

My mom has been giving me soup for dinner every night since I lost my tooth and I don't like soup, except chicken soup with noodles. She mostly buys canned soups like green pea, tomato bisque. Celery soup is the worst. She tries but can't make me eat that one. Don't ever tell her but once I found a little bug on the kitchen floor, squashed it and put it in my celery soup. Thank heavens, she emptied the entire pot of soup down the garbage disposal.

This is Friday and Friday we always have lamb chops. Those I like a lot but Mom doesn't give me even a baby chop unless, unless I let my daddy take care of my other front tooth. 'It's hanging by a thread. Honest, Child, it will take a second and won't hurt at all. My father took out my top front teeth when I was 7 and look at me now. See how straight and white they are?' Mom gives me a big, big smile and I get her mad. 'White? Mom, you have false teeth.' She drops the subject and my dad takes over. He picks me up as if I were a feather and stands me in the dining room corner. From his pants pocket he shows me a thin piece of string that he ties to the hall door and says, 'Open your mouth now, Daughter, or I will glue it shut forever. That loose tooth is going bye bye before you swallow it.' He is fierce, angry and I know he means business.

I drop to the floor, beg him, make crazy promises if only he will let it fall out by itself. His ears are closed. My loose tooth barely knows he is putting a thin string around it. I am so scared. Mom walks in, opens the door to see what is going on and zip-zap my tooth is pulled out of my mouth. It didn't hurt and didn't bleed at all. Daddy tells me to put it in a clean napkin and then under my pillow.'The Tooth Fairy' may visit you during the night so go to bed now. Sleep tight.' I don't and I hear my mom come into my room, tip toe to my bed and stick something under my pillow. I don't move and am sure I'll find at least one dollar, maybe two, under there when I get out of bed.

Instead there is an envelop from my Mom AND Dad. She is making a big pot of chicken soup with lots of noodles for tonight and is going to bake a chocolate cake especially for me. There are two one dollar bills folded into a fan that I don't think Dad knows about.

No fun-A Deadly Game

2011-11-29T01:30:00.000-08:00

THE GAME

Let me tell you about the game. Maybe you know how to play, you might be able to tell me the rules. I, we, don't have any...but that doesn't stop us. How many can play? That point isn't clear, but it seems to be working with two. The thing about it is it's a murderous challenge-a time element. We are at it almost constantly, never having a day offto relax and forget it. I said there are no rules but retract that statement. There is one- SECRECY, utter top-drawer secrecy. It goes on and on and he doesn't know for sure if I know he knows I'm playing. And I can only guess and wonder if he knows I know he knows.

Today I scored big, made lots of points, but am left in mid-air with my befuddled mind not sure if I'm one up or one down. My stomach aches as the constant quest makes the gray, slimy snakes inside hiss and spit. Merely writing about it sends dangerous sparks, shivers to electrify my brain. The possibility of being found out can make me tense, nasty. Did I do well? Do I give myself a star? I know he got his revenge (his pleasure) and he isn't even around. Maybe I'll find out, maybe I won't. If I do, and I tell him, his point is forfeited. Or is it?

Just my discovery becomes a plus for him and a negated positive for me. So where am I? Surely, defining the game will put an end to it. If you are still with me, I think you deserve to know (oh, but I am so afraid to tell..you might tell him) how I score myself. Promise me, promise me, you won't.

A deep breath- I have a little piece of paper that I keep hidden in plain sight- face down-on my dressing table- that today shows four days of play. It reads:
16     white           a.m.   Wed.    brown
7     tip                a.m.   Thurs. shoe
13     white           a.m.    Thurs. brown
14     blue             p.m.     Sat.    blue
Hah, so you thought this game was easy, a minuet for two? I am boggled myself and I am the only known player.

Well, I said I'd explain and I will, but I can't. I'll try again. What I (we) are doing is playing a child's game, but a ruthless adult version of Hide and Seek. He is always the 'Hider'. Oh, he is sly! Oh, he is sneaky! As soon as I reveal my code, you'll understand. Dare I? Are you in suspense? Do you care at all what a hell I'm in, how my life is bound to this stupid game? Somehow I know there is no escape, even if he finds out. In fact, that is a scary thought in itself.

I deviated from my purpose and return to quietly tell you the code. White is light–mild. How difficult it is to say the word. I'll wait a little longer. 'Brown' is coat; hah, shoe is shoe; tip is strong and blue is simply blue coat. Do you see the ugliness yet? Does the timing of the hunt clue you as to its aim? No? Well, think. First they are here. They go and come back, increase, change, move brown shoe to blue, for no apparent reason, except to challenge me again. Yes, he's clever. The
whites, I think, are decoys and only change now and then. I'll tell you.

I search endless for the deadly, doom-bringing, ugly, absolutely forbidden cigarettes.There I did it! Somebody else now knows what is tearing me to pieces. Somebody else can understand why the secret must be kept, why I can't call it quits, and must keep on looking and watching for a change in pattern.

It has become a daily ritual, an unending misery to stop this totally winnerless game. But DEATH will do it. And then...whose arm will be extended, upraised in victory?

I know it will not be mine !!!

Won't?

2011-11-28T01:42:00.001-08:00

MY PRIVATE WORLD

Not that I didn't expect it, I did, for 15 long years, with a lot more distress than joy. But the day came and I was stunned being a widow. I just couldn't believe it. My husband knew that the big clock outside his room was counting off his hours and seemed to not mind at all. He was ready, really ready to find what happens after his last breath whithers away. One of the few quiet mornings in his room when the nurses still pumped drugs into his arm, he turned his head to me and asked, 'What are you gonna do when I leave the building, Rose?' I gathered my senses as best as I could, and told him what I expect to do, but made no promises. Too fast and foolishly I laid my plans before him.

'Gil, I am going to have to go on, maybe sell our house, get a smaller apartment, travel, live as well and as happily as I can. I'll have to make new friends, widows like myself. Maybe I'll get a job, do charity work.'
He never blinked an eye, showed no emotion but managed to say, 'Good that's what I want you to do. You will be gobbled up by a strong, healthy dancing king and maybe you will be happier than when we were together. Let's pray for that, shall we?'He closes his eyes and tears run from their corners.

Gil passed the next day. That first lonely night I shivered, pulled our blanket tight around me, moved close to his side of the bed and let the river flow. Gratefully our children took over, arranged the funeral. I, too, got busy, refused to be a grieving blob, silently begging for company, the name of a widower. Our son stayed with me for two weeks, helping with papers, taking Gil's clothes to Good Will. My half empty closet began to depress me more and more so I spread my clothes out on the racks wider, wider but did not fool myself. The walk for one is long, empty but I walk our area on sunny, warm days, look at the trees, the weeds coming thru the green grass, I see the blue sky and the huge ball of red fire as it sinks in the west, turn around and go home alone. Oh, how I hate unlocking the front door, until I see one message on my recorder. I rush to return our son Jerry's call. He picks up the phone at once and gives me good news.

He's coming to visit me next week for three whole days, if I don't mind. A happy scream almost bursts his ear drum. 'Dad left things in pretty good shape, but not good enough. His will was at your attorney's and we have to get that cleared. 'How's Wednesday evening. I'm renting a car and you can have your baked lasagna ready for me. OK?' He emails me details and I shop the way I used to, where I used to. I feel semi-alive again.

Jerry arrives and we hug, we gab. He gives me a present. It's in a fairly small box with a big polka dot bow. I open it slowly so maybe I can use the bow for something some day. 'What is it?' I ask. 'Mother, for god's sake it's a cell phone!' Our conversation gets tight. I don't want a cell phone. I'm never going to use it. Please take it back and get something for yourself, like a new woman.' He thinks I'm joking but I'm not. 'I am NOT going to use a cell phone. I have phones in 4 of my six rooms.' 'But, Mom, it's wireless. Suppose you fall or have a car accident or just need AAA because your car is dead.' 'Jerry, don't use the word 'dead' right now.'

He doesn't let up, nags me. I feel like hitting him over the head with his new contraption for me. 'Mom, I can't return it. Look at this. I've programed it for you, have phone numbers of your doctor, AAA, neighbors, good friends, mine, of course. Give me other names and numbers and I'll show you how to put them in to the cell and call them.'
'Don't you get it, Son? I don't want it, will never use it. Electronics and I are in different worlds.'

Together we enjoy a glass of Chianti, a fresh salad (not one from a pre-packed plastic bag) and savor, enjoy the large lasagna I have loving made for him. Our time together is far too short. We settle problems and he is ready to leave. I hug him, kiss his cheek, hand him a double wrapped frozen package of my lasagna.' He smiles and tells me to put it in my freezer for myself and has the guts to tell me he is never going to eat it. He's going on a diet. 'Go on a diet after you eat it, Jerry. You aren't going to eat my lasagna and I am not going to use the cell phone you are trying to push down my throat.'

He waves goodbye. I wave back and find the damn cell on the kitchen table. I'm never going to use it but put it in my every-day purse.

Strong Colors Blend

2011-11-27T02:26:00.001-08:00

BLACK JACK

He's big, brawny and gleaming black. His skin shines. I picture him as a lumber jack, chopping away, heaving a hatchet over and over as a giant fir falls to earth The ground shakes and Jack's whole body quivers. He sighs with regret, moves aside, guides workers to get the chains around it. 'Up, Up, he shouts. Mournfully he moves on to the next tree and tries to remove his visions of the sawing, the houses that will be born, the furniture that will be built to fill the houses. But my conception of Jack is way off base.

As fall nears, I am aware his step down the street to the bus stop is faster, his whistle sharp and happy. And why not? He is the Manager of the Balfour Arborarium and more than that. It is bulb planting time and he just loves dirtying his clothes, his hands. Jack plans during the summer what will bring thousands of Marylanders to see his tulips, the beautiful cherry trees exposing their pink and white faces as they greet the visitors.

Fall fades too fast. I don't see Jack out walking when a December snow storm paralyzes the city. In fact, I don't see anyone during the temporary burial of Baltimore. The nice overly-weight day worker my wife and I have on Mondays and Fridays is holed up in her own apartment, doing for herself what she does for us, vacuums, washes clothes, changes the bed clothes and naps a lot.

March arrives a bit to nippy for the tulips to draw their usual throng of visitors. Reisterstown Road is a major traffic problem. It's crooked, narrow, has only one lane each way and tries to service the heavily traveled town as best it can. The mushy snow turns it into Hell's kitchen.

Black Jack is worried about the spring garden showing. There is a large picture of him in the Sunday paper as he covers his delicate babies with strong plastic sheets and sits in the cold to watch their growth. At last a whiff of spring time appears and Black Jack disappears.

The Sunday News shocks our community. Black Jack is ill, very ill. The grand opening of the gardens will be delayed as the community waits for him to preside. Friday headlines are larger than usual. They are decorated with flowers of all kinds, His picture is on the front page. His obituary notice takes the place of the next meeting of some kind of hinky dincky political club. A notice explains the Board has voted to allow only one grave to be built in the park and that will be a memory to Black Jack. It will eventually have a black wrought iron fence around it and a 'thank you plaque' will be displayed on a concrete pole.

Blakc Jack's last request is honored. He did not want a wooden casket. Jokingly he remarked to the custodian while he was able–'I don't want another tree destroyed for me. Make mine casket out of metal or plastic.' And so it came about, Jack got the love, the honor he deserved.

My family and I visit him every spring along with those in wheel chairs, using canes, riding bikes, pushing baby carriages. He was a 'Man of Color' with black skin, white teeth, blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a heart of gold. He is already missed, I watch the tulips sprout. This spring they rise as one large American Flag, red and white stripes. A field of white poppy stars work their way thru a field of blue geraniums.

Our beloved Black Jack loved us and the America that gave him hope.
It was a good exchange.

Smile time

2011-11-26T01:03:00.001-08:00

FADING AWAY

Thunder roars and booms. Lightning streaks across the darkening sky. There is no rain yet and I wonder what can be delaying it. The park is almost empty, at least the part I'm in and I am scared, too scared to stay and too scared to ride my bike home. Each lightning bolt seems to aim itself my way. My Daddy taught me not to stand under a tree in a lightning storm because the tree attracts the lightning. He told me to run fast, get in somebody's house. I can't run. I have my bike to take care of.

Before the lightning began I was sitting quietly by the fish pond, talking to the biggest gold fish. I named him Willy and, honest to goodness, he knows me. As soon as I sit down on the pool's edge, he swims to me, opens and closes his mouth and surely wants me to feed him...but I can't. There's a broken sign that says, 'Please don't feed the ..sh so I don't. And Willy might not like peanut butter and jelly. Somebody, and I know who, stole the 'fi' off the sign. I've seen those letter glued on Mel Fine's wagon. He's a thief. I also saw him take a box of Good 'n Plenty off the candy counter at the movies, didn't pay for it and never offered me a single candy.

Why are my thoughts away from where they belong? I should be figuring out a way to get home without being struck by lightning or drowned when the rain comes pouring down. What will happen if the lightning really hits the fish pond? Will Willy and the other fish be cooked? I grab my ears and bend down low. That last thunder almost split my ears open.

Am I going nutso? Do I see a speck of blue way off where the lightning starts? Yes, yes. It is getting a little bigger, not much but it makes me feel a tiny bit safer. The lightning doesn't care too much for the blue sky and zings, pings thru the dark sky. I hear a terrible noise that had to be where it struck something, maybe our house. No, No, god wouldn't let that happen, wouldn't let me be an orphan, would he?

He heard me. God must be a mind reader. The sky is getting bluer every minute. I am saved. Maybe I can ride my bike home soon.
As I am about to try it, I see the most gorgeous rainbow that ever covered the sky. Somebody, anybody, come see what I see. There are two rainbows at the same time. This is fragalistic! Oh, if only god would let me walk up one and slide down the other, land in our back yard, I would give up my allowance, always speak softly, nicely to my parents

and IF–
                           If I could do as I please,
                         Just feed the fishes,
                        I'd run up one rainbow
                           Slide down the other
                          Be home on time
                         To do the dishes !

Bye Willy! Bye Everybody! By god that was a cute poem, wasn't it?

Gone !

2011-11-25T04:09:00.001-08:00

GOTCHA !

Barry and I are sound asleep, spooned and content. Our five year old twins daughter are played out, their little tummies filled with their favorite meal, burgers on buns, with sweet gherkins and potato chips. I stir. Something is pushing me, crying, 'Mommie, Daddy, let me sleep with you.' It's Jane. She doesn't wait for my answer which was going to be, 'No, go back to bed, and climbs in, squeezes between Barry and me. He doesn't hear or feel me move way. I have no time to resent it, just smother Jane in my warm arms. 'What's wrong, Honey. Do you feel sick? Did you eat too many pickles?' She doesn't answer but her forehead is warm and her hands are cold. I'm a bit worried but not enough to wake up Barry or check on Lili. Jane is restless, holds on to me until the sun rises and shines on her face.

'Mommie, let's go see if Lili is ok.' ' Of course she's okay, Jane, why shouldn't she be? Let's go get her.' We get out of bed and go to wake Lili but she isn't in her bed. 'Jane, go down to the kitchen, see if she's there.' 'No, you go, Mommie.' We go back and forth 'you go', 'no you go', a few times until I, the mother go. 'Are you two playing a trick on me? If you are, it isn't very funny! Call your sister, call her now.' We both call. There is no answer, not a peep from upstairs, not even from Barry. He can sleep thru just about everything.

Barry complains when I open the bathroom door. He yelps that he nicked himself. 'Barry, something is wrong. Jili isn't in the house. Jane slept with me all night because something frightened her in their room, really scared her. Get dressed. Get dressed NOW! I'm going out to look around, ring some doorbells. Jane, you stay here with Dad.'

Nobody has seen our daughter. I dial 911 for the police, frantically explain our Lili is missing. Tears almost choke me. A police car arrives in what seems forever but is only fifteen minutes. They take all the info I have, which is none, her description and then talk almost baby talk to Jane. 'What frightened you last night, Little Miss Jane?' a tall, skinny officer asked. 'I saw a shadow on the wall and Lili told me it was from the tree outside our window, but we don't have a big tree out there.' Mommie let me stay with her. Are you going to find my sister, Mr. Policeman?' He looks at me, then at Jane and tells her the truth. 'We are sure going to try.'

By the end of the week photos of Lili are on every pole, lamp post, on buses, in the paper. Good people send us money in case a ransom message comes in. I thank them all and return what I can. My eyes are dry because I have cried them all out. Jane stays home from school, is almost always in our sight.

From nowhere she suddenly remembers something she hadn't told us or the policeman because she wasn't sure, but she thinks she heard a voice the night Lili disappeared. It only said, 'GOTCHA.'

Yes, whoever, whatever took our daughter away has changed our lives. We miss her every day, in every way, every time we see another child about Lili's age. Jane remembers her sister but the vision dims as she grows up and we grow older.

Our neighbors donated money for a small marble statue of Lili that has been placed in the Capitol Square. Barry and I visit it every Sunday. Our heavy hearts just never get lighter. The unknown perpetrator of this tragedy also must have been please that his 'Gotcha' also got us.

May he burn in hell for all eternity!

Winner?

2011-11-24T01:07:00.001-08:00

PRIDE GOETH –

The white full breasted turkey was walking around Dupont Circle, one of the busiest streets in Washington, D.C. Its big fancy tail was spread out in imitation of a glorious peacock. Discombobulated drivers honked, yelled but the turkey never acknowledged their rudeness and proudly strode in long yellow steps , gobbled a few times to amuse the on-lookers and let its waddle sway in the fall breeze.

Traffic slowed to a crawl. Children came running from every direction. The press came in droves. With dreams of fame and fortune, paparazzi flashed their cameras at everything. Not once did the turkey blink. Police cars sounded their sirens and the crowd moved gradually towards the grassy area in the middle of the circle.

The President, his large family, senators, a few movie stars, assembled in the Green Room of the White House. Cocktails were served along with hors deuvres on silver platters. A ten piece band played a variety of music from religious to rock to bop for an hour. Finally they stopped to allow the full breasted white turkey to get all the attention as the President, in a sign of graciousness, spared the turkey's life. Applause from the guests as the turkey strode out of the Green room, out of the White House. He, a turkey weighing forty five lbs. Was driven to a farm near Lancaster, PA and allowed to father as many turkey-lets as he wished for his entire natural life.

While that was going on and photo after photo of the President being kind, allowing the turkey to live, 50 other less fortunate, smaller ones were slaughtered in the hidden garage behind the White House. Their heads were chopped off and their feathers quickly plucked. Their cavities were stuffed with fragrant dressing and their roasting began. At seven p.m. dinner was served in the Gold room where George and Martha Washington had often supped.

Pictures of our thoughtful, kind President, his wife and four children, filled the morning newspapers, t.v. programs. None were shown of the roasting of the fifty other turkeys.

Well before the next election for a second term, all of that baloney was forgotten and John Glassman lost. He was such a pompous fool and a real dodo.

Watch it!

2011-11-23T05:37:00.000-08:00

LOUD MEMORIES

I hear the pounding of the metal pestle as it bangs against the mortar.
My mother and my Tante Sophie are like busy ants running all over the kitchen, opening cabinets, looking in drawers. 'Sarah,' my mother calls.
'Where did you hide Tante Lottie's rolling pin?' And I am pushed aside like a rotten tomato. 'Go outside and play, Child. There's work we grown-ups have to do now.' My mother stands in front of me and opens her angry mouth. 'You send my Millie out of my house? What a nerve you have. You go, not my kleneche.' If they could, they'd saw me in half.

Supposedly this is Happy Time in Brooklyn, but not always. Purim is still very much alive even if cruel King Hamen has been dead for hundreds of years and his Queen Esther is less than ashes in her grave.

The arguing goes on until I find Tante Lottie's rolling pin behind the box of ginger snaps in the pantry. I eat the last few, put the box in the trash and leave the pantry yelling to all of my aunts, 'Look what I found! Here's Tante Lottie's rolling pin.' There are smiles but not a word of thanks.

My mother is the first to reach me. She kisses me and gives me a quick hug, lays the rolling pin next to the humongous piece of waxed paper on the kitchen counter. Tante Sophie sprinkles lots of flour on it and starts rolling, flipping, stretching the dough that was made last night. Before she is even half finished, she almost has a fit. 'Nobody turned on the oven?' My mother lowers her head in shame and sets the dial to 375 degrees.

'Mildred?' I hear my name called. 'Do you want to do something to really help?' I say, 'What?' Before I get a job to do, Tante Clara comes in, takes the old brass, very wobbly mortar and pestle, empties a bag of mun seeds in it, covers them with globs of Karo Syrup and starts pounding the gook into mush. The rolled dough has been cut into large squares and laid on more waxed paper. Two great big aluminum flat baking pans are ready. All hands, except mine, get busy folding the dough into triangles, pinching the sweetness inside. To me the hats look like pointed bellies that will soon explode. The house begins to smell sweet. While the hats bake, all of my Tantes clean every speck of the kitchen and watch their watches so nothing burns.

The ancient brass mortar and pestle is back on the counter next to a big bottle of Manischewitz wine. My mother adds a little water into one glass of wine and lets me taste it. Ugh! The first two trays of toasty hats come out of the oven and two more go in. As the hamentashen cool, my aunts carefully fill all one hundred into cardboard boxes to be picked up by members of B'rith Shalom Synagogue for the celebration party.

I have a new dress and black patent leather shoes. I'm very excited, need my mother. She's upstairs in her room holding, caressing the brass mortar and pestle for maybe the millionth time. She believes it was once her great grandmother's. In turning it upside down she notices, for the first time in her life, tiny, tiny markings that seem to be Hebrew. A magnifying glass does not show her what she is seeking. So she wraps the dull cracked mortar and pestle in a silk kerchief and lays it carefully in her bureau drawer. It will be forgotten until next Purim I think, but it isn't.

My mother is a great fan of the Antique Road Show on t.v. twice a week. She thrills when someone brings in what seems to be nothing much and is shocked, is thrown into spasms of ecstasy when the near valueless, but beloved, painting is examined by a professional and turns out to be worth thousands of dollars. A light goes on in my mother's head . She investigates, gets all the information of how to get on the show. And she does. Most lucky people, are almost speechless. They can barely say 'WOW'. My Mom doesn't. All of my family is with her when her turn comes to show the old, broken brass mortar and pestle that must be 200 years old, at least. The expert spends quite a bit of time with it, pondering, turning, using a bright light and decides that it is very valuable. 'Mrs. Bass. Cherish this antique, leave it for your daughter, but the marks you tried to read are merely scratches, signify nothing.' No one says 'Wow'. They all groan, moan and go back to our house having had a great t.v. experience.

The mortar and pestle are forever after kept on the fireplace mantle,
with a small sign that says 'Antique Road Show- 2009.'

Stand by me

2011-11-22T00:15:00.000-08:00

DOORS

I approach the house that once was mine very slowly and pass it by. It's been much too long since I've walked these streets. The few maple trees are higher and I know I am a lot shorter, limp on my prosthetic left leg. A few children play games, text their friends. These kids weren't even a gleam in their parents eyes when I left the neighbor- hood. No one smiles or waves to me. They don't seem to notice me at all. My heart palpitates, thumps. I feel faint for a minute but get my wits together and proceed.

The air is fresh, smells like just cut lilacs my mom used to put in a cut glass tall vase. The newspaper I had bought as soon as I stepped off the bus I threw in a city trash receptacle. It was useless to me. I own no more stocks and bonds, nor did I recognize the department store names offering a huge one day only sale. I worry. Did I get off my bus too soon, too late?

Then I calm down. On the corner is the Woodfield Drugstore, right where it was when my world turned upside down. I was paying for Barbasol shaving cream and a new razor. The register drawer was open. Out of the blue, out of hell, five policemen, guns drawn, drew closer and closer to me, made me lie down flat on the floor while they felt my entire body, pants' pockets. 'Stand up, don't say a word and don't move a hair on your head until we tell you to.' One officer laughed. 'Joe,' he said, 'The perp doesn't have much hair to move.'

The store clerk comes over, looks me up and down and I am a goner. , 'Yes, he's the man who robbed us last week and killed our cashier.' My denials are worthless. My fear is evident. I pee in my pants.

Things go bad to worse. I am given a pro bono lawyer who looks like he just graduated law school. I am identified by three people who had been there when the tragedy occurred. I had not!. Having no previous arrests does not stop the judge from slamming me into the hoosegow where I am in a single cell. My family visits, tries to console me, wants bail arranged but Judge Bancroft says 'No.' A trial is set for June 6 and this is only February 2. My dreams are fearsome. I languish as much as possible on the single cot in my cell, avoid trying to make friends in the yard. I read all the law books in the jail's small library, don't understand much.

Visiting is only twice a week for a half hour and it takes a month of waiting until my parents come, bring me a few sweets, magazines that are first examined before I get them. Hallelujah! They have a found an attorney willing to take my case. They have put their house up as collateral. Mr. Frank E. Stein visits me daily, has come up with proof that I was not the murderer and presents it, with diagrams, with witnesses who knew where I really was when the murder was committed. While I sit and listen, I realize how smooth he is and my confidence grows.

The jury is out for six hours when I hear the verdict, loud and clear.-'Innocent of all charges.' My wonderful family surrounds me. There are technicalities to be taken care of and I am return to my cell while papers are finalized. I am given a plastic bag so I can take my belonging home. I trash it. Want nothing from this god-forsaken place.

On my last day, Frank E. Stein meets me and my folks in a private area and I watch my Dad, see a tear go down my Mom's face, as they hand the deed to our house to Mr. Stein. We leave and the door automat- ically closes and locks!

Playland

2011-11-21T02:03:00.001-08:00

CHILD'S PLAY

School days were still so far away. I wanted them to come faster but, in the meantime, Easterwood Park was waiting for me. 'Roz, let's go. We can get the bean bags before Shirley gets there.' And off we ran, hand in hand until I stumbled, skinned my knee, spit on my handkerchief to clean away the little blood' and ran on. Darn it. Ira got the bean bags before us but he let us play and when Shirley came we had 2 teams. Naturally, Roz and I were one, Shirley and Ira the other. We lost.

The sliding board beckoned as the sun wasn't high yet and we could fly down it without burning our tuches. The sand we landed in was cool so we built a few castles with our hands as we hadn't brought our buckets and shovels. In fact, we didn't like to bring them anymore as the other kids thought we were for babies.

A few swings were still empty. Before there were none left, Roz and I each grabbed one and swung and swung. Both of us liked to break the rule and we would stand, bend, push ourselves higher, and higher, never falling off. That tired us out and we took a little rest under the big oak tree near Bentalou St.

I looked up to the blue, blue sky and saw Santa Claus. In front of him was a big dragon. This was as good as going to the movies as the dragon, right before my eyes, turned into a rabbit. Before I could even point the rabbit out to Roz it became a whale and the whale swam away. In its place was a devil with horns and chasing the devil was a big clown with a tall hat. Where did they come from? Where did they go?

The wind began to whistle. The clouds got darker and darker. Thunder started to rumble and Roz and I ran as fast as we could into the little supply house. Miss Glazer let us in, gave us crayons and paper to keep us busy until the storm passed. And when it had gone, the air smelled so clean, so good, Roz and I decided to walk home rather than skip. It was such a good morning.

And the sky movies were free!

To the Zela Bop Fan Club

2011-11-19T16:04:00.001-08:00

I am not feeling too well for the last few days and may have to take a few days off of writing.

But don't worry, I'll be back. Just stick with me, my wonderful friends. You are the joy of my life, the people who make me smile.

Val

A peeling

2011-11-19T01:52:00.001-08:00

THE ORANGE TANGERINE

Where did it come from? I walk a little slower and realize I'm barely shuffling my feet and my mother is holding my hand. In her other hand is a brown paper bag. She looks at me, smiles and asks, 'Want one now, Sweetie?' 'Oh, yes, yes, Mommy.' We stop while she opens the paper bag, looks in, and pulls out just one tangerine. She asks me if I want her to peel it for me. 'No, no, I can do it,' I reply, take the golden orange in my hand, dig my fingernail into the top and juice squirts all over me and into my eye. Mommy wipes it off with her sleeves and takes away what is left of my tangerine.

'I'll do it for you or you will spoil another one.' I beg for another chance and am able to separate each little section slowly, one by one, stop when only one juicy piece is left. 'Mommy, I'm sorry I was a pig. Here, you can have this.' She leans towards me, opens her mouth real, real wide and I pop in my last slice. Soulfully, I gaze at her and ask if we can share one more tangerine.

I close my eyes, realize I am on my way home from the supermarket and I was just sort of day dreaming. Why did that warm memory come back from nowhere? The reason clarifies itself in an instant. My car is waiting and I head my loaded shopping cart towards it, notice the packer had put my large, heavy bag of tangerines on top of my tomatoes. I remove it and as soon as I can push the button to open the trunk, put them in first, all the way to its rear and leave the rest of the space for canned goods, cleaning, soaps.

At home I unpack all that had been packed in the super market and then again in my car trunk. I rip open the net bag of tangerines and hate myself for buying what I know are dried out, sour orange delights. My money is down the sewer. From my purse I remove my market sales slips so I can return the lousy,dry tangerines the next day.

I think perhaps this experience is a message. In the kitchen, my writing pad and pen flies like a November wind to send you my thoughtless thoughts.

ENJOY what you can while you can.

Merry Christmas

2011-11-18T00:56:00.000-08:00

DOLL HOUSE

It's only 5 a.m. when I hear our five year old angel open her bedroom door. She tries to close it quietly but it clicks in my mind as loud as Big Ben might. I jump out of bed and almost bump into her in the hallway. My arms folded meanly on my chest, I block her and order her back to her room. A lecture follows. 'If Daddy or I catch you out of your room before we call you, rest assured you will be sorry. No breakfast, no anything!' Our little honey angel starts her easy tear routine, almost wins, but Ralph and I manage to control her. We aren't quite ready to let her see what god has given us to give her for Christmas.

'Yes, Ma am,' she whispers as she slinks upstairs. Ralph and I get dressed in our regular Christmas red outfits, go to the kitchen for cups of coffee and manage to get the last box of tree ornaments to our den. He still hasn't managed to place our twinkling star on top. He's tried several times but something is wrong. Even though no windows are open, it tilts, sways as if it is going to fly away, then lays limp on a lower bough. Ralph is steadfast, won't let me try it. He's the big boss and he'll do it.

Carol whines from the upstairs hall, 'Mommy, can I come down? I'm hungry.' ' Soon. Go watch t.v. The Brandenburg Parade is on.' There is semi-quiet for all of five minutes, when miss big shot Carol yells at the top of her lungs, 'Ready or not, here I come!' She falls on the bottom step but isn't hurt much and heads towards the living room to see the tree (and her presents.) Ralph tackles her, pulls her close to his body and warns her not to try that trick again.

The door bell rings and Carol opens it, lets the cold wind in with her friend Flo. Flo doesn't hesitate. 'Is your tree ready yet? What presents did you get?' Poor Carol doesn't know what to say so just tells her friend to go home. She has things to do.

'Eureka, Eureka,' Ronald shouts. ''As soon as Flo leaves you can come in. This is OUR special time.' The front door closes, the living room drapes are shut, making the room almost dark. 'Come in, come in, Child. Be ready.' He touches the switch near the door and the room turns into a flood of colors, lights twinkle, silver stars spin around. Gaily wrapped packages are everywhere. Carol squeals with delight, kisses, hugs, her parents and dives into the packages.

She doesn't know where to begin. Should she open the small things first or the big ones? The little boxes look easier so she opens the first and find a real, an honest to god real, watch. It is silver colored and has a white face with black hands. Her joy is overwhelming. Next she opens a pale blue fuzzy angora sweater with a matching blue beret, slips them on over her nite gown and declares, 'Don't I look beautiful Mom?'

Dad suggests she open the biggest box next. He helps her undo the ribbons, the scotch tape. He needs something to actually open the sealed box and uses a screwdriver. A noise comes out of the box and frightens Carol. 'Is somebody in there? Let her out. She will die.' The box comes apart and her Dad lifts a baby doll from the tissue paper.
Carol does get frightened. The doll is a copy of herself. It even walks and talks a little. It takes a few minutes before she can accept her double and then she falls in love with it. 'Am I as pretty as my doll?' Mommy', she asks. Mom comes back at her with a 'No, you are prettier. You have a heart that beats, eyes that shine, kisses that are warm and wet.' Carol is so happy, happy until there is a loud noise behind her.

There laying flat on the floor, broken to pieces is the gold star that her Daddy had tried so hard to put on the tree. Everybody laughs as Carol gives her parents the pretty things she made for them.

Long ago-but close at hand

2011-11-17T02:09:00.001-08:00

Please accept this tale of long ago that I came across when searching thru my Documents from about 2005. Some of you may remember it and those that don't will believe I just made up this nonsense. But it is true and I never want to let go of the things that I lived thru. Take a trip with me,Val

TIME MARCHES ON

The past is the past, but much of the past is too alive to be past. There are still many of us alive to tell you about the trivial, non-history book every day important nothingness of our world in the 1920 to 40's in an ordinary USA city. By the end of 1924 when I made my entrance, the world was already bursting with new ideas, inventions. Progress was jumping ahead in leaps and bounds. But only now watching the History channel do I actually see 1924 as

long ago, yet it is burned in my memory. Come back there with me!

How my father afforded some of the things we acquired was by diligence, determination, devotion to his dental practice, his family, his pursuit of 'the new, the better.' It seems to me we ALWAYS had an automobile, but I know that was not so. That my playmates didn't have one, went over my unaware red head.

Our milk was delivered daily by horse drawn trucks. The clop of their hooves on tar streets often woke me. Ice was brought to groceries, butcher shops and drug stores, homes, in huge blocks that were chopped to suit the order left on small window signs. Refrigeration was still only a dream.

Boys delivered the Baltimore Sun morning paper directly to our doorsteps and again when the afternoon edition was printed. The Baltimore News Post was sold on street corners, held down by broken pieces of brick or from street cars where the ragged boys were allowed on free to hawk the latest news for two cents, 5 cents for Extras! Mail too was delivered to the house twice daily and on Sat. department stores delivered any and all packages, even one handkerchief, right to the door at no charge.

Clothes were washed and rinsed in big tubs in dank smelling cellars or even in bathtubs. Our cellar had a small black gas range on which my mother boiled clothes and sterilized the drinking glasses for my daddy's patients, an eternal, daily job. Mama had to light the boiler for hot water, always, always afraid it would explode. Came the day she got a washing machine. How excited she must have been! It actually had a hand wringer which she constantly warned me not to go near as it could pull in my arm and crush it flat. The still wet and heavy clothes, sheets had to be carried up two flights of stairs to be hung on clothes lines stretched across our garage roof, where they bleached in the hot summer sun or froze into odd shapes in wintry blasts. Between the new washing machine and old permanent wash tubs Daddy put up a small wooden shelf for supplies, a box of Argo starch, a bottle of bluing, a bar of Fels Naptha soap, wooden matches and a box of Ivory flakes.

By the time I was 9, Daddy had prospered some and we were the first family in our neighborhood to get oil heat. No longer was the cellar full of coal dust. Along with that wonder was the automatic hot water heater. It was on all the time. Mama was no longer afraid the whole house would explode when we needed our baths. Did I appreciate all we had? No, it just came and I accepted, NEVER lauded my good fortune over others, because I was unaware they had less.

Years later neighbors gathered on our pavement when a big truck parked in front and 4 burly, sweating black men came inside, went to our second floor front window, removed the frame and somehow, with heavy ropes and pulley, brought our new refrigerator up, up, up, into the window, down the long hall and into our kitchen. Watchers on the pavements applauded. Even I was excited and shouted as I joined the crowd. The ice cubes were magical but my friend, the ice man, never visited me again. I watched for him almost daily as he made his rounds to all the stores on our block. With a smile he still gave me little chunks of ice on hot summer days. Super markets were not yet born. Mom and Pop groceries, A & Ps, were on many corners. Barley, rice, beans and even sugar were sold from the floor in open burlap bags, a scoop in each bag. I loved to play with them while Mama told the man behind the counter what she needed. What she bought from the bags would be spread on clean white tea towels on the kitchen table, where she, our day worker, and sometimes I, would move them around, searching for (and often finding) bugs, mouse dirt. Fly paper always hung from store ceilings, sometimes with last summer's flies still captured.

Back to Daddy. He was one of the very first dentists in Baltimore to get an X ray machine. Usually the patient, uncomfortable, afraid sat on a metal chair, held the X ray in his own mouth using one finger for 60 seconds for each position to be captured. There were no lead shields. Daddy stepped back a little whenever the new X ray in his jacket pocket turned black. I too, at age 14, worked the X ray machine, standing right near its rays as we knew nothing about the dangers.

I'm going back now to when I was 5. Mothers met and excitedly began talking about a new thing–kindergarten to be started the next term. I was going to go, and like my friends, was scared. The room was in the basement, had a piano for Miss Long to play and teach us songs, a row of rolled up straw mats on the floor for our rest periods. 2 chains that were put on hooks in the entrance door so we could have a swing during recess.
There must have been big furnaces to heat the whole school but I never saw them. Part of the basement had gray stalls for boys and girls who went to the toilet separately. Between that and the class was a large empty room–except for one wonderful thing-a see saw, used on rainy days.

Mama paid 20 cents a week so I could have a bottle of milk with graham crackers every day, right after rest time. Some of my friends said they didn't like milk and watched me drink mine.

We had 'bank days' all the way into high school. "Save, save for the future, for war bonds". AND we had ink wells in all the desks. One had to be the teacher's pet to pour the daily ink in before school. I WAS. I was allowed to wash blackboards, as far as I could reach, and use the very long hooked pole to lower the windows so we could maintain the perfect 78 degree temperature. Air conditioning, window fans? Never heard of them. Sitting on the outside steps or benches in summer sufficed. Fire trucks came sometimes and opened the hydrants for the children to cool off. It was cold! It was wonderful! It was fun!

Movies were still silent when I was small but I knew no better and loved them, walking fearlessly to see whatever opened. I can still see the huge sign on the Met's marquee–AIR COOLED–a miracle for sure. Then Daddy and Mama took me to see 'Disraeli', a talking picture. Daddy had patients until 5 and we had to have supper so by the time we got to the movie there was standing room only. Most of the time Daddy let me sit on his shoulders but I kvetched and was bored. Excitement rose when the movie was over and door prizes were given out, food, dishes, towels—but we didn't win. We never won.

Street cars clanged up and down our street. Policemen walked their beats. Horses added to the dirt that men with push carts and brushes had to constantly clean up. Summer storms saturated the sewer on our corner and often flooded right up to our front steps.

Maybe I was 5 or 5 1/2 ,sitting outside with Mama and Daddy on our chained down wooden bench, Daddy pointed up to see an airplane so very high in the sky. I don't think any of us had ever seen one fly–certainly not I.

Now I jump from younger than spring time to young womanhood. Daddy bought a T.V. set. The picture was always too red or two green . Shows didn't start until about 5 p.m. Picture tubes and smaller ones kept burning out so Uncle Morton, self taught in electronics, was at our house a few times EVERY week, doing the best he could but never getting it right.

It wasn't until 2nd grade that we began to write with pens, pens that had to be dipped in the inkwells on each desk. Arithmetic was done mentally and on fingers, no calculators, no adding machines. School #62 had to install a fire escape when I was in the 3rd grade. Although the building was brick, there were not enough exits. The floors and stair wells were all wood, smelling of the oily mops used to keep dust down. An aluminum tube was constructed, a door cut in the brick wall and then the tube was attached as an exit. Fire drills began. Picturing it now, I know it would not have provided safety to the hundreds of frightened children.

The radio, oh, my, how wonderful! We had a large radio in the living room, a Majestic. Our minds were very stimulated by conjuring up images of Bulldog Drummond, Orphan Annie, Punjab, Jack Armstrong. They became our friends, our enemies. One could walk for blocks on a lovely summer evening and never miss one word of Myrt and Marge as everybody was tuned in and windows were open.

Oh, Daddy bought a Victrola (RCA) for the office waiting room but patients never heard it. I did. The big, thick wax records were stored in brown heavy paper in the side cabinets. I couldn't work the machine Daddy said as the arm was heavy and the needle could chip the record but he would run it on Sundays when I listened to Caruso, the poet and Peasant Overture, William Tell and loved doing it—especially when Daddy & Mama weren't home for a few hours on a Sunday and I turned the Victrola on being VERY, VERY careful not to break anything.

Well, I am not yet empty but feel I have overstayed my visit, so I bid you farewell until ?????

The Fix

2011-11-16T01:07:00.001-08:00

THE CABLE GUY

My eyes are heavy. I can feel their weight taking me to another world.
A sudden blaring noise shakes me into a fit of fear. Somewhat dazed I assume something exploded. Wasting no time, not even grabbing my shoes, I look around and realize my den is semi dark. Only the night light is still burning. The brand new Samsung 34" HDTV flat screen box is smoking. It was just installed yesterday morning and is now a problem, a fright. 'O.K.', I mumble and walk zigzag to the window to check the weather. No thunder. No lightning. No outage. No T.V. With a flick of my finger I turn on the hall light and all is well.

At the same moment my dismay and anger erupt, I can taste the smoke as it curls slowly from the box of my new $1499.99 entertainment set. That was the sale price and I joked with myself about the 99cent figure. Do fools go for that? Not I. I already had figured the 9% sales tax when I signed the charge slip.

It's 2 a.m. and my phone rings. It has to be my neighbor, Joe, and I am too upset to get involved. It rings once more and I just sit on the edge of my bed, about to cry. My brain begins to function and I go looking for the Comcal's instructions. Where the hell did I put it? It is on the kitchen table and informs me on page six what to do in emergency. Their technicians are on call 24 hours a day. 'Just call us. We are at your service.' I dial, listen to an automated voice asking if I need emergency assistance- hit one. I follow instructions, am dis- connected. Another try, another automated answer, and dead silence.

My next attempt I use the trick I have learned and keep hitting 'O' rapidly. Oh, my god, where has my mind been? I didn't even unplug the box or any wires out of the wall. Fortunately, there are no flames so I just go to bed and try to sleep. To get ahead of everybody I dial Comcal at 5 a.m. and connect to an automated line and learn that Comcal has found a problem in my area that is expected to be repaired by 10:30. Help! Help! I cannot get lost in the repair maize. I head to Best Buy who sold me on this Samsung. It opens 9 a.m. and I am there at 8:45, stand outside their door as a line forms behind me. The store manager had better be in when the door opens exactly on their clock at 9. My watch shows 9:02 and that is enough to rile my gut. Mr. McGill looks at my receipt, listens to my story and tells me in no uncertain terms that there is nothing wrong with my t.v. There most likely was a short in the cable box Comcal installed. 'Take a ride to their main office as soon as you can. See Mr. Fields, head man. Tell him I sent you. Here's the address.'

There are no technicians at the main office. Mr. Fields tells me about the trouble they are having and suggests I not be so upset. 'Upset? Am I upset, Sir?' He gives me an impolite snarl and shakes his head, yes. 'A technician will be at your home between noon and 2 today with a new box for your t.v. If he is not, call us again.' My hands are tied and my brain is fried and I leave him sitting at his desk, enjoying a cup of coffee with a chocolate covered donut.

From my window I see a Comcal service truck drive up and park in a visitor's space at 1.45. He is at my door in five minutes. I am ready to kill him if he doesn't install a new t.v. box and check it all out before he leaves. I am shocked when I open the door for him and he is a she and a gorgeous she she is. 'Where's it at, Sir?' I lead her to the den where she tries a few lines, tests wires and installs a new box, gives me a statement with 'no charge' stamped on it' and her signature. Ms. Sands turns, gives me a wide, lovely smile, a flirtatious wink.

After a two day wait, I call Comcal again to complain that I am not getting the right color on my new t.v., request service at once. I get it. Harry takes care of it but doesn't know Ms. Sands. I put up with him but will complain again and again, until I find her. They bill me now.

Unexpected-unwanted

2011-11-15T01:10:00.000-08:00

A HAPPENING !

It's Hollywood, exciting, promising Hollywood and I have a job, more nicely called 'a position' as a publicist at MGM and I know I am experienced enough to do a wham bang up job for them. My private date calendar isn't filled yet but I figure it will be once I really dig into my work. It's 5 p.m., quitting time but I don't budge until 6. My work load is in a fine leather brief case I bought from Gucci, the height of status and the epitome of class.

The handsome bar in the studio's recreation area awaits me. Only one soft, luxurious bar stool remains open. I step faster towards it and get it just as someone else reaches for its stainless steel back. The prize is mine. A young and upcoming agent I met recently is to my left. We chat and he picks up my tab. His aqua blue eyes are intriguing, almost hypnotizing. There is some sort of electric current between us, but I am not ready to get involved—yet.

In the morning I find lovely red roses on my desk from Jim Massey. His engraved card lets me know in embossed letters that he is not only the executive manager of the Magic Castle in Hollywood, but he is one of the partners of this one of the coolest restaurants in L.A. and

Doug Hebbing and David Copperfield are regulars here.

My desk phone jingles before I settle at my desk in the morning and I can sense Jimmy's big smile already aglow. Before I can even thank him for the roses, he invites me to have a lot of fun at HIS Magic Castle. I can't refuse such an important man, can I? And who knows? Maybe I can convince him that I should be the senior publicist at the Castle. Jimmy gives me clear directions and I am there at the proposed 8 p.m. time. He is waiting in the lobby, gives me his arm and escorts me inside. Eyes are on us both.

First stop, the Glass Bar. The entire huge room seems to sparkle with glass. Even the bar stools are transparent and I giggle at the thought that maybe I am too. My Mai Tai is in my hands before I watch it being mixed. I take just a sip and quickly get very dizzy. Did Jimmy wink to Louie the bartender to put a few Ecstasy drops in my drink? I try to get off the stool and feel myself spinning, rising. This must be the Magical chair. It is going higher and higher, suddenly tilts over.

Other laughing faces turn gray with fright. The entire building begins to

shake. Screams are coming from every direction...mine too. The lights go

out. The elevators don't work. The screeching loud sound of fire engines

fly past the Magic Castle. Panic explodes at the door. Pushing, shoving,

kicking is everywhere.

The noise, the rumbling, stops as quickly as it began. A loudspeaker that surely reaches all floors announces over and over a 6.1 earthquake just hit L.A. Leave the building at once. Stay in the streets, as far away from glass and tall buildings as you can. Somehow this isn't quite the LA I signed up for.

What happened to the magic???

Unexpected-unwanted

2011-11-15T01:07:00.000-08:00

A HAPPENING !

Doug Hebbing and David Copperfield are regulars here.

Other laughing faces turn gray with fright. The entire building begins to

shake. Screams are coming from every direction...mine too. The lights go

out. The elevators don't work. The screeching loud sound of fire engines

fly past the Magic Castle. Panic explodes at the door. Pushing, shoving,

kicking is everywhere.

What happened to the magic???

Try,try again

2011-11-14T01:47:00.001-08:00

YARDS AND YARDS

Theresa' s yard next to our row house has been paved with red bricks. She and I hate it but her mom, Mrs. Thompson, suggests the entire block do what she and her husband did. 'Heck, Mrs. Morgan, no more lawn to cut, no mud to stand in when we hang clothes on the turnstile. This brick work cost an arm and ½ leg but is worth it. Come see, I still have a few feet of soil along the fence so I can plant a bulb or two before spring gets here.' I wait and wait, finally see a few jonquils and flags grow tall enough to be cut. I look at them longingly but Mrs. Thompson never, ever offers me even one flower to take to my teacher. I do hate her and my father too.

He doesn't have our yard paved with bricks, he has a concrete garage built over the whole place. It's the only yard that becomes a garage. Some people say he brags about it but nobody really likes it. It's kept locked so I can't even go into the alley to take a short cut to school. I could tell my father is proud to be the only owner of a 1939 black Buick and doesn't have to park on the street any more. My Mom doesn't like the garage either because she has to hang her clothes on the black tar roof and ruins her shoes whenever the hot sun has its way with the blackness..

One windy day I see some of Mom's clothes pins get loose. A tea towel whips off and flies into the alley. I find it, sopping wet in a pile of our fish man's horse manure. For all I know, it's still there.

At the far end of our alley lives my very best friend, Mildred. She has a real yard, just filled with rows and rows of four o'clocks. They're all colors, pink, white, yellow. Her mom lets me take as many as I want. The first time she gives me the okay, I break little branches off and fill my arms, even my pockets and run thru the alley to the front of our house, so happy. 'Ma, look, look what I have!' She hurries to me and yells, 'What is that brown mushy stuff? I look and see that all the four o'clocks have turned tan, all of their color has vanished. There is no sweet smell like roses. I dump them in the big galvanized trash can on our garage roof and pick no more four o'clocks.

My very favorite yard has a white fence around it. True, it needs a painting and some of the boards nailed tighter, but it doesn't matter to me. Mrs. Taylor lets her climbing white roses climb as much as they want to. When they reach the top, the just hang loose and head down to the concrete. That's when I get up extra early each morning, take my mom's best scissors and some newspaper to cut and wrap roses for her and for my teacher. I don't care if Mrs. Taylor thinks I'm a thief. She doesn't cut her flowers, doesn't take good care of them and they are not in her garden when I get them.

Spring is almost gone and the tall iris still stand like soldiers in the small plot near the chicken wire fence, bordered by bricks. I must, I just must have a few. Carefully I make my way from our porch to Mrs. Thompson's, go down her wooden steps. They creak. Like a wild woman she comes out the door. 'What in the world do you want, Child? You almost scared me to death.?

I tell her. 'Please, Ma am, I only want to take a few beautiful iris to my teacher before they fade and die. May I?' She actually smiles to me and goes down the steps and cuts the last few for me.My teacher thanks me, puts them in a vase on her desk and they last the entire week. When Monday comes and our class is all seated, red roses with a big white bow replace my gift. I don't mind too much as I can breathe in their wonderful smell.

And when report cards come out, I see right away that I have all good checks in the politeness column, the cooperative column and my 'C' in arithmetic has become a C+. I believe my few flowers worked magic

Eventually it happened

2011-11-13T02:13:00.001-08:00

ENTERING A NEW WORLD

Senior singles mingled self-consciously in the hallway, waiting for the doors to open to a wine and cheese get-together. A few ladies seemed to know each other, making the first-timers more lonely as they walked into the their new world. A still attractive lady in off white slacks and smart new red sweater stood on one foot, then the other, uncomfortable, lost in the crowd. Her eyes had tiny touches of tears behind her red framed bifocals. 'Why did I come?' Bewilderment was written all over her face.

Loud, forced, laughter filled the corner where one of the very few men found himself surrounded by hungry women. Fat and wrinkled, they vied for his attention. But why? He was slightly hunched over, white haired, pot-bellied, bow legged and had a distinctly unbathed odor. So what was the attraction? He was a man, a man in the world of widows. A smile, a snap of his fingers and he could have had any one of a dozen ladies looking, hoping for something, someone in their lives. Near the still locked door, three strangers began to talk to each other so their tension would resolve itself.

Finally the room with its cheap gallons of wine, cubed cheese, vegetables, dip, plastic plates and wooden toothpicks opened. All that changed was the location. The players were the same except now they could hold a paper cup of wine and stuff their mouths with hard orange chunks of less than fresh cheese, making conversation even more difficult. Women, acting cool, nonchalant, held their heads aloof as their pupils peeped, searched for a presentable man. There were none which forced 2nd, 3rd and 4th choices to be taken. The last straw was talking to another woman the rest of the 'evening out.' It was unbearable.

Let me go back to the lady in the red sweater. That was I! The first and only man to whom I spoke at length happened to have come from not just my home town, but roomed in the house of a close friend of mine. We walked the same streets, ate in the same dellys, knew the same people. Because the lady with whom I had been standing gave him her name and number, I was too embarrassed to say 'No' and did the same. Then I merely said how nice it was to talk to him, turned and left.

At 8:30 the following morning he called and went directly to the point, 'Would you consider a relationship?' As soon as I gave a strong negative answer, he hung up. I went into a spell of depression. Terrible tears, resentment, poured from my soul. It wasn't my fault–-he did this to me–not the newly met idiot, but my love, my husband. He left me when I begged him not to go–left me to this lousy single life. It more than stinks. It's putrid, decaying and devoid of hope.

Please, oh, please, COME BACK TO ME !

Chop-Chop

2011-11-12T01:40:00.001-08:00

WEIRD COINCIDENCE

I wake suddenly from an unexpected afternoon nap. My clothes aren't mussed, the tossed pillows are laying on the carpet and the back of my neck aches a little. No sooner do I standup, I begin to hum, no words, just a tinkly rhythm. It comes from I know not where. My senses are not clear at all. I walk towards the kitchen and words begin to materialize. 'Chin Chan!' Period. Nothing else comes out.

Mother is in the kitchen preparing dinner. The smell of sizzling bacon, maybe burning a bit in Canola oil, burns my nostrils, reaches me, revolts
me. Strange words escape my lips. 'Oh, no, I HATE that Chinky smell.' 'Ma,' I call to her. 'Please close the door, open the windows. That awful bacon smell is going to make me vomit.' She doesn't answer me but slams the door hard. I can hear her tugging, ughing to open the two little kitchen windows.

I return to the sofa, put my head against the hard head rest and sing, 'Chin Chan, China man-stole a pig and away he ran!' Where did that come from? How long and why has it been buried inside of me? I sit still, almost paralyzed trying to put two and two together. No puzzle pieces fit right. At age twenty five I am sure I've never met anyone from China. There has been no opportunity. No Chinese children went to any of my schools. If there were any in my first two years in college, surely I would have at least seen them in the cafeteria, library. 'Chin Chan, China man', sings to an empty mind. There is nothing there but sawdust.

I concentrate on the stolen pig. Pigs are dirty and I don't like them nor their smell nor their fat that feeds the world bacon strips.....my mother forces me to eat bacon. 'It's healthy,' she insists and I tell her to tell the pig's mother that. That gets me a slap on my rear end and no bacon on my burger. I keep my mouth shut and am delighted to taste the medium rare huge burgers my mother serves at least once a week.

My sleep is disturbed. I wake before the slightest bit of morning shows its beauty. My dream of just a few minutes ago wiggles its way into my conciousness. I am five or six, have straight ugly hair and my mother has sent me to the corner drugstore to get a box of Ex Lax for my bowels. I remember thinking she said 'towels' and I begged her not to make me go and have to walk past the Chinamen. They have a laundry on my street and my father has warned me to always walk near the gutter when I have to go past the laundry. 'Chinamen are bad, Sweetheart. They steal children and send them away to China.' Of course, I believe him and sometimes after a rain, when the gutters flow like rivers, I defy my father and won't go.

The memory comes back. My father used to sing silly things to me and make me rhyme them. He came up with some luloos and the Chinese one was his favorite. I wait until I hear him get out of bed, take my eye brow pencil and slant my eyes with them. I get mother's long silk kimono from the nail on the bathroom door and wait at the bottom of the steps for them to come downstairs.

As soon as they get near the kitchen I jump out and sing my song, 'Chin Chan, China Man, stole a pig and away he ran.' They both look at me as if I've lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

The Who and Why

2011-11-11T03:28:00.001-08:00

I profess to be a writer. I not only profess it, I AM a writer. Hundreds of pens, pencils, four computers have been eaten up by my love of words. There has not yet come a time I succumbed to 'writer's block.'
Over the years when re-reading my day's work, my pleasure, I swear I don't know how my tale came about. Puzzlement exudes from every pore in my body. My fingers quiver when I read about places I've never been, describe people I've never met, give them homes, faces, names and I feel they have become my friends and even enemies. Lila's fabulous model's figure wears fabrics, patterns, styles that swim into my mind and I embrace them, sometimes fall in love with the unknowns.

There are few phone calls to me anymore. I leave it off the hook when I am writing. Do I do what all good writers do, read, read and read again the best work of well known authors, even their not so great stories, books? No, I don't want to emulate Hemingway, Dickens, Patterson. My world is my own. When I rest, eat, sleep, I can feel a new character begging to visit me. My fingers claw at my blanket and I get up in the middle of the night, start a story on my computer, file and save it to go full speed ahead when daybreak comes and I am swallowed by a huge Australian crocodile.

Once I thought I should consider publishing my hundreds of stories but buried the idea. As I put that thought aside, I knew at last that I was my own character. Bits of me jumped in my face when I looked over the last three stories I had done. My coffee got cold. The kitchen window rattled. Dr. My eyes were at half mast. Johanson, Mr. Burgdorf, even Georgia Brown were in front of me, were me in many respects.

I deleted Dr. Johanson, typed my own real name into its spot and tried to close Word Perfect. 'Do you want to save changes?' Microsoft asked. Yes? No? What should I do? Dr. Johanson stood in front of me, loudly exclaimed, 'Don't you dare remove my name. It's a good name you haven't used yet.' An inner anger I didn't know had emerged from Hell and I deleted Dr. Johanson's name, tried to type in my real name and my puter locked. For at least an hour I sat there staring at my Word Perfect story I wrote yesterday. Dr. Johanson's name had been inserted most likely by Mr. Burgdorf.

Relief filled my very soul. It is best that happened because I cannot remember my name. All efforts have failed. Today I will become whoever, whatever I want to be because I AM A WRITER, a good one, I think.

Oh My Mama

2011-11-10T01:53:00.001-08:00

A RECIPE

Thick slices of lasagna, heated to a rich red gold with toasted crunch corners perfumed Sunday, spread into the living room, into my nostrils, my pores. The bubbly red meat sauce, ricotta and mozarella cheeses met with no resistance as they enticed me to the dinner table. The beauty of the dinner was before me.

There, sitting at the far end like the Queen she was, was Mama, my Mama, our Mama, so unlike the fat ladies with long hairs growing from their chins, aprons miraculously clean, who represent 'Old Italy'. Mama looked pretty. Her dark hair was short, perky and her deep chocolate eyes sparkled with pleasure. A trim figure, breasts firm and semi-coyly covered, announced this Grandma of the '90s. With a non-descript accent words flowed like topaz honey as she welcomed us to her home again.

Hell, she didn't have to labor over a hot stove as her maid followed all instructions with care while Mama watched her like a hawk. The ceiling fan whirred over the crispy salad. Excellent Chianti stayed in the lovely wine glasses for only moments, disappeared and almost unbidden returned.

Mama laughed and her sweet, soft joy of living touched us all. We were smug, gloated in our good fortune having her, being with her as we felt the love she had instilled in us, the devotion of family deeply impressed. We rose, raised our ruby red wine and gave mama her favorite present–

Together we said ' Mama, you are beautiful. We love you...and she smiled.

Jolly Old England

2011-11-09T01:15:00.000-08:00

KING'S HEAD PUB

My legs hurt. My feet must have blisters bigger than beer foam. Here in Jolly Olde England Rebecca and I are spending our second honeymoon. We're pub hunting and don't have far to look. Every corner in Portabello has one. Next to me is The Pig's Tail Pub, with something curly hanging from the front door is not tempting. Across the street is the Jumping Green Frog, a glass box displays tiny LIVE frogs that can't get out because of a fine mesh screen covering on top. The Silver Knight has a fake armored knight, shield in hand to the left of the door. It can't be genuine as rust covers much of it.

I shade my eyes with my hands and try to look in windows, spot a woman, but the youngest I see must be 95 years old. Even from outside I can see curly gray whiskers under her chin. The men are noisy, seem to know each other forever. The tankards of ale are colorful and clank constantly. No way can I even suggest to my wife that we try any of these. We walk around the long block, look at the neat white steps that lead to apartment houses.

Street vendors, pushing carts, are loaded with old clothes for sale. It is reminiscent of NY when so many immigrants came to America and couldn't find work. Those are gone and the old streets are traffic hazards. Elizabeth Ave. Here in London welcomes the street vendors. They are colorful, attract tourists by the dozen. How could I possibly go into a pub without my wife? For sure, I'd have to duck when she aimed her heavy purse at me.

We meander for another 20, 25 minutes, are surprised to see three couples, definitely not Americans, entering The Crock's Croc Pot Tavern. The ladies were a bit shoddy but did have a certain English flair to their speaking. We followed them in. They took no notice of what seemed like a true stuffed croc, possibly from AW strail eea but the realism of that creature almost sent me out to pound the sidewalks a few more miles. The group gathered us in to their table, enjoyed our company as we enjoyed theirs. It seemed to me they never once asked 'What was that you said?', as they understood us or were great fakers.
Big shot me, I picked up the whole blinkin' tab, left them having their pintsand tried one more tavern that advertised Good Eats on their window. This one was named King's Head Pub.

Don't laugh. I had seen enough these past few hours to see how the places carried out their strange names. Inside I was sure I would meet a plastic container holding a mummified head with a crown on it. And so I did. We asked to sit where we would not see the ghastly head. We ate well, fish and chips (nothing special). They are like American potato chips, bangers, big, thick hot dogs, shepherd's pie, (eh), a very tender rib eye steak, lemon meringue pie

And so we left, aimed hopefully back towards our hotel. Only one block away Rebecca stops suddenly and screams, 'My purse, my purse. One of those creepy Englishmen stole my purse! My passport, our room keys are in there, what can we do? Have you seen a Bobby all day?' I try to calm her down but can't and that is understandable. I take her hand, hold it tightly and find our way back to the King's Head Pub. The pub bar tender rushes to us, waving Rebecca's purse over his head. He actually bows to us as he hands it to my wife.' 'No one opened it but I would have if necessary. You, Mrs. America are lucky you left it with us English. We're good people, we are.'

I offered him fifty Euro without really knowing what that equaled but he refused it, suggested we come back and see Scotland. 'Them Scots are good people too.'

All Rebecca could manage was a tear and a 'toodle oo' wave goodbye.

It did, did happen

2011-11-08T00:44:00.001-08:00

A VERY BAD DAY

The sun was bright, the air delightfully cool and I had a date with my dearest friend, Ronald. Note–I said 'friend' not companion, not lover.
As usual I was ready ½ hour early, dressed smartly, attractively neat but not to make Ronald pant with passion. I had a ten minute drive to meet him at Harley's Chow House. I was already salivating for their big salad bowl and spicy calamari.

Right before I headed for my door, I checked my appearance and immediately knew that my beige colored flats did not look just right and were not really comfortable. Almost like a phantom I saw at the very end of my long floor shoe rack, a pair of bone shoes that I had completely forgotten about for probably 12 years. Lady readers, you understand such a thing. Aren't we all shoe crazy? I slipped the shoes on and sighed with total comfort but had a niggly feeling not, under- standing how I had forgotten them. Off I went on the carpeted floor, reached the white tiled path towards the apartment door and my eyes popped wide open. Something was there, black, ugly, and fairly large that looked like a dried dog turd stared at me. Ugh! Like lightning I flew into the kitchen for a Bounty paper towel to clean it up. Before I could get to the trash can in the kitchen, there were two more 'turds.' Iguana? No way. Then what?

Ronald may just have to wait five minutes. This must be cleaned up. I locked the apartment door and rang for the elevator. It arrived promptly and I stepped on, didn't have time to punch 1 as I flew up towards the ceiling, my arms flailing against the back of the elevator, my head hitting it hard enough to make me instantly believe my skull was fractured. My shoulder immediately seemed to sag by my side and worst of all, I was stunned, unable to concentrate, figure out what happened to me. My body shook uncontrollably.

And then I glanced down at the elevator floor. It was covered with black, black stuff, 2 very large pieces in the center. I realized the biggest pieces were about the size of the heels on the tan shoes I had so gleefully found. With no broom, trash can, the least I could do was pick up the 2 big ones and take them into my laundry room for disposal.
My knees shook, my hands wobbled and I dropped the blocks on the entry floor, left them there, stood perfectly still for a bit, trying to control myself but gave up and went to meet my friend.

He knew at once that I was a basket case, couldn't believe my story that explained what had happened to me. My shoe heels had EXPLODED! Ronald actually laughed at my silly story and that sent me into almost hysteria. 'It's True! It's True'. I had to hold his arm to steady myself and be seated at a nice corner booth where I hoped for solitude. I asked the waiter for a glass of wine and some time before we ordered Ronald started telling jokes as he usually does but I couldn't even smile. I got nasty and asked him to please shut up. 'I need quiet. I have to calm down.' I talked to the wall, put my arms on the table and my head on my arms and let a tiny bit of tension fly away.

To add to the insanity, I had driven my car to the restaurant (when I shouldn't have), walked a few yards to meet Ronald, then a walk to our booth and neither he nor I realized one shoe had no heel!

I didn't even realize that until I drove home, saw the still blackened elevator as I had left it, went into my apartment, saw black chaos at the entry way but still shoeless, walked to the laundry room for a broom and dust pan, back to the elevator I went to clean it so others wouldn't step in the mess. I dumped the debris in the trash can and found the mess on the floor around it in the morning. Evidently my aim was way off.

As soon as I calmed down enough to e mail my son what happened, the weirdness of the shoe hell actually 'EXPLODING', he replied curtly with three words. 'SHOES DON'T EXPLODE.' I silently cussed him and laid down on the sofa for the rest of the day and half of the night.

Readers, beware of old shoes–THEY DO EXPLODE. Save them in case we go to war!

Love in Bloom?

2011-11-07T02:12:00.000-08:00

THE FALLING LEAVES

The doorbell rings. I yell, "Who's there?' 'Mrs. Bloom, are you home?' 'No, Maishie, I'm answering you from my grave. What do you want?' 'Mrs. Bloom did you know your roof gutters are already stuffed with leaves. Last nite's rain didn't come thru.' 'Who says so, Maishie?' 'I said so. Didn't you hear me? I could see from my kitchen window, that's how. So do you want me to clean them out for you?' 'No, thanks. I'll wait until the trees are almost bare. Goodbye, Maishie.'

'Sarah,' I say to my younger sister, 'What does that man want from my life? He's always finding things that he can fix for me and never takes money.' 'Sarah, I think he has eyes for you and is using me to work his way in your favor. I know it!' 'You're crazy, Millie, really crazy. He's too old and sloppy for me.' 'What do you mean too old for you? He's only 67, maybe 68, and you are 58. Who do you think is going to go after you eventually, a handsome 48 year old hunk in an Armani suit? Give Maishie a chance!' 'Leave me alone, Millie. You are mean.'

I drop the subject, go into the kitchen, fix a bowl of cereal with fresh blueberries, make toast and thickly spread orange marmalade on it while it is still hot. After a quick clean up I go outside for a walk around my house to see what I can see. The trees are far from bare, but maybe leaves from the Fishman's and Ensor's trees are in my gutters and some of mine are in Maishie's. When I see him again, I'll ask him in for coffee. We'll talk. I can drop a few hints about Sarah's good job, how busy she is, how young she is. Maybe he is too shy to approach her, afraid to be turned down.

I look again at the leaves, go back in the house, turn on TV, watch the always dreadful news on CNN, switch to The View and then at noon the weather channel. 'A fall storm is on its way. Heavy rain will reach us about 3 a.m. Strong winds 25 to 35 mph. Temperature is expected to drop below freezing, rising to 36 by mid day.'

I go outside again.' Hey, Maishie. Come down a minute. Have you heard the latest weather report? ' 'No, Mrs. Bloom, haven't you noticed I've been on my roof cleaning my gutters all morning?' 'If the weather report happens to be on target today, aren't you wasting your time?' 'Maybe, maybe so. Maybe my house will fall down. Who knows?' He climbs back on the ladder and waves to me.

Sarah has gone to work and for some crazy reason, I feel lonely, go out to my terrace and watch Maishie working hard . I can see a few mimosa seedlings had taken root in the leaf mulch. He throws them into the 3 almost filled big, black plastic bags, ties the tops and drops them to the ground. After he carries them to the alley, he comes back and I ask, 'Maishie, want to take a rest and have a cup of coffee with me? You must be exhausted. That is dangerous work you do up there.' 'Thanks, Mrs. Bloom. I can use that coffee.'

He sits down at the table while I reheat the coffee I had made before coming outside. I can feel it, know right away, he is going to mention Sarah. We talk about neighbors, a little politics, music, movies. Maish pauses. I'm ready for his Sarah questions. The first question is, 'Will you have dinner with me Saturday night? I am struck numb and dumb, can't answer.

Maishie says, 'You've called me Maishie for a very long time. May I call you 'Millie?'

'Of course, Maishie.'

MEOW

2011-11-06T01:34:00.000-08:00

HERE KITTY, KITTY

A beautiful white Persian cat has taken over my backyard wall. She sleeps peacefully, curled so I can only glimpse her whiskers. Sometimes I catch her grooming herself, just in case Tommy, a brown and white manx, comes calling. She has a loud and squeaky meow that creeps into my dreams now and then. I dislike the sound but never chase the cat away. Actually, she's somewhat of a pistol. Silently she paces in front of her, showing off her coat, large paws and curling claws. But with all of her bravado, I've never seen her attempt to climb the wall. Nor have I ever heard a single person calling 'Here, Kitty, here Kitty,' or ' Max, come home.' I have named the cat 'Czarina' and click my tongue to her, suggesting she succumb to the manx below her. She ignores us both.

Tonight is another gorgeous night in Miami. The moon looks perfectly round. It's whiteness defies the sun. Only stray wisps of narrow gray clouds occasionally disturb the moon but soon fly quickly on. The vision deserves applause. I give it and don't care at all if my neighbors hear some lunatic applauding alone in the back yard.

The morning brings a cool drizzling rain. Czarina is nowhere in sight. The manx can be anywhere, inside a trash can, in somebody's basement. I crooked smile comes across my face as I picture him holding an umbrella over my lady, Czarina. It's almost like Dorothy's bewilderment on the yellow brick road when reality disappeared and a lion could talk, a scarecrow could dance. I stay inside but look out of my window often, too often, and forget to put my laundry in the washing machine.

My fixation is getting to me. My phone rings often and I make short shrift of the friends who think I have passed on. Today is the day I am going walking, maybe to the super market, a movie. Perhaps I'll surprise Naomi, my friend who nags me the most to go to lunch, and invite her to my place. I do it. She is delighted and will be here at one. I get busy fixing her favorite lunch, tuna salad with lots of mayo, chopped celery stalks by the dozen, crushed walnuts and lots of pepper. My freezer is full of frozen Pillsbury rolls. Canned asparagus, the last big, rosy tomato in my fridge will be great. Lord Gray's tea and cookies will be just right for two.

While I am doing the small amount of work necessary for company, I notice Czarina isn't watching me watch her. The manx is sitting on his haunches looking up, its ears pointed, surely listening for her meow. A loud male's voice is calling, 'Here Maxi, here Maxi!' That must be the manx he's calling. The male doesn't move. He just sits and sits until his leach is attached to his collar by his supposed owner. He makes a guttural noise and has to be pulled away. Czarina somehow knows trouble is brewing for her male friend and seems to have come from outer space. She leaps gracefully from the wall and follows them both.

I can see the owner trying to chase Czarina away but she stays steadfastly behind the two of them. I watch and wait, call often, 'Here, Czarina, come home kitty.' She doesn't know she has a name and ignores me. Night is on us again. Stars are hiding. My beautiful white Czarina has simply disappeared. I am utterly distraught and force myself back into civilization, come close to buying a kitten. I look in pet store windows, in alley ways. No Czarina like cat can be found. I turn away the gray stripes, the angoras, the black cats with yellow/green eyes. Newspaper ads of cats and dogs for sale, lost, found animals don't interest me.

A familiar sound, soft and sweet comes thru the twilight. On the top of my garden wall sits Czarina. On the ground, walking, falling over and over, are three precious, adorable white Persian kittens, followed by a Manx on a leash.

Brr Brr

2011-11-05T01:58:00.001-07:00

WHITE STUFF

I throw my warm robe on the bed, then my flannel pajamas and get a chill. Quickly I grab my wool ski pants, even though I am too young to ski, my turtle neck sweater and run the length of our upstairs hallway singing, 'Mama, Mama, it's snowing. The cold wind is blowing! Can I stay home from school?'

She's still in bed with Papa and hollers at me. 'Go back to bed, dumb kupf. I do a little dance of happiness in the kitchen and set the table for them. All I ever see them eat is scrambled eggs or a package of frozen waffles, butter, black coffee, canned blueberries, warmed a bit. I put their coffee mugs on the table next to their paper napkins, plus a small and faded plastic flower arrangement from the hall table put it in the center of the table. I can't help smiling at how nice I fixed up for them.

My excitement sends me running up the steps, push their door open all the way and I run in, jump on top of Daddy, who happens to be playing a game on top of Mama. 'Get out of here. Get dressed, Go to school!' she yells. I yell back, 'You told me schools are closed! Did you lie, Mama? That would not have been nice.' She laughs at me and gives me orders.' 'Put on warm clothes, wear your new red boots, red mittens and the red muffler I spent so much time knitting for you. Don't forget your woolen hat with the earmuffs.'

Together we have breakfast. My Pop makes a change and wants bacon and eggs to warm the cockles of his heart. I ask him what are cockles and am told to get the dictionary. I read it to him and want to vomit. 'Cockles are shells, Pop, and their sharp, wrinkle up. Why do you want them near your heart? They would hurt you.' 'Forget it Judy. Let me eat my eggs before they get cold.' With that command, I am free and run out of the house, almost fall down the slippery steps

I'm not the first kid outside by any means, but am the smallest, youngest, so far. In a second I am pounded with soft snowballs, don't have a minute to try to fight back. 'Millie, Harvey, Julia, Goofy, come out want to make a snowman.' I am ignored. My wool pants are already wet and heavy, one red mitten must be under the snow. Goofy holds up my mitten but won't give it to me.

We start to build a fort but need more people, more snow. 'Millie wants to make a snowman roo. So does Harvey. I don't want to make another snowman, pretend I'm crying and want a turn. 'Let's make a snow girl.'All of a sudden everybody likes me. They all like my idea. Harvey annnounces I will have to be the girl. He starts rolling a little ball of snow until it gets so big he can't roll it even one more time. Millie rolls a ball for the girl's head and Goofy sticks it on top. I stand there doing nothing but watching. Harvey grabs me, pulls off my hat and puts it on the snow head. Then he pulls my red muffler off and my mittens, dresses the snow girl like me. I'm cold, wet, frightened. They pat me down with globs of snow, even on my face. I try to run in the house but Goofy won't let me. He rings our doorbell and my parents come out, searching for me.

Mama sees me first, screams bloody murder, tries to chase my friends away. Pop is outside without a jacket, grabs Millie and smears her face in the cold snow. Together my Mama, Pop and I gather my sopping clothes. My Pop lifts me, cuddles me, and gets me inside.

I am stripped naked and covered with warm, cozy blankets. Mama has put all of my wet things in the basement to dry near the furnace. Pop sits alone in the kitchen calling parent after parent. The next morning Millie brings me my lost red mitten. She gets the school bus as it comes up our street.

I get to stay home and wait for the snow to melt.

New Stars

2011-11-04T02:40:00.001-07:00

COME ON, BABY, LIGHT MY FIRE

It's 97, tiny breezes touch my cheeks as I listen for the loud, harsh ring of the morning school bell. With me are a few other early birds. We are teachers' pets and we want to go inside out of the morning sun. There are things we have to do, run errands, wash blackboards, fill inkwells, and, very important during this heat wave, open the tall windows. I'm only in grade 2B. Some kids are in 5B and some are 6A and go to secondary school in fall. They carry heavy books up three flights of stairs, move heavy corner plants for sassy teachers. I get to fill inkwells, water little plants on the window sills, erase the lower chalkboards and take notes from one teacher to another. My grades are good. I always have a clean handkerchief with me. My hair is combed and I am the champion speller of all the 2nd grades.

Miss Chowning is teaching us about olden times, mammoths, dinosaurs and is letting us put on a play. Six of us, 3 boys, 3 girls, will do the scenery and decorate the room. I am one of the girls. It means a lot of
work, a lot of after school time and fun. Our teacher asks, 'Who can bring three or four thick tree branches, not too long, that we can use to build a make-out fire in our cave? Anybody have an idea where we can put the cave?' All hands fly up! 'The coat room, the coat room.' 'Under your desk, Miss Chowning.' We decide in front of her desk so our parents can see us.

'Can one of you borrow an electric wire with a plug on it from your father? We will want to put a light under our fire and crinkled red paper we have left from last year's Xmas baskets. We will need spears and hatchets.' 'My mother has a pole she uses to keep her clothes line from drooping. I'll ask for that,' Beverly offers. "My father has a cane he might lend us and Benny, the butcher might give us a few big cow bones.'

'Who wants to be an artist and draw the animals all around the blackboards? I'll have to get a l ow ladder or two.' My hand goes up first and I have to go to Public Library to get a book so I can copy pictures. 'Miss Chowning, we need costumes, don't we?' 'Oh yes. It is hot enough, you boys can leave off your shirts, wear short pants, no shoes or sox. Girls, you can do the same thing but we'll put brown paper over your shoulders. Sarah, Jane, ask your mothers if you can leave your long hair straight on your shoulders so I can muss it up.'

Parents are coming Friday and that is only 4 days away. I still have a lot of hard drawing to do. Each day we come earlier and earlier and stay later and later. Thursday we find out Jane is sick and can't be in the play. Miss Chowning asks Barbara to leave right after school and explain about Jane to her mother. 'Barbara, beg if you have to but please take Jane's part. All you have to do is sit on the floor and make out you are fixing the fire and feeding the men.'

My mammoth is colored a mixture of orange and black chalk and covers the whole board. Only Miss Chowning and I are still working. She sends me home for supper. I almost run the two blocks, wait at the corner for my walk light to turn green and see from afar my mother and father standing outside of our house. They see me. Mother is screaming 'Where have you been? We've been worried to death about you. We saw Officer Smitty and he is walking around the neighborhood searching for you, asking people if they saw you. Thank goodness you are alright.'

'But, Mother. I was in school with Miss Chowning. You know I've been there every morning and afternoon. The play is tomorrow. Wait, you aren't going to believe how good I drew the mammoth on the side blackboard, all by myself.' Mom takes my hand. Dad walks on the other side of me and we go in together for supper.

Mother says, That mammoth had better be good or I'll tell everyone Sarah drew it.

Instead, she is the first guest for the show and looks and looks and looks at my drawing, then smiles to me, walks over to the best chair in the room, and sits there like a queen right next to our fire.

Healing

2011-11-03T03:31:00.001-07:00

THE BROADWALK

Marilyn tries, tries so hard but my concentration on her toes, her left leg, shows no movement. She inhales deeply, seems momentarily to give up in despair. Instead, seeing a simple wag of her pinkie finger, I do as she silently asks, push her wheelchair slowly over the rough, over-used wooden boardwalk. The pillow behind her back looks flat, hard, needs a fluffing. I extend my arm to her and she manages to grab my wrist, bend forward just enough to be 'babied'. Her feelings and thanks are evident.

The salt of the strong ocean wind begins to make me itch. I feel Marilyn's cheek and it is caked, rough. Without asking her permission I turn her prison around and head back home. Harry, her dad, is watching, waiting. He waves and walks quickly to us, relieves my aching shoulders, lets me rest a few minutes before together we lift the chair and set Marilyn down in the hallway. No words are necessary. Her walker almost walks itself to her side. Holding it tightly, she rises, makes it to the bathroom. When the toilet flushes, I open the door for her. There is silence. Her grateful eyes speak. My guilty heart is not comforted.

If only I had been more alert, stopped a few feet before the yellow light turned red, my Honda would not have knocked a very pretty lady off her feet. Somebody, maybe somebodies, cell phoned for an ambulance. A police officer, who just happened to be there, saw everything, wrote out a big white ticket and told me the ambulance was headed to the Menorah Hospital. I knew exactly where it was and took what I thought would be a short cut. It wasn't. Frazzled, my balding head sweating buckets, I must have looked like a wild man straight from Borneo as I interrupted a most important discussion between two aides about their favorite bed partners. The be-wigged one pointed to an arrow that said' X-rays'. Twiddling my thumbs, I sat nervously on a hard metal bench for Marilyn Baldwin to appear virtually unscathed.

I accosted everyone who went in and out of her semi-private room, inquiring how she was doing. Was I invisible, a spot on the wall? Were the attendants all heartless, deaf? In spite of my concern, I felt my belly grumble. It needed a quick fix. I stood ready to make a run for the cafeteria when a nurse called me in to see Marilyn. That took care of my growling pot belly. She was sitting on a padded straight backed lounge, her left leg swaddled in a plaster cast so thick, so heavy, I figured it to weigh 30 pounds at least.

I nodded hello to her Dad's back. Neither Marilyn nor he were overjoyed to see me but by the time she stopped taking the blame for what had happened, I knew I was in love with her. My stomach suddenly growled loud enough to possibly be heard in the hallway. They laughed at my red faced embarrassment. 'Would you like a sandwich, a cup of soup, anything at all?, I asked. Two heads said 'No thanks.'

My quickie snack stopped my internal, infernal noise. I stopped at the florist shop for a lovely bunch of red sweetheart roses and the candy shop for a box of chocolate fudge in a red box with a big matching ribbon and hurried back to Marilyn's room. As I got off the elevator, my shoe caught on something sticky on the tile floor. I fell hard on my knees. There I lay until a nurse carrying a bed pan found me still holding the flowers. The candy box was squashed.

Hobbling a little, I entered Marilyn's room. Harry sat by her side as she slept. He got a fake cut glass vase from a candy striper for the flowers. Marilyn snored a little, saliva ran down the corners of her mouth. As she opened her eyes they twinkled slightly. She smiled at her dad and at me. 'Hey, Mr. what's your name, the doctor said I should be out of this f'n cast in two weeks. Want to come to dinner at my house? I'm a great cook.' Could I say 'no?' No.

The two weeks became three and were an eternity. I arrived at their house with pink roses and a large box of chocolates. Standing on both feet, Marilyn opened the door. The slit cast was lying near the fireplace waiting to be burned and forgotten. It took her several weeks until she walked smoothly, evenly but do it she did.

With the sun shining on the wild ocean waves, we sat on a Boardwalk bench and watched the day almost slip away. She walked ahead of me to the fudge store and I saw her soft rear end wiggle an invitation. My broad had the best boardwalk walk I ever saw.

Well spent childhood

2011-11-02T03:03:00.001-07:00

COLD AND SWEET

I scream, You scream. We ALL scream for Hendlers' ice cream.
Except I didn't usually have to scream. Mommie and Daddy were well aware that Hendlers ice cream was rich in milk and fat so I could have my treat almost daily.

Across the street car tracks and a few doors from the Easterwood Democratic Club was a small ice cream shop. It didn't have a lot of customers but the lady behind the counter recognized me as soon as I opened the screen door and walked towards her. However, she was never sure, nor was I until the last second, if I would have a cup of butter brickle or pistachio. The wooden spoon sometimes let the ice cream go down my chin instead of into my mouth, but I was able to lick it back where it belonged.

On my side of the street, there were some choices to make. At Weltners Drug store, on the far corner, all kinds of goodies were available. At first it was hard to get on the turning high stool at the counter, but I wiggled, held on and eventually could see over the counter. A tan cardboard cup sometimes was already in the soda jerk's hands. He'd look at me and I'd say one of several things, 'Vanilla, please, with lots of fudge, whipped cream and a cherry,' or 'Chocolate, pineapple –wait–put dry nuts on it and then a lot of whipped cream.' A lid went on my prize and off I'd go to maybe sit on the curb and enjoy it. My sundaes only cost 10 cents as Dr. Weltner got business from my daddy as well as from his patients who sometimes needed prescriptions.

A few blocks away was an Arundel's Ice Cream store that had strange flavors, mint, peanut butter, strawberry, coffee, but there I was more interested in quantity than flavor so took chocolate or vanilla. Later on I learned from my new brother-in-law, who was lucky to get a job there, that soda jerks were taught how to scoop the ice cream out of the large containers so there was a big hole in the middle which fooled the customers into thinking they got large portions. I never went back there after that.

Right in the middle of my block was Bridge's grocery that also sold Mello Roll ice cream. The ice cream was wrapped in white paper and put into a cone. I had to be very careful taking the paper off or the whole thing would fall on the pavement. It happened once and that was the only time.
But, the very, very most enjoyable ice cream of all was the simple vanilla cone my Zadie bought me. When he would stop by, sometimes he'd see me playing outside, gently take my hand and walk me to Weltners for a vanilla cone. I'd lick it slowly while still holding Zadie's hand.

And to this day I'd gladly give up Bridge's, Weltner's sundaes, Arundel's, the flavors, whipped cream, nuts, cherries, all of them, to once again walk with my Zadie.

Next door

2011-11-01T01:13:00.001-07:00

THE SNAKE AND THE APPLE

From my third floor bedroom I have a view of the luxurious gardens and white gazebos of my neighbors' properties, north and south of my house. We are all considerate, conscious of being sure no lawn mowers are run before 10 a.m. The second house north is only partially visible to me and it matters not as it has been unoccupied for over a year. The owner, an acquaintance of mine, is touring the Far East and left the property with an agent to rent it for six months. The shrubs are trimmed, the grass manicured. It amazes me that it has been vacant so long.

My time is consumed by my business, family, hobbies. Seldom do I take the time to watch the gatherings, hot tub antics out of my window. Today it happens to be raining, not hard, but enough to keep the pool users inside. I guess they don't like being wet. My eyes are blurry from reading the small numbers in the Wall St. Journal. And trying to make a dent in the Sunday NY times crossword puzzle. I lie down on my bed to just relax and amazingly sleep for two hours. The gardens are empty. No one is about. I feel dirty, hot, need a shower. I shower and shower, let the warmth caress my body. The turning of the knob to cold excites me. I switch back to warm. If I stay much longer I just may wash myself down the drain.

My overly large white terry robe hangs just in my reach from the shower door. Before I even put my foot on the black shack rug, I am 95% dry. From this point I picture a do-nothing day just preparing myself for Monday's chaos.

I switch on my disc player. Barbra serenades me. Linda Rondstat envelopes me. I dance with each of them. By the time Linda belts out 'Blue Bayou', I am at my window. The sun is hiding behind a weeping willow tree. It's sad, beautiful, mournful boughs wave in the light breeze. Something is moving under the tree. At first I think it is an animal, maybe a cougar, down from the hills. Neither of my neighbors, nor I, have dogs. I stare long and hard at the spot where I saw something or other. It is gone. The disc changes and Barbra sings, 'Love Me Tonight.' The 'thing' steps out of the shadows. A lady, a lovely, lady, naked as a skinned cat, gets to me fast. She is voluptuous, firmly endowed. Her blond hair is short, straight, strikingly perfect. My eyes are glued her way. I can barely see the pods in her ears, the iPod in her hand. What can she be listening to, dancing to that makes her smile? I pretend she is dancing with me and Barbra, and enfold her naked body inside my robe. At last she stops. I get the low footstool my former wife, tapestried for me from the closet, and place it under my window, stand on it and drop my robe.

I whistle to her and watch her search the trees looking for a bird. I whistle again. She looks in my direction but doesn't see me. Rosemary Clooney is pitching 'C'ome Ona My House, I'll give you everything.' And I picture the lady doing just that–ringing my bell. It is on the verge of ringing when the lady sees me posing in the window. She waves to me, points to her bouncing breasts and poof, she is gone.

I step off my stool, pick up my damp robe and fall spent on my bed. As I gather my wits and strength together, the doorbell rings once, waits a minute and chimes again. No time to dress, I put on the damp robe again and answer the door. My heart quickens, leaps out of my chest. There in an old chenille robe stands the dancing lady. 'May I come in?' she asks. I don't even reply, just open the door with a sweeping bow, and she enters.

I set re-play on my discs, have an absolutely wonderful, thrilling Sunday evening and never once think about Monday.

Home away from home

2011-10-31T01:47:00.001-07:00

SKY BAR

The darling tiny one whose blond ringlets cover her head is just sprouting her first wings. Her grandfather lifts her to his knees, spins his silver stool around and around. Little Lonnie laughs until she cries pink tears. Grandpa stops suddenly. She slips away and lands on a cloud that is soft and cozy, lies there until her grandfather calls her grand- mother to go find Little Lonnie but the old lady needs glasses and can barely see her husband, the clouds, the bar.

All of the angels still babbling at the bar leave their places, step slowly, carefully into the white cotton clouds. As they drift west, they whisper their fears. Every one has a comment to make. 'It is too late.' 'Little Lonnie has been taken from us.' ' Our Lord and Master is wise.' 'Lonnie and her grandfather are surely being punished for something. It is not up to us to find the reason.' ' Let us just try to help.' The full grown wings open almost as one. They flutter. Heads stare at the empty space left by Little Lonnie.

The chatter is meaningless. The diaphanous men float back to their silver seats at the bar. 'I'll have the nectar of the gods,' says Solomon.
'Bee honey for me,' Joseph says in a whisper' 'Speak up, Joseph. When your turn comes back here where I am, you'll understand.' Mordecai wants cold, fresh water that falls from the rocks. Izzy gets off of his seat, begins an oration on the foolishness of imbibing when Little Lonnie is lost. 'Drink up. Let us go now. I, we, must find the babe.' Darius is the first to follow Izzy. The other males check their wings again and off they go in many directions.

They look at every cloud that sails past them, bend over, feel the softness but touch no babe. Lonnie's Grandpa has nothing else to say. He just watches the whiteness turn gray, then black. The bar has risen to where the sun rests, waits for morning. The wings of all the drinkers are folded close to their bodies. They nod, feel nothing, see nothing until a warmth comes over them. One by one they stand, partially unruffle their wings. A ray of yellow sun is joyful. For sure they will find Lonnie today. That she had left earth forever is clear as well as there is no chance at all that she has been taken to hell. Heads nod in agreement. Lonnie cannot be in hell. Izzy speaks up, 'Before we start our search, let's go to the bar for cold glasses of sunny orange juice that will give us strength.' The search begins as the fluffy white clouds play hide and seek with the sun. Eyes squint, stare at space.

Lonnie's Grandpa takes the lead, spreads his wings until they creak and off he goes. A nose dive down and he sees something that just might be Lonnie. It is a heavenly white swan, the biggest he has ever seen and on it's back sits Lonnie. She is so happy with her ride, with seeing her Grandpa that she slips and falls into the lake.

Grandpa swoops low, low enough to grab his little grand child and they fly up, up, up into the clouds. He gives her a glass of cold orange juice and a great big hug.

Shared

2011-10-30T02:27:00.001-07:00

PORTER'S HOUSE

The night is black, starless. Staring straight above me I realize it is not starless at all. It's full of twinkling, magical stars, planets, asteroids, maybe even Aliens. Clouds have gathered, hunched over each other and are ready to burst, let loose a deluge before morning. I'm chilly, feel a draft and follow it to the cellar door, turn the cold knob. The back door is open, barely open, but the cold air hits my ankles like a snowstorm. Before I even think how this could have happened, I slam the door so hard the window rattles. Loudly I call out, 'Who's in here? Who? Come out!' I add, 'You can't hide long. I'll find you.'

Cartons of junk are piled in corners, on the side of the wash tubs. Most are filled with memories, memories I've tried and tried to leave outside for the trashmen, but renege as I hear the truck coming down the alley. I can't move them. They feel cemented to the floor–to my heart. And they remain in their own private graveyard.

The 100 watt light bulb over the stairway blinks, fizzles and goes dark. I have no matches or flashlight handy. Barely enough kitchen light seeps under the cellar door. I step warily, hold onto the railing, and sense someone behind me. Like a bolt of lightning I push the door wide open, turn the cheap, cheeesy key in the lock. There is silence. No footsteps retreat to the cellar. There's no tap on the door.

But there is a mild baffling smell. It creeps towards me, envelopes me, goes under my finger nails. I open the fridge and all is normal I check to be sure I have taken the garbage out, put the lid on tight. Casey, my next door neighbor, a growling pit bull who hates me, leaves his bone on the grass and comes yowling at me. As usual he is stopped by his owner's electric fence and slinks back to his house.

As the odor gets stronger I have to admit to myself that I am frightened, and reluctantly go downstairs and slug down a semi-hefty shot of Jack Daniels, straight. It takes affect quickly. Returning to my bedroom, I hum a silly, childish song, 'Mary had a little lamb, etc. etc.–and I hear her little lamb–or something soft- a whirling gray diaphanous something gives me chills as it wraps around me, speaks.

'Mr. Marcus. I am the soul of this house, this house that I built. It was called Porter's House way back in 1950. I and my wife were so happy here.' His voice reeks with emotion. 'You, have not taken good care of it. Your memories fill the basement and have made no room for mine.
The angels finally let me come down to beg you to finally do what you have wanted to do for 40 years. MOVE. Take your memories with you.

You and I won't meet again, unless, unless? And he disappears.

First thing in the morning I check the basement, find the cellar door closed tightly. My memory cartons are stacked high near the exit door. In the distance the banging of trash cans being emptied into the big green truck push me, force me to start giving Mr. Porterhouse his house back.

Surely, we both have found closure.

Comeona his house

2011-10-29T01:37:00.001-07:00

CHAIRLADY

After lots of tiring tramping thru furniture stores, I hit on just what I had pictured for our re-done kitchen that had miles to go from start to end. Our round kitchen table had to be donated to someplace or other. It's antiquated club feet were scuffed from years of using them for foot rests. I wanted more of an early American look without a butter churn in the corner. Joe, my usually adored, mate, took no interest whatsoever in my challenge. His wallet wasn't overflowing but he trusted me completely to stay within our limits.

'Joe, come with me Saturday. I love the chairs I found in Kopaks and a perfect table for our kitchen. Will you, will you?' 'Sorry, Babe, I have a golf date. Buy it if it's what you like.' That reply was unacceptable. My huff huffed. 'Either you go with me after your golf game or no anything nice for you at bed time.' My magic words worked.

Showered, changed Joe looked semi-happy. He wanted to go home from his golf game and just kibbitz around the house, do little things at his desk that have been neglected too long. 'Neglect them a little longer, Joe. Do you know where Kopak's is?' I asked. His face got a little pinkish when he barked at me, 'How can I not know? It's two blocks from my office.'

Inside, Mr. Jackson, welcomes us and leads us to the table and chairs I like. Joe is absolutely silent-not a smile, nod of his head, a yes or a no.'
'I assume , Joe, that you don't hate my choice. So, should we put a deposit down now? This time he winks an okay, leaves me discussing color, tax, delivery and looking for him to bring our charge card to the desk.

Two weeks later Mr. Jackson calls to set the delivery for the very next day. 'No good, Mr. Jackson. How's Thursday? I'll be here.' I contact Good Will to pick up the old set Wednesday A.M., work hard to clean away all signs of being used for ten years but the claw legs remain clawed. Watching out the front window I see Good Will drive past my house, phone them at once, and nobody knows anything. 'Be patient. They'll be there when they're there,' I'm told. The receiver clicks off. Thursday drags. The truck doesn't come

Friday our new table and chairs arrive at 10 a.m. Before they take the new set off the delivery truck, I hurry to them, explain that the old set hasn't been removed as promised by Good Will. The driver is less than pleasant. 'Where do you want this stuff?' I use my sugary voice and ask if he can come back later in the day and I will try to get Good Will here first. 'No can do. Your table and chairs are first off our truck. I can take your shipment into your house or back to the store. There will be an extra delivery fee.'

What a bloomin' mess! Nobody is nice. Nobody gives a rat's tail about anybody but themselves. A 45 watt idea comes to me. I call Mr. Jackson, explain what has happened and ask Mr. Kopak if their driver will put our old set on our lawn and cover it with a tarp, for an extra fee. 50 bucks and I'm in business. I get the furniture driver to tape the tarp several times around what was our kitchen set and bring in the new set. With my ingenuity at full mast, things are working out.

In the few minutes that our kitchen is empty, I notice the worn marks on the tile, scoff that off and wait for the new table and great looking chairs to come in. My choice was perfect. Joe comes home, agrees I did I nice job and goes to shower. I defrost a great dinner, set the table, add wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet and sit down to wait.

Yikes! What the devil is in my back, pebbles? bricks? The round knobs in the back rest are miserably uncomfortable. I get a toss pillow from the living room and brace myself against it. First thing in the morning I am back at Kopak's making a big scene. He sells me a pad that fits over the pretty knobbed back and I ask for another one for Joe. He smiles and charges only $40. I never tell Joe.

In the morning I call Good Will and they tell me their truck was at my house at 8 a.m. There was no table/chair set on my lawn.

Somebody stole it for sure and I have a silly idea Joe has it stashed somewhere.

Great subjects

2011-10-28T02:22:00.000-07:00

DELLI-VISION

Two white baseball caps duel with each other as the husband and wife chew lunch. Their jaws grind slowly. They do not speak. A busboy, who I imagine speaks little or no English, swipes off the booth next to them.

Two booths away two bald men face each other. The heavy set one wears a blue and yellow plaid cotton shirt and the other a black washed- out knit. They jabber constantly, one starting before the other stops. Their coffee gets cold, their toast dries. A snap of his fingers and the washed-out shirt guy attracts the waitress and complains about the coffee. I get sore, lose interest in them and change my position.

Oh, how I love this early time at the delly. My observations, my environment, are more tasty than the lox.

A gargantuan busboy with a navy blue/red/white baseball cap ambles past me, sees me writing, and walks back where he had come from, loads a tray of dirty dishes and carries it to the kitchen.

An elderly man with only snow white fringe on his head is partially hidden by a post, but I see his long, skinny legs, his feet in black flip flops, protruding from the post. They make me see him as a beautiful deer, its tan pelt torn, lying shot under a tree.

More customers, more fodder for me, come in.

The first to form a wait line happens to have on a heavy, clumsy neck brace. Holding a brown cane, he limps to the men's room. When he returns, the hostess has held a small table on the aisle for him and seats him immediately. Not only is he disabled, he is alone and I feel sorry for him, quickly turn away.

The kitchen door, constantly blocked my view of one whole area but this time I caught a momentary sight of a tanned, slender man, maybe about 50, very curly hair that is too curly, too long for his stature. On the table in front of him he has spread the entire morning paper, leaving no room for his lunch. What he does is lifts his plate with one hand, uses his fork with the other, takes a bite or a sip, puts it down and reads another column. Once I saw him my eyes glued on to his prowess and I knew that if I tried it, my eggs would instantly be in my lap.

A family of four is seated. Either they had been to or were going again to the beach. Mother, teen daughter and son, showed a lot of sun-burned skin, while the father, an unsigned up member of the baseball cap brigade, only nodded an occasional yes or no to whatever was said to him.

This piece de resistance I must tell you about and then I will go. A very fat lady, dark long hair, black dress, somehow sat down when I wasn't looking. There was a man with her but hard to see. She was in my view–just about all of her. Her shoes had been slipped off, one leg propped up on the bench and the other splayed wide apart on the floor. When I say I saw all of her, I did.

Her arrival, my leaving were perfectly timed. I'd had enough to eat, enough writing and definitely too much of her.

FIXED

2011-10-27T01:02:00.000-07:00

AUTHOR ARTHUR

My hands are shaking. My tongue feels like a scummy mop. My eyes blur. I'm stymied. A drink, that's what I need to relax. The cold Schlitz staring at me from the top shelf of my fridge is within easy reach, but I grab my temporary strength, leave it there, and shake a quart of Florida orange juice into a froth, pour it into my handy empty coffee cup. A weird sensation confuses my thinking. I hear myself mumble, 'stop the babble. Stop the babbling. Find your papers! Get busy.
McGraw and Gray aren't going to wait much longer.'

The outdoors speaks to me, invites me to take a long walk in the sun, smell the roses. Jacketless, sweaterless, I obey. There is a slight nip in the air, not strong enough to send me back in the house, still angry at myself and the big black blank in my brain. Move, move your rear. I move it slowly with no purpose at all.

Right around the next corner the condo pool invites me in for a quick refreshing dip. My shoes and sox I toss on the brown grass and run, almost full speed ahead, to the pool's edge...and jump in. My scream brings Carlo, the condo's maintenance man. 'Help!', I yell. He climbs into the empty pool, lets me lean on his shoulder as I slowly manage to get myself up the few metal steps onto the peopleless, chairless pavement.

From nowhere my eyes begin to leak. I cry and laugh simultaneously. Carlo orders, 'Mr. Arthur, sit down on the grass. Tell me what you were doing in the drained pool.' 'Drained?' I ask. 'I saw cool, clean filtered water in there and thought a few laps would help me get on with my work.' Carlo's brows scrunch together. He is as confused as I. He walks me to building C, enters the monthly code for me. The elevator doesn't come. I ring it again. Not a sound does it make. Damn it, I have to walk four flights up narrow stairs to my apartment, make it and reach in my pocket for my keys. Nothing in any pocket. What now? Walk down, Shmegegee, find Carlo, get the service people here again. They surely know their way by now. Carlo appears, accompanies me up stairs, opens the door with his pass key. What a stinkin' day this has been from when I opened my eyes. I close them, visualize my keys lying in the empty pool, go for that cold Schlitz right where I left it. It feels so great going down, like a mountain spring loosening daisies as it tumbles to the ground.

Where is it, where is my book? I have to have my book. Something is pushing me, giving me a leg up to get back on track and write the next chapter of 'Author Arthur.'

I'm ready, pen in hand, brain set on 'Go', my masterpiece begins with a strong opening. Where will it go? Stick around. It begins like this:

'My hands are shaking. My tongue feels like a scummy mop. My eyes blur. I'm stymied.'

Selfish?

2011-10-26T02:50:00.001-07:00

MEL

This time the vibes were right. They were zinging. His picture in the dating book looked better than most, snow white hair, trim body, Goldwater glasses, really pleasant smile AND he played golf AND he was seeking a country club woman AND he responded to my request to meet him. Evidently my bio pleased him too. This was surely going to turn into something worthwhile. My usual negative attitude almost disappeared when I called him as his voice was strong, polite, and as close to anxious as I'd ever heard.

At first I suggested we meet someplace for lunch but he thought it would be much nicer if he picked me up. He slurped his coffee but that wasn't bad. He took me home and we would meet later. The time was set, my hair cut, my apartment more immaculate than ever, fresh strawberries, cherries, wine ready for when he could come back to spend more time with me. All of my terrace shades were up so the lovely golf course view would be impressive when he first entered. Music wafted softly through the rooms. My high hopes were dying as he didn't appear on time. I looked out the window over and over in case I saw him confusedly searching for my building. No Mel.

20 minutes after the appointed time I decided to call Security and was shocked that my phone was not working. Without it, Mel could not buzz me to be admitted. Nervously I hurried downstairs just in case he was waiting at the door. No Mel. Back upstairs to try the phone again and found one off the hook. My fault, my careless fault. I grabbed my car keys and rushed to the front gate and actually caught sight of a stranger with white hair trying to get through. I made contact with the man, calling him 'Murray' for some unknown reason, and got lucky. One second later and he would have been gone. From this point on I must take back my 'lucky' thoughts.

I felt terrible that he was so hot from driving around, arguing with the gatekeeper, but by the end of our visit I wish we hadn't met at all. We talked for a bit and then went to my selected restaurant, one I expected to be quiet but the noise of the young crowd was most annoying. Mel suggested we share something, a salad perhaps. That was fine with me but that was all that was fine. The man seldom eats out, makes spaghetti and frozen dinners at home, has absolutely no interests other than saving things like string, barbed wire, doesn't belong to a club at all, reads only the paper, goes to movies alone, and has no social life. He turned out to be a dud from Dudsville.

There was, however, surprisingly some interesting conversation and he seemed very knowledgeable in a few areas, but I was quite sure I overwhelmed him with all of the things I do, interests I have. I tried to encourage him, excite him to tape his memories, his family history for his children, but he said he wasn't a good speaker. None of my suggestions to improve his poor attitude flamed any kind of spark and that alone doused mine. Finally he left, 3 hours together was more than enough for me, and so

I lay him to rest in my pile of discards, hoping he wouldn't call me again..and already wondering how to politely say, 'No thank you.' I'll find a way and then keep on trying to find that elusive somebody to make life even better.
My mind and growing file remain ready!

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

Forgive me if this is a repeat. Thanks

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

My search

2011-10-25T01:14:00.001-07:00

HELPING HAND

There was so little time. With every breath he tried to take, the minutes ticked away. My husband's big blue eyes became narrow slits. He barely mumbled but knew I was by his side, day after day and many miserable nights on a miserable cot next to his bed. A river flowed down my cheeks, neck, into my blouse and washed away my heart.

Details, details filled every waking moment I had, stuffed my dreams with ferocious lions waiting in the tall grass to jump out and devour me.
My neighbors, friends, even small family, became burdensome. I could not smile, didn't want to get dressed to go out, relax. There was just too much to handle. When I really thought I should see a psychologist, Alfred came to me in a dream and told me what to do. He was so smart.
'Delly, get busy, get away from the house, the papers, the insurance. Find something new to fill your time, help others.' As I tried to drink my nuked instant coffee, something niggled at me about Alfred telling me something, but it had evaporated in the morning sun. I was on my own lonely island full of brambles and thorns.

'Delly, Delly,' my mind releases its chains and I know I have to stop pitying myself, get busy, invest in tougher woes others harbor and mine will lessen. Never having needed to read the Silver Star's list of the day's, week's activities, I begin reading what's on available what sounds interesting. The list is long, promising. Maybe, just maybe, this will be my medicine. I will be choosey, needing a convenient place near-by, bright, busy, where my foibles can be tolerated.

First place I contact is the Cancer Society. I tell Ms. Yawner that I am computer literate, can type, answer the phone and want a busy, bright office to work in. She bubbles, gives me the address, which is not near my home but I go anyhow. The office is drab, has a single chair, several phones on the only desk, two files and a small window on the side of the building. She tells me that women do come in to find out where to go to be fitted for false breasts. I tell the woman at the desk with the phones, that this is not at all what I want and put her down hard.

The following day I approach Fire Engine House #12, enter and see at least ten handsome young men sitting down to lunch. Two are cooking and serving. Several stand to welcome me, ask if I'd like to lunch with them. How could I not smile? My grin must have made me look like Little Miss Sunshine coming to see the mock turtle. 'Gentlemen, I am here to answer your request for a hostess in your station house, one who can type, handle your paper work and I can sure do that AND wash dishes. Captain O'Rourke 's smile is not as bright as mine was as he tells me the spot is filled. He asks for my name, phone, e mail address and suggests I try the Sheriff's office. I thank them all for their taking care of this district, always alert, always on hand, and bid them so-long.

My spirit is already sagging but the Sheriff's office does sound intriguing. I apply to assist wherever I am needed. Sheriff Olmstead has his handy records book on top of his cluttered desk, looks it over and starts asking me questions, telling me that I have to pass Security. The first thing on tap is to have my photo taken. He hands me a number to hold on my chest, tells me to relax but not smile. Click. In but a second there I am in my silk blouse looking like a frightened convict. It will take two weeks before a full report on me reaches him. I will be notified if and when I should return.

In only twelve days I receive a call to come to Station 12 at Crawford Mall, across from Old Navy in the side court. 'Wear low heeled shoes. Be here promptly at 9:45 a.m. July 2. The mall will be busy and you will have much to learn.' Ah! This sounds perfect. My blood boils with excitement. I am there at 9:30, meet the Chief who will teach me what I have to do after lunch. 'In the meantime, Gloria Stazak will be here at ten and she'll give you a briefing.' He hands me a small, tinny looking badge to pin to my chest. I do as he says and think it looks stupid, sticking out like a pistol, but keep my mouth shut. There are two high stools behind the round counter and one low chair. I get the low broken down chair and have to stand to see if someone comes to the counter.

'This is important,' the sheriff says. 'Lean over, I'll show you how to take fingerprints.' Yowzie! He shows me. It's easy and I have special fluid to clean fingers. A young man approaches and Gloria takes a booklet from him, skims over it and asks Gloria what she has to do for him. 'Take his prints! He's applying for a government job. Never mind, I'll do it, she says. I'm tickled pink, I have to see it done more than once, then I'd liked to try doing my own print.

A lady with two small children stops by., 'Where is the ladies room, Miss?' she asks. I don't know. I don't use public loos. Gloria gives her directions. The next 'customer' is an elderly man who wants to know where he can get a heart shaped box of chocolates. I point across the large aisle to Wonka's Chocolates and tell him to go ask them. I have already finished the day's crossword puzzle, Sudduko and have done nothing but feel unneeded, unwanted. My shift is over at 3:30. Francine comes on and I go home, frustrated, disappointed, need time to rethink this whole new deal. At home, I fix a sandwich for myself, watch Law and Order, exhausted from my new job, I fall asleep.

Bad dreams wake me early. A fireman is taking my fingerprints and leads me to the gallows that is next to a candy shop. I will give this one more chance.

I think–think some more and decide I won't.

Good morning?

2011-10-24T01:20:00.001-07:00

SCHNOZ

The smell tantalizes me as soon as I open the vestibule door. Mickey Mouse follows an airy swaying snake right to the window sill of Minnie's house. It writhes in front of me, has me in its grip. Stopping only long enough to put my new third grade geography book on the table at the top of the stairs, I skip the rest of the way to Mama's kitchen 'Hi, Mama. I knew it! I knew it! You have an apple pie in the oven. Right? Are we going to have vanilla ice cream with it tonight?'

'No hug first?' I give and get one. 'Sherry, there are two pies baking. One is for us and the other for Aunt Mollie. She came home from the hospital yesterday with your new twin cousins. Aunt Molly is going to be busy with those two tiny tots. Will you go with me tomorrow to take the pie over and maybe we can take a peep at John and Joan? Would you like that?' 'Sure, Mama. I still have 75 cents in my piggy bank. Maybe I can buy them lollipops. Mama smirks. 'We'll have to wait a little while for that.'

We wait a long while. I spend my money, finish third grade and have eaten quite a few apple pies. More freckles on my nose do not stop my sniffer from being alert. Paste, I smell paste. I hear loud snip, snips coming from the third floor bedrooms. I bound up the stairs two at a time. My furniture is gone, my closet empty. All of my belongings are behind my brother's closed door.

Mr. Golden, the paperhanger, has come at last. Wooden horses span the walls, holding a large clean board. Brushes, rollers, scissors rest on long nails on the horse's legs. 'Can I help you, Mr. Golden? Please, please, let me do some pasting. It's my paper you know.' 'Not now, Little One. You don't want lumps in your walls, do you?' He dips his brush in the paste can, gives it a shake and before I can see how he does it, he has put paste on a long sheet of paper, bent it over several times and is on the second step of his ladder. Carefully he pulls back the edge and tapes it to the wall, slowly lowering it to the floor, always smoothing, brushing it with wide sweeps of his arm. From his overalls he takes out a roller and goes over it again, but leaves a small piece undone near the baseboard, 'Sherry, here try it. Just roll this part smooth. I do it right and decide I might someday become a paperhangeress.

Before Mr. Golden cleans up for the day, he gives me part of a roll of paper to cover my school books. Mama helps me after supper and does the loose leaf and geography books. I do the arithmetic book myself. It isn't as good as Mama's but is good for me. Nobody in my class has such beautiful striped books. Daddy adds white stickers with the names on each cover.

When my room is finished and looks clean and pretty, Mr. Golden asks me to get him a big, clean empty mayonnaise jar. Luckily Mama has one on her pantry shelf. Mr. Golden fills it with warm, smelly paste for me. I am set forever.

The smell of grass being cut, of the street after a thunderstorm has washed the gutters, of roses and lilacs blooming in my grandmother's yard and my first niece's tush being dusted with baby powder are pure heaven. Soon I would smell hell.

'My appendix has to come out or burst? When? How?' Daddy answers. 'Yes. Friday. By surgery.' A strong, strange smell turns my stomach as soon as I get thru the revolving door at the hospital. Even the elevator stinks. Daddy and Mama have a card with a number on it and find my room, 306. I will have to share it with another girl. The place smells like a toilet that hasn't been flushed. A nurse in a stiff white dress, wearing a stiff white cap with a double black stripe around the edge, gives me a gown that doesn't close except by a short tie at the back of my neck. I feel a cold draft over my entire body. Dr. Hyman comes in, talks to us and I just know I am going to die. Sleep comes and I forget where I am.

There is noise in my room even though it is still dark. I get no breakfast, not even a glass of milk. Two nurses get me onto a table, leave my bare feet hanging out from under a thin striped sheet and wheel me to an ice cold green room. No sun is needed. The lights are big, blindingly bright. Dr. Hyman,'s voice is recognizable behind his white mask. 'Don't be frightened, Sherry. You aren't going to feel a thing and will wake up in your room. Mom and Dad will be waiting for you.'

Without another word some rotten person puts a rotten smelling mask on my nose. I'm choking. I'm dying. I can't move! The smell burns. I want to scream but my mouth won't move. I'm in my bed, on the hard mattress I remember from yesterday. Mama and Daddy are standing near me. Mamma holds my hand. I feel her fingers softly squeeze mine.
She looks fuzzy. What is she saying? Boy, something smells terrible. I sniff and sniff and am sure it is me. 'Don't worry, Darling. You still have some ether in your nose. It will go away.'

It did–but has now come back. Can you smell it?

Done?

2011-10-23T01:26:00.001-07:00

IRVING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Determination

2011-10-22T01:06:00.001-07:00

CLOUD 8

The clouds are roiling, scudding today, moving fast across the sunny sky. An audience of fifty thousand Romans is protected by a canopy at the Circus Maximus. Their eyes are on the huge arena. Ben Hur lashes at his team of horses, urges them to reach the finish line of this race before the sun sets. Sweat pours from his mighty muscles as he nears the end. There are but two turns left to conquer.

As he gets closer, a chariot wheel hits an unseen rock, shakes and leans left. The crowd roars. Hur gathers his strength and wits, tightens his muscles until the leather digs into his arms. He braces himself, leans right and the chariot balances, flies forward. The shouting from the stands is deafening.

The last turn is yet to be made. Silence from the crowd. All eyes are on Ben Hur and his nearest rival, his young son, Ishmael. A quick turn of Ben's head and any concern he might have had that his son would out ride him, disappears. He will leave the Maximus still undefeated.

Shouts, flowers fly from the stands as the crowd quickly uses the two hundred exits, stop for sips of cold water in the fountains. Many go down more stairs, to the belly of the Maximus to watch gladiators, their bodies nearly nude, fight for their lives against wild lions. When at last there are no gladiators left, the lions are coaxed elsewhere, fed, watered and left for the next day of action.

Ben is content. His honor is retained. He looks at the sky and silently thanks all the gods that be for pitting such poor racers against him. He knew from the first draw of names that he would be victorious, yet the closeness of defeat hung on. 'More care, Ben Hur, or you will no longer find Cloud Nine waiting for you some day.'

Ishmael, sweaty, worn out, offers his congratulatory hand to his father. 'Father, I saw you look around to see how far behind you I was. That was foolish.' Ben Hur, the finest of all charioteers, replies, 'Son, you will not out-do me, nor shall any one. I will stop racing when I know my time is coming and be ready to live forever on my reserved place in the heavens, Cloud Nine.' 'Then, Father, have no fear. I know I shall never -0ut-do you but....when you get to your cloud, then you may look behind you and you will see me, saluting you from my spot on Cloud Eight.'

Too long a wait

2011-10-21T01:42:00.001-07:00

BIG FOOT

Never have I seen such big shoes! The tan and brown saddles were pristine, seemingly right out of a gun box. An unbidden obscene thought electrified my mind for a bare moment. As I followed the shoes up the pants legs to the man attached my smile disappeared. The slacks were almost empty except for bones covered with what must be wrinkled old flesh. From thigh to hips was concave as the man, surely not as old as he appeared, tried to sit up and pass the time with me waiting for our cars to be serviced. His hollow chest barely breathed and I feared he'd be done before his car. A yellowed, sunken face showed barely a trace of life as his soft gray eyes now and then stopped staring into space and looked my way. Atop his head was a soiled and battered golf cap, signifying there were once better days. The more I looked at him the easier it became to not see him but to see my once healthy husband sitting there, mind wandering, still dreaming, waiting for his car, waiting to die.

My name was called and I got out of there as quickly as I could, but my double vision and my sadness still clings too long- too tight. I filled a paper cup with tasteless coffee, added a free donut, retrieved my car and went home. Next check up I'll not forget to take a love story book with me.

The Trip

2011-10-20T01:25:00.001-07:00

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.

Learning experience

2011-10-19T01:39:00.001-07:00

HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN

I was happy all the time, well, maybe not ALL the time, as I had to be The Great Pretender. The Grandmothers' Club was an idea I had and had to make it work. Being the chief, the instigator, the planner, fell easily on my back. Daddy always said, 'The apple doesn't fall far from the tree,' but he also lectured, 'Lie down with dogs and get fleas.' He was such a hard person, outwardly cold. Personally, I called him The Last Angry Man, and yet he was my paragon, my devil on a pedestal.

Mama must have loved him once, but most of her feelings evaporated as Daddy's tyrannical foot kept her nailed in a world of cooking, mending, obeying his stern commands. Sometimes, as my childish mind matured, I seemed to hear her sighs, saw her thinking with a tear in her eye. 'Oh, Sadie, what went wrong? This Is Your Life.' Once she got the nerve to join a small democratic club which was nothing more than a social gathering of ladies who met at the butcher shop on Thursdays and the corner A & P whenever they had an excursion from the house. Mama came pretty close to breaking her bonds when she was nominated to be Sergeant-at-Arms but Daddy ridiculed her and she resigned herself to being an eternal nebbish.

Instead of resenting all of Daddy's negatives, I chose to see, to emulate, his determination, his wisdom, his interest in living, not for, but in spite of Mama. Going back to when he was a young admirer of the prettiest girl in the neighborhood whose older sister let him and Sadie sneak away from a party for their first kiss, their marriage was ordained. Even then she had no character, no strength to say, 'I'm too young. I'm not ready.' Instead she acquiesced and the dastardly deed was done.

Children came. Mama reaped rich rewards, trips to where Daddy wanted to go, a fur coat he liked, a 3 times a week maid who spent almost all of that time cleaning his office. Eventually Mama got a driver's license. Yet she couldn't drive without him in the passenger's seat, constantly pushing his foot to the floor. 'Quick, open your window! Signal, signal! He commanded. With hardly a wince Mama took his badgering but eventually gave up and he drove or they stayed home.

One thing Mama never realized, her little girl was smart, learning from her example how not to be like her. As my father, my dead father, began to molder in the grave he dug for himself, my spine grew straighter, my firmness more resolved. My eyes seemed to mirror his image. If I wanted something done, I did it myself. Ask little, do more, take no guff, let no deadwood pile around my feet. These things were branded into my mind, my soul. 'Come on, Ceil,' 'Join us Elly.' 'You HAVE to come.' 'Harriet, we'll reminisce, play Canasta. Eat some chocolate cheese cake. Friday night, my house. I won't take NO for an answer.'

So the apple did NOT fall far from the tree. It was my turn to be a leader and I smiled.

Live life

2011-10-18T01:26:00.001-07:00

DANCING WITH THE STARS

I'm ethereal. Really, I am. If you don't want to believe me, that's okay as I have trouble believing you are a chunk of meat, that you do ugly things, have wars and kill each other. My friends and I bother no one. We come and go with the breeze, with the raindrops. We soar. We feel the beauty in every blade of grass, leaf on a tree. You see leaves to be raked, grass to be mowed, bagged, burned. You are pitiful.

'Since I believe in you, how come you don't believe in me? You do sense me, feel me circling around you. I am making your brain hear me as your ears are good only for your world. Stay still. I am going to teach you how to taste love. Look up into the blue sky. Feel that blue. Now taste it. Ah, your brain told you it tastes like blueberries. It does, doesn't it? Put your hand in a white cloud and that will be your dessert, whipped cream on the berries. Savor it and wait for me. I'll be back.'

This fool, this figment of my imagination, cannot fathom being like I am, ethereal. The ocean is wild, ferocious, but calm too. Salty air weighs me down. I struggle, rise above it. An albatross flies by and I hitch a ride. It doesn't feel me tucked in, warm comfortable under its huge wing. Its feathers are sharp but do not cut me. Down below is a white ship, thousands of those like the thing I am teaching are on it. They make sounds, motions, look around but don't see the small turtle swimming hundreds of miles from shore. How did it manage such a task? Another ethereal like me must have wafted him here. He is going to be made into soup and is content. 'Look up again. The sun is special. Sometimes it tastes like fresh squeezed orange juice, sometimes red strawberries, yellow butter. Think about it, Mister. It's more than a sun. It is life itself. '

The wind feels me floating, sailing. It lifts me, glides me and drops me in the middle of a double rainbow, lets me slide up and down as if I were riding on a camel's hump. '

There is a loud noise. I get angry and call out, 'Damn, it's Wednesday again. ' I open my window and yell at the garbage men to stop the rattling. No sense going back to bed. I lean over to get my terry cloth robe, put my feet on the cold pine floor and feel something gritty.

Little sparkling chips are everywhere. A glass iridescent butterfly wing sits amongst the pieces of stars. Something clicks and a voice reaches me. 'Mr., you with a brain and no soul, are you reading me?'

Dining Out

2011-10-17T02:02:00.001-07:00

ELBOW ROOM

Outside of Phil and Flo's delly, the wait line extends to the curb. I take a rough count of 20 standees and am able to visualize twenty more inside, snaking their way past the take out counter, past those who stand as close as they can to the A.C. ducts.

Those in the wait line bump the one's waving numbers to the take out clerks. The take-outers grumble, push back those who try to squeeze themselves in. The counter men work fast. If too slow on a week-end, they will not be there the following week-end.

A hostess stands in front of a chain for the parties of two. Another hostess guards the four and more line. I pity a party of 3. How long will they wait? Fives and more have to wait until two tables next to each other empty at the same time. My mind races in numerals, wonder how this place exists at all.

I happen to be a loner today, have important things I want to do at home, like make a few phone calls, answer e mails, mow the lawn or be ready to have a hatchet in my head when my wife, Lenore, asks me again to cut the grass.

Yahoo, I see another loner, an old lady who looks confused, tired. I motion to her to join me. I am ignored. A threesome doesn't want me either. Should I leave or move over to the take-out line and bring Lenore a piece of cheese cake? I do nothing but eat my heart out.

I move and actually get to see the lunch counter, way to my right. It is full but daringly, I leave my position and walk past the two lady guards, find someone who seems about ready to pay his check and stand behind him. He motions to the counter man for another cup of Joe , adds a slice of blueberry pie. He eats slowly, relishing every berry, doesn't wipe his blue chin before he stands. When he does, I can't help but notice how low his dirty jeans are. His crack is half exposed. Too long it has been up against the short back rest of the stool which he swings around before he leaves. My choice is take his place or not. I choose 'not', sacrifice my turn to a young woman and feel a bit guilty. She doesn't glance my way, does not respond to my 'good morning' orders a cup of tea with lemon and a brioche.

I am not even hungry any more. What the hell am I doing in this nut house, I wonder. Before I walk out I have to pass the take-out counter one more time, am absolutely amazed that the chaotic wait if over. One man has already placed his order for a rye bread sliced with half a lb. of very lean corned beef, a pint of sauerkraut and fries. The pot is hot, the oil bubbles and the potatoes brown fast.

My turn! My turn! 'Give me what the man in front of me just ordered but give me a whole lb. of corned beef. You can leave a tiny bit of fat on some slices.' One, two, three, before I have time to decide on which dessert Lenore might like, my order is on the counter top.

'Oh, add a slice of apple pie and a slice of chocolate cake.' My waiter gives me a dirty look and makes out a new check. I take it to the almost empty line at the cashier and head home.

Lenore is waiting. 'Where have you been so long? I fixed myself a cream cheese and jelly sandwich already. Want one?' ' No, thanks.' The corned beef smells so good, I make a thick sandwich for myself, give my wife her choice of desserts and wait, simply wait for her next words----

'When are you going to mow the lawn, Big Shot?'

Done in

2011-10-16T03:44:00.001-07:00

BOO

Holding my wife's brand new scrub bucket filled with small plastic bags
of M & Ms, Hershey's miniatures, candy corn, I open the door and shout, 'BOO' The children laugh and dig into the bucket. Before me are a clown with a red rubber nose, a witch with a battered broomstick and high black cone shaped hat, twins with paper mache' pumpkins on their heads They get a bit greedy, turn and run down the driveway where our neighbor, Mr. Donaldson, waits to watch over the candy-lovers, makes sure each kid stops a moment, waves to me and hollers, 'Thanks.' I appreciate it but do believe it takes a bit of the fun out of the begging.

'Mary Sue,' I call to the oldest child in the group. 'Come closer. I have something special for you.' She runs to me. I hand her a paper bag full of candy make-up, a caramel colored lipstick, a licorice eye brow stick and marshmallow earrings attached to junk ones my wife found in the 5 & 10. Mary Sue didn't have to be told to thank me. She adds a big hug and a tweak to my nose.

The last child in this group is somewhat shy. Mr. Donaldson has to take her by the hand and bring her to me. Oh, she is cute, adorable. She has
white transparent wings that flap a little if she pulls a string. Her blonde hair hangs in tiny curls to her shoulders and even in the semi-dark I can see her eyes twinkle like starlight. Almost cooing, in her soft voice, she asks me to make her wings flap. 'Please, make them fly me into the sky, please, please, Sir. My Mommy is in heaven and I just have to see her.' Tiny silver tears wet her rosy cheeks.

I give those tears no chance to become a river and sweep the darling child into my arms, swing her around and around until we are both dizzy. 'Did you know your Mommy is watching over you? She told me on my iPod that you should have fun, flap your Halloween wings and you will fly part of the way to her. Don't look for her because she is invisible but she can see you!' That doesn't work. She begs me, Mr. Strong Man, make my wings flap. I have to go to heaven to see my Mommy.'

I pull the strings, pull them hard. One string breaks. I pull on the other and it flaps, flaps, fast and hard. The child rises, floats upward, high towards the tree tops, waves to me and disappears.

A skeleton in a black suit with painted on white ribs shakes me, wakes me from my goofy dream. My own seven year old son has been waiting too long for me to take him Trick or Treat. He bops me on my head and tells me to hurry before all the good candies disappear.

I hurry.

Oh, so nice

2011-10-15T01:35:00.000-07:00

SUGAR & SPICE

Bennie Sugarman is anything but sweet, nor is he a man. What he is, is a shrimp in love with himself, his musical knowledge and ability to win over just about any woman when he has an itch, an urge. Ladies, real ladies, know him, know him too well, to be taken in by his mellow notes and twinkling toes.

Karioke night and there he is, at the bar, drinking, practicing. Over and over he sings to the noisy crowd, a la Frankie, 'I've Got You Under my Skin.' I can't help but watch his body hunches, the twinkle in his eye, the sudden stops and hand-rolling. I hate to admit it even to myself, Bennie is good. Yet I can hear him whine, bitch about his bad breaks, his small demeanor. Well, he never really used that big word to me, but I felt good teaching him something.

After some professional coaching, he believes he is ready to try-out for Dancing With the Stars. He surely considers himself a star but he doesn't even twinkle. Try-out #1 is a big flop and almost bursts his balloon. The wait to get into the Cat Call area is over before he gets half way to the door. For a whole week he must be hiding in his apartment, planning the next step, what trickery he has to use to get someplace else. His usual haunts are glad he is gone for a while.

Each day he goes earlier and earlier, finally reaches the entrance, enters and is in yet another line. This line requires credentials, where one has entertained, when, results. Bennie has little to offer. Dishonestly, he fills out the forms with fictitious places in other cities, the reviews he got and moves ahead. It is then that he notices a gorgeous young woman smiling, getting an envelope from the man at the desk. She must pass Bennie to exit. His wiles take action, his foot extends into the narrow space between the lines and he trips her.

Helping her stand, his apologies flow like soft silk from an Asian worm.
Just a bit shaky, she smiles at him, is glad to say she broke nothing but her thumb fingernail. Bennie temporarily forgets Dancing With the Stars, introduces himself, and offers to take her to lunch and then a manicurist he happens to know. With no hesitation she accepts, tells him her name, Ginger Cravers. 'Maybe you've seen my name on the credits for Stars.' Bennie almost passes out. Liar, liar, his pants catch on fire. 'Of course, Ginger, you don't mind if I call you that do you?'

Conversation never stops as they have lunch at the El Camino. The light meal is delicious, everything that should be hot, is hot, and that includes Benny and Ginger.

She saunters over to the registration desk, is greeted by name, given the key to 701.

An Unlearned Lesson

2011-10-14T01:41:00.001-07:00

CHUCK
I knew it was coming and tried to be prepared for widowhood. Yet when the heavy crying slowly dried up, I was empty, lonely and needed help. I know there is somebody out there for me, but where is he hiding? Being a widow isn't fun. I don't like it and have decided to change my status while keeping my standards and morals high. Is the man who will make my life happier the writer of personal ads? Does he belong to a dating service, a country club? Does he go on cruises alone looking for me? Does he live in an area similar to mine? Does he play golf, enjoy cards. theater, music, movies, traveling, conversation--warm and meaningful? If so, I'll find him somehow, someplace but before I do, start out on the road with me as I take my first step into a world strange, foreign and scary.

Fearfully, tearfully, I had placed my first ad. How I agonized over the few short, expensive words I wanted to convey. As I saw the ad in print I wondered if any man in his right mind would reply to a senior widow's cry for help. Why would he? Column after column of 'gorgeous gal, lovely young miss, absolutely super lady, I've got what you want' ads made mine ridiculously ashen.

Three days later one call on the 900 line came in so I set aside my scant replies, except for Chuck's which had some very vague possibility. Just a little phone call, a little hope, and there he sat, hound dogged looking like my Uncle Harry. Although I had written that I lived a country club life style, was a JWW Sr., non-smoker and lived in Hampton, my resurrected uncle was none of those.

I looked closely at the stranger having lunch with me and thought 'What am I doing here?' Myself silently answered, 'You're waiting for the Bluebird of Happiness to land on your shoulder. It's time now to spread a little bird seed.'

His face brought my dear Uncle back to me.. He could have been any one of my father's six male siblings, each bearing an extremely strong resemblance to one another. Their eyes, being blue or gray, were the one outstanding difference. Jowls beginning to sag, hair a striking beautiful shade of almost blue white, broad noses, supposed laugh lines on faces which I seldom saw smile, came back to me from their graves.

Smoke curled from Chuck's nostrils, yellow stains covered his fingers. He was wearing khaki pants with a wide belt and plaid suspenders. Our religious faiths were different. He had no interest in golf (or- as it turned out--ME). What Chuck liked was picking his own fruit, walking the beach, fishing, none of which he mentioned as we spoke on the phone.

Had I not been outgoing, inquisitive, silence would have reigned. It was like the proverbial tooth pulling to yank some words from his coffee filled mouth. He coughed into his paper napkin and laid it on the table. Ugh! We were on totally different wave lengths. As I tried to eat my dry tuna sandwich without choking, I did learn something. Chuck wanted more than I would be willing to give him that afternoon or ever in my life time. He knew a nice, clean cozy motel down the road. 'Maybe some other time, Chuck. Let's go. I have a doctor's appointment.' The lie didn't even burn my tongue.

I needed something sweet with my coffee just to try to get the smell of him away but skipped it. The waitress brought the check and darn if he didn't ask me to split the $10 tab in half. With no hesitation I gave him five dollars. 'What about the tip, Honey,' he asked. 'Chuck, I paid for the ad and wasted my money. You pay the tip. You at least got service.' That was mean. that was wrong and I didn't care.

Outside I watched him go to is his little pick-up truck with the right fender badly dented. I got into my nice, comfy, undented Camry, locked the door and headed home. That elusive Bluebeard of Happiness had messed on my head.

Chuck and I didn't even say GOODBYE.

Blessed? event

2011-10-13T01:16:00.001-07:00

CRAZY MAISIE

Maisie, I and my folks are driving to Wild Kingdom tomorrow. Personally, I have no interest in the open zoo. T.V. gives me as much as, more than, enough. Lion cubs being taught by their mama how to kill, elephants scratching their backs on baboa trees, crocs chomping the stampeding gnus way before they can cross the river, turn my stomach.

Maisie and I are twins, the most un-identical twins one can imagine. I'm fair and she is olive toned. At 16 I'm three inches taller than she is. We don't like the same foods, colors, school subjects or boys. Yet, there is a bond between us that has a lot of knots, knots we so far have overcome.

Today is a perfect example of our differences. She has longed to visit Wild Kingdom since we were small and today she gets her wish. She read about the new baby elephant born to Madam Aida and will just die if we don't take her. Dad and Mom drive and pay the 40 bucks to get in. I think they threw out Dad's hard earned money.

I am the first to see a rhino coming towards our car. It' s too close for my comfort. Thru the closed window Maisie calls the rhino over. I yell, 'Cut it out, you're nuts. That thing can knock our car over and eat us all for lunch. Duck down. Don't wave. Please don't wave!' My disobedient sister waves. The rhino gives our car the once over, isn't impressed and plods heavily away.

Dad drives very slowly, dares not honk the horn. I softly mention to Maisie, 'I think I see a lion resting under that tree.' It breathes, lifts its head and roars. Maisie is really exited. 'Look, Betsy. Look at Santa's reindeer. Wow, they do have big antlers, don't they?' I reply, 'Yes, they do. Why don't you ask Donner where he left Santa?' Mom and Dad are getting agitated over us and warn us if we don't behave, they will throw us out of the car so the buffalo can stomp us to death.

Maisie gets very quiet as she stares out the back window. Then changes and practically screams at us, 'Look, quick, Look! There, over there is a white tiger and a lioness. 'They aren't doing anything. They're just standing there.' Mom and Dad don't see them either. 'But, Mom,' she goes on, 'They are right over near the stream. They almost look like statues, but I saw the tiger take a drink. Look. Look. The lioness is coming our way.' Dad tells Maisie to stop that nonsense but she insists she sees them. 'Daddy, I think they love each other. The tiger is rubbing the lioness' rear end.'

We are all ready to leave, all except Maisie. 'Please, look, look again. There they are in front of us on our right. ' Dad tells Maisie he will make an appointment for her with a good eye doctor tomorrow. He purposely drives slowly right where Maisie said her two 'friends' are. A loud roar bounces against our windshield Even Maisie is frightened.

On the way home we stop of Mac's for salads and shakes. Dad, of course, gets a triple burger with cheese and raw onions. Mom gives him a foul look, pats his growing girth and drinks a cup of water. At home we watch 'the Great Escape ' on t.v. and Dad teases Maisie that the white tiger must have escaped from Lions' Country. My sister is angry, hurt, disappointed that we didn't all enjoy the animals the way she did. Bedtime.

At 7:30 a.m. Dad comes running upstairs with the morning paper. 'Come see this, everybody.' The headlines blare that four people who don't know each other saw a white tiger and a lioness making love at Wild Kingdom Saturday. They were the only ones who saw them. People were lining up at the zoo by 5 a.m. to see god's miracle.

Maisie laughs and says they won't ever see god's gift to us. They have moved to Kings' World where god is going to stop crowds from bothering them. God told her, during the night, that the Tiger is going to father a Tigress in privacy. She looks so darn smug, I could kiss her.

Saved?

2011-10-12T01:32:00.001-07:00

HEAVY LOAD

I need a hug. The full basket of life I have had for so many years has been hit by a truck. At first it moved slowly and then sneakily the driver released the brakes and let it roll downhill full speed ahead, bumping into the world, turning it upside down. Black clouds darkened the sky. Anger, inability to cope with the spreading hatred is not simply destroying me. It's out to get all of humanity.My strong husband, Earl, has been nagging me to see a psychiatrist. 'Come on, Baby, you don't realize that you need help that I can't give you. See somebody, please.' I give him the finger treatment, turn my back to him and go upstairs to work on a plan. Earl's red Mazda slides smoothly from the garage and I am alone with my thoughts, relishing the quiet. I make a list of possible action, topping it with 'Suicides.'

1. See the psychiatrist, impress him, get a prescription and over-dose on it. 2. Jump from the Bromo Seltzer Tower. No good. I might kill, survive or kill a pedestrian. 3. Brake on a wet curve, swerve and crash into Randall's Gulley? No. I might be crushed but not dead enough.
4. Go off the Tappinzee Bridge? No. I hate water but can swim and might do it at the last second. 5. Slit my throat, my wrists, in the bathtub? No. Too messy, too gross for Earl.

My eyes are too heavy with tears to stay open. They close until the phone rings and wakes me from my gruesome reverie. Bev asks me if I am watching the horrible news on t.v. I tell my friend, 'No. I don't want to see more doom.' With a slam I hang up, knowing most likely I have one less friend now. They have been disappearing off my computer address list quite often lately. This needs special thought. I concentrate on my personal small phone book that I keep in the night stand. Listed were fifteen close friends going back to high school days. Now lines are drawn thru ten. When did I do that? Why? I start to cross out the Florence who called a little while ago but hold back. It doesn't matter. Most likely she has already crossed my name off of her book.

Earl used to bring in the morning paper. He'd read it, folded it carefully, leaving the puzzle and anagram untouched, waiting for me to enjoy both. Recently he has been taking the paper with him. That is fine as even the puzzle no longer tempts me. It has come to pass that most of my email is Spam. My correspondents are still out there in cyberspace while I realize I've side-tracked myself into a mental depression.

I have lined up world teams on the battlefield. I can no longer place my bet on the U.S.A. Everything changed when The Towers went down. That was my black hole moment. Chavez, Taliban, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Israel, Palestine, the stock market, bubbling forever the Gulf oil spill. I can't think right anymore. This can't go on much longer or I will find a way to do myself in. No maybe about it. I must take Earl's advice.

I call him at work and ask for the name of the psychiatrist his buddy mentioned. He starts to tell me and stops. 'I'm busy, Bev. I'll call you back soon.' I manage to squeeze in, 'Don't. I want it now.' He is still hanging on. I say, 'Do you know what, Earl? I don't need a hug. I need a hell of a lot more. Get the damn name NOW!' His desk drawer has a familiar squeak when it opens. 'I've got it. You know I love you, Bev,' and he pauses. That felt like he was tapping me on my head as if I were a puppy who chewed up his shoe.

With what sounds more sincere, I hear him offer to go with me to see Dr. Zaffron so we three can work together to bring me back to my former self.
I make the appointment and also make Earl's favorite dinner, smooth out my prettiest night gown and am ready to start.

Ha Ha-Ta Ta

2011-10-11T01:36:00.001-07:00

THE WAVE

As soon as the sun rises, the sand sweeping machines chug across the huge littered white beach. Each worker has his own marked territory, reverses back and forth until 9 a.m. when the first sun lovers, ocean swimmers, come out of their holes. There is a camaraderie of sorts between the drivers during a coffee break when day after day they share complaints about the slobs who don't give a damn about the beach.

June 30th a new sweeper begins her job. Lila Hurley is the first woman hired to cover sections three and four, or any sections at all. Her long blond hair is wrapped in a bright sunny yellow bandana. As she climbs aboard, she waves to the guy behind her who will be going in the opposite direction. She can't see him wave back.

For her first hour at the new job she is aware of the sounds, tinkling, crushing, pop cans, shells, stones. They are musical notes to her so she imagines a scale and sings her do, ti, la, sols over and over, sets a rhythm banging on her heavy steering wheel. A deep loud horn reaches her from behind just as she catches sight of a toddler running towards her. She is startled, frightened so badly, she's a little slow jamming on the brakes. The child's mother grabs her errant child and shakes her fist at Lila, surely spitting out mean, ugly words and heads toward the Boardwalk. The little boy is dragged away, laughing, waving to Lila until she is calm enough to wave to him and continue on her way.

By 8 a.m. the beach is in pretty good shape. Lila isn't. Her body shakes with the sensation of the loud motor, the vibrating itch in her hands from the steering wheel that has already caused a blister about to burst on her right hand. A few swimmers have ventured into the ocean. Their delight invites her to enjoy the same thing as soon as her work is thru at 9. Before that happens, the worker who had been behind her honks loudly from his padded seat, cleans his sunglasses and jumps down to offer her a cold Coke. 'I'm Josh, begosh,' he says. ' How's it goin' so far?' There is a dab of idle chit chat while she swigs down the delightful cold drink and puts the empty can in her pocket. That fast she knows Josh is carefully, shamelessly, giving her the once over and reciprocates his gaze. Not bad, not bad at all. He suggests she follow him back to the huge empty building where the machinery is cleaned, serviced daily. They get in line and snake slowly to their destination. Josh is already out of his cab when Lila pulls in beside him. 'How about coffee and a fresh chocolate covered donut with me?' We have a snack bar waiting in the annex. Off they go, jabbering about the 'almost' tragedy with the little boy and the need to always be alert.

Lila is sure she has a new sunburn and maybe a new guy in her life. Her legs ache from the pressure on the brake. She welcomes the cushioned chairs around the long table. 'What would you like?' Josh asks. Lila makes what she thinks is a cute retort. 'I'd like to wear a pretty dress and have dinner with you sometime soon.' Her snack mate is dumbstruck, pauses, sips his coffee slowly and replies. 'Lila, my wife wouldn't like that. I might but will have to forgo the pleasure.'

They are uncomfortable together, finish their coffee, donuts and head back to their vehicles, start out again, back to back, turn to each other and wave. Out of Lisa's sight, Josh asks the foreman to change his position in the morning.

The same little boy who Lila almost ran over is on the beach in the morning. He waves to her, asks for a ride, which Lisa is not allowed to give. He pouts, runs to his mother and waves one more time at Lisa.

Josh is not behind her. A new, elderly, strong looking man with a small gray goatee replaces Josh. Lisa waves and starts her motor going.

I Remember It Well

2011-10-10T01:20:00.001-07:00

NOT REALLY GONE

Years before Mauldin lampooned the military brass in WWII, before "Kilroy was here" became a symbol of national unity, the Golden Years of Childhood enveloped me in their womb without letting me know how lucky I was. Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic and later lost his son to a kidnaper. Knickers were in for boys until they were men. Salk hadn't yet found a solution to save us kids from a life inside a big silver machine from which there was no escape. Hitler may as well have been on the moon, as we never heard of him. Life was easy, life was fun.

Petty squabbles, friendly arguments, excitement, long do-nothing days ate up my youth. Going to school with the same neighbors year after year made tight bonds between us. Everybody knew everybody so that we could almost always find someone to play school, step and dodge ball, Puss in the Corner, Hide and Seek. We roller skated thru alleys , chalked houses, cut movie star pictures from old magazines, rummaged thru drug store trash for crepe paper and empty cigar boxes. Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney had nothing on our shows. Old sheets sufficed for curtains and Mama's aprons and beads became costumes.
The cost of the lemon and sugar was given to Mama after the entire pitcher of lemonade at one cent a glass was sold. We were, unbeknownst to ourselves, very rich poor kids.

I must have been one of the richest because we had a Radio, a big Majestic, with a large dial and big knobs to make the sound louder than the passing street cars. It was a magical machine that took me to India with Daddy Warbucks, Punjab, Orphan Annie and 'Arf' Sandy. I sent away for Annie's secret coded ring but it quickly went out of shape when I tried to fit it to my tiny finger. Jack Armstrong, All American Boy, kept me from supper evening after evening. Mama always hollered but I wouldn't go in the kitchen until the program was over. Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon flew me to Fantasy Lands, lands that had to be way out in the sky someplace. The 15 minute shows were my world
for an hour. I wouldn't go to the store for Mama to get ½ bread for five cents, enough for our family of five, always claiming my shoes were off and my sister should go. I won every time. Later, after suppers, Daddy was in charge of the radio. There had to be silence when Jack Benny was coming on. He didn't like Fred Allen as much as Benny but we all listened because Daddy said so.

We loved the Manhattan Merry Go Round, in fact, went to a broadcast in N.Y. I had had so many Pina Coladas to drink from the street vendors, that I almost peed in my pants. The 'Silence' sign was on during the show, doors were locked and I sat there squirming, almost fainting, before Mama finally managed to get me out of the studio.

It certainly was better listening to that show and all the rest of my favorites, shoeless, lying on the floor, right in front of my best friend, Mr. Majestic.

HOWDY

2011-10-09T00:39:00.001-07:00

RAISING KANE

The ground has been leveled. Huge trailers bring steel beams to Hartford county. Cranes lift them off and they crash, bang, make thunder roll thru the streets, make houses shiver, sidewalks crack.
Just what we don't need will be rising along the bay's shore. Two banks have shut down recently for want of customers, for loss of depositors, home buyers. Am I nuts? Are the executives of Salisbury United off their minds? Well, I know I'm sane and just about ready to pull out of this fading township myself.

Orange steel helmets, clean Levis, young men, muscular women wander around, giving the area the once over. They form little groups, point, make awkward motions toward the steel beams being piled in several locations. Barrier stakes are markers for the official ground breaking event. A huge striped awning rises, gives the awaiting owners, guests, contractors, succor from the sun when Richard R. Kane begins his self-grandizing speech. No question, he is a is 'a self-made man.'

While this is all going on, our only Public Library has moved down the street to a smaller, less costly, less helpful, less comfortable old building. Donations come in slowly. Hope is almost, but not entirely gone. With little else to do with myself since I lost my position at Welby's Bakery and have found nothing available that 'makes my day', I idle around the construction site, put cotton in my ears to muffle the noise. On my eyes is a pair of old, but still useful, Grant sunglasses. I definitely need them as the glare of the sun on the steel beams and small lake forces too much refracted light on my irises.

Drums roll, the loudspeaker blares the coming of Richard R. Kane to the podium. Hard hatted men and women move in close to the stands, try to capture Kane's eyes, stand out in a crowd. Two buglers toot their lungs out as they parade twice around the wooden stand, stop directly in front of Kane, give one more loud toot and disappear. There is no formal intro when Kane reaches the mike. He starts right in, making promises, offering jobs. It is clear he has made similar speeches before. He has a slight Southern accent, a most pleasant, warm, friendly smile. I am immediately intrigued. Where did this Wonder Man come from? His ability to make us believe in him and what he will do for our town, mesmerizes standees and me. I applaud maybe too often, but it is from my heart. I see him in rags, turning water into wine.

Why my applause does not cease when others do, I can't really understand and just stay where I have been since Richard R. Kane came to the podium. Did I wink to him without noticing my eyes flutter? Did I stare at his smile? There is some applause as Kane leaves the mike. Surely he has been noticing me staring at him. Handshaking over, the trucks reverting to the noise they make, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder, turn and am face to face with Mr. Kane, who instantly tells me he watched me thru most of his presentation.

Wow! He asked my name and if I would have lunch with him at the Astoria where his office is. I couldn't turn down the soft, sweet invitation, smile my best smile and go with him to his limo. I must have been a tasty lunch as he devoured me and made me an offer I could not refuse.

His suite on the top floor of the Lincoln Tower knocked my clothes off. He surely had x-ray vision. Richard was ready for me. I definitely
Raised Kane.

Wouldn't you chance it? I did and am much better off than I was that very morning.

Where now?

2011-10-08T02:42:00.001-07:00

DONALD

Another date at a new place, the marina ! I'd never been to the lovely restaurant there, right on the water's edge but followed directions and made it. Of course, I was a little early and not sure where to go, but as I got out of my car, there was a tall, swarthy, nice looking man leaning against a post, with his eyes on me. 'Are you Sarah?' he asked. 'Yes. You're Donald Schwartz?' A nod of his head and he said, ' Wow! I'm so glad to see you. I saw this hot babe getting out of her car and hoped against hope.' I was wearing the only jeans I owned, snug but not too much, a great looking light blue polished cotton shirt AND my terrific straw hat with a wide blue band around the crown. That was the right start to a delightful lunch and walk around the area commenting on the yachts.

Two hours went quickly in pleasant chit chat. I could sense his interest as I gave him a lame excuse I had to be back at my apartment by 3.
First thing in the morning Donald called wanting to see me again. It was easy to say 'Sure'. Then we had to decide where and when and he asked if I had ever been to the Miami zoo. 'No.' 'Would you like me to take you?' That was a different approach and sounded good to me.

Two days later we were on our way, down I-95, getting lost twice, but did finally got there.. What a zoo! What a joy to stand for almost an hour just looking at, commenting on, the silver backed gorillas. Donald's sense of humor about them kept me laughing all the way home. We had some lunch and saw a lot of other fantastic animals in what looked so natural habitats. The day was a treat for both of us.

And so Donald was into my life and stayed there for a few months. First he sent me a very good drawing of the gorillas with a joke under it and soon he was coming to my apartment often, most of the time sitting on the lounge in my den, never making any advances to me. I sat on the sofa. We watched T.V., played board games but mostly listened to Sinatra sing away evening after evening. We never got bored with that. His few family joys and problems were endless. He was divorced, had two grown children, each involved in things he didn't like and they had little communication with him. It was very easy to feel his pain.

He took me to the public golf course and hit his drive out of sight. I dribbled off the tee, hit my next shot a big fifty yards--into the rough. Red-faced, very embarrassed, I would have quit then and there, but his understanding, help, was gentle so I stuck it out but played no more golf with him.

Once he invited me to a dance at his club house. Not knowing what to expect perhaps I over-dressed but pleased Donald , and that was my intention. We danced and danced, or at least I did–especially the Twist. He stood there and watched me shake my booty and laughed at me. In some ways we were so close, without ever touching, other than holding hands.

Donald received a call rom Canada, telling him his mother had a heart attack and died. She had left him a small house in a fishing village in New Foundland and he had to go there to take care of things. He begged me, begged me again and again, to go with him. I would have my own room, total privacy if I wanted it. He showed me pictures of the place and I knew I could not go there. I would hate the environment, the old maple furniture, the lack of Jewish people in the town. It was then I learned that in spite of his Jewish name, Donald Schwartz was a Baptist. He was very disappointed and hurt when I made up reasons that I couldn't go (some true) but I had to stand my ground and so ended Donald.

Two full years later my phone rang one evening and the voice was Sinatra singing 'Come Fly with Me'. I listened and knew, knew it was Donald. He began to cry as he told me how sick he had been since I left him, had been hospitalized because he still loved me and couldn't get me out of his heart and mind. He HAS to see me !

That was going to be trouble so I told him 'No, please go on with your life and don't try to see me. You will not be admitted at the gate. I was really frightened even though he couldn't get in, he could wait outside my complex. I was very watchful for weeks but finally relaxed.

Now, even with about eight years gone since he called and sounded so pitiful, I still feel bad about our ending and keep on the lookout just in case he is lingering someplace near by–

MAYBE THE MARINA.

Self flagellation

2011-10-07T02:31:00.001-07:00

THE LOOKING GLASS

Here I am, alone, wearing only a piece of paper that can open all the way down the front or back, depending on what part of me my dermatologist will want to see today. An assistant opens my door a speck and tosses in paper slippers for me and advises me Dr. Gray is going to look between my toes during my sixth month check-up. My predicament is always a horror full of cob webs, tears and icicles. Two more times the door opens but the doctor is invisible. Sheila quickly grabs what she was sent to get and disappears. Rosalyn merely looks in, flutters her overly thick black eyelashes at me and lets the door slam.

I look at the framed paintings around the examining room. I read the instructions on boxes that explain to the doctor what products are used to make rubber gloves. I look at all the knives and needles Dr. Gray has ready to remove any little itsy bitsy brown mark or worse. In comes Sheila again, opens a locked cabinet, gets something she doesn't let me see and is gone in fifteen seconds.

The room is so cold I am sure my goose pimples have goose pimples. From the hook on the wall near the only door, I take my jacket, get a tube of lipstick from my purse and apply it without a mirror, sit down on the examination table to wait. On a hot sterilizer, I can see myself and don't like what I see any more. Distortion taken into account, I am a me I don't recognize.

My appointment was for two o'clock. My entrance to the refrigerator was at one forty-five, just in case Dr. Gray would be waiting for me. The tiny buzz of my wrist watch alarm tells me it is two-fifteen. My mental camera lights up and I see visions of my young blemish free face (accept for a few nose freckles). Did I really have dancers' legs, long, straight, shapely? The legs still hold me up but now have many brown spots, bruises, purple veins, swollen ankles and both big toe nails are growing painfully into my skin. My back is slightly curved, not as bad as Quasimoto's, but may be soon. Young men used to wink at me. The last wink I remember was at the zoo when the elephant was lead outside into the sunny afternoon.

Charlotte, the doctor's A 1 assistant, sticks her head in my doorway to tell me the doctor won't be much longer. I suggest he stay out, see another patient, go home for dinner or go to hell. I seriously start to say, 'I'm getting dress—and am out of here,' when in walks Dr. Gray. He's jovial, warm, a big smile lights up his face. He asks, 'And what are we going to do for you today, Mrs. Bloom?' My fuse is spurting and I let it explode. 'You have kept me in this miserable paper gown, in a refrigerator for almost an hour. Instead of a dermatologist, I might have done better with an Eskimo who would at least let me wear a walrus jacket while I waited for him.

Dr. Gray is not amused and sits down on his rolling stool, thinks a moment, and decides on his own, that I need a full body exam. From the air, he finds a metal wand, runs it quickly thru my hair. I pipe up, 'Dr. I don't have cooties, haven't had them since I was in third grade.' He shuts me up by explaining he was checking my scalp for signs of cancer. Oy, how could he know I am cancer free so fast? He pats me on my shoulder and repeats , 'Your scalp shows no sign of cancer.' I certainly don't want to argue him into saying, 'Maybe we should check further,' so end that discussion.

His 'real' exam finally begins. 'Mrs. Bloom, I see a few brown spots on your back that I believe need removing and biopsied. Most likely they are harmless but it is better to be sure. Shall I do it?' he asks. I reply, 'I'm here because you are the doctor, so do what you think is right.' The job is over in two minutes, but my mind is alert. Visions of Medicare charges of $700 will allow him about $400. I do not worry about him at all.

As he puts on his rubber gloves, made in China, he checks between my toes. I consider kicking him in his arse when he bends over me. Reconsidering, I tell him only one toe is uncomfortable and I can live with it a while longer. He gets antsy and tells me the receptionist will give me the name of a good podiatrist. I pull no punches and let him know I have one without his help and get a dirty look from him.

I must tell him the main reason I have come in. 'Please measure again this growth that is now almost in my eye. He is reluctant and tells me again, 'It is nothing', changes his mind and takes ten or twelve seconds of his valuable time to re-measure and mark the size on my chart.

Picture me. No, don't picture me. I am ½ in, ½ out of my wrinkled paper gown. The door opens and a patient's face peeps in. He tells the impatient woman he will see her in a few minutes, tells me I am fine and should get dressed. As he closes the door on me, through a fake smile, he almost hums, 'See you in six months, Mrs. Bloom. The girls will call you with your biopsy report next week. Make an appointment with Sheila now for your next check-up.' Three calls to Sheila and finally get the long awaited report.

I don't have carcinoma squamas cell cancer on my back and the doctor wants to re-measure the growth on my nose, almost in my eye.
She wants me to make an appointment.

'Give him Mrs. Bloom's message. 'Dr. Gray, spring for cloth wrap arounds for the ladies instead of paper or I will find me that Eskimo dermatologist I mentioned. I might even do it with decent cover-ups. Be sure they have belts to keep the wraps closed while we wait for you.'

'So long, Sheila.'