Dr. Shari couldn’t possibly admit he hated his patients. After all they were children, the children of the wealthy English. He lived a luxurious life thanks to them. But each morning he dreaded their arrival, their screaming and yelling and acting out with never a nanny or mother to stop them.
He peered out the window of his empty waiting room. He was happy that the garden outside offered him peace. The trees dripped with red blooms. Soon the birds would come to suck their nectar, if only for a week before they disappeared for the year. Someone said they went to Kashmir. He laughed, wondering if there were another dentist caring for cretin white children who also survived on seeing his birds. Their blue feathers and puffed-up breasts tinted a peach as if from a reflection.
“Good morning, Dr. Shari.” It was his nurse, always so happy, always so plump. “Ready for today?”
Had he forgotten something particularly horrible, some child with a mouthful of cavities? She saw his expression. “I mean good morning and are we ready for a wonderful day.”
He wasn’t, he surely wasn’t.
He followed his nurse to the area behind the waiting room, toward the sanctity of his office where no one, not even his nurse was allowed. She handed him a list and he started to look the patients who he’d have the pleasure of seeing today. He stopped in mid-step. Charlotte. That odd girl who frightened him. She looked at him while he worked. She was the only child, Indian or white, who’d ever watched him while he drilled and filled her cavities. As if she was seeing his soul. He could not see his soul and he was sure he didn’t want this peculiar child seeing it either. She unnerved him. He’d almost prefer one of those wild boys who his assistant had to hold down just to get them to sit still.
The phone rang. Now seated in the safety of his office, he could hear voices start to fill the waiting room. He could hear Miss Mimma talk to the incoming monsters. And their mothers.
He jumped at the soft knock on his office door. “Dr. Shari, your first patient is in Room One and ready for you.”
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Acting Out - E. D. James
Alan stood on the chair at the head of the table and tucked his hands into his armpits and then curled up the toes of his all-stars and looked down at them, “This is how the Emperor Penguin holds his egg in the middle of an Antarctic blizzard.”
He saw the faces around the table snicker nervously, unsure of what his next move would be. He swelled with the attention, enjoyed the fact that they weren’t sure what he might do next.
A waiter maneuvered to his side, “Sir, the chairs are meant to sit on, only.”
“My dear man, I’ve got to be careful of the egg on my feet, I can’t just hop off of here on your whim,” he said and hunched a bit more as if the winds of the blizzard were strengthening.
Alan watched the waiter glance around nervously. The other diners were beginning to focus on the scene. He felt as if he were floating above them all in the room. In his imagination he floated above the tables, flapping his little stubby wings and gliding beneath the ice in search of a juicy plump squid.
Sarah stood up and put her arm on his wing, “Alan, I think it’s time to pretend the blizzard has reached it’s peak and you need to shut down non-essential organs, like your brain, to survive.”
He looked down at her and saw the concern in her eyes. Then he focused on the plate of grilled salmon and vegetables in front of him and the big glass of white wine sweating next to it. Then he slid down into his seat, picked up his knife and fork, lifted them and smiled at the faces swirling around him and said, “Bon appetit!”
He saw the faces around the table snicker nervously, unsure of what his next move would be. He swelled with the attention, enjoyed the fact that they weren’t sure what he might do next.
A waiter maneuvered to his side, “Sir, the chairs are meant to sit on, only.”
“My dear man, I’ve got to be careful of the egg on my feet, I can’t just hop off of here on your whim,” he said and hunched a bit more as if the winds of the blizzard were strengthening.
Alan watched the waiter glance around nervously. The other diners were beginning to focus on the scene. He felt as if he were floating above them all in the room. In his imagination he floated above the tables, flapping his little stubby wings and gliding beneath the ice in search of a juicy plump squid.
Sarah stood up and put her arm on his wing, “Alan, I think it’s time to pretend the blizzard has reached it’s peak and you need to shut down non-essential organs, like your brain, to survive.”
He looked down at her and saw the concern in her eyes. Then he focused on the plate of grilled salmon and vegetables in front of him and the big glass of white wine sweating next to it. Then he slid down into his seat, picked up his knife and fork, lifted them and smiled at the faces swirling around him and said, “Bon appetit!”
These Are the Things He Liked - Kent Wright
Mrs. Hardwick wrote the assignment on the blackboard. This was the season for happy thoughts she said with that sharp look of hers. “Now get to work and no talking.” She went out the door. For a few seconds no one said a word, not until the shadow on the other side of the frosted glass faded away. It was one of her tricks to catch them out. Then there were murmurs and shortly a word here and a word there could be made out between students. The smarties in the sixth grade started to arrange their paper and got pencils out ready to start writing about their favorite things. Others were already day dreaming over their empty desktops.
Leonard looked out the window with the paper candle taped in it. It was next to his seat and he could see the row of small houses that lined Plum Street. There weren’t many and they ended where the street turned right and ran along the railroad tracks. Behind the houses was a grey; raw wooden fence that undulated like a snake but never quite fell down. The shacks on the other side of that fence were all stuck together with pieces of tin and unpainted wood. From there on the second floor of the school one of the kids had said it would look like one of her grandma’s quilts if you didn’t know it Staggsville and the kind that lived there. It was called Staggsville because Joe Staggs owned those dirty shacks and rented them out to Kentuckians like Leonard’s family. They picked up garbage, things like that.
Leonard was already fifteen his Ma told him. Fourteen, fifteen, he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he passed or not because next year when he turned sixteen he could quite school. He didn’t care to tell Mrs. Hardwick or anybody what his favorite things were. But she would flunk him sure if he wrote that being sixteen so he could quite this fucking school was one of them. And he sure wasn’t going to tell her or anyone else that his favorite thing, the thing he couldn’t push out of his head no matter how much he shoved, was the calf his Granny had let him feed with a bottle when he was a boy. The one that would lay with its head in his lap and lick his arm with its long, thick black and pink tongue.
Leonard looked out the window with the paper candle taped in it. It was next to his seat and he could see the row of small houses that lined Plum Street. There weren’t many and they ended where the street turned right and ran along the railroad tracks. Behind the houses was a grey; raw wooden fence that undulated like a snake but never quite fell down. The shacks on the other side of that fence were all stuck together with pieces of tin and unpainted wood. From there on the second floor of the school one of the kids had said it would look like one of her grandma’s quilts if you didn’t know it Staggsville and the kind that lived there. It was called Staggsville because Joe Staggs owned those dirty shacks and rented them out to Kentuckians like Leonard’s family. They picked up garbage, things like that.
Leonard was already fifteen his Ma told him. Fourteen, fifteen, he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he passed or not because next year when he turned sixteen he could quite school. He didn’t care to tell Mrs. Hardwick or anybody what his favorite things were. But she would flunk him sure if he wrote that being sixteen so he could quite this fucking school was one of them. And he sure wasn’t going to tell her or anyone else that his favorite thing, the thing he couldn’t push out of his head no matter how much he shoved, was the calf his Granny had let him feed with a bottle when he was a boy. The one that would lay with its head in his lap and lick his arm with its long, thick black and pink tongue.
This is What She Likes/Dislikes - Meg Newman
Alli is woman who knows her likes and dislikes, and communicates them well. If you are one of her closest peoples, you know them all well yourself. Sometimes it feels like my social life depends on remembering and detailing them all. Why? Because when the leader of the pack is unhappy, you know about it. Oh, and her criticisms of you are biting, truly. She expects the same from everyone in her circle- fidelity, availability at odd hours and she actually demands that you sleep with her frequently. Sometimes I feel so manipulated by her. I know she thinks she has me wrapped around her. She also likes you to surprise her and bring food to her and things to drink. What is up with that?
It is complicated because she is so easily bored, especially on a rainy day. At least on a regular day, we can go outside as an entourage and all walk together. Yes, those are the happier times. However, at the end of the day when she is laying on my lap and purring I forget many of her other traits.
It is complicated because she is so easily bored, especially on a rainy day. At least on a regular day, we can go outside as an entourage and all walk together. Yes, those are the happier times. However, at the end of the day when she is laying on my lap and purring I forget many of her other traits.
Drunk at the Bottom of a Ditch - John Fetto
Gil got the call late that afternoon. Johanna wasn’t crying. She spoke in a flat voice, telling him about the fight she had and that Hawley was drinking again. Gil himself had already tipped a few, but he listened and clucked his tongue, acting appalled. Afterwards, he got the keys to his car, then retreated back to the bathroom, gargling with mouthwash in case the cops stopped him.
He drove his old Plymouth out of the trailers park, past the little tract houses that filled the valley, towards the foothills. Twenty minutes later, he was stubbing his toes on rock and roots, wandering through the tall eucalyptus trees, looking for Hawley. The summer light was fading now and every long shadow looked like the outstretched legs of a drunken vet who couldn’t listen anymore to his girl-friend tell him how worthless he was. She said Hawley didn’t even argue back. He just drank more and next thing she knew his truck was gone.
Gil climbed higher up the slope. This was where Hawley and he like to sit and drink. From here they could listen to trains rolling out of the Concord Naval Weapons stations and bullshit like generals about where the weapons were going and what they might do. Gil enjoyed Hawley’s conversation even if he wasn’t very keen on fresh air. Hawley hated the same things Gil did, even if he didn’t shoot his mouth off as much. Where Gil would go on for ten minutes, Hawley would just say, “fucking bullshit.”
A breeze rose up, rattling the bark of the eucalyptus trees. Leper trees, Gil used to tell Hawley, their barked peeled like the dead skin of lepers. He looked up and froze. Against the light of a rising moon, Gil saw the outline of something long and skinny hanging from one of the branches of the trees. He edged closer, squinting, that sick feeling growing in his gut and his feet weighted with lead. It wasn’t until he was right underneath it that Gil saw it was just a long piece of bark, hanging from a branch.
“Johanna send you?”
The voice came up from someplace higher on the slope. Gil climbed toward the voice, still stumbling on the rocks. When he found him, Hawley was seated crossed legged, like some yogi, looking down at the Concord Naval Weapons Station. Gil sat down beside him and Hawley handed him a bottle and Gil took a long swing.
“See, many trains?”
Hawley took the bottle back. “One’s too many.”
Gil nodded and let it go. He wasn’t going to talk him to death tonight. His friend had enough arguing. He buttoned up his jacket and tucked his hands in his pocket and listened to the trees shaking, staring at the little lights of warm, comfortable suburbia spread in the valley below, just happy his friend corpse wasn’t swinging from some tree.
He drove his old Plymouth out of the trailers park, past the little tract houses that filled the valley, towards the foothills. Twenty minutes later, he was stubbing his toes on rock and roots, wandering through the tall eucalyptus trees, looking for Hawley. The summer light was fading now and every long shadow looked like the outstretched legs of a drunken vet who couldn’t listen anymore to his girl-friend tell him how worthless he was. She said Hawley didn’t even argue back. He just drank more and next thing she knew his truck was gone.
Gil climbed higher up the slope. This was where Hawley and he like to sit and drink. From here they could listen to trains rolling out of the Concord Naval Weapons stations and bullshit like generals about where the weapons were going and what they might do. Gil enjoyed Hawley’s conversation even if he wasn’t very keen on fresh air. Hawley hated the same things Gil did, even if he didn’t shoot his mouth off as much. Where Gil would go on for ten minutes, Hawley would just say, “fucking bullshit.”
A breeze rose up, rattling the bark of the eucalyptus trees. Leper trees, Gil used to tell Hawley, their barked peeled like the dead skin of lepers. He looked up and froze. Against the light of a rising moon, Gil saw the outline of something long and skinny hanging from one of the branches of the trees. He edged closer, squinting, that sick feeling growing in his gut and his feet weighted with lead. It wasn’t until he was right underneath it that Gil saw it was just a long piece of bark, hanging from a branch.
“Johanna send you?”
The voice came up from someplace higher on the slope. Gil climbed toward the voice, still stumbling on the rocks. When he found him, Hawley was seated crossed legged, like some yogi, looking down at the Concord Naval Weapons Station. Gil sat down beside him and Hawley handed him a bottle and Gil took a long swing.
“See, many trains?”
Hawley took the bottle back. “One’s too many.”
Gil nodded and let it go. He wasn’t going to talk him to death tonight. His friend had enough arguing. He buttoned up his jacket and tucked his hands in his pocket and listened to the trees shaking, staring at the little lights of warm, comfortable suburbia spread in the valley below, just happy his friend corpse wasn’t swinging from some tree.
The Most Amazing Thing - Judy Albietz
“Do not be scared, Lily,” said a gentle voice, with growly undertones.
“Who’s there?” Lily said with a jerk of her head. Hearing her name was a huge relief. They’d found her, after all. Feeling steady enough to stand up, she looked all around.
“Where are you?” she called. Finally, she wasn’t alone on this strange rock with this dog, who was now wide awake. It also stood up and gazed at her with sad dark brown eyes.
“Don’t worry, buddy. Looks like help is coming,” she said.
“You can call me Sam. I will help you get back to your family.”
“Who are you? What … what … is going on?” Lily shouted. The voice sounded so close, yet she couldn’t see a soul. Hearing voices. Not good. Lily thought as she sat back down, putting her head in her hands. Maybe her helmet hadn’t protected her after all.
The dog was gazing at her now, its eyes now golden brown and brimming with tears. The collar glowed in shifting muted shades of pink. The dog’s long tail slowly fanned the warm air around them, creating a faint buzzing that was almost melodic. There could be no mistake. It was the most amazing thing. This dog was talking to her.
That was his voice in her head.
“Who’s there?” Lily said with a jerk of her head. Hearing her name was a huge relief. They’d found her, after all. Feeling steady enough to stand up, she looked all around.
“Where are you?” she called. Finally, she wasn’t alone on this strange rock with this dog, who was now wide awake. It also stood up and gazed at her with sad dark brown eyes.
“Don’t worry, buddy. Looks like help is coming,” she said.
“You can call me Sam. I will help you get back to your family.”
“Who are you? What … what … is going on?” Lily shouted. The voice sounded so close, yet she couldn’t see a soul. Hearing voices. Not good. Lily thought as she sat back down, putting her head in her hands. Maybe her helmet hadn’t protected her after all.
The dog was gazing at her now, its eyes now golden brown and brimming with tears. The collar glowed in shifting muted shades of pink. The dog’s long tail slowly fanned the warm air around them, creating a faint buzzing that was almost melodic. There could be no mistake. It was the most amazing thing. This dog was talking to her.
That was his voice in her head.
Telling Lies - Maria Robinson
Elizabeth in a letter to Neal. Not mailed.
You own a part of me. I've got a part of you. Which part is it? Did you take my honesty? Did I take your trust? In the end, we just let things blow out-- every time we tried to right the ship, it just cracked further.
You left me to run the business without help, you decamped with Lois to the Hamptons and I grabbed Roger in revenge and went to Martinique. Alise was left to run our million dollar agency into the ground while we tried to fuck each other out of memory with others.
You broke the bank. I changed the locks. It was all about avoiding the essential lie: we'd stopped loving each other years ago and couldn't face it. The money was too big and too wet and too heavy and we were bathing in it and we drowned. It was dotcom New York.
You own a part of me. I've got a part of you. Which part is it? Did you take my honesty? Did I take your trust? In the end, we just let things blow out-- every time we tried to right the ship, it just cracked further.
You left me to run the business without help, you decamped with Lois to the Hamptons and I grabbed Roger in revenge and went to Martinique. Alise was left to run our million dollar agency into the ground while we tried to fuck each other out of memory with others.
You broke the bank. I changed the locks. It was all about avoiding the essential lie: we'd stopped loving each other years ago and couldn't face it. The money was too big and too wet and too heavy and we were bathing in it and we drowned. It was dotcom New York.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Waking Alone - Maria Robinson
Miriam on the beach in Tel Aviv. 1st person.
I did my time. Thirty eight years of marriage to Saul. Raising the children and keeping a kosher home despite his scientific atheism.
I think the ritual was always his way of staying connected to his roots despite the fact that we weren't observant and our children found
it ridiculous to the point of always tricking me by constantly moving the meat and milk plates so that I would have to wash dishes all the time.
I saw me as a complicit slave.
Now, its step by step on the hot golden sand, a dip into the sweet salted Mediterranean water and then quiet time with my favorite books.
Over and over, day after day, the sea air washes me clean. I wish Saul were with me. But what I really mean is that I wish we were together and sharing a life. I'm not sure we ever really did except the early months of our marriage, but then came the graduate residencies, the children and then the rest of our lives.
I'm finally free and where should I go today? Visit the mission for Jewish widows, go gambling? I'm not Israeli, I'm a New Yorker and I haven't really found my neighborhood.
I did my time. Thirty eight years of marriage to Saul. Raising the children and keeping a kosher home despite his scientific atheism.
I think the ritual was always his way of staying connected to his roots despite the fact that we weren't observant and our children found
it ridiculous to the point of always tricking me by constantly moving the meat and milk plates so that I would have to wash dishes all the time.
I saw me as a complicit slave.
Now, its step by step on the hot golden sand, a dip into the sweet salted Mediterranean water and then quiet time with my favorite books.
Over and over, day after day, the sea air washes me clean. I wish Saul were with me. But what I really mean is that I wish we were together and sharing a life. I'm not sure we ever really did except the early months of our marriage, but then came the graduate residencies, the children and then the rest of our lives.
I'm finally free and where should I go today? Visit the mission for Jewish widows, go gambling? I'm not Israeli, I'm a New Yorker and I haven't really found my neighborhood.
Surprise Attack/Infamy - E. D. James
The feeling of unease settled like a freezing fog that blankets a valley after a snowstorm. The lurking suspicion that something was wrong, that malevolent forces were gathering weighed upon Andrei all day. Before heading off to his evening shift at the lab, he scraped a pan of snow from the previous nights storm off the pile by the door of the barracks and carried it back to set on the stove. He needed to wash his face and clear his mind. The news of Stalin’s death a week ago had cheered everyone except the commandant of the camp. Wild rumors had spread about how they would all be released shortly and given passes to ride the trains back to their homes and restart their lives. Men and women who had plodded blankly through their days were suddenly animated with hope and dreams. The possibilities of a future had transformed the atmosphere overnight. People greeted one another with a smile and excited chatter about what they would feel when they wrapped their arms around their lovers and children for the first time in so many years or felt the cobblestones of the main street of their home towns beneath their boots. Bodies that had seemed on the verge of death due to the starvation and the cold suddenly seemed healthy again. The thin emaciated bodies were standing straighter and walking with the confident strides of the living. Andrei watched it all with amazement. It made the miracles of medicine pale by comparison. An atmosphere of potential had been more universally transformative than all the tinctures and potions that have ever been administered.
But then the infamous machinery of the Soviet began to turn its wheels of command and control once again. The death of their leader Koba had unleashed the dreams of his enemies and the downtrodden, but they still held the levers of control and they would not relinquish them lightly. As the days passed and no concrete news of changes reached the camp the darkness again began to dominate the day. The euphoria of change began to be eclipsed by the dark forces of continuity. The camp commindant had suddenly left his office yesterday and toured the barracks snapping orders for everyone to return to work. The guards took up their arms again and stood with straighter backs.
Andrei watched the snow melt reluctantly into the pan. The dark water at the edges of the blackened metal grabbed at the white and dragged it down. He plunged his hands into the pan just as the last of the solid disappeared and felt the warmth for a moment. Then he lifted the cup he made and splashed his face and for a moment could imagine what the sun would feel like on his face sitting on a bench at the park and watching Alexis run around with his friends. Then the cold bit at him and he grabbed the rag he used for a towel and dried before the dampness would turn to ice. His breath steamed as he stood and picked his coat up from bed and pulled it over his arms. He put his cap on and headed for the door. He hoped the orders from the Commisars would be to end the experiments and burn their findings. But he feared a darker command would come from Moscow. A command he would not be able to obey.
But then the infamous machinery of the Soviet began to turn its wheels of command and control once again. The death of their leader Koba had unleashed the dreams of his enemies and the downtrodden, but they still held the levers of control and they would not relinquish them lightly. As the days passed and no concrete news of changes reached the camp the darkness again began to dominate the day. The euphoria of change began to be eclipsed by the dark forces of continuity. The camp commindant had suddenly left his office yesterday and toured the barracks snapping orders for everyone to return to work. The guards took up their arms again and stood with straighter backs.
Andrei watched the snow melt reluctantly into the pan. The dark water at the edges of the blackened metal grabbed at the white and dragged it down. He plunged his hands into the pan just as the last of the solid disappeared and felt the warmth for a moment. Then he lifted the cup he made and splashed his face and for a moment could imagine what the sun would feel like on his face sitting on a bench at the park and watching Alexis run around with his friends. Then the cold bit at him and he grabbed the rag he used for a towel and dried before the dampness would turn to ice. His breath steamed as he stood and picked his coat up from bed and pulled it over his arms. He put his cap on and headed for the door. He hoped the orders from the Commisars would be to end the experiments and burn their findings. But he feared a darker command would come from Moscow. A command he would not be able to obey.
Duck - Judy Albietz
Lily, Sam, and the three Blue Monkeys were on the road. They’d all been walking for almost an hour in the bright daylight. Not a cloud in the sky. So everyone looked surprised when the light dimmed. Something was blocking the sun.
“Down! Get down!” shouted Risto. Crouching together, the group looked up. Lily could hardly see a thing since Sam and the three monkeys were hunched over her.
“What’s up there?” she whispered. “What do you see?”
“Looks like some flying creature,” Sophia said. “But it is gone now. I do not like the feeling I have about this.”
“We must move forward,” Risto said nervously. Lily noticed he had lost some of his tough guy attitude as they resumed their trek to the village.
The bomb blast was the loudest thing Lily had ever heard. It sounded like thunder delivered right on the road ahead of them. Covering her ears, she screamed and froze in her tracks. In one instant, Sam leapt out in front of the group and—reaching out her thin blue arms—Sophia swooped Lily up. Sam not gently pushed the two of them off the road and into some nearby magenta bushes.
Meanwhile, Risto and Ajax, who were walking a good ten feet behind, ran toward the other three. When the deafening sounds of a second explosion filled the air, Lily found herself half-buried under a pile of three monkeys and a dog. The patch of puffy-leaved bushes had made a surprisingly soft landing. Lily peered out at an enormous crack which had formed in the ground in front of them, separating them from the road they had been on. With a creaking sound and an eerie moan, enormous clumps of earth fell off into the chasm. For the third time in that day, Lily checked to see she was in one piece.
“Down! Get down!” shouted Risto. Crouching together, the group looked up. Lily could hardly see a thing since Sam and the three monkeys were hunched over her.
“What’s up there?” she whispered. “What do you see?”
“Looks like some flying creature,” Sophia said. “But it is gone now. I do not like the feeling I have about this.”
“We must move forward,” Risto said nervously. Lily noticed he had lost some of his tough guy attitude as they resumed their trek to the village.
The bomb blast was the loudest thing Lily had ever heard. It sounded like thunder delivered right on the road ahead of them. Covering her ears, she screamed and froze in her tracks. In one instant, Sam leapt out in front of the group and—reaching out her thin blue arms—Sophia swooped Lily up. Sam not gently pushed the two of them off the road and into some nearby magenta bushes.
Meanwhile, Risto and Ajax, who were walking a good ten feet behind, ran toward the other three. When the deafening sounds of a second explosion filled the air, Lily found herself half-buried under a pile of three monkeys and a dog. The patch of puffy-leaved bushes had made a surprisingly soft landing. Lily peered out at an enormous crack which had formed in the ground in front of them, separating them from the road they had been on. With a creaking sound and an eerie moan, enormous clumps of earth fell off into the chasm. For the third time in that day, Lily checked to see she was in one piece.
Too Sleepy To Tell - Bonnie Smetts
She was too sleepy to tell if what she was seeing outside the window was real. The storm had left the entire compound deep in golden leaves. The pond was gone, lost under the golden veil. From the second floor, Marjorie thought she saw her daughter. She got out of bed.
At the window, curtains pulled aside, she could now see her daughter, so small in the expansive of the garden, circling the pond. The girl poked the water with a stick. Marjorie grabbed for her robe and ran toward the stairs.
“Charlotte, dear. What are you doing out here?” She whispered toward Charlotte, knowing her daughter’s sensitivity to sounds at dawn. “Dear, please come see me, let me give you a hug.”
Charlotte stopped, stick lodged in the mud of the pond. “Mommy, Mommy. I’m looking for the duck. I’m looking for Mrs. Sarin.”
Marjorie let out a breath that only she heard. “Charlotte, remember what we know about Mrs. Sarin? She’s gone away, up in the sky, to be happy and invisible. Remember?” Charlotte starred at her mother, but Marjorie was sure her daughter wasn’t seeing her.
“And the duck dear, we think he’s just visiting somewhere else. Someone else’s pond in another garden. Right? The ducks like to visit many people in the neighborhood.” Charlotte’s gaze didn’t change, looking through her mother at …what? Where was her child in times like these.
“But Mommy, maybe they are here, here with us. I heard them last night calling. They said to come downstairs and I would find them.” She’d come downstairs as soon as they’d spoken to her. She’d seen them, a second Mrs. Sarin floated above the pond above the duck. They were there and she could see through them, she could see the moon through Mrs. Sarin, right on the other side of her. She was sure of that.
“Dear come in, how about some sweet tea. Let’s make some sweet tea, the white tea you love.” Marjorie moved slowly toward her daughter attempting to act unrushed, unworried.
Charlotte turned to the pond. She poked a few times and leaned against the long bamboo rod. Where had she found that stick, Marjorie wondered.
At the window, curtains pulled aside, she could now see her daughter, so small in the expansive of the garden, circling the pond. The girl poked the water with a stick. Marjorie grabbed for her robe and ran toward the stairs.
“Charlotte, dear. What are you doing out here?” She whispered toward Charlotte, knowing her daughter’s sensitivity to sounds at dawn. “Dear, please come see me, let me give you a hug.”
Charlotte stopped, stick lodged in the mud of the pond. “Mommy, Mommy. I’m looking for the duck. I’m looking for Mrs. Sarin.”
Marjorie let out a breath that only she heard. “Charlotte, remember what we know about Mrs. Sarin? She’s gone away, up in the sky, to be happy and invisible. Remember?” Charlotte starred at her mother, but Marjorie was sure her daughter wasn’t seeing her.
“And the duck dear, we think he’s just visiting somewhere else. Someone else’s pond in another garden. Right? The ducks like to visit many people in the neighborhood.” Charlotte’s gaze didn’t change, looking through her mother at …what? Where was her child in times like these.
“But Mommy, maybe they are here, here with us. I heard them last night calling. They said to come downstairs and I would find them.” She’d come downstairs as soon as they’d spoken to her. She’d seen them, a second Mrs. Sarin floated above the pond above the duck. They were there and she could see through them, she could see the moon through Mrs. Sarin, right on the other side of her. She was sure of that.
“Dear come in, how about some sweet tea. Let’s make some sweet tea, the white tea you love.” Marjorie moved slowly toward her daughter attempting to act unrushed, unworried.
Charlotte turned to the pond. She poked a few times and leaned against the long bamboo rod. Where had she found that stick, Marjorie wondered.
Childhood's End - John Fetto
His childhood ended on a hill in eastern Laos just east of the central highlands of Vietnam. He was running, weaving through the trees, body bent low to the hill he scurrying up while God knew how many people were following him and the other three members of his team, following. He thought he could hear them, the crack of their brush as they rushed to keep. The little draw wasn’t on the map, but Hawley had seen it from the chopper, and at the end a narrow a cut between the mountains, not much bigger than his boot as he had stared down from the chopper that brought them in. Hawley was, sure his team was following right behind, trampling the brush behind him, as lead the way.
They had strung out like a line. Hawley leading on point. Sandman walking slack, team leader Willie behind. Finally, Jaybird, tail gunner, protecting the rear. Even as he climbed up the end of the draw, Hawley could hear the crack of breaking brush behind him. They couldn’t keep up with Hawley long legs, still he heard them, sometimes louder, some softer, the rock walls of the draw playing tricks with the sound. It didn’t matter that they dropped them in the wrong position, this was his family, his friends, better than any at the backwater, refinery town he’d left in California and he knew he could lead them out, thinking ahead like he always did and as his legs pumped and his lungs heaved, ready to burst, working it all out in his head, what he’d do at the top. He’d set a mine and as his friends cleared, he’d pull a wire ankle high across the trail, attached to the detonator. They’d all slide and stumble down the other side of the mountain, and when the first enemy soldier followed them stepped on the wire, he and everyone near him, would be shredded by six thousand balls of steel. The chase would be over.
As he reached the top of the draw, the wind rose, screaming in his ears, freezing the sweat soaked armpits of his fatigues and stinging his neck. He knelt, slung off his pack, and pulled out the curved explosive charge, faced it down slope and drove the two spikes on the bottom of it into the ground. He broke off a little brush laid it in front it and spooled out the wire, laid down in the dirt waiting for his team. It was then that the wind and the canyon showed him their great trick. The wind stopped burning his ears. Sound seemed to die and the narrow cut of canyon, expanding below, magnified everything happening below, but it lied, transforming the sounds of what he’d heard into something completely different. The crack of brush from his team following sharped into the sound of gun fire. Not close, not even moving up toward him, but trapped far away down at the bottom by the river in the reeds and bamboo, where they had first been ambushed. It couldn’t be true. He knew that they had to have been following him, so he waited for the sound to change back. But it didn’t change back to what he wanted. It changed to something word, the sound of gun fire dying, and a friend screaming, terrible sounds, inhuman sounds, each one, each awful note, searing his brain.
They had strung out like a line. Hawley leading on point. Sandman walking slack, team leader Willie behind. Finally, Jaybird, tail gunner, protecting the rear. Even as he climbed up the end of the draw, Hawley could hear the crack of breaking brush behind him. They couldn’t keep up with Hawley long legs, still he heard them, sometimes louder, some softer, the rock walls of the draw playing tricks with the sound. It didn’t matter that they dropped them in the wrong position, this was his family, his friends, better than any at the backwater, refinery town he’d left in California and he knew he could lead them out, thinking ahead like he always did and as his legs pumped and his lungs heaved, ready to burst, working it all out in his head, what he’d do at the top. He’d set a mine and as his friends cleared, he’d pull a wire ankle high across the trail, attached to the detonator. They’d all slide and stumble down the other side of the mountain, and when the first enemy soldier followed them stepped on the wire, he and everyone near him, would be shredded by six thousand balls of steel. The chase would be over.
As he reached the top of the draw, the wind rose, screaming in his ears, freezing the sweat soaked armpits of his fatigues and stinging his neck. He knelt, slung off his pack, and pulled out the curved explosive charge, faced it down slope and drove the two spikes on the bottom of it into the ground. He broke off a little brush laid it in front it and spooled out the wire, laid down in the dirt waiting for his team. It was then that the wind and the canyon showed him their great trick. The wind stopped burning his ears. Sound seemed to die and the narrow cut of canyon, expanding below, magnified everything happening below, but it lied, transforming the sounds of what he’d heard into something completely different. The crack of brush from his team following sharped into the sound of gun fire. Not close, not even moving up toward him, but trapped far away down at the bottom by the river in the reeds and bamboo, where they had first been ambushed. It couldn’t be true. He knew that they had to have been following him, so he waited for the sound to change back. But it didn’t change back to what he wanted. It changed to something word, the sound of gun fire dying, and a friend screaming, terrible sounds, inhuman sounds, each one, each awful note, searing his brain.
Childhood - Kent Wright
It comes up at dinner parties and with people that are recent acquaintances. It comes up too frequently I’m thinking. Partly, having grown up in a tiny town with a name so quaint and silly it always first stops and then fuels the traffic of conversation, I have found it useful. It wasn’t always like that though. When you are a child and the name of where you live is the only name you have ever known, it does not sound strange. It is not funny to anyone there for sure. Not once when I was growing up do I remember anyone in town suggesting that the name of our little burg was stupid. To think it odd would have meant knowing there was something outside, something different, but what was outside barely existed for us. True trucks went right through town on the highway, and the train dropped off mail as it roared through several times a day, but had little effect. The sense of a vibrating, curious life form, however, that questioned and joked and remade things into something different and unrecognizable was beyond us.
I was coloring inside the lines and getting pats on the head for it. I could make my own well-shaped lines before I colored too. There is proof of that in drawings I made of elephants when I was four that still exist. Then that Life magazine arrived at my aunt’s. In the pages of that issue were the pictures of the paintings of DeKooning and Jackson Pollock. DeKooning’s massive, aggressive; indescribably exciting pictures of women ripped my world open. And Pollock’s drip painting that terrified parents around America swore their children could do (I knew they couldn’t) made my eyes spin. My childhood did not end with that issue of Life magazine but my imagination from then on would never be bound by the borders of that small, safe town whose name I count on to produce a smile when conversations sag.
I was coloring inside the lines and getting pats on the head for it. I could make my own well-shaped lines before I colored too. There is proof of that in drawings I made of elephants when I was four that still exist. Then that Life magazine arrived at my aunt’s. In the pages of that issue were the pictures of the paintings of DeKooning and Jackson Pollock. DeKooning’s massive, aggressive; indescribably exciting pictures of women ripped my world open. And Pollock’s drip painting that terrified parents around America swore their children could do (I knew they couldn’t) made my eyes spin. My childhood did not end with that issue of Life magazine but my imagination from then on would never be bound by the borders of that small, safe town whose name I count on to produce a smile when conversations sag.
Childhood - Barbara Jordan
Esme, being the daughter of Mexican immigrants, grew up in Half Moon Bay on a farm run by migrant workers. She shared two bathrooms with thirty others; and she hung a towel as a makeshift curtain around the toilet when she grew into adolescence and got her first period. Her uncle molested her from age five on, and when she began to menstruate, she was sure it was some kind of punishment; the bleeding mortified her. She believed that if she could just have a baby, she would be safe. The pregnancy would be a shroud and the baby her ticket to another life.
At age twelve, she wore thick mascara and heavy makeup. When she was thirteen, she could easily pass for twenty. Against her parents wishes she left high school at fourteen, married a local boy and moved to the valley. By then, she was three months pregnant, and at seven months, she went into labor prematurely and delivered a baby boy who breathed on his own for several minutes before dying in her arms.
Esme told me this story in the exam room one day as if she were recounting a movie that she had seen last week. He big eyes met mine without shame, and her turquoise eye shadow matched her blouse. She was twenty- four years old and pregnant with her second daughter, by the same man that she had married as a child. They both had jobs. I asked her if she thought she had missed out on youth, had she grown up too fast, did she have regrets. Was she sad?
She thought about it before answering as she played with a button on her blouse. Her legs were swinging back and forth from the exam table. "White people make a big deal about things sometimes. I know it was wrong what my uncle did. What was almost worse than that was the sound my father made when he would come home drunk and puke in the driveway. I was afraid he would retch up his insides and die. I do wish I had gone to college. I wish my son hadn’t died. But I'm lucky. My life is so much better than my parents. I have my own bathroom
At age twelve, she wore thick mascara and heavy makeup. When she was thirteen, she could easily pass for twenty. Against her parents wishes she left high school at fourteen, married a local boy and moved to the valley. By then, she was three months pregnant, and at seven months, she went into labor prematurely and delivered a baby boy who breathed on his own for several minutes before dying in her arms.
Esme told me this story in the exam room one day as if she were recounting a movie that she had seen last week. He big eyes met mine without shame, and her turquoise eye shadow matched her blouse. She was twenty- four years old and pregnant with her second daughter, by the same man that she had married as a child. They both had jobs. I asked her if she thought she had missed out on youth, had she grown up too fast, did she have regrets. Was she sad?
She thought about it before answering as she played with a button on her blouse. Her legs were swinging back and forth from the exam table. "White people make a big deal about things sometimes. I know it was wrong what my uncle did. What was almost worse than that was the sound my father made when he would come home drunk and puke in the driveway. I was afraid he would retch up his insides and die. I do wish I had gone to college. I wish my son hadn’t died. But I'm lucky. My life is so much better than my parents. I have my own bathroom
Friday, December 10, 2010
Eat, Pray, Love - Barbara Jordan
I don't think it was the incredible meal of spaghetti and boullanaise sauce, with freshly grated Parmesan. Or the Chianti that stuck to my tongue long after I stopped drinking it, or the thick artesian bread soaked in olive oil and topped with roma tomatoes from my garden, or the sautéed spinach with a slight hint of garlic and chili, or the amazing sex that came as desert.
I think it might have been the next day when I packed a small bag and drove the six hours to Los Angeles by myself after getting up at dawn. Like any journey, even the simplest of ones, it can play with our minds. We tend to fight the change, the slightest shift in our routine, our comfort zone. Wouldn't it be so much easier to make some coffee and crawl back into bed with a good book? To stay home and pay the bills, walk the dogs, go to a favorite yoga class and zone out during shavasana?
Or stay home and indulge in some kind of self-flagellation about how my life is not going the way I want it to? Even though I just had this amazing meal with friends and sex with… well, sex.
Instead I slogged through the morning like walking through quick sand, struggling with what to wear, what clothes to actually put in my overnight bag, arguing with myself the whole way. Honestly? I'm only going to L.A., not Timbuktu. But driving to L.A. sucks right? --Especially on the I-5. What if I fall asleep at the wheel, run out of gas, get lost, or decide to have a panic attack. What if there is traffic and I get road rage. I really shouldn't use the gas, what about the gulf oil spill?
In spite of this internal dialogue, I managed to get in the car by 9 am. --approximately three hours after the argument with myself started. The first two hours of the trip sucked. I was bored. But I found a great station on my new XM radio. I started singing along with some music and relaxing into a knowing that I was completely alone. The landscape was expansive, like I might imagine what it would be to drive on the moon. I was barreling along in a metal time capsule, and I was free. Maybe this is how a monk feels when he crawls into a cave.
No one was asking me questions, and I wasn't attempting to solve any problems. There were no demands, and there was no performance anxiety. I could space out. I could sing, or daydream without worrying about the dirty dishes in the sink, or the laundry piling up. I didn't think about work even once. When I started down the other side of the Grapevine into the city, the sun was warm on my face through the windshield and I was convinced this must be a form of prayer.
I think it might have been the next day when I packed a small bag and drove the six hours to Los Angeles by myself after getting up at dawn. Like any journey, even the simplest of ones, it can play with our minds. We tend to fight the change, the slightest shift in our routine, our comfort zone. Wouldn't it be so much easier to make some coffee and crawl back into bed with a good book? To stay home and pay the bills, walk the dogs, go to a favorite yoga class and zone out during shavasana?
Or stay home and indulge in some kind of self-flagellation about how my life is not going the way I want it to? Even though I just had this amazing meal with friends and sex with… well, sex.
Instead I slogged through the morning like walking through quick sand, struggling with what to wear, what clothes to actually put in my overnight bag, arguing with myself the whole way. Honestly? I'm only going to L.A., not Timbuktu. But driving to L.A. sucks right? --Especially on the I-5. What if I fall asleep at the wheel, run out of gas, get lost, or decide to have a panic attack. What if there is traffic and I get road rage. I really shouldn't use the gas, what about the gulf oil spill?
In spite of this internal dialogue, I managed to get in the car by 9 am. --approximately three hours after the argument with myself started. The first two hours of the trip sucked. I was bored. But I found a great station on my new XM radio. I started singing along with some music and relaxing into a knowing that I was completely alone. The landscape was expansive, like I might imagine what it would be to drive on the moon. I was barreling along in a metal time capsule, and I was free. Maybe this is how a monk feels when he crawls into a cave.
No one was asking me questions, and I wasn't attempting to solve any problems. There were no demands, and there was no performance anxiety. I could space out. I could sing, or daydream without worrying about the dirty dishes in the sink, or the laundry piling up. I didn't think about work even once. When I started down the other side of the Grapevine into the city, the sun was warm on my face through the windshield and I was convinced this must be a form of prayer.
Eat, Pray, Love - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
My friend Paula made cooking her prayer. One day she walked past a basket of freshly picked zucchinis freshly picked from my garden. They lay on the kitchen counter, six dark green and striped oblongs curving in health and freshness, alluring against the beige, woven web of the round basket. We were getting tea to accompany us while we worked.
Paula stopped. She picked up a zucchini and smelled it.
``Oh my God, these are so beautiful!’’ she said. She reached in and took another.
``I have to cook these, I have to cook these right now,’’ she said, a holy glow suffusing her face and shining through her golden skin.
She put down her folder of work, took the basket and headed for the sink. Laughing, I followed.
``What are you going to make?’’ I asked.
``Stuffed zucchinis.’’ She opened the fridge and bent over to see in. ``Let’s see, you’ve got everything here, fresh tomatoes, garlic over there, Parmigian, bread crumbs – we’re set.’’
I prepared myself to follow her around the kitchen. She cooked with abandon, flinging pans and oils aside when she was done. I was her sous chef, fetching needed knives, pans, salt, washing each one as she used them. I was always happy to have her take charge of my kitchen.
When I went to work full time, she took my grocery money and came once a month to make us 10 dinners, having the girls choose which one was for tonight and which for the freezer. Not until now did I realize I was her altar girl, bustling about to bring the miracle of dinner, preparing to sit, the four of us, Paula, me and my two daughters, at the dinner table, spooning up zucchinis, prayer and love.
Paula stopped. She picked up a zucchini and smelled it.
``Oh my God, these are so beautiful!’’ she said. She reached in and took another.
``I have to cook these, I have to cook these right now,’’ she said, a holy glow suffusing her face and shining through her golden skin.
She put down her folder of work, took the basket and headed for the sink. Laughing, I followed.
``What are you going to make?’’ I asked.
``Stuffed zucchinis.’’ She opened the fridge and bent over to see in. ``Let’s see, you’ve got everything here, fresh tomatoes, garlic over there, Parmigian, bread crumbs – we’re set.’’
I prepared myself to follow her around the kitchen. She cooked with abandon, flinging pans and oils aside when she was done. I was her sous chef, fetching needed knives, pans, salt, washing each one as she used them. I was always happy to have her take charge of my kitchen.
When I went to work full time, she took my grocery money and came once a month to make us 10 dinners, having the girls choose which one was for tonight and which for the freezer. Not until now did I realize I was her altar girl, bustling about to bring the miracle of dinner, preparing to sit, the four of us, Paula, me and my two daughters, at the dinner table, spooning up zucchinis, prayer and love.
Effortless - Kent Wright
It wasn’t until your author was twenty five that he encountered snow as something other than a cold, white complication in life’s flow. Something that took effort to move out of the way so that the flow wouldn’t back up. But it was different in the Arlberg valley of Austria. Men and women there put on skis and went high into the thin air of the Alps. From there they could sail back down the faces of those breath-taking mountains in effortless, unending arcs. I could see no muscles as I watched, only fluidity. It was a fluidity that allowed escape into an effortless white world that I wanted. I put on boots that were unrelenting in the unnatural shape they demanded of my foot, and I strapped on the skis. I went up the mountain and I set out on a journey on which eventually, after many bruising falls and some punishing of the snow in fits of frustration, I achieved the skills to ski comfortably among the “experts”. Someone else from a flat beginning now stares for the first time up the mountain and it is me they see, a small dot curving effortlessly down the steep, white face. Like me when I stood in their place, they imagine that in that world where I carve gravity relaxes, and that the bumps and surprises under the snow flash by unfelt, and that snow is always a dry powder that never freezes into hard hostility causing the skis to clatter and skid, and the heart to race dangerously near its limits.
Effortless - John Fetto
Hawley sat in shade of the park across from the Courthouse, watching the people walk effortlessly by, light purposeful steps, unshackled by a self-doubt, feet barely tapping the sidewalk as they glided along. Hawley felt like his butt was bolted to the bench. It took two hands to guide the cheap cup of coffee to his mouth and the liquid burned so he looked around and when he saw no one watching, he lifted a brown paper bag with a bottle inside and pour some into the coffee. Now the coffee was perfect and he went back to watching the people, how they glided from one place to the other, in and out of shops, banks, restaurants cars, not once did they stop and wonder which way to go. One suit pulling a briefcase on wheels actually ran, holding the flaps of his jacket. Off to court, thought Hawley and tipped his bottle to him. Probably late. The bailiff wouldn’t like that. Sheriffs sat sat as bailiff’s in ever court in this county, sitting in the corner, holding in their guts, doing nothing. Hawley could have been one. Johanna’s father said would fix it before he got disgusted in him. With Hawley’s war record, all he had to do is make sure his uniform starched with little creases around the shoulders and the seam of the legs. Her father was very picky about that, and when he walked each step seemed to land like a hammer pounding in a stake. Hawley swore he could hear the sound of those feet a half mile away and it usually sent a chill up his spine, but after a few cups of his special coffee it seemed almost funny. The Sheriff’s steps always seemed to get louder, walking towards Hawley. Then there was the deep voice, the questions Hawley couldn’t answer, followed by a silence so indicting Hawley’s always expected to be cuffed and led away. The people in the park didn’t walk like that around Hawley. They didn’t ask why he sat so long. They didn’t ask where he was going. They looked at him as if he fit in, was part of something without proving anything or doing anything. He belonged just because he was sitting there. Sipping what looked like coffee and smiling every now at someone anyone who smiled at him.
Effortless - Melody Cryns
It was a crisp, cool clear night when I walked my little white dog across San Carlos Avenue in San Jose – to the nice area, the Rose Garden it’s called, with the lush, green grass, perfect old houses of different statures, the leaves on the trees now brown and gold – you can see them even in the darkness, illuminated by authentic, older street lamps which cast out a dim orange glow and keep the street well lit even at night – one feels as if they’re on floating down the street in a different time and space when everything was beautiful and people all helped one another. As Is topped to let the dog sniff, looking across the street at the lovely house with the A-frame roof, lights shining through the window, I thought of my Aunt telling me that my Grandpa, whom I never knew, actually gave a family a house during the great depression.
“Yes,” she said to me, “It’s true.” This was in 2005, the last time I visited with Aunt Anne Marie, my dad’s older sister. She had been visiting the west coast from Chicago for a while now and when she’d called me to tell me she was coming to stay for a little while, I asked her how long, and she said, “I’m not on any time schedule, honey!”
I had to laugh at that. Aunt Anne Marie stayed with us for about a week, sleeping in Megan’s bed – which was comfortable. Everyone always got Megan’s room when they visited. She was a young girl still, and had a nice sleigh bed.
“That just seems to unreal,” I had said to Aunt Anne Marie.
“It’s true!” Then Aunt Anne Marie told me about how my grandfather had to move a lot when she was growing up because of his job as a prominent baker in the Midwest. She said that even through the worst depression, she and her siblings, my dad being the baby of the family, never did without – they always had a good place to live, food to eat and even a little money to always go to Catholic schools because that’s what they did back then.
“Your grandfather wasn’t good with money, but he had a big heart and he made sure we never suffered,” Aunt Anne Marie told me. I don’t remember my dad ever sharing all this with me – it was news to me.
I looked at the beautiful houses lining Shasta Avenue – when one crosses San Carlos Avenue, suddenly Leigh Avenue turns to Shasta Avenue, and it’s like entering a completely different surreal world, almost as if walking into an invisible wall. I couldn’t even imagine anyone “giving” a house away – either here or anywhere else for that matter. What was my grandfather thinking when he did that?
“This family was struggling, there were a lot of kids, at least six or seven,” my Aunt Anne Marie had continued. “And the father had been out of work because it was the great depression. So, when my dad had to move back to Kansas City, Missouri for his job, he gave them the house, well actually they paid him a dollar.
“A dollar?” I said. Unbelievable.
“Yes!” Aunt Anne Marie laughed, “A dollar.” Then he gave them the house, and that was it. And we moved to another house.”
“Always to a house?”
“Yes, just about always to a house. But we made wherever we lived our home…”
I continued to walk down Shasta Street, looking at houses, peeking into people’s lives, a couple watching a big screen TV in the living room, the big screen TV contradicting the oldness of the house, kids jumping around in another lit up living room and another looked like the room belonged in a museum or something with all the artwork and artifacts one would see…
The dog loved walking down this street – it was our neighborhood. Then I remembered what my friend Debby said, “When you walk these streets, you own them – you don’t get to keep them, but you own them.”
I stopped once again while Sydney sniffed at a tree stump.
That’s when I heard the voice loud and clear – a voice that only pops into my head occasionally and it always jars me.
Crazy as it sounds, the “voice” was my mother’s, and she says, “Mary, you’re not going to be homeless…”
I want so badly to believe that – and to believe that the voice of my dear mother who has been gone for 13 years really did exist and it wasn’t just a figment of my imagination because I so wanted to believe in magic – As much as my mother drove me crazy at times, I loved her so much and I knew she’d have the answer. If only I could reach out and find her, maybe see her in one of these houses on Shasta Street.
“Yes,” she said to me, “It’s true.” This was in 2005, the last time I visited with Aunt Anne Marie, my dad’s older sister. She had been visiting the west coast from Chicago for a while now and when she’d called me to tell me she was coming to stay for a little while, I asked her how long, and she said, “I’m not on any time schedule, honey!”
I had to laugh at that. Aunt Anne Marie stayed with us for about a week, sleeping in Megan’s bed – which was comfortable. Everyone always got Megan’s room when they visited. She was a young girl still, and had a nice sleigh bed.
“That just seems to unreal,” I had said to Aunt Anne Marie.
“It’s true!” Then Aunt Anne Marie told me about how my grandfather had to move a lot when she was growing up because of his job as a prominent baker in the Midwest. She said that even through the worst depression, she and her siblings, my dad being the baby of the family, never did without – they always had a good place to live, food to eat and even a little money to always go to Catholic schools because that’s what they did back then.
“Your grandfather wasn’t good with money, but he had a big heart and he made sure we never suffered,” Aunt Anne Marie told me. I don’t remember my dad ever sharing all this with me – it was news to me.
I looked at the beautiful houses lining Shasta Avenue – when one crosses San Carlos Avenue, suddenly Leigh Avenue turns to Shasta Avenue, and it’s like entering a completely different surreal world, almost as if walking into an invisible wall. I couldn’t even imagine anyone “giving” a house away – either here or anywhere else for that matter. What was my grandfather thinking when he did that?
“This family was struggling, there were a lot of kids, at least six or seven,” my Aunt Anne Marie had continued. “And the father had been out of work because it was the great depression. So, when my dad had to move back to Kansas City, Missouri for his job, he gave them the house, well actually they paid him a dollar.
“A dollar?” I said. Unbelievable.
“Yes!” Aunt Anne Marie laughed, “A dollar.” Then he gave them the house, and that was it. And we moved to another house.”
“Always to a house?”
“Yes, just about always to a house. But we made wherever we lived our home…”
I continued to walk down Shasta Street, looking at houses, peeking into people’s lives, a couple watching a big screen TV in the living room, the big screen TV contradicting the oldness of the house, kids jumping around in another lit up living room and another looked like the room belonged in a museum or something with all the artwork and artifacts one would see…
The dog loved walking down this street – it was our neighborhood. Then I remembered what my friend Debby said, “When you walk these streets, you own them – you don’t get to keep them, but you own them.”
I stopped once again while Sydney sniffed at a tree stump.
That’s when I heard the voice loud and clear – a voice that only pops into my head occasionally and it always jars me.
Crazy as it sounds, the “voice” was my mother’s, and she says, “Mary, you’re not going to be homeless…”
I want so badly to believe that – and to believe that the voice of my dear mother who has been gone for 13 years really did exist and it wasn’t just a figment of my imagination because I so wanted to believe in magic – As much as my mother drove me crazy at times, I loved her so much and I knew she’d have the answer. If only I could reach out and find her, maybe see her in one of these houses on Shasta Street.
Junk Food - Bonnie Smetts
His obsession with food began to wear on her. His time with the cookbooks, his time in the grocery store, the money he spent on special salamis and strangely shaped fennel developed in small farms on the coast of France. It was a weight on her soul.
Food. She didn’t like to be hungry, she enjoyed a nice meal, she liked a nice wine, but ask her what flavors she tasted on any occasion and she’d simply say, it tastes good. Not, it hints of anise or basil or dill. And no, she didn’t taste the citrus in the meat sauce. She lacked whatever senses he had when it came to distinguishing flavors. She lacked the particular sense of taste seemingly possessed by those guests who came day after day to enjoy his meals.
At the end of each weekend, she wanted them gone, those tasting, sipping people. She wanted peace in the refrigerator, emptiness in the kitchen. Why not a sandwich with a piece of chicken, a slight glisten of mayonnaise, a single tomato slice, one lettuce leaf. What’s wrong with that? She might toast the bread, but the kind did not matter. Whole wheat, as long as it was sliced thin, a nice baguette as long as it was fresh. But sour dough or sweet? She’ll never forget when she brought home sour dough for sandwiches. Her mother had loved sour dough like it was something special, only made here in San Francisco, she’d say. But now her mother’s favorite bread is apparently too sour for sandwiches. Sandwiches are best served with sweet breads. She’s sure there is an exception to that, but she won’t know until he politely tells her as he unwraps her purchase.
He’s not rude or arrogant about the food, simply uncomprehending of her lack of skill. How can you not know that egg salad is made with…and she can’t remember that is. If she were to make an egg salad sandwich, she’d hard-boil some eggs, let them cool, and add a touch of mayo. Maybe a bit of celery. Apparently a thin slice of tomato is not part of that sandwich.
Even junk food has a ranking. McDonald’s is at the top. Dairy Queen is in a class by itself, if only for its Blizzards. Where has she been for all her life that she never learned what must everyone must know.
But the burden of food is just that. A burden. She survives with friends on five signature dishes and five stellar desserts, but she has no idea how to cook a turkey or prepare a roast. Surrounded by foodies, she wants out.
Food. She didn’t like to be hungry, she enjoyed a nice meal, she liked a nice wine, but ask her what flavors she tasted on any occasion and she’d simply say, it tastes good. Not, it hints of anise or basil or dill. And no, she didn’t taste the citrus in the meat sauce. She lacked whatever senses he had when it came to distinguishing flavors. She lacked the particular sense of taste seemingly possessed by those guests who came day after day to enjoy his meals.
At the end of each weekend, she wanted them gone, those tasting, sipping people. She wanted peace in the refrigerator, emptiness in the kitchen. Why not a sandwich with a piece of chicken, a slight glisten of mayonnaise, a single tomato slice, one lettuce leaf. What’s wrong with that? She might toast the bread, but the kind did not matter. Whole wheat, as long as it was sliced thin, a nice baguette as long as it was fresh. But sour dough or sweet? She’ll never forget when she brought home sour dough for sandwiches. Her mother had loved sour dough like it was something special, only made here in San Francisco, she’d say. But now her mother’s favorite bread is apparently too sour for sandwiches. Sandwiches are best served with sweet breads. She’s sure there is an exception to that, but she won’t know until he politely tells her as he unwraps her purchase.
He’s not rude or arrogant about the food, simply uncomprehending of her lack of skill. How can you not know that egg salad is made with…and she can’t remember that is. If she were to make an egg salad sandwich, she’d hard-boil some eggs, let them cool, and add a touch of mayo. Maybe a bit of celery. Apparently a thin slice of tomato is not part of that sandwich.
Even junk food has a ranking. McDonald’s is at the top. Dairy Queen is in a class by itself, if only for its Blizzards. Where has she been for all her life that she never learned what must everyone must know.
But the burden of food is just that. A burden. She survives with friends on five signature dishes and five stellar desserts, but she has no idea how to cook a turkey or prepare a roast. Surrounded by foodies, she wants out.
Junk Food - Judy Albietz
“Speaking of food, Lily, you must be hungry,” Sam said.
Lily was surprised to realize that in all the excitement she had forgotten her usual race-horse appetite.
“Try a bite of this,” Sam said as he handed Lily a red tubular plant that he’d pulled out of the ground near the road. “We call it Borealis-Whatever.”
“What is that? Is it edible … I mean … what does it taste like?” asked Lily.
“Really, try it,” said Sam. “It will taste like whatever you have in mind when you thought about being hungry.”
“No kidding,” Lily said. She thought about how courageous she was as she bit into the pulp of the plant. It actually tasted like a delicious barbequed ground beef patty in a whole wheat bun with lettuce and tomato. She decided to name it the Hamburger Plant.
“Remember that if you are thinking of a hot fudge sundae, you will have to eat it fast or the plant will melt away in the hot sun,” Sophia said with a smile.
Lily smiled back. How did a Blue Monkey know about hot fudge sundaes? But Lily didn’t get a chance to ask her because Sophia had launched back into her story. A soothing melody once again filled the air.
Lily was surprised to realize that in all the excitement she had forgotten her usual race-horse appetite.
“Try a bite of this,” Sam said as he handed Lily a red tubular plant that he’d pulled out of the ground near the road. “We call it Borealis-Whatever.”
“What is that? Is it edible … I mean … what does it taste like?” asked Lily.
“Really, try it,” said Sam. “It will taste like whatever you have in mind when you thought about being hungry.”
“No kidding,” Lily said. She thought about how courageous she was as she bit into the pulp of the plant. It actually tasted like a delicious barbequed ground beef patty in a whole wheat bun with lettuce and tomato. She decided to name it the Hamburger Plant.
“Remember that if you are thinking of a hot fudge sundae, you will have to eat it fast or the plant will melt away in the hot sun,” Sophia said with a smile.
Lily smiled back. How did a Blue Monkey know about hot fudge sundaes? But Lily didn’t get a chance to ask her because Sophia had launched back into her story. A soothing melody once again filled the air.
An Unreal Land - E. D. James
The Friday session started later than usual, but there was nothing about the day that had gone according to plan. The three men and two women gathered slowly around the table in the cramped conference room that occupied the center of the their office suite. By habit they left the chair at the end of the table closest to the door empty. Each seemed lost in their own thoughts but trying to be professional and do what needed to be done. They shuffled in with cups of tea or bottles of water and pads of paper. The agenda had been set the previous week and the notes distributed by email on Thursday. When they received the emails none of them could imagine the circumstances they now found themselves facing.
John Demming sat at the end of the table farthest from the door. He had come in first and smiled and nodded through his long grey beard at each of the others as they took their seats. When they were all settled in he picked up the stack of paper in front of him and gently squared it up by tapping the sheets to the wood and cleared his throat, “This isn’t going to be easy, but, we need to do what Audrey would want, which is to keep the organization going and complete the projects she started.”
A woman with long blond hair pulled back in a messy pony tail and red rimmed eyes spoke through the gloom that hung over them, “Is there anymore information about what happened?”
“The police still haven’t identified a suspect Olivia. They say whoever did it was very professional and that is making them wonder if it had something to do with our work.”
“Who would want to kill the executive director of a bird foundation?” The youngest member of the staff, Warren Miller, had only been with the organization for six months. He hadn’t seen some of the violent reactions their work could provoke.
“Some of the projects we’re involved in could cost people a lot of money if we’re successful at blocking developments. It all seems polite and professional, but there are fortunes at stake and not everyone plays by the rules,” Demming said.
“Not playing by the rules is one thing, murder is quite another,” Joyce murmured.
John Demming sat at the end of the table farthest from the door. He had come in first and smiled and nodded through his long grey beard at each of the others as they took their seats. When they were all settled in he picked up the stack of paper in front of him and gently squared it up by tapping the sheets to the wood and cleared his throat, “This isn’t going to be easy, but, we need to do what Audrey would want, which is to keep the organization going and complete the projects she started.”
A woman with long blond hair pulled back in a messy pony tail and red rimmed eyes spoke through the gloom that hung over them, “Is there anymore information about what happened?”
“The police still haven’t identified a suspect Olivia. They say whoever did it was very professional and that is making them wonder if it had something to do with our work.”
“Who would want to kill the executive director of a bird foundation?” The youngest member of the staff, Warren Miller, had only been with the organization for six months. He hadn’t seen some of the violent reactions their work could provoke.
“Some of the projects we’re involved in could cost people a lot of money if we’re successful at blocking developments. It all seems polite and professional, but there are fortunes at stake and not everyone plays by the rules,” Demming said.
“Not playing by the rules is one thing, murder is quite another,” Joyce murmured.
Sharing - Maria Robinson
Janet and Bob had stopped sharing meals when Josh started college. Bob began emailing from the office in the later afternoons: "huge lunch with clients. Not hungry. don't wait for me" or " home late. See you at breakfast."
Janet had worked part-time as an employment lawyer for the nearly twenty years since the birth of her son who had a slight autistic disorder. Bob, was a Litigation partner in a large law firm in Silicon Valley. He'd never managed to take Josh to the office and had always begged off from taking him to sports events claiming extra work. Bob, a Midwestern college athlete, had always wanted a son. A perfect one. A blond one. A strong one. Josh was dark-haired with long spidery limbs and a fast runner, even as a toddler.
Bob fell in love with Janet in law school under the towering pines in Palo Alto. She was a tall and blonde from a Minnesota Swedish clan, with clear gray eyes. He had risen to the top of his class, an Italian kid from Chicago.
On a Wednesday, bright and hot in September, instead of emptying the dishwasher by placing the plates and silver out on the eat-in kitchen table in their remodeled faux colonial house, Janet put them away and called for a takeout of Vietnamese Pho, which she ate in the study in front of the TV. Bob stopped texting her around 4:15 pm everyday with his plans.
Janet had worked part-time as an employment lawyer for the nearly twenty years since the birth of her son who had a slight autistic disorder. Bob, was a Litigation partner in a large law firm in Silicon Valley. He'd never managed to take Josh to the office and had always begged off from taking him to sports events claiming extra work. Bob, a Midwestern college athlete, had always wanted a son. A perfect one. A blond one. A strong one. Josh was dark-haired with long spidery limbs and a fast runner, even as a toddler.
Bob fell in love with Janet in law school under the towering pines in Palo Alto. She was a tall and blonde from a Minnesota Swedish clan, with clear gray eyes. He had risen to the top of his class, an Italian kid from Chicago.
On a Wednesday, bright and hot in September, instead of emptying the dishwasher by placing the plates and silver out on the eat-in kitchen table in their remodeled faux colonial house, Janet put them away and called for a takeout of Vietnamese Pho, which she ate in the study in front of the TV. Bob stopped texting her around 4:15 pm everyday with his plans.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Sacred Space - Maria Robinson
Angelo was nearly seventy the last time I slept with him. I hadn't seen him for a few years since those silver days in Paris.
He'd been diagnosed with Parkinson's but was coping reasonably well for an antique Don Juan. His large dark brown eyes had a wistfulness that made him seem like lonely child. His 6'3" frame hunched as he walked. Dapper as ever, he met me at my hotel in Washington in a bright blue French shirt and shiny English shoes.
He wanted to eat right away in the Mandarin's Asian-themed restaurant. He ordered " Bento boxes", red lacquer boxes which came with perfectly grilled salmon and tiny bites Japanese food.Remembering the first night we'd met in Japan, he asked it he could live it all over again, perhaps for the last time.
We went up to my room and although he was slightly unsteady on his feet, he wanted to kiss standing up, as if to prove himself again. It was going to be our last time and he held me tightly in utter reverence for the moment.
He'd been diagnosed with Parkinson's but was coping reasonably well for an antique Don Juan. His large dark brown eyes had a wistfulness that made him seem like lonely child. His 6'3" frame hunched as he walked. Dapper as ever, he met me at my hotel in Washington in a bright blue French shirt and shiny English shoes.
He wanted to eat right away in the Mandarin's Asian-themed restaurant. He ordered " Bento boxes", red lacquer boxes which came with perfectly grilled salmon and tiny bites Japanese food.Remembering the first night we'd met in Japan, he asked it he could live it all over again, perhaps for the last time.
We went up to my room and although he was slightly unsteady on his feet, he wanted to kiss standing up, as if to prove himself again. It was going to be our last time and he held me tightly in utter reverence for the moment.
Going South - Judy Albietz
Not yet two years old. Too young to understand. The Blue Monkeys say I am the one. The next dog to be the time traveler. The last one is dead. Accident. They pull me away from my mother, father, brothers and sisters. No one asks me if I want to do it. My job. Not much training required. The collar links me to the Time Portal. Take off in one direction only—the Past. To some event which has been illegally changed. You see, time can be thrown off its track. Derailed. When that happens I go back in time to repair, to put things back the way they should be. A rip in time puts someone in danger. I rescue them. How does the time line get damaged? Someone from somewhere in the Future travels back in time. They are not careful. They break all the rules. They make an impact. Change events. As a result, people can die.
Lonely. My family is dead. So are my friends. The Time Portal stops my body from aging. No longer a natural part of my world. The people I rescue can never remember me. But now my life is different. Ever since I met Lily. After she was thrown into the Time Portal with me. She asks so many questions. My head hurts. I love being with her. I need to be right next to her. Protect her. Never let her out of my sight.
Lonely. My family is dead. So are my friends. The Time Portal stops my body from aging. No longer a natural part of my world. The people I rescue can never remember me. But now my life is different. Ever since I met Lily. After she was thrown into the Time Portal with me. She asks so many questions. My head hurts. I love being with her. I need to be right next to her. Protect her. Never let her out of my sight.
Too Much Drama - Melody Cryns
It was an early summer day as I headed out the door for a three-day weekend with my good friend Emily. We were headed out on a journey to Virginia City, just the two of us – wearing our tie-dye shirts and jeans. I hoped we’d get to glimpse Jefferson Starship at the Red Dog Saloon and walk up and down the old streets at night.
Just as I had dashed down the stairs of our funky apartment in Mountain View, California, past the trees with the now lush green full-bodied leaves, my cell phone rang. My heart sank when I saw the call was from Louise of Fremont Properties – this could only be bad news – not now, I whispered to myself, not now, as I put on my nice voice and flipped open the cell phone to answer it. “Hello?”
“Hi Mary, I really didn’t want to have to do this…” Louise said.
I knew, oh I knew exactly what she was going to say before she even said it. Louise had given me one warning back in January when Megan and her boyfriend got into a fight at the apartment and the police even arrived to make sure no one was getting hurt – it was Megan who had thrown something at the bedroom door. Not Josh.
Coming home from work to cops and my kid and her boyfriend hiding in the bedroom because they were afraid to answer the door was not my idea of fun. And it didn’t help when the next morning, Louise from Fremont Properties called me at work to inform me that I should give them 30-day notice to vacate. I had begged and pleaded then, even though we were on a month to month – please don’t make me move out. It costs money to move, and I simply cannot afford it. I managed to talk Louise into letting us stay, but she said I only have one more chance and if they received any more complaints that was it.
So this was the dreaded phone call I had hoped I would not get, just as I was getting ready to head out on a three-day journey with Emily. I had to give 30-days’ notice because something must have happened.
I defiantly decided I’d still have an awesome weekend with Emily – no matter what.
That was just the beginning of what has turned into a roller coaster ride that never seems to end. Life has been filled with twists and turns, ups and downs and sometimes I feel as if I’m hanging on for dear life – I used to think the Giant Dipper roller coaster at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk was the coolest ride ever. But now I feel as if I’m on the ride feeling the wind whip against my face. When the roller coaster is climbing upwards, everything seems to serene and calm – and I can look out and see the entire Monterey Bay stretched out before me, ahhhh, so beautiful – then suddenly we creek to the top and whew! Wooooooooooooooo…we’re careening and spiraling downward, almost out of control, but somehow the roller coaster regains the controls and sends us all on a hair raising ride twisting around turns, almost giving us whiplash, and then careens up and down again before coming to a screeching halt at the end of the ride – that’s where we get off the roller coaster. Only I never seem to be able to get off because I have to wait for a bunch of other people who are ahead of me, and when it’s my turn to exit my car, suddenly someone yells, “Sit down and buckle up. We’re going for a ride.”
Oh no!!! Not again, I yell. But no one hears me shout because they’re too busy shouting and then there we go up and up again – I brace myself and hang on because I know it may be okay now, but soon I’m going to be spiraling downward once again.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.
When can I get off this ride and just hang out at the beach with my ukulele?
Just as I had dashed down the stairs of our funky apartment in Mountain View, California, past the trees with the now lush green full-bodied leaves, my cell phone rang. My heart sank when I saw the call was from Louise of Fremont Properties – this could only be bad news – not now, I whispered to myself, not now, as I put on my nice voice and flipped open the cell phone to answer it. “Hello?”
“Hi Mary, I really didn’t want to have to do this…” Louise said.
I knew, oh I knew exactly what she was going to say before she even said it. Louise had given me one warning back in January when Megan and her boyfriend got into a fight at the apartment and the police even arrived to make sure no one was getting hurt – it was Megan who had thrown something at the bedroom door. Not Josh.
Coming home from work to cops and my kid and her boyfriend hiding in the bedroom because they were afraid to answer the door was not my idea of fun. And it didn’t help when the next morning, Louise from Fremont Properties called me at work to inform me that I should give them 30-day notice to vacate. I had begged and pleaded then, even though we were on a month to month – please don’t make me move out. It costs money to move, and I simply cannot afford it. I managed to talk Louise into letting us stay, but she said I only have one more chance and if they received any more complaints that was it.
So this was the dreaded phone call I had hoped I would not get, just as I was getting ready to head out on a three-day journey with Emily. I had to give 30-days’ notice because something must have happened.
I defiantly decided I’d still have an awesome weekend with Emily – no matter what.
That was just the beginning of what has turned into a roller coaster ride that never seems to end. Life has been filled with twists and turns, ups and downs and sometimes I feel as if I’m hanging on for dear life – I used to think the Giant Dipper roller coaster at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk was the coolest ride ever. But now I feel as if I’m on the ride feeling the wind whip against my face. When the roller coaster is climbing upwards, everything seems to serene and calm – and I can look out and see the entire Monterey Bay stretched out before me, ahhhh, so beautiful – then suddenly we creek to the top and whew! Wooooooooooooooo…we’re careening and spiraling downward, almost out of control, but somehow the roller coaster regains the controls and sends us all on a hair raising ride twisting around turns, almost giving us whiplash, and then careens up and down again before coming to a screeching halt at the end of the ride – that’s where we get off the roller coaster. Only I never seem to be able to get off because I have to wait for a bunch of other people who are ahead of me, and when it’s my turn to exit my car, suddenly someone yells, “Sit down and buckle up. We’re going for a ride.”
Oh no!!! Not again, I yell. But no one hears me shout because they’re too busy shouting and then there we go up and up again – I brace myself and hang on because I know it may be okay now, but soon I’m going to be spiraling downward once again.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.
When can I get off this ride and just hang out at the beach with my ukulele?
Too Much Drama - E. D. James
“You are completely wrong,” Olivia stated. It took every bit of control she could muster to keep her voice even and avoid creating too much drama. She didn’t need drama, she had the facts. The attack from Chekaldin was completely unjustified. He had no data and he had no competing theory. All he had was the will of the Russian government to try and take control of the project. It would take more than that to dissuade Olivia from what she knew to be the truth.
“One only needs to look at the coincidence of the startup of the operations of Drake/Kotlas and the beginning of the Crane deaths to know there is a connection,” Chekaldin said. “I don’t need any fact beyond that to make the recommendation to the Environment Ministry that they assume control of the oilfield.” He spoke as if what he was saying were truth even though the actual fact of the matter was that the Drake/Kotlas operations had begun two years before the Crane deaths started and none of the monitoring that had detected contaminants from the oilfield in the marshes. Olivia marveled at the way he could stick to a story without facts to support it. It was a level of confidence she would never achieve.
Semyon inserted himself into the conversation, “I agree with Olivia that there are no facts to support the charge that the Drake/Kotlas operations are the cause of the Crane decline. However, it is also true that we do not have an alternative explanation. This is what we need in order to resolve the problem.”
Olivia and Chekaldin stared at one another, the animosity between them radiating so strongly that the other six people sitting around the table could feel it in the air around them.
Into this charged void Alexis Moiseyev dropped a bomb. “I believe it is related to nuclear research conducted at the Gulag camp in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s.”
Seven pairs of eyes swung at him in disbelief.
“What are you talking about,” Cooper gave voice to the astonishment of them all.
“One only needs to look at the coincidence of the startup of the operations of Drake/Kotlas and the beginning of the Crane deaths to know there is a connection,” Chekaldin said. “I don’t need any fact beyond that to make the recommendation to the Environment Ministry that they assume control of the oilfield.” He spoke as if what he was saying were truth even though the actual fact of the matter was that the Drake/Kotlas operations had begun two years before the Crane deaths started and none of the monitoring that had detected contaminants from the oilfield in the marshes. Olivia marveled at the way he could stick to a story without facts to support it. It was a level of confidence she would never achieve.
Semyon inserted himself into the conversation, “I agree with Olivia that there are no facts to support the charge that the Drake/Kotlas operations are the cause of the Crane decline. However, it is also true that we do not have an alternative explanation. This is what we need in order to resolve the problem.”
Olivia and Chekaldin stared at one another, the animosity between them radiating so strongly that the other six people sitting around the table could feel it in the air around them.
Into this charged void Alexis Moiseyev dropped a bomb. “I believe it is related to nuclear research conducted at the Gulag camp in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s.”
Seven pairs of eyes swung at him in disbelief.
“What are you talking about,” Cooper gave voice to the astonishment of them all.
Not What She'd Bargained For - Barbara Jordan
"It wasn't quite what she had bargained for. She really had no idea that it could be this hard. It had all started with the best of intentions, but somehow, began to fall apart about half way through the night.
She had mapped out her perfect "birth plan." Her coach would be by her side, soft music playing in the back round. She'd rub her back, and tell her how brave and beautiful she was. And she would feel beautiful--like an earth mother, doing what had been done millions of times before, by billions of women before her. This was what her body was meant to do. She was wired for this. She would push her child into the world without an epidural. No episiotomy, drugs or forceps. No IV. It wasn't natural and what god had intended.
She would hold her baby right away and then kiss it good-bye. At sixteen, she wasn't ready to be a mother, even though her body was. Everything was perfect. She had found just the right adoptive couple, who were unable to have children of their own. They had waited too long and at forty-two the woman was not able to conceive. They had met several times, and drawn up the contract. It would be an "open adoption", the couple would send her pictures and she would have visiting rights.
At midnight the contractions became stronger, and by 3 am, she could barely catch her breath. They were coming one on top of the other. Instead of feeling like a natural thing, it felt like her body was betraying her. Some force had begun to take over and she was no longer in charge. She no longer wanted to walk around, instead glued to her bed, sweat and tears pouring down her face. She begged for drugs. She lost count with how many times she said, "fuck."
At 4:10 am, her doctor announced that her baby was in "distress", and by 4:30, a flurry of doctors, nurses, technicians, were wheeling her into an operating room. At 5:07 am her baby was born by C/section, blue and floppy. She only remembers the pulling and tugging as they set him free from her womb. And the nurse and doctor in the corner of the room, resuscitating her son, and carrying him off to the nursery. No proper good-byes.
She had mapped out her perfect "birth plan." Her coach would be by her side, soft music playing in the back round. She'd rub her back, and tell her how brave and beautiful she was. And she would feel beautiful--like an earth mother, doing what had been done millions of times before, by billions of women before her. This was what her body was meant to do. She was wired for this. She would push her child into the world without an epidural. No episiotomy, drugs or forceps. No IV. It wasn't natural and what god had intended.
She would hold her baby right away and then kiss it good-bye. At sixteen, she wasn't ready to be a mother, even though her body was. Everything was perfect. She had found just the right adoptive couple, who were unable to have children of their own. They had waited too long and at forty-two the woman was not able to conceive. They had met several times, and drawn up the contract. It would be an "open adoption", the couple would send her pictures and she would have visiting rights.
At midnight the contractions became stronger, and by 3 am, she could barely catch her breath. They were coming one on top of the other. Instead of feeling like a natural thing, it felt like her body was betraying her. Some force had begun to take over and she was no longer in charge. She no longer wanted to walk around, instead glued to her bed, sweat and tears pouring down her face. She begged for drugs. She lost count with how many times she said, "fuck."
At 4:10 am, her doctor announced that her baby was in "distress", and by 4:30, a flurry of doctors, nurses, technicians, were wheeling her into an operating room. At 5:07 am her baby was born by C/section, blue and floppy. She only remembers the pulling and tugging as they set him free from her womb. And the nurse and doctor in the corner of the room, resuscitating her son, and carrying him off to the nursery. No proper good-byes.
Taking for Granted/Gratitude - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Ry Cooder plays an homage to Johnny Cash as I type, transmuting an old song across the years. I’m 14 again, hearing Johnny himself start the guitar in its ba-thump, ba-thump that makes the floor throb under my feet (turn it up, Susan!) until I have to stand, have to grab her two hands and swing her away from me in a jitterbug-swing step. Holding hands, we bob and two-step, turn and skip until the song ends: I Walk The Line, 16 Tons. We dance our way toward being a couple with our noses buried in the boys’ freshly-ironed shirts and sex and poodle skirts and driving and jobs and drinking and independence and college and responsibility and leaving home and living on our own, but not yet, not yet. Now, we just dance.
***
For Thanksgiving dinner music, my son-in-law chooses Brahms piano sonatas that linger in the air like the wash of lavender-blue light across the Bay as the earth turns away from the sun for the night. We are happy together, safe, sophisticated, amusing and amused, weaving conversation and love across the table full of chicken and gravies and yams and chard that we cooked together. For now, this is eternal. Bless the gift of music and friends and family.
Never let this go, not when it changes, not when it ends.
***
For Thanksgiving dinner music, my son-in-law chooses Brahms piano sonatas that linger in the air like the wash of lavender-blue light across the Bay as the earth turns away from the sun for the night. We are happy together, safe, sophisticated, amusing and amused, weaving conversation and love across the table full of chicken and gravies and yams and chard that we cooked together. For now, this is eternal. Bless the gift of music and friends and family.
Never let this go, not when it changes, not when it ends.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Comfort - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
As we stamp through the storm,
wind-whipped snow slashes
my neck where the scarf
blew away. The house is near.
Its lights are yellow as pools
of melted butter. ``Courage,
little ones,’’ I shout. ``Look there.’’
The storm had pounced over the pond
where we skated and pushed the sled,
the smallest child on it heaped with blankets.
Our friend Elizabeth had called us early.
``Come, come! It’s black ice today!’’
The calm, shining dark surface excited
to stroke harder, leaning, hypnotized
by ice as smooth as baby skin,
glossy as topaz. The winter trees
empty of leaves stroke the gray sky
like characters on a Chinese scroll.
All was spare, wild, still and frozen.
Until the wind fell out of a snow cloud
and took away the far edges of the pond.
Holding hands, we made for the shore
and our shoes. Standing in the yellow doorway,
Elizabeth, her long braids coiled around each ear
like a royal headdress, hurries us
to the fire where hot chocolate waits
for the children and bourbon for us.
We sip. The wind howls outside.
wind-whipped snow slashes
my neck where the scarf
blew away. The house is near.
Its lights are yellow as pools
of melted butter. ``Courage,
little ones,’’ I shout. ``Look there.’’
The storm had pounced over the pond
where we skated and pushed the sled,
the smallest child on it heaped with blankets.
Our friend Elizabeth had called us early.
``Come, come! It’s black ice today!’’
The calm, shining dark surface excited
to stroke harder, leaning, hypnotized
by ice as smooth as baby skin,
glossy as topaz. The winter trees
empty of leaves stroke the gray sky
like characters on a Chinese scroll.
All was spare, wild, still and frozen.
Until the wind fell out of a snow cloud
and took away the far edges of the pond.
Holding hands, we made for the shore
and our shoes. Standing in the yellow doorway,
Elizabeth, her long braids coiled around each ear
like a royal headdress, hurries us
to the fire where hot chocolate waits
for the children and bourbon for us.
We sip. The wind howls outside.
Going It Alone - Barbara Jordan
Since my divorce, I've often thought of those few simple words uttered by my shrink. "You'll have good days and bad days." Umm yea, like DUH.
Here is a glimpse of the bad days:
Sometimes I look around the house and believe that everything in sight is either broken or in desperate need of fixing:
The showerhead
The sprinkler system
The printer
The Internet connection
The drain in the upstairs bathroom
The dishwasher
The second shelf in the refrigerator, hanging by one hook
The latch thingy that hold the chimney flue open
The pilot light on the furnace
My I pod
The ceiling fan in the kitchen
My daughter's bicycle tire
And then there are the days where the slightest things are completely overwhelming and it seems like an easier chore to move to a new house, than to clean the fridge.
The dog poop piling up in the yard
Taking the garbage to the curbside on Sunday nights
Paying the electric bill
Getting the oil changed in the car
Pulling out that one shriveled plant in the pot on the front porch
Getting the kids up on a school morning
Going to Trader Joes
Making coffee
Just when I think I might either collapse or start soliciting hunky guys that look like they work in construction, so my sprinkler system can get fixed, I notice myself singing along in the car to Michael Buble's chirpy "I just haven’t met you yet." I hate that song.
More than once I've prayed to god I don't know anyone in the car next to me.
I think it’s a sign that my brain is starting to relax a little (either that or it has atrophied to the point of no return) my guard has dropped a few notches, and I'm willing to act like a fool again. The good days are starting to catch up with the bad. Duh.
Here is a glimpse of the bad days:
Sometimes I look around the house and believe that everything in sight is either broken or in desperate need of fixing:
The showerhead
The sprinkler system
The printer
The Internet connection
The drain in the upstairs bathroom
The dishwasher
The second shelf in the refrigerator, hanging by one hook
The latch thingy that hold the chimney flue open
The pilot light on the furnace
My I pod
The ceiling fan in the kitchen
My daughter's bicycle tire
And then there are the days where the slightest things are completely overwhelming and it seems like an easier chore to move to a new house, than to clean the fridge.
The dog poop piling up in the yard
Taking the garbage to the curbside on Sunday nights
Paying the electric bill
Getting the oil changed in the car
Pulling out that one shriveled plant in the pot on the front porch
Getting the kids up on a school morning
Going to Trader Joes
Making coffee
Just when I think I might either collapse or start soliciting hunky guys that look like they work in construction, so my sprinkler system can get fixed, I notice myself singing along in the car to Michael Buble's chirpy "I just haven’t met you yet." I hate that song.
More than once I've prayed to god I don't know anyone in the car next to me.
I think it’s a sign that my brain is starting to relax a little (either that or it has atrophied to the point of no return) my guard has dropped a few notches, and I'm willing to act like a fool again. The good days are starting to catch up with the bad. Duh.
Going It Alone - Kate Bueler
Going at it alone. Today as I woke up to move my car, I saw the reminiscent of a review of garbage for hot items gone terribly wrong. There was debris and shit strewed along the sidewalk. Today as I walked down the street by myself after yoga, I saw a perfectly cut kiwi abandoned on the street. Today as I walked to pick up the kids, alone, I saw the torn bag of mcdonalds stepping into the wrappers and topped off with ketchup smeared on my path. Tonight as I walked home from parking my car, a man who didn’t see me relieved himself not once not twice but three or four times. Huge juicy farts. Shaking with laughter until I couldn’t hold it in my throat any longer, it escaped the clicking noise of my laughter. I smiled and laughed by myself all the way home.
When you go at it alone, the walking, the walking down a city street. You see more. More than if you had a partner walking in unison, chatter would diminish your surrounds. If you had music in your ears to drown out the city swish of cars, sirens, random guys farting wouldn’t be left for your own personal stand up comedy show. You see more. When you are alone. Observe more. Participate more in the ever moving flowing around the current not stopping but you stop and pause and listen. And then move on laughing. Laughing.
After yoga with mat in hand, I crossed the street to my block and 3 men, one I recognized and called Kayne west not to his face but to my friends. He is the player of my block. He always has a host of women all different ethnicities in variety of sizes in tow. He either is a pimp or a player or maybe both. I crossed and the three men- kayne with his gold grill and hip glasses and hat, his friend very large and in charge, and another guy with you guessed it a baby pit bull with a mean looking collar with spikes all reside on the corner. I walk towards them with a semi- street face on. The large in charge one says- how long have you done yoga? A few years. I don’t pause long and ask have you ever tried it. He doesn’t look like he does much of any exercise. No I haven’t. Does it make you feel good? Yes. Plus there are a lot of girls who do it. And they wear tight clothes so you might be able to steal a glance but not too much or the instructor might say something. They all laugh hard surprised their white neighbor is actually funny and not scared of them. We laugh together and I go up my stoop home.
When I moved into this neighborhood- when there were groups of men on my stoop as I moved in- I realized you have two choices: you either are scared of the homies or befriend them. So I choice the later. Going at it alone. I make friends with the dudes who hang out on the street across from the cleaned up projects- these gardens of Valencia. We go alone. And see more. More when we aren’t distracted. When we aren’t looking. When we aren’t talking. When we just are walking. Alone. We begin to see more. More. And see it all. Not all pretty, not all funny. But the wave of humanity only seen by eyes that are open.
When you go at it alone, the walking, the walking down a city street. You see more. More than if you had a partner walking in unison, chatter would diminish your surrounds. If you had music in your ears to drown out the city swish of cars, sirens, random guys farting wouldn’t be left for your own personal stand up comedy show. You see more. When you are alone. Observe more. Participate more in the ever moving flowing around the current not stopping but you stop and pause and listen. And then move on laughing. Laughing.
After yoga with mat in hand, I crossed the street to my block and 3 men, one I recognized and called Kayne west not to his face but to my friends. He is the player of my block. He always has a host of women all different ethnicities in variety of sizes in tow. He either is a pimp or a player or maybe both. I crossed and the three men- kayne with his gold grill and hip glasses and hat, his friend very large and in charge, and another guy with you guessed it a baby pit bull with a mean looking collar with spikes all reside on the corner. I walk towards them with a semi- street face on. The large in charge one says- how long have you done yoga? A few years. I don’t pause long and ask have you ever tried it. He doesn’t look like he does much of any exercise. No I haven’t. Does it make you feel good? Yes. Plus there are a lot of girls who do it. And they wear tight clothes so you might be able to steal a glance but not too much or the instructor might say something. They all laugh hard surprised their white neighbor is actually funny and not scared of them. We laugh together and I go up my stoop home.
When I moved into this neighborhood- when there were groups of men on my stoop as I moved in- I realized you have two choices: you either are scared of the homies or befriend them. So I choice the later. Going at it alone. I make friends with the dudes who hang out on the street across from the cleaned up projects- these gardens of Valencia. We go alone. And see more. More when we aren’t distracted. When we aren’t looking. When we aren’t talking. When we just are walking. Alone. We begin to see more. More. And see it all. Not all pretty, not all funny. But the wave of humanity only seen by eyes that are open.
Going It Alone - E. D. James
To all appearances it was a perfect family group. The mother and father attentive and supportive. The adolescent appeared healthy and alert, learning its lessons in survival. Lessons it would need in just a few short weeks when they took off for the winter feeding grounds in the California’s Central Valley. But Olivia knew this family had a past that wasn’t quite so idyllic, like every family.
For the past fifteen seasons that Olivia had been observing this flock of Sandhill Cranes that summered around Homer, Alaska, the mother had been with another male. She had produced thirteen offspring with her previous mate. Cranes that were now the forming the core of the resurgent growth of the flock. But for the previous two seasons this long-standing couple had failed to produce viable eggs. Olivia had watched at the start of the summer as the female drove her long-standing mate away. Viciously. Whenever the male approached she attacked him with beak and talons, drawing blood on more than one occasion. Several younger, stronger males approached over those frenzied first days in Alaska. The female danced with several of them while her former mate watched. Finally she chose and coupled with a male who then joined her in driving the ex out of their territory.
Now the new family group fed furiously on the bounty of the August insects and reptiles and amphibians that blessed the wetlands around Homer. They were building fat and strength for their fifteen hundred mile trip to the wetlands and cornfields around Lodi, California. Olivia had been watching for several days, looking for a chance to trap the adult male with satellite and radio transmitters so that she could track their return to the winter grounds and observe their behavior over the coming months. The sunny, calm day was perfect for her blast nets and she had high hopes she would accomplish her goal this afternoon.
A shadow passed across the edge of Olivia vision. The shadow morphed into a Bald Eagle hurtling from the sky with talons aimed. The adult male Crane unfolded its long wings and jumped to the side about ten feet in one tremendous leap. It was too late. The Eagle hit the crane in the middle of its back knocking it to the ground in a cloud of feathers. Olivia began running in the direction of the birds yelling and making as much noise as she could. The Eagle locked it’s talons into the back and sunk its beak into the neck and spread its wings trying to lift off with its prize before the crazed woman rushing at them could spoil it’s meal. It flapped once, twice, and lifted the still squirming body of the Crane off the ground, but as it rose, the chunk of flesh held by the talons broke loose. The body began falling and the Eagles neck bent sharply down for just an instant as its beak took up the weight and then it let go and the Crane dropped to the ground. The Eagle flapped hard and rose back into bright blue sky, screaming in frustration over it’s lost meal.
For the past fifteen seasons that Olivia had been observing this flock of Sandhill Cranes that summered around Homer, Alaska, the mother had been with another male. She had produced thirteen offspring with her previous mate. Cranes that were now the forming the core of the resurgent growth of the flock. But for the previous two seasons this long-standing couple had failed to produce viable eggs. Olivia had watched at the start of the summer as the female drove her long-standing mate away. Viciously. Whenever the male approached she attacked him with beak and talons, drawing blood on more than one occasion. Several younger, stronger males approached over those frenzied first days in Alaska. The female danced with several of them while her former mate watched. Finally she chose and coupled with a male who then joined her in driving the ex out of their territory.
Now the new family group fed furiously on the bounty of the August insects and reptiles and amphibians that blessed the wetlands around Homer. They were building fat and strength for their fifteen hundred mile trip to the wetlands and cornfields around Lodi, California. Olivia had been watching for several days, looking for a chance to trap the adult male with satellite and radio transmitters so that she could track their return to the winter grounds and observe their behavior over the coming months. The sunny, calm day was perfect for her blast nets and she had high hopes she would accomplish her goal this afternoon.
A shadow passed across the edge of Olivia vision. The shadow morphed into a Bald Eagle hurtling from the sky with talons aimed. The adult male Crane unfolded its long wings and jumped to the side about ten feet in one tremendous leap. It was too late. The Eagle hit the crane in the middle of its back knocking it to the ground in a cloud of feathers. Olivia began running in the direction of the birds yelling and making as much noise as she could. The Eagle locked it’s talons into the back and sunk its beak into the neck and spread its wings trying to lift off with its prize before the crazed woman rushing at them could spoil it’s meal. It flapped once, twice, and lifted the still squirming body of the Crane off the ground, but as it rose, the chunk of flesh held by the talons broke loose. The body began falling and the Eagles neck bent sharply down for just an instant as its beak took up the weight and then it let go and the Crane dropped to the ground. The Eagle flapped hard and rose back into bright blue sky, screaming in frustration over it’s lost meal.
Going Alone - John Fetto
The screen door banged so loudly behind Hawley that he reached back, too late quiet it, and for a moment felt guilty, sorry, like it was he and not her who had made the mistake, then something tightened inside and he pulled his hand away. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stumbled down the steps, then softly on to grass. He knew how to walk quietly. He knew how to protect himself. He didn’t need anyone. He’d walked for miles by himself. For a moment the quiet neighborhood around Johanna’s house looked as hostile as any Indochinese jungle, foreigners whispering behind the walls in a language he didn’t understand. He wasn’t part of them. He would never be part of them. He kept walking on the grass, slipping between the shadows cast by the street lamps so the eyes he felt from every house couldn’t follow him.
Two blocks away from Johanna’s house, just when the street curved and he wouldn’t be able to turn around and see the yellow light on her front porch. He looked back. It didn’t look any different than all the other foreign houses in the foreign land. For a moment he felt sorry for himself and wondered where his home was if not there and then his spine tightened and stopped. He was by himself. It was a triumphant thought. A successful rebellion against those who did not understand and then it was followed by something else, something unexpected: a moment of loneliness, so deep, his body bent, and against all his biter resolutions he looked back and saw the yellow light of Johanna’s porch light as warm as any camp fire he’d ever felt on a cold night in the woods.
Two blocks away from Johanna’s house, just when the street curved and he wouldn’t be able to turn around and see the yellow light on her front porch. He looked back. It didn’t look any different than all the other foreign houses in the foreign land. For a moment he felt sorry for himself and wondered where his home was if not there and then his spine tightened and stopped. He was by himself. It was a triumphant thought. A successful rebellion against those who did not understand and then it was followed by something else, something unexpected: a moment of loneliness, so deep, his body bent, and against all his biter resolutions he looked back and saw the yellow light of Johanna’s porch light as warm as any camp fire he’d ever felt on a cold night in the woods.
Going It Alone - Melody Cryns
Last night my older daughter Melissa and her long-time friend Alex showed up at my front door. Even though I knew Melissa wanted to borrow $20 from me and even though I’m broke because the car I just bought needed work already, I was happy to see them. Melissa lives in San Francisco and I don’t get to see her all the time.
“Hi Mom,” Melissa said, giving me a big hug.
“Hi, congratulations!” Alex said – he’s 29 years old, the same age as Stevie and I’ve known Alex with the dark curly hair and cute smile since he was around 14 when he and Melissa and their friends hung out. Alex and Melissa still remain best of friends after all these years, and one summer, I think it was the summer of 2007, Alex stayed at my apartment for most of the summer. We had no idea at the time that he was kicking a bad drug habit, and my place was his safe haven. Alex and I would even hang out when Melissa wasn’t around – and I got him hooked on Beatles music after a couple of trip to see the Sun Kings.
“Congratulations?” I said, forgetting for a moment.
“You know!”
“Oh yeah!” Jen, Jeremy’s girlfriend is pregnant and I’m going to be a Grandma. But were congratulations in order for me?
Yeah, I’m going to be a Grandma. I’d almost forgotten. How could I forget that? Melissa made a special trip down to hang out with Jeremy with a batch of brownies – she said they watched cartoons last night with Jeremy’s puppy Jerry acting all hyper. Melissa said she was trying to picture Jeremy as a Dad and it was hard. But she didn’t get mad about it – she said you can’t get mad over something that’s done. Stevie is mad at Jeremy and Jen because he says they aren’t ready – and because he just broke up with his girlfriend of five years (for a little while, he says) because he’s not ready. Little brother beat him to it.
As Alex and Melissa walked into the living room of the funky old house we live in and sat down on the old couches that sat in my Dad’s living room for 20 years before I inherited them, I thought about how my kids are all moving forward with their lives.
“You ever gonna get new couches?” Melissa laughed, as if she read my mind.
“Yeah, one of these days.”
One of these days, I’ll get new couches, and a brand new car – now I’m driving this old-school 1997 Honda Civic Coupe. One of these days, I’ll get a house – it’s always one of these days.
As we talked and laughed and Megan walked in with her new boyfriend Val, I took comfort in having my family around me in spite of everything going on.
“Are you in a relationship yet?” asked Alex, right out of the blue. We all laughed.
“Well, sort of – got a couple of guy friends,” I said, wondering if I ever will be truly in a “relationship.”
“Ohhh, well, you know what? If I was 50 and straight, I’d ask you out!”
Melissa and I burst out laughing – and we joked about that all night long, about how all would be well if only Alex was 50 and straight! Oh well, going it alone isn’t all bad – there’s a certain freedom that I have, although the path of going it alone can get lonely at times…
I said good-bye to Alex and Melissa spent the night, sleeping on the old couch – the same one she camped out on for a year and a half when she was only supposed to stay with me for a couple of months – the same couches we slept on when we’d visit my Dad even before Megan was born…
“Hi Mom,” Melissa said, giving me a big hug.
“Hi, congratulations!” Alex said – he’s 29 years old, the same age as Stevie and I’ve known Alex with the dark curly hair and cute smile since he was around 14 when he and Melissa and their friends hung out. Alex and Melissa still remain best of friends after all these years, and one summer, I think it was the summer of 2007, Alex stayed at my apartment for most of the summer. We had no idea at the time that he was kicking a bad drug habit, and my place was his safe haven. Alex and I would even hang out when Melissa wasn’t around – and I got him hooked on Beatles music after a couple of trip to see the Sun Kings.
“Congratulations?” I said, forgetting for a moment.
“You know!”
“Oh yeah!” Jen, Jeremy’s girlfriend is pregnant and I’m going to be a Grandma. But were congratulations in order for me?
Yeah, I’m going to be a Grandma. I’d almost forgotten. How could I forget that? Melissa made a special trip down to hang out with Jeremy with a batch of brownies – she said they watched cartoons last night with Jeremy’s puppy Jerry acting all hyper. Melissa said she was trying to picture Jeremy as a Dad and it was hard. But she didn’t get mad about it – she said you can’t get mad over something that’s done. Stevie is mad at Jeremy and Jen because he says they aren’t ready – and because he just broke up with his girlfriend of five years (for a little while, he says) because he’s not ready. Little brother beat him to it.
As Alex and Melissa walked into the living room of the funky old house we live in and sat down on the old couches that sat in my Dad’s living room for 20 years before I inherited them, I thought about how my kids are all moving forward with their lives.
“You ever gonna get new couches?” Melissa laughed, as if she read my mind.
“Yeah, one of these days.”
One of these days, I’ll get new couches, and a brand new car – now I’m driving this old-school 1997 Honda Civic Coupe. One of these days, I’ll get a house – it’s always one of these days.
As we talked and laughed and Megan walked in with her new boyfriend Val, I took comfort in having my family around me in spite of everything going on.
“Are you in a relationship yet?” asked Alex, right out of the blue. We all laughed.
“Well, sort of – got a couple of guy friends,” I said, wondering if I ever will be truly in a “relationship.”
“Ohhh, well, you know what? If I was 50 and straight, I’d ask you out!”
Melissa and I burst out laughing – and we joked about that all night long, about how all would be well if only Alex was 50 and straight! Oh well, going it alone isn’t all bad – there’s a certain freedom that I have, although the path of going it alone can get lonely at times…
I said good-bye to Alex and Melissa spent the night, sleeping on the old couch – the same one she camped out on for a year and a half when she was only supposed to stay with me for a couple of months – the same couches we slept on when we’d visit my Dad even before Megan was born…
The Art of Love & Frenzy - Kent Wright
This comes up all the time around here. We talk about it over those lunches and dinners that are always bland and the same. We talk about over bingo or during what the staff calls “pretty nails”. Sometimes those conversations are difficult because one of us forgets what we are talking about (or who we are talking to) and we keep having to start the conversation again. Falling asleep in the middle of conversations is also a problem around here. Whatever the problems, sex is on our minds. Oh, we know what those that don’t live (yet) in a home like this say. I’m talking about those smug thingies who think their fifty year of bodies are not going to sag, and they will always be going to mixers at the country club instead of hanging onto a walker like some do here. They smirk and primp and talk about all the experience they bring to the bedroom. Gertrude Main is one of those. She likes to coo and talk softly about “the art of love”. Well Gertrude and her kind are in for a surprise. Depends can take the “art” out of anything. We here at the home don’t bother talking about the art of love anymore. We don’t sprinkle lavender sachet around, and we don’t bother with code words like being “grabbed by the Frenzy – another Gertrudism. By the time anyone around here got that unscrambled the Frenzy would have been long gone. We just say My room is empty let’s have one of the girls (our care givers) wheel us down there and shut the door. We know those girls laugh at us and what they mean as they laugh and say “Now don’t hurt yourselves” as they are clicking the brake on the wheel chairs. The door closes and the pawing begins. I am not going to sugar coat it for you. Pawing is what it amounts to, but if being touched by another old paw is all there is, that is good enough.
Frenzy - Judy Albietz
In the center of the courtyard, Anubis stood over Sam, ready to deliver the death blow. Lily looked over to the huddled mass of pack dogs to see if they’d be any help. Their fear of Anubis had rendered them useless, even though they outnumbered him eleven to one. It was up to her. She had to do something. To save Sam.
Shaking with fury, Lily jumped to her feet. Maybe she could distract Anubis. Even though she was 25 feet away, she could still stare him right in the eye. And he could hear her. With her arms flung out, she took a deep breath, threw her head back and yelled, “STOP!” Her voice boomed out with the sound of thunder. Her body kicked back—like a cannon ball had been fired from her mouth. Yes! Lily said to herself, watching Anubis totter and fall, stepping back from her and Sam’s inert body.
Still dazed by the sound of her voice, Lily listened as her scream strangely grew even louder and more awful—bouncing off the hard surfaces of the ancient stone buildings, echoing over the worn pavers of the courtyard. Then the echoes were joined by the sound of crackling followed by three small explosions. A large man-sized boulder had been holding together a corner of the ancient courtyard wall. Now in its place was only a pile of sand. That still didn’t stop Anubis, who had climbed back onto his feet and was moving toward Lily. But he didn’t get more than one step before the pack dogs, in a flash of movement, bore down on him. Their trance broken, they still weren’t fast enough to get Anubis before he slipped away.
Shaking with fury, Lily jumped to her feet. Maybe she could distract Anubis. Even though she was 25 feet away, she could still stare him right in the eye. And he could hear her. With her arms flung out, she took a deep breath, threw her head back and yelled, “STOP!” Her voice boomed out with the sound of thunder. Her body kicked back—like a cannon ball had been fired from her mouth. Yes! Lily said to herself, watching Anubis totter and fall, stepping back from her and Sam’s inert body.
Still dazed by the sound of her voice, Lily listened as her scream strangely grew even louder and more awful—bouncing off the hard surfaces of the ancient stone buildings, echoing over the worn pavers of the courtyard. Then the echoes were joined by the sound of crackling followed by three small explosions. A large man-sized boulder had been holding together a corner of the ancient courtyard wall. Now in its place was only a pile of sand. That still didn’t stop Anubis, who had climbed back onto his feet and was moving toward Lily. But he didn’t get more than one step before the pack dogs, in a flash of movement, bore down on him. Their trance broken, they still weren’t fast enough to get Anubis before he slipped away.
Treasure - Maria Robinson
Summary:
Ted had treasured Vera, his wife of twenty years, even as she was ever so slowly inching away from him and finally just broke the chain one day. The years they'd spent in Berkeley CA had been filled faculty events, the inevitable kissing up, the months hold up his study working on his articles on German Political theory and finally the coveted laurel of tenure.
Against her mother's advice, Vera had given up her legal career in Chicago, though she never missed it. But she never fit in as a faculty wife.
Scene:
" Ted", Vera called the front stairs of their shingled Berkeley house.
Hearing no answer, Vera placed the salad on the table and brought in the lamb chops from the backyard grill.
" Ted! We're eating".
Ted had treasured Vera, his wife of twenty years, even as she was ever so slowly inching away from him and finally just broke the chain one day. The years they'd spent in Berkeley CA had been filled faculty events, the inevitable kissing up, the months hold up his study working on his articles on German Political theory and finally the coveted laurel of tenure.
Against her mother's advice, Vera had given up her legal career in Chicago, though she never missed it. But she never fit in as a faculty wife.
Scene:
" Ted", Vera called the front stairs of their shingled Berkeley house.
Hearing no answer, Vera placed the salad on the table and brought in the lamb chops from the backyard grill.
" Ted! We're eating".
Friday, November 19, 2010
Cleaning House - Anna Teeples
Scott was not sure what he felt inside. He knew it teetered between sheer rage and extreme sadness but somehow they blurred. He felt the heaviness of the wood handle in his hands as he gripped with two hands. The sledgehammer was all he could think about this morning when he decided he was ready.
Maggie had left a month ago and he knew she was not coming back. They had spent every day together for the last seven years. She had moved in shortly after they had met and it was somewhat effortless. Somewhere along the way she was slowly retreating and he did not even notice. Last month, he came home to find the closet empty and most all the CD’s gone from the mega-hundred collection of favorite genres they both enjoyed.
Scott stared at the white ceramic subway tile walls. He remembered when they had tiled this bathroom in just one weekend impressing themselves with their effort. He pulled the hammer back over his shoulder and swung with all his effort into the pristine tile wall. As he felt a solid thunder of energy release and tile crackle to the ground, he thought about how he had hated the white tiles all along. Why did he agree to such a plain, colorless room anyways? Scott gave that first blow every bit of his deep hatred for the sterile perfection that surrounded him. He needed it to be gone. He was cleaning house. Time for a new beginning, a new bathroom, something that was only about him and not them.
Maggie had left a month ago and he knew she was not coming back. They had spent every day together for the last seven years. She had moved in shortly after they had met and it was somewhat effortless. Somewhere along the way she was slowly retreating and he did not even notice. Last month, he came home to find the closet empty and most all the CD’s gone from the mega-hundred collection of favorite genres they both enjoyed.
Scott stared at the white ceramic subway tile walls. He remembered when they had tiled this bathroom in just one weekend impressing themselves with their effort. He pulled the hammer back over his shoulder and swung with all his effort into the pristine tile wall. As he felt a solid thunder of energy release and tile crackle to the ground, he thought about how he had hated the white tiles all along. Why did he agree to such a plain, colorless room anyways? Scott gave that first blow every bit of his deep hatred for the sterile perfection that surrounded him. He needed it to be gone. He was cleaning house. Time for a new beginning, a new bathroom, something that was only about him and not them.
Cleaning House - Kent Wright
It was never long after he had buzzed you in and barely said hello that he offered the first drink. He didn’t pretend to be grandma. It wasn’t lemonade but alcohol he was talking about when he said drink. He pressed if you declined or opted for water. Usually, he had already had one (or more depending on what time you rang his bell). He was thirty or so during the brief time I knew him. He had a prep school background, had a diploma from a good college, and was still looking for a job that suited him. By being picky about whom he worked for he could avoid work. By talking endlessly, condescendingly about his search for that position where his unique talents would glow with prominence he could also avoid the uncomfortable fact that he lived on an ample trust fund provided by a family he professed to hate. He could indulge himself and did. He enjoyed being volital in his opinions, and nothing pleased him more than broadcasting how he could impose his ideas of acceptability on others. He didn’t impose them on the strong of course. He enjoyed being a bully far too much for that.
When I refused his offer of a drink at 11am that final time I saw him, he frowned and said we needed to get out of there and go to lunch anyway. The cleaning lady was there cleaning house, and he hated being around for that. He could barely stand having her around he said. Even after he bought clothes for her to change into from the Gap when she came to clean he couldn’t stand being there with “someone like that”.
“You should see what she comes in,” he said bitterly.
“Oh, I can just imagine!” I said, and he assumed that meant I agreed.
When I refused his offer of a drink at 11am that final time I saw him, he frowned and said we needed to get out of there and go to lunch anyway. The cleaning lady was there cleaning house, and he hated being around for that. He could barely stand having her around he said. Even after he bought clothes for her to change into from the Gap when she came to clean he couldn’t stand being there with “someone like that”.
“You should see what she comes in,” he said bitterly.
“Oh, I can just imagine!” I said, and he assumed that meant I agreed.
Cleaning House - Melody Cryns
This morning I awoke to music softly playing on my iPod which I set to shuffle and fall asleep to – it’s cool because you never know what music will pop up. A Led Zeppelin song, a Beatles song and then Irish folk music – I slowly sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes looking at the boxes stacked in the corner, the dresser filled with stacks of paper I’ve got to go through, a laundry basket sitting on top of yet another box – my room is a disheveled mess, the place where we put all the stuff we have no idea what to do with.
I always have these grand plans of cleaning up my room, sort of like cleaning out the cobwebs in my brain or my life – but then I wonder, what the heck am I going to do with this stuff? There’s that box of stuff that we got out of my car that was totaled – miscellaneous things that I don’t want to throw away, yet have no idea what to do with. There are the boxes of pictures that some day need to be gone through, and the sleeping bag and sleeping pads from the Burning Uke campout I went to September. All I have is a closet, no storage room, no garage – all of the piles of things that would normally go someplace sit in my bedroom – there are the bookcases stuffed with books and bathroom items sitting on the book shelves – in hopes that Megan doesn’t use them or lose them, deordorant, nail clippers. I’ve had to replace nail clippers countless times because whenever I need them, they’re gone – disappeared someplace into the abyss. I ask Megan and she says, “I don’t know where they are!”
Last week, we managed to misplace a huge package of toilet paper. How does one lose something like this? Well, apparently, the package was buried some clothes on my dresser and we just didn’t see it right away.
Sometimes I wonder where we’ll be living. Will we even stay at this house? Is this situation really going to work out or are we just going to have to pack up again and move? I’ll finally get my room in order and suddenly, we have to leave again – I’m always afraid of that. You never know. So my stuff is still unorganized – and I will get to it, one day.
I remember that recurring dream that I had for years – where I’m in an empty house with hardwood floor – it’s an older house and I can see bare tree branches outside the window – but I have no idea where this house is. The living room is completely empty and there’s a warm fireplace – and I see my mother wearing her flannel nightgown walking towards me – with that “matter of fact” look on her white face, and those gray blue eyes so much like my daughter Melissa’s eyes wide – she smiles and then she says, “Mary, when are you going to unpack your boxes? It’s time!”
She points to stacks of boxes in the kitchen of this house – the kitchen is on the other end of the rather large living room, and the rooms sort of blend together with a countertop in between – I can really see this house, but I don’t know where it is, why I’m there.
“Oh yeah, I’ll get to it, Mom. I promise.”
Then Mom fades away and I’m back here again – and I still have to unpack those boxes. After all, I am going to be a Grandma. Time to step it up.
It’s time.
I always have these grand plans of cleaning up my room, sort of like cleaning out the cobwebs in my brain or my life – but then I wonder, what the heck am I going to do with this stuff? There’s that box of stuff that we got out of my car that was totaled – miscellaneous things that I don’t want to throw away, yet have no idea what to do with. There are the boxes of pictures that some day need to be gone through, and the sleeping bag and sleeping pads from the Burning Uke campout I went to September. All I have is a closet, no storage room, no garage – all of the piles of things that would normally go someplace sit in my bedroom – there are the bookcases stuffed with books and bathroom items sitting on the book shelves – in hopes that Megan doesn’t use them or lose them, deordorant, nail clippers. I’ve had to replace nail clippers countless times because whenever I need them, they’re gone – disappeared someplace into the abyss. I ask Megan and she says, “I don’t know where they are!”
Last week, we managed to misplace a huge package of toilet paper. How does one lose something like this? Well, apparently, the package was buried some clothes on my dresser and we just didn’t see it right away.
Sometimes I wonder where we’ll be living. Will we even stay at this house? Is this situation really going to work out or are we just going to have to pack up again and move? I’ll finally get my room in order and suddenly, we have to leave again – I’m always afraid of that. You never know. So my stuff is still unorganized – and I will get to it, one day.
I remember that recurring dream that I had for years – where I’m in an empty house with hardwood floor – it’s an older house and I can see bare tree branches outside the window – but I have no idea where this house is. The living room is completely empty and there’s a warm fireplace – and I see my mother wearing her flannel nightgown walking towards me – with that “matter of fact” look on her white face, and those gray blue eyes so much like my daughter Melissa’s eyes wide – she smiles and then she says, “Mary, when are you going to unpack your boxes? It’s time!”
She points to stacks of boxes in the kitchen of this house – the kitchen is on the other end of the rather large living room, and the rooms sort of blend together with a countertop in between – I can really see this house, but I don’t know where it is, why I’m there.
“Oh yeah, I’ll get to it, Mom. I promise.”
Then Mom fades away and I’m back here again – and I still have to unpack those boxes. After all, I am going to be a Grandma. Time to step it up.
It’s time.
Light - Maria Robinson
The fog over Tangiers is swept away in the hours before 5 am. The clear sky is reading for the first call to morning prayer. The City, buttressed up against the rock of Gibraltar and the westward expanse of the Atlantic, was the final port of the Phoenicians and the Romans as their ships coveted the last landfall before the infinite darkness to nowhere, the end of Africa and the Mediterranean.
Vera is sleeping lightly in her room at the El Minzah hotel, waiting for the moment with the Iman will call out the chant to Allah and the City will begin to stir with a frantic rhythm until the evening.
The mornings are so precious. I want them to last forever, says Vera. The night coaxes me to sleep only at the last moment and then its time.
Turkish coffee will arrive outside her door with a small knock from the concierge and she will drink it on the small balcony overlooking the Islamic fountain in the hotel's courtyard.
Vera is sleeping lightly in her room at the El Minzah hotel, waiting for the moment with the Iman will call out the chant to Allah and the City will begin to stir with a frantic rhythm until the evening.
The mornings are so precious. I want them to last forever, says Vera. The night coaxes me to sleep only at the last moment and then its time.
Turkish coffee will arrive outside her door with a small knock from the concierge and she will drink it on the small balcony overlooking the Islamic fountain in the hotel's courtyard.
Saving It - Barbara Jordan
She was saving it for someone, she just wasn't sure for what or whom. She wanted to feel safe. She was sick of that gnawing feeling that Internet dating had given her--that she was a disposable commodity, and some kind of entertainment for someone with a short attention span. Plus she always seemed to be matched up with a geriatric headed for the nearest nursing home. Nor was she was interested in this new-wave cult that called themselves "friends with benefits." She had so many friends and so many benefits, that it made her laugh that some horny person had the need to create a name for it, just for the sake of getting laid.
So she woke up everyday alone. Because it was better than the feeling in the pit of her stomach that came from empty promises and well rehearsed lines. She had stopped chasing and was in a place of repose, and it didn't make her sad anymore. And she had stopped running, because one day she woke up and couldn't remember what she was running from. It was like being in a constant state of longing--a sweet place really--of anticipation and excitement and living on the edge. Sometimes she was lonely, but she did not miss being a couple.
So she woke up everyday alone. Because it was better than the feeling in the pit of her stomach that came from empty promises and well rehearsed lines. She had stopped chasing and was in a place of repose, and it didn't make her sad anymore. And she had stopped running, because one day she woke up and couldn't remember what she was running from. It was like being in a constant state of longing--a sweet place really--of anticipation and excitement and living on the edge. Sometimes she was lonely, but she did not miss being a couple.
Saving It - Kate Bueler
As I drive my car on this frigid morning down this one-way street. Leaves fly like paper strips over my head. And then there are few stuck. Holding onto this windshield its tentacles not letting go of the glass. The brownish greenish colors grows and starts making that tick tick tick sound of movement upon the car. I ponder those. As the last one drifts away likes the other. There was no saving it.
I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.
And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understand my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest. I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What do in a crisis in a school not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.
I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.
And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understand my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest. I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What do in a crisis in a school not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.
Dark - E. D. James
It was dark before Julka left the apartment. The stolen day to herself had left her feeling rejuvenated but lonely by the end. As much as she wanted Arnold out of her life, she was used to having someone around and she knew getting used to the solitary life would take a bit of time. The streets were shiny from the streetlights reflecting off the water from the light rain that had fallen all afternoon. The air tasted fresh and alive. There was a Friday night hum in the air. A woman carrying bags from two of the shops on the street smiled as Julka caught her eye. A young boy holding his mothers hand as they waited at the stoplight squished his pudgy fist at her in greeting. Three guys in their twenties steamed past leaving the smell of burning bush in their wake.
She’d started her journey thinking she would head for one of the restaurants on the street to have a drink, maybe sit at the bar and eat. But as she passed the bright doorways and looked in at the packs of bodies jostling she lost her nerve and kept walking. The rain had lightened to just a gentle mist. Moisture gathering on her eyelashes refracted the lights creating crazy color patterns in her vision. She walked with an itch not knowing what would satisfy, only that she hadn’t found it. Russian Hill loomed and she kept on, climbing in the mist, the wheels of the cars splashing by on the street beside her. It felt as if she were joining a great pilgrimage to North Beach.
At the top of the hill the Bay Bridge gleamed with the great stream of cars carrying bodies into town for the Friday spawning ritual. She headed down into the fertile flow of Columbus and wandered through the tourists and lovers until she found herself at City Lights. The man in the pork pie behind the counter gave her a wink and she plunged down the cedar planks to the travel section in the basement.
She’d started her journey thinking she would head for one of the restaurants on the street to have a drink, maybe sit at the bar and eat. But as she passed the bright doorways and looked in at the packs of bodies jostling she lost her nerve and kept walking. The rain had lightened to just a gentle mist. Moisture gathering on her eyelashes refracted the lights creating crazy color patterns in her vision. She walked with an itch not knowing what would satisfy, only that she hadn’t found it. Russian Hill loomed and she kept on, climbing in the mist, the wheels of the cars splashing by on the street beside her. It felt as if she were joining a great pilgrimage to North Beach.
At the top of the hill the Bay Bridge gleamed with the great stream of cars carrying bodies into town for the Friday spawning ritual. She headed down into the fertile flow of Columbus and wandered through the tourists and lovers until she found herself at City Lights. The man in the pork pie behind the counter gave her a wink and she plunged down the cedar planks to the travel section in the basement.
Dark - Judy Albietz
For a year now, ever since she turned five, the family thought she was afraid of the dark. Just like any other little kid. They probably thought she was afraid of monsters, like Jeffrey next door.
Every night it was the same thing. “Light on!” she yelled after one of her parents or sisters read her a story and tucked her in. She insisted they wedge her wastebasket just so—to keep the door from closing. The hall light stayed on. However, for a short while someone would turn it off later on. She always woke up. “Turn it back on!” she screamed. With the hall light on again, she would go back to sleep. But not really. She would never actually sleep. She’d just be resting with her eyes closed. And only so long as the light in the hall was on.
Just about this time last year she’d asked her mom, “What will happen when I die?”
“Oh, honey. Don’t worry about things like that.”
“I want to know.”
“Well, it’s just like throwing a penny in a lake. The waves never really stop touching everything. They go on and on. So do we. After we die we still live on in the hearts of those we love and who loved us.”
“What happens when those people die?” she’d asked.
Every night it was the same thing. “Light on!” she yelled after one of her parents or sisters read her a story and tucked her in. She insisted they wedge her wastebasket just so—to keep the door from closing. The hall light stayed on. However, for a short while someone would turn it off later on. She always woke up. “Turn it back on!” she screamed. With the hall light on again, she would go back to sleep. But not really. She would never actually sleep. She’d just be resting with her eyes closed. And only so long as the light in the hall was on.
Just about this time last year she’d asked her mom, “What will happen when I die?”
“Oh, honey. Don’t worry about things like that.”
“I want to know.”
“Well, it’s just like throwing a penny in a lake. The waves never really stop touching everything. They go on and on. So do we. After we die we still live on in the hearts of those we love and who loved us.”
“What happens when those people die?” she’d asked.
A Big Deal - John Fetto
Hawley felt it everywhere he walked. A lie as weightless as a whisper, floating in the air, almost imperceptible, tickling young men until they smiled, flexed their muscles and look for something to kick, making old men frown, shake their head, and women, young and old, reach with thin fingers to touch their face, worrying, as if the lie were little more than an unexpected kiss on their cheeks. Hawley heard it wherever he walked the same syrupy sound of it because he had tasted it before. As he turned the corner, he saw the place on Placer street, a small corner store with an American flag out front and signs in the window, one for each the four services, army, air force navy and marines, signs filled with colorful pictures fit men, eager for fun. You had to sign up. You had to join! Now was the time! This was the big deal that justified that justified everything else.
A Big Deal - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
``We have to do something major for your thirteenth birthday, dear one. It’s when you become a man, and it’s honored in many cultures with a ceremony.’’ She smiled and her eyes gleamed at the thought of putting together a festivity.
Pete shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ground.
``Gran, I’m not sure –‘’
``Nonsense. What would you like to do and who would you like to invite?’’ Pete looked at her with dismay.
``You don’t mean a party? With friends and everything? I don’t know.’’ Pete blushed and rubbed his nose. He loved his grandmother who was lively and interested in everything he did, but this was a little too lively.
``We could have a dancing party, or go somewhere on a train,’’ she went on. ``Or we could hire a carriage and drive through the city. Or we could take a trip. We could go to Paris or Hawaii or Sacramento. We could go the top of a hotel and watch the sunset before we go to a play. We could go to spring training. We could fly over the Grand Canyon.’’
``They don’t let people fly over it any more, Gran, and besides, I don’t want to do any of those things.’’
``Oh,’’ she sitting down and taking a deep breath. ``I’m doing it again. You see, it’s just because it’s such a big, big deal.’’
``I know,’’ he said, relenting. ``I might want to go to spring training, though.’’ He put his chin in his hand and grinned at her. Her smile came suddenly and she glowed.
``Ah – we could go to Florida to see the Red Sox, or Phoenix to see the Giants. We could stay in the Western Horizon ranch and ride and hike – ‘’
``Gran, stop. You’re running away with me.’’
She looked embarrassed,``Oh.’’ she said. ``I’m doing it again. I’m sorry, Pete. I’ll stop planning. You think about it and I’ll stay out of it.’’
He smiled at her again.``It’s OK, Gran. No big deal.’’
But it was.
Pete shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ground.
``Gran, I’m not sure –‘’
``Nonsense. What would you like to do and who would you like to invite?’’ Pete looked at her with dismay.
``You don’t mean a party? With friends and everything? I don’t know.’’ Pete blushed and rubbed his nose. He loved his grandmother who was lively and interested in everything he did, but this was a little too lively.
``We could have a dancing party, or go somewhere on a train,’’ she went on. ``Or we could hire a carriage and drive through the city. Or we could take a trip. We could go to Paris or Hawaii or Sacramento. We could go the top of a hotel and watch the sunset before we go to a play. We could go to spring training. We could fly over the Grand Canyon.’’
``They don’t let people fly over it any more, Gran, and besides, I don’t want to do any of those things.’’
``Oh,’’ she sitting down and taking a deep breath. ``I’m doing it again. You see, it’s just because it’s such a big, big deal.’’
``I know,’’ he said, relenting. ``I might want to go to spring training, though.’’ He put his chin in his hand and grinned at her. Her smile came suddenly and she glowed.
``Ah – we could go to Florida to see the Red Sox, or Phoenix to see the Giants. We could stay in the Western Horizon ranch and ride and hike – ‘’
``Gran, stop. You’re running away with me.’’
She looked embarrassed,``Oh.’’ she said. ``I’m doing it again. I’m sorry, Pete. I’ll stop planning. You think about it and I’ll stay out of it.’’
He smiled at her again.``It’s OK, Gran. No big deal.’’
But it was.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Watching Out - Kate Bueler
Watching out. Watching out for douche bags really isn’t that hard. Not when they text you things like- and I quote- “hey if you’re still interested give me a shout, you cool.” It was as if one of my high schoolers was crank texting me-no this is real folks this is an attempt at trying to hang out with me. Me a grown ass woman. Me someone who could be considered attractive and funny and at this point I got better attempts at hanging out with me when I was in the 6th grade. This shit is pathetic. And this attempt at courting or dating or bumping is just so shameless ridiculous I can’t help but feel this might be the dating low of a lifetime. Oh but it’s not because there has been others.
So I have decided that my ass my pretty nice ass is not going to take a date with a man or attempt one unless he takes off his underwear with action heroes and see if his balls have actually dropped and then picks up the phone. And calls me. Call me old fashioned. But if that type of game, that type of grammar works on someone- please show me because I think it is almost beyond words. I would rather do about a million things like clean my room, talk to myself in the mirror, job interviews. It’s nice to date; date adults but boys in adult’s clothes shoes too big and their dad’s jacket just can’t cut it anymore. I don’t have time for this shit. But really my patience has just worn thin.
Years ago maybe I might had fallen into some ball of mush when I got a text but not anymore. I guess the attempts at effort fall short when they fall short line by line. You cool. You ain’t that cool. I don’t know where I am going in this thing called dating. But it is sad to think that my younger self got some better ask outs then now. I shake my head and roll my eyes and say seriously. Because this is not as good as it gets folks. Nope. There is more. More than this I am sure. Because I have had those before. Words that meant more than dropping the lure to see which one of the girls you might have meet at a giants game will respond. Respond I didn’t. I just laughed. And told my friends. And thought what a douche. A douche I didn’t have to date to realize he was a loser. He did me the luxury of typing it out in a memo. A memo sent to me and some other chicks. You cool. I am. Thanks for the heads up-your aren’t.
Thanks for not allowing the intrigue of you to grow into other than this. Because I have been fooled before but how can you be fooled when it is so blatantly typed before your eyes. I read it more than once just in case I was confused. Nope. Not confused. Just watching out for douche bags. I am done dating the selfish and the problems and the lackadaisical lifestyle of trying pursuing me. I don’t need rose pedal lined doorways or 5 star anything but what I do need is the buzz of my phone in my back pocket. And a growing smile against my face as I put the words the words of you in my ear. Hearing you out loud. Asking me. Me to see you again.
Call me old fashioned. Call me whatever you want. But this I know. I know I need someone who can do it the right way. Or I’d rather talk to myself in the mirror than get a pathetic text message such as the one from the 615. I am just too busy stop for anything else. But a phone call. A phone call so simple. So easy. But so hard for someone who is wrong for you to do.
So I have decided that my ass my pretty nice ass is not going to take a date with a man or attempt one unless he takes off his underwear with action heroes and see if his balls have actually dropped and then picks up the phone. And calls me. Call me old fashioned. But if that type of game, that type of grammar works on someone- please show me because I think it is almost beyond words. I would rather do about a million things like clean my room, talk to myself in the mirror, job interviews. It’s nice to date; date adults but boys in adult’s clothes shoes too big and their dad’s jacket just can’t cut it anymore. I don’t have time for this shit. But really my patience has just worn thin.
Years ago maybe I might had fallen into some ball of mush when I got a text but not anymore. I guess the attempts at effort fall short when they fall short line by line. You cool. You ain’t that cool. I don’t know where I am going in this thing called dating. But it is sad to think that my younger self got some better ask outs then now. I shake my head and roll my eyes and say seriously. Because this is not as good as it gets folks. Nope. There is more. More than this I am sure. Because I have had those before. Words that meant more than dropping the lure to see which one of the girls you might have meet at a giants game will respond. Respond I didn’t. I just laughed. And told my friends. And thought what a douche. A douche I didn’t have to date to realize he was a loser. He did me the luxury of typing it out in a memo. A memo sent to me and some other chicks. You cool. I am. Thanks for the heads up-your aren’t.
Thanks for not allowing the intrigue of you to grow into other than this. Because I have been fooled before but how can you be fooled when it is so blatantly typed before your eyes. I read it more than once just in case I was confused. Nope. Not confused. Just watching out for douche bags. I am done dating the selfish and the problems and the lackadaisical lifestyle of trying pursuing me. I don’t need rose pedal lined doorways or 5 star anything but what I do need is the buzz of my phone in my back pocket. And a growing smile against my face as I put the words the words of you in my ear. Hearing you out loud. Asking me. Me to see you again.
Call me old fashioned. Call me whatever you want. But this I know. I know I need someone who can do it the right way. Or I’d rather talk to myself in the mirror than get a pathetic text message such as the one from the 615. I am just too busy stop for anything else. But a phone call. A phone call so simple. So easy. But so hard for someone who is wrong for you to do.
Watching Out - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
I was annoyed at my mother. Through no fault of hers, I was feeling cooped up in her apartment where I had come to look after my fading parent. I was wild to get out.
``Let’s go look at the sunset in the mountain park.’’ She came reluctantly, but she came. She toiled up the path to the benches, rocking from side to side like a little bear, my little bear. I didn’t, then, recognize Parkinson’s. We sat on the concrete bench and looked west over Albuquerque, the land sweeping from the Sandias behind us, to the great plain cut by the Rio Grande to Mount Taylor, rising to a point, unaccompanied by other mountains.
I got up to do my tai chi, wishing she would move with me. It would do her so much good. She never did want to learn about it for herself, but she watched me carefully.
Finally, she said, ``This bench is too hard,’’ and made her way slowly back down the path. I saw, on the far path, a young man striding up the mountain, maybe off for a hike. At this hour?
She stopped, turned her head and then her whole body as he walked steadily up and out of sight. Then she went back down the path in the red sunset light. The car door chunked. I finished, not cooped up anymore. In the car, I turned to her.
``Were you watching out for me back there, that man?’’ She smiled, looking straight ahead.
``I was,’’ she said.
``Let’s go look at the sunset in the mountain park.’’ She came reluctantly, but she came. She toiled up the path to the benches, rocking from side to side like a little bear, my little bear. I didn’t, then, recognize Parkinson’s. We sat on the concrete bench and looked west over Albuquerque, the land sweeping from the Sandias behind us, to the great plain cut by the Rio Grande to Mount Taylor, rising to a point, unaccompanied by other mountains.
I got up to do my tai chi, wishing she would move with me. It would do her so much good. She never did want to learn about it for herself, but she watched me carefully.
Finally, she said, ``This bench is too hard,’’ and made her way slowly back down the path. I saw, on the far path, a young man striding up the mountain, maybe off for a hike. At this hour?
She stopped, turned her head and then her whole body as he walked steadily up and out of sight. Then she went back down the path in the red sunset light. The car door chunked. I finished, not cooped up anymore. In the car, I turned to her.
``Were you watching out for me back there, that man?’’ She smiled, looking straight ahead.
``I was,’’ she said.
Watching Out - Judy Albietz
As they walked, Sam kept his body so close to Lily that she could hardly see around him. Sophia was elbow-to-elbow on the other side. As if they’re going to have to fight over who’s going to save me next. Not that I don’t appreciate it. It’s just a little tight here in the middle, she thought to herself, once again glad that this telepathy thing didn’t include reading each other’s private thoughts.
Sophia was so light on her feet, she pretty much glided along the path. When she sang or hummed her bird songs, she fluttered her fingers in front of her, as if she was playing an invisible instrument. As they walked, Sophia would reach down to pick up leaves, twigs and stones, placing them in one of the several woven pouches she carried at her side.
“This is for you,” Sophia said, showing Lily a small creamy white stone. At first it looked no larger than a dime. Then as Sophia held it out in her hand, silver bands of light pulsated around the stone. “The heat from my hand has activated the stone’s energy. See. It feels warm,” Sophia said as she gently cupped Lily’s hand in hers to receive the stone.
Even though it appeared to be alive, Lily wasn’t afraid of the stone. She absolutely trusted Sophia. Why wouldn’t she? Between Sam and the three Blue Monkeys, they had a perfect score in saving her life not once, but three times.
Sophia was so light on her feet, she pretty much glided along the path. When she sang or hummed her bird songs, she fluttered her fingers in front of her, as if she was playing an invisible instrument. As they walked, Sophia would reach down to pick up leaves, twigs and stones, placing them in one of the several woven pouches she carried at her side.
“This is for you,” Sophia said, showing Lily a small creamy white stone. At first it looked no larger than a dime. Then as Sophia held it out in her hand, silver bands of light pulsated around the stone. “The heat from my hand has activated the stone’s energy. See. It feels warm,” Sophia said as she gently cupped Lily’s hand in hers to receive the stone.
Even though it appeared to be alive, Lily wasn’t afraid of the stone. She absolutely trusted Sophia. Why wouldn’t she? Between Sam and the three Blue Monkeys, they had a perfect score in saving her life not once, but three times.
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