My parents fought just about all the time; from breakfast until Dad left for work they would argue about something, then they’d start in again after dinner.
I’d hear them arguing while I did my homework; at night while trying to get to sleep I would hear other noises coming from my parent’s bedroom which were pretty loud but they definitely weren’t fighting and the next morning they were all smiles – go figure.
Then one day my friend’s older sister told us we had to have a talk; she was 12 years old and already wearing a bra with a C cup so we paid attention. That was the infamous day we learned about S-E-X and boy, was that an eye-opener!
I was a pretty curious and precocious child so after that talk I figured out darn quick what those noises were from Mom and Dad’s bedroom at night and why they were always so happy the next morning after one of their big arguments.
Right then and there I promised myself when I got married I would fight with my husband as often as I could; I mean, if Mom and Dad were that happy every morning, there had to be something to this S-E-X thing after all.
She wakes and grabs a quick shower. The hair blower died weeks ago; no matter – it’s a luxury she can’t afford. She lets her hair dry naturally as she prepares a cup of instant coffee.
She rouses the kids by 5:00; they’re sleepy and cranky. We got no choice, she says, reminding them to brush their teeth before getting dressed. They walk eight blocks to her mother’s place. Breakfast is already on the stove – oatmeal, something hearty for their bellies.
She walks to the diner where she works, stopping at the dollar store to by laundry detergent. At the diner, she stashes her things in a locker, checks herself in the mirror and goes out to face the breakfast crowd.
It’s 6:00 AM.
She likes the breakfast people; they’re regular folk on their way to work … truckers, construction crews, nurses, bikers, plumbers, the gang from Home Depot. They stop in every morning and usually order the same things. They never talk about work. They pass around photos of their kids and grandkids, compare notes on last night’s game, talk about that new movie they hope to catch. Who got engaged, who’s graduating, who’s going on vacation … ordinary everyday stuff people talk about. They laugh heartily and it’s contagious. She’s on a first name basis with most of them. They’re creatures of habit and there’s something very comforting to her about that. Breakfast is her busiest shift; she doesn’t mind. It’s fast, seamless and exciting. These people are the salt of the earth. The best tippers.
There are always a few stragglers between breakfast and lunch but it’s never busy and she’s got some downtime. That’s when she writes – stories, poems, even some songs – wishful scribbles on a notepad. Maybe she’ll be famous someday. Possibly. Probably not. Pipe dreams. She remembers hearing someone say ‘you’ll miss every shot you don’t take’. She liked that and scribbled it on her pad..
It’s 11:00 AM.
Time for the lunch crowd. She’s not a fan of many of the people who come for lunch except for the folks in “The Big Apple for the first time all the way from Des Moines and would you mind taking our picture?” The kids all grin displaying goofy toothless smiles and press their noses up against the window to wave at passers-by. The parents ask if she knows how to get to the museum – the one with the dinosaur bones – and “that coffee shop from Seinfeld” and they laugh self-consciously at their naïve questions. She overhears them talking excitedly about going to the wax museum after lunch and next time they’ll have to come at Christmas “to see the tree”.
Lunchtime brings in the slick salesmen too cheap to go to a real restaurant; they talk nonstop, their prospective clients pretending to be interested but they know BS when they hear it. Over at the corner table in the rear section of the diner is the businessman having a luncheon liaison with his secretary. The man is much too suave and the woman much too impressionable. She wants to scream at that hopeful, hapless woman to “open your eyes and run like hell; he’s only going to use you and hurt you!” but keeps her mouth shut. She can’t afford to lose this job.
Then there’s a different breed of men all together, the ones who drink martinis before, during and after lunch, the ones who think it’s perfectly acceptable to call her “Brown Sugar”. She cringes. They are flabby and pasty and unattractive with Brylcreemed hair, fat lips and sweaty hands. They’re the ones who cop a cheap feel, slide their fingers up her skirt, try to stick a tongue in her ear. She manages to tap dance around the slithering slugs but they are determined and will be back again tomorrow. She’s perpetually afraid some day one of them will corner her in the bathroom. That’s when she’ll scream, job or not.
In the center of the dining room are the loud, orange-haired twin sisters from Kmart who chain smoke and order black coffee, wipe their teeth with a napkin and constantly re-apply bright red lipstick, grinning into a beat up old compact found on the bottom of a cheap purse. One always has a grease stain on her blouse and they laugh raucously. They head back to work after leaving cigarette butts in the coffee cups, a pile of greasy, lipstick-stained napkins and a shitty tip.
Slowly the place empties; time to clean up the messes left behind.
It’s 6:00 PM.
She’s been at the diner for 12 hours, a regular day for her. The usuals start arriving for dinner, many of them returnees from breakfast. It’s quitting time for her. Sometimes, if she’s lucky, she can pack up a doggie bag; Bart, the day manager, is good about letting her take home leftovers. Her babies can have real hamburgers with tasty fries for dinner. She retrieves her stuff from the locker and starts the walk back to her mother’s place.
The kids devour the burgers and fries, giggling and chattering like little chipmunks. She hugs her mother, scoops up the kids and walks the eight blocks home. It’s bath night, all three kiddos together in the tub. Can’t waste water or time. She reminds them to brush their teeth before getting into bed. She reads one story, then tucks them in and kisses their foreheads.
She gets the laundry together, grabs some quarters from the jar in the kitchen, locks her apartment door behind her and goes down to the shared laundry room in the basement of her building. She prays the kids don’t wake up; she can’t leave the laundry unsupervised – someone would steal her clothes for sure. She makes a mental note to look for a baby intercom at the dollar store. While the clothes dry she jots down wishful scribbles on her notepad. Ninety minutes later the laundry’s done and she heads back up to her babies.
It’s 11:00 PM.
She folds the clean clothes, piles them neatly in the laundry basket, gets undressed and stares at her body in the mirror. She thinks again about becoming an exotic dancer. She has a friend named Crystal who makes good money stripping. Crystal gets to spend time with her kids; she even bought a nice Christmas tree last year and presents to put under it. Maybe she should give Crystal a call.
She slips a cotton nightgown over her head and climbs into bed, exhausted.
Lather, rinse, repeat. Tomorrow she gets to do it all over again.
When I was an infant, my parents decided our small apartment in Manhattan was no place to raise two little daughters. The following day they set off on their search for a house in The Bronx. Back then living in The Bronx was a lot different than it is now. Crime was practically nonexistent; drug dealers weren’t openly operating out of school playgrounds, storefronts weren’t gated and padlocked and families were not shattered by drive-by shootings.
The Bronx was like a country village with farms dotting the neighborhoods of Baychester, Kingsbridge, Morrisania, Riverdale and others. People raised sheep, goats and chickens. Gardens were abundant with homegrown fruit and vegetables. It was a different world, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. Life was peaceful.
My parents bought a new semi-attached two family house spacious enough for the four of us and my maternal grandparents. We had a nice piece of corner property and a large backyard perfect for my grandfather’s grapevines and fruit trees and my mother’s vegetable garden.
My grandmother was a sickly woman, having been ill since my mother was only 12 years old. Nonna was not quite bedridden but spent a fair amount of time inside in bed or looking out the window. My mother was her caregiver; when the weather was nice, she would wrap a blanket around Nonna, making her comfortable in a lounge chair in the backyard.
Nonna’s ‘job‘ was to rock my carriage as I napped outside. Since she was not strong enough to carry me, my grandmother delighted in being able to help my mother in this small way. Nonna relished being outside in our quiet backyard watching my grandfather tending the garden; the warmth of the sun on her frail body renewed her spirit and magically brought a glow back to her face.
It was the first Labor Day in our new home and I napped in my baby carriage while Nonna sat in her chair gently rocking me. I began to stir and when I opened my eyes, I saw my grandmother’s smiling face looking down at me. Her doe-like eyes twinkled as she sang an old Italian lullaby, “Ninna Ninna”.
It may be difficult to comprehend that a little one just seven months of age could have such clear and distinct memories. I can recall my grandmother’s happy face smiling at me, her dark brown eyes shining. The poignant song and Nonna’s expressive voice always had a mysterious way of calming me and I would drift back to sleep. Those days in our peaceful backyard are tenderly stored in my mind.
My grandmother passed away six years later; the special bond we shared is something I will treasure forever.
Did you ever experience weather so dry that the ground and air crackled and all you could think about was bones … the ones you found buried in Vern Wilson’s barn that drought summer seventeen years ago?
That’s how it was for me and my friends Bucky Berringer and Grady McCallister.
They was human bones, alright, and we covered ‘em up right quick before ol’ Vern caught us.
Weatherman said rain’s a-comin’. Pappy’s fields are shrivelin’ up awful. We need us some good rain, days upon days of rain, but all we’re seein’ is damn fire bolts makin’ us twitch.
Oh, good morning! Sorry, I didn’t see you there till just now. Do you know who I am? I come into your homes multiple times each week. You’ve just never seen me look quite like this before.
I’m heading out to share coffee with my friend. Why not keep me company along the way?
You know, it’s funny how things happen. If you’re lucky, you go through life happy and content, grateful for the many blessings you have. Life may not be a whirlwind of excitement but it’s still life and I’m glad to be living it, especially since I have a dear friend to share things with. Sure, we may be creeping up on OBS (Old Bat Status) but we don’t care; life truly is what you make it!
It all began months ago when we crossed paths in this very location and the more we got to know one another, the more we liked each other. We discovered we have a lot in common. As time went by and we started peeling back more layers, we realized the similarities between us were uncanny. We jokingly say it’s like being “separated at birth”.
My friend and I each have a wonderful hubby, two terrific sons and four grandchildren we’re crazy about. We have a handful of good friends and we’re lucky to be doing the things we really enjoy: writing {poetry for her and stories for me}, cooking, gardening, walking, listening to music and watching a little TV. We love the show, Granchester and like Will but wish Sydney would come back, you know?
Let’s see; we both wear glasses (although I seem to have misplaced mine today). We enjoy feeding the birds in our yards. We complain about doctors and think Seinfeld is the funniest show ever. We won’t wear clothes without pockets and prefer scrambled eggs cooked the French way. We love fresh burrata, watching sports, Bobby Darin and anchovies.
We relish the silence but our minds are constantly in the groove to the soundtrack of life; we are, as we like to say, “cautious worriers“. She’s also a wiz at that computer imaging thingy she does. What she can do with people is amazing; sometimes it just makes us laugh and laugh!
We’re comfy as two old peas in a pod. Being friends is as relaxed as sharing a warm slice of freshly baked sourdough bread, laughing at something funny one of us said.
Why, we even call each other “sis”; now, ain’t that a kick in the head!
We do have our differences, though: I love liver and she can’t stand it and she loves spicy mustard while I prefer mild. We enjoy working on puzzles – crossword for me, jigsaw for her. And she’s got a couple of inches on me.
Oh, look! Here she comes now! I wonder, can you recognize her from where you are? Who’s my friend?
Morning, sis! I was just chatting with a couple hundred of our WordPress friends. Right you are – it is a small world. Care for a cuppa? Here ya go, luv, just the way we like it. Cheers!
The Elephant's Trunk 