My mama was a wild child living on the wrong side of the tracks in the middle of Nowhere, USA. Her parents were AWOL most of the time and didn’t give a rat’s ass about my mama. She grew up faster than any baby girl should have to and learned at an early age how to cast a glancing spell at the male population.
By the age of 15 she was pregnant with me. My mama messed around with so many men, she couldn’t even begin to guess who my father was. The promise of a million dollars or the threat of a gun to her head and mama still wouldn’t be able to name my daddy. The guys she hooked up with didn’t hang around for long and none of them was man enough to fess up anyway. Mama had sex, not relationships.
Mama’s only friend was Faye, another lost soul who lived the same impulsive lifestyle. By the time Faye was 16 she already had two babies so it was only natural that she be the one to help my mama when she went into labor. Nobody else gave a goddamn.
Faye lived in an abandoned motel which was home to a few hapless drifters. She did her best to keep the place as habitable as possible. Two dresser drawers with thin cushions served as beds for Faye’s babies. Faye was no whore and never took a dime from her gentlemen friends, only accepting candy, stockings or a small bottle of White Shoulders.
There wasn’t much Faye could do about her bed – a discarded Petri dish of a mattress. Whenever she could do laundry, she’d wash the one and only sheet she had. In-between washings she’d just flip the sheet over. That’s where my mama labored with me for two long days. Faye told mama to grab the sides of the mattress. “I won’t lie to you about the pain, hon” she warned. “Hang on, this is going to hurt. A lot.”
My mama screamed and cried and cursed; Faye never left her side. A couple of curious women from the next room would pop their heads in but it was just Faye and my mama on their own. Finally, when it was time, Faye gently drew me out and cleaned me up before giving me to my mama.
The cops knew about the motel but as long as there were no illegal activities, they turned a blind eye. They even arranged for the utilities to stay on – better than having people living in the streets just because they were down on their luck. Every week the local pastor and church youth group would drop off food, toiletries, diapers and detergent. Thankfully there were some people willing to lend a helping hand.
Everyone said I was the most beautiful child they’d ever seen. My face and green eyes were identical to my mama’s but her hair was straight and blonde, her skin like cream while my hair was a cloud of dusky curls, my skin the shade of warm butterscotch. My coloring divulged my father’s race, nothing more.
We stayed with Faye until we started cramping her style, then we moved into an adjacent room. The adjoining door made things convenient; mama and Faye took turns babysitting when the other had company. Mama used a drawer for my bed, just like Faye did.
When you live in an environment like mine, it’s hard not to be influenced. I saw and heard things no kid should and before I realized it, it became ingrained in my soul. By the time I was 13, lots of mama’s boyfriends were checking me out and I liked it.
One steamy summer day, mama was next door putting highlights in Faye’s hair. I was alone resting on the bed when Hal showed up. I liked him; he came by often to see mama. Hal asked me where mama was and I told him. He sat on the bed stroking my hair. I smiled and gave him that look mama always gave her men. Hal slid the straps of my sundress down my arms, revealing my breasts. He gently touched one, then the other. He kissed one, then the other and I got a warm feeling down low in my belly. I arched my back and moaned softly. Hal slipped off my panties and sat me on his lap; there was a momentary sharp pain. I learned what to do at my mama’s knee and it was good.
There was one man who’d come around the motel; he’d sit in his big fancy car looking out the window. He never left the car except the one day he saw me sitting outside on the stoop. He came over, gave me a peppermint candy and said I was the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen. He asked what I was doing living in that dump. He said with his know-how and my looks I could make lots of money, live like a queen in a big fine house and never want for anything ever again.
This man wasn’t telling me anything new. I smiled just like I smiled at Hal. The man smiled back and lifted my chin. He studied my face intently and said I’d do very nicely. This pompous ass actually thought I needed his know-how; he was mistaken. I already knew how. All I wanted was a ticket out of here, to live my life doing what I was good at and to make lots of money. Let this fool think whatever he wanted to think; he would learn soon enough that I knew exactly what I was doing.
Two days later the man in the big fancy car came back. He opened the car door; I slowly walked over and slid in. Glancing up at my motel room window, I saw my mama staring down at us. When Hal sidled up behind her, she laughed gaily, turned her back and fell into his arms.
Mama had set the stage for me and now I was ready for the show to begin.
She sat at her indestructible Singer factory sewing machine, hands flying like an octopus knitting a scarf.
I peeked around the corner into her sewing room. Without lifting her head, she sensed my presence. “What is it, principessa?” she asked.
“Can we go to Post Arrow?” The little family diner with a few kiddie rides was one of my favorite places to go. We’d get pastrami sandwiches, fries and ride the bumper cars, Ferris wheel and carousel – heaven on earth for an 8-year-old kid.
Without missing a stitch, my mother replied “Cara, can’t you see how much work I have left to do? Besides, dinner is already in the oven.”
I stood on the threshold saying nothing. My mother knew I was there but kept sewing at warp speed. When she looked up, she saw my red, swollen eyes and tear-stained face. Her usual stern expression softened a bit. “If I finish my work maybe we will go on Saturday” and she returned to the task at hand.
I drew a big red circle around Saturday on my calendar. Two days to wait.
First thing on Saturday I asked my mother about going to Post Arrow. Again she said “maybe”; she had to deliver her finished projects to the shop first.
Hours went by. I kept vigil at the window until my mother returned. She looked up at me and grinning, motioned me to come down.
“Andiamo, cara! Go get your daddy. Now we have some fun!”
I freely admit I enjoy a good nap The ones that overtake me so easily Slip-sliding away in Morpheus’ lap Asleep like a babe oh so peacefully
Sometimes I feel my eyes closing I’m aware of the droop of my chin There’s no harm in a wee bit of dozing It’s no big deal and I freely give in
I can doze off at the drop of a hat While watching TV or having a read I stretch and purr like a contented cat And it didn’t take any Xanax or weed
I fall asleep in the usual places In church, on a plane or a bus Staring at all the other yawning faces It happens to every last one of us
I fall asleep on a massage bed Or while getting a spa pedicure Transported someplace out of my head Where everything’s blissful and sure
I’d nod off in math class when I was a teen Something that’s frowned on in school I’d sit in the back and was never once seen Algebra was so boring and I was too cool
One day I fell asleep at the seashore When I awoke I was red as a beet In all of my life I was never so sore Couldn’t even cover myself with a sheet
Then came the days of pulling all-nighters I’d party till dawn and then crash Drawn to the lovers, the dreamers and writers Trying my best not to do something rash
Up all night meant sleeping all day My life became quite a mixed jumble If you want to dance, the piper you pay Either slow down or stumble and tumble
Falling in love is like falling asleep Sometimes taking you quite by surprise Along came a guy and I fell really deep Married and pregnant in the blink of an eye
A baby in the house requires much work Feeding and bathing and cleaning up poo I am many things but I am no jerk When my baby had a nap I did too
Having children brings so many joys You love them with your whole heart It matters not whether girlies or boys Your worries begin right from the start
Children are little for only so long The teen years come round awfully fast I cannot sleep; could something be wrong? They’re out and their curfew has past
The kids are no more, they’re all fully grown And you’re proud that you did your best They’re happily married with kids of their own And you think now it’s your time to rest
Sorry but it really doesn’t work that way You’ve been blessed with a couple of grands Your kids are so busy with work every day And the care of their babes is now in your hands
It’s not bad at all if you just use your head When the grand-babies nap so do you At night you sleep peacefully tucked in your bed Cos you’ve done the best job you could do
My husband Sam and I were hosting our usual Friday night dinner with friends, something we’ve been doing for several years. Sam is a psychology professor at NYU and I manage Dahlia’s, an eponymously named floral shop.
Our weekly dinner companions are Claude and his wife Piper who own a small eclectic bookstore called The Paper Trail and Austin and Rebecca who have been engaged for seven years. Rebecca is a music teacher at a private school in Manhattan and Austin is a graphic designer. We keep asking them “When’s the big day?” but neither one seems to be in a rush.
Our dinner conversations are always lively, touching on a variety of topics. This particular evening, Sam said “I asked my class this question today: ‘If you had to choose between being deaf or being blind, which would you choose?’ Now, my friends, I’d like to know how you would answer that question.” My husband – ever the provocateur! Perhaps that’s what I find so stimulating about him.
Well, no big surprise, no one said anything for a moment; this was a profound question. I finally decided to break the ice by responding. “For me, as a florist, I would have to say I’d choose to be deaf. I need to see the arrangements I’m creating, which color flowers go well together, the best bouquets to match bridesmaid’s dresses, even something as simple as placing flowers in the right vase. I wouldn’t have to hear the bell on the shop’s front door or the telephone ring; both can be hooked up to a light to get my attention. And customers could always email or text me with their orders. Why, I could even communicate with my customers via tablets in the shop. I’d still be able to see and smell all the beautiful flowers, meet my customer’s expectations and take pride in my creations.”
Spurred on by my answer, Austin chimed in. “Exactly! I totally agree with Dahlia. In the field of graphic design, I would be incapable of working without the ability to see. These days there are so many electronic devices we can use to communicate; I don’t think being deaf would interfere with my life or my work at all.”
Immediately Rebecca countered what we said. “I get where the two of you are coming from but I could never teach music if I were deaf. I’d be able to place my fingers on the correct piano keys or strum the right strings on a guitar because I’ve been making music all my life. It’s second nature to me. But I wouldn’t want to exist without the sound of music, to hear my students playing, to correct their mistakes or praise their achievements. It would be impossible for me to conduct an orchestra, not knowing if the violins should be a little louder or the bassoons pianissimo. Austin, if you were deaf, you wouldn’t hear the wedding march when I walk down the aisle or hear me say the words ‘I do’.”
Austin was quick to reply. “As long as I could see your radiant face in your gorgeous wedding gown carrying the beautiful bouquet designed by Dahlia, that’s all that would matter. And as far as hearing you say ‘I do’, I would read your luscious lips before tenderly kissing my new bride.”
We all laughed as Sam exclaimed “Nice save, Austin! Claude and Piper, we’ve yet to hear from you. What’s your poison – deaf or blind?”
As if on cue, both Claude and Piper declared their answers at the same time; he said “Deaf”; she said “Blind”. They stared at each other in bewilderment and the rest of us couldn’t help but laugh at the expressions on their faces. Of course Sam had to keep the game going by saying “At last! Some controversy, a little gasoline on the fire of our conversation. Let’s keep this ball rolling!” and he poured everyone a fresh glass of wine.
Claude cleared his throat. “Piper, mon cher, we own a bookstore! How can you possibly say you would choose blindness over deafness? Mon Dieu! Have you forgotten how we bonded at that little book shop in Paris … what was the name? Ah! La Manoeuvre! We both reached for the same book of poetry by Paul Eluard and when our eyes met I knew I could never look away.’’
“Oh, my darling Claude. I could never forget La Manoeuvre. You read poetry to me and time stood still. It was as though we were the only people in that shop. Our love for books is why we bought The Paper Trail; that store is our baby. I know each book on every shelf and have read most of them. The feel of the paper, the smell of the leather-bound first editions, hearing you read to me – I do not need sight to love a book.”
Piper and Claude moved closer to each other and embraced, momentarily forgetting they were not alone. They kissed, then pulled away, embarrassed. Piper blushed and gave a breathless laugh.
“Claude, do you remember the books I had in my bag the day we first met?” Piper asked.
Claude nodded and said “Oui. One was ‘Wuthering Heights’ in Braille and the other was French sign language. They were for your parents.”
Piper looked around the room at the rest of us and explained. “My mother is blind and my father is deaf. Somehow they never had trouble communicating; I suppose they spoke the silent language of love. That’s why I was so passionate about having a Braille section in our bookstore. Also, there is new technology to help both blind and deaf people enjoy a movie or television.”
Turning to Claude, Piper said “As long as I can hear your voice, it doesn’t matter if I never see another thing again.”
We all felt a little in awe of Piper at that moment. We sipped our wine, captivated by the sounds of silence.
If you’re looking for something really great to read, I suggest these wonderful books of short stories by my friend and mentor, Simon J. Wood. In addition to Simon’s previous three books, his three new ones are: Letters from Reuben and Other Stories: 40 Little Tales of Mirth, The Window Crack’d and Other Stories: 40 Little Tales of Horror and the Supranatural, and Flash Friction: 72 Little Stories. Simon’s three new books are available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format while his three original books are also available on audio format. Some are scary, some are funny, some are ironic, some are romantic and all are fabulous. They are highly recommended and if you choose a paperback version you’ll find they are of a very fine quality, too! Click HERE to see all titles on Amazon. Simon’s website, To Cut a Short Story Short, can be found at simonjwood.wordpress.com.
PS – I’ve never had a book dedicated to me before. Really quite lovely! ☺️
It’s a new year! I love new years. I love the fact that I’ll be leaving a whole year behind me, no matter if it was good, bad or so-so. I like that kind of closure, the feeling of starting over again and having a fresh year ahead of me filled with new chances and new experiences.
Let’s start our new year with hearts full of thankfulness and hope, leaving all the unhappiness behind us and having faith for a better tomorrow.
A new year means a new chapter. I hope 2022 is an incredible part of your story.
Did you ever wonder how New Year’s resolutions began? I never really gave it much thought so I checked it out and learned it was a religious thing, not to be confused with a ‘religious experience’. Those I know about!
The omniscient Wikipedia tells us the ancient Babylonians are said to have been the first people to make New Year’s resolutions some 4,000 years ago. They were also the first to hold recorded celebrations in honor of the new year. During a massive 12-day religious festival, the Babylonians crowned a new king or reaffirmed their loyalty to the reigning king. They also made promises to the gods to pay their debts and return any objects they had borrowed (much like religion and politics today). If the Babylonians kept to their word, their gods would bestow favor on them for the coming year. If not, they would fall out of the gods’ favor – a place no one wanted to be. Babylonia, however, was short-lived; the empire fell apart and reverted to a small kingdom for several centuries.
Hmm, so much for grandiose gestures and so-called good intentions.
I never saw the point in proclaiming a resolution on New Year’s Eve for all to hear when I knew there was a damn good chance I wasn’t going to keep it. Why put so much pressure on myself? That’s not being negative; it’s being realistic. Besides, no one really cares about someone else’s resolution unless it involves them.
The truth is, I’m actually pretty happy with the way I am. That said, it doesn’t mean I won’t try to improve whatever needs improving; just like Jell-O, there’s always room for improvement. Could I be a better person, do more for others, be more productive? Sure – who couldn’t?
As I sit here this moment, I can honestly say I can’t think of a single New Year’s resolution I made that I kept. In fact, I’ll take that one step further: I can’t think of a single New Year’s resolution I ever made – and if I did make one, it couldn’t have meant much because I’d surely remember, no?
To everyone who makes a resolution tonight and sticks with it, I say “Congrats to you!”. To those who aren’t as successful, welcome to the club – the human league. It’s a large group and you’re in the fine company of those with good intentions.
As for me, I resolve not to make any resolutions; I can be sure I won’t disappoint myself or others. I will, however, strive to be a decent person, treat others with the respect they deserve, lend a helping hand whenever I’m able and – for crying out loud – be honest. Let’s face it; there are some people who lie when the truth would serve them better!
The last two years have been incredibly challenging for everyone; still, there are growing reasons to be optimistic that our fortitude will be rewarded. So here’s hoping we all have a grand New Year’s Eve and emerge in 2022 in good health and full of resolve to bounce back stronger than ever.
To all my friends and fellow writers – I send you warm wishes for a very blessed and Merry Christmas. I hope we will create wonderful memories that we will share and cherish forever. May your hearts be filled with love and your homes with joy for years to come. Have a safe, healthy and happy Christmas! 🎄
Preface: All this month I gave a lot of thought to writing the “Great American Christmas Story”. I began more drafts than I can count and deleted them all; I just wasn’t feeling it. When my grandchildren began asking if Santa was real, I remembered the true story of an 8-year-old girl named Virginia O’Hanlon who wrote a letter to her local newspaper asking that very question. The newspaper’s editor, Francis Pharcellus Church, felt compelled to respond to Virginia’s letter in the form of a feature article. His ‘letter’ to Virginia contains an amazing message, a poignant gift to share with young and old alike. It’s an inspiring response and truly makes one stop, think and assess what’s important in life.
I realized that’s exactly what I wanted to convey in my story but Mr. Church beat me to it and in a much more eloquent way.
I hope during this holiday season you’ve had a chance to reflect on some cherished Christmas memories. There are so many magical moments during Christmas that really do make it the most wonderful time of the year. Isn’t it a pity the special and unique love we feel for one another during Christmas starts to evaporate shortly after the holidays?
Life is often not fair nor is it easy. There’s a lot of discord in the world, too much hatred, unhappiness and suffering. Sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other can be a monumental task, especially after the last two years. We need something to cling to, to believe in and to help us remember what Christmas was like when we were 8-years-old.
I hope you find Mr. Church’s response to Virginia’s question enlightening, captivating and heartwarming. This is how it appeared in The New York Sun on September 21, 1897; I think you’ll agree it’s as appropriate and meaningful today as it was 124 years ago.
It was a picture-perfect day just before Christmas, 2001; not a cloud in the sky. My husband Bill and I were returning from a two-night stay at Foxwoods, a casino located in Ledyard, Connecticut. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive and we were enjoying the scenery and each other’s company. We fared well at the tables and were in good spirits, listening to the radio and discussing where we should stop for lunch. It was a fun get-away before the rush of Christmas.
The ride was smooth – clear sailing as far as we could see. I was driving at a fairly decent clip in the middle lane of a three-lane highway. As we rounded a slight bend in the road, we were startled to find the traffic had come to a stand-still. My vantage point had been cut off and I was completely caught off guard. Bill yelled “Watch out!” and I slammed on the brakes of my RAV4 hoping to avoid hitting any cars in front of me. In doing so, I swerved wildly and the rear end of my car fish-tailed out to the right. The car was now at a 45º angle. I was able to avoid crashing into any cars in front of me and I struggled to straighten out my car but the guy behind me came barrelling down the highway, slamming full force into the driver’s side rear quarter panel of my car.
Unless you’ve experienced a crash of that magnitude, it’s impossible to describe the impact; I never felt pressure like that before and it’s easy to see how the force could result in someone sustaining severe whiplash, a broken neck or worse. At that moment everything switched to slow motion, like we were floating in space. Acting on reflex, Bill raised his right arm above his head to protect himself.
We glanced at each other quizzically with that WTF look in our eyes as my car rolled over once, twice, three times then landed upright with a mighty thud like a miniature Sherman Tank on the right shoulder of the highway. It’s miraculous that no other cars hit us as we rolled over to the side of the road. How the hell did my car manage to land on its tires? Thank God it did; I can’t imagine what it would have been like landing upside down, the roof smashed in, dangling from our seat belts. What seemed like an eternity probably took all of five seconds. The guy who hit us was stranded in the middle of the highway, the front end of his car smashed in. We learned later that his car was a rental and the driver had no insurance.
Immediately upon settling, there was a tremendous whooshing sound as the sunroof caved in on us; we were showered with fragments of glass, dirt and gravel which the car must have scooped up as it rolled over. The safety glass of the windshield was totally shattered but did not fall apart or crumble into the car, seemingly held together by some sort of invisible industrial-strength tape. My only injury was a whacked left knee, probably because I had a death grip on the steering wheel the entire time. Bill wasn’t so lucky; his raised hand did little to protect him. His head was cut and bleeding and the index finger of his raised hand had a deep gash. His hand had also been badly jammed as we rolled over, sending shock waves of intense pain from his fingers all the way up his arm, into his shoulder and neck.
To say we were stunned would be a huge understatement. This was something we saw on TV; it didn’t happen to us. We became aware of the high-pitched “beep beep” of a tractor trailer truck approaching us in reverse. The truck driver witnessed the accident, pulled off the road and backed up to see if we were alright. Of all the vehicles on the road at that moment, only one person stopped to check on us. Jumping out of the cab of his rig, the trucker told us not to move while he called for help.
Within minutes we were surrounded by police cars, fire engines and ambulances. The doors of my RAV had to be pried open so we could be extricated safely; I was able to walk to the ambulance but Bill was strapped onto a gurney. He was covered with a blanket, still unable to lower his arm. It was a surreal sight watching him being lifted into the ambulance and I heard him yell out in pain as his fingers brushed against the roof of the vehicle. I didn’t even look back at my car as we were whisked away to a local hospital.
After being examined, I was told I had no serious injuries but Bill needed X-rays and an MRI. The cut on his head was stapled and bandaged; his lacerated finger was sutured and placed in a finger splint. The MRI revealed a pinched nerve which was preventing him from lowering his arm. The poor guy was in agony and the doctors talked about keeping him overnight. The last thing Bill wanted was to be admitted to an unfamiliar hospital and he made that perfectly clear to me and the doctors. They insisted he stay for at least a few hours for observation but after that, if they thought he was stable enough for the ride back to New York, they would not keep him against his will. Bill was worried about me but I assured him I was fine. He asked me where my car was and I feebly replied that I didn’t know. That’s when I realized I needed to take action; first on the list was to track down my wrecked car and all our belongings.
I was running on nothing but shock and adrenaline; the only reason I didn’t collapse from the trauma was because I knew I had to get things done. I must have looked a mess with ripped clothes and my hair full of road debris but I didn’t care. It’s amazing what’s important and what isn’t when your back is against the wall; it’s called survival.
The first thing I did was call the police station to find out where my car had been towed; all our luggage, including the money we won at the casino, was in the car along with the usual stuff people keep in their vehicles – everything from important car documents to extra packets of ketchup. Once I found out where my car was impounded, I asked someone at the nurse’s station for the phone number of a taxi company to take me to the salvage yard. When the taxi showed up, I was more than a little surprised to see it was a stretch limo. The driver told me he had a lot of upcoming jobs transporting people to and from Christmas events and he had just picked up the limousine.
When we arrived at the junk yard, I explained to the people in the tiny cubicle of an office who I was and why I was there; I was greeted with shocked silence and slack-jawed expressions. Finally the hush was broken when the manager pointed out the window to my RAV4 and said “You mean to tell me that’s your car? We didn’t think anyone walked away from that accident!”
We walked over to what was once my beautiful car. What I saw before me was a heap of mangled metal and broken glass. Had it not been for my ‘vanity plates’, I would not have believed that was my car. I stared at the wreckage in bewilderment; how were we alive?
Once the reality hit me, my knees buckled and I held onto the car to steady myself. The people from the junk yard gathered several boxes for me and the taxi driver helped me get everything out of the car. He removed my license plates and checked all the compartments to make sure we got everything. I don’t know how much I could have done without him. Satisfied that the car was empty, the driver loaded the boxes into the trunk of the limo and we returned to the hospital.
On the ride back I told the driver, whose name I found out was Yosef, about the accident and that Bill was hurt, unable to lower his arm. Yosef asked me where we lived and how I planned to get home. When I told him I hadn’t thought about that yet, he offered to drive us home. What?! It was almost three hours to New York and another three hours back, but he didn’t balk. He said it was the perfect solution; all our stuff from my car was already in the limo and there was plenty of room for Bill to lie down comfortably on the spacious sofa-like seat in the back.
This man, a total stranger, was willing to wait as long as it took to get us safely home. I accepted his kind offer and slumped down onto a chair in the hospital waiting room. I had to call our sons at home to tell them what happened. They were understandably concerned and wanted to drive up to Connecticut to bring us home but I told them it was all arranged; I just wanted them to stay put and be safe. I didn’t even realize Yosef had disappeared until he returned with a bagel and a cup of coffee for me. I couldn’t believe how kind that man was and I thanked him saying the food would help with my pounding headache. As if by magic, Yosef produced a couple of Advil. I looked up at him and he was smiling, one gold tooth sparkling in the bright hospital lights. At that moment he looked just like a guardian angel.
I must have dozed off in the waiting room. When I woke up I was under a warm blanket, my head resting on a soft pillow – definitely not hospital issue. A bit dazed, I glanced around the room; there was Yosef sitting in the corner, talking on his cell phone. He saw me and gave a little wave. I ran my hand over the blanket, my eyes asking if he had provided it; Yosef smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I silently mouthed the words “thank you” and held my clenched fist against my heart.
I checked my phone, surprised to see that four hours had gone by. A nurse came into the waiting room; I recognized her as one of the nurses who had been taking care of Bill. She asked me to go with her and I followed her to one of the many curtained-off beds in the ER. Bill was lying on his back, his arm still up but bent at the elbow with his bandaged hand behind his head. The doctor explained to me that he gave Bill a strong shot of Demerol and a muscle relaxant. He was able to gently manipulate Bill’s arm into a more comfortable position but he would need physical therapy to gain full range of motion. By the look on Bill’s face, it was obvious the meds were doing their job; he was pretty out of it. The doctor gave me two prescriptions to have filled when we returned home and said that Bill was free to go. He also advised me to get the prescriptions filled as soon as possible; Bill would definitely be needing them once the initial dose began to wear off.
With some assistance Bill was able to get into a wheelchair and escorted to the ER waiting room where Yosef greeted us. It wasn’t easy but we managed to make Bill comfortable in the spacious rear section of the limo; even in his drugged condition he was impressed with the car. There were bottles of water in the mini-fridge and more of Yosef’s blankets and pillows to make the ride home as cushioned as possible. Once we knew Bill was secure, we began our journey back.
Yosef suggested we stop at the nearest CVS Pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled. Since the meds were “controlled substances”, the script would only be valid in the issuing state; I wouldn’t be able to get Bill’s meds in New York – something I didn’t think of. Once again Yosef came to my rescue and we stopped at CVS before continuing our trip.
We rode in silence for a little while, then I thanked Yosef for the blankets and pillows. He said “it was nothing”; he had gone home while I was napping in the ER, told his wife Zeynep what was going on and she insisted he take the pillows and blankets with him. That gave me an opening to find out a little more about this Good Samaritan who crossed my path that day.
Yosef and Zeynep were married for only a short time when the Iraqi Kurdish Civil war broke out in 1994. He talked quietly about the war and the horrors he witnessed. He swore that if he and his bride made it out safely he would strive to help anyone in need whenever he could. With the assistance of American forces, he and Zeynep were able to escape their town of Diyarbakir in Turkey. They made it to Greece, then on through Italy, France and finally to England where Zeynep had relatives in Birmingham. They stayed in England for several months, then decided to emigrate to The States, settling in Connecticut. The couple found work in a small Turkish restaurant and when Zeynep became pregnant and could no longer work, Yosef took on a second job as a taxi driver. He said they had two little girls – Aiyla and Esana – the treasures of his life.
Just then my stomach growled and I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat all day except a bagel and coffee. Yosef said there was a basket with some food in the back of the limo and I should help myself. Zeynep had prepared black olives, hummus, ekmek flatbread and a thermos of black tea. Yosef said it was the perfect food for travelers – something that was easy to carry and provided sustenance as well as comfort. I sat near Bill and ate my meal with gratitude for this stranger who found me at a time when I desperately needed help.
I asked Yosef what his name meant; he replied “God increases”. How very fitting. He went on to say that Zeynep meant “precious gem”, Esana meant “safeguard” and Aiyla meant “moonlight”. I scribbled everything Yosef told me on a paper napkin. Maybe it was my imagination working overtime or the fact that Christmas was just days away but those names made me think of the birth of Jesus and what Christmas was really all about.
Yosef asked me the meaning of our names; I explained that Bill was short for William which meant “strong-willed warrior” and my name, Nancy, meant “filled with grace”. Yosef thought they suited us; I thought that day they couldn’t have been more appropriate.
The ride was uneventful and time passed quickly. Before I knew it, Yosef had delivered us safely home. Together with the help of my sons, Yosef managed to get Bill from the car into the house. Bill was awake now but groggy and he reached for Yosef’s hand. With a voice heavy with emotion Bill whispered “Thank you for everything”. Smiling, Yosef nodded and wished Bill well.
My sons brought the boxes into our house and I walked with Yosef to his car. I took some money out of my coat pocket to pay him for everything he had done – if one could even put a price on all he did. He covered my hands with his saying “No, please. Idid not do this for money. I truly believe there was a reason I received your call for help – to aid you in your time of distress. Seeing you safely home is all the reward I need.” I was overcome with emotion and humility and I impulsively hugged Yosef. I wasn’t at all embarrassed by my actions or that my face was streaked with tears of gratitude.
I croaked out a heartfelt “Thank you, Yosef. God bless you and your family. Merry Christmas”. He smiled and replied “God’s blessings on you, Nancy filled with grace”.
I stood outside my house as Yosef drove away, watching the taillights of the limo disappear down the street. I looked up at the pale moon; to the north was a dazzlingly bright star shining in the black sky.
It was a cold night but my heart was glowing. I truly felt like “Nancy filled with grace”.
What was left of my car
This is a true account of a terrifying situation; we will never forget that accident 20 years ago today. God was watching over us.
A big shout-out to the caring trucker, whoever you are. Huge thanks to all the incredible emergency and medical personnel who cared for us.
Blessings upon blessings forever to Yosef, Zeynep, Ailya and Esana. Yosef – there are no adequate words to express our gratitude. You are a giant among men.
Sincere good wishes to all who read this. May you have a wondrous Christmas!
“Board the chopper immediately, Eliza! This is our last chance to make it out of here and get to our safe house on the island. Get in now, woman!” Sidney Longstreet screamed at his wife over the roaring of the helicopter blades.
Eliza glared at her husband; she’d had enough of his misguided and imperious representation of women as weak, mindless, shallow creatures in need of a man to rescue them from every situation, no matter how monumental or trivial.
“Year after year I’ve put up with your supercilious attitude. You’re a pompous idiot, Sidney, and I refuse to take orders from you ever again. You can take all your medals and degrees and honors and shove them up your ass!”
Sidney’s veins bulged out of his neck and his face turned purple. The bitch always had a facile tongue but this time she crossed the line, embarrassing him in front of his pilot, crew and most of all, his lovely secretary, Claire Bliss. His mind strayed briefly as he thought of Miss Bliss and how perfectly her name suited her. Did Eliza have any clue of their office dalliances? Well, the fuck if she did! Their very existence was now in jeopardy and he was getting out with or without his wife.
“How dare you talk to me that way! You were nothing but a guttersnipe from Liverpool when I first noticed you. I was the only one who saw a pittance of hope for you – even with your unintelligible Scouse accent hawking flowers on the docks.”
“Sidney, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss how you transformed me into a proper lady. As you keep pointing out, attack is imminent. I’m not leaving here so just take your darling Bliss with you and get the hell out of here. And by the way, I’m keeping the diamonds and furs. When this siege is over, I won’t need you or your money. Now go! I can just make out the sounds of their approach.”
Sidney barely glanced at Eliza as he slid closed the chopper door, giving the pilot the signal to take off. “She’s sealed her own fate. If they find her she’ll be done for. May God help her. Come Claire, sit beside me. You’re safe with me.” Despite everything, Sidney had to admit to himself that Eliza had more fortitude than he did.
Once the chopper was far enough away, Eliza could hear the invaders approaching. She ran into the house and bolted the door, quickly closing all the curtains and turning off the lights. She then entered a hidden wall panel and descended the three flights of stairs to the wine cellar, making sure all the doors were locked behind her.
The underground room was stocked better than delivery day at Tesco! Eliza could live comfortably there for months, perhaps even a year. In addition to all the food and drinks she could possibly need, there was a small stove, refrigerator, bathroom, a comfortable bed, television, internet, heaters and fans. Every amenity was at her disposal. All she had to do was stay calm and quiet.
As if that wasn’t enough, Sidney arranged for the construction of a tunnel which was a means of escape should any intruders make it through the three flights of metal doors into the wine cellar. Eliza patted the pocket of her jeans for the tenth time to make sure she had her cell phone.
She became aware of the faint sound of vehicles approaching and doors slamming. Eliza could hear muffled voices but couldn’t make out a single word. Suddenly there was pounding on the front door and she heard the bellow that made her blood run cold:
“ELIZA! Lizzie, wer are ya? It’s yer dad and mam, Aunty Mimsy and yer cousins Beth, Maureen, Colin and Lil Mick come for the month. Are ya ‘ome? Did ya ferget we was comin’? Sid, ya bastard. Wer are ya?”
Eliza’s father turned to his wife and said “There be norra ‘ere and no sign o’ their cars.”
His wife shrugged indifferently. “Gorra cob on, Tom? Fancy a bit of brekkie in town then? I reckon we can come back later, see if they be ‘ere.’ If not we’ll just bugger off.Who needs ’em?”
“Yeah, sound one, Helen.” Tom spat on the ground. “LIZZIE! Wer are ya, yer fuckin’ Majesty?! We’ll be back!”
Eliza lit a cigarette, flipped on the radio and reclined on the bed. She had no illusions her low-life, demanding, unwelcome family gave a damn about her. She was nothing but their meal ticket. She also knew they’d get good and pissed at the local pub, eventually give up and head home to Liverpool.
Sidney would be in for quite a shock when he discovers the divorce papers waiting for him at the safe house. Eliza’s attorneys did their homework well and had plenty of dirt on Sidney; he’d never contest the divorce and she’d be living a very comfortable life – or perhaps she should say “Blissful”.
“Come in here please, Connor!” I called out to my son.
Connor came bounding into the kitchen. “What’s up, Mom?”
“Have you seen the bag of frozen French fries and the burgers we just bought?”
“Not since we left the store. Aren’t they in that bag on the floor by the fridge with all the other frozen stuff?”
“No” I replied. “I just looked through the bag. Funny, I could have sworn they were right on top. You know, this happened the other day; Dad couldn’t find the box of donuts or the hot dogs.”
“Did you check the receipts, Mom?”
“Yes. Everything was listed, even the missing food. Dad said he was going to call Costco but I’m not sure he did. They obviously forgot to pack those items.”
“Yeah, that store was super busy; I can see how they might have overlooked something. Well, good luck, Mom. If I can help let me know.”
“Actually Connor, there is something you can do for me when you have a minute. There’s a box of old photos you can bring down from the third-floor storage room.”
“Sure, Mom, but I was heading over to Joey’s to play video games for a while. OK if I bring the box down when I get home?”
I gave him a “thumbs up”.
I texted my husband to see if he had called Costco; he replied with an eye-roll emoji and wrote that he totally forgot about calling. “OK, no worries. I’ll handle it” I texted back. Now to call the store about my dilemma.
After speaking to a couple of people and being put on hold several times, I was assured nothing was left behind at the store. The manager said I could bring in my receipts and they’d issue a refund. That was fine with me but it still didn’t explain what happened to our lost items.
When Connor came home, he went straight into the den to watch TV. “Excuse me, bud. Aren’t you forgetting something?” He looked at me with a blank face. “My photos?”
Smacking his forehead and groaning, Connor headed upstairs. “And don’t forget to walk the dog!” I called after him.
Not even a minute went by before I heard Connor yelling for me.
“Mom! Come up here – quick!”
I raced up the stairs.
“What’s wrong? Are you OK?” I asked nervously.
“I’m fine, Mom. I heard noises in here; check this out.”
We entered a guest bathroom which we never used.
“Look what I found” he said. Balanced on the edge of the bathtub was our missing bag of French fries – half-eaten.
“What’s going on here?”
“Take a look.” Connor drew back the shower curtain. Peering over the edge of the tub was our golden retriever, Rebel, moaning. Surrounding him were the empty packages of all our missing food. He look at us with those big sad doggy eyes.
“Oh, Rebel! What have you done?” I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. “You little thief! Poor baby. Sounds like you gave yourself a nasty bellyache. C’mon boy, let’s get you to the vet. It’s gonna be OK.”
Her skin is the color of peaches and cream, soft as a cygnet’s downy feathers. Sleepy eyes gazed up at him, sparkling like the icy blue waters of a glistening lake. His heart melted as her pouty rosebud mouth smiled sweetly. Strawberry blonde hair framed her head, caressing her perfect face. He held her in his arms and kissed her eyes, her nose and her cheeks. His lips brushed lightly against her ears and he delicately nuzzled her neck. At that moment he knew he would never love another as deeply and tenderly as his precious newborn baby girl.
To all my WordPress friends, whether here in The States or scattered around the globe, I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving. After all, no matter who we are or where we are, there’s always something to be thankful for!
He really wasn’t a king; he was the mayor. Well, in truth, he wasn’t even the mayor. His name was Joe Montalbano and he was a royal pain in the ass.
Joe and his wife Pauline were one of the first couples to purchase a house on my street when they were built in 1960. They had a large piece of corner property – plenty of space for their precocious son Joe, Jr. to run around.
Joe was one of those guys who knew everyone and their business and they in turn knew him. A retired firefighter, there wasn’t a store owner, restaurateur or town official who didn’t know Joe. He belonged to the Knights of Columbus, the Kiwanis Club, the local beach club, the town pool, the Italian/American Society and the bocce team. He was a scout leader, coached Little League and marched in every parade. He also attended monthly town meetings and made his opinions known loud and clear. Joe had a lot of opinions.
Joe was the self-appointed inspector of our street. He would drive around in his maroon Bonneville doing 5 miles per hour checking every house for scofflaws. Now if Joe was doing this as some sort of community watch program to protect our little street, well that would have been fine. But that was not what motivated Joe. He was a busybody looking to make trouble wherever he could. Joe wasn’t happy unless he made his neighbors miserable.
If someone was doing a little home improvement, perhaps putting in a patio or cutting down a tree, that person better have a permit taped to the window and all the necessary papers in order. Joe would go out of his way to schmooze it up with the homeowners, make seemingly friendly small-talk and if everything wasn’t kosher, he’d sniff it out and report it to the town supervisor. Nice, right?
So, let’s say the poor schmo didn’t have a permit. He’d have to tear down any new construction he did on his own, apply for a permit and pay a hefty fine. Then if any new construction was approved, he’d have to hire someone to do the job and end up paying out the nose for work he could have done himself! But wait. If the construction wasn’t approved, then everything would come to a screeching halt anyway. And God forbid the building examiner found some unauthorized work that had been done years before; it would all have to come down. Good bye to that ‘illegal‘ den the family has been enjoying the last ten years. Thanks, Joe!
Once – and only once – I parked my car in front of my house facing the wrong direction. I wasn’t going to stay long; just enough time to use the bathroom and gather my dry cleaning. I couldn’t have been inside more than ten minutes when I noticed a police car out front. I ran outside but he cop was just pulling away and he had left me an unpleasant surprise – a ticket for “car facing wrong way while parked”. Who even knew that was a law? Apparently it is and I broke it to the tune of $150! Thanks, Joe!
Let’s talk about garbage for a minute. Collection days on my street are Monday and Thursday; we’re supposed to put our trash out in the morning on those days. God help the person who put their garbage out the night before! Good old snitch Joe would call the sanitation department. You can bet your sweet ass that person would get a serious reprimand and have to drag their trash back into the house. And if it happened again, a lovely fine would be doled out instead of a warning. Thanks again, inspector!
Everyone likes a little party occasionally, am I right? The Fourth of July, Super Bowl, graduation; these are times to celebrate. Invite some friends over, fire up the grill, have a few drinks, play a little music, talk, laugh, maybe even do some karaoke – that’s what people do at parties. Now, there’s a cut-off time for noise in the neighborhood; everything needs to end by 11:00 PM. So let’s say you’re on the front porch saying farewell to the last of your guests and it’s 11:08. Guess who pulls up in front of your house – Officer Krupke with his little ticket book and a big shit-eating grin, that’s who. “Is there a problem, officer?” you ask innocently. “Disturbing the peace by breaking the town noise ordinance” the cop replies as he taps his watch and hands you a summons. “You have a good night now.” You don’t have to ask who ratted you out; he must have all official phone numbers on speed dial.
That’s what Joe did; he went out of his way to make his neighbor’s lives miserable, all in the name of due diligence. Nice guy, that Joe.
So, years later when Joe finally kicked the bucket, everyone except the people who lived on our street went into mourning. The funeral was worthy of Vito Corleone! The fire department, the police department, the Knights of Columbus, the Kiwanis Club and the bocce team pulled out all the stops and paid for the biggest funeral with the longest limos, the most flowers and best catering the town could provide.
But our little street was cheerful as usual – not that we were necessarily happy that Joe was dead – oh, no no no! It was more a sense of relief knowing “Inspector Montalbano” wasn’t breathing down our necks … or anywhere else, for that matter.
Well, that sense of sweet relief lasted about a week. That’s when we saw the familiar maroon Bonneville crawling down the street at 5 miles per hour. And who was behind the wheel? Why, it was Joe, Jr.
November 11th is Veteran’s Day in the United States. For much of the rest of the world and especially in Europe, it is Armistice Day, the day that marks the end of World War I. On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918 when the armistice was signed, over 20million people hadlost their lives.
I am humbled and honored to present to you a guest post by my friend, Paul Griffiths – The Birkenhead Poet. Dedicated to the young boys who lost their lives, he calls it “Shot At Dawn”; I call it perfection.
Shot at Dawn
I was not yet sixteen when I joined the army. I wanted to fight. To do my bit for King and Country, to be on the side of right. Both my brothers had signed up so I lied to my dear old mum. I even forged her signature; I was foolish young and dumb.
From fifteen years to nineteen years I aged overnight. I sailed right through the boot camp, I was so eager to fight. The things that I know now I wish I knew back then. I was too full of bullshit and bravado wanting to be one of the men.
I was a big lad for my age but I wasn’t very bright. Why didn’t I listen to my Mother? My Mother was always right. I thought I was born to be a hero, to wear medals on my chest. Instead I am nothing but cannon fodder damned with all the rest.
I soon lost my rose-tinted glasses; they got trampled in the mud. At the sight of so many bodies, all this carnage and the blood. I’m freezing cold and hungry, too tired and scared to even sleep. I’ve been on sentry duty now for the last two weeks.
I’d never heard anything like it when the enemy barrage fell. Hiding like a rat under the ground – it was three nights of living hell. The ground shook all around us and I was terrified. A shell exploded right above the trench top, we were all buried alive.
My eardrums were bursting, my mouth was full of clay. Please God, come and save me. Don’t let me die this way. Then I heard the sergeant in the darkness counting who had died. When he finally called my name out, I broke down and cried.
I don’t know how long I was buried down there; it felt like an eternity. When they finally dug me out of that hell hole something died inside me. My days collided in on themselves; I was in a total daze. I felt confused and frightened lost in the fog of war’s damned malaise.
The Captain wasn’t bothered about me; he just didn’t want to hear. He sent me back to the front line with a bollocking and a flea in my ear. Sergeant said “If you want to be a hero lad, now you’ll get your chance. The orders are just in, we are pushing forward for the big advance.”
All I could do was find a quiet corner to sit alone and weep. I couldn’t function properly anymore, I’d cry myself to sleep. I told the Captain how old I really was; he didn’t care about my age. He said he could only go off what was written on my signup page.
I was scared sick to the pit of my stomach, I was absolutely terrified. Thinking back to the day I signed up, wishing that I never lied. I knew what lay above the trench top and it was worse than bad. The Sergeant said “Don’t be scared, son. Keep your chin up lad”.
As the Sergeant took a little look above the safety of the parapet A bullet hit him right between the eye’s; it must have his name on it. He fell back right on top of me; man, he nearly knocked me out. I was pinned down under his dead weight, I couldn’t move about.
By the time I wriggled free of him the other guys had gone. To be mowed down by machine guns, all I could do was look on. Then I heard the Captain screaming, calling out my name. He called me a damn young coward to my eternal shame.
I tried to explain about the Sergeant and getting stuck in the mud. The Captain was deaf to any reasoning, my excuse did me no good. Captain put me on field arrest and I was immediately taken off the line. I was told my court martial hearing was to be held in four days time.
I told the panel my true age, about my actions and exactly what I did. They said I was just another lying coward who had run away and hid. The verdict they passed was guilty, the sentence was death. I screamed for mercy to deaf ears until I couldn’t catch my breath.
The weight of the world sat on my narrow shoulders. I was all alone. Knowing I will never see my Mother again or my family back at home. It rained all week relentlessly but the sun rose on that fateful morn. Today is to be my last day on earth; I will be shot at dawn.
I felt the warm sun on my face but the air was bitterly cold. They marched to a post against a wall and tied on my blindfold. My body shook uncontrollably with fear. I was absolutely terrified. Innocent yet guilty and about to be shot by my own side.
I prayed to God to save me, to give me a second chance. When I heard those words “Ready, Aim” – I’m sorry, I pissed my pants. I didn’t hear that final word of “Fire!” I don’t think I felt any pain As bullets tore through my body time and time again.
I died branded a coward, my service forever put to shame. To be remembered as a black mark on my family’s good name. The records show I died aged twenty though I’d barely turned sixteen. Labeled as a coward in the great war; but what does cowardice really mean?
Parish, New York – a sleepy little town about 20 miles from Oswego, just about kissing Lake Ontario. The place I once called home.I was born in Parish and lived there until it became too small for me or maybe I just got too damn disillusioned.
I was the only child of Ron and Betty Cooper. Dad never said he was disappointed that I was a girl but I knew he really wanted a son. Mom named me Carly Grace. Dad never called me Carly; I was always ‘Carl’ to him. I didn’t mind too much but mom always said it was a heartless thing for him to do – a constant reminder that she couldn’t give him a son.
We lived in a tiny house in the middle of nowhere. Dad would sleep most of the day and go to work after dinner. He was a bartender at Floyd’s Place in the town of Mexico, about seven miles from Parish. College kids from Oswego would bring their dates to Floyd’s Place; it was a dive but dad did a good job keeping their tankards full all night.
I remember having to be very quiet during the day so dad could sleep. Mom kept me busy in the kitchen; she was a terrific baker and taught me how to make homemade bread.
Both my parents were heavy smokers. Even when mom was baking she’d have a Marlboro dangling from her lips. Well, mom got cancer and softly, peacefully passed away the night before I turned 13; to this day the smell of freshly baked bread reminds me of her.
It wasn’t long before dad hooked up with Paulette Garrison, a nurse who’d stop by the bar every night after her shift. Dad started staying at Paulette’s place in Mexico and by the time I was fifteen I was pretty much living on my own.
Memorial Day weekend rolled around and dad brought Paulette back to our house. I was looking forward to a cook-out and fireworks but dad and Paulette only came out of the bedroom for beer and cigarettes. That Saturday night I packed a few things in mom’s old suitcase, took her address book, whatever money I could find and softly left my home in Parish.
When I arrived at Grand Central Station, I called mom’s cousin Rita in The Bronx. She didn’t hesitate for a second, taking me into her home and caring for me like I was her own daughter. She also gave me a job in her bakery on Arthur Avenue. When Rita retired she put me in charge and I eventually became the owner.
Nine years went by when I got a call out of the blue. It was Paulette letting me know my dad had died – three weeks ago! There was certainly no love lost between us but I felt I should drive up to say farewell.
I stood at my father’s grave feeling nothing but the cold wind stinging my face. Softly I turned and left Parish behind me forever.
Written for Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt. Linda has asked us to use the word “home” as a noun, a verb, an adjective, or an adverb.
Worker bees are the laborers of the behive. They are all female (figures!) and do not breed (fuck that!).
Their jobs include collecting the pollen and nectar, defending the hive, feeding the queen, drones and larvae, and making the wax (is that all?).
Because they work so hard during the busy season, a summertime worker bee will live for only about six weeks. Six weeks!! Maybe that’s a blessing in disguise.
Worker bees have a stinger but they can only sting mammals once and then they die (oh, the humanity!). They can, however, sting other insects over and over again to protect the hive (hell, yeah!).
On February 11, 1960, Jack Paar famously walked off his show for a month at NBC. Paar abruptly quit The Tonight Show four minutes into programming after discovering that a joke of his that included the letters “W.C.”, meaning “water closet” (a polite term for a flush toilet) had been censored. As he left his desk he said, “I am leaving The Tonight Show. There must be a better way than this to make a living.”
Paar returned to the show on March 7, 1960, strolled onstage, struck a pose and looked right into the camera. “As I was saying”, he said “before I was interrupted.” Of course, the audience erupted in applause.
He continued, “When I walked off I said there must be a better way to make a living. Well, I’ve looked and there isn’t. Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like Radio City. Leaving the show was a childish and perhaps emotional thing. I have been guilty of such action in the past and will perhaps be again. I’m totally unable to hide what I feel. It is not an asset in show business but I shall do the best I can to amuse and entertain you and let other people speak freely, as I have in the past. Any who are maligned will find this show a place to come and tell their story. There will be a rock in every snowball and I plan to continue exactly what I started out to do. I hope you will find it interesting.”
Jack Paar hosted The Tonight Show from 1957-1962. He took over the show from Steve Allen and then passed the comedic torch to newcomer Johnny Carson. At the time, Paar was called “The King of Late Night TV”. When Johnny Carson became host, he humbly settled for being called “The Prince of Late Night TV”. Paar retired in 1965. When asked why he didn’t do more television, he replied “I’ve said everything I want to say and meteveryone I want to meet. Why hang around?” His trademark catchphrase was “I kid you not!”
As a teenager I remember coming across a book on one of the shelves in our living room called “I Kid You Not“; the author was Jack Paar. The infamous W.C. joke was in that book. Even as a teenager I roared with uncontrollable laughter as I read it, tears streaming down my face. I hope you will find the joke as funny as I did. Have some tissues ready for those tears of laughter!
THE HARMLESS W.C. JOKE THAT CAUSED ALL THAT TROUBLE
An English lady, while visiting Switzerland, was looking for a room for a more extended stay and she asked the schoolmaster if he could recommend any to her. He took her to see several rooms and when everything was settled the lady returned to her home to make the final preparations to move.
When she arrived home, the thought suddenly occurred to her that she had not seen a W.C. around the place. She immediately wrote a note to the schoolmaster asking him if there was a W.C. near the room.
The schoolmaster was a very poor student of English so he asked the parish priest if he could help in the matter. Together they tried to discover the meaning of the letters W.C. and the only solution they could come up with was the Wayside Chapel. The schoolmaster then wrote the following note to the English lady:
Dear Madam: I take great pleasure in informing you that the W.C. is situated nine miles from the room that you will occupy in the center of a beautiful grove of pine trees surrounded by lovely grounds. It is capable of holding about 230 people and it is only open on Sunday and Thursday. As there are a great number of people who are expected during the summer months, I would suggest that you come early although, as a rule, there is plenty of standing room. You will no doubt be glad to hear that a good number of people bring their lunch and makea day of it, while others who can afford to go by car arrive just in time.I would especially recommend that your ladyship go on Thursday when there is musical accompaniment. Itmay interest you to know that my daughter was married in the W.C. and it was there that she met her husband.I can remember the rush there was for seats. There were ten people to a seat ordinarily occupied by one. It was incredible to see theexpressions on their faces. The newest attraction is a bell donated by a wealthy resident of the district. It rings every time a person enters. A bazaar is to be held to provide plush seats for all the people since theybelieve it is a long-felt need. My wife is rather delicate and has trouble attending regularly. I shall be delighted to reserve the best seat for you, if you wish, where you will be seen by everyone.For the children there is a special time and place so they will not disturb the elders. Hoping to have been of service to you, I remain, Sincerely, The Schoolmaster
Information in this post was compiled from the following sources: “TV Acres Censorship & Scandals; Jack Paar’s Water Closet Joke on The Tonight Show”; Frogstrom “Jack Paar Walks Away”
Dangerous was too tame a word to describe Lyle Benson; no, he was treacherous, savage, vicious and murderous – but you’d never know by looking at him.
Lyle was one of those men blessed with movie star good looks and a silver tongue which the ladies found charming and irresistible. He also had a photographic memory and had acquired a broad knowledge covering many different topics. He was what women called ‘a keeper’; problem was any lady who hooked up with Lyle Benson was never seen again.
Just a flunkey, Lyle learned the tricks of the trade by working for crime lord George “Bugs” Moran, Al Capone’s primary rival. Moran was so sadistic he once kidnapped and mutilated a bodyguard of Capone’s, then mailed back what little was left.
Watching Moran in action always got Lyle’s engine revving. In a salacious frenzy, he’d hunt down some sweet innocent. He’d impress her with his wit and savoir faire. Lyle would tell her he was a doctor, his black bag always by his side. He’d wine and dine her, then drive to his secluded cabin where he’d unhurriedly butcher her until she pleaded for death. Only then as she gasped her last breath could the butcher boy get an erection. Only then could he have an orgasm.
But Lyle also had a compassionate side. He’d regularly send flowers to his catatonic mother and sister, residents in a Canadian asylum. He never could bring himself to kill them but a boy had to start somewhere.
Even in the cold evening air she’s finding it hard to breathe. She knows he’ll be home soon, her safest option is to leave. It’s going to be one of those nights, she can feel the static in the air. It feels safer to be somewhere else, anywhere but there.
She feels so forlorn tonight out on the street feeling so alone. Freedom for a few hours is still freedom; she likes being on her own. Lost in her own thoughts trying to escape from her own life. Anchor chained to the kitchen sink, she’s feeling like a Stepford wife.
Heavy of heart and mind she bites down on her inner pain. Thinking of nothing in particular, her self doubt still remains. Her head is mixed up with the daily grind, she’s feelin’ so confused. Is this what true love feels like, only to be left feeling used?
Promises get broken and the hurt of rejection always stings. Trying to make sense of chaos from nonsensical stupid things. Cut off from her friends, she feels empty and alone. Knowing there’s another argument waiting for her back at home.
So she just keeps walking in the same old circles with no place to go. Thoughts whizzing around her head, yet her footsteps seem so slow. She used to be scared of her own shadow and afraid of the dark. Now her shadow protects her, as they walk arm and arm in the park.
As the heavens open up above her and the rain begins to pour She smiles through the tears but she can’t live like this anymore. The outpouring can’t wash away that feeling that she feels like dirt. Just can’t sugar-coat a back-hander; even the memory of it still hurts.
Walking and walking for hours until her poor feet start to ache. Trying to decide what’s for the best and what path she should take. As she comes full circle on herself and arrives back at the start. Hoping things might be different as her world falls apart.
He always swears down that he’s sorry, this comes as no surprise. She’s used to his bullshit; she’s a human polygraph machine with eyes. But she doesn’t want to argue she is too emotionally drained to fight. Still lost in her own little world walking the dead end streets at night.
It’s getting time to bite the bullet and return to a life of wedded bliss. She never knows what mood he’s in when he’s been out on the piss. The bus shelter looks so inviting, a safe harbour from the pouring rain. Is it time to go home and face the music or go around and around again?
Eyes bulging with the weight of tears she wears a lost look on her face. The lights are on at the window, so she quickly walks past her place. Questioning her own existence, thinking is this as good as shit gets. As she drifts back into the shadows to become a moonlit silhouette.
When I was a kid growing up in The Bronx my favorite snack was Cracker Jack. It didn’t matter that the molasses-flavored, caramel-covered popcorn and peanuts got stuck in our teeth and remained there for hours; it was just too tasty to resist. My Dad used to say we were putting our dentist’s kids through college because we were there so often!
I’d run to the store with my allowance and grab the red, white and blue box with a picture of Sailor Jack and his dog Bingo just begging you to indulge in the sweet golden nuggets. That image of Jack popping a piece into his mouth made our tummies rumble and our mouths water. Back in 1960 a box of Cracker Jack cost 10 cents – one thin dime. In big letters was the message that made our little hearts flutter:
NEW PRIZE INSIDE!
We’d excitedly rip into the box wondering what we’d find. Would it be a decoder ring, plastic figurines, miniature notebooks, stickers, baseball cards or temporary tattoos? Once the surprise was revealed, we’d get to business gleefully stuffing our faces until our bellies hurt! My Cracker Jack treasures were stored in one of my mother’s large mason jars which I kept on my desk in my room; it was a clear vessel so I could easily see all my prizes – a plethora of multi-colored playthings and trinkets which to me looked like precious gems. Sometimes my friends and I would get together and trade prizes; the boys always wanted the baseball cards and miniature guns while the girls were more interested in the tiny baby dolls and jewelry. A big favorite was always the plastic whistle which we’d blow continuously while running around the house causing our parents to grimace and cover their ears.
Cracker Jack became so popular with people of all ages, it was even sold at the world-famous Yankee Stadium. A hot dog, a soda and a box of Cracker Jack – you couldn’t ask for more to make a perfect day with the Yanks – except a win, of course! You remember the old song, don’t you? I bet you’re singing it right now:
“Take me out to the ball game, Take me out with the crowd; Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, I don’t care if I never get back! Let me root, root, root for the home team, If they don’t win it’s a shame. For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out At the old ball game!”
Nowadays kids won’t find surprise toys and trinkets in snack or cereal boxes and that’s a damn shame. Those days are gone; I guess somebody decided those little treasures were a “choking hazard”. Funny how back then we never heard about anyone choking on a Cracker Jack toy, getting sick from drinking water out of the garden hose or crossing their eyes so much they’d get stuck that way. We’d do our homework right away so we could go outside to play with our friends instead of plopping down on the couch watching shows like “Felix the Cat”, “Sky King” or “The Lone Ranger“. When the street lights came on, we knew it was time to run home for dinner – and our moms never had to yell out the window for us to get home. Man, those were simpler times!
Today there are only a couple of surprises about Cracker Jack and they’re not very good ones: there are no more peanuts because too many kids have nut allergies; a box costs way more than 10 cents and you don’t even get a full box for your money. And the only message on the package is “CONTENTS MAY SETTLE IN TRANSIT”. What big change occurred in transportation to result in the “settling phenomenon”? Just one more crazy thing to ponder in the year 2021.
Proud to present this poignant poem to you written by my friend Paul Griffiths, the Birkenhead Poet. To say more would not do this poem justice; it’s perfectly and eloquently written. Thank you, Paul.
How bad must life be when you freely choose to die? If suicide is the answer then the question must be “why?”. Why did you do what you did, why did you want it all to end? You reached out to the reaper, instead of reaching out to a friend.
Did you think that no one loved you, loved you enough to really care? Were you even thinking at all, caught in your own world of despair? When your world was crumbling did you feel all hope is gone? So alone in those final moments not wanting to carry on.
There’s a song that says suicide is painless but that isn’t true. The pain gets passed on to your loved ones – pain left behind by you. Your hurt becomes their guilt, your pain becomes their pain. Believing in some way you failed them, never to see you again.
All that is left is heartbreak and regrets; it’s too late now – you’re gone. Your suffering is finally over yet your pain sadly lingers on. Did it have to come to this, did it have to end this way? Sometimes simple words like “Help Me” are the most difficult to say.
Suffering in silence whilst welcoming the grave. There’s no coming back from this when the decision has been made. Suicide is not the answer to a desperate cry for help. A problem shared is a problem halved, but you kept yours to yourself.
When those dark clouds gather above you and your tears fall like rain Please don’t be afraid to ask for help, to help to ease your pain. Death, it is so final and life is often full of sorrow. Even though life isn’t easy it might be a brighter day tomorrow.
Asking if you’re alright may save a life. September is Suicide Awareness Month. x
“Mohammedan-owned Chinese/Tai/Himalayan/Middle Eastern/Indian restaurant – well, you certainly don’t see too many of those in Lancaster, Pennsylvania but there it is right in the heart of the downtown dining district. This meeting of culinary minds is definitely intriguing and what an original and humorous name – ‘Tasty Balls’. That caught my eye and gave me a good laugh as I read about the new exotic fusion restaurant in the newspaper.
I wondered if my wife Judith intentionally left the paper on the kitchen table conveniently opened to the dining section for me to see. Judith has many fine attributes; subtlety is not one of them.
We met soon after I graduated college. I took a year off to backpack my way through Asia and the Middle East. Money was tight so I had to be frugal while traveling; that’s how I learned to find really good food at cheap prices.
While trekking through China, I stopped at a noodle and dumpling place. I was drawn to the sound of feminine laughter coming from the next table. There were two pretty blondes who looked to be around my age; I asked if I could join them and they agreed. Judith and Eunice were cousins from England on holiday. I hit it off quite well with Judith and we agreed to meet the next night for dinner. After that night we knew we wanted to be together and the rest, as they say, is history.
As I continued reading the article, I learned this new restaurant was operated by the same people who managed a nearby tea house called ‘The Barefoot Magpie’ – another place I’d never heard of. How can this be? I’ve lived in Lancaster all my life and thought I knew every place there was to eat. Obviously I haven’t been getting out enough lately.
What’s this? ‘Tasty Balls’ serves only one item: dumplings. What made it so special was the staggering number of varieties of dumplings on the menu. Now I knew without a doubt that Judith left this article here for me to stumble upon; she knows I am the world’s biggest sucker for dumplings!
Well now, let’s see what else the article says: “Extravagantly yet handsomely decorated … moderately priced … perfectly prepared dumplings … culinary delight.” My stomach rumbled and my mouth watered as I read a description of just a tiny sampling of dumplings offered at ‘Tasty Balls’:
Jiaozi – A Chinese dumpling consisting of delicately sautéed ground meat and chopped vegetables wrapped into a thinly rolled dough-ball which is then fried to a golden brown or gently steamed.
Xiaolongbao – A Taiwanese delicacy, this steamed dumpling has meat and broth inside. The small, succulent orb is meant to be eaten whole; one bite and the fortunate diner’s mouth is filled with liquid ambrosia.
Momos – A staple from Tibet and Nepal, these delectable pouches are filled with yak, beef or chicken and have become an obsession with the patrons at ‘Tasty Balls’.
Shish Barak – Middle Eastern ravioli-like envelopes filled with seasoned lamb, onion and pine nuts, these piquant squares are boiled, baked or fried and served in a warm yogurt sauce with melted mint butter and a garnish of chopped cashew nuts.
Muthia – This Indian delight consists of chickpea flour, turmeric, chili powder, curry powder and salt bonded together with oil. Once shaped, these fritters can either be fried or steamed, depending on personal preference.
Luqaimat – Originally from Saudi Arabia, this luscious dessert translates into “small bites”. Found in many Middle Eastern countries, this is a treat of fried dough sweetened with date syrup and garnished with sesame seeds. With a scoop of pistachio ice cream, this is a delightful end to an unforgettable meal.
I suddenly realized the newspaper was wet; either I was salivating over the scrumptious description of dumplings or I was crying tears of joy that this heaven-sent restaurant was now located in little old Lancaster. Oh, what joy, what rapture!
Judith came into the kitchen, took one look at my face and asked “What in the world has come over you?”
Holding up the soggy newspaper I exclaimed “This – as if you didn’t know, you little minx! Tempting me with an article about delectable dumplings. Well, it worked. It’s ‘Tasty Balls’ tonight!”
“Oh, I don’t think so, luv” Judith laughed. “That’s Cousin Eunice’s. She must have left it behind when she returned to the UK after her visit. That paper is from Lancaster, England!
Their house sits high upon a cliff With water and rocks all around. But something stinks, just take a whiff; You don’t need no bloody bloodhound.
Such a lovely couple when they were out; Good looking and dressed oh so fine. There was never a reason for people to doubt Their union was anything but sublime.
However, one thing could not be denied: The young lass she never did smile. With eyes often red as if she’d just cried, A certain fear one could sense for a mile.
As fine as they looked, one dared not approach; They were cloaked in a dark shroud of danger. She seemed to annoy him and he would reproach With words filled with malice and anger.
She was prim and proper, always quiet and shy, While the blade acted pompous and proud. It was obvious to all; we soon found out why: He liked mocking her in a voice overloud
A week or two passed with nary a sight Of the couple we called Jekyll and Hyde. We all had our theories which gave us a fright, A feeling Miss Jekyll had horribly died.
Some folks say our claims are nothing but folly, People getting carried away with their thoughts. But Hyde came to town like a peacock so jolly, To pick up a large jar he just bought.
Now on Hyde’s arm is a red-headed floozy As flashy as the peacock himself. Her perfume smells cheap while he is all boozy. And a jar with Miss Jekyll’s head sits on a shelf.
We’ve all heard the expression “Where there’s smoke there’s fire”. Well, if you were ever around the vicinity of Hawkins Street on City Island in The Bronx, particularly 50-something years ago, you’d agree that statement is true.
You see, back then John and Gertrude and their four kids lived on Hawkins Street in a cute little white saltbox house with blue trim – emphasis on little as are most houses on City Island, many of which were originally built of wood from dismantled ships. The main entrance to the house was a glass enclosed front porch maybe about five feet deep and 20 feet wide. Inside the porch was a door that led to the living room; for some reason no one ever used the front door. Everyone entered through a side door near the back of the house down the driveway – probably because it was easy to just get out of the car and walk a few feet to the side door.
That side door opened onto a long narrow unheated porch where Gertrude would store fruits and vegetables and other sundry food items. The porch ran almost the entire length of the house and opened directly into the kitchen. From there, heading toward the front of the house, you’d find the dining room, a small step up into the living room and the previously mentioned front porch. A staircase leading to the second floor was situated between the living room and dining room. Upstairs were two bedrooms and single bathroom for six people. One bedroom was John and Gertrude’s; the other was shared by their four kids. The three boys had the main area and their sister’s “room” was a small section off the boy’s room that was originally a closet. The only entry into the girl’s bedroom was through her brother’s room – certainly not much privacy. The house had no attic, basement or any other storage area.
To say the house was “cozy” is an understatement but they managed. It was a happy house and it served them well.
John worked for the New Haven Railroad at the Hunts Point Terminal Market, the largest wholesale produce market in the United States. One of the perks of John’s job was he got to bring home leftover fruit, vegetables and other items that got left behind or “fell off the trains” – a real bonus for a family of six living on one income. Whatever John brought home, Gertrude didn’t have to buy at the grocery store and could spend a bit more on meat and other staples. Gertrude knew how to stretch a dollar and once in a while the family would enjoy a nice steak. There was a cute little dog named Fluff who lived across the street. He’d come running whenever John lit the grill and waited patiently till the end of the meal for the steak bones. If there was one thing John really enjoyed it was getting a good fire going in the old grill.
Gertrude had a clothesline that ran from the back of the house across the yard to the opposite side where it was attached to a section of the wooden mast from the America’s Cup contender “Vanitie”. Hauled up at Jacob’s Shipyard on City Island, “Vanitie” had been dismantled and stripped of everything, even her bowsprit. Nothing remained but the hull and mast of the once beautiful sloop; how that section of the mast ended up in the backyard at 93 Hawkins Street was a mystery to the family but it sure was a conversation piece. Surrounding the mast were a number of cherry and fig trees and an assortment of bushes. Off to the side was an old shack which was barely standing.
One day John decided it would be an easy and enjoyable task for a fire-lover such as himself to get rid of the shack by burning it piece by piece on the grill instead of dismantling the whole thing and lugging all the pieces of wood and shingles to the junkyard. After all, he burned all the detritus in the garage – why not the shed?
The smell was terribly acrid and the amount of smoke was enough for neighbors to call the fire department several times until they finally realized it was just John burning pieces of the shack. Some men spent their spare time constructing additions to their houses; John incinerated dilapidated outbuildings of his house. Fire is mesmerizing and he was getting the job done, albeit in an unconventional manner.
Over the course of several months that old shack gradually disappeared. On the last day of the sacrifice by fire, John got a bit carried away and loaded up the grill with the last remaining pieces. Well, I think you can guess what happened next.
The flames grew higher and one spark leapt up and kissed Gertrude’s clothesline, setting it and all the drying laundry ablaze. The fire continued down to the end of the line, igniting the trees and a few surrounding bushes; somehow the old resolute mast miraculously escaped damage. Hearing Fluff barking his head off, Gertrude looked out the window to see John desperately trying to salvage what he could of the backyard. Billowing clouds of dark smoke filled the sky above Hawkins Street and beyond.
Gertrude ran to the phone to call the fire department; so did a dozen other people. Thank goodness they didn’t simply think “Oh, that’s just John at the grill again”. The fire trucks arrived in time to salvage what was left of the yard. The same, however, could not be said for John’s sorely wounded pride.
Fifty-plus years later and we’re still talking and laughing about my father-in-law John’s adventures at the grill.
While I may have exaggerated the facts a bit, there no denying that this story was truly written in loving memory of my father-in-law and mother-in-law John and Gertrude Richy, both taken from us much too soon. My affection for them could never be exaggerated. ❤️
The annual Burning Man Festival is traditionally held from the end of August through Labor Day which is why I chose this date to publish my story.
It was nothing, really; just an unsettling feeling.
The apartment was deathly silent – no water running, no sounds coming from the kitchen, no television – nothing, not even the comforting, barely perceptible reverberation of Matt’s snoring.
The quiet was oddly disquieting. Lying on the bed on my right side, I eyed the digital clock on the nightstand: 7:15 AM – a little early for our usual Sunday morning sleep-ins.
Gradually I shifted onto my back, staring up at the ceiling for a minute or two waiting to hear something, anything. I slowly turned my head and glanced over at the left side of the bed – Matt’s side. He wasn’t there. “Hmm, wonder where he is?” I thought. I listened again; still silence. I called out “Matt? Babe?” No response.
“Okay, maybe he went to get bagels and The Times.” It’s very unusual for us not to make love on a lazy Sunday morning. Sex in the morning is always delicious but last night was incredible; we really got carried away. I don’t know what came over me; my desire was insatiable and Matt certainly was ready, willing and able to oblige. I couldn’t help smiling as I thought about the night before; the images were so intense, I started getting aroused. I called out again: “Matt, honey! Are you here?” Still nothing.
Matt and I met about seven months ago, shortly after my breakup with Danny. I thought Danny was ‘the one’; we even talked about marriage. We really were a perfect match in all aspects of our lives. The fact that sex with Danny was the best I’d ever had was a bonus. But somewhere down the road things began to unravel and we just sort of drifted apart. That was a very low point in my life; I loved Danny and I still think about him often. It’s only natural that I would.
Then Matt entered the picture and there was an instant attraction between us. We were both on the rebound and took things slow. We decided not to move in together, not just yet, opting for weekends here or at Matt’s. We were committed to each other but not ready for anything as permanent as living together. We agreed the only thing we would leave at each other’s place was a toothbrush.
The more I thought about last night, the more I wanted Matt in my bed right now. Looking at the clock I was amazed to see that 45 minutes had gone by. Where the hell was Matt?
I got out of bed and padded barefoot into the kitchen, checking the living room on the way. I was clearly alone, not even the usual welcoming presence of a fragrant pot of coffee. I looked around in confusion.
Feeling the strong urge to pee, I raced back to the bathroom and there I found all the answers I needed. A sticky note with angry red letters on the mirror read “YOU TALKED ABOUT SEX WITH DANNY IN YOUR SLEEP … AGAIN!! I’M OUTTA HERE!
And there was just one lonely toothbrush in the holder – mine.
The night of my husband’s funeral was the loneliest point in my life. After everyone went home, I was totally alone in the house I shared with Ned for 32 years. I don’t ever remember the house being so cold and quiet. Moonbeams engulfed my bedroom yet emptiness was all around.
Ned made me promise that I’d get on with my life after he was gone. The last thing he wanted was for me to spend my days grieving. I agreed because I knew that’s what he needed to hear but I doubted turning that corner and moving on after losing the love of my life would be easy for me.
The next few weeks were a blur. I went out only to buy groceries, turning down all invitations from well-meaning friends to join them for lunch, a movie or a round of golf; it just wasn’t in me.
The time inevitably came when I knew I had to do something with Ned’s belongings. I found some empty boxes in the attic and began filling them with his things to donate to a men’s shelter. Lovingly I folded each shirt, jacket and pair of pants. I polished his shoes and included a couple of packages of new socks and underwear. The men living in the shelter were going through dire straits and deserved to be treated with respect.
The one thing I couldn’t part with was Ned’s cherished pipe collection. The warm aroma of cherry and whiskey lingered in the house. I pictured Ned sitting at his desk meticulously cleaning each pipe and placing it in the rosewood stand. I walked to the den where he watched TV, enjoying his pipe after dinner; my eyes filled with tears and I broke down – probably my first really good cry since Ned died.
It took about a week to get everything boxed and I called for a donation pick-up. The man I spoke to told me someone would come by on Thursday before noon; I told him I’d leave the boxes on the front porch in case I wasn’t home at the time.
Thursday morning I placed the boxes on the porch and headed out to the cemetery. It was four months since Ned’s passing and I had flowers to place on his grave. I stood by Ned’s gravesite reminiscing about our time together when I noticed the sun dancing off a coin on the headstone. “Of course!” I thought. “I should have known Tom would come by.” Ned and Tom were best friends ever since serving together in Vietnam. Keeping with tradition, Tom left the coin on Ned’s headstone as a sign that he stopped by to pay his respects.
After the cemetery I shopped for a few groceries. When I got home the boxes were gone; there was a receipt from the men’s shelter stuck in the front door. I placed the groceries down and sat on the porch’s double swing, staring at the vacant spot where the boxes sat just a few hours earlier. The void I felt at that moment was almost unbearable.
Silent tears rippled down my cheeks. “It’s not fair. It’s just not fair!” I cried as I pounded my fists against my legs.
“No, it isn’t, Lizzie. Lots of things in life aren’t fair.” There was Tom standing on the top step. Without a word he walked over to the swing, sat down beside me and cradled me in his arms as I wept. Tom spoke in hushed tones: “I know exactly how you feel, Lizzie. I went through it when Kay died. You and Ned were there for me through it all. There’s no feeling that comes close to a broken heart. We lost our soul mates; I hope you’ll let me help you like you helped me.”
We sat for a long time without talking, just holding hands sitting on the swing. Words weren’t necessary between dear old friends. Tom helped me bring my shopping bags into the house and together we put everything away.
“How about I brew a fresh pot of coffee, Tom? Make yourself comfortable in the den and I’ll bring it in.”
When I got to the den, Tom was sitting at Ned’s desk admiring his pipe collection. His still handsome face was creased with a sweet, sentimental smile.
“You know, Lizzie, that long-stemmed pipe in the middle was always my favorite.” Tom’s blue eyes glistened and I could tell he had shed a tear or two for his dear friend.
“It was Ned’s favorite, too, Tom. I remember the day you gave it to him.”
My heart fluttered as I removed the pipe from its stand and placed it in Tom’s hand. “I know Ned would want you to have this.”
Tom closed his eyes for a few seconds, his hands cradling the pipe. “Thank you, Lizzie. I’ll treasure this always.”
Tom said he had to get home and we walked to the front door.
“Wait, Tom. Can you come for dinner Saturday night?”
“I’d like that, Lizzie. Very much.”
“Me too, Tom. Is 6:30 okay?” and he nodded ‘yes’.
I said goodbye and pressed my back against the closed door. And I smiled for the first time in months.
“Called to be a nun? You can’t be serious, Luna!” Hudi was stunned when her sister disclosed her secret.
“Hudi, I shared with you what is in my heart. If you can’t accept it, that’s fine but don’t start giving me a speech or trying to change my mind.”
Hudi started laughing. “This is some sort of joke, right? We’re no longer little Catholic school girls back in Spain!”
Luna didn’t even crack a smile. “I should have known better than to expect you to understand, Hudi. We may be twins but we couldn’t be more different.”
“Why a nun?”
“Hudi, look at me. I’m not petty, funny or sexy like you. I can’t dance, I don’t know how to wear makeup or fix my hair or even dress nicely. I’m hopeless! Being a nun and spending the rest of my life in a convent is my destiny.”
Hudi laughed again. “Your ‘destiny’? Please, Luna. Aren’t you being a bit dramatic? It sounds like this nun thing is more of a ‘hiding’ than a ‘calling’. You’re not supposed to be a nun because you’re unhappy with your life.”
Luna didn’t say anything; she knew Hudi was right.
“Listen to me! You’re not hopeless. I’m your twin; who better to help you? First thing I have to do is teach you how to fix this nest of twigs you have for hair; then everything else will fall into place.”
Over the course of a few days Hudi taught Luna how to apply makeup and do her hair. They listened to their favorite salsa music and without even realizing it, Luna was moving to the beat.
Getting dressed one day, Hudi couldn’t believe her eyes. “Luna, you have an amazing body! Why hide it under a habit?” Luna couldn’t stop blushing.
Hudi always knew she wanted to be a designer and landed a job in one of New York’s biggest fashion companies. Her boss was impressed with her designs and offered Hudi the chance to put together a hot new lingerie line. Hudi jumped at the opportunity and threw herself into her work.
Luna, however, was having serious doubts about her decision to become a nun.
When her assignment was done, Hudi had a brilliant idea: instead of showing her boss one-dimensional drawings, why not have someone model them? The first person who came to mind was her sister.
Luna wanted nothing to do with the project but Hudi was convincing and Luna reluctantly agreed. On the day of the big reveal Luna was a nervous wreck. Hudi put on some salsa music and shoved her sister into a room full of executives.
Luna swayed to the music, then let her satin robe slip to her waist revealing the most feminine and sexy bra anyone had ever seen. Her figure was as incredible as her lingerie.
Proudly Hudi announced “Ladies and gentlemen. May I present to you our model, Luna Delgado, wearing our next hottest seller – ‘Hudibras’.”
Eastern Long Island, New York. A little village called Montauk. “The End”, according to locals; drive to the tip of the peninsula, walk a few steps and you’re in the Atlantic Ocean. Can’t get much more east than that!
We first drove to Montauk in 1984 to a no-frills family motel right on the beach overlooking the ocean. “Let’s go out for a weekend. If we don’t like it, we won’t go back.” Famous last words.
It was paradise.
Step outside the sliding back door of the motel room and your toes disappear into the sand. Big pool full of sunburned people having the time of their lives. Huge towels and colorful umbrellas along the shore, saltwater mist sprayed by the balmy breeze, a dog running with a Frisbee in its mouth.
There was a pizza place and an ice cream joint constantly busy. Seemed like all the kids had sun-streaked blonde hair and bronze tans, feet perpetually covered in sand, happy as clams.
Drive five minutes west on ‘the stretch’ between Montauk and Amagansett to a place known simply as ‘LUNCH’ for a mouth-watering lobster roll or a platter of fried puffers and chips. Best meal ever.
At night little fires dotted the beach, kindling glowed and crackled. Kids pierced marshmallows with long sticks and stuck them in the flames for a gooey sweet treat you won’t eat again till the next summer.
That weekend trip in ’84 turned into 37 years of vacations, each one longer that the one before it. It’s been a couple of years since we’ve been able to get out to “The End” but we’ll be back.
The Elephant's Trunk 