βThese arenβt my panties, George.β
βWhatever do you mean, Carla?β
βWhat could I mean? I think you know, George.β
βI have a confession, Carla.β
βI knew it!β
βThose panties are mine.β
βSay what?!β
NAR Β© 2023
PANTIES
Tag: Spouses
GAG ME WITH A SPOON
One of the best things about being empty nesters is not having to cook full meals every night.
Billβs easy, always has been; heβs not the meat and potatoes kind of guy. Weβre happy with soup, BLTs, burgers on the grill, my sensational ham and cheddar omelets β¦ you get the picture.
There are some days when I feel the urge to cook and will prepare a lovely risotto or perhaps seared sea scallops over a lentil ragΓΉ. Rare but it does happen. Iβm very content taking it easy these days.
But I have to draw the line at one thing: Chef Boyardee ravioli in a can. Six words that never should be put together. Itβs a travesty; itβs also one of Billβs favorites.
I was raised on pure, natural homemade Italian food. βPastaβ in a can is not food. Correction β itβs food: bad food, eye-averting food, gag-inducing food. Itβs a treat for Bill to eat this staple from his childhood. He gets practically giddy buttering his bread and dipping it in the (dare I say) sauce in anticipation of that first mouthful. That, my friends, is a scene that once seen cannot be unseen.
Me? I wonβt even open the can.
Gag me with a spoon!
NAR Β© 2023
MARIPOSA
When drunk, my wife Blaire could be a sexy vixen or a slutty bitch; tonight was definitely the latter.
Sprawled out on the deck of my boat βMariposaβ, Blaire slowly got to her feet and staggered toward me, one hand grasping the boat railing and the other a bottle of vodka.
βFor fuckβs sake, James, why do you always have to wear that ridiculous outfit?β Blaire slurred. She drained the bottle, dropping it on the deck.
βThis is proper nautical attire, darling, perfectly appropriate for every occasionβ I replied. βBut you donβt know the meaning of proper and appropriate. Youβre all but falling out of your dress.β
Blaire ran her hands up and down her tanned body. βWhatβs wrong, Captain? Donβt you like the way I look? All the other men doβ Blaire purred tauntingly.
βDarling, youβre such a drunken whoreβ I snarled and she reached up to slap my face. I grabbed her wrist and shoved her out of the way. She fell, hitting her head. Putting the boat in neutral I quickly checked on Blaire; she was dead. I adjusted her dress and looked around the boat making sure nothing was out of place.
Heading for the dock, I made a frantic call. βMayday! Mayday! Emergency on board βMariposaβ!β
The police asked a few routine questions but it was obvious my wife had too much to drink; she lost her balance and fell. It happened so fast I couldnβt prevent it β¦ even if I wanted to.
NAR Β© 2023
Once again I rise to the Unicorn Challenge hosted by Jenne Gray.
SYLVIA REPLIED
βWalnut, definitely walnutβ declared Sylvia Klein. βLook what is says in the brochureβ:
Honor your loved one by choosing an exquisite solid wood casket.
The strong, stately Elite Walnut is a timeless casket that comes with
beautiful platinum swing bars and a secure locking mechanism.
Like most of our funeral caskets, the Elite Walnut features
an Eternal Rest Adjustable Bed and matching pillow.
The luxurious silk velvet lining makes this casket an excellent choice
at the remarkably low price of $17,000.
βDoesnβt that sound ideal, Lenny?!β Sylvia exclaimed to her husband.
β$17,000?! What else is in there β the Crown Jewels?! Who pays that kind of money for a casket?! Sylvia, for that amount we can give our grandsons a bar mitzvah feast fit for a king!β
βDid you see the part where it says βadjustable bed and matching pillowβ? Oh, Lenny, think how comfortable Iβll be.β
βComfortable?? For crying out loud, Sylvia, youβre gonna be dead. D-E-A-D dead! This isnβt a week at the Ritz Carlton! Adjustable bed my ass!β
βLenny, why are you acting like an old tightwad? You always said money is just a number. This means a lot to me!β Sylvia exclaimed tearfully.
βSylvia, calm down. When have I ever been a tightwad? Our daughters had extravagant weddings. You wanted that chandelier for the dining room which, Iβll remind you, cost a pretty penny. Then there was the Steinway mahogany baby grand and you donβt even play the piano! Let’s not forget the Jaguar with all the bells and whistles and more cruises than 10 seasons of ‘The Love Boat’! Everything you ever wanted I happily gave you but this β this is just a big waste of money!
βLeonard Klein, how can you say that?! My final resting place and youβre calling it a waste of money! Sylvia wailed.
βSylvie, Iβm sorry. Calm down. Can we please discuss this later?β Leonard pleaded.
βWait, Lenny. You havenβt heard the best part. This is a special for Rosh Hashanah β buy one, get one at half price. Thatβs only $25,500 for two β one for me and one for you!β
Leonard sighed deeply. βOy vey, Sylvia, I donβt need all this stuff! Put me in a plain pine box and toss me off the yacht. You can even write on it βLeonard Klein sleeps with the fishesβ!β
Sylvia started sobbing. βOh, Leonard, how can you say such a horrible thing? The thought of you being nibbled on by fish and crabs and God knows what β¦ I could die!β
βSylvia, please stop crying. I was just making a little joke. If you want this ‘Elite’ whatever, weβll get it. Ok? You feel better now?βΒ
Sylvia sniffled and nodded her head. βOh yes, Lenny! Youβve made me very happy! Now one last thing: I canβt be buried. Iβm terribly claustrophobic. The thought of being underground β Iβd die! I want to be cremated.β
βCremated?!β Leonard yelled, running his fingers through what little hair he had. βNow you want to be cremated? Are you meshugenah, Sylvia? $17,000 for a piece of firewood?!β
β$25,500, Lennyβ Sylvia replied.
NAR Β© 2023
Check out my new
Name That Tune
post today in
The Rhythm Section
https://rhythmsection.blog/
CHUNK ‘O BURNING LOVE
βOut of chunky peanut butter again!β Bruce had just woken up and all he wanted was a cup of black coffee and toast with chunky peanut butter. Was that too much to ask? Standing in front of the open cabinet scratching his substantial stomach, he began searching the kitchen shelves but there was no chunky peanut butter to be found. Sure, there was creamy but nobody likes that insipid crap except wusses and prissy women like his wife, Betty.
βBETTY! WHEREβS THE GODDAMN CHUNKY PEANUT BUTTER?” He listened closely but got no reply. “Probably at her stupid writing club — as if she could ever be an author!β
βGotta do everything myself around hereβ Bruce muttered as he got dressed and headed out for his beloved chunky peanut butter. First stop – Acme Grocers. No luck. βDamn!β grumbled Bruce. On to Shoprite. Again no chunky peanut butter. Bruce was starting to get really pissed off, a huge headache beginning to pound in his brain. Another stop at Wegman’s; they have everything. There were all sorts of butters βpeanut, almond, cashew, walnut, sunflower β and they were all creamy!
βWhereβs my fucking chunky peanut butter?βΒ – the words raged through Bruceβs brain. βWhat is this, a freaking conspiracy?βΒ
Bruce started frantically searching the shelves, knocking all the jars onto the floor. Broken glass flew everywhere and Bruce bellowed in pain as huge shards ripped into his hands. Thatβs when he completely lost control. Customers ran from the the store in a panic as Bruce began roaring and morphing into The Incredible Hulk.
Hulk Bruce stormed out of Wegmanβs and bounded down the street toward Walmart, ripping the doors off the store in his fury. People cowered in terror as an enraged Hulk trashed the store.
Just as he reached the peanut butter aisle, Bruce woke up in his own bed, sweating and panting. βOh, sweet Jesus! It was just a nightmare.β Slowly Bruce got out of bed, splashed cold water on his face and shuffled into the kitchen. Betty came in through the back door with an armful of groceries just as Bruce poured himself a cup of coffee.
Then, as though off in a distant fog, he heard Betty speaking in slow motion: βSORRY — BRUCE — BUT — THEY — WERE — OUT — OF — CHUNKY — PEANUT —BUTTER.β
Bruceβs roar and Betty’s blood-curdling screams could be heard all the way down at Walmart.
NAR Β© 2023
ON THE ROCKS
Ancient Greek temples dotted the hillside of Agrigento. “Aren’t they magnificent, Camilla?” I tried engaging my wife of twelve years in conversation.
Camilla always wanted to visit Sicily; now we were finally here but our vacation had been marred by the news of the death of Eunice, her closest friend since college. Actually, Camilla had been depressed ever since Eunice’s cancer was diagnosed two years earlier. She became morbidly preoccupied with illness and death and every little pain sent her running to the doctor. She had become lethargic and morose. The whole situation was tedious; I thought a holiday abroad would lighten both our moods.
“I don’t like this place, Nigel” Camilla remarked. “It reeks of death and decay. You can practically see blood stains on the ground.”
“Good God, Camilla! Why are you allowing your mind to give in to these macabre thoughts?” I questioned impatiently. “Feel the sun on your face. Look at the glorious Mediterranean surrounding us. Let yourself be transported to another era.”
“I have a ghastly headache, Nigel. Take me back to the hotel!” Camilla demanded.
“But we just got here! Look at these fabulous gnarled olive trees. Why, they must be as old as the ruins themselves. Impressive, aren’t they? Let’s sit and enjoy the view. You’ve always dreamed of coming here, Camilla. Enjoy it!“
“How can I enjoy myself knowing Eunice is gone? How can I enjoy anything ever again? She was my dearest friend.” Camilla buried her head in her hands, sobbing.
“I know it’s difficult, my dear, but try not to dwell on it. Here, listen to this.” Retrieving a brochure from my pocket, I began to read. “‘In mythology, Agrigento was founded by Daedalus and Icarus.’ Just think of it β these temples have been here since the 5th Century B.C.! The contemporary glass and steel buildings back home can’t compare to these majestic structures!”
“Nigel, please! You think I give a damn about any of this? It’s meaningless without Eunice. Meaningless, I tell you! She was the light of my life.”
Camilla stared at me with frenetic eyes. I was beginning to believe she was losing her mind.
“Your life is meaningless? What about me, Camilla? I’m your husband, for crying out loud! We’ve been together for twelve years. Does that count for nothing?”
“Oh, come on, Nigel! Isn’t it about time we admitted the truth. Our marriage is a sham! And now Eunice is gone! There’s nothing left for me!” Camilla turned and started walking away.
“Eunice! All you ever talk about is your beloved Eunice!” I yelled after her. “You’ve been obsessed with her for years! I always wondered but now I know why you were never interested in sex, laying in our bed with about as much enthusiasm as an earthworm. You and Eunice were lovers, weren’t you?”
“Yes! I loved her and she loved me passionately, deeply. I never loved you, Nigel. Never!” Camilla looked at me with intense loathing and I became enraged, jealous of her dead lover.
“I’m glad Eunice is dead, Camilla. I hope the cancer slowly gnawed away at her and her life was one of incessant pain. Oh, I’m so glad she’s dead and now you’re in agony without her!” I spat out dreadful words of rage.
Camilla picked up a rock and threw at me but it fell short. She started running and I caught up with her, reaching for her arm. She screamed “Don’t touch me, Nigel! Just go away and leave me alone!”
Pulling away, Camilla ran toward the craggy cliffs. In a horrifying instant she was gone, plunging headlong against the rocks, her body shattering like an empty vessel, and disappearing into the sea.
Aghast, I stood staring into the abyss. “Goddamn, you, Camilla!” I shouted. “Goddamn you! Go be with your precious Eunice!”
After a long while alone on the cliffs, I walked back to my rental and drove to the hotel. I saw no reason to rush back home. Perhaps I’d extend my holiday indefinitely, head to the Amalfi Coast. I realized it had been ages since I’d had any time alone. I inhaled the heady fragrance of the plumeria and eucalyptus. I exhaled slowly, relishing the soft breeze in the evening air.
A glass or two of limoncello on the rocks would be the perfect way to end the day.
NAR Β© 2023
This is “Love On The Rocks” by Neil Diamond
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephantβs Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NARΒ©2017-present.
OUR ‘ENRY
WHILE I KNOW BOXING DAY HAS NOTHING AT ALL TO DO WITH THE ACTUAL SPORT OF BOXING, I THOUGHT SOME OF YOU WOULD LIKE TO READ A POEM I WROTE LAST YEAR. YOU MAY BE SURPRISED, EVEN SHOCKED, TO LEARN THAT BOXING IS NOT MY WHEELHOUSE. NEITHER IS WRITING POETRY SO I HAD TO DO A FAIR AMOUNT OF RESEARCH AND EDITING. BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I HAD A LOT OF FUN IN THE PROCESS AND I LEARNED A LOT. I HOPE YOU ARE EQUALLY ENTERTAINED WHEN YOU READ MY POEM. HAPPY BOXING DAY TO ALL MY FRIENDS UP NORTH AND ACROSS THE POND! π
Commemorated through the region
for his prowess and pugilistic might
was the one and only Henry Cooper,
a champion born and raised for the fight.
He and George were born on the third of May;
the two brawny lads were identical twins.
By the age of fifteen Henry excelled in boxing
with seventy-three out of eighty-four wins.
This proud son of South East London was a giant,
a lefty with a formidable uppercut jab;
cut-prone and no great defensive technician,
yet his glove on one’s jaw felt more like a stab.
Tall, broad-shouldered and athletic,
he cut an imposing figure.
With powerful fists licensed to kill,
his look was of sternness and rigor.
In September ’54 he fought Harry Painter;
it was his very first match as a pro.
The battle took place at Harringay Arena
where Henry soundly defeated his foe.
Our ‘Enry took off like a house on fire,
for nine bouts in a row, no one got in his way.
But he lost number ten on a technical knockout;
how ironic that match was at old Harringay!
Henry bounced back, never one to stay down;
every match for him was compelling and vital.
But he suffered a big loss on February nineteenth;
Joe Bygraves took the Commonwealth heavyweight title.
Henry was no fly-by-night flash-in-the-pan;
undefeated champ for twelve years was he.
Our ‘Enry fought with the greatest and best
including “The Louisville Lip” β Muhammad Ali.
The young champ was still known as Cassius Clay;
the year was nineteen hundred and sixty-three.
A great deal of ticket-selling for this long-awaited bout
created a massive amount of world-wide publicity.
In the fourth round Henry was leading on points,
Ali making little attempt at effective aggression.
Henry felled Ali with a left hook to the body;
“‘Enry’s ‘Ammer” it was called in the profession.
Well, Ali’s manager brought him to the corner,
administering smelling salts banned in the UK.
The prohibited act was witnessed by no one
and a rejuvenated Ali defeated Henry that day.
Decades later a vital extra six seconds
showed up in a long-missing recording.
If all things had been on the clear up and up
the headlines would have had different wording.
For a second time Henry went up against Ali
who was now world heavyweight champion.
Though cut and tired, Henry never hit the canvas;
a TKO was the decision and again Ali won.
Henry won forty out of his fifty-five matches
and in 1971 it was time to hang up his gloves.
But Henry was never really down for the count
and he had a rich life full of many great loves.
Jump back to the late 1950s
when Henry met the love of his life.
A Gina Lollabrigida look-alike
who he courted and took as his wife.
She was dark-haired, petite at just five feet tall
and her name was Albina Genepri;
a waitress at Henry’s favorite restaurant,
a beauty from the Apennine region in Italy.
Two people who grew up hundreds of miles apart
from similar backgrounds β both working middle-class.
Henry was a cockney bloke from Beckenham in Kent.
When Albina learned English, her accent was like cut-glass.
It was ironic but Albina hated boxing
yet she remained Henry’s strength and his shield.
He constantly asked her to come to his fights
but only one solitary time did she yield.
Henry was known as a prince among men
and a king of the ring in many a fight.
In 2000 he was dubbed “Sir Henry Cooper”
joining the ranks of paladins and knights.
One night on his way to a sporting event
Henry received a call from his son.
“Come back home, dad!” was the pitiful plea.
“Something terrible’s happened to mum!”
Their’s was a love that movies are made of.
Lives full of happiness and very few tears.
They both were the real deal, genuine article
and their marriage lasted forty-seven years.
Albina had suffered a heart attack,
her devoted life had come to an end.
Henry never truly got over the shock
but like a willow he learned how to bend.
Just three years later Our ‘Enry
quietly passed while watching TV.
His son said it was quick and painless;
“He’s with mum now for all eternity.”
He was a lovely gent and a good fella,
a great husband, dad and true friend.
All those dear mates of Our ‘Enry
were loyal right up to the end.
Henry Cooper was the only boxer
ever to be knighted.
NAR Β© 2021
SOMEONE WILL PAY
Roger Newcombe was a nasty, mean-spirited man; his only companions were his little Welsh corgi Magpie and his wheelchair. Roger had no family or friends; over the years he had alienated everyone who ever cared a whit about him. Even the postman fell victim to his bitter tongue and resorted to delivering the mail as quickly as possible, his hat pulled down low over his eyes.
The only things Roger had plenty of were bad memories and schemes.
It wasnβt always like that for Roger. True, he was a plain-looking man, never handsome, but he was a trusting soul and kindhearted. Roger felt out of place at his parentβs extravagant dinner parties and never wanted to attend but as the only heir of the richest man in the county, it was his obligation to make an appearance.
Thatβs when he saw the alluring Loretta Spencer, a new serving girl with a tiny waist, long legs and shocking auburn hair. Roger was smitten at first glance but was too shy to stare let alone talk to Loretta.
Kindness and a trusting nature went only so far and the young single women who came in contact with Roger were not attracted to him. Only Loretta paid him any attention with a barely perceptible wink of an eye and a shy but innately sensual smile. One fortuitous day Roger happened upon Loretta preparing the table for dinner; the two struck up a conversation which developed into a flirtatious friendship which in turn blossomed into a romance. Rogerβs parents were livid about the relationship but Loretta encouraged Roger to be a man and speak up for himself and their newfound love. His parents were too stunned by Rogerβs sudden display of courage to respond.
No one was more surprised than Roger. He had always been resigned to life as a lonely bachelor; now heβd fallen madly in love with a servant in his parentβs employ and he didnβt care who knew. He was enthralled by Lorettaβs bewitching ways, intoxicated by her erotic education in lovemaking. Roger could not believe someone as beautiful, beguiling and seductive as Loretta could love him in return. They were married within a year and went on a grand honeymoon to Wales. Upon their return, they settled into the Newcombeβs lavish estate.
Roger accepted a job in his fatherβs company, sitting in his office all day doing very little and making a great deal of money which Loretta freely spent. She was a happy and pampered wife. Her relationship with Rogerβs parents was estranged and she saw them only at dinner but being married to Roger made all her dreams come true.
That peaceful scenario was suddenly shattered when Rogerβs parents were killed in a plane crash while on vacation. Roger was devastated by the loss of his mother and father but that was not the end of the shocking news for Roger and Loretta.
At the reading of Mr. and Mrs. Newcombeβs wills, Roger was struck dumb when he learned his motherβs last wish was for their home to be renovated into a rehabilitation facility for children with disabilities. In his fatherβs will, a new president was named for the company; it was Jonathan Whittaker, the current vice president. Roger was spitefully and embarrassingly overlooked, being left only an insignificant amount of money.Β
As the only heir, Roger fully expected to be left the Newcombe fortune and named president of the company. He didnβt really want the job β just the prestige that came with it. He could delegate his key employees to do all the work while he sat back and watched the company flourish. Now he and Loretta had no home and very little cash. Roger deeply regretted giving Loretta free rein to his money, buying so many expensive and unnecessary items. He loved her and was blinded by her charms. He was also too proud to try to return or sell the items to recoup his losses.
Loretta, being as smart and clever as she was beautiful, wasted no time setting her sights on Jonathan Whittaker, the new president of the company. Like a tigress on the prowl she hunted him down, dazzling him with her seductive ways. She finessed her way into his head, whirled her way into his heart and squirmed herself into his bed. Loretta convinced Jonathan to relieve Roger of his position at the company which he did immediately. While Roger was out of the house one afternoon, Loretta stealthily cleared out what little money he had stashed away in his safe and quickly served him with divorce papers. As soon as she was free of Roger, Loretta would marry Jonathan and she would once again be the wife of a wealthy man.
Roger was reeling; he could not believe how his life had completely fallen apart. His parents were dead, the only home he knew was no longer his, he had no job, no money and no wife. In a desperate plea to Jonathan Whittaker, Roger asked for and was granted a pension from the company β just enough to get by each month. He begged his fatherβs lawyer to intercede on his behalf and was given permission to live in the small annex house next to the Newcombe estate. Roger felt there wasnβt much more that could go wrong in his life.
He was mistaken.
One day as Roger was entering the annex house, he looked over at his old family home and saw Loretta pass by one of the upstairs windows. “What was she doing there?” Roger wondered. He went to the house to confront her; Loretta was packing the last of her things when Roger showed up. After a heated conversation Loretta brusquely walked by Roger, her suitcase smacking him in the back of his knee. Roger lost his footing and fell down the stairs. Loretta slowly walked down the stairs, looked at Roger not knowing or caring if he was dead or alive, and stepped over him. She calmly walked to the front door and left the house, closing the door behind her.
The next day Roger was found lying at the foot of the stairs; he was alive but he was paralyzed from the waist down. Now Roger Newcombe felt nothing in his heart but bitterness, anger and resentment. All he did was sit in his wheelchair by the window of the annex house with Magpie on his lap. With every stroke of the little dogβs soft fur, Roger thought βSomeone will pay.β
That was the only thing that kept him from losing his mind.
NAR Β© 2022
ALONE TOGETHER
Listen to the waves as they kiss the shore, the rustle of the beachgrass in the gentle breeze. The golden hues of sunrise pirouette gracefully on the terrace and across the bed. The start of another day, as blissful and serene as the one before it. Summertime.
Is that my heart beating deeply or yours? Both, you say. You caress my shoulders. Hold me in your arms as if itβs our first time, our last time. I feel free. I feel ageless. I feel more cherished than any other woman.
You are my one, my soul, my heart. I watch your profile as you gaze out the window, peaceful and content. My fingers curl through the hair on your chest, now grey. That does not matter. Only we matter.
How long have we been alone together? A thousand summertimes, you say. How long will we be alone together? For a thousand more, I reply.
You pull me closer, eyes dancing in the morning light. Let the world go on without us. We are here where we belong β alone together.
NAR Β© 2022
BLIND DATE
In March of 1968 I went on a blind date. This was a new experience for me and I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was the guy’s name. I insisted my best friend and her boyfriend (who set up the date) tag along in case my date turned out to be Hannibal Lecter (hey, it could happen).
As soon as I answered the door, I felt like I was in the middle of a chick flick. I stared at him, smiling; I heard birds tweeting and angels singing “Today I met the boy I‘m going to marry“. On the other side of the door my date was staring and smiling back at me. I think he heard the music, too.
His name was Bill.
Iβd just turned 17 and he was not yet 20. Bill was different in so many ways from any guys I knew, most notably was the fact that he didn’t look like he belonged to La Cosa Nostra. He was tall, lean, tan and blonde and the way his biceps looked in his white t-shirt made my stomach flutter.
We went to another friend’s house for a party and spent the whole night talking to each other. After that blind date, we didn’t go out with anyone else ever again.
Bill’s what I affectionately call “a mutt” and he’ll be the first to agree. He’s 1/2 Irish, 1/4 Finnish and 1/4 Italian. He’d never met a first generation Sicilian girl like me before let alone gone out with one (we’re a rare breed, you know!); he thought I was “exotic” and looked like Sophia Loren. Every time he said that I got goosebumps β and he said it a lot.
We were crazy about each other; two years after that first date we got engaged and two years after that we got married.
Bill’s a real handy-man, the kind of guy who can fix just about anything. Back in the Stone Age before Google, we had a bunch of βdo-it-yourself-booksβ. If Bill didnβt know how to fix something, heβd read about it. And if the books didn’t help, heβd solve the problem himself. He wasnβt afraid of getting his hands dirty β whether he was repairing an engine or changing a diaper.
Not only is he a hands-on kind of guy in every aspect of our lives, he’s also very smart and I donβt mean smarter than your average bear. Bill is flat out brilliant and that’s not a word I toss around lightly. He’s got the degrees to prove it but he’s too humble for that and definitely not the type to rub his smarts in your face. He has a classic wit β a dry and clever sense of humor that makes me laugh every day.
They don’t come any better than Bill. He’s the homebody type, not one looking to go out partying. His one guilty pleasure is fishing. He’s loved fishing since he was a kid growing up on City Island and you can find him on his boat every Saturday. In fishing terminology, Bill’s ‘a keeper’.
Now you can go ahead and call me delusional but I know what I know β and I know Bill.
* He’s colorblind but can identify blue; that’s why it’s his favorite color.
* He’ll ask other shoppers which bananas are ripe because he can’t tell yellow from green; he’s found people are very obliging and happy to help with his “handicap“.
* He loves Carvel soft serve vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone with chocolate sprinkles.
* All his food has to be cooked well done; if you think his burger is done,
cook it for an additional 10 minutes.
* He’s very proud of me and tells everyone I’m “an author”.
* Our doctor adores him and will spend the first 15 minutes of our appointments looking at new photos of our grand kids.
* He’s a die-hard NY Rangers Hockey fan.
* He and his identical twin brother were number 18 in the Vietnam draft
but they failed the physical due to pilonidal cysts.
* He would walk our newborn baby to sleep every night for as long as it took, most times more than an hour.
* He’ll do whatever it takes to avoid an argument.
* Family comes first, always.
* He’s a very generous tipper; people are grateful and remember that.
* I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like him.
* His favorite song is “Only You”.
* He’s a ‘one woman man‘. He doesn’t flirt or stare at other women;
that’s just not his style.
* He’s never given me reason to be jealous.
* He’s the most decent man I know.
* He never forgets my birthday or our wedding anniversary, especially this anniversary because it’s TODAY. And today’s not just any anniversary β IT’S OUR 50th!
I have to believe God knew what He was doing when He brought us together. Fifty years β it just doesn’t seem possible! I look at Bill now and I see the same guy I fell in love with the night of our blind date. I’m awfully glad he was the one on the other side of the door that March night in 1968.
NAR Β© 2022
OUT ON A LIMB
The message on the Willoughbyβs answering machine came as quite a shock. Roger Willoughby was suddenly facing a life and death scenario. He wasnβt ready.
Roger remembered how it all started a couple of weeks ago when he felt a twinge in his shoulder. Thinking perhaps he slept in a wrong position, he decided to take a soothing hot shower to ease his sore muscles. Afterwards he applied an anti-inflammatory cream and went about his business. The discomfort disappeared and he forgot about it.
A few days later Roger joined his buddies for a round of golf. It was a glorious morning and the foursome decided to play 18 holes instead of 9. Mid-game Roger started feeling sore but continued playing. Later that afternoon he was paying the price. His shoulder was killing him and he could barely move it. The pain was more intense than ever. His wife Muriel said it looked swollen and scheduled an appointment with her doctor. Lord knows, she couldnβt remember the last time Roger had seen a doctor.
After a thorough examination, the doctor arranged for Roger to have an MRI and also set up a consult for him with an orthopedic specialist. In the meantime, Roger was prescribed something for the pain and waited for the results of the scan. The orthopedist told Roger he would call as soon as the results were in.
Coming out of his trance, Roger shook the cobwebs from his head and listened to the message again:
βMr. & Mrs. Willoughby, this is Dr. Arbor calling. I have the scan results. I was hoping to be able to give you better news but after consulting with my colleagues, we’ve concluded the best course of action would be to treat the affected limb aggressively. Iβm sorry to say thereβs an extensive amount of an insidious degenerative disease which spreads rapidly if not treated in a timely manner. Unfortunately, it wasn’t caught in time and thereβs nothing we can do. Even with treatment the situation is too far gone and Iβm afraid we have no other options. I was quite taken aback to see the amount of deep tissue decay. Once that sets in it spreads voraciously and is extremely difficult to treat; in fact, 9 out of 10 cases are inoperable. I know these are drastic measures but we must remove the limb as soon as possible and check to see if the disease has spread further. Iβm terribly sorry; I know this isnβt the information you were expecting. I’ll have my assistant call you to make the necessary arrangements.β
Roger was so incredibly shaken by the message, he suddenly felt drained of all energy and his shoulder hurt more than ever. Cradling his arm against his chest, he stumbled into the bedroom to rest and drifted off to sleep. Perhaps it was the pain meds he was taking but he fell into a very deep sleep. An hour or so went by when he was roused by his wifeβs voice; she was speaking softly on the phone in the kitchen. Roger felt very groggy and got up for a glass of water. As he drew near the kitchen he could hear what Muriel was saying and he stopped dead in his tracks.
βYes, Dr. Arbor, I understand thereβs nothing you can do. As harsh as it sounds, I believe you are right; we should bypass the limb removal and go straight for termination of life. I was hoping to save the old guy but it’s clear his time is up. Sadly, everything comes to an end. I agree with you thereβs no point in dragging it out any longer. As you said, the spread is inevitable. While end of life measures are drastic, removing both limbs is quite radical and seems so cruel when all that would do is prolong the unavoidable. I know Roger will be shocked but Iβll talk to him, make him understand it must be done. Besides, having the old guy gone will free up some space around here, maybe even bring in a handsome new fellow! Yes, let’s do it as soon as possible. Iβll leave everything in your capable hands.β
Roger couldnβt believe what he was hearing. After 40 years of marriage Muriel was ready to toss him into his grave without a second thought. How could she be so cold- hearted, agreeing to end his life without so much as a second thought?
βSo, this is what itβs come to, Muriel! How dare you!β Roger bellowed. Muriel was so startled by Roger’s outburst she dropped the platter of chicken and dumplings she’d just prepared for dinner. βWhen were you going to tell me you and the good doctor were going to do me in? Not even giving me the opportunity to discuss my options. Just chop me up into little pieces and toss me into the compost, why donβt you? Iβve never felt so betrayed and hurt in my whole life. How could you be so heartless? After all these years, I thought I knew you!β Roger collapsed onto the kitchen chair, his head in his hands.
Muriel couldn’t control herself and burst out laughing. Roger stared at her as if a knife had been plunged into his heart. His head was about to explode. Seeing the look on his face, Muriel composed herself; stepping over the spilled food, she pulled up a chair and sat next to Roger.
βAre you finished ranting and raving, you old fool? Iβll have you know that conversation you overheard was between me and Dr. Arbor, the tree surgeon β not your doctor. The old oak in the backyard is infested with some horrible mange and he has to chop it down. We were talking about the tree, Roger, not you. Chopping off limbs and termination of life! Honestly, do you think I have such little regard for you?! You mean everything to me, Roger.“
Husband and wife stared at each other. Muriel sat with her arms crossed while Roger stammered and stuttered looking for the right words.
βSo Iβm not dying of some rare degenerative disease? What about this pain in my arm?β
βWell, if you gave me half a chance to explain before you started screaming at me youβd know I already spoke to the doctor I dragged you to last week. You’re in pain and you haven’t had an examination in ages so now you’re assuming the worst. Well, it’s a simple case of bursitis in your shoulder, Roger, and all you need is a cortisone shot.β
βThank God! I was frantic thinking you were going to put me down, Muriel. My entire life flashed before my eyes. Why, I swear my arm feels better already. Maybe I donβt even need a shot after all.β
βRoger Willoughby, donβt you dare try to weasel your way out of this one! Weβre going to the doctor tomorrow and thatβs final. Now what do you have to say for yourself?β
βWhat do I have to say? I feel great and Iβm starving, Muriel! Whatβs for dinner?β
Muriel gave Roger a withering look. βWhat’s for dinner?! Is that what I just heard you say? Well, since our chicken dinner is ruined, you’re eating the next best thing, Roger β crow! Youβre eating crow for dinner tonight! Now help me clean up this mess.”
NAR Β© 2022
GUEST POST: I LISTEN β BY ROSEMARIE HOULIHAN
Itβs always a thrill for me to open my page for guest posts and share some great writing. Today itβs a special honor to present a very meaningful and personal story written by my sister, Rosemarie Houlihan. I believe her words will touch your hearts as they did mine.
If I believed in saints, my mother would be one.
Mom had a very difficult life. Her mother was an invalid requiring daily injections and healthcare which my mother gave her. Yet, despite my grandmotherβs fragile health, she imposed rules and regulations which my mother had to follow.
As a child my mother did all the heavy household jobs such as scrubbing the marble steps leading up to the first floor of their three-family house. Her education was limited to the eighth grade because she had to go to work to supplement her fatherβs income. Momβs first year of work was as an unpaid apprentice dressmaker. She remained a dressmaker most of her life and her work was unparalleled.
When my parents married in 1939, they lived with my motherβs parents. My father and grandfather worked conflicting hours, so Mom was always cooking a meal for someone.
A baby boy was born in 1941 but he had kidney disease and died at home at the age of two. War had already broken out and my father was called to serve. Married men with children were not being drafted at the time so all Momβs aunts had their husbands and babies home with them. Mom was bereft, at home, caring for her mother and mourning the loss of her baby. She would sit on her bed folding and unfolding her babyβs unused clothes. Her aunts saw what this was doing to Mom and convinced her to accompany them on an errand. While she was out, her uncles dismantled the crib and put all the babyβs things in storage. Mom was furious when she returned but this act of tough love probably saved her sanity.
I was born after my father returned from WWII and then exactly four years later, on my birthday, my sister was born.
Throughout her life Mom cared for someone who was sick. Her mother, her baby, her father and eventually her husband who was ill for more than thirty years. When my great-grandmother Mada Rana found herself in need of care, my mother took her into our home and looked after her as well.
I was so used to my mother always sewing at home, doing alterations for friends and neighbors, making clothes for me and my sister, I thought nothing of βvolunteeringβ her to sew all the ladiesβ costumes for a Gilbert & Sullivan production at our high school. As busy as Mom was, she got the job done and became the official costumer for all our plays until my sister graduated high school.
Despite all she did for us, I remember feeling βcheatedβ that my mom was not like other moms. She didnβt sit with us after school and chat; in fact, we never really βtalkedβ. She was always working at something β cooking, sewing, cleaning.
Into her old age Mom continued caring for my father β and he was a handful! He was a good man but incapable of doing much. Still, Mom took great pride in taking care of Dad, calling it βher dutyβ. Iβve often wondered if Dad was truly incapable or did he feel inadequate because Mom could do anything she set her mind to? Mom was a powerhouse and Dad may have felt overwhelmed. Who knows what he might have been capable of if given half a chance? Maybe he could have helped Mom but she didnβt know how to share the load.
When Dad died, Mom aged abruptly; she became overwhelmed with day-to-day life. The change was shocking but when I think about it, she relaxed for the first time in her life and just let go.
Throughout her life Mom never complained. She never cried, never shouted β and everything stayed inside her, tightly sealed.
I am in a place now where I compare myself to Mom because my dear husband of 54 years has major health issues β not only physical but emotional. And I am failing miserably at caring for him.
I say Iβm failing because I do not have the grace that my mother had. I cry, I yell and curse, chastise and apologize and resent him while always loving him. I start each day saying I will do better, but he rarely smiles or says βgood morning, how are youβ β and, of course, I take it personally which I know I shouldnβt.
But it hurts. The man I married and looked up to is facing his inability to live as he used to. His eyesight has failed him, his memory is poor, his ability to do anything physical, mechanical, technical β all gone. He feels diminished, sad, useless.
And I donβt know what to do.
Oh, I participate in a twice-monthly caregiversβ group and it is cathartic. I make promises to myself. And when I βtalkβ to my mother, the memories of her ability to cope often come to me. And I listen.
Do I believe in saints? Actually, I do.
RH Β© 2022
BACK BEFORE YOU MISS ME
Rebecca Jameson couldnβt get to sleep. She shifted her body from side to side but just couldnβt get comfortable. Maybe she should go downstairs and watch The Tonight Show.
βCanβt sleep, Becca?β Danny asked groggily.
βSorry, honey. I didnβt mean to wake you!β
Danny flipped on the nightstand lamp. Rebecca glanced at the alarm clock; it was very late and Danny had to get up early for work. She felt terribly guilty but this last month of her pregnancy was rough. She got up and waddled to the bathroom, then settled back in bed cradling her substantial belly. Danny propped himself on one elbow and rubbed Rebeccaβs tummy.
βWell, Iβm up now so what can I do for you, babe?β
Rebecca looked at him sheepishly and Danny grinned. βRocky Road with Gummy Bears and rainbow sprinkles?β he asked, knowing her cravings so well.
βYou donβt mind?β
βFor you and Danny Jr? Iβd do anything, Becca. Thank God for the 24-hour Dairy Princess!β He kissed her forehead, grabbed his wallet and bounded down the stairs. βBack before you miss me!β
That was the last time Rebecca saw Danny.
When Danny didnβt return after 30 minutes, Rebecca wasnβt worried; late Friday nights at the Dairy Princess were always busy. One hour later and she was starting to get a little anxious. After two hours she was a nervous wreck. She tried calling Danny; her calls went straight to voicemail. When she called her dad Frank, a detective with the NYPD, he answered immediately.
βBecky! Are you OK? Is it the baby?β
βThe baby and I are fine, Dad. Itβs Danny. He went for ice cream two hours ago and hasnβt come home yet. Daddy, Iβm scaredβ and she started to cry.
βSweetie, Mom and I are coming right over. Try not to worry; Iβm sure everythingβs gonna be alright.β Frank hoped he sounded confident but he knew Danny; this was totally out of character.
Rebecca and Danny knew each other all their lives. They were childhood sweethearts and never dated other people. Rebecca was a kindergarten teacher and Danny managed Jamesonβs Deli. They had the same friends and spent all their free time together; they even shared the same Facebook page. There were no secrets between them.
Danny was thrilled when he and Rebecca found out she was expecting a boy. He started calling him Danny Jr. and talked non-stop about the things theyβd do together. With just two weeks to go, Danny was eager to be a dad.
When Rebeccaβs parents arrived, they found her nervously looking out the window. Her mom Betty made a pot of tea while Frank talked soothingly to his daughter.
βListen, honey. I called the station on the way over here and my guys are out combing the area. I know youβre scared but thereβs got to be a logical explanation. People donβt just disappear, especially not Danny.β
The hours ticked by without a word. Rebecca became more and more agitated, certain something terrible had happened. Betty convinced Rebecca to get a little rest and she managed to doze off. When she got up to use the bathroom, Rebeccaβs water broke and Frank drove them to the hospital. They went straight to the ER and a few hours later, Danny Jr. was born. He was perfect but Rebeccaβs world was never the same.
Seasons came and went without a trace of Danny. Frank and his team never stopped searching; every trail led to a dead end. It was as though Danny Jameson never existed.
Rebecca never accepted Dannyβs disappearance. How could someone simply vanish and why? She took solace in caring for Danny Jr. which was a double-edged sword. He was a happy, well-adjusted child who gave Rebecca much joy but he was also the spitting image of his father. Whenever Rebecca looked at Danny Jr. she saw Danny. It was difficult.
Danny Jr. asked about his father and Rebecca explained as best she could. At first the boy seemed content with the answers his mother gave but as he got older he heard people talking about how his father βjust up and leftβ. He asked Rebecca about that which she vehemently denied; there was no way Danny would have walked out on them. Still, restless thoughts occasionally visited Danny Jr. It didnβt help when people would comment on how much he looked like his father.
A missing person case eventually turned into a cold case. Rebecca refused to have Danny declared legally dead. As painful as the unknown was, that closure was too much for Rebecca to handle.
When Danny Jr. was in his late teens, Rebecca was diagnosed with breast cancer. Whenever Rebecca went for a chemo treatment sheβd say βBack before you miss meβ. She struggled for 8 years, finally succumbing at the age of 52. Danny Jr. was 26 years old, happily married with one daughter.
On the day of Rebeccaβs funeral, Danny Jr. and his family stood near the side of his motherβs grave. His mind was whirling with memories of his mother and questions about his father. Would he ever know what really happened to Danny?
As the priest recited the final prayers, Danny Jr. stared straight ahead, his eyes filling with tears. Just then he noticed a man standing across the street from the gated cemetery. Danny Jr. was shaken to the depths of his soul by the appearance of this man; their resemblance was uncanny. At that moment Danny Jr. realized he was looking at the face of his long-lost father. Even at a distance the menβs eyes locked and Danny Jr. began to slowly walk across the cemetery.
As he drew near to the man a large bus rolled by, momentarily obscuring his view. When the bus had passed and Danny Jr. had a clear view, the man was gone.
In his heart Danny Jr. knew that man was his father. He would have given anything for just one hour with him.
NAR Β© 2022
THE VOICE OF TREES
I stood at the bedroom window staring at the devastation caused by the previous nightβs ice storm. My wife Patrice is going to be crushed when she seeβs what happened during the night β Mother Nature at her fiercest. I heard Patrice stirring in bed.
βGlenn, Itβs so early. Watcha looking at?β she asked sleepily.
βWe had a pretty bad storm last night. Itβs not good, hon. We lost some treesβ I replied.
Patrice threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, feet skimming the rug searching for discarded slippers. βNot Red. Please donβt say we lost Red.β Her voice was pleading as she spoke of the redwood sapling she planted 30 years ago when we first moved into our little farmhouse in Colorado. Over the years Red had grown to a majestic height, his branches reaching out to the sky as if in prayer.
I wanted to shout “Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes” but I knew Iβd be asking her to do the impossible. Instead, I reached my hand out to my wife. Holding tightly onto my hand like a child learning how to walk, she took a few tentative steps toward the window. Patrice gasped loudly and she buried her face in her hands. Then the tears came. She cried inconsolably for what seemed an eternity. I held her and let her cry; this was not something carelessly brushed aside or easily forgotten.
Finally her sobs lessened and with a broken heart and a cracking voice she exclaimed βPoor Red! How I loved that beautiful old tree. Look at him now, laying there like a toppled monument.β Patrice yanked a few tissues from the box on our nightstand, dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.
βOh Glenn, I wouldnβt blame you if you thought I was being ridiculous. I canβt help it; Iβm totally shattered.β
We sat on the bed side by side and I put a consoling arm around my wifeβs trembling shoulders. I kissed her hair and spoke tenderly: “There’s no shame in mourning the loss of a tree. It’s not silly. It is, after all, a living thing. Does it feel pain when a leaf is plucked or a branch broken? Does it thirstily lap the rain after a dry spell? Does it feel your heartbeat as you rest a weary back against its old, sturdy trunk? Does it cry when cut down? How dare we presume that it does not. Some time ago, a round slice cut from the trunk of a fallen tree was placed on a record player, just like a vinyl LP; the rings of the tree were like the grooves in an album. When the stereo needle was placed on the tree rings and the volume turned up, the most beautiful and haunting sounds emerged β sounds only a living thing could make. Who are we to say a tree cannot feel? Yes, my love, it’s fitting to mourn.β
βIs that true, Glenn?β
βYes! Come, listen.β
NAR Β© 2022
(Though the actual sliced pieces of the tree do not have qualities of sound in piano form, the converted record player analyzes the tree rings for their thickness, rate of growth and strength. It maps that data and outputs it as piano music through the stereo as captured here.)
AN OFFER THEY COULDN’T REFUSE
The year was 1980. My husband Frank and I were excited to be back in Italy to celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary and Frankβs 30th birthday. Frank was a big sports fan so the timing couldnβt have been better; we would be in Rome for the Italian Golf Open at the prestigious Acquasanta Golf Club.
Founded in 1903 by British Embassy workers, Acquasanta is the oldest golf course in Italy and one of the most memorable places to play anywhere in the world. The club is located along the Appian Way, just a few kilometers from the heart of Rome. The views of the ruins of ancient Roman aqueducts on the front nine are nothing short of spectacular. We planned to spend a beautiful day walking the roughs and watching the tournament; in the evening we would celebrate Frankβs birthday in the elegant dining room.
Fate brought us together in 1974 when we both signed up for a backpacking tour of Europe. We had seats next to each other on the flight from New York and we hit it off great. We were both Italian; Frank spoke the language fluently while I barely knew enough to put a sentence together. The in-flight movie was The Godfather and Frank delighted in translating much of the dialogue for me.
Neither of us knew anyone else on the tour so we spent all our time together, sharing the stories of our lives. We enjoyed each otherβs company and found we had much in common. By the time the tour was over, we were in love. We tied the knot in New York in 1975 and now we were back in the place where it all began.
Our first day at Acquasanta was fantastic; the sky was clear, the sun shining and the temperature mild. The place was busy but not overly crowded and everyone looked quite pleased to be there. Smiling, friendly people greeted us with βCiao! Come stai oggi?β.
We decided to stop at one of the concession stands for a bite to eat; a few bistro tables and chairs were set up for spectators to sit quietly without distracting the players or disturbing the other visitors. Everywhere we looked the scenery was breathtaking with Mediterranean pines, cypresses and eucalyptus trees dotting the undulating terrain.
As I glanced around enjoying the view I couldnβt help noticing a group of men running in the opposite direction of the greens. More and more people joined the group; curious, Frank and I followed. As we got closer we saw a gorgeous young woman wearing a bikini; the sash she wore revealed she was Miss Italy 1980. There was a sign where she stood and a long line of eager men of all ages.
Frank suddenly started roaring with laughter. I asked him what was so funny; he pointed to the sign, doubled over with laughter as tears ran down his face. Practically hyperventilating, he managed to gasp out the words βIt seems they got the translations wrong. What it really says is βFor good luck, Miss Italy will kiss your ballsβ. It should say βkiss your golf ballsβ!β
I guess they made those men an offer they couldnβt refuse!
NAR Β© 2022
TI BACERΓ LE PALLE
TASTY BALLS
βMohammedan-owned Chinese/Tai/Himalayan/Middle Eastern/Indian restaurant β well, you certainly donβt 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 β βTasty Ballsβ. 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; thatβs 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 βThe Barefoot Magpieβ β another place Iβd never heard of. How can this be? Iβve lived in Lancaster all my life and thought I knew every place there was to eat. Obviously I havenβt been getting out enough lately.
Whatβs this? βTasty Ballsβ 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 worldβs biggest sucker for dumplings!
Well now, letβs see what else the article says: βExtravagantly yet handsomely decorated β¦ moderately priced β¦ perfectly prepared dumplings β¦ culinary delight.β My stomach rumbled and my mouth watered as I read a description of just a tiny sampling of dumplings offered at βTasty Ballsβ:
- Jiaozi – A Chinese dumpling consisting of delicately sautΓ©ed ground meat and chopped vegetables wrapped into a thinly rolled dough-ball which is then fried to a golden brown or gently steamed.
- Xiaolongbao β 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 dinerβs mouth is filled with liquid ambrosia.
- Momos β 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 βTasty Ballsβ.
- Shish Barak β 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 β 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 β Originally from Saudi Arabia, this luscious dessert translates into βsmall bitesβ. 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 βWhat in the world has come over you?β
Holding up the soggy newspaper I exclaimed βThis β as if you didnβt know, you little minx! Tempting me with an article about delectable dumplings. Well, it worked. Itβs βTasty Ballsβ tonight!β
βOh, I donβt think so, luvβ Judith laughed. βThatβs Cousin Eunice’s. She must have left it behind when she returned to the UK after her visit. That paper is from Lancaster, England!
If I had a sword I would have fallen on it.
NAR Β© 2021
SPREAD ‘EM
Thanks to a similar story by my friend John Holton (see below), I’m submitting this post to Fandango’s One Word Challenge.
The prompt word is “chop”.
I’m also feeling mixed emotions for I see our recently departed friend Hobbo commented on my story when I originally wrote it last year.
RIP Hobbo.
When I became pregnant with my first baby in 1977, my husband Bill and I were over the moon! We were thrilled and dove headfirst into the whole pregnancy phenomenon β buying furniture and clothes and setting up a nursery. At the time I was 26 years old, weighed 105 pounds and stood 5β4β tall.
Throughout my pregnancy I craved barbecued hamburgers, fresh tomatoes and hot fudge ice cream sundaes every day. After nine months, I gained a whopping 72 pounds and at some point had to remove my wedding ring because my fingers were getting swollen.
Who cared if pregnancy gave me cankles and made my fingers swell? It also made my boobs huge and turned me into a nymphomaniac β a little perk my husband didnβt mind one bit! Besides, as soon as the baby was born Iβd lose the weight. I thought Iβd immediately jump back into my tiny Jordache jeans and halter tops. How naive I was! It came as quite a shock to discover I could only fit into maternity clothes after giving birth. I suddenly didnβt feel quite so sexy anymore!
A couple of weeks after the baby was born, we were invited to a Christmas Eve party. It had been a while since weβd been out so I was looking forward to slipping into my fanciest maternity outfit and sliding my ring back on. I wanted to look pretty and festive and it seemed like a good idea at the time but no sooner was my substantial solid gold wedding ring back on when my finger began to swell. Before my eyes it tripled in size and went from various shades of pink to red to finally a pulsating, throbbing blueish purple. And it started to hurt like a son of a bitch, too.
I immediately ran cold water over my hand but the ring wouldnβt budge. Bill filled a bowl with water and ice and I soaked my hand until I lost all feeling. No luck. We tried scrubbing with lots of soap and water β nothing. We dragged out every sort of lubricant we could think of from WD-40 to KY Jelly to olive oil. We even tried the “string thing” (don’t ask; that’s another story). Bill lovingly suggested I try to relax and take deep breaths while he pulled on the ring. I screamed at him to βfuck offβ because “This wasn’t Lamaze Class and I felt like I was giving birth again.” Nothing worked. I was now in agony and convinced my finger would eventually shrivel up, die and fall off. Or even worse, we’d have to chop it off. Neither option was appealing.
There was only one thing left to do. I told Bill to take the baby to the party while I went to the hospital. Hopefully they’d give me a shot to reduce the swelling. When the nurse noticed my maternity clothes, she told me I was in the wrong section of the hospital and directed me to Labor and Delivery. I informed her that I was no longer pregnant and showed her my ever-expanding finger; she immediately dragged me into the ER.
Doogie Howser, M.D. and his assistants took one look at my digit, gasped and scratched their heads, perplexed. When youβre on the receiving end of that horrified reaction coming from professionals trained to remove knives lodged in skulls and vibrators stuck in various body orifices, itβs not a good feeling. Excusing themselves, the doctors stepped out of the room, consulted for ten seconds and returned with the verdict: βWe have no choice but to cut it off.”
βMY FINGER??β I gasped.
βNo, silly. The ring” they laughed. “Weβre going to get Jerry and Ares. If he canβt cut it off, no one canβ replied one doctor twittering like a giddy school girl. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from shouting “Shut up, you fucking idiot!”
βAnd who, may I ask, are Jerry and Ares?β I asked through my pain.
βJerry is our top custodian and Ares is the strongest 8β mini bolt cutter in his toolbox.β
That statement was not exactly reassuring.
Within minutes Jerry appeared; a sparkling red tool which I was pretty sure was Ares dangled prominently from his belt. I was also pretty sure Jerry had just smoked a joint but, hey, he was the best and given my predicament, beggars canβt be choosers. Jerry examined my finger, made all sorts of grumbling noises and proceeded to sterilize Ares before he scrubbed up.
At last the moment of truth arrived. Jerry told me to turn my hand, palm facing up and βspread βemβ. I assumed he meant my fingers and did as instructed. Jerry made the Sign of the Cross, kissed Ares and with the precision of a neurosurgeon gently slid Ares between my finger and my ring.
One loud βsnipβ was all it took and the back of my ring was cut clear through. Jerry broke out his mini pliers and separated the ring enough to remove it from my finger. We all let out a collective sigh of relief. Tragedy averted.
In case youβre wondering, I never got the ring repaired. It sits in my jewelry box as a reminder that even though something may seem like a good idea at the time, that isnβt always the case.
NAR Β© 2021
And here is a link to John’s story: https://thesoundofonehandtyping.com/2022/09/17/ring-a-ding-ding-socs/
WHY?
There wasn’t anything particularly special about the guy; he was actually rather ordinary looking but something made me uneasy. He just stood near the entrance, silently watching.
It was the usual Wednesday morning story time in the children’s room of the Lansing Library. Parents running errands could drop off their kids knowing they’d be safe and well-cared-for. The children listened intently as I read “The Adventures of Frog and Toad“.
I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable vibe I was getting from that guy. I caught the eye of my assistant, Grace, and with a slight tilt of my head I motioned toward the man. She glanced over and casually made her way across the room.
With cautious confidence Grace walked up to him and in a quiet but stern tone said “You’ve got thirty seconds to explain to me what you’re doing here”.
The man seemed rattled by Grace’s demand and stumbled over an apology. “I’m terribly sorry! I didn’t mean to alarm anyone. I’m here to pick up my son.”
“Oh, really? Who’s your son?” Grace asked.
The man replied “Nathan … Nathan Fletcher. I’m Jacob Fletcher. My wife Emily isn’t feeling well. She asked me to come fetch him. She’s pregnant, you know.”
“Yes, Emily. Of course! Such a lovely woman” Grace said. “Sorry to hear she’s ill. She seemed fine when she dropped Nathan off.”
“Yes, she was” Jacob agreed. “It’s the morning sickness; it really knocks her for a loop sometimes. Emily said she would notify library security that I’d be picking Nathan up.”
Before Grace had a chance to call the security desk to verify Mr. Fletcher’s story, Nathan spotted his father; the boy was overjoyed to see his dad and happily raced to greet him.
“Daddy! Daddy! I’m so glad to see you. Is Mommy here?” Jacob gave Nathan a big hug and scooped him up in his arms.
“Hi, buddy! Mommy’s resting. She asked me to come get you.”
“Yay! Can we get some ice cream? We can bring some to Mommy, too” Nathan asked, bubbling with excitement.
“Sure!” Jacob replied laughing. “C’mon! We better get going.”
Grace looked questioningly at me and I nodded in approval, smiling at the happy duo of father and son.
The two left, hand in hand, Nathan gleefully skipping along beside his dad. All was right in the library once again.
Later that night as I watched TV, the show was interrupted by a news bulletin:
“A police alert has been issued for the whereabouts of five-year-old Nathan Fletcher and his father, Jacob. The two were last seen leaving Longford’s Ice Cream on Lansing Street around 12:30 this afternoon. The body of Emily Fletcher, Jacob’s wife and the mother of Nathan, was found in the family’s home this evening by her sister. She had been stabbed to death. Mrs. Fletcher was six months pregnant. At this time police believe Jacob Fletcher is the only suspect in the murder of his wife, unborn child and the abduction of his son.”
I sat in abject horror staring at the TV screen; in the upper right corner of the screen was the face of the man I had seen in the library.
How could I have made such an unforgivable error in judgement? Oh my God! That poor woman! My heart froze when I thought of Nathan.
Why didn’t I follow my instincts?
NAR Β© 2021
| Reposted for Fandango’s FOWC – Β http://fivedotoh.com/2023/02/10/fowc-with-fandango-entrance/ |
RAINBOW BRIDGE
Eric and Sue always knew they’d get a dog someday β not one from the pet shop but a rescue in desperate need of a loving home. When they saw Lily, all chocolatey-brown with big doe eyes, they knew she was the one. She was the sweetest, most gentle dog ever, despite having been abused and terribly frightened most of her life.
Animals know when someone is trying to help them. Lily knew she was safe, happy living in her home on Paradise Place with Eric and Sue. She loved them as much as they loved her.
After six years together Sue noticed that Lily had a little raspy cough and some trouble eating; this worried her. A trip to the vet confirmed her fears; Lily was diagnosed with a rare case of tongue cancer.
Malignant. Inoperable.
“How much time?”
“Within the year” was the grim answer.
Sue and Eric promised each other two things:
β They would spoil Lily rotten and smother her with love.
β They would never let her suffer or die alone.
The veterinarian decided the best treatment would be medication and radiation therapy. It wasn’t a cure but Lily responded well; she was a happy girl. She loved napping in the upstairs TV room. Upon waking she’d walk to the top of the stairs, stretch and shake her head, dog tags jangling noisily. When baby Julia came along, Lily was so good with her; Eric and Sue never worried when Lily was near the baby.
Eight months later Lily started getting worse. Within days she declined rapidly; she was listless and wouldn’t eat. Eric and Sue were blindsided one morning when Lily began vomiting blood; they knew the end was near for their beloved girl. It’s not like they weren’t expecting this; it just happened so fast and too soon.
At the animal hospital Eric and Sue comforted Lily as the vet gave her a sedative. They whispered loving words and kissed her head. Lily finally relaxed in their arms. Another injection was administered and Lily passed peacefully after just a few seconds.
Eric and Sue were heartbroken. They took the next day off from work to recoup, scrubbing the blood from the carpet and washing Lily’s bed. That night while folding laundry Sue heard a noise upstairs. She thought it was Julia but the baby was fast asleep. Then she recognized the sound: jangling dog tags! Exhausted, Sue knew it had to be her imagination … until she looked at Eric. He was white as a ghost, his gaze transfixed on the staircase. Sue whispered in questioning disbelief “You heard that?!” Eric nodded yes. “That was Lily!”
Logically they knew it couldn’t possibly be Lily but they looked anyway. Then they checked Lily’s leash and collar; of course they were right where they put them the night before. But in their hearts they knew β Lily had come back one last time to her home on Paradise Place to say goodbye and let them know she was ok on the other side of Rainbow Bridge.
NAR Β© 2020
BEST LAID PLANS
On a whim my husband and I decided to ride our bicycles to Shrewsbury. The village was not far β a little over four miles. We would stop for lunch at one of the charming cafes.
It was a lovely Spring day, comfortably warm with a few wisps of clouds. Horses and cows grazed contentedly in the fields. A pond sparkled radiantly in the sunshine. Two swans performed a graceful ballet, their cygnets following closely. An elderly couple cheerfully waved at us as we rode by.
Shrewsbury appeared as we rounded a bend in the road; carefree diners were arriving for lunch. We leaned our bicycles against the fence of a nearby school and walked to a romantic-looking cafe. After a delightful meal we happily strolled to the school to retrieve our bicycles for the ride home.
This was without a doubt the most perfect day we’d ever had!
Without warning the sky started turning grey and the wind began blowing. Arriving at the school we were shocked to discover our bikes were gone; we had no choice but to walk home. Suddenly thunder and lightning crackled in the foreboding sky and heavy rain began pouring down on us. We trudged on, cursing with every step we took.
We were drenched, our shoes covered in mud. Exhausted, we argued terribly about who forgot to bring the bicycle locks. Everything turned into a total disaster and we stopped talking altogether.
This was without a doubt the worst day we’d ever had!
NAR Β© 2020
JUST DESSERTS
Death comes suddenly to some; for others it takes a lifetime.
It was Good Friday of 1946; Kathleen O’Brien walked through a narrow cobblestone passage way to St. Brigid’s Church. She hated walking by Sully’s Bar with its overpowering stench of booze and abundance of seedy characters hanging around but she was late for services (a terrible habit) and this was a convenient shortcut. She was twenty-two years old β no longer a kid β yet she’d rather die than admit to her mother that she missed the Veneration of the Cross. It was bad enough she was late for everything.
Seeing an unfamiliar man drinking a beer and leaning against the wall outside Sully’s, Kathleen quickened her pace. She heard him chuckle and say “What’s ya hurry, toots?” She walked even faster, opening the side door of the church; it creaked loudly. The elderly priest paused in mid-sentence and made a grand gesture of looking in Kathleen’s direction; he stared at her over his glasses, giving her a withering scowl. Embarrassed, she quickly found a seat at the end of a pew next to Mrs. Callahan who huffed at having to make room for this rude latecomer.
As is the tradition on Good Friday, everyone remained after services for a period of silent prayer. It was a time to reflect and meditate, one of Kathleen’s favorite parts of Holy Week. When the ushers opened the church doors the sense of peacefulness and solemnity was instantly shattered by the loud music and drunken laughter emanating from Sully’s Bar. “Some people have no respect” thought Kathleen angrily. “An Irish pub shouldn’t even be open on Good Friday!“
As she began her walk home Kathleen noticed the same man from the bar standing at the corner. Had he been waiting for her or was this just a coincidence? Warily Kathleen took a step when suddenly the man started walking right toward her. She was taken aback as he stood in her path and extended his hand. “Name’s Harry Selkin and you’re one fine lookin’ dame. Ya need somebody like me to walk ya home. It can be dangerous for a good Catholic girl like yourself to be alone in this neck of the woods.”
“Where do you get off saying something like that to me?” Kathleen snapped. “And how do you know I’m a good Catholic girl anyway?”
“Well, I ain’t no Einstein but I seen ya practically runnin’ to St. Brigid’s like ya pants was on fire and I’m guessin‘ ya ain’t no altar boy β not with them gorgeous legs.” Harry replied in a very ‘Bogey’ sort of way. He smiled and his tough guy persona became surprisingly charming. Kathleen found it hard not to laugh just a little at this roguish stranger and she shocked herself by allowing him to walk her home.
Harry and Kathleen were as different as a gorilla and a swan but there was an undeniable chemistry between them and they started falling in love. No one was more surprised than Kathleen; Harry was like no man she had ever met. Sure, he was rough around the edges but she loved how his face lit up like a kid whenever he ate dessert, especially his favorite β homemade apple pie. Kathleen was known for her baking skills and would make a pie for Harry every couple of days.
They had a whirlwind courtship and Harry popped the question, much to Kathleen’s delight β and her parent’s chagrin. At first they tolerated the relationship thinking it would blow over, but the more serious it got the more concerned they became. There was a major obstacle her parents couldn’t overlook β the fact that Harry was Jewish. Kathleen’s father was dead set against Harry, calling him names like ‘Christ killer’ and ‘kike’. He was enraged when Kathleen announced that she and Harry were going to get married with or without his blessing. Her mother was crushed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Can’t you see he’s no good for you? I don’t trust him at all, Katy girl, not at all!” she warned, crying into her apron. Kathleen hated defying her parents but would not be dissuaded; she was in love! Her father said she was a blind fool and if she married “that good-for-nothing bum” she was dead to him. With a heavy heart Kathleen closed the door of her childhood home behind her and never looked back.
Harry and Kathleen got married in city hall, the judge and his clerk their only guests and witnesses. After a weekend honeymoon in Niagara Falls the couple settled into Harry’s tiny apartment β a walk-up on the fifth floor and almost within arm’s reach of the elevated train. Kathleen was startled by the scream of the locomotive but Harry said she’d get used to it.
The dilapidated condition of the apartment shocked Kathleen but she was determined to turn it into a lovely home for them. She sewed curtains and towels for the kitchen and bought bed coverings from the thrift store. She also bought sacks of apples from the fruit stand to make Harry’s beloved apple pies. She read in her cookbook that it was alright to freeze apples until you were ready to use them β a handy tip Kathleen didn’t know.
Harry worked the graveyard shift as a printer at the local newspaper, seven days a week from midnight till 8:00 AM. His fingers were permanently stained with black ink. The first morning he came home from work and saw the newly decorated apartment, he got angry at Kathleen for spending his hard-earned money on unnecessary things. Uncaring, he left ink stains on the bedspread when he sat down to remove his shoes. However his mood lightened considerably when he eyed the sacks of apples and Kathleen forgave his angry outburst when she saw that boyish grin.
While Harry slept during the day Kathleen cleaned, shopped and cooked. She wanted a vacuum cleaner but Harry said it was too expensive and the noise would keep him awake so she settled for a carpet sweeper. Their only chance to be together was at breakfast and dinner time β and of course for coffee and dessert. Kathleen suggested a few times that it would be nice if Harry worked during the day so they could be like a normal couple and spend more time together but her words fell on deaf ears.
She also longed for a baby. Each time she thought she was pregnant it turned out to be a false alarm. She saw a doctor who wasn’t very encouraging; he shrugged his shoulders, gave her ambiguous explanations and performed a couple of routine tests. He told her it was just one of those things; not all couples could get pregnant. When Kathleen finally got up the nerve to mention to Harry what the doctor said, he laughed and said it wasn’t his fault she couldn’t get pregnant; “Just ask that sweet little Frenchie I knocked up during the war” was his mean-spirited reply. Kathleen felt like she’d been kicked in the gut. When she cried that she needed something else to fill her lonely days Harry yelled to “go get a job and start earnin’ ya keep around here! Who needs another mouth to feed anyways?” Kathleen was reeling; how could he say such hurtful things? Heartbroken, she eventually gave up on having a baby and found a job as a presser in a shirt factory. The work was exhausting and she still had to maintain the apartment and cook for Harry.
What happened to the guy she married? Harry was constantly annoyed about something or other and drank more now than usual. He got mean when he drank and and Kathleen bore the brunt of his anger. When he demanded sex every night before going to work, she kept her mouth shut but she was silently screaming. This was no way to exist, like a piece of property and not a person. She’d lie awake at night remembering her mother’s warning words. The only thing in her God-forsaken life that she truly enjoyed was baking and she did it all for Harry. She would fantasize about how lovely it would be to have her own little bake shop; she’d make lots of delicious cakes and pies for her large following of loyal customers β not just for her selfish husband. She knew she could do it if she only had the chance.
A few weeks after Kathleen began working she started complaining about backaches and being very tired β probably from constantly lifting the heavy pressing machines at work. Harry, as usual, was unsympathetic and said she better toughen up because no way was she giving up that job.
One morning Kathleen asked Harry if he could bring down the mixing bowl she kept on top of the fridge so she could make an apple pie. He was tired from working all night and wanted to get to sleep but he obliged her at the prospect of dessert. Harry put down his bottle of beer and got the step-stool out of the closet. As he started to climb, Kathleen hoisted a five pound sack of frozen apples, wincing at the pain in her back, and bashed Harry as hard as she could on the back of his head. He fell backwards onto the kitchen floor, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Kathleen hurriedly tore open the sack of apples and dumped them into a pot on the stove. She shoved the empty apple sack into the garbage bag, bunched it all up and threw it down the incinerator chute outside their apartment door. Placing a new bag in the garbage can, she looked at Harry’s body and felt sick to her stomach, vomiting in the sink. She washed her hands and face, then placed a call to the police.
“HELP!” Kathleen screamed into the phone. “My husband fell! I think he’s dead!” Then she calmly sat at the kitchen table and waited, crying over misspent years. The police and ambulance arrived quickly; after examining Harry, he was officially declared dead. Blunt force trauma, they said, obviously from smashing his head on the kitchen floor. Everyone was very conciliatory and sympathetic and they respectfully removed Harry’s body. “If there’s anything we can do, Mrs. Selkin, please let us know” the officers said as they left Kathleen alone in the quiet apartment.
Kathleen cleaned up the kitchen and called her boss at the shirt factory to say she wouldn’t be able to work that day. Her boss barked that if she didn’t come in to work she shouldn’t bother coming back at all. Kathleen simply said “Goodbye”. She put the pot of apples in the fridge and after changing her clothes she went to the funeral parlor to make arrangements for Harry.
When she got home she received a phone call from her doctor. “Mrs. Selkin, I’m calling because your test results came back; you and Mr. Selkin will be thrilled to know you’re pregnant. Congratulations, Mrs. Selkin!” Kathleen swayed in stunned disbelief and grabbed onto the edge of the table. She managed a weak “Thank you” and hung up the phone. “Pregnant” she whispered in awe and her slight smile slowly grew into a broad grin. She gently touched her belly, truly happy for the first time in years.
The next morning Kathleen baked a large apple pie with the same apples she used to bash in Harry’s head. When the pie was done and still warm, she placed it in a box and delivered it to the nice policemen. On the way home she stopped in the little bakery near her apartment and inquired about a job. It was a start, a new beginning for her and her baby.
NAR Β© 2020
NIP TUCK
“Attribution, retribution, convolution, resolution! All I am saying is give Reese a chance!”
Sprawled out in the stern of our cabin cruiser, my wife Reese drunkenly belted out her version of John Lennon’s hit song. I was piloting the boat on our return trip from a weekend wedding celebration on Catalina Island; Reese’s sister Margaux had gotten married … again.
Like her sister, Reese had a terrible track record in the marriage department. She was on her third husband β recording industry mogul David Hamlin β when we began our affair. I was a confirmed bachelor living very comfortably in an exclusive penthouse in the city. After her divorce I moved into Reese’s mountain-top estate in Bel-Air, California. I had the dubious distinction of becoming husband number four.
I’m Dr. Jeremy Phillips, plastic surgeon to the rich and famous in Beverly Hills; Reese was one of my patients. As her doctor and lover, I learned her deep dark secrets: her expensive cocaine habit, compulsive shopping on Rodeo Drive, her penchant for Grey Goose and an addiction to plastic surgery. She was beautiful in everyone’s eyes except her own. She wanted me to turn her into a goddess, which I did.
When drunk Reese could be either a sexy vixen or a slutty bitch; tonight was definitely the latter. She struggled into an upright position, slowly got to her feet and staggered toward me, one hand grasping the boat railing and the other a bottle of vodka.
“For fuck’s sake, Jeremy, why do you always have to wear that ridiculous outfit? You look like a stupid overgrown kid playing dress-up!” Reese slurred. She drained the bottle, dropping it on the deck.
“This is proper nautical attire, darling, perfectly appropriate for every occasion” I replied. “But you don’t know the meaning of proper and appropriate. You’re all but falling out of your dress.”
Reese ran her hands up and down her tanned body, laughing as she hiked her dress up around her waist revealing her perfectly sculpted derriere. She wriggled herself between me and the steering wheel and lowered her top; her magnificent breasts shimmered in the moonlight.
“What’s wrong, Captain? Don’t you like the way I look? All the other men do” Reese purred tauntingly. “Margaux’s new husband loves every inch of me. He can’t get enough! You know, Jeremy, you always were a lousy lay. Maybe that’s why you got this big bad boat β to compensate for your tiny dick!” and she laughed again.
“Darling Reese, you’re nothing but a drunken whore. You disgust me!” I snarled and she reached up to slap my face. I grabbed her wrist and she looked up at my enraged face, her eyes wide with uncharacteristic fear. And in that moment she knew.
I shoved her out of the way and she fell, hitting her head with a sickening thud. Putting the boat in neutral I quickly checked on Reese; she was dead, a large jagged crack in her forehead oozing blood. Carefully I adjusted her dress and looked around the boat making sure nothing was out of place.
We were near Marabella Marina but just out of earshot. Heading for the dock I placed a frantic phone call. “Mayday! Mayday! Emergency on board the ‘Nip Tuck’! We need an ambulance at Marabella. My wife is badly injured. Hurry!”
The police asked me a few routine questions but it was obvious Reese’s death was a tragic accident. My wife clearly had too much to drink; she lost her balance and fell. It happened so fast I couldn’t prevent it … even if I wanted to.
NAR Β© 2020
THE BATTLE OF THE SEXISTS
βDebonair, sophisticated and charmingβ sighed Alice Carter. βCary Grant and David Niven are so good in that movie. I always loved βThe Bishopβs Wife’. They don’t make classy movies like that anymore, you know?β
βAnd that Loretta Young is some beauty, tooβ replied Aliceβs husband Ralph. βThose high cheekbones, full lips, tiny waist and long legs β a real looker, that one.β
βAnd so chic, too, Ralph. You always knew a real lady when you saw one. Well, I better start dinner. Iβm making your favorite β sausage and potato casserole.β
βI hope you made a lemon meringue pie for dessert.β
βOf course! I know what you like, Ralph.β
Returning to the den after starting dinner, Alice found Ralph was watching the news.
βWhy arenβt there more delightful men on the news, men like Peter Jennings?β
βBecause heβs deadβ replied Ralph.
βHow about Mike Wallace?β
βAlso deadβ Ralph reminded Alice.
βLook at this clown, Glenn Beck, wearing jeans and sneakers on a news program! Give him a beanie and heβd look just like one of those little rascal kids. What ever happened to that nice Matt Lauer?β
βFired for sexual misconductβ replied Ralph.
βGood Lord! I donβt believe it! Well, what about Bill OβReilly, Eric Bolling and Charlie Rose?β
βFired, fired and, oh yeah … fired. Alice, can I please have a moment of peace and quiet to watch the news?β
βWell, pardon me for living!β she sniffed. βIβm going to check on the sausage casserole.β
When she returned Alice stopped dead in her tracks. βOh my God, Ralph! What on earth are you watching now?β
βItβs still the news, Alice. In fact, it’s called ‘The News Channel’. I didnβt change the station.β
βThe βX Rated News Channelβ, you mean! No wonder those poor men got fired. What red-blooded guy could resist floozies like that showing off their goods on national tv? They look like hookers! And look at you sitting there in your underwear all bug-eyed. Iβm sure as soon as my back is turned youβll be jacking off to these little twats. Disgusting!β Alice harrumphed.
βTalk about disgusting! Since when do you talk like that, Alice? Just be quiet. You donβt have the slightest idea what youβre talking about. I bet you didnβt even know Russia has topless newscasters? These women are professionals. They’re lawyers, professors and judges, not bimbos with sketchy unspecified qualifications who just walked in off the street.β
βYeah, theyβre highly qualified alright … as teasers and flirts!β Alice snapped. βTake that one on the end with the blonde hair, fishnet stockings and spike heels. Look at how skimpy her dress is. Did they run out of fabric? Her boobs are straining to break loose from her top and the bottom is so short β if she uncrosses her legs weβll all find out if she’s a real blonde or not! Her other job is probably pole dancing!β
βWoah, woah, woah! Thatβs enough, Alice. Look, this here is Megyn Kelly. She has a law degree, is a journalist, an author and a world-famous political commentator as well as a news anchor. The dark-haired one on the end is Kimberly Guilfoyle. Sheβs a political analyst, an attorney and former First Lady of San Francisco. Now sheβs engaged to Donald Trump, Jr. Iβm sure their families are very proud. Besides being absolutely stunning, theyβre brilliant. Why donβt you just run back into the kitchen like a good girl and let me enjoy my one indulgence.β
βIndulgence??β Alice countered. βSo you admit itβs all about cheap thrills and nothing to do with the news. Youβre such a pig, Ralph!β
βWhatever. Howβs that sausage coming, anyway? Iβm hungry.β
Alice saw red. βHereβs an idea for you, Ralph. Get Kimberly whats-her-name to heat up your sausage. Iβm sure sheβs highly qualified!β
NAR Β© 2019
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS
Papers and leaves were snatched by the gusty autumn wind and scattered about the street like so many pieces of flotsam and jetsam.Β Β It was getting dark and Frederick knew he had to find his wife Helene before something bad happened, before she hurt herself β or worse. Helene had been terribly distraught this morning β more so than usual β and judging by the quantity of bourbon missing from the bottle, she was also probably quite drunk. Another horrible fight with his mother, Frederick assumed.Β
Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, Frederick hunched his shoulders against the cold harsh wind. As he searched the streets for Helene his mind began to wander back to a time years ago when things were better, back to when Helene was whole. How happy they had been, just the two of them so in love. They bought a cute brownstone soon after getting married, living there blissfully by themselves, making plans for the future.
When Helene learned she was pregnant they were ecstatic; she even began knitting a baby blanket. Then the miscarriage happened, followed by three more. Four babies lost and a multitude of dreams crumbled and forgotten. Helene had to have a hysterectomy and fell into a depression. No babies ever for the young couple β only the two of them alone in a sad empty house. Frederick urged Helene to consider adoption, but she refused and her depression deepened. How could one woman bear a sorrow so heavy?
A few months later Frederickβs father committed suicide, due in no small part to his motherβs constant badgering and belittling. Not wanting his mother to be alone and despite Heleneβs protests, Frederick moved his mother in with them. He thought Helene and his mother might provide some companionship for each other but the two women soon began arguing. Helene could do nothing right in Frederickβs motherβs eyes. She even went so far as to flaunt Heleneβs inability to have a baby, goading her on by calling her a dried up empty vessel, a disappointing failure.Β
As Frederick walked rapidly through the streets, he tried to figure out what had happened earlier. He had arrived home from work to find the door wide open and the house in disarray. Dishes were shattered on the kitchen floor. The phonograph had been knocked over, his motherβs favorite record in smithereens. Frederick had called out but no one answered. He’d frantically raced through the house, stopping at the entrance to his motherβs room; her door was slightly open and he could see she was asleep, curled up in her bed. Heleneβs coat and purse were hanging on a rack by the front door but she was nowhere in sight.Β
Suddenly Frederick snapped back to the present as he spied Helene at the train station; she was standing perilously close to the edge of the platform. Cautiously he walked toward her and whispered her name. Helene whirled around and Frederick was shocked to see the crazed look in her eyes and the cuts on her face. Helene tried to run but Frederick caught her. He cradled her in his arms as they walked home.Β
When they reached the house, Helene began giggling like a little girl and told Frederick she had a surprise for him. Bewildered, he followed her up the stairs to his motherβs room. Helene motioned for Frederick to be quiet as she tip-toed to the bed. She threw back the covers, revealing his motherβs bloody body, knitting needles deeply embedded in her neck. Frederick recoiled in horror. Helene grabbed her knitting needles and lunged at him, stabbing him repeatedly while screaming maniacally βThis is your fault! You brought her here!Β This is all your fault! ALL YOUR FAULT!!βΒ
Frederick collapsed to the floor in a bloody heap. The last thing he saw was Helene plunging out the bedroom window.
NAR Β© 2019
THE BEACHCOMBER
I guessed that something was wrong as soon as I saw the look of shocked disbelief on my husband Davidβs face.
βBabe, whatβs wrong?β
With tears in his eyes David whispered βI lost my wedding ring!β
It was our last night in Cape Cod. After dinner we went for a walk on the beach. There was a lot of seaweed in the ocean from a storm a few days before. We walked along the shore, teasing each other with clumps of seaweed; thatβs when the ring must have slipped off his finger. But exactly where we had no idea. We crawled around searching but it was dark and we couldnβt see anything. David was devastated.
βHon, I know your wedding ring means the world to you but we can always replace it.β
βI know, Jess, but it just wonβt be the same.β
Dejected, we returned to our room and went to bed. After hours of trying to get to sleep, I grabbed my laptop and Googled βWill a ring wash ashore after falling in the ocean?β
Almost immediately there was a *ding* on my laptop … a response from βTheRingFinders.comβ. It read: βWe can help find any lost metallic object on the beach or in the water. Enter your zip code and weβll get back to you ASAP .β
I entered the zip code for Cape Cod and 10 minutes later I heard from Rick at βRingFindersβ. After explaining our situation, Rick said heβd be at our B&B at 7:00 AM to start his search. Thank God for the Internet!
True to his word, Rick was already on the beach at 7:00. We ate breakfast on the veranda, never taking our eyes off Rick as he searched everywhere with no luck. It was almost checkout time when he trudged up to the B&B.
βNo luck, folks. Youβre gonna get socked in traffic if you donβt leave now. Iβm sorry to disappoint you but Iβm not giving up. Iβll keep in touch with you either way.β
Disheartened, we checked out and loaded up the car. Taking one last look at Rick, we waved goodbye when we realized he wasnβt waving goodbye … he was waving in excitement. He ran up the beach with his arm in the air, hand clenched in a fist.
βI found it, folks! I found your ringβ he shouted.
We ran to meet him and he grinned as he placed a wet, sandy ring in Davidβs hand.
The ring was under 11 inches of water and seaweed!
Overjoyed, David hugged Rick and we asked how much we owed him.
βThis is a free service we provide but we gladly accept donationsβ Rick explained. βIts very rewarding to see the joy on peopleβs faces when theyβre reunited with their precious lost items.β
I donβt remember how much we gave Rick … thatβs not important. What I do remember is David glancing at his ring all the way home and smiling.
What an experience and certainly an incredible act of kindness. Thanks, Rick!
Authors Note: Every word of this story is true and Theringfinders.com is a real organization. Sometimes fact is stranger than fiction!
NAR Β© 2019
THE DOWER BOX
βCourse of action for today β tackle the basement!β announced my husband Ned. βCare to join me, Jan?β
βWhy not? Iβve got writerβs block anywayβ I replied glumly.
βAfter you, madameβ said Ned, bowing extravagantly.
Seven months ago we moved into our little beach house. Itβs in good condition and Nedβs handy so employing a repairman wasnβt necessary. The former owners left a few things behind; it would be nice to find a treasure or two. After sifting through mostly junk, we decided on a floor lamp, a wine rack and a hammock.
βJan, look at this old dower box. Want to store your blankets in it? If not, I can use it for something.β
βI donβt think so, hon. Looks kinda beat up to me. Itβs all yours. What are your plans?β
βAh … youβll seeβ Ned answered inscrutably.
βOk, mystery man. Iβm heading back up. Have fun!β
Still putting off writing, I tossed the ingredients for beef stew into the slow cooker for dinner this chilly December night. Glancing out the kitchen window I caught a glimpse of Mr. Sandman, the stray cat who hangs out in the beachgrass surrounding our house. After making a pot of tea I set off to the sunroom, my blank laptop mocking me.
By the sounds of sawing, drilling and hammering coming from the basement, Ned was having a grand time working on that beat up dower box. A couple of hours later he wandered up from his workshop, a sprinkling of sawdust icing his hair. Ned grinned and twitched his nose, appreciatively sniffing the aroma enveloping the kitchen.
βMmm β beef stew! Howβs the writing, hon.β
βDonβt ask. Hey, guess who I saw today. Mr. Sandman.β
βYou donβt sayβ Ned replied. βI was thinking about him just the other day.β
I ladled the stew into bowls while my husband sliced the freshly baked bread and poured glasses of pinot noir. βSo, when can I see what youβve been working on?β I inquired.
βRight after dinnerβ Ned replied. βI think itβs damn good!β
We finished up and Ned anxiously led me downstairs. βWell, there it is. What do you think?β
I was speechless; there in the window was a home for Mr. Sandman!
Ned had opened the old hopper window at the top of the basement wall and, using a carabiner, secured the heavy window pane to a beam in the ceiling. He carefully inserted the dower box into the window opening; it was a perfect fit! Ned had sawed a doorway facing outside; a piece of an old rubber car mat with vertical cuts served as the front door curtain. A carpet remnant covered the wood floor of the box and a soft baby blanket provided a cozy nook in the corner. Ned had removed the back of the dower box and reattached it with hinges on one side and a latch on the other, giving us easy access to the box. A peephole drilled into the back panel allowed us to peek inside to make sure all was well. Ned had anchored the box to the wall with several short, sturdy bungee ties. There was even a small safety heater attached to the ‘ceiling’ of the box. He had thought of everything!
Giving me a wink, Ned opened the latch on the back panel, slid in a small plate of cat food and secured the latch.
βOh, my soulful, sensitive man!β I exclaimed, hugging my husband tightly.
It snowed lightly that night and there were paw prints leading to the dower box. Ned and I exchanged looks and raced downstairs as quietly as possible. We tiptoed to the box and peeked through the peephole. A sleepy and very contented Mr. Sandman had found his way home.
NAR Β© 2019
Reposted for One-Word Challenge#FOWC,Β workshop
SUDDENLY LAST SUMMER
As we drove down the gravel road to our summer house, I opened the car window and inhaled deeply. Mixed with theΒ salty scent of the ocean was the fragrance of lilacs and honeysuckle β the delicious aroma I missed last year. The pool was still beyond our sight but I saw it clearly in my mind β¦ our private haven β¦ the sensation of floating, feeling all stress evaporate, stillness interrupted only by an occasional breeze.Β
Our house is large with floor-to-ceiling windows affording us spectacular views of the distant ocean. Located on a cul-de-sac, there is no traffic and we are invisible from the street.
Last year was the first time we didnβt make it to our sanctuary.
It all started on June 3rd when Bill fell off a ladder. I was sitting in our den overlooking the backyard and saw him fall. In the seconds it took me to reach him, he was sprawled on the deck, barely conscious, a lump on his forehead the size of a peach. But it was the sickening angle of his leg that made me realize this was serious.
I called 911, then our kids and we followed the ambulance to the hospital. Bill had a badly broken femur. Surgery was done that night which would be followed by a lengthy hospital stay and rehabilitation. We all realized our long-anticipated vacation scheduled for June 30th would be cancelled. Priorities.
Surgery went well and I visited Bill every day, staying all day. At night when I closed my eyes I saw him falling off the ladder. Stress took its toll on me, my arthritic knees screamed in agony and my back began to spasm.
Compounded with Billβs physical pain was his guilt over βruining our vacationβ. He felt far worse for me, our kids and grandkids, convinced that we were too disappointed to forgive him. Again, priorities.
As Bill began to improve, I thought I would also but my pain became excruciating and I began a months-long regimen of spinal injections to relieve the torment in my legs and back.
And the year from hell ravaged us, bringing with it more hardship and tragedy than we could imagine β all difficult, some almost unbearable. The most crushing of all was the overdose death of our dear nephew β ripped so cruelly from our lives. We cried in pain, sobbed in anguish. We woke every morning of that hellish year, putting one foot in front of the other, somehow managing to go on. A missed vacation paled in comparison.
Now rebirth β¦ another summer. Driving down the gravel road to our vacation house all I can think about is floating in the pool with Bill, the sun shining down on our battered bodies. The unpacking and settling-in will get done soon enough but right now the warm blue water of the pool and the smell of honeysuckle and lilacs is all we need.
NAR Β© 2018
HORSE OF ANOTHER COLOR
“Eavesdropper, eh? Terrific odds. He’s a mudder and the track is muddy today. And look at his lineage! Yep, Millie, I predict that’s the winner of Race 9β said Harry Goldman to his wife.
She brushed him off with a wave of her hand. βWhatever, Harry Houdini. Not one of your famous magical predictions has paid off yet.β
βAll right, Millie. I admit you got lucky today. Whatβs your secret …. communicating with a horse whisperer?βΒ
βOh, zip it, Harry! If it wasnβt for me, weβd be in the poor house. You havenβt won all day! Now be quiet and let me concentrate on my choice for this race.β
Harry heaved his portly body out of his seat. βPardon moi, madame. Iβm gonna place my bet on Eavesdropper. Then weβll see whoβs got horse sense!β
βYou mean horseβs ass, donβt ya?βΒ Millie cackled.Β βGo on. Iβll be along in a minute. Iβm thinking here.βΒ Snapping her chewing gum, Millie studied the racing form, then traipsed to the betting windows.Β
Bets placed, Harry and Millie settled in for the race. βI got a good feeling about this one, Millie!β Harry said excitedly.
The starting gun shot out and the announcer shouted βAnd theyβre off!β
Eavesdropper took the lead immediately and held on. Anxious, Harry stood to watch. Suddenly the horse in fourth place started picking up steam. Faster and faster, he flew past the other horses and at the last second crossed the finish line just before Eavesdropper.
The announcerβs voice boomed over the loudspeaker.Β βWhat a shocker! The winner by a nose …. Muddy Waters!βΒ Β
Harry slumped into his seat. βI donβt believe it! Eavesdropper was a shoe-in.β
Millie, however, was flying high. βI won again! Good old Muddy Waters. I knew it!β
βMillie, Iβm begging you! βHowβd you do it?β
βHarry, remember how you said the track was muddy today? When I saw the name βMuddy Watersβ, I knew that was an sign.βΒ
βBut how did you pick ALL the other winners?β
βItβs the colors! If I like what the jockeyβs wearing, Iβll pick that horse.β
βThatβs your strategy? COLORS?!? Ok, who you picking for the last race?βΒ
Millie looked around surreptitiously and pointed to a name on the card.
βHIM?? Rabelais? His color is βEiffel Tower Brownβ β like a turd!βΒ
βNot so loud, Harry! He’s from France and you know how ‘I fell’ for those Frenchies!β
βAren’t you the clever one?” Harry groaned at Millie’s little joke. “I give up, Millie. Go with your cockamamie ideas and bet it all on Rabelais!β
Millie was already at the window before Harry was even finished talking.
NAR Β© 2018
FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!
βIt is raining againβ Rachel thought woefully as she looked out the window of the Manhattan apartment she shared with her boyfriend Jeff. βAnd the weather forecast is for rain all week and into the holiday weekend!β She and Jeff talked about getting away for a few days, maybe to Washington DC or to Boston but the weather all along the east coast looked bad. Labor Day weekend was just a few days away and it would be great to escape this incessant rain.
βIt is raining like crazy!β exclaimed Jeff as he entered the apartment. βIβm soaked, hon. Toss me a towel, would ya? Weβve been talking about getting away for Labor Day. Why donβt you check the computer for vacation spots while I get changed? Iβll be back in a sec.β
βIt is raining everywhereβ whined Rachel as Jeff returned to the living room. βI thought about going to The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame or Disney World but theyβre having rain, too.β All evening they checked out various places, with no luck. They were about to give up when Jeff shouted βWhoa, babe! Look what I found on Expedia .. two round trip tickets to Cabo San Lucas for $296 per person and only $200 for the hotel! AND NO RAIN IN SIGHT!! Letβs go for it!β Rachel threw her arms around Jeffβs neck shrieking βCabo! Swimming! Mojitos! SUNSHINE! HELL YEAH!!β
βIt is raining, babe. Can you hear it? For the first time in ten days I donβt give a damn because tomorrow weβll be in sunny MΓ©jico! Iβm so stoked we made those reservations the other night.β Jeff yawned while Rachel snuggled up against him. βI thought I was dreamingβ, she replied sleepily. βCabo, here we come!β and they drifted off to sleep. When they woke the next morning, the rain had stopped but it was cloudy and the sky was gray. The Uber picked them up at 8:00 for their 10:00 flight. The closer they got to the airport, the lighter the skies became and by the time they were seated in the plane, the sun was trying to break through the clouds. They arrived in Cabo just in time for cocktails and dinner, watching the glorious sunset from the hotelβs veranda. Very early the next morning Jeff was awakened by Rachelβs crying. βHoney, whatβs the matter?β he asked.
βIT IS RAINING!!β she sobbed.
NAR Β© 2018
ONE + ONE + ONE
Out of the blue the call arrived. It was late and I was beyond tired. We were tempted to let it go straight to voice mail, but Gary thought it might be important.Β
“Gary? It’s Alice from the adoption agency. Fabulous news! We have a baby for you and Carol. Can you come by in the morning?”.
Gary jumped up. “My God! Are you sure?” Completely convinced that something terrible had happened, I grabbed the phone. “This is Carol Wheeler. Who’s this, please?”
Not bad news. Just the opposite β¦ elating, top of the world, Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds news!
ALICE FOUND US A BABY!!!
“Yes!! We’ll be there! Thank you so much” I sputtered.
Dumbstruck, we stood there β¦ then pandemonium erupted. Laughing, crying, hugging, kissing, dancing like lunatics. We didnβt think β¦ or even care β¦ to ask “boy, girl, age”? After eight years of trying to get pregnant and failing miserably, some loving stranger was presenting us with the most precious gift imaginable.
Collapsing onto the couch, we talked about the past eight years β¦ the failed attempts β¦ heartbreaking losses β¦ the baby things we collected over the years, now hiding in the attic.
“Gary, do you realize tomorrow we will be a family of three?”
TOMORROW!!
All tiredness forgotten, we raced to the attic for the plastic bins of assorted baby items. There in the corner sat the bassinet, glowing in the darkness – a mystical aura the likes of which I’d never seen before. I believe at that moment I heard angels singing. We reverently carried it down to our room. I leaned into Gary, overcome with elated exhaustion.
And then the phone rang β¦ again. We stared at it, afraid to answer, convinced it was Alice calling to say the baby’s mom had changed her mind, there would be no happy family for us.
I reached for the phone and wearily, warily said “Yes?”.
“Carol? It’s Dr. Shaw. Sorry to call so late but your tests results are back. The reason youβve been so exhausted lately? You’re three months pregnant β¦ with twins β¦ and everything looks great!”
Stunned, crying, all I could manage was a hushed “My God. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Congratulations!”
Gary held me closely and whispered “Shh. Another baby will come along.”
I giggled. “You’re so right. That was Dr. Shaw. I’M PREGNANT β¦ WITH TWINS!! We’re gonna be a family of FIVE!”
We had won the Triple Crown.
NAR Β© 2018
| Reposted for Fandango’s FOWC – Β http://fivedotoh.com/2023/02/13/fowc-with-fandango-past/ |
The Elephant's Trunk 