When I was a very small child, one of my older cousins was suffering from a case of consumption, also know as tuberculosis. She was 16 years old and literally wasting away from this disease once called the âGreat White Plagueâ due to the extremely pale complexion of those afflicted.
My cousin was always cold, requiring multiple blankets to keep warm, and time outside in the sun and fresh air, especially during the spring and summer. She was either in bed or reclining on a chaise lounge near the window in the parlor.
She looked like death. To the school age children in the house, this was a frightening time and they glanced at her with pity and wariness. They also avoided her, which was not very kind; some of them stayed away by spending extra time practicing their penmanship lessons and math sums.
At least twice each week my great-aunt Chesaria would stop by to administer her special âtonicâ, light a candle and leave her mark on my cousin. The ritual never changed: first a dose of the safe-for-human-consumption red berry juice from the sumac plant. Next, Aunt Chesaria would draw a birdcage in blue ink on both of my cousinâs earlobes. The door to the birdcage was always drawn in the open position which allowed the evil spirits in my cousinâs body to find their way out. Finally, my great-aunt would light a tea candle and place it on my cousinâs chest to draw out the congestion. She would close the curtains and leave my cousin in the darkened room to allow her potions to do their magic.
Who knows if any of this strange “medicine” worked; our parents clung to the phrase âthe whole is greater than the sum of its partsâ. My cousin eventually recovered, because of or in spite of Aunt Chesariaâs administrations. She was never a robust woman after her ailment but she married and was healthy enough to give birth to nine children in just 12 years. She welcomed more than 40 grandchildren and a batch of great-grandchildren before passing away at the age of 86 just two years ago.
As a rule, Aunt Chesaria was summoned whenever anyone in the family or immediate vicinity became ill. She drew birdcages on my own earlobes during every childhood malady. But the question that remains unanswered is âWho took care of Aunt Chesaria when she became ill?â No one is around to fill in the blanks so I can only assume there was a witch doctor of sorts living in my neighborhood âŠ. perhaps a black magic woman from Sumatra residing in the unassuming borough of The Bronx!
Presumptuous? Possibly. But fascinating, nonetheless.
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday where we are asked to start our piece with a question. Bonus points have been hinted at if we also end our piece with a question. Here is my questionable stream based on a conversation I had with my husband.
âWhat would you say if I decided to let my hair go natural? You know, go grey?â
âI’d have to ask why you would want to do that. You always take great pride in looking younger than you are. Wouldnât grey hair make you look older?â
âWell, Iâm not sure we can toss a blanket over all women with grey hair and say they look older. There are other factors that come into play. Iâve always had great skin. Wonât I still have great skinif I go grey? How can I just arbitrarily assume I will look older?â
âOk, Iâll give you that much. You can’t assume you will definitely look older. Youâve told me how much you like the color of your hair. Iâm surprised you’re suddenly considering changing it. Where is this coming from?â
âHonestly, Iâve been thinking about it for a while. It would be so much easier not having to color my hair and get highlights every couple of months. Besides, when we were at your sisterâs house the other day, I was the only woman who still colors her hair.â
âAnd you were the best looking one at the table!â
âYou have to say that; Iâm your wife! Your sisterâs grey hair looks gorgeous. I know women whoâd kill to have her color.â
âBut thereâs no guarantee youâll end up with the same color, is there?â
âWell, no âŠ. I suppose not. But my colorist is so talented, I just know sheâd do a great job transitioning my hair.â
“Now I’m confused. If you want to stop coloring your hair, what does your colorist have to do with any of this?”
“My colorist will add some grey to my hair …. like getting highlightsonly they’d be grey instead of blonde. She’d gradually add more until my hair is completely grey, then I can naturally let my grey roots grow out.”
“Seem’s like an awful lot of work to me. Why not just stop coloring your hair and let nature take it’s course?”
“That’s a terrible idea! It’ll take forever and look awful growing out!”
âWell, if youâre convinced this is what you want, Iâm not going to stop you.â
âIâm not at all convinced this is what I want; thatâs why I asked you in the first place.â
âOk, then my answer to your question is âDonât go gray. I love your hair color the way it is.â
âWell, Iâll have to give that more thought. What do you think about me cutting my hair?â
My husband is as easy going as can be, so when he makes a request, I try my best to oblige. Last night he asked for Sunday pasta with meatballs. How could I refuse?
Homemade pasta with all the trimmings is something I can do with my eyes closed but when I first started out in the kitchen as a new bride, I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I had watched my mother cook for years but itâs a whole different ballgame when youâre on your own.
Iâll never forget the first time I tried to make Sunday pasta. Reading my motherâs recipe was no help. This is exactly what she wrote:
For your pasta dough mix flour and eggs, water when you need, pinch salt, oil maybe.
Thatâs it. No measurements, no amounts, nothing definitive. Her meatball recipe was no better:
Chopped meat, eggs, some salt & pepper, handful parmigiano, another handful breadcrumbs, dice onion, parsley, oregano, glass of water.
A GLASS OF WATER! Which glass? What size? At this point my eyes were frantically scanning the kitchen for a glass! I didnât know if I should laugh or cry. Iâm sure my mother never referred to a recipe in her life so she had no idea how to write one!
Just then it hit me and I had a vision of my mother in her kitchen. She always used a Flintstoneâs Jelly Jar as her water glass when cooking; she said it was the perfect size. All I had to do was find an equivalent measure and Iâd be good.
I eventually mastered the art of Sunday pasta with meatballs but I sure do wish I had my momâs jelly jar .⊠for old timesâ sake, you know?
Here it is …. the so-called unofficial start of summer …. and we’re celebrating Memorial Day once again in my neck of the woods â Southern Westchester County in New York. In case youâre not familiar with the area, Manhattan is about a 45-minute drive south â far enough away for us to be in the suburbs but close enough to get into NYC for a show or dinner if we want to. Weâre approximately an hour from Jones Beach heading east out to Long Island and 2 hours from the Catskill Mountains up north.
Weâre in a nice spot and weâve loved living here for 45+ years but we often bring up the topic of making a move. And why would we do that if itâs so nice here? Two big reasons: stupid-high property taxes and ever-increasing congestion.
Our little village was exactly that when we moved here; now the population has exploded and every family member old enough to drive has a car. We live on a very quiet cul de sac and never think about the congestion in town until we actually have to go to town. What used to be a 5 minute drive to the supermarket or post office is now triple that (or more) because of the number of cars, trucks and school buses on the move .⊠and letâs not even start talking about road work! Thereâs construction everywhere we look and some of it takes years to accomplish. By then, itâs time to start repairs again! Move it!
So, if we did decide to leave New York, the big question is âŠ. where would we move to? I have no idea! It seems like everyone complains about the same problems of high taxes and too much congestion no matter where they live. Besides, the physical act of clearing out the house, packing up, moving and relocating at this stage of our lives is daunting; I can barely manage packing for vacation!
Things to think about, for sure. For now, I think Iâll move out onto the deck, sit in my lounge chair, drink my iced tea and listen to the birds. Bill will light the grill around 2PM; now that you know where I live, câmon over!
It’s time to roll out some Nat King Cole and “Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer”!
Growing up, it was just me and my sister â two girls doing girl things. And while we werenât always best of friends, it was just the two of us. It wasnât my fault that my mother went into labor smack in the middle of my sisterâs 4th birthday party; after making a hasty departure for the hospital, my mother arrived just in time for me to be born âŠ. on my sisterâs birthday âŠ. and sheâs never really forgiven me. I mean, she says she has but deep down thereâs resentment. But I digress.
Bitterness for being born on her birthday aside, we managed to get along ok. And we both had a bunch of little girlfriends whoâd come over the house to play and swim in our pool. Thereâs a definite advantage to having the only pool on the block â even if it was inflatable and barely three feet deep. We always had lots of friends over but there were never any boys around and, if an interloper did show up, he was quickly shown the way out before he had a chance to dip his you-know-what in our pool!
For the first six years of my life, I had very little contact with boys .⊠except for my cousins and they didnât count. In elementary school boys were just tolerated; they were looked upon as excess baggage. Of course, that all changed when I hit my teen years and realized boys had potential. I had a couple of crushes early on but nothing earth-shattering. Then, at the ripe old age of 17, I went on a blind date with a guy named Bill and together we learned all about boys and girls, how they were so wondrously different and incredibly well-made for each other. I was stunned by how much I didn’t know about boys.
So, wouldnât you just know it! God, in his infinite humorous nature, decided to bless me with only boy babies. All those years of playing with my baby girl dolls, changing their diapers fashioned from paper napkins, powdering their petite girlie bottoms, all that didnât come close to what these boys were packing! It didnât matter how well I knew Billâs anatomy; he didnât wear a diaper and I had never changed one âŠ. at least not a boyâs. Talk about a rude awakening!
Let me just explain something very quickly here. When infant girls are getting their diapers changed, sometimes they pee but itâs a dainty little trickle that gently disappears into the absorbent pad under them. When infant boys are getting their diapers changed, parents put on a hazmat suit because that nozzle has a mind of its own and it is gonna spray wherever it wants.
Oh sure, parents can buy little wee-wee teepees to hold over the wee-wee while their baby boy giggles at them, but most times that thing is flying around like an errant garden hose and the pee goes everywhere. And, of course, thatâs where men first learn to pee with no hands â yawning and stretching and placing their hands behind their heads in a very satisfied âlook-what-I-can-doâ sort of way. Usually in those situations, there will be spillage. I have found, for the most part, the male species is not very discriminating and is quite happy to just âhitsomething“.
Which brings me to the heart of this story.
I love my boys and, in all humility, Bill and I did a good job raising them. BUT, nature will take its course no matter what we do. And let me tell you, there is nothing âŠ. and I mean NOTHING âŠ. like the overwhelming musky, barn-like odor that punches you in the face when you open the door to a boyâs bedroom. For the love of all things holy, what is going on in there? How is it possible for boys âŠ. little or big âŠ. to ravage so many briefs, boxers or tighty-whities in one day, not to mention the now-fossilized face cloths (and sometimes my good hand towels)?
Weâre all adults here and you know exactly what Iâm talking about.
Well, I finally reached the end of my rope. It became unbearable for me to do my teen sons’ laundry, let alone keep up with it, so I threw down the gauntlet. I led the boys to the laundry room where I proceeded to write on my washing machine with a Sharpie. In all the corresponding receptacles were the words âDETERGENT GOES HERE.â âBLEACH GOES HERE.â âSOFTENER GOES HERE.â Iâm sure they didnât believe me when I said I was done doing their wash. After two weeks of their laundry piling up and them running out of clean clothes and their sheets desperate enough to literally walk off the bed and leap into the washing machine, they finally got the message!
As the old saying goes, boys will be boys, and I never had a problem with what was going on in my sons’ bedrooms âŠ. within reason; if I thought something dangerous was happening, Iâd be in there in a flash. Iâd just had enough of cleaning up their messes. Now theyâre grown men, good men, married with children, and they get to deal with their own kids’ smells, sprays, spills and secretions.
And when I see them lugging a basketful of laundry to their washing machines, I chuckle and know I did them a huge favor.
When I first started writing on WordPress, I printed out every story I wrote along with its accompanying graphic.
I filled five of the largest 3-ring binders I could find at Staples.
I was so enthralled with the fact that I was actually a âpublished authorâ! I felt my work needed to be immortalized in plastic.
For what? My 15 minutes of fame? To prove I existed and to share my brilliant thoughts with the world? To have something to pass on to my children and their childrenâs children?
Who the hell do I think I am?
Then the stark reality hit me: who cares? No child of mine is going to want these tomes cluttering their shelves; besides, theyâll never find the time to sit down and read them. Theyâll get tossed in a basket next to the recliner, with all the other good intentions. Soon theyâll be relegated to the basement or worse, the attic âŠ. the black hole in every home.
I know what youâre thinking: âWhy not self-publish on Amazon, Nancy, and have pretty books to keep on your shelf (or in a box) instead of unwieldy, unattractive 3-ring binders?â Honestly, I know me and it wonât get done. I just donât give a rat’s ass and those pretty books will end up as kindling or more âstuffâ to be disposed of when I croak.
I suppose I can have them buried with me so Iâll have something to read as I become one with the earth. Thatâs a thought.
And so I made the call. Sometime during the summer of 2023 I stopped printing out my stories. I now have a little more free time not to mention plenty of ink for my printer.
Anyone interested in five 3-ring binders of my stories? Theyâre going cheap.
The prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is to include the words “to me”. This is my response.
Whenever thereâs an upset in my life, I ask myself the same question: âHow could this be happening to me again?â
Sometimes I wonder if Iâm a total sap to give myself entirely to a friendship and at some point end up getting hurt. I donât know âŠ. maybe Iâm delusional but I expect people to treat me the same as I treat them. Perhaps âexpectâ is too strong a word; after all, do I really have the right to expect people to behave a certain way just because I think they should?
Someone once told me my expectations are unrealistic and that I canât âwillâ someone to act or react a certain way simply because I want them to. Perhaps he was right. I think about his words when I feel hurt or angry.
So, yes, I was hurt once again by a friend going behind my back and lying to me. This leaves me wondering if I bring this sort of behavior on myself or if Iâm just unfortunate with some of the friendships I have made?
One thing I simply cannot tolerate is lying. I have a personal pact with myself never to tell lies. I know people lie all the time; is it too much to ask those near and dear not to lie to me?
Writing about this recent hurt is cleansing and I have decided I will put it behind me. What gives me some small amount of satisfaction is the fact that the person who lied to me knows that I know. This friend certainly went to a lot of trouble to cover all the tracks but they weren’t 100% successful. First of all, I am nobody’s fool and I catch on fast. Secondly, when you involve a third party into the plot, things can go horribly wrong very quickly. And last, my friend slipped up by making a comment online which I saw through immediately; as I said, I am nobody’s fool. The plotting and scheming behind my back compounded with the lie is particularly vicious; it was entirely intentional. You canât get much lower than that.
Well, while I am going through this cleansing period, I am not above admitting that I hope the liar(s) are squirming and feeling guilty about stabbing me in the back. This was a grievous act on their part; could an admission and an apology be on the way?
The other night I was sound asleep when I gradually became aware of a noise somewhere in the background of my mind. I could tell it wasnât an intruder ⊠nothing so threatening or invasive as that. It was more of an ambient sound; it came and went and I was only vaguely aware of it â just enough to ambush my slumber.
The recurring sound eventually roused me completely from my sleep. Asking myself âWhat is that?â, I elbowed my snoring husband and was rewarded with a prolonged, irritated grunt. Whispering his name and tapping him on the shoulder did nothing so I was forced to use the bicep shove.
âHoney! Thereâs a noise and it wonât stop. I think it may be coming from the bathroom.â
âGRLBRTH! Probly tlet. Jgl hndlâ was my husband’s alien-sounding response. Being fluent in S.I. (Sleepus Interruptus), I had no trouble translating. I padded into the bathroom and jiggled the toilet handle, per my husband’s instructions. I listened to the water run for a bit, then stop. Quiet was restored.
All of a sudden, something felt like it darted by me and I was momentarily startled. Cautiously I found my way to the bedroom door, and peeked into the hall; without my glasses I could only make out blurred images but nothing seemed amiss. Satisfied all was as it should be, I turned back into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar to allow for the air to circulate on this cool September night.
I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up around my face. Just as I was about to slip back into the arms of Morpheus, the noise returned and I did an eye roll behind my closed lids. Reluctant to leave my cozy cocoon a second time, I chose the wait-and-see option. Eventually the sounds stopped and I fell back to sleep.
Like the soft beat of a tom-tom on a far-away island, the distant yet persistent swooshing sound once more made its presence known. My shoulders sagged and I sighed deeply; a grim realization set in â sleeplessness had won out. I felt cheated, gypped out of a decent night’s stay in The Land of Nod.
As I lay there becoming increasingly annoyed, another vexing fact occurred to me: today was the beginning of a long holiday weekend. The odds of contacting a plumber, let alone finding one willing to come to the house, would be slim at best.
I sat up in bed, my back resting against the cushy pillows, as my vision gradually became accustomed to the dimness of the pre-dawn hour. Squinting through sandy eyes, I barely made out an ethereal shadow in the bathroom; it was the Night Stalker â of that I was certain. I reached for my glasses and the creatureâs image came into clear view. She looked directly into my eyes and intentionally, deliberately choosing to defy me, stretched out her arm.
What happened next was something I had never witnessed before; I stared in amazement. Part of me was amused, just slightly. Reaching for a paperback book on my nightstand, I heaved it in the general direction of the offender in the bathroom. The book missed its mark and succeeded only in knocking several items to the floor.
âYou little bitch,â I hissed.
She jumped off the toilet and strolled away indifferently, typically ignoring my existence.
It’s all new Birthday Thursdays at The Rhythm Section. No talk, no fuss, no muss. Just wall-to-wall music! Stop by and check it out! đ https://rhythmsection.blog/
My son David is a librarian by vocation. Then there are the times he moonlights as lead tenor with the Taconic Opera Company and as a church singer for special holy days. He has a God-given talent and is quite brilliant. I like to think he inherited some of my musical skills as well. His brother Bill was there that night some 20+ years ago when David blew the roof off a karaoke bar singing an Iron Maiden song; at that point in time no one in the family knew David could sing. He also plays the bass trombone. Did I mention he has perfect pitch?
Davidâs wife Jessica is a doctor specializing in making chemo for cancer patients – an intense and demanding job. Somehow she also manages to be a super mom â part Wonder Woman, part Energizer Bunny. She is a beautiful woman, a stunning mezzo soprano with a wondrous soul and a remarkable mind. She has performed alongside David and is also a church singer often called on for weddings and funerals. Jessica plays the piano and cello and was chosen for All County Choir and All County Orchestra while in school. Iâm not sure if she has perfect pitch; if not, then damn close.
(I’d like to take a second to mention a bit of serendipity: When Jessica was with the All County Orchestra, David was, too, though they did not know each other at that time. They did not officially meet until 15 years later. Funny how that works. Now, back to the story.)
David and Jessica have a 3 Âœ year old daughter named Colette â my granddaughter whom I mention frequently when writing personal posts. Sheâs a joy, an absolutely glorious child. Colette loves music and is taking ballet lessons. She can also dig her heels in like nobodyâs business. Colette is a spitfire who obviously inherited equal amounts of her parentâs Sicilian-Irish-Italian genes. Add a splash of a Mt Etna temper when pushed beyond the breaking point, courtesy of yours truly, and you have the total package. A real âtesta duraâ or as we say in slang âgabadostâ.
As you can see, this little family of mine is extremely musical. David and Jessica sing around the house and now Colette has begun singing along ⊠and sheâs not shy about it. Recently, while singing âPuff the Magic Dragonâ, David and Jessica exchanged looks, bit their lips and tried not to laugh. With eyes rolling heavenward, they wondered âIs there any chance on Godâs green earth that we created a child who canât sing in tune?â
Weâre old school âŠ. well, at least my husband is. There are some things he simply insists on doing the old-fashioned way. One of those things is paying bills. Most people I know use online banking; itâs quick, easy and from what Iâve heard, safe. My husband Bill (how appropriate) is extremely reluctant to put his faith in online financial transactions. Oh, heâll place orders online but thatâs different, he says.
So how do we pay our bills? By writing checks by hand and maintaining a record in the checkbook register. That was always Billâs job until a few years ago when he underwent emergency surgery after falling off a ladder. While he was in the hospital and rehab, I took over the task of paying the bills and I still do it.
I donât mind, really, but sometimes the bills all seem to come at the same time and it turns into a project. One thing that saves time is all bills now come with a return payment envelope; no more hunting through the rolltop desk in search of my own envelopes. But everyone once in a while weâll get that one rogue bill with no return envelope. There I am, ensconced at my desk, pen and a fresh cup of coffee at the ready and I have to stop what Iâm doing to dig around for an envelope. That really burns my cookies.
The biggest offenders are the dentist and the gardener. Why? Human error. Both are small businesses set up in the same fashion: thereâs one person who manually prepares the invoices for mailing. Sometimes they remember to include a return envelope, sometimes they donât. And when they do remember, it’s alway one of those smaller envelopes, not the letter size. Funny, they never forget to bill me; I wonder if it would be ok if sometimes I remember to pay them and sometimes I don’t. I’m only human, after all. No, I doubt that would fly.
Is it a coincidence that both the dentist and the gardener mail out a typed invoice on a standard 8 Âœ â x 11â sheet of paper which has no perforated line at the top or the bottom? Thatâs the line that easily allows me to separate the portion of the invoice that gets returned with my check from the portion that I keep for our records. No perforated line means I have to use scissors to separate the two parts of the invoice or, if I don’t feel like getting up, repeatedly fold one section of the invoice in the same place until thereâs a sufficient crease to neatly tear the the invoice into two sections. Mostly neatly; sometimes it looks like I used my teeth, which seems quite fitting for the dentistâs invoice.
And another thing. I think all return envelopes should be prepaid with no postage required on my part. I mean, letâs get real. Isnât it enough that Iâm sending these businesses my money? Now I have to affix a postage stamp. I have been given the privilege of paying to send them my money. Let that sink in. Not only am I giving them my money â Iâm paying to do so.
And then we still have to take all our envelopes to the post office!
That, my friends, is “The Old B.O.H.I.C.A.” â Bend Over; Here It Comes Again.
You know, I really need to have another serious conversation with Bill about online banking.
A hat trick today: Fandango’s Story Starter, Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt and Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness. Uno, due, tre and away we go!
Unlocking the door as quietly as I could, I slipped into the dark kitchen when mywife suddenly flicked on the lights, temporarily blinding me.
Quickly turning, I crashed into the refrigerator,breaking my nose. I fell to the floor, nose hemorrhaging, badly spraining my neck, wrist and ankle.
The Elephant's Trunk 