Author Archives: Susan

Rosie

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Camille packs the last of her belongings for her trip to North Carolina in the back of her fourteen-year-old Chevy van. She holds the checklist in her hand and checks off each item. The essential possessions in the van are the containers that will hold the cuttings that she hopes to collect during her journey.

Every winter evening, Camille sits in her favorite chair next to the crackling fireplace and plans her journey to a different part of the country. She hopes to visit every part of the United States before she passes from this life. This year’s destination is Wilson, North Carolina. She’ll be

Oakwood Cemetary by Robert Culver

traveling from her farm, outside of the little town of Dublin, Pennsylvania. She mapped out the stops along the route and programmed them into her GPS.

Before she pulls herself up into the front seat, she opens her purse and checks the contents, wallet, cell phone, checkbook, brush, and small sketchbook and drawing materials.

Her part-time employee Karen Nelson is going to be looking after the farm and house while she’s away. Karen is a  reliable woman. Camille knows she’ll take care of her property as if it’s her own. Karen has worked for Camille for almost ten years. Karen’s the closest thing to a friend that she has in her life.

Camille’s grandmother passed away fourteen years ago at eighty-five. Camille has lived a solitary life since then, but she never feels lonely. Time passes quickly for her. She enjoys working in the greenhouse and tending her garden. Her garden, she loves every inch of it as if it’s her child. The child she conceived and for which she has enduring love.

The garden is just beginning to shake off its wintery sleep. Soon the roses will sprout their leafy buds and begin their transition from thorny stems to glorious, fragrant, and delicate blooms. As she backs out of the driveway, she thinks about the journey ahead and the treasures she hopes to find.

As she climbs up into the van, she places her purse on the passenger seat and locks the doors. She gazes at her home and the surrounding property, takes a deep breath, and swallows hard. She feels tears welling up in her eyes. Although she looks forward to her journey each year, it’s hard for her to leave her roses and the only home she has ever known.

Last year Camille roamed her home state of Pennsylvania and visited all the abandoned cemeteries she knew about. She talked to the old folks in the neighboring towns. They reached back into their memories and told her about cemeteries they recalled from their long-ago childhoods. They related the tradition of visiting the graves of family members each year.

The whole family would pack a picnic lunch and head out to the cemetery for the day. They would remove debris and weeds and plant roses for their deceased loved ones. They would talk about the good times and how they missed them, knowing that they would all reunite once again in the hereafter.

Camille has come to love the visits to the cemeteries. Although most of the graveyards she visits have fallen into ruin, she feels almost a palatable sense that she’s taking a step back in time. She feels a connection to the past.

On her trip last year to Lycoming, Pennsylvania, she found that the woods had completely engulfed the cemetery. The headstones were worn down by years of rain, snow, and wind. The words were impossible to decipher. Lycoming had once been a booming coal-mining town, but is now deserted and has all but returned to wilderness.

Amongst the sixty-foot trees, she found a Cynthia Brook Rose. It had grown and flourished into a massive shrub despite being uncared for by any human hand. It had survived decades of harsh winters and summers that offered little respite from the high heat and little rain.

Camille took many cuttings and brought them home and had propagated over one hundred plants. The cabbagey flower was breathtaking, with warm orangey-yellow blooms. Its perfume had a sweet tea fragrance.

Camille begins her journey by the highway but will be traveling most of her way by dirt roads, studded with potholes. The early spring rains may make some of the country roads impassable. Her Chevy is old but sturdy and has spent most of its fourteen years on her own farm’s muddy and pitted dirt roads.

Her first stop is outside of Baltimore, Maryland, in Arbutus, an abandoned cemetery on Benson Avenue. It’s believed to contain the remains of the influenza victims of 1917. There was a long history of reported hauntings. Of course, this didn’t deter Camille from the past, and the present is all one to her.

Camille passes Baltimore and continues South along I 95, then takes the exit to Arbutus. As she enters the town limits, she stops at a one-pump gas station to get directions to the cemetery. She sees an elderly man sitting in a rusty metal chair, smoking a pipe. She walks over to him and quietly asks, “Sir, can you direct me to the Benson Avenue Cemetery?”

The old man looks at her with milky eyes and clears his throat as if he hasn’t spoken in many years. “Yes, I can tell you how to get there, but there isn’t anything there for you to see. It was overgrown when I was a boy. As you can see, that was a lifetime ago.

“I would appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Well, follow Herbert Run River south for about a quarter of a mile. On the left of the river, you’ll see rusted gates and a fence surrounding an overgrown field. Beyond those gates is the cemetery, what little is left of it. Do you have kin resting there?”

“Kin, no kin. I’m searching for vintage roses.  That’s what I do. I save roses. Thank you for your help. Have a good day, sir.”

“Did you say roses? Well, good luck with that, I would be surprised if you found anything living in that godforsaken place.”

Camille returns to her van, buckles up her seatbelt, and pulls out of the gas station. She glances at the rearview mirror and sees the old man is back to puffing on his pipe. He’s staring into space. It almost feels to her as if the conversation with the old man had never taken place. She wonders how many years he has been sitting in that decrepit chair smoking on his pipe.

She follows his directions, and soon, she sees the rusted gates the old man described. She pulls over and parks next to the fence. As she steps out of the van, she realizes that the ground beneath her feet is soggy.

She walks up to the gate and peers beyond it. The field is a mud hole covered in dead vines and debris. She walks around to the back of the van and opens the doors. Then she reaches in and grabs her boots. She sits on the back bumper, takes off her shoes one at a time, and puts on her boots.

The appearance of the cemetery doesn’t deter or surprise her. She has visited many abandoned cemeteries over the years. She steps down onto the road, walks over to the gates, and pushes them open with some difficulty. Only the top hinges are attached to the gate. She has to lift the gate and shove it back. She looks around and sees some headstones lying on the ground and walks towards them.

The ground is strewn with broken beer bottles and trash of every kind. There’s graffiti on the headstones. Camille steps around the broken glass. Most of the trees within the cemetery look as if they have been dead for a very long time, not unlike the occupants. She learned from her experience that cemeteries this old are abandoned over time because all of the family members of those interred here have long since passed away as well.

Camille walks around looking for any sign of life, and there in the far corner, she spies a possible rose bush. She walks up to it, and sure enough, it is a rose shrub.

She examines the leaf buds and stems; the shrub is nearly five feet high and four feet wide. It’s difficult to identify accurately before it completes leafing out. But she believes that standing before her is Rosa Damascene Bifera, a rose whose ancestors date back to the early Romans.

Her heart is pounding hard as she treks back to the van to retrieve her tools and containers. She’s looked for this rose for years. It’s almost unbelievable that she has found it in this dank and deserted cemetery. But she has. As she starts taking her cuttings, her mind is going a million miles an hour. It’s quite a coup to obtain such a rare find.

She imagines how it will grace her gardens. She knows that her like-minded customers will be as enthralled as she is at this very moment. She returns to the van and replaces the container and tools in the back of the van.

She takes out her drawing pencils and pad and begins a sketch of the Damask Rose. It is a multi-stemmed rose with up to ten blooms. It has been known to bloom more than once a season. Its strong fragrance is entrancing. The rose itself is light to deep pink. She can barely contain her excitement. She feels it’s a celebratory moment. Camille decides to stay in the town overnight and have dinner. She begins a sketch of the rusted gates and fence; she snaps close the sketchbook when she is finished and heads toward the town.

She finds a local diner called Twenty-Two Burgers, and since it is the only restaurant in sight, she pulls into the parking lot. As she enters the restaurant, all eyes turn toward her; a waitress calls out, “Sit wherever you like.”

Camille chooses a booth in the back. She wants to be alone with her thoughts. The waitress appears next to the table in a stained pink polyester uniform circa 1950. The name embroidered on her uniform is Charlene. She hands Camille the menu and says, “Do you need a few minutes?”

Camille glances at the menu and says,” Yes, Charlene, I’ll have the house burger with a side salad and French and a cup of Earl Gray if you have any.”

“Gottcha, only my name isn’t Charlene. It was some waitress before me. My name is Dawn. Be back shortly with your meal.”

In ten minutes, Dawn returns with a burger and fries, salad, and a cup of Earl Grey. “Here you go, honey. Just let me know if you need anything else.”

Camille enjoys her dinner, entertained by her happy thoughts. Dawn comes back to the table, “Would you like a nice apple pie to top off that dinner, miss?”

“Yes, I believe I would, Dawn; thank you. Can you recommend a place to stay overnight in the area?”

“Well, you can get back on the interstate and stay at the Red Top Inn. It’s about two miles south of here, or there’s a little motel called Moe’s just down the road. Nothing fancy, but it’s warm and dry and quiet this time of year.

“Thanks, I believe I’ll do just that.”

Moe’s turned out to be as advertised dry and quiet. Camille writes in her journal for a while, then falls asleep and doesn’t wake up until seven AM. She gets a quick shower and is on her way to her next destination Sandston, Virginia.

She stops at Dupery’s Feed Store about five miles outside of Richmond to ask for directions to the cemetery. She notices a young man lifting fifty-pound sacks of seed as if they’re large sacks of feathers. He carries them over his shoulder from the back of a large flatbed truck into the Feed Store.

“Excuse me, do you know where Dry Bridge Court Cemetery is located?”

“No, Mam, I can’t say that I do, and I’ve lived my entire life here. I think if you follow Main Street down to the end of the Municipal Building, you’ll have better luck. Ask if you can speak to Emily in the Municipal Building. She’s forgotten more about everyone and everything in this town than anyone else ever knew.”

Camille’s face registers a look of confusion. “Oh, right, I’ll do that. Thanks so much, have a good day. The young man goes about his task of moving the sacks from the truck to inside the store.

Camille drives down the street to a building with a sign stating Sandston Police Station and Municipal Building. As she enters, she sees a mailbox with the legend Water and Sewer bill across its shiny brass surface. Camille makes her way inside to a counter, where she sees several middle-aged women sitting at desks.

They’re typing on outdated computers and answering phones that never cease ringing the whole time she stands there. She waits for one of them to acknowledge her, but no one does. “Excuse me, does anyone know how to get to Dry Bridge Court Cemetery?” She waits a couple of beats.

“Yes, I do.” says a voice from the back of the room.

“Would you be Miss Emily?”

“I would. You’ll find the cemetery across the street from Calvary Church that’s just over the bridge. Follow Main Street until it forks off into two roads and bears to the left. Once you cross the bridge, drive about a quarter-mile down the road, and you’ll see the cemetery on the right, across the road from the church. The church isn’t there anymore. There’s a house there. The church burnt down long before I was born.” Miss Emily disappears once more behind her desk.

Camille registers yet another look of confusion. But says, “Well, thank you very much for your help.” She returns to her van and drives down the road. “Well, I’ll be.” She says out loud.

She finds the cemetery without any difficulty, just as Miss Emily instructed her. Across from Calvary Church, that no longer stands there. She steps down from the truck and retrieves her boots, and puts them on.  She walks into what must have been the church’s cemetery. There’s a broken-down wall made of fieldstones surrounding the cemetery. Just as she’s walking through the entrance, she hears a voice.

“Hey you, what are you doing in there? What do you want?”

She looks in the direction of the voice and sees a middle-aged man wearing an old felt hat walking towards her. As he steps closer, she sees he’s older than she thought at first. His blue eyes radiate intelligence. He looks directly at her. “What are you doing? We’ve had a lot of trouble with people vandalizing the churchyard. Are you from this area?”

“Hello, no, I’m not from this area. I’m a collector of sorts. I spend my life preserving remnants of the past. I do this by visiting deserted cemeteries and taking cuttings from Heritage Rose bushes. I take them back home with me to my farm in Dublin, Pennsylvania, and propagate them. I make a living doing this. But my main purpose is to save these roses that would otherwise be lost.”

“Do you? Well, that’s an unusual way of making a living. Saving the past for the future, that’s wonderful. My grandmother was a gardener as well. She loved her roses and watching the changing of the seasons. Watching things grow, the cycle of life she called it. She said it was life-affirming. “I do. It’s a pleasure to meet someone so like-minded. Do you mind if I have a look around the cemetery for any rose shrubs that might still be there?”

“Of course, you can look, but I’m sorry to say that you won’t find any. Last year some kids came into the cemetery and desecrated the graves. They pulled out all the plants that were growing there.  I’m afraid they were all destroyed. It’s hard to fathom why anyone would do such a thing. It’s a strange world we live in these days.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s terrible, did the police find the kids that committed the crime?”

“Well, we had a good idea who was responsible, but no proof. I’ve tried to keep my eye on the cemetery ever since. Where will you be headed now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My last stop is Wilson, North Carolina, and then I’ll be returning home. I plan on visiting the Wilson Botanical Rose Garden. There’s a small cemetery located in Wilson that’s been there for over one hundred years. I’ll be stopping there as well.  Well, thank you so much for your time. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. Drive safely.”

Camille walks back to her truck, disappointed about the loss of the roses. If only she had come here last year. Oh, there’s no point in dwelling on things that can’t be undone. You have to keep moving forward. If anything, it just makes her more resolute in her commitment to saving other roses. She drives back onto the road. She beeps and waves at the farmer as she drives away.

As she arrives at the outskirts of Wilson in the late afternoon, Camille decides to stop for lunch at a little restaurant called Jake’s Place. As she walks through the door of the restaurant, it feels and looks like she’s taking a step back in time to the early 1950s. There are pink and black linoleum tiles on the floor. The tables and chairs are Formica banded by chrome. It’s not a recreation of a 1950’s diner. It’s the real thing, unchanged by time. The customers are talking animatedly to the people sitting next to them.

The waitress takes her to a booth in the back. Camille thanked her and asked for the lunch special and a cup of hot tea. After the waitress brings Camille her lunch, she thinks about her plans for the next couple of days. She decides to visit the cemetery first and visit the Botanical Gardens the next day. She pays her bill and heads out the door.

To her dismay, her truck refuses to start. She waits a few minutes and then tries again, but no luck. It seems as if the battery is dead. She heads back into the restaurant to the cashier’s counter. “Hello, my car won’t start, can you recommend a mechanic or garage that I can contact to have a look at it?”

“Well, yes, I can. As a matter of fact, he’s sitting right at the counter over there. Hold on.”

“Mat, hey Mat, can you give this young lady a hand? She’s having trouble with her car out in the parking lot?”

“What sure, I’m finishing my lunch. So perfect timing.”

As they walk out the door, Camille thinks well, this day has gotten off to a rocky start. “Hi, it’s the van right over here. It was running fine, and now it won’t start.”

“Well, that’s how things happen sometimes with a car. One minute it’s fine, and the next it’s not. Let’s see what’s happening. He turns the key, but nothing. Then he looks under the hood. ”

“The cables are corroded. Let me try to jump-start it.” He jump-starts it. It starts up, and he lets it charge for a few minutes.

“I think you should follow me over to my garage so I can test it. It may need a new alternator. If it does, I’ll have to order one because I don’t keep parts for cars this old. It’ll take a day or two.”

“Oh, no. Ok, I’ll follow you over to your garage.”

After they arrive, he drives Camille’s van into the garage and comes out about ten minutes later. I’m sorry, but it’s the alternator. I called my supplier, and he can have one here in about forty-eight hours.”

“What? Can you suggest a hotel or motel nearby for me to stay overnight?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there’s a motel down this road. Now don’t laugh, but it’s called the Robert E. Lee Inn. Tell them that Mat from the garage sent you over, and you’re waiting for your truck to be repaired.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that, and thanks for your help Mat.”

After Camille checks in at the motel, she brings her bag to the hotel room. She decides to take a look around town. She goes down to the lobby to talk to the desk clerk. “Hello again, I was wondering if you knew of any old graveyards that are within walking distance? That I could visit while my car is being serviced.”

“Cemeteries, I like to say that’s an unusual request, but it’s not. There’s one that’s old but is still occasionally being used by the local gentry. It’s called the Historic London Church. Just follow this road to the end. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks so much. I hope I have better luck than I have had so far today.”

Camille takes her time walking down the street. It’s quite charming in an old South kind of way. The homes have large pillared wrap-around porches. Camille imagines that in the summer, the neighbors gather round on them.  Passing the time of day with each other, drinking sweet tea. Their yards are beautifully landscaped with many old trees. One house has a Southern Magnolia that is over a hundred feet tall. It towers over the other trees nearby. She imagines how beautiful it will look in late spring. The magnificent cream-colored Magnolia flowers are in full bloom and spreading their heavy fragrance through the neighborhood with the evening breeze.

She sees an old church ahead and walks towards it.  She hopes for better luck in this cemetery. Then she remembers her tools and containers are in the van. Well, it can’t hurt to look around. She can come back later and retrieve cuttings if she finds any.

As she enters the grounds, she notices a dog lying on a recently dug gravesite near the entrance. As she walks near the dog, he looks up at her with large brown eyes. But he continues his vigil at the grave. Camille loves dogs but hasn’t had any pets since she was a young child. The dog is black and white with long, wavy fur. He has an unusual black diamond marking on the top of her head. He keeps his eyes on Camille. Against her better judgment, Camille leans down, pets his head, and scratches behind his ears.

Camille is startled when she hears a voice nearby call out, “You’re the first person that she’s responded to since Claire passed away two weeks ago. I’ve been bringing her food and water. Several people have wanted to take her in, but she wanted no part of them.”

“Oh, she’s a beautiful dog, is she a Cocker Spaniel?”

“Yes, she is, her name is Rosie. Claire loved roses more than anything in this world. That’s why she called her Rosie.”

“Rosie, she must have sensed a kindred spirit in me. I came here to see the roses. I collect and propagate old roses.”

“Really, well, that’s an amazing coincidence. Or perhaps it was meant to be, but I guess I’m old fashioned. I believe in kismet.  Perhaps you two were meant to meet.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’m not looking for a dog. I came here looking for roses to save.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly what you’re here to do, save Rosie. We all thought she would lie here and die from a broken heart.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Would it be alright if I just took a look around while I’m here?”

“Of course, look around. Many of the roses you see here were planted by Claire. She, too, collected cuttings from rose bushes of the family cemeteries in this area. I’m sure she would love it if you took some of them with you and propagated them.”

As Camille walks up and down the rows of graves, the sheer number and variety of rose bushes that are growing here amaze her. Roses she only dreamed of owning.

Camille has a feeling that she isn’t alone. She looks behind her and sees that Rosie has been keeping her company. Rosie is looking at her like a child who thought she lost her mother and then found her again.

Camille says, ” Rosie, I think that I have found a very rare rose indeed. I think you might be the rose I have been looking for all my life.”

The Kitchen

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Our day begins in the kitchen. We wake up to the aroma of coffee percolating on the kitchen counter and bacon and eggs frying on the stove. I’m not big on eating first thing in the morning. But my mother insists that we eat a breakfast that will stick to our ribs for the rest of the day.

My mother in pin curls sitting in our kitchen

As I walk into the bright yellow and orange room, I see my mother hunched over the wide kitchen counter. My father recently redecorated. My father’s a creative man with an unusual sense of color and design. He is, unfortunately wildly attracted to psychedelic patterns. He made the kitchen counters really wide. He made the counter in front of the sink wide as well. My mother has difficulty reaching the sink since it’s set back so far from the edge of the counter.

My father purchased a kit to decorate the kitchen counters with small bits of multi-colored tiles. After he spread the tile bits, he poured some type of liquid resin over it. It took a long time to dry and had a somewhat lumpy result. Unfortunately, the dirt tends to accumulate in the lower recesses of our bumpy countertop.

Hanging from the ceiling over the kitchen table, my father fashioned a candelabra of sorts. He found a giant wagon wheel in the dumpster of a Steak house Restaurant and brought it home to serve as a light fixture in our kitchen. Of course, our kitchen is much smaller than the Steak House dining room, and our kitchen ceiling is much lower than the dining room in the Steak House, where it formerly resided. The wagon wheel hangs right above our heads at the table. If you aren’t paying attention when you stand up, you take a chance that you might knock yourself out when you stand. We have to back our chairs up and then stand to avoid getting a new bump on our noggins each time we sit or stand at the table for a meal. Mealtime is no longer a quiet time to reflect on the day. It’s time to pay attention to the surroundings, or you can end up in the Emergency Room.

I look across the kitchen and see my mother is hunched over the stove, frying the eggs and bacon. “Hi, Mom.”

“Good morning Susie, what can I get you for breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry Mom, how about a piece of toast.”

A couple of minutes later, my mother brings me a bowl of hot oatmeal. “Here, Susie, this will stick to your ribs. Eat up,”

I look down at the bowl of steaming oatmeal, and I begin to feel sick to my stomach. I hate hot cereal. I have told my mother this time and again. But she always says the same thing to me. “Nonsense, eat up.”

I’m repeatedly told I’m a picky eater. Which is probably true. But none the less I detest hot cereal.

Unfortunately for me, I have to ride an ancient school bus to Haddonfield, where I go to high school at St. Mary of The Angel’s Academy. It is my Freshman Year. The bus is on its last legs, and the shocks on the wheels died a slow and painful death a long time ago. It’s a long and rocky ride to school. We have to pick up all the students that go to St. Mary’s and the boys from Bishop Eustace Prep. So, we have to ride all over Burlington and Camden County and Haddon Township. It takes over an hour.

By the time we arrive at school, I’m feeling sick to my stomach. And start the day off by throwing up the moment I step down out of the bus. Mr. Hartman, a lovely man who came from Ireland, is the bus driver, gives me the same sympathetic look every day as I pass by him in the driver’s seat. He knows what’s going to happen momentarily. None of the other students on the bus ever mention my daily purge.

When I was going to grade school at Our Lady of Perpetual Help, I came home for lunch as we lived two houses away from the school. Every day when the lunch bell rings, I rush up to the front of the classroom to line up to go home to eat. Not because I was looking forward to my lunch, it was always the same. I hated school with a passion and can barely tolerate one extra moment in the presence of the dear Sisters.

One day as I stood at the front of the classroom, I realize I have to pee immediately. I raise my hand.  Sister ignores me. I begin waving my hand and arm urgently. Finally, Sister said impatiently, “What is it, Susan?”

“Sister, I have to go to the girl’s room right now.”

“Susan, you have to learn patience and self-control. You can and will wait until you get home.”

I wave again more frantically. Sister ignores me. I realize I’m peeing my pants. All the other kids notice it at the same time and start laughing. I begin to cry.

Sister says, “you will wait until the second bell, Miss Carberry.”

I’m simultaneously crying and peeing. I vow to myself that I will never return to this wretched place again. The second bell rings. The kids in line are permitted to go home for lunch. I keep my head down.

I emerge from the school, I take off like a rocket and get home in record-breaking time. I yank open the screen and the front door and allow them both to slam closed. I rush to the bathroom. I hear my father yelling at me from the kitchen. “What’s the matter, Susie, pants on fire?”

After taking care of the wet pants, I walk out to the kitchen nonchalantly. My mother says, “How was your morning, Susie? Did you learn anything new?”

“Yes, Mom, I learned that I shouldn’t take a long drink at the water fountain before lunch.”

“Did Sister tell you that Susie?”

“Not exactly Mom, she told me that I needed to learn patience and self-control. And I learned that I really hate Sister Daniel Catherine.”

“Susan, you should never say you hate anyone, especially one of the Sisters, that’s a mortal sin.”

“OK, Mom, I won’t say I hate one of the Sister’s ever again. I promise.” And I never did say I hated one of the sisters out loud ever again. But I said it many, many times inside my head.

“Susan, sit down I made your Lipton Noodle Soup and Lebanon Bologna sandwich it’s all ready.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’m starved.” Lunch was never a surprise since I had the same lunch every day for eight years, through elementary school years. Although on special occasions I had Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.

As I eat my lunch, my father sits across from me, eating his six hot dogs. He doesn’t eat hot dog rolls, only the hot dogs with relish. They are cut up in little slices. My father doesn’t like it if anyone talks while he is eating. So, I sit quietly until he finishes eating. And then I bend his ear and tell him everything that happened in school that day. This is actually his dinner since he works the second shift at PTC, which is the Philadelphia Bus Company. He is the Head Dispatcher at the bus depot for the entire city of Philadelphia. When my father has to work the third shift, he sleeps all day, and we aren’t allowed to make any noise and wake him up. My father is deaf in one ear, and we always pray that he is sleeping on his one good ear.

My mother rarely sits down at mealtimes. She’s always getting dinner ready or serving dinner or cleaning up after. Sometimes my mother has her hair set in bobby pins all day unless she is going to go to Mass with the Altar Rosary Society. They are a group of women who say the Rosary together early every morning, and they wash and iron the Altar vestments and clean the Sanctuary in the church.

Right after lunch, my mother starts getting ready to cook dinner. My favorite meal is Irish Stew which is made with beef and carrots, onions and celery and potatoes. After my mom cooks the stew for many hours, she rolls out the dough and puts in on the top of the casserole. And puts it in the oven to bake the dough and let it rise and brown. It’s delicious.

While dinner is cooking, my mother irons. The ironing board is in a little closet on the wall next to the refrigerator. You open the closet door and pull down the ironing board. My mother irons clothes, sheets, and my father’s underwear and his socks. She irons all our clothes. Then cleans the whole house. I have never heard her complain about anything.

Everyone tells me,” your mother’s a saint,” and I believe them. She works so hard and takes care of everyone in our family. And always has a kind word to say. I never heard her say a mean thing in my entire life. I wish I could say the same about myself, but I get mad all the time, at my sisters, my father and the dear sisters, every one of them. I doubt that I will ever be as good a person as my mother.

It’s one of the things I have to tell Father Nolan in confession all the time. He tells me to say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. No matter what sins I commit, he gives me the same penance, three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys.

My mother is a quiet person. But a good listener. Every day when my sisters and I come home, she asks us how our day went. And she sits and listens until you finish talking and then she offers you cookies and milk.

After dinner, my mother sits at the kitchen table while we do homework. She quizzes me on my spelling words. She gives me hints if I don’t know how to spell the word. If my father is home, he helps me do my math homework. He works out the problems differently than I do in school, but he always gets the answer right. I keep telling him that’s not the way we do it in school. We do New Math. He tells me that we are doing it incorrectly. He shows me how to do it. He is always right.

But in school, I do it their way. My father is a smart man. He reads a lot on every kind of subject. Right now, he is studying all the world’s religions. He doesn’t go to church as my mother does. But he is curious about the world and the people in it. You ask him any question, he knows the answer. My father’s memory is phenomenal. He remembers everything he reads and hears.

On Sundays, one of my father’s days off, he watches golf on TV. It’s the most annoying thing you can imagine. He is transfixed while he is watching it. Sometimes he feels compelled to tell you about the golf game swing by swing. Although I’m impressed by his ability to remember, I want to plug up ears every time he starts talking about golf. It is unbelievably tedious.

My father watching the news 1960s

Television is an amazing thing, no doubt. But in our house, my father controls what we watch. He is the King of his castle. On his days off, he watches the 6 O’clock news with Walter Cronkite. We aren’t allowed to utter a sound when it’s on. If we want to watch TV, we watch what he watches, end of story. I have become quite fond of Cowboy stories like Matt Dillon and The Lone Ranger. My father and I watch it together. My father pets our dog Andy, the whole time he is watching TV.

My mom brings my father a bowl of ice cream to eat while he is watching TV in the evening. He doesn’t tell her or ask her. She brings it in and, he eats it with salty pretzels. My mother brings herself a bowl too. She is extremely fond of ice cream. She is the proud owner of a sweet tooth that I inherited.

At the end of the night, my dad lets Andy our dog go to the bathroom and waits for him to come back inside. My mother gathers all the coffee cups, ice cream bowls, and glasses and takes them in the kitchen to wash. My dad turns out the lights, and we all go to bed. The next morning, we wake up and start all over again. Good Night.

Don’t Go Walking After Midnight

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It’s my habit to take a long walk in the morning. At first, I only walked a half a mile each morning. But each week I increased it by one half a mile. After five weeks and I was up to five and a half miles a day. I think this is my limit for the time being. I keep a fairly quick pace, and so after the first two miles, my legs start to cramp up. This is my signal to keep walking faster until the cramps subside. And I don’t stop until I reach five- and one-half miles on my pedometer.

A walk in the Park

Park

I’m sure you are thinking but why are you telling me this? Could this be more boring? Honestly, it could become quite mundane. But it isn’t, and the reason is this. Every day when I take a walk, something weird happens. Or I meet someone that I knew in the past and haven’t seen for years. Sometimes I meet someone unbelievably interesting or horrifyingly strange.

How is that possible? I’m glad you asked. I have absolutely no idea how it is possible. I only know that it is god’s own truth. Let me begin by telling you that I’m an ordinary person. I’m middle-aged. Not breathtakingly beautiful or hideous. Just average, at least to look at.

I have lost about fifteen pounds over the course of the past six months since I started walking. I have what used to be called dirty brown hair with a touch of gray. I think I look somewhat younger than my age, which is forty-two. When young I was known for my deep dimples. Unfortunately, as I grew older, the once adorable dimples turned into wrinkles.

But within me, I have always believed I was special, highly intelligent, and creative. I’m really funny in a sarcastic, snarky kind of way. I’m often the center of attention at parties. And to be perfectly honest, for some reason, weird people are attracted to me.

Here’s an example to prove my point. This happened years ago.  I was shopping at this store. that no longer exists. It was called Edmond’s Scientific. It was a manufacturing company that made scientific glass and telescopes and similar items for laboratories.

But within the four walls of Edmond’s Scientific outlet store was very diverse, and might I say an odd assortment of objects for sale beside the scientific glassware. They sold science kits for all the nerdy science kids, seashells and bones and rocks of every kind, fossils and toy dinosaurs and mirrors that distorted your image. And random gadgets that I could never ascertain their purpose.

I was always attracted to the picture books of oddities. I always found things like Siamese twins who had one body but two heads or sheep with one eye fascinating. Stuff like that, yes, that’s a little odd. But if we were all completely candid, we would admit we have an attraction to all things weird and unconventional.

But I digress, that day while I was cruising the isles of Edmund Scientific, a middle-aged man comes over to me and starts talking rapidly. He kept asking me if I would be interested in going to a nearby flea market with him where he sold things to make money.

I was barely able to focus on what he was saying because I am transfixed by his appearance. He was shorter than I, and I’m about five feet with heels. He had a slack but somehow animated face. Which is an odd combination, I know? But true nonetheless. He had a unibrow that went from one side of his forehead to the other. He had a scrawny goatee that is white and braided. And an earring that was a shrunken head. And the really fascinating thing was the ring of toothpaste around his mouth. It was gross, and yet I couldn’t stop staring at it. As I thought, does he know that is on his face? Doesn’t he feel it? Did he look in the mirror after brushing? I had an irresistible urge to wipe his face off with a handi-wipe. At the same time, I wanted to get as far away as possible.

I am always been confronted by these two conflicting but irresistible feelings. Being attracted and repelled at the same time. I chose to run swiftly out the door and into my car. And drove away as quickly as it’s possible. I often wonder if I am somehow inviting this type of attention. But if I am, I didn’t know the mechanism. Nor how to stop it.

Anyway, I digress, since I first start going to Washington Park I went very early in the morning. In the late Spring, that was about six AM. I found that about eighty percent of the people who go out at first light are very mundane, and the other twenty percent of them are quite odd. There are groups of buff young men that go to play tennis. I have to admit I stop and watch them for quite a while. Although I am almost middle-aged, I’m still breathing. What can I say?

Then there are the people who meet every morning in the parking lot and then walk in groups. They keep up at a fairly decent clip but aren’t averse to stopping and talking quite animatedly if someone is telling an exciting bit of gossip or story. These groups are usually of retirement age.

Then there are the older men who usually come alone and walk alone. I often say hi to these guys and everyone else for that matter but they rarely, if ever say hello back. In general, they prefer to keep human contact to an absolute minimum.

There’s a young woman that uses roller blades. She is quite athletic looking and wears tight clothes that are apparently meant to be aerodynamic. Her hair is short and very blond. I can’t emphasize how I envy her youth, athletic ability, and low body fat. In the time it takes me to travel around the park one time, she has gone around three times. I wave each time she passes me, but she’s wearing headphones and is apparently in the zone. And does not seem to be aware of the people around her.

One day I decide to go through the woods trail to increase the difficulty and calorie-burning effect of my experience. It was somewhat dark in the woods because of the trees. As I entered the dense canopy area, I hear a rustling in the woods. I was squinting at the tree-lined area, and I see what I believed to be two men running towards me at a very quick pace. I became momentarily frightened because I thought I was the only woman walking in the woodsy area in the early morning. As they were coming closer, I begin to scream at the top of my voice. Thinking I was about to be murdered or raped.

I hear them right behind me and quickly turn my head in that direction. And it is at this point I realize that the men that are chasing me were not men at all. But a deer rushing through the woods in my direction. I don’t know if I was more relieved or more embarrassed. And my main concern was that no one had seen me act like a hysterical woman. I am completely out of breath and sweating like nobody’s business. I stop to catch my breath. And then I start laughing hysterically. I realize that it was the best workout that I ever had.

As I was saying before I went off on that tangent. I am so inspired by the young blond woman on rollerblades that I decide to purchase my own skates. Also, I buy a helmet and knee pads. As a child, I learned to skate using the old fashion type of skates that you wore over your shoes and are tightened with a key.

If you made a sudden stop, the skates would come off the front of your shoe. And you would trip and fall on your knees if you put your hands out. If not, you would fall flat on your face. I was not particularly athletic, and most often I fell flat on my face. Either way, you chipped your front teeth or skinned your knees. I spent most of my early childhood with what was called road rash — heavily scabbed knees.

When I was in my early teens, I would walk downtown in Maple Shade, NJ, where I grew up, and catch the bus in front of the police station. For a quarter, you could take the bus to the Riverside Roller Rink. My friends and I would go there every Saturday morning and skate for three hours for fifty cents. I have to admit my skating skills never really improved. I always came home bruised and battered and scraped. But it was great fun.

So, my initial rollerblading experience at Washington Lake Park was not a complete success. I found that rollerblading on the cement sidewalk is not as easy as it looks. And there were many parts of the path that went uphill. I barely made it up those hills. And then there are the inevitable one hundred miles an hour hair raising trip downhill.

One day an older couple in their late sixties kept yelling at me.” Come on you can go faster than that.” I gave them the Italian salute. I can’t say I blame them because they passed me walking at a somewhat leisurely pace.

I was fifty years old when I decided to try rollerblading. This is probably not the best time in life to try rollerblading. You have neither the agility nor energy to keep up with the lithe young women in their early twenties as I found out. The other factor that I failed to take into consideration was that I did not know how to stop skating.

You’re supposed to point the toe of the skate down and this slows you down. And you slowly come to a complete and safe stop. Unfortunately, I did not know this. And the only way I was able to stop was to skate onto the grass and then fall over.

At this point, I decided to try rollerblading at a skating rink. So, one beautiful sunny day, I drove to the self-same Riverside Roller Rink I used to go to as a kid and went skating. And believe it or not, I was doing fabulously. Right up until the point where I start going very fast, and suddenly, I found my legs going up in the air. And you guessed it, my rear end went down. Hard. I couldn’t get up. I was in agony. I crawled over to the side of the roller rink and sat down and cried like a baby. And believe it or not, not one person came over to ask if I was alright. It turns out that I broke my tailbone. I wasn’t able to sit on a chair for six months. That was the end of my journey to be a skater.

As I was explaining before I went off on that tangent. One day I was walking through the woodsy part of the park, and I noticed a young woman pushing a baby carriage. She was staring down at the ground. As I walked past her, I asked her,” what are you looking at?”

“There’s a snake over here, and I’m afraid to walk past it. “

“Snake you say, I don’t think so. I’ve been coming to this park for a long time, and I’ve never seen any snakes. But there are no dangerous snakes in this part of NJ.”

So, I walk over to the “snake” and pushed it with my foot. And say,” See, it’s just a stick.” And then the “stick” started moving and made its way onto the grass and away. The young woman looks at me with an air of superiority and walks quickly away.  I say,” “whoops” to myself. And walk away.

Overall my time spent walking in the park was a positive experience. The main problem I have is dealing with my own paranoia. And the fact that I want to engage every person I see in some way big or small. I guess I’m both a paranoid and overly friendly person at the same time. I’m both the Yin and the Yang. But then aren’t we all to some degree. We are a bundle of inconsistencies and contradictions. My final advice is, get your ass in gear and enjoy the rays. But, watch your back.

Christmas Gifts

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It’s the night before Christmas and all through the night, not a creature is stirring not even a mouse. Well, that’s not entirely true because I’m wide awake. My imagination is going wild, thinking of all the exciting surprises that might happen on Christmas morning. I know I’ll never fall asleep.

I’ve been counting the days down until Christmas for over three months. I asked Santa for art supplies. I love to draw, and I really want a Barbie doll. My best friends have one and I want one too. I imagine combing her long hair and making clothes for her. I have tried so hard to be good this year so that my dream will come true.

I keep jumping out of my bed and staring out my bedroom window, trying to catch a glimpse of Santa and his reindeer. Can you imagine being able to see him? I would so love to have a ride in his sleigh and meet all the reindeer and fly through the sky all through this snowy and magical night.

My parents promised me that Santa would bring me whatever my heart desires. I believe them.

Glass fireplace

My father spent most of his free time in the past couple of weeks decorating our house for Christmas. In our living room, we have a glass fireplace that my father made many years ago. It’s made from glass blocks instead of bricks. My dad puts colored lights inside the glass blocks at Christmas time. It’s beautiful.

My dad loves to create beautiful and unusual things. He made our Christmas tree this year out of umbrella frames that he attached to one another. And then he hung up strands of golden, glass beads all around it. He places it carefully in front of the mirror that is at the bottom of the glass fireplace. At night we turn out all the lights in the living room. My dad turns on the Christmas lights on the umbrella tree and inside the fireplace.  The lights and colors twinkle on and off. It is so neat. I know that no one else will have a tree-like ours.

We have a wreath on the front door made from huge, plastic poinsettias. And there’s a fat Santa that resides on the front stoop. Christmas lights decorate the rose arbor that my father-built years ago on our front porch. In the Spring and the Summer, it is covered with the most beautiful red roses you can imagine. And the aroma of the roses and the lilac bush as you walk up onto our front step is unforgettable. My father loves roses, and he planted a rose garden in our backyard with all the colors of the rainbow. I love to sit back there and watch the bees travel from one bloom to the next.

Our kitchen table has a little water fountain on it that my father fashioned out of hubcaps and metal ashtrays. My dad puts different colors of food dye into the water every few days. Right now, the water is red for Christmas. I love to watch the fountain while I eat my breakfast of fried eggs and toast.

My mother started baking Christmas cookies a couple of weeks ago. I love to help my mother make the cookies, but I usually eat too much of the raw dough and get a stomach ache. She mixes all the dough in a huge metal mixing bowl, and then she puts the dough in this thing called a Cookie Gun. And on the front end of the gun, you can put different shaped cookie cutters, and each cookie comes out in a different shape, like snowflakes and stars and snowmen. After the cookies are baked, my mom and I decorate them with red and green icing and different colored sprinkles. They’re delicious, and I look forward to eating them. My mother places all the cookies in a huge tin can with wax paper between the layers. And she hides them in the basement. But I always find the cookie tin way before Christmas and eat a bunch.  My mother never yells about eating them. My mother hardly ever yells, no matter what we do.

As I’m putting on my Christmas outfit, I hear my mom calling, “it’s time for you to get up. The bells for the nine o’clock Mass are going to start ringing.”

Before we open our presents on Christmas morning, I have to go to the children’s Mass at the 9” o’clock mass.  The service is really long on Christmas. Father Nolan tells us the story from the bible about the birth of baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph.

“I’ll be right down, Mom,” I scream from my bedroom upstairs. As I jump down the steps two at a time. I rush through the swinging door that’s between the living room and the hallway. I let the door slam shut. My father shouts, “don’t slam the door.”

“Susie, will you stop making so much noise? It’s enough to wake up the dead. My mother adds.”

My new coat.

“Sorry, Mom. I yell at the top of my voice.” I pull the hall closet door as hard as I can because it sticks. I grab my coat, which was an early Christmas gift. It’s white and has fake fur, and there are snowflakes all over it. I absolutely love it. I pull up the hood, and I’m off to the nine o’clock Mass.”

I run up to the Church, slipping and sliding the whole way. There’s a good three feet of snow on the grass. The sidewalk was shoveled yesterday by everyone who lives on Fellowship Road a couple of days ago. But there’s a thin layer of ice on the entire sidewalk all the way up to the church. Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic Church is only two houses away from where I live. I arrive just in time to get in line to go to the children’s Mass on time. The church bells are ringing and playing The First Noel.

There is one thing that I love about living next to the church is that I can hear the church bells ringing all the time. The bells ring before each Mass and on Holy Days, and Saturdays. When people get married or there’s a funeral and when a baby is baptized. I love hearing those bells. It’s a joyful sound.

Sister Joseph Catherine grabs ahold of me as I run up the steps. “Hold on, Susan Carberry, remember what I told you,” I don’t want you to sing out loud, mouth the words. You have a terrible voice.”

“Yes, Sister,” I say. As I turn around, I stick out my tongue.” I suppose I’ll go to hell for that.

At this moment, I decided that I despise Sister Joseph Catherine. She is the bane of my existence. She was my fourth-grade teacher. And she made me hate every day of fourth grade. She made me follow her around wherever she went and carry her stuff. Reminding me every day how stupid she thought I was. I decide that I will sing as loud as I can during Mass, I love singing Christmas hymns.

All during Mass, I keep praying for a Barbie doll and art supplies. After we take Communion my stomach starts growling loudly. My friend, Helen Hartman, starts laughing and then I laugh too. Sister Joseph Catherine comes over to our pew, and scowling at us clicks the clicker in our hand. And gives me the evil eye.

I start thinking about Christmas breakfast. My mother will be cooking a special Christmas breakfast. She will make scrambled eggs and scrapple. And my father makes the toast and butters it. Or maybe biscuits. Oh, how I love my mother’s homemade biscuits. My stomach starts growling even louder. This starts the whole pew of my friends laughing. Sister Joseph Catherine looks like she wants to wring my neck. I will have to make a quick getaway after Mass is over. And I won’t see her until after the New Year, so maybe she’ll forget about it by then. I’ll have to pray about that before the end of Mass. I start saying some extra Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers.

After Father Nolan and the altar boys slowly march out of the church, Sister Joseph Catherine signals us with her clicker to start filing out of the pews. As I walk by her, she makes a grab for my collar, but I manage to get away. And before she catches up to me, I run out the double doors and nearly break my neck, jumping down the steps two at a time, forgetting that they are covered in ice. But it’s my lucky day, and I get up relatively unscathed and slip and slide my way to my front door. I fling open the door and knock my boots off. And slam the door behind me.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Susan, why do you always have to slam the door and make such a racket?”

“Sorry, Mom, I’m starving. When will breakfast be ready?”

“Go wash your hands, Susan, and then you can have breakfast.”

I don’t know what my mother thinks I was doing in church to get my hands dirty. But I go in the bathroom and run the water. And sit down at the table. “Hi, Daddy, Merry Christmas.”

“How was Mass Susie?”

“Oh, the same Dad, nothing new. I’m starved.”

“Yes, we heard you, Susan. Here it comes.”

Family Chrismas Morning 1962

After we eat breakfast, my married older sisters and brother will come over with their little kids. And we’ll open up the presents and have cake and Christmas cookies. I really love all my nieces and nephews. They are so much fun. They’re so excited and happy about Christmas, and they make me feel excited and happy too. I always take them over my friend’s house to show them off.

My daddy puts some Christmas music on the stereo. I sit on the floor and watch all my little nieces and nephews open their gifts. They are all laughing and throwing Christmas wrapping paper all over the living room. My mother is busy starting to get dinner ready. Even though we just ate breakfast. My mom never stops cleaning and cooking. She hardly ever sits down except to say the rosary in the morning.

It was a great Christmas. I didn’t get a Barbie Doll, I got a Miss Joan doll. But that’s alright. She came with an extra dress and high heels. And my best friend’s name is Joanie. So, I love her anyway. I also got an art set that has pictures that you can color with paint that has sparkles in it. It’s going to be such fun to paint.

When my sisters and brother and all their kids leave, I run down the street to visit my best friend, Joan’s house. And I see all her gifts and her beautiful Christmas tree. And best of all I get to have a whole lot of Italian Christmas cookies and they’re delicious. It’s been a great day. And I start looking forward to next Christmas.

FUNNY BUSINESS

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Coffee Break

I have been looking for a new job for over a year, with no luck. Or should I say with no good luck? But plenty of bad luck. I quit my last job. Well, that’s not entirely true. My immediate supervisor strongly suggested that I quit because he had every intention of firing me. There was a difference of opinions on why I quit or why my supervisor wanted to fire me, depending on the point of view.

He stated that I wasn’t a team player. And that’s true to a point; I prefer working independently. But I’m quite capable of working in concert with a team. I have difficulty taking direction from someone whom I consider to be less intelligent, less experienced, and a kiss-ass.

But give me a task, and I promise you it will be completed on time and might I say, impeccably. I do ask that people that work with me on a team or in my department have high standards. But most of all, I will not tolerate any kind of funny business.

What kind of funny business, you ask? That is an excellent question. Number one is to keep your hands to yourself. Secondly, do not ask personal questions. And most importantly, know that if I find out that you or any member of the team do anything that even the slightest bit illegal, immoral, I will promptly tell management and or call in the police if necessary. I have very high standards and will not tolerate any breach of professional ethics or the law.

Oh, you need to hear more details about what happened exactly? Of course, if you think it’s necessary. I will explain the events that led to my current unemployment and job search.

As with all things in life, it began with something small but didn’t end there. I bring my lunch to work every day. And a thermos of hot coffee large enough to last all day. It’s a special blend.  I purchase it from an exclusive shop in Marlton, NJ.  It’s called Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee. It cost $50.00 a pound. It’s my one big self-indulgence. It has a wonderful flavor with absolutely no bitter aftertaste. Because the coffee beans are subject to many rainfalls in Jamaica while they grow, it’s amazing and worth every penny. I can’t describe how delicious it is and how much I look forward to drinking every last drop of it during my workday.

It all began one inauspicious day a year ago. I arrived at work one-half hour early as usual. I consider that thirty minutes to be my time to do whatever I wish. And I want to spend it reading the news and my emails. And drinking my first cup of Blue. That’s how I refer to my coffee, Blue.

I was the first person to arrive as usual. I made myself as comfortable as possible at my desk chair and powered up my computer. As I waited, I opened my thermos and inhale the rich aroma of Blue. I feel a sense of deep contentment. Ah, I think it’s all worth it just to feel the sense of anticipation before I take this first sip of the day.

And then that perfect moment is shattered when I hear my boss’s shrill voice calling out my name. “Rachael, is that you? Could you please come to my office right now? I have something that needs to be taken care of immediately.”

It takes every ounce of self-control not to shout, “hell no, this is my time.”

I carefully place my coffee on my desk and take the last whiff of that aroma. I step back from my desk and walk toward my boss’ office.

“Hello, Mr. Cummings. I didn’t know you were here. It’s early, and I was just about…

“Yes, yes, I know it’s early. I need you to get started on the Murdock issue right away. It has to be finished by day’s end. Even if you have to work through your lunch and breaks. Do you understand?”

“Understand? Of course. But I was just about to drink my morning coffee. And then I’ll get started.”

“What don’t you grasp about the urgency of completing this project TODAY, ASAP? As in now, not later. Get busy if you want to keep your job. Close the door on the way out.”

As I walk over to my desk, I have a sense of not being entirely in my body. I have a feeling that I’m somehow floating. And then I realize that I’m irate. And every time I’m about to lose my temper completely, I have this weird out-of-body experience.

I try to take several long breaths. It doesn’t help. I go to the ladies’ room and take a look in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself. My face is red, and I’m gritting my teeth. I try breathing in and out of my nose. I feel lightheaded. Maybe, I‘m having a stroke or something. I step into the cubicle and sit on the closed toilet. I try to calm down. I go back to my desk.

All I need to do right now is have my morning coffee. Is that too much to ask? No, it is not. This is my time, goddammit. I pick up my coffee, and I take a small sip. And I taste not pipping hot but cold coffee. I slam the cup down and say out loud.” What the fuck?”

I’m startled by the sound of my voice.  I have never cursed at any place of employment. My hand flies up and covers my mouth of its own volition. I’m shocked. I’m suddenly terrified of what I may do next. I don’t recognize myself at this moment.

I feel a sudden impulse to run out of the office and get in my car and drive far, far away.

I contemplate it for a moment. And then I plop down in my chair and try to get control over my emotions. What’s happening to me? And then it occurs to me that I should go to my boss’s office and tell him that I most certainly will drink my coffee and take my breaks. And he can not legally force me to do otherwise.

I stand up so suddenly I almost fall over. Then I plop down in my chair again.

I consider the possible outcomes of such a bold move. I could be fired outright. I could be demoted. It took me five years to work my way up the corporate tight rope, and I don’t want to start over somewhere else. Dammit. I’m screwed.

At that moment, I have a flash of insight. I will nonchalantly walk into my boss’ office and offer him a fresh cup of Blue. He will, of course, love it. I mean, who wouldn’t. I won’t tell him the Brand of coffee. No matter how he begs. And then he will want more, and I will be his only connection. He will be at my mercy. And so, I begin.

I go into the employee luncheon area, and I find the best coffee cup in the cupboard. I will pour him a cup of my ambrosia, and he will be instantly hooked.

I wash and dry the cup, which is emblazoned with the epitaph, And So It Begins.   What could be more perfect than this? I take it to my desk and generously fill the cup almost to the top. It is painful to watch, for I know every drop I pour into this cup will not be one that I can drink today. I shudder at the thought. A tear slides down my cheek.

But it must be done. It is a significant sacrifice. But in the end, it will be worth it. I tiptoe to my boss’s office.  He is studying his flat screen. His face is expressionless. I clear my throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds.”

He doesn’t reply, I repeat a bit louder, “Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds.”

He looks up, and he looks at me as if he doesn’t recognize my face. There is a slight pause, and he says, Miss Hartman? Problem?”

“No, sir, I just thought you might like a cup of coffee to start the day.”

“Coffee, why that would be great. That’s thoughtful of you.”

As Rachael turns to leave her boss’s office, a sly smile appears on her face. She realizes she will soon have Mr. Cummings under her thumb.

Rachael knocks on his door, and he says, “Come.” For some reason, Rachael is enraged by this response. She rearranges her expression to appear benign.

“Here you go, sir, enjoy. I think you will find this more than satisfactory. This is a special blend. I don’t believe you will find it anywhere in this part of the country. Let’s say it is my little secret.”

Mr. Cummings sits back in his chair and smells the coffee.  He is pleasantly surprised by the deep, rich aroma. He takes a small sip. His eyes open wide. He takes a second sip. And before you know it. He has drunk the entire cup of coffee.

“Rachael, can you come in here, please?”

Rachael is just getting into her work mode and is annoyed because it was interrupted. But she isn’t surprised. She expects no less. She knows Mr. Cummings would want more. But he isn’t going to get it today or any day soon. She would soon have him beg for more. And that will be all she wrote when that happens.

“I’m sorry if I was short with you earlier. I’m under the gun with this Murdock deal. I really need your help to get this completed before the deadline. I realize that you come in early, but I would appreciate your input and assistance. Oh, if I can have some more of that coffee, that would be awesome. Where did you buy it?”

“Oh well, that is a special blend that I get by mail order. It isn’t available anywhere around here. I only have a thermos with me. It’s quite expensive, and I can’t afford to buy it more than once a month.”

“Oh really, well, perhaps we can discuss an increase in pay after we get this Murdock deal completed.”

“Well, sir, maybe just this once. And if we get this package completed early, I would like to leave an hour early.”

Rachael sits at her desk and types the final entry into the Murdock presentation. She’s quite sure this is the best work she has done. A small smile lights up her face and then disappears as quickly as it appeared. She rechecks all the collated copies and heads towards Mr. Cumming’s office, and knocks on his office door.

“Mr. Cummings, I’ve completed the package for the Murdock presentation. I think you will find everything in order. And since I’ll be leaving early, I brought you the last cup.”

After looking over the file, Mr. Cummings calls Rachael into the office. “Well done, excellent work. And that coffee hit the spot. It really is invigorating, isn’t it?

“See you tomorrow.”

Rachael straightens up her desk and locks the desk drawer, and heads out of the office. Nods to several of her office mates. And then takes the elevator down to the lobby and walks across the street to the company parking lot.

She unlocks her car and puts on her seat belt, and pulls out onto Fairmount Drive. The next thing she knows, she’s pulling into her driveway. She realizes that she must have been driving on autopilot the whole time. She shakes her head from left to right. She tries to remember what she had been thinking of the whole time.

And then it comes to her. She had been considering the next step in her plan to move up the corporate ladder and out of her assistant position. She knows damn well she’s as smart as her boss and most of the higher-ups in her company.

The next morning Rachael gently pours Blue into her thermos, being careful not to bruise it. She turns on her computer and looks through her feed. Nothing interesting yet. And then she hears someone walking towards her. And then senses someone standing behind her. He clears his throat. She turns her head slightly and looks down at his shoes. Yes, it’s her boss. He is wearing his favorite Fioravanti Suit and Ferragamo shoes. Because of the board meeting today.

“Rachael, I want to once again thank you for your hard work on the Murdock Project. As I said, if all goes well, I expect there will be a bonus in there for you in the near future. By the way, would it be possible for you to share a cup of that magnificent ambrosia you gave me yesterday? I was up quite late, and I could really use a little boost, if you know what I mean.”

“Boost, sir?” Oh, but I explained to you how expensive it is and that I have to send away for it.”

“Oh, come on, one cup, that’s not too much to ask, Rachael, is it? Is there nothing I can do to persuade you?”

It feels as if a light has literally been turned on in her head. She turns her face slightly to hide the sly smile on her face. She takes a deep breath and says,” Well, sir, here’s the deal. If you recommend me for the open position in the New Acquisitions Division, then I will not only share my unique blend with you. I will make sure that every day you can have as much of it as often as you want it. “

“Well, I don’t know, Rachael, that’s an awful lot to ask in return for a mere cup of coffee, isn’t it?”

“Well, sir, if that’s how you see it. I guess there’s no point in discussing it any further. You know that I have been working at this company for well over ten years. And I know this business backward and forward. This company is my life. I have proven my value here.”

“Rachael, let’s talk about this further after my meeting, shall we?”

“No, sir, let’s decide now. I’m sure that I can find a position at Farrington and Sons. In fact, Mr. Farrington Sr. offered me such a position a week ago.”

“What? He is trying to steal away one of my best employees behind my back.”

“Well, that is not how I see it. He recognizes quality when he sees it. It’s up to you. You only have about five minutes before your meeting. What do you say?”

“Alright, Rachael, you have me over a barrel. Can you please get me that coffee now?”

“So, we have a deal?”

“Yes, yes, we do.”

“Good, I’ll get that coffee for you right now.”

After the meeting, Mr. Cummings walks nonchalantly into his office with the head of personnel and makes a call, and then he calls Rachael into his office.”

“Rachael, can you come here for a moment, please?”

Rachael jumps up from her desk chair so quickly that her chair falls backward onto the floor. She feels like she is floating across the room, and she knocks lightly on the door.”

“Come in, Rachael. As you can see, I have Mr. Hartley here from personnel. He has something to say to you.”

Rachael is absolutely convinced that she is about to her dream job. She holds her breath waiting to hear the good news. She is about to get everything she deserves for her years of hard work and achievement.

“Hello, Ms. Daniels, please have a seat. I have something to tell you.”

Rachael sat down and looks up expectantly. She had pictured this moment so many times. And now, here it is about to happen. “Yes, go ahead.”

“Ms. Daniels, I regret that I have to inform you that you are no longer going to be employed here at Megger. Your services will no longer be needed. You will be getting severance pay for two weeks. Right now, you are going to be escorted to your desk to collect your personal belongings. And then you will be taken to the front door. I will be collecting any keys or items belonging to the company when we get to your desk.”

Rachael almost passed out from the sheer shock at the unexpected and devastating turn of events. She makes a quick turn around and walks slowly to her desk. She is feeling as if not only her job will be terminated but that her life is being terminated.

“Alright, Ms. Daniels, let’s go through your desk, and you hand me the items such as keys and code lists. By the way, all the passwords on your computer will be wiped and changed. So, you will not be able to access this computer or any other computer you have had access to during your time here. Here is a list of items I will expect you to turn over to me now.”

Rachael puts her hand out, and the list is given to her but drifts to the ground. It almost feels like she’s having a waking nightmare. She leans down and picks up the list, and starts collecting all the items. She hands them over. “Please, can you tell me what I have done? I believe it is illegal to terminate someone’s job by providing the said employee with a reason?”

“Well, Ms. Daniels, it so happens that your boss records all his conversations in his office to avoid any possible accusations of impropriety. And we heard a conversation that sounded very much like blackmail. You demanded a promotion from your boss.”

“Demanded, no, I merely stated that I had worked many years and that I’m an excellent employee who deserves a promotion and salary increase. That’s all.”

“You also threatened your immediate supervisor to cut off the supply of his coffee and wouldn’t tell him where you purchased it. And wouldn’t give him anymore unless your demands were met. Is that right?”

“Well yes, I suppose you could say that. But it was just coffee, not drugs, nothing illegal: coffee, a good cup of coffee. Please, I need this job. It’s my life.”

“Sorry, Ms. Daniels you should have considered that before your attempt at blackmail?”

As he’s saying this, the head of personnel starts guiding her to the back entrance. He says, “goodbye.” I hope you learned a lesson here. Most companies will not tolerate this type of Funny Business. Goodbye. Ms. Daniels, good luck.”

As Rachael was given a gentle shove out the door, she yells, “but wait, it was just COFFEE.”

————————————–   

LET A SMILE BE YOUR UMBRELLA

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Harry wakes up feeling weary even though he overslept. He feels as if something is amiss. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and takes a deep breath. It smells like a wet dog in the room. Then he remembers that last night his dog, Andy escaped the backyard enclosure.

Andy made his way to a lake and took a little midnight swim. When Andy returns home, Harry is waiting up for him at the worn Formica kitchen table. He smoked one cigarette after another and drank stale coffee while staring out the kitchen window. About twelve-thirty in the morning, he sees Andy making his way up Fellowship Road. He seems in no great hurry.

Father

Harry Carberry, my dad circa 1960

Harry opens the front door and is about to give Andy the dressing down of his life when Andy suddenly pushes past Harry and runs excitedly through the house and into the front bedroom. He jumps on the bed and shakes himself off, spraying stinking lake water all over the floor and onto Marie’s bed for good measure.

Marie wakes up and says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what is going on? Oh, I should have known. It’s that damn dog. Why didn’t you put him in the cellar until he dried off? I swear to god you love that dog more than you love your own kids. For the love of Mike, will you put him in the basement so we can all get some sleep?”

Harry grabs Andy’s collar and drags him down to the basement. Then he puts some water in his bowl and says, “Andy, you can wait until the morning for something to eat. I’m tired of your shenanigans. I’m going back to bed.”

Marie is probably praying for his heathen soul this morning as she did every morning. The house is empty because the kids are off to school. Their cereal bowls are drying on the rack. Marie left half of a grapefruit in the refrigerator for his breakfast. She cut all the sections for him and sprinkled sugar on the top. Two pieces of white bread waited patiently to be toasted.

Harry knows he’s lucky to have married Marie. She’s a loving and faithful wife and a wonderful mother. But somehow the words “I love you never make it past his lips except for the day they exchanged their vows in August 1929. He reasons that she must know he loved her because here he’s still by her side after all these years.

Harry hurriedly gulps down his cup of Joe and eats the grapefruit and toast. It’s his day off. He had his day planned. First, he’ll go hit his regular stops in the dumpsters behind all the local stores. There was Woolworth’s, Three Guys, the Acme and the 5&10. He always got a little excited. you never know what treasures are waiting to be found.
Then he’ll stop at the Chinaman’s fruit and vegetable store and see if he can get some good deals. While he was at the Mart, he’ll stop at the Penny Auction and see if he can find any treasures. He’s always amazed at what people throw away. Harry thought if anything is a sin, that sure as hell is.

Why last week he bought a whole box of the Reader’s Digest books for fifty cents. He would have enough books to read for a year. Marie said it was all trash. But he made use of everything he found and bought.

His widowed mother raised Harry, and she had taught him how to squeeze a penny until Lincoln yelled uncle, why he had built almost everything in this house from bits and pieces and scraps he had found for practically nothing.

Marie complained that they never bought anything new. But thanks to his dumpster diving, they had never gone hungry in the crash of 1929 like so many others had. They have never gone without food in their stomachs and clothes on their backs.

But the best part of the day is when he goes to the Garden State Race track and bet his $2.00 on his favorite horse. He had been studying the horses for the past week, and he knows this time, this time he will win big.

After breakfast, Harry opens the cellar door, and Andy’s waiting there patiently. Harry steps aside and lets him pass.” All right, Andy, my boy, all is forgiven. Come on, and I’ll give you some breakfast. I think today’s your lucky day because there’s some left-over chicken for you.”

Harry leaves Andy to his own devices and walks out to his 1956 Turquoise Rambler and checks the trunk to make sure he has his supplies for his treasure hunting. Yup, he had heavy gloves, a pole with a nail at the end. Just in case there was the odd rat or mouse occupying the dumpsters, and a stepladder and bags.

The hunt gets off to a good start behind Woolworth’s when Harry finds five beautiful white wedding gowns at the very top of the dumpster. He lifts them carefully out and places them in a plastic bag he keeps in his trunk. His daughter, Susie, will be thrilled when he gives her these. She just loves to sew, and she’ll prize these gowns as if they’re made of gold.

In the trash at Three Guys, he finds a set of four perfect beach chairs. His older daughters will enjoy taking them with them when they go down the shore for the weekends this summer. He can picture his beautiful daughters sitting on the beach at Wildwood, getting their Irish tan. He can’t wait to see their expressions.

As Harry makes his way toward the Pennsauken Mart, he starts reviewing the races that will be taking place after lunch at the Cherry Hill Race Track. There’s nothing that makes his heart beat faster than watching the horses take off at the starting gate and run full out around the track. Harry has a large circle of friends at the track and is known as “Smiley.” Because no one ever had a bigger smile, then he does when his horse comes in a winner.

Harry picks up some lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, and beets at the Chinaman’s vegetable store and then heads towards the auction.

There’s the usual group of people there, and he waves at the regulars. Then the first box is brought out. It’s a surprise box. So, the bidding starts low, a dime. The excitement of the crowd grows as the bidding reaches a dollar. Harry never spends more than two dollars. Sometimes there was only one thing in the box of any value. Sometimes nothing at all, but occasionally he’ll get a real winner, like that time he found a gold pocket watch. His son Hugh was thrilled when he received it at his high school graduation.

The auctioneer reaches Harry’s two-dollar limit, so Harry heads home for lunch. There would always be next week. Harry doesn’t let the occasional loss bother him. After all, when you gamble, you have to be able to afford to lose and accept that it’s all a part of the game.

As Harry pulls his Rambler into the driveway, he sees his wife Marie putting something in the garbage. He waves at her, and she flat out ignores Harry. She’s probably still mad about Andy’s midnight escapade.

Still, when he gets into the kitchen, there’s his lunch waiting for him. There are his Lebanon Bologna sandwich and a pot of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup cooking on the stove just like any other day. Marie comes into the kitchen just as the kids walk in the front door for lunch.

“Hi, Daddy.” The kids say together as if they practiced it on the way home. “Hi, Mom, lunch smells good. Umm, my favorite Chicken Noodle soup and Lebanon Bologna sandwiches, I’m starving.”

“Good morning Marie, or should I say good afternoon. I brought home some beautiful vegetables from the Chinaman’s today for you.”

“Harry, you know you shouldn’t say Chinaman. Here’s your soup.”

“Why the hell not? He’s a man from China, isn’t he?”

“Never mind, Harry eat your lunch. Will you help me hang the curtains this afternoon they should be dry by then?”

“Well, I can see later this afternoon. I ‘m going to the track for a couple of hours after lunch.”

Marie’s frowns. She decides to keep her mouth shut because she’s told Harry many times that gambling was an evil thing to do and a waste of good money. She sits down, and without looking up at Harry, she mumbles, “alright later this afternoon then.”
When Harry returns home from the track, he’s so excited he thinks his head might explode. He practically breaks the door he opens it with such force. “Marie, Marie, where are you?”

“I’m right here, Harry. I thought you would get home in time to help me hang the curtains before dinner.”

“Hang the curtains, hang the curtains. Marie, I just won a hundred dollars at the track. And I’m giving you $20.00, and you can buy new curtains for the whole house if you want. And with the rest of the money, we’re all going to go out for dinner for Sunday dinner. Now, what do you think about that?”

Well, it would be hard to judge who had the biggest smile on their faces that night at dinner. When the kids come to the table and sit down, they look from one to the other of their parents.

Finally, Eileen says, “Daddy, Mom, what’s going on?”

“Well, have I got a story to tell you, it’s all about a Mudder.”

Oh Crap

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Oh crap! Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in the back of my neck. The mosquitoes are out in full force tonight. But why, oh, why am I always the prime target? I feel the back of my neck. Something sticking out, thin, and sharp, I pull it out. It ‘s some kind of dart.

“What the hell?”

Emergency

Emergency Room-Pixabay Paulbr75/2013

That’s the last thing I remember until I wake up. I wake up slowly, thinking I must be in bed, having a bad dream. In a few minutes, I’ll wake up and find myself in my queen size bed, with my brand-new goose down comforter keeping me warm and comfy, with Ralphy lying next to me. Ralphy is my golden Lab and my best friend. I adopted him five years ago from a shelter.

My friend Oswald who volunteers at the shelter called me and told me all about Ralphy, and what a great dog he was. His owner had passed away suddenly, and no one in the family could take him, and he had been in the shelter for four months, his time was running out.

My dog, Cody, had passed away from cancer about a year ago. Oswald thought we both needed a new best friend. I was somewhat reluctant at first since I was broken up after Cody died, but I did miss having someone greet me when I get home. Someone that likes me, unlike my ex, who hates everything about me at the end of our relationship, including how I sneezed.

I went to the shelter to meet Ralphy, and he was a beautiful Golden. He has an endearing outgoing personality. Easy going live and let live outlook on life. We hit it right off.  I filled out the adoption papers right then and there.  A week later, I took him home. We have been best buds ever since.

But unfortunately, I’m not in my big, soft bed with my new down comforter. I ‘m unable to move my arms or legs, so I thought at first I was tied up, I tried to look down and see, but I can’t do that either.

Oh my god, I’m paralyzed. I hear a low, kind of soothing voice from somewhere I not sure; maybe it was a recording or from a microphone.

“You’re going to be alright. The anesthetic will wear off slowly over the next hour. In the meantime, would you please answer all my questions?

My god, I thought, I’ve been kidnapped and am now being kept captive. I can’t move my head, so I roll my eyes from left to right and then up to the ceiling. I see fluorescent lights above, and white walls, adorned by nothing.

At the foot of my bed, I think I see a white jacket, but it’s hard to tell. Because somewhere along the line, I lost my glasses I need to see at a distance. Anything beyond three feet is at a blur for me. My little brother used to call me Mr. Magoo when I was growing up. Because before lightweight glasses came out, I had the real glass type as thick as the bottom of a soda bottle. So, this was the source of the soothing voice.

“Your name, date of birth, social security number, and insurance information, please?”

“My name is Helen, Helen Randolph. My birth date is August 4th, 1984. I do not have health insurance at this time. I got laid off from work eight months ago, and I couldn’t afford to pay for the Cobra insurance. Wait, wait, why are you asking me these questions? What kind of kidnapper ask for insurance information? I don’t have any money. I already told you I am unemployed? Nobody I know has any money, what do you want from me?”

“Kidnapper? Did you hit your head when you fell? We will have to have a CAT scan to make sure you don’t have a head injury.”

“I don’t know if I hit my head, maybe I don’t remember anything past getting a small dart of some kind in the back of my neck. When will I start to be able to move?” Helen suddenly realizes that she is indeed beginning to be able to move. First, her toes could wiggle, and now her hands. And now she can lift her head.

Ms. Randolph, this is Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Camden, NJ. It is on July twenty-first, 2019. You were brought into the hospital after someone in the park, noticed you were lying on the ground, unconscious. A tranquilizing dart accidentally hit you. Animal control was trying to capture a brown bear that had wandered into the park from the adjoining woods looking for food. You will be perfectly fine by the end of the day.

“Thank God.”

“It’s all is a day’s work, Ms. Randolph, all in a day’s work.

GOOD MORNING STUDENTS,MY NAME IS SISTER JOHN MICHAEL

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In she storms her full skirt, making a swishing noise as she moves. When she stops, the giant rosary that hangs from her waist swings back and forth, she’s dressed in black that flows down to the top of her black boots; a white wimple covered her forehead and chin. And she wears a white bib that spans her shoulders from one side to the other. 

If she has any hair, you can’t see it; a black veil covers her head. She appears six feet tall. My first thought is she’s the Wicked Witch of the West.

Today is my first day of school at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Elementary School. I’m seven years old.   The classroom is overflowing with kids. There’re more kids in the class there than desks. A bunch of other kids and I have to sit on the windowsill. I saw three first grades in line in the schoolyard.

There’s a low murmur as the students whisper to one another. Suddenly, Sister yells out, “that will be enough of that. No one is to speak unless they have permission to speak, or unless I ask you a direct question, is that understood?” None of us made a sound.

She screeches, what’s wrong with you? Answer.

We mumble, “Yes.”

She says, “when you reply, you are to say, yes, Sister, or no, Sister.” Now repeat after me, yes, Sister, no. Sister.”

And we did.  “Yes, sister, no sister.”

“If you have to go to the bathroom, you must raise your hand, and ask for permission, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sister.” We say as one.

She walks up to the blackboard and picks up a piece of chalk, and writes her name, Sister John Michael. None of us can read.   “My name is Sister John Michael. You may call me Sister. By the end of the school year, you all will be able to read and write your names. You will know how to do Arithmetic.”

“Good, now let us begin. I’ll start with the fist aisle. You will stand and state your name, now go.”  I ‘m not in an aisle, so I’m hoping I won’t have to stand up and say my name.

After everyone who has a desk says their names, Sister tells the students sitting on the windowsills to speak. When it’s my turn, I stand up, and with my head down, mumble my name, “Susan Carberry.”

“What? I can’t hear you, speak up, and put your head up.”

I put my head up, but I don’t look at her. I stare at the large round clock that’s on the column in front of her. I don’t know how to tell time, but I hope it will be time to leave soon.  I spit it out all at once, “my name is Susan Carberry.” Then I sit down so hard, I jar my whole body.

After everyone has introduced themselves, Sister picks up a long wooden stick that’s pointed at the end. We all hunker down in our seats. Wondering what she’ll do next. Is she going to hit us all one by one?

She points at green cards that line the top of the walls along the front of the room. “Boys and girls, this is the alphabet. I’m going to point at each letter and say the name, and you will all repeat it after me, do you understand?”  She puts her hands deep into the pockets hidden in her long skirt.“Yes, Sister.” We said in unison.

“Good, now we will say the alphabet over and over until we know it by heart. You will all have a chance to show your classmates that you recognize and say each letter out loud. Later we’ll begin writing the letters in a special copybook. And you will learn how to read words that are made by putting these letters together. You will learn how to read and write by the end of the year. You will have to work hard. But you will learn. Do you understand?”

We all sit and stare at her. No one answers. Her voiced booms out, “I said, do you understand?” I for one don’t know what she’s talking about. But I yell out as loudly as I can,” Yes, Sister.”

“Well, Miss Carberry, you’re learning already. Now, I want to hear the whole class. Do you understand what I said?”

All a sudden everyone yells as loud as they can, “Yes, sister.”

“Good, let us begin. I’ll point at each letter and say the name. You’ll all repeat what I said, out loud. Let’s begin.”

After we repeat every letter out loud, Sister announces,” we’ll practice this every day. Beginning next week each student will be called on and they will have to repeat each letter as I point at it. Everyone will have a chance. “Do you understand class?”

There was a moment of silence and then sister repeats, “Do you understand?”

We all yelled out,” Yes, sister.”

My stomach tightens up. I feel sick. I know I’ll never be able to learn all these letters and say them all out loud in front of the class. I want to run out the door and go home.

And then sister says, “Alright class, it’s time to use the girls and boy’s room before recess. Will aisle one and two come to the front of the room and stand at the door?” I look around at the rest of the class, and I wonder what’s a boy’s and girl’s room? Does everyone else know?

And then the first two rows go up to the front and sister says. “boys in front, girls in the back. Go out into the hall and wait until I come out there and direct you to the bathrooms. Be silent, do you understand?”

“Yes, sister.”

And they all walk silently out into the hall. Well, at least I now know we’re all going to the bathroom. I wait my turn hoping I don’t have to wait too long because my stomach is really hurting.  Finally, it’s the turn for the people sitting on the window sills to go to the bathroom. We march out to the hall.

Sister says. “No, talking.”

Suddenly I feel someone t.ake my hand I look to see who it is. It’s a girl with curly brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She smiles at me and I smile back. My stomach starts to feel a little better. Sister yells, “go into the bathroom now. When you finish, form a line and wait until you are all done and then go back to the class and sit where you were sitting before.

My new friend and I hold hands until we get in the bathroom. We see four doors inside. We each open one of the doors and look inside. There is a toilet in there. We go in, and then we shut the door. It’s weird, but at least I have a moment alone when sister will not yell at me. When I’m done, I flush, the toilet and my friend is waiting at the door for me.

‘Hi, my name is Irene Simpson. What’s your name? “

“My name is Susie Carberry.” I, smiling shyly at her. We walk out hand in hand into the hall.  After all the kids are out, there we march back to the classroom and sit down again.

“Alright class, quiet, please we’ll begin practicing our letters. The first person in each row pass the copybooks to the person behind you. I would like a volunteer to come up to the front of the class to pass out the copybooks to the people who sit next to the windows. What no one wants to volunteer?” She looks up and down the aisle.

I feel her eyes resting on me. I turn my head slightly and put my head down. I’m thinking, please, please don’t call out my name.

“No volunteers? Alright then, Miss Carberry, come up here and get the books, please and pass them out.” I try to shrink down lower. “Miss Carberry, Susan Carberry, come up here this minute. I can see you.” I hop off the windowsill and walk up to the front of the class, and stick out my hands to take the books.

“Very good Miss Carberry, that wasn’t that bad was it?’ She hands the black and white books to me. I turn around and walk to the back of the class to the window and give each of the kids a book. And then I plop back on my window seat. I take a deep breath.

“Alright, let us. Begin I’m going to pass out pencils to each student and you must never lose it. This will be your pencil. And then, we will begin learning to write the letters.  Do you understand students?”

We all say, “yes, sister.” And sister hands out the pencils and shows us how we are to write the letter on the special lines of the copybook. It takes forever to fill up one page of letters.

I’m tired and want to go home. I feel like crying, but I hold it in. “Alright girls and boys, it’s almost time to go home for lunch. Please put your pencils and books on your desk or on the windowsill next to you. I ‘ll be calling each row and we will be walking outside. You will wait until you are dismissed and then you can go home for lunch. There’re people who will help you cross the streets if you need them. They are called safeties they have badges on over their uniforms. Do what they say. You have to come back to class at 12:30 and meet in the schoolyard and stay there until the bell rings then line up and you will come back here to class for the afternoon. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sister.”I have no intention of ever returning to this classroom. But later my mother told me I would have to go back there. My older sister tells me I will have to go to school for twelve years. But I know that can’t be true. So I stick my tongue out at her.

A LIE IS A LIE IS A LIE

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“Delta Dawn Rafferty, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” As I sit in the witness chair, I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead. And then a shudder runs through my whole body. I stare out across the courtroom. I hear a low buzzing in my ears, and heat on the back of my neck and ears. My heart is beating so hard I think it might explode out of my chest. Dear god, I think I’m going to pass out in front of God and country.  Carrie Z - Pixababy

I blink and take a long, deep breath and exhale. “Yes, I do swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god.” I’m biting my lip so hard it starts to bleed. I take an old tissue out of my jacket pocket and dab at my lip and gulp. I stuff the tissue back from whence it came. I sit up as straight as I can. And then I look out at Douglas, the accused, my former boyfriend, although a short-lived one.

“Can you relate to the court the circumstances that brought you here today? In your own words, can you tell the court what exactly occurred on January first of this year?”

As I sit there and try to decide what I should say, I realize that I had made up my mind a long time ago. I’m going to say precisely what it will take to put that bastard behind bars for as long as possible. Douglas is the picture of innocence. His face is blank, flaccid, you might say. But I know him better than anyone here. I can see that he’s gritting his teeth and his jaw is tightening. His lips are slightly pursed. If he could, he would rush up here and strangle me with his bare hands; he would. I have no doubt.

It began back when I was in grad school. Everything was going along as planned, and then I met Douglas. It was just after mid-term. I was on my break and my friends, and I decided to go out and party at the local pubs. Hell, I think we hit all of them on South Street in Philadelphia. I’m not much of a drinker, but for some reason that night, I just gave myself permission to drink myself into oblivion. Later, I wished that was all I found oblivion, not Douglas.

It was a beautiful starlit night. Well, that’s not exactly true, but it sounds better then it was raining like hell, and we all got soaked to the bone. There were five of us. There was Dolores, she has glorious red hair down to her waist and a tattoo on her arm that reads, Born to Die. She is the funniest person I ever met. She has a very dry wit,  dryer than the Mojave Dessert. She says the most outrageous things with a straight face. You have to think twice about everything she says, and then she will burst out laughing.

And then there’s Candy as beautiful as any model with an IQ that Einstein would envy. She’s only twenty-two and has two doctorate degrees. One in advanced physics, the other in psychology. Abnormal psychology was her area of interest.

And my best friend, Alicia. There isn’t any brief description of Ali she is all heart. I do not doubt that she is an empath. She can take one look at you, and in a few minutes, she understands who you are and what makes you tick. Although, I have to admit she misjudged me. She will go to the end of the earth to help you if you need her to. She has never met anyone who she doesn’t consider a friend. And the feeling is mutual. She has been my best friend since grade school. I can’t imagine my life without her in it.

And then there’s Thelma. How best to describe Thelma? She grew up in the Appalachian Mountains. Her family was poor. Not poor where they didn’t have extra money to go on vacation in the summer. But poor, she didn’t have food to eat every day of her life. She was homeschooled through high school. She has an endemic memory. If she reads it, she retains it. She has the frizziest hair that I have ever seen. She calls it her Irish Frow. There are freckles on her face and body the size of dimes. Is she the most beautiful girl in the world, no.? But, the men flock after her like a cat to catnip.

And then there’s me, of course, Delta Dawn Rafferty. Yes, I know that’s the name of a country-western song. My mother loved those old country ballads. Let me begin by saying that I have a good heart but don’t always make the best decisions. Often my heart leads the way instead of my head. I suppose I would have to say that of all of my friends I’m the creative one. My imagination knows no limits.  I’m an artist and writer. I’m quick with the sarcastic barb. I also have a quick temper and a short fuse. I’m a distant relative of Georgia O’Keefe. Now, you know everything relevant about me except how I came to be on trial for attempted murder. I didn’t attempt to murder anyone.  I was trying to save my own life. I believe that’s called self-defense.

As I was saying, we were out on the town hitting all the dive bars in Philadelphia’s South Street. If you ever have the time and the inclination, go there. The only possible place I could compare to South Street would be the Haute Ashbury section of San Francisco in the sixties and seventies. At least that’s what my grandmother Lou told me. And she ought to know she was a hippie back in the day.

We started at Tattooed Mom, it’s one of the most fabulous places on South Street if you are going on a bar troll with your best buds. Go there with a buzz on before you get there, even better.

Because this place is a sensory overload starting at the front of the building, the theme is carried on inside. Every surface is covered with psychedelic graffiti, including the walls and the furniture. All the artwork is created by the most talented and innovative graffiti artist in Philadelphia. Each one is a piece of history. They have a remarkable collection of craft beers. If you like some spicy chicken wings or an awesome veggie burger it’s yours for the asking.

They have poetry readings open to local poets. And then there’s Upstairs Mama’s where there’re political meet-ups with local Progressive leaders. Not your scene, then you can play a game of pool. It’s a very liberal place, so Conservatives’ beware. Anyway, my gal pals and I started here with a couple of beers and some food and listened to the poetry slam before we left.

We were all feeling the good vibes and moved on to The Twisted Tail. This is in the Society Hill section of South Street. The food is kind of uptown Southern Barbeque. We went there for the booze at the Southern Whiskey bar. And the music at the Juke Joint where talented local musicians play. That night a band called Mikey Jr. and the Stone-Cold Blues were playing. And then to top it all off there was a new musician and band who were playing Muddy Water’s Blues. By the time they got to Manish Boy, I was blown away. The singer could have been a reincarnation of Muddy Waters. And I was feeling no pain.

As I was throwing back my last whiskey a good-looking dude sat down next to me. And he asks if I wanted to dance. And that my friend was the beginning of a life-changing moment in my life. You know that little voice you hear in your head sometimes telling you, no don’t do it. Well, my little voice was screaming it at the top of its little non-existing lungs. But I was too far gone to hear it or care and I said yes.

Once I looked into his deep brown eyes, I was lost. I was his, for the taking. Next thing I know I got my jacket and told my best gal pal, Alicia, that I was leaving with this dude and would talk to her later. She tried to talk me out of it. They all did. But I had stopped listening. I was out the door hanging on his arm. Barely able to stand let alone walk.

Alicia came over just before I went out the door and tried once again to dissuade me. She physically tried to pry me off his arm. But I would have none of it. And I told her to mind her own business. And that was the last they heard of me for ten days. Yes, my friends that good-looking dude was none other than Douglas.

Yes, I was missing in action for ten days. that was a first for me. My friends were frantic. They had no idea where I was. I really think I lost my mind. I only considered what I was feeling. And I was feeling no pain. I was in love or lust, or maybe both. Those ten days were intoxicating.  Every time he walked into the room. I literally swooned. After ten days, Douglas decided he needed to go back to work and pick up the pieces. He left me a note saying it had been great fun. But the fun was over, and he had to get back to his real life.

Real-life, what the hell did that mean? I’m real. These last ten days seemed more real than any experience I had in my life up to this point. I was having none of it. He wasn’t going to toss me out like last week’s left-over Chinese food. I spent the rest of the morning ransacking his apartment. I got into his email. Can you believe he used the same password for every one of his accounts? And he had his password taped to the bottom of his laptop. What an amateur.

I looked at his Facebook account, his LinkedIn account, Twitter, his Tinder. I unfriended everyone on his Facebook account. Lastly, I blocked anyone on Tinder that I thought might get in my way. I changed his passwords for everything, and I copied his new passwords. I looked at his documents. I left no stone unturned. I happen to keep a jump drive in my purse, and I copied all relevant information. I even looked at all his online bank accounts. I moved some of his money from his checking and savings account into long-term CDs.

Douglas never asked for my phone number or address or my cell. He doesn’t even know my last name. He may be finished with me, But I’m not finished with him. Not by a long shot. He may not know my last name or address, but I know everything about him, and I mean everything. I looked in his address book on his phone while he was taking a shower. And I copied all his contact information, including family, friends, and workplace.

I cleaned every surface that I might have touched. I put all the dishes into the dishwasher and turned it on. I washed the clothes, sheets, and towels in hot water. Douglas’ apartment had probably never been this clean dare I say antiseptic since day one. And then I began to exact my revenge. Oh, you thought I already exacted my revenge. Hardly, I believe I mentioned that I’m creative. Well, my creativity is not limited to, painting and writing.

Day one- I contacted Alicia first by text, and after she unloaded a raft of shit on me via texts. I called her. Unfortunately, I should have given her a little more time to simmer down. Her anger was still boiling over. “Del, where the hell have you been? We have been looking all over for you. We made a police report that you were a missing person. We called your parents. We all were sure that that guy murdered you, cut you up in little pieces, and threw you in the Schuylkill River. Del, they dragged the river. You are going to have to talk to the police. I’ll text you the name and number of the detective that was, or I guess is investigating your disappearance. His name is Detective Dan Shaw.

“Del, it was in the Philadelphia Inquirer.”  “For reals? Are you kidding?” No, I’m not kidding. Your parents are a mess; they think you’re probably dead. No, I’m not joking. Have you lost your mind? We were all worried, sick.”

I tried to interject some reason here. But Alicia was having none of it. God, can’t a girl go a little crazy once in a while? I mean, you’re only young once, for crying out loud. So, I made plans to get together with her and Dolores and Candice, and Thelma for dinner that night at the Pussy Cat. It’s a kind of a dive bar in Deptford, NJ, near the Mall. But they have the most fabulous spicy Chicken Wings in South Jersey.

After I spoke to Alicia, I called my mother. When my mother picked up the phone, she immediately started crying. And then she started yelling. It seemed that this was going to be a new theme with everyone I talk to in the near future. I was starting to feel a little guilty for not letting them know what I was up to. But not that guilty. I have a right to my privacy, don’t I? I assured her I was fine, and I apologized over and over again. Then my dad got on the phone and read me the riot act. I guess I could expect more of this at the Pussy Cat when I saw my other girlfriends. I will try to deflect the tirade by starting with an apology, right off the bat.

Meanwhile, I got busy with my plan for Douglas. The basic plan was to make him regret using me and then ditch me like a bad habit. And then regretting the day he was born. I started sending emails to his boss at Megger International, describing some of the things Douglas had done to me. I copied that email to all his co-workers and close friends. And all his past girlfriends and on Tinder for any possible future girlfriends.

I was feeling a little jazzed for some reason. I guess I was feeling a sense of accomplishment. I didn’t stop for a minute to consider the possible consequence of my actions, not even for a minute. I found it divine retribution. Not that I felt sorry for my actions and how they would affect Douglas. But how it possibly affects me. I think I had every right to destroy Douglas’ little world and his pathetic life. Look what he did to me. Told me he loved me, adored me even. We were meant to be together forever. Men have been doing this to women forever. And it is time for it to stop.

My coup d’état was when I showed up at his place of employment, Megger international. They were having a meeting for all the top-performing employees at a special luncheon to thank them for their outstanding service to the company. I knew all this because I have been hacking into his work email. God, he had made it so easy.

I arrived just as the plant manager was standing in front of all the employees to hand out bonuses and announce raises. I saw Douglas sitting at one of the front tables. He seemed poised to stand up. I started to slowly move forward to the front of the large meeting room. I was going to start crying and telling everyone what a shit he was when he was finished speaking. But that never happened because as his name was called, Douglas sensed my presence somehow and looked over at me.

And I stepped forward he launched himself across the front of the room and toward me. He started choking me.   I was kicking and scratching. I was no match for his strength. I don’t think I mentioned that Douglas was over six and a half feet tall and cut. It looks like he spent a lot of time working out at the gym. He was shaking me like a dog with a bone. And then, at the last possible moment, I pulled the knife out of my jacket pocket and stabbed him a couple of times in the upper chest. Which was all I could manage, considering he was wringing my neck?

That was also when several of his co-workers and boss jumped on me and restrained me. Someone punched me really hard in the face. I don’t know who. But I intend to find out, and they will be sorry. The last thing I remember is the police putting me in handcuffs and shoving me in the back of the squad car. And that is all she wrote. And here I’m standing before you all ad innocent women trying to defend my honor. Nothing more. I was just defending myself, nothing more.

THE FIRST DAY OF FIRST GRADE

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It was September of 1957 when my sister Karen and I entered first grade at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in Maple Shade, NJ.

“Karen, Susan, Karen, Susan get up it’s time to get ready for school.” My mother yells from the bottom of the steps. We moan and reluctantly throw the covers off. And slowly we get out of bed.

School Yard – Pixabay

My mother had put our school uniforms out for us. They look exactly alike, a maroon jumper with a white blouse that had what my mother called a Peter Pan Collar, black and white saddle shoes, and white socks. And worst of all, a hat called a beanie that was also maroon. I put on the blouse and the jumper, and it is so itchy I can’t believe it. I don’t think I’ll be able to wear it all day. I start scratching. I put on my new shoes. They look kind of neat but feel heavy. Since I haven’t worn shoes all summer.

As soon as I start walking around, my feet start hurting. I take them off and put my old sneakers on instead.

Karen looks over at me and says, “What are you doing? You have to wear  school shoes.”

I stick my tongue out at her. She says I’m telling Mom.

“Shut up.”

“No, you shut up, I’m telling Mom.”

We walk down the steps to the kitchen. Karen’s shoes are making a lot of noise as she clumps down the stairs. I’m wearing my sneakers, so I’m not making any noise. I hear my mother yell.

“Pick up your feet.”

I start laughing at Karen. She rushes down the rest of the steps and runs in the kitchen.” Mom, Susie isn’t wearing her new shoes, she’s wearing her old sneakers.”

My mother says, “Don’t tattle Karen; that’s not nice.”

Karen is mad now, “but Mom, she’s not wearing her school shoes.”

“Alright Karen, sit down and eat your cereal, I’ll talk to your sister.”

I am hiding at the bottom of the stairwell, so I know my mother is coming to talk to me. There’s nowhere for me to hide, so I just stand there and wait for my mom.

“Susie, please go back upstairs and change your shoes. We already talked about this the other day you have to wear shoes and a uniform. It’s a rule.”

I look at my mother, and I want to cry, but instead, I say, “I hate school, I don’t want to go.”

“No, you don’t Susie, you don’t even know what it’s like. You’ll make new friends, and learn all kinds of new things. Now, please go upstairs and put on your new shoes. And while you’re at it, get your beanie. And after breakfast, I’ll fix your hair and help you brush your teeth.”

Now I stomp up the steps, muttering under my breath, “I hate school, I hate school.” I hear Karen laughing in the kitchen.

When I come down, I hear my mom talking to Karen in the bathroom while she is brushing Karen’s curly, dark hair. I start shoveling my cheerios in as fast as I can. I feel like I’m going to start crying. Karen and my mother come back into the kitchen. I feel a tear and then another run down my cheeks.

“Look, Mom, Susie’s crying, she’s such a baby.”

I look at Karen, and I’m so mad at her that I stop crying and stare at her hard. I stick my tongue out at her.

She yells, “Mom, Susie is sticking out her tongue at me again.”

“Alright Karen, that’s enough, go get your school bag, and wait for Susie on the front porch she’ll be outside in a minute.”

“Come on Susie, I’ll fix your hair, and you can brush your teeth.”

I follow my mother down the hall passed the Blessed Mother grotto towards the bathroom. I start feeling sick to my stomach. “Mommy, I don’t feel good, I feel sick.

“You’ll be alright, Susie, you’re just nervous. Let me brush your hair and then brush your teeth. Don’t forget to put on your beanie, or you’ll get into trouble.”

I look in the mirror, I see my tear-streaked face, it is all red from me rubbing it. I had washed my hair last night, but I didn’t comb or brush it so it is full of knots.

“Susie, your hair is a rat’s nest. Didn’t you comb it last night after your bath?’

“No, I guess I forgot.”

Then my mother starts pulling the brush and then the big comb through my hair. It hurts. I look in the mirror. I have blond hair, but my sisters always tell me it’s “Dirty blond.” I hate when they say that cause I wash my hair every week.

“OK, Susie, here’s your brush, put some baking soda on it and start brushing, brush all your teeth not just the front ones.”

“OK, Mom, I will.” And I try to brush all my teeth, but my arm starts to feel tired so that I may have missed a few of the back teeth.

“Alright, let me see your teeth, Susie, open up.”

I open my mouth wide. She looks in. “Looks like you missed the ones in the back, here’s your brush. Do it again, and then rinse out your mouth.”

I do it again, I hate baking soda it tastes like poison. I brush the back teeth, rinse and spit.

“Put your beanie on Susie.”

I put it on the top of my head, it’s sticking up weird in the back, because of my ponytail. I make a face. My mom looks at my face in the mirror. “Here Susie, I’ll put a couple of bobby pins on the beanie to keep it on. Don’t lose them.”

She sticks the bobby pins into my hair, and I flinch. Now, my feet and my head hurt. I want to cry again, but I don’t.

My mother leans down and gives me a little hug. It makes me want to cry again, but I hold the tears back. “Bye, Mom, I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, Susie I forgot to tell you. You can come home for lunch. Sister will tell you when it’s time. I’ll see you at lunchtime.”

For a minute, I feel a little better. Then I run out of the front door, and I see Karen has already left. Now I have to go by myself. Karen’s a pain, but I always feel a little better when I can go with her somewhere I’ve never been to before. My stomach starts to hurt in earnest. And I get the weird scratchy feeling in my throat right before I start crying.

I cry all the way to the schoolyard — the school bell ringing. There are hundreds if not thousands of kids in the schoolyard. I don’t know where to go. Then I realize that I forgot my school bag — the crying increases. I run into the schoolyard. There is a sea of unfamiliar faces. I can’t find Karen. All the girls look alike in their uniforms.

I see a “nun” coming toward me. I want to run away. She looks like a giant. She has a really long black dress on and around her waist is a giant rosary swaying back and forth. As she comes toward me, I see she has a giant bib on her neck that comes down to her chest. And a stiff white piece of fabric is across her forehead and chin. There is a black veil on her head hanging down her back.

I ‘m terrified. “You’re late, don’t let that happen again. What is your name, and what grade are you in?”

I looked down at the ground. For a moment, I can’t remember my name or what grade I’m in.

“Look at me and speak up.”

I look up momentarily and mumble, “Susan Carberry, first grade.”

“Alright, Miss Carberry, follow me.”

The “Nun” takes me across the schoolyard and over to the line with the smallest kids. I see my sister, Karen. And I have never been so happy to see her in my life, as I did at that moment. She looks over at me, and she gives me a little smile. And then the second bell rings and all the kids start marching toward the school. The first day of school begins.