Author Archives: Susan

It’ Monday Night So We must Be Having Meatloaf

3 Replies

My father sits on his faded orange rocking chair in the living room. He is watching the news on our new black and white TV. Walter Cronkite is saying, “And that’s the way it is.”

As he gently pets our dog Andy he absentmindedly stops. And Andy pushes his wet nose up into my father’s palm until he starts stroking his head again.

My father shouts, “Marie could you get me a cup of coffee.”

Marie is my mother’s name but my dad usually calls her Mom. My father is the king of this castle.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table staring at my spelling words. I’m supposed to be memorizing them for a test tomorrow. But instead I’m kicking my sister Karen’s leg and she’s pinching my arm under the table.

My Mother is busily wiping the kitchen counter unaware of the silent battle Karen and I wage just five feet from where she stands. We know better then to make any noise because my father doesn’t put up with any boloney while Walter is discussing the world news.

The problem is Karen is left-handed and I’m right handed. We’re both stubborn and refuse to change seats, so every time we try to write or turn a page, we bump arms. The battle would be on. My mother calls out in her sweet voice, “Be right there Harry.”

She fills his cup and adds three teaspoons of sugar and brings it into the living room wrapped in a dishcloth. My father has diabetes but he doesn’t let that affect what he eats, or drank. He adjusts his insulin shots depending on his blood sugar level.

His drink of choice is watered-down ketchup. My Mom places the cup on the table next to my father and warns him, “Be careful Harry, it’s hot.” Looking down at Andy, she says, “That animal has the life of Riley.”

My father loves Andy and lavishes all his attention and affection on him. Once a week he walks down to the corner store and buys him an ice cream cone. Karen and I sit there with our tongues hanging out wishing we could get a lick in, as he holds it to Andy’s mouth.

My mother would offer the same reframe, “Oh Harry you’re spoiling that dog.” Then she glances over at the two of us with a look that says, there’s not much I can do about it.

After we finish our written homework, my mother quizzes us on the spelling words. If we aren’t sure of the spelling, she’ll give us a little hint by saying the first two or three letters.

That night I have math homework. I hate math, hate it even more because my father tutors me when I have trouble. This is a daily occurrence. He’s very good at math. My father is the Head Bus Dispatcher at PTC. which stands for the Pennsylvania Transportation Company. He’s been working there forever. He created the procedure of scheduling the buses and trollies that’s still in use today.

After I complete my math homework my father says, “Give it to me. Let me have a look at it.” I lived in terror of this moment every day. My father expects nothing less than excellence and perfection. I feel I’m far from excellent. He would go over each problem, while I sat on my hands because they’re sweating. Praying that they’re correct.

He makes me so nervous I can hardly think straight when he asks a question. He looks over at me and says, “How did you get these answers? Show me the work, do this problem.”

I stare at it for a moment, my mind is a complete blank.  I ‘m afraid that I will disappoint him again. He says, “What are you waiting for? Get to it!” I finish the problem.

“Let me show you how you are supposed to do it.”

He shows me how to do it his way. I look up at him, afraid to speak.

“Well?”

“Dad, we use the new math, we don’t use your old math.”

“Old math, what are you talking about, old math?”

“But Dad, that’s the way Sister Joseph Catherine told us we have to do it.”

My father’s is a very bright man. “Alright Susabelle, use the new math at school. But when you need to do math in your life later on, you’ll see that my way works better.”

“Daddy, When Sister Joseph Catherine calls on me, she says, Hey you, and not my name.

“Well Susabelle, just tell her that Hugh is your father’s name not yours.”

My father doesn’t make jokes very often but when he does it would behoove you to laugh along with him, even if it’s at your own expense. After our homework is finished, we all go and sit in the living room to watch TV. I hear, “This is Walter Cronkite and good night.”

My mom sits down probably for the first time all day. She has a cup of coffee, and we watch Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke. My dad’s favorite show. Andy lays asleep next to my father’s chair, snoring quietly.

THE BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH

1 Reply

I was recruited in my senior year of College at Georgia Tech. My plan was to ultimately get a Masters Degree in Science and Technology. I’m smart; not genius smart but my IQ is somewhere up there in that stratosphere. I’m not bragging, just stating the facts, the facts and nothing but the facts.

But to achieve my goal, I needed money. My family was tapped out. A recruiter contacted me on campus and asked if I wanted to earn some real cash, working at the nearby Apple Store. Would I, of course I would. Any techie’s wet dream. Surrounded by the best of the best, creatives, mathematicians, hardware and software gurus. That’s the definition of who I am. I have been using a Macintoggle computer since I was five years old.

So, hell yeah, I took that job and swallowed the whole party line hook, line and sinker. On the final day of training I was unbelievably buzzed. I couldn’t wait to get on showroom floor and tell, nay educate customers about the latest Mac products including the Mac Super Pro with retinal display.

Just as my team was about to be released to start our new career, we were told on the downlow that there was a programming bug that had just been discovered recently. However, they were still going to launch the Mac Super Pro because so much time and money had been invested its production and promotion.

It was like being hit by a cold dead mackerel in the face. Selling substandard products. I just couldn’t believe it. In addition, if we failed to push Mac Super Pro, we were pretty much dead in the water.

I stumbled and mumbled my way out onto the floor. I felt dazed and bewildered. I needed the money. There was no if, and or buts. I had to do it. Sell product, after all I was just a guppy in a sea of bigger fish, sharks even.

I walked out there with my shoulders back and stomach in, like any good soldier going to fight the good fight. And then I saw her, walking into the store a tall blond athletic looking. Her face could launch a thousand ships. Maybe she wasn’t Helen of Troy, but a second runner up. Her pony tailed hair swung this way and that as she walked straight toward me. She wore a pair of black glasses that kept slipping down her nose. She kept pushing them back up with the heel of her hand. I was in love.

“Good morning, my name is James, how may I help you?”

“James is it? James Bond?”

I stared at her. Her eyes were indigo blue like the sea. I fell right into those eyes, and never wanted to leave. “What? Oh no, James, James Brown at your service.”

“Well, James, James Brown. I’m interested in the Mac Super Pro.”

I gulped, almost felt like I swallowed my tongue. I had to retrieve it before I could speak again. “Of course, it’s right over here. There isn’t anything else on the market that has the speed, versatility, and memory that the Mac has available.  It’s easy to use, really is intuitive. People friendly. Let me give you a demonstration.

She asked me questions that only another techie would know to ask. She wasn’t a techie virgin. I gulped again. I regurgitated everything that I had been instructed to tell a potential customer. I watched her face. She was impressed. I thought I was at the point where I could close the deal.

At that moment she said, “Oh one more thing, I have been hearing rumors on the forums that there is a possible programming problem with the Mac Super Pro, do you know anything about that?”

I looked her straight in those indigo eyes, and I said,” problems, none. This baby has been tested, checked, and rechecked. MacIntoggle has had it beta tested for six months before it was released. You have my word on it.”

“Alright then, let’s bag up this baby, and I’ll take it home right now.”

She walked out the door with her ponytail swinging left to right. I said to myself, job well done. I’m on my way making my mark in the world. I look to the door and in walked number two.

 

 

 

 

VICTOR

2 Replies

It’s the fourth Friday of the month, and Victor sits at his usual table at Mickey D’s. His father is late as usual, or he isn’t going to show up at all. It happens sometimes. Victor’s father is unpredictable and unreliable.

Victor’s mother dropped him off a half-hour early. Because this was the only night she had to herself, she was anxious to be on her way. She calls it her girl’s night out. But Victor knows what it’s was all about. Because every fourth Saturday of the month, Victor wakes up to a different “daddy.”

His parents have been separated for eight months, and recently their divorce was finalized. Of course, there were years and years of fighting and anger and name-calling. That went on long into the night before the separation. So, it came as no surprise when his father packed up all his belongings one hot and humid night last summer—after one particularly spectacular knockdown screaming fight between his parents, Tammy and Jack.

That’s how Victor thinks of them as Tammy and Jack. He long ago stopped thinking of them as his parents. It wasn’t that he suffers under some adolescent fantasy that they aren’t his parents. And that one day, his real parents will come to claim him. It’s just so apparent that Tammy and Jack have no business being his parent or anyone else’s.

Victor is staring over at the French Fry Man. That’s how he thinks of him, The French Fry Man, not that it was his real name. The French Fry Man has some kind of problem and yells out weird barking sounds or sometimes curse words for no apparent reason. He also loses control of his arms and legs and the muscles in his face. And they tighten up and flay out without any warning.

The restaurant manager comes over and softly tells the French Fry Man that he must stop making noises. The French Fry Man would promise to try. But it’s obvious he can’t stop himself. His odd noises and yelling irritate fellow customers. And kids used to make fun of him all the time. So, Victor is reasonably confident that if he were able to stop himself, he would have done it by now.

Victor feels sorry for him. He often thought of him at odd times. At the same time, Victor is on the bus on the way to school. When he’s at home by himself, he considers how terrible it must be to be unable to control the noises and words that come unwillingly from his mouth. Victor observes him and can almost predict when it’s about to happen. He can see him tighten up his muscles, trying to prevent the spasm. But he isn’t able to control it.

Victor feels a connection to the French Fry Man. He feels the same loss of control about his life and where it’s taking him. As Victor sits there and watches the French Fry Man, his arm shoots out and knocks his French Fries off the table and all over the floor. This was the only thing that French Fry Man ever eats. Perhaps it’s the only thing he can afford to buy. The only luxury he allows himself. As the French fries fly off the table and are sent on their uncontrolled trajectory into Mickey D’s space, a whooping sound comes out of his mouth.

Victor sits momentarily and stares and listens as the inevitable laughter begins. A tear escapes from one eye and then the other. Victor wipes them quickly away and walks up to the counter and orders two large French Fries with extra ketchup.

Victor walks over to the French Fry Man’s table and stands next to it. He is momentarily tongue-tied. Then he says, “Hi, my name is Victor. My father was supposed to meet me here tonight. It looks as if he isn’t going to show up. I have this extra French Fry, and I’m wondering if I can share them with you? I hate eating alone.

At first, the man stares at him as if he is some kind of apparition, and then a smile spreads across his face. “Please sit. I would like that.”

This is how Victor makes his first real friend who always does as he promises and how Victor meets his “real” father.

 

You Ain’t No Miss America Lady

5 Replies

Well here it is picture day, isn’t that just grand, as my mother would say. All the kids at school are always so excited about picture day. For a couple of reasons; one we go to Catholic School, and therefore we have to wear hideous uniforms everyday.

The girls’ uniform is a wool, maroon jumper with a pleated skirt,  and a button-down white shirt with short, sleeves, and lucky us, a Peter Pan collar. No matter how fat or thin you are, you look horrible in this outfit.

I never get a new uniform because they cost a lot of money, which my family doesn’t have. We have six children instead. I’m the youngest. Sometimes I have to wear the same uniform for several years, and by the time Karen passes on her old uniform to me, the one I’m wearing waist is up under what I suppose what will someday be my boobs.

Anyway, I was saying I never get a new uniform, I get to wear my twin sister Karen’s hand me downs because she is a bigger size then I am. To top off this outstanding look, is the OLPH beanie. Which is also maroon, and has a peak in front, and a little maroon covered button on the top.

Sometimes if it is a first Friday, we get to wear a mantilla on our heads when we are all herded to group confession. A mantilla is a round piece of lace, also maroon. What’s with maroon already? Why pick the ugliest color in the world? We Catholic kids get to wear it for eight long years. Probably has something to do with the fact that we have original sin. And they are trying to get us used to the idea of eternal damnation.

Wow, that’s another story I could write a book on just the whole Catholic Church, Mass, and Confession ordeal. I’ll tell you about it later. Anyway, I was saying, the boys are not blessed with the whole horrible uniform thing, like the girls are. They get off easy with wearing black pants, white shirt and a tie. I’ll tell you life is just not fair. I know this and I’m only eleven years old. So, get used to it.

Back to picture day, everybody was looking forward to it because they don’t have to wear the ugly uniform for one day of their pathetic lives. I knew it was going to be torture for me, and I guess my sister Karen too.

Last night, my mother said,” Susie and Karen, after dinner I want you two to get a bath and wash your hair. Oh, and Susie don’t forget to wash out the shampoo.”

Jeez, one time you forget the rinse part of the hair washing and they never let you forget it. “Yeah, Ma, I know wash and rinse, wash and rinse.” I take my sister aside and say, Karen,”let me go first. You always take too long.”

“ Ok Susie, but if you don’t clean out the tub before I have to use it, I’ll make you sorry.”

“ Yeah, yeah, I’ll wash it already.” I go into the bathroom with my pajamas in hand. My favorite ones with the cats all over them, luckily, they are my favorite because I only have one pair.

I would like to wear them, all day everyday, I love pajamas. I hope someday, people will be able to wear their pajamas all day. I have told my mother this many times. And for some reasons she keeps saying, “Watch what you wish for Susie, you may grow to regret it.”

She has a lot of sayings like that like, keep making that face, and it might stay like that. Keep crying, I’ll give you something to cry about. She sounds mean but she’s really not, she just doesn’t put up with a lot of complaining.

She never complains about anything, I mean never. If she ever got run over by a car, she would just get up and take an Aspirin. She thinks aspirin is the answer for all that ails you, cuts, sore throats, Charlie horses (which I get in my legs all the time.)

If Aspirin doesn’t do the job there is always Vapor Rub, or as a last resort butter and sugar mixture, which is disgusting. Let’s not forget Exlax, God forbid.

I don’t tell my mother when I’m sick, unless I feel like I am close to death, if I see the light at the end of the tunnel. One time I had a really bad toothache, it hurt a lot. It hurt all the way up into my ear, especially after Sister Saint Joseph clapped her hand against it because she thought I wasn’t listening.

So finally, my older sister notices that the left side of my face is swollen up. And says, to my mother, “ Hey Mom I think there’s something wrong with Susie. Her face is all swollen up on the one side. Didn’t she already have the mumps?”

My Mom says come here, “Susie let me have a look. She looks at my face , in my ear, and then, open up, what is going on in there? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she has a big cavity, and an abscess in there. She’s going to have to go to the dentist. Oh God, your father is going to be fit to be tied. Do you ever brush your teeth Susie?”

Next thing you know, I’m at some dentist in  Philadelphia, the only one that my parents could find open on a Saturday. By then, I was in such pain, I didn’t care what they did to me, as long as the pain stopped. And sure, enough he had to pull that sucker out of there. He told my parents that they should be ashamed that my mouth was in terrible shape, and had all kind of cavities, and it looked like I never took a brush to them ever.

My parents were pretty upset with this, and my Mom got a job after that so she could pay for my sister Karen, and I to go to the dentist. I had to have three teeth pulled out, and so many fillings, I lost count. My father was pretty mad at me about that for a long time. My mother checked my teeth  every day after that. I never had a moment of peace.

Back to the night before picture day, I get my bath, and do a quick rinse on the tub. When I come out my mom calls me  to the kitchen and says, “ Susie, I am going to set your hair, so it looks nice for picture day. Good Lord, I’m thinking will the punishment never end? What did I ever do to deserve this? My mother sits me at the table she has long strips of white cloth about an inch wide (probably an old sheet) and starts rolling up sections of my hair and tying the rags in a knot at the end.

The next morning, when my mother unrolls my hair into long curls, she has a big smile on her face and says,” Oh Susie, you look just like Shirley Temple.” I look in the mirror, and I see that I am transformed from my usual straight hair, pulled back in  a ponytail to God knows what!

Then Karen, comes in and my mother says, I have a surprise, your brother Harry bought you two dresses for Easter, but we decided you could wear them for picture day. She shows us twin dresses, yeah, that’s right twin dresses. Identical visions of blue satin, and blue chiffon that are fitted at the waist, have a bow in the back, and best of all big, I mean really big puffy pleated sleeves that come down to our elbows. “ Oh, I can’t wait, go put them on.”

Karen and I go up to our rooms and put these fashion nightmares on, when we get upstairs, we discover to my horror , that there are matching crinolines that we will get to wear all day at school. You just cannot imagine how uncomfortable they are.

I have it on for about two minutes when I realize that until now, I didn’t fully understand what the expression hell on earth meant. I have only my sneakers to wear, or my school shoes, so I opt for the sneakers, at least one part of my anatomy won’t be suffering.

We come down the steps, Karen, is walking like a queen. She always did like being dressed up. She is just not normal! I walk down the steps like I’m walking the last mile to the death chamber. My mother claps her hands when she sees us. I have never seen her so excited, my father has his camera out and takes a picture of us together, in front of our glass fireplace. He says, “you look beautiful.”

It’s almost worth the torture to see my parents look so happy, and my father has a big smile plastered on his face. Which is a sight I have rarely seen. Together we walk to school, I can only imagine the horror that awaits me, and Karen is grinning away.

When we get to our classroom, all the kids are excited. The girls are all wearing their Sunday dresses with shiny patent leather shoes. They have barrettes in their hair, and I could be wrong, but I think some of them have on lipstick.

The boys have on corduroy pants, dress shirts, and bow ties. Their hair is all slicked back with Brill Cream. But nobody, I mean nobody looks like Karen and I, when we take off our coats, everybody looks at us as one. Their eyes are big, their mouths round. Sister says, oh now don’t you two look beautiful. You look like you belong on top of a wedding cake. You two can be the first to get your pictures taken.

I think oh my life is complete. I can never top this experience. The only thing that would top this is if , I have to have to marry Robin Schultz my nemesis!

LOVEY

2 Replies

 

Lovey is exhausted and anxious. She’s been cooped up in the hot, dirty van for almost two days. Her legs are restless; she’s so thirsty that she begins to tremble. She trumpets her fear, and discomfort for all to hear if anyone bothers to listen. She’s angry. She hasn’t felt anything for a long time, but she feels red-hot anger now. She rocks back and forth hitting the sides of the van so violently that the van sways and rocks with her.

The driver of the van yells, “Stop Lovey, stop” to no avail. He calls his boss on his cell phone. “You have to stop, so I can let Lovey out, or she’s going to cause herself and the van untold damage.” The owner agrees to stop in the next empty lot he sees. And stay for the night, take care of the animals, and let everyone rest before their next performance.

The last caravan pulls into the deserted parking lot well past midnight. Time and the sun have faded the painting of the bearded lady on the side of the van. But you can still clearly see her glamorous figure clad in a red, white and blue ballerina tutu. Her glorious red beard is there for all to admire.

They had driven almost six hundred miles in the last two days. Everyone in the Three Ringed Circus is extremely tired, hot and sweaty. It was getting harder and harder to find new venues. The public wants to see the glamour and amazing feats of courage and flying acrobats, doing death-defying acts. They want their animals wild, but safe, looking healthy and happy.

But they weren’t getting that from Three-Ring Circus. It’s on the last leg of a journey that began its’ history in the early 1950s. Most of the famous performers have retired or moved on, or just disappeared from sight altogether.

When Gaucho pulls open the sliding doors to the van, Lovey trumpets as loud as she can. The only thing keeping her in the van is the shackles on her ankles. Gaucho has the bullock in his hand and shows it to Lovey. Usually, this is enough to calm her down.

She knows from many years of experience that if it slaps against her sensitive skin, it will sting for a very long time and might well cut her. If the cut becomes infected the circus doesn’t have a veterinarian on staff. And certainly, the little towns that they frequent don’t have a wild animal vet. She would be a very sick elephant and might die from a simple injury.

The circus often only had outdated medications and no money to spend on the care that these animals need. In the wild elephants often walk up to fifty miles a day across the savanna and live as long as fifty years. Animals kept in circuses even the famous, moneyed ones lived an average of twelve years.

Gaucho steps back, he knows this animal has great power and weight behind her, but he’s never seen her like this. He has been her trainer for five years. He knows from talking to the other carnies that Lovey and has been with the circus for a long time.

And that at one time, she had a mate, named Ganesha a huge elephant from India. He had sickened and died before a large animal vet could be found. Lovey had been very attached to him and mourned his death for many years. He was told that she was never the same after his death.

She had refused to perform and sometimes refused to eat or drink. She has a big heart, and it had been broken by the loss of her mate. Elephants are herd animals, and she was here alone with no other elephants. She was near animals that would have been a threat to her if she were still living in the wild. Her life with the circus was unnatural and very stressful for her and all the other wild creatures that are captive here.

Gaucho walks over to the supply truck and pulls out a wagon that contains water. Luckily, they had filled all the containers on their last stop. He grabs a bucket and puts it in the wagon. He pulls down the ramp and hurriedly pulls the wagon down the ramp, and over to the terrified, and terrifying Lovey.

He carefully slides the bucket next to her and fills it with water. Lovey’s about to kick the bucket away then she realizes its water. She puts her trunk down into the bucket and sprays the water across her back and then again into the bucket and quenches her thirst.

She feels momentarily relieved and quiets. Gaucho slowly and carefully unchains her ankles. By this time many of the circus performers and all of the grunts are standing behind Gaucho. “Stay back, fools, get away from here while I take care of Lovey. Unless you want to be pummeled into the earth.”

Gaucho waits for a few moments then give Lovey the trunk-up signal. Lovey becomes enraged and begins trumpeting loudly and stamps her feet. There’s a look of fire in her eyes and it’s at that moment that Gaucho knows to get the hell out of the way and shouts.” Run, run.”

He follows his own good advice just in time, Lovey charges out of the van and begins running, running for her life. In her mind, she sees before her the golden savanna grasses being blown by the soft breeze and the cool water of the elephant water hole of her youth in the distance.

She’s determined to reach it at any cost. She will run down anything that tries to prevent her from arriving there. She’s saving her life. Her instinct for self-preservation kicks in and she runs full tilt, there’s no stopping her. Everyone who has been watching her now disappears into the wind, not wanting to be trampled by this behemoth that has lost her mind.

Someone has called the coffer and he arrives just in time to see the elephant charging his jeep. He quickly reaches behind him to get his rifle and aims it at her head and pulls the trigger, and then again for good measure. Lovey keeps moving momentarily before the message gets to her brain that she’s dead. And then she drops to the ground, finally free, free to travel the land of her birth, among her tribe. She sees her beloved Ganesha, she feels love fill her huge heart and then peace.

 

SHAKE THREE TIMES, THEN IRON

5 Replies

I read in the news today that the Hasbro toy company is tossing out the iron token in the Monopoly game since they consider it to be a passé` icon. Their argument is that only our grandmothers, or perhaps great grandmothers would recognize, in our high tech, high def world such an old fashion household appliance.

This may be overwhelmingly true for the Millennial Generation. I’m sure they don’t own irons. And it’s possible even their mothers shunned this homely gadget.  Perhaps viewed as a shackle that chained their mothers for hours in the kitchen. When they could be out in the world making a real difference for themselves, and their future generations. I have to confess that I too, hate to iron. However, as a frequent sewer, I consider it to be a necessity, not a pleasurable activity.

On the other hand, some of my warmest memories of my childhood revolve around the kitchen, and my mother bent over the iron. My mother was a prolific ironer; she ironed everything from our clothing, to sheets and pillowcases. You name it if it had been in the washer; eventually, it did its time on the ironing board as well. She kept a 7-UP bottle filled with water and plugged it with a metal sprinkle head as her constant companion. She would sprinkle all the stiff dry clothes with the bottle.

These were the days before wash and wear, permanent press, before we had a dryer. The clothes were hung on a line in our backyard to dry, regardless of inclement weather. My mother would clip them with wooden clothespins to a clothesline that was suspended by two metal poles cemented into the earth.

Even Hurricane Hazel didn’t knock that sucker down, it held. When the clothes were dry, my mother brought out her wicker clothes basket, gather the clothes to be ironed. We were a family of eight, so there was an unending supply of things that my mother deemed in need of ironing.

When I arrived home from school at about 3:00 pm, I would find my mother ironing. Perhaps even in the early sixties, this was a passé activity. I not knowing any differently believed all children’s mothers spent hours daily washing and ironing their clothes.

I can picture it so clearly as if it were only yesterday. I run at fast as I could home from school, burst in the front door. My mother was always home, standing there perhaps suspended in time waiting, waiting for me to come home, and tell her all the news of my day.

“Hey Mom, I’m home, I’m starving, anything to eat?”

“Oh Susie, there you are, I was beginning to get worried. How was your day? What did you learn today? Where is your sister Karen? She would pepper me with questions, not giving me a chance to answer her. “Let me get you some milk and cookies. Daddy went shopping today, and he bought your favorite, Fig Newtons, won’t that taste good?”

She would quickly run over to the refrigerator, and fill a tall glass with cold milk, and put two or three cookies on a plate. I would pull out a chair and have a seat next to her near the ironing board. She would get back to ironing and I would tell her about my day.

No matter how insignificant or mundane my day had been my mother would give me her undivided attention. She made me feel as if I was in that moment the center of her life, in a world where I didn’t often feel I was important at all.

Those few moments my mother and I talked were the most life-affirming, and memorable of my life. I can still hear the hiss as the iron struck the damp clothes; smell the fragrant air that perfumed the basket of clothes. And most memorable see my mother smile and hear her gentle laugh at the stories I told her while she ironed her afternoon away.

Perhaps in this hurry up, can’t get things done quickly enough world, we should stop for a moment, and take a breath, and listen to what our children tell us. How they experience the world, how they feel, and let them know that no matter that the cell phone is ringing, or we have dinner to cook, places to go, meetings to take. That just for those few moments suspended in time, we are there, really there for them to lend a listening ear and an open heart.

 

 

Morning Has Broken

2 Replies

I woke up in the middle of the night with a slight throb in my lower right molar. I probed it gently with my finger. I felt a small lump on the gum underneath the tooth. Oh god no I thought not another tooth problem. I looked into the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of aspirin and threw it back two with a gulp of water. I went back to bed and hoped for the best.

Unfortunately, in the morning it isn’t better. Now the whole right side of my face is aching, and even my ear is hurting. I walk toward the bathroom like I’m walking to my execution slowly, and hesitantly. I don’t have my glasses on but even without them, I can see in the mirror that my face on the right side looks like I have the mumps.

I open my mouth. When the cool air hits my tooth I think the top of my head will explode. I probe around again with my finger and the lump on my gum was now a horrible yellowish color. I stare into the abyss. God no, not another abscess, I just didn’t understand why this kept on happening to me.

I brush and floss twice a day. I have a check-up every six months. What the hell is going on? If that freaking dentist tells me I need another root canal I’ll just go out of my mind. I’ll just have the damn thing pulled out. That’s it, pull that thing out, and forget about it.

I dose myself again and put a heating pad on my face. I call my office. “Louise, I have a tooth problem. I’m going to have to get an emergency dentist appointment. Can you please cancel all my appointments for the day? Yes, I know I had a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Cochran. I’m not going to be able to make it. My whole face is swollen. I’m in pain. Yes, yes, I know I just had a tooth problem recently. Just cancel my appointments already, will you?” God, sometimes I just hated that woman; she argues more with me than my ex-wife.

My freaking dentist is on vacation. The answering service gives me the number of a dentist that’s filling in for him. A young guy, what else can go wrong? With my luck, he won’t speak English, or he’ll have just graduated from dental school or something.

I get an appointment for two hours from now. The painkillers are doing nothing. God, I wish right now my ex was here she always had some oxy or something in her purse. She popped those things all day like tic tacs.

I go early to the dentist, maybe he’s a fast worker, and is waiting for me. No such luck he is overbooked, and I have to wait an hour. At one point I almost started to cry it hurt so damn much. I rush up to the reception window. “Miss, miss, my name is Tony Barra. I have an appointment at 10 am. I’ve been waiting, I’m in pain, when is the doctor going to see me?”

“I know Mr. Barra as I explained to you fifteen minutes ago, the Doctor is running behind, he’ll see you shortly. She closes the window and takes out her cell and starts scanning her messages. I tap on the window to no avail. She’s engrossed in her phone messages. I sit down and wait.

Finally, finally, they call me in, the assistant is in her early twenties, very pretty. I could care less I’m nearly delirious with pain. She sits me down, tells me to turn off my cell phone. She puts that stupid napkin and the clip thing around my neck. “So, sir, what seems to be the problem this morning?”

“The problem, the problem is if you had eyes in your head, my face is swollen up the size of a watermelon. I’m in terrible pain, since last night, I have an abscessed tooth. I open my mouth, the air hits it, and I let out a little scream. I think I might vomit any minute.

“Well sir, we’ll leave that to the doctor to determine, right now I’m going to have to take an x-ray. She jams the film in my mouth and I almost hit her. She steps back. Sir you are going to have to calm down. Or I’ll have to call the doctor in here.”

“Yes, yes please do call the fricking doctor in here, about damn time.”

She stamps out of the room. The doctor comes in. I’m right on both counts he’s really young, maybe right out of kindergarten. Maybe a little older but his English is very difficult to understand. This is my lucky day. I should have bought a lottery ticket on the way over I’m really feeling lucky wow.

“Hello Mr. Barra, how are you doing today? I’m Dr. Wong”

“Well Doctor, if you are indeed a doctor, how do I look like I am doing?”

“Well let’s take a look, shall we?” He starts probing around in my mouth with one of the sharp curved dental instruments of torture. “Does this hurt, how about that?”

I feel my hands starting to form fists. I put my hand up in the universal sign for stop. I can’t really speak because he has both his hands and possibly one of his feet in my mouth. He removes one of his hands, “Hurts, hurts, hurts.” I say around his hand.

The assistant appears at the doorway and says from a distance. “Here is the film doctor.” She disappears as quickly and quietly as she appears.”

Doctor Badlove says, “It appears as if there is an abscess and the infection has spread to the two teeth adjacent to it, that is unfortunate.”

Yes, I think to myself that is unfortunate, isn’t it?

“Well Mr. Barra, you may lose the tooth with the initial infection. We’ll have to do root canals on the other two. How would you like to proceed? Shall we get started today?”

“Doctor I would rather have all my teeth removed than endure another root canal, any other solutions?”Well actually I do have a suggestion, I could use a new type of anesthesia that doesn’t put you to sleep, but makes you feel very relaxed and somewhat groggy. Some people feel a little groggy afterward but it wears off fairly quickly. If you agree we can take care of all three teeth now. Perhaps I’ll be able to save the badly infected tooth, once I see what it looks like. What do you say sound good to you?”

I think work gets done all at once, no pain, go home relaxed. “Yes, I can live with that plan, do it.”

“Alright first I’ll give you a local anesthetic then I’ll use the sedation, which you will inhale through a mask that my assistant will place over your nose. Open your mouth and I will inject the anesthetic. Very good, my assistant will be here in a few moments and then the next thing you know, you will be done, and out of here.

You will have to take antibiotics for ten days. You’ll get aftercare instructions. You have to come in for a follow-up visit in ten days. Of course, if there are any problems please feel free to call.”

The next thing I remember is opening my eyes up and seeing the very young dentist standing before me. At least I think it’s the dentist but he looks different somehow. He has a mask on over his nose and mouth. But there is something different about his face.

Then I realize his eyes are heavily made up and he’s wearing high heels, and a skirt and blouse under his white jacket. The blouse is lime green, and the skirt is kind of frilly looking. He has green dangling earrings.

Oh, I must be dreaming or having some kind of drug-induced hallucination. The next thing I know the assistant is helping me sit up and take the napkin off of my neck.

“Ok Mr. Barra, luckily the doctor was able to save all of your teeth, you will experience some discomfort. The doctor is giving you a pain prescription if it’s too uncomfortable. Take your time. There’s a room to your left that says recovery room. Please go in there and sit until you feel well enough to drive, then you can leave. Good day, Mr. Barra, I hope you feel better soon.

I walk somewhat wobbly to the Recovery Room. There’s no one else in there at the moment. I sit down and think about the doctor, and how I remember him being dressed. No, it can have happened, just some weird side effect of that anesthetic.

I sit for a good half hour, but that weird image keeps popping into my mind. I try dismissing it. I start feeling more myself. My mouth is still numb, and drool is running out of my mouth so I wipe it off and prepare to leave.

Just as I’m standing up to leave, Doctor Wong sticks his head in the doorway. He’s dressed normally. I feel a sense of relief wash over me. “Oh, Mr. Barra you’re still here. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, pretty good, but my mouth is still numb.”

” That’s perfectly normal it will wear off slowly in the next couple of hours. Call my office if there’s any problem, any problem at all.”

Just as he is turning away, I notice he has on one of the green dangling earrings.

 

POCKETS By Susan A. Culver

7 Replies

I stand outside the red front door of my parent’s house for five minutes before I’m able to gather the courage to go inside. As I pull open the door a rush of memories of myself as a child, then a teenager in a Catholic school uniform and then as a young mother with my own children travel swiftly through my mind.

I walk through the front hallway, I’m once again reminded that the once bright yellow walls and lime green carpet are now dull and dirty from years of my father’s smoking. The air is stale and musty.

The house feels empty of life and filled with sorrow. I take a deep breath and go into the kitchen. I haven’t been in the house since my mother passed away three months earlier. She  suffered from dementia for the last five years of her life. Each day of her final journey had been marked by a new loss until finally there was nothing left but a mere whisper of the loving woman, she had been during her seventy-six years of life.

Only one week remains for me to clear out the house out before the new owners will arrive. I had put the difficult task of cleaning out my mother’s room off for as long as possible. I felt paralyzed with grief since her death.

I walk through the kitchen into the hall and slowly open her bedroom door. The room feels cold and empty. I look down at her bed, where she spent her final hours. There folded at the foot of the bed is the cream-colored afghan that I had crocheted for her while I was pregnant with my first child.

As I open her closet door a familiar fragrance fills the room. It’s my mother’s perfume Jean Nate’. The aroma surrounds me like my mother’s embrace.

I begin taking the well-worn house-dresses out of her closet, laying them across the bed. I don’t think anyone else will want the,m, but I can’t imagine throwing them away. Then I see a plastic clothing bag hanging in the back of the closet. I unzip it and find my mother’s favorite blue coat. The coat I made for her sixtieth birthday.

I  taught myself how to sew while I was in high school. At first, I made simple skirts and shifts and as my skills and confidence grew I made coats. The first coat was this blue one for my mother. She had encouraged me from the beginning of my journey with sewing as she had with everything I had attempted in my life. She would say softly, “You can do it, Susan, keep going you’re doing a wonderful job.”

When I finished the coat, I feet proud of it, I made of soft pale blue cashmere wool. I searched flea markets and vintage clothing shops until I had found the perfect buttons. They were mother-of-pearl shaped like roses, my mother’s favorite flower. I hand-bound the buttonholes and sewed the lining in place with tiny stitches.

She wore that coat every Sunday to Mass on the cold winter mornings for almost fifteen years. I offered to buy or make her a new coat, but she never wanted another one. Saying she didn’t want to wear anything else.

I held the coat in my arms close to my heart. It brought back so many memories of my mother.  The first time she wore it, I heard her telling all her lady friends, “My daughter made this for me. Look at this fine stitching and beautiful pearl buttons.”

I put the coat down on the bed and look through each pocket, making sure nothing is left inside. I find her rosary beads. The ones my father had made for her for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. The beads were handmade from dried roses and came all the way from County Cork in Ireland. Where my mother’s parents were born.

I found a slip of paper handwritten in fading ink with the names of all her children and their birthdays. At the bottom of the paper were the names Stephen and Gerard. My twin brother’s who only lived a few days. The children my parents never spoke about. But I knew my mother prayed for them every day of her life.

In the inside pocket, I found my mother’s prayer book. Its pages were worn thin from decades of use. As I pick up the prayer book, Holy Cards come tumbling out. I knelt down to pick them up.

Among the Holy Cards, I see a folded note. I carefully open it. The handwriting look familiar, I realize it’s my own. A note I wrote and placed inside the pocket of the coat when I gave it to my mother on her sixtieth birthday. I can see it has been read many times. It read, ” I made this coat for you my wonderful mother. Each stitch represents the love I received from you each day of my life. I hope it makes you feel as loved and protected as you always made me feel.

Love your daughter, Susan.”

Dora’s Day Goes From Bad to Worse

2 Replies

By Susan A. Culver

Dora wakes up slowly. She lifts her head, it feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls. She looks from left to right. All she sees is what looks like the morning sky, it is somewhat overcast. She attempts to rise. And she realizes two things at once. First, she isn’t in her bedroom and hence not in her bed. And secondly, she isn’t alone. “What the hell is going on? Whose idea of a joke is this, goddammit.”

Dora isn’t a morning person. It’s the main reason she never married. She can’t bear the idea of waking up next to someone every morning and having to make small talk. She isn’t a cheerful or it’s a new beginning kind of girl. She’s more of a get the hell out of my face kind of girl.

And here she is, wherever the hell that is? Outside looking at the great beyond. She finally gets her sea legs and stands up gingerly. It almost feels like she is on a ship out at sea. And a storm is brewing. There is a slight swaying beneath her feet. She looks down. Unbelievably, she sees nothing, just more sky. “What the fuck is going on?” Dora curses like a sailor on leave when she’s frightened or angry or happy, or drunk, or just because she damn well feels like it, damn it. She was born and raised in South Philly, and she doesn’t give a good god damn what anyone thinks about her.

But right now, she fears the worse that she has finally gone off her rocker, lost her marbles, was living in crazy town. Take your pick.
She twists her head and then looks down again. Her head spins. Momentarily, she feels as if she might faint or stroke out. She hasn’t decided which she prefers. At her feet are two objects that for all the world look like giant eggs. They look like they weigh a good twenty pounds each. They are pale green with blue speckles. “Sweet muscular Jesus, I must have taken some bad-assed drugs last night. This is the worse hallucination I have ever had. “Wake up, wake up, you dumb shit.”

Dora squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head vigorously, painfully. Trying to wake up from this nightmare or bad trip or whatever the fuck it is. She has had enough. And then suddenly, she hears what can only be described as what sounds like the scream of someone being torn limb from limb. She fears that she is the one screaming.
She pries open her eyes with her fingertips. Because she can’t manage to make them open any other way. Momentarily, she is relieved because she doesn’t see any blood spurting out of her shoulder where her arm used to reside. She touches the top of her head and it appears to be intact. She looks down and both feet are attached to both legs. “What the flying fuck is going on here?”

And that is when she sees what is poking out of the egg-shaped object. The things that nightmares are made of. And without warning a sound so loud, so horrific that she can not even believe it exists. Not in the world she previously lived in or any other world man or woman has imagined. She covers her ears. She starts saying the Hail Mary, words she hasn’t uttered since she attended Catholic Grade School. God, anyone, somebody please help me. Wake me up, help me.

She looks down, surely her eyes must be deceiving her. But at her feet and rising out of the “egg” is what looks like a nightmarish bird. A bird from the Third Circle of Hell, a bird without feathers. A bird exposed to radiation. But, then “the bird” opens its monstrous beak, it displays a mouth full of teeth.

Teeth that perhaps once belonged to a Saber Tooth Tiger. And then just as she feels she might lose her mind. The other egg starts cracking and a beak starts to emerge. The screaming begins anew. It is so loud, she thinks her head might explode. That is the moment she realizes that the ungodly bellowing is coming not from the horrific babies. But something that is flying above her and baring down on what she now realizes is some kind of nest from hell.

The babies are screaming in unison. Surely, Dora’s eardrums will burst soon, and she will no longer have to endure the sound for another moment. The thing that was flying above her is now circling for a landing on the freaking nest. At that moment a thought pops into her mind. She tries to push it away. But she can’t, it remains. The thought is I’m the worm that these ungodly creatures are going to be given for their first meal.

The closer the gargantuan bird comes; the end of Dora’s life is becoming more imminent. Her life flashes before her eyes. Just like you always hear happens to people when their lives are about to end, as they jump off the roof, or the bridge or drown in a polluted lake. She sees her long-dead mother’s face looking down at her baby self. She sees her first day in school with Sister John Michael telling her to sit down and shut up. She sees herself playing with her friends in the backyard. The vision begins to fast forward, and her final thought is “What the fuck is happening?” Gimme another chance, please I can do better. And then the lights go out.

The light is bright, unbearably bright. There is a low humming noise. A sense of floating through the air. Dora feels a sense of release as if she was bound and now, she is free. She hopes she is in heaven or some version of heaven and not hell. Even though in her previous life she long ago gave up the notion of the hereafter. She hears a distant voice that she thinks must be God or Satan. “Open your eyes.”

Cora is afraid to open her eyes to eternity. “You can do it, Dora, open your eyes”. Cora opens her eyes. The bright light is still above her. She hears a high-pitched crying. She thinks, on no, I’m still in the nightmare. She forces her eyes open. “Try to sit up a little, Cora, and you can hold your baby. You had a rough time of it. But you are both fine, Congratulations.
Cora looks around and is speechless for a moment and then says shrilly,” What the flying fuck is this?”

The Gift

1 Reply

By Susan Culver

Jack opens his eyes, blinking at the morning sun streaming through the vertical blinds. Then he remembers today is his tenth birthday. The package from his Uncle Pat is supposed to arrive in the mail. He can hardly wait another minute. He jumps out of bed and throws his clothes on and runs down the steps to the kitchen. Every year his Uncle sends him something wonderful and unique. Last year he sent him a telescope, not a toy telescope but a professional one. It was a Meade StarNavigator. It opened up a new world to Jack. The first time he looked through the scope, he couldn’t believe what lay before his eyes.

The inky night sky is filled with precious gems waiting to be discovered. Every night after Jack finishes his homework, he goes out to the back deck and studies the sky.  On his last birthday, his mom and dad gave him a book on Navigating by the stars. Jack has read the book five times since then and memorized the star map. Now he can recognize each constellation regardless of the time of year.  He never tires of it. Sometimes he sneaks out of his bed early in the morning and looks at the moon that hasn’t retired for the day yet. It makes him feel so small and yet big at the same time.

“Well, good morning Jack, happy birthday.” Says his father from behind the New York Times.

“Thank you, Dad. Did it come yet? Did it come yet?”

“Did what come yet, Jack?”

” Oh, Steven, don’t tease him. You know very well what he’s talking about.”

“Yes, it came Jack. It’s on the hall table next to the door. Why don’t you go and get it? We’ll open it together.”

Jack finds a large package on the table and carries it with some difficulty to the kitchen. He carries the package as if it’s made of glass. For all, he knows, it is. Perhaps it’s a crystal ball that can tell the future or a geode that has fallen from one of those distant stars in the sky that he knows and loves so well. His Uncle Pat is in the military and travels all over the world. So, you never know what treasure he might find.

Jack’s heart is pounding so hard he feels it might burst. But he keeps a slow and steady pace as he carries his prize to the kitchen. “Here it is, Mom, here it is.”

“I see that Jack, bring it over to the table, and let’s see what your Uncle has sent you this year.”

As his mother carefully opens the package, Jack, holds his breath. She takes off the brown wrapping paper so slowly it’s excruciating. “Breathe, Jack ,breathe.” His father says and laughs.

A box is inside. Jack looks down at it. There’s a picture of a sailboat on the top of the box. The box bears the legend Thunder Tiger Yacht. Jack gasp, “Oh, Mom, it’s a sailboat, oh how wonderful. It’s what I always wanted.”

His parents look at one another and laugh, “Oh Jack, you say that every year when you get Uncle Pat’s present. It does look like a beauty. Let’s open up the box and see how she looks.”

Jack carefully removes the top of the box and looks inside. The most beautiful boat is held there. His father comes over and looks at the boat. “Wow, she looks like a real yacht. My brother always wanted a boat like this. It looks like he’s living out his childhood dreams through you, Jack, lucky boy.”

“Can I take it out?”

“Of course, you can, Jack, it’s your boat. On Saturday, we’ll take her out to the Central Park for her maiden voyage. Until then, you’ll have to be satisfied with putting her together. It looks like you have to install the keels, rudder, and the mast and sails. The rudder is like a steering wheel. There are two sails, the mainsail and the jig sail that create more power in the wind. The mast is a pole that attaches to the sails one on either side. The keel is on the bottom of the boat and creates stability and prevents it from tipping over.

Jack spends the entire afternoon reading the instructions and putting the remaining parts on the boat. Each piece is carefully put into place as the manual instructed. When he finishes, it’s almost five feet tall. It’s magnificent. At dinnertime, Jack talks about the boat and how much he loves it. How beautiful it is with its pristine white sails with a flash of red across the mainsail to the jib. The Hull is emboldened by the name, Thunder Tiger across it in bold red letters.

After dinner, Jack goes out and studies the stars. He wonders what it would be like to sail a boat across the ocean to some exotic foreign land or perhaps discover an unknown or forgotten place. And perhaps discover wonderful treasures long forgotten? He looks into the starry night and imagines navigating the boat across the sea with only the stars to guide him on his journey.

Before he goes to bed, Jack sits down at his desk and writes his Uncle Pat a note. “Dear Uncle Pat, thank you so very much for the beautiful sailboat. I know I’ll have lots of fun with it. Dad says we can take it out on Saturday to Central Park for its maiden voyage. Love Jack.

Jack is so excited he has trouble falling asleep. He tosses and turns. He awakes early in the morning to a strange sensation. It feels like the room is swaying. His bed is rocking from side to side. He opens his eyes to see what time it is. He’s doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. He isn’t in his bedroom. Instead, he sees a room that’s paneled with beautiful dark wood. He’s lying on a hammock that is attached to the walls on either side. It’s a small room with what looks like a sink and cooking area. He sees a door, so he walks over to look through the doorway. The strange sense of the room swaying is even more apparent as the walks across the small room.

On the other side of the door is a very small bathroom with a standing shower.  He can’t make any sense out of it. He steps back and looks around again. He sees what appears to be a porthole.  He presses his face against the window, and to his utter amazement in the still somewhat dim light, he sees water, nothing but water.

But that can’t be right. He went to bed last night in his room. How in the world did he get here? Was he drugged and kidnapped? Did he suffer some kind of head injury, and lost his memory? He goes back into the little bathroom and turns the overhead light on and looks in the mirror. It’s him no older, no younger, and no different. Just what in the world has happened? He decides to go look around.

He finds what appears to be a hatch. He pushes it open and pulls himself up. He’s standing on the deck of a ship. It looks to be about thirty foot long. There is a mast with two sails, a mainsail, and a smaller jig sail. There’s a slash of red across the two sails. “Wait a minute, this is weird. It  looks like the model yacht that Uncle Pat sent me for my birthday. But that can’t be. That’s crazy. Unless I have somehow shrunk down to fit inside the model, no, that’s impossible.”

Jack walks all around the deck and examines each part of it, including the sails, the coiled ropes, and the controls for sailing the boat. He guesses everything he needs is here to sail the boat. But he can’t say for sure because he has never been on a boat before. Then he has a hopeful moment when it occurs to him that someone else might be on board. He calls out, “Hello, hello, is anyone here? Oh, please let someone else be here.”

No one answers, so he supposes he’s the only occupant. He looks out in every direction, but he sees nothing out there in the dim light to indicate where he is.

He decides to wait until the sun comes up, and maybe he can figure out where he is. The boat isn’t moving other than the subtle swaying from side to side. He sits and waits for the light to reveal where he is.

Jack’s stomach is beginning to growl, so he decides to go below and see if there’s anything to eat. He looks in the little refrigerator and finds milk and bread and cheese and some bologna. He makes a sandwich and drinks the milk right out of the carton. Almost immediately, he’s sorry he ate the sandwich. And he really regrets drinking the milk. He starts to feel nauseous and runs into the bathroom. He gets there just in time.

When he feels well enough again to start moving around, he goes back up on the deck. The sun is up, and in the distance,  he can see the Statue of Liberty and the skyline of New York. He’s on the Hudson River. He feels relieved that he isn’t in the middle of the ocean but still doesn’t know how he’ll sail this boat back to Battery Park. Where are his parents, and why would they let him go on a trip by himself in a sailboat? He decides to look in the cabin and look for some kind of instructions on how to sail the boat. He wonders if the reason he isn’t moving is because the anchor is in the water. As he walks towards the cabin, a wind starts to pick up.  And suddenly, the jib swings around and hits Jack hard in the head, and he’s knocked down.

The next thing he remembers is his mother leaning down over him, calling his name over, and over again, Jack wake up you’re having a bad dream. Wake up, Jack. He opens his eyes, and there’s his mother’s worried face looking down at him. “Mom, mom, I was so scared. Where were you and Dad? Why did you let me go on a sailboat all by myself?

“Jack, it was just a dream you weren’t in a sailboat. You were here in your room fast asleep. You just had a dream.”

“But Mom, I hit my head on the jib, and it still hurts. Right here.”

“Let me see Jack. Well, you do have a pretty big bruise there. You must have fallen out of bed during the night or bumped it going to the bathroom. I’ll get you some ice and aspirin. Everything is alright, Jack.”

Jack looks around his room, and there’s the Thunder Tiger sitting on his desk. Jack walks over to it and inspects it from stem to stern. The bottom of the boat is wet, and there’s water on the deck. Jack shakes his head and decides that he’ll keep his journey to himself. But just in case he’ll start learning how to sail a boat. The next time he takes a midnight journey into the night, he’ll be ready to navigate the boat as well as read the stars.