Tag Archives: memories

THE ROCKING CHAIR

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I admit it. I’m a collector. Oh, some people might call me a hoarder, but that’s not true. I’m highly selective in what I buy and collect, always. For the last six months, I’ve been having a reoccurring dream. In the dream, I wake up to find myself in my car parked outside a store. The name of the store is OF MEMORIES PAST. The first night that I had the dream, I woke up with a start. And I couldn’t get back to sleep. I kept obsessing about the store OF MEMORIES PAST. I try to recall if I have ever frequented such a store, but I have no memory of shopping there or even seeing a store by that name.

Monkey Rocking Chair by Bob Culver

The second time I have the dream I wake up just as I’m about to lock my car door and walk across the parking lot and toward the door of the store. The third time I have a dream I was turning the doorknob. I hear a ringing sound as I open the door I look up and see bells that are attached at the top of the door frame and jingle when the door is opened.

The last time I had the dream was two weeks ago. I walk through the door and into the store. It’s an antique store, and it holds not only antique furniture but also any kind of ephemera. As I walk up and down the aisles of the store, I see many interesting items, including a candlestick holder that’s a snake. It’s placed on a side table with nothing else on it.  Its ornate base is coiled, and the snake’s head is erect and holding a candlestick in his mouth. As I gaze at the snake, his eyes shift in my direction and stare at me. And at that moment, the candlewick lights up and starts burning brightly.

When a snake symbol appears in a dream, it usually indicates that something important is happening in the unconscious. It can be either dangerous or healing. The snake symbolizes both negative things, such as toxic thoughts, fear, worries, and running away from something, and positive such as transformation, regeneration, growth, or rebirth.

And besides, the candlestick is an antique oak rocking chair. I’m sure it’s well over a hundred years old. I can tell by the way the wood pieces are joined. The oak is quite old, and its patina is golden and cool to the touch. The seat is upholstered, and there is an image of a monkey in a jungle wearing blue and white striped pantaloons and, a red and white shirt, and a vest with a beret with a gold medallion on it. I’m immediately attracted to this chair. I know I must acquire it. And that is when I woke up.

I’m familiar with all the antique shops in the area, so I contacted all the local dealers and described the chair and the candlestick holders, but none of them owned either object. One dealer suggests contacting local private collectors, and another suggests I look into local estate sales in the area. None of the dealers has either of these objects, but one dealer, whose name is Macomb, tells me that there is a huge estate sale in three days on Saturday, and he gives me the phone number. As he is about to hang up, he tells me to get there early because the estate sale has been widely advertised.

I arrive one hour early for the estate sale, and there is already a line going around the block. I feel confident that if my dream chair and candle holder are present at this estate sale, I will be able to purchase them because there is nothing about them that should garner a great deal of attention.

As always, everyone waiting in line is somewhat excited. They all believe they will find that one treasure that will be worth a great deal more money than they have to pay for it because they alone will realize its true value. After all, going to estate sales is the modern-day treasure hunt. I have to admit I feel a bit of a buzz myself. Not because I hope to find a treasure that will make my years of searching for treasure worthwhile. But because I’m looking for something so special that perhaps I will learn the secrets of the universe. Or maybe a way to travel through time and space or the secrets from the past.

About a half-hour ago, they started allowing five people at a time into the house. At this rate, it will be over an hour before I even get to the door. But I will wait patiently because I have a deep belief that my dreams have taken me to this point, and I will succeed. And so, I wait. I think back on all of the sales that I have attended over the years. And I have found some forgotten treasures, some I have kept, and some I have sold for a profit. I don’t regret one moment of it, not the long lines where I stood outside in the cold, in the pouring rain, and on the hottest days in July and August.

Five more people, and it will be my turn to go into the house. My heart is beating hard, and I’m so excited. I start taking deep breaths.  And then I heard my number called. “Numbers 56 through 61 come in. Everyone else steps back.” We are going to take a half-hour break before anyone else comes in. A noticeable moan goes through the remaining crowd waiting behind me.

Finally, I’m walking through the double doors. And I see before me an entryway that is astonishing, to say the least. It appears to be a hand-laid mosaic floor reminiscent of Giotto di Bondone of Florence during the Renaissance. It seems to be almost a sacrilege to walk on it. It is a garden scene in Italy with grape vine-covered stone walls and idealized romantic mountains and rivers. I walk along the edges of the floor, afraid that I might damage it in some way.

As I walk through the entryway, I see the living room beyond me. It is a room of light. It has huge ten-foot windows with stained glass in the top five feet of the windows. I stand there in awe. Even if I don’t find the treasures that I’m searching for, I know that this house and its contents are something I will not soon forget.

Most of the furniture in the living room has already been tagged as sold. This happens so often at these high-end estate sales. The antique dealers are the first buyers that get in, and they have already been made aware of what treasures are available for sale and they make offers a way out of range for the ordinary people to match.

But then, most of us are voyeurs or looky-loos who come to see how rich people live. And we pick up the odd knick-knack or souvenir. I have to say that I am truly impressed by the quality not only of the original artwork but the floors, the lofted ceilings, the marble, and on and on.

Unless I have the money and an interest in any particular piece of furniture or artwork, I never touch it. It is sacrosanct.  Not to mention that the oil and sweat from people’s hands are damaging to fabrics, paintings, and any handmade object. I hear the people around me oohing and ahhing throughout the house, so I know I’m not the only one who admires quality.

I begin to ascend the spiral staircase. The railings alone are awe-inspiring. There is a vining pattern that appears throughout the house. On the second-floor landing is a crystal chandelier that is to die for. But I can not imagine any other home that it would feel at home in besides this one. I’m sure the artist came to this home and designed it for this home and no other.

I peek into each bedroom on the second floor, and I’m pleased but not surprised to see the beauty and originality found in each bedroom. I would be hard put to pick one that I loved more than the next. I stop and walk into the main bathroom. It is black and white tiles from the floor to the ceiling. And a Victorian-footed bathtub that is immense. I have no doubt that three grown adults could bathe in it with space to spare. It looks as if the walls are a one-of-a-kind hand-painted mural of the sea off the coast of Italy. It has dolphins jumping out of the waves into the sky and swimming through the sea. Stunning.

I take a deep breath and walk on. At the end of a long hallway in which there are a least ten bedrooms, I find a small doorway with an old fashion skeleton key in the lock. I turn it. I turn the knob, and the door swings open. I see a narrow stairway. I look around, and no one else is near me, so I walk through the doorway and make my way up the dusty stairway. It doesn’t look as if anyone has been up here in a long, long time. I quietly make my way to the top of the stairway.

My heart begins to beat irregularly. I know, I absolutely know for sure that I’m going to find my rocking chair and the Snake candle holder in this room. I know I‘m meant to find it. I find a chain hanging down from the ceiling and pull it, and a dim lightbulb turns on. I find my way to the front of the room and pull open the curtains, which are heavy and purple velvet. I can’t imagine how hot and stuffy it must be in this room in the summer.

Light streams into the room. Which is much larger than I imagine. I wondered who lived in this room over the years. Was it an employee, a servant? Or perhaps a nanny for the many children that must have lived in this house over the years? Or a relative who was no longer in favor of the head of the household? Who knows?

I wonder if there is any way that I can investigate this family through historical records or perhaps a family member that likes to tell people about his family history. I believe I will have to contact the local historian for the wealthy families that have lived in this area in recent history.

I see that there are many, many storage areas along the walls. There are doors that are about two feet tall. I pull one open, and I see a Sea Chest. I struggle to pull it out. But it is so heavy. I push open the cumbersome top and peer in. There are woman’s garments. They look as if they are from the turn of the century. Maybe the 1920’s. They look as if someone could put them on today and look amazing in them. I examine the inside of one of the dresses, and I can see that it was all made by the hand of the finest silk. It is a sky-blue dress with a lowered waist and a pleated navy-blue skirt. I tuck it back in and close the lid.

I pull myself up and walk to the other side of the room and pull open the curtains on the window. And low and behold, I see a small table with a candle holder in the shape of a snake holding a candle that is yellow with age. It is sitting on a small side table with a hand-carved top that looks like mountains next to the sea.

And then I see what can only be described as a rocking chair, made of oak with an upholstered seat cushion with none other than a monkey climbing a tree wearing pantaloons and a shirt and vest and a Barret with a gold medallion on it. On the top of the chair, the headrest is ornately carved with the legend OF MEMORIES PAST. For a moment, it occurs to me that I might actually be asleep and dreaming. And that none of this is real.

I run my hands over the smooth oak arms. It is like glass. And although it is clear that is a very old chair, it is also apparent that whomever this chair belonged to took care of it with loving hands and heart. I fondly look at the image of the monkey in the tree. He looks as if he is looking directly at me with an all-knowing look. I’m tempted to sit down in the rocker. It is such a strong impulse I decide to take a chance. I look carefully over the chair to make sure there are no loose joints and that the seat is firmly attached. It is in pristine condition. But I know that the glow of the wood indicates that many hands and arms have rested here in this chair and found peace and comfort.

I gently sit down on the seat and slide, and sit back as far as I can. I lay back my head on the back of the chair and closed my eyes. I take several deep breaths. And the chair begins to rock back and forth slowly. It seems as if the chair has a life of its own. I begin to relax, and I feel completely safe and sleepy. I nod off.

I awaken, and I find myself in one of the bedrooms downstairs. I’m standing in front of a mirror. I’m wearing an apron over a dress that falls several inches below my knees. I have heavy stockings on my legs and black boots with low heels and shoelaces tied all the way up over my ankle. I look at my face in the mirror, and I don’t recognize the face in the mirror, and yet I know it’s me, somehow.

My hair is long and dark. It is pulled back into a complicated bun on the back of my head. There is a silver hair clip holding my hair in place. I move closer to the mirror, and I see that my eyes are light blue and reflect intelligence and humor somehow. It looks as if I could burst out laughing at any moment. There are small perfect pearls on my earlobes. I walk over to the closet and open the door, and I see similar clothes as I’m wearing. Some are plain, and there are some far in the back that is ornate and in bright colors.

I walk over to the bed, and I see a picture of a younger woman who bears a resemblance to the face that I saw in the mirror. It must be a photo of her younger self. She is standing next to a young man who has his arm around her waist. And he is looking at her with what could only be described as love and devotion. And for some unknown reason, I feel deep sorrow and loss.

I walk across the room and look in the other closet. I open the door only to find that it is empty. I feel the same sense of emptiness and loss. I realize that the young man is no longer among the living.

The next thing I remember is walking to the narrow door in the hallway that leads to the attic and opening the door, and walking slowly up the staircase. And then I sit down on the rocker and close my eyes and breathe deeply and feel sleepy.

I wake up to find myself groggy and sleepy and not knowing exactly where I am or what I’m doing here. I hear someone calling out to me, “Miss, miss, you have to wake up now. Other people are waiting to come in. Wake up now.”

I slowly open my eyes to find a large woman with bright, red curly hair saying.

” Wake up, wake up, miss.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I just sat down for a moment. I didn’t sleep well last night. I must have drifted off. I would like to purchase this chair and the Snake candle holder.”

“Of course, take this ticket downstairs to the woman sitting at the card table. Tell her you wish to purchase these items. And then, you can bring the receipt up here and take your items. You’ve made a very good choice with this chair and the candle holder. The chair belonged to the lady of the house. She was given this chair when she was expecting her first child, and she used to sit there and write in her diary in the evening by a candle when she wasn’t rocking her babies.

Later in life, after her husband passed away and her children left home, she would sit here and rock in the evening and write in her diary or read books. You know, the strange thing is that you bear a strong resemblance to her, except for the fact that she had dark hair, and your hair is light. And she had those startling light blue eyes, and your eyes are dark blue.

“Thank you, I’ll go down and pay for these items and be right back.”

“Alright, I’ll wait here for you.”

Less than ten minutes later, I returned to the attic, and the woman was looking out the attic window, still waiting for me. “Oh, good, there you are. I have your two items here. I hope you will enjoy them for many years. You might want to look up the history of the family to see if you are related to the Carlisle family. There really is a strong resemblance.”

“You know, I think your right. I feel a strong attachment to the chair and the candle holder. And actually, to this house. I wouldn’t be surprised to find I am related to this family. I picked up the chair and the candlestick holder and carefully made my way down the narrow steps, and in a few minutes, I found myself walking out the back door and into the back garden. It, too, felt so familiar to me, especially the arbor covered in grapevines over the picnic table.

Although I couldn’t recall ever being here before, I made a promise to myself to investigate the Carlisle family. I know that somehow, I’m connected to them and that the young woman in the mirror was a relative that had reached out to me and wanted me to have her precious rocking chair and the memories that it held.

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California Dreaming

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It was in the Spring of 1976 when my husband Bob and I moved from Jupiter, Florida to California. Bob decided that he wanted to become a professional photographer. And to that end, he had applied to Brooks Institute of Photography in Santa Barbara, California. We were living in Jupiter, Florida at the time. He was put on a waiting list for two years.

This is me and co-worker Stacy Smitter at St. Vincent’s in 1976

During the time that we waited to move to California, I worked at Colonnades Health Center on Singer Island. It was located in a hotel owned by John D. Mac Arthur. America’s second-richest man, owner of a $1 billion empire of insurance companies, land in eight states, including 100,000 acres in Florida, and investments as varied as Alamo car rental and MacArthur Scotch.

I was working at a spa, giving facials to wealthy people from all over the world. I often saw Mac Arthur while I was sitting at the reception desk in the Spa. There was a huge window on the wall facing the reception area. And an Olympic size pool just on the other side of the window and MacArthur would walk around the pool area or sitting at the poolside with his nurse. He was nearly eighty at the time and quite frail-looking. But he still admired the beautiful ladies lying out in the sun.

One day his nurse brought him into the spa for a massage and a facial. Luckily, I didn’t give massages only facials. I knew he was the owner of the hotel and a wealthy man. However, I treated him the same as any other client with respect and kindness.

I was paid about four dollars an hour while I worked at the Colonnades Health Center which was considered to be quite generous in 1976. As the minimum wage pay was $2.30 an hour at the time. So, I was able to save all the money I made during the two years that I worked there. And we had enough money for our trip to California and rent for a year. And in addition, I purchased a van for Bob and a tripod for his view camera that was required at Brooks Institute.

We were notified by Brooks Institute when Bob would be able to begin his classes. So, Bob gave his employers Pratt and Whitney United Technologies his notice. At that time, he was working as a New System Coordinator for IBM components.

These are some of my kids at St. Vincent’s during Special Olympics

I will always remember the trip across the country from Jupiter, Florida to Santa Barbara. The only other trip I took across the country was when I moved from New Jersey to West Palm Beach Florida. I took the Auto Train from Lorton, Virginia to Sanford, Florida by myself. I was twenty-two at the time. It was a twenty-four-hour train ride. I never traveled anywhere except to the shore in Southern New Jersey.

Bob and I enjoyed our trip across the country. It wasn’t until I took that trip, I realized how big America was and how beautiful. Bob drove his 1969 Ford Econoline van and towed my 1970 yellow VW behind us. There were great expanses of unoccupied, undeveloped open land from Florida to California at the time. It was amazingly beautiful and unspoiled. It took us about ten days to drive to Santa Barbara from Florida.

Bob and I ended up renting a duplex in Lompoc, which was located in the mountains.

We lived there for about a year and then we rented an apartment in Carpentaria. They raised the rent and we had to move again and we found a place in Santa Barbara.

Two of the children in my group at St. Vincents

I found a job in Santa Barbara at Robinson’s Department Store. I worked there for a year. I sold hats and wigs. And if there was a job more boring than that one, I don’t want to know about it. I met a young woman my age while I was working there she told me she volunteered at a school called St. Vincent’s. She worked with mentally handicapped children. The more she talked about it, the more I wanted to work there. I loved kids and it sounded like the perfect job for me.

I did not hear from St. Vincent’s. So, after a week I started calling them every day for a month. After a month, they called me in and hired me. About a week later I started working a split shift from 6 am until 9 am and then the 3-11 PM shift five days a week. My title was houseparent. I was in charge of eighteen girls ages twelve to seventeen. In the morning I woke them up, supervised them while they got dressed, ate breakfast, made their beds, and got ready for school. I had to dispense any meds that they were on as well. The school was on the grounds. When it was time for school, I escorted them to school and then went back to the dorms and cleaned the kitchen, and made sure the bathrooms and dining area were in order.

In the afternoon I returned and walked over to the school on the other side of the campus and brought the kids back to the dorms after they were dismissed from school. On the way back to the dooms the kids would all attempt to tell me about their day and what kind if any homework they had to do. When we got to the dorms, they would change to their play clothes and do chores. I would check in on them to see how they were doing. And if they completed their chores, I would put a star on their star charts. Star charts were used as a behavioral modification to reinforce good behavior rather than punishing bad behaviors. It was quite effective for most of the children.

Special Olympics at St. Vincent’s School

If all the chores were completed, I would go to the office downstairs and sign out a van, and take all the kids out to go hiking or some kind of outside activity. I cannot emphasize strongly enough how much I enjoyed spending time with these kids. How much fun I had with them. And how much I came to love them. When we returned from our outings the kids would set the table for dinner and then watch TV or play games. On my day off I would take one of the kids out for the day and they would spend it with them. Sometimes, my husband, Bob would go with us. It was great fun and truthfully, they became family to me.

After dinner, the kids that had homework would do it. And the rest would begin getting showers and then watch TV the rest of the night. I would watch TV with them and we would all lie on the floor with pillows. What stands out in my memory the most is that all the kids wanted to lie on the floor close enough to me so that they could touch my hand or my shoulder. I understood that they missed the loving touch of their mothers, fathers, and siblings. And I was the closest thing they had to a family now at St. Vincent’s school.

On Sundays, the kitchen at St. Vincent’s was closed and I had to prepare their breakfast, lunch and dinner, and dessert for them. I would take one of the vans and take the kids out for the day. If it was summertime, I would take them swimming at the pool at the apartment complex where I lived. It was only about a ten-minute drive. If it was wintertime, I would drive them up to the mountains to play in the snow. It was great fun. We would sing on the bus trip to and from wherever we were going.

Shawna Stutzman one of the kids in my group at St. Vincents

Sometimes I wonder how I wasn’t overwhelmed by the responsibility of taking care of eighteen teenagers. But really, I wasn’t. I loved them through and through. I didn’t see their physical or mental shortcomings. I saw wonderful young girls who wanted to have fun and friends just like any other kids would want.

Of all the jobs I’ve had over my lifetime, this was the one that I enjoyed the most and looked forward to going to every day that I worked there. I never had another job where I felt more needed, more appreciated, and more loved.

They are the ones whose faces I can still summon up from my memory of long ago. If there is a time in my life that I would like to live over again, it would be this time with those wonderful girls who loved unconditionally and put everything they could to do as well as they were capable of doing. I often wondered what became of those kids? What kind of adults they grew into, were they able to support themselves? Did any of them live independently, get married, and have children?

I wrote them for a year or two after I moved back to New Jersey and some of them were able to write me back. Although they needed assistance from the house parents that cared for them. My time at St. Vincent’s was one of the best experiences in my entire life. And California will always be a place that I loved more than any place I lived in before or since.

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CLASS REUNION

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This morning I stepped out my front door into the frosty morning air and quickstepped it to my mailbox in my slippers and pajamas. I received the surprise of my life. An invitation from an old college friend  of mine, Alice Storti to my thirtieth college reunion. Thirty years. Can you imagine? Thirty years. Can you imagine?

Temple University, main campus-Philadelphia, Pa

Temple University, main campus-Philadelphia, Pa

I moved away from Kalamazoo, Michigan the year I graduated from High School. During my senior year in high school, I applied to several schools out of state and was accepted at all of them. I chose Temple University in Philadelphia, Pa.

As far back as I remember I’ve wanted to be a writer. Before I learned how to write I would regale my family with stories. Some were true, most of them were exaggerated versions of the truth. And some were total fiction.

The author I most admired in my adolescence was Jeffrey Robinson. He attended Temple University. While he was still in college Robinson wrote for television and radio. He was a prolific writer his whole career. Sometime around 1980 Robinson moved to the UK and had more than 600 stories and articles published. He wrote 45 books. And that is why I chose Temple University so I could walk in Robinson’s footsteps. And he was a successful writer while he was still attending college.

As I stood there shivering in my driveway, I began to think about my own experiences attending Temple in Philadelphia a city that I came to love. A city that I made my home for the rest of my life. Philadelphia is a city that you either love or hate. I love it. The diversity of the neighborhoods, the food. the art, the music, the sports.

As I walk back to my house, I thought about all the great friends I made while I was in college. Friends I still have to this day. Some people that I lost track of over those long thirty years since Graduation Day. It really would be great to see them once again and find out what they have been up to in the thirty years that flew by so quickly.

I decide to go to the reunion. I drop the response to the invitation in my mailbox as I get into my car to go to work. I’ve been writing at the Philadelphia Inquirer since I graduated from college. I write articles for the Life Section of the paper. I have had the opportunity to meet all kinds of people in the Delaware Valley experiencing every kind of life event you can imagine from birth to death, great moments of joy, and great loss. I can’t imagine doing anything else. I truly love my job and look forward to it every morning when I wake up. I have dedicated my life to studying human nature. People fascinate me, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I meet my editor, Patrick on the way in the door of the Inquirer. “Hello, Marilyn how are you on this fine morning?”

“I’m fine, Patrick. Guess what? I received an invitation to my college reunion. Can you believe it’s been thirty years?”

“What, that can’t be true, you look like you couldn’t be a day over thirty right now.”

“Oh yeah sure, I’ve always said you must have kissed that Blarney Stone when you were visiting Ireland thirty years ago, Patrick.”

“What, I would never say anything that wasn’t true, Marilyn. Oh, by the way, I sent you an email about a story I want you to cover, let me know what you think. I’ll talk to you later.”

As Patrick walks toward his office, I couldn’t help but think what a lucky woman I was to be working in a job I love and for a man like Patrick O’Donnell that gave me the opportunity as an inexperienced young reporter fresh out of school.

The months went by quickly and before I knew it was the night of the reunion. I had spent more than I could afford on a new dress and shoes. I even had my car washed and waxed. I’m not sure why. I took a last look in the mirror before I left. Well, I didn’t look twenty-one anymore, but honestly, I thought I look pretty good for someone about to turn fifty-one.

I had married straight out of college but the marriage only lasted three years. My then-husband decided marriage wasn’t for him. At least not married to someone that was always out on the road all times of the night and the day. He wanted children and I didn’t. It was an amicable divorce. We were still living in an apartment. I didn’t have time to take care of a house and all that entailed. And he wanted a house, a stay at home wife, and three kids. It was never going to work out. Several years later I heard he got married to a younger woman and now they had three kids who were probably in college by now.

So here I am driving to my thirtieth high school reunion to see people I haven’t seen since I was twenty-one. The reunion is taking place at the Philadelphia Library on the second floor, it is a historic building in Philadelphia and perfect for a college reunion. I have to admit it is one of my favorite places in Philadelphia and I have spent so much of my time doing research there. I am well acquainted with almost everyone that works there including the cleaning staff.

The reunion is being held at the main Philadelphia Library. As I walk into the hall outside the Art Section of the library, I see a group of people that are formally dressed in suits, tuxedoes, and gowns. I have never enjoyed dressing up but since I work for the Inquirer I have had to attend many formal events I lost count of over the years ago. So tonight, I wore my favorite dress. It was somewhat retro, as it had an umpire bodice and a scoop neckline and a fitted waist, and a full skirt. It was silk and midnight blue. I had fresh highlights put in my hair and a haircut and a touch of make-up.

I think I look great. I know you aren’t supposed to say things like that about yourself. But oh well, there’s nothing wrong with having self-confidence.

I walk toward the largest group of people in the room hoping I will recognize someone. After all, it has been thirty years. The last time I saw any of them was at our graduation. And we were all so young, so full of hope, still so innocent about the world. And here I am now having seen all I’ve seen and experienced, no longer innocent. But still, so full of hope. I have seen the very worse in people and the best. And I still look forward to each day of my life with hope and yes, excitement.

As I come closer to the small crowd, I look from one face to another. I don’t recognize anyone at first glance. And then a tall dark-haired man walks toward me and looks me right in the eyes and said,” Marilyn, Marilyn Barrette is that you?’

“Yes, it’s me.” I look at him for a minute and then it comes to me. It’s Jeff Sterling. He was one of my first friends at Temple when I came there as a Freshman those many years ago. He hoped to work in Social Services in Center City Philadelphia. “Jeff? Wow, you look great. How wonderful it is to see you. How did so many years go by so quickly? Why didn’t we keep in touch? What have you been up to?”

“Woah, that’s a lot of questions. I feel like I’m being interviewed.”

“Oh, sorry I’m a newspaper reporter with The Inquirer, old habits die hard.”

“Really, that’s fantastic. That’s all you ever talked about becoming for four years. I’m happy that you are doing what you love. Do you still love it? Oh, sorry now I’m being nosy.”

“You’re not being nosy. Isn’t that what going to a reunion is all about getting reacquainted with old friends?”

“Of course, you’re right. That’s exactly what it’s about. So, did you come with anyone or did you come by yourself?”

“Oh, I forgot how circumspect you always were. What you really wanted to ask me is if I’m married isn’t it?”

“Yeah, you’re right that’s exactly what I wanted to know. You’re the reason I came to the reunion. So, are you married?”

“No, not anymore. I had a short-lived marriage. It ended years ago. We just weren’t a good match.”

“Did you have kids Marilyn?”

“No Jeff that’s one of the reasons we got divorced. I didn’t want children and he did. How about you married or divorced?”

“Never married, no kids. I just never found the right woman.”

“I’m not trying to put words into your mouth Jeff but are you saying you came here to see me for that reason?”
“Yes, yes I guess I am, Marilyn.”

“Well, Jeff why don’t we take a seat, get something to eat, and see if we still have any things still in common. It’s been a long time.”

“That would be great. And by the way, did I mention that I think you are even more beautiful than the last time I saw you, Marilyn.”

“So, what you’re saying is that I have improved with age like a fine wine, Jeff?”

“Marilyn, you always did have a way with words. I missed that about you. Let me tell you all the things I missed about you. Shall I?”

“Yes, Jeff please do. And may I say that I’m so, so happy that I came. So, start by telling me what you did the day after graduation and go from there.”

“Well, this is going to be a long conversation isn’t it Marilyn?”

“Yes, but we have the rest of our lives to hear it don’t we?”

“So, Jeff what did you do that Summer after graduation?”

“One of my buddies and I took a road trip and ended up in Tijuana and ended up in jail.”

“You’re kidding. Go on…….”

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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 Apron

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I run up the front steps and throw back the storm door and pull open our red, front door. It’s 3:08 pm. My personal best time for getting out of the third-grade classroom and into our kitchen. I open the cubbyhole next to the front door, toss in my schoolbag with one hand, pull off my galoshes, and threw them in with my other hand.

My mother is standing slightly hunched over the ironing board. There’s a basket of clean clothes waiting to be ironed on the kitchen table. The front of her dark hair is still set in bobby pins. She’s wearing her everyday apron over her favorite blue housedress. Hanging down her apron is a line of safety pins that are attached to one another. They sway back and forth every time she leans over to pick up the next pair of my fathers’ pants or shirt. Anything that doesn’t get ironed today, she‘ll roll up and store in the refrigerator until tomorrow.
“Hi, Mom!”

“Susie, don’t forget to hang up your coat in the closet. How was your day, did you learn anything new today?”

“Well, I learn how to spell Mississippi and Arithmetic.”

“Would you like to have a snack?”

“Yeah, I’m starving, what are we having for dinner? I smell something good.”

“I made stew, your favorite, and I’m making the crust for the top.”

My mother walks across the room and takes out a glass and fills it with milk from the fridge. We have a milkman. His name is Ralph. He delivers milk and sometimes eggs to our side door early every morning. He takes away the empty bottles. He has bushy red hair and a mustache. There is always a big, stinky cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth that bobs up and down when he speaks.

My mother takes two homemade peanut butter cookies out of our Happy Face cookie jar. She puts them on the table near the front window and hands me the glass of cold milk. I dunk the cookies into the milk.

“Where’s Karen, Susie, how come she didn’t come home with you?”

“Oh, I forgot. She asked me to tell you that she was going to play over at Anne Marie’s house until dinnertime.”

“Well, she knows she’s supposed to come home first. Susie, when you finish your snack, will you pick up the newspapers off the floor, and throw them away.”

When my mother washes the linoleum floor, she always covers it with newspapers until it dries. So, if we walk on the floor when it’s wet, we won’t leave dirty footprints.

After my snack, I throw away the newspapers and run up the stairs to my room to change out of my school uniform. I cross the room and hang my uniform on a hanger in my closet. Well, it isn’t a closet. My room is on the second floor., It used to be the attic, and the “closet” is the eve of our house, which was never finished.

In the winter, it’s really cold in there, and in the summer it’s a furnace. So, either way, it isn’t a place you would want to spend a lot of time in. My older sisters’ have some of their old prom gowns stored in the closet, and sometimes I go through the boxes and try them on.

One day I decide that one of the dresses would make a beautiful dress for my doll, so I cut a big hole in the skirt which was made out of shiny blue satin with a crinoline on top. The next time my sister Jeanie visited us from New York, she noticed my dolls’ new dress and recognized the fabric. She was furious.

I decide to watch TV until dinnertime. I flop down on the floor about ten inches from the TV and put on my favorite show, Sally Starr and Chief Halftown. I love Popeye cartoons, especially when Popeye burst opens the spinach can, and gulps it down in one swallow, and his muscles immediately swell on his scrawny arms. But I still refuse to eat any vegetables except corn.

After the show, I turn off the TV. I overheard my father talking to my mother. He just woke up. He works for the bus company in Philadelphia from eleven PM at night until seven AM in the morning. So, he sleeps during the hours that I’m in school. He’s always a grouch when he wakes up, so I try to stay out of his way.

I want to hear what my Mom and Dad are talking about. So, I tiptoe over to the steps, which are next to the kitchen, and listen to what they were saying. I hear my father say,” Marie, did you look everywhere for them?”

“Yes, Harry, I did. The last time I saw them was when I put them in my apron pocket.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to have new ones made, Marie. I don’t know where we will get the money!”

I don’t know what they were talking about, but my Dad sure sounds mad at my mother. I decided it would be better if I stay out of his way for a while.

Just then, Karen comes in the door and sees me crouched on the steps, and says, “What are you doing, snooping again?”

She walks into the kitchen and starts talking to my mother. I hope she isn’t telling them I was listening on the steps. If she does, I tell them that she always listens to them talking in the kitchen through the heating vent in her bedroom.

I decide to go outside, just in case. So, I put my boots on over my sneakers and my favorite coat. It‘s too small for me, but I love it. It’s fake white fur with big blue snowflakes on it. The hood is trimmed with fur. This is the first coat that was really mine and didn’t belong to one of my older sisters first. 

As I jumped down the front steps, I almost fall because there was a thin layer of ice. I decided to make snow angels in the back yard. I jump down the steps two at a time to the backyard. I notice the snow is beginning to melt.

I was hoping it will snow again soon, really deep so I can have some snow days off. I’ll build a snow fort. And have snowball fights with all the kids in the neighborhood.

I flop on my back and move my arms up and down. I’m disappointed because there isn’t enough snow for the angel’s wings to show up good. Maybe it will snow tonight. I decide to add that to my prayers tonight. Please God, please let it snow- two, no, three feet!

Then I hear my mother calling from the side door, “Susie, come in and get ready for dinner.” As I was going to the side step, I saw something on the ground. I walk over to it and push it with my foot. I realize it’s false teeth. What in the world are teeth doing out here?

And then it almost feels like a bell goes off in my head when I realize it’s my mother’s teeth. My mother and father wear false teeth. That’s what my parents were talking about in the kitchen. I stuff them in my pocket and run into the house. My sisters and parents are all sitting around the table. “Mom and Daddy guess what, guess what?”

“Susie take off your boots before you make the floor all dirty again!”
”But Mom I have a surprise.”

“Boots first, surprise later, Susie.”

I run into the hall and throw my wet coat on the floor, kick my boots onto the closet floor, and run back to the kitchen.

“Now, can I tell you?”

“OK Susie, what is the big surprise, maybe then we can eat in peace?”

I open my hand like I have a precious gem in my hand.

My father says, “Look, Marie, It’s your teeth!”

My mother comes over and gives me a big hug, and says, “but where did you find them, Susie; I looked everywhere?”

“I found them on the ground next to the garbage cans. Mom, they must have fallen out of your apron pocket when you leaned over to put the garbage in the can. I guess today is your lucky day.”

THESE THINGS I KNOW TO BE TRUE

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The more love you feel and give to others, the more you receive in return

It was 1976. Bob and I had been residing in California for one year. When we first arrived, I found a job as a chairside assistant at an oral surgeon’s office in Santa Barbara. We were living in Lompoc. Which is about a half hour drive to Santa Barbara.  Doctor Snyder, the oral surgeon I was working for had a habit of calling me at home at the last minute to tell me the patient for the morning had cancelled. Sometimes I would arrive at his office and he would tell me to go home. Gas was $.59 a gallon in 1976 and I was making minimum wage which was $2.30 an hour. Which wouldn’t have been that bad except sometimes I only worked ten hours a week. I lasted six months at this job.

My next position was at Robinson’s Department Store in Santa Barbara. I worked in sales, selling hats and wigs. If there is a more boring job in the world, I hate to think what that might be. I had to stand at the counter and look busy. Doing what I have no clue.  On a good day I had one maybe two customers per day. I started looking for another job after the first month. A fellow employee at Robinsons told me about St. Vincent’s School on Calle Real Drive in Santa Barbara. It was a residential school for mentally disabled children.

I found my way to the school, and filled out an application. Did I mention that I have absolutely no sense of direction?

No one contacted me. I began a campaign to get hired there. I called St. Vincent’s two, three times a week. I sent letters. After a month and a half, they called me in for an interview. They called me back within the week and hired me.

St. Vincent’s School was run by The Daughters of Charity Catholic nuns. I was hired as a houseparent in the Laboures Group to take care of and assist sixteen girls ages twelve to seventeen.

My kids participating in Special Olympics

My kids participating in Special Olympics

I was assigned a split shift. I arrived at the school before the girls were awake about seven in the morning. I woke them up and supervised them until it was time for school to begin. I walked them to school which was on the same grounds as the residence. I came back when they were dismissed at three pm.

The children that resided at St. Vincent’s had a multitude of disabilities, Down’s Syndrome, Autism, Prader Willie Syndrome and mental retardation. But to me, they just became my kids. I don’t think I could have loved these kids anymore if they were my own. I didn’t look at them as disable kids. I looked at them as children who needed an adult’s love, care, guidance and acceptance.

I taught them self-care, table manners, how to make their beds and personal hygiene. I helped them with their homework. I taught them how to make their beds. I ate all my meals with them.

At night I watched TV or played games with them, helped them write letters to their families. I took them on outings for picnics, shopping for new clothes, the movies. I enjoyed every minute of the time I spent with them.

On Saturdays, which was my day off my husband Bob and I would take one of them out for the day to the mountains, or swimming at our apartment pool or into town. The same kind of activities that you would enjoy with your own children. A few girls wanted to learn how to sew so when it was there turn to spend a day with me, I taught them the basics of sewing.

I have had many jobs since those days, but I can tell you in all honesty that working at St. Vincent’s with those awesome kids was the best position I ever had. I experienced all the good things with them, love, acceptance and being needed, respect. I was making a positive impact on their lives. Whatever I gave to them they returned to me tenfold.

When my husband completed his education at Brooks Institute. I gave my notice. It had been seven years since I had lived in my home state of NJ. And my parents were getting older and I wanted to spend time with them. I wanted my future children to know their grandparents. I have never had a day I felt so sad, as the day I said good-bye to those wonderful girls, and the staff of young women and men that worked at St. Vincent’s School. I wrote the kids for many years until they left St. Vincent’s.

Picture of me and one of my co-workers Stacy Smitter

I look back on those days in California with gratitude and happy memories. Bob and I had the opportunity to be young and free. Live in one of the most beautiful places in the world. And get to know those children. It was a blessing. I often wonder what became of them. But I can only hope that they went on be happy in their lives. And were on the receiving end of all the good things in life, which they so richly deserved.

POCKETS By Susan A. Culver

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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.”

A Stroll Down Memory Lane

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NJ Boardwalk – down the shore

I woke up. Which is the best way to start any day, compared to coming to, or found lying in a gutter unconscious? I know, I know, always with the jokes. I can never be serious, so nobody takes me seriously. Anyway, as I was saying, I woke up in my own bed alone, except for my cat Sidney. He was the reason I woke up this early. He was standing on my face, licking it. He knows I hate that, but he was hungry. So he took matters into his own two paws, and the rest is history.

As I opened one eye, a blinding light hit it, and like a laser went straight into my optic nerve and bored a hole into my brain. It was sunlight, god how I hated it. When would I make a commitment to my mental health, and go out and buy blackout curtains? So my brain would have fewer holes drilled into it.

Oh, sure you are probably thinking. Why don’t you just lay off the sauce already? Well, I don’t want to, that’s why. I like drinking to excess, waking up in strange places, and being fondled by complete strangers, and oh about a million other excuses. I could name at the drop of a hat.

But here is the real reason, and this is just between the two of us. The reason why I got snookered, tanked, sloshed, hammered, you know all those poetic terms for drunk.

Yesterday morning when I was having my ten am cocktail, I decided to take a little ride to Wildwood for old time’s sake. Wildwood is where I spent the best part of my youth. Hanging out at bars, picking up strangers, and riding the big waves that Wildwood is famous for. Ok, not renowned, but we did try to ride those big South Jersey shore waves back in the 1970s. I have the dried out, wrinkled skin to prove it. Ten years of burn and peel, I don’t have the sense now, and I had even less forty years ago.

But I digress, I was walking down memory lane, walking the boards, buying salt-water taffy, and eating ice cream. And keeping my buzz going, with a little bottle of booze, I saved for special occasions like this in the trunk of my car.

I was walking along, enjoying the fresh salty air, and listening to the seagulls, and the surf. I see in the distance a familiar, if somewhat fuzzy face. I keep telling myself, no, no, it can’t be him, but goddamn if it isn’t David, Captain Dave, my first love.

He is walking hand in hand with a little girl, cute as a button in a two-piece bathing suit with little ladybugs printed on it. She has hair the same reddish-brown that he used to have, most of which has departed. She has the same gap in her front teeth that I always thought was so adorable on him. She is the spitting image of him if he were a girl, and five years old.

I seriously think about running away but didn’t really think I could pull it off. Since I was having trouble standing upright. Well, I thought he wouldn’t recognize me. I‘m forty years older. But god damn him, he did. He is staring at me, and then he pulls on the little girl’s twiggy little arm and walks right up to me.

“Sarah, Sara,h is that you? Why I would recognize you anywhere. You look exactly the same; you look great. Gypsy, this is an old friend of mine, Sarah. We were friends when grandpop was a young guy, not as young as you. But younger then your mom and dad are now. Why don’t you shake hands with her and say hello?”

Gypsy, I‘m thinking, how could he? That is what we were going to call our little girl. God, I hated him so much at that moment. I was surprised he didn’t just drop dead from the force of my thoughts alone. Gypsy says, “Hi.” She spoke so quietly you could hardly hear her over the racket of the god damn, filthy seagulls were making.

I managed to put my big old hand out there and give her little hand a shake,” Nice to meet, you Gypsy, don’t you look beautiful in your little bathing suit?”

“Thank you”, she says with her gapped tooth smile. I could feel my heartbreaking, actually breaking in two. So this is what my little girl would have looked like?

“So Sarah, how have you been, it’s been too long since I saw you, when was that exactly, do you remember?”

Do I remember, of course, I remember? I think about it every day from the first moment I get up in the morning, and it is my last thought at night. What would my little girl have been like, would she have looked like me, or him? Would she be smart and sassy or shy and demure? She would be almost forty years old now. God, I have missed her every day of my life. Since the last time I saw his face as he waited for me outside the clinic that day, I had the abortion. The last time I saw him.

“Yes. Dave, I do remember that very well, it was outside the Women’s Center in Cherry Hill. The day I aborted our baby. I was going to call her Gypsy, don’t you know? Gypsy, just like your little granddaughter here, Gypsy. Do you remember now, Dave?”

His face reddened somewhat, and he took a step back and pulled his little granddaughter with him, “Yes, I remember that now of course, sorry I must be getting a little forgetful. It was really nice seeing you, Sarah. We should keep in touch. Gypsy and I will have to be going now, but it was great, great seeing you again.” And he turned his heels and took off, just like he did forty years ago. I guess an old dog can’t learn new tricks.