"The Rascal in All of Us" is available at Amazon.com where you can "Look inside" for more on my memoir of an Imp growing up during WWII and the Great Depression, full of laughs. Many Articles published in yesterdays magazette.net, Cappers.com,More.com, and dozens more. Thank for Stopping by Please leave a comment.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Saturday, May 19, 2012
News Flash
5/19/12 Hard to believe, but I've been on this confounded site for four hours and still haven't gotten it to look like I want. So if you're visiting, please don't be discouraged. I'm working on it. Oh yaah! My main reason for getting on was to inform everyone of my just released book: "The Rascal in All of Us." I had a couple of other Titles before I decided on this: God Forbid Anyone I Know Reads This and Daddy's Impish Daughter, so if you come across articles that refer to these, know that the name changed to the highlighted one above.
Also on the right side, one of my sidebars looks pretty weird (one letter on each line). Ignore it. It's not really important. If it's gone, that means I fixed the problem.
Okay, that's fixed, I think. So, if you visit, there's a spot after each article to leave a message. I'd really appreciate knowing what you think of not just the article, but my new and (?) improved site. Thanks!
Also on the right side, one of my sidebars looks pretty weird (one letter on each line). Ignore it. It's not really important. If it's gone, that means I fixed the problem.
Okay, that's fixed, I think. So, if you visit, there's a spot after each article to leave a message. I'd really appreciate knowing what you think of not just the article, but my new and (?) improved site. Thanks!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Querying Literary Agents...Where to Begin
It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. If seeking a traditional publisher is your goal, the first agonizing step is to find an agent. And, be prepared to spend weeks, months, even years on your quest. To begin with, buy The Guide to Literary Agents or Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors and Literary Agents. The internet is also helpful, sites like Writer’s Weekly and Feedblitz, but there are many more avenues on line, too. Just type in “literary agents” in a search field and see what pops up. The savvy writer will also subscribe to magazines like The Writer’s Digest, The Writer, Poets and Writers, and online publications. All contain valuable information on querying agents, preparing a proposal or a synopsis, and some list potential agencies.
You’ll need to prepare a query letter, a synopsis, proposal, detailed outline, author bio, comparable titles, marketing tools, and sample chapters. Then tweak each and every one before submitting. Have you compiled a list of possible agencies yet? Do that, and then the day-to-day business is less daunting. Also, keep track of submissions by maintaining a spreadsheet and continue to update it, because after the first twenty or thirty queries sent, believe me, it all becomes a blur. Even with a spreadsheet, mistakes happen. After I compiled the perfect pitch and hit the send button, I found that I had already sent a query to that agency. It was an idiotic mistake. I had an alphabetized list, but inadvertently placed that agency under its first name instead of the last name. Agencies frown on this.
Don’t hold your breath, expecting a nice note back from each agent; they are rare. In fact, you’re lucky to get a standard “Sorry. It doesn’t fit our needs.” Most of the time, they only respond if interested, but don’t get discouraged. Some will give a time frame of when they will reply if interested. But as a rule, three months is long enough to hold out any hope. In the meantime, keep churning out queries to other agents.
Expect to spend a hefty amount of time scouring agency websites to decide if they are a match. And, don’t forget to check the acknowledgments of other books similar to yours. If they mention their agent, be sure to add them to your list. You could spend hours checking out other on-line information about the agency, but limit yourself. Remember, time is money, unless you’re loaded and just like to surf the net. Write a personalized query for each agent; no mass mail outs. Check and double check for errors before hitting the send button.
Don’t let rejection hold you back. Alex Haley submitted his first book two hundred times and Jack London tried six hundred times before reaching that golden winner’s circle.
Self-publishing is likely here to stay and can be considered after exhausting the list of possible agents. Knowing there is a fallback option makes it easier to go forward. Just remember to follow the agency’s requirements, be cordial, never call or fax unless asked to, and persevere. This ain’t a game for wimps.
You’ll need to prepare a query letter, a synopsis, proposal, detailed outline, author bio, comparable titles, marketing tools, and sample chapters. Then tweak each and every one before submitting. Have you compiled a list of possible agencies yet? Do that, and then the day-to-day business is less daunting. Also, keep track of submissions by maintaining a spreadsheet and continue to update it, because after the first twenty or thirty queries sent, believe me, it all becomes a blur. Even with a spreadsheet, mistakes happen. After I compiled the perfect pitch and hit the send button, I found that I had already sent a query to that agency. It was an idiotic mistake. I had an alphabetized list, but inadvertently placed that agency under its first name instead of the last name. Agencies frown on this.
Don’t hold your breath, expecting a nice note back from each agent; they are rare. In fact, you’re lucky to get a standard “Sorry. It doesn’t fit our needs.” Most of the time, they only respond if interested, but don’t get discouraged. Some will give a time frame of when they will reply if interested. But as a rule, three months is long enough to hold out any hope. In the meantime, keep churning out queries to other agents.
Expect to spend a hefty amount of time scouring agency websites to decide if they are a match. And, don’t forget to check the acknowledgments of other books similar to yours. If they mention their agent, be sure to add them to your list. You could spend hours checking out other on-line information about the agency, but limit yourself. Remember, time is money, unless you’re loaded and just like to surf the net. Write a personalized query for each agent; no mass mail outs. Check and double check for errors before hitting the send button.
Don’t let rejection hold you back. Alex Haley submitted his first book two hundred times and Jack London tried six hundred times before reaching that golden winner’s circle.
Self-publishing is likely here to stay and can be considered after exhausting the list of possible agents. Knowing there is a fallback option makes it easier to go forward. Just remember to follow the agency’s requirements, be cordial, never call or fax unless asked to, and persevere. This ain’t a game for wimps.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Guidelines for Literary Agents
Tons of information on how to submit to an agent exists: books, e-books, internet sites, even the writers magazine whips out words of wisdom. Granted, even with all this, I haven’t gotten it quite right yet, or I wouldn’t be griping. But all too often would-be authors open their inboxes to find nary a word from agencies. Is it too much to ask to respond to e-mail submissions? It wouldn’t hurt for agents to follow a few guidelines too.
After all, writers spend hours pondering which agent to pitch, checking guidelines and reviewing their author lists, and even click on their blog for more details. We thoughtfully prepare a correctly concocted query for that particular agent. Then, we wait and wait for a response and wonder if it’s lost in Cyberspace. Did they get the gall darn thing or not?
Even though we carefully input the address, stuff happens. Maybe one too many periods slipped in, or we misread a c for an e. Most aren’t set up to auto respond, so we wonder, should we resubmit, or are they even still in business? Best not to dwell too long, I surmise; just push on and try another agent.
How long is too long to wait for a response? Most don’t even give a specific time frame, so I can’t help thinking I probably wrote something stupid, so they simply deleted or shredded my little gem. Maybe that’s why, after a year of querying, I’ve only received one request for the complete manuscript, which was subsequently rejected. Maybe, my book is a complete dud. If so, go ahead, say so. I can take it. (I hope.)
Once, I got this sweet note from an agent. She said she thought my book was charming, but not quite right for her list, but suggested I add 30,000 more words. By the way, that happened to be a few thousand more words than the whole book was at the time. It took months of wracking my brain and endless rewrites, but I did go from 26,000 words to 53,000. Now, that’s progress, right. I’m tempted to write, “Dear Miss Charmed Agent, wouldn’t you like to take another look? I did what you said.” Well, maybe not.
In the desperate search to locate an agent, and don’t kid yourself, I’m not going to be too picky at this point; my alphabetized spreadsheet is now five pages long. Anyhow, finding an agent is only part of the agonizing journey. As a wanna-bee, I push on and comb through all the books that are similar, looking up their agents. At this point, I have two choices: Little House on the Prairie and A Girl named Zippy, neither actually come that close to mine. Sometimes, the agent isn’t mentioned, and I have to dig deeper. For all my trouble, I usually find they’ve gone on to bigger, more profitable ventures, like selling editorial services; or they quit and moved to the beach near a four-star golf course.
The worst is when agents ask that the proposal be mailed. Mailed? I hate snail mail. Yet when an agent represents a book similar to mine or seems extremely promising, I dole out a few Washingtons, for which this pessimist is sure she’ll receive a form rejection. Hey! It’s something. What’s really shocking is to discover that an agency does have a website, but only accepts postal submissions. Don’t they care about the trees tumbling to the ground, the bushel-baskets full of paper we insignificant peons must use? Whatever happened to going green?
Would-be authors can attest to receiving a reject similar to this: “Sorry, but it doesn’t fit our needs.” That makes me hopping mad. I did so do my homework. I read their guidelines. Right there in black and white, it said Memoir. What else do they want? Couldn’t they be more specific? Perhaps: “We only consider celebrities, ex-presidents, governors who abdicate, and those who fell into a volcano or walked on Venus.”
For those agents still reading this, I’m especially ticked off at the nincompoops who only respond if interested, but don’t give a time frame. I’m begging; please signify if the wait is a month, a year, or a decade, which, come to think of it, could be my entire life. Try: “If interest, it may take up to three months to respond.” See! That wasn’t so hard, was it?
So you abhor simultaneous submissions. I bet a lot of writers have read, “We give priority to those who send us an exclusive query.” Yeah, sure! No self-respecting author is going to fall for that one, especially if there’s no acknowledgment or response time given. My guess is priority or not, all queries get dumped in the slush pile. Besides, if the agency looked there first, it might not have to cry into its morning java because it missed a blockbuster. Something to consider, right?
Are any agents still with me? If so, is it so difficult to give us lowly authors some of the same considerations we graciously give you? Most do meet your requirements, right? If it says snail mail with a self-addressed-stamped envelope, we oblige. If it asks for the information in the body of the email, so be it. We don’t send an attachment when you say this will result in an immediate deletion or meeting the mouth of the shredder. We’re not stupid. Single space the cover and double space the synopsis? You got it!
Not all agencies are at fault here. Some do give consideration to authors. For that, I sincerely thank you, as, I’m sure, all hopefuls do. But for those who are dallying behind in this digital age, please give a time frame, accept emails and use an automatic responder. This not only saves our environment, it saves the sanity of millions of aspiring authors. Think of it as a way of giving back for all the commission checks received.
Tip of the Day: Agencies who follow these guidelines will receive priority and go to the top of my querying list, alphabetically, of course.
After all, writers spend hours pondering which agent to pitch, checking guidelines and reviewing their author lists, and even click on their blog for more details. We thoughtfully prepare a correctly concocted query for that particular agent. Then, we wait and wait for a response and wonder if it’s lost in Cyberspace. Did they get the gall darn thing or not?
Even though we carefully input the address, stuff happens. Maybe one too many periods slipped in, or we misread a c for an e. Most aren’t set up to auto respond, so we wonder, should we resubmit, or are they even still in business? Best not to dwell too long, I surmise; just push on and try another agent.
How long is too long to wait for a response? Most don’t even give a specific time frame, so I can’t help thinking I probably wrote something stupid, so they simply deleted or shredded my little gem. Maybe that’s why, after a year of querying, I’ve only received one request for the complete manuscript, which was subsequently rejected. Maybe, my book is a complete dud. If so, go ahead, say so. I can take it. (I hope.)
Once, I got this sweet note from an agent. She said she thought my book was charming, but not quite right for her list, but suggested I add 30,000 more words. By the way, that happened to be a few thousand more words than the whole book was at the time. It took months of wracking my brain and endless rewrites, but I did go from 26,000 words to 53,000. Now, that’s progress, right. I’m tempted to write, “Dear Miss Charmed Agent, wouldn’t you like to take another look? I did what you said.” Well, maybe not.
In the desperate search to locate an agent, and don’t kid yourself, I’m not going to be too picky at this point; my alphabetized spreadsheet is now five pages long. Anyhow, finding an agent is only part of the agonizing journey. As a wanna-bee, I push on and comb through all the books that are similar, looking up their agents. At this point, I have two choices: Little House on the Prairie and A Girl named Zippy, neither actually come that close to mine. Sometimes, the agent isn’t mentioned, and I have to dig deeper. For all my trouble, I usually find they’ve gone on to bigger, more profitable ventures, like selling editorial services; or they quit and moved to the beach near a four-star golf course.
The worst is when agents ask that the proposal be mailed. Mailed? I hate snail mail. Yet when an agent represents a book similar to mine or seems extremely promising, I dole out a few Washingtons, for which this pessimist is sure she’ll receive a form rejection. Hey! It’s something. What’s really shocking is to discover that an agency does have a website, but only accepts postal submissions. Don’t they care about the trees tumbling to the ground, the bushel-baskets full of paper we insignificant peons must use? Whatever happened to going green?
Would-be authors can attest to receiving a reject similar to this: “Sorry, but it doesn’t fit our needs.” That makes me hopping mad. I did so do my homework. I read their guidelines. Right there in black and white, it said Memoir. What else do they want? Couldn’t they be more specific? Perhaps: “We only consider celebrities, ex-presidents, governors who abdicate, and those who fell into a volcano or walked on Venus.”
For those agents still reading this, I’m especially ticked off at the nincompoops who only respond if interested, but don’t give a time frame. I’m begging; please signify if the wait is a month, a year, or a decade, which, come to think of it, could be my entire life. Try: “If interest, it may take up to three months to respond.” See! That wasn’t so hard, was it?
So you abhor simultaneous submissions. I bet a lot of writers have read, “We give priority to those who send us an exclusive query.” Yeah, sure! No self-respecting author is going to fall for that one, especially if there’s no acknowledgment or response time given. My guess is priority or not, all queries get dumped in the slush pile. Besides, if the agency looked there first, it might not have to cry into its morning java because it missed a blockbuster. Something to consider, right?
Are any agents still with me? If so, is it so difficult to give us lowly authors some of the same considerations we graciously give you? Most do meet your requirements, right? If it says snail mail with a self-addressed-stamped envelope, we oblige. If it asks for the information in the body of the email, so be it. We don’t send an attachment when you say this will result in an immediate deletion or meeting the mouth of the shredder. We’re not stupid. Single space the cover and double space the synopsis? You got it!
Not all agencies are at fault here. Some do give consideration to authors. For that, I sincerely thank you, as, I’m sure, all hopefuls do. But for those who are dallying behind in this digital age, please give a time frame, accept emails and use an automatic responder. This not only saves our environment, it saves the sanity of millions of aspiring authors. Think of it as a way of giving back for all the commission checks received.
Tip of the Day: Agencies who follow these guidelines will receive priority and go to the top of my querying list, alphabetically, of course.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Birds of a Feather
yesterdaysmagazette.com This is the ninth of my articles to appear in their magazine. You can find this article at their site or read it here.
Upon my arrival in that Midwestern Illinois town, I joined a family with two other girls, ten and fifteen years older than I. Believe it or not, before I swooped into my parents’ lives, gray hairs had already sprouted on Mom’s head, which I mostly attribute to my ten-year-older sister, Norma.
For example, in those days water heaters were small. To draw hot water for a bath, the pilot light was lit shortly before each bath, which barely tempered the ice cold water. Mom and Dad sat in the living room when Norma, then five, took it upon herself to light a match and heat the water. Hah! I was only three when I lit my first match.
She turned the knob and, after several tries, she finally succeeded in getting the wooden match to glow. But, as she leaned down to ignite the gas—Kaboom! Mom heard the noise and her daughter’s screams and raced to the kitchen. The gas exploded in Sis’s face, leaving it red and raw for quite awhile, and even singed off her eyebrows. Enter Mom’s gray hairs #46 through #49 and, obviously, not from yours truly.
Standing by the backyard shed, Norma picked at the rusted hinges while her older sister, Roi Jane, played inside the dilapidated building. Dad blew the whistle for the girls to come to supper, and Roi flew out of the shed. Norma let out an agonizing cry, and Mom came running. Sis’s fingers had gotten jammed in the crevice and were totally crushed, so her parents rushed her to the hospital. Voila! Gray hairs #50 through #55. Fortunately, my sister escaped with no broken bones.
She probably didn’t cause any of Mom’s gray hairs with this one, but the imp in me just has to tell. When I came along, Norma was ten. At school, the nun patted her on the back and said how nice for her that she had a new baby sister. Norma muttered under her breath, “No, it’s not nice. I’m the baby of this family. I don’t want no bratty, bawling little sister.” She likely thought this for years, since she often got stuck chasing after me.
I hate to admit this, but my sister could have been dubbed a Robin Hood of her day. On a muggy August afternoon, she left the playground and took a shortcut home along the railroad tracks. As she passed by lush vegetable gardens, she couldn’t resist and ran over and plucked a few tomatoes from one yard, and then pulled carrots and grabbed corn from others. I imagine, since she was little and carried such a small bundle, no one minded or, at least, felt it wasn’t worth the effort to chase after her with a billy club. At first Mom’s face showed furrows, but then brightened into a smile. Although Sis had snatched vegetables from rich families, she offered them to her own poorer one, for which Mom was grateful. That night, they blissfully feasted on her bountiful gifts, ignoring their bare cupboards.
We both suffered from nightmares, though mine was always of flowing lava roaring down a hill, which startled me from a sound sleep. Hers were often of hunting for something lost—her music, a purse, or she couldn’t find her way home. She says now that the searching likely related to the absence of her biological father, even though she was only one when he took off. On a stroll home from school, she saw the back of a man’s head that looked familiar, so she ran up to him and asked, “Are you my daddy?” His startled look made her wonder why she did such a dumb thing—her words, not mine.
Yet she’s quite adamant about my dad being her dad. After all, Dad entered her life when she was so tiny. In fact, just recently when she visited the doctor, he asked her how her mother and father died. Without hesitation, she said, “Dad died from cirrhosis of the liver.” It wasn’t until she got home, flipped on the TV, and settled in her easy chair that it dawned on her; she told the physician about the one who raised her, not her biological father.
She and her older sister, Roi Jane, both contributed to Mom’s gray hairs when they jumped up and down on the bed and bombarded each other with pillows. Feathers flew when this wormy kid, Norma, fell against the wall and smashed right through, landing on the living room floor of the adjacent tenant. Imagine my sister’s surprise, not to mention Mom’s…well, you know. Come to find out, it wasn’t a wall at all. To stuff his wallet, the landlord had put up a thin partition making one unit into two.
When Sis came home early from grade school one day, she found the door locked. Since she had no key, she pounded frantically and yelled, “Let me in. Let me in.” When no one answered, she got scared and banged on the window. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces; blood gushed from her hand. Mother was next door and when she heard the screams, she ran to her daughter’s side. I’ll not mention the number of gray hairs here.
Norma was born during the Crash of 1929. She says they were poorer then, than when I grew up. One summer, she picked flowers at a vacant house that was surrounded by pillared two-story homes with lush trees and bushes neatly manicured. Then, she knocked on doors selling the bouquets for 5¢ a bunch. When she emptied her pockets on the kitchen table, the coins jangled like joyful bells honoring her contribution to their meager household.
Okay, enough of the little angel’s stories. The fact is, to this day, Norma isn’t fond of housework, but who is? She and her sister were responsible for most of the upkeep because both parents worked. When she was little, she got into trouble time and time again for not washing the dishes properly. On Saturday, Dad would go through the cupboards and inspect each cup and plate. If he found a scrap of food on just one, he insisted the girls redo all of them. Roi Jane nagged and scolded her younger sister’s neglect the whole time they rewashed and dried each and every piece.
Her favorite name for me was “little bugger.” Norma said she always had to lay down with me at my nap time. If she didn’t, she said, “The little bugger will be up in a flash and get into all sorts of trouble.” That may be true, but…..
On other occasions, she had no mercy for her little sister. She’d tickle my underarms, the back of my neck, bottoms of my feet, and anywhere in between. It didn’t matter where, I’d laugh so hard, I couldn’t catch my breath, sounding like a pig honking as I gasped for air and hollered for her to stop. But she kept it up until I thought I’d expire. All she had to do was come at me with those long fingers wiggling, which I still remember well, and I’d head for the hills or closet or wherever else I could escape her twitching fingers. Believe this, I got so tickled out as a child that now I’m just plain numb.
Like birds of a feather, Norma also ran away from home, but she was three. My great escape didn’t come about until I turned five. Another similarity is that when she was found, she had stripped along the way and stood in the road plumb-naked. After that, Dad tethered her to a tree, so she couldn’t wander off. My sister and I may be birds of a feather, but if I’d been around at the time, this tenacious baby sister would have taught her how to untie the dang rope.
Upon my arrival in that Midwestern Illinois town, I joined a family with two other girls, ten and fifteen years older than I. Believe it or not, before I swooped into my parents’ lives, gray hairs had already sprouted on Mom’s head, which I mostly attribute to my ten-year-older sister, Norma.
For example, in those days water heaters were small. To draw hot water for a bath, the pilot light was lit shortly before each bath, which barely tempered the ice cold water. Mom and Dad sat in the living room when Norma, then five, took it upon herself to light a match and heat the water. Hah! I was only three when I lit my first match.
She turned the knob and, after several tries, she finally succeeded in getting the wooden match to glow. But, as she leaned down to ignite the gas—Kaboom! Mom heard the noise and her daughter’s screams and raced to the kitchen. The gas exploded in Sis’s face, leaving it red and raw for quite awhile, and even singed off her eyebrows. Enter Mom’s gray hairs #46 through #49 and, obviously, not from yours truly.
Standing by the backyard shed, Norma picked at the rusted hinges while her older sister, Roi Jane, played inside the dilapidated building. Dad blew the whistle for the girls to come to supper, and Roi flew out of the shed. Norma let out an agonizing cry, and Mom came running. Sis’s fingers had gotten jammed in the crevice and were totally crushed, so her parents rushed her to the hospital. Voila! Gray hairs #50 through #55. Fortunately, my sister escaped with no broken bones.
She probably didn’t cause any of Mom’s gray hairs with this one, but the imp in me just has to tell. When I came along, Norma was ten. At school, the nun patted her on the back and said how nice for her that she had a new baby sister. Norma muttered under her breath, “No, it’s not nice. I’m the baby of this family. I don’t want no bratty, bawling little sister.” She likely thought this for years, since she often got stuck chasing after me.
I hate to admit this, but my sister could have been dubbed a Robin Hood of her day. On a muggy August afternoon, she left the playground and took a shortcut home along the railroad tracks. As she passed by lush vegetable gardens, she couldn’t resist and ran over and plucked a few tomatoes from one yard, and then pulled carrots and grabbed corn from others. I imagine, since she was little and carried such a small bundle, no one minded or, at least, felt it wasn’t worth the effort to chase after her with a billy club. At first Mom’s face showed furrows, but then brightened into a smile. Although Sis had snatched vegetables from rich families, she offered them to her own poorer one, for which Mom was grateful. That night, they blissfully feasted on her bountiful gifts, ignoring their bare cupboards.
We both suffered from nightmares, though mine was always of flowing lava roaring down a hill, which startled me from a sound sleep. Hers were often of hunting for something lost—her music, a purse, or she couldn’t find her way home. She says now that the searching likely related to the absence of her biological father, even though she was only one when he took off. On a stroll home from school, she saw the back of a man’s head that looked familiar, so she ran up to him and asked, “Are you my daddy?” His startled look made her wonder why she did such a dumb thing—her words, not mine.
Yet she’s quite adamant about my dad being her dad. After all, Dad entered her life when she was so tiny. In fact, just recently when she visited the doctor, he asked her how her mother and father died. Without hesitation, she said, “Dad died from cirrhosis of the liver.” It wasn’t until she got home, flipped on the TV, and settled in her easy chair that it dawned on her; she told the physician about the one who raised her, not her biological father.
She and her older sister, Roi Jane, both contributed to Mom’s gray hairs when they jumped up and down on the bed and bombarded each other with pillows. Feathers flew when this wormy kid, Norma, fell against the wall and smashed right through, landing on the living room floor of the adjacent tenant. Imagine my sister’s surprise, not to mention Mom’s…well, you know. Come to find out, it wasn’t a wall at all. To stuff his wallet, the landlord had put up a thin partition making one unit into two.
When Sis came home early from grade school one day, she found the door locked. Since she had no key, she pounded frantically and yelled, “Let me in. Let me in.” When no one answered, she got scared and banged on the window. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces; blood gushed from her hand. Mother was next door and when she heard the screams, she ran to her daughter’s side. I’ll not mention the number of gray hairs here.
Norma was born during the Crash of 1929. She says they were poorer then, than when I grew up. One summer, she picked flowers at a vacant house that was surrounded by pillared two-story homes with lush trees and bushes neatly manicured. Then, she knocked on doors selling the bouquets for 5¢ a bunch. When she emptied her pockets on the kitchen table, the coins jangled like joyful bells honoring her contribution to their meager household.
Okay, enough of the little angel’s stories. The fact is, to this day, Norma isn’t fond of housework, but who is? She and her sister were responsible for most of the upkeep because both parents worked. When she was little, she got into trouble time and time again for not washing the dishes properly. On Saturday, Dad would go through the cupboards and inspect each cup and plate. If he found a scrap of food on just one, he insisted the girls redo all of them. Roi Jane nagged and scolded her younger sister’s neglect the whole time they rewashed and dried each and every piece.
Her favorite name for me was “little bugger.” Norma said she always had to lay down with me at my nap time. If she didn’t, she said, “The little bugger will be up in a flash and get into all sorts of trouble.” That may be true, but…..
On other occasions, she had no mercy for her little sister. She’d tickle my underarms, the back of my neck, bottoms of my feet, and anywhere in between. It didn’t matter where, I’d laugh so hard, I couldn’t catch my breath, sounding like a pig honking as I gasped for air and hollered for her to stop. But she kept it up until I thought I’d expire. All she had to do was come at me with those long fingers wiggling, which I still remember well, and I’d head for the hills or closet or wherever else I could escape her twitching fingers. Believe this, I got so tickled out as a child that now I’m just plain numb.
Like birds of a feather, Norma also ran away from home, but she was three. My great escape didn’t come about until I turned five. Another similarity is that when she was found, she had stripped along the way and stood in the road plumb-naked. After that, Dad tethered her to a tree, so she couldn’t wander off. My sister and I may be birds of a feather, but if I’d been around at the time, this tenacious baby sister would have taught her how to untie the dang rope.
THE LIGHTS OF CHRISTMAS
I can't bellieve it.......I posted this article on their website for review on October 8, 2010, and they finally decided to publish it. If you want to see their website and this story, go to more.com/stories; otherwise, you can read it here and now.
3/18/2011
The Lights of Christmas
Why do we drag those tangled strings of lights out every Christmas? What is the meaning behind all that backbreaking labor it takes to wrap porch rails, adorn bushes, and wind hundreds of lights around evergreen trees? Are we gluttons for punishment, desiring to pay exorbitant electric bills?
We decorate our homes inside and out. The streets are bright with flickering lights, as are the retail stores that proclaim anything goes when it comes to decorating for the holiday. Anything, that is, to get shoppers’ dollars to go cha-ching in their cash registers. So, what’s really behind this widely accepted tradition? Does today’s excessive use of lights signify something else, a possible hidden meaning?
Christians celebrate what is said to be the true meaning of Christmas—the birth of Jesus. They honor the story of Joseph and Mary looking for shelter at an inn, but the only room is a stable where the Son of God is born on a bed of straw, surrounded by shepherds, angels, sheep and other livestock.
This tradition is carried on today by placing a nativity scene under the tree. Our family displayed such a scene, which included large, intricately painted porcelain figurines. However, one year we felt compelled to remove St. Joseph from the manger and bury the statue upside down in the backyard. We were told that this ritual would sell our home, which had lingered on the market for months. I have to tell you that it did work. However, when we moved in the dead of winter, absolutely no amount of effort could pry that figure from the frozen ground.
In earlier days, the holiday tradition began with the simple display of a Christmas tree, which dates back to Germany in the 16th century. When that first tree hit American soil is still controversial. According to wikipedia.org, in 1777, a Hessian soldier put up a tree while imprisoned at the Noden-Reed House. In prison? Really! I continued to read that Mathew Zahm of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, set one in place in 1821. That seemed more believable. But then, in another sentence, Charles Follen, a German immigrant, is credited as being the first to display a Christmas tree.
It was also recorded that in 1842 Charles Minnegarade decorated the first tree at St. George Tucker’s home. So now we know when and where it all began, right? Okay, it’s not exactly clear, but, one thing we know is that all of this led up to our extravagant lighting and decorating of Christmas trees.
Again with Wikipedia’s help, I found that strings of lights could be traced back to December 22, 1882. Then, Edward H. Johnson was proclaimed the Father of Electric Christmas Tree Lights when he lit up his own tree with the first hand-wired, 80 incandescent red, white and blue, walnut-sized electric light bulbs. Of course, it might be noted here that he was also an associate of Thomas Edison and vice president of the Edison Electric Light Company.
Soon, retailers began stringing Christmas lights around the inside of windows. However, the exorbitant cost was prohibitive for the average family until 1930. So when did these strings of lights become affordable enough to adorn our mantles, doorways, roofs and porch rails? Can you believe? It wasn’t until the mid 1950s. That’s when it started. That’s when our society went bonkers, each neighbor trying to outdo the other.
After that, it seems, Christmas decorating became extremely materialistic. Homeowners succumbed to retail propaganda and began stringing lights around roof edges. I think of this is a fad, which isn’t really pleasing, nor does it give that warm, fuzzy feeling I associate with Christmas. Think about it. It shows off bent and rusted gutters and emphasizes all those missing shingles. Besides, it takes away from the softness of twinkling lights adorning bushes, and reindeer bobbing on the front lawn. So, put away that rickety ladder. It will not only save dollars, it might save a trip to the emergency room.
In Illinois, it became a tradition for our family to drive across town in mid-December in our sort of heated car, bundled up in coats, hats and mittens, just to see a particular subdivision’s spectacular Christmas array. With my children in tow and later my grandchildren, I pointed out Santa, a manger scene, or a Disney talking character. The little ones planted their noses up against the frosted inside window to get a closer look. I admit it was a thrill for me too, hearing their giggles, listening to their bursts of excitement, and seeing their little faces light up. And, yes, we even enjoyed the glowing roof gutters.
In December, while living in a Chicago suburb, I marched outside and pounded a wooden snowman and reindeer into the frozen ground, and then strung lights around the evergreen and porch rail. I might add, ending up with numb toes and fingers. Now I live in California, so you’d think I’d go all out. But the first Christmas here, when my grandchildren hopped out of the car and didn’t notice my labored outside display, I said to myself, “You’ve got to be kidding?” Since then, I’ve opted for simple indoor decorations. That is, if you call eight huge Rubbermaid boxes full of Christmas decorations and two full-sized trees simple. I’d say it’s time to pare down more. Hey! I’m no spring chicken, you know.
Just the same, I doubt you can ever take the kid out of the grownup at Christmastime. I discovered this recently when I hopped on a boat to cruise around a parade of brightly lit boats at Newport Harbor. My usual scowl turned into a smiley face observing the helium-filled Santas, pelicans, snowmen and, of course, Rudolph. The air was cold, the wind brisk, and my fingers froze. Yes! In California. Thank goodness I remembered my mothballed winter coat with the hoody, but this idiot, who spent most of her life in Illinois’ frigid winters, of all things forgot gloves.
Recently, a commercial on TV showed real snow carted into California on a hot December day. The winter wonderland surrounded a Lotto winner’s house. My thought was if you want to play in the snow, take a drive to the mountains. Or, as my mother would say, “You’re throwing your money away.” This time, I’d have to agree with her, though I hardly ever did.
Perhaps these festivities keep our spirits up, perhaps we’ve gotten a bit fanatical, or perhaps we’re obsessed with outdoing our neighbor. However, my bet is that it goes beyond that.
"Hey, it’s Christmas,” you say. “That’s what we do; don’t be such a Scrooge.”
Yet, when the days grow short and the nights long, aren’t we really stringing all those lights to prolong the day and ward off the night? Maybe it’s to honor the birth of Christ, or maybe it’s simply to celebrate the holiday. But, stand up and be counted if you also string those lights because you’re just plain scared of the dark.
3/18/2011
The Lights of Christmas
Why do we drag those tangled strings of lights out every Christmas? What is the meaning behind all that backbreaking labor it takes to wrap porch rails, adorn bushes, and wind hundreds of lights around evergreen trees? Are we gluttons for punishment, desiring to pay exorbitant electric bills?
We decorate our homes inside and out. The streets are bright with flickering lights, as are the retail stores that proclaim anything goes when it comes to decorating for the holiday. Anything, that is, to get shoppers’ dollars to go cha-ching in their cash registers. So, what’s really behind this widely accepted tradition? Does today’s excessive use of lights signify something else, a possible hidden meaning?
Christians celebrate what is said to be the true meaning of Christmas—the birth of Jesus. They honor the story of Joseph and Mary looking for shelter at an inn, but the only room is a stable where the Son of God is born on a bed of straw, surrounded by shepherds, angels, sheep and other livestock.
This tradition is carried on today by placing a nativity scene under the tree. Our family displayed such a scene, which included large, intricately painted porcelain figurines. However, one year we felt compelled to remove St. Joseph from the manger and bury the statue upside down in the backyard. We were told that this ritual would sell our home, which had lingered on the market for months. I have to tell you that it did work. However, when we moved in the dead of winter, absolutely no amount of effort could pry that figure from the frozen ground.
In earlier days, the holiday tradition began with the simple display of a Christmas tree, which dates back to Germany in the 16th century. When that first tree hit American soil is still controversial. According to wikipedia.org, in 1777, a Hessian soldier put up a tree while imprisoned at the Noden-Reed House. In prison? Really! I continued to read that Mathew Zahm of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, set one in place in 1821. That seemed more believable. But then, in another sentence, Charles Follen, a German immigrant, is credited as being the first to display a Christmas tree.
It was also recorded that in 1842 Charles Minnegarade decorated the first tree at St. George Tucker’s home. So now we know when and where it all began, right? Okay, it’s not exactly clear, but, one thing we know is that all of this led up to our extravagant lighting and decorating of Christmas trees.
Again with Wikipedia’s help, I found that strings of lights could be traced back to December 22, 1882. Then, Edward H. Johnson was proclaimed the Father of Electric Christmas Tree Lights when he lit up his own tree with the first hand-wired, 80 incandescent red, white and blue, walnut-sized electric light bulbs. Of course, it might be noted here that he was also an associate of Thomas Edison and vice president of the Edison Electric Light Company.
Soon, retailers began stringing Christmas lights around the inside of windows. However, the exorbitant cost was prohibitive for the average family until 1930. So when did these strings of lights become affordable enough to adorn our mantles, doorways, roofs and porch rails? Can you believe? It wasn’t until the mid 1950s. That’s when it started. That’s when our society went bonkers, each neighbor trying to outdo the other.
After that, it seems, Christmas decorating became extremely materialistic. Homeowners succumbed to retail propaganda and began stringing lights around roof edges. I think of this is a fad, which isn’t really pleasing, nor does it give that warm, fuzzy feeling I associate with Christmas. Think about it. It shows off bent and rusted gutters and emphasizes all those missing shingles. Besides, it takes away from the softness of twinkling lights adorning bushes, and reindeer bobbing on the front lawn. So, put away that rickety ladder. It will not only save dollars, it might save a trip to the emergency room.
In Illinois, it became a tradition for our family to drive across town in mid-December in our sort of heated car, bundled up in coats, hats and mittens, just to see a particular subdivision’s spectacular Christmas array. With my children in tow and later my grandchildren, I pointed out Santa, a manger scene, or a Disney talking character. The little ones planted their noses up against the frosted inside window to get a closer look. I admit it was a thrill for me too, hearing their giggles, listening to their bursts of excitement, and seeing their little faces light up. And, yes, we even enjoyed the glowing roof gutters.
In December, while living in a Chicago suburb, I marched outside and pounded a wooden snowman and reindeer into the frozen ground, and then strung lights around the evergreen and porch rail. I might add, ending up with numb toes and fingers. Now I live in California, so you’d think I’d go all out. But the first Christmas here, when my grandchildren hopped out of the car and didn’t notice my labored outside display, I said to myself, “You’ve got to be kidding?” Since then, I’ve opted for simple indoor decorations. That is, if you call eight huge Rubbermaid boxes full of Christmas decorations and two full-sized trees simple. I’d say it’s time to pare down more. Hey! I’m no spring chicken, you know.
Just the same, I doubt you can ever take the kid out of the grownup at Christmastime. I discovered this recently when I hopped on a boat to cruise around a parade of brightly lit boats at Newport Harbor. My usual scowl turned into a smiley face observing the helium-filled Santas, pelicans, snowmen and, of course, Rudolph. The air was cold, the wind brisk, and my fingers froze. Yes! In California. Thank goodness I remembered my mothballed winter coat with the hoody, but this idiot, who spent most of her life in Illinois’ frigid winters, of all things forgot gloves.
Recently, a commercial on TV showed real snow carted into California on a hot December day. The winter wonderland surrounded a Lotto winner’s house. My thought was if you want to play in the snow, take a drive to the mountains. Or, as my mother would say, “You’re throwing your money away.” This time, I’d have to agree with her, though I hardly ever did.
Perhaps these festivities keep our spirits up, perhaps we’ve gotten a bit fanatical, or perhaps we’re obsessed with outdoing our neighbor. However, my bet is that it goes beyond that.
"Hey, it’s Christmas,” you say. “That’s what we do; don’t be such a Scrooge.”
Yet, when the days grow short and the nights long, aren’t we really stringing all those lights to prolong the day and ward off the night? Maybe it’s to honor the birth of Christ, or maybe it’s simply to celebrate the holiday. But, stand up and be counted if you also string those lights because you’re just plain scared of the dark.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Remembering John
John and I met in high school. Inseparable in our senior year, we began steady dating and exchanged class rings. He was named the class joker in our yearbook, a label he loved, which followed him throughout his life. He was a card, all right. No matter what gathering we attended, he always came up with jokes. I don’t know how he could recall them all; I could never think of even one. He might start out spinning his rambling yarn, causing many yawns; but at the punch line, nearly everyone choked up with side-splitting guffaws.
After high school, we married and settled down to raise our two little ones, who popped in one right after the other. However, the marriage lasted less than five years. Eventually, the boys and I went our own way. John remarried and started a new family. With two sons in common, we put our differences aside. His wife even invited me to a ladies night out slumber party that was a blast.
After awhile, John’s family moved away and for many years, I lost track of him, only hearing bits and pieces about his life. At one time, they lived in Wisconsin and he became a preacher of sorts, I think. He struggled with hanging onto a job, quit a number of them, and then sat back and let his wife pay the bills. That characteristic never changed.
Later, John and his family settled in California. His wife, Pat, and I kept in contact over the years, and became friends. The pair had their spats. She even left him on more than one occasion, but she had such a big heart, she always went back.
We met up at our 50th Class Reunion, and there, she shared pictures of their great find, a fixer-upper home in California, which convinced me that I, too, might head for the sunny state.
When I did relocate to an inland valley of California, Pat and John lived close by and aided me in every way they could. My dog, Mikey, and I stayed with them for three weeks before my house was ready. Pat helped me learn my way around town, even lent me her car, and John had many suggestions and, of course, jokes to contribute.
I got to know him in a different light after moving here. The three of us got together often to play cards, hold yard sales, or to attend their club’s activities, though occasionally John and I would get into it. He loved to irritate people, often throwing politics into the mix. However, when I fired back and told him there’d be no political talk in my house, he quieted down. We had our own unique way of getting along, it seemed, and I looked forward to many more good times with the pair. After all, I hadn’t lived here three full years yet.
When I got the hysterical call, I couldn’t even make out who was on the other end of the phone. Not until I heard her say, “I think John’s dead,” did I realize it was Pat. I rushed over, but there was nothing to be done except comfort her. John was gone. Pat cried so hard, so much, and for so long that I worried about her well-being. Still do. It was not a time I want to remember, but I can’t forget. Somehow, this vibrant man, who was a few months younger than I, had suffered a heart attack while home alone. It must have happened quickly, because he sat fully clothed on his bed, leaning up against the headboard with the TV on. It didn’t look like he’d even reached for the bedside phone.
Pat’s family surrounds her now, as she deals with the loss. Her daughter took her back to Anaheim to stay with her. She insisted her mother not be left alone in that house. I not only mourn the loss of one friend, but my heart tells me that Pat will likely move closer to her two daughters now, a two-hour drive from here.
At their house, Pat had nearly every family member alive with her, even a two-week old great-granddaughter from Florida. My son and his family from the Palm Springs area were also there. My son is fortunate in that he can claim two moms. The house was bulging at the seams—something not likely to occur when I leave this world, not that I’ll know or even care.
I mourn alone, because John and I haven’t been a couple in nearly half a century. Still, I’m left with an empty space deep inside. He was a friend and the father of my two oldest sons. I’ll miss him, even his sometimes arduous jokes.
After high school, we married and settled down to raise our two little ones, who popped in one right after the other. However, the marriage lasted less than five years. Eventually, the boys and I went our own way. John remarried and started a new family. With two sons in common, we put our differences aside. His wife even invited me to a ladies night out slumber party that was a blast.
After awhile, John’s family moved away and for many years, I lost track of him, only hearing bits and pieces about his life. At one time, they lived in Wisconsin and he became a preacher of sorts, I think. He struggled with hanging onto a job, quit a number of them, and then sat back and let his wife pay the bills. That characteristic never changed.
Later, John and his family settled in California. His wife, Pat, and I kept in contact over the years, and became friends. The pair had their spats. She even left him on more than one occasion, but she had such a big heart, she always went back.
We met up at our 50th Class Reunion, and there, she shared pictures of their great find, a fixer-upper home in California, which convinced me that I, too, might head for the sunny state.
When I did relocate to an inland valley of California, Pat and John lived close by and aided me in every way they could. My dog, Mikey, and I stayed with them for three weeks before my house was ready. Pat helped me learn my way around town, even lent me her car, and John had many suggestions and, of course, jokes to contribute.
I got to know him in a different light after moving here. The three of us got together often to play cards, hold yard sales, or to attend their club’s activities, though occasionally John and I would get into it. He loved to irritate people, often throwing politics into the mix. However, when I fired back and told him there’d be no political talk in my house, he quieted down. We had our own unique way of getting along, it seemed, and I looked forward to many more good times with the pair. After all, I hadn’t lived here three full years yet.
When I got the hysterical call, I couldn’t even make out who was on the other end of the phone. Not until I heard her say, “I think John’s dead,” did I realize it was Pat. I rushed over, but there was nothing to be done except comfort her. John was gone. Pat cried so hard, so much, and for so long that I worried about her well-being. Still do. It was not a time I want to remember, but I can’t forget. Somehow, this vibrant man, who was a few months younger than I, had suffered a heart attack while home alone. It must have happened quickly, because he sat fully clothed on his bed, leaning up against the headboard with the TV on. It didn’t look like he’d even reached for the bedside phone.
Pat’s family surrounds her now, as she deals with the loss. Her daughter took her back to Anaheim to stay with her. She insisted her mother not be left alone in that house. I not only mourn the loss of one friend, but my heart tells me that Pat will likely move closer to her two daughters now, a two-hour drive from here.
At their house, Pat had nearly every family member alive with her, even a two-week old great-granddaughter from Florida. My son and his family from the Palm Springs area were also there. My son is fortunate in that he can claim two moms. The house was bulging at the seams—something not likely to occur when I leave this world, not that I’ll know or even care.
I mourn alone, because John and I haven’t been a couple in nearly half a century. Still, I’m left with an empty space deep inside. He was a friend and the father of my two oldest sons. I’ll miss him, even his sometimes arduous jokes.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
TV, Changing Status Quo (nonfiction article)
“Gotta’ watch Oprah.” “Can’t miss Survivor.” “What was that about plastic bottles?” “Where was that earthquake?” Do you live with TV “as is” or simply walk away and live without it? TV provides a break from our daily strife; it’s useful for learning and discovering the world. It’s an amiable distraction and a cheap form of entertainment. That’s why we can’t live without it. Admit it; we’re hooked!
However, there are reasons to despise television, to want to change the status quo. Perhaps the biggest reason is being bombarded with commercials and their uncensored volume spikes. Yet, the list doesn’t end there. What about the once-upon-a-time movie nights, or the short six-week time slots allotted to the regular shows these days? Aren’t we being dollared to death by the cable and satellite companies for all those little extras? And, haven’t we all felt agitated by being forced to watch a deluge of information on one overdone topic?
Enough already. The anchors rush to the sight and give a play by play description, like Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Although a horrific story, the news stations jumped on this disaster sending Katie Couric, Diane Sawyer and Lester Holt, to name a few. Weren’t there enough assigned reporters already on the scene? Some viewers liked seeing their favorite newsperson. However, many more abhorred their blatant disrespect, like when the bodies lay strewn all around, and an anchor person appeared “in high heels and earrings.” Did those headline hunters seek humanity or ratings?
And, right along with their brazen reportage, we were attacked by commercials before, during and after their five minutes of fame. What about all the time wasted on ads? It seems this phenomenon has gone bonkers since the golden age of “Father Knows Best” and “Leave It to Beaver.” Today, even the nightly newscasters advertise what they are going to say before they say it.
You’ve seen it. The newsperson comes on and gives a ten second spiel of what she’ll talk about and then you hear “…coming up right after the break.” And, off we go to commercial land. Now, if you took this opportunity to let the dog out, as I do, by the time you return, you’ll discover that the all-important news flash has long since vanished. Instead, you’ll be informed of what the next blip is and off you’ll go to la-la, ad-land again.
While these ads play out, you think, time to put on the PJs, brush your teeth, or whatever else you do before propping up the pillow and settling in for what’s left of the news. What? “Where was that robbery? Who saved the day?” And so you pull the blanket over your head and drift off, wondering, why did I even bother?
Sometimes I also revolt when the news gives too little coverage, like the night I was jarred awake at 4:00 A.M, sat up, and shot daggers at my dog lying at the end of the bed. I started to scold him for interrupting my sleep when I felt the thump, thump again. He hadn’t moved. That’s when it hit me—Earthquake!
I watched the morning, noon, and suppertime news. Nothing! No mention of an earthquake. I considered that I might have imagined the whole thing until that night. As I readied myself again for some much needed slumber, I heard the newsman state, “A 4.3 earthquake rocked the Inland Empire around 4:00 A.M.—no damage reported.”
What? That’s it? Did I miss their earlier broadcasts? Nooo! My neighbors also devoured the news that day and finally caught the blip on the late night news. This was the only mention of our sleep shattering earthquake. Not important enough to give us little ole humans a full minute or two of coverage. Nope!
On the other hand, when a 5.4 earthquake hit Borrego Springs, California, the newscasters couldn’t stop talking about it and squeezed every last can that fell off a shelf into its reporting. Of course, I admit, that one was a wee bit stronger.
Another night I heard a newscaster mention power outages and bottled water which, naturally, “…will be coming up after these words from our sponsor.” I am still wondering if that was something important, something I should have heard. But, I didn’t catch the ten-second blip because I flushed the toilet.
As for holding first place honors, commercials are on top of my complaint list. I’ve actually kept notes on the length of them verses show time. Some lasted as long as six minutes, followed by four minutes of drama, three more minutes of advertising, back to six minutes of show time. Well, you get the gist. I spent hours on these notes, but rather than dive into my waterless pool, I decided to shred them. Way too depressing. Just the same, we are forced to live with these time-zapping ads, at least those of us who can still stomach the boob tube.
Another true, but disheartening fact is that today’s hour-long shows, the ones we dearly love and follow, appear on TV for only six to eight weeks and then disappear. You know, CSI, Gray’s Anatomy, The Mentalist, Survivor and—(your favorite here). By mid-January some come back for another six weeks and then they’re gone— kaput for the season, and we’re in for—yep—reruns, leaving many to wile away the summer with Solitaire, Frisbee, or nail biting.
If you are a movie buff as I am, you probably notice that hardly any good movies appear on TV anymore. One solution would be to chip in an extra forty to eighty bucks for the pay channels. At least then, you’ll avoid that guy screaming, “CALL US FAST. THIS OFFER WON’T LAST.” That’s why you’re watching that commercial-free movie, right? But wait! You already saw it at the theater or rented it from Netflac. Or is it Aflix?
So, you flip to another pay channel and Voila! It’s a film you haven’t seen. However, it’s way out there, trash, or, you think, I’d be better off watching the squirrels forage for their winter stash. But then, you remember you live in southern California and haven’t seen a squirrel in years.
Occasionally, a Sunday night movie appears on the regular channels—the ones you don’t have to pay extra for, but loaded with commercials. However, that’s maybe, once every two or three months and usually it’s a Hallmark movie. “God bless Hallmark!” Heck! I even like their commercials. Maybe I’ve become brainwashed. So? Hallmark’s commercials are okay by me.
Have you seen that commercial where you can hang the TV on the wall? Now there’s an advertisement after my own heart. I say go ahead, show it off; hang that TV on the wall. After the trillions of ads you’ve watched, you earned the trophy.
Is it my imagination or are those commercial gurus trying to outdo each other by pumping up the volume? Sure, there’s a gadget available to adjust the volume. However, I’m not an advocate of spending my hard-earned cash on more gadgets. In fact, I think the networks should adjust their volume to please their viewers. If they won’t, then we should lobby for stiffer regulations. In the meantime, I turn the volume down at each commercial and back up to hear Simon Baker’s witty remarks. Even my Shih Tzu barks at the TV when the commercials get too loud. Sometimes, when there’s a doorbell sound on the TV, he darts to the front of the house, yipping and pawing at the door. So, I keep the remote in hand, finger poised on the volume—down, up, down, up. Maybe, I could try out for the most limber index finger contest.
Do you ever feel dollared to death by TV’s cagey providers? You’ve got to know they have upped their profits immensely by attaching separate fees to the Box, HD, extended basic, movie channels, Pay-for-View and—one more—the remote. Maybe you don’t mind these extra charges. After all, it allows you to record a bunch of shows while watching movies commercial free. Hah! But don’t forget, any package you choose likely includes those like ABC, CBS, NBC—the ones that carry the local news. And, these come complete with—Dah, tah, dah, tah, dah—Commercials.
TV should work like a computer where a person is only charged for the power and internet connection. Then for a one-time charge, the gadget inventors could add a tiny button that would delete all those annoying commercials. (I’d buy that gadget.) Lacking this, the sponsors could agree to shorter, five-second blips…say, twice a year. Wishful thinking, right? As a matter of fact, the advertisers will probably want to censor this article for even suggesting it.
My advice is to keep a book or magazine handy to read during those ads, play Solitaire on your laptop, think of TV as background noise, or pull the plug. Of course, you could just ignore the problem; maybe it will go away. (Kind of like how many people deal with politicians.) However, if you don’t want to settle for whatever the networks decide to dole out, then complain. Gather up your friends, relatives, even enemies and send lots of emails to all the networks and congress. If enough speak out, they will listen. (Kind of like, if you build it, they will come.) Okay, I’ll climb down off my soapbox now. Besides, it’s time for “Survivor.”
However, there are reasons to despise television, to want to change the status quo. Perhaps the biggest reason is being bombarded with commercials and their uncensored volume spikes. Yet, the list doesn’t end there. What about the once-upon-a-time movie nights, or the short six-week time slots allotted to the regular shows these days? Aren’t we being dollared to death by the cable and satellite companies for all those little extras? And, haven’t we all felt agitated by being forced to watch a deluge of information on one overdone topic?
Enough already. The anchors rush to the sight and give a play by play description, like Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Although a horrific story, the news stations jumped on this disaster sending Katie Couric, Diane Sawyer and Lester Holt, to name a few. Weren’t there enough assigned reporters already on the scene? Some viewers liked seeing their favorite newsperson. However, many more abhorred their blatant disrespect, like when the bodies lay strewn all around, and an anchor person appeared “in high heels and earrings.” Did those headline hunters seek humanity or ratings?
And, right along with their brazen reportage, we were attacked by commercials before, during and after their five minutes of fame. What about all the time wasted on ads? It seems this phenomenon has gone bonkers since the golden age of “Father Knows Best” and “Leave It to Beaver.” Today, even the nightly newscasters advertise what they are going to say before they say it.
You’ve seen it. The newsperson comes on and gives a ten second spiel of what she’ll talk about and then you hear “…coming up right after the break.” And, off we go to commercial land. Now, if you took this opportunity to let the dog out, as I do, by the time you return, you’ll discover that the all-important news flash has long since vanished. Instead, you’ll be informed of what the next blip is and off you’ll go to la-la, ad-land again.
While these ads play out, you think, time to put on the PJs, brush your teeth, or whatever else you do before propping up the pillow and settling in for what’s left of the news. What? “Where was that robbery? Who saved the day?” And so you pull the blanket over your head and drift off, wondering, why did I even bother?
Sometimes I also revolt when the news gives too little coverage, like the night I was jarred awake at 4:00 A.M, sat up, and shot daggers at my dog lying at the end of the bed. I started to scold him for interrupting my sleep when I felt the thump, thump again. He hadn’t moved. That’s when it hit me—Earthquake!
I watched the morning, noon, and suppertime news. Nothing! No mention of an earthquake. I considered that I might have imagined the whole thing until that night. As I readied myself again for some much needed slumber, I heard the newsman state, “A 4.3 earthquake rocked the Inland Empire around 4:00 A.M.—no damage reported.”
What? That’s it? Did I miss their earlier broadcasts? Nooo! My neighbors also devoured the news that day and finally caught the blip on the late night news. This was the only mention of our sleep shattering earthquake. Not important enough to give us little ole humans a full minute or two of coverage. Nope!
On the other hand, when a 5.4 earthquake hit Borrego Springs, California, the newscasters couldn’t stop talking about it and squeezed every last can that fell off a shelf into its reporting. Of course, I admit, that one was a wee bit stronger.
Another night I heard a newscaster mention power outages and bottled water which, naturally, “…will be coming up after these words from our sponsor.” I am still wondering if that was something important, something I should have heard. But, I didn’t catch the ten-second blip because I flushed the toilet.
As for holding first place honors, commercials are on top of my complaint list. I’ve actually kept notes on the length of them verses show time. Some lasted as long as six minutes, followed by four minutes of drama, three more minutes of advertising, back to six minutes of show time. Well, you get the gist. I spent hours on these notes, but rather than dive into my waterless pool, I decided to shred them. Way too depressing. Just the same, we are forced to live with these time-zapping ads, at least those of us who can still stomach the boob tube.
Another true, but disheartening fact is that today’s hour-long shows, the ones we dearly love and follow, appear on TV for only six to eight weeks and then disappear. You know, CSI, Gray’s Anatomy, The Mentalist, Survivor and—(your favorite here). By mid-January some come back for another six weeks and then they’re gone— kaput for the season, and we’re in for—yep—reruns, leaving many to wile away the summer with Solitaire, Frisbee, or nail biting.
If you are a movie buff as I am, you probably notice that hardly any good movies appear on TV anymore. One solution would be to chip in an extra forty to eighty bucks for the pay channels. At least then, you’ll avoid that guy screaming, “CALL US FAST. THIS OFFER WON’T LAST.” That’s why you’re watching that commercial-free movie, right? But wait! You already saw it at the theater or rented it from Netflac. Or is it Aflix?
So, you flip to another pay channel and Voila! It’s a film you haven’t seen. However, it’s way out there, trash, or, you think, I’d be better off watching the squirrels forage for their winter stash. But then, you remember you live in southern California and haven’t seen a squirrel in years.
Occasionally, a Sunday night movie appears on the regular channels—the ones you don’t have to pay extra for, but loaded with commercials. However, that’s maybe, once every two or three months and usually it’s a Hallmark movie. “God bless Hallmark!” Heck! I even like their commercials. Maybe I’ve become brainwashed. So? Hallmark’s commercials are okay by me.
Have you seen that commercial where you can hang the TV on the wall? Now there’s an advertisement after my own heart. I say go ahead, show it off; hang that TV on the wall. After the trillions of ads you’ve watched, you earned the trophy.
Is it my imagination or are those commercial gurus trying to outdo each other by pumping up the volume? Sure, there’s a gadget available to adjust the volume. However, I’m not an advocate of spending my hard-earned cash on more gadgets. In fact, I think the networks should adjust their volume to please their viewers. If they won’t, then we should lobby for stiffer regulations. In the meantime, I turn the volume down at each commercial and back up to hear Simon Baker’s witty remarks. Even my Shih Tzu barks at the TV when the commercials get too loud. Sometimes, when there’s a doorbell sound on the TV, he darts to the front of the house, yipping and pawing at the door. So, I keep the remote in hand, finger poised on the volume—down, up, down, up. Maybe, I could try out for the most limber index finger contest.
Do you ever feel dollared to death by TV’s cagey providers? You’ve got to know they have upped their profits immensely by attaching separate fees to the Box, HD, extended basic, movie channels, Pay-for-View and—one more—the remote. Maybe you don’t mind these extra charges. After all, it allows you to record a bunch of shows while watching movies commercial free. Hah! But don’t forget, any package you choose likely includes those like ABC, CBS, NBC—the ones that carry the local news. And, these come complete with—Dah, tah, dah, tah, dah—Commercials.
TV should work like a computer where a person is only charged for the power and internet connection. Then for a one-time charge, the gadget inventors could add a tiny button that would delete all those annoying commercials. (I’d buy that gadget.) Lacking this, the sponsors could agree to shorter, five-second blips…say, twice a year. Wishful thinking, right? As a matter of fact, the advertisers will probably want to censor this article for even suggesting it.
My advice is to keep a book or magazine handy to read during those ads, play Solitaire on your laptop, think of TV as background noise, or pull the plug. Of course, you could just ignore the problem; maybe it will go away. (Kind of like how many people deal with politicians.) However, if you don’t want to settle for whatever the networks decide to dole out, then complain. Gather up your friends, relatives, even enemies and send lots of emails to all the networks and congress. If enough speak out, they will listen. (Kind of like, if you build it, they will come.) Okay, I’ll climb down off my soapbox now. Besides, it’s time for “Survivor.”
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Can I Go Home Again?
I didn’t realize how long I’d be gone when I said my goodbyes. I stepped into the limo on a frigid November day that breezed along Illinois’ back roads where I gazed at dried up cornstalks while leaning back in the maroon leather seat. I breathed a sigh of relief at leaving the brittle cold behind.
At the airport, I trudged through the long, noisy halls, weaving through crowds and carrying my trusted fifteen-pound companion. The strap from his case dug into one shoulder, while my overstuffed bag hung off the other, which somewhat balanced the weight. I only needed to hike a mile or so more to reach my terminal. From there, the steel bird would deliver my dog, Mikey, and me to our new home on the West Coast.
Of course, it wasn’t as easy as I made it sound. For one thing, it took two flights to reach our destination. At the first stop, we made a long trek through Atlanta’s airport, and a risky dash across a busy street to find a smidgeon of grass for my dog’s much needed potty break. Afterward, I literally had to shove him back in his case. I also stood in a long line again, removed my shoes and placed them back on the conveyor belt along with Mikey’s case and my purse. Finally, we headed down the forever corridors and found our gate—just in the nick of time.
But it’s been nearly three years, and I still can’t imagine when I’ll be able to visit family and friends back in my hometown. When I left, my youngest grandchild only stood as tall as my waist; other grandkids were up to my shoulders. Now, all have sprouted a foot or more. One grandson has even passed the six-foot mark. I was amazed to hear of his numerous accomplishments on the phone recently, so I asked, “Is there anything you’re not good at?”
The twelve-year-old replied: “I guess I’m not good at being short, Grandma.” (Poor kid, I was once the tallest in class, but not anywhere near that tall.)
On another phone conversation, this time with my youngest granddaughter, she asked, “Are you ever coming back to see us, Grandma?” Dumbfounded, the only thing I could say was I wanted to. I felt bad that I couldn’t even guess when that would be. She couldn’t possibly understand the many hurdles I needed to overcome.
First, there would be the matter of my Shih Tzu. He was so traumatized by the uprooting and plane ride that I wouldn’t have the heart to repeat it. Now he even dislikes traveling to the pet store. Any disruption in his routine sets him off. He barks incessantly when someone knocks at the door. He’ll even follow a person to the bathroom barking outside the door until the visitor returns to the living room and “sits and stays.”
He cowers in a corner if I take him to a friend’s house and won’t eat or drink if I leave him for a few days. Not to mention, whenever he’s not in his own environment, his nose runs non-stop. I have to follow him around with a tissue to catch the drips before they end up on an unsuspecting person’s recently installed carpet.
Perhaps, I could overcome this stumbling block, but I also have to take into con-sideration that there’s little money left after doling out my meager Social Security check, especially after the stock market guzzled up my retirement account. The plane fare alone could bankrupt me, but not being close to an airport would also call for limo fare, probably at both ends and, of course, both ways. However, Visa would surely love me.
I haven’t had a firm offer from my family back in Illinois to stay with them, so I might need a rental car and hotel accommodations, not to mention the all-important necessity—food. That adds up to way over a thousand smackeroos. What? That can’t be; so I go over the figures again. Yet, if I leave caution out of the equation, I could lose my home—that is, sooner rather than later.
Then there’s the hassle of trying to coordinate my two children’s schedules. That’s two families living two hours apart, both leading crazy lives—vacations, hobbies, dogs, relatives, work schedules, even a special needs child. The grandkids might be off to school, summer camp, or baseball practice. It’s likely I wouldn’t see much of them anyway. Besides, as quickly as I appear, I’ll disappear again. Would it be worth it? Would the grandkids hate me for showing up, and then just as quickly vanishing into the stratosphere? Sometimes, I think it might be better to just stay away.
When I think of the grandkids, I recall walking them to the park and pushing them on a swing, or sitting at the kitchen table making cookies and pies out of Play Dough. Most are teenagers now. What would we do together, and why in the world would they want to hang out with Grandma?
I miss my friends, too. We had such fun shopping, dining out, and carrying on like we were giddy school girls. But they’re not likely to be sitting around waiting for me to suddenly show up. In fact, I barely hear from them anymore.
So, the question remains: can I go home again? Or, did I say goodbye forever? I hope it’s the former. To be fair, I do have friends and a son and his family living within an hour’s drive of me, and I’m grateful for that. Still, I miss everyone back home, especially the grand-children.
If these Illinois grandkids were standing in a crowd at the airport waiting for me to disembark, could I even spot them—or they me? Oh, I’m sure I’ll recognize them even if I have to strain my neck to find those familiar faces bobbing above their parents’ heads. And, they’ll know me, too, even with my added layer of wrinkles, gray hairs, and flabby middle. Perhaps, I’ll need to drag along a footstool, so I can get a proper hug from these “little” ones. Hmm, maybe it would be worth all the hurdles and hassles. What do you say?
At the airport, I trudged through the long, noisy halls, weaving through crowds and carrying my trusted fifteen-pound companion. The strap from his case dug into one shoulder, while my overstuffed bag hung off the other, which somewhat balanced the weight. I only needed to hike a mile or so more to reach my terminal. From there, the steel bird would deliver my dog, Mikey, and me to our new home on the West Coast.
Of course, it wasn’t as easy as I made it sound. For one thing, it took two flights to reach our destination. At the first stop, we made a long trek through Atlanta’s airport, and a risky dash across a busy street to find a smidgeon of grass for my dog’s much needed potty break. Afterward, I literally had to shove him back in his case. I also stood in a long line again, removed my shoes and placed them back on the conveyor belt along with Mikey’s case and my purse. Finally, we headed down the forever corridors and found our gate—just in the nick of time.
But it’s been nearly three years, and I still can’t imagine when I’ll be able to visit family and friends back in my hometown. When I left, my youngest grandchild only stood as tall as my waist; other grandkids were up to my shoulders. Now, all have sprouted a foot or more. One grandson has even passed the six-foot mark. I was amazed to hear of his numerous accomplishments on the phone recently, so I asked, “Is there anything you’re not good at?”
The twelve-year-old replied: “I guess I’m not good at being short, Grandma.” (Poor kid, I was once the tallest in class, but not anywhere near that tall.)
On another phone conversation, this time with my youngest granddaughter, she asked, “Are you ever coming back to see us, Grandma?” Dumbfounded, the only thing I could say was I wanted to. I felt bad that I couldn’t even guess when that would be. She couldn’t possibly understand the many hurdles I needed to overcome.
First, there would be the matter of my Shih Tzu. He was so traumatized by the uprooting and plane ride that I wouldn’t have the heart to repeat it. Now he even dislikes traveling to the pet store. Any disruption in his routine sets him off. He barks incessantly when someone knocks at the door. He’ll even follow a person to the bathroom barking outside the door until the visitor returns to the living room and “sits and stays.”
He cowers in a corner if I take him to a friend’s house and won’t eat or drink if I leave him for a few days. Not to mention, whenever he’s not in his own environment, his nose runs non-stop. I have to follow him around with a tissue to catch the drips before they end up on an unsuspecting person’s recently installed carpet.
Perhaps, I could overcome this stumbling block, but I also have to take into con-sideration that there’s little money left after doling out my meager Social Security check, especially after the stock market guzzled up my retirement account. The plane fare alone could bankrupt me, but not being close to an airport would also call for limo fare, probably at both ends and, of course, both ways. However, Visa would surely love me.
I haven’t had a firm offer from my family back in Illinois to stay with them, so I might need a rental car and hotel accommodations, not to mention the all-important necessity—food. That adds up to way over a thousand smackeroos. What? That can’t be; so I go over the figures again. Yet, if I leave caution out of the equation, I could lose my home—that is, sooner rather than later.
Then there’s the hassle of trying to coordinate my two children’s schedules. That’s two families living two hours apart, both leading crazy lives—vacations, hobbies, dogs, relatives, work schedules, even a special needs child. The grandkids might be off to school, summer camp, or baseball practice. It’s likely I wouldn’t see much of them anyway. Besides, as quickly as I appear, I’ll disappear again. Would it be worth it? Would the grandkids hate me for showing up, and then just as quickly vanishing into the stratosphere? Sometimes, I think it might be better to just stay away.
When I think of the grandkids, I recall walking them to the park and pushing them on a swing, or sitting at the kitchen table making cookies and pies out of Play Dough. Most are teenagers now. What would we do together, and why in the world would they want to hang out with Grandma?
I miss my friends, too. We had such fun shopping, dining out, and carrying on like we were giddy school girls. But they’re not likely to be sitting around waiting for me to suddenly show up. In fact, I barely hear from them anymore.
So, the question remains: can I go home again? Or, did I say goodbye forever? I hope it’s the former. To be fair, I do have friends and a son and his family living within an hour’s drive of me, and I’m grateful for that. Still, I miss everyone back home, especially the grand-children.
If these Illinois grandkids were standing in a crowd at the airport waiting for me to disembark, could I even spot them—or they me? Oh, I’m sure I’ll recognize them even if I have to strain my neck to find those familiar faces bobbing above their parents’ heads. And, they’ll know me, too, even with my added layer of wrinkles, gray hairs, and flabby middle. Perhaps, I’ll need to drag along a footstool, so I can get a proper hug from these “little” ones. Hmm, maybe it would be worth all the hurdles and hassles. What do you say?
Monday, June 21, 2010
To Be Or Not To Be Wary (fiction)
“Are you looking for anyone in particular?” Alison asked, as she waltzed out of the clothing store loaded down with shopping bags.
“No, why?” Georgina whipped around from perusing the throngs of mall shoppers and added, “I was just passing the time waiting for you.”
“Well, you seemed quite intent on eyeing everyone who passed by.”
“I’m a people watcher.”
“Since when?”
“Okay, Jack says I don’t pay enough attention to what’s going on around me. He says I never notice when he gets a haircut, or when the neighbor lets his dog poop on our front lawn.” Alison threw her head back cackling. Then she glared into Georgina’s eyes.
“Well, I also read a newspaper article about people skulking around in public places, and how some might be planting bombs and how we, as citizens, should be more vigilant.” Georgina turned and nodded toward the bench in front of the mall’s grand fountain, “There! Doesn’t that man look suspicious?”
“No!” Alison sniggered. “He’s just sitting there with a bunch of packages, probably waiting for his shopaholic wife.” She tried to motion Georgina to follow as she started walking off. However, she was weighted down with bundles, so she turned and said, “Come on, let’s check out the shoe store.”
Georgina hastened to catch up, but stopped momentarily to glance back. She saw the man scrambling for the exit door. Her eyes immediately focused on the bench—the packages still sat underneath it.
“No, why?” Georgina whipped around from perusing the throngs of mall shoppers and added, “I was just passing the time waiting for you.”
“Well, you seemed quite intent on eyeing everyone who passed by.”
“I’m a people watcher.”
“Since when?”
“Okay, Jack says I don’t pay enough attention to what’s going on around me. He says I never notice when he gets a haircut, or when the neighbor lets his dog poop on our front lawn.” Alison threw her head back cackling. Then she glared into Georgina’s eyes.
“Well, I also read a newspaper article about people skulking around in public places, and how some might be planting bombs and how we, as citizens, should be more vigilant.” Georgina turned and nodded toward the bench in front of the mall’s grand fountain, “There! Doesn’t that man look suspicious?”
“No!” Alison sniggered. “He’s just sitting there with a bunch of packages, probably waiting for his shopaholic wife.” She tried to motion Georgina to follow as she started walking off. However, she was weighted down with bundles, so she turned and said, “Come on, let’s check out the shoe store.”
Georgina hastened to catch up, but stopped momentarily to glance back. She saw the man scrambling for the exit door. Her eyes immediately focused on the bench—the packages still sat underneath it.
No Fried Chicken? (Short Fiction story)
Three thousand habitable planets in the known universe, and I’m stuck on the only one without fried chicken. Gotta Havut couldn’t accept her own thoughts as she plodded down the cobblestone path. She stopped and raised her arms to the purple low-lying clouds and shouted, “Where now?” Then mumbled, “Doggone it! I don’t see any place here that might serve up some delectable fried chicken.” Gotta, still dressed in her illuminated silver space trousers, surveyed the hodgepodge of signs up and down the dingy street. She knew that the sun didn’t shine here, but couldn’t imagine this planet didn’t serve fried chicken.
She continued her quest, scanning the area. Then she noticed a narrow passageway. Maybe I can find a place at the other end of this alley, she thought. She crept between the rat-infested buildings and covered her nose, trying to keep out the rancid smells. Huge, heaped garbage containers lined both sides. The decaying odors of onions, garlic, tuna cans, and perhaps a backed up toilet permeated the air. She felt pebbles under her feet and a wetness seeping through her thin soles. She quickened her pace.
Then she smelled a familiar aroma. She turned, letting her nose guide her toward a dilapidated screen door. With her face planted against the rusty screen, she peered into a dark room. A towering bulbous-looking man jumped from the shadows wearing a blood-saturated apron. “What you looking at,” he growled
“Uh, uh, nothing, Sir. I smelled fried food and thought perhaps this was a restaurant.” The man folded his arms above his chubby belly. She went on, “I haven’t had any good food in a long time. I just came from spending three years on Mars where the only thing they ate was moldy green cheese freighted in from the moon.” She sighed. “What I really hanker for is fried chicken.”
“Well, come on in. We’ll see what we can scrounge up for you.” His belly visibly pumped up and down as he muzzled a laugh. Gotta wondered, is he poking fun at me? The doorway where the man planted his cooler-sized feet was six inches above the spongy ground she stood on, but her eyes seemed level with his belly where his apron strings tied. Underneath the apron, she noticed he wore a partially shredded tee shirt and matching, once-white trousers. She didn’t like the looks of him and thought: Maybe I should just get out of here.
Then the man said, “Well, are you comin’ in?” Gotta nearly tripped over her pointed slippers as she crossed one foot over the other inching away sideways. “Can’t keep the Misses waitin’ much longer,” he said. “Make up your mind…in or out?”
As he held the door open for Gotta to enter, two chickens skedaddled out the door, feathers flying—one chasing the other. A short rounded woman bounded out behind them with the biggest butcher knife Gotta had ever seen. The woman held it high above her head.
Gotta ducked as the gray-haired killer flew past. Only after the woman disappeared down the alley, did she stand up straight again. Then she took in a deliberate breath and said, “I think I’ll pass for…”
Gotta’s words stopped as she noticed a minute stream of light enter the dark room. Her eyes fixed on what looked like the remnants of fried chicken heaped on top of a garbage can just inside the door. She wiped away the drool at the edges of her mouth. Her saliva glands had jumped into overdrive. “Oh, all right,” she said, thinking this place might not be so bad after all. Anyhow, it was worth a peek.
She entered the tiny dark room. The squeaky screen door slammed behind her. She followed the thundering steps of the giant down the dark-paneled hall past a dreary and repulsive-smelling kitchen. Three cooks, wearing tattered, grayed aprons, busied themselves preparing various fares.
One lean Oriental man flipped what looked like watermelon burgers. Gotta’s eyes then shifted to the far end of the room where the plump lady again appeared chasing a headless chicken. The second cook scurried past, obscuring her view of the woman. He was carrying what appeared to be ostrich eggs. Then she noticed a third man shaking a wire basket full of… “Fried eyeballs?”
Gotta choked; she didn’t want to stick around to find out if what she saw was real. She turned on her heels and dashed back down the dark hall. As she shoved the screen door open, one of her slippers stuck on the metal edging. She didn’t stop. Instead, she hot-padded it back to her ship favoring the one slippered foot. She lasered the latch, climbed the cobweb-like ladder, strapped herself into the swing, and commanded the engine to commence. The spacecraft lifted, and then sped off into the celestial universe.
As Gotta Havut gazed out on the sparkling planets from her cockpit viewer, she mused: Maybe I’ll head for planet Earth. I heard a man named Kentucky serves fried chicken there.
She continued her quest, scanning the area. Then she noticed a narrow passageway. Maybe I can find a place at the other end of this alley, she thought. She crept between the rat-infested buildings and covered her nose, trying to keep out the rancid smells. Huge, heaped garbage containers lined both sides. The decaying odors of onions, garlic, tuna cans, and perhaps a backed up toilet permeated the air. She felt pebbles under her feet and a wetness seeping through her thin soles. She quickened her pace.
Then she smelled a familiar aroma. She turned, letting her nose guide her toward a dilapidated screen door. With her face planted against the rusty screen, she peered into a dark room. A towering bulbous-looking man jumped from the shadows wearing a blood-saturated apron. “What you looking at,” he growled
“Uh, uh, nothing, Sir. I smelled fried food and thought perhaps this was a restaurant.” The man folded his arms above his chubby belly. She went on, “I haven’t had any good food in a long time. I just came from spending three years on Mars where the only thing they ate was moldy green cheese freighted in from the moon.” She sighed. “What I really hanker for is fried chicken.”
“Well, come on in. We’ll see what we can scrounge up for you.” His belly visibly pumped up and down as he muzzled a laugh. Gotta wondered, is he poking fun at me? The doorway where the man planted his cooler-sized feet was six inches above the spongy ground she stood on, but her eyes seemed level with his belly where his apron strings tied. Underneath the apron, she noticed he wore a partially shredded tee shirt and matching, once-white trousers. She didn’t like the looks of him and thought: Maybe I should just get out of here.
Then the man said, “Well, are you comin’ in?” Gotta nearly tripped over her pointed slippers as she crossed one foot over the other inching away sideways. “Can’t keep the Misses waitin’ much longer,” he said. “Make up your mind…in or out?”
As he held the door open for Gotta to enter, two chickens skedaddled out the door, feathers flying—one chasing the other. A short rounded woman bounded out behind them with the biggest butcher knife Gotta had ever seen. The woman held it high above her head.
Gotta ducked as the gray-haired killer flew past. Only after the woman disappeared down the alley, did she stand up straight again. Then she took in a deliberate breath and said, “I think I’ll pass for…”
Gotta’s words stopped as she noticed a minute stream of light enter the dark room. Her eyes fixed on what looked like the remnants of fried chicken heaped on top of a garbage can just inside the door. She wiped away the drool at the edges of her mouth. Her saliva glands had jumped into overdrive. “Oh, all right,” she said, thinking this place might not be so bad after all. Anyhow, it was worth a peek.
She entered the tiny dark room. The squeaky screen door slammed behind her. She followed the thundering steps of the giant down the dark-paneled hall past a dreary and repulsive-smelling kitchen. Three cooks, wearing tattered, grayed aprons, busied themselves preparing various fares.
One lean Oriental man flipped what looked like watermelon burgers. Gotta’s eyes then shifted to the far end of the room where the plump lady again appeared chasing a headless chicken. The second cook scurried past, obscuring her view of the woman. He was carrying what appeared to be ostrich eggs. Then she noticed a third man shaking a wire basket full of… “Fried eyeballs?”
Gotta choked; she didn’t want to stick around to find out if what she saw was real. She turned on her heels and dashed back down the dark hall. As she shoved the screen door open, one of her slippers stuck on the metal edging. She didn’t stop. Instead, she hot-padded it back to her ship favoring the one slippered foot. She lasered the latch, climbed the cobweb-like ladder, strapped herself into the swing, and commanded the engine to commence. The spacecraft lifted, and then sped off into the celestial universe.
As Gotta Havut gazed out on the sparkling planets from her cockpit viewer, she mused: Maybe I’ll head for planet Earth. I heard a man named Kentucky serves fried chicken there.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Dad, My Rock
Just like the little old woman who couldn’t feed her large brood, Dad’s mom couldn’t provide for her many children, but, unlike the woman in the shoe, his mom knew exactly what to do. She sent him and his two brothers from Maine to Mooseheart, Illinois—a town, home and school for orphaned children of Moose members, and a place for children of those members who no longer could afford to raise their children. Dad was part of this latter group.
After graduation from Mooseheart, he met and married Veronica, and they began their journey together through the Great Depression and World War II. He enlisted in the Army, but was turned due to poor vision, classified 4-F—some called him four-eyes. Still, he forged ahead with his ingrained ethics and worked in a nearby town running a printing press.
After work, he helped around the house. He treated Mom like a queen, often cooking, even helping her tuck in the clean bed sheets. (More like the fathers of today than yesterday.) He also fixed leaky faucets and radios of neighbors for extra pocket change, and he was always available to dump the buckets of hot water into the old galvanized tub for his family’s weekly baths.
When he married Mom, she had been deserted by her previous husband and left with two young daughters. At one point, the ex-husband stole the two girls away. Dad set out hunting for them and wouldn’t quit until he found them in another state—left alone, huddled together, soiled, hungry and cold. He grabbed them up and returned them to their frantic mother.
Ten years into their marriage, I came along. Before school age, Dad took me fishing. We dug for worms in the back yard, and then walked downtown to a spot behind the library. He taught me to thread a worm on a hook just as the sun glistened on the water. After we caught enough, he cooked the fish and ate our delectable dish, just as the little town bustled to life.
Dad and I ventured into the woods as the leaves crunched under our feet, and gathered green walnuts. He used an ice pick and hammer to cut holes in an old Mason jar lid, so I could catch fireflies. He repaired the plumbing to our cast-iron, claw-footed tub by squeezing through a trap door in the bathroom’s floor.
However, when he left to fetch another tool, I came tearing through the house into the bathroom and fell straight through the gaping hole, scraping my sides from the waist to my underarms. After tending to my wounds, Dad continued to apologize afterwards for weeks.
Dad fixed appliances, painted the house and planted vegetables. His green thumb produced gorgeous irises and blazing colored tulips. He proudly added a little white picket fence around his chock-full, blooming beds.
When my school was about to hold a spring dance, I begged Dad for a new dress. He sat me down and showed me where all the money had to go and why there wasn’t enough. But later, he and Mom scrimped on meals, pulled together all their loose change, and he even slipped a little extra into my allowance. All so I could prance off to the dance in a new dress.
Dad toted an adolescent to football games, potlucks and concerts. He took turns standing in the pouring rain, so his adult daughter could receive unemployment, and he trudged out in sub-zero weather to start her stalled car. When his divorced daughter needed assistance, he fixed a broken furnace and vacuum, and then slipped her a $20 bill to feed her kids. “Don’t tell Mom,” he said.
I thought he’d taught me all he could, until I found a scrap of paper with a little poem that he’d written long before I became a twinkle in his eyes. My darling, my life, You’ve agreed to be my wife… Up until that moment, I didn’t know he shared my love of writing. He gave so much—his knowledge, patience, compassion, dignity, and good old fashioned morals. Dad was my rock—the mountain I built my life on. He will be missed forever.
After graduation from Mooseheart, he met and married Veronica, and they began their journey together through the Great Depression and World War II. He enlisted in the Army, but was turned due to poor vision, classified 4-F—some called him four-eyes. Still, he forged ahead with his ingrained ethics and worked in a nearby town running a printing press.
After work, he helped around the house. He treated Mom like a queen, often cooking, even helping her tuck in the clean bed sheets. (More like the fathers of today than yesterday.) He also fixed leaky faucets and radios of neighbors for extra pocket change, and he was always available to dump the buckets of hot water into the old galvanized tub for his family’s weekly baths.
When he married Mom, she had been deserted by her previous husband and left with two young daughters. At one point, the ex-husband stole the two girls away. Dad set out hunting for them and wouldn’t quit until he found them in another state—left alone, huddled together, soiled, hungry and cold. He grabbed them up and returned them to their frantic mother.
Ten years into their marriage, I came along. Before school age, Dad took me fishing. We dug for worms in the back yard, and then walked downtown to a spot behind the library. He taught me to thread a worm on a hook just as the sun glistened on the water. After we caught enough, he cooked the fish and ate our delectable dish, just as the little town bustled to life.
Dad and I ventured into the woods as the leaves crunched under our feet, and gathered green walnuts. He used an ice pick and hammer to cut holes in an old Mason jar lid, so I could catch fireflies. He repaired the plumbing to our cast-iron, claw-footed tub by squeezing through a trap door in the bathroom’s floor.
However, when he left to fetch another tool, I came tearing through the house into the bathroom and fell straight through the gaping hole, scraping my sides from the waist to my underarms. After tending to my wounds, Dad continued to apologize afterwards for weeks.
Dad fixed appliances, painted the house and planted vegetables. His green thumb produced gorgeous irises and blazing colored tulips. He proudly added a little white picket fence around his chock-full, blooming beds.
When my school was about to hold a spring dance, I begged Dad for a new dress. He sat me down and showed me where all the money had to go and why there wasn’t enough. But later, he and Mom scrimped on meals, pulled together all their loose change, and he even slipped a little extra into my allowance. All so I could prance off to the dance in a new dress.
Dad toted an adolescent to football games, potlucks and concerts. He took turns standing in the pouring rain, so his adult daughter could receive unemployment, and he trudged out in sub-zero weather to start her stalled car. When his divorced daughter needed assistance, he fixed a broken furnace and vacuum, and then slipped her a $20 bill to feed her kids. “Don’t tell Mom,” he said.
I thought he’d taught me all he could, until I found a scrap of paper with a little poem that he’d written long before I became a twinkle in his eyes. My darling, my life, You’ve agreed to be my wife… Up until that moment, I didn’t know he shared my love of writing. He gave so much—his knowledge, patience, compassion, dignity, and good old fashioned morals. Dad was my rock—the mountain I built my life on. He will be missed forever.
Monday, April 5, 2010
REMEMBERING MOM
Mom scrubbed the dirty clothes on the metal rungs of a washboard causing her knuckles to turn red and even raw. Then, when I turned ten, we purchased an electric wringer washer and Mom taught me how to stick the garment between the two rollers and wait for the garment to slowly make its way through the wringer, sqooshing out all the dirty water.
When I filled the basket with clean damp clothes, I carried them outside making sure to pin the shirts and dresses upside down, like Mom said, “…so no mark is left in the shoulders.” Then, I lifted the clothesline high in the sky with the six-foot pole so the garments could catch the spring breeze. One thing’s for sure, all of today’s fragrance-filled dryer sheets can’t compete with yesterday’s fresh, clean scent of clothes hung outside.
One time, while operating the electric wringer, I caught my hand in it. My scream could be heard for blocks. (I had a really good set of lungs.) Mother came running down the stairs and hit the escape bar, freeing my hand. Then she prepared a wet towel filled with ice cubes and folded it around my hand.
Because of my mother’s love and care, I received no permanent damage. But, she wasn’t always kind. One day, I sassed her, and she slapped my face. Even Dad would punish me if he heard me talk back to her. But a lesson was learned: Hold my tongue where she was concerned, and do as Dad said, “Give her the respect she deserves.”
When I remember those golden days, I think of Mom’s cooking—the aroma of a roast simmering for hours in the pressure cooker or the cooked liver with fried onions. My tummy could hardly wait to savor Sunday dinner. When Mom prepared liver, I actually ate it. However, I’ve never come across it prepared to my liking since then.
I also don’t like Ovaltine. Although, when Mom offered me the drink as a child, I thought I’d just been lifted into heaven. I loved chocolate, and Mom said I could have the crystals mixed in my milk every day! “It’s good for you,” she said. Now, I can’t for the life of me understand how I drank that stuff with all those little chunks, invariably left in the bottom of the glass.
Since money was tight, Mom would often take my older sisters’ outgrown clothes and sew them into a new blouse or skirt for me. In a picture, I’m wearing a plaid taffeta blouse and velvet vest that Mom made from hand-me-downs. Mom could make a castaway look like a brand new, store-bought garment.
When I was three, Dad and I walked to town on Monday evening and met Mom as she left the retail shop where she worked. Then, the three of us strolled home, admiring the flickering stars and well-dressed mannequins in store windows. My parents nodded at others strolling past, a seemingly lost art today. I trotted briskly between the two holding their hands. I felt safe and protected.
When we came to an unusually high curb, I lifted my feet off the ground and swung out, while clenching my parents’ hands. Mom held on, but slipped off the foot-high curb. She broke her ankle. Later in life, she needed a cane to support it. She never blamed me, though. “It was an accident,” she often reminded me.
As a toddler, I shed my clothes in front of the neighbor kids. Mom came running and grabbed me up in a blanket, and then dashed me inside. And, I can still see her darting outside with a flaming wastebasket in her arms. (I’d ‘accidentally’ struck a match, and dropped the hot stick in the basket.)
I pulled plenty of shenanigans during my young years. Perhaps, I even set some kind of record. However, no matter how much mischief I got into, she always forgave and protected me. Mom was like her warm, straight from the oven, home-baked apple pie—always and forever the best.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Little Red Wagon published
("God Forbid..." excerpt & printed Yesterdaysmagazette 3/10)
In the summer of 1944, when I was five and my twin friends were six, we decided to fetch the little red wagon from the shed behind my house. As I pulled the Radio Flyer, the twins pushed. The huge oak trees arched our way along the sidewalk. We scampered towards busy New York Street in that quiet northern Illinois town. The street had to be crossed to reach their house and backyard sandbox.
We knew we had almost reached the corner when we passed by the three-foot brick wall surrounding Mrs. Jennings aging, southern-like home. At the last thirty feet or so before reaching the corner, the sidewalk narrowed due to the overlapping and crumbling brick wall. When we got to the corner, I pulled the wagon into the street glancing to the left, but the twins let go. Halfway across, a car struck me. All I remember is the two girls’ screaming before I blacked out.
At the hospital, I opened my eyes to see my mother’s worried expression. She stood next to the bed holding my hand, and then said, “You were hit by a car… and not just any car. It belonged to your sister’s high school teacher.” Mom added, “She’s waiting down the hall to hear how you are.”
I was still in a daze, but sat up and sipped some water. “What were you thinking?” Mom asked. “Didn’t you look both ways like I taught you to do?”
After admitting I’d forgotten to look to the right, the doctor strolled in and said, “She’s going to be fine. She just has a sprained ankle. The nurse will wrap it and then she can go home, but keep her off that foot for awhile.”
Mom thanked the doctor, turned towards me, inhaled slowly, and then exclaimed, “Don’t you ever do anything like that again.” I sunk back down in the bed. When the nurse brought a wheel chair, Mom wheeled me down the hall, stopping to thank the music teacher for waiting and informed her that I’d be okay. Then she hastily ushered me out of the hospital.
Just as Mom was about to lift me into the car, I asked, “What about my little red wagon?”
“There is no more wagon,” Mom said plopping me down in the seat. “Not now, not ever. Furthermore, you won’t be crossing any streets without an adult for a very long time.” Then she shut the door and marched around to the driver’s side.
On the drive home my ankle ached. I wished I had remembered to look both ways. As my ankle throbbed still more, I groaned and thought, I don’t care about my little red wagon and if I never cross another street— that’s okay too.
In the summer of 1944, when I was five and my twin friends were six, we decided to fetch the little red wagon from the shed behind my house. As I pulled the Radio Flyer, the twins pushed. The huge oak trees arched our way along the sidewalk. We scampered towards busy New York Street in that quiet northern Illinois town. The street had to be crossed to reach their house and backyard sandbox.
We knew we had almost reached the corner when we passed by the three-foot brick wall surrounding Mrs. Jennings aging, southern-like home. At the last thirty feet or so before reaching the corner, the sidewalk narrowed due to the overlapping and crumbling brick wall. When we got to the corner, I pulled the wagon into the street glancing to the left, but the twins let go. Halfway across, a car struck me. All I remember is the two girls’ screaming before I blacked out.
At the hospital, I opened my eyes to see my mother’s worried expression. She stood next to the bed holding my hand, and then said, “You were hit by a car… and not just any car. It belonged to your sister’s high school teacher.” Mom added, “She’s waiting down the hall to hear how you are.”
I was still in a daze, but sat up and sipped some water. “What were you thinking?” Mom asked. “Didn’t you look both ways like I taught you to do?”
After admitting I’d forgotten to look to the right, the doctor strolled in and said, “She’s going to be fine. She just has a sprained ankle. The nurse will wrap it and then she can go home, but keep her off that foot for awhile.”
Mom thanked the doctor, turned towards me, inhaled slowly, and then exclaimed, “Don’t you ever do anything like that again.” I sunk back down in the bed. When the nurse brought a wheel chair, Mom wheeled me down the hall, stopping to thank the music teacher for waiting and informed her that I’d be okay. Then she hastily ushered me out of the hospital.
Just as Mom was about to lift me into the car, I asked, “What about my little red wagon?”
“There is no more wagon,” Mom said plopping me down in the seat. “Not now, not ever. Furthermore, you won’t be crossing any streets without an adult for a very long time.” Then she shut the door and marched around to the driver’s side.
On the drive home my ankle ached. I wished I had remembered to look both ways. As my ankle throbbed still more, I groaned and thought, I don’t care about my little red wagon and if I never cross another street— that’s okay too.
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Easter Box
In a small western suburb of Chicago, in April, 1943, I turned four a month earlier and sat on the living room floor playing with a birthday gift—paper dolls. The open front door let in a warm breeze through the screen. Suddenly, I heard a knock at the door.
Knowing I needed permission to answer it, I darted to the back laundry room where Mom stood hanging wet sheets. "Mom, Mom!” I yelled. “Someone’s at the door. Can I get it?"
Speaking through clothespins held snugly in her mouth, she mumbled, "All right, but be careful.”
I ran through the house, flung open the screen and darted outside. No one was in sight, but I spied a box on the front steps with a crinkled yellow bow and my name scribbled in big black letters on top. I reached down and grabbed the small, but heavy, box. Holding on for dear life, I ran lickety-split through the house to the back room. “Mom, it's for me,” I shouted. “Can I open it, please, please?"
Mom frowned as she looked up from the washboard, where she stood bent over rubbing the dirt out of the sudsy shirt. Finally, she nodded approvingly as she stood up straight. She leaned back down and doused the shirt in a tub of warm water. I didn’t need any more encouragement than that.
I sat down right there on the splintery wooden floor, ripped off the bow and tore open the box. I imagined the Easter Bunny had delivered an early gift of candy or toys and couldn‘t wait to see what the box contained.
But my delight turned to dread. “A box of rocks!” I screamed. “Who would be so mean?” Tears rolled down my face and onto the rocks.
Mother dropped the wet shirt she was wringing out and ran to my side. Before she could comfort me, I heard laughter coming from the front lawn and jumped to my feet, darting through the house.
I peered out the front screen door while wiping my tear-stained face on my sleeve. There stood the boy who lived just down the street. Seeing me, the teenager fell to the ground laughing and gasping for air. His friend stood at a distance holding his hand over his mouth squelching giggles.
"Did you like my gift?" the bully choked out as I dashed out the door.
I thought of running back inside, slamming the door in his face and never speaking to the bully again. Instead, I blurted out, “No, David! I did not like your box of rocks. You are a very mean boy.”
Recalling what Mom always said, it’s the thought that counts, I added in a high-pitched voice, “But thanks for going to all that trouble, just for me.” Then, I turned on my heels, scurried inside and slammed the door. I ran to the comfort of my mother’s waiting arms, never again to be that naïve child.
Today, I remain wary of strangers bearing gifts.
That, I must admit, I learned from the neighborhood bully so many years ago.
Note: This story is in her book "The Rascal in All of Us"
(3/10 More.com)
Leaving the Gangly, Awkward Girl Behind
I felt inept, alone and out of place most of my life. My sisters were nearly old enough to be my mother--ten and fifteen years older than I was. On my own most of the time, even before school age, I attempted to keep up with the older kids on the block, tried to impress and be just like them. Believe me, that always got me into hotter water than I ever wanted to feel in that old galvanized tub we used for weekly baths.
Once, at age three, I received a bag of rocks for Easter from a teenage neighbor playing a joke on a naïve child. And around age two, I pulled off my blouse while the neighbor kids cheered and applauded. Anxious to please, I shed my clothes and stood naked on top of the loft in the big old garage that had once been a barn. The opened garage stood right on the edge of the alley behind my house for all passersby to see.
I remember Mom showed up in a tizzy, grabbed me down and wrapped me in a blanket. With me in her arms, she marched into the house and up the stairs to a neighbor’s apartment. Hearing her words, I realized I’d done something really bad. I buried my head in her shoulder and cried as she recounted the horror to her friend.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bond fire. I wasn’t caught, but the stench stayed with me. In my zest to impress my peers, to be part of the group, I fell for more of their shenanigans. One time, the two older girls from next door invited me to a movie. Mom said okay if I cleaned up. So I dashed inside to change into my Sunday best, but when I returned, I was crushed to discover the girls had run off without me.
At age ten, some older boys took my classmate’s hat and tossed it up on a high fence. Gangly me retrieved the hat, but the boys poked fun at my unusual height, leaving me humiliated instead of pleased with myself. Also that year in ballet class, I was the only girl wearing a bra—an oddity for my age in those days. Already full grown, I stood five foot five inches towering over the other ballerinas. Needless to say, I ditched ballet class.
In grade school the nuns didn’t take kindly to me. When I sang like a bird, but not to their liking, they called me beautiful but dumb. Or when I spoke too loudly in class, they smacked my hands with a ruler. My being left-handed also irked them, calling my penmanship horrendous, making me practice my name over and over, hour after hour.
For minor infractions, Sister Mary Jerome would stand me in the dunce’s corner. And, although I was innocent, she blamed me for breaking the school’s antique juke box that stood next to where we all silently filed past, one by one, on our way to the lunchroom.
It also seemed to take a lifetime to learn not to leap into situations—to look, study and think long and hard before jumping in. I married too young, on my second go-round, I married an abusive man; later I had my heart broken again in two separate relationships. I always wanted to please, to be accepted and belong. Marriage, it turned out, would not bring about this elusive goal.
Now it doesn’t matter if I fit in. People can accept me or leave me. My friends like me for who I am—a sometimes bull-headed, often outspoken, at times intense, but always ready to lend a hand…not to please these day, but simply because someone needs help.
In my journey through life, I’ve learned the hard way not to leap into the abyss. I’m completely content now with this imperfect being I’ve turned out to be. And mercifully, that stumble-bum, gangly girl no longer exists; for she is safely tucked away where she belongs—in the past.
Leaving the Gangly, Awkward Girl Behind
I felt inept, alone and out of place most of my life. My sisters were nearly old enough to be my mother--ten and fifteen years older than I was. On my own most of the time, even before school age, I attempted to keep up with the older kids on the block, tried to impress and be just like them. Believe me, that always got me into hotter water than I ever wanted to feel in that old galvanized tub we used for weekly baths.
Once, at age three, I received a bag of rocks for Easter from a teenage neighbor playing a joke on a naïve child. And around age two, I pulled off my blouse while the neighbor kids cheered and applauded. Anxious to please, I shed my clothes and stood naked on top of the loft in the big old garage that had once been a barn. The opened garage stood right on the edge of the alley behind my house for all passersby to see.
I remember Mom showed up in a tizzy, grabbed me down and wrapped me in a blanket. With me in her arms, she marched into the house and up the stairs to a neighbor’s apartment. Hearing her words, I realized I’d done something really bad. I buried my head in her shoulder and cried as she recounted the horror to her friend.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bond fire. I wasn’t caught, but the stench stayed with me. In my zest to impress my peers, to be part of the group, I fell for more of their shenanigans. One time, the two older girls from next door invited me to a movie. Mom said okay if I cleaned up. So I dashed inside to change into my Sunday best, but when I returned, I was crushed to discover the girls had run off without me.
At age ten, some older boys took my classmate’s hat and tossed it up on a high fence. Gangly me retrieved the hat, but the boys poked fun at my unusual height, leaving me humiliated instead of pleased with myself. Also that year in ballet class, I was the only girl wearing a bra—an oddity for my age in those days. Already full grown, I stood five foot five inches towering over the other ballerinas. Needless to say, I ditched ballet class.
In grade school the nuns didn’t take kindly to me. When I sang like a bird, but not to their liking, they called me beautiful but dumb. Or when I spoke too loudly in class, they smacked my hands with a ruler. My being left-handed also irked them, calling my penmanship horrendous, making me practice my name over and over, hour after hour.
For minor infractions, Sister Mary Jerome would stand me in the dunce’s corner. And, although I was innocent, she blamed me for breaking the school’s antique juke box that stood next to where we all silently filed past, one by one, on our way to the lunchroom.
It also seemed to take a lifetime to learn not to leap into situations—to look, study and think long and hard before jumping in. I married too young, on my second go-round, I married an abusive man; later I had my heart broken again in two separate relationships. I always wanted to please, to be accepted and belong. Marriage, it turned out, would not bring about this elusive goal.
Now it doesn’t matter if I fit in. People can accept me or leave me. My friends like me for who I am—a sometimes bull-headed, often outspoken, at times intense, but always ready to lend a hand…not to please these day, but simply because someone needs help.
In my journey through life, I’ve learned the hard way not to leap into the abyss. I’m completely content now with this imperfect being I’ve turned out to be. And mercifully, that stumble-bum, gangly girl no longer exists; for she is safely tucked away where she belongs—in the past.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
My Terrible Twos and Threes
(Excerpt from "God Forbid..." book)
During my terrible twos and tumultuous threes, Mom discovered gray hairs popping up all over her head. One contributing factor might have occurred when I reached the age of two. I watched in amazement as Mom cooked eggs for breakfast. I wondered how that gooey stuff could turn into an edible delight. But I wasn’t the kind of child who let it go at that.
I wasn’t allowed to use the stove, so I carefully carried an egg from the ice box into the dining room, sat cross-legged on the floor, and then cracked it into the floor’s electrical outlet. It bubbled and spat at me. What a mess, but it cooked! And, yes, a spanking followed. And, no! I don’t really remember this. My older sisters told this story repeatedly, even while I plugged my own children’s ears.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bonfire. This time, I remember it vividly and, no, I wasn’t caught, but I’ll never forget that pungent odor. In my zest to impress and be accepted, I often fell prey to the older kids’ dares.
Sometimes, the neighborhood children had nothing to do with my impish behavior. At three again—and this is pieced together from others’ accounts as well as what I remember—I stood on the dining room chair on my tip toes and dialed my mother’s phone number at work:
“Hi, Mom… Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to bother you at work, but… Huh? No, nothin’s wrong, that is, everything’s okay now… No, you don’t have to come home. But Mom, I was just trying to light the stove and the match burned my finger and I sorta’ dropped it in the wastebasket. So, when I saw the smoke, I ran next door and the neighbor ran over and grabbed the wastebasket and… Huh? No, the babysitter had to run home for a minute.”
“Okay, Mom, but you should have seen Mrs. Bender running out the back door with that flaming basket… Yeah, she’s fine… Huh? I’m okay… What? Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to light the stove, but… Huh? No, the house is fine… Okay, I promise, but, Mom, you might wanna pick up a new wastebasket on your way home.”
Believe me, I didn’t play with matches again, at least not for a couple of years. Besides, I think it was simply my nature to get into mischief. I had to discover things for myself. To that end, I’ll fess up. I am responsible for most of Mom’s gray hairs.
During my terrible twos and tumultuous threes, Mom discovered gray hairs popping up all over her head. One contributing factor might have occurred when I reached the age of two. I watched in amazement as Mom cooked eggs for breakfast. I wondered how that gooey stuff could turn into an edible delight. But I wasn’t the kind of child who let it go at that.
I wasn’t allowed to use the stove, so I carefully carried an egg from the ice box into the dining room, sat cross-legged on the floor, and then cracked it into the floor’s electrical outlet. It bubbled and spat at me. What a mess, but it cooked! And, yes, a spanking followed. And, no! I don’t really remember this. My older sisters told this story repeatedly, even while I plugged my own children’s ears.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bonfire. This time, I remember it vividly and, no, I wasn’t caught, but I’ll never forget that pungent odor. In my zest to impress and be accepted, I often fell prey to the older kids’ dares.
Sometimes, the neighborhood children had nothing to do with my impish behavior. At three again—and this is pieced together from others’ accounts as well as what I remember—I stood on the dining room chair on my tip toes and dialed my mother’s phone number at work:
“Hi, Mom… Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to bother you at work, but… Huh? No, nothin’s wrong, that is, everything’s okay now… No, you don’t have to come home. But Mom, I was just trying to light the stove and the match burned my finger and I sorta’ dropped it in the wastebasket. So, when I saw the smoke, I ran next door and the neighbor ran over and grabbed the wastebasket and… Huh? No, the babysitter had to run home for a minute.”
“Okay, Mom, but you should have seen Mrs. Bender running out the back door with that flaming basket… Yeah, she’s fine… Huh? I’m okay… What? Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to light the stove, but… Huh? No, the house is fine… Okay, I promise, but, Mom, you might wanna pick up a new wastebasket on your way home.”
Believe me, I didn’t play with matches again, at least not for a couple of years. Besides, I think it was simply my nature to get into mischief. I had to discover things for myself. To that end, I’ll fess up. I am responsible for most of Mom’s gray hairs.
Birthday, Bah, humbug!
Okay, another birthday and I muddled through. The thing about birthdays is no matter how old you get, it's fun to blow out candles, which I didn't do this year. Sure, I told friends and family it was just another day, another reminder that I'm a year older, but honestly!
Many, who remembered my birthday last year with a card, a night out, a phone call, or some cash, didn't this year. Bah, humbug! Hey, did you ever think I might not be gracing your lives that much longer? Don't you want to relish each and every moment I have left? Maybe I shouldn't have asked.
I did get cards, and friends treated me to lunch. It seems, all is not lost in the tradition of honoring someone on their birthday. To these dear folks, I say thank you, thank you, thank you. Three thank you's covers it nicely.
But to the grinches, dust off that card, buy a stamp, and mark your calendar, because I'll be here waiting, with bells on, so don't foget. I'll even wear one of those upside down cones on my head if that's what it takes to get your attention. In the meanwhile, I wish you all a happy birthday, though I've forgotten the exact date.
Many, who remembered my birthday last year with a card, a night out, a phone call, or some cash, didn't this year. Bah, humbug! Hey, did you ever think I might not be gracing your lives that much longer? Don't you want to relish each and every moment I have left? Maybe I shouldn't have asked.
I did get cards, and friends treated me to lunch. It seems, all is not lost in the tradition of honoring someone on their birthday. To these dear folks, I say thank you, thank you, thank you. Three thank you's covers it nicely.
But to the grinches, dust off that card, buy a stamp, and mark your calendar, because I'll be here waiting, with bells on, so don't foget. I'll even wear one of those upside down cones on my head if that's what it takes to get your attention. In the meanwhile, I wish you all a happy birthday, though I've forgotten the exact date.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Don’t Be On the Nightly News
“That could have been me!” I shuttered as I watched the victimized senior citizen’s story unfold on the nightly news. A week ago, my doorbell rang at 10:15 p.m., shattering my last tranquil hour before retiring. The chimes startled Mikey, my Shih Tzu dog, and me. I jumped out of my recliner just as Mikey streaked through the room barking. I headed straight to the dining room window and peeked out through the blinds at the street. No familiar car. In fact, no vehicle at all sat anywhere near my house. Chills ran through me.
When the bell rang a second time, my little companion burst into action, darting to the door and barking non-stop. So I headed to the living room, switched on the porch light, and nervously lifted one of the wooden slats on the front window. From there I eyed the door.
I saw a tall, dark man wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. I dropped the blind, shushed my pup, and wondered how I’d get rid of this intrusion. So, in a low gruff voice, I bellowed, “Who’s there?” Finally, after hearing no more sounds, I slowly lifted a slat on the blind again. In the darkness I saw a figure stomping away from the house and hot-footing it up the street. I wondered if my rough-sounding voice scared him off, but doubted that. Still shaking, I also wondered if I should call the police.
He had already disappeared into the darkness, so I decided he’d be long gone before help could arrive. Instead, I left the living room and porch lights on all night, while I tossed and turned in bed worrying he might return.
Thankfully, he never did. I am also grateful I didn’t open the door to a stranger. There’s a news blip on TV nearly every week like the one tonight about a trusting, unsuspecting victim letting in a stranger. This time the elderly lady was robbed, but other stories describe people being beaten, even killed.
I remain overly cautious, especially living on a busy street where strangers often knock or ring the bell. The only time I answer is when I’m expecting, perhaps, a repair man, someone I don’t actually know, but whom I’ve set up an appointment with and whose truck is parked in front. Even then, I keep the screened in security door double bolted. And, if the work is to be done outdoors, I send the person around back and meet the worker outside.
After the stranger knocked on my door that night, I learned that he had also stopped at other homes in the neighborhood. Two, I know of, opened the door. One sent the stranger on his way and the other gave him thirty dollars! Both neighbors had spouses to back them up, but still, why take a chance?
Next time, heaven forbid there is a next time, I will dial 9-1-1. So if a stranger knocks or rings the bell, don’t open the door. Instead, shout out, “Who is it?” Just knowing that someone is home may very well deter a burglar. Even if the person declares he or she is a census taker, how can you be sure? Be safe. Don’t be that victim reported on the nightly news.
When the bell rang a second time, my little companion burst into action, darting to the door and barking non-stop. So I headed to the living room, switched on the porch light, and nervously lifted one of the wooden slats on the front window. From there I eyed the door.
I saw a tall, dark man wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. I dropped the blind, shushed my pup, and wondered how I’d get rid of this intrusion. So, in a low gruff voice, I bellowed, “Who’s there?” Finally, after hearing no more sounds, I slowly lifted a slat on the blind again. In the darkness I saw a figure stomping away from the house and hot-footing it up the street. I wondered if my rough-sounding voice scared him off, but doubted that. Still shaking, I also wondered if I should call the police.
He had already disappeared into the darkness, so I decided he’d be long gone before help could arrive. Instead, I left the living room and porch lights on all night, while I tossed and turned in bed worrying he might return.
Thankfully, he never did. I am also grateful I didn’t open the door to a stranger. There’s a news blip on TV nearly every week like the one tonight about a trusting, unsuspecting victim letting in a stranger. This time the elderly lady was robbed, but other stories describe people being beaten, even killed.
I remain overly cautious, especially living on a busy street where strangers often knock or ring the bell. The only time I answer is when I’m expecting, perhaps, a repair man, someone I don’t actually know, but whom I’ve set up an appointment with and whose truck is parked in front. Even then, I keep the screened in security door double bolted. And, if the work is to be done outdoors, I send the person around back and meet the worker outside.
After the stranger knocked on my door that night, I learned that he had also stopped at other homes in the neighborhood. Two, I know of, opened the door. One sent the stranger on his way and the other gave him thirty dollars! Both neighbors had spouses to back them up, but still, why take a chance?
Next time, heaven forbid there is a next time, I will dial 9-1-1. So if a stranger knocks or rings the bell, don’t open the door. Instead, shout out, “Who is it?” Just knowing that someone is home may very well deter a burglar. Even if the person declares he or she is a census taker, how can you be sure? Be safe. Don’t be that victim reported on the nightly news.
Spending Time Home Alone
Excerpt from book, "God Forbid..."
“See you tomorrow,” I said as my classmates ran off in different directions. Then, I held onto my satchel to keep the strap from sliding off my shoulder, and skipped the remaining eight blocks home alone. At the house, I removed the chain from around my neck and inserted the key dangling from it into the lock.
“Latchkey Child,” didn’t apply; at least the term didn’t actually materialize until much later. In my day, most thought of me as precocious—mature enough to be left on my own for a couple of hours a day. However, the truth is, after my two older sisters left home—one married and the other entered Julliard’s School of Music—the teenagers my parents hired to keep an eye on me, couldn’t handle my vivacious spirit.
One said, “She won’t listen and runs off all the time.” Another admitted, “I just don’t have the patience for this job.” So at their wits end, my parents put a house key on a chain and placed it around my neck. There’d be the devil to pay if I strayed from the straight and narrow.
That first day I turned the key in the lock and entered an empty house, hearing only the ping, ping of water hitting the metal pan under the ice box, I darted to my bedroom and changed from my school uniform into jeans and a blouse that still hung on the bed post. Then I dashed into the kitchen scouring the cupboards for a cookie, but I only found crackers. I poured some milk, sat down at the table, spread peanut butter on my treat and munched on the saltines. I noticed a note from my mother, but my mind went into free spin.
I thought of Dad running a printing press at work, and Mom clerking at a downtown clothing store, which she’d done since I turned three. They’d told me many times that both incomes were necessary. I knew this to be true because, often, my parents did without milk, butter and meat, just so we girls had enough food. I remembered the issuance of Ration Stamps for food, and having to eat pancakes, creamed eggs on toast or macaroni and cheese for supper. However, I also recalled spinach. I hated that.
I picked up the note: “Practice piano, peel potatoes and leave them to soak in water, then do your homework.” I looked out the window for a few minutes, and then found the potato peeler and started slicing off the brown skin, trying to scrape away from my hand like Mom taught me. Then I pulled out the piano bench and opened my music. Mom’s words echoed, “If you want to take voice lessons when you turn twelve, you’ll have to practice piano every day until then.”
After practicing just enough to squeak by, I leafed through my class assignment, always leaving the actual work until after supper. However, that also meant my studies came under the close scrutiny of my parents. Homework was my least favorite chore. My grades proved it, too.
I soon turned ten, and although I still spent after school hours alone, now we were moving out of the apartment and into a little house that sat just around the corner. Mom’s boss loaned my parents the down payment. So now, we were cutting through the back yards dragging furniture and boxes to a home of our own.
It had a small living room, a tiny dining room we turned into a music room, a kitchen where the table sat squashed between the stove and the back entry door, meaning the table had to be pulled out every time the three of us sat down to eat, and if anyone came in the back door, Dad would have to get up to let them through the narrow entranceway. Also, the bathroom sat off the kitchen on the first floor, making middle of the night trips rare. However, no more pot belly stove to heat the house. In our little basement, we had a luxurious coal burning furnace, complete with a black, sooty coal bin.
The two bedrooms upstairs both had slanting ceilings, possibly converted from an attic. My small 8x10 room had no closet, so Dad put in a two-door cardboard wardrobe that fit in a corner near my dressing table. That table held many cherished items, like a stand-up mirror, edged in pink ceramic roses and a fancily decorated, gold edged mirror and brush set. Dad painted the small room in my favorite colors, too—pink and light purple. A perfect girl’s room.
One of the two windows in my bedroom faced the roof of the kitchen and looked out across the alleyway that ran beside our house. Sitting on my bed reading one day, I heard a smashing sound and looked up at the window to see cobweb-like cracks around a dime-sized hole. On the floor laid a pellet from a B.B. gun. I kept the shade pulled down for a long time after that.
However, this window also provided a quick get away. I could sneak out the window onto the kitchen’s shingled roof and jump to the ground from it, making for a fun escape. Not quite as much fun climbing back up, though.
During those many hours left on my own, I’d entertain myself listening to the radio and singing along with “Lazy River,” “More Than You Know” and swooning over the Benny Goodman band or, perhaps, listen to “The Shadow.” For my birthday, I received a little red suitcase containing a 45 rpm record player. Then, I enjoyed singing along more. I played “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window” over and over. I can still sing it.
Dad must have heard me singing that, because shortly after settling in our new home, Dad let me pick out a dog, a long-haired, full-sized, black mutt with ears that stood straight up narrowing to a point. I called him Tippy. Tippy would cuddle up beside me when I read or sang with the record player. However, he’d howl like a wolf if I sang high notes.
I still got bored. One time, I thought it would be fun to surprise Mom with a cake. I put all the ingredients in a bowl and began to mix it with a spoon. What a jumbled up mess, I thought. It looks like that erupting volcano I keep seeing in my dreams. It can’t be edible. I then threw it all out in the garbage.
When Mom came home that night, I told her about the cake batter and explained why I got rid of it. I thought she would faint. “You wasted all those eggs, sugar and flour,” she gasped, adding, “It’s supposed to look like that. You have to beat it with the mix-master before it gets smooth.” My stomach churned as she turned on her heels and marched off, leaving me to wonder if I’d just turned into a leper.
When I recall Mom’s face after that cake fiasco, I see a snapshot of her taken on a brutal winter day. She stood on the snowy-edged, front steps, wrapped in a long, brown fur coat, like a soldier in the Army. That picture sums up my mother: she kept a tight reign on her cub, she never allowed this child to challenge her authority, she demanded respect—and got it, and it reminded me that Mother always knows best. I saw a hint of a smile on her face, too. Perhaps, that’s why she later introduced me to pre-mixed cakes.
Spending all those hours alone turned me into a neat-nick, too. One time, after my parents stacked all their important papers and mail in one corner of the kitchen counter, I came along and stuffed everything in drawers. They spent days looking for unpaid bills, letters and their grocery list. Sometimes, they complimented me on my tidiness, but not that time. “You leave those papers alone, you hear?” Dad said.
Being an impulsive child, I soon headed to the basement where Dad kept all his Mechanics Illustrated magazines and piles of other dusty books and papers. Look at all this useless stuff, I thought. I knew Dad could fix most anything, but didn’t know he relied on these materials for help. I ditched his resources in the dumpster. When he discovered this, boy, did he hit the high C notes!
At ten, television came into being, and my sister sang on the television broadcast of the Olsen and Johnson Show, a distant cousin of their unprecedented hit, “Hellzapoppin.” Since we didn’t own a TV, Mom, Dad and I watched her at the neighbor’s house. Oh, to be a lyrical songbird like her, I thought. Soon afterwards, we too became the proud owners of a round glass, black and white TV, which hid behind two doors in a fancy wooden cabinet.
After television came to our house, I’d spend hours watching it. Before school, I’d watch Kukla, Fran and Ollie or Bozo the Clown. After school came The Lone Ranger, Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. In the evening, I’d prop a pillow on the floor while my parents relaxed on the furniture, and we’d all watch: The Hit Parade, Show of Shows, the Ed Sullivan Show and Arthur Godfrey. Not to forget, Dragnet, I Love Lucy and my favorite, Father Knows Best. Just the same, the singers impressed me the most: First my sister, of course, then Doris Day, Bing Crosby and Debbie Reynolds.
After grammar school, being home alone didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. All my peers spent some time on their own, although most of their mothers didn’t work outside the home. Until I turned ten, I still felt Dad’s paddle when I did something really bad; and no matter how old I got, if I mouthed off to my mother, I still felt the sting of her hand on my cheek.
Although I spent many hours alone from the age of nine until I graduated from high school, throughout that time, I felt my parents’ influence. They guided my behavior towards a proper—if not seemingly narrow—path.
“See you tomorrow,” I said as my classmates ran off in different directions. Then, I held onto my satchel to keep the strap from sliding off my shoulder, and skipped the remaining eight blocks home alone. At the house, I removed the chain from around my neck and inserted the key dangling from it into the lock.
“Latchkey Child,” didn’t apply; at least the term didn’t actually materialize until much later. In my day, most thought of me as precocious—mature enough to be left on my own for a couple of hours a day. However, the truth is, after my two older sisters left home—one married and the other entered Julliard’s School of Music—the teenagers my parents hired to keep an eye on me, couldn’t handle my vivacious spirit.
One said, “She won’t listen and runs off all the time.” Another admitted, “I just don’t have the patience for this job.” So at their wits end, my parents put a house key on a chain and placed it around my neck. There’d be the devil to pay if I strayed from the straight and narrow.
That first day I turned the key in the lock and entered an empty house, hearing only the ping, ping of water hitting the metal pan under the ice box, I darted to my bedroom and changed from my school uniform into jeans and a blouse that still hung on the bed post. Then I dashed into the kitchen scouring the cupboards for a cookie, but I only found crackers. I poured some milk, sat down at the table, spread peanut butter on my treat and munched on the saltines. I noticed a note from my mother, but my mind went into free spin.
I thought of Dad running a printing press at work, and Mom clerking at a downtown clothing store, which she’d done since I turned three. They’d told me many times that both incomes were necessary. I knew this to be true because, often, my parents did without milk, butter and meat, just so we girls had enough food. I remembered the issuance of Ration Stamps for food, and having to eat pancakes, creamed eggs on toast or macaroni and cheese for supper. However, I also recalled spinach. I hated that.
I picked up the note: “Practice piano, peel potatoes and leave them to soak in water, then do your homework.” I looked out the window for a few minutes, and then found the potato peeler and started slicing off the brown skin, trying to scrape away from my hand like Mom taught me. Then I pulled out the piano bench and opened my music. Mom’s words echoed, “If you want to take voice lessons when you turn twelve, you’ll have to practice piano every day until then.”
After practicing just enough to squeak by, I leafed through my class assignment, always leaving the actual work until after supper. However, that also meant my studies came under the close scrutiny of my parents. Homework was my least favorite chore. My grades proved it, too.
I soon turned ten, and although I still spent after school hours alone, now we were moving out of the apartment and into a little house that sat just around the corner. Mom’s boss loaned my parents the down payment. So now, we were cutting through the back yards dragging furniture and boxes to a home of our own.
It had a small living room, a tiny dining room we turned into a music room, a kitchen where the table sat squashed between the stove and the back entry door, meaning the table had to be pulled out every time the three of us sat down to eat, and if anyone came in the back door, Dad would have to get up to let them through the narrow entranceway. Also, the bathroom sat off the kitchen on the first floor, making middle of the night trips rare. However, no more pot belly stove to heat the house. In our little basement, we had a luxurious coal burning furnace, complete with a black, sooty coal bin.
The two bedrooms upstairs both had slanting ceilings, possibly converted from an attic. My small 8x10 room had no closet, so Dad put in a two-door cardboard wardrobe that fit in a corner near my dressing table. That table held many cherished items, like a stand-up mirror, edged in pink ceramic roses and a fancily decorated, gold edged mirror and brush set. Dad painted the small room in my favorite colors, too—pink and light purple. A perfect girl’s room.
One of the two windows in my bedroom faced the roof of the kitchen and looked out across the alleyway that ran beside our house. Sitting on my bed reading one day, I heard a smashing sound and looked up at the window to see cobweb-like cracks around a dime-sized hole. On the floor laid a pellet from a B.B. gun. I kept the shade pulled down for a long time after that.
However, this window also provided a quick get away. I could sneak out the window onto the kitchen’s shingled roof and jump to the ground from it, making for a fun escape. Not quite as much fun climbing back up, though.
During those many hours left on my own, I’d entertain myself listening to the radio and singing along with “Lazy River,” “More Than You Know” and swooning over the Benny Goodman band or, perhaps, listen to “The Shadow.” For my birthday, I received a little red suitcase containing a 45 rpm record player. Then, I enjoyed singing along more. I played “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window” over and over. I can still sing it.
Dad must have heard me singing that, because shortly after settling in our new home, Dad let me pick out a dog, a long-haired, full-sized, black mutt with ears that stood straight up narrowing to a point. I called him Tippy. Tippy would cuddle up beside me when I read or sang with the record player. However, he’d howl like a wolf if I sang high notes.
I still got bored. One time, I thought it would be fun to surprise Mom with a cake. I put all the ingredients in a bowl and began to mix it with a spoon. What a jumbled up mess, I thought. It looks like that erupting volcano I keep seeing in my dreams. It can’t be edible. I then threw it all out in the garbage.
When Mom came home that night, I told her about the cake batter and explained why I got rid of it. I thought she would faint. “You wasted all those eggs, sugar and flour,” she gasped, adding, “It’s supposed to look like that. You have to beat it with the mix-master before it gets smooth.” My stomach churned as she turned on her heels and marched off, leaving me to wonder if I’d just turned into a leper.
When I recall Mom’s face after that cake fiasco, I see a snapshot of her taken on a brutal winter day. She stood on the snowy-edged, front steps, wrapped in a long, brown fur coat, like a soldier in the Army. That picture sums up my mother: she kept a tight reign on her cub, she never allowed this child to challenge her authority, she demanded respect—and got it, and it reminded me that Mother always knows best. I saw a hint of a smile on her face, too. Perhaps, that’s why she later introduced me to pre-mixed cakes.
Spending all those hours alone turned me into a neat-nick, too. One time, after my parents stacked all their important papers and mail in one corner of the kitchen counter, I came along and stuffed everything in drawers. They spent days looking for unpaid bills, letters and their grocery list. Sometimes, they complimented me on my tidiness, but not that time. “You leave those papers alone, you hear?” Dad said.
Being an impulsive child, I soon headed to the basement where Dad kept all his Mechanics Illustrated magazines and piles of other dusty books and papers. Look at all this useless stuff, I thought. I knew Dad could fix most anything, but didn’t know he relied on these materials for help. I ditched his resources in the dumpster. When he discovered this, boy, did he hit the high C notes!
At ten, television came into being, and my sister sang on the television broadcast of the Olsen and Johnson Show, a distant cousin of their unprecedented hit, “Hellzapoppin.” Since we didn’t own a TV, Mom, Dad and I watched her at the neighbor’s house. Oh, to be a lyrical songbird like her, I thought. Soon afterwards, we too became the proud owners of a round glass, black and white TV, which hid behind two doors in a fancy wooden cabinet.
After television came to our house, I’d spend hours watching it. Before school, I’d watch Kukla, Fran and Ollie or Bozo the Clown. After school came The Lone Ranger, Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. In the evening, I’d prop a pillow on the floor while my parents relaxed on the furniture, and we’d all watch: The Hit Parade, Show of Shows, the Ed Sullivan Show and Arthur Godfrey. Not to forget, Dragnet, I Love Lucy and my favorite, Father Knows Best. Just the same, the singers impressed me the most: First my sister, of course, then Doris Day, Bing Crosby and Debbie Reynolds.
After grammar school, being home alone didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. All my peers spent some time on their own, although most of their mothers didn’t work outside the home. Until I turned ten, I still felt Dad’s paddle when I did something really bad; and no matter how old I got, if I mouthed off to my mother, I still felt the sting of her hand on my cheek.
Although I spent many hours alone from the age of nine until I graduated from high school, throughout that time, I felt my parents’ influence. They guided my behavior towards a proper—if not seemingly narrow—path.
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