I’m Not Perfect

A character flaw is a limitation, imperfection, problem, phobia, or deficiency present in a character who may be otherwise very functional. The flaw can be a problem that directly affects the character’s actions and abilities, such as a violent temper. *definition from Wikipedia

I’m as flawed as the next person.  I can be stubborn.  I can get lazy.  I can judge too quickly.

I hardly ever lose my temper.  I’m at an age where it is just too much work.  When it happens it comes in a flash.  I try to walk away before I can do any damage.  Because, I know myself pretty well.  I won’t be as angry about this tomorrow.

I know these things about myself.  I try to work on them.  Some days I succeed and some days I fail miserably.  I’m a work in progress. I am full of imperfections.

I do myself a favor, though.  The favor is in knowing that I’ll never be perfect.

I am an imperfect character.  I am loved anyways by some pretty incredible people.

If you only hang out with perfect people?  You’ll always be alone.  Look in the mirror and try to see a perfect person.  You won’t see any reflection.

The extra added bonus in realizing that perfection doesn’t exist in myself is ?  I don’t expect you to be perfect either.  To tell you the truth?  Someone’s flaws might be exactly what attracts me to them in the first place.

If you were perfect?  You’d be boring.  No one would be able to stand you.

We all must try to get along.  To try and understand a different point of view.  Admit to ourselves when we were so wrong about a first impression.  Give every one around you a break.  Give yourself a break.

An apology has power only if it is sincere.  “I’m sorry” are pretty powerful words.  Sometimes an apology is not accepted.  That’s alright too.  I tried. I only say those words when I really mean them.

The definition of character flaw at the top of the page is all about writing.  Books are written on writing.  A character in a story has to have a flaw.  Characters in a story can’t be perfect.  No one will relate to them.  Writers go on and on about how the substance of a story will be flawed if the characters never make mistakes.  They won’t be human.  Spock on Star Trek was aggravating because he was perfect.

I never wanted to hang out with him.

If you read one of my stories and identify a character as yourself?  You’ll probably be wrong.  You might be right.  The folks in my stories are strong and yet weak.  They are kind but could get mean.  The quiet ones can sometimes scream.  The cunning could sometimes be open.  The smart can have slow moments.

The characters in my stories are there because they weren’t perfect.  That’s why I remember them so clearly.  A saint won’t be in my memory banks.  Saints are boring.  I love and remember you because you made me laugh.  You made me glad.  You pissed me off.  You stepped on my toes but said you were sorry.  You were you and at many moments I found you to be perfect.  Especially, when we got close enough that you showed me your imperfections.

I remember you because you were unique.  I learned from you even if you don’t remember me.

If I’m only to write about the perfect moments and the perfect people in my life?  I will only be able to fill up a postcard.

I will have no stories to tell.

That would be a shame.

 

 

 

 

Yard Sales With Mom

Yard Sales.  Garage Sales. Estate Sales.  Porch Sales. My mother loved them all.

I think it had something to do with her being a Great Depression kid.  Don’t throw out that piece of string!  You might need it later.  Save those envelopes.  With a little tape they can be used again.  You wash and dry and save plastic cutlery.  The list goes on and on.

My father had no use for these kinds of sales.  He figured his house was already cluttered with enough crap.  Why buy someone else’s crap?  I kind of agreed with him.

But, we all have our quirks.  We all have our hobbies.

My father would be in the driver’s seat.  My mother would spy out of her eye a yard sale from the passenger side.  She’d excitedly tell my father they needed to turn around.  She had just gotten a glimpse of a terrific lamp.

You know what he’d say?

“Say good-bye, Ellie!  Bye Bye lamp that no one needs. Are you going to cry?  Wah, wah, wah.  How about I buy you an ice cream cone instead of a trunk load of crap we don’t need?”

She’d cross her arms in the passenger seat.  She’s stare straight ahead.  She’d go totally deaf after she told him to keep his freaking ice cream cone.

He’d laugh like hell.  He’d pull into our driveway.  She’d get out of the car and slam the station wagon door.  She’d go into the house and lock the kitchen door in his face.

He knew where the spare key was over the garage door. But, he’d wait at least ten minutes before entering the house.

When I was along for the ride?  I would follow my mother into the kitchen and watch the door being locked.  I always needed to use the bathroom.  I may have sided with my father if I’d been a boy.  Boys are good at peeing in the bushes.

I didn’t like garage sales much.

I got older and got my license.  I would always pull over when my mother spied a garage sale.  I might not get out of the car.  But, I didn’t stop her in her pursuit.  I would even open up my wallet and hand over what I had if she didn’t have enough money on her.  I don’t get in the way of a woman on a mission.

Some of the crap  she’d come home with was amazing.  It belonged in the “Crappiest Sh*t Hall of Fame.”  But, if a garden gnome missing his left eye made her happy?  Who was I to argue?

Don’t get me wrong.  If there was actually good quality stuff on those saw horses?  My mother would sniff them out.  I have a beautiful collection of Depression and Carnival glass that my mother got this way.

I got married.  My husband and I came to Manchester about once a month for a visit.  We’d accompany my parents to church.  We’d do the big extended brunch thing.  The men would go into the house and unbutton their pants and watch TV.

My mother would throw my car keys at my head and nod towards the kitchen door.

Uh, oh.  We had passed at least two garage sales and one Estate sale on the way home from church.  I was now her driver and her conspirator.

The men would grunt goodbye to us.  They thought they’d never be hungry again.  But, we promised to pick up a big pizza at Vic’s after we hit the garage sales.  They groaned at us as they pulled up a sofa each.

I drove my mother where she wanted to go.  I stood shoulder to shoulder with her.  I shook my head no a lot.  No, I don’t need any more Tupperware stained pink with spaghetti sauce.  No, I have no use for a huge punch bowl with 24 punch glasses.  That is the greatest collection of shot glasses from around the world.  But, I don’t drink shots.  She’d buy me a lamp instead.  With George Washington on one knee proposing to some harlot in long blonde ringlets depicted in the glaze.

God awful ugly lamp.  It was now mine.

I’ve got to give it to her.  I’d get that awful lamp home and research it.  I didn’t want the darn thing.  But, the antique dealer on the corner would offer me a hundred bucks for it.  She had bought it for four dollars. I’d stuff a check in an envelope and send it to her.  It was our little secret.

Towards the end of our day of yard sales she’d think of others.  It was like she was at Disney World and had to bring back everyone a souvenir.  Wouldn’t Michael look great in this green v-necked sweater vest?  I would see that it was marked fifty cents and say sure!  He’d never wear the thing.  He’d laugh his butt off.  But, it saved me time.

Daddy!  We have to get something for Daddy!

The man running the sale of crap would ask her “What is your husband into?” She’d say “Well if he was here he’d be looking at tools.  He likes tools.”

“Ah!  A man’s man!  I’ve got a table of “antique” tools right over here.”  The man picked up a hammer where the metal head was held to the wooden handle with a screw.

“This was my great great grandfather’s.  He brought this over on the Mayflower.  This hammer helped build America.” the lying little twit said.

My mother happily bought it for fifty cents.  I kept my mouth shut because I was almost out of there.  I could almost smell the pepperoni on that Vic’s pizza.

We pulled up in front of the house on Columbus Street.  The men were out of their stupor.  They were sitting on the front steps drinking beer.  They were now hungry for pizza.  They walked out to the car to meet us.  I popped the trunk.

The smell of mildew wafted out of the trunk and hit them in the nostrils.  My husband sneezed.  My mother grabbed all the boxes containing her treasures.  I kept behind the one paper back book I had purchased.

She held the green v-necked sweater vest up to my husband.  Good fit! He stared down at the foreign scratchy knitted thing and smiled.  “Thank you so much!  Isn’t that beautiful!  Boy!  Isn’t that unique!  I feel special.” he said as he wiggled his eyebrows at me.

My father laughed his backside off at my husband and his sweater vest.

“Oh, Ralph!  Wait until you see what I bought for you!” my mother exclaimed.

Now, my husband was interested.  He couldn’t wait to see what piece of crap awaited his father in law.  This was going to be good.

My mother dug through a box and came up with the Mayflower Hammer.  The tool that had built America.

She put it reverently into my father’s hand.

He stared at it.  My husband stared at it.  They looked at each other.  They stared at the hammer held together with a big bright silver screw and they started to laugh.

I put the large pizza onto the hood of the car.  I put my palm down on it to steady it.  I was hungry and I knew this laugh fest was going to get aerobic.

They hooted.  They howled.  My husband rolled back and forth across the green lawn.  My father mostly went up and down where he stood slapping his knees.  They snorted and snarfed and made all kinds of strange noises.  The neighborhood dogs howled in reply.

My mother was affronted.

She put her hands on her hips and stared at my husband rolling up and down her front cement sidewalk.  She forgave him because he was young and he didn’t know any better.

She pointed to the hammer in my father’s hand.  He stopped snorting and tried to hear what she was saying.

“Now, that I am told is an antique hammer.  It was the yard sale man’s great great grandfather’s hammer.   You see that screw?  The hammer gave way and it was fixed with that screw!” my mother exclaimed.

My father yelled at the top of his lungs “That’s not the only thing that got screwed today, Ellie!”

He took the hammer and skidded it across the ground.  It went sailing right into the storm drain of the sewer.  If he’d been bowling he would have scored a perfect 300 game.

My mother and I grabbed the pizza box.  We walked up the walkway to the front door.  She was ahead of me.  I followed her in.  I shut the door on the howling laughing men.  I locked the door.

“Do you want salad with your pizza, Mom?” I asked.

“Sure!  I’ll go lock the back door, too.  Screw them.” she replied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Little Understanding

I dealt with a lot of different types of people when I delivered the evening newspaper.

There were a lot of lonely stay at home moms.  I didn’t become impatient if they wanted me to stay on their door step and chat for a few minutes.  I was only 15 but I knew I was the closest some ladies were going to get to adult conversation that day.

I reserve a little hero worship for stay at home moms.

The elderly were lonely too.  Some days they’d grab the paper out of my hand and slam the door in my face.  They were watching the news and they’d tell me the world was a horrible place.  Bang would go the door.  Other days they’d reminisce  and I would listen.  I would ask a couple of questions to show an interest.

One old guy had a wonderful sense of humor.  He’d tell me age appropriate jokes.  I wondered if he had a joke book in there.  He said I was a nice young lady.  It was good that I was on his doorstep every day but Sunday.  He thought it was great that if he dropped dead in the middle of the night I would notice.  I would keep his cat from eating him.

I think he may have been a little serious. I told him not to die on a Sunday and that the cat wouldn’t eat much. Maybe, just his ears.  He laughed like hell.

I delivered the Herald.  One lady could just not understand why I wouldn’t bring her the Hartford Courant.  She thought I was just being obstinate or lazy.  I never got through to that one.

I was asked to baby sit.  I was asked to do yard work.  I was asked to paint a fence. I was asked to play Bridge.  I was asked to deliver groceries. One mother wanted to know if I’d be interested in marriage.  Her middle boy was shy but he was nice.

I said no to all of them. I especially had no interest in being a child bride.

I knew when to loiter with the elderly.  I knew when to move swiftly.  I could smile and chat.  I could also lower my head and play deaf.

It was amazing how a few streets of houses could hold so many different personalities.  Or, how I remember them more than forty years later.

I could sometimes get mouthy when push came to shove.  I was often reported to my mother before I had a chance to get home.  She got used to the calls.  She finally took my father’s advice.  “Talk to Darlene.” she’d say as she hung up.  It was easier that way.

I took a month of crap from a lady at the top of my street.  Almost every day.  It was the same conversation over and over.  I was tempted to bring a tape recorder.  If, I’d owned one. I could have hit the play button.  The woman and I could listen to the taped conversation.  She could put her hands on her hips.  I would say no.  We could repeat it the next day.

I didn’t have a recorder so we did it live almost every early evening on her front steps.

“My husband Henry ( she pronounced it as three syllables) eats his dinner precisely at 4:45 p.m.  He would like to read his evening paper with his dinner.  Why can’t you get the paper here by 4:45 pm?” she’d ask.

I explained to her that when I walked up my street and past her house I did not have any newspapers yet.  I would walk ten minutes to the Mister Donut parking lot.  I would hang around until a truck pulled up and threw bundles of papers at the ten paper delivery kids waiting.  I would then walk another ten minutes in the opposite direction of home.  I would deliver to three streets.  I delivered to a sprinkling of houses on West Middle Turnpike on the way back.  I came down our street and she got her paper a few minutes before I returned home.

I explained this to her every day.  On her front stoop.  In her pristine living room.  In her kitchen while she pulled Henry’s dinner out of the oven.

The logistics of my pick up and delivery didn’t matter to her.  I don’t think it was that she didn’t get it.

Something tells me that Henry would not accept my explanation.  Not that I ever lay eyes on the guy.  I think she was told every day to do better. Henry thought it was all her fault that he ate dinner paperless.

I even drew it out for her on a piece of paper.  I didn’t lose my temper as usual.  But, I wasn’t adding an hour of walking to my day to make some man happy that wanted to read his paper with his dinner.  I didn’t say what I was thinking.

“Tell him to put the damn paper down and pay some attention to you for a change.  Does he even frigging ask you how your day has been?  Quit catering to Henry!  Does he realize how beautiful and kind and smart you are?  Henry needs a good slap upside the head.” is what I’d usually come up with when provoked night after night.

Marriage counseling via paper girl.  I could have made a mint!

She even called my mother to complain that I wouldn’t comply with her demands.  My mother had three years of me delivering papers by this time.  She didn’t automatically take the customer’s side any more.  She would shake her head and try to explain this herself.  She didn’t get any further than I did.

I got to the point I offered to stop delivering.

I said “You’re at the top of the street.  Other paper boys walk by.  I don’t think they can get here any quicker than I can.  A few of them are on bikes.  For a huge tip one of them might be willing to turn around and do his route out of order.”

Nope.  She had already tried that.  She had complained about me to the dispatcher.  That person had traced my route on the map while on the phone.  This lady had been told that it didn’t make sense.  No one could get the paper to her quicker than I was.  So, I had never been told about the complaint.

If I moved fast enough I could avoid her sometimes.  If she was dealing with something on the stove she couldn’t get to the front stoop in time to grab my ear.  Still I listened to the litany at least three times a week.

My paper route was my business.  I’d been at it for three years.  I had worked out most of the quirks.  It was hardly a topic of conversation at our house anymore.

One Sunday my father asked me over dinner about this problem at the top of the hill.  I guess my mother had filled him in.

“What do you think you’re dealing with here, Little Girl?” he asked. “Crazy?  Stupid? What?”

“I don’t know Daddy.  I don’t know what the story is.  She’s not stupid.  She’s not crazy.  I think she perfectly well understands what she’s asking me to do.  But, still she persists.  I’ve never laid eyes on this Henry.  I think he’s behind it.  If I ever lay eyes on him?  I’m going to be tempted to roll that paper up and smack him like a naughty puppy.  But, I won’t take it out on her with my wise ass mouth.  Something tells me that is not called for here.” I explained.

I got a call from the newspaper a few days later.  I braced myself to be told I had to climb mountains to get Henry his newspaper by 4:45 pm.  It wasn’t that at all.  They were now going to drop the papers right in front of my house at the bottom of Columbus Street.  Four other delivery people would grab their papers there also.

To this day I think my drop was changed from Mister Donut to right in front of my house because of that lady up on the top of the hill.  I think they did it to shut her the hell up.  As my mother used to say “The squeaky wheel gets the oil.”

My father was at the kitchen table when I took that call.  I repeated to him what I had just heard on the phone.

His eyes narrowed.  He looked at me and he said “Do you know what I’d do if I were you, Little Girl?  I’d start my route by walking down Bolton Street and cutting through at the top of Grant.  I wouldn’t walk up the hill with those papers on my shoulder.”

In other words if he had taken a month worth of crap he wouldn’t give that woman what she wanted.  She would still be delivered to last.

I thought about it.  I had a huge streak of “No one tells me what to do.” in me.  But, I decided against it.

“No, Daddy.  I’ll walk up that steep hill with the weight of the papers.  Something tells me that lady needs a win.” I explained.

“Perhaps you’re nicer than I am.” said my father.

“No one is nicer than you, Daddy.  I’m going with my instincts here.” I said as I gave him a kiss.

The next afternoon I dragged a small trash can down to the bottom of our driveway.  I knew my fellow delivery people.  They would leave the papers and string from their bundles behind.  They might even stuff it all down the storm drain.  I gave them a trash can so I wouldn’t have to pick up after them.  So, Columbus Street wouldn’t flood because of oodles of newspapers in the drain.

I walked up the hill with the papers.  I rang the door bell of the lady’s house.  I handed her the paper at 4:00 pm.

Her face beamed.  Her shoulders relaxed.

“You are a stay at home wife and mom.  You are a hero. You are beautiful.  You are smart.  You are everything that you should be.  The people that live in this house with you should know how lucky they are.  I hope you never forget it.” I said before I turned to leave.

“Thank you.” she whispered as she closed the door.

We had understood each other all along.

 

 

Dreamscape

I’m a good little sleeper. I need a lot of it.

My husband only needs six hours of sleep at the maximum.  He awakes refreshed and raring to go.  He smiles in the morning.  He is friendly.

He gets on my nerves.

I need a lot more sleep than that.  My husband would come and poke me to see if I was still breathing when we were first married.  He got used to it.  He found out that even the smell of bacon couldn’t pry my pillow away from me.  He learned to not talk to me for the first ten minutes.

If I wake up in a good mood and come right in for a hug?  He gets suspicious. What’s she up to?

My husband says he doesn’t dream.  I do.  It’s like an eight hour long movie some nights.  I can wake up and ask the cat what the hell that was all about.  She yawns in my face and pushes me further off of my pillow.

I remember waking my kids up for school.  A few times they were pretty angry at me.  I had interrupted a spectacular dream.  Now, because of me they were never going to know how that was supposed to end.  I felt guilty.  What a terrible thing to do to someone.  Deny them their ending.

I think we all have recurring dreams.  I’ve been to the same place to get lost in over and over.  If I could figure out what the hell town I am in I would google it.  Put this mystery to rest.  I even know what part of this town has a great clothing store where nothing will fit me.  I know which grocery store has absolutely nothing to buy in it’s produce section.  Over and over.

My subconscious is plain stinking weird and I know it.

I’ve been on the same roller coaster that goes straight up.  It is dangerous.  It is forever breaking down.  I’m afraid of heights.  I’ve dreamed this dream so many times I can stop that roller coaster in it’s tracks.  Not tonight folks.  Disembark this ride.  It’s starting to rain.  Go home.  No refunds.

I have weeks where I am moving and cleaning a new house.  God!  People can be pigs.  You would not believe the state some people leave their bathrooms in.  I look out the door and see the amount of yard work that is in my future.  I slam the door shut.

I’m in high school and I can’t get this damn locker combination to work.  I’m going through my purse trying to find my class schedule.  I have to get to a math class and fake taking a test.  I’ll probably fail because I’ve skipped so many classes.  I’ve skipped so many classes I can’t remember what room the class is held in.  In real life?  I never had a problem with my locker.  I never skipped a class in high school even once.

I know the dream experts know what all this means.  I just googled the meaning of dreams.  There are a lot of folks out there willing to tell you exactly what your subconscious is trying to tell you.  Just paypal them $19.95 to find out that you’re a procrastinator.

I just told you that for free.  You’re a procrastinator.

The free sites are a barrel of laughs.  The first site that came up told me that if I dream of a vacuum cleaner?  That means that something in my life SUCKS!  Yes, this is the kind of dream interpretation out there for free.

My free advice would be that you need to get off of your ass and clean your house.  The dust and grime has gotten to a point that it’s getting on your own nerves.  Throw in a load of laundry while you’re at it.

I used to dream that I was flying a lot.  In my younger years I felt like I was in angel training.  I think I failed the course after taking it three times.  I had to turn in my wings.  I was forever flying in to save someone from drowning.  I would fold my wings in tight and dive under the water.  The main problem is my contact lenses would get swept away in the water and I couldn’t see to save myself.  Never mind some toddler.  Big fail.

I was also flying because something evil and threatening was chasing me.  Can’t unrun them?  Fly off and leave them behind.

The online dream experts tell me that I’m flying because “I’m feeling good!”  Bunch of crap.

I dream I’m back in my childhood home quite often.  My parents are in other rooms.  I know they’re there but I never bump into them.  What a shame!  It was such a teeny tiny house.  I’m thinking they have nothing to say to me right now.

I’m an actress and I have the actor’s nightmare a few times a year.  Any one that has ever spent any amount of time on stage has had it.

I stand back stage or in the wings of a production.  I’m not part of this show.  I spend the first few minutes trying to identify what play or musical this is.  All of a sudden I have a costume person right in my face.  They are yanking off my clothes as I protest.  I do so quietly because there is a show going on after all.

What the hell?  Give me back my yoga pants.  You’d better not lose my flip flops, lady!  I just got them at the dollar store!

I have a costume pulled down over my head.  Why oh why is it always too tight?  And why is it always yellow.  Yellow is the one and only color I can not pull off.  I look like a cadaver in yellow.

I hiss at the costumer.”What are you doing?  Why are you doing this to me.?”

They reply that I am needed on that stage at this very minute.

“What the hell play is this?  I’m not in this play!  I’ve never even read this play!” I say as I am told to suck in my gut so she can zip the dress.  I try to move in the too tight costume.  Okay, whatever I do on stage?  Don’t try to lift your arms.  This dress is going to blow.  When this zipper gives?  Someone just might lose an eye.

I’m told the name of the show as a wig gets pulled on my head.  If the costumer is a nice one she applies lipstick onto my lip region in the dark.  I don’t let her near me with those fake eye lashes.  I am always protecting my contact lenses in dreams.

I am pushed out onto the stage.  “Just do your best.” someone hisses at me.  I hit the light so I know I’ve hit my mark.  I look around to see other actors freeze.  They weren’t expecting me and I’ve knocked them off of their stride.  Oh, great!  They’re so freaked they aren’t going to be able to help me out here.

I am uncomfortable.  I am unprepared.  I have enough experience that I don’t even bother being terrified.  I am perturbed is the best way I can describe it.

Then I wake up.

The dream experts will tell me that I am unprepared or think I am for something important that is happening in my life.  They will tell me that life has no script and that we are all winging it after all.  I am standing in the light on a strange stage and I am willing to stay and do my best.  I don’t burst into tears.  I don’t turn and run.  I am doing great.

Blah, blah, blah, blah.

What I want?  Is for that costume to be bright red.  It’s my color.  I want the costume to at least be too big for me if it can never frigging fit correctly.  I’m sick of worrying about zippers breaking.

I want costumers to stop poking at me right before an entrance.  If I have to save this play for some reason?  I’m doing it in my yoga pants and tee shirt.  Let the audience suspend disbelief.

Can the other actors just for once work with me?  Don’t sit there with your mouths open because my entrance is a big surprise.  Give me something to work with here, people!  Help a girl out!

Finally!  I want to stay asleep long enough to see how I do.  Quit waking up just as I get shoved out into the light.  I want this dream to go to full fruition.  I want that wig on straight.  My beautiful red costume to fit correctly.  I will hit my mark in the circle of light and I will improv my ass off.

Let me stay until the applause.

 

 

 

Daddy Goes to Paris, France

You go off on a vacation and you have someone come in to care for your animal.  You come home and the animal is over joyed to see you for about three minutes.  Then they give you the cold shoulder to let you know it’s not alright to go off and just leave them like that.

You will have a hard time unpacking your suitcase, however.  They are now laying on top of it.  Just to let you know that they are definitely coming with you next time.

I was kind of that way when I was a little girl.

My father was sent to Paris, France to work for six weeks when I was five years old.  Pratt and Whitney had sold a bunch of out dated jet engine parts to the French.  The French wanted to set up a jet engine factory and needed someone with some expertise.  Pratt sent my Daddy.

He was invited to bring his family along.  They even offered to put his children into English speaking schools for the duration.  My mother was terrified of the idea of living where she couldn’t understand a word that was being spoken to her.

She said a big “No, thank you.”

I stayed home with my mother and my brothers and missed Daddy.  My daily routine was pretty much the same.  But, there was no Daddy to tuck me in and tease me.

After a few weeks I cried because I couldn’t remember what Daddy looked like.  My mother quickly went through a box of snapshots and put some photos of him up on the wall near my bed.  I gave those photos a kiss each night.

Postcards and letters arrived with strange French stamps on them.  My mother read his missives out loud to me. Over and over again.  She would have to leave the letter behind on my night stand because I wanted it close to me. I couldn’t read but I knew Daddy’s  handwriting.

Daddy was having a great time.  He got so lost the first day in his rental car the company gave him a driver.  His driver was also his interpreter because my father didn’t speak French.  Daddy was being wined and dined by his friends at the new company.  He was especially enjoying his lessons in French wine.  Wish you were here.

He took in the sights.  He even went to the Moulin Rouge. Twice. He got away with that because my mother had no idea what that was.  She probably thought it was a museum.

They asked Daddy to extend his stay.  How about another three months?  He said no.  He had to get home to his family.  His little girl was only five years old and she was starting to cry every night when she was put to bed.

My father was gone six weeks.  To a five year old it felt like a year.  He finally arrived home and I acted like a pissed off cat that had been sent to the vets for six weeks.  I saw him get out of a taxi and I ran upstairs to hide.  Boy, was I mad at him for leaving me for so long.

He visited loudly with my mother and brothers for a half an hour in the kitchen.

“Where’s Little Girl?” he asked.

“Upstairs….. being mad at you.” came the answer.

Daddy fished through his big suitcase and found the gift he had bought for me.  I sat on the brass bed upstairs playing with my paper dolls.  I heard his footsteps on the stairs and I turned my back towards the bedroom door.

He was going to have to work for it.

I was being a nasty little pussy cat.

He came into the room.  Still I didn’t turn.  I stared at his photos on the wall.  They were a few years old I suppose.  I knew the real Daddy was standing right behind me.  I just needed to turn around to see my actual Daddy.  I squared my shoulders and refused to turn around.

“Hi, Little Girl.  I missed you.  I hear you’re pretty mad at me. ” he said.

That’s how long I held out being mad at him. Three sentences long.  I stood up on top of the mattress and launched myself at him.

He caught me and kissed my face. He kissed me some more.  He sat me on his lap and petted my hair.  He presented me with a beautiful Parisian doll dressed in deep purple.  She had blond hair and fancy dress.  I now had a doll I was allowed to look at but not to touch.

The first thing I said to him even before “I missed you!” was “Daddy!  Your face has gotten so fat!”

He laughed and said that he had eaten a little too much French cooking and perhaps had been drinking a little too much French wine.

I clung to him and squeezed him as tightly as I could.

I forgave him for leaving me because he was finally home.

 

 

Postscript:  The doll pictured is a lot like the one that I received.  The real one is in my hope chest…………..the hope chest that has about 30 framed photos on top of it right now……I’m too lazy today to go digging to take a photo.

School Shopping with Daddy

School was about to start.  Mom hardly noticed.  She had other things on her mind.

My mother had the house torn apart.  She was cleaning like a fiend for her turn at holding the Birthday Club at our house. Windows were bare and shining.  Curtains were being washed and hung on the line.  We were feeding ourselves left overs out of the refrigerator.  There were too many sandwiches.

We were trying to keep out of her way.  If you complained about the commotion?  You found yourself on your hands and knees dusting the curliques on her living room furniture.  She’d ball up a piece of newspaper and make you rub the inside of a window until the paper fell apart.

This went on for days.

My father went to the store for her and bought the things on her list.  The list consisted of ingredients for her party.  He scratched his head and tried to figure out where the toothpicks were.  Toothpicks with decorations on top.  He brought me with him.  He figured that I might know these things because I was born a female.

I scratched my head right along with him.  Candy for the dish the list also said.  He threw a big bag of Hershey Bars into the shopping cart.  I took one sniff of the cheese he picked out and shook my head no.  Too stinky.  We settled on an Irish Cheddar.  Crackers.  He grabbed a box of Ritz.  I shook my head no again.  Not fancy enough.  He gasped at the prices of the little sleeves of crackers shaped like diamonds and clubs.

The only thing that got rejected upon arriving home was the Hershey Bars.  Mom threw them into a cupboard and slammed the door.  I noted which cupboard they now resided in.  I would scarf them down later when she wasn’t looking.  So, far this was the only perk of having our lives disrupted this way.

Mom stuffed some money into my hand.  I was going to have to walk back to the store for decent party candy.  My father was escaping this horror by going to work.  He almost skipped out to his car with his thermos in his hand.

“Bridge Mix!  Chocolate covered peanuts.  Those little pastel colored mints in the long thin box.” she said as she pushed me out the door.  “Stuff that will look pretty in my bowls.  Pretty!  Dainty! ” She slammed the door and tackled the curtain rods.

I brought back the right kind of candy.  The house was starting to come back together.  The smell of Windex and Lestoil was still a little over powering though.

Mom approved my choices as she put those treats way up high out of my reach.  Don’t worry about that stuff I thought.  I know where the Hershey bars are.

“Um, Mom.  Have you looked at the calendar lately?  School starts on Monday.  I’m thinking I need some school clothes.  At least some new shoes.”  I said.

“Oh, God.  I don’t have time for that.  I have floors to wax.  I have to clean those bedrooms upstairs.  While I’m thinking of that go up into your brother’s room.  Look under his bed.  Bring me any plates and forks he’s stuffed under there.  I’m almost out of dessert plates.  Then come down and climb on that chair.  Hand me down my hall ball glasses so we can wash them all.  They might be dusty.  I haven’t used them since last Birthday Club.”  she said as she ticked off the list in her head.

She had already forgotten about school clothes. I reminded her.

“I’ll get your father to take you tomorrow.  Your clothes still fit from last year.  They’re in good shape.  Just get yourself a couple of school dresses.  Don’t you come home with anything frilly and silly.  Serviceable.  And, shoes.  Just get the same as you wore last year except a size bigger.  Those velvet lace ups with the stripes of color on them.” she advised.

I went to open my mouth to say I was not going to wear those same shoes for a third year in a row.  They might be a size bigger but I was sick to death of them.

The washing machine squealed as it stopped chugging in the basement.  She went to retrieve more lace curtains to rehang while wet.

I started plotting my shopping trip with Daddy.

I didn’t do well in the dress department.  He took me to a store that I really didn’t like.  I told him that.  It was right next to the shoe store so that’s where he wanted to go. I poked around the racks of dresses in my size.  I didn’t like anything.  He was growing impatient.  He picked up two dresses off the rack in my size.  He held them up against me.

“These are nice.” he said.  “One in blue and one in green. I like the colors.  I like the style.  No lace.  Yes, these will be great.” He threw them over his arm and started for the check out counter.

“Um.  Daddy?  I have to try them on.” I said.  He knew that I was still so young I had a hard time dragging clothing over my head.  He wasn’t about to go into that dressing room with me.

“These will fit.  I can just tell.” he said.

I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.  I didn’t want to say out loud that those were the ugliest dresses I’d ever seen.  He was just so happy with his choices.  He was feeling confident in his shopping because he had only gotten the Hershey bars wrong the day before.

I sighed and followed him to the check out counter.  I would shove those dresses towards the back of my closet.  My mother was in such a twirl cleaning that house with a tooth brush maybe she wouldn’t even notice.

Next came the shoe store.  My mother would never let me buy pretty shoes.  Oh, she was right.  They weren’t built for wear.  They weren’t designed for play grounds.  They wouldn’t last two weeks.  That’s why I wanted them so much.

My father had no idea he had been taken for a “Little Girl” ride when he bought me those shiny patent leather shoes.  I was smart enough to ask for the little non skid pads to glue to the soles.  I knew I was making a poor choice but I didn’t want to actually break my neck skidding around on them.

I also knew the ugly school shoes from last year were in good shape.  They sat in the closet waiting for me.  They still fit.  Darn it.  My mother was probably home dusting shoes and lining them up in neat little rows in case one of the neighbor ladies went snooping in closets.

I threw my flip flops into the shoe store bag.  I knew I had to scuff up the soles of these shoes before I got home.  My mother was going to go crazy when she saw what shoes I had talked my father into.  I had to make sure they couldn’t be returned.

We got home with new underwear and socks.  She wrinkled her eyebrows at the ugly dresses.  She got very noisy over the patent leather shoes.

“She’s going to have to keep them, Ralph.  She’s scuffed up the soles nice and good in that parking lot.  Open up that wallet of yours again and go back to that shoe store.  Your daughter has taken you for a ride.  She always has been able to twist you around her little finger. ” she said as she pushed him out the door.

“You!” she said as I went to follow.  “Don’t pull any more of your crap.  You buy the shoes I told you to buy.  Don’t come home without them.”

She was under the kitchen sink lining up all her vases and cleaning chemicals in neat little rows.  This party couldn’t come fast enough for me.

My father drove us down to the Parkade again.  He was quiet.  I suppose he was wondering if I had taken him for a ride.  It hadn’t seemed like it to him at the time.  He saw me admiring my new shoes.

“You really like them, Little Girl?  You knew all along they were no good for the play ground?” he asked quietly.

“That’s what the non skid patches are for Daddy.” I admitted.

“I didn’t mean for you to have to pay for two pairs of shoes, Daddy.  I didn’t think of that.  But, at least she didn’t sit us down and give us the Great Depression newspapers in her shoes story.  She’s too busy for that.” I said forlornly.

He chuckled quietly.  He would have roared with laughter if he wasn’t already in trouble with her.

Of course my mother was right.  I almost killed myself in the hallways of the school when I wore those patent leather shoes.  The custodians had a whole summer to turn those tile floors into a long narrow ice skating rink.  Those shoes were useless on the asphalt play ground.  Non skid patches or not. I clicked those clackety little heels so much the teacher threatened to smack me.  I got the message and picked up my feet.

We went back to the shoe store.  The sales lady helped with a smile.  She could imagine the hell we had caught when we had gotten home.

She took me over to the rack of shoes designed for wear and swing sets.

I pointed to the velvet with laces and colored stripes.  I imagined myself some day.  I’d be walking down the aisle with these shoes in size ten peeking out from under my long white wedding dress.  I was never going to get away from these shoes.

“What size are you again?” she asked.

I told her.  She patted my shoulder and winked at me in conspiracy.  This was the same lady that had been fitting those ugly shoes on my feet at the end of every summer.

“I’m afraid I’m out of that size.” she said to my father.

His face went white.  The Hershey bars and now this.

She took a beautiful leather shoe with a strap in her hand.  She presented it to me like a crown on a pillow.  I looked at the tiny little flowers around the edge.  They were cut outs.  So delicate.  I turned the shoes over.  They were so pretty I was surprised to see that the sole was rubber.  It was made to grip the ground.

“They come in brown leather and black.  Also, red.  But, let’s skip the red.  I would suggest that the black goes with anything in your closet.” she said.

My father shook his head up and down.  They were really nice.  Rubber soles.  My mother might let him off lightly.  I loved them.  I skipped out of the store with the patent leathers in the bag instead.

My mother’s eyes narrowed when she saw the pretty black leather shoes on my feet.  I sat and stuck the rubber soles up in the air so she could see that they were not only pretty; they were sturdy.

“They didn’t have her size in the other one’s Ellie.” my father said.  “We’ve been so busy cleaning this house.  We should have been there last week I suppose.”

Way to go, Daddy.  A little guilt.  A little “I’m so sick of sandwiches” hang dog look.

I wore my new shoes with one of the dresses that Daddy had picked out for me on the first day of school.  The dress did fit well.  I didn’t like it though.  I never would.  It had a drop waist which did nothing for my little square body.  If my hair had been black I would have looked just like Lucy of Charlie Brown fame.

I walked up to my friend Carol on the playground.  We checked each other out.  She was wearing the same exact dress except in red.

We stared at each other.  She said “I suppose your father took you shopping too.  I suppose you didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

I laughed and said “Exactly.”

“I hate your dress.” she said to me.

“I hate your dress.” I said to her.

We were also wearing the same exact shoes.  Except, she had talked her Daddy into buying the red ones.

 

 

 

Columbus Street on Stage

For a change I’m going to use real names.  This should be interesting.

Up Up and Away……………….is a term I use for a fantastical imaginative jump ahead into the future.

My husband goes Up Up and Away when he’s had a great day.  Every thing falls into place at work.  He sails through all the lights on the way home.  He stops for gas and the blinking sign over the cash register tells him that the Mega Millions is paying out Mega Millions that night!  He buys a ticket because how can he not win today of all days?

During dinner he figures out how much he’ll keep.  Who he’ll give the rest away to.  He dreams of what his children would like best.  Perhaps, Andy would be complete if he owned and ran his own gaming store.  Chrissy would really enjoy owning her own theater.  I hope she doesn’t get so caught up in the running of the theater that she forgets to play a great part herself now and then.  We dream realistically but really big over the chicken and baked potatoes.

We’re kind of surprised when we don’t even get one number on that lottery ticket right.

I was on Facebook one morning.  My page asked me “What’s on your mind?” like it does every day.  That day I answered at length.  I wrote a story about being a little girl refusing to lie in the confessional.  I was swept back in time.  I wrote of growing up on Columbus Street in Manchester, Connecticut.

I got it just right.  I don’t applaud myself very often.  But, that story remains one of my very favorites and it was my first.  I posted it onto the Grew Up In Manchester Facebook page.  The crowd went wild.

I couldn’t keep up with the comments.  Unlike most of the internet?  The comments were 100% positive.  No negative Nellies that sit around in their underwear causing trouble on the computer bothered reading or commenting on my story.  Nice people read it.  Nice people responded.

I continued to write my stories.  They’d been building up inside of me for a long while.  It was time to let them spill.  They spilled and spilled and spilled.

My daughter Chrissy called me from her home in Portland, Oregon.

“Ma!  Are you writing a book?  Are you writing a book and putting it up on Facebook?  What are you doing?  Your stories are wonderful but you’re just sending them out into cyberspace where anyone can grab one and claim it is theirs.  You have to be more careful.  And, while I find your stories very nostalgic and sweet…………well, where is the crazy?  You need to put more of the crazy in.” she said very quickly.

Chrissy was kind of pooping on my parade.  We’re both adults at the same time now.  She is more realistic and perhaps more aware of the deviousness of the world around us.  My life perhaps insulates me to the kind of crap she has to deal with every day in her adulthood.

“I’m just having fun.  I’m not writing a book.  You want to call it a book?  And, I’ll stop writing.  Who the hell will steal my stories?  Someone would really steal my stories?  And, if you don’t like nostalgic and sweet stop reading.  I don’t know much about crazy.”  I grunted at her over the phone.

I hate it when Chrissy is all grown up and makes me feel like I’m still twelve.  I get all pouty and crabby and I cut a conversation short.  The UPS man is at the door. Bye.  Dial tone.

I didn’t hang up quickly this time.

I know I’m behind the times.  I still have an old flip phone.  I panic when it actually rings because so few people have my number.  When I am out and about and doing my thing?  I don’t want to talk to you.  I don’t give you my cell phone number because I don’t want you interrupting me while I pick out pickles at the grocery store.

I sat in my computer chair half listening to her while I read comments on my latest story.

I interrupted her.  “Ooo!  Listen to this one.  Hot off the presses.  My mother is 92 and has lived her whole life in Manchester.  I read your stories out loud to her every night after dinner.  Your memories makes her remember her own.  Never stop writing.” I read to my daughter.

The phone got quiet.  Hello?  You still there?

“How many comments does this story have on it?” she asked quietly.

“Um……………let’s see.  The story was posted two hours ago and it has thirty two comments.” I answered.

This was in the early days when people responded rather than hit the like button.

The phone got quiet again.

“Jesus!  Ma!  Do you realize what you have here?  People are dying for the nostalgia of your childhood.  You have got to do something.  I suggest you at least stop with the facebook writing.  You have to start a blog.  Move your stories onto a blog.  That way you can prove that you wrote them at a certain time.  Thirty two comments in two hours?  Dear, God!” she yelled over the phone line.

“What’s a blog?” I asked.

She howled at her ceiling all the way out there in Portland, Oregon.  It’s nice to know I can drive my daughter as nuts as my mother drove me.  It’s inherited.  I wasn’t even trying all that hard.

She sent me to WordPress.com .  She told me it would be easy and it was.  The problem is I got so busy writing new stories it took me three weeks to find the time to go and move my older stories over.  To keep them safe.  I stayed up really late one night doing that.  I went to bed at three am and I said “Phew!”.

You story thieves, you! You have been thwarted!

One of my stories really impressed my daughter.  It made her miss her grand parent’s house on Columbus Street.  If any one in this world loved every corner of that little white house it was my daughter.

She would Up Up and Away years ago fantasizing about how she would redo that house if she owned it.  She would never live in Ct. again.  But, that house?  She loved it and it was almost worth moving to the East Coast for.

The story hit her nostalgia bone.  She went UP UP and Away imagining my book sales some day.  The book would be so popular a movie would be made.  It would be a lot like Ralphie and his BB Gun in The Christmas Story.  She would have to buy the Columbus Street house before some movie producer got his hands on it and turned it into a weird little museum.

“So, what actress will play you at age 30?” she asked. “The same actress can double as Ellie at that age.  You looked a lot alike at thirty.”

I thought about it for a little too long I suppose.  I mean there are only six actresses in Hollywood ,right?  They get used over and over again.  No one else is ever given a chance.  They’re all either too young, too blonde or they need to just eat a hamburger. Or, a couple dozen hamburgers along with a large order of fries.

“Jesus!  Ma!  This is an easy one!  I am a freaking actress after all and I look just like you!” she said in exasperation.  I was messing with her fantasy game.

“I suppose I’ll allow  you to audition.  But, you’ll have to ace it.  No nepotism.  It’s just not fair.” I said as I laughed like hell.

I worked the candy store this Sunday.  It was a beautiful spring day and lots of people were out and about.  I had lots to get done but I waited on a lot of people.  Lots of little kids in a candy store of all ages.

My friend Winnie stopped by for a short visit right after I opened.  She leaned in and told me how much she loves reading my stories.  She thinks I have found my passion.  She waved her hands in front of her and she got a little dramatic.

“Think of it.  On the Home Made Theater stage.  I envision the play you’ve written based on your stories.  Imagine Little Darlene on the stage.  Your parents Ralph and Ellie.  You can give the world a play about an actual functioning family.” she said in awe of her own idea.

“Well, that would be unique.  A play about a functioning family unit.  People don’t bother to write those.” I said.

The theater had just done Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.  Functioning family?  Not.  Come to think of it?  Why does all drama have to come from some one wailing “Oh, Mama!  You never really loved me and that is why I have so fucked up my life!”  Imagine a really bad southern accent and a torn white gauzy dress.  The actress’s hair is artfully messy.  She takes a big swig of whiskey right out of the bottle and throws the empty at Mama.

Yeah, I’m sick of those plays too.

My, God!  I don’t know if I have a play in me but it’s something to think about. I imagine my mother wailing at me from heaven.  “Dear, God, No!  I don’t want everyone knowing my business.  Kill me.  Just, kill me now.”

She was a private person.  She was dramatic.

I closed the candy store six hours later with the help of a young friend.  She’s learning the ropes so she can work the store once in a while herself.

Shannon had been too tired out for our regular Friday night dinner date.  I am an orphan on Friday nights because my men go out to play cards.  Shannon and I are dinner and wine buddies.  Instead of our Friday night dinner we were going out on the town after the candy store closed on Sunday.

We found ourselves in a restaurant where you could actually hear each other speak.  It was a nice day and most people that had thought to wear a sweater were out on the patio.  We chose inside.

We caught up on the news from the past few weeks.  I scolded her about a few things I suppose.  I am almost 30 years older than she is.  She is my friend but I do go all Mama on her once in a while.  She doesn’t seem to mind.

“I love you, Dar!.” she says. And I guess she does.  Because, she keeps coming back for more.

I told her of Winnie’s idea of me writing a Grew Up On Columbus Street play.  She thought it was a marvelous idea.

“Who would play your mother?” she asked.  “Ooo, ooo!  I know!  Winnie is the best actress any of us know.   Winnie should play your mother.”

Up Up and Away!

“Hmmmmm.” I thought.  I was now a casting director of a play that might never be written.

“Yes, you’re right about Winnie being the finest actress we know.  But, no.  She is not right as my mother.  She’s too small.  I’m not seeing it.  But, you know?  We’ll see at auditions.  A good actress can pull off any kind of character.” I said as I sipped my two ounce ten dollar chardonnay.

I chewed my cole slaw.  You know who Winnie would be perfect as? I thought.  My best friend’s mother.  She was sweet and kind and she has the right look.  I would have to put her into a dark short wig though.  I had already decided to stay true to how the people of my life actually looked.  Hmmm.  Winnie deserves some great scenes.  I was going to have to write some more stories about my times in my best friend’s house.

Up Up and Away!

On the way home I thought about the casting of my mother in a play that hasn’t been written yet.

Dawn!  Dawn might be absolutely perfect as my mother.  Dawn is forceful and commanding.  Yet, she can get gentle and kind.  Hmmm.  I pictured Dawn in a dark auburn wig yelling at little Darlene.

“Why are you ten minutes late?  Look me in the eye!  Remember!  Don’t bother lying to me!  I can read you like a book!”  Ellie Dawn yelled in my head.

Dawn wiping her hands onto a half apron.  With a dish towel over her shoulder.  Dawn pretending to look out the little kitchen window.  Dawn yelling “If you fall out of that frigging apple tree and break your neck?  I’m going to come out there and kill you myself!” And ,then she bangs out of the metal screen door.  Great exit!

Yes!  This will work.  Wow!  I just have to work on the Worcester accent with her.  She’s going to have to practice long and hard on forgetting how to pronounce an R.  My name is Dah-leen.  The R is silent.

I sat at a light on the way home.

What was I thinking?  I know an actress that is pretty accomplished at comic timing.  She is superb at learning her lines and being off book early.  She doesn’t argue with directors.  She looks exactly like my mother.  She already can do a Worcester accent.  She can kill a fly dead on the wall with a dish towel.

That actress would be me.

Chrissy can fly in to play the younger me and Ellie.  She can double.  Different wigs.

Hmmmm.  Casting Little Darlene.  Going to have to be a pretty smart kid to learn all those lines.  I could be mouthy back then.  Most of these little actresses are going to be too pretty.  I didn’t get pretty until I was about fourteen.  Little Darlene needs to have a round little face and a smart ass mouth.  Will she mind if I cut her hair into bangs and shoulder length?  Okay, a wig.

Make a note to call JJ for wigs.

Casting my father is going to be tough.  No one will satisfy me.  That actor isn’t dignified enough. I don’t like his laugh.  No one in this room is good looking enough.  Is Ralph Fiennes available?  I don’t care how much he costs.  He has to melt every female heart in the audience from age 3 to 100.  Get me Ralph to play Ralph.

That was easier than I thought it was going to be.

I am obviously going to pre-cast myself to play my mother.  No one else can do her justice.  Except, maybe Dawn.  Nope.

Dawn?  You are the only one I will trust to direct this one.

Or!  How long am I going to procrastinate before I write this play?  How many years will it take to convince the theater to put their money behind my words?  I may end up too old to play my own mother.

I wrote it!

I can direct it!  My directing debut!  It is going to be frigging amazing!

And, Dawn?  I wouldn’t trust the character of my mother with any one but you.

Up Up and Away!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

F U Social Security

The Social Security Department of the United States of America pissed me off royally a few months ago.

My husband started talking about actually retiring someday.  I’m still not convinced.  He loves his job.  Yes, I know it’s hard to believe.  But, people like that exist.  He is challenged every day.  He has a brain that is set up to do complex problem solving.  Someone pays him big bucks to do it.

He calls his work place the “fun factory”.

So, let’s forget that I don’t quite believe he wants to leave there.

I went through my drawer where I store all the paper work that comes to my mailbox that I don’t know what to do with.  It looks too important to get rid of.  What do I do with this?  I stuff it in the top left drawer of my desk.

I dumped that paper work onto the table and found a paper with my name on it from Social Security.  I really looked at it this time.  At age 58 I am three points shy of claiming  Social Security and Medicare.

I am superbly pissed off.

I worked from the time I was 12 years old .  I delivered papers for four years in all kinds of weather and downed electrical wires.  Snarling German Shepherds.  Grown men with beer bellies winking at me.  Social Security doesn’t care.

I worked in the tobacco fields from age 14-16.  Social Security said nasty job but somebody has to do it.  You get credit.  I sold chicken at KFC as a teen.  They paid pennies an hour back then but Social Security says Good Girl!  I ran a drug store as a newlywed.  Good for you!  I worked at Mystic Seaport Museum when I had one little girl so I could actually hear an adult voice now and then.  Yeah for you said Social Security.

Then I decided to be a stay at home Mom and I fell off the face of the earth.  Social Security said you’re kind of a freak.  Women don’t stay home with their children anymore.  I mean they used to .  Social Security fully supported your mother staying home with you.  But, you aren’t keeping up with the times. Get out of that house.  Get a job!  Pay some other woman to actually raise your children.  You are such a freak.

My daughter is 34 years old now and my son is 30.  I was one of a kind when they were growing up.  I was here.  I threw them out the door to get on the school bus.  I was here when they got home to ask them about their day.  I fed them every night around the dinner table.  I helped them with their home work.  I bathed them.  I read them bed time stories.  They probably wished at some point that I wasn’t paying so much attention.  But, there I was.

Social Security says that my job as a full time stay at home wife and mother doesn’t count.

I was used to getting that from other women.  I’m sorry if I’m insulting you ladies.  But, it’s true.  Women would ask me at the Home School Association meetings “What do you do for a living?”  I’d say I’m a full time wife and mother.  I don’t work outside the home.  They would move away from me like I smelled.  They started talking to me really slowly.  Only a stupid woman would choose to do this.

I picked up on their nuances.  If it was early in the morning and I hadn’t had  enough coffee they would get a sampling of my wrath.  Except I’m so smart they probably didn’t get it until they got home and had time to think on it.  Yeah, I’m that good with the smart ass remarks.

“My husband makes so much money ……………he pays me to stay home.  We’re all happier that way.  I understand that is not possible for every couple.  I know mortgages force many women out to work.  But, then………………..there are women that well, …………..really can’t stand their own kids.  Oh, and it shows.  Isn’t that your Bobby swinging from the flag pole over there?  Boy, isn’t he athletic.”  I’d say.  You get the gist.

I’ve got a million examples from the years of disrespect I put up with from women.

Just one.  I got a phone call from the head of the PTA on a Monday night around 8:30 p.m.  She wanted me to make three dozen cupcakes and deliver them to the school at 8 a.m the next morning for Teacher Appreciation Day.  “You have plenty of time because you don’t have a real job.”

Excuse my language but I said “Fuck you and Fuck your cupcakes”.  Then I hung up the phone.

This was a woman that had a full time job.  A miserable husband.  A house that looked like a tornado had gone through it.  Five kids whose names all started with an S.  She wasn’t sure who was Suzie and who was Sharon.  The only name she was sure of was the dog’s because she named him Dog.

I put up with the major part of society thinking I was a loser that was afraid to go out my own door. I felt misunderstood.  But, it didn’t really matter.  Because I have a partnership with my husband.  It’s always worked for us.  That is one happy man.  I am treated like a queen.  Our kids turned out great.

I’m feeling pretty good about all of our life choices.  Then Social Security tells me I’ve spent most of my life in a worthless pursuit.

I read that paper work and I went bug shit for two days.

My husband was pretty amused.  That did not amuse me.

“You’ve got four years to make four thousand dollars.” he said in sympathy after I threw a dinner roll at his head.  “Will you calm down.”

You just don’t get it I said.  I get no respect.  I’ve never gotten respect.  I correct that.  I’ve never gotten respect from other women.  Men have always looked at me with awe.  Their eyes glaze over and they wish I was theirs.  You iron?  You do the laundry for everyone?  You make dinner every night?  Like meatloaf and real mashed potatoes?  You do all the yard work?  You jumped up and down last summer when you got a new rider mower?  You actually kissed it and said it was the prettiest shiny red thing you’ve ever seen?  Oh, my God.  Your husband is one lucky son of a bitch.

Yes, he is and he knows it.  Why don’t you write that all up and send those thoughts to the freaking Social Security Department.

Now, my best friend is an astute business woman.  She opened her own business when she was still in her twenties.  She is amazing.  She works hard and she reaps the rewards.  Although her life is so much different from my own?  We really are in awe of each other.

She has never made me feel like a loser because I maintain the family home and lifestyle instead of making a paycheck.

She listened to me ranting on the phone.  I actually cried because my self worth had been kicked in the teeth.  Instead of saying it was no big deal she said “Those dirty rotten bastards!”

That’s why she’s my best friend. She’s my best friend because she gets me and she loves me and she supports me.  Also, she owns a candy store.  I like candy.

“You can work for me.” she said.  “I need help on Sundays and holidays.  I’ll put you on my payroll.  You already know how to run the store.  Come and work for me. If you need a Sunday off you have to find your own replacement.   I mean if you have a little cold you still have to come in.” she said.

No problem.  I spent my whole life being a stay at home mother.

Stay at home mothers don’t get sick days.

Thanks my Dawnie for the respect and the job.

F U Social Security.

 

 

 

 

Just Ask

True love. I have it with my husband.

True love. It’s not always romantic love.  I had true love with my parents.  I had/have true love with my in laws.  I have true love with my children.  I have it with a few of my friends.

Some of my true loves have died.  I feel left behind.  I don’t feel like these people are lost forever. I do feel like I’ll see them again.  True Love.

Eighteen years is a long time not to see your own mother.

I can’t pick up a phone and call her.  No form of transportation can take me to her.  Except, perhaps my dreams.  Mom could be a bit intrusive in my life when she was here.  I feel now she is holding back.  I know she’s in my dreams.  I feel her.  But, I have no memory of our talks and times together once I awaken.

I know she was there.  I know we had a great conversation.  I remember she gave me a chance to talk to her when she was young.  She has visited me at many different ages.  She doesn’t want anything from me.  She isn’t foretelling future events.  She visits.  She makes me laugh.  She makes me just want to reach out and touch her hair.

I feel it.  I have no memory of it.  That makes me want to scream.

I wrote last night about a very vivid dream I had of my father in law.  The person that was closest to him read it.  While it left her thankful that it had been written it also left her feeling sad.  Why have I had vivid dreams of him and she hasn’t?  She wishes for at least one.  What she wouldn’t give to see his face again.  To hear his voice. Even if it’s just a dream and it has to end and leave her feeling  lonely for him upon awakening.

I read her email.  I felt her thankfulness for my story.  I felt how bereft she felt that the experience hadn’t been her own.

I thought about it.  A saying my mother used to say came to mind.  “If you don’t ask?  You don’t get!”  Maybe you have to ask.  Maybe you have to give permission for such a dream to come.  Maybe you can’t just think it.  Maybe you even have to say it out loud.

I thought that this morning.

This afternoon a dear friend went to a renowned psychic. I’d never heard of this woman.  I’ve looked her up online since.  She looks weird enough to be legit.  Don’t laugh.  You know what I mean.  And the things she told my friend?  Wow!  I think this lady has a powerful connection.

One thing she said to her really slapped me in the face when I heard it.  It aligned with what I’ve been thinking about today.  She said “Your parents are both gone.  They are always near you.  If you need them you have to just say their names out loud.”

My lovely friend said “Yes, I feel them around me.  When I’m scared I think of them.  I think; please, help me.”

The psychic said ‘No!  You need to call them by name.  You need to say their names out loud.”

The reading went on and she got her money’s worth.  She didn’t revisit the “You must say it out loud!” thing.

That got me thinking.  My mother was full of advice in life that wasn’t asked for.  A lot of the times it wasn’t well received because I was an adult.  I could be irked by the advice.  I hadn’t asked.  She was always right.  That was most irksome of all.  My father only gave advice if I threatened to break his thumb.  I squeaked it out of him.

Perhaps from the other side advice is only given if you ask out loud. What if there are rules?  What if they stand at your shoulder ready to help.  They are thinking and trying to send their thoughts.  “Just say it out loud!  I can only help you if you ask me! Just say it out loud!”

I’m a pretty independent person.  I always have been.  As a child my parents would beg me to open my mouth and ask them for help.  But, when push comes to shove?  I’ll keep it in mind.  I’ll say it out loud.

My mother had a connection with a lot of people.  She didn’t seem to lose that connection just because they had died.  In times of trouble she would ask for “a sign” that every thing would be alright.

I remember a few months when everything seemed to go wrong. Some of these things were life threatening to someone dear.  She was praying and saying her rosary.  She was forever asking for signs.

I stopped her in the hallway of the little house one day.  I could see she had her rosary ready to go.  She had matches in her hand to light the candles.

“Ma!  No more asking for signs.  Don’t you think you’re overdoing it just a tiny little bit?  Are you the only one sending prayers up into the clouds?  You must be overwhelming heaven with your demands in the past few days.” I complained.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she said.  “Like I’m going to wear out heaven.  I get on my knees.  I say my prayers.  I ask for a sign.  I say it out loud.  I get my sign.  It’s only hard when the sign doesn’t come.  That means the answer is no.  That doesn’t stop me from praying.  It doesn’t hurt to ask.  Just remember, Little Girl.  You don’t ask?  You don’t get.” she said as she slammed her bedroom door in my face.

“You don’t ask?  You don’t get.” That sentence has gone through my head many times today.

When something…..  a sentence……a song is stuck in my head on replay all day long.  I tend to pay attention.

I’m not about to give up my earthly independence.  I’m not about to make decisions by what color birdie lands on my bird feeder first in the morning.  I’m not going to look for pictures in the clouds.

But, next time I really miss a dearly departed?   Next time I’d really love to know that they’re  still close to me?  I’ll ask.  Out loud.

I was listening, Ma.

 

 

 

The Writing Process; Because You Asked

Once in a while I write about writing.

It’s because you asked.  I get lots of questions sent to me about the process.  I find it very flattering that you want to know.

My husband has always been impressed with the way I turn a phrase. I guess my brain thinks of colorful ways to describe something.  I come up with it quick.  It is in conversation.  I don’t need ten minutes to come up with a short paragraph on a page. I let this stuff fly out of my mouth.  I don’t need a computer.

“When are you going to write a book?” he’d say.

I’d go quiet.  I write about the things I know.  The places I’ve been.  Mostly about the people that are in my life.  I can not imagine that most people can stand to read about themselves from the starkness of a white page.

For every story I tell?  There are at least a dozen that I do not see fit to write yet.  The time isn’t right.  The time may never be right.

My parents were wonderful.  I have had a great time so far remembering them young and vibrant and bossy and glorious in their parenting years.

I would not have written these stories if they were alive.  I wouldn’t have dared.  They might not have minded at all.  But, it would have stopped me quick anyway.

They were private people.  How can you write with someone whispering in your ear?  Does anyone really want to know that?  That is embarrassing.  I never said it that way!  Is that the way you really remember it?  Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe you should just skip this one.

I can not write if I am worried about you.  I can only worry about myself while I release my inner most thoughts and dreams and ghost stories.

Who knew stories about dreams could be so popular.  I talk about how seriously I take one of my dreams.  I’m thinking it is giving you permission to take your own seriously.  Ten of you think I’m nuts.  One of you is thinking “Oh!  Thank goodness.  I’m not the only one that has bright dreams.”

Human nature is so cool.  I’m glad to be getting to know all of you.  I do read all your messages and comments.

I write and post it.  This is the new fangled age.  Hit a button and bang!  You and your memories are in someone’s face.

I have fans. I’m sure others see the title to another of my stories and they roll their eyes.  They scroll on past.

What have I learned so far?

Some of you recognize yourself in every character.  It makes you remember so many memories of your own.  That is a super bonus to me.

I never imagined in a million years that I would write a story about some obscure childhood memory……………..and it would land in front of the eyes of the actual person that was the character in my story.

Checking the locks on my doors as I speak 🙂

The more outrageous the character in the story?  The more people come forward and send me messages.  “Is that me?  I know it’s me.  Tell me it’s me.  I’m going to burst if I don’t find out it’s me or not.  I go to bed by ten pm.  Could you answer me right away so I can sleep tonight.”

I sit here in my cozy little computer room   My fluffy white cat is cracking down on her kibble.  She twirls around my ankles.  I read this message and I pause in my writing.

“Oh, crap!  Does this person want the truth?  Do they want me to lie to them?  Fifty years and they track me down?  Is this cool?  Or, is this freaking awful?  Maybe I’ve written enough tonight.  Do I have to answer them?  Can I ignore them?  No, this used to be a friend of yours even if you haven’t seen them since you were eight years old.”

My answer is “Hi, it is so good to hear from you.  But, I do not answer these kinds of questions.  It gets in the way of my writing.”

I’m not trying to be a mysterious twerp!  I’m just trying to do my thing here.

I’ve learned that the things that make me laugh also make you laugh.  When I am sad and cry you cry with me too.  When I write and give you a little tension and say BOO!  You jump.

You love a ghost story.  You love to hear about my vivid dreams.  You want to know how I picture heaven.  You especially love the stories where I fall in love.

I’ll let you in on a secret.  I have a test reader in my house.  I do not read the stories out loud to him.  I have him read the stories out loud to me.  I am the actress.  I know I am the one that can give the story the nuance I want.  I wrote it.  I know the tone of voice I want.

My test reader doesn’t have my skill.  But, he has heard these stories over the dining room table.  He’s been begging for them to be written down for years.  He is my reader.  When he stumbles over a sentence I make him read it again.  I am happy to say it is not usually my sentence structure that makes him stumble.  It is that he is over tired.

He laughs in the right places.  When he doesn’t I take note.  When I write it sad he cries.  He chokes up and has a hard time getting the words out.  I force him to continue.  He asked for it. He’s got it.  I need my reader.

I write in a blog form.  The blog wordpress gives me lots of facts and figures.  I see how many people read which story.  I know what time of day most of you are on your computers looking for my stories.  Some of you read my stuff in the morning with your cups of coffee.  Some of you read my stuff on your kindle right before you go to sleep.  I am honored to be a part of your day.

You pay more attention during the week.  You’re busy on the weekends.  That’s okay!  If I notice a story didn’t get read enough?  I’ll post it again.

A story that I pounded out in five minutes might be your very favorite.  I may hardly remember writing it.  A story that I thought about for three days and took most of my day to write?  Won’t touch you at all.  That’s okay.  I don’t write just for you.  I write for me.  I write so my children will someday hear my voice when they read my words.

I have days when everything else stops because I need to write.  One story leads into another.  I guess I can just order in a pizza.  My husband understands. He asked for this after all.

I take a five day break?  It is because I am sick of my own voice.  I don’t want to get to know myself better.  I am boring myself.  I tell myself “Oh, please!  Just shut up and vacuum this house.” Or?  I got on a plane and went to another state for a family funeral.

You write to me because you’re worried.  Where are you?   Are you alright?  No pressure…………….but I miss my daily story.

The question of a book………………I have no idea if this stuff I write is good enough to go into a book.  At this point in time I have no interest in self publishing a book.  I think it is a bit of vanity to pay for a few hundred copies and hope to make my money back.  I’m not singing for my supper here.  I’m just telling my stories. (Note:  I was drowning in Christmas stories………….so I did put out a book.  They’re printed as they’re ordered…….so I’m not drowning in boxes of books. )

The only time I might have been tempted to even think a book was a good idea?  I get messages that the very old are enjoying my stories.  They are being read to them off of lap tops and such.  If only they had a hard copy of their own because they wouldn’t know how to turn on a computer……………….that I understand.

I started out by writing a couple of stories on Facebook posted right onto the Grew Up In Manchester page.  The response was phenomenal.  Really!  Those comments gave me the courage to continue.

The blog was born to find a safe place to store the stories.  They’re all in one place.  My name is stamped on all of them.

The stories began in a little Cape Cod house on Columbus Street.  I stayed there for twenty years.  I left and traveled.  I settled elsewhere.  My parents stayed in that house for many many years.  It’s only belonged to someone else for a few years now.

I shut my eyes and I’m back there.  It is where I began.  It is where I paid attention.  I didn’t keep a diary but I have a good memory.  St. Bridget’s Church has meaning to me.  Waddell School, Bennett Jr. High, Manchester High School, Kentucky Fried Chicken where I worked.  The Manchester Evening Herald that I delivered.

My neighbors.  Oh, they were important and they were loved.  As a child I could stand in the middle of Columbus Street and yell ‘Help” and every door would have opened.  I would have been surrounded by dozens of people in an instant.  I’ll never forget their faces and voices.

I usually write late in the evenings when the house is quiet.  I may have just written a long and complicated story.  I have edited and edited until I’m happy.  I may walk away and leave it for an hour until the ending comes to me.  I go to shut down my computer and another one starts.  That’s the way it happens some nights.

I wake up every morning with a start.  I wonder what I shared with the world the night before.  I sometimes feel very hesitant to turn on the computer and look.  I’ve only stopped one story dead in it’s tracks in the morning.

I share myself with you.  Sometimes I feel like I overshare.  But, there is always a comment that makes me change my mind.  The comment will say “Thank you so much for this story.  This happened to me too.  Can I private message you?”

Yes, you can.