Worcester Brother Don’t Pronounce The R’s

You read about it now and then.  Two nurses working in the same hospital feel an automatic kinship.  It doesn’t take them long to find out that they’re actually sisters.  They were separated as tiny little children.  Split up by the foster care system.

You read about it now and then.  Two strangers bump into each other on the street.  It’s like looking in the mirror.  Twins separated by the unkindness of life.  They spend years writing letters and visiting.  They find that their likes and dislikes are similar.  They find that they did just about the same thing at the same time when they were kids.

I was working at the candy store a few Sundays ago.  A nice middle aged couple came in to look around and feed their sweet tooth.  I noticed their accent as they asked me about the history of the town.

They didn’t pronounce their R’s.

“Are you from Worcester?”I asked.  “My mother was from Worcester and you have the same accent.  My name is Dah-leen.”

Yes!  Not exactly Worcester but a small town right on the outskirts.

They knew exactly where the street she lived was.  They knew where my Aunt and Uncle lived right across the street from a huge cemetery.  They ate plenty of hot dogs at the famous stand that was run by my Aunties and cousins for years.

“Dah-leen.” the man said.  “You must have been named for the Dah-leen on the Mickey Mouse show.  Dah-leen the Mouseketeer.”

I laughed out loud.  Not many people make that guess.  He was exactly right.

The door opened and a newspaper in a plastic bag hit the floor at his feet.  A young woman said “Sorry, it’s late.  Car trouble this morning.” as she banged the door closed behind her.

The man picked up the newspaper and handed it to me.

“That was my first job.” he said.  “Delivering the local paper Monday through Saturday.  But, I was either on foot or on my bike in the nice weather.”

“My first job too.” I added.  “How long did it take you to get that dent out of your shoulder from the paper bag? Boy, that paper was heavy on Wednesday with the ad inserts.”

We answered my question together. “About two years.”

About this time the man’s wife was jumping around declaring “Oh, my God!” as she was being entertained by our similarities.

“The day I turned sixteen I marched into Kentucky Fried Chicken on my way home from my paper route.  I asked for a job.  I started the next day.” I told them.

The man and woman turned to each other and yelled “Oh, my God!” into each other’s faces.

“I did the same exact thing!  I worked at Kentucky Fried Chicken all the way through high school and on weekends when I was in college.  Did you sell your paper route to the highest bidder?” he asked.

“I sold it to the boy across the street that used to do the route when I went on vacations.” I replied.

Again, “Oh, my God.” came out of the pair.

“My family would rent a few cottages on Lake Champlain for two weeks in the summer.  The boy across the street would do the route.  I sold it to him.” said the nice man from Worcester.

I repeated that last paragraph back to him.  Because that was exactly my story also.

There are no chairs in the candy store.  I’m thinking the wife would have liked to have sat down at this point.

He went to Burlington in the summer.  I went a half hour further north to Milton, Vermont.

“Did you bring home a bucket of chicken every night from work?” he asked me.

“Oh, yes.  I never turned down the leftovers.  I’d walk home and my parents would be sitting at the kitchen table.  Clean plates in front of them.  Holding a fork.  They’d screw with me.  They’d bang their forks on the plates and yell “We want chicken.” And, when I got engaged my fiancé would be sitting right along side of them doing the same thing.” I laughed as I remembered.

“Oh, my God!” the man screeched as he banged his knee.

“That’s exactly what my family used to do.  Before I forget.  I need to ask you something.  I can’t remember the word.  It has driven me crazy for years!  What was the name of the chicken piece that was all white meat and had no bones.  Just a little cartilage.  They used to all fight over those pieces.” he said as he stared me in the face.  He hoped so hard that I could come up with the word and put him out of his misery.

“The word you’re looking for is Keel.” I said.

He did a little dance.  That was the word that had eluded him for years.

“Are you a Regular or Extra Crispy girl?” he asked.

“Depends on who is cooking.” I answered.

He did some more dance in a circle.  That’s the answer anyone that has worked at a KFC will give you.  Extra crispy is only good if they don’t over cook it.

“What year did you graduate from high school?” he asked.

“1975.” I answered.

Got that one exactly right too.

Some young adults stuck their heads in the door.  “Ma!  Jesus!  What’s taking so long.  We’re starving.” said a young woman.

It was time for them to go.  They were now dying to eat chicken for dinner.  I told them to give KFC a skip and head to Hattie’s Chicken.  It’s very famous in Saratoga Springs.  Historically famous and pretty yummy.  I gave them directions.

No, he wasn’t my long lost twin.  He was much better looking than I am.  I also got his birthdate.  He’s two days older than me.

 

 

 

 

Makes Sense Now

My mother would be surprised at how much I actually did listen to her when she talked.  I may have rolled my eyes at her.  I may have gotten dramatic and banged my head on the kitchen table when she was going on at me.  But, I was listening.

My mother often aggravated me.  Looking back at it all……..the most aggravating thing was …………..she was almost always right.

I suppose it’s hard to pass on your wisdom before someone is ready to hear it.  Some things you just have to learn for yourself.  You can try to save someone from making the same mistakes you’ve made.  They won’t thank you for it.  You can’t live life for someone else.  Making your own mistakes is a big part of it.

I give my mother credit.  She might say “Go ahead.  Do it.  You’ll be sorry.”  I’d do it anyways. She never once said “I told you so.”

She’d often try to explain something to me.  I wouldn’t get it.  I couldn’t see her point of view.  She’d say “This won’t make any sense to you until you have kids of your own.  Then!  Then you’ll remember this conversation and know that I was right.”

She was right.  Sometimes. Alright.  Most of the time.

I’ve been the kid living in a pig sty of a room.  I’ve had kids living in a pig sty of a room.  The list could go on and on.  I was that kid.  I had that kid.  I’ve lived from both sides now.

Just as she did.

I’m very much like my mother.  That’s a good thing.  I’m also very different from my mother.

That’s a good thing.

My parents waved good bye to me at the end of their driveway on Columbus Street.  My husband and I were taking our two small children to live in Idaho for a few years.  We went because of my husband’s job.

My parents promised to come and visit us.  We promised it wouldn’t be forever.  My parents put on a brave face.  They knew a man followed his livelihood.  That Idaho might throw a job into my husband’s lap that he would never walk away from.

That’s why my mother cried so hard in that driveway on that day.

I couldn’t understand it then.  I understand it now.  She waved goodbye to me knowing that she might only see me for a few days a year for the rest of her life.  She also knew she was lying to me when she said she’d get on a plane and visit me.

She lived for 74 years and she never stepped foot onto an airplane.

We indeed only stayed in Idaho for two years like we had promised.  We returned back east.  We didn’t end up in Ct. again.  But, upstate NY is a very pretty drive of less than three hours.  My mother didn’t have to spend those two years that we were gone holding her breath.  But, I know she did.

Long distance telephone calls cost a lot of money back then.  I bought myself an electric typewriter in Idaho.  I type like the wind.  I would type long newsy letters to my parents telling them everything I could think of.  I mostly kept them up to date with the leaps and bounds their little grandchildren were making.

I found those letters in their dresser drawer when I cleaned out their house many years later.  I read them and remembered.  I read them and laughed and cried.  I was a young mother whose husband worked a lot of hours.  I was living in a strange state among people I found to be even stranger.

Those letters were chock full of my children when they were  little.  I had no time to keep a diary but I found time to write it all down for my parents.  So, perhaps I had an inkling at how bereft they were that day saying goodbye to me in their driveway.

Those typed letters and photos told the story of my turning a house into our home.  The children’s nursery school days.  How my five year old daughter would run to me and exclaim “My baby is crying!  Do something about it, woman!”

They described my  two year old boy’s obsession with Thundercats and plastic swords.  He finally got a He Man light up sword from Santa.  He hardly ever got to touch it.  Every time he hit his sister with it ……………..I put it on top of the refrigerator for 24 hours.  I’d give it back to him with a talking to.  He’d smack her with it again.

I wrote to them about all those days.  I read my own words in their empty and echoing house while I emptied it for sale.  I realized at that moment how important I was to them.  How much they missed me.  How much they treasured the descriptions of the days they were missing when I moved their little grand children so far away from them.

I was glad that I can tell a story and that I can type 80 words a minute. But, I was surprised at how worn the paper was.  I could tell that every letter had been read over and over.  I could tell that the pages had been cried on.

Still I didn’t get it.

Then, my daughter graduated from college.  She had spent the next to last semester being an intern at Disney World.  She met the love of her life.  He lived down the hallway in the condo that Disney housed their interns in.  He comes from Oregon.

Their internships were over and they both returned to their colleges.  They were now on opposite sides of this big country.

“I know what I want for a graduation present, Mom.” my daughter announced a few weeks before graduation.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I want a plane ticket to Oregon.  So, I can be with Jake.” she replied.

“And, when will you be coming back?” I inquired.

“I won’t be coming back.  Oregon is going to be my home from now on.” she said quietly.

I finally got it.

I got how my mother felt that day when I waved goodbye before leaving for Idaho.

There are differences I know.  I didn’t care for Idaho and couldn’t wait to get back East.  My daughter loves Oregon.  She loves the city of Portland and it’s people.  She treasures everything around her.  Even the misty gray raining days that never seem to end.

She’s a professional actress.  Portland is a theater town.  They keep her busy.  She’s become some of the characters she’d only dreamed of becoming.  She’s succeeded.  She’s won awards.

She had a beautiful wedding out there.  She’s surrounded by a very large family of in laws.  They all love spending time with her.

She’s made a beautiful life for herself.  The only thing she’s missing?  Her Mom and her Dad and her brother.

So, I don’t make the same mistakes my mother made.  I didn’t stand in my driveway and cry.  I got out my calendar and circled dates.  I go on the computer and buy airline tickets.  I book seats in theaters early before they sell out.  They tend to sell out when my daughter has the lead.

I fly alone.  I fly with my husband.  I fly with my son.  I stay with my daughter and her husband.  We book hotel rooms.  We stay in B& B’s.

Airplanes.  Strange cities.  Flying alone.  Strange hotel rooms.  Strange theaters.  This would have all terrified my mother.

If I had remained in Idaho?  It would have broken her heart.  I refuse to let my daughter’s move across this country break mine.

I realize there are big differences also because of the time I live in.  There are no longer expensive long distance phone charges.  My daughter and I have three hour long catch up phone conversations late at night.  We instant message on Facebook.  We can email back and forth in real time.

My parents only got a big fat letter once a week in their mail box.

So, someday we’ll sit on a cloud.  And we’ll look back on it all.  I think I’ll see that my husband being brave and moving us across the country had it’s perks.  I learned that airports aren’t scary.  Airplanes get me where I want to go.  Hotels are a clean bed in a place I want to be.  If I forget my toothbrush? The front desk has one.

I’ve learned that this country isn’t as vast as my mother imagined it to be.  I learned that an eight hour plane ride is just a very expensive nap.

I’ve learned that home is where my family is.  I did learn that from my mother and she was almost always right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Drive: Hopelessly Lost

Daddy could be a tease.  He wasn’t a mean teaser.  He didn’t say mean things to get you crying.  Not that kind of teasing.  But, once in a while he’d get in a silly mood and he’d share it.

He might blow up a trash can with a cherry bomb just for the hell of it.

He might part his hair down the middle and pull his pants up very high.  He sat in the kitchen looking this way ten minutes before it was time to leave for church.  My mother would be flying around the downstairs trying to get herself ready in time.  She’d take one look at him and say “Knock it off, Ralph.  You aren’t going anywhere looking like that.” as she passed him on her way to the bathroom.

She’d come out with a comb and fix his hair as he tickled her around the middle.

Teasing her got her attention.

He teased me enough that sometimes I got confused.  Is he serious?  Or, is he making this stuff up.  He told me not to go down the pathway to the brook at my grandparent’s house.  I was told there were rattle snakes down there.  I just figured it was Daddy’s way of keeping me in the yard.  His way of keeping me within sight.

Rattlesnakes were real.  I knew that.  But, only real in a Western on TV.  A cowboy would pause in his saddle.  He’d take out his gun and blow a snake’s head off before his horse could buck him off.  But, in Glastonbury?

Daddy must have been watching me out the window.  He could see that I was circling around near the entrance to the pathway.  I could hear the brook.  I wanted to see it.  I had one foot on the stone pathway when I heard his voice from the deck on the back of Grammy’s kitchen.

“I am not teasing, Little Girl.  You are not to go down there in the summer.  Rattlesnakes are real.  I am not making it up.  I am serious.  I will bring you down there in the winter so you can see the brook.  Look me in the face.  I am not teasing. Since you might think I am teasing you…..you must come into this house at once.” he said.

Daddy was serious.  I ended up spending that Sunday working on a 1,000 piece puzzle.  I hate puzzles.

If Daddy had any weakness that we could tease him about…………..I didn’t know of any.  He did seem to have a fear of being late.  He always got us every where too early.  I’d tease him about that once in a while.  He didn’t mind at all so there was no fun in that.

My mother had a fear of getting lost.  I have no idea where it came from.  The easiest way to work her up in two seconds flat was to admit you had no idea where you were.

My mother pulled out a bottle of nail polish to do her nails on the trip over to Glastonbury one day.  This irked my father.  He hated the smell of nail polish.

“Really, Ellie?  You’re going to gas us all out in the car with that stuff?  Put that away for God’s sake.” he begged her.

“I am not going to your mother’s house with my nails looking like this.” she said.  “I’ll be done in five minutes.  I could have done this at home.  But, no, you give yourself an hour to make a half an hour drive.  Did it ever occur to you that when someone says noon you should show up at noon? ” she said in a huff.

There were dozens of different ways to get to my grandparent’s house in Glastonbury.  Daddy took different ways to switch it up once in a while.  Mom finally finished her nails and looked up.

She didn’t recognize where we were.

“I don’t recognize this road.” she said as she stowed her nail polish into her purse.  “Where are we?”

“Hopelessly lost.” my father mumbled from the driver’s seat.

When he used the word “hopelessly” she should have known that he was screwing with her.  But, her fear of being lost was strong.  She started to flit around in her seat.  She stopped waving her hands around to dry her nails.

“We’re lost?  Lost?  How lost?”  she said in a quivering voice.

“Hopelessly.” my father said.  “I think my brain has been affected by the smell of that polish.  I can’t think straight.  We may be in Hartford by now.  I don’t know.  I can’t feel my tongue.”

Mom also had a fear of Hartford.

She rolled her window all the way down.  She stuck her head out like a golden retriever.  She gulped down air as she tried to calm herself.

I’d had enough.

“Daddy!  Stop it.  Mommy!  Get your head back in the car.  We are not lost.  I know exactly where we are.” I said from the back seat.

“Oh, thank God!” Mom said as she drew her head back into the car.

“When we get to the end of this road there will be that big yellow house with the white porch.  Then we take a right.” I said from the back seat.  I didn’t know the names of streets back then.  My landmarks were pretty houses and beautiful flower gardens.

Mom calmed down and started blowing on her finger nails again.

We got to the end of the road.  There was the pretty yellow house just like I said there would be.  My mother gave my father a smart ass smile.  Instead of taking a right he took a left.

Now, I was lost.

“Ralph!  You were supposed to take a right!” said my mother as she started to twitch again.

“And, you promised me twice last year never to do your nails in the car again.” he replied  He finished up with “Hopelessly lost………………just hopeless.  Lost.  Lost.  Hopeless.”

“We’re just headed back to Manchester again, Mommy.  Will you just breathe?” I said from the back seat.

“Who can breathe with that stink in the car?” my Daddy said back to me.

He continued down the wrong road.  He pulled the car up to watch some horses running around a field.  He enjoyed a view he’d never seen before.  My mother was twitching out of her skin.

“I suppose I could turn around and find my parent’s house from here.” my Daddy said to Mom.  “If you promise to never use nail polish in the car again.  And, mean it.”

She crossed her arms and stuck out her chin.  She watched the horses run by.  She ignored him.

“Okay.  We’ll just keep going this way and see if we can find Hartford.” said Daddy.

This teasing was getting a wee bit mean.  That’s how much Daddy hated the smell of nail polish.

“What time is it, Daddy?” I asked.  He glanced at his watch and told me it was almost noon.

“Well.  Almost noon.” I said as I leaned in between them from the back seat.  “Your parents tell us lunch is at noon.  You always show up at 11:30.  So, I’m thinking  your mother is putting all the food back into the refrigerator right about now.  Your Daddy is on the phone calling our house.  They must be getting pretty worried.”

My mother turned from staring out the window.  She looked at me with wonder in her eyes.  Daddy’s Girl is finally picking my side she thought.

My father reached into my mother’s purse.  He grabbed the half empty bottle of nail polish.  He flung it into the tiger lilies lining the country road. He turned the car around.

We pulled into my grandparent’s driveway at 12:10 for a noon lunch.  They were both waiting for us at the back door.

“You’re late son.  We thought you were all dead in a ditch.” said my Grampy.

“That’s where the nail polish is.” I admitted.

 

 

 

 

The Clothes Line

My mother didn’t have a clothes dryer for a long time.  She pegged the wash on the line every other day.  It was my job to hand her clothes pins when I was a little girl.  I’m sure she could have done it by herself.  It was her way of keeping an eye on me.  I think she also enjoyed the company.

We often did it in silence.  We just enjoyed the breeze.  We enjoyed the smell of the fabric softener coming off of the warm wet clothing.  We even enjoyed the squeak of the big pulley at the end of the clothes line.

I would dig to the bottom of the bag and find a special metal thingy ma bob with small wheels on it when the line would sag.  Three of those interspaced between wet towels and socks would keep the clothing from sagging to the ground.

We often had chats out in the back yard while we did our work.

I was very little girl.  I wasn’t tall enough to reach the rope.  That’s why it was my job to hand my mother the clothes pins.  I’m sure some of my conversation wasn’t all that fascinating.

Like any little kid I would eventually ask a question that made my mother pause.

“Will I always be the littlest?  Or, are you going to have more babies.” I might ask.

“Dear God!” my mother would answer as she pinned white tube socks to the line by the pair.

“When you get very angry at Daddy you get very quiet.” I noticed.  “When you get mad why don’t you just yell and get it out?  You’ll feel better.  When I get mad I yell.  Then I feel great.”

“Dear God!” Mom would answer.

“None of the other mothers read three newspapers a day.  I think you should have been a reporter.  I’m five years old now.  I can sit on the couch and watch TV if you want to go off and be a reporter on the television.  You’re very pretty.  You can do the news.  I will watch you and then you can come home and make my fish sticks.” I said.

“Darlene.  I don’t want to be a reporter.  I have a job.  It’s called being your mother.” she would reply.

“I can’t pay you.  I don’t have any money.” I sighed as I handed her a clothes pin.

“You pay me in love.” my mother explained.

Once in a while my mother’s three children would indeed get her screaming mad.  She could get pretty dramatic.  One of her favorites was “I have given you kids the best years of my life and this is what I get in return?”

This needed to be discussed at the clothes line.

“You’re very quiet today.” my mother noticed as I handed her matching pairs of wet socks.  I followed it with a pin.  “Remember what I said about that.  If you have something on your mind you need to open your mouth and tell me.  I’m not a mind reader.  So, Little Girl.  What are thinking about right this very minute?”

“I’m thinking that you’ve given me the best years of your life.  I’m thinking I didn’t ask you to.” I said as the pulley squealed.

“Dear God!” my mother answered.

“You could be a famous actress like Maureen O’Hara.  You’re as pretty as she is.  Your hair is just as red.  Or, you could be a teacher.  You’re that smart.  Or, you could be a nurse.  You’re very nice when someone is sick.  You plug in the vaporizer and bring cold ginger ale.  I would forget about being a seamstress.  My friend’s mother is one of those.  That means she sews for a living.  You’re really not good at that.  You sewed the arm hole of my white shirt shut when you tried to fix that rip.  We can’t be good at everything.  Daddy says that.  He says that every time you make eggs.  I’m thinking you should be an actress and a singer.  You’re good at both of those things.  You’re very dramatic and you have the prettiest singing voice I’ve ever heard.” I blathered on.

My mother laughed.

“So, I’m bad at sewing and scrambled eggs.  I will try to improve.  But, once again.  I don’t need a job.  I have a job.  If I was busy being an actress and a singer who would wash the clothes and clean the house?  Who would help you with your home work?  Who would water the flowers and cook your dinner?  Daddy makes plenty of money.  I pretty much do everything else.  Should I go make a movie?  Then we can hire someone to do everything that I do.  Does that make sense?” asked my Mommy as she picked up the empty clothes basket.

‘It makes sense if your SOUL is calling out for you to be a famous singer.” I explained as I clutched my heart in dramatic fashion.  “If your SOUL thinks you need to be in a movie.”

“My soul is just fine, Darlene.  I chose to be here.  I chose to be a wife and mother.  I thought about it before I did it.  This is all of my choosing.” Mommy explained.

“Oh, well then.  That’s good. ” I said.  I was happy in my five year old heart to get this straightened out.

“Maybe you can stop yelling about giving up the best years of your life.  Because it makes me think too much.  It makes me feel guilty like I’ve stolen something from you.  I don’t mean to steal from you.” I said.

“Dear God.” my mother replied.

Our clothes line routines were not quite as nice in the winter.  The cold wind blew up our skirts.  Back then girls and women didn’t wear pants very often.  We brought out two baskets to carry the laundry back in.

I would struggle up the back cement stairs dragging a basket of half frozen towels.  Then I would peg them to a few ropes in the basement to finish drying.  My mother made sure those ropes were low enough for me to handle on my own.

I was ten when Daddy brought home a new clothes dryer. He gave it to my mother as her big Christmas present.

Mom smiled.  She clapped her hands together when Daddy brought her out to the snowy driveway.  He showed her what he’d bought for her.  But, I thought her face looked funny.  Like she was pretending to be happy.  Daddy didn’t notice.  But, I did.

Daddy bumped it down the basement stairs to hook it up.

“What’s the matter, Mom?  Don’t you like the color of the dryer?” I asked.  It was some strange avocado green.  Some man somewhere thought this was an innovative color for large appliances.  Along with Harvest Gold.

“Oh, I don’t care about the color.  It lives in the basement after all.  I was just thinking that there is no more reason to go out to the clothes line together.” she said quietly.

“I’m thinking that those were perhaps the best years of my life.”

 

 

 

 

The Ferris Wheel

My mother believed in signs.  She loved bright red cardinals.  They were a sign sent just for her that everything would be alright.  She told me her cardinal stories.  I didn’t poo poo her idea.  Whatever gives someone solace when they’re worried is alright by me.

Now, whenever I see a bright red cardinal I think of my mother.

I realize that there are a few pairs of cardinals living in the woods behind my house.  But, they’re pretty elusive.

I was just sitting on the back deck.  I’ve been writing a story in my head all day long.  But, I thought a better use of my time this evening would be cutting the lawn.  I planned on putting on long pants and getting on my tractor.

Then a red cardinal perched on the railing and stared me down for two minutes before flitting off to check out the pool.

I guess I’ll write the story.  The grass can wait.

When my mother decides she wants something done…………I do it.

I’ve been in writing mode for many months now.  I didn’t listen to the begging of my husband for decades.  He’d bring up writing at dinner and he’d just piss me off.

“I will write when I’m ready.” I’d say as I cleared his dish from the table before he’d finished eating.

Like a runner………….my day is off if I don’t write now.  I am a thinking person so I suppose I’ll never run out of things to write about.

I feel closer to my parents when I write about them.  They were pretty private people so they might be shaking their fists at me if they could actually read this stuff.  They might say “Did I really say that?  Did I really do that?  Oh, my goodness.  You were actually listening.”

One memory leads to another.  A photo in an album makes me remember.  I don’t rewrite history.  I remember it the way I remember it.

I wrote a story in remembrance of my father for Father’s Day.  I hunted down an old photo of me and Daddy together.  That photo was next to another in the album.  Well, there’s another story.

It was a photo of me standing on a deck with my brothers.  They’re holding strings of fish.  I’m not.  I have a horrible moody  puss on my face.  I wear a white life preserver around my neck on dry land.  I’m not happy.  That vacation came banging back into my memory banks.

My parents spent all their summer vacations at rental camps on Lake Champlain.  When I was about 14 they bought a camp in that spot for themselves.  But, I do remember one summer where their usual routine deviated.

I’m thinking my father was missing his roots.  He spent every spare dollar and vacation moment he had getting my mother together with her kin up in Vermont.  One year he went another way.

He rented a small lake side camp in Northern Maine the summer I was six years old.  The spot of his childhood.  Close to his sisters.  We packed up the station wagon with sheets and towels and clothing.  We prepared for the long drive to Maine.

Mom wasn’t thrilled.  But, fair is fair.  She would pace herself and try to pretend to have a good time.  Little kids know these things.  My father knew it too.  He pretended she was ecstatic at his plan.

The day before the station wagon headed towards Maine I woke up with a horrible ear ache.  My father took me to the doctor.

He made a big mistake on the drive to the doctor’s office.  I was six years old and terrified of needles.

“So, I talked to the nurse on the phone.  She said you probably need an antibiotic.  Since we’re going on vacation the best way to get rid of this ear ache is to give you a shot.  Or else you’ll have to take pills every day.  You won’t be able to go swimming.” he said as if he was talking to a normal person that could stand a needle jabbed into their skin.

I started to wail.

He pulled up into the doctor’s parking lot.  I wouldn’t move from the front seat.  He eventually had to lean in and grab me by my shirt.  He slid me across the shiny faux leather seat and glided me out.  I let my legs go limp.  Daddy had to pick me up off of the pavement and sling me over his shoulder to get me into the building.

The doctor saw me first.  Not because I was the earliest appointment.  But, because I was the one in the waiting room having a very vocal melt down.

Doctor Stroud was stern with me.  “Stop it.  Stop that howling now.  Let me look in your ear.”  he said.

He put a cold instrument in my ear and I tried to kick him.  He grabbed my sneaker and said “None of that.  I brought you into this world, little girl.  I’m the one that slapped your bottom the minute you were born.  I’m willing to slap you a good one right now.”

I tried to get my sobbing under control. By this time I noticed the more I cried the more my ear throbbed.  Ah, the eyes and nose seem to be connected to the ear bone.

“You have an ear infection. You got water in your ear when you were swimming in the pool.  One little jab with a needle and you’ll be all set.  Nip this in the bud.  You can go swimming  on your vacation.” he said with a sickly smile.

I screeched.  I jumped onto my father like a monkey onto a tree.

“Or……………you can take pills all week.  You won’t be able to go in the water.  You won’t be able to swim, or snorkel or water ski.” said the doctor.

Where did he think we were going?  Bermuda?

“I want the pills.” I said.

“Ralph!” exclaimed the doctor.  “This is ridiculous.  Let me give her the shot and she’ll be all set.”

“No, Little Girl says no needles.  Just write the prescription for the pills.   I’m tired of holding her down while you stick needles in her.  If just once you had a nurse do it instead of me?  This might have a different ending.” my father said.

Doctor was not pleased with either of us.

It didn’t matter.  We got to Maine.  The cottage had a deck that was right over the lake.  A cold cold lake.  Put a toe into that water?  It would turn blue and fall off within two minutes.  Daddy had forgotten what Northern Maine was like in the month of June.

Me and my ear full of water and cotton couldn’t go swimming because of bacteria.  My brothers couldn’t go swimming because of the ice cubes floating in the water.

Daddy took us out in the rowboat.  We each had a fishing pole with a bobber on it.  My brother’s bobbers kept getting pulled under the water.  They each ended up with a string of fish.  My bobber never bobbed.

Daddy took photos of us kids on the deck.  The boys were photographed proudly holding the fish they had caught all by themselves for dinner.  I wanted a photo of me holding the fish.  Daddy said no.  I could be in the photos but I hadn’t caught any fish.  No trophy fish pictures for me.  Life is so unfair.

My mother gutted and cleaned fish.  She rolled them in egg and flour.  She fried them.  She was so so happy.  Not.

The next day we all jumped into the station wagon.  We visited Daddy’s oldest sister at her camp on another lake.  Her lake seemed to have more sun than ours.  She didn’t have ice floating in her water.

Her grown up son was there.  I had never met a Maine cousin before.  He had a blonde crew cut and black glasses.  He looked like one of the Beach Boys.

He had something called a ski-do.  It was like a snow mobile except it went on water.  He gave everyone a ride.  My father and brothers sat behind him one at a time and went around the lake.

It was my turn.  My father handed me down like I was precious cargo.  On Daddy’s side of the family there were ten boy cousins and me.  I was the only little girl.  So, I was treated like precious cargo.

I was seated in front of my cousin.  I turned around and introduced my six year old self.

He put his head back and laughed and told me that he knew who I was.

“Well, maybe you don’t realize that I have a bad ear.  It’s full of cotton.  I take pills for an earache because I wouldn’t let the doctor stick a needle in me.  This seems to be a huge problem even though my ear doesn’t hurt anymore.  I have to warn you that I may not get my ear wet.” I said as I snuggled back into my grown up cousin.  What’s his name.

He put his arm around me and whispered into my good ear that he hated needles too.  He promised not to get my ear wet.  He took me for an exciting ride around that lake.

He handed me up to my father on the dock after our turn around the lake.

I proposed marriage.  My cousin winked at me and laughed with glee.  Then he docked his ski-do.  I never did get an answer to my proposal.  I am thinking handsome blonde men with crew cuts are not attracted to girls with cotton sticking out of their ear.

Oh, well.  Worth a try.

The next day was rainy.  We spent it all heaped on my parent’s bed watching re runs of The Andy Griffith show at our little camp.  We ate hot dogs and beans.  The kids were happy.  My mother may have looked a little aggravated by this point.

The next day was sunny and clear.  We got in the car and toured potato fields where Daddy had grown up.  He told us how he had worked in these fields as a boy.  He said he had slept in a potato barrel when he was a baby.  He had been dragged up and down the fields in the shade of a barrel on it’s side.  He slept while his mother worked taking care of the plants.

I tried to picture my Daddy small enough to fit into a barrel.

We found the foundation of his parent’s farm house.  That’s all that was left of it.  That and the huge lilac bushes that had grown in the yard.  The fields were reclaiming the plot of land where his house had stood.

I asked him if it made him sad.  Was he sad that his little boy house was all gone.

He thanked me for asking.  He said that no, he wasn’t sad.  His home was where ever Mommy and his children were.  His home was in Connecticut now.

The next day we were off to Brewer to visit his little sister.  She was of course all grown up with big children of her own.  She sent us off to the Brewer Fair.  The kids were happy about that.  My mother did a little grumbling.  I don’t think she was a fan of carnival rides and fried dough.

Mom took the boys on a Spider Ride.  I thought it looked pretty exciting.  I was told that I couldn’t go on rides that spun around.  I was known as a puker.

So, Daddy asked if I’d like to go on the Ferris Wheel.  He said we’d be able to see all of Brewer from up there.  He thought I’d like it.  I looked up and saw the hugest Ferris Wheel ever built.  It wasn’t my little girl imagination.  It was huge.

I said okay.  Why not?  I’d been on Ferris Wheels before.  They didn’t upset my stomach.  I wasn’t a fan of heights but they went around quickly enough.  By the time you’re thinking this is a little high for my liking …………you’re near the bottom again.

Well.  Yeah.  Right.

Daddy and I got on the ride.  It was stories high.  It went around about twice.  I closed my eyes at the top the second time around.  It was frighteningly high.  On the third time around the ride slowed and we stopped right at the top.

The car we were in swung to and fro for a moment and then came to a stand still. Daddy bent at the waist to take a look way way down to the ground.  I shut my eyes and yelped.

“Why aren’t we moving, Daddy.  I don’t like this at all.” I said in a tiny little voice.

“I’m not sure, Little Girl.  There is some kind of problem.  We’ll move in a minute.  Nothing to be afraid of.” he said

“Daddy?” I asked.

“Yes.” he answered.

“You know how I’m afraid of needles?  Well………………I’m ten times more afraid of being up high.  My heart feels funny.  I can’t feel my hands.  This is not fun.  I want to go down.” I said in a rush.

Daddy knew he had a real problem on his hands.

“Now, Little Girl.  We’ll sit perfectly still.  We won’t rock back and forth.  We’re perfectly safe as long as we sit still.  This bar in front of us keeps us in our seat.” he said in a calm voice.

I opened my eyes and stared at the bar.  I knew perfectly well that I was so little I could slide out from under that bar.  It didn’t hug my body like it did Daddy’s.  He looked at the bar and knew exactly what I was thinking.

He tried to dissuade me from fear.

“Well, look!  Way over there.” he said as he pointed off to the right.  The ferris wheel seat wiggled along with his arm.  I squealed.  My hands held on to the bar so tightly my knuckles were white.

“If you look over there you can see Auntie’s house.  Let’s see if we can find it.  It’s on a corner.  It’s white and square.  It has lots and lots of beautiful flowers planted in the yard.  I bet we can figure out which house is hers.” my father said.

He was trying to take my mind off of my terror.  He could tell my breathing was funny.  He was very high up in the air with a terrified little girl.  He knew that bar offered me no protection if I decided to go bug shit and move around.

I opened my eyes into slits.  I tried to follow my father’s finger to the direction of my Auntie’s little white house with the flowers.  Her nice safe house that sits on the ground and not high up in the air.  I knew he was trying to keep me calm.

The only reason I didn’t go crying crazy up there……………was because I knew I would freak my father out.

The sun was beating onto the left side of my face.  My skin felt tingling.  I was getting a sun burn.  That’s how long we’d been up there.

“Daddy.  I know I’m a little girl.  I know I don’t understand time very well.  But, we’ve been up here a long time now.  It’s not because I’m scared.  It’s been a long time hasn’t it?  My face on this side is starting to burn.” I said to him.

“We’ve been up here for about twenty minutes, Little Girl.  That is less than half an hour.  When you watch Lassie on TV …………that is a half an hour.  You don’t need to look down.  But, there is a medical problem down there.  There are two ambulances.  Someone on this Ferris Wheel is very, very sick.  That is why it has stopped.  The doctors are helping them right now.  As soon as the ambulances go away the Ferris Wheel will move and take us to the bottom so we can get off. “explained  Daddy.

“Daddy?” I asked.

“Yes.” Daddy answered.

“Doesn’t it scare you being so high up in the air?” I asked.  My heart beat was almost normal.  I suppose a human being can get used to just about anything.  We are adaptable.  Even your biggest fear can be handled if you have your Daddy right along side of you.

“Do you like being so way up high?” I asked.

“Yes, I like it a lot.  Heights don’t bother me.  I liked to climb trees when I was a little boy to see how high I could get.  I was a Marine.  I liked to fly air planes.  I liked being even higher than this. You hold on to that bar and you’ll be just fine.  My arm is around you.  I won’t let you fall. ” he explained.

A voice came over a loud speaker.

“Testing One Two Three.  Hey, folks on the Ferris Wheel.  We’re sorry for any inconvenience.  We’ve had a medical problem.  We’re five minutes away from getting you down from there.  Please, be patient.  Almost there.” said a man’s voice.

“You’re being very brave, Little Girl.  I know you don’t like heights.  Look at you!  You even have your eyes open now!” said my Daddy.

“I can be brave only because you’re sitting next to me.” I admitted as the Ferris Wheel lurched forward.  It was beginning to let people off one chair at a time.

“Well, I’ll always be next to you ,Little Girl.” he said.

“Even when I’m all grown up?” I asked.

“Even then.  You just have to stop in for a visit or pick up a phone, Little Girl.  Being a Daddy is a forever job.” said my Daddy.

“But, someday you’ll be very old and go away.  I’ll be here.  Without you.  What about then, Daddy?” I asked as we were almost to the landing.

“Even then.  I’m your Daddy forever.  You call my name out loud.  I will always hear you.” explained Daddy.

That’s about the moment when my ear opened up.  I heard a noise like a small ocean.  The cotton in my ear became soaked and water ran down the side of my face.  The warmth of the sun beating on my ear along with the penicillin had finally worked.

We reached the bottom.  Two men opened the bar to let us off of the ride.

Daddy hopped off and I stayed put.  One of the men went to help me off of the seat.

Daddy waved him away.

I started to cry.  The thought of this world without my Daddy in it was too much for me.  My ear was running down my face.  My legs weren’t working.

I pulled the cotton from my ear.  Daddy noticed my wet face.  He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped up my face.  He held out his arms and I climbed up onto him.

“You’re a mess, Little Girl. I bet you’ll never forget this ride on the Ferris Wheel”  he whispered in my ear that now worked just fine.

“I’ll remember it forever and ever.”I replied as he carried me towards my mother and my brothers.

“Because you were so afraid?” he asked tentatively.

“No, because you were sitting next to me.” I replied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dreaming of Donuts

The most vivid and memorable dreams usually come right before waking.

This morning the cat pawed me in the face.  Maybe she was trying to shut up my snores as I was lying on my back.  Perhaps she was checking to see if I was alive.  Her stomach was telling her it was way past her usual breakfast time.

She interrupted a strange but wonderful dream.

Oh, it wasn’t one of my bright dreams.  I didn’t feel that it was real when it was happening.

My dreams usually jump around.  I don’t do much interpreting of dreams.  I think my brain is pretty stupendous with the scenarios it can come up with.  It’s like my channel is being changed every thirty seconds.

This morning’s waking dream had a definite theme.  It continued on until the end.  It was a theater dream.  But, it wasn’t an actor’s nightmare.

I sat on the top of a small set of bleachers on stage.  I was part of an audience watching a bunch of ten year old’s perform.  Or, rather do intensive theater games with a lot of improv.

One exercise was very impressive.  A large group of kids lined their chairs up into the shape of a roller coaster car.  Their theater teacher then stood in front and described how the car was now climbing the incline.  It’s reaching the peak!  It’s now starting it’s free fall.  The car is leaning towards the right as it picks up speed.  To the left.  Now, it’s going to do a roll.

Those kids followed her instructions.  Their bodies all went in the same direction as one.  They gave out roller coaster screams in all the right places.  The kids at the front of the car put their arms straight up as they screeched.

I knew it was a dream.  In my dream I thought to myself “I should tell my director friends about this one.  It would make a great warm up exercise even for adults.”

I looked to the right and my father was sitting next to me.  Sitting next to him was a small cooler of beer.  He was enjoying himself tremendously.  Daddy had never shown an interest in this kind of stuff before.  He was not the type of guy to bring a cooler of beer with him every where he went. Hmm.

The kids jumped off of their pretend roller coaster.  I was interested to see what this theater teacher came up with next.  Daddy had enough.  He stood up and grabbed his cooler.

“Let’s get out of here.  Mom must be packed up for vacation by now.” he said.

“You drive.” he said as he picked up a couple of empties.

Weird.

As we walked off the stage I stopped and asked the teacher what show they’d eventually put on.

“Cleopatra.” she answered as she turned back to her small actors.

Weirder.

We walked into the kitchen on Columbus Street.  The kitchen looked like it did when I was a kid.  I noticed a big open box on the stove.  The box used to contain six packs of soda.  It was now lined with waxed paper and huge donuts.  I had my eye on a big jelly donut.  I wondered where my mother was.

I don’t see her in dreams much.  Mom is hiding out from me for some reason.  In the dream I thought “It’s because she looks younger than me now.  She doesn’t want to freak me out.”

Then her voice rang out from the bathroom.  I pictured her in the bathroom mirror fixing her hair.

“Put some foil over those donuts, Darlene.  And, put them in the car for the trip.” she instructed me from around the corner.

“Ma!  You’re not going to eat these donuts!  You’re a diabetic.” I said as I poked the jelly donut to see what kind of jelly it was.  I was hoping for blueberry.

“Oh, I’m not a diabetic anymore.” she yelled back with a laugh.

That’s when the cat woke me up.

Maybe it was a bright dream after all.

I was sad that there are no donuts in my house.  And, that my mother never came around the corner.

I got up and fed the cat.

Ct. Woman In A Foreign Land

I’m a feminist that never had to work for it.  I came from a household with a strong Daddy.  But, my mother was as powerful as he was in every way.  They had a partnership.  There was give and take.

I paid attention.  I accepted no less for myself. I found a husband who comes from a household similar to the one I grew up in.  I’ve thanked his parents for the making of the man I married.

I married a man that loves me more than he loves himself.  We discuss everything.  We talked about where we wanted our lives to go.  Together.  I work for him and he works for me.  I am his equal.

I realize it’s not that way all over the world.  It’s not that way in every household.  It’s even different from state to state here in the USA.

I discovered that when my husband’s job took us out west in the 1980’s.  It was apparent every where we went.  A restaurant is a good test spot.  One husband held his wife in high esteem at the table to our right.  Another husband berated his wife two tables down.  Their children were acting up and it was all her fault.  She hung her head and accepted the fault.

I noticed it all around me for two years.  Most of the men were in charge and it’s what the women expected. I felt like I had landed in the Twilight Zone.  This was like a different planet.  If I was on the same planet I was in a time warp.  We’d gone back at least fifty years.

I was not amused

Local women found me to be strange  Me and my weird bossy little ways.  That lady would go home and tell her husband about the strange woman she had met.  I was from a place called Connecticut.  She was enamored of my independent ways.  Her husband listened and never let her hang out with me again.

“Who is taking care of your children tonight?” a lady would ask me.

“My husband is watching the kids.” I’d reply

“Doesn’t he mind babysitting after a long day at work?  Did he kick up a fuss?” this female being from a strange land would ask me.

“He isn’t baby sitting.  He is taking care of his children so I can get out for a few hours.  He’s happy to do it.” I would reply.  I’d stare this foreign being in the eye.  I was looking for signs of alien life form.

Nope.  She’s human.

I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of that state.

I gave birth to my son at age 27.  I hung onto my baby fat for a few years.  I got tired of it and decided to lose a few pounds.  I can diet by myself for about half a day.  Then I figure I’ve been so good I deserve a reward.  A prize made of chocolate. Or, cheese.  I love cheese.

So, I joined a famous diet regime.  Nowadays you can buy this prepackaged food in Walmart.  Back in the day you had to go into the office.  You kept a food diary.  They decided how much weight you had to lose.

I met with the woman that ran this office.  She sat across from me in her little power suit.  It was an unflattering shade of maroon.  She had a long row of raisins lined up on her desk.  She kind of resembled a raisin.  Too much sun.  Not enough sun screen.  She needed to eat a cheese burger.

She told me I needed to lose sixty pounds to be at my best weight.  I laughed in her face.

This woman was not a doctor.  She was an office manager.

“That’s not going to happen.  I will be thin if I lose 25 pounds.  Sixty pounds?  I’m sorry but that is a downright unhealthy weight for me.  I suppose your goal is to have me in here buying your pre-packaged food for a year.  Yeah.  Right.  I will take your suggestions when I see fit.  I will ignore your suggestions when I find them contrary to my well being.” I said.

She sat up straight.

“You’re not from around here.” she said.

“Nope.  How could you tell?  I’m told I don’t really have an accent from “Back East.” I replied. “Oh!  I get it.  Women from around here do what they’re told.  Because you’re wearing a two piece suit I’m supposed to bow to your superior knowledge.  I don’t think this is going to work out.”

“No, don’t go.  This program can be designed around what you want.  We just need a weekly weigh in.  You keep a food diary.  After your weekly weigh in you take part in a half hour group session with our psychologist.  He’s here to help you over any pitfalls you run into.  Ladies usually talk about how to order in a restaurant when they’re out with their families.  Not over eating at family reunions.  That type of thing.” she said.

“I’ll give it a go.” I said.  “But, a psychologist?  I want to see his credentials.”

Now, she definitely knew I was not from around here.

“Oh, he’s great.  He just got off a cruise ship.  I’m thinking he mostly had to deal with claustrophobia there.  I mean it didn’t have anything to do with diet.  Every one is eating like a little piggy on that cruise ship I suppose.” she said as she popped a forbidden raisin into her mouth.

I took off the weight in a few months.  Their pre packaged food was pretty disgusting.  Dehydrated stuff.  Plenty of fresh vegetables on top of it.  Diet dressing in little packages.  Hard little crackers that you could break a tooth on.  I got adept at reading the labels and finding tastier choices in the grocery store.

Every one that worked in that office had more weight to lose than I did.  Let’s leave the raisin lady out of the equation.  They were all on the diet just to be able to work there.  They were the most miserable bunch of people I’ve ever seen gathered in one office space.

The psychologist was a big round bearded man.  He never stopped yawning.  Women bored him.  Women whining about not being able to eat a piece of cheesecake at their 40th anniversary party infuriated him.  Yes, he got angry at calorie starved women in jogging suits and sweat bands.

He was an ignorant ass hole of the non feminist variety.   I sat around a big round table with other women and one chubby man with bad knees.  I didn’t take part in the group discussion except to listen and to learn.

I was kind of afraid to open my mouth.  I thought I’d have a little too much to say.

I did not like how every woman I had met from this state bent to the will of a man.  Especially such a poor specimen like this ‘doctor’.  If he was a real psychologist then I was a real mermaid.  How come I could tell and these ladies couldn’t?

Because. They were raised here.  They hardly had the nerve to actually look this man in the eyes.  They had allowed themselves to over indulge in fudge and ice cream.  And, here was a man tsk tsking at them and they thought they deserved it.

I’m from Connecticut.  I am a proud Yankee woman.  I’d had about enough.

We went around the table and each answered the question “What was your biggest challenge this week.”

I heard about birthday cakes at company offices.  People being teased because they wouldn’t partake.  I heard about a husband that likes his little missus fat and jolly.  His wife thought if she got thin it would make him crazy nervous.  He knew she was dieting.  He gifted her with a pound of her favorite chocolates the night before.

“I would have thrown them in the trash and made him sleep on the couch.” I spoke up in group for the first time. “Better yet.  I would have sent him out for a gallon of milk and had the locks changed.”

These ladies gasped.  The psychologist rolled his eyes and tried to wake up from his awake nap.

This pseudo doctor had a maverick on his hands.  I don’t think he’d ever heard a female talk out of turn before.

“And, what was your biggest challenge this week?” he asked trying to rein me in.

“Let’s see.  My biggest challenge. I guess that would be getting the exercise in.  My husband has been working a lot of over time.  I hardly see him.  He’s not there to take the kids off of my hands once in a while.  So, instead of doing water aerobics I take them for long walks.  He needs to stop working so much and spend a little more time with his wife and children.” I said.

“Well, Little Lady. You are here to support your husband.  Your job is have a nice clean home for him to come back to at the end of the day.  Your job isn’t to complain and to tell him how to go about his business.  He provides for you and you provide for him.  Now, don’t go stuffing your mouth full of Oreos because your husband works a little over time.  Eat an apple and say Hello, Honey when he walks through the door.” he said in a placating tone.

Okay.  One. Two. Three.  I would try not to kill this man with my bare hands.

“You are a misogynistic asshole.  Oh, it’s probably not your fault.  I’ve met a lot of them here. I’m thinking it is the way you were raised.   It’s the main reason I can’t wait to get on an airplane and go the hell home.  Next you’ll be telling me that I should put a smile on my face and greet my husband at the door dressed in saranwrap.  How about a spray can of whipped cream?  He likes whipped cream.  Or, are their too many calories in that for you?” I said in my dreaded quiet voice.

Anyone that knows me ………..knows that I am at my most dangerous when I get that quiet.

I stood up.  I grabbed my purse off of the floor.  I didn’t direct any more of my comments to the asshole with the fake psychology degree.

“I know we are from different worlds.  I come from a place where women are revered.  Where women are equal to the men in their lives.  Daughters are not trophies.  Daughters are jewels to be protected and educated.  Wives are not servants.  Wives are a treasured prize a man has to earn every day of his married life.  That man goes to bed knowing how lucky he is.  I don’t care if you’re thin or fat.  You are worthy of respect.” I started in.

Dozens of wide blue eyes stared at me.

“I have lost all the weight I wanted to.  I didn’t do it eating the crap in a box these people sell.  I did it by reading the labels.  Chicken breast is your friend.  Steamed fish. A big naked baked potato at midnight.  Don’t feel guilty because you’re hungry and you actually eat an extra apple a day.  Every thing that they sell here can be bought for half the price at the grocery store.  Buy one more weeks worth.  Keep the nutrient content info off of the boxes.  Spend an hour in the grocery store.  Replace their shit with stuff that is better for you.  Lower in sodium.  You don’t need this place.  Exchange phone numbers.  Meet and help each other. ”  I said with passion.

Two more women were now standing with their purses on their shoulders.

“If you think you need a psychologist?  Well, I don’t know what to tell you there.  This man isn’t a psychologist.  He can show me all the fake diplomas he owns.  He’s nothing but a woman hating ass hole.  I don’t pay good money to have some man call me “Little Lady” and try to put me in my place.” I said as I headed towards the door.

All six women in that room grabbed their purses and followed me out to the parking lot.

The women gathered in a circle and exchanged phone numbers.

“Where is it that you come from?” asked one lady as she got in her car.

She talked to me like I was a woman from the future.  And, perhaps to her I was.

“I come from Connecticut.” I answered.

 

 

Ka-Boom

I like quiet.

I never could study when music is playing.   My brain wants to stop and listen to the lyrics.  I am not a fan of background noise.  I can become somewhat immune to it.  But, when that noise stops?  My body relaxes so much I realize how tense I had become.

Our cat avoids the rooms where the air conditioners are cranking at full volume.  She disappears under the sofa and only comes out to greet my husband.  She crunches on some food and slurps up some water.  Then she disappears again.

I wish there was room under that sofa for me.

I also have a very overly active startle reflex.

The firecrackers that I see you fling through the air don’t bother me much.  The one that goes off outside the window that I didn’t expect?  Makes me whoop and jump a foot.  It’s a physical comedy act.  The people around me are very amused by my startle reflex.

My husband is a champion sneezer.  If there was a sneezing team in the Olympics he would be wearing the USA uniform.  The noise coming out of him is tremendous.  He’s made me jump.  He’s made me screech.  He’s made me drop things.  I’ve banged my head in the refrigerator when he lets out a blast.

He loves me.  He has come up with an early warning system.  As he’s drawing in breath he tries to utter the word SNEEZE before he lets it rip.

Once in a while a sneeze hits so quickly he can’t warn me.  I jump and yell “Jesus!”  and then I feel bad.  I feel bad at making him feel bad.  Then I try to cover it up with sweetness.

“Oh, bunny!  Are you having a bad allergy day?  Have you taken a antihistamine?  Could I get you a glass of water to go along with that antihistamine?  How about taking four or five?” I exaggerate.

Jesus!

Sometimes I think loud noises are my own fault.

I lie in bed.  I can sleep as late as I want to.  I glance at the clock and it is now 8:01 a.m.  No reason to jump out of bed.  I snuggle and I rub my feet on the coolness of the sheets.  I hug my pillow.   I love my pillow.  Never touch my pillow.  I think to myself “I love how quiet it is right now.”

That’s when a neighbor starts up a lawn tractor.  A leaf blower.  A wood chipper.  A chain saw.  It’s my own freaking fault for thinking it was so nice and quiet.

I sit on the deck at midnight and enjoy the silence.  The birds and squirrels are asleep.  The people in my house are asleep.

“I love the silence of midnight.” I sigh to myself.

BOOM!!  BOOM!! I almost fall off my lawn chair.

“What the hell was that?” my son yells out at me from the bathroom window.  “Was that a frigging cannon?”

“You know what?  That sure as hell sounded like a cannon.” I say as my heart rate goes slowly back to normal.

Yes, I really do believe someone living about a half a mile away owns their very own cannon.  What else could it be? What else sounds like that?

I love people.  I love a good chat.  I do theater.  I can get tired of people.  I get weary of all the chat.  I breathe a deep sigh of relief to be by myself in the car again after a rehearsal.  I’ll love all these people again tomorrow.

I was listening to the sound track of the musical in the car on the way to rehearsal.  I start my car up after rehearsal and voices sing at me from the radio.  “Oh, shut up!” I’ll mutter as I bang the radio button off.

Doing summer stock theater can be pretty intense.  It’s a very short rehearsal period.  Very long days under hot conditions.  We all got along just fine.  But, on days with two shows?  I was looking for a quiet corner to crawl into between performances.  Preferably one with food cooked by someone else and an air conditioner.

My friend the costumer whispered to me after the first show.  “Meet me at your car in ten minutes.  We’re getting the hell out of here.  We’re going to the Burger Den.  Cheese burgers.  French fries.  Air conditioning.  Quiet!”

We slipped out.  We felt kind of guilty.  I drove a Grand Marquis back then.  I could have fit four or five skinny hungry actors in my car for that trip.  But, we needed to chill out by ourselves.

We arrived at the family style restaurant and found it to be overly air conditioned.  We drank that in.  I even kicked off my sandals to run my swollen feet across the cold linoleum.  Heavenly.

We put our order in and sipped on long cold drinks.  We grinned at each other.

It was my fault.  I actually said out loud “Isn’t it nice and quiet in here?  This is great!”

That’s the very second the balloons started popping and I started hopping.

It seems that the Burger Den handed balloons to all their patrons when their bills were delivered.  The balloons contained little slips of paper for free stuff during your next visit.

“Bang!  Free French Fries!  Boom!  A banana split!  Hiss Pop a milkshake!”  yelled a room full of previously quiet patrons.

My friend noticed me hopping in my seat.  My fork went flinging across the room.  I almost poked myself in the eye with a straw.  This was the first time he had noticed that I have an over active startle reflex.

He enjoyed the show.

We finished our food.  “Do you want to order ice cream or something?” he asked.

“No!  I need to get the hell out of here.  My nerves are frigging shot!” I exclaimed.

We nodded the waitress over to ask for the bill.  She delivered it quickly with a pair of big balloons.  They were colorful.  They looked like innocent balloons.  I knew they were not.

My friend held his balloon between his hands.  He gave me an evil grin as he caressed his balloon.  He gave it a little squeeze.  It gave out a little squeak.  My blood pressure started to go up.  I narrowed my eyes at him and gave him a meaningful glare.

I may have even asked if he wanted to walk back to the theater.  That’s my style.

He wasn’t about to walk away from a rubber orb that contained free stuff.  But, he is a good hearted individual.  He only likes to see a friend squirm for a minute or two.

He put the end of the balloon up towards his lips.  He grabbed the rubber at the base of it.  He bit a little hole near the knot and made that balloon hiss and squeak and fart for a half a minute.  He won himself a small tossed salad for his next visit.

He doesn’t eat vegetables.

He pouted.

I grabbed my balloon and tried to re-enact the way he had broken his with barely a sound.

I used my front teeth and I ground them back and forth across the base of the balloon knot.  I was being gentle.  I swear.

It popped in my face with a huge bang.  I screeched and knocked over the salt and pepper shakers.

My buddy laughed hard.  He laughed so hard he made no noise.  One of those laughs.

At least he was quiet about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Facebook: Grew Up In Manchester

I signed up for Facebook years ago.  Just like you I held my breath and waited for someone to steal my identity.  I’d read the Facebook horror stories ahead of time.  I have adult children.  They giggled at me and taught me about privacy settings.

I eventually learned how to ignore the stuff I didn’t want to see.  A friend gets so political that they’ve stopped sleeping?  I limit my view.  I still love them and want to see photos of their July 4th celebration.  I just don’t care who they’re voting for.

You can’t change my political views by debating me on Facebook.  Go get a popsicle out of the freezer.  Suck on it.

I’m a fiend for videos of giggling babies.  I love kitties that nap with huge dogs.  A screaming goat can get me laughing until I cry.  I’m a simple girl.

The advent of my joining Facebook coincided with my local newspaper adding a comment section to every story.  I think online journalism took a hit that day.  The trolls came out of the woodwork.  People sitting around in their underwear comment on everything.  They always seem to be negative.  The positive cheerleaders aren’t online.  The Negative Nellies were having a field day.

I decided to ignore them.  I decided not to comment.

I spent many a weekend during a long hot summer getting my father’s house ready to sell in Manchester, Ct.  The sale would buy him another year in a private nursing home room.  He was depressed knowing this was going on.  I was depressed throwing stuff he deemed worthy of saving into a dumpster.  Hard times.  I’m thinking most of us have gone through it or will.

His house in Manchester sold pretty quickly.

I was 56 and my childhood home was gone.  That’s a long time to have a home base.  My whole lifetime.  I would now bypass the Manchester exit to get to Waterford to visit my in-laws.  I stare out the passenger window at those moments while my husband drives.  I get quiet.  That Manchester exit sign just makes me very, very sad.

I have no reason to stop there anymore since my father died.

I was on Facebook one night soon after the death of my father.  I had my fill of puppies and babies and selfies.  I went to the search bar and typed in Manchester, Ct.

Grew Up In Manchester appeared.  I asked to join.  A moderator must have been online as late at night as I was.  Boom I was in.  I scrolled and scrolled for more than an hour.  I saw photos of places I remember well.  Photos of people long gone.

I came across a few discussions where the negative trolls were attacking.  Even in Manchester I thought.  All of a sudden a moderator intervened.  Be nice people!  Or this conversation will get wiped clean!  And, then I noticed a few hostile types no longer existed on the page.

Well.  Wow!  And good for you moderators!  Good for all of us.  We’re looking to reminisce.  We’re not looking for a fight. Way to go!

I wrote my very first story with the Grew Up In Manchester page in mind.  It remains one of my very favorites.  I wrote a story about a few minutes in a confessional at St. Bridget’s Church.  I hit the post button.  The comments came flying at me. They were all positive.  People in Manchester that knew me and those I had never met begged me to continue writing.

I hit a nerve.  I made you remember your own memories.

That is so cool! The very best reason to write.  Connecting with others.

I switched to writing in a blog for the sake of containing my stories in one spot.  I still post each and every one onto the Grew Up In Manchester page minutes after they are written.  Not all my stories are about Manchester anymore.  The folks that follow my writings don’t seem to care.

A troll got ahold of one of my stories.  I’m thinking it was the one about Menopause.  Or, it could have been a fictional story about my favorite elf, Mortimer.

“I didn’t even bother reading this.  What does this have to do with Manchester?” asked the troll.

I responded that I’m from Manchester and that my writings have appeared on the Grew Up In Manchester page for a few months.  I have gotten a lot of positive responses so they will continue.  I added that “If you don’t want to read them, by all means just scroll on by.”

That got this one going. Phew!

Then, my fans started to get involved.  The nice people that look for my stories everyday told the troll to put up her dukes.

I didn’t want a rumble!

Easy fix.  I just deleted that person’s comments.  Easy Peasy.  Click of a button.

Go fight with someone else.  Nothing to fight about here.

I moderated for myself.  But, I have to say that I have every confidence that the Grew Up In Manchester moderators would have gotten involved if they had to.  They are paying attention.  They are vigilant.  They are nice people and just want people to play nicely.

Over six thousand people read this page on Facebook.  We all owe the moderators a huge thank you.  We know weeks go by where the waters are calm.  Then things get stirred up over nothing and they have to get involved.

The Grew Up In Manchester page is at out fingertips.  I don’t live in Manchester anymore.  Maybe you do.  I remember it with fondness and love.  Perhaps you like to read my Columbus Street stories.  Perhaps, like me, you love the old photos of train stations and tracks. The people skating on frozen ponds.  The old photos of Cheney Mills and  class pictures from days gone by.

I love it all.  I’m here every day looking for more.  I recognize your names and your profile pictures.

Because of the moderators of this Facebook page we can all come home again.

Thank you!

 

 

 

For Daddy on Father’s Day

My mother didn’t drive.  My Daddy got me every where that I needed to go.

To the dentist.  To the doctor.  To dance lessons.  To the Parkade for shopping.

Shopping.  I tried not to take advantage.  My mother would send us out to buy new school shoes or a birthday present for Grandmom.  I had very different taste than my mother did.  She went for sturdy.  She went for something that would last.  I went for glitzy.  I went for shiny.  My mother would just shake her head at the stuff I would talk my Daddy into paying for.

“Your Little Girl could talk you into jumping off a bridge, Ralph.” she would say to him as she perused patent leather shoes that I thought were school shoes.  She’d send him back with instructions to do better.

Daddy dropped me off at the bowling alley.  Junior High School.  High School.  He intently taught me how to drive when I was fifteen years old.  I was in charge of the steering wheel every Sunday.  We’d head to Glastonbury to visit my grand mother.

We’d cruise down winding country roads.  I’d see an oncoming car and almost close my eyes in terror as a new driver.  Daddy would just smack my arm and tell me to open my eyes.  Mom would be in the back seat praying out loud.  Daddy had more confidence in me than my mother did.  He never asked the Lord to intervene when I was behind the wheel.

I went to college in New Haven, Ct.  There was a group of four girls going to the same school.  Our parents took turns getting us there and back.  So, once a month Daddy drove us all to school.  Once a month Daddy picked us all up on a weekend.  He considered buying me a used car so he didn’t have to make this trip anymore.  My mother talked him out of it.

I would turn into a wild thing if I had wheels 24 hours a day my mother exclaimed.  I didn’t argue.  I saw how the few girls on my dorm floor got used and abused when they had a car.  How could you turn down a friend in pain when they wanted to go to urgent care?  How could you slam the door in the face of someone whose prescription bottles were empty.  I preferred a smiling Daddy knocking on my dorm door once a month.

Daddy got old. He stopped driving.  He was sad about the loss of his independence.  My brother worked over time getting him where he needed to go.  I live out of state.  I would meet up with my brother at a half way point between Ct. and NY.  Daddy would come and spend a week with me.

Daddy’s world had gotten smaller.  Trips to the grocery store.  To the senior center.  To my brother’s house for a Sunday dinner.  He loved the drive into NY.  He paid attention to all the rivers and signs along the way.  I’d pull off at a strange exit and we’d hunt down a place to eat lunch.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he’d ask.

“No clue, Daddy.  We’re on an adventure.  We’ll find something fattening and not heart healthy to eat and we’ll jump back on the Northway.” I’d say as I’d cruise down an exit.

“You’re a very good driver.” he’d say.

“I was taught by the best.” I’d respond.

“Who taught you?” he’d ask.

“You did.” I’d answer.

“I’m sorry I’m such a pain in the ass.  I don’t drive anymore you know.  I used to drive your mother up to New York to visit you.  She was my co-pilot.  I don’t drive anymore.  I’m sorry to put you out of your way like this.” he’d say as he stared straight ahead out the wind screen.

“Daddy!  You’ll never be a pain in the ass.  I remember you getting me every where I needed to be.  Every where!  You did more than your share of driving.  Do you remember all those trips to New Haven?” I asked.

“God, that was a frigging long boring trip.” he said.

“Were you keeping score then?  Or, were you just getting me where I needed to go?” I said as I slowed down at a toll booth.

“I wanted to get you a car you know.  But, your mother.  She thought if you had a car we’d never see you on weekends again.  Maybe she was wrong.  Maybe she was right? ” he pondered as he traveled back over a lot of years.

“I was coming home every weekend whether I had a car or not.” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I missed being with my Mom and my Daddy.  Daddy!  I was seventeen years old.  I didn’t want freedom.  I wanted my mother and father after a long week of being a grown up.” I explained.

“Huh!  I wish your mother knew that.  She used to live for Fridays when you’d walk through the door.  Sometimes I think she used to hold her breath from Sunday to Friday.” he remembered way back when.

“I know, Daddy.  I knew it then, I know it now.” I said as I wheeled into a gas station.

“Let me give you some money for gas.” he said as he dug for his wallet.

“No, Daddy.  Your money’s no good in NY.” I laughed as I got out of the car to pump the gas.

I got back into the car.  Perhaps, Daddy was a little sad because he had been remembering back in the day.  When he got me to where ever I wanted to go.  When my mother sat beside him with a map in her hand.  When he would arrive at my dormitory and I would jump up and down with joy at seeing him.  He looked at his hands that were no longer wrapped around a steering wheel.

“Well, anyways.  Sorry, you have to drive back and forth to Ct.  I’m just an old pain in the ass.” he said again.

“Daddy! Stop it!  Are we keeping score?  How many miles you drove?  How many miles I have driven?  Please, don’t keep score because I will lose every time, Daddy.  You gave me everything and got me everywhere.  There is no comparing.  You win.” I declared.

Actually, I was the winner in so many ways.  I hope he knew it.  I was the winner because he was my Daddy.