Ellie’s Secret Weapon

My mother often used me as her secret weapon.

My mother was a dear, sweet person.  Everyone loved Ellie.  She was always ready with a smile and a story.  She baked a chicken and brought it to a sick neighbor.  She donated time to the church.  She was funny and put everyone at ease.

When she was in the mood to do so.

She was also a very private person that needed a lot of alone time.  I get it.  I’m just the same.  The life of the party needs to rejuvenate themselves.  You can love people but still want them to go the heck home at some point.

Our back kitchen door was always open or least unlocked.  Neighbors and friends and relatives used that entrance.  Those people very seldom knocked.  They stuck their head in the door and yelled yoo hoo and in they’d come.

The front door bell would ring.  This meant that the visitor was unknown to us.  Someone was probably selling something.  My mother would make a dive for the bathroom after pushing me towards the front door.

Secret weapon.

I nicely got rid of college kids selling magazines by lying to them.  I told them that we didn’t read.  I didn’t understand the English when a Watchtower got shoved in my face.  I made the sign of the cross and shut the door.  Most of them got the hint.

I’d be turning away an Avon Lady and the bathroom door would bang open.  My mother would push me out of the door and flip through that catalog.  The Avon Lady would make a twenty dollar sale without even having to leave the front step.  Fuller Brush salesman got the same reception.

We bought a camp on Lake Champlain in Vermont.  The neighbors had known us as renters for years.  They were friendly.  We now owned a camp.  They all made a concerted effort to be good neighbors.

People at camp are on vacation.  They do a lot of dropping in.  They want to get to know you.  My mother started doing her hair the minute she got out of bed.  She baked her brownies.  She never hid in the bathroom.  She was going out of her way to make all of my father’s dreams come true.

A house on a lake.  And, friends!

They went on day trips with neighbors.  They exchanged dinners.  A glass of wine.  A little help building a porch.  Someone to go for a walk with.  A swim.  It was very nice to see my parents laugh and play cards with people their own age.

My mother didn’t need me to guard the  door up there.  She answered the yoo hoos herself…………..since the people were usually looking for her.

She still used me as her secret weapon……………..just in a different way.

I was her super duper secret baker.

Yes,  I just said baker.

It might be a Memorial Day picnic if the water was low that year.  Fourth of July.  Labor Day.  Someone’s big birthday.  A marquee would be erected on a huge lawn that went right down to the water line.  The day before the big picnic there would be men going door to door yoo hooing.  They were collecting folding tables and folding chairs and setting up in advance.

One of those men would have a little notebook in his back pocket.  He’d flip it open and ask nicely what food you planned to bring to share.  After a few summers of this……….he didn’t ask.  He made requests.

“We’re all wondering if you could bring your Grandma Cake again this year.” he said to my mother.  “People in town were talking about that cake all winter long.  I mean if it isn’t too late notice and you have all the ingredients……………..”

“Well, of course!  I’d be happy to make another Grandma Cake.   How nice that you all enjoyed it so much!” Mom declared with a big fake Ellie smile on her face.

Uh, oh.  I didn’t know what the heck a Grandma Cake was…………..but this had Ellie tense.

“We’ll see you Saturday at noon!” she said brightly before she escaped back into the darkness of the camp kitchen.

I followed her into the camp.  I sat down on a high backed upholstered kitchen chair.  I leaned back and folded my arms across my chest.  I smiled a big smile in her direction.

“Ma?” I asked.

“What?” she barked at me as she threw a paper plate with a tuna sandwich skidding across the table.

“Ma?  What’s a Grandma Cake?” I asked in a sing song voice.

“Be quiet.  Eat your sandwich and let me think.” she said in reply.

“Ma?” I said again.  I just wanted her to pass the potato chip bag.

But, she was deep in thought.  She was going back.  Way back.  She was visiting a picnic two years ago…………….that’s where the Grandma Cake memory resided.

“Okay.  Phew!  Got it.  Grandma Cake.  Got it.  I know exactly what he’s talking about.  Thank God.” she relaxed and bit into her own tuna sandwich.

“After lunch…………..I need you to go through the cupboards.  Make sure you have everything you need to bake me another one of those Grandma Cakes.  If you’re missing anything………….you and Daddy can go to the IGA in town after lunch.” she planned as she crunched away on potato chips.

Not going to make Daddy happy…………..he was out there pounding away with his hammer.  He finally had some nice weather to build that little shed he’d been itching to build.  He probably wasn’t going to be happy that no one had called him in to eat lunch either.

I leaned out the front door that was missing stairs to the yard this year.  “Hey, Daddy.  Lunch!” I yelled in his general direction.

He must have been hungry because he popped into the kitchen pretty quickly.  I waited for him to wash his hands and sit down before I started my questioning session.

“Sure, Mom.  I can go through cupboards for you.  But, I have no idea what the heck a Grandma Cake is.  How can I bake you a cake when I have no idea what you’re talking about?” I said as I cut up an apple.

“Oh, sorry.” Mom said.  Then she started to describe a huge cake I had made for a picnic a few years before.  She even remembered what big heavy metal pan I had used.  I had made two of them.  Big round white cakes.  I had cut each into two layers.  There had been raspberry jam between each layer. That cake had been almost a foot tall. And, I had whipped up some kind of creamy white frosting.  No!  It had been strawberry jam.  Because I had decorated the top with big fresh strawberries.  Yes, it must have been strawberry jam.

I had been about 12 years old at the time of the baking of this monstrous delicious cake.  I suppose no one at the picnic had even supposed that I might be the baker.  They had given all the credit and glory to Ellie for that cake.  And, she had accepted it.

Tee Hee.  I was going to have to torture her just a little bit.

“Don’t remember how I made that cake.  I’ll bake you some cookies instead.  And, really.  I’m not sure about that oven this year.  It feels like it’s running hot to me.  A cake would probably be raw in the middle and burnt on the edges. ” I said as I crunched apple slices.

My father didn’t even look up from his sandwich.

“Quit torturing your mother and bake a cake.” he said to me.

“Yes, Daddy.”I said.  “But, I need a little more information.  Why exactly is this called a Grandma Cake?”

“Well!  Everyone was eating dessert.  You were down by the water with other kids.  Everyone was saying that the cake was so old fashioned what with the jam between the layers.  Then they started asking me for the recipe.  I wasn’t about to tell them it was made from Duncan Hines mixes.  So I started spinning some story about it being my Grandma’s recipe.  It’s a family secret.  Oh, and it’s all about using Grandma’s heavy metal cake pan.” my mother sputtered out.

“Mom?  Did you ever even meet one of your Grandmas?” I asked.

“No!  What is your point?” she yelled as she pushed back her chair.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.” I said as I got up myself.

I opened up the door to the ancient Frigidaire with the rounded top.  It sat in the corner of the kitchen.  It wasn’t plugged in.  We used it as an airtight pantry.  Mice found it impossible to chew on your Ritz Crackers when they were stored inside of that old refrigerator.

My father did most of the grocery shopping.  That refrigerator pantry was packed full of cake mixes and chocolate chips and bags of brown sugar.  He tucked away a lot of baked goods into his tummy.  He never asked…………but I knew I was expected to bake just about every other day while we were at camp.

I put my hands together like I was praying.  I stared at the ceiling instead of heaven.  I said “Oh, Great Grandma!  Hallelujah.  I have everything I need to bake one of your four layer cakes.  I hope you’re resting in peace, Grandma.  Oh, also, thanks so much for the heavy cake pan that I really bought at a yard sale.  Every time I use it I think of you, Great Grandma!”

“Darlene?” my mother said gently.  “I need you to cut the crap!”

“Oh, calm down, Ma.  Your secrets are safe with me.” I said as I threw my paper plate into the trash can.  I put on my flip flops and headed for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mom asked.

“To the beach.  Where else is there to go?” I replied.

“You have a cake to bake.” she barked.

“I don’t need two days to bake a cake, Ma.  Good God!  Will you calm down?” I said as the aluminum door slapped shut.

I heard my father’s voice behind me.  “Jesus, Ellie.  Don’t you know how to bake a cake?  What’s the panic?”

“I …………do………..not………nor will I ever……….be able………….to bake a cake like she does.  I don’t know where she gets it from.  It’s kind of freaky.” my mother replied.

So, I finally started baking Grandma’s famous cake the next afternoon.  By this time my mother was jumping out of her skin.  She followed me around the kitchen like a shadow.  She was full of questions.

“The mix says 350 degrees.  Why do you have the oven on 300?” she wanted to know.

“I wasn’t kidding about this oven running hot.”I answered.

“Why are you putting three eggs in?  It says two.” she asked as she bumped into my elbow.

“These eggs are too small.” I said.

“Why don’t you just mix up both mixes at once?  The bowl is big enough.” she wanted to know.

“Because, I am using one pan.  I am using fictitious Grandma’s heavy pan because it really is the best one for baking.  I will make the other mix and bake it separately when this cake is out of the pan and resting.  I don’t want two of the layers to have a different consistency than the other two layers.” I lectured.

“What’s with the vanilla?” she said as she poured over the box instructions looking for the word vanilla.

“A little extra flavor.  Alright, Ma.  You’re now officially on my nerves.  Do you want to do this yourself?  Because, really.  It’s not rocket science.  I have two chapters left in my book.  I’d like to get on the hammock and read………………..” I said tensely.

“No, no. Do your thing.  I’m just watching.  I’m learning.” she said.

“So you can do it next time?” I asked hopefully.

“Hell, no.” she replied.

And, thus my day progressed.  Through two cakes being baked.  I eventually made her sit in the living room.  I put a pile of magazines on her lap.  I put a glass of iced tea next to her.  I patted her on the head.

“Mom.  You need to stay put.  The kitchen floor is too springy for you to be walking in front of the oven.  Your pacing is going to make the cake fall.  I also know you’re itching to open that oven door and take a peek.  You can’t do that.  That’s when the middle of cakes fall.  I can tell by the smell when the cake is done.  Dear.  God.  Just.  Sit.  Still.” I begged.

I started whipping up the frosting.  She actually got up and turned her arm chair all the way around so she could watch me from the edge of the living room.  I sighed deeply and stared her down.  She remained in her chair.

I explained what was going into the icing.  I explained it to her.  Not, to you.  That really is a family secret…………….oh, who am I kidding.  This was 45 years ago.  I have no idea what I put into that frosting, now.

The cakes were out.  They were cooling.  For hours.  I refused to cut them into layers the first ten times she asked.

I’d had enough.

I covered everything.  I pushed back the accordian door to my bedroom.

“It all rests until tomorrow morning, Ma.  Really.  Don’t touch anything.  I’m going to bed.  You can stick your finger into the bowl of frosting.  But, don’t touch the cake.” I said as I jumped into my bed to read the last two chapters of that book.

The next day my mother went into the bathroom to take a nice long hot shower.

I whipped out a long knife.  I cut layers of cake and slathered on the jam.  I piled the layers on top of each other.  I shifted them a round a little on the plate.  I looked at it from all angles.  The cake sat straight.

I got going with the frosting.  Mom was still enjoying the hot water in the shower.  I scraped out the bowl and finished the top just as she let all the steam out the bathroom door.

“Oh!  How did you do it that fast?” she asked.  “I was going to help you with the frosting.  I’m good at putting on frosting.”

I handed her the spoon.

“You make your curliques, Mom.  You make it pretty.  You’re the artist.  I’m not.  Daddy’s gone to town.  He’s bringing back the strawberries for the top.” I said as I gave her the spoon.

I was glad that the cake was done.  I was so sick of hearing about that cake and talking about that cake…………I doubted I would even bother tasting it at the picnic.

My father majestically carried that cake plate down the dirt road a few hours later.  People took plates and grabbed themselves a piece before the hotdogs and hamburgers were even done cooking.

My mother was pretty proud of the cake that was totally gone before the potato salad had even been dented.

Mom fell in love with some deviled eggs.  She sent me back to the table to get her seconds and thirds of those eggs.  She asked the lady that made them about her recipe.

“There’s something in those eggs that I just can’t place.  They’re delicious.  Eggs, mayonnaise, mustard………….what else is in them?” she asked the neighbor.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that.” the lady said.  “It’s my Grandma’s recipe.  Family secret.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Camping Story

My husband and I went camping for a week with our two little kids.  We pulled a pop up camper behind us.  That camper loaded with toys, clothing and food went up hill and dale.  The beds were actually comfy.  The little kitchen was well equipped.  It even had a little refrigerator that ran on propane.

We were bumping down roads to find another camp site.  This one was supposed to be full of cherry trees.  Play grounds.  Pools and even a big water slide.

Yes, sounded like civilization to me.

“How much further?” asked a little voice from the back seat.

“Another hour.” answered Daddy.

“Tell us a story, Mom.  Tell us the three bears but make it different.” requested my daughter.

So, I started up a story.  The bears were getting pretty irked at having a strange little blonde sleeping in their beds and eating their food.  Mama Bear started to complain that she was pretty darned sick of cooking over camp fires.  She was to the point that if she had to eat one more pancake that was raw in the middle and burnt on the edges, well………..she was just going to lose it.  She threw her apron into the fire and scratched at her fur in frustration.

Mama Bear dreamed of feeding her cubs something new and different.  She wanted them all to try something called pizza.  It was flat.  It was round just like the pancakes she didn’t want to make.  It had red sauce on it.  Cheese.  Pepperoni.  And, she wanted to wash it all down with something she had been dreaming of for days.  A big smooth drink that was made out of milk and ice cream.

I made a sound like a straw sucking at the bottom of a milkshake.  Mama Bear smacked her lips and the kids laughed.

The story went on and on for another ten minutes.

My husband put on his blinker and pulled into a parking lot.  He took up two spaces and parked the camper.  He stretched in his seat and turned around to the kids in the back seat.

“Who is in the mood for pepperoni pizza and milkshakes?” he asked the two little faces.  I could hear their little bear tummies growling from where I sat.

“Oh, Daddy!  How did you know I wanted to eat pizza tonight?” my daughter asked in wonder.

I’m Sorry I Ate Your Twinkies

My father lived to be 92 years old.  He was a good man.  He was kind and he was patient.  I’m sure he had his flaws.  I was his Little Girl.  I didn’t notice many flaws.  The only thing he ever did that drove me nuts?  He had an insatiable need to be a half an hour early for everything.

Not much of a flaw is it?

Many nice things were said about him at his wake.  One cousin remarked “He never talked to me like I was a little kid.  He never talked down to me.  He just spoke to me like I was a person on his level.  I’ll never forget that.”

My father only got screaming mad at me twice that I can remember.  I think it probably was only twice.  It happened so seldom……………it was memorable.

I was sixteen and borrowed his car to go school clothes shopping.  He had to leave for work at 3 pm.  I pulled into the driveway to return his car to him at approximately 2:58 pm.

He grabbed the keys out of my hand in the driveway.  He yelled at me at the top of his lungs.

“How can you be so selfish?  How could you leave me here guessing if you’d ever come home?  I had to call my boss and tell him that I’d probably be late because my daughter was out gallivanting in my one and only car!  From now on you can plan on walking where you need to go.  You are selfish selfish selfish.  I don’t even know who you are!” he screeched in the driveway.  For all the neighbors to hear.

He tore out of the driveway.

I walked into the kitchen.  My mother stood at the sink with her back to me.  She was rinsing out glasses and stacking them in the drainer.

“Did you find some nice school clothes?  Why don’t you show me what you bought?” she said quietly.

“I can’t.  The bags are in the back seat of the station wagon.  Daddy just ripped off my head for making him two minutes early for work.” I said.

“Yes, I heard.” she said as she dried her hands on the dish cloth.  “Something tells me you’re not the problem.  I’m thinking something is not good at work.  Sometimes we take a problem out on the person that is not the problem.  But, you know how he is about being early.  You should have had that car home a half an hour ago.  You know that don’t you?”

“Yes, I know that now.” I said as I went up the stairs without the school clothes that I had spent all summer saving for.

That night my Daddy tapped at my door.  He came in and handed me my bags of clothing.

“I noticed the bags when I got to the Pratt and Whitney parking lot.  I hid them under my old Marine blanket.  I locked the car.” he said.

He was acting very awkward.

“Okay, thanks.” I said.

“I’m sorry.” he said.

“That’s alright.” I replied.

“No, it’s not alright.  You got the car home on time.  I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.  I had a design problem at work.  It’s been driving me crazy for days.  I thought the mistake had to be in the math.  I wanted to get to work to check it.  I was itching to go.  I took it out on you.  I’m sorry.” he said again.

“Was the mistake in your math?” I asked.

“Yes, it was.  Right at the very beginning.  It was a simple mistake but it screwed up the whole process.  Nothing would line up because of it.  So……………….anyway, maybe tomorrow you can give us a fashion show like you used to do when you were a little girl.  Maybe you can try on all the new clothes that you bought for school.  A fashion parade?  I’m sorry, Little Girl.” he said as he went to leave the room.

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry, Daddy.  I know how you always like to be early.  I should have brought the car home earlier.” I said.

“No.  I leave at three.  You had it home before three.  I was wrong.  When you’re wrong, Little Girl?  You apologize.  You say you’re sorry.  Saying your sorry has power as long as you don’t use it too often.  And, as long as you mean it.  Good night.” he said as he walked down the stairs.

The next day I put on a fashion show for my mother and my father.

A few months later………………I was getting screamed at again.

My best friend and I lie on a blanket underneath a tree in the front yard.  We pigged out on a whole box of Twinkies.  I can’t stand the things now.  I suppose my tastes have changed.  But, they sure tasted good.

My father went to make his lunch for work.  He put together a sandwich.  He wrapped up his favorite pickles in a square of aluminum foil.  He filled up his thermos with strong coffee.  He went to add his dessert and found an empty box of Twinkies.

The box had been full about ten minutes earlier.

He stood on the front stoop and yelled at the two teenage Twinkie eaters laying underneath his tree.

“How can two girls eat a whole box of Twinkies?  How could you be so selfish?  You couldn’t leave one?  I hope you get good and sick!  What in the hell is the matter with you?” he bellowed.

I burped.  I said goodbye to my friend.  She was used to parental yelling so she hadn’t blinked an eye.  She burped in return and went home.

I went into the kitchen and opened up the oven door.  The door let out it’s familiar squeak when it hit the bottom.  I let it bang a little for effect.

I swooped my arm in front of the open oven door……………sort of like the pretty girls on Let’s Make A Deal would do.

Presenting to you, Daddy……………..for your lunch bag pleasure……………….two dozen just baked chocolate cup cakes……………and four dozen newly minted chocolate chip cookies.

I had baked.  The baking always went into the cooled off oven.  It was the only place in that tiny kitchen where I could store that much baked goods.

“Oh!” my Daddy murmured.

I suppose the man had supposed…………………who would eat Twinkies if there were chocolate cupcakes and four dozen home made cookies in the house?

I would.

I felt a little sick to my stomach.  I went upstairs and closed the door to my bedroom.  I let out some monstrous burps.  I scared the cat.

There came a tap at my door.

“Can I come in, Little Girl?” asked my father.

“Yes.” I answered.

“The cup cakes look good.  I’m sorry I just yelled at you over a Twinkie.  It’s not that.  I have to go to work in a minute.  And, there is going to be a lay off tonight.  I had to go over job reviews.  I had to make recommendations.  I’m not doing the lay offs………….but I had to recommend………….and good men……………..with wives and kids and bills to pay…………well, I guess what I’m trying to say is I wasn’t really yelling about Twinkies.  Or, you eating them. ” he explained quietly.

“Oh, no.  That’s awful………………it’s not much, Daddy.  But, why don’t you take the cookies in to work and share.  I can make more tomorrow. ” I said to his retreating back.

“And, I’m so sorry, Daddy.” I added

I wasn’t talking about Twinkies.

 

 

 

 

Strawberries and Suffragettes

I’ve read that some people experience color differently than you and I do.  Colors to them have sound.  Color has movement and meaning.  I understand the premise.  I think that those people open their eyes in the morning.  They can smell and see how their day is going to go before their feet even hit the floor.

Some words have smells attached to them for me.  For instance: the word Feminism smells like strawberries.

Oh, don’t stop reading.  I’m not nuts.  And, I know a lot of people ……..both men and women just don’t like the word Feminism.

I came of age in the 1960’s and 70’s.  Feminism was nothing new.  I learned about suffragettes in history lessons.  I wasn’t one of them.  But, I knew it hadn’t been long since women were allowed the right to vote.  History comes at us in decades.  Not that many had gone by since women were told what to think.  What they could say.

Women no longer “knew their place”.  Laws were being written every day.  It was no longer acceptable to call a woman “honey” and “sweetie” at work.  Women were now telling men to make their own coffee in the work place.

My mother talked to me about what I wanted to be when I grew up.  So did my father.  My father pressured me from an early age to go into engineering.  This was during a time when he was an aeronautical engineer himself.  I bet there were absolutely NO women in his department.  But, he saw it coming.

My father was a man with a strong mother and smart savvy sisters.  He grew up knowing that he was not superior to the women around him.  He envisioned female astronauts before it happened.  He had no trouble picturing a woman running this country.

My mother wasn’t as forward thinking as he was. She spoke to me about being a Mommy.  Perhaps a nurse if I could stand urine and blood.  Maybe a teacher?  I was good on a typewriter.  I could be some man’s secretary if I could figure out that shorthand thing.

I narrowed my eyes and stared her down.  I would decide my own future, thank you very much.

Our church had a Strawberry Festival every June.  I’m thinking the church worked in conjunction with the nearby Volunteer Fire Department.  I do remember strawberries, priests and firemen in a sweet sugary haze.

The haze came from being kept too busy to think.  I was usually manning a table.  Taking dollar bills and placing a plate with shortcake, strawberries and cream along with a plastic fork into someone’s hands.  It was a blur.

Then there was the one year…………….the ladies in the church garage were running behind preparing trays full of the delicious desserts.  They weren’t keeping up with the demand for cake and the strawberries back there.  I was sent to the garage lined with tables and ladies wearing hair nets to find out what the hold up was.

I walked into the garage.  I was hit in the face with the sticky sweet smell of strawberries swimming in sugar.  It was hot in there.  The woman with the mixer beating away at cream never stood a chance of keeping up.  It was all about temperature.

My foot hit a stream of strawberry juice coming from under the tables.  My white Keds lost all traction and I ended up skidding about four feet before I came to a stop against the garage wall.  I skidded all that way on my butt that was wearing brand new shorts.  You guessed it……………….brand new white shorts.

I tried twice to get up and failed.  It was too sticky and slippery.  My mother was part of the team putting together the desserts on trays.  She carefully inched her way over to me as if she was walking on ice.  She helped me to my feet.

I felt myself all over.  I wasn’t broken but my elbow stung.  I couldn’t tell how badly it was bleeding because of all the strawberry juice that covered my body.  My hair in a pony tail was now stuck to my shoulder because my hair was covered in berry juice too.

“Are you alright?” asked my mother.  The other ladies asked me too.  They were too terrified to move.  They had already noticed that their feet had no traction on the floor.

That’s about the time the little man in the suit came around the corner with his clip board.

“You ladies are falling way behind.” he said.  “What’s the hold up?”  His pen hovered over his clipboard as if he was going to write the answer down.  Perhaps he was going to send a memo to the Pope about the big strawberry festival hold up of 1974?

There was an older lady sitting on a stool in the corner.  I don’t think she was as ancient as her arthritis made her look.  Her job was to look like a queen and put a whole healthy strawberry on to the top of every fluff of whipped cream that came by.

She looked at the little man with his clipboard and murmured very loudly.  “Jackass.”

I know this is starting to sound like a “Priest and a Fireman Walk Into A Bar” joke………..but that’s when the young pretty priest and the twelve year old fireman in his dress uniform entered the garage.

“Stop right there, guys!” I yelled in their general direction.  “If you step into that strawberry juice you’re going to slip and fall down.”

My mother was aghast.  Aghast that I would tell a priest and a fireman what to do.  Mortified that I had called a priest “guy”.  Hey, I was just trying to save them and their pretty suits from sticky harm.

I had walked into a situation.  The situation was that the ladies were almost out of strawberries and they had two hours to go.  The frozen strawberries that they were dealing with had defrosted and run all over the floor.  Home made whipped cream was an impossibility in this heat.  They couldn’t move because they knew they were going to break bones.

Someone needed to take charge they thought.  Perhaps it would be the MAN with the clipboard.

He took a look at me while he clicked away at the top of his pen.  “Well, let’s start by sending you home to change.  I want the pretty young things manning the table out front.” he said.

I was already seeing red.  You know all that strawberry juice.  Now, I was seeing it for another reason entirely.  And, the only other person in the garage that saw red with me?  Was the older lady in the corner.  I knew this because I heard her shout “Jackass” even louder than she had said it the first time.

“A hose.  I need a hose.” I said ignoring the little man, the Priest and the Fireman.

“Right behind you.” said the woman perched on her stool.

“We need to wash this floor down before anyone else falls.” I said.  “Ma, sit down on top of that freezer right now.  Don’t try to move again.  The rest of you stand still.”

“Maybe I should do that for you.” said the priest.

“I’m already dirty.” I answered.

“I could.” said the young fireman in his brand new uniform.

“I can handle it, guys.  I’ve used a hose before.”I said.

“I don’t know about this, little lady.” said the man with the clip board.

I put the hose on and aimed at the floor around him first.  I got the man good and wet up to his ankles.

“Darlene!” my mother hissed from up on top of the freezer.

“Woo Hoo!  Get him again, girlie!” yelled the lady from her stool.

The young priest and the fireman backed up while I sprayed down the garage floor.  The women relaxed and moved around a little just to prove that they could.

“We’re running out of strawberries.” said a beautiful fifty year old woman wearing a starched apron emblazoned with embroidered strawberries.

“I can’t get this cream to whip.” said a pretty lady in the corner.  Her face was shining with sweat and what I think were tears of frustration.

“There’s two hours left.  Who has a check book?” I asked.

“I do.” said the priest.

“Who has a car near here?”I added.

“I do.” said the fireman.

“Are you really old enough to drive?” I asked him.

“Darlene!” my mother wailed.

“Yes.” he said as he laughed at me.  I suppose I was quite a sight dressed in white and covered in strawberry juice.  That’s what he told me later anyways when he asked me out.

“Okay.  Supermarket.  Three crates of strawberries.  Twenty big tubs of Cool Whip out of the freezer section.  Go!  Now!”  I said as I shooed the men away from the garage door.

The ladies sent out a last tray of dessert with the clipboard man.  Then we sat and waited for the men in uniform to come back.

The older lady waggled her finger at me.  I went and stood next to her.

“You are our future.  You know that don’t you?  You already know that you’re smarter than most men.  That will take you a long ways.   Any man tries to tell you want to do?  You turn the hose on them.  You already know how to do that too.” she said to me with a chuckle.

“I want to show you something.  It’s something I carry with me always.” she said as she wiped her sticky hands on a wet dish towel.

“This is the only photo I have left of my mother.” she explained to me.  She took a small black and white photo carefully out of a baggy from her purse.  She tapped the photo with her bent forefinger.

I looked at a photo of a pretty lady.  She wore a sash and held up a sign.  I couldn’t make out what either said.

I looked at the woman with questions in my eyes.

She tapped the photo again.  She pointed to the sash.  “Women’s Rights” she said.  Her finger hovered over the sign. “Votes For Women” she added.

“Any man tries to tell you what to do, young lady?  Turn a hose on him.  You blast him right out the door.  And, don’t go and marry a jackass!” she said as she kissed me on my sticky forehead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer Sleepover 1970

Bedroom windows wide open.  Hot sultry summer is pumped into the room via a big square window fan set on low.  Crickets screaming in the darkened yard.  Moths batting against the screens.

The black and white portable TV flickers in the corner with the sound on low.  The radio in the other corner pumps out the latest songs.  We dance on the hard wood floor.  We kick piles of dirty discarded socks out of our way.  We swoop and shake our hips as we stuff popcorn into our mouths.

Place: my bedroom.  A summer sleepover 1970.

It only takes two for a sleepover party.  Cans of soda.  Hershey Kisses.  Bowls of popcorn drenched with butter.  Baby doll pajamas.  A quiet neighborhood surrounds the bedroom full of music and bright late night light.

The two of us make up a line dance to the song that B J Thomas is singing to us.  We sing along.  Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head.  We know the words without ever having to think about them.

This is about the time that we notice that the local radio station is taking requests.  I grab the big heavy black rotary phone and plant it on my stomach.  I lie in bed dialing the station’s number over and over and over.

I end up with a strange blister on my right index finger.

Beep Beep Beep Beep goes the busy signal.

My friend continues to dance. Cracklin Rose by Neil Diamond.

I dial again and again.

She takes over dialing so I can skid across the wooden floor in slippers knitted by my grandmother.  Julie Julie Julie Do Ya Love Me? asks Bobby Sherman.

“We love you, Bobby!” scream me and my best friend  in unison.

Bobby used to make my heart go pitter patter BONG!  When I was a kid.  When I was 12 years old.  A whole year ago.  My friend didn’t share my passion.  But, she remembers me kissing his photo good night before hitting my pillow.  So, she pretends to share my passion.

That’s what best friends are for.

The two of us lie on the wooden floor and do leg lifts.  We put our hands down under our hips and bend our legs all the way back over our heads.  We are working off the two huge bowls of popcorn we just ate.  We figure if we do twenty sit ups and six squat thrusts we’ll be all set to go and find out what kind of ice cream is in the freezer.

We’ll never get fat this way.  We’ve got it all figured out.

We listen to He Ain’t Heavy He’s My Brother by the Hollies while we exercise for four and a half minutes on the floor.

I go back to dialing the black phone during Let It Be by the Beatles.  We sing at the top of our lungs because we both know this song is deadly dull.  It might put either both of us or even worse………..one of us right to sleep.

“Oh, my God!  It’s ringing.  It’s ringing!” I screech to my friend.  She is still on the floor after our exercises.  She is taking stock of all the disgusting things that are under my bed.

A man identifies himself as the disc jockey of the local station.  He asks if I want to make a request.

I squeal as only a thirteen year old girl can.

I think he must be used to this.

“Sweetheart…………I need you to calm down.  I only have 90 seconds until I’m back on the air.  What song do you want me to play for you?” he asks.

The two of us never really thought we’d ever get through to the request hotline.  I mean who ever actually gets anything besides a busy signal?  We were not prepared.

“Um………….um……………….”  I said into the phone.  Then I said the first song that came to mind. “Close To You” by the Carpenters.”

“Well, just shoot me now……………….” said the young man.  “But, that’s fine.  I haven’t played that in oh, what?  A half an hour?  And, do you want to dedicate this song to someone special?  Do you have a special young man in mind?”

I repeated his question in a hiss to my friend.  She stared at me with big round eyes.  Quick!  Think!  Who do I want to dedicate the song Close To You to!

She squeaked back the name of my latest crush at the pool.  A guy that was blind to girls under fifteen.  He was gloriously handsome and he knew it.  He was the guy that would finally notice me by the end of that summer.  And, because he had taken so long to do so?  I would totally tilt my chin and ignore him.  He was dead to me.

I’m still that way……………I think I get it from my mother.

I gave the disc jockey my crush’s name.  I gave him my first name.  I hung up.

We joined arms and stared into each others eyes.  We danced around in a strange native teenage girl dance as we squealed really loudly.

My mother yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

“What in the HELL are you two doing up there?” she asked.

“Nothing!” we answered as we both bounced onto my brass bed.

A commercial for a auto parts store ended.  The disc jockey came back with his smooth oily voice.  “And, this one goes out to Steve………..from someone very special.”

We squealed again.

“Darlene sends this song out to you, Steve.  You lucky lucky boy.”

And, the the Carpenters started to sing “Close To You.”

We sang along.  Wah, wah , wah, wah, Close to you!  On the day that you were born …………”

We looked up at my mother standing in the door way.  She leaned against the door jamb.  She looked at us singing in the bed.  Popcorn all over the bed spread.  Popsicle sticks lined up in a row.  The TV flickering in the corner and the radio on loud.

She sang along for a minute.

The song came to an end.  We noticed she was dressed in her demented rabbit outfit.  The one piece white coverall.  Knee socks up over her knees.  Her head covered in a wrap made out of old pantyhose.

She was about to go out and water her flowers.  At midnight.  She was dressed this way because it was her armor against mosquitoes and anything else that buzzed and bit.

“You two.  Enough sugar.  Enough commotion.  Come out and water with me.  But, you have to be quiet.  The neighbors are all sleeping.  Bring a flashlight.  You can dance under the moon.  You can feel the grass between your toes.  You can run around under the street lamp.  But, there is to be no talking.  Not one sound.  What do you say?” she asked as she shut off the TV and turned off the radio.

We were in.

My mother was just my mother when it was only me.  But, when I had a friend with me?  My mother became magical.  My mother was the mother every one wanted for their own.

My friends told me this often.

So my friend and I ran around the back yard while my mother wet her geraniums.  She took a basketball out of our hands when we went to throw some hoops by the moonlight.  She squirted our ankles with ice cold hose water and made us dance.  When we laughed too loud with joy?  She withheld the water.

We learned to dance without the sound of music.  We danced to the sound of water hitting annuals.  We leaped to the sound of screaming crickets and chirping frogs.  We’d never forget the feel of midnight grass on our feet.  Nor, the smell of that grass and plants that had been gasping for water.

My mother had us stand on the bottom cement stair.  She sprayed off our feet and pointed to the house.  She coiled up her hose.  She pointed us towards my bed.

We hugged our pillows laying on our sides.  We looked at each other in the light of the street lamp that poured through my bedroom window.  I went to say something to my friend but the puffs of air coming from her told me that she had just fallen asleep.

I reached out and held her hand.

I fell asleep too.

 

 

 

The Greatest Escape

My great nephew stood in front of me.  He was polite.  He’s been taught well.  You don’t interrupt adults when they’re talking.  He stood and stared at me.  He waited for me to notice him.

I stopped yakking and I gave him my attention.  It’s hard not to pay attention when a little person presses their nose against yours.

“In 2018 we are coming to stay at your house.” he said.

This was news to me.  But, okay.

“I hear you have a very mean cat.” he said.  He was a little concerned.

“Yes. Polar is mean.  She is very beautiful but she doesn’t like to be touched.  Don’t worry about Polar.  If you leave her alone she’ll leave you alone.” I explained to him.

“Can’t you teach her some manners?” he asked.

“I try.  But, we don’t seem to speak the same language.” I explained to him.

“You should try harder.” he whispered.  He grabbed a cookie off of a plate and left me.

I’ve tried, son.  Just wait.  You’ll see.

I thought back to the meanest cat I’ve ever know.  His name was Bootsie.  Oh, he would have complained about being named such a sweet stupid name if he could have.

He was a street cat that we took in on Columbus Street.  He was a fighter.  He was tough.  He was no nonsense.  He wasn’t grateful for the cans of food.  He got irked at having to howl to get out the door.

He stuck around.  Not because he loved the human beings living in the house.  But, because the food bowl was always full.

It was time for vacation.  We had never had a pet before.  Not, in my lifetime anyways.  My mother thought about what to do with a cat for two weeks.  She wasn’t about to pay to board a cat that had no use for any of us.

She especially wasn’t about to ask her best friend to come in and feed the cat.

“Why not?” I wanted to know.

“Because.” she would say.

I persisted.  “Why not?” I asked for the tenth time.

Sometimes a kid can pry the truth out of an adult by the sheer volume of questions.

“Because, that one is a good person.  But, I’ve never met a nosier person in my life.  She’ll poke through all my drawers.  She’ll  be in my closet.  She’ll probably make copies of Daddy’s bank statements.” she answered.

Oh!  That kind of nosy.  Adults are weird.

So, Bootsie was thrown into the station wagon full of people, blankets and water skis.  Bootsie was going to Vermont.

I’m supposing my parents didn’t have much more experience with pets than I had.  They didn’t put Bootsie in a pet carrier.  He wasn’t even in a card board box with air holes……….he was free to roam the station wagon.  For a six hour car ride.

What could go wrong?

Just as my father was navigating heavy traffic in Springfield, Massachusetts…………….Bootsie decided to get under the brake pedal.  My father stomped.  Bootsie screamed and traversed the front of my father and ended up on his shoulder.  Bootsie clung on with all claws extended.

The station wagon only swerved a little.  My father was an ex-Marine after all.  He had felt pain before.  He had stood at attention for hours in the pouring rain holding his rifle over his head in boot camp.  He had never wavered then.  He hadn’t fallen down onto the sodden ground in a quivering heap during that endurance test.

He didn’t quiver now as he dashed between overloaded semis.

“Get this damned cat off of me right now.” he said to my mother.

My mother’s eyes got big and round as she looked at the ferocious feline clinging to my father’s white tee shirt.  She saw the blood start to stain the whiteness of the new Fruit of the Loom shirt.  She took her National Enquirer and rolled it up.

She swatted at the cat.

Bootsie let go and bounded past the back seat into the rear of the station wagon.  That’s where I was set up with my pillows and blankets and books and penny candy.  I was surrounded by pots and pans and stacks of towels and boxes of flip flops.

The cat landed next to my head on the pillow.  He hissed at me.  I rolled to the right and let him have my pillow.

I love my pillow.  Don’t touch my pillow.  That is my pillow.  Hell………..and fury………..and all that to the person that thinks they can drool and sleep on my pillow.

I let Bootsie have my pillow.

We got to White River Junction.  That was the half way point on our trips to Vermont.  That was where Daddy either continued on to Vermont?  Or, he might just say…………….I’m turning around.

A station wagon full of shifting stuff and crabby kids and an overheated wife had never made him turn back before.

But, this year there was Bootsie.  And, there was all that blood.

My father parked next to a bus.  He opened his door and stood to stretch at the side of the car.  He pulled his tee shirt off to see the extent of the damage to his skin.  It hurt like hell and he wondered if it looked as bad as it felt.

The human beings remained in the car.  We were waiting for a cue from Daddy.  Would we get to pee and eat at this rest stop?  Or, was he going to turn this circus around and just go home?

That’s when a black and white streak left the station wagon.  The blur of fur streaked across four lanes of diesel scented highway.  We all saw it happen.  No one said a word.

That’s how hungry we were.  How bad we had to pee.  The start of vacation usually happened right here in this parking lot.  Rushing into the diner…………….sniffing bacon and waffles and real Vermont maple syrup……………….while Daddy pumped gas into the station wagon.

For some reason everyone was looking at me.  Daddy leaned into the car and stared me in the eyes.

What?  What!  Why are you all looking at me I thought.

My mother turned around and smiled a gentle smile in my direction.

“Well!  Bootsie made it.  He didn’t get hit by a car.  That’s good.  You know…………..don’t you?  That we can’t go after him.  We can’t cross all those lanes of traffic to look for a lost cat.  Bootsie was a good cat.  I guess we should have put him into a box or something.  I’m sorry, Darlene.  But,  Bootsie is a Vermont cat now.” she said in my general direction.

I mean she couldn’t see me.  I was lying down in the back of the station wagon.  I was crossing my fingers back there.  I was hoping that Daddy wasn’t so tired and disgusted by how badly this trip had gone so far…………..that he’d just want to go home.

That stupid rotten mean who had ever wanted it in the first place cat had caused all this trouble.

Bootsie was now a Vermont cat?  The people that I knew in Vermont were too nice to have a cat like Bootsie.  I hoped that nasty piece of fur made it all the way to Canada.

I had superficial scars all over my eight year old body from trying to make friends with that nasty animal.  I had never liked it.  To tell you the truth ……………that cat had always scared me.  I thought the devil lived in that cat’s body.

My eight year old body was also aware of how my parents didn’t sleep the night before this yearly trek.  They lie in bed and counted on their fingers.  My mother went over everything that she hoped she had packed.  Last year she had felt like a failure because she had forgotten band-aids.

My father was going over the car check list in his head.  Oil. Check.  Checked twice.  Air in the tires. Check.  Spare. Check. and on and on until the alarm clock went off.

Kids didn’t sleep much either.  That was because we were excited and knew that we could sleep like puppies in that car full of blankets and pillows.

Daddy drove.  Mommy talked and kept him awake.  She had a jug of water that she would pour onto a face cloth.  She’d hand it to him every half an hour.  He’d scrub at this face and the back of his neck and stay awake.  Talk and cold water did the trick.

It seemed it was all up to me for some weird and quirky reason.  Was I going to have a little girl melt down over a cat that had just escaped?  Was I going to cry so hard that I had a hard time breathing?  Would I ruin this vacation before it even started?  Would I point my stubby little finger at my parents and call them cat killers?

Nah.  I didn’t care.

I wasn’t heartless.

Please……………..understand…………..this was the nastiest cat that had never ever purred.

I let out a little fake sob.  Oh, I didn’t become an actress until many years later…………but that little fake sob wasn’t all that bad.

“I need to talk to Daddy.” I said as I crawled out from underneath all the blankets, pillows, towels and Tupperware.

I opened the station wagon door and stood next to Daddy.

I took him by the hand and squeezed it.

I looked up at him with my big green eyes.

He looked down at me and he saw my eyes fill with tears.  Fake tears.  But, they were wet.  I trembled my bottom lip a little.  That has never ever happened naturally to me…………but I think I’d seen it in a movie somewhere.

“I’m sorry, Little Girl.  I’m sorry about your cat.  I wasn’t thinking when I left the door open.  I’m so so sorry.” Daddy said to me.

I squeezed my eyes shut hard.  That was to force the water in my eyes to fall down my cheeks.  One tear per cheek.

I paused for a few seconds.  Sometimes you can emote the biggest emotions with silence.

Especially when you’re faking it.

“Oh, Daddy.” I sighed in a little girl voice.  “Oh, Daddy.”

“Yes, Little Girl?” he answered.  He waited for the tears and screaming and recrimination.

It didn’t come.  That surprised him.  He was expecting a scene.

“Bootsie……………sigh………………gulp…………….Bootsie is gone from us forever.  I understand.” I said as huge trucks wailed by the parking lot at seventy miles an hour.

“Right now…………..I think you need to go to the men’s room and clean up all that blood.  Bootsie even got the side of your face.  And, then I think we all need pancakes and maple syrup and bacon and I want a cup of coffee with cream and sugar and if there are any chocolate covered donuts under a glass dome I’d like one of those too. ” I started.

I gave him a little bereaved hiccup on top of this speech.

He looked down at me and tilted his head a little.  He lifted his eye brow and gave me a knowing little smile.

“That all sounds good, Little Girl.  Except for the coffee.  You will drink milk.” he said to me.

“Or, orange juice.” he added.

He nodded for everyone to get out of the station wagon.  We all headed towards the diner after he checked that we’d all locked our doors.

I held his hand all the way to the entrance.  After all……….he was feeling terribly guilty about that escaping cat.  The rest of us were all feeling relief.  Like a black cloud had lifted.  Like an unwanted guest had finally gotten the hint and gone the hell home.

“Speaking of orange, Daddy.  There is a little orange kitten that hangs around our yard.  It is the sweetest little cat.  She comes into my doll house to play with me sometimes.  Mom said we can’t have two cats.  But, now that Bootsie is gone………………….fake sob………..when we get home……………and that orange cat is still around………………………..she’s so sweet and nice and she has the loudest purr…………………can I keep her?” I asked as the glorious smell of bacon hit us in the face.

“And, what will you call your new cat?” Daddy asked.

I whispered her name into his ear before he went to the men’s room to clean up.

We got home to Connecticut after two nice weeks in Vermont.  I searched the neighborhood and questioned the neighbors.  I walked up our driveway holding an orange kitten under my chin.

She purred and head butted me and snuggled into my shoulder.

My parents were unloading a station wagon full of dirty stuff into our house.

My mother glanced at me and said “Oh, no, you don’t.  I’ve had enough of cats. Take that kitten right back to where you found her.”

My father winked at me and said “Oh, don’t be silly, Ellie.  That is Darlene’s cat.”

“This is Goldie.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You Are Me and I Am You; My Darling Son

Oh, I see myself in you.  There is no mistake.  You are as you should be.  You are who I made you.  You are who you’ve become all by yourself.

I’ve given you my best.  I’ve passed on my worst.  Oh, I see myself in you.

A young man wrapped in a towel.  We don’t share the same furry legs………but that is all.

My mother would say about me………….this one doesn’t want to miss a trick.  That was because I was impossible to put to bed.  But, then?  I was impossible to pry away from my pillow in the morning.

Same with you, my son.

I love life.  I also love my land of dreams.

Don’t mess with either and you and I will be alright.

I lie in bed half awake.  I had to stop him in the hallway after his long, long shower.  Because I had instructions to give.

I don’t take away his last four minutes of sleep before the alarm clock rings.  But, he was doing that to me without knowing.

The shower squeaked to a stop.  I sat up in bed and stopped him outside my door.

“Ma!”he said.  “Just don’t.  Not now.” As if I’d never seen him in nothing but a towel before.

He was nasty.

“You want to take my car on your long journey to the lake?  My new shiny car with the engine you don’t have to worry about?  The black glossy tires full of air?  You will listen to me.” I proclaimed from my throne of messed up sheets and blankets.

He stopped and stared at the ceiling in consternation.

He thinks he is as grumpy as I am in the mornings.

Oh, son.  No.  You’re not.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me.  You’re waking me up.  I’ve got thirty seconds to talk to you and still get back to sleep.  Take my car.  But, not my keys.  I need those keys for work tomorrow.  You find the spare in the basket or you don’t touch my car.  Ignore the oil light.  There is nothing wrong with the oil.  Those idiots at the garage can’t figure out how to turn that idiot light off.  Idiots.” I said in the direction of the hallway.

“Are you done?” said the Prince of Morning Nastiness.

“No.  I’m not.  Get your ass into this room.” I hissed at him from my pillow.

“I hope you have a nice weekend.  Have a wonderful time with your friends.” I said as I settled back into the groove of my pillow that my head has made.

I fell back to sleep.

I smiled as I drifted off.  Happy knowing that the Prince of Morning Nastiness had nothing on The Morning Queen of Mean.

He is mine.  And, I am his.

 

 

Sprinting To The Door

I sit on my back deck at night.  I put a small light on so that I can enjoy the flowers in the pots.  It’s just enough light.  I can still enjoy the darkness of the woods and the sparkle of the fireflies.

I smile when I hear kids playing in a pool a few houses away.  I look to my left to watch a squirrel skitter down a pine tree and launch himself onto the roof of the shed.  I like that he’s a night owl like me.

And, yes.  Once in a while I even hear an owl out there.

That’s when I notice the skunk walk by.  I notice him.  He hasn’t seen me.  I lower my legs and stiffen up.  My mind works fast.  How much tomato juice would it take to wash a woman of my size down?  How long will it be before I can sleep in my own bed again?

My mind starts racing.  I can’t even drink tomato juice.  It gives me small hives all over my lips.  How would my skin react to having the stuff rubbed all over it?

Keep walking Skunk, I thought.

The skunk kept walking.

Then the kids in the pool behind us got rambunctious.  The skunk stopped to listen.  Someone in that pool even had a whistle.

Then I gauged how fast I can still move at this age.

I figured I could get to the door and into the house faster than this creature could lift a tail.

That back door sticks badly in this humid weather.  Let’s not talk about how many times I’ve asked my husband to do something about it.  I sprinted that few feet thinking “Handle up!  Hit it with my hip and close it fast.”

I made it.

An hour later my husband came home.

“You’ve got to do something about that door to the deck.  It sticks really badly.” I complained.

I’ve been married a long time.  I’ve been married a long time because I usually don’t complain about such things.  Especially, late at night when he’s tired.

“And, why is that door on your nerves tonight?” he asked.  “It’s been that way for years.”

“Skunk, honey.  It’s all because of a skunk.” I replied.

He sniffed me.  I smelled just fine.  He went up the stairs to bed with a smile on his face.

He didn’t say what he was thinking but I knew.

“She still moves pretty fast when she needs to.” he thought.  “I can probably put off fixing that door for another year.”