Goldilocks and the Bear Family

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The prompt is to reimagine an old legend or fairy tale in modern times.

Goldilocks was a lively curious girl of twelve. She contributed to several blogs with a large following of her peers. One afternoon, taking her smartphone and her adventurous spirit, she went hiking in the nearby woods to boost her step count. Far into the woods, she discovered a charming eco-friendly cottage with solar panels, a rainwater-harvesting system, and a compost bin. The door was slightly ajar.

She called out, “Yoo-hoo? Anybody home?”

Having heard no reply, her curiosity overcame her good manners, and she walked in. It was a cozy place, and she quickly surmised that three beings lived there in harmony with the woodlands.

Inside, she found three bowls of oatmeal on the kitchen counter—one was big, with some foil over the top to hold the steamy temperature, and it was too hot. One was sitting in a bowl of ice and subsequently too cold – who eats cold oatmeal, she wondered? The third was just right with brown sugar and raisins on top. Being a bit peckish, she snapped a photo for her food blog before devouring the third.

Then she went into the living room and tried out three ergonomic chairs—one was too stiff and so high her feet didn’t touch the floor; one was too squishy with a fuzzy throw and a big dip in the seat, obviously made by an overweight being; but the third fit her perfectly. She noted the manufacturer of each chair so she could post a review on her lifestyle blog and moved on.

She noticed some trophies on the mantel in the living room. She took a photo of those too. None were familiar to her. One was for winner of Best Springtime Camouflage, one was third place for Spooking Adversaries, and another was winner for Best Berry Haul of the Year 2024. She wasn’t sure which blog site to post this photo to, positing she might start a new one.

Upstairs, she tested three smart beds—one was too firm, and the control was stuck on high, one too soft with the control stuck on low, and the third, with temperature control and lumbar support, was just right. She fell asleep in the third, dreaming of five-star ratings.

Soon, the Bear family, who owned the charming cottage, returned from their morning yoga in the park. Mr. Bear, Bruno, grumbled at the missing oatmeal, Mrs. Bear, Ursula, frowned when she saw the chair cushions that had been disturbed, and Baby Bear, Osito, found Goldilocks snoring in his bed.

“Look, Mama and Papa, I found a stranger in my bed,” he called out.

Startled awake, Goldilocks apologized profusely. The Bears, being progressive and mindful, forgave her—but asked her to respect boundaries, knock next time, and wait to be invited in. Before she left, she asked to take a selfie with the family to post on her relationship blog. They agreed and said she was welcome to come again.

Moral: Curiosity is wonderful, but respect and consent matter—even in fairy tales.

When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain and Tomato Soup

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Sweet memories, buried for decades, that popped up when cleaning out my closet.

Last week, as an homage to the new year, I decided to clean out my “craft” closet. You know the kind. It has shelves and a big space to stack boxes on boxes on boxes. It was where I kept all the crafty supplies I used when our grandson spent his weekdays with us while his mama worked, before he started school. After he started school, he joined Odyssey of the Mind and, as the coach for his teams, I kept the closet full of even more stuff, bigger materials for costumes, props, and backdrops.  There were at least seven years of mélange that I shifted and restacked over and over – paper, cardboard for building things, paints, plasters, rocks, plastics parts for cars and planes, shells, crayons, markers, stickers, clips, scissors, etc.  – you get the idea. Now he’s seventeen, off on another course – competitive cycling, and crafty materials are no longer needed. I looked for filters for the water system in our frig and they were hiding under piles of all that important stuff. After I dug them out, I decided to clear out what was no longer useful. And there were three giant lawn-and-leaf-sized trash bags full. Some went to recycle, some to Goodwill, and lots to the trash. It made me think of the old radio show Fibber McGee and Molly. You have to be of a certain age to recall old radio shows. And that set me remembering, since I’m now a certain age plus one.

My parents both worked when I was a kid. Before I was old enough for school, Mom took me to a woman’s house on workdays. I don’t remember anything about the woman except that she, and consequently we, listened to the radio all day long. In those days, the 1940s, the Golden Age of Radio, families enjoyed a variety of great entertainment.

There were no other children in her house. She was very nice to me. I did puzzles, coloring books, and crafty things while she cleaned her house. Soap operas, variety musical shows, suspense, game shows, and comedy programs played on the radio all day in 15 or 30-minute segments. I remember Fibber McGee and Molly, One Man’s Family, Guiding Light, Kate Smith, The Aldrich Family, Baby Snooks, Bing Crosby, Jack Benny, various game shows, and The Shadow. They were the background chatter all day long. I don’t recall what they were about because, as a pre-schooler, I wasn’t listening very closely to them. I remember theme songs and bits and pieces of repetitive dialogue. I remember the spooky voice saying “The Shadow Knows”.

Fibber McGee and Molly were a married couple, sort of like Lucy and Desi. One thing that stands out in my mind was when Fibber opened his hall closet, and chaos rained down with the loudest clatter, bang, boom, squeak, and Molly would say, “Dear oh dear, Fibber, look at all that junk that fell out of your closet. When are you gonna clean it out? T’aint funny, McGee.”  My craft closet reminded me of Fibber’s.

Additionally, a memory floated to the surface a few days later with a song from the same era as Fibber. I woke one morning with the inimitable Kate Smith singing in my head, “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain”. The Kate Smith show was on every day at noon. That was when my babysitter would sit me down at the table for lunch. I’m sure she made a variety of things, but all I remember is home-made tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. I don’t remember the lyrics of the song, but when I recalled the tune, I could taste tomato soup.

Through the magic of the internet, you can now listen to those old-timey programs.

Link to Kate Smith singing “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain.”

When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain

Radio Show: Fibber McGee and Molly

Fibber McGee & Molly radio show 3/5/40 Cleaning the Hall Closet

Headline: 1-13-26 Gambia vs Myanmar – UN lawsuit

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This headline popped up on my phone and caught my attention.

The UN’s top court has opened a landmark case against Myanmar, accusing the country of committing genocide against its Rohingya (Muslim) minority. The case, filed by Gambia, alleges that Myanmar’s military launched a campaign of violence in 2017 that forced over 700,000 Rohingya to flee to neighboring Bangladesh. The population of Myanmar is predominantly Buddhist, with 90% Buddhist, 6% Christian, 4% Islam, and less than 1% Hindu. 

The International Court of Justice (ICJ) in The Hague has begun the hearings, marking the first full genocide case it has taken up in over a decade. The hearings will span three weeks and will include oral arguments, witness testimony, and expert examinations. Gambia alleges the Rohingya community has been subjected to horrific violence and destruction, including atrocities such as gang rape, sexual mutilation and infanticide. The case is significant as it could set precedents for how genocide is defined and proven, and how violations can be remedied. The outcome of the case is expected to have broader implications, including potential repercussions for other genocide cases, such as South Africa’s petition against Israel over its war in Gaza.

Usually, I avoid political news, domestic and international, because it is painfully negative. But this headline stopped me cold because Myanmar is a Buddhist country being charged with genocide. That seems like a huge oxymoron, incompatible, incongruous.  Buddhism is considered the most peaceful religion worldwide with its emphasis on non-violence, inner peace, kindness, and respect for nature. This doesn’t even seem real.

What is happening in our world? Riots in Persia, riots in Venezuela, riots in the U.S., riots in Uganda. Can’t we all get along? Give Peace a chance? I have a hard time believing the rioting is the fault of the religions because all the major religions preach peace. The scriptures of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism, all Abrahamic faiths, share messages that encourage unity and peace.

So, it means that bad actors in these countries are ginning up revolts based on criteria that they know will cause division within the population. I can’t say this is new news. It has happened over and over for centuries. Sometimes the issue is real, such as slavery in the U.S. Sometimes it is fabricated by lies like those that were the prelude to the hatred of Jews by a segment of the German population. How do we differentiate the real problems from those that are manufactured intentionally to cause internal strife within a country? What are the power struggles that motivate? Is it money, resources? I believe, more likely, it is an effort to consolidate power among the few to subjugate the many.

I don’t have answers. Just questions.

A Maxim for the New Year

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“Out of clutter, find simplicity. From discord, find harmony. In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.” — Albert Einstein.

A good maxim to begin the new year. The world is and always has been in chaos. Disorder and disharmony reign at all times, somewhere in our world. It is the human condition. Try as we might, we creatures, supposedly endowed with reason to think our way through adversity, instead use hard times and harsh words as a springboard to lash out with uncontrolled emotion. Emotion, it seems, is our human vice and virtue. Too often it overcomes rational thought, rational action. It is the catalyst for hate and anger, as well as for love and empathy.

I try to find peace from within and let madness straggle down its own path away from me. No, I’m not sticking my head in the sand. I am acutely aware of what is going on. I am also aware that I am powerless to make it stop, in the worldwide sense. No one has been able to in the millennia of human existence. Many have tried to lead toward peace and were rewarded with more hate and even death. Hateful words only engender more hate. “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” – Buddha. I can only contribute to my little corner of the world with my own actions and words.

Celebrating the joy that comes with every day brings calm. On the darkest days, there is always a little gem, a glimmer of happiness, if you pay attention. Watch for it. “Deceit is in the hearts of those who plot evil, but those who promote peace have joy.” (Proverbs 12:20) The connection between peacemaking and joy is clear; those who work towards peace experience fulfillment and happiness.

It is my prayer every morning. Let me be an instrument of peace. Find my balance. Make at least one person smile and be happy we had an encounter, whether in person, by writing, or by phone. Be grateful for every living spirit, for they all have a place in our world, a reason for being. Remember, forgiveness is the portal to peace. Don’t let petty or ignorant words muddle my day. Be kind, it costs nothing and is a blessing to others and to myself. It is the source of peace.

I don’t always achieve that goal, but it is uppermost in my mind to start my day. Distractions, annoying tech issues, physical discomfort, negative media (when I allow it in), and my own higgledy-piggledy thought processes can derail me from being present and conscious moment by moment. Joy gets lost in the commotion, but it usually resurfaces when I stop to recenter myself. I realize my very good fortune, the love surrounding me, and I’m grateful. I pray and, in my own tiny way, strive to help others find peace and joy in their days.

How do you find fulfillment in your days?

Some inspiring quotes by wise people, the Old Testament, the Quran, and the Bhagavad Gita:

“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.” – Gautama Buddha.

“If we really want to love, we must learn how to forgive.” —Mother Teresa

“Let us forgive each other – only then will we live in peace.” – Leo Tolstoy.

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.” – Mahatma Gandhi

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.” – Mark Twain

“We seek peace, knowing that peace is the climate of freedom.” – Dwight Eisenhower.

“You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” – Mahatma Gandhi.

“The world is not a mere reflection of our thoughts; it is a reflection of our actions.” – Albert Einstein.

“And the servants of the Most Merciful are those who walk upon the earth easily, and when the foolish address them harshly, they respond with peace..” (Quran 25:63) Be a messenger of peace, even in adversity.

“How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings…” (Isaiah 52:7)  Be a messenger of peace.

“We must come to see that at the end we seek is a society at peace with itself, a society that can live with its conscience.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

“But if you pardon, overlook, and forgive, then indeed, Allah is Forgiving and Merciful.” (Quran 64:14) Forgiveness is a divine trait and a means to achieve inner and outer peace.

“Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.” (Psalm 34:14) Encourage an active pursuit of peace by making conscious choices to foster harmony.

“Delusion arises from anger. The mind is bewildered by delusion. Reasoning is destroyed when the mind is bewildered.”  Bhagavad Gita

“Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

“Nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral questions of our time; the need for mankind to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to oppression and violence.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

“The disunited mind is far from wise; how can it meditate? How can it be at peace? When you know no peace, how can you know joy?”  Bhagavad Gita

Namaste

Snooze and Sup Bed and Breakfast Cairo, Egypt

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TIme to Read: 2-3 minutes

Prompt: Write a short poem, story, or essay in ten minutes using these five words: snooze, black, pocket, dollar-store, Egypt. This may be the beginning of a story when I get the nudge to continue it. I know next to nothing about pyramids, antiquities, or Egypt, so I’ll need to do a little research in order to continue the story.

As always, a prompt challenge tickles my brain in so many ways. This was quick fun. I admit I looked up the Egyptian script after writing the story in which I just wrote “his name was written in Egyptian script”.

SNOOZE AND SUP BED AND BREAKFAST

Simon stepped off the plane in Cairo with a huge grin on his face. This was going to be a great summer. He had snagged a summer internship studying Egyptian pyramids. He was as excited as a six-year-old in the dollar store with ten bucks. He went toward baggage claim to collect his luggage and scientific toolbox. Standing there with a sign that read حرينومتساويين, and under that “Cairo Institute of Antiquities” was a swarthy man who stood about 4’6”. Simon walked up and bent his 6’3” body and said, I believe you are looking for me, I’m Simon. The diminutive man responded with a big white toothy smile and shining black eyes, “Salaam Ustaaz, My name is Asim.  I’m so glad you found me. I hope I spelled your name correctly.”

“That’s supposed to be my name?”

“Ustaaz, I didn’t know how to spell it, but I did my best. I will take you to your accommodations.”

Asim led Simon to an old jeep that was covered in a 10-year layer of Arabian desert dust thick enough to be armor.

“Where will I be staying for the summer?”

“Ah, Ustaaz, you have great accommodations at the Snooze and Sup Bed and Breakfast in the Dhjoser pyramid.”

“At the pyramid?”

“Yes Ustaaz, they have a lovely bed and breakfast at the third level.”

“You use the pyramids for hotels?”

“That and other things.”

“But the pyramids are sacred antiquities to be studied and protected.”

“You see, we have so many, and most are not very interesting, so our government decided to put them to use. It has helped our economy since the US bullied its way into the fossil fuel market. Only two kilometers away from your bed and breakfast is the Pick a Pocket Casino, also in a pyramid. It is rated very highly by Conde Nast.”

Sure enough. Asim pulled up in front of a small pyramid with a marquee reading Snooze and Sup, Bed and Breakfast. He helped Simon take his bags and equipment into the lobby. There in front of him was a dimly lit tunnel with ramps crisscrossing up to the third level and beyond.

A Most Memorable Christmas

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Time to read: 5-7 minutes.

When Ken and I moved to southern Arizona to be full-time residents in 1997, we left behind our three kids, all adults, our two mothers, two brothers, and a sister, plus all their families. Throughout our forty years in Bellevue WA, as we established our family, we always spent the holidays with all of them, sharing meals and family traditions. Our first Christmas alone had a daunting, hollow feeling of abandonment, even though it was Ken and me who left the family for our Arizona life.

When we were first married, we spent Christmases just we two, and we didn’t miss anyone because we were so focused on each other and being together. However, after our first child arrived, we were always in the midst of our two families during the holiday season. I decided to find a way to shake the Arizona Christmas blues. I found an ad in the Arizona Star for volunteers to help make Christmas memories for children in Nogales. We signed up.

The patron of the volunteer operation was Jose Canchola, who owned several McDonald’s franchise restaurants. The volunteers all met at one in Nogales. Every year for thirty-one years until his death in 2008, Mr. Canchola hosted a Christmas party for underprivileged children from Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. Jose was born in Chicago to immigrant parents and rose by hard work and persistence to become a business and political leader in Southern Arizona. Besides owning restaurants, he was a part-owner of the Arizona Diamondbacks major league baseball team, and served as mayor in Nogales for a time. His philanthropy was legendary.

On Christmas day, we left for Nogales in the dark morning hours, arriving about 7:00 am. We loaded our backseat with toys and some clothing to add to the contributions of other volunteers and businesses. We were taught a few rudimentary sentences in Spanish to use to help guide them. We learned what our jobs were and waited for the first busload of kids to arrive at about 8:00. We were told the children were from the very poorest part of Nogales and the mountains around it. Buses went into Mexico, collected children in and around Nogales, Sonora, and brought them across the border to Nogales, Arizona, to Mr. Canchola’s McDonald’s restaurant. Bus load after bus load of kids were dropped off to be fed a McDonald’s lunch and receive gifts of clothes and toys.

One large room of the restaurant was heaped with gifts for kids. Toys on one side and clothing on the other side. Each child was greeted at the bus by a volunteer and either taken into the dining room for lunch or brought into the big room to choose clothing, a backpack, and a toy. Then they switched, and the lunch group went into the big room, and the other group went for lunch.

I worked in the toy/clothes room, and Ken worked in the restaurant serving lunch. It was timed perfectly and, as one bus load finished choosing gifts and eating lunch, another bus pulled in with another group of kids. There were about thirty minutes between buses.  One group was loaded back onto their bus, returning to Mexico as the next bus was greeted. It was rapid fire with no time between bus loads. I cannot tell you how many children were served that day, but we didn’t stop until after dark, at least nine hours, probably fifteen busloads of kids.

I marveled at the fact that the parents of all the children had faith to put their kids on a bus headed to the U.S., knowing they would be cared for by strangers and returned with gifts and a full tummy. The children were as young as two, on up to ten or twelve. Some kids came in family groups with the eldest looking after one, two or three siblings. A few of the children asked if they could take a gift to a sibling who wasn’t able to come on the bus. Some took a sack lunch of a hamburger and fries back with them to siblings who were left behind. The kindness and generosity of everyone involved was a heart-lifting experience. We were all there for the kids.

Very few of the children spoke English well, but most understood it a bit. My job was to take a child to the clothing area and find for them a shirt, jacket, pants, or coat that fit and that they liked. Shoes were available if they wanted a pair. Most picked out one item of clothing, but a few chose two or three items. Then I took the child to the toy side of the room, and they picked out a toy for themselves or sometimes one to take back to a sibling. Each child expressed their happiness at receiving the bounty they took home, some with words, most with their smiling, happy faces.

Ken told me about little ones with drippy noses that he had to wipe before they had their meals. None were obviously sick, but they were not in the best condition either. All were eager to dive into their yummy Mickey D’s. Hamburgers and fries disappeared in minutes.

One small boy sticks out in my mind. While several of the kids had been part of this gift program for a year or two, many were there for the first time. Their bright eyes grew enormous when they took in the stacks of toys and clothes. One little fellow named Luis was about six. He went into the restaurant first, and when he finished his lunch, he came to the big room. I took his hand and welcomed him, and asked what he wanted for clothes. I’ve since forgotten it all. He picked out a jacket, tried it on, and decided to keep it. Then we went to select a toy. I don’t remember what he chose, but his little arms were full. I walked him out to the bus, he got on, turning to smile at me. I watched other kids load and was about to go back inside when a bundle of love tackled me around the waist. It was Luis. He left his gifts on the bus and jumped off to give me a goodbye hug. He looked up at me with the most gorgeous, sweet smile and said, “Gracias, amable dama.” My heart melted. Tears come into my eyes now as I write this, nearly thirty years later, because I can still feel his hug and the look in his big brown eyes. Another volunteer translated his words, “Thank you, kind lady.”

Ken and I drove back to Oro Valley that night, exhausted but with full hearts. We experienced the essence of Christmas. GIVING and SERVICE to others. Our family now included all the children we met that day, even though we will never see them again. It was and is the very best Christmas I ever had.

Sartorial Vagaries of Tucson

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We moved to Tucson from the Pacific Northwest, where gray skies and moderate temperatures abounded. We laughingly called rain, liquid sunshine, in an effort to not feel left out when the rest of the country experienced bouts, sometimes whole days of bright skies. The first year and into the second year in Tucson, I marveled that Dillard’s, Sears, and Penney’s stores offered sweaters and even jackets for sale. Why oh why would they have such useless apparel in the stores? I dressed year-round in shorts and sleeveless tops…for the first two years.

Then my blood became as thin as pomegranate juice. I discovered I NEEDED a sweater, especially when going into stores because of the excessive air conditioning. I needed a sweatshirt, sometimes a jacket, for winter, to wear with full-length pants. I began to need long underwear as temps dipped below 80° in November.

Relatives and friends who don’t live here think it strange. 80° is my bottom-line temperature now. Anything below that I consider frigid and requires supplementary attire to combat goose bumps. Long underwear is a staple. Heaven forefend if the atmosphere drops below 50°! I become bundled like an Eskimo. I scan internet ads for excursions to the equator.  Fortunately, those chilly temperatures only occur at night when I’m snug in bed with quilts and comforters and a warm hubby beside me.

On the other hand, I can comfortably live in 105°. Of course, I go from my air-conditioned house to my air-conditioned car to an air-conditioned store and back again. I’m not standing outside all day or working in the blazing heat. I worry about those who work in temps up to 115°. I asked Jeff, our landscape guru, how he and his team worked outside all day without expiring. He said they start early, at dawn, when the temperature is milder, and as temperatures rise, their bodies adjust. They are covered head to toe in protective clothing, so the sun doesn’t directly hit their skin, and wear big hats to shade their faces. They drink gallons of water. The dry desert heat evaporates perspiration before you even know you have sweated. They usually quit work around 3:00 pm, which is the hottest time of day.

Yesterday, dressed in a long-sleeve top under a long-sleeve sweater and long fleecy pants, I went to the grocery store. Bright sunshine lit my world. I watched people going in and out of the grocery store. I could pick out the snowbirds, winter visitors, immediately. They wore shorts and tank tops. They thought they were experiencing summer, that 68° and sunshine meant it was warm outside. I could only laugh to myself. It was exactly what I thought thirty years ago.

Twenty Lovers

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In the springtime of my life

I set goals, many goals.

One I knew I could easily quantify,

Twenty Lovers

The first was chosen carefully.

Who deserved to capture my virginity?

It turned out he was a virgin too.

All we needed was each other’s body,

Until we didn’t.

The second was better.

I knew what I hadn’t known before.

He was generous,

I was indulged, I learned.

He left me wiser.

The third was great.

Now I wanted more than his body.

I wanted his mind, maybe his soul.

He lit me from the inside.

Our passion was bright, hot, and short.

The fourth, well, they can’t all be good.

He took from me what I didn’t want to give.

He mastered me for a time.

I learned his game and left.

My ego dented, questioning my goal.

The fifth was, no is

The last in my life. Not merely a lover,

My love. Even if he leaves me

There can be no other.

He is my forever.

This poem is dedicated to those who were not fortunate enough to find their perfect love on the first try but did find it at last. This is a sample of stories they told me.

My Night in Jail

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In 1990, we had our house remodeled. The kids were all off on their own. To avoid staying in the mess during a six-week remodel, Ken and I decided to live aboard our sailboat Wind Dancer, which we moored at the Elliot Bay Marina in Seattle. We commuted from there during the week to our jobs in Bellevue. It was truly a wonderful summer. The remodel ended up being closer to three months – as remodels are wont to do. Sitting on the aft deck of the boat in the evening with a glass of wine, watching the lights come on all over the city, reflecting squiggly colored lights in the inky waters, was a magical experience. All was well and we were content.

My cousin came to town, her first time in Seattle. She stayed with my brother’s family since we obviously couldn’t accommodate her and her two kids on our boat. I wanted to show her around when I could, so we made a date for the weekend to go out to dinner and a little tour of the city.

We went out to a nice dinner, then I drove her to see some of the interesting sights and viewpoints. Summer evenings in Seattle are light until very late. Afterward, I was going to take her back to Bellevue to my brother’s house.

It was 11:00, night had come, and the streets of Bellevue were dark and empty. We came to a stop sign at the intersection where I would turn from the right lane to go to my brother’s, but I decided to turn left to show her something of interest that I had forgotten. I turned left from the wrong lane just as a police car drove over the hill behind us, and I knew they spotted my illegal turn. Again, there were NO other cars on the road in any direction, and I didn’t see the police car because it didn’t come over the rise of the hill until I was halfway through my turn. I knew they would stop me, so I immediately pulled over to the side of the street after completing the turn. Sure enough, the lights went on, and the police car pulled up behind me. A young female officer got out and came to my window with her flashlight.

“You made an illegal left turn. Let me see your license and registration.”

I pulled my driver’s license from my purse, got the registration from the console, and handed them to her.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yes, I had a glass of wine with dinner an hour or so ago.”

“Ok. Get out of the car and take a breathalyzer.”

Now this is where things went wonky. Not more than a month before, Ken and I had dinner with an attorney friend of ours, and he mentioned apropos to nothing, “Don’t ever take a field sobriety test. They aren’t reliable. Go to the police station if they insist on a breathalyzer.”

“No”, says I. “I won’t take a field sobriety test.”

She was visibly surprised that I refused.

“Just wait in the car, I’ll be right back.”

She went to her car and was on the phone. Within two minutes, three other police cars appeared. My car was surrounded, one behind me, one in front of me, turned to face me, one beside me blocking the street, faced the side of my car, and a fourth on the other side drove into the parking lot of the business next to where I parked on the street and faced my car. All their bright headlights were trained on me, and their roof lights rotated a merry spectacle. It looked like we were in a concert venue, and I was the star attraction. Again, I emphasize, there were no other cars on the street during this time.

The officer came back to my car. “Get out. You’re going to do a sobriety test.”

“Fine,” I said, knowing I wasn’t the least bit inebriated.

“Take off your shoes. Walk a line heel to toe with one foot in front of the other. Touch your nose with your finger.” Etc. etc. I took off my high heels, and I really don’t remember all her directions, but my nylons were being shredded. I did as I was told. Meanwhile, six other police officers were standing around me and my car. My poor cousin was stuck inside, wondering what was going on. I surmised that I somehow had been misidentified as a serial killer or terrorist. I was mildly amused by all the attention, but tried to keep a straight face, figuring humor at this juncture would not be well received.

After the drunk test, the officer said, “You are under arrest.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t follow orders, you were unbalanced, I think you’re drunk.”

There were six other policemen around me, and not one of them objected or said anything. I knew I’d done exactly what she asked. Now I was surprised.

“What am I supposed to do with my car?”

“The woman in your car can drive it to your house.”

“No, she can’t. Our house is under construction. I live on a sailboat in Elliot Bay. She is visiting from Kansas and doesn’t know the area. I was taking her to stay with my brother when I made the bad decision to turn from the wrong lane.”

“Okay, she can follow us to the station, and your brother can pick her up. She can leave your car there.”

It was beginning to feel surreal, but I had no choice with seven police persons surrounding me. The police station was only two blocks from where I was stopped. No big deal for my cousin to follow them to the station. I was handcuffed and put in the back of the patrol car. The seat was a molded bench with a back, not anything like a normal car backseat. Wow, you do have to duck your head to avoid getting bonked when you get in the backseat. Another learning experience. All their cars made a U-turn in the middle of the street (definitely an illegal maneuver), and my cousin followed. I reiterate – there were NO other cars on the street. During the entire thirty or forty-minute procedure, only three cars came to that stop sign intersection. They could see the street was blocked by police action and quickly turned in the opposite direction from our circus.

My cousin called my brother from the station, and he came to get her. I was detained in the back and didn’t see him, so I couldn’t explain.  I was photographed, fingerprinted, and all my personal information was taken before I was ushered to a straight-backed chair against the wall. Two other people were sitting there in chairs. One by one, they were taken out. I don’t know why or where they went. Again, I was asked to take the breathalyzer. Now my stubborn streak kicked in. I declined the offer. Three or four police quietly conversed behind the desk with the arresting officer. I watched the goings-on with interest. They were obviously prepping her. Meanwhile, two drunks were brought in separately – two obviously drunk men weaving their way with officers holding them up. I watched as they were booked, etc. Couldn’t they see the observable difference between those drunks and sober me? An administrator type came over to me with a piece of paper.

“Sign this,” he said.

“Ok. Let me read it first.” I read it, and it had to do with agreeing to the charges and waiving my rights. After over a thirty years passage of time, I don’t remember exactly what the document was, but upon reading it, I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to sign.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not drunk, and this doesn’t appear to be something I want to sign. Can I make a phone call?”

“Do you have an attorney?”

“Yes, I’ll call him.”  At that time, we didn’t have cell phones, so I could not reach my husband on the boat for advice. I called our attorney friend, the one who told us not to do a field sobriety test. Unfortunately, he was asleep as it was about 1:30 am, so he didn’t answer his phone. On top of that, Bob is a real estate attorney, not a criminal defense attorney, so he probably wouldn’t have been much help.

“Well, I guess I don’t have an attorney.”

“We’re going to put you in a cell, now.” Two officers walked me down a hall to a nice, clean beige cement room with a sink, toilet, and bench-like cement ledge on the wall. They took off my handcuffs. The front of the cell was bars, just like on TV.  I wasn’t upset by the turn of the evening events, secure in the knowledge that I was not drunk. I was more curious and mildly amused. What would be next on the menu of procedural absurdities? Would I be strung up by my manacled hands like a ham with a lash applied to my naked back until I confessed to treason?  Ah, maybe a bit too dramatic.

I was in the cell for a while. Time was a blur. There were no clocks visible, and I don’t wear a watch. I was sleepy, but the concrete ledge didn’t invite sleep, so I sat on it leaning against the corner of the wall. Finally, an officer came to my little room and told me he would take me to the phone; they had the name of a public defender who would talk to me. I followed him and called the number he gave me.  The officer never left my side. The public defender (I’m sure awakened from his sleep and not in the best mood) said I was obligated to take the breathalyzer test and that I could call him the next day, and he would explain everything to me.

I took the breathalyzer, and they put me back in my cell.  An unknown amount of time again went by before they came to get me. The officer said, “Here are your keys, your car is by the front door. We will contact you about your trial.”

“What trial? I’m not guilty of drunk driving, only an illegal turn. Can’t I pay the ticket and go home?”

“No, you are charged with drunk driving, and you refused to sign the charge document, so it has to go to a judge.”

“What did my breathalyzer show?”

“You blew .01, that is why we are letting you drive home.”

“But I’m still charged with drunk driving?”

“That was what you were arrested for; now it has to be adjudicated.”

By that time, the sun was up. I drove to the marina and told Ken the whole story. He was surprised, but relieved to know I had been in a safe place staying out all night. I went instantly to sleep. Rocked by the boat’s gentle motion, I slept about four hours.

My trial was set for several weeks from that night. In the meantime, I met with the attorney who said I wouldn’t be found guilty of drunk driving but of reckless driving. It was the harshest thing they could legally charge me with, instead of a simple illegal turn. The police were unhappy with my attitude. The arresting officer was a rookie, and I had made her first arrest a nightmare.

By the time of the trial, we were back in our beautiful newly remodeled home. The night before my trial, I decided to dye my hair. I don’t remember the exact reason, but I did try to dye my hair. The next day, my hair was pink. I called my daughter and said, “Help, I have to go to court, and they’ll probably rearrest me for some obscure infraction if I show up with pink hair.” She called her good friend, who was a hair stylist, and together they got my hair back to a reasonable hue.

At the trial, the six policemen sat directly behind me as I waited for my case to be brought up. I waved and smiled at them. They didn’t respond. Were they trying to be intimidating? Why would all six men take time from their real work to watch my trial? The arresting officer testified with untruths. She indicated I got my registration out of the glove box, but I kept it in the console between the front seats. She said I was wobbly when I did the drunk test, I wasn’t. I finally got the clue about one of the reasons she thought I was drunk. She said my eyes were red and weepy. That was true. I had been with my cousin for several hours, and she was a smoker. She smoked in my car while we drove around, and my eyes burned from the cigarette fumes. I was called to testify and pointed out the officer’s mistakes about where the registration was, and that she said I was wobbly when I knew I was steady, and my eyes were red, but it was from cigarette smoke, not alcohol. I added that I blew a .01 on the breathalyzer, so I couldn’t have been drunk anyway. The judge said I had to pay a fine for reckless driving, but it wouldn’t stay on my record if I didn’t get any moving violations for a year. Then I had to pay the attorney a ridiculous amount to represent me with a pro forma script he could have recited in his sleep. Theater of the Absurd.

And that is the story of my night in jail.

His Hands

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His large hand enfolded my own tentative, smaller one on our first date, a move at once assertive but reassuring.

His hands cupped my face, tenderly bestowing our first kiss, third date.

His hand on the small of my back guided me around the dance floor on prom night, and then into our life together.

His hands took mine before God, friends, and family, and placed a ring on my third finger, left hand.

His hands that I crunched with intensity every time cascading labor pains racked my body.

His hand gently held the head of our newborn, her little feet barely reaching the length of his arm to the crook of his elbow.

His hands challenged his copper-miner father’s tough hands to arm wrestling duels – winning more than half the time.

His hand deftly translated an engineer’s arithmetic scribble into precisely drafted drawings of a bridge, or a building, or a subdivision with roads and utilities.

His hand, large enough to hide a baseball and manipulate the shape of a pitch with fingers across seams, two or four, so that it would float surreptitiously by or speed swiftly past a ready batter.

His hands devoted their strength to sensual massages of my body and much appreciated foot rubs.

His hands could fix a toaster or rewire a house.

His hands could stem a bathroom flood or change a kitchen faucet.

His hands cut firewood for our fireplaces.

His hands could adjust a timing belt on an engine or change a tire with dexterity and ease.

His hands mastered every tool needed to maintain our home and cars.

His hands painted every wall in our house with sometimes two or three colors in a room, the joining place of the colors knife-edged perfect.

His hands taught our grandson to build an RC airplane and fly it.

His hands, my safe place.

His hands changed when Parkinson’s appeared with trembling that became shakes, then quakes, until he could barely get a fork to his mouth using both hands.

His hands returned to peace after brain surgery calmed the quakes.

His hands, thin-skinned with ropey blue veins near the surface now weakened, no longer able to open pickle jars or pop champagne corks with aplomb.

His hands still reach across the bed at night to rub my back, soothing unspecified tensions that hide in the crevices of my being.