Then and Now – Perspectives of War

Posted on by
4

Erica began to tremble. I was seated next to her at our table on the restaurant patio. It was a beautiful spring Tucson day in 2018. We were having lunch at a popular restaurant with three other women volunteers from the hospital surgery center. I noticed a flash of unease cross her face.

“Erica, are you all right?”

“It’s nothing,” she replied.

“You were trembling just now. Are you cold?”

“No, it is an old body memory that I can’t stop.”

“Body memory of what?”

“The war,” she said. “I start shaking when I hear a plane overhead.” 

I hadn’t even noticed the sound but did hear it faintly as the plane flew away.

A native of Germany, Erica emigrated to the US with her husband in the 1950s. They established a business and home in the Midwest and raised their son as an American citizen.  Erica was a widow, now in her mid-eighties. I knew that much of her story. She volunteered one morning a week at the surgery center of our local hospital, as did I. We occasionally had lunch together. I liked hearing about the customs and recipes she brought from Germany. She made luscious baked goods to share with hospital staff. I enjoyed her wit and positive attitude – always available to help someone.

At lunch that day we talked more about her experiences growing up in a small village in central Germany. During WWII, Allied bombing raids passed over their farm on their way to targets unknown by those on the ground. Bombs were dropped on nearby towns. If she was outside she would run to shelter fearing death from the sky at any moment. The imprint of terror stayed with Erica from the time she was nine or ten throughout her long life in the United States. A teenage brother was killed in one of the bombings, wrong time, wrong place. Even with the lasting repercussions of war for her and her family, Erica had no animus against the men who “did their duty”, or the country that directed those bombers. She was taken in as an immigrant and her family thrived here. She had nothing but gratitude to the U.S.

Many times, I read my father’s journal of his twenty-eight bombing missions during WWII from December 1943 through July 1944. He was the waist gunner on the plane that led the entire Eighth Air Force in the invasion of Normandy on zero day – D-Day June 6, 1944. Unlike bombs dropped on Warsaw, Helsinki, Hamberg, Nagasaki, Hiroshima, London, and Stalingrad that killed thousands of citizens of those cities, none of the bombing raids by his crew were directed at civilian populations. Their targets were strategic military installations and industrial war factories. Of course, civilians were in those places as well, but residential areas were not the focus according to his journal entries.

Dad’s plane, The Red Ass

My dad never talked about his wartime experiences, and I didn’t find out about them until many years after he died at the age of fifty-two. I was proud of his part in securing victory over the Axis Powers in Europe. Never once did I consider the fear that must have sprouted and flourished in the psyche of those helpless folks on the ground who heard the giant purveyors of doom swooping in overhead. They experienced daily the trauma of the unknown – would it be their town or farm this time?

Talking with Erica gave me an entirely different perspective on what war was like for the nameless faceless people who had to endure the decisions made by the powerful. Even after more than seventy years, Erica still visibly trembled at the sound of an airplane overheard. Truly innocent human beings, who wanted to live with their families in peace, became victims of war. A war that had to be endured in the best way possible to survive. It became very personal and was made vivid to me because of her stories. My pride in my dad is tempered by the realization of the physical and psychological damage inflicted even without dropping a bomb. The weapon is terror.

I’m left with the unanswerable question. Why do human beings war with each other?  There has not been a time in recorded history that we have not had wars somewhere. Even oral traditions celebrate war and victories over enemies.  Our instinctive tribal nature divides us. The reach for power continues to exploit that instinct. When will we learn? As the song says, “There is no profit in peace.” 1  Until unelected oligarchs in our country and around the world, who wield the cudgel of dominance behind the scenes with endless supplies of money, cede power (not likely), or are ousted from power, war is inevitable. George Orwell described in his novel, 1984, how a small minority benefits from war and must keep the general populace dumbed down and compliant by force and fear. Is that the purpose of continuing to divide and segment us by our differences rather than uniting us in our common humanity? Hmmmm. That is the moral question.

  1. Profit in Peace by Ocean Colour Scene

Bessie Caroline Lambie – a proper young lady at the turn of the 20th Century

Posted on by
5
Bessie, age 16 in 1904
Bessie is front row, second from left and Bea is front row, second from right. Their mother is between them.
Bessie in front row is second from left, Bea is second from right with their mother between them

The early 20th Century, after reconstruction and before the First World War, was something of a golden era in the United States. The country was expanding economically as was optimism for the future. The first transcontinental railroad opened the West to more settlement. My grandmother born in 1888, was the youngest in the John Lambie family of seven girls and eight boys. Her mother was Danish and her father, Scottish. They lived in Wisconsin, on a farm near Kaukauna.

In the buoyant spirit of optimism, my grandmother, Bessie Caroline, and her sister Bea set out for adventure in the wild wild West. They signed on to be Harvey House Girls.

In 1913 a prominent New York food critic, Henry Finck, named Mr. Fred Harvey, “the food missionary” to an underserved population in the West.  Mr. Harvey placed restaurants and hotels along the routes of the Atcheson, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad and the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe Railroad among others. He is credited with “civilizing the West, one meal at a time.” He is acknowledged to have started the first restaurant chain of eighty-four (at its peak) Harvey House Restaurants extending through twelve states from Chicago to San Diego.

Harvey House Girls had strict rules governing their conduct and living arrangements. The Harvey Company policy was to employ single, well-mannered, and educated American ladies.  In newspapers throughout the East Coast and Midwest, their ads specified “white, young women, 18–30 years of age, of good character, attractive and intelligent”. The women were paid $18.50 a month, plus room and board. That was considered a very handsome salary in those days. The opportunity to leave their homes, enjoy travel, have new experiences, and work outside the home was very liberating for thousands of young women.

Bessie in the center – 4th from left – 4th from right

The women lived in a common dormitory much like a sorority house with a strict 10 p.m. curfew. A Harvey Girl with seniority assumed the role and responsibilities of house mother.  The official starched black and white uniform was designed to diminish the female physique. It consisted of a shirt waist dress with a skirt that hung no more than eight inches off the floor, and a high pointed collar with a black bow tie. They wore opaque black stockings and black shoes. Their hair was contained in a net and tied with a regulation white ribbon. Makeup of any sort was absolutely prohibited. Marriage was the most common reason for a girl to terminate her employment. 

Harvey Company restrictions maintained the clean-cut reputation of the Harvey House Girls and made them even more marriageable. Cowboy philosopher Will Rogers once said, “In the early days the traveler fed on the buffalo. For doing so, the buffalo got his picture on the nickel. Well, Fred Harvey should have his picture on one side of the dime, and one of his waitresses with her arms full of delicious ham and eggs on the other side, ‘cause they have kept the West supplied with food and wives.” 

Judging from a few photos in family albums, my grandmother made the most of her twenties. There are pictures dated between 1908-1915 of her hiking in the mountains, picnicking at a lake, cruising in a 1906 convertible Pope Toledo, Type XII gas-powered, chain-driven automobile with five other young men and women, and in the arms of various “boy-friends” and generally having a grand time. Besides photos of her in Wisconsin, she was in Mojave, San Diego, San Fransico, and Bakersfield, California, at the Grand Canyon, in Trinidad, Colorado, at Starvation Peak in New Mexico, and at the home of a Mexican family in New Mexico, among many other places over those years. Bessie and Bea are shown in one photo standing atop a train wreck. It was taken at the 1913 California State Fair in Sacramento. Two trains were intentionally run toward each other at 90 mph as entertainment at the Fair.

Bea, on the left and Bessie standing atop a train wreck. I wish I heard THAT story
Grandma in her trainman outfit

In 1916, Bessie met Ed Henry, a trainman naturally. They married in 1917 and she settled into a life of domesticity. They had three children of which my mother was the eldest. My grandfather was one of the lucky ones who kept his job during the hard times of the Depression so the family did not suffer as much as some families during that time. My mother did tell stories of hobos knocking on their kitchen door asking for food and Grandmother making a meal for them.

I just wish I had known of Grandmother’s early days when I was a child spending whole summers with my grandparents in Colorado. I can think of so many questions I would have asked her. My grandfather was still a brakeman for the Union Pacific Railroad. I remember him coming home after a two-day round-trip from Denver to Green River, Wyoming. His big embrace when he picked me up upon arriving home smelling of wool, tobacco, and shaving cream is with me to this day. I can conjure it when I close my eyes and think of him. He was a tall man and a loving man. He must have been something to have wooed my grandmother’s adventuring spirit into marriage.

Once when I was six years old, my grandmother and I rode on Grandpa’s train to Green River and back so I could know what Grandpa did when he was gone. I remember being so proud when he came into our car in his uniform and hugged me. Everyone could see my handsome grandpa loved me. I remember how much I loved being on the train. A ten-hour ride each way went swiftly. Grandma and I stayed overnight at the home of their friends in Green River.

Back home at their house in Longmont, Colorado, Grandma was the domestic goddess. She kept a beautiful flower garden with sweet peas, honeysuckle, nasturtiums, roses, and chrysanthemums out back as well as a vegetable garden. I can still recall the sweet earthy smells. She canned peas, beans, tomatoes, peaches, and made jam. They had raspberry vines along the fence. She washed clothes with a wringer washing machine. I got my fingers caught once in the wringer when I tried to “help” her. She made delicious meals. Grandma had a sweet tooth and most everything had sugar in or on it. I had bread and butter with sugar as a snack and fresh garden tomatoes with sugar sprinkled on them. She claimed it was her Danish heritage that made everything sweet.

When Grandpa was home we often went fishing at Estes Park in the mountains. Grandma filled a huge picnic basket with scrumptious food – cold fried chicken, potato salad, chicken sandwiches, tomatoes, carrots, berries, and of course dessert – cookies or cake. Grandpa baited my hook with squirmy worms. I’d watch the bobber closely until it disappeared and I knew I had a rainbow trout on the line. Grandpa would take it off and put it in the woven basket that dangled in the water to keep them fresh. Grandpa would sometimes cook them right there on the little camp stove we brought. We always had more to take home for a dinner or two. Grandpa especially liked trout for breakfast with Grandma’s big fluffy biscuits dripping with butter and homemade jam.

I have great memories of my grandparents and wish I could have learned more of their stories in the years I had with them. In times past, each generation was tasked with passing on family stories from generation to generation. I think we lost that tradition in our hustle-bustle world and it saddens me. Every life is a series of stories and we should keep them alive in the family. I’m sure a semi-fictionalized (creative non-fiction) version of my grandparents’ story will start pestering my crowded brain at some point.

I noticed online that there is a Harvey House in Madison, Wisconsin. It is not the old one but a new version. Wish I lived near there. Maybe a road trip is in the future.

The Great Boston Tea Party as witnessed by a tea drinker (flash fiction*)

Posted on by
1

The date, December 16th. The dawn of a very cold day in Boston. A light snow had fallen during the night leaving the ground covered in a thin layer, and clouds of smoke spewed from chimneys adding more gray to the skies.

I’m out of tea for breakfast. I just want one lousy cup of tea and the tea box is empty. I cannot believe I didn’t get a tin the last time I was at the merchant.   I’ll go next door to Martha Mason. She always has an abundance of everything. She could be called a hoarder but I’d never say it to her face because she often has just what I need, like tea, and she is always willing to share. A beneficent hoarder.

I pull my woolen great coat on over my shabby linen dress and stuff two corn husks in the bottom of my shoes to keep out the wet.  I step outside my door. I’m grabbed from behind, suddenly engulfed in a mass of humans. No, they’re not human, they are Mohawk Indians. I’m bumped and shoved into the midst of their surging bodies. Indians! With tomahawks and painted faces. What are they doing in town? They are sweeping me along with them. Oh my god, I’ll be killed. Bitter panic rises from my stomach to my throat. I try to cry out, terror overwhelming my desire for tea. I can’t even scream.  I’m trying to stay upright amid the surging horde. I don’t want to be trampled. I almost lose my footing, but I’m bolstered by the crush of savages around me. I can smell the sweat of their leather-clad torsos. There must be over a hundred of them.  They are stealthy and silent except for their heavy breathing. As the tide of heaving bodies forces me along, I look into the face of the Indian to my right. Wait, that’s no Indian, it’s Mister Borwin, the tea merchant. 

“What are you doing?” my voice in shrill cry.

“Shhhh, quiet missy,” he says, “We’re almost there”. 

We traveled the eight blocks toward the harbor. I can see ships swaying at anchor. Suddenly whoops and yells erupt from the mob and they pick up speed as they dash aboard the ships. I’m pushed aside and land abruptly on my rump in a pile of snow. The “Indians” begin picking up one great crate after another, throwing them overboard into the harbor. I realize the crates they are throwing are full of tea. Tea! I raise myself up and jostle my way aboard the closest ship. As a crate is raised it breaks open. I grab two tins of tea and rush home for my breakfast cuppa.

*Flash fiction is a short short story with plot, action and characters, no more than a page in length.

Putting the english on English

Posted on by
4

I know I’m committed to positive posts and stories but…

Pet peeve:

I just got to say how much I dislike the word got. It is one of those words that is like fingernails on a blackboard for me when I hear it used, especially if it is uttered by professionals on TV or at a podium; not so much if it is part of the dialogue in storytelling. When a reporter, narrator, or commentator uses it, I wince and clench my teeth. It is a lazy word. It is an ugly word. Listen to it – got got got. Yuk. I hasten to add that I do not judge, nor do I want to be judged when that word is dropped into casual conversation. My husband and I make a game of catching each other when we say it. A reminder that we can do better.

Instead of saying: “I bought flowers at the store today”, we most often say, “I got flowers at the store today.” Either way, they smell sweet and brighten a room, but the word got demeans them. They deserve a prettier word for the pleasure they bring. Instead of received or acquired or obtained or purchased, the word got is a shortcut. There are many more pleasant sounds that communicate the very same action.

In place of “I got to have…” how about – I want, I desire, or I’m hot for

Instead of “I got it.”  how about – I understand, I catch your drift, or you’re coming in loud and clear

Then there is the egregious have got which really puts my whities in a twist.

Have/had are other words that I believe are overused in everyday language. “I have made plans” instead of “I made plans”. Often have/has is used as a helper verb when it is not needed. “He has seen the queen” instead of “He saw the queen”. Both mean the same thing but since the queen is dead, would make one question the sighting.

Have/had should be used as main verbs. “I have new shoes” or “I had a good time last night”. I know there are times when the helper verb adds emphasis and seems appropriate such as “He has not told me the secret to his success yet” or “I have been to that movie before”. “I’m lunching at noon” instead of “I’m having lunch at noon” is a little precious but it really sounds better.

English is the global language of commerce, aviation, and technology. It is not an especially melodious language. If you want music to the ears speak French, the language of love. Spanish and Italian have a lilt to them. English is birthed from German and had a Latin nanny.

English is a flexible language given to all sorts of twists with no tonal requirements like Chinese and other East Asian languages, even some Native American languages. The word “ma” in Chinese can mean six different things depending on how it is said.  Our grandson coached me in those sounds when he took Mandarin in kindergarten and first grade. It is a skill I did not master, but it made me aware of the complexity of some languages compared to English.

I studied French for seven years and do not speak it in any sensible way, but I love the sound. It is a sensual language. I am currently brushing up on French with the app Duolingo. Our nephew, who is a native of Spain, is coming for a visit. His English is marginal, my Spanish is non-existent, but he also speaks nearly fluent French. I’m aiming to communicate in that language which is foreign to both of us.  

In English, it is possible to use verbs as nouns and nouns as verbs and still be understood. A writer friend wrote a story in which the protagonist “bathroomed” in the woods and the meaning is clear, even though Mr. Webster does not recognize that word in his book. In English you can plan a table or table a plan.

There are words that sound alike but are spelled differently and have different meanings such as right and write, or tide and tied. There are words that are spelled alike but sound differently and have different meanings such as dove and dove. “The dove dove into the bushes when the hawk circled overhead.” That is a common occurrence in our backyard.

I am an English speaker and English writer, so I try to make my language as understandable and fluid as possible. Those are my minor quarrels with modern English. Being a person who loves words and searches out meaning with words, I am possibly more sensitive to how they resonate. Now, when you read my posts, you will see how many times I use these annoying words, but I try to ferret them out.

I don’t want to belabor this tiny grumble about personal bugaboos, so I have got to go for now.

Freedom! … or An Action-Adventure Weekend

Posted on by
10

I experienced an unbounded free feeling when jumping out of a perfectly good plane to freefall at 120 mph toward Earth that appeared to be but a distant patchwork of fields below. Falling like a rock.

I went to a skydiving center near Seattle, Washington. After a thirty-minute lesson on safety and what to expect, my fellow adventurers and I geared up and boarded a plane for a fifteen-minute flight to our designated altitude. We circled Mt. Rainier at 14,000 feet. From the plane, we could see the Cascade Mountain Range, Mt. Baker in the distance, Puget Sound, all of Seattle, the San Juan Islands, Vancouver Island, and the Olympic Mountain range. The signal was given to jump. I was fifth in line. I must say there was a moment of trepidation but not of hesitation. It was a tandem dive, so I was tethered to an experienced skydiver, and I knew I’d be going – fluttering butterflies in my stomach, be damned. Oh my, what a rush – an H-bomb of adrenalin. It felt like smacking face first into a swimming pool from the high dive. Instead of water rushing up, thrusting against me, it was a solid wall of air. I gasped at the impact. It took my breath away. Who knew air would feel like a hard slap in the face? I quickly gathered my wits so I could enjoy the ride.

When you are up so high, 12,000 feet was the jump altitude as I remember, you are not falling by anything. Unlike Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole sliding past cupboards, maps, and bookshelves, there is nothing around you by which to judge your rate of downward progress, so your senses don’t register a fall. It feels like air surfing. After a couple of minutes of that delicious sense of floating freedom, my skypartner gave the signal for me to pull the cord and release our parachute. Thunk. The freefall ended abruptly. We snapped to a much slower pace, 20 mph, as we glided slowly toward the target with our big sail unfurled. The entire jump lasted less than ten minutes. I experienced heart-pounding, joyful exhilaration.

This was several years ago. It was one of those things I promised myself I would do. A bucket list item of sorts even though I didn’t really have a bucket list at that time. My husband was out of town for a few days on a golf trip and I wanted an adventure. I knew he would not appreciate the idea of my jumping from a plane, so I didn’t tell him. I made a reservation for the dive and then on another whim, I made a reservation for the next day to go white water rafting on the Skagit River north of Seattle. A different kind of adventure he wouldn’t endorse. Both escapades were something I always wanted to do and that was my chance to do them. A few days before I left, I thought maybe I should tell someone where I was going just in case something happened. I knew I couldn’t tell my husband or mother because both would worry, and I didn’t want that. It would cloud my enjoyment of the adventure. I called our eldest daughter to let her know. She thought it was a grand idea and asked if she could join me. Of course! That would make it even better – a co-conspirator and fellow adventurer. We left early Saturday morning for the skydive, then returned home and left early Sunday morning for the river rafting trip.

Although I liked the white-water rafting episode, I’m not a big fan of water. It is a total body workout to guide a bouncing boat through rocks and waves of a swiftly moving river. Imagine riding a bucking bronco through high tide. It’s nothing like the calm peace of skydiving. It was rigorous and lasted for hours, not minutes. There were four boats in our group and six people, including a guide for each boat. One fellow on another boat didn’t follow the carefully explained instructions and flew out of his craft and had to be rescued. The professional guides smoothly navigated his retrieval. Their calm expertise soothed the panic that threatened me as he was tossed about in the pounding waves. All returned in good shape, and it was a fun experience. My entire body ached for days.

I was so happy to have our daughter join me to share the memory. I hired a photographer to video our skydive, but I never watched the recording. When my husband returned from his golf trip, I told him about our adventure. He wasn’t terribly surprised that I would do something like that. I think he was glad I didn’t tell him before, so he didn’t worry. We also told my mom. She was dismayed and also glad I hadn’t told her.

There are three things in my life that have given me that free feeling. First is riding a horse at a gallop, racing as if being chased by wolves. A horse’s hooves are all off the ground at the same time when they are full out running and the feeling of flying on the back of a powerful animal is awe-inspiring. The second is voyaging in a sailboat with the wind full in the sail, silently slicing through water at six or seven knots. It is a most peaceful feeling of not being earthbound. The third is skydiving. Humans throughout history have envied birds and attempted to defy gravity. In the 1480s Michelangelo observed and tried to replicate the freedom of avian flight as evidenced by his drawings and notes. I never repeated my skydiving experience. Had I started in my 20s, I may have become addicted. The life I lead has kept my feet on the ground, but my head still often floats in the clouds.

Secret Music

Posted on by
Reply

What is marriage? It is secret music heard by only two people. What keeps a couple together? Children, common beliefs, love, lust, that indefinable something? Two people sing their song together with a repetitive chorus that they both know by heart. Their song is sometimes in harmony, sometimes not. This story is not taken from real life …but it could be.

“Do you want toast or English muffins with our omelet?” Lila asked. She and Winston were sitting on their front patio, he with the Daily Star and coffee, she with her Sunday mimosa. Actually, it was her second. They watched the sun spill its radiance over the mountaintop like a bright scroll unfurling down toward the valley. This summer morning was slightly cooler than usual, but the heat was beginning to build.
“What?” Winston leaned toward her cocking his head.
“Do you prefer an English muffin or toast?” Lila spoke sharply louder.
“Don’t yell at me, just don’t mumble. I’ll have whatever you are having.”
Lila shrugged and muttered, “English muffin.”
“What?”
“I’ll fix us both an English muffin. It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes. Do you want to eat outside on the back patio or in the kitchen?”  She faced him, carefully enunciating each word.
“Are Jen and Mike coming over this today?”
“Yes. Jennifer said something about bringing the kids to swim around three. We’ll eat breakfast out back. The day’s starting so beautifully. I want to enjoy it as much as we can before it heats up. I’ll set the table out there.”
“Are they staying for dinner?”
“I didn’t ask.” She turned and walked into the house.
“What?”

Lila went into the kitchen to cook the omelet. Winston folded his paper, picked up his cup, and followed her into the house. Bowl, pan, eggs, salt, pepper, butter, cheese, green onion, muffins, Lila began to prepare breakfast.

“Wanna watch the CBS Sunday Show?” he asked.
Lila split the English muffins and put them in the toaster oven. “Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes. It’s DVR’d, so let’s wait until after breakfast. Take some silverware and napkins out back to the table and I’ll bring the water.” Lila made sure he was looking directly at her as she spoke.
“Oh, we’re eating outside this morning?”

Lila nodded whisking the eggs until fluffy and adding a wee bit of sour cream. Winston dampened a washcloth and went out the sliding glass door to the back patio to wipe off the table. Birds were chirping in the trees, a mixed choir. He returned to get the silverware and napkins, giving Lila a peck on the back of her neck as he passed her in the kitchen.

“Who loves ya, baby? he said with a wink. Then, “Beautiful morning.”
“Really?  I hadn’t noticed.”
“So are the kids staying for dinner?”
“No, I think they’ll just be here for an hour or so.”
“I could barbecue.”
“I’d rather not have the commotion this evening. Let’s just have a quiet day, just us two.”
“But you said they were coming to swim this afternoon.”
“Only for an hour or so.”
“Do you want to go to a movie?”
“Not especially. I want to enjoy a quiet day, maybe read, a little nap. You know …a lazy Sunday.”
“What?”
“I said no, not especially.”
“I miss those kids. We haven’t seen them for a couple of weeks.  We used to see them every weekend and even during the week.”
“They’re growing up. Jen and Mike have their hands full getting them to all their activities. Grandma and Grandpa don’t fit into their schedules as much as we used to. You remember what our lives were like with three active kids at home. It’s hectic.”
“Well, I remember seeing my folks and your folks every weekend.”
“It may have seemed like it to you, but we were lucky to see them once a month except at soccer or basketball games.”

“Maybe they’re spending time with Jen’s parents,” he said.
“Maybe.”
“Did we do something to tick them off?”
“Win, there is nothing wrong with our relationship with Jen, Mike, and their kids. They’re just busy.
“I miss them.”
“I know.” She added, “You need to get a hobby.”
“What about Bobby?”
“I said you need a hobby.”
“Bobby is such a good little golfer. Maybe I could take him out on Saturdays and give him some tips.”
“Mike is doing a good job, just like you did with him.”

After breakfast and the obligatory Sunday news program, Lila started the weekly laundry. Then she sat in her favorite cane-backed rocking chair to read. Winston turned to the Golf Channel with the sound off to watch the final round of a tournament he had followed since Thursday.  He dozed in his recliner.

Later, Lila pulled out the pool toys from the backyard shed.  Winston took the cover off the pool, checked the pH levels, and swept off the patio.  A little after three o’clock Mike’s family drove up and the cacophony of a nine, seven, and five-year-old broke into the Sunday quiet.  They moved quickly through the house to the backyard tossing beach towels onto the chaise as they passed.

“Say hi to grandma and grandpa kids,” Jennifer hollered.
“Hi Grandma, hi Grandpa,” came the chorus of cherubs as they swirled, swiveled, and flew into the pool.

Jennifer shook her head and gave Lila a hug.  Mike and Winston took patio chairs into the shade to watch the mini-Olympic challenges as they developed. Carla, being the oldest, was of course the director.  Bobby and Kyle followed her lead lining up on the edge and diving to swim helter-skelter toward the opposite end of the pool.

“How has the week been?” Lila asked Jennifer as she got the iced tea and lemonade out of the refrigerator.
“Oh, you know the typical mad dash from event to event, friend to friend.  I swear, I’ll be glad when school starts again and we can have a routine that doesn’t involve six hours a day in the car.” Jennifer got glasses and napkins and put them on the big tray.
“Well, you know we can help out.  If you guys need an extra set of wheels, we’d be happy to take one of them to a something, whatever.” 
“I know you would and often I think of it but most things are so spur of the moment I hate to call.  Maybe we can ask you to take one of them to lessons.  They have tennis, swimming, and horseback riding.  I’ll talk to Mike about it.  It would be a big relief to have at least one of the bases covered.”
“Who has what?  Doesn’t Carla have horseback riding?” 
“Yeah, and swimming but not on the same day that Bobby and Kyle have it.  Bobby and Kyle take lessons together on Thursday morning.  Carla has horseback riding on Thursday morning and swimming on Tuesday morning.  Both Carla and Bobby have tennis on Monday morning.  I usually take Kyle to the park while they have lessons.  And interspersed with all that is friend time.  I’m either dropping one of them off at a friend or picking a friend up for the day.  It really does get crazy.  I know that Mike is very sensitive about getting you guys involved in the whole thing so I’ll talk to him first.”
“Why?”
“Honestly?” Jennifer stopped and put down the tray, turning to face Lila, “He may be mad at me for saying this but I think honesty is the best way to deal with it.”

Lila perched on a seat at the kitchen counter bar. “What’s up?”

“Mike is concerned about Dad’s hearing and he thinks he is a bit unsteady driving.  He knows how much Dad doesn’t like to be told he can’t hear and he sure as heck doesn’t want to bring up driving skills with him so he just said he doesn’t want the kids to be in the car with him driving.”

The air sighed out of Lila’s lungs.  She knew it was just a matter of time before this conversation would happen.  She remembered having the same talk with her mother about her dad when his driving became questionable. 

“Jen, you know we wouldn’t put the kids in danger.  Ever.”
“I know you wouldn’t purposely do it but it has crept up so slowly we didn’t think you noticed.”
“Oh I’ve noticed but I guess I haven’t really made….”
“I know, I know.  It’s hard.  If you would promise to do the driving, I think Mike would be okay with it.  He’s just really worried about Dad.  The hearing thing, you know.  He misses half of what is said to him and that could cause a problem with directions or instructions for taking the kids somewhere.”
“We finally have an appointment with the audiologist.  He agreed to go because I said I was having trouble hearing. He set up an appointment for both of us to have a checkup.  I’ll talk to Win but I may need Mike to man up and back me up.  If he says something I think Winston will pay more attention.”
“My dad stopped driving completely and mom only goes back and forth a few blocks to buy groceries once a week.  I’ve been running errands and taking them to an appointment here and there but I just don’t have the time to do it all the time.  We found a car service that will pick them up and take them to some things.  They’re ten years older than you guys and they don’t get around like they used to.  For fifteen to twenty dollars they can get most anyplace they need to go and back home. It’s a small price to pay for their safety. And they only use it a couple of times a month. There is even a free public bus service for seniors, if you don’t have to go at a set time.”
“Good to know but we’re not there yet.”
“Of course not.  I’m just saying there is help when the time comes.”
“Too bad it’s not for transporting active kids all over tarnation,” Lila quipped.
“I like to go to their lessons and stay to watch but sometimes it’s just too much and I take that time to run errands so I don’t have to drag them with me.  Mike helps when he can in the evenings especially after school starts but on summer days it’s mostly me.”

“Hey, where are the drinks?” Mike shouted from the patio.
“We’re coming. Hold your shirt,” Jennifer shouted back, then turned to Lila. “I’ll talk with Mike tonight, and we’ll all talk later, okay?”
“Yeah, thanks for your honesty, honey. You’ve given me something to think about. I’ll talk to Winston too.”

There was an old woman…

Posted on by
8

I was in second grade. My family lived in the Riverside section of Wichita in the 1950s. The neighborhood was mostly small homes built just before and just after WWII. I lived three blocks from Woodland Elementary School and walked to and from every day – rain or shine. Often I walked with my best friend, Lois. There were two turns between my house and the school; at the end of my block I turned right and walked one block, then turned left onto Salina, one more block to school.  On the corner of Salina was a tiny house of undetermined age but definitely built years before the rest of the neighborhood. It looked very old, weathered beyond having color, and slightly tilted as if it was melting into its small corner plot of land. The yard was mostly dirt and sparse grass. I always crossed the street on the opposite side from the little house because a witch lived there. A witch, or a gypsy, or some kind of monster who stole little children. So went the common lore at my school. It was a place to be avoided. I very rarely saw the ancient lady who lived in the house. She would sometimes be on her front porch when I passed by, but I never intentionally looked in her direction in case she put a spell on me.

Life in the 1950s in a middle American suburb was idyllic for a child. My biggest worry was if I could complete double-dutch on the jump rope at recess. Our school had no cafeteria or lunchroom, so we children walked home for lunch, then returned for afternoon class. That meant I walked past the witch house three times each school day. Most of the time I didn’t pay any attention to it – just knew I didn’t want to walk directly in front of it on the same side of the street.

One spring afternoon, Lois had to leave school early so I was walking along by myself toward home. I noticed the lady on the corner was out near the sidewalk of her house. As I approached on the opposite side of the street, I kept my head turned away so she couldn’t see my face and cast an enchantment. I heard a voice.

“Little girl,” came a croaking call.

I ignored the voice and kept my face averted.

Again I heard, “Little girl. Little girl, can you help me, please?”

The chicken skin on my arms prickled. I had been raised to be polite, especially to older people. Torn between politeness and panic, I looked up expecting to be zapped by lightning from her eyes. At closer range, she didn’t look that scary. She was barely taller than me and very lean. She had kinky black hair pulled into a wiry top knot on her head. She wore a print dress covered mostly with an apron, not much different than my grandmother wore. I paused.

“Please,” she said. “Could you come over here and do me a favor?”

Now my hackles were really up. Images of Hansel and Gretel passed through my mind. Didn’t the witch ask for their help just before she cast them into a cage to fatten them for a meal? Would my mother and father guess that I’d been taken by the witch? They had never said anything about her. Maybe they didn’t know she lived in the neighborhood. Would Lois be able to guess what happened to me and tell someone?

“Sweetie, please. Do you know how to read?”

Ahh. That went directly to my pride. Yes, I was the best reader in Mrs. Jones’ class. With halting steps, I crossed the street toward the old woman. She had a paper in her hand.

“My grandson wrote me a letter,” she said. “I don’t know how to read. Would you read it to me?” She motioned me to follow her to the cracked slab porch. Her back was bowed and she tottered a bit as she walked. She sat down on a scratched, partially rusted green metal chair and handed me the letter. It was only a few lines, and it was in a sort of cursive writing, so I had trouble deciphering it. I don’t remember the contents, but I do know that it was signed, With My Love. The old woman had tears in her eyes.

“He’s my only living relative,” she said. “He used to be a boy, young like you. Now he’s in the Army. I don’t never get to see him.”

My heart softened. I didn’t have any words to say to her, so I hugged her. She clung to me, her thin brown arms wrapped around my arms, and looked into my face. I looked back into her dark brown eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “I made cookies today. Would you like one?”

What seven-year-old would pass up a cookie? She got up, opened her front door, and beckoned me to follow. The house was very dark. It had only one room with a kitchen area at the back and it looked like there was a bedroom next to the front room. Only a little light came through thin old curtains. I could smell the fresh baking. I took a step in and was shocked. The floor was dirt. She had a rag rug in front of an old rocking chair and one under a small round dining table that had one chair. The dirt floor was packed. It didn’t look like outside dirt, it looked clean and swept. I took the offered cookie then told her I needed to get home. She thanked me again and said I could come visit anytime.

I never went back to her house, but I did always wave if she was outside. And I walked on her side of the street when I wasn’t with Lois. I told Lois the story and I think she thought I made it up. I didn’t tell anyone else…until now

Thursday is Tuesday?

Posted on by
4

I know it is probably one of those “age” symptoms. It could also be related to the fact of retirement when weekdays don’t have the same definition as when I was employed or with kids in school. I believe many retired people can relate. However, I think more than anything there is a missing cog in my brain.  I have trouble keeping days of the week in their proper sequence, time in steady check, and my location relative to my destination.

Thursday is designated clean-up day at our house. I was sitting on the patio enjoying this beautiful morning unfold at sunrise, watching the birds and having my tea thinking of the quiet day ahead and Ken said, “We better get started for our walk. I want to get back so I can get the vacuuming done early.”  

Clean up? Today? It’s Thursday again? I was thinking it was Tuesday. What happened to Tuesday? Oh, yeah – it was a busy day and flew by very quickly. Then Wednesday happened and here we are at Thursday with things to do and dinner plans with friends.

I wrote a post last November about weekends. In it I wrote about the dowager Countess on Downton Abbey played so brilliantly by Maggie Smith. The family was having a discussion about the weekend and she piped up, “Weekend? What is a weekend?” Of course, in her world each day had its own significance related to social duties, but they were not put in categories of weekday and weekend days. Days were all the same – another day. I’m not a countess and I struggled to manage life within those weekday boundaries, but I slipped those bonds since retirement.

Ever since I can remember, I have had a tenuous relationship with time and space, so keeping track of days, times, and place are a challenge for me. Ken, who I labeled Steady Eddie in an earlier post, has always been my tether to those things that are assigned the when and where in our life. He reminds me of earthbound values that I easily forget in my spacey way. He likes to be places early and I am apt to be late. Between us we are usually on time. He knows the directions to every place he has gone before and magically knows how to find his way to destinations he’s never been to before. It is difficult for me to find my way out of our cul-de-sac. You can ask any/all of my friends and family who fall into two categories. They either laugh with me being lost or late, or they get very annoyed. Fortunately, we laugh – a lot. If I am the designated driver, I always need a co-pilot to navigate even to places with which I am familiar or I will most definitely be late.

So here we are at Thursday. I did enjoy Tuesday; and, Wednesday was a quiet day, reading and writing. Tomorrow, I have an appointment mid-day that Ken won’t let me forget. It will be Friday.

Six Sentences

Posted on by
Reply

Our Oro Valley Writers’ Forum recently challenged the members to write a story in six sentences. I took up the challenge. It is fun to practice writing in a variety of ways. There were no restrictions as to genre or topic. Below is my story.

In the darkness of the midnight hour, the lines clang against the main mast as the little sloop, Step Two, is released from anchor and begins to float out of the cove in a rising tide. The jib unfurls in the freshening wind from starboard. She sets the wheel aiming toward open waters, then bends to her task. Her back and shoulder muscles strain as she heaves the body overboard, head first, and watches it slice through the inky waters into the deep along with the bloody knife. She exhales a deep sigh of freedom realizing he’ll terrorize no more. Light from the quarter moon creeps from between clouds casting shadows across her scarred face.

A few months ago I wrote another six sentence story for an on-line challenge. This is that story. It is titled Bi-polar. I feel I must add that it is not auto-biographical. I shared it with some in my writing group and they immediately expressed sympathy for me. I had to explain it was made up but comes from observation, reading, and listening to other people’s stories.

It comes without warning, unexpected, expected, furious, fierce, brittle, hateful. It goes the same, expected, unexpected as sweetness returns. calm consideration and laughter. My lover is possessed by a djinn called by many names, bi-cycles, bi-polar cycles, stealthily stealing love. I am thrown as from a swiftly moving car into brambles of pain, reason unknown, known, unknowable. My heart is calloused, trust gone an unbridgeable distance, leaving shredded tatters of love with only a gossamer thread remaining. The darkness of her despair, unreachable, unclaimed grasps my helpless heart building an unbreachable wall between.

Fiction is based on so many things from a writer’s experiences, reading, and research. While there may be tiny pieces of me in my fiction writing, it is mostly made up in my head. It is the inhabiting of other realities that makes writing fun for me. Some of them are dark. Some are ridiculous and some are funny. These two examples are on the dark side. I don’t think anyone thought the first story was autobiographical…but you never know. I have owned a sailboat.

Change * My Last Post on A Way with Words blog

Posted on by
Reply

As my dear husband reminds me whenever I am flummoxed by events that modify my circumstances, “The only constant is change”. The world is always in flux. Change is life. We are not the same, day in and day out, because our lives are not static. We live in an ever-modifying world, shifting conditions and changing views. As we get older our bodies transform as do our wants and needs. Change brings growth even when we don’t immediately realize it. Change is a catalyst for learning about ourselves, others, and our world.

What I’m getting at is there is a change on the horizon with me and the A Way with Words blog. This is my last post as a regular blogger. With the permission of Sally and Jackie, I will occasionally be a contributor. Our friendship remains intact. I will always be grateful for their generous friendship and their mentorship. We spent many years learning to write together and now we are going separate ways as writers.

I established my own blog site Wonkagranny, a grandmother’s perceptions of the universe through stories, poems, and life observations. I will write posts on that site beginning September 1st.  I do not feel that I can maintain an effective presence on two blogging sites at the same time. I am writing short stories and essays that may or may not ever be published. Publication has never been a goal for me, but some of those stories and poems will be linked on my Wonkagranny site. My past posts from A Way with Words are archived on Wonkagranny.

I deeply appreciate all those who read and comment on our mutual website and I hope you will join me on my personal journey with words.

What I’m getting at is there is a change on the horizon with me and the A Way with Words blog. This is my last post as a regular blogger. With the permission of Sally and Jackie, I will occasionally be a contributor. Our friendship remains intact. I will always be grateful for their generous friendship and their mentorship. We spent many years learning to write together and now we are going separate ways as writers.

I established my own blog site Wonkagranny, a grandmother’s perceptions of the universe through stories, poems, and life observations. I will write posts on that site beginning September 1st.  I do not feel that I can maintain an effective presence on two blogging sites at the same time. I am writing short stories and essays that may or may not ever be published. Publication has never been a goal for me, but some of those stories and poems will be linked on my Wonkagranny site. My past posts from A Way with Words are archived on Wonkagranny.

I deeply appreciate all those who read and comment on our mutual website and I hope you will join me on my personal journey with words.