This Colorless Life
I arrive at midnight after fifteen hours of flight. The smell and heat are tranquilizing, making my eyes heavy with a need to rest in the unusual fragrance of the city. The aromas of rich, spicy foods, animals roaming freely, and woodsy, leafy smells combine to bring an earthiness to my senses. Even at this time of night, the crowds are writhing in unison from hall to hall, gate to gate, like one singular presence. The combined humanity a life all its own.
Outside, the noise is what assaults you first. The cacophony is overwhelming. Drivers communicate by honking their horns, shouting, and braking hard enough to squeal their tires. People squeezed into every opening, every space available to them. A bus rumbles by with passengers’ faces pressed against the glass. Smashed against the pane, not to see the outside but because that is the only space left. Bodies hang from the top of a bus, precariously teetering side to side with the stop-and-go movement of the traffic. Scooters and motorbikes zip between cars, spaces closing as quickly as they opened. The two-lane highway is only a suggestion; cars sometimes drive five abreast. How do they not crash everywhere? Where is the order I have always known? Where are the rules to guide civilized transport?
I awake hours later. My body is heavy with jet lag. Color is everywhere—banners, all the rainbow hues swaying in the wind outside my hotel window. Everywhere I look, there is color, skin, clothing, cars, and homes, all full of light and life.
I go to Delhi Heart, a market where I can find food and local trinkets to take home when I return. Multi-colored stone cobbled steps rise above the busy streets, lined with begging orphans and old women in brilliant scarves. I am a stranger in this mysterious land of old and new. Even the people come in shadows and shades.
A gnarled hand reaches out from a tattered sari, dark leathery crooked fingers grasp at my trembling hand, so pale next to her brown skin. “Where has your color gone?” She softly asks, her voice cracked with age. “Are you ill, dear?” She tenderly questions me. Her eyes searching my soul laid bare to her probing.
“Your eyes are clear like newly formed ice, your fair skin lily white like the winter snow,” she continues. “Where has your color gone?” she says once again. She pleads now, as though she aches physically for me and my loss.
Her walking stick is bound tight in bright ribbons, flowing as it bounces along the uneven cobbled walkway. The worry she feels is evident in her deeply wrinkled face. Her dark brown eyes sit in pure white pools. I lose myself staring into them. There is compassion, love, and trueness, unlike I have experienced before.
I have found a land so colorful, so unlike my home. This world is alive, with noise, smell, crushing crowds, and constant movement. I feel washed out, pale, almost transparent here. My skin is pasty white in a sea of dark. My eyes pale amid dark questioning pools staring back at my innocent looks.
Whispering now, “Where has your color gone?” Quietly her prayers rise upward for me to her deities. “Oh, bearer of light, please bring the color back to this lost soul,” she ardently begs. I wonder, where has my color gone? Have I ever had color? Is my life as colorless as water, moving to and fro, wearing away at the rock beneath my feet, anchoring me to that dull life? I must wonder how I have survived in the thinness of my homeland when contrasted with the intense liveliness of India. I will find my color.
The Box
Another Saturday morning and Grandma left before dawn for her favorite weekend activity, attending auctions. Today is bright and sunny, and I am sitting on pins and needles. The cousins are all outside playing, but me the youngest at seven years old. I have taken up residence on the front porch. I cannot wait for Grandma to get back with all her newfound treasures. Every Saturday, she would come home with her truck bed full of boxes, furniture, and other valuables. Almost all my favorite activities have come from my grandma. She taught me to read, love classic authors, and weave my own fabric.
It started with Great Expectations by Charles Dickens for bedtime stories when I was three. Followed up by The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Through the Looking Glass. I do not remember a time when my grandma was not reading something. She passed that love on to me. She fed my appetite for new reading material every chance she got. My first stories were Little Golden Books like The Poky Little Puppy, A Day at the Seashore, and Scuffy the Tugboat. I quickly moved on to the Best in Children’s Books. I learned to appreciate the illustrators as well. Andy Warhol was one of the illustrators for the series, many of which I still own today. I love these books, and honestly, it is the only way I am ever going to be able to afford an Andy Warhol illustration.
I started school at five years old and was placed into second grade after working through the first-grade curriculum. My first-grade teacher, Ms. Dalrymple, realized that I was bored. She assigned me the birthday books. I made books for each of my classmates for their birthdays. I wrote stories and colored pictures that she then stapled into a book format. I loved it.
Of the eleven cousins, I am the only reader, and I am bullied relentlessly by them because of that. While they play tag and chase outside, I find a quiet corner and read. We call my grandma’s house the House on The Highway because U.S. Highway 71 runs north and south out of West Fork, Arkansas, right in front of her home. We can parallel park four cars on what should be the shoulder of the highway. A long porch with two front doors leads to the house and one to the upholstery shop that my grandparents own. Immediately north of the shop side of the house is an almost empty lot. The only building, a tiny green well house, my hiding secret place. It was full of cobwebs and dust when I first moved in. I cleaned out the cobwebs, swept the floors, and covered the windows so no one would know when I was in there. It is the only place where I can be myself and by myself.
But right now, I am sitting on the front porch watching the traffic zip by. Across the street, the dogs in the kennel bark and howl as each car drives past. The rocking chair I am sitting in rocks quickly back and forth with the light breeze. The anticipation is killing me. Last week she brought home a box full of encyclopedias. I had tried to read them. Some of the topics were a little hard for me to understand, but grandma had helped me get through A, B, and C. I cannot wait to read D. The volumes for D through Z are hidden in the shed next to the little chair and footstool I had moved out of the basement garage. There have been other times when grandma brought home boxes of romance novels, textbooks, and more modern literature. Since I am the only reader besides grandma, I choose any of the books I want to try to read.
Finally, the Kelly-green Dodge Ram pulls into her parking spot right in front of my chair. The engine does not have time to shut off completely before I am out of my chair and standing by the tailgate at the back of her truck. Oh, what will be behind the closed doors? My mom comes out of the house side front door, wiping her hands on her apron. She will help us unload all the stuff, junk my stepfather calls it before I get to dive into the boxes. Up goes the camper shells door, and down goes the tailgate. There are tables, a couple of chairs, and some bolts of fabric. I do not see any boxes. Where are the boxes? I am bouncing up and down, trying to get a glimpse of the entire back of the truck. There are no boxes! If there are no boxes, there are no books. My brain tells me to wait, but my heart is breaking. I grab an armful of the fabric and head to the shop side of the house, trying to not show my disappointment. Back and forth, we go until everything is out of the back of the truck. There are a lot of new pieces of furniture for us to refinish and sell and supplies to help us with the work. But no boxes. I want to cry.
I head towards my little shed, heartbroken. “Wait, there is stuff in the back seat of the truck. You can’t just take off.” Grandma calls out to me. I run back to help with the last bits of today’s bounty. As grandma opens the door, I see a gold statue that is as big as I am. It is of a bald man with a bulging belly sitting crossed-legged. He is laughing, his face contorted with glee.
“This is a laughing Buddha. There is a religion called Buddhism, and they believe that the laughing Buddha brings happiness and hope to any household he comes to. Let us hope that works for us too,” Grandma explained.
I loved him. “Can he sit in my room?” I asked tentatively.
“No, little one, this one goes in my room, but you can come to visit him anytime you want,” came the quick response.
And then I saw them, the boxes! Oh joy, she had not forgotten me. There were four big banana boxes packed to the brim, and some had even spilled over into the floorboard behind the driver’s seat. I grabbed an armful of the one on the floor and headed to the shop. I would have to wait until they were all in the room before I could start to explore them one by one. Mom brought in a box, followed by grandma, and then grandpa with two more. Grandma sat down in her overstuffed wingback chair with a sigh.
“That was a long one. I am so tired, Shirley can you bring me some iced tea?” Grandma asked my mother. Then she laid her head back and closed her eyes for a minute. I sat in the middle of the floor with the boxes and overflow books surrounding me and waited. I could be patient now; I was among my friends. Soon I would get to know each of them, but Grandma needed to rest just a minute first.
“Ok, little one, let’s start with the smaller box over there first,” grandma said as she pointed to a box that was not a book box. Darn, I wanted to see the books. But I knew this was her show and her rules. So, I tug on the box until I move it right by her chair. We open the flaps and peer inside. It is full of miniature figurines and dishes. Grandma loves her red carnival glass. She picks up each piece and searches for any imperfections. Then she hands the article to me. I take it to the shelf behind her chair and find a place for the newest addition to her extensive collection. We repeat this process until the box is empty except for the pieces that are flawed somehow; those will be taken to the dump or donated if they have any value at all.
And finally, it is time for the books. Yes! I am so excited. I pick up the first book. It has a pale leather cover, faded with time with a slightly cracked binding. It smells musty, not in a wrong way but like an old book is supposed to smell. The pages are slightly yellowed, and the title, Rubaiyat, is faded a bit. Inside the cover is written “Graci L Foster, May 29, 1912, Brookline.” I wonder if Graci loved this book as much as I do. The title page tells me more: “Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam and the Salaman and Absal of Jami.”
Eagerly I turn the next page, there is an epilogue by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I know of Lord Tennyson from poetry that my grandmother has read to me before. This one is exciting. I love the soft feel of the leather. I will ask for this one, I think.
Next, I pick up one titled Kneetime Animal Stores, Tinkle the Trick Pony by Richard Barnum. Inscribed inside the cover is “To John from Edward Boyle, October 4, 1924.” The illustration faces the title page of a pony inside a circus ring carrying an American flag. I eagerly turn to page seven, Chapter 1, Tinkle in the Swamp.
“Tinkle stopped nibbling the sweet, green grass of the meadow, blew a long breath from his nose, raised his head, and looked around. Then he blinked his eyes slowly, turned to look first on one side, and then on the other, and to himself said: “I’m going to run away!””
That first paragraph had me. I crossed my legs and leaned heavily against grandma’s chair, thoroughly engrossed. The rest of the books could wait until I finished this book.
“Are you going to read to me?” my grandma asked.
“Of course, I am.” I smiled with pride. The cousins would never know the joy I had in this time with grandma.
Years later, I still have all the Kneetime Animal Stories that I found in that box. I have shared some with my grandchildren and some I will never part with. Those books remind us that reading can form a special bond between two people that can never be broken. Once you have read a book together, you share the experience forever.
I am blessed to have grown up in a home where reading and any artistic endeavor were treasured. When I graduated from high school, I knew I wanted to be a teacher, but life interfered, and I went a different path. I pursued many creative paths, including writing articles for magazines, becoming a photographer, and learning to can and quilt. I have never been afraid to try something new or different because of this influence as well. I have now come full circle. I am studying to get my degree in English and Creative Writing. I want to teach as my end-game career. Studying is my hobby, and I love what I am learning now. But it all goes back to that grandmother that wanted me to know there was a world far beyond the one I lived in.
A Roll of the Dice
I have no idea why I am looking at Yahoo Friends. I finally left my abusive husband; I have a job lined up in Anchorage, Alaska in two weeks and the apartment I am living is furnished with enough to be comfortable. So why am I looking at an online dating site? Ugh. Maybe it is to amuse me. My best friend was terrified that I am hooking up with serial killers or a the very least budding rapists. Truth be told most of the men that I have encountered so far are either looking for a one-minute stand or they want a mommy cook and clean for them.
Online dating is still new, so Jackie, my friend, could be right. But wandering through the other listings is food for my morbid curiosity. The catchphrases some of these guys use is so lame, “for a good time call,” “Prince Charming,” and “let’s see the sunrise together.” So, when I saw this post from a guy titled Impetuous Odyssey with a picture of a somewhat good-looking guy on a pontoon boat, I had to at least ask.
“Do you even know what Impetuous Odyssey means?” I furiously typed into the chat engine. I mean, so far, no one I have talked with here has had the vocabulary to put those words together. Either this guy was not from around here or he knows how to use a thesaurus. Either way chatting with him will help me spend the next two weeks until I leave for Alaska and a whole new life. I am so tired of online dating, even though I had just started. Honestly, I am too old for bars and church people just were not my style; if online dating does not work, at this age, I will be alone for a very long time.
“Of course, I do,” came the reply. “I came to Arkansas on a spontaneous journey. I am starting over after my marriage of twenty-three years ended. So, answer me this, do you have all your teeth, are you somewhat educated, and did you have to look this up in a dictionary? I look forward to your reply, Darrell.” He responded quickly. Was it a red flag? Was he intrigued?
So, I need to craft this response just right I thought. “Darrell, it is a pleasure to meet you. Can I assume the photo you have posted is a likeness to you? I no longer believe that photos are recent or even of the person I am speaking with. If so, can you maybe tell me how you came to be in Arkansas on this spontaneous journey you say of?
I look forward to your reply. Victoria”
“Victoria, I must agree that this online thing is a bit misleading at times. I can assure you that the photo was taken here on Beaver Lake just a few weeks ago. The boat is mine. Now can you assure me you are not some guy names Bert living in your mother’s basement in Omaha?” Ok, that was ballsy; I like his sense of humor. This could be fun.
“Darrell, if you like you can call me Bert. However, I am female and live in the same city as you do. Perhaps we should skip all the typing back and forth and just meet each other. Want to try it? V”
“Victoria, I think that would be nice. I will meet you at Marketplace Grill, just off Highway 412, at noon this Friday for lunch. I will be the guy in the black Jeep Cherokee.”
Oh shit, what have I done, I thought but still it was on. If this guy was half as much fun as I hoped, then we would have a great time, and if not, what did I have to lose. This whole town was history in fourteen days.
“Are you serious? You will meet some random guy in person that you have never even talked to on the phone? I cannot believe you are so naïve, so careless. I am telling you one of these days I am going to have to identify your body at the morgue.” Jackie was incensed. She paced my living room until I swore, I could see her footprints embedded in the carpet.
“Look, we are meeting at a public restaurant in the middle of the day; how dangerous can that be?” I countered. “He seems smart and funny. It will be a great way to waste away the next two weeks. I promise I will take mace spray just in case.”
It is Friday morning, and I am anxious, a little nervous. I hope I was not making a mistake by agreeing to meet Darrell. We had texted back and forth the past few days and he really did seem friendly and intelligent. He said he was looking for friends and nothing serious. Jackie is still worried and wants me to cancel or at the very least have a background check ran.
The knock at the door startles me. When I look outside it is Jackie. Lord, I hope she is here to help me and not badger me. I really do not need that today.
“Hey, do you have a few minutes to look at my computer? It will not boot up this morning.” Jackie asked as she walked in the door. This was not an unusual request. She was always asking for help with something technical.
“Ok, but I have this dating thing at noon, so I have to be back to get ready.” I agreed.
“Cool, I will drive, and we can stop for coffee on the way.”
And that is how I found myself at Jackie’s house and her mercy just hours before a date I did not want to miss. Before long I understood what she was doing. She had decided to intervene the only way she knew how; she kidnapped me.
Two hours later, I was on my way to the restaurant. Darrell has agreed to wait.
And this is how I came to know that there is a higher power that takes control of our lives. A plan was made long before we came into being, and it will be fulfilled even when we make the wrong choices.
Darrell had turned off his Yahoo account two weeks ago. My message was the only one he had received since canceling. After six months working for Walmart the culture shift from Southern California to Northwest Arkansas proved too much. The people he had met were scandalized when he ordered wine with dinner. The women were either losers looking for someone to take care of them or religious fanatics that wanted to save his soul. He had already sent his resume back to Rockwell Engineers, begging for his old job back. Moving here had been a tremendous mistake.
As Darrell and I talked we discovered that we have been on the same paths several times. His father was from Springdale and Darrell had lived with him for a time when he was fifteen. During that time Darrell’s father asked what it was that he wanted to do with his life. Darrell had responded he wanted to be a mortician. So, Darrell’s dad, Paul Moore, reached out to his friend, Tommy Mills, the owner of Moore Funeral Chapel in Fayetteville. It was arranged that Darrell would spend a few days with Tommy at the funeral home to confirm his future career choice. And in that funeral home is the first time Darrell and I had “met.” I was five and my aunt and uncle would babysit me while my mom was working. I spent a lot of my younger years at that funeral home. It was an interesting coincidence. I did not remember him, but he remembered me. Of course, it is strange that a young child would wander around a funeral home, but such was my life.
The following coincidence was even stranger. I had been a photographer with the Associated Press in the eighties. I got to travel around the country photographing stories that would be of general interest nationally. I got the chance to go to SeaWorld in San Diego to document the new penguin exhibit. The penguin exhibit at SeaWorld San Diego was state of the art. Never had a zoo taken the massive effort to give animals a truly non-interactive exhibition. The penguins would never know they were being observed. The environment was designed and monitored to be an exact mimic of their natural habitat. There was a challenge because not only were the penguins in captivity, but they were also in a totally new hemisphere. Their winter and summer were utterly turned around. Darrell was the lead engineer on the design for the lighting systems. I still had the photographs in my archives, and he was in the pictures I had taken during my backstage tour. We had not spoken but again our paths had crossed.
And now here we were, eating lunch in a restaurant in Springdale. So many things could have stopped us from meeting this time. I could have listened to Jackie and canceled. He would have chosen not to wait it out when she kidnapped me. I could have left for Alaska without ever hitting Darrell up on Yahoo Friends. Somehow his Yahoo account could have shut down.
As we ate our lunch, we realized that maybe we were meant to get to know one another. It was not love at first sight, but we liked each other and knew we would enjoy each other’s company. We talked non-stop. The waitress finally asked us to get her attention if we needed anything. She didn’t want to keep interrupting.
We went out on his boat after lunch, just floating around the lake and talking more. The breeze started to get cool, and he gave me his jacket as we drove back to the dock after the sun began to set. The lake was still and quiet and we were content to just be still with the world.
“I’m not really ready to stop, are you?” Darrell asked.
“It is getting late, but I am having a great time. I would like to see you again. But I should tell you I have a job that I start in a few weeks in Alaska. Does that change your mind about us continuing to see each other?” I was afraid he might say that he did not want to waste his time.
“Hey, I am ok with that; it is nice to have met someone that I can talk to. Why don’t we plan on hitting the lake in the morning? Can you meet me here at 9 tomorrow morning?” Darrell asked.
“Sure, and I will bring lunch. Maybe some fried chicken and potato salad?” This was going to be nice having a friend.
“OMG, I cannot believe you said that. I told my family I was moving to Arkansas to meet a bow-legged country girl to fry me chicken.” Darrell could not stop laughing.
That was twenty years ago. I still have not seen Alaska, and we have still not stopped laughing and talking late into the night. I met my best friend online when online dating was not cool and probably not all that safe either. Thank God for the internet.
The Turn
4 a.m., and I quietly roll out of bed. No lights.
Pad silently down the stairs to the kitchen.
Coffee in the pot. I love the smell, warm and reassuring.
Bacon into the cast iron skillet. A satisfying sizzle as meat meets heat.
Toast in the toaster.
Heat a plate in the microwave.
Breakfast on the table by 4:30 a.m.
Run back up the stairs.
Iron jeans to a fine crease.
Start the shower.
Everything has been perfect so far. No screw-ups.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I might make it today.
“What the Hell? I hear from the kitchen table. Can you at least fix breakfast right once?”
I quickly run through the checklist. I have done this every day for 7,914 days. What did I forget? The plate was warm, and the silverware on the correct side. Coffee to the right, orange juice to the left. Damn, I forgot the butter. I rush back down the stairs slipping on the last step and twisting my ankle as I slam into the wall at the bottom. No time for that now. I grab the butter off the counter and rush to the table. “I am so sorry. I wanted it to be exactly how you like it.” I stammer as I place the butter on his plate.
“You stupid bitch. I don’t know why I thought you would ever be a good wife. This house is a pigsty. You can’t even put breakfast on the table. You better shape up,” he screamed as he grabbed my wrist. “Do you hear me? I expect this place to be spotless when I get home, dinner had better be right, or you will regret it. Now get out of my sight.” He pushed me away and I stumbled as my ankle gave way. No time for that right now.
I cower on my stool in the kitchen, waiting. Finally, I hear his footsteps on the stairs as he goes to dress for work. I hurry to clean the table, load the dishwasher, and make lunch. I am standing by the door, lunch in hand, hair brushed, waiting as he makes his way down the stairs.
I relax a tiny bit as his car pulls out of the driveway. I can calm down, but only for a minute. I don’t have a lot of time. This house will smell of pine and lemon by 5 p.m., as though I moved everything piece of furniture, mopped, swept, and dusted every corner.
8 a.m. I stop for a minute. It is time for the news. I switch on the television and sit down with a cup of coffee. The screen comes to life as it displays a plane flying into a skyscraper in New York City. “Wow what a disaster. How can a plane be that far off course?” I think to myself. Then the second one hits and the world changes in an instant. Thousands of people die in the span of an hour. All their promise gone. Did they have dreams left unfulfilled? Were there people that loved them left behind? My mind whirled. I was going to die. Granted I had known all along that I would die but today, the 11th day of September 2001 I realized how quickly it could happen. I had spent the last twenty-one years perfecting the ability to disappear. To be the chameleon that my husband insisted on my becoming. I had dreams once, I lived freely, made my own choices and now here I am nobody with nobody and no dreams. I knew in that instance I had to make a change. I had to reclaim who I was and what I wanted, and I had to survive this marriage to succeed. That is the minute I chose me.
The Secret of Grandma’s House
Everyone in town called it the house on the hill. Long stone steps climbing from the street below across the steep terrain, punctuated with terraced lawn rest areas, led to the giant two-story home wrapped in a white-railed front porch. Each step a walk-through time, every stone covered in blue-green moss and embedded fossils. In the summer, the short stone walls at each terrace were covered in ivy and tiny blue flowers. I loved the old oak trees that had been planted years before my grandmother was born, each lining the sides of the stairs at each landing, like stately guardians of the old family home. Once visitors reached the long front porch that required one more climb up the wooden stairs to the second-floor entry, they were greeted with a row of white wooden rocking chairs. Our family often would sit in those chairs at sunset in the evening, playing music and talking.
Sundays were extra special in that old house on the hill. The family would all wake early, the women pressed into the kitchen making breakfast and quickly peeling potatoes and carrots for the roast that would cook while we were away. The men sat on the front porch talking and smoking, often complaining about how long it took for the women to get ready. The sound of scales wafted through the air as I would practice my piano, often just scales, but sometimes a song I struggled to perfect. And then we would all jump in our cars and make the short drive to the Winslow Baptist Church, on the mountain across the town from our home on the hill. We all knew that the house would be full of the smell of rising bread and roast beef when we returned.
But that house held a dark secret as well. A tiny uninsulated room situated off the kitchen. Its unpainted walls and rough wood floors housed a small twin-sized brass bed with a raw coiled spring mattress. It smelled of leather shaving belts, men’s aftershave, and maybe just a little bit musty. There was a tattered, threadbare quilt that I remember from when it was new covering the bed frame and the blue ticked pillow with tiny feathers escaping from these seams had seen better days. The dresser mirror was the kind that looked faded no matter how much you cleaned it, darkened at the edges by time. My grandfather’s spare overalls always hung on a nail at the end of his bed and a flannel shirt next to them. I loved this room. It wasn’t fancy, matter of fact it was downtrodden and worn, much like my beloved grandfather. He had been exiled from the family home when he was injured working on the railroad. He was slower now and sometimes confused but I loved that man and the time we spent in his room talking and laughing. I still have his shaving brush and strap and the smell takes me back to that room every time I need to remember my why.
The Beggar in 26E
I support retail software systems. I look for ways to solve their problems using technology. That means I fly a lot. Any given weekday you can find me in the air, at the airport, or in a hotel. My life is no longer based on the day of the week but on a fly/don’t fly day. I realized this a few weeks ago when I was dining out with a colleague. I could not remember what day it was but knew that tomorrow was a fly day.
So how does this relate to the title of this story? Well, you see, that beggar is me. I find that more days than not I feel a bit like a beggar asking for the scrapes of other travelers. Sometimes it is a better seat assignment, others it is a sliver of overhead bin space. But It will always be something that I am pining for when I take to the sky.
This morning was a perfect example. Booked on an early flight. I had to be at the airport by 6 am leaving home at 4 am. Not enough time for breakfast with that schedule, so I grabbed an everything bagel with cream cheese at the deli in Terminal B and headed to my gate.
When I get to the gate I see that I am number 12 on the upgrade list. Wow, that is generally good odds of at least moving up a few rows. Except for today, there are only two seats. I am booked to sit in 26E. This seat is located a lovely 4 rows away from the back of the airplane and the lavatory in the B717-200 we will be flying in today. It is also in the middle of 26D, an aisle seat, and 26F, a window seat. I expect to be residing the next two hours between a superbly large individual and someone who thinks At least that has been my previous experience. Additionally, sitting this far back in the plane means my luggage will be waiting on a stopped baggage claim carousel, at least I hope it is waiting. There have been a few occasions that my luggage went home with someone else.
So, I need, yep need to get moved closer to the front of the plane. I remember my breakfast. I so wanted to enjoy that crispy toasted bagel with the melting cream cheese but right now it looked a lot more like currency. I head to the desk agent.
Big smile on my face as I say, “Good Morning Angela.” She had shared her name during the early boarding announcements, so I thought I could use it to my advantage as I begin to beg for a better seat.
“Any chance I can move up a few rows today?” I smile a bit bigger as I slide the bagel bribe across the counter and watch he slip it off the other side, as she smiles sweetly, “No dice sweetheart. But thanks for the breakfast?” I return to my seat rejected and hungry. Round one goes to the airlines.
Now I need to prep for round two. The boarding queue can be brutal. My boarding pass says I am to board with Zone One. This means that all the people who are real frequent flyers, (me in a few more months) and people who need extra assistance (seriously I need to consider buying a cane) will board before me. That means that there will be almost no overhead bin space by the time I load with the other zone oners. We all stand as close to the gate as we date, playing a covert game of chicken.
I shift from foot to foot, praying the frequent flyers overhead bin mantra. “Please let there be space, please let there be space.” As I begin the long walk to the back of the plane I see an opening, I think I might get lucky. Until the man in window seat 26F slowly folds up his jacket and stuffs it into “my spot.” No, didn’t he listen as they said smaller items go under the seat in front of you? Crap. Now I must try to convince him that I should have the overhead bin pace he just filled with a down filled jacket.
“Excuse me, sir?” “Yes, huh, would you mind terribly if we put your jacket under the seat in front of you?” I try the “Big eyes, bright smile, friendly face,” look on him.
“Nope, not my problem.” He grunts as he puts in his earphones I finish my walk to the back of the plane to the one open bin and slide my carryon in place. Now I must wait until the other eighteen passengers are seated before I can get back to my seat. The seat where the lady in the aisle seat has already removed her shoes, placed her too large bag in my seat, and placed a sleeping mask over her eyes.
“Excuse me, but that is my seat, there in the middle.” She slides her legs sideways, without removing her bag and grunts. I remove her bag and slide it under her seat as I sit down and begin to fish around for my seat belt, which happens to be under the guy with the headphones. “Great,” I think to myself.
As settle in I start to rehearse for round three, As the drink cart makes it way to the back of the plane, I prepare my best “Please sir can I have more?” speech for the pretzels, cookies, nuts question. My only hope now is that we have smooth skies and that the drink cart makes it to row 26.
A tornado, A Fruitcase and Two Kids
To say my family was poor might be an understatement. We lived in a valley between Winslow and Van Buren, Arkansas, at the end of city dump road. Our home was a three-room house and none of those rooms had electricity or running water. We cooked over a fire pit when the weather permitted and on an old beat-up Coleman camping stove when the weather did not cooperate. The three rooms consisted of a kitchen with cabinets and a little counter space, a middle chamber with my parent’s bed and a tiny closet, and the living room where there was an old wood stove, two chairs and two twin beds.
The best time of year was Christmas. Every year when we received our Christmas package from Billy Way, my dad’s navy buddy, it was a grand adventure. Billy’s boxes were always packed with amazing wonders. There would be little sausages and cheeses, jellies and jams, and cookies and crackers. Some years there would be little trinkets like an engraved box or toy. I still think my mom may have added stuff to the box to make it even more special. I can tell you that my love for ordering stuff online, even junk stuff, was born during this time of my life.
My brother and I took turns choosing what our treat for the day would be and then savored every morsel. Even that yucky cheese with the red stuff running through it was eaten, generally on the tasteless water crackers from the box. Every little thing in the box that was edible would be chosen, except the fruitcake. I am sure if we had been hungry enough, that fruitcake might have gone as well, but we never did try the fruitcake. That dark, sticky bread with the hard jelly-like candies never looked like it was really meant to be eaten. So, the pretty Christmas tin would sit in a place of honor under the Christmas tree, but never, ever would it be eaten.
Time moves on, and soon winter gave way to summer. It arrived hot, humid, and incredibly stormy. Dark storm clouds would roll up the valley north from Van Buren and often right over our little farm dumping rain, and frequently hail. Thunder would echo off the mountains to either side and it was not unusual to see lightning branching from one peak to the other. The electricity would make the hairs on the back of my neck tingle. But I was never afraid of the storms. I love the power and beauty, the fantastic colors, and the smell of rain. Even now as an adult I love watching storms as they roll across the sky.
Tornados were not uncommon in our area of Northwest Arkansas. We would listen to the battery-operated radio to an AM station that was full of static and wait for the weather updates. We were generally lucky because the valley was deep enough to discourage the tornados from touching down near us, but on this day, the tornados were touching the sides of the mountains then jumping back into the black greenish-yellow skies. We watched the skies seeing the rotations rope out into long tails before skipping back to the roiling clouds rushing north.
Living near the railroad tracks, we were used to hearing the trains move between Van Buren and Winslow. So, when we first listened to the rumbling, we didn’t think much of it but then the wind picked up. This was different; the roaring was close and loud, not like any train we had ever heard. My mom grabbed my five-year-old brother and literally threw him into the closet in the middle room of tiny home. She told me to get in and get under the blankets that she was throwing in as quickly as she could. Soon we were all huddled in the tiny closet, the cedar lining of the interior burning our eyes and noses. I must hand it to my mom; she kept her cool. We listened to the radio, played games, told stories, and tried to sleep.
The sheet metal screeched as it ripped through the nails that held it to the roof of our barn less than 50 yards away. The tree branches cracked almost as loud as the thunder as they shattered into splinters falling all around the house. The pounding rain sang as it beat on our metal rooftop, and I was sure that we were going to die. The winds blew for what seemed like hours. The noise was deafening, and the walls seemed to shake from the force of the wind and rain.
After a while, my brother started complaining about being hungry. Mom was really struggling to keep him in our safe little cubby hole as it was. He was bored, tired and did not want to play anymore. And then I found it. A metal tin from Christmas with the much-maligned fruit cake from this past Christmas. It was tucked away with the decorations somehow surviving through the winter purge. We laughed about how it could have possibly ended up here, but it was a Godsend without a doubt. At first, we didn’t think we would want to try it, but of course hunger won out over good sense, and we finally ate the entire thing.
When it was finally clear to come out of our tiny closet, the Christmas tin was empty, the barn was nothing but a pile of lumber, and the big tree in our yard was splintered into small pieces, but we were safe. Our home was intact, and our animals were unharmed. We knew we were blessed. This rare tornado that had followed the valley north destroyed homes and railroad bridges along the way, but we were safe. And we have a new tradition. My family and I still talk about that day in the closet when we learned to ‘like’ fruitcake. Occasionally, we give each other a tornado survival kit for Christmas that of course includes a fruitcake and wonderful memories.
My Impetous Odessey
“Impetuous – acting or done quickly and without thought or care.”
“Odyssey – an act of traveling from one place to another.”
One year and eight months after the 9/11 Terrorist attack on New York City, I walked to a car lot next to my office, bought a red Jeep Cherokee. I drove away with nothing but the clothes on my back and the money I had taken from the photography studio I owned with my abusive husband. Up to this point, my actions were deliberate, thought out, and extremely secret. I had planned that I would escape when I had accumulated ten thousand dollars. I had watched the car lot next door for the perfect car. And that is where the planning stopped. I had not planned what I would do when I left; I just knew that I needed to go if I would stay alive.
“Now what?” I said to the space inside my new Jeep; I need a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and a job. I need to stay under my husband’s radar. I had the element of surprise on my side. He would never guess I was capable of walking away, so I have a few hours before he discovers that I am gone. In retrospect, I probably should have left the state right then, but I had no idea where I would have gone. My family was in Las Vegas, and I knew that would be the first place he looked for me. Wherever I went, it would have to be very far away and unpredictable.
A week later, I was sitting in my motel room still trying to decide where I would go and what I would do when I saw an ad for a store manager at Barnes & Nobles in Anchorage, Alaska. It was perfect. I love books, I love Barnes & Noble, and I had experience managing a retail store. I called the number in the ad.
“Hello, I am calling about the store manager position,” I said as professionally as I could muster. The current manager and I talked for almost an hour. By the end of the call, I had a job offer, an apartment near the store, and a new friend in my new city. I was scheduled to start on July 1, six weeks to get ready and to wrap up the loose ends. There was no way my husband could track me to Alaska. I would need to time my trip, so I arrived just before July 1 since my apartment would not be ready before then. I did not want to spend a lot of time in a motel there.
To pass the time, I started browsing the internet. There was a lot of cool stuff out there, but I found the personal profiles section of Yahoo Friends immensely entertaining. I was not looking for a relationship, but the profiles were amusing and sometimes just sad.
“Be my co-pilot in life. I am a happy, easy-going but adventurous guy who likes hanging out as much as I like going out. I don’t like dates that feel like job interviews. – Thomas.”
“Forty-Something Man with Empty Bed Seeks Lady Companion to Make Bed Less Empty. Very fit 47-year-old male with a perfect life, or so it seems, but I have a huge problem. You see, I have a big bed, and there is no one else in it but me. Big problem. Not okay. What I need is a friend to fill the gap.”
But my favorite was:
“Join me for my Impetuous Odyssey. New to Arkansas from Southern California, looking for friends to share time on my new pontoon boat. Nothing serious here, just friends.”
The picture that accompanied the profile was of a nice-looking man at the helm of a pontoon boat. He looked fun. But then, could I trust a picture. I was not looking for a relationship, but it did not sound like Impetuous Odyssey wanted a relationship.
“Do you even know what Impetuous Odyssey means?” I furiously typed into the chat engine.
I mean, so far, no one I have talked with here has had the vocabulary to put those words together. It could be that Darrell knows how to use a thesaurus. Or maybe he isn’t from around here. Either way chatting with him will help the next few weeks go by. Then I leave for Alaska and a whole new life.
I am so tired of online dating, even though I have not started. Honestly, I am too old for bars, and church people just were not my style; if online dating does not work, at this age, I will be alone for a very long time. Of course, I am just practicing for when I move to Alaska. Dating will be a whole new experience once I finally get home. I love the idea of home.
“Of course, I do,” came his reply. “I came to Arkansas on a spontaneous journey. I am starting over ending my marriage of twenty-three years. So, answer me this, do you have all your teeth, are you somewhat educated, and did you have to look this up in a dictionary? I look forward to your reply.” He responded quickly. Maybe too quick? Was it a red flag? Was he intrigued? Was desperate, creepy, a serial killer? The possibilities were endless. So, I decided to respond, but it must be written just right, confident, secure, interested, but not overly anxious.
“It is a pleasure to meet you. Can I assume the photo you have posted is somewhat a likeness to you? I no longer believe that photos are recent or even of the person I am speaking with. If so, can you maybe tell me how you came to be in Arkansas on this spontaneous journey you speak of? I look forward to your reply.”
He made me wait almost an hour before responding. Was that on purpose? It was probably a good thing. I was starting to believe he was a creepy stalker.
“I must agree that this online thing is a bit misleading. I can assure you that the photo was taken here on Beaver Lake just a few weeks ago. The boat is mine. Now can you assure me you are not some guy named Bert living in your mother’s basement in Omaha?”
Okay, that was ballsy, I thought; I like his sense of humor. This could be fun. He enjoys wordplay, and we have been considering many of the same things about this online experience. Now time to respond.
“Please feel free to call me Bert if you like. However, I am female and live in the same city as you do. Perhaps we should skip all the typing back and forth and just meet each other. Want to try it?” Well, here goes nothing, I thought to myself.
He responded a short time later. “I think that would be nice. I will meet you at Marketplace Grill, just off Highway 412, at noon this Friday for lunch. I will be the guy in the black Jeep Cherokee.”
“Oh shit, what have I done,” I thought, but still, it was on. If this guy were half as much fun as I hoped, then we would have a great time, and if not, what did I have to lose. This whole town was history in a few short weeks.
———
Friday morning dawned bright, and I was anxious, a little nervous. I hope I am not making a mistake by agreeing to meet Darrell. We had texted back and forth the past few days, and he did seem friendly and intelligent. He said he was looking for friends and nothing serious. I have no clue what I am doing or why. But it has been highly lonely these past few weeks, and Darrell has been a glimmer of brightness in the dark.
———
I pulled into the parking lot of the Marketplace Grill, and there sat a black Jeep just like he promised. I was two hours late. I am never late, but my best friend worried I was walking into a bad situation and had held me up as long as she could. I called Darrell several times to let him know what was happening, and he was incredibly gracious. He had agreed to wait. But two hours is a very long time to wait, especially when you might have been talking with Bert from Omaha. It would be a miracle if he were still there.
The parking lot was almost entirely; the air was filled with the smell of fresh-baked bread. To my surprise, a tall, handsome man stepped out of a black Jeep, looking just like his picture from online. What a great smile, I thought.
“Hey, Bert, what a pleasant sight; you are a girl. That is a win for sure.” Darrell laughed. What a great sound. “Ready to get something to eat? I am starving.”
———
A few minutes later, we were seated in a cozy booth. The restaurant was an open-air market theme with crates full of fake food between the stalls. Wood everywhere was polished brightly, and the industrial style lighting added to the overall feel. The open kitchen revealed professional chefs busily cleaning after the lunch rush. We were the only people in the restaurant. Our waitress brought our drinks and asked if we were ready to order.
“Can you give me just a minute?” I asked, “I have not eaten here, so not sure what I want.” The waitress said, “No problem, I will be back in a few minutes.”
“So, Darrell, what brought you to Arkansas? Do you have family here?” I asked to make conversation; I did not have a clue how to chat with someone.
“Great question. My dad and his family are from here. I visited just after the terrorist attacks in New York a few years ago and decided that I might want to come back. My dad got sick and passed away in December. I knew I could not wait any longer to change my life, so I put in my application at Walmart, and here I am.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I have been here since January, and you are the first person that I have connected with outside of work.”
“Wow, that is crazy. You seem normal enough.” I laughed.
“I thought I was, but I just do not fit in here. I lived here when I was fifteen with my dad. I liked it then. I even thought about becoming a mortician. My dad knew a guy that owned a funeral home in Fayetteville. He let me spend a day there watching him work. I remember he was this colossal Lurch-type guy that shook my hand and said, “Son, if you want to get into this line of work, go to Rice University; you can’t go wrong. “
I looked at Darrell like he was crazy. “Seriously, what was the name of the guy or his funeral home,” I asked?
“It was Moore Funeral Chapel, no relationship to my family. I think the guy’s name was Tommy Mills. Why?” Darrell looked puzzled.
“Because that is my uncle and his family’s business. I used to be there all the time before I started school. My Aunt Matilda babysat me while my mom was at work. I loved it.” I answered.
“Wait, how old are you? I am fifty-five now.” Darrell quickly asked
“I am forty-five. Why?” now I was confused; where was he going with this.
“So, I think I have seen you before. Granted, I would not have been interested in a five-year-old, but I think you were there the day I visited with your uncle. I remember how odd it seemed that such a small girl was hanging out in a funeral home.” Darrell explained.
“Wow, it is a small world, isn’t it.” I laughed as the waitress returned for the fourth or fifth time.
“Are you guys ready to order, or will it just be the tea today?” I think she was getting tired of us talking and not eating. The conversation had flowed so easily we lost track of time. It felt like we had known each other all our lives.
“I will have the tortilla soup, please,” I asked, “I am sorry we are taking so long; this is our first date, and we are getting to know each other.” I apologized. She just smiled in response.
We kept talking through our dinner/lunch like old friends. It was so lovely to have someone to listen to me and chat with. It had been a very long time since I felt that someone was listening to me.
Once on the boat, we left the Hickory Creek Marina and headed north. The water was peacefully still, a very light breeze blowing the leaves on the trees lining the bank. The sky was turning that deep purply red that happens as the sun begins to find the horizon. We had brought a bottle of wine, and we anchored in a small cove to watch as the sun moved below the horizon. The sky blazed to life with reds and yellows in a final attempt to push back the night. We smiled at each other, and he kissed me gently. As we rode back to the dock, I could not remember ever being this happy.
———
Over the next few days, we spoke frequently. It turns out that Darrell was from San Diego, where he had worked as an electrical engineer. He had designed the lighting system for the San Diego SeaWorld penguin exhibit. We laughed when we found out that I had a picture of him from that exhibit. I was doing some freelance photography and took the Associated Press tour before the opening of the exhibition. Darrell was in one of my photographs. It was starting to feel like we might have been meant to meet at some point in our lives.
———
A few days later, as we sat in Darrell’s living room watching a movie and talking, we learned exactly how much fate was at play in our lives.
“So, I have been meaning to ask, how did you get that message on Yahoo Friends to me? I had closed my account at the end of May. I got your message on June 2, my birthday. It was the only message that made it through after I closed that account.” Darrell asked casually.
“Really? Was your account closed? I had no idea. Why did you close it?” I questioned.
“I am headed back to San Diego. I sent my resume to Rockwell, begging them to take me back. They said yes. I head back on July 1. Isn’t that about the time you leave too?” Darrell looked at me quizzically.
He was right; I was leaving about the same time. It has been a fun couple of weeks. Precisely the distraction that I had been looking for, but now I was not as sure as I had been. Darrell was a great guy. I had no idea he was leaving. And why did that make me sad?
“What if we don’t leave,” I asked innocently, beginning my impetuous odyssey to find the love of my life right where I was.
Not The LIfe
My life was not what was expected. I was supposed to have married the guy down the road who now lives in a dilapidated mobile home with exposed water pipes and trash-strewn front yard. Jimmy was my high school sweetheart, the center on a state championship football team, with a crooked smile, colored by years of snuff use. He peaked early, high school was the highlight of his life, and it should have been my peak as well. Jimmy was a bit crude. A beer swigging good ole body that always loved trying to kiss me with that shit in his mouth. We would have had kids, oh so many kids, and my body would be beaten down by now with aches and pains from a life hard lived. That is the life I expected. That is the life girls like me expected.
That all changed on a snowy January day when my mother left. She called me at home and told me she was having car troubles. She was leaving the car at a local supermarket. I was to call Jimmy and ask him to take me to pick it up. When I got there, I found a note on the seat telling me she loved me, but she could no longer live with my step-father. His abuse was thorough. Had robbed her of the ability even to think clearly. He and his mother were moving to have her committed to a mental hospital. So, when she disappeared, I believed she had committed suicide. I was sixteen and alone.
I made mistakes. I lived in my car. I ate food that people left on their trays at McDonald’s where I worked. I survived. Jimmy didn’t. He could not understand my new life, and he found someone else to live the life that was supposed to be mine.
Then I met Charlie. He was older than me. He wanted to take care of me. I needed that in my life. But like I said, I made mistakes. The first time he hit me was on our wedding night. People asked me why I stayed. Honestly, I had nowhere to go, no one to run to, and weighing the odds I knew that I would have a roof over my head and food on my table. I chose to stay.
Charlie cared for me like a living doll. He dressed me, told the hair stylist how to do my hair, and I never wanted for material things. At first, I was able to justify this life, but he became more and more restrictive. To the point that I could no longer go to the restroom or take a bath without him being present.
And then his mother got sick. She had been the one saving grace in my life. A solid fixture in a broken world and now she was dying. Even though she had three daughters, I was the one that took care of her. I quit my job and became a full-time caregiver. Her name was Rose, and she had faith in God that only comes from a lifetime of the trial. She lived for the day that she would turn turned 62. That was the day she could retire and collect Social Security. She died one month after her 62nd birthday. That is the day I knew this isn’t the life I signed up for. [What about her death made you realize this?] I made up my mind to leave.
I made mistakes. I lived in my car. I ate food that people left on their trays at McDonald’s where I worked. I survived. [I like this repetition here, but I think that when you use it earlier, you need to distinguish if you are talking about over the span of your entire life, or just in the immediate aftermath of suddenly being alone.] And then I met Darrell. I refused to marry him. But he didn’t care. He taught me about open-handed love. He taught me to believe in myself. And I am still not living the life I signed up for, but I am living the life I should be. It took a while to see it, but my mother gave me a gift. The gift of living a life of possibilities, not probabilities
The Big One
Everyone always told me that I would have a hard time when I turned thirty. That was supposed to be the point in our lives where everything changed. We would be out of our childhood and formative years, and if I was to believe the naysayers life was on the downhill slide. For me that birthday came early, at twenty-eight. The darkness that I woke with that day was impenetrable. I truly believed that I was trapped and would never escape and now I was on the eve of that point where the world thought you were old. It was the first time I seriously considered suicide.
It was a Thursday, so I woke at 4 AM, ran my husband’s bath, and went to make him breakfast. He came in to eat, complain that the kitchen is dirty, and left for work. No mention of my birthday, no present, just another day. I begin my cleaning, paying careful attention to the kitchen. I did the laundry. I swept the snow from the porch. At 3 PM, I started dinner. It was the same Thursday dinner as always, minute steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn. No desert. At 5 PM my husband returned home, ate his dinner, and settled in to watch television. I went about cleaning up and preparing for bed. By 9 PM we were headed to bed and that was my twenty-eighth birthday. I made a choice that day, lying in the dark, listening to the snores of a man I truly hated, living a life I truly hated. I would be free; I would fight to survive. That was the day that I realized I wanted to live.
A Passion
Does a passion born from an act of rebellion burn brighter or longer than one quietly found in your heart? Can a single act of violence snuff out a desire born from an early love? For me, the strength of my passion for reading, writing, and storytelling comes from the love my grandparents shared with me as a young child. And not long after I learned to love this passion, a single act of violence threatened to end it. The following is the story of that passion, how it was born, and how a simple act of violence intensified the love of reading, writing, and storytelling and even allowed it to flourish.
I was born through an act of betrayal. My mother met a man and fell in love. Then she found out that he was married with children of his own. My mother, heavily pregnant, left my father and sought refuge in my grandparent’s home. It was the happiest three years of my life. During that time, my grandparents instilled a love of words, reading, and storytelling.
“So, my little one, what will it be tonight, Great Expectations or David Copperfield?” my grandmother would ask as I prepared for bed. I learned to paint pictures of Pip, the Artful Dodger, and other characters in my young mind. I would see their adventures with my imagination as her voice would bring them to life. Dickens wrote of trying with all your heart, to be a hero in your own life, and to avoid procrastination. “Remember this child, as Mr. Dickens tells us, never be mean, never lie, and never be cruel. Do you understand my little one? You have a gift, never let it go for granted.” My grandmother would then kiss my forehead and tuck me in tightly. I believed every word.
Often my days were filled with stories and imagination stretching game playing. Grandpa would don his faded fedora hat, draw three large circles in the ground, and fill them with folded paper animals. As the ringmaster to our circus, he would weave stories of danger, grand feats, and laughter in a way that my young mind devoured. Dancing tight circles around the stately rings built within my imagination, he would call out, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, I give you the magnificent Victoria, dancer extraordinaire.” He would then laugh loudly and clap his hands in applause. My imagination lived.
Through my grandparents, I came to love learning. In a kitchen smelling of freshly baked bread, I would sit at the table surrounded by my cousins—the older ones doing their homework and the younger ones coloring simple pictures. I desperately wanted homework. I was reading my favorite Golden Books by the time I was three years old. I still longed to learn more.
And then my world of love and imagination came crashing to a resounding stop.Shortly after my 3rd birthday, my mother married a charming, chain-smoking alcoholic who worked nights. My mother worked during the day, so I was his responsibility while she was away. I missed my grandparents and my cousins. I missed doing homework with my cousins at the kitchen table. I longed for my grandfather’s stories and my grandmother reading to me every night. I was still learning but now for survival. I learned to make my breakfast and to watch cartoons without sound. I learned that I did not want to wake the man that now slept in my mother’s bed. And I learned that I would not be happy without reading and storytelling.
The laughter of children filled each morning as the neighborhood came to life. Each day I watched as the big yellow school bus would stop in front of our home. The neighborhood kids would get on the bus, and away they would go to school. The silence, once they left, was deafening. I wanted to go to school too, so I devised a plan. I would go to school just like all the other kids. I would find a way to fit in with the other children. At the first hint of someone waiting for the school bus, I would slip onto the front porch. Each day I would grow bolder, moving a bit closer to the children and the glowing yellow bus.
Finally, the day came when I put my plan into action. As soon as I heard the soft snores of my stepfather, I carefully dressed in my best clothes, including my brand-new black patent leather Mary Jane shoes. I slipped out the front door and took my place among the children, waiting for the yellow bus. No one seemed to notice another child waiting. No one said I didn’t belong. I was ecstatic.
All the neighborhood kids crowded around the mailbox at the edge of the ragged street. I soon found myself standing in a shallow mud puddle near the front of our battered mailbox. The water was seeping into my shoes, and around my white bobby socks, I knew I might catch a cold. But I was too excited to move; I could not take a chance of missing the school bus. Today would be my day.
Suddenly my left arm was jerked so hard I stumbled. I continued to stumble/ walk back to the house at the end of my stepfather’s stretched out arm. The door closed with a resounding thud, and I heard the zip of his belt as he pulled it through the loops of his Levi’s. I don’t remember a lot after that until I woke up with him screaming and dunking me in ice-cold water in the bathtub. My legs burned, were swollen with large red welts, and some of them were bleeding ever so slightly. I screamed in pain as he dunked me in the cold water again. I remember him shouting, but I have no idea what he was saying.
I woke tightly wound in my bed sheets, damp with fever and shivering. I could hear my mother screaming at my stepfather. She cried. She hit him, but she didn’t leave him. To me, even this young, I knew it was another act of betrayal. Did she love him more than me? Why did we have to stay here? Where was the love I had known with my grandparents? I could not understand why.
The next morning my mother awaken me before she left for work. “Come on now, out of bed; we have to go.” As we walked to the car, she told me today I would get my wish; I was going to school. I didn’t get to ride the bus; but mom took me in the car to Ms. Rosie’s Preschool. At Ms. Rosie’s, we learned our ABC’s and how to count. I was reading first-grade readers by the time I turned four. I rode my first school bus a few short months later, at the age of five. My single act of rebellion and my stepfather’s overreaction solidified my journey to a lifetime filled with education and learning.
Fifty-six years later, I am still going to school, and I love it as much as I did that very first day. The rebellious act of a three-year-old was me finding and owning my passion. I still love black patent leather Mary Janes and the memories they bring, even of my stepfather. My stepfather taught me that some things are worth fighting to keep. True passion cannot be extinguished, even at the hand of violence. And I thank God that my grandparents shared a love of reading, writing, and storytelling. My stepfather was only a passing phase in my mother’s convoluted life. I am so thankful that his influence did not steal away my dreams.
The Healing Power of Tomatos
The early Spring sun was warm, beating down on our bent backs. I am poking holes in the dirt every six inches. My brother James, follows along, placing a tomato plant in each of the new holes. Our cousin Sherry follows with a pale of water, filling the gaps before pushing the dirt back over the plants, straightening them as she goes. My family farmed sixty acres of tomatoes every year. Those tomatoes were packed into commercial boxes, loaded in the back of our truck, and transported to local grocery stores.
Tomatoes were a way to make money; we did not eat that many of them, and most were picked just before they were perfectly ripe, giving them a longer shelf life. I hated planting, weeding, and picking tomatoes. It was back-breaking work, and as a child, I wanted nothing more than to find a nice spot and read a good book.
—-
There is a magical time of year when the earth bursts forth with new life. Some of that new life is natural, daffodils blooming, trees budding. But some of that new life comes from the toils of people like me, digging deep into the cold earth, tilling, raking, making new again. I love gardening. That has not always been the case, but Rosalie changed all that in a single summer of 1980 after I married her only son, Charles.
———
When I joined the family, it was January, and we were amidst a cold, cold winter. But Rosalie was already planning her next garden. Burpee seed catalogs littered end tables, magazine racks, and kitchen counters.
“We need to plan what we want to put in the garden now so we can get the seeds here in time,” Rosalie said as she handed me a stack of catalogs. “Let’s start with tomatoes. We will want to be sure that we have the right varieties for each purpose, cooking, stewing, slicing, and sauces. What are your favorite varieties,” she continued?
I think a minute before responding. “We always grew Arkansas Travelers when I was growing up. They are a good hearty tomato that packs well and ripens in the store. They are pretty but a little lighter red than some varieties, but they always sold well.” I tell her.
“Well, we need to think about how we are going to use them and make sure we have what we need for next winter. The acidity is important. Back when I was a child, hybrid did not exist, so the tomatoes had more acid.” Rosalie explained. “Arkansas Travelers are a good slicing tomato but we need to find the right canning tomatoes.”
Genetic alterations to the chemical makeup of the tomatoes over the years have removed the acidity, but it also makes them dangerous to water bath. Water bath is a process that has been used for decades to can and preserves tomatoes. I quickly learned that water bathing might not prevent a life-threatening bacterium from developing if the acidity of the tomatoes is not high enough. To combat that, we would need to add citric acid when canning time came around, or pressure can hold the jars.
———
In February, we planted leaf lettuce on Valentine’s Day, as was the tradition. I learned to read the Farmer’s Almanac and how to grow by the signs. Before Google and the Internet, people relied on a book published yearly called the Farmer’s and Planter’s Almanac. Within those pages was written planting gold. Each page would have some tidbit of information that helped guide a planter along their journey to the perfect garden. One page would be a calendar with columns for Sunrise and Sunset, Astrological signs, and lunar calendars. According to the signs, you plant root crops, such as carrots and potatoes when the signs show Capricorn. Above ground, plants do best when the moon is in Cancer. Weeding must happen in a barren sign for the best results and never, ever plant on Sunday, no matter what sign it is showing. I think the last tidbit was due to Christianity more than a written rule of the Almanac.
And so, we tilled and prepared the ground in late January and early February. We burned off the dead grass and plants from the fall and tilled the ashes into the soil. The lettuce bed was planted inside a raised box with an old window placed over the area to foster heat and keep out the cold. We would push the window open on its hinges when the weather was warm and close it every night to preserve the warmth until the next day. Lettuce was always the first harvest of our new garden. But the real focus was on tomatoes. Arkansas Travelers, Big Boy, and Roma were some of our favorites. Around the time we started the lettuce beds, we would begin to the tomato plants. We would mix the soil and fill the little peat cups two-thirds complete and place them on a rack in the garage. Each cup would get one or maybe two tomato seeds. Some seeds were from the Burpee Seed Catalog; others were saved and dried from last year’s crop.
Rosalie had been the oldest of a large, five boys and seven girls. She had grown up with horses and wagons and a simpler time. Rosalie learned how to do the work of a boy since there were three girls before a son was born. Rosalie taught me the songs they would sing when they worked in the fields. The rhythmic beat often kept time with the work we were doing. Each step of the process had a story, a family memory behind it. Her daughters did not feel the need to learn about gardening or any of the other crafts passed down, like quilting and sewing. I loved the attention of a mother teaching me about living. I think that is when we started genuinely bonding.
Some of the things we did seem strange to me then, but I still do them the same way. I never throw away a bread sack. Odd right? But we kept a massive basket on the back porch with every bread sack that did not have a hole in it to carry to the garden throughout the whole summer. We would pick the perfectly ripe tomatoes for dinner, but they would go if any were over-mature into the bread sacks. As we would walk back into the house, we passed a 25 cubic foot chest freezer. Those bread sacks full of overripe tomatoes would go straight to the chest. It was so satisfying to see it filling as the summer waned onward.
When the freezer started to fill up, we would begin inspecting our jars, lids, and rings. A pot had to be pristine for canning tomatoes, with no chips, cracks, or flaws. We did not reuse the tops, though sometimes it felt like we should. Rosalie told me that it was possible that a jar might not seal if the lid had a problem, and she was not willing to take that chance. We would start sterilizing jars the day before we were going to can. Clean jars would line every flat surface in and near the kitchen. There was so much order to them all standing ready to do their job once again.
My job was preparing the tomatoes for cooking. I would fill a laundry basket with bread sacks stuffed with frozen tomatoes and head to the back porch. There I would fill an old washtub half full of water and start dumping tomatoes into the tub. I would then inspect each tomato, using a sharpened teaspoon to remove the core and any bad spots. The skins would slide off the tomato as it thawed, so no peeling. Once the tomato was cleaned and skinned, it would go into one of the big cooking pots. I would carry the full pots into the house, place them on the stove and salt the batch with canning salt. Then Rosalie would take over with the cooking process, stirring to keep them from sticking. The bright red of those cooking tomatoes was so beautiful. Once the tomatoes had cooked down, we would start filling the jars. We had a particular funnel that fit the wide mouths of the Mason or Ball jars we used. Filling the jars to the shoulder was important; over-filling could cause it not to seal, underfilling might bring in a bacterium. A scoop of citric acid would be added to prevent spoilage. As with the rest of the process, there were strict rules in place. I loved the structure of it all.
Once we had six-to-eight-quart jars full, we would carefully wipe the outside of the jars, making sure there was nothing that could thwart the seal. Then each lid would be inspected for flaws in the rubber rings, and a single lid would be placed on each waiting jar. The rings were the final piece. They were finger-tightened never tighter. We would put the assembled jars into a large pressure cooker and fill them with boiling water to the shoulders of the jars. The pressure cooker scared me. We would put the lid on the cooker, tighten it down and place the weight on the spout. The steam would escape from the spout making the weight dance and hiss. At the end of the prescribed time, we would open the pressure release valves and wait for the steam to escape before removing the lid and the hot jars of bright red tomatoes. We would put them on the toweled cooling racks and move on to the next batch. The satisfying pinging of lids sealing onto the jars told us if the batch was successful.
The following day, we would check each jar, pressing the lid to ensure it was sealed, turning them upside down to check for leaks, and finally placing the good ones on the pantry shelf. Whether we were making tomato sauce, diced tomatoes, or tomato juice, the process was the same. The structure was delightful. And the interaction with Rosalie was cherished.
———
I learned a great deal more than how to store food for my family. I learned about love and acceptance. I knew that everyone has a hardship, and it is how they face that hardship that makes them successful. I also learned that there would always be mean girls in my life. Or people like them that hoped to see me fail, but Rosalie taught me that while their actions will impact me, it is how I react that makes all the difference.
———
Several years after Rosalie taught me how to be a family member, she was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, a bone cancer nearly always fatal. The eye doctor is the one that saw it in her eyes and sent her to an oncologist immediately. The prognosis was not good. It was already throughout her entire body. Once again, the girls, her blood daughters, had lives that could not be interrupted, so I became Rosalie’s caregiver. I learned how to clean subclavian ports; a port put into your collar bone area to make administrating intravenous drugs easier. I learned how to move a patient, how to perform physical therapy, and so much more.
I would not trade those six years for anything in the world. We read, we watched television, and we talked a lot. Rosalie had always looked forward to the day she turned sixty-two so she could retire and start to enjoy her life without having to go to a job every day. She was fifty-six when she was diagnosed. Rosalie died exactly one month after turning sixty-two. She never drew the social security that she had long waited for.
The final lesson that Rosalie taught me was not to wait. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. I may not have a ton of savings and probably more bills than I should, but I have lived my life entirely. There are a few things that I am waiting to do when I reach a particular milestone. Thank you, Rosalie, for being the best second mom a girl could ever have.
Two Chickents and a pound of Sugar
Once upon a time, in the vibrant streets of Havana, Cuba, two individuals found themselves entwined in a tale that reflected the struggles and resilience of their beloved country. Rosa, a seasoned tour guide with deep roots in Havana, and Carlos, a charismatic dance instructor, embarked on a journey that would bring them face to face with the harsh reality of rationing.
It was the year 2018, and Cuba was grappling with economic challenges and limited resources. The government had implemented strict rationing measures to ensure that everyone received their fair share. On a sunny morning, Rosa and Carlos, both passionate about their work, found themselves waiting in line outside the local rationing store. The air was filled with a mix of anticipation and resignation as people clutched their ration books, hoping for a decent portion of food and supplies.
As the doors creaked open, Rosa and Carlos joined the throngs of people inside, scanning the shelves for their meager allowances. Their eyes met as they reached for the same precious items: two chickens and five pounds of sugar. A fleeting smile passed between them, an unspoken understanding of the shared struggle they were about to endure.
With their rations in hand, Rosa and Carlos went about their day, each navigating the challenges of their respective professions. Rosa led tourists through the narrow cobblestone streets of Old Havana, her voice resonating with pride as she narrated tales of the city’s rich history. Behind her warm smile, she carried the weight of knowing that her own dinner table would be modest that evening.
Carlos, on the other hand, infused the dance studio with rhythm and joy. His students moved to the beat of salsa, channeling their energy into vibrant choreographies. With every twist and turn, Carlos inspired his students to celebrate life and find solace in the freedom of movement. However, deep down, he yearned for a time when the shelves would be filled, and his passion for dance could be matched by an abundance of resources.
As the months passed, Rosa and Carlos developed a unique bond, their shared experiences becoming the thread that wove their lives together. They would often meet after work, finding solace in each other’s company. In their conversations, they spoke of dreams and aspirations, of a Cuba where rationing would be a thing of the past.
One evening, while strolling along the Malecón, Havana’s famous seaside promenade, Rosa and Carlos stumbled upon a vibrant outdoor market. The sight before them was a stark contrast to the rationing stores they had become accustomed to. Colorful fruits and vegetables filled the stalls, and the air was infused with the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread. The abundance seemed like a mirage, a glimpse into a future they longed for.
Inspired by the sight, Rosa and Carlos hatched a plan. They decided to use their respective talents to organize a cultural event, a celebration of dance and history that would bring the community together. They reached out to fellow artists, musicians, and performers, who embraced the idea with fervor.
With determination in their hearts, Rosa and Carlos poured their energy into organizing the event. They danced through the nights, rehearsed tirelessly, and rallied the community’s support. The event would be a testament to the resilience and spirit of the Cuban people, a showcase of their creativity in the face of adversity.
On the day of the event, Havana’s streets filled with people, their spirits uplifted by the collective sense of anticipation. The performance was a resounding success. The air reverberated with the sounds of drums and applause as dancers spun and twirled, telling the story of their nation through movement. The audience, including Rosa and Carlos, was transported to a world where rationing was but a distant memory.
As the final notesof music faded away, Rosa and Carlos found themselves embraced by the cheers and applause of the crowd. Tears welled up in their eyes, for they had witnessed the power of unity and the ability of their people to find joy even in the face of scarcity.
From that day forward, Rosa and Carlos continued to work towards a brighter future for Cuba. Inspired by their own resilience and the strength of their community, they dedicated themselves to nurturing the spirit of dance and preserving the rich cultural heritage of their nation.
The rationing of two chickens and five pounds of sugar served as a constant reminder of the challenges they faced. But through their shared experiences and determination, Rosa and Carlos embodied the indomitable spirit of the Cuban people. Together, they danced towards a future where abundance and opportunity would flourish, and rationing would become a tale told only to honor the strength and resilience of those who came before.
Under the Brilliant Sun
Under the radiant sun, the golden beach stretched before me, a shimmering canvas inviting exploration. As my bare feet sank into the warm sand, I felt an instant connection to the earth beneath me, grounding my being in the present moment.
The salty ocean breeze caressed my face, carrying with it a symphony of scents. The tang of seawater mingled with the fragrance of sunscreen, coconut oil, and freshly cut fruits. It was a medley of aromas that whispered stories of carefree days and cherished memories, filling the air with a sense of joy and adventure.
As I walked along the shoreline, the gentle lapping of waves against the sand provided a soothing soundtrack to my thoughts. I observed the seagulls soaring overhead, their cries harmonizing with the distant laughter of children building sandcastles. The beach was a sanctuary of playful serenity, a place where young and old found solace in the embrace of nature’s splendor.
And amidst this picturesque backdrop, a poignant story unfolded. It was a meeting of hearts, a moment of profound significance. A grandparent and grandchild, brought together for the first time, their eyes meeting with a mix of anticipation, wonder, and unconditional love. In the tender embrace shared on that sun-drenched day, generations connected, their souls warmed by the unbreakable bond of family.
Yet, the story also held a bittersweet note. It whispered of a different encounter, where time was slipping away, and the sun’s embrace was tinged with melancholy. In the midst of sadness, someone nearing the end of their journey found solace in the simple beauty of the day. With each breath, they absorbed the sights, sounds, and sensations, etching them into their memory. It was a final embrace of life’s fleeting moments, a poignant farewell to the world they had known.
In this narrative, the grandchild and grandparent meeting for the first time and the solemn farewell of a life intertwine, united by the essence of the beach’s allure. It is a testament to the duality of existence, where joy and sorrow often dance in harmony. The beach, with its vibrant energy and timeless beauty, becomes a sanctuary where life’s most poignant chapters unfold, leaving an indelible mark on those who dare to immerse themselves in its embrace.
Poetry, Short Stories, and Mad Ravings 