Eyesore

“Open your eyes!  Would you stop squinting?”

Tears stream down my cheeks.  I force them open a crack, but am unable to keep them that way.  The world is a brilliant, blazing red. My eyes roll back up into my head to avoid the glaring onslaught.

“Open your eyes and stop squirming!” my impatient father growls.

I force myself to stand still and try for the fourth time.  The wretched sun undoes me again.  It drills painfully through my eyelids.  This time I don’t even have to open them for the tears to flow.

“I can’t!  It hurts!  The sun’s too bright!  It hurts my eyes!  Hurry!

“Turn a bit then.  No, not that much.  Move over closer to Shelley.  And stand still, would you?”

I reach out, groping blindly to find my sister.  I finally touch her shoulder and move to stand nearer to her. 

"Turn this way!"

Rotating, I grimace painfully in the general direction of the angry voice and force my eyes open. 

“Hurry! Take it!” I shriek, through clenched teeth. 

Ah.  A sweet memory to consider.  My brothers. Handsome devils they were.  All toothy grins.  My strawberry-blond, rosy-cheeked, adorable little sister. And me. Wild, curly white hair, skinny legs, knobby knees, two missing teeth, eyes squeezed shut in perpetuity, against the stinging rays of the sun.  

Another family picture spoiled.

There Was A Knock At The Door

"There was a knock at the door." How could she incorporate that sentence into a short story of 250 words?  She relaxed in the soapy water and considered possible scenarios.  “Maybe it could be about Jesus knocking at the door. The women are probably fed up with my “humorous” stories and would appreciate something with a spiritual bent.”  She immersed herself deeper in the bubbles. “Maybe a delivery man comes to the wrong house and an argument ensues?  No.  A policeman announcing they found a body in the neighbours’ backyard?  I don’t like any of those.” Closing her eyes she breathed deeply. “OH, I know…there was a nuclear holocaust and the protagonist is the last person on earth…and there’s a knock at the door.  Spooky and possibly funny.  I like that one!”

She bolted upright.  Someone was knocking at the door!  “Weird. Thinking about a story using ‘there was a knock at the door’ and then there’s a knock at the door!”  Another knock.  “Get lost!” she muttered, gritting her teeth, “I’m not answering.”  Settling back in the tub, she sighed deeply and tried to relax again.  The knocking began again, this time in earnest.  “I refuse to answer!  Go away,” she sputtered.  They were pounding now. “What the heck!”  

She clambered out of the tub.  Infuriated!  Water dripping everywhere she flung a bath towel around herself and stormed down the stairs. “They are going to get a piece of my mind!”

She threw open the door.  

“WHAT THE HECK DO YOU WANT,” she shouted at the three people standing on her doorstep.

“YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!!”

ALL BRIGHTNESS AND CLARITY

Twenty-five years.  Water under the bridge carried youth, beauty, energy, downstream.  Battered blue on boulders, dragged along abrasive sandy bottoms, beaten into submission by life’s harsh winds.

Twenty-five years.  She was perfection.  I was perfection reflected in her eyes.  All brightness and clarity.  It was living in the moment and breathless wonder.  It lasted but a second and then it was done. Done in the physical, but never really done. 

Twenty-five years.  Clutching each other, etching the moment forever…imprinting memory…the desperation, the need, the sorrow….the love.  We said we would meet again in twenty-five years.

 

Twenty-five years.  Today it is twenty-five years.  Will we see the other marked by the wreckage of time’s inevitable journey or will we perceive, buried under the rubble of life’s flow, the glow of youth and hope?

Twenty-five years.  Heart pounding, breath short.  All brightness and clarity.

THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN.

Umbrella Man

May 2:

“I can’t believe I’ve become one of those women lamenting the fact that I’m single.  My relationships are always disasters! Where’s Mr. Right when you need him?”  She sighed dramatically and laughed.  “Get a life, Nicole!  Anyway, my hair looks great, as usual, Marg. If you give me a plastic bag, I can cover it so it won’t get ruined.” The rain continued to pour down the salon window making it impossible to see outside.
                                                
"Wait ‘til it lets up! You’ll get soaked!”

“I have to get home.  My guests coming over in less than two hours and there’s still so much to do.  I’ll be fine. Besides it’s only two blocks.”  Steeling herself, she waved at her stylist. “Wish me luck.”

“Crap!”  A deep puddle. Her feet sloshed around inside her sodden high heels, making running impossible.  Her clothes were soaked through almost immediately. Walking as quickly as possible, she passed the post office and the bakery.  Just one more block to go.  Short of breath, she made it to the corner just in time for a red light.  Too much traffic to jaywalk. 

“Care to share my umbrella?  It’s pretty nasty out here.”

She turned.  He was beautiful.  Tall.  Thick, dark hair. Shocking blue eyes.  Her heart pounded as she ducked under the offered shelter. Their eyes locked.  She struggled to breathe.  How could one man be so striking?

“Thank you.  It’s so kind of you.”

“Do you live far from here?”

“Just down the street.  Just a short hobble,” she laughed, glancing down at her waterlogged shoes.

Eyes still fixed on hers, he sang.  His voice was deep and pleasing. “I’ll be your umbrella man.  Shower you with all my love.”

She laughed again, joyfully.  Possibilities and sweet hope filled her hammering heart.  Lost in those eyes.

The light turned green.....  

MAY 3: 

BRADFORD FREE PRESS:  UMBRELLA KILLER STRIKES AGAIN                                 

The Art of Purr-suasion (a silly story I wrote for one of my writing classes/groups)

Bernard Williams rolled over when he heard the telephone ring.  2:37 a.m.! He picked up the phone and growled into it, "There is nothing you can say that would make me leave this house right now." Sitting bolt upright, he listened for a few seconds.  His tone softened. "I'll be right there."

He looked at the foot of his bed, knowing that Buster would be curled up there and whispered, "Wake up, bud.  We have a job to do."  Buster's green eyes flicked open. He yawned widely, showing his small, pink tongue, stood up on all fours and stretched the way only a cat can.

"What is it this time," he rasped in a sleepy voice.

"It's the calico.  Mary's found her, but she won't come down from the tree.  That's where you and I come in."

Bernard rolled out of his warm bed, grabbed his watch from the bedside table and put it on as he shuffled to the window. He groaned.  Snow was still falling, adding to the meter that already hid the front lawn. The outside thermometer read minus twenty-seven. Sighing, he walked to the bathroom where he performed a perfunctory tooth-brushing and returned to the bedroom to slip into his too recently discarded clothes.  Wiping the sleep from his grainy eyes, he shrugged on his heavy winter coat, stuffed his feet into his thermal winter boots, slapped the tuque on his head and grabbed his keys. Buster appeared at his feet and jumped into his waiting arms.

"Let's go do this," he mewed.

The frigid wind stung as they stepped outside.  Bernard trudged as quickly as possible through the knee- high snowdrifts to the car, threw open the door and tossed Buster inside.

"Quick, clean the windows off and turn on the heat," Buster chattered.

"Hold your horses.  Motor's cold.  It'll take a few!"

Windows clean, they drove through the quiet streets, shivering, each lost in his own thoughts.  A gibbous moon hid behind a ghostly white cloud casting a gloomy shadow on the snow-laden tree branches.  The heater finally started to pump out warm air.  Man and cat settled in for the ten-minute ride, limbs relaxing in the toasty interior.

"Wonder where she's been all this time.  Her human's been looking for her for what, almost three weeks now?"

"Mary didn't say.  Just that Prim wouldn't come down from the tree.  Here we are."

Mary's house.  He put the car in park, grabbed his ever-present flashlight and his Siamese sidekick and hustled toward the shadowy silhouette standing by the tall spruce in front of the house.

"Okay, remember the routine.  Ix-nay with the eaking-spay." (*see below)

"How many times do you have to remind me?  You'd think I was a dog for heaven's sake.  Dogs forget, cats.....why do I even bother?"

As they approached, the bulky figure walked toward them.  It was Mary.  She looked great even in her thick winter garb.  One of these days, Bernard would have to work up the courage to ask her out. But for now, there was work to be done.

"Thanks for coming.  It's good to see you again, Bernard.  And you too, Buster, you handsome guy," she said, scratching under his chin.  Buster purred loudly.

"I heard Prim meowing about an hour ago," Mary explained looking at Bernard.  "I know she must be hungry and cold, but she won't come down.  I thought of you because I know you and Buster have a talent for coaxing cats down from trees.  I'm hoping Buster can come through once more.  What do you think, big fella?"  She tickled the cat behind his ears.

"I could stay here all night.  That's what I think.  Forget Prim," he mused silently, basking in the delicious massage.

"Right, then.  Let's have a look-see.  Come on, Bud.  Let's get Primrose down and inside where it's warm."

Buster looked up and saw two shining eyes staring down at him from above.

"Buster, thank goodness you're here!  I was hoping you'd show," she chattered.

"Prim, what are you doing?"

"Waiting for you, you sweet fur-ball."

"Well, I'm here, so come down!"

"You'll have to come up and get me," she taunted.

"Fine, I'll be right there."  He turned to Bernard, "Females!!"

Springing from Bernard's arms, he leaped at the tree-trunk and shimmied up in no time.

"Okay, Prim.  Are you ready to stop playing games and end this ridiculousness?"

"Now, I am, you adorable male," she purred, rubbing against him.

Mary gasped in surprise and anticipation as first Buster and then Primrose began their backward descent.

"Good girl, Primrose.  That's the way.  Come on!  Way to go, Buster," she encouraged. "I can't thank you enough, Bernard, and Buster, you sweet guy, I love you!  Thank you," said Mary as the duo reached terra-firma.

She stroked Buster's fur with one hand, holding a contented Prim in her other arm.

"It's almost like they understand each other.  Uncanny!  How does Buster do it?"

"Wait, I'll ask him," answered Bernard, winking at Mary sardonically.  "Hey, Bud, tell Mary why Prim followed you down."

Buster's answering howl was long as it was loud.

"I can almost imagine he understands you and is answering your question!  Well, what did he say," she asked, making quotation marks in the air.

"He said that Prim, like all other felines, is a copy-cat.  He also said that he's paw-sitive it would have been cat-astrophic if he hadn't saved the day!"



*Ixnay with the eaking-spay = pig latin for nix the speaking (meaning....don't speak)

Muslim and Non-Muslim....An Encounter

I was tired and wanted to go home, but had one last chore. I couldn't let Bubba our cat starve, so I went to Walmart to buy him some food.

As usual, it was hard to find a spot to park the car, so I ended up near the back of the lot, far away from the entrance.  "Oh, well, the extra steps will be good for me," I reasoned.

I got out of the car and started towards the store.  As I did, I passed an elderly, covered Muslim woman who was walking very slowly, her arm linked with a younger woman. I assumed she was her daughter.  I smiled and greeted them both and continued. 

When I was about twenty metres ahead of them, I felt something in my spirit telling me to stop, turn around, go back to that old lady and give her a hug.  I stopped, but started second guessing myself. I dismissed the feeling, thinking it had to be my imagination. If I did that, I reasoned, it would be so uncomfortable.  The old woman and her daughter would think I was crazy.  It was just my imagination!  I shook off the impulse to turn around and continued walking.  I'd gone another ten metres when the feeling came upon me again, but this time it was much stronger.  This time it was a command. "STOP! TURN AROUND, GO BACK TO THAT OLD WOMAN AND GIVE HER A HUG!" I stopped again. I knew it was the Lord.  I know from experience that when I get a command like that, there is always a reason.  I know that if I don't obey, I will miss a great blessing.  So, I said, "Okay, Father. They will think I'm completely nuts, but I'll do it."  

By then, the women were about ten metres behind me.  I turned around and approached the two nervously, but determined.  

I stopped in front of them, looked the younger woman in the eye and said, "I'm supposed to hug her.  I don't know why, but I'm supposed to."  I looked at the elder and went in for the embrace.  She was of course shocked, and therefore a bit stiff, but patted me kindly on the back as I held her tightly for several seconds. "I don't know why I was supposed to do that," I reiterated, looking once again at the younger woman.  "Well," she said, looking at me in a strange way, "We've just come from the hospital where my mother had an MRI. She really needed that hug."

  

El Orgullo Precede La Caída

Hace anos estuve en Grecia.  Tuve algunos amigos griegos que me ensenaron algunas palabras y frases griegas.

Una noche mi hermana y yo fuimos a un restaurante. En Grecia es normal ir a la cocina en algunos restaurantes de la familia.  Fuimos a la cocina y miremos dentro de cada olla. Decidimos lo que queriamos comer.  Fuimos a nuestra mesa.  

El camarero vino a tomar nuestro orden.  Yo, estaba muy orgullosa de mi griego (sabia aproximadamente 100 palabras) y de mi misma.  Era tan inteligente.  Estaba impaciente de mostrar a mi hermana lo inteligente que era.

"Ti thelate?" ("Que te gustaria?") pregunto el camarero.

Era mi momento para brillar.  Lo mire y dije con orgullo, despacio y con claridad, "Thea copella parakalo."

La gente en las mesas alrededor de nosotros empezaron a reir y el camarero tenia una gran sonrisa.  Yo sabia que habia cometido un error y estaba tan avergonzada.  Pero que dije?  Pense en lo que habia dicho.

De repente, me di cuenta de mi error.  Queria pedir pollo. La palabra para pollo en Griego es kotoupolo.  Debia decir 'thea kotoupelo' pero dije 'thea copella'.  

Habia hecho un gran error.  En vez de pedir dos pollos, pedi dos chicas.

Just A Love-Bump

The sea battered the rocks far below, spewing a spray of water that reached Claire high up on the cliff face.  She’d been standing there, staring at the rocks and spume-covered water for half an hour, unaware that her clothes were growing progressively damper. 

Voices from the past flooded her mind.   She was a happy child but when she was eleven she'd overheard one of her parents’ late-night conversations.  “I guess Claire might eventually get a job as a secretary, maybe a stewardess or teacher’s assistant.  What else will she do? She’s not nearly as smart or talented as her sisters or brother.” 

That was the year things had taken a downward turn.  On her report card, her teacher had so aptly put it, “It’s as though Claire has given up.  She doesn’t seem happy and she doesn’t try anymore.” 

Why should she have tried?  No one seemed to think she could succeed.  Better to get by.  Better to accept her lot in life.  She scraped through high-school and when she graduated she took a secretarial job.  She’d settled.  She’d always settled.

Claire went over and over it as she stood there on that cliff. She’d gone over and over it for the past three months with her psychiatrist and she finally understood why she’d been overlooked all her life---until now.  

Until now!  No longer would she sit back passively, smiling and congratulating others. Passivity: her nemesis.  Looking back at the countless opportunities she’d let slip by because she didn’t believe she was good enough, attractive enough, intelligent enough, she resolved that things were going to change. 

She had some innovative ideas that she was going to present to her boss; ideas that would make the company much more productive.  She’d talked to her councillor about them.  He thought they were brilliant and pressed her to talk to upper management.  Because of his help and his belief in her abilities, her confidence had increased.  To that end, she’d made the appointment and today at 5:00 o’clock, after work, she would take a chance for the first time in her life!  She was determined to show what she had, what she could do.  For the first time in many, many years, she felt truly happy.

She greeted the handsome, young couple with a warm smile as they approached her with their two rambunctious dogs.  Her heart overflowing with hope, optimistic and joyful, she reached down to pet the dogs.  The larger one bumped his nose into her midsection- just a love bump, really.  

Her terrified scream echoed across the water as she stumbled backward and fell to her death, on the rocks below.

Lesson Learned

"No, Doctor, her face isn't green."

These were the first words I heard as I struggled to force my eyes open.  The room was a spinning grey haze through the two millimeter slits that were my eyes. I perceived the shadowy outline of my mother across the room, holding the black, rotary-dial phone against her ear. She was evidently gauging the shade of my complexion.

"Fine.  Thank you, Doctor.  Yes, tea.  Right. Yes, okay.  I'll get her up now."

I heard the sound of the receiver being replaced none too gently in its cradle and then her approaching footsteps.

"Are you awake?"

Awake?  Was I awake?  I was awake in a groggy sense of the word, but why would I have been asleep?  I could now see the light shining through the window.  It was daytime.  I didn't take naps anymore. What was going on?  Why was I having such a hard time with my eyes and why did my tummy feel so funny?

"Come on. Get up."

She took me by my shoulders and sat me up.  Mistake.  The room whirled and lurched and my stomach roiled in acidic sympathy.  My mother recognized the extreme pallor that bleached my face. Letting go, she raced to grab the waste basket beside the t.v. and just in time held it under my chin as I retched and emptied the burning contents of my stomach.  I felt worse than I had felt in all of my seven years.  But why?  Why did I feel this way?

A memory hovered on the periphery, waiting to be recovered. Something about my cousin Marsha. What was it? Marsha came to visit from Detroit. I remembered that.  I was so happy she was here at my house in Stratford.  I loved my cousin Marsha very much.  She and her mother were going to stay with us for a few days. So happy. Now, what happened? Something happened with Marsha. Ohhhh, I remembered. We were in my mother's bedroom playing.  I opened a drawer and saw a small box with my name on it. I shook it. The contents rattled inside.  I lifted the top and discovered small white pills.

"These are mine," I advised her importantly.  "See, my name is right here on the box.  They're mine."

"So?"

"Do  you want some?  You can have some. I take them everyday!"

"No, thank you."

"Dare me to take some!"

"No."

"Dare me."

"No!"

"Okay, I'll take some anyway."

I retrieved a cup of water from the bathroom and downed three of the little pellets. There!  That'll show her!  They were mine and I could do whatever I wanted with them! Such power, such importance!

The next thing I remembered, was waking up on the sofa.  It seems I had swallowed sleeping pills.

My mother was, unfortunately, not at all sympathetic to my plight.  In fact, one might say that she was quite put out by my actions.  Compassion was in very short supply in the Gerofsky home that day.

"The doctor said that you have to get up and get some fresh air.  Go outside."

She helped me to my feet.

"Your brother and Marsha are outside.  Go."

The spinning had lessened by then, but the floor was still undulating slowly.  I lifted one heavy foot and stepping a bit too far to the right, stumbled.  Annoyed, my mother took my arm to steady me. With her grudging help, I gradually made it to the front door where she gave me an impatient nudge.

"Go."

The banister seemed very far away and the three stairs from the veranda to the sidewalk very steep indeed.  Hands outstretched, like a sleepwalker, I managed with mincing steps to reach the rail and seized it shakily. I could see my brother Barry and my cousin playing catch with my India rubber ball in the middle of the street.  I loved that India rubber ball and wanted to play!  It was mine!  The rolling of the stairs could not overcome my desire to get my hands on it.  I continued with difficulty but made it to the sidewalk without incident.  Small, careful steps took me to the curb where I sat down heavily waiting for the shaking to stop.  I watched for a while as the ball was tossed back and forth and then stood up, determined to be part of the action.

"Throw the ball to me."  My whiny voice shook.  "It's mine!  Throw it to ME now."

My brother threw the ball a bit too aggressively.  It flew low and smacked me hard in my mid-section.  Down I went, gasping for breath. 

"Mom.  Arlene fell down!  Come and get her.  MOM!"

"Bring her inside," my exasperated mother yelled through the screen-door.

Barry and Marsha somehow managed to half drag, half carry me back up the stairs and into the house.

"Bring her into the kitchen."

There on the kitchen table was a cup of tea.

"Drink that." she ordered, pointing to the large cup.  "The doctor told me to give you something hot to drink." 

I did as commanded and picked it up, small hands trembling violently.  I brought the edge of the cup to my lips and took a mouthful of the just-boiled liquid. Fire! My mouth was on fire! The pain was shocking. My hands convulsed, the cup flew out of my hands and the scalding liquid drenched my shirt.  I screamed in agony. A whopping blister erupted almost immediately and covered my tiny seven-year-old body from neck to belly. 

Looking back, I wonder why a seven year old would be prescribed sleeping pills to begin with. Apparently, I'd often wake up at night and climb into my parents' bed for comfort. Perhaps they tired of this and resorted to drugging me.

My sweet sister Shelley thinks it was because they were contemplating killing me. I became a very whiny child after her birth.  She thinks they had no further use for me once she came along. In her words, "They had a replacement they liked better." 




* I have to give credit to Shelley for the title...and the punch line.

* Justin also deserves credit for helping me rewrite the last two paragraphs.

* In fact, there is a valid reason that I might have had sleeping pills.  I had major ear infections as a child. Perhaps I needed help sleeping through the pain.

What Could It Be?

J.P. was out of town, so several girlfriends and I decided to have a pot luck dinner and game night at my house. The food was wonderful and laughter warmed the room.  The games were fun and as usual the most raucous laughter was saved for Rita's irreverent and silly responses. It was easy to hear her 'voice' among the list of definitions we would each create for the dictionary game (aka Balderdash). "That was Rita's, for sure," one of us would yell. She never won the game, but then again, she never really expected to with those answers.

My son, Justin came in midway through the evening, said goodnight to the ladies and went upstairs to his room. 

As with all things good, the evening of giggles, snorts and all around merriment finally came to a close and the last guest and I bid each other adieu. I sighed.  It had been such a happy time, but it was late. I battened down all the hatches and dragged my weary body up the stairs. Yawning, I switched on the bathroom light, performed my bedtime ablutions, then stumbled to the bedroom where my jammies awaited. Removing my pants, I was horrified to see that my legs from above the knees to the top of the thighs, were black.  I glanced at my hands and was filled with dread.  My fingertips were also black.  My heart pounded, my mouth was dry; I couldn't breathe.  I was dying.  I was sure of it.  I was dying. A cold sweat covered my body and I became even more light-headed than is my usual state. But, what could be the cause of this horrific malady?  What causes legs and fingertips to turn black?  Justin might know.  He had taken Red Cross and First Aid courses to become a lifeguard.  I hated to wake him, but I was desperate for help.  

"Justin?"  

"Yeah?"  His voice was thick with sleep.  

"Wake up.  Can you look at this and tell me what it might be?"

The bright light flooded the room.  He squinted.  He looked at my limbs and the black fingers I held in front of his face. 

"What is that?"

"I don't know, but I'm really scared.  Do you have any idea?"

"No, I've never seen anything like that before."

"Okay, I'm going to the hospital."

"Should I go with you?"

"No, you stay here.  I'll call you when I find out what it is."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'll be fine.  Stay here."

I walked quickly back to my bedroom, threw my clothes back on, ran down the stairs, grabbed my purse and my keys and dove into the car. Heart racing, I drove out of our subdivision and sped toward the hospital.  

I got about a kilometer from home, when it struck me.  I pulled over to the side of the road and doubled over laughing.  I laughed until the tears streamed down my face. How could I be so stupid!  Oh, my! Howling in merriment, I flashed back to the event that had lead up to this fiasco.  I saw myself at the clothing store, trying on the pants. They fit so well and were so soft.  I loved the material and rubbed my fingers over it.  I bought them of course and wore them home.  The velvet was so soft and downy, I couldn't stop rubbing it.  I rubbed that deep, black velvet all day and all evening.  I rubbed it so much that the dye had stained both my legs and the fingers that had caressed them all day long!

Lou

Lou was my father.  He wasn’t a huggy father, not what you’d call a loving or lovable man.  The business world was his milieu; in that world, he was a good schmoozer and thus a good salesman.  He was a man of little education, having dropped out of school in grade 10.   Keeping abreast of world happenings via newspapers and television gave him the ability to converse intelligently about current events.  He had many acquaintances and quite a few friends who respected his work ethic and his outside-of-the-family-home sense of humour.  Unfortunately, we didn’t often get to see that side of Lou…most often we saw the tired, impatient, quick-to-anger side.  Long hours and hard work left him with little patience for his two youngest children…his daughters.  We were not, as is sometimes the case in families, daddy’s little princesses.  Surprisingly, he would sometimes refer to me as his princess and my sister as his baby, but in truth we were it seemed, more of an annoyance, small people who made too much noise and were too silly.
 

There were the days when he tried to be a good father.   When I was eight or nine, my sister and I and our father had a game we played from time to time, until he got fed up with it.  When we heard him pull up in the driveway, we would run and hide (always in the same place) behind the pillows in the cupboard.  He would pretend to search for us and ultimately ‘find’ us.  I remember being so excited that he was playing with us.  Some weekends would find us at Port Stanley.  My father loved the water and again, I was thrilled when he’d spend time with me.  He’d allow me to stand on his shoulders and dive into the water and encourage me to swim.  It happened very rarely, but it was wonderful to experience the playful father.  My love of swimming comes from those experiences.
 

Lou loved to sing and when we travelled to Detroit, our family indulged in two or three part harmony.  How I loved those times!  Of course, those were also the days when we were unaware of the dangers of smoking. Lou was a two-packet a day man and smoked in the car.  I was prone to motion sickness and when tobacco was added to the mix, the motion sickness often forced a very angry father to pull over to the side of the road, so his annoying daughter could vomit.

  

I never knew which father I would get when I was young.  I always hoped for the indulgent one, but most often the critical, short-tempered one showed up.  I know from family anecdotes that I was not the easiest child to endure….very whiney (especially after my sister was born) and too needy for someone who tended towards impatience. 

As I write this, I find there is so much to say.  I could talk about the many weekends and summer days when we worked with my father at ‘the store’.  Our drives back and forth to Woodstock heralded a different dynamic in our relationship… his many attempts to ‘educate’ us politically, our conversations about life, his unfavourable attitude about the ‘hippy-generation’, his love of radio talk-shows’ and the news.  We hated those especially, preferring the latest 70’s music.  It was always a battle of the radio dial.  He’d put up with a song or two and then switch back to his favourite channel.  All of this is especially interesting to me now because of my love for the CBC. 

Many years later when my family had all but given up on me ever having a child, along came my son.  When I was in hospital, my father sent me the most beautiful bouquet I’d ever seen.  I was absolutely shocked that he did.  This is one of several memories of him that I cherish.
 

When my son was two years old, I decided, with the help of a psychiatrist, that it was time to tell my father that I loved him.  I called his number in Florida and both my parents picked up.

“Hi, Lou. I just called to tell you I love you,” I blurted it out quickly.

There was no response….a very uncomfortable seven or eight seconds dragged by.

“We love you, too,” said my mother.

“Did you hear me, Lou?  I said I love you.”

Two beats…”Well, Arlene, I don’t know how I feel about you.”

My heart.  I struggled to hold back the tears and said, “Okay, well I’ll talk to you next week.”

When I hung up, the tears came.

Several weeks later my parents returned to Canada.  My father came for a visit and did something he had never done before.  He rested his arm on the back of the sofa where I was sitting and stroked my shoulder with his hand.  He never did tell me he loved me, but he tried to bridge the gap many times by making some kind of physical contact….a hug, a pat, his arm around me on the rare occasion.  This was huge for him…and for me.  He really tried and I so appreciated it.  It made me so happy.

He once confided in me.  “I watch you and J.P. and your sister and George and see how good you are with your children and I wish I’d been a better father to you.” 

He also loved to tell people that I taught at Fanshawe.  It was because of my father (who forced me to become a teacher) that I had the most wonderful job for thirty-two years.  He was proud of that fact and that I could speak several languages (albeit badly….he never knew how badly).

Forward to 1991.  My father suffered a major heart attack in Florida and was medevacked back to Canada.  We were all at the hospital to say our goodbyes.  They were going to take him off life-support..he was on a respirator.  He was conscious and knew it was his time.  Shelley and I went in together.  He couldn’t speak, but he obviously wanted to say something.  I asked the nurse for a pencil so he could write, but she told us it would be too stressful for him.  In retrospect, I so wish I’d been assertive enough to demand a pencil, but I was sickeningly passive in those days.  He beckoned to me with his index finger…”Come here.”  I went to him, but he, of course, couldn’t speak to me.  What did he want to tell me?  I’m almost sure he wanted to tell me to take care of my sister, so I told him I would.  But, maybe, just maybe he wanted to tell me he loved me?

Cake Anyone?

The following is not the most pleasant story.  I'm sorry....

I learned a lot of new things at my mechanic's garage a few days ago.  While I was waiting to have a new compressor installed, I went across the street to a well-known bakery and bought a cake for the guys who work at the shop.  I took it back to the waiting room and invited them to partake.  One in particular was very taken with the treat and came back for seconds.  This time, he sat at a stool and began to pontificate.  As a pleasant way to break the ice, he asked me if I ate meat and when I replied that I did, he told me I was a murderer and that the first commandment is, "Thou shalt not kill."  He asked, "If you were starving, would you kill a cow?"  "Yes, I would.  I wouldn't like to, but I would." Then, I said that the first commandment is not, "Thou shalt not kill," but is, “You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength."  The man informed me that he didn't believe in the Bible anyway (so why quote it to me?) because it was written by the Roman Catholics.  He strengthened his position and further added a great deal of credibility to his argument (not) by stating that his father was a pastor and his mother went to church all the time.  I replied, as gently as I could, "Uh, the Bible was written in Hebrew and Aramaic and then translated into Greek. The Roman Catholics had nothing to do with it. It was written mostly, by Jews."  
"Oh, the Jews," said he.  They don't do anything!  They kneel at the wall for 23 hours a day and don't work."
"I don't think they kneel at the wall and if they do, it wouldn't be for such a long time."
"Jews don't work," said he. 
"I think most Jews work.  I think you're painting them all with the same brush." 
(I'm sensing just a bit of antisemitism here.)  
"They all hated Jesus and killed him," he continued, maybe to prove to me that he wasn't painting them all with the same brush (LOL!)?
"Sorry, that isn't true at all.  All of His followers in the beginning were Jewish...and so was He.  The Jews that wanted Him condemned were the Sanhedrin (the high priests) because He called them hypocrites and pointed out (on several occasions) their many failures.  He had thousands and thousands of followers who were Jews. His Jewish followers didn't want him to be killed."
Again he 'quoted' the Bible telling me about a story in which many scrolls were thrown into a fire and people were running and saving them and flapping their arms around from the heat.
"I'm not totally sure, but I don't believe that's a story from the Bible, at least one I've never heard," I said.
"Well, you must be stupid!" By now, he was shouting and waving his arms erratically over his head.
One part of my brain was saying, "Please Father, get him out of here.  Send him back to work." Another part was saying, "He's completely gone...forgive him (which of course, I did).  Alas, I could feel my blood pressure rising!
He finally left when I turned my back to him and looked out of the window.  I should have done that much earlier, obviously.
Why am I telling you this story?  I guess, just to relieve that 'pressure' by sharing it with all of you, to demonstrate that a little knowledge is, as they say, a dangerous thing (as if we didn't already know) and to remind us all that antisemitism (in fact, anti anyone that is different from ourselves) is very much alive and well on planet Earth. 

Una Rosa Con Cualquier Otro Nombre

Voy a hacer algo differente.  Voy a tratar de escribir algo en Espanol.  Espero que usted entendera!

Hace seis anos hemos vivido en Majorca.  Cada jueves, me encontre con un groupo de personas en un pueblo a 25 minutos de nuestro pueblo, para estudiar la Biblia. La jefe del grupo era una mujer de Texas que esta casado con un hombre de Majorca.  Su nombre es Sandra y su marido Adrian. Ellos tenian dos hijos pero querian otro hijo.  Los medicos les dijeron que Sandra no podia tener mas hijos. Pero....sopresa...Sandra quedo embarazada! Que alegria!  

Durante 6 meses han buscado un nombre para la bebe (una nina) pero ellos no pudieron ponerse de acuerdo en un nombre!  Todas la personas en el grupo tenian sugerencias, pero cada vez Sandra dijo, Dios dara su nombre.  Ella es una mujer de fe!  Estaba segura que Dios le daria un nombre!  

Ya era hora de salir de la isla.  Era la ultima vez que iba a ver el grupo.  Era en mi coche...estaba muy triste por dejar la isla y llore.  Me pregunte sobre el nombre del bebe.  Encontraron un nombre? De repente, una palabra salto en mi mente.  Habia oido esta palabra antes y sabia en este momento que seria el nombre del bebe y sabia que cuando lo oiga, Sandra estaria muy, muy emocionada y que me diria algo sobre este nombre.  Sabia que este nombre fue mandado por Dios!  

Cuando llegue a su casa, le conte todo lo que me habia pasado en el coche.  Le dije que Dios me mostro que estaria muy emocionada cuando escuche el nombre y que este nombre seria el nombre del bebe! Pero antes quiera verificar el significado en el ordinador. Ella era muy, muy impaciente de saber el nombre. Cuando termine de verificar el significado, dije, "Este nombre significa un retorno a la tierra prometida.  El nombre es Aliyah." Sandra empezo a saltar y llorar. Dije "Dime que paso." Ella me dijo la historia, "Ayer por la noche, Adrian (su marido) me hablo sobre su familia en Inglaterra. Estaba hablando sobre los nombres de sus primos."  Me dijo, "Sus nombres son Paul, Dean, Donna, Nigel y Martin.  Quince anos despues, mi tia tuvo un bebe y la llamo Aliyah." Sandra dijo, "Me gusta mucho este nombre.  Porque no me lo has dicho antes?"  

Es una coincidencia o un milagro?  Creo que es un milagro del Dios.  Sandra sabia que Dios le daria un nombre...y....en mi opinion, le dio uno! 

Just Another Day in Jimena (Revised in November 2017) My first ever attempt at writing fiction...I apologize in advance!)

                                                                                                                                                                                                       

The bell in the clock tower struck four.  8:50 a.m.  Another day in Jimena.  A day like any other.  They’d come here 8 months before, hoping to find meaning.  They’d meant to leave, but got stuck in this place of hills and valleys, of whitewashed abodes.

The place they’d rented, just for a week they promised each other, was rustic, not at all what they wanted.  She’d wanted something more modern.  She loved her creature comforts.  He’d wanted a place near the beach to windsurf.  Yet, here they were, eight months in and still waking each morning at 8:50 a.m. to the bell in the clock tower striking 4.  Still in Jimena.

She can’t remember when he started drinking.  Breakfast was a thing of the past.  Wine started the day, beer ended it.  The thin, muscled stomach of which he’d been so proud, now hung over his belt; his shirts no longer buttoned.  She too, had started enjoying her drink.  She found herself waiting anxiously for the bell in the clock tower to ring 7 times.  Almost noon.  Not too early, she’d tell herself as she poured the fermented liquid into a dirty wine glass she’d pluck from the pile of unwashed glasses lining the counter.

When was the last time they’d washed the dishes or taken out the garbage or bothered to remove the empties?  The smell didn’t bother them anymore. Nothing bothered them much anymore.  She looked at him…his empty, rheumy eyes stared back at her…hopeless.  They were hopeless in Jimena.

No more contact with the outside world.  They hadn’t checked their email for months.  They knew people worried about them, but somehow they just didn’t care.  The last time she’d heard from her sister and her son, they’d expressed concern."“Well, let them worry,” she sighed as she poured them both another.

                                                                    *******

Morning in Jimena. The bell in the clock tower struck 4.  They woke up.  He grimaced in her direction.  His teeth were stained blue; hers were, too.

 

A knock at the door.

“The door,” he slurred.

“You get it!  Did you break a leg?”

“MERDE,” he swore, as he dragged himself from the bed.

She heard the lock turn; heard the door open.

“Who is it?"

He didn’t answer.

“WHO IS IT,” she yelled.

A woman’s voice. “It’s your neighbours, Louise and Brent. We haven’t seen you for so long!  We decided to visit.

”

Her husband entered the bedroom followed by the two.  They both had one hand behind their backs. Their eyes opened wide with disbelief as they took in the rows of empty bottles, the unwashed sheets, the dirty clothes piled high on the floor.

She threw back the stained blanket and tried to stand up. Staggering, she fell back.  She managed with great difficulty the second time.

“Why are you here,” she asked belligerently.

As if of one mind, the two took their hands from behind their backs.  Grinning from ear to ear, they held them out.  Two bottles of wine.

They poured the alcohol into four filthy glasses.  Her husband made the toast.  “Here’s to another day in Jimena.”  

                                                                     ********

It had been five months since the visit.  The lives became more hopeless with each bottle consumed.  Loneliness was an anchor that paralyzed them.

In one of their more lucid moments, they talked about it.  It was time for a change, they decided.  Time to leave Jimena.  Time to start hoping again.  Their rent was paid until the end of the month, but they didn’t want to wait.  A forgotten emotion....anticipation?

Bags packed, they piled into the car.  He started driving down through the narrow village streets passing people they hadn’t seen in months, waving happily at each one as they passed by. They could almost taste the hope, it was that palpable.  They looked at each other and smiled, excited for the future. They heard the bell in the clock tower strike 6.  It was almost eleven a.m.  They had lots of time to make their flight.

The countryside embraced them.  They used to love this road; it had always filled them with peace.  The rolling hills, the gentle curves, the cows and horses grazing in the fields.  They could feel the stress of the past year rolling away as they got closer to the highway that lead to Malaga and the airplane.

The roundabout leading to the highway was just ahead.  Their future was just ahead. 

                                                                     ********

The car that hit them hadn’t been there half a second before.  They were dazed, but not hurt from the impact.  Before they knew it, a police car had arrived.

“Your driver’s license, please.”

He reached into his wallet and with trembling hands, pulled it out and handed it to the officer.

“This has expired.  I smell alcohol.  Have you been drinking, sir?”

“We had quite a bit of wine last night, but nothing today.”

“Please get out of the car and blow very hard into this, sir,” he said, brandishing a breathalyzer.

He did as told.

“Sir, I’m afraid we’ll have to impound your car.  Your blood alcohol is much higher than the accepted limit.  If you’ll just step this way.”  The officer opened the back door of the police car for them.  They removed their luggage from their trunk and placed it in the trunk of the police car.  They climbed into the back seat.

They used to love this road…it had always made them feel peaceful, but now it just felt like hope dashed…hope no more.

The officer dropped them back at their apartment in Jimena.  Hungry, they opened the refrigerator.  All there was inside was a single bottle of wine; a single bottle of wine.

 

The bell in the clock tower struck 8.

MAGNIFICENT - A GIFT

"All right.  Roll from the bed onto the table."
"Do what?  Onto where?"
"Come on.  You can do it!"
"I can't feel anything at all from my chest down to my feet and you're telling me to move?"
I lift my head and glance down at the body to which I seem to have no connection.  The epidural has severed it into two halves - mind and a big hunk of meat, formerly known as legs and torso.  I touch the disembodied appendages. They even feel like meat - cold, flaccid.  The lack of summer sun and thirty pounds of extra weight add an air of raw chicken flesh to the goosebumps that cover them. Why is it so cold in the operating room?
"Sorry, there's no way I can move from here.  You're going to have to help me."
Two strong nurses make short work of the transfer, straining only slightly under the bulky load. Starched linens snap as they cover my prone body with a tent-like structure, thankfully cutting off our view of it.  The harsh artificial lighting causes me to squint as I glance up at my husband.  A hospital mask hides the lower half of his face which is still, I'm sure, registering fear.  He hates hospitals and when the doctor informed him in no uncertain terms that he WOULD go into the operating room with me, he had paled considerably.  I reach for his hand to comfort him and smile brightly.  I'm not at all afraid.  Everything will be fine. Yes, it's a shame that natural childbirth hadn't worked out for us, but women have cesarean sections all the time and rarely die.  
The sound of scuffling feet behind us herald the entrance of the doctor and his assistants.  They make their way to my lower half and are hidden behind the 'tent'. We hear the movement of a cart and then, "All right.  Let's get this baby born. Thirty-two hours is a long time to wait.  I'm going to make the incision now. You may feel some pressure, but it won't hurt."
"If I feel a thing, it will amaze me, Dr. Patrick."
I look at my husband and our eyes meet.  We are going to see our son, finally! Elation and fear. Are we ready for this?  Even after all of the books and manuals on childbirth and babies, we feel so unprepared.  Ready or not, it's about to happen!  I feel some pressure and then see my husband's eyes widen as a single drop of blood flies through the air and splashes onto his cheek.  He doesn't like blood, either.  I squeeze his hand. His eyes close tightly as he successfully fights the urge to pass out.
The operating table vibrates wildly under me while the linen tent above me undulates rapidly.
"What's going on down there?  Are you trying to kill me?"
The doctor laughs.  "We're just about to deliver your baby.  
A long pause.
"Here he is!"
I wait for the cry, but the room is silent.  Oh, my God, is he alive?  Why isn't he crying?
A nurse runs out of the room carrying a bundle.  Oh, Lord.  Please let him be all right.  I can't speak. Can't ask what is happening; too afraid to hear something dreadful.  Tortuous, long minutes pass. We are both frozen in fear.  Please God, please.  My heart hurts - it's pounding so fast.  Please, please, please.  A CRY! The most wonderful sound ever.  My baby cried!  I cry!
The nurse comes back into the room and places the tightly-wrapped bundle beside me on the operating table. Our son's eyes meet mine.  Such wonder.  A miracle.  A gift from God.  He looks just as we had imagined he would.  Brown eyes, big, crooked nose, little red curls dot his head.  He is MAGNIFICENT.

MAGNIFICENT - A GIFT

The sterility of artificial lighting and the silver sheen of highly-glossed medical instruments...we're in the operating room at St. Joseph's Hospital.
"All right.  Roll from the bed onto the table."
"Do what?  Onto where?"
"Come on.  You can do it!"
"I can't feel anything at all from my chest down to my feet and you're telling me to move?"
I lift my head and glance down at the body to which I seem to have no connection.  The epidural has severed it into two halves - mind and a big hunk of meat, formerly known as legs and torso.  I touch the disembodied appendages. They even feel like meat - cold, flaccid.  The lack of summer sun and thirty pounds of extra weight add an air of raw chicken flesh to the goosebumps that cover them. Why is it so cold in the operating room?
"Sorry, there's no way I can move from here.  You're going to have to help me."
Two strong nurses make short work of the transfer, straining only slightly under the bulky load. Starched linens snap as they cover my prone body with a tent-like structure, thankfully cutting off our view of it.  The glare of the harsh lighting causes me to squint as I glance up at my husband.  A hospital mask hides the lower half of his face which is still, I'm sure, registering fear.  He hates hospitals and when the doctor informed him in no uncertain terms that he WOULD go into the operating room with me, he had paled considerably.  I reach for his hand to comfort him and smile brightly.  I'm not at all afraid.  Everything will be fine. Yes, it's a shame that natural childbirth hadn't worked out for us, but women have cesarean sections all the time and rarely die.  
The sound of scuffling feet behind us herald the entrance of the doctor and his assistants.  They make their way to my lower half and are hidden behind the 'tent'. We hear the movement of a cart and then, "All right.  Let's get this baby born. Thirty-two hours is a long time to wait.  I'm going to make the incision now. You may feel some pressure, but it won't hurt."
"If I feel a thing, it will amaze me, Dr. Patrick."
I look at my husband and our eyes meet.  We are going to see our son, finally! Over the months, we'd speculated about his appearance. J.P. has black hair and dark brown eyes and I, as you know, have blond hair and green eyes.  Large noses can be found on both sides of the family. We laughed as we envisioned our future child's 'looks'.  "His eyes will be brown, because brown is dominant over green, his hair will probably be red, and he'll have a big nose for sure." 
Elation and fear. Are we ready for this?  Even after all of the books and manuals on childbirth and babies, we feel so unprepared.  Ready or not, it's about to happen!  I feel some pressure and then see my husband's eyes widen as a single drop of blood flies through the air and splashes onto his cheek.  He doesn't like blood, either.  I squeeze his hand. His eyes close tightly as he successfully fights the urge to pass out.
The operating table vibrates wildly under me while the linen tent above me undulates rapidly.
"What's going on down there?  Are you trying to kill me?"
The doctor laughs.  "We're just about to deliver your baby.  
A long pause.
"Here he is!"
I wait for the cry, but the room is silent.  Oh, my God, is he alive?  Why isn't he crying?
A nurse runs out of the room carrying a bundle.  Oh, Lord.  Please let him be all right.  I can't speak. Can't ask what is happening; too afraid to hear something dreadful.  Tortuous, long minutes pass. We are both frozen in fear.  Please God, please.  My heart hurts - it's pounding so fast.  Please, please, please.  A CRY! The most wonderful sound ever.  My baby cried!  I cry!
The nurse comes back into the room and places the tightly-wrapped bundle beside me on the operating table. Our son's eyes meet mine.  Such wonder.  A miracle.  A gift from God.  He looks just as we had imagined he would.  Brown eyes, big, crooked nose, little red curls dot his head.  He is MAGNIFICENT.