Category Archives: Short story

Poor Little Boy

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(Based on a writing prompt)

            Miles loved to jump. Every day he practiced running as fast as he could, then leaping over whatever barriers he had managed to construct.

            He didn’t jump because he dreamt of being an Olympic track star, but because he loved being set free in the great outdoors. He loved nature, but mostly Miles loved escaping his overly critical stepfather’s eye.

            The year he turned ten, the summer Olympics were held. His stepfather controlled the television, and since he wasn’t interested, Miles never got to see any events taking place in the evening. But whenever his stepfather was gone, Miles watched as much as he could, paying special attention to any event that involved jumping.

            He watched in fascination as runners took off mid-jump, flew through the air, then landed in a pit of sand. Mile then decided to practice the long jump in his backyard. He was afraid of taking that leap, but with practice, he soon felt pretty confident in his abilities.

            He was pretty sure he’d never do the high jump: he couldn’t imagine himself running with a long pole, planting it in the ground, then using it to spring himself high into the air and over a pole.

            What intrigued Miles the most were the hurdles. He counted the steps athletes took in between each hurdle, then practiced in his backyard.

            As he ran, he pictured himself winning a big award, becoming the Greatest of all Time. He’d step up on the podium like those Olympic athletes had done, with a huge smile on his face.

            With great humility, he’d lower his head so that the official could place the ribbon around his neck.

            One day at church, an announcement was made that CYO, or the Catholic Youth Organization, was forming a team from his parish. Miles begged his parents to let him join.

            He had to mow neighbor’s lawns to earn enough to pay the fee, and as soon as he had the money, his mom signed him up.

            After picking him up form school in the afternoons, his mom drove him to the church so he could practice.

            Mile tried everything, but the hurdles and long jump were his favorites.

            Meets were held on Sundays at the nearby community college.

            For the first few meets, Miles came in close to last, but as time passed, and he learned the proper methods, Miles standing improved. He came in seventh. Then second.

            When the final meet arrived, Miles told himself that his time had come, that he would win.

            And so he did, then went on to win the Diocesan finals. From there he went to Sacramento, and won at the state level.

            Several years later when Miles enrolled in high school, he was pretty darn good. As a freshman, he came in first at every meet. Soon he was moved to Varsity, where he kept winning one red ribbon after another.

            Until a runner in the lane next to him reached out and punched Miles in the shoulder. Miles fell to the ground, fracturing his thigh in three places.

            Physical therapy helped regain his ability to walk at a good pace, but he’d never run again.

            The high school coach found a place for Miles on the team: as a mentor for up-and-coming hurdlers.

            While he couldn’t compete, he had the satisfaction of watching his teammates win.

            As an adult, Miles coached a youth track team, instilling in the little kids the love of the sport.

            He was saddened, but not distraught. He had accomplished his dream, then despite injury, was able to inspire others.

            Out of sadness can come joy, if one keeps their eyes open.

Genuine

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            Andrea loved walking the streets of New York City. The colors, the lights, the excited milling crowds enthralled her.

            She’d planned on a short, three-day stay, long enough to see some of the sights, but not too long to tax her budget. For months, Andrea researched things to do in the city, narrowing her list down to what she hoped was doable.

            A friend had told Andrea to get up early in the morning, join the line at the Thx booth in order to score reduced price tickets for Broadway plays. While she stood there, the air brisk and fog spewing out of everyone’s mouths, a light rain began to fall.

            Venders appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, lost-cost umbrellas being hawked.

            At first Andrea refused, but the longer she stood in the slow-moving line, the harder it rained. She chose a pink one, not her favorite color, but one that would stand out in the crowd.

            She was elated to get a ticket to one of the many shows she’d hoped to see, a spin-off of a romantic comedy she’d read years ago.

            That done, she spent the morning shopping for little gifts to bring home to her family and friends. A couple of keychains for Danny and Michelle, partners at work. Friendship bracelets for her cousin’s twin girls. A holographic image of the city’s skyline for her boss, to add the her collection displayed in the bookcase behind her desk.

            Laden with a variety of small, colorful bags, Andrea stepped into a pop-up Taco restaurant that smelled so delicious that she couldn’t pass it up.

            They sold only three varieties: shredded beef, diced grilled chicken, and a veggie combination that Andrea should have chosen, but didn’t. Not knowing how large the taco would be, she bought two: beef and chicken. Both were delicious.

            A glance at her watch told her she had enough time to get to her hotel, drop off her purchases, and get in line at the theater. Hurrying through the crowded streets, she was jostled repeatedly, but because she’d been warned, Andrea clutched everything close to her chest.

            One rid of her bags, she headed north on Broadway, mesmerized by the flashing, colorful, larger-than-life displays.

Just as she found the theater and got in line, a well-dressed man appeared on her right side.

“Are you interested in jewelry, mam?”

Andrea stared ahead, hoping to discourage him.

The line moved forward, just enough to leave a gap between her and the couple in front. The man filled that gap, a gap-toothed grin lighting up his face.

Andrea’s eyes looked him up and down, even though she tried not to. He was well-built, clean-shaven, dressed in clean jeans and a button-down collar shirt. His skin had a pleasant tan that was enhanced by bright yellow hair.

If she’d met him under different circumstances, she would have been interested in a first date. Maybe a second or third. Heck, she thought, perhaps even marriage!

Andrea knew he was a hustler, but was so intrigued by him that she actually looked at the bracelets he pulled out of a jacket pocket.

“Which do you like best?” he asked as he moved his arm back and forth, allowing them to glitter in the sun.

Andrea pinched her lips and shook her head. She knew better than to buy purloined goods, so when the line moved forward, she turned her eyes away.

“Do you like turquoise and silver?” He leaned forward, placing his head very close to hers.

Andrea smiled. Yes, she did, she wanted to say, but there’s no way it could be made of real stones and actual silver.

The man slid the bracelet off his arm and brought it closer to Andrea’s eyes. “I’ll sell it to you at a good price.” He beamed. “And, just for the heck of it,” he said as he reached into his coat pocket, “I’ll throw in the matching necklace for just five dollars more.”

She’d always wanted a turquoise and silver necklace and bracelet, but found them too expensive for her teacher’s salary. But, this pair was incredibly beautiful. The craftsmanship seemed refined, as if done by a silversmith working in a home studio.

Her heart pounded, telling her to touch it, just to see.

The line moved forward, much quicker this time. She was close to the door. The time to decide had arisen.

“Are the stones real?”

The man beamed.

Despite knowing better, Andrea bought them both. As she slid the bracelet onto her arm and placed the necklace inside her purse, she felt quite pleased with herself.

Over and over she told herself they were genuine materials. That she’d scored a bargain. That she’d never tell her friends that she’d fallen for a scam.

There was, after all, the possibility that they were real.

The Lost Girl

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            Serena hated reading aloud or being asked to write on the board. She shrunk inside and out if a classmate got to close, or heaven forbid, the teacher should lean over her shoulder to see what she hadn’t written.

            She’d learned these things at home, where a wrong look, a too loud sound, a spoken word could get her smacked around. Or maybe just shaken up a bit.

            Her father insisted she keep her eyes down, at all times, because he said he hated the golden outlines around her pupils. They sickened him. Made him think of devils. Caused him to beat the shit out of her.

            So at school, Serena kept her eyes focused on the top of her desk, all day long, not wanting to call attention to herself. The teacher might hate her eyes, too.

            The only time she raised her eyes was when the teacher had written something on the board. Or when her name was called.

            Serena jumped one Friday afternoon when the teacher tapped her desk with a ruler.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” Ms. Brown barked.

Serena raised her eyes, just far enough that she hoped would satisfy Ms. Brown. She blinked a dozen times, trying to keep tears from dripping down her cheeks.

“Good,” the teacher said. “Now, answer the question: who built the pyramids in Giza?”

Serena shook her head. “I…I don’t know.”

The classroom filled with laughter, as it did every time Serena spoke up.

“Shush,” the teacher said as she waved her hand at the rest of the class. “Get to work. Right now.”

Serena read the next question on the quiz. “What’s the lion-shaped pyramid called?” She brought her pencil to her chin and tapped, once, twice, three times, but nothing came to her.

School had always been incredibly difficult for her. When her classmates began reading chapter books, Serena tried to pick out the few words she did recognize. When it came time to answer questions about the passages, she remembered nothing. And when the teacher called on her to answer aloud, her classmates always, always laughed until they were bent over from the effort.

Serena sighed. If she wrote nothing, she’d earn a red check mark. If she wrote the wrong answer, she’d get the same mark. She shrugged, started writing The King, when a shadow fell across her desk and the tiniest movement of air caressed the back of her neck.

“Are you okay?” Ms. Brown whispered. “Do you feel safe at home?”

Excellent questions, Serena thought, ones she’d been asked a million times. “Yes,” she squeezed out.

Ms. Brown leaned over and rested her elbows on the top of the desk. “I want you to tell me the truth, not some made-up answer you give to send everyone away.” She bent her head over until her chin nearly touched the wood. “I promise that you won’t get in trouble.”

Serena had heard all this before and knew that Ms. Brown was lying. No one could protect her from her father. Her Aunt Marg had tried to remove her from the home, but her father had punched her Aunt in the stomach so hard that the air whooshed out in a painful-sounding grunt.

“Serena, blink twice if you are scared to go home or if you don’t feel safe there.”

The girl thought about it. Nodded once, then blinked twice, just in case this time it might make a difference.

Ms. Brown nodded, sighed, then slowly raised her head. “Don’t go home when school ends. Someone will be here to take you to a safe place.”

Serena raised her head, and for the first time all year, joy lit her face.

Unexpected Reunion

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            There’s something sweet about running into friends you haven’t seen in twenty years. A magnetic pull draws your eyes on each other, there’s the tilting of heads and wondering, is that…? And then you think about it some more, glancing at her face, looking for a tidbit of recognition.

            What’s incredible is the joy you feel when you remember Judy, how kindly she treated you, how she welcomed you into her group of friends.

            Going way back in time, I was hired to teach a Special Day Class at an elementary in Newark, California. This would be my first job as a special education instructor, with just six credits behind me. I’d been teaching for over a decade by then, but always with “regular” education students.

            I knew how to deliver instruction to them, but had only research and whatever I’d gleaned from the two college-level courses I’d taken.

            My students were fourth and fifth graders. All needy, all with severe learning disabilities that impacted academic work. But out on the playground, they were “normal” kids wanting to have “normal” friends.

            Think back to your school years. Nine and ten years olds can be mean. They target the weak and different. They exclude anyone who might impact their own social status. They won’t eat lunch with them, include them in playground games, and don’t like it when “those” kids enter their classroom for shared lessons.

            I could deal with that. I taught my students about bullies, taught them how to ask to join, taught them how to act in public.

            I integrated them into “regular” classrooms whenever possible, something every special education student has a right to do.

            What I didn’t expect was to be ostracized by my peers, those teaching the same age students that sat in my classroom.

            A very definite clique existed. There was a group of about five teachers who sat in the same seats during lunch and meetings. They spoke only to group members. They shared curriculum ideas only with group members.

            When gatherings evidence for a state-mandated review, they highlighted the achievements of their students, and even though I submitted my students’ work, none of it showed up in the finished binder.

            They planned fieldtrips for all fourth graders, but didn’t include mine. Same with the fifth graders. At the end of the school year their classes organized a picnic at the local park. As in every other way, my students weren’t included. In fact, if I hadn’t overheard them talking, I wouldn’t have known about it.

            I didn’t feel welcome.

            The lower grades were clustered on the east side of the campus. I could look out my classroom window and see them coming and going. I could hear the joyous sounds of the children and wish that my students could experience that same joy.

            Since I was an outcast during lunch and meetings, I often found myself seated near the lower-grade teachers. They were warm and welcoming. When I needed help, unlike the clique, they were there for me.

            They welcomed my students into their classes and treated them as equals.

            They became my friends.

            When our principal announced his retirement, at the same time, my Director of Special Education offered me a position at the high school, something I’d wanted for years.  I declined, not wanting to leave those lower-grade friends.

            A few weeks later, the new principal was introduced. She was a member of the clique, the one who refused to include my students’ work in the binder, the one who only looked at me with disdain, the one who didn’t want my students integrated with hers.

            I contacted the Director and accepted the transfer. But I told no one.

            I didn’t want a fake goodbye party or cards or a cake. I didn’t want to be treated to a lunch. Why should I? Only one of the upper grade teachers ever “saw” me or my students.

            So when the year ended, the last meetings had been held, when most teachers had cleaned up and gone home, I packed my things on a weekend, and left. Period.

            Today my friend Judy told me that my friends had wondered what had happened to me, why I left without saying goodbye.

            She was sad when I told her. She said that none of them knew what had happened, how my students were ostracized and how rudely I’d been treated.

            What’s wonderful is that we reconnected immediately. Before today’s lunch ended, we’d exchange phone numbers and promise to get together.

            As I was driving home, my eyes filled with tears. I am looking forward to seeing them, catching up and being included in a social circle that I thought had long ago forgotten who I was.

            What’s weird is that I know her husband through a writers’ group, but I had never connected his last name with someone from my past.

            Reunions can be sweet, and this one certainly was.

The End

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            I love music. Have loved it since I was quite young. I seldom sang where someone could here me, primarily because my family told me I couldn’t sing.

            My bedroom was the only place I felt comfortable singing, always in a soft voice. Unfortunately, I shared the room with my younger sister. That meant that I could only sing when she wasn’t in the room. And because she knew how to annoy me, she’d pop in whenever she heard the door close.

            We had a backyard, though. I started going outside whenever the dog was there, to keep her company (she was like a therapy dog long before there were such things). That worked only as long as it wasn’t raining or foggy, and since the house was up on Skyline Boulevard in San Bruno, it was often in fog.

            I took to walking the dog, carrying a small radio. I’d sing as we strolled up and down hills. One day, lost in song, I didn’t see the loose dog charging mine. I picked up Lady Coco and cradled her to my chest as the evil monster leapt up, over and over, trying to kill her.

            Because I was miserable at home, I had to get out of the house every day, usually at least twice a day, to give myself to calm down, to let the tears dry up, to settle my stomach. Even though Coco had been close to being killed, I wanted, no needed, to walk her.

            I left the radio behind and carried a wooden baseball bat. My music wasn’t with me, so I couldn’t sing.

            I traded my sanity for safety. I never regretted the choice.

            I didn’t sing again for many years. Well, until I bought my first car and found radio stations I liked. As long as I was alone (I frequently was forced to drive my sister places), I could sing.

            I never took a music class in high school or college. I never joined the church choir. I never sang on camping trips. And when my husband gave me a guitar for Christmas one year, I never accompanied myself.

            My first real teaching job was at a Catholic Elementary school. Teachers attended many workshops and seminars, dealing with a wide range of topics. Most were sort of okay. Not earth-shattering.

            Then we all went to the Cathedral in Oakland for three full days of music, services and workshops. Well known writers attended, singing tracks on their albums. Oh, how I loved those sessions!

            Music came back, full blast. I began singing, at church, with my students, to music in my car and at home. (I was now married, to a wonderful man who encouraged me to try everything.)

            Our church formed a small choir to sing at our Mass. I sat near the pianist, singing along. A friend convinced me to join. I did, but sang in a whisper, terrified that I’d hit a gazillion bad notes.

            The numbers of participants varied widely. Sometimes there might be six, others just two. Then one Mass it was just me. The time had come for me to raise my voice and sing.

            I’m not sure how I summoned the courage, but I did. Not just for that one Mass, but for many to come. I was often a soloist, leading the congregation in the psalm (standing up front at the podium).

            I did okay.

            Then that choir director was replaced with a very, very young overconfident, full of himself director. He did an excellent job encouraging people to join. He taught us how to really “read” music, to follow the symbols for dynamics, to blend voices.

            All was going well until we held a session at a choir member’s house. I was scheduled to be the cantor at Sunday’s Mass. During a break, I approached the director to go over the psalm. He informed me that I couldn’t sing, that I had to get rid of the vibration in my voice.

            I felt me cheeks get hot, packed my bag and left.

            I didn’t return to the choir until that director was replaced with a smiling, pleasant, encouraging young man.

            He made me feel welcomed and valued. I returned to cantoring the psalm and was often the only choir member (during the pandemic when we held Mass in the school parking lot.)

            He left for a new job.

            The new director brought a soloist with an incredible voice. She only seemed to know about four songs, the words were never projected for the congregation to see, and he made no attempt to form a choir.

            He left suddenly a few months ago. The new director, another young man, this one a graduate in Music, started a choir. I joined shortly after.

            A week ago he asked me to cantor the psalm. Just the thought of singing up there, in front of the congregation made my head hurt. He encouraged me, met me privately to go over the psalm.

            Sunday came. I practice out in the garage, going over and over the psalm. I knew I wasn’t ready, I knew I wasn’t hitting the right notes, and I knew I was too scared to do it.

            When I arrived at church, I should have said something, I should have declined (there were two seasoned cantors there who could have taken over) but I didn’t.

            Two of my friends recorded my “performance”. I didn’t have to listen as I knew every off-key note I’d hit.

            The humiliation was so great, so painful, that I could barely walk out of church.

            The intent was to add me to the rotating list of cantors. When rehearsal comes up Friday, I will announce boldly, clearly, without hesitation that I will never, ever cantor again.

            I will sing with the choir, where I feel both comfortable and confidant, but my days of being a cantor have come to an abrupt end.

Training Pays Off

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            Briana stood in the middle of a huge field; her head ducked down to avoid detection. She’d been playing with the wheat tassels, brushing them with her hands when she heard the gravelly voices of Kobat warriors. Briana chanced a glance in their direction, poking her head up just enough so she could see.

There were four: each dressed in dark green woodsman robes and wearing helmets so shiny that the roiling clouds up above seemed to be streaming from their heads.

One of the men glanced in her direction, so Briana ducked down, practically burying her face in the dirt. She hoped she was safe: that the men, traveling on huge war-horses, wouldn’t spot her so far below.

Briana wasn’t the waiting kind. She’d been reminded over and over that there were things worth waiting for, but she didn’t care. She’d whine and pound her fists as huge tears streamed down her face.

This time, though, she’d hide as long as it took until the marauders moved on.

She practiced her shallow breathing, making as little noise as possible. And she counted. To ten. Twenty. Just as she got to thirty-one, the wind came up.

            A gentle breeze at first. When she turned onto her back, it cooled her sweaty face. She opened her mouth to take in the blessed air, and the taste of fresh baked bread came to her. A fruit tart finishing up in a clay oven. The smell of clean clothes hanging out to dry.

            When Briana no longer heard the warriors’ voices, she ventured a quick peek. They hadn’t left, but were now leaning from one side of their horses to the other, sweeping aside the stalks, moving nearer and nearer to where she still hid.

            On hands and knees, Briana scuttled as quietly as she could, through the field, moving east, toward her hamlet where her family and friends would protect her. It took so long to travel such a small way and it was so hard, so hard to crawl over the lumpy dirt and roots.

            The breeze turned into a wind that tossed the tops of the wheat back and forth, creating a vibration that she not only heard, but felt. It called to her, singing a song of safety, directing her to change course, to move toward the men, not away.

            No, that can’t be right, she thought, but turned back anyway, remembering the lessons of her family. Listen to the voices, follow direction, do as your told.

            Her da had taught her how to stalk prey. Her ma sang about ancients who escaped detection when murderers came to their little valley. Briana understood now, for the first time in her ten years of life, why her parents spoke of such things: they wanted her to be prepared. And she was.

            Over the tops of the bending, waving wheat, Briana heard a high-pitched voice. She scrunched her eyes, tilted her head to hear better, but it didn’t belong to the warriors or to anyone she knew. It seemed to be saying, come here, come here and I will save you.

            Briana stole a look and ducked back down when there was a man standing within arm’s reach of where she hid. She held her breath for as long as she could, and then only took in tiny bits of air: enough. Just enough.

            When the man’s heavy boots stomped away, Briana crawled toward the beautiful voice, still calling her to come.

            A burrow appeared. Made by rabbits or a fox, but a path. A path heading in the right direction. Briana dug in her fingers, pulled herself inside the cozy wheat-tent. And there she stayed, the only movement slowly, slowly, covering herself with dried out stalks and bits of debris.

            When the sun moved, shadows deepened, darkened, her hiding place. She couldn’t see them, but she smiled when overhead the night birds sang, chirping happy songs. They wouldn’t do that if there was danger, she thought.

            Reminding herself to be brave, that she herself came from a long line of warriors, Briana scooted back out of the tunnel and raised her head until she could look out over the field.

            The men were gone.

            She hadn’t heard them leave. Had she fallen asleep?

            She stood with knees bent, high enough to catch the murmuration of tiny brown birds, diving, twisting, turning every which way in a mesmerizing pattern of dark and not-so-dark.

            A tawny cat appeared out of the gloom, rubbed against her leg. Briana reached down to pet it, to scratch its chin, but the cat raised its tail and turned, and with only a glance over one shoulder, disappeared.

            Briana followed as best she could. The cat helped, of course, by reappearing whenever Briana faltered or lost direction.

            Soon, well, maybe not so soon as her knees began to ache, the cat stepped out into a dirt path. It didn’t seem wary: instead, it meowed, then trotted off toward the roundabout trail that led to the village.

            The cat walked her home, which was good as Briana’s night vision had never been good. And within a heartbeat, her cozy cottage sprung from the dark, its windows aglow with candle light.

            Briana scooped up the cat, opened the wooden door and stepped into the waiting arms of her ma and da.

            I’m keeping the cat, she said. He saved my life.

            Her parents hugged her, saying sure, sure, sure.

            But then the cat jumped out of Briana’s arms, and before its four paws landed on the dirt floor, it morphed into a fairy: the most beautiful one Briana had ever seen.

            It seemed to be a boy, which surprised Briana as she thought all fairies were girls. Its luminescent blue wings shimmered in the candlelight. Briana tried to touch a wing, but the fairy grumbled, I am not yours, but you are mine. And then he helped himself to the last bowl of lamb stew, the one that had been saved for the little girl.

I Just Had to Try

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If colors are magic, then fireflies would transport messages. Why not, I thought? But how to measure when it’s so darned hard to catch enough bugs to test my theory.

I decided to experiment with flashing colors into tanks of fireflies I’d paid little kids to catch. They had a wonderful time running around with the jars I’d given them, and the only cost to me was a few rainbow lollipops.

I must have a hundred: no, maybe only seventy. Fifty? Never mind. It was enough because it was all I had.

I set up photography reflectors, one on each side of the rectangular tank. Turned off the annoying overhead lights, then with a color wheel attached to my flashlight, began the experiment.

Red, no matter how dark or how faded, caused great agitation. The “flies” dashed and dated about, bouncing off the glass walls of the tank, careening into each other, even tearing off the wings of some. So I turned off the light.

Waited a good ten minutes.

Blue kept them calm lethargic almost. They’d fly about in slow zigzags, eyes half-open.

Yellow sent them to the top of the tank, clinging to the mesh lid and swaying their heads back and forth, back and forth as if drugged.

Green sent them off, looking up and down, up and down. I couldn’t decipher why until it came to me they were looking for food.

After that I played with color combinations. I shot bursts of light into the tank, using the Morse code. Imagine my surprise when the fireflies clustered close to the light source and began rhythmically blinking their eyes.

I wrote down the letters, or what I thought were letters. It wasn’t a language I knew, so I called in the School of Languages. Five professors showed up, looked at my recordings, watched the bugs, and argued. Was it Spanish? No. French? No. A form of ancient Egyptian? Still no.

Oh, the argument that ensued! All those experts yammering at each other, determined to prove the others wrong!

I shooed them away, filled out a grant request to create a language lab that only I would run. It was quickly approved: this was a novel idea! Something no one had ever explored before.

Applications came in. I hired two, a young man with knowledge of six Latin-based languages, and a teen from Illinois who was fluent in four Middle-Eastern tongues.

The students divided the fireflies into separate tanks. (This was a fresh supply as the durned bugs don’t live that long!)

Each student flashed in alphabets from a language. Waited. The bugs responded with the blinking of eyes and the flapping of wings.

Within a week, both students and bugs had mastered a form of communication that was part of this language and part of that.

Newly hatched fireflies knew the language so well, that we decided to release the more advanced ones into the university’s forest.  We set up observation stations, night-vision cameras, sent up drones and attached homing boxes high up in the trees, on the tops of buildings.

Imagine how pleased I was when more and more of the bugs seemed to be communicating! Not just with each other, but with us!

I saw myself winning a Nobel Prize, writing an award-winning scientific study, jumping to professor status seemingly overnight!

Not content to stick with the whiteish light from our flashlights, we experiment with colors. Yellow made them land on branches. Purple seemed to put them to sleep (we had to stop right away when bats swept in and began eating our students!)

Red. I didn’t want to use red, but the boy, he disobeyed just to see what would happen.

An all-out war began. Bug eating bug, tearing off wings and legs. Biting off heads.

The boy thought it was great fun and wouldn’t stop until I tore the light from his hand.

By that time, not one bug was alive.

All that research wasted. My Prize and tenure gone.

Oh, well, I thought.

What would happen if I worked with cougars instead?

Gratitude Comes in Small Packages

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            One September morning as my mom and I sat on our back porch steps, a group of children walked by, happily swinging colorful metal boxes. They laughed and giggled with huge smiles on their faces. I thought they were the luckiest kids on earth.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“To school.” Mom lit a cigarette, threw the used match into the dirt.

“What’s school?”

She inhaled and then blew out the smoke. “You’ll find out in a few years.” I coughed as her smoke filled my throat and nose.

Two more happy kids walked by, carrying those strange boxes.

“Why are all those kids carrying metal boxes?”

“Their lunches.” She inhaled again, this time, thankfully, turning her head to the side before blowing out the smoke.

“Can I have one?”

“It’s too early for lunch.”

“No, I mean,” as I nodded in the direction the kids had gone. “Can I have a box, too?”

“Not until you go to school.” Using her scuffed tennis shoe Mom ground the cigarette into a mashed-up blob.

“Can I go to school now?” I asked.

“Not until you’re five.”

I counted on my fingers. “So in two more years.”

“Yes. Your brother will go to school next year, then you the year after that.” My mother lit a new cigarette. She inhaled and then once again, her smoke drifted my way.

“What do you do at school?”

“Learn things.” This time she leaned her head back before sending her smoke into the sky. With her cigarette dangling from her fingers, she stood, brushed off her skirt, turned and opened the door. “It’s time to go inside.”

I followed her into the kitchen. “Why can’t I have a lunchbox now? Why do I have to wait two years?”

“There’s no money and you don’t need one.” My mother bent over and removed two pans from the cabinet. She opened doors and drawers, taking something from each. Lastly, she dug around in the refrigerator, emerging with something in each hand.

“I want a lunchbox now.”

She flung a hand toward the front room. “Go away and quit bothering me.”

I went into the bedroom that I shared with my brother. I climbed up on my bed so I could see out the window. A few more smiling kids went by, each of them swinging a lunchbox. I placed my right hand on the window glass, as if I was reaching out, wishing I could walk with them. I watched for a while longer, but saw no more kids.

When my dad came home, before he could hang his coat over the back of a kitchen chair, I asked him for a lunchbox. I thought he’d understand since he carried one. His was old and dented, not new like the ones the kids had, but he had one.

“Can I have a lunchbox?”

He looked over at my mom who was doing something in the kitchen.  “Why does she want a lunchbox? Did you put that foolishness in her head?”

Mom shook her head, but didn’t turn around. “She saw kids carrying boxes like they do every morning and that’s all she can think about.” My mother scooped food into bowls and carried them the table. “Dinner’s ready.”

My brother was already seated in his chair.

I slid into mine and began swinging my legs. “I to be like those kids.”

“Let it go.” My mom glowered at me.

I knew that was the signal to shut up, but I didn’t want to shut up.

“Daddy, do I have to wait until I go to school? Can’t I have one now?”

“Shut up and eat,” he said.

I did the best that I could with tears in my eyes and dripping down my throat. It took me a long time to finish, long after Mom had washed the dishes and put them away.

I was still seated at the table when I heard Mom tell my brother than it was time for bed,

Knowing my dad was alone, I tiptoed into the front room. “Please, Daddy, can I have a lunchbox?”

“Go to bed,” he said without looking my way.

The next morning, I sat on the kitchen steps again, watching kids go by. “Mother, I’d take really good care of a lunchbox.”

“Shut up about it.” Her face looked angry, so I was quiet while my mother finished her cigarette and went inside.

I drew pictures of lunchboxes and kids and me, all walking together, smiles on our faces.

When my dad came home, I asked him again. He didn’t say no, but he didn’t say yes, either. I listened when he went into the kitchen where my mom was working on dinner. I tried to pick out words, but not even one came clear. We ate dinner and then my brother and I went to bed.

In the morning, I discovered a blue metal box sitting on the kitchen table. “What’s that?”

“Something your father brought home,” my mother said. There was a look on her face that I didn’t understand. She didn’t seem to be angry, but she wasn’t smiling, either.

My fingers carefully touched the sides of the box. It was bumpy in places and smooth in others. “Who’s this for?”

“Open it up.”

Inside I found a sandwich wrapped in paper and an apple. “Is this for Bill?”

“No. It’s yours.”

My eyes grew huge with surprise. And when my mom nodded, I picked it up by the handle. I walked all over the house swinging it just like those kids. “Does this mean I’m going to school?”

She shook her head.

“Did Bill get a lunchbox?”

“He doesn’t want one.”

“Oh.” I rocked back and forth, thinking. My brother didn’t get a box and he had to go to school first. “I get to keep it?”

“Yes. It’s for you.”

I carried my lunchbox into the front room and sat on the couch. I opened the lid. The sandwich and apple were still there. I picked each one up, turned them from side to side and then put them back inside. I closed the lid and flipped the latch. “When will it be lunchtime?”

 “Find something to keep you busy,” my mother called from the kitchen.

I went into my room and retrieved a coloring book and crayons from under my bed. Sat on the floor with my lunchbox at my side. I colored several pictures, taking time to stay in the lines like my mother wanted.

My mother called from the front room, “Lunch time.”

I put my things away and carried my lunchbox into the kitchen. I placed it on the table and sat in my chair. I opened the lid and took out my sandwich.

“Is this what kids do at school?”

“Yes. They sit at tables to eat.” My mother opened the door and stepped outside. She lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke out into the air.

I took a bite of the sandwich. “Why do I have this if I can’t go to school?”

“Your father wanted you to have it.” She inhaled again. “Just be grateful.”

I was grateful.

That blue metal box was my most precious possession until it got lost during one of our many moves.

Revelation

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Little Emily’s nose crunched as she bent down to examine the deep red rose petals creating a carpet leading to the wedding arch. With her right hand, the toddler carefully arranged one petal after another until they were perfectly aligned. The gathered celebrants smiled as the wedding photographer knelt, then lay on the grass, snapping one shot after another, capturing that moment, when she should have been following the bride and groom.

Grandma’s House

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            My Grandmother Williams lived in southeastern Ohio near the town of Gallipolis. She grew up poor, with her parents and later her husband working as poor tenant farmers. She was uneducated in terms of schooling, but knew a lot about cooking and working on the land. She and my grandfather together raised seven children, only one of which attended high school. Most of the others made it through eighth grade, which was a one-room schoolhouse at the time.

My grandfather borrowed a mule and wagon from a local farmer. Every morning he hitched them together and rode out along dirt roads to a hunk of land that he leased. There he grew corn and beans, staples of the family’s diet all year long. As they became more prosperous, my grandparents bought a house on a hill overlooking the Ohio River. That is the home that I knew, the place where we would come annually for a visit.

It was not a fancy house. Out back was a pit toilet that I despised. Not only did it smell atrocious, but it contained numerous spider webs dangling from the roof and swarms of flies buzzing around the “seat”. Heat was from a coal-burning stove that took up a sizable chunk of the front room. The roaring flames terrified me. When the door was opened to shovel in more fuel, I thought for sure that I was looking into the depths of hell.

My grandmother cooked on a wood-burning stove. How she created such marvelous meals with such primitive tools, I never knew. Even as a child I recognized that her task was not an easy one. On top of that, she set aside fruits and vegetables grown in her garden for consumption later on in the year. This was the time of year that we came for a visit: so that my mother could help with the grueling task of canning all that my grandparents had harvested. I did not have to help except for the shucking of corn and the snapping of beans, thank goodness, but I was expected to stay in the boiling hot kitchen until the task was complete.

The outcome was shelves full of glistening jars of a variety of tasty treats. No matter when we came to visit, there was always a something special to be opened and food to be shared.

            At home my mother carried on the tradition. Out in the backyard was my mother’s garden. She grew tomatoes, strawberries, corn, green beans and many other vegetables. A neighbor had fruit trees, and so we picked apples, peaches and pears from her yard. It all meant work. Almost every day throughout spring, summer and fall there was something to be canned. As a young child, just as at my grandmother’s, I participated minimally, but when I became a teenager, my mother expected me to stand at her side and work as an equal. I hated it.

            The work was hard. It meant endless hours of standing, peeling, pinching, pulling, plucking. My fingers ached. My feet and back complained. Perspiration streamed down my face and neck. There was endless washing of jars and sorting of lids. Standing over a hot stove, stirring whatever the product was at that time. Eventually it was poured into jars and the lids screwed on.

            The next step was the most challenging. The jars were gently placed into a pot of boiling water. Then we waited for the water to return to a boil and for the sealing to take place. There could be no talking, no music, no noise of any kind. One by one the lids would “pop”, signaling that the seal was complete. If six jars went into the pot, then we waited for six “pops”. Sometimes there were only five or four. Then my mom had to test each jar until she found the ones that refused to seal. Back into the pot they went, this time with new lids. The entire process lasted not just for hours, but for days, until every last piece of fruit was canned. Every day was the same: working, stirring, waiting for water to boil.

            I grew up thinking that this was a woman’s duty, albeit a tedious one. The rewards were obvious. As fall turned into winter and the snows fell turning the world into a crystal palace, all we had to do was walk into the garage and bring in a jar of treasure. Summer would blossom forth once again as sweet strawberry jam covered out toast or tasty green beans filled out plates. My mother’s efforts were welcomed and appreciated.

            When I became a stay-at-home mom, I accepted that the tradition was now mine to embrace. I decided to can so that we would have jams and fruits all year long, just as I had from my childhood. I got out a cookbook and found the directions for canning.  I went through all the preparation steps as carefully as I could. Each piece of fruit was peeled and cut. If I was making jam, then the fruit went into a giant kettle for cooking. I stood over the pot, stirring continuously to keep it from burning. When the pectin thickened the mixture, it was poured into jars. Lids were carefully applied.

            The jars went into the pot of boiling water. And I waited. And waited. Sometimes I would hear a pop, but most times I didn’t. I re-boiled the errant jars. And waited and waited. Some days it felt as if all I was doing was waiting for the water to boil.

            While I did not can as much food as my mother or grandmother, I did put aside applesauce, strawberry jam, pickles, tomatoes, peaches, and apricots. The problem was that I didn’t trust the safety of my work. What if the water wasn’t hot enough? What if I had become distracted by a good book and didn’t hear enough pops?

            All that waiting for water to boil, for what? Uncertain products and the possibility of poisoning my family. Nevertheless, I canned for several seasons in a row. At no point did I feel that my results were as good as those of my grandmother or mother. Nothing reminded me of home and nothing seemed worth the effort.

            Fortunately for me, my husband did not expect me to can. He realized that I was a better mother than a cook. On top of that, it was so much easier to blanch vegetables and then put them in the freezer. It required much less work, was safer all around. And no waiting for water to boil was involved.