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Thinking Back

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I’ve been asked what I would do differently if I could go back in time. First of all, I wouldn’t do that. I didn’t enjoy my early years, hated middle school and despised high school. I didn’t start to truly enjoy life until I met and married my husband. The years we have had together have been the best ones of my life.

As a child I was sulky and miserable. I was born eighteen months after my brother and walked in his shadow even beyond college. I knew that my mom worshipped and protected my brother, and so I wanted to be exactly like him. I played sports of all kinds as a kid, which meant endless hours of kickball with the neighborhood kids, whiffle ball in our backyard, along with badminton, sledding,  and snowball throwing. While I was a decent athlete, I could not throw as hard as my brother did and so found myself with reddened palms time after time.

I was one year behind my brother in school, which meant being held up to his academic standards by teacher after teacher. I don’t know how much time my brother spent studying. For me, reading, writing, science and history did not come easy. I didn’t learn to read independently until fourth grade, but once I mastered the skill, you couldn’t keep a book out of my hands. Spelling didn’t make sense. How can cow, how, now and show have the same root, but sound differently? Science and history required memorization, something which did not come easy to me. I spent hour after hour on homework every night, rereading the same passages time after time. There were two subjects in which I excelled: math and languages.

We were as close as kids could be. Partly because we spent many hours together inside the house during the winter, during which we played board games, that I always lost, built castles with Lincoln Logs and had epic battles with armies of plastic men. We built igloos and had epic sledding hills that crossed three backyards. We explored the woods behind our house, jumped off boulders and climbed trees.

Neither of us had any mechanical skills, so while my brother was a disappointment to our father, I equally disappointed my mom. My brother had no interest in changing oil or tires. I had no desire to learn how to cook. Both of us spent time watching and getting yelled at when we didn’t pay attention.

I did not play with dolls. In fact, the only dolls I ever owned were several of the fancily dressed kind that simply rested against my pillow and a mechanical one that rolled about on skates. I was not allowed to play with the first because my mother feared that I would mess them up. She was probably right. The skater required batteries, which were expensive, and so not available. Barbie came out when I was a young teen, but I could only afford a cheap plastic cut-off whose arms fell off and whose “skin” was translucent.

My sister was born when I was seven. There was enough distance between us that we had little in common, and so we did not spend time together other than the sharing of a bedroom. It was probably my fault, as I put no effort into befriending her, finding her unable to do and uninterested in the things that I enjoyed.

That is one thing that I would change. I would find a way to embrace her, to search out those activities that we could have done together. She was into playing with dolls, walking them through pretend worlds and relationships that I could not understand or relate to. But what if I had tried? Would that have erased some of the years between us? Would it have brought us closer together? Part of me wants to believe that it would, but another part of me remembers how much my mother cared for my sister. How much she protected her and fussed over her, and then I’m not so sure.

School was one of many places where I felt most alone. I did not have playground friends, so spent much of my primary years sitting on a bench against the wall, watching others laugh and giggle and run around like nuts. I remember hating Valentine’s Day. While I had cards for everyone in my class, I seldom received cards in return. I was never invited to birthday parties and only once went to a sleepover when I was in middle school. My mom bought me new pajamas for that affair, as mine were old and faded. But I had been sheltered from the world of teen magazines and gossip television shows, so when the girls talked about kissing and hair and clothes, I had nothing to contribute. I felt even more isolated after that.

In eighth grade I transferred to public school and fell in love with my teacher. Mr. Bennington was kind and patient, two qualities that I desperately yearned to be the receiver of. When asked to do a research project on a college that we might like to attend, guess what I did? I found Bennington College in Vermont. I was proud of myself until I turned it in, and then I was too embarrassed to talk about it in front of the class. That is something else that I would change. I’d find a college closer to home as my target and report on it.

I went on my first date in eighth grade. Our school had a prom-like affair in mid-year. A dorky boy asked me out and I accepted. (Of course, I was also a dork!) I did not know how to dance and was uncomfortable with his touch. The evening was long and painful.

I was a shy child, not just in Kindergarten, but all the way through most of my college years. I was the kid in the class that no one knew. I did not raise my hand to answer questions, did not seek help from my teachers, and did not go up to the front of the room for group activities. In fact, I remember scooting down in my desk when my reading group was called and sitting there while all the others had the teacher’s attention. Yes, it held me back. As I sat in my chair, I yearned for the teacher to notice that I was not in the circle and call me forward, but she never did.

If I could have chosen my desk in middle and high school, I would have sat at the back of the room, I so feared attention from the teachers. Unfortunately teachers generally assign seats by alphabetical order of last name, so I ended up somewhere down the second row. That is something I did change when I returned to college as an adult. I always sat in the first row so as to better hear and be seen. It helped me build confidence and so I succeeded. It is also something that I did not do as a teacher. I let my students pick out their seats and then left them alone unless they were being disrespectful of the right of others to learn.

One thing that I would change, if I could go back in time, is to make a better effort at finding and keeping friends. Because I was shy, I was not one of those kids who was sought after to be part of a group. On occasion, someone did approach me and initiate conversation, but I never was the initiator. Imagine how different my life would have been if I had had the courage to walk up to someone and simply say, “Hi.” Wow! Even now this is hard for me.

As a college student I had more success in building relationships. I did not get to attend the college of my choice because my parents would only let me follow my brother to the one he had chosen, which, it turned out, was a good thing. He joined a fraternity, which had a support group called Little Sisters, and they took me in. Because of being a Little Sister, I had invitations to parties, actual dates to events on campus, and a place to spend Friday and Saturday nights.

Unfortunately I chose an impractical major. I entered as a math major, thinking I’d study statistics and find a job working with data. I pictured me sitting in a room with charts of information before me and knew that this was something I could do. The problem is that when I went to college, the women’s liberation movement had not yet evolved into a force, so it was no surprise when the math department chair called me into his office and told me that no company would ever hire a woman because all we wanted was to find a man and get married. I left his office and changed majors.

If I could repeat that day, I would defy him, earn my degree in math, get hired, and work long, happy hours doing something wonderful with numbers.

Instead I took a serious look at how many credits I had in each subject area, keeping in mind that I had to graduate in four years as that was how long my scholarship lasted, saw that only in Russian could I do that, so chose that as my new major. I told myself that I could get a job as a translator, without taking into consideration that I was too shy to ever speak Russian outside of the classroom. And that there were no jobs for Russian translators.

What I should have done was stuck with math and defied the chair, but women didn’t do that back then. We were raised to be compliant and to think of being wife and mother, not employee.

After college I returned home and joined the real work force. The one in which the only work experience I had was sitting behind the desk in a college dorm was meaningless. I had a hard time getting a job because I had no office skills. I was a poor typist and could not operate any of the machines in use at that time. When I did finally find work, it was at a furniture store, unfortunately as a customer service operator. I had to answer phones and had to pacify upset callers. I hated the job!

I’m not sure what I could have changed about that except for going way back in high school and sticking with my one and only typing course, honed my craft, and then I would have had marketable skills years later.

After that I was hired by the IRS as a tax collector. Not a job for a shy person, but I will credit the experience as helping me move past my fear of meeting and interacting with unfamiliar people. I had to knock on doors, walk into businesses and drive around San Francisco, up and down those hills and in and out of all types of neighborhoods. I learned to sit in my car and practice what I was going to say before walking into those situations. It was valuable experience for later on when I became a teacher.

There were two great things about that job. First, I made enough money to buy a car and then rent an apartment. That gave me freedom to simply be. I was in charge of my own life, had the ability to get myself places, and made decisions about where and how to spend my money. I learned to cook rudimentary things, just enough to survive. The second most wonderful thing was meeting Mike, who later became my best friend and husband.

Being married to Mike is one thing I would never change. He brings light to my life. He has been my strongest supporter in everything I have set out to tackle. He has been a role model for how to be as a person, wife and parent. Without him, my life would have been unrecognizable. He has never once held me back, never discouraged me from trying something new, never stopped me from tackling college courses or conferences or workshops.

There are things I did as a parent for which I am proud. For one, I always prepared breakfast for my kids. Most days it was a hot meal, but there were times when they preferred cold cereal, and I let them eat it even though, nutritionally, it was not the best choice. I packed their lunches except for once a week when they were able to buy lunch at school. I drove them to swim lessons, soccer, baseball and softball, all of which I supported as team mom, scorekeeper, coach, and referee. I attended parent-teacher meetings when needed, and even though I was working, took off to go on some field trips. During the summer months, when they were younger, I worked with them on academic skills in between swim lessons and soccer practice.

On the other hand, there were things I wish I could take back. I was not the most patient of parents. When my kids got angry, I didn’t know how to handle it. In my growing up years, anger was met with anger, tantrums with spankings, yelling with hurtful, cruel yelling. That was the only model I knew and so, despite what I read in parenting magazines, when my patience ran thin, I resorted to the poor models of behavior that I had benefited from. I wish I could replay those events and this time, instead of reacting poorly, simply walk away. Calm down. Allow my kids to calm down. And then later on, talk about what caused the anger and seek out appropriate solutions. If I could have done this, I would have been a better parent.

I am glad that we cannot revisit the past just to do it all over again. There is no way that I would choose to repeat any of my previous years of life. It would be terrifying to be a child today, faced with all the terrors that today’s kids deal with. Drugs, alcohol and tobacco were not the temptations back then. Kidnappings probably happened, but the news was not filled with story after sad story. I feel sorry that today’s children do not have the freedoms that I had to ride my bike through neighborhood after neighborhood, going miles from home, without worry.

I would not want to be a teenager who wants nothing more than to be a mechanic, being forced into college prep classes because that’s all that is offered. To want to be a nurse’s assistant, but having no opportunity to learn those skills. To want to be a doctor but unable to take advanced placement classes because my school does not offer them.

So, to answer the question, would I want to go back and redo my life, the response is a resounding no. I have worked through the issues that burdened me as a child, teen, and older adult, am happy with who I am at this point in time. I love my husband and my grown up children. I love my grandchildren. I love being able to write, to having enough savings to travel, and spending time with my husband doing things that we both love. I have a good life, filled with things to do and people to see. What more could a person want?

 

Sepia World

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Caught in a dark, sepia-toned world,

A desperate child cries in the night

Yearning for a mother’s love unfurled

Strong enough to scare away the fright

 

Hiding in corners to block out the fears

The abandoned child screams silently

Not bothering to wipe away the tears

He clings to dreams with such certainty

 

That reality flies far away

Swept up in a swirling gust of wind

The child’s home, a staircase of decay

The child’s heart, believing to the end

 

Mother, are you ever coming back?

I am so hungry, cold, and weak, that

It is hard to breathe.  Your love, I lack.

You left me nothing: not coat, gloves, or hat.

 

His cries float into the starless night

Reaching no friendly heart.  He gives up.

No more do the ravages of night

Disturb the boy.  Empty is his cup.

A Mother’s Duties

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What does a mother do when she realizes

that her child will never witness a golden sunset

or the glory of the sun peaking over mountains

to greet the new day, nor will he stand,

slack-jawed, as a jet leaves a smoke

trail across a deep blue sky, or point,

mesmerized as a yellow-stripped bumble bee

frolics from flower to flower?

 

She hugs her son close to her breast and tells

him how intensely he is loved, opening his

senses to the world.

 

What can a mother do when she knows that

her son can barely pick out her smiling face

from the fuzzy world that fills his view,

or the brightly colored toys dangling seductively

overhead, nor the radiant smiles of his brother

and sisters as they greet him in the morning?

 

She uses words to describe the world, guides

his tiny fingers as he explores through touch,

what others experience with eyes, and she tells

him how intensely he is loved.

 

What should a mother do when her son is ready

to crawl, knowing that he will never see the

obstacles in his way until it is too late, or when

he takes that first tentative step and crashes right

into the pointed edge of the piano bench, or when

he wants to go outside and play like his siblings,

but the world is too dangerous?

 

She allows him to fall, just as she did the sighted

ones, for by stumbling we learn to conquer whatever

obstacles jump up to block our progress.

 

More than anything, a mother offers unbridled love.

That’s what a mother does.

Late Night Drama

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“Stop it, Daddy!”

“Shut up your mouth before I shut it for you,” the man hissed in the little girl’s ear.  Holding her tightly by both arms, he shook her.

“Please,” the girl cried.  “You’re hurting me.”  Sobbing convulsively, the girl tried to wriggle free, but her father’s grasp was too tight.

“Cassie, come on.” The man tossed the girl over his left shoulder as easily as slinging a bag of cat food.  He marched out of the department store, glaring straight ahead, oblivious to the stares of customers.

Tears poured down Cassie’s face and fell to the scuffed linoleum, leaving behind an easy-to-follow trail.  Matted hair fell limply around the child’s head, and dirty ankles protruded from the frayed hems of her pant legs.  With each step of her father’s, Cassie’s stained gray sweatshirt slid further and further up her chest, exposing stomach and ribs.  The child was bone-thin.

As the angry man stopped past the registers, the sound of cell phones snapping open filled the air, mimicking the staccato beat of rain on a metal roof.  Dozens of narrowed eyes tracked the progress of the father, appearing to memorize his physical characteristics with each step that he took.

“May I help you?”  A blue-clad security guard interrupted the man’s determined march to the doors.

“Get out of the way,” he said as he brushed past the officer.

“I need you to stop.  Now.”

Silently, the father pushed ahead, deaf to the guard’s demands.  Step by step he neared the closed doors of the store, anger’s marks clearly defined on his unshaven face.

The guard fell into step behind the man.  Cassie lifted her filthy head, and with red-rimmed eyes mouthed, “Help me.”

“Don’t take another step,” the guard said, “or I’ll have to shoot.”

“Go right ahead,” the man replied as he turned and stared at the barrel of a gun.  “But if you hurt my daughter, I’ll kill you,” he called as the doors whooshed open.  He stepped into the cool nighttime air, to the astonished gasp of terrified onlookers.

The guard spoke into a walkie-talkie on his shoulder and followed them into the darkness outside.

The store’s lot was poorly lit.  Weak pools of pale yellow light separated patches of total darkness, creating an other-worldly effect.  The guard quickly scanned right to left, but did not immediately spot the man.  As he stepped further away from the store’s entrance, however, he saw movement near the garden center.  With gun held tightly in both hands, he cautiously moved in that direction.

Suddenly a chorus of sirens filled the still air, slowly building in intensity, like an orchestra warming up.  A mewling sound caught his attention, off to the right, near a dipsy-dumpster.  Focused on his target, the guard stepped ever closer to the battered metal container, gun raised and pointing straight ahead.

“Take another step and I’ll kill the girl,” the man’s gravelly voice sounded from behind the dumpster, echoing off a nearby brick wall. “I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Let the girl go and no one gets hurt.”  Having just recently graduated from security guard training, a change-in-career job after being laid off from the local car manufacturing plant, this was the officer’s first serious confrontation.  Trembling slightly, he tightened his grip on the gun’s handle.  “Come on, now, buddy.  Your little girl looks pretty upset.  Let her go.”

“I’ve had a bad day,” the hiding man said.  “My wife has been ill.  I’ve been living at the hospital for several weeks now. She died this morning.”  The words echoed, repeatedly taunting the tormented man.

The guard sensed movement to his left.  Glancing over his shoulder, he sighed with relief.  At least half a dozen police, fully armed and wearing protective vests were amassed behind a Chevy SUV.  “Keep the guy talking,” said a quiet voice.

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife.  I know what that’s like.  Mine died a couple of years ago.  Cancer.  Wasn’t anything the doctors could do.”  He took two more baby steps.

“Do you have kids?” the man asks.

“Yeah, but they’re grown and out of the house.  Is that little girl your only child?”

“No.  I’ve got a son.  He’s three.  Jason.  That’s his name.  This here’s Cassie.  She’s six.  That’s all I’ve got left now.”

“Where’s your son?”  Lowering his gun, the guard took one more step and turned so that his back rested against the container. “Is he at home?”

“He’s inside the store with my mother-in-law.  She hates my guts.  Calls me a no-good loser.  Blames me for my wife’s illness.” The man’s voice grew in intensity with each word.  “I’m not a loser, I tell you!”  Shouting now, anger filled his words.  “She hates my kids, too.  Did you see how dirty Cassie is?  Not one Goddamned bath.  The whole time they were staying with her.  What kind of person treats a kid like that?  And you ought to see Jason!  He’s filthy from head to toe.  And she says I’m the nutty one.”

The guard realized that this man was not a kidnapper, but a parent trying to rescue his child from a horrific situation. After putting his gun back in its holster, the guard signaled the waiting police to stay put.  “No one’s going to hurt you or Cassie.  I’m Bob Johnson.  What’s your name?

“Markovich.  Stan.  Stan Markovich.”

“So, Stan, why not step out into the light?  Maybe we can get this all sorted out.  Is there anything about you that I should worry about? Like do you have a criminal record?”

“A couple of traffic tickets, that’s all.  I’m a good father and I was a faithful husband.  I don’t care what my mother-in-law says.  I love my family. Really I do,” Stan said as his voice fell to a whisper.  “My mother-in-law wouldn’t let me see my kids.  I tried to visit them every night, but she wouldn’t open the door.”

“How’d you know they were here at the store?”

“I parked down the street from the house.  Sat there for hours.  When the old bat took off, I followed her car.  Lucky for me she had the kids.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No.  What’s the point?  I looked all over the store for them.  I heard Cassie’s voice.  It sounded like she was crying.  They were in the food section.  When I looked around the aisle, Cassie was inches from me.  So I grabbed her and ran.

The guard inched closer to the edge of the dumpster.  He thought about peeking around to make sure the girl was safe, but then thought better of it. His chest tightened and he had difficulty breathing.  “Not now,” he thought.  “Now’s not the time to have a heart attack.  Calm yourself.  For the child.”  He forcibly took several deep breaths.

“Cassie, go to the nice man,” Bob heard Stan say.  “It’s all right.  Everything’s going to be okay now.  Go ahead.  Stop crying, baby.”

A tiny foot, clad in a filthy sneaker peeked around the dumpster.  Soon another foot appeared, slowly followed by the rest of the girl.  Looking out from under overly long bangs, doleful eyes pierced Bob’s heart.  “Come here, Cassie,” he called as he held out his large hand, a kindly smile lighting his face.

The child’s movements were like a wary cat’s.  Her eyes darted about the parking lot, taking in the paltry lighting, the massed officers, the rhythmic cadence of the blinking lights of the gathered cruisers.

“It’s okay, child.  Everything’s going to be fine now,” Bob said as the girl tentatively placed her tiny hand in his.  “I’m going to take you over to those police officers.  They’ll make sure you’re safe.”  Together they walked, like a loving grandpa and grandchild.

“Good job, Johnson,” one of the officers said.

“Thanks, Captain.”

“Not bad for a rookie,” the captain slapped Bob on the back.  “Smith, take this girl for an ice cream cone, will you?”

The entire crowd flinched when a single shot rang out.  The sound reverberated through the paring lot, filling the night with a thundering roar.

“Oh, my God,” Bob said as he sank to his knees.

 

 

 

 

Morning Prayer

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Sunshine washes over my face

as I stand greeting morning’s rays

warming my mother, the earth

brightening skies and lifting hearts

soaring above the lofty clouds

with emblazoned lacy wings that

move with graceful exuberance,

carrying me closer and closer

to the blessed One who made it all.

 

Praise to the Lord, Halleluiah

for His gifts enrich all people

filling us with the everlasting

warmth of His dreams and hopes.

 

Sunshine washes over my face

giving me the supernatural strength

to follow the path chosen for me alone,

the golden steps of righteous living

that demand that I support my fellows

in their struggles and rejoice in triumphs

large and small, wallowing in the sunshine

of goodness streaking all over the earth.

 

Praise to the Lord, Halleluiah

For His kindness toward us all

Allowing us to err and arise from the ashes

As a phoenix soaring to the sun.

Moving On

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The Ghost Whisperer is an older television program in which the recently deceased could not go into the afterlife due to unresolved issues. The whisperer met with the deceased, figured out the issue, and then encouraged the spirit to move on.

Last night I had need of her services.

My mother died several years ago, my father last year. My dad had remarried and his wife intended to live on in the house my parents bought. Now she has decided to move.

Last week my husband and I were at the house and went through a couple of cabinets, searching for things that were meaningful.

My parents owned no antiques, no fancy jewelry, no expensive art work. They were hard-working, every day people. They shopped at thrift stores, and when they did go to the mall, bought from the clearance rack.

Anyway, last night I dreamt that when my dad’s wife sold the house, I was there when the new owners removed the old one in order to bring in the new. As I stood there, I became aware that someone had set up lounge chairs in the carport. In front of the chairs were arranged candles, books and a selection of plastic knickknacks that my mom had collected.

In my dream, my parents’ spirits were living there. My mother was distraught due to discord in the family, and so neither of them could move on.

I awoke feeling quite sad as well as powerless. I wanted to send them off, but there was nothing I could do.

This dream reminded me of how important it is to support our elders as they age. To make sure that they are at peace when they die. That we have been kind to our family members and respected their diversity of decisions and opinions.

I hope that my parents find peace and are able to reside comfortably in the afterlife. I wish them peace.

 

A Dream of Peace

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I dreamt that I traversed the sands of time
to a place mysterious and sublime.
Where gigantic trees with branches stout,
safely nestled all feathered friends about,

providing shelter from many foe,
yet allowing freedom to come and go.
Silky soft leaves whose gentle caress
becalms restless souls, soothes with fine finesse

young and old alike; no bias here
where all live in peace for many a year.
Through the sands a winding river ran
giving sustenance to both beast and man.

Surprisingly blue with not a trace
of sinister longings upon its face.
It speaks of a sweet love; it calls to me,
“Step right in,” it says, “ and I’ll set you free

from all that ails; as well sin and pain.
You have nothing to lose, but much to gain.”
With tremulous step I slowly crept
into her warm, comforting arms. I slept.

Or thought I did, for there soon appeared
hosts of angels. I panicked, a feared
of my demise. But to my surprise
they lifted me on high with joyous cries.

The night did end. My dream soon left.
The suffering world found me quite bereft
and yearning for that heavenly place
whose welcoming arms did me quick embrace.

One thing alone I brought home with me:
knowledge that all men could soar high and free
seeking truth, wisdom, righteousness, and grace.
making earth a truly heavenly place.

Just Another Shopping Trip

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It’s amazing how quickly things can change in unwanted and unexpected ways. Here I was, merrily walking through the mall, minding my own business, enjoying an afternoon away from the pressures of work. I stopped off and on, as casual shoppers do, to admire the goods displayed in a store’s window. If an item caught my eye, in I marched, like a soldier on a reconnaissance mission.

Any large mall is a shopaholic’s paradise. Given a huge variety of stores, a dedicated shopper like myself could find any number of things to satisfy the palate. From slinky lingerie to elegant evening wear, exotic foods to handcrafted creations imported from far away lands, expensive gadgets to popular toys, something for everyone beckoned.

I’m the gazing and grazing type, and so it takes me quite a long time to travel from one end of a mall to the other, scanning one side, then back the opposite way, doing the same thing.

One Saturday, I set off early in the morning to allow ample opportunity to paw through the selections before the competition arrived. Fresh and alert, my personal radar efficiently eliminated unwanted items with barely a glance. Determined to score sale clothing suitable for work, I bypassed craft, food, and doodad stores and zeroed in on any business selling outfits in my size. And considering that I am not a thin woman, that narrowed down the options considerably.

In and out I went, sifting through displays of colorful blouses, monochromatic slacks, multicolored sweaters, and a variety of denim wear. Occasionally something called to me as loudly as my parents did when I was but a child. These items I cradled to my breast, tightly grasped so as not to inadvertently fall when I was distracted by some other equally enticing morsel.

When my arms could hold no more, I dashed into a dressing room. Giving each item due respect, I buttoned, snapped, zipped, and then inspected. Those pieces of clothing that adequately disguised my lumps and bumps went into the purchase pile. The others found themselves abandoned on the reject rack.

After a few hours of this, sensory overload set in. My hunter’s walk slipped into a meandering shuffle, and my desire to spend money morphed into a yearning for nothing more than a seat.

That’s when it happened. When my life took an unaccustomed turn. Laden with bags, I fell into the first empty bench that appeared. Numbness overtook mind and limbs. Eyes glazed over. Heart slowed. Totally relaxed, my normally hyper-protective guard took a vacation.

“May I sit here?”

“What?” When focus returned to my eyes, I discovered a kindly looking gentleman standing before me. Silver hair neatly combed, clothing clean and pressed, he smiled in a comforting way as he pointed to the remaining third of the bench.

“Sure,” I said as I moved my purchases to the floor between my legs.

“Having fun?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Looks like it’s been a good day,” he said as he nodded toward my bags.

“I guess,” I shrugged.

“My daughter’s trying on clothes and I got tired of being her personal assistant. I told her to meet me out here.” His smile lit up his face.

“That’s nice.”

“Where do you live?”

At this point, alertness returned, reminding me to be careful. Despite the man’s polite mannerisms, something about him suddenly made me uncomfortable. Pretending that I did not hear the last question, I fiddled with my watch. “Look at the time! I’d better go. My husband is expecting me,” I lied. And blushed.

As I bent to loop my hands through the handles, the man said, “Let me help you with these.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be fine.” As I half-stood, butt in the air, head down, hands intertwined in the bags, something tugged on my purse. “Stop that!” I tried to turn, but the man grabbed hold of my hands, as if attempting to relieve me of my burden.

With a second, stronger tug, my purse flew from my grasp, over the back of the bench. I turned, screamed, leaned over, but could not grab my purse. Before I could make a move, a teenage girl, dressed in jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt, sprinted away. “Stop that girl!” I hollered.

“Is there a problem?” The man asked as if nothing untoward had happened. At that moment he let go of my hands, stood and looked about as innocently as a young child who has just raided the cookie jar.

Sputtering with rage, I had a difficult time getting out the words. “That girl stole my purse. Call for help!”
Unfortunately, by now the girl was long gone, having turned the corner into the food court. “She’s heading toward Burger King,” I said as I hefted my purchases as easily as if they contained marshmallows and hastened after the girl.

“Wait,” the man said. “I’ll phone security.” He pulled out a cell phone and proceeded to dial, all the while holding on to my left elbow with a pincher’s grasp.

“Let me go,” I hissed as I attempted to wriggle free. “Let me go or I’ll scream.”

“Calm down. I’ve got security on the line.” He then went into a long explanation as to what occurred, including appropriate sounding pauses, yeas and nays. “I’ll tell her to stay here until you arrive. Thank you, officer.” With that he snapped shut his phone. “An officer will be here shortly. I gave them a good description of the girl. It sounds as if they caught her already and will be coming by to get you.”

“Thanks,” I warily said.

“Well, I’ve got to go. I see my daughter coming. Good luck getting your purse back,” he said with an endearing smile. As he walked away, I felt relief wash over me. The man had been a big help, or so I thought.

I stood in place, anxiously awaiting the arrival of a security guard. As minutes ticked away, with no one dressed in an officer’s uniform appearing, a sense of dread washed over me. Dismayed, every ounce of strength drained away, and so I collapsed onto the bench.

That’s when realization hit me square on the forehead. Not only was my purse gone, but as my eyes scanned my bags, I noticed that a number of them looked suspiciously empty.

I had heard about those who preyed on the elderly, but I am not that old. I had gotten scam phone calls at home and been able to fend off each and every one. But this was different. With his genteel mannerisms, the man had penetrated my defensive shield. His accomplice then moved in, ripped off my purse, and dashed away. With me in a tizzy and distracted by my purloined purse, the man had removed a few of my newly purchased possessions while pretending to call for help.

Tears poured down my face and sobs shook my shoulders. Disappointment in myself quickly replaced anger at being robbed, and so when disgust and frustration moved into my heart, I grabbed what goodies remained and headed toward the security station. Nearly blinded by my tears, I stumbled through the mall, brushing against strollers, displays, and planters.

“Can I help you? Do you need assistance?”

I blinked away the newest rush of tears to see a smiling face before me. With her neatly coiffed silver hair and kindly eyes, the woman offered a helping hand. As she gently relieved me of a few of my bags, she said, “Sit here. Let me get you a cold drink.” Following her directions, I collapsed into a wrought iron chair, grateful that someone was stepping up to help.

You would have thought that something inside of me might have registered alarm. After all, my whole world literally changed minutes before. Blithely enjoying my shopping extravaganza, I had let down my guard, only to be taken advantage of by a charming older man and his accomplice. Could it happen a second time? Surely not. And so I settled into the chair and allowed my rescuer to soothe me into compliance.

Sorry for not Posting!

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I apologize for not giving you something new to read this week.

I’ve been a little busy.

This past weekend I attended a four-day writing conference in San Francisco. It was chock-full of writing tips from experts from all over the world. I especially enjoyed those sessions in which presenters read the first page of an author’s book and gave advice about how to improve the content, those in which plot, scene and story were discussed, and those that introduced self-publishing as a growing market.

I also had the opportunity to meet an Author Coach who will read my manuscript and plot out high and low points, plus several agents who are interested in receiving the first few pages of my book.

I promise to be back on schedule next week.

A Strange Revelation

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“Hell found me.”

“What did you say?” Stan’s fork froze in mid-air. Spaghetti slowly oozed onto his plate, unnoticed.

“Hell found me,” repeated Grandpa Ellis. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands behind his head, and looked at the ceiling as if seeing a ghost.

“I don’t understand.” Stan pushed his long, brown hair off his forehead.

“For years now I’ve been waitin’ for Hell to catch up with me. I’d gotten pretty lazy, thinkin’ I’d outfoxed him. Last night he paid a call. Now I have to pay him back.”

Stan’s face took on the startled-hare look. He lowered his fork to his plate, picked up his napkin, and attempted to wipe sauce and noodles off his once clean shirt. Unsuccessful, he got up and went into the kitchen, his large boots reverberating with each step. “Let’s get this straight. Hell came to see you last night.”

“Yep, that’s right.”

“You owed him for something and now you’ve got to repay the debt,” Stan said as he dabbed a wet napkin on the stain.

“Yep,” Grandpa Ellis said. Dropping his arms on to the tabletop, his body deflated like a punctured balloon. “An’ I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“What kind of a debt do you owe?” Stan turned to face his grandfather. Frightened by the posture of defeat, something he’d never seen on his proud guardian, Stan rushed to the chair and knelt nearby. “Grandpa, start over. Tell me the story, please? Maybe I can help.”

“There’s nothin’ you can do. Nothin’ you can do. I lost. Hell said he’d catch up with me sometime. Now he’s here an’ there’s nothin’ I can do.” Silent sobs shook his shoulders. He buried his face in his large, calloused hands. “I’ve got to do this by myself, but you’re the one who’ll pay the price.”

Stan gently placed his right arm around his grandfather’s back, an action his grandfather had used when Stan was a small boy. “We can work it out, whatever it is. There is nothing that can break us up, and that’s all that matters. You’ve told me that a million times. Family is what counts in the world.”

Grandpa Ellis raised his tear-streaked face and looked deeply into his grandson’s eyes. “Let’s go sit on the porch so I can smoke. I’ll tell you the story.”

Both men stood and turned to walk outside. From the back, there was little difference between them, except for the grandfather’s head of white hair. Broad shoulders, trim torsos and muscular legs defined them as workingmen: ranching men. They even dressed in a similar manner: dusty jeans, plaid shirts, cowboy boots with spurs, and bandanas tied about the neck.

Not a word was said as they crossed the living room. Grandpa Ellis stopped to pick up his pipe, tobacco pouch, and a book of matches. Stan retrieved his whittling stick from the sideboard.

Out the front door the silent procession continued. Grandpa turned to the right, as usual, and settled into his accustomed chair. Stan turned to the left and sat on the porch swing.

After lighting his pipe and taking the first draw, Grandpa blew a huge smoke ring into the air. “A long time ago, before you were born, I was a rough man. I gambled, drank, an’ participated in shootin’ matches. I was mean as a rattler, an’ ornery as that old donkey out back. I loved my women, an’ ran with a tough crowd. We all acted like we was warriors, an’ I guess we were.

“One day we rode into a dusty little town. Big Ben, one of my friends, got it in his head to rob the bank. It was the manly thing to do, I guess. Now I want you to know I was against it from the start. I might have pushed the law a bit, but I’d never done nothin’ that would of landed me in jail.”

Grandpa blew a series of rings into the air and watched them rise, higher and higher until they disappeared into the porch roof.

“Did Big Ben rob the bank?”

“I’m a gettin’ there.” He drew again on his pipe, held the smoke for what seemed like an eternity, and then pushed out the tainted air with a whoosh. “Big Ben was big, but not too bright. Once he thought it’d be fun to walk acrost that train bridge over the Missouri, where it crosses Crag’s Canyon. He got halfway acrost when the train comes. He had to jump into the river below. He never got hurt with his crazy schemes, but his reputation was that of an idiot who could shoot like the dickens.

“So he sees this little ol’ bank, an’ says that it would be easy to break in. He says that he knows the sheriff is a fat ol’ man who’d rather sleep than chase crooks. He says that the banker goes home at five an’ nobody comes back ‘til early morn.

“So we go into the saloon acrost the street an’ buy ourselves a beer. We tell jokes, play cards, smoke a few, all the time keepin’ our eyes on that bank. This town is so small that no more than five folks walked past the window, an’ there’s only two other customers in the bar an’ they’re both cold drunk.

“Right on time, that banker comes out, closes the door, pulls a key out of his pocket, an’ locks the door. He walks away without lookin’ back. Within minutes the streets are empty. Nothin’ but dust and flies.

“By now we’ve put down a few beers an’ are feelin’ pretty powerful. It’s funny how drink does that to a guy. Blows him up an’ makes him feel like he can do anything.

“The sun goes down, like it’s doin’ now. Pretty as can be. Sky all orange and red an’ purple. Things get mighty quiet. The bartender wakes up the drunks an’ walks them out a the saloon. He tells us to pay up an’ leave, so we do.

“We walk around a bit, up an’ down the streets, checkin’ out the bank from all sides. Randy, the real bandit in our gang, figures out a way to break in. There’s a little window in the back, about ten feet up. Since I was the lightest, Randy’s idea was for Big Ben to lift me up on his shoulders, an’ then I’d open that window an’ go in. Once in, I’d run to the front an’ unlock the door. The guys would come in an’ lock the door behind them. Then we’d break into the vault an’ get the money.”

As darkness fell, Stan watched an airplane traverse the ranch, heading toward the airport at Billings. The red lights blinked a warning signal, telling other planes to stay away. “So what happened? Did the plan work?”

“No. Shortly after Big Ben lifted me up, there was a thumping noise from inside the building. We froze, thinkin’ someone was in there. There was another thump, an’ then an even louder one. Pretty soon that window opened, seemingly by magic. Big Ben dropped me like I was a hot cob a corn an’ took two steps back. I scrambled out of the dirt on all fours. Randy squealed like a little girl an’ took off down the street.

“As I was runnin’ away, a voice called to me. It nearly sacred me to death, it did.”

“What did it say?”

“It said, ‘Hell is callin’ and you’d better answer,’ in a gravely voice that sent chills runnin’ down my spine. I had no idea what this meant or who was speakin’, but I was interested. Those beers had numbed my senses a bit, an’ so my brain wasn’t thinkin’ clearly. So I stumbled back to the building an’ look up. Out of that window stuck a head wearin’ a black hat. Black whickers covered the face.

“I should of run away right then, but my curiosity was stronger than my sense, so I looks up an’ sees that there is now a rope danglin’ from that window. ‘Come on up,’ the man calls. So I grab a hold of that rope an’ climb. I’d never known I could climb so easy. Within seconds I was through that window an’ in the bank.

“It was pretty dark inside, but I could make out the figure of a man standin’ to my right. He was huge: bigger than Big Ben. ‘Welcome to my bank,’ he said as he grabbed my right hand an’ shook it. That man was so strong, I thought my arm was a gonna fall off.

“He turns, still holdin’ my arm, an’ walks me into the heart of the bank. ‘My name’s Hell. What’s yours?’ Without thinking, I tell him. Then he drags me over to the vault. ‘Hold this for me,’ he says an’ hands me the smallest lamp I’ve ever seen. Later I found out it was a miner’s lamp, but at the time, I was stupefied by its size.

“Well, to make a long story short, Hell broke the code to the vault on the first try, like he had it memorized or something. He pulled a cotton bag out of his pocket an’ filled it up with bundles of dollars. ‘Here. Take this. Thanks for helping me,’ he says. ‘Someday I’ll need your help again. I’ll find you, Ellis, no matter where you are or what you’re doing. You’ll help me then, just as you are now.’ With that he disappeared into the darkness, leaving me there holding the money.

“Considering that this had been my gang’s plan all along, I didn’t think much of it. Yes, I robbed a bank, but I figured all I’d done was hold the lamp. I felt pretty smug as I swaggered to the door an’ stepped onto the wooden sidewalk. Randy an’ Big Ben met me there an’ asked what had happened. I explained it all to them as we walked down the empty street. We mounted our horses an’ rode away. Later we divided up the money.”

“How much was there?” Stan had known that his grandfather had lived a rough life, but discovering that he had been a bank robber was a huge surprise.

“Somewhere near ten thousand dollars. That was a lot of money back then. Feelin’ kind of guilty, I only kept two thousand. It was enough that I could stop my roaming days an’ settle down. I bought this spread, built me a house, an’ bought some horses. Not the best stock, but as good as I could get. I figured with careful breedin’ I’d make out fine.”

Far off in the distance, a horse whinnied, followed by a chorus of others in response. The porch swing creaked as Stan rocked back and forth. After closing up his pocketknife that had never touched his carving, Stan sighed. “What does this guy Hell want?”

“He wants the money back. And not just what he stole, but a whole lot more. He wants twenty thousand. Hell says that with time, my share has grown in value. He says that unless I give him the money, he’ll go to the police an’ turn me in.”

“That was a long time ago, Grandpa. They can’t try you for a crime committed that many years back.”

“You don’t get it, boy. Hell’s a big-time lawyer in Billings now. He’s got all the politicians eating off his plate. He’s thinking about running for office and his platform is cleaning up old crimes. He says it’s me against him, an’ no one’d believe that he’d ever done something like rob a bank.” He stood, arched his back and stretched his arms over his head. He turned toward the front door.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m a gonna give him the money.”

Stan gasped. That money was his college fund, most of it from his inheritance when his parents died. Some was from selling breeding stock. It was earmarked for his tuition and fees at the University of Montana.

“Hell’s robbin’ you of your education, boy. I can’t think of nothin’ else to do. If’n I don’t give him the money, I might end up in jail. If’n I do give him the money, then you can’t go to college. Hell’s got me backed into a corner so tight it hurts. What do you think I should do?”

Stan stared into the black fields of the ranch. Grandpa Ellis stood silent, waiting to hear what his grandson had to say.

“Don’t give him the money yet. Mary’s father is a lawyer. I’ll ask him what the law says about crimes that old. He’s a good man and has done right by many of the ranchers out here. When’s Hell coming back?”

“He gave me a week. That was on Saturday.”

“We’ve got two days left. I’ll go over to Mary’s tomorrow morning before her dad leaves for work. He’ll help us out.” Stan stood and walked over to his grandfather. He grabbed hold of his guardian’s right arm and squeezed. “Let me try, anyway. If Mary’s dad can’t help, then we’ll give Hell the money. I’ll stay here and go to the community college.”

Grandpa Ellis nodded silently and walked into the house. He put away his pipe and pouch, and then climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Stan went into the kitchen to wash the dinner dishes. Once that task was complete, he, too, went to bed.

In the morning, Stan drove to his girlfriend’s house. Her father listened to the story, not interrupting until Stan was through.

“How long ago was this?”

“At least sixty years ago. Grandpa said he was a young man. He married my grandmother in his twenties, and this was well before then.”

“You’re right, Stan. There is a Statute of Limitations that keeps a man from being tried for old crimes. Even if there wasn’t, if Mr. Ellis is telling the truth, he wasn’t totally responsible for the break-in. He was an accomplice, true, but the circumstances were unusual. A voice out of nowhere, a man called Hell, and a mysterious rope falling.”

“So what does he tell this guy?”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Mary’s father pulled out his business card. “Give your grandfather this. Tell him to hand this card to Hell when he shows up. That should take care of it.”

Stan looked at the card and was surprised at what he saw. A host of silver angels danced across the top of the card, and a beam of golden light encircled the imprinted words.

Mary’s father laughed as he stood. “I work for Jesus Mendoza. He thought it made for an interesting business logo.”

‘Chase away your demons with Jesus’ law service’ floated just below the heavenly angels. In the bottom right hand corner, a red devil with pitchfork in hand, cowered in fear. “Hell might have found Mr. Ellis, but Jesus will be standing between the two of them. Jesus always wins his cases, and Hell knows this. Tell your grandfather that there will be no further trouble.”

Speechless, Stan stood and shook the man’s hand. He pocketed the card and followed Mary’s father out the door. He got into his car, started it up, cranked up the radio, and sang all the way home as he dreamt of college.