Crimes of Passion

            When I was a child, my family was poor. We always had food, clothes and a place to live, so we weren’t destitute. Much of what we did have came from relatives. This included everything from furniture to food.

            I don’t recall ever being extremely hungry, but I was never full. Apply this to not just the physical sense of lacking food, but to the emotional. I missed something that was wholly mine. Yearned for something that had never been owned, worn, felt by someone before coming to me.

            At the time I lacked the words to describe the feeling. There was an emptiness that was never filled. As a consequence, my eyes sought objects that were small, so insignificant that they would not be missed.

            My mom frequented the Five and Dime, a general merchandise store that catered to people like us. My mom loved to roam the aisles, feeling this, holding that, occasionally buying the things she came there for: a spool of thread, buttons, a swath of fabric.

            Perhaps I learned from her that it was okay to pick up and hold things that you weren’t going to buy. Maybe I was taught to slip things in your purse when the owner wasn’t looking. In later years I learned that my mom often left stores with hidden items. If that was true, then I was an observant understudy.

            My sister’s birthday was approaching and on this trip to the Five and Dime my mom needed candles for the cake. In that section there were tiny pink dolls, plastic cribs to match, and paper umbrellas on thin sticks. I wanted them all. One of each size, shape and color.

            Something inside of me must have known that it was not okay to pocket too many items, at least not on one trip. My hand reached for a plastic baby on its own accord. It felt smooth and easy to touch. It weighed nothing. It fit perfectly in my small hand and even better in the pocket of my jacket.

            I wanted more. The crib, the umbrellas. I trembled and sweat broke out on my forehead. I couldn’t talk. When we approached the register I knew I was going to get caught. My eyes looked down. I feared that the owner could see guilt, could see the inside of my pocket. He said nothing.

            On the way home my fingers held that baby, still inside the pocket. At home I buried it in the backyard, hiding the evidence.

            One plastic baby didn’t satisfy the want inside me.

            The next visit to the store I pocketed a box of six crayons. The problem, I realized once home, was that I couldn’t use them without my mm knowing that she had not paid for them. The crayons joined the plastic baby in the backyard.

            By now I was a seasoned thief. I planned my outfit, making sure I had at least one pocket. I knew I had to roam the aisles like my mother did, feeling this, picking up that, examining something else. When mom led us to the trinket aisle I knew what I was going to take: an umbrella. The problem was, which one. I chose the blue. It slid into my pocket just as the other things had done.

            By now I wasn’t afraid of looking at the owner. After all, I had stolen before and not gotten caught. With the umbrella secure, I accompanied my mom to the register, stood complacently while she paid, then walked out. Except something different happened.

            The owner asked my mom to wait, but not until after I was outside. I don’t know what was said, but when my mom stormed outside and grabbed me by the sleeve, I knew I was in trouble. She dug in my pocket and produced the umbrella. With it held aloft, she pulled me back inside the store. She handed over the umbrella which was now broken thanks to her tight grip.

            I was told to apologize. I refused. I had done nothing wrong in my mind. I had seen my mom slip things in her purse over and over. If I had to apologize, then so should she. I didn’t say it, thankfully.

            After much prodding I mumbled an apology. The owner then forbade me from ever entering his store again. I thought his punishment was excessive considering it was only a tiny umbrella.

            My parents decided I need moral guidance so they enrolled me in a Brownie troop that was being formed at the Catholic School I attended. I didn’t know anyone and had no intentions of making friends with them.

            I don’t know how I knew, but I understood that the girls and mothers who ran the troop came from wealthier families. It might have been the newness of the girls’ uniforms versus my faded one from a thrift store. Perhaps it was because the mothers wore necklaces and earrings, something my mother didn’t have. Maybe it was the way they treated me: like an idiot who didn’t understand English.

            It wasn’t on the first meeting, but maybe the third, that the mothers had planned a craft activity. It involved the use of colorful rubber bands. I don’t remember what I made, if I made anything at all. What I do recall in vivid clarity was the desire to own the bag of rubber bands.

            My palms began to sweat. My heart beat wildly. I couldn’t take my eyes off the bag. Whenever a girl took a rubber band from the bag I cringed inside. I wanted that bag so badly that my stomach hurt.

            I had to have it. I had to take it home. But how? How could I sneak it home without being caught?

            The solution came when it was time to clean up. The bag still sat on the table, all alone. It called my name. I moved closer to it. The desire intensified. I checked to see where the others were. The girls were giggling off to the side. The mothers were in a circle, talking. No one was near me. No one was watching.

            The entire bag of rubber bands slid into my school bag. I latched it shut then hurriedly left without saying goodbye.

            My mom was waiting outside. We drove the long way home in silence. At home I took my school bag into my bedroom as I always did. I removed the rubber bands and hid them in my underwear drawer. Moved them to under my mattress. Stuffed them in a shoe. Found a hole in the back of my closet and stuck them in there.

            When my mom finally asked how the Brownie meeting went, I told her it was dumb and I never wanted to go back. That was a lie. I had had fun. The mothers were kind. I felt safe there, at a time when I needed safety. I feared that the girls and mothers knew I had taken the rubber bands. That was the reason I couldn’t return.

            My crime of passion ruined what might have been a good thing.

Dream Logic

When delicious dreams dance

Through your sleepy cerebrum

Do you see ghosts galloping by?

Are angels announcing successful situations?

Or decidedly deadly demons destroying

Your timely treasure trove?

Might competing cherubim choruses clash

Creating unheavenly harmonies, or

Little leprechauns lustily leap through,

Waving windswept rainbows bending

Toward the lavish land?

When unlucky lions lust for

Momentous meals does your being believe

It’s treacherously true, or does

Righteous reasoning untangle gigantic gnomes

Grappling on your luscious lawn?

Carefree cats carouse in your yard

Delirious dogs dangerously stalk prey

As your heavy head haltingly falls back upon

Puffy pillows of dainty down.

Soldiers slash and burn buildings while

Crafty commanders shriek scrabbled sentences

Waving wicked wands that sprinkle sparkles

In the deepest, darkest night.

Vicious venomous vipers sizzle zooed zebras

Lounging lazily behind links while

Porcine pandas ponder bulky bamboo

Priests praise gods in unholy ululations

While communities corrupt into chaos

Rioting right through your lonely life

Mothers majestically cradle crying babies

Born in proud poverty while

Faith filled fathers find superior strength,

Saving all from untimely death

Logic, luckily leaves as soon as eyes

Close and delirious dreams drip

Drop by drop preparing paths for

Dream logic to wind its wicked way

Into your nightly nirvana.

Never can one predict what may emerge

When the eyelids languorously close and

Dream logic descends.

Ode to Food


Food, glorious food!

Sumptuous tastes of

Slowly roasted beef

Drowned in onions

Covered in gravy

Potatoes gently

Browned, sprinkled

With parsley and chives

Arranged in spirals

Delicate designs

Green beans bathing in

Mushroom sauce, topped

With fried onions

Or drenched with butter

Stacked like lucky logs

Delightful desserts

Sugary cookies

Mouth melting cakes

Devilish  custards

Compelling desire

More, much more, awaiting

Consumption by

Mere mortals yearning

To taste the nectar

Of the golden gods

Food, glorious food!  

Life’s Journey

            My friend and I have been sharing the various paths our lives have taken.  Neither of us had an easy time along the way. Both of us have disappointments. No matter where our journeys took us, we agree that the steps we traveled made us who we are today.

            When I was in Kindergarten I decided to become a teacher. It wasn’t that my teacher was kind to me; in fact, she barely spoke to me or recognized me in any way. She’d drop a bunch of worksheets on my desk and then move on to the next student. She did know what skills I was deficient in, however, because I worked on the name of colors, shapes, the alphabet and recognizing basic numbers.

            The one positive thing that the teacher offered was calm and safety. She never yelled at me or anyone else. She never slapped or threatened me in any way.

            Because I felt safer in Kindergarten than I did at home, I liked it there and soon chose teaching as a career.

            My first job was keeping score at a local bowling alley. I was only fourteen, but I had spent much of my early years in bowling alleys. My dad was a semi-professional bowler who traveled to competitions. He taught me to bowl when I was twelve. Keeping score was a logical choice.

            In college I began working for aa fast food restaurant. At first I only took orders and then handed them over when filled. As my confidence grew I learned to make coleslaw. I had to stick my hands into deep vats and stir the ingredients around. My hands and arms would get so cold that I couldn’t feel them.

When strawberry season arrived, I took over the pie-making enterprise.  I was the best at trimming the berries. I could cut off the stem so quickly and neatly that no one could match my efforts.

That was a major turning point on my life’s journey. Knowing that there was something I could do better than anyone else boosted my ego. Ironically, although I had been a good student out of fear of physical punishment, now my grades stayed high because my confidence had improved.

When I transferred to USC I found a job at the university book store. I was so happy! I begged for more hours but was refused because students were restricted to how many hours they could work in a week.

Books called my name. Sometimes while shelving new books, I had to stop and read the cover. If it appealed to me, I put one aside. Often I bought them even though my earnings were supposed to supplement the grants that paid my housing.

I returned to writing when I realized the university published a literary newspaper. I submitted poems, but never had any accepted. Despite those rejections, my confidence as a writer grew.

I got a job working the front desk in a residence hall. It was my responsibility to screen anyone entering. It forced me to talk to people, something I was wont in doing. I discovered that people often wanted to know what I was thinking. They would stand and listen, then share a bit of their story. I met some awesome people who remained friends until graduation.

Another step on my journey checked off.

I applied to be a resident advisor during the summer. The residents were not students, but an ever-changing group of conference attendees. Oh, my, they were a lot of fun! There were social events almost every evening. I was invited to attend, but understood that I was not to abandon my post. Often food was delivered to me. The person making the delivery would stand and talk.

I learned that I could talk to strangers, fulfilling another step on my journey.

My first full-time job was as a customer service representative in a furniture store. That was horrendous. All day long I was bombarded by unhappy, sometimes angry people. All found fault with the furniture or the delivery. I wanted money refunded. I didn’t know what to do and no one bothered to train me.

This was a step backward. My confidence took a hit.

The office had a switchboard for the telephone service. I applied when a position opened and got it. I loved connecting calls. It was fun and something I learned quickly. All I had to do was match the plug to the right hole.

Check one off for confidence!

When I took that job I knew it would never become a career: it was the first job offered.

The government needed employees, so I took the test and scored high enough to be hired by the infamous IRS. This was a huge step on my life’s journey, benefitted by the government’s need to hire women.

I hated seizing property to pay tax debts. I was terrible at calculating interest and penalties despite mat being a strength for me. I hated walking into dark bars and going into strangers’ homes.

Most people were respectful even though I represented a hated agency. One time I was threatened by the owner of an automobile tire shop. The next day I returned with gun-toting agents. Even though nothing happened, I tremble for days.

One positive that moved me along my journey was that I learned to speak to strangers. Another momentous event was meeting my future husband in the office. If I hadn’t met him, who knows were my journey would have gone?

In the past 46 years I’ve had three amazing children who are all successes in their own way. Add in seven talented grandchildren who fill me with joy.

I got to become that teacher 38 years ago, and taught for 34. In my college classes to earn my credentials and certificates, I garnered information that allowed me to mentor peers, lead workshops and participate in district-wide trainings.

My favorite part of the job was being a mentor. It filled my heart with joy when someone came to me for suggestions and advice.

Another step along the way.

Now that I am retired, you might think that my journey was nearly over. Wrong.

I listen to the news, read newspapers and magazines and talk with friends. I gather information from all those sources that develop my opinions and beliefs. I read books that take me into worlds and situations I met never see. I travel to countries I’d never thought about visiting.

Everything I’ve done, whether there were positive or negative outcomes, have made me who I am today. Because I am always learning, I know that I will continue to progress.

My life’s journey isn’t yet over and that’s a wonderful thing.

Saving Beat

Deep in my heart a drum strongly beats

An elixir for a troubled soul

Rhythmical thoughts, transported on cleats

Cutting, biting, pointing toward goal.

Rutted, strewn with boulders humongous

Life offers no simplistic, free ride

Discard now those thoughts superfluous

Escape into religion’s strong tide

Believe, believe the whispers demand

Strive toward the heavenly target

Faithfully follow the narrow strand

Requiring just one golden ticket

Open my eyes to glorious sights

Halos as light for the proper path

Discourse with me about faith’s delights

Immerse me in refreshing cool bath

With God as my Savior, blessings fall

Comet showers of hues glorious

Heeding Jesus’ soft spoken call

I harmonize with angels’ chorus

Radiant rays, my soul, surround

Arms extending to God’s holy feet

I beg to let ecstasy abound

As in my heart, continues the beat

Soul Thoughts

As a child

I pondered the existence

of my soul

it’s location,

how it affected

my heart, my brain

my being

how it was like a balloon

awaiting my sins

to fill it up, one by one

black mark after black mark

the sisters never spoke of

forgiveness

erasing the blackness

God’s eternal love

I imagined my evilness

pulling me down

into the undertow of hell

As an adult

I understood that my soul

is linked to my heart

nestled closely like lovers

beating in unison

a romantic rhythm

My soul sings of happiness,

fulfillment

belief in accomplishment

it thrives on goodness

like an addict hooked on chocolate

the sweetness erases errant

thoughts

lines the soul with a

protective coating

I know that we are one,

my soul and me

it cannot exist without me,

nor I without it

together, we succeed

Awakening

Awakening

When my eyes closed,
Your image remained
For hours and hours
Afterward

You walked my dreams
Blessed me with love
For hours and hours
Through the night

Your arms held me
Your kisses bathed me
For hours and hours
With tenderness

When I awoke
You were at my side
For minutes and minutes
In unity

In awe I stared
Into your eyes
For seconds and seconds
Holding you  

We drift through time
In loving moments
For years and years
To eternity

One Man’s Trash

Shiny penny

Left behind like somebody’s

Old candy wrapper

Dropped, forgotten

As the owner moved on

 

Too busy, too proud

To bend down and pick up

Something so small,

So insignificant

Relatively meaningless

 

Until someone, down on luck,

Sees an opportunity

Contrasted against the gloom

Of the blacktop

And smiles

 

A chance for improvement

A sliver of hope

Calling for redemption, as it

Glitters in the darkness

Of lonely despair

 

So cool to the touch

So small in the palm

Yet, when combined

With other shiny coins

Can mean a meal

 

A hot cup of coffee

A night’s rest in safety

Clean clothes

A bar of soap and

Long, refreshing shower

 

Someone’s forgotten coin

Left behind like a chewed up

Piece of gum

Brings redemption

To the finder

Childhood Joys

  

well-loved children with sparkling eyes,

rosy cheeks, and happy smiles

glittering with unbounded joy

freely bestowing generous hugs and

warm kisses that leave cheeks glistening

with reminders of their passing.

laughter peels from hallway rooms,

giggles rising to the gloriously blue sky,

caressing souls, nourishing hearts

better than steak and potatoes

or a well-read book.

warm arms, tickling fingers

and conversations uninhibited by age.

playground games fairly played

indoors under the watchful eyes

of guardian parents, checking safety,

guarding friendships from the

ills of sibling rivalry.

growing up together in love.

meals broken and shared.

prayers offered with heartfelt sincerity.

special times protecting doors

to teenage rebellion, that tears

families apart, breaking hearts

and erasing the good times shared.

for now, though, life is good.

quiet times of reflection broken only

by stories told and songs sung.

well-love children with sparkling eyes,

rosy cheeks, and happy smiles

glittering with unbounded joy.

Vacation Choices

Don’t send me to an ocean beach

With barking seals and whales that breach,

Where sand gets caught between your toes

And seaweed rots. Oh, my poor nose!

Place me not on that artic ice

Though penguins find it pretty nice.

I’d complain about being cold

And surely would feel much too old.

You may like the scorching sands

Of desolate, dry desert lands,

But I’d whine about being hot,

And then complain and cry a lot.

I may enjoy an airplane flight

Even through the dark of night

To parachute, is not for me

For I might land amidst prickly tree.

Give me a forest dense with trees

Where shade keeps temps at cool degrees

Paths climb up , then twist around

Ascending to a higher ground.

Squirrels scamper to find a meal

Steller’s jays yell in loud appeal.

Tree leaves rustle in gentle breeze

Magical vistas, without cease.

That’s where I’d spend a summer day.

Read, relax and soft music play.

Close my eyes and take a nap

With blanket warm across my lap.

Summer’s good times are precious spent

To choose most wisely, we are meant.

Then fall arrives with rainy days

And winter hurries without delays.

Take me now to those mountains high

So I may gaze at that blue sky

And dream the dreams of freedom’s quest

While sitting back and getting rest.