The Laugh

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The laugh is a miracle waiting to happen

A gurgling stream bouncing over life’s boulders

Riotous, rollicking wit on which to lighten

Burdensome weights from heavily bent shoulders

 

Fluffy clouds frolic freely through each person’s mind

That soon bubble out in side-splitting guffaws

A feeling so wondrous, magical in its kind

Unique in its effect; mood altering awes

 

Liberally dished out in portions humongous

No meager spoonfuls for humanity’s sake

Spread across boundaries, in actions so wondrous

That ribs crackle, tears flow, and sides quickly ache

 

The sun’s golden rays blossom majestically

Illuminating rainbows in bright hues

Emotions explode into sounds musically

Harmonious tunes blend in colorful hues

 

Burdensome miseries removed from memory

Riotous, rollicking times for the taking

Gurgling rivers of life’s hilarious story

The laugh, a miraculous joyous speaking

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.

The Crying Woman

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It had been a long, exhausting drive through the rolling foothills of the Sierras, but as Ashley stepped through the doors of the old familiar diner, she knew it had been worth the effort. Simply opening the doors brought back memories of home. Having grown up in the town, all she thought of was escape into a big city, and took the first opportunity that presented itself.

Now she yearned for the comforts the town offered, small-town neighbors who knew everyone and everything, but not in an –in-your-face gossipy kind of way. And so she had come, hoping that things had remained the same.

The Pines Café still stood in the center of town, flanked by Guy’s Barber Shop and Lou’s Hardware. When Ashley opened the diner doors, she did so with trepidation. One look around told her that nothing had changed. Not the red plush bench seats, the chrome table tops, the neon signs in the windows, and not even the waitress who approached her table.

“Hello, Dearie,” the woman said. She was a slim woman, hatchet face, one droopy eye and gray hair tossed into a bun on the back of her head. She stood back, hands on hips, as her eyes scanned Ashley’s face, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Ashley smiled. “Yeah, I used to come in here all the time, but that was years ago. I’ve added ten years and twenty pounds since then. But you look the same.”

“Honey, you must be blind as a bat, but I appreciate the compliment.” She placed a menu on the table. “The menu’s changed a bit. New chef. He’s added salads, tofu, and veggie burgers. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Ice water would be nice.”

Ashley looked over the menu, admiring the variety of items. This used to be a burger and fries joint, catering to hungry teens looking for a place to go after school and football games. On weekends, campers came into town, tired of their burnt meals and luke-warm beer. Once she knew what she wanted, Ashley put down the menu and looked around.

The place was nearly empty. An old man hunkered over a cup of still steaming coffee, reading the paper as if his life depended on it. A middle-aged couple sat in a booth, not talking, but holding hands. There was a sad look in the eyes of the man. Made Ashley wonder if there had been bad news recently. A death or a health crisis. Maybe even both.

The waitress delivered the water. “Are you ready to order?”

“I’ll have the chef’s salad, but easy on the dressing. In fact, can I have it on the side?” Ashley smiled when she read the woman’s name tag. “Dolores? I remember you,” she said. “Aren’t you Joseph’s mom?”

“Sure am.”

“Whatever happened to him? He was a few years ahead of me in school, so we were never close friends, but I recall that he was headed off to college.”

Dolores nodded. “Let me turn in your order and freshen up the drinks, then I’ll be back. Things are kind of slow, so I can sit and talk for a bit.”

Ashley tried to picture Joseph as she last knew him. Tall, but not lanky. Mussed black hair that hung to his shoulders. Wide shoulders and a barrel chest, like a weight lifter, but not quite as bulky. She never knew whether or not he was a good student, but rumor had it that he had earned a scholarship to USC. For football. Or was it basketball?

Dolores slid into the seat across from Ashley. “Now, then, you asked about Joseph.” A sad look crossed her face as she shook her head. “He never did make it to college.”

“What happened?”

Dolores sighed. Lowered her head to her hand. “He fell in love, that’s what.”

“With a high school sweetheart?”

“Oh, no,” Dolores said with a shake of her head. “With exploring. He used to go out hiking into the hills. Usually with a friend, but sometimes on his own. Looking for relics, like arrowheads and pieces of gold.” A bell rang from the kitchen. “Let me get your meal.”

Just like Joseph, Ashley had developed an itch for exploration. Recent news stories spoke of hidden Native American villages, deep in the mountains, and Ashley, being a historian, yearned to be the first to find one. She had come prepared with camping gear and an ample supply of food. She had typographical maps, a compass, and a good pair of binoculars. What she needed was a trail head and a safe place in which to park her car.

She had done her research. She knew some of the lore, the most troubling being that of the crying woman. That’s what she needed from Dolores: more information as to where the woman had lived and what her problem was.

After taking care of recently arrived customers, Dolores returned and fell onto the bench. “My feet are killing me,” she said. “So, why are you here after all these years?”

“I want to find that Native American village. The one where the crying woman lived. Do you know anything about that?” Ashley leaned forward and smiled encouragingly.

“I’ve heard said that the village is at the base of Snowshoe Mountain.” Dolores patted the back of her head, tucking in a few loose strands of hair. “Now, about the woman, that’s a good story.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Well, it’s said that she cries at night, a low, mournful sound that echoes off the hills. That it’s especially loud when there’s a full moon and the skies are clear.”

“Interesting,” Ashley said. She pulled her map out of her backpack and spread it across the table. She found Snowshoe Mountain and pointed it out so that Dolores could see.

“Can you show me where the village is?”

“No. Not really. Joseph took off, looking for it, but came home empty-handed. He went out night after night, leaving just before dusk and coming home just after dawn. He often heard the woman crying, and tried to trace the source of the sound, but never found a thing.”

Just then the manager called out, reminding Dolores that she had a job to do, so she left, leaving the bill on the table. “Pay at the cash register on the way out,” she said.

Ashley wanted to know why Joseph gave up his search, but Dolores was busy and she needed to take off. She left a nice tip on the table, shouldered her purse and paid the bill on the way out.

Knowing that the moon would be full, or nearly full, the next few nights, Ashley took off in her Jeep. She headed down one-lane country roads which soon turned to gravel, and then dirt, until she reached the end. It was little more than an open patch of hard-packed dirt, and the most troubling thing was that no other vehicles were there. She parked in front of a gate that lead through an old barbed wire fence, settled her backpack into place, and took off.

At first the trail meandered through firs and the occasional small, now-dried out stream, but as time passed, it turned into a slow and steady climb marked by fallen logs and small boulders. Whenever she came to a junction, Ashley examined her map for clues, made a decision, then headed out.

It was a beautiful walk. Flowers bloomed whenever there was an open spot not covered by the canopy of trees. She passed a few meadows of undulating grass, now browned. Along the edge of one, she thought she spotted a strange formation of rocks, so stepped off the trail to investigate.

Sure enough, the rocks were arranged in a pattern, not unlike ones explorers used to mark trails. Large rock on the bottom, middle-sized next, small one on top. A tower. Ashley looked around, hoping to find more markers. She noticed places where bears most likely sharpened their claws, a reminder that she would have to be careful when nighttime came.

She heard the raucous calls of Steller’s jays and the rhythmic tap of a woodpecker at work.
Just to the right of a particularly large tree, Ashley spotted a notch, something possibly made by a hatchet, so she decided to travel in that direction for a bit to see what it revealed.

She kept her eyes peeled at shoulder height, and thankfully, found more and more markings, leading her deeper and deeper into the forest. She knew from her map that she was at the base of the foothills, above the town, but not yet into the mountains, and so a likely place for an abandoned village.

Stopping only for water and an occasional snack, Ashley proceeded with glee in her heart. She knew, just knew, that this trail would take her to a magical place. A place long ago inhabited by the natives, a place that resonated with history, spirits, and souls of those who once made it home.

Frequently checking her watch helped Ashley keep track of time. She had given herself thirty minutes to travel in this direction. If she found something that looked interesting, she would continue on. If not, she’d turn around and retrace her steps until she returned to the meadow. By then it would be approaching dusk, so she’d make camp and stay for the night.

Just as the allotted time was coming to an end, Ashley found another tower of rocks. To the left of it, almost hidden by a scree of bush, she spotted what appeared to be woven branches of a low-hanging tree. She pushed them aside and looked into the darkness. Was that a cave or simply a depression in the hills?

No matter. The spot was off the trail, partially hidden, and a remarkably good place to spend the night. Ashley slipped off her backpack and began to set up camp. She gathered sticks and branches for a fire, scooped up leaves to make a bed, took out her flashlight, matches, camp stove, pot and packaged meal. She smiled and nodded in pleasure, looking forward to rice and beans, even though freeze-dried food was never really that great. Nutritious, filling, but bland.

After eating and cleaning up her dirty dishes, Ashley tossed a rope into the branches over her head. It caught on the first try. She tied her backpack to one end and pulled it as high as she could, hoping it was out of the reach of bears and other marauders.

Time for bed. She climbed into her sleeping bag even though it was still warm outside, but the thought of snakes, bugs, or rodents crawling over her while she slept gave her the creeps.

Sometime during the night, Ashley awakened. She listened for movement outside her makeshift shelter, but heard nothing. The moon’s light pierced the entrance mat, sending sparkling dots of light over her sleeping bag.

She closed her eyes and snuggled a little deeper. A sudden cry brought her out of her comfort zone. Not the cry of a bird, but of an animal. An injured or terrified animal. An eerie. Bone-tingling sound.

Ashley sat up to try to determine location and distance.

Again she heard it. This time chills swept up her arms. Noise-maker was in trouble, but Ashley had no weapon and was not physically strong enough to fight off human or animal.
She pulled aside the mat, peered into the darkness, in order to see whatever it was, but saw only shadows of trees. Once again the being cried out, even more plaintively than before.

Unable to sit there doing nothing, Ashley slipped on her jeans and boots, pulled her sweatshirt over her head and picked up her flashlight. She pulled aside the matted branches and stepped out. There was nothing there.

When it came again, the cry seemed close at hand. Whatever was making it was clearly in distress. Ashley flipped on her flashlight and shone it around to the left and right, but there was no one there. She was scared, but not too scared to take a few steps into the darkness.

She scanned the area around her camp, moving slowly, checking the ground for footprints, clues that might lead her to the source of the sound. She found nothing. She ranged further, this time in a circle, moving with precision from right to left. Again she found no trace of passage other than her own footprints.

Ashley trembled with fright, knowing that she was just a small woman, no match for man or beast, and so useless when it came to being a rescuer. Realizing that she would be better off safe in her camp, hidden from whatever was causing the distress, Ashley turned off her flashlight and nestled back in her bag, this time fully dressed in case sudden action was required.

She heard the sound a few more times, each cry making her tremble with fear. As the night passed, the cry continued, but thankfully, moving further and further away.

In the morning, after a breakfast of a granola bar and water, Ashley packed up her gear. Before heading out, she walked around the area, pushing aside branches, looking for any signs of a scuffle. But there was nothing.

She slid on her pack and slowly, carefully, retraced her steps. She made it to her car in time for a quick lunch of another granola bar, then drove back into town. She parked in front of the diner and went inside, hoping Dolores was on duty.

“You’re back pretty soon,” Dolores said as she handed Ashley a menu.

“Yeah. I got spooked out there. Do you have time to sit and talk?”

Dolores looked around, saw that none of the customers needed anything at the moment, and took a seat. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Joseph, when he went searching for the Native American village, did he speak of what happened when he was out in the woods?” Ashley leaned forward, arms on the table top.

Dolores nodded. “He got spooked. Said he heard what sounded like a crying woman. He searched the area, but found no evidence that anyone had been there.”

Ashley nodded. “Yeah. I heard it too.”

“After that Joseph did some research into local lore. He read old newspaper accounts of murders, domestic violence and other such misdeeds. He found references to some spooky happenings, raids by neighboring tribes, killings by soldiers intent on riding the area of native peoples, and even a random shooting of gold miners.”

“Why did he give up looking for the source of the sound?”

Dolores shook her head. “It seemed pointless. Plus I think it freaked him out.”

“Where is he now?”

Dolores passed her hand across her face as if erasing ancient memories. “He applied for jobs in the city, got hired and moved out. He’s never been back, not even for a quick visit.”

Ashley picked up the menu and gave it a quick glance. “I’ll have the tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. And a huge glass of ice water.”

“Sure,” Dolores said as she stood and pulled out her order pad. “Before he left, Joseph talked to a few of the old-timers that had lived out in the woods their entire lives. They had been hearing the sound for years. Called it the crying woman.”

Ashley nodded. That’s what she’d heard and she knew she’d never go back.