Tag Archives: Story about family

What the Heck?

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            Suzanne Pelletier stomped into the classroom, smelling like cigarettes and violence. Her legs, encased in a blue pencil skirt, moved in short, choppy waves of anger. A matching blue blazer, all three buttons done up, strained against her bulging chest. A falling-apart bun dripped off the back of her head, and when combined with the smear of blood-red lipstick running across her cheeks, she presented herself more as a monster than a mother.

            At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Stevenson stood abruptly, her purple grading pen slowly rolling off the edge of her desk. It landed on the linoleum floor with a resounding plink.

Her calm confidence was strengthened by her attire: a pretty butterfly blouse with matching black slacks. Whereas Mrs. Pelletier towered over her, thanks to stiletto heels, the teacher’s feet were ensconced in a comfortable pair of Hoka tennis shoes.

            “Mrs. Pelletier,” Stevenson said, “I wasn’t expecting you.” She leaned forward, a welcoming smile on her face. “How can I help you?”

            Pelletier marched up to the desk, slammed her bulky purse on top, sending student papers flying, intermixing with dust motes the angry woman had stirred up.

            “You. Should. Be. Ashamed,” Pelletier said. Spittle flew, splatting against the teacher’s face. Globs dripped down, creating a Halloween-like mask. “No, you should be fired and chased out of town.”

            Stevenson wiped her face with tissues she’d pulled from a box. She dropped them unceremoniously into a trash can. She indicated they sit at a student table. “I don’t understand why you’re angry. Please, let’s talk.”

            Pelletier planted her hands on her ample hips. Her glower extended from eyebrows to hairline. “You should be fired! You should be chased out of town.”

            “Perhaps once you explain, I’ll be able to answer your concerns.” The teacher sat in one of the metal folding chairs that her student’s used. She pointed to the chair opposite her.

            The angry woman plopped into the chair, sending it’s neighbor skittering to the left. She wrapped her arms around what the teacher realized was a Louis Vuitton bag. The handles folded in on themselves, now looking more like a wet noodle than an expensive hunk of whatever.

            “Uh, why don’t we talk about your concerns?”

            Mrs. Pelletier clutched her bag even tighter to her chest, flattening it so nearly that it appeared to be empty. “You are a heathen, plain and simple. You are corrupting my son with your liberal thinking.” She sat back so forcefully that the front legs of the chair lifted, just a tad, off the floor.

            “Please don’t lean back like that,” Ms. Stevens said. “Many students have found out that these chairs tip quite easily.”

            “Don’t distract me!” Pelletier’s face crimsoned, her eyes narrowed and her lips turned into harsh lines.

            Ms. Stevens drew in a slow breath, then fought off the cigarette-induced coughs that threatened to burst forth. The son, Christopher, had said that his mother chained-smoked despite it triggering repeated asthma attacks.

            “I’m interested in specifics, Mrs. Pelletier. Can you give me a concrete example so I can understand your concerns?”

            Pelletier pulled a tattered copy of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men from her purse. Held it aloft. Waved it as if a wind was ripping through the classroom. “Heresy. Murder. Racial mixing. Denigrating stereotypes of white men.” She ruffled the pages. “It’s all in here. And you expect my son to read this.” She slammed the book down on the table.

            Ms. Stevens gave a little twitch to her shoulders to release the tension developing there. Plus to buy time to think. It didn’t work. The tightness spread down her spine, all the way to her now-curling toes.

            “The novel is required reading for all ninth graders in the state.” She nodded to reinforce the truth of her statement. When the woman’s face didn’t lose its vibrant red coloration, she said, “but if you don’t want Chrostopher to read it, he can choose an alternate novel.”

            This was true, and if the parent had read the Student Handbook that the district gave to every family, or bothered to read the course syllabus that Ms. Stevens handed out on the first day of school, Mrs. Pelletier would have known this.

            Shock registered in the parent’s eyes: the widening pupils was a dead giveaway. Stevens allowed herself a moment of self-satisfaction. She’d outwitted the woman. She’d crushed her anger into smithereens.

            “Mrs. Pelletier, did you have an alternate in mind?”

            The woman shook her head slightly. Her cheeks puffed out, her lips pursed and her breathing became ragged. “Well, no. That’s your job.”

            Ms. Stevens walked over to a bookcase at the back of the classroom. She pulled out two hard-bound novels and placed them in front of Mrs. Pelletier before returning to her seat. “Are either of these okay?”

            “I…I’m not familiar with them, so I don’t know.”

            Stevens held out her hand, smiled when the parent placed both in her open palm. “This one, Mikey, covers a trial in which a young boy is accused of assisting in the murder of a storeowner. My students enjoy the novel.” She opened the book, turned it around so the parent could see. “Parts are written in screenplay format. While most of my students aren’t familiar with this style, once they understand, they can’t stop reading.”

            Pelletier shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s till murder, right? How is that different from this book?” She pointed to the Steinbeck novel.

            “There’s a big difference.” The teacher sat back in her chair as her face lit up with satisfaction. “The time period, for one. The book I assigned took place in the 1930s, while this one,” she touched Mikey, is contemporary. The first one is set on a ranch in the Salinas Valley, while the other happens in Manhattan.”

            “How about the other one?” Mrs. Pelletier was visibly deflating as time passed. Her shoulders slumped, causing her head to dip toward her chin.

            “Dragon Fire” is set in a fantasy world. My students seem to watch a lot of movies in the genre, so find it quite fascinating.”

            Pelletier sighed. Shook her head. “Don’t tell me there’s a murder in this one as well?”

            “It’s fantasy, as I said.” Mrs. Stevens forced a smile on her face. A flimsy attempt, to be sure, but with any luck, the parent might not notice. “You’ve seen fantasy movies?”

            “Oh, of course. Our family loved the Generations series.” A light of amusement seemed to fill her eyes.

            Stevens shrugged. Tilted her head slightly. “Then you know what they’re about. Domination. Subjugation. Fight over mineral elements. Rallying the troops.”

            The parent sat back in the chair. Her chest seemed to cave inward. “I can’t win this argument, can I.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of defeat.

            “Oh, yes you can.” Stevens’ eyes lit up. “You have the right to an alternate curriculum if you so demand. All you have to do is put your concerns in writing which you submit to the district office.”

            Pelletier’s hands trembled. “You want me to write a letter?”

            The teacher nodded. Leaned forward. Smiled. “Of course. The procedures are outlined in the Student Handbook.”

            Mrs. Pelletier checked her shiny gold watch. “I have an appointment across town.” She pushed back her chair, stood, smiled. “For now, Christopher can read that book.” She tucked it inside her purse.

            She spun around and slinked to the door.

            Mrs. Stevens returned to her desk and resumed correcting student papers.

Finding Peace

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Northern California is a fairly remote part of the state. One major highway leads from the San Francisco Bay Area through towns nestled along the coast. There are no big shopping centers, some small-business manufacturing, and almost no traffic.

When her husband of five years, Victor, abandoned the family, Sandra Monroe moved up north to give herself and her two kids a fresh start. Plus she’d be far away from the cooperative farming community he’d bragged about, somewhere in state of Wyoming.

When she was preparing to move, Sandra went online looking for reasonably priced homes to rent. There was an old cabin in Fortuna that seemed to need a ton of work. The walls were covered with peeling, faded wall paper that spoke of the 1970s.

A rancher had a trailer for rent situated somewhere behind the barn. Its sides were dented, so the insides were probably dented as well.

When she found a small bungalow-style home for rent in the older part of Eureka, Sandra called the realtor. Thankfully Victor hadn’t emptied the bank account, so she had enough for the deposit and first month’s rent. Signing a contract without walking through the home was risky, but since school was starting in a week, she had to get Emma and Jake enrolled as soon as possible.

The drive north, once they got away from San Rafael, was gorgeous.  Forests lined both sides of the highway, whenever there was an open field, elk could be spotted, and a meandering river paralleled the road for a good chunk of the way.

Emma and Jake kept themselves entertained in the back seat watching movies on their iPads and playing games. Since the kids wore headphones, Sandra could listen to an audiobook she’d been wanting to read. Everyone was happy, occupied, and hopefully excited about moving someplace that none of them had seen.

Sandra hated leaving her job, teaching third grade, but thanks to glowing letters of recommendation, she quickly found a job working at a small public school, teaching fifth grade to a grand total of twelve kids.

The principal interviewed her on Zoom. He seemed professional, and stressed open communication. He believed in team-building, something Sandra wasn’t so sure about. Every time she’d been placed in a team, members either stole her ideas or discounted her suggestions.

When you stand just a tad over five feet tall, people treat you like a little kid. Sandra worked to change those perceptions, but only in her last school was she able to be treated as a valuable member of the team.

Thank goodness the home was move-in ready. They’d unpacked, then driven to the school so Sandra could meet the principal in person, look at her classroom, and get Emma and Jake enrolled.

School began two days later. Emma loved her first-grade teacher and Jake, who hated school, enjoyed his time in the computer lab. He’d joined the school’s soccer team and even though he’d never played the sport, quickly became the top scorer.

After school Emma went to the day care on campus. The way she described it, Sandra wondered if it was more like day camp than a tutorial.

Sandra had packed all easy-to-fix cookbooks, which helped her prepare meals that her kids mostly accepted.

She loved her students. They ranged in ability from well-below grade level to highly proficient, a nightmare when trying to meet all their needs. Sandra was used to adapting curriculum, but it took lots of planning.

Every night after dinner, she balanced grading papers with doing laundry, helping her kids with homework while working on next week’s lesson plans, and fretting over keeping the lights and water on, with only her salary as income.

She’d found an attorney who specialized in going after dead-beat dads, so she’d already filed for alimony and child support. Considering that Victor was working for free on that commune, unless he got bored, which was a huge possibility, there wouldn’t be any help from him any time soon.

Sandra loved her children so much. When they ran around the backyard catching insects and lizards, Sandra sat in a chair, her eyes filled with tears of wonder and joy. When they went to the park with a huge climbing structure, Sandra moved closer to offer support to Emma.

All was going well.

Autumn came in with a downpour. Since they hadn’t needed rain gear in Hayward, Sandra had to go shopping. She’d search through all the thrift stores in the area, carrying home armfuls of coats, hats, gloves, and even rain boots in the right sizes.

She struggled affording nutritious food, until she saw a flyer for assistance at the Unitarian Church.

Twice a week two women arrived in a black SUV. Both wore long dresses topped with solid-colored cardigans, their hair in neat buns. They’d pop open the back of the car, pull out boxes of food, which they delivered with huge smiles.

In order to get that assistance, Sandra had signed an agreement form that stipulate she had to be home and had to welcome in the church members. She was instructed to offer them tap water, with no ice, but no snacks of any kind. They’d share their interpretation of the Bible, pray while holding hands, and if the kids were present, place hands on the tops of their heads.

One last requirement was that the family had to attend services on Sundays.

Sandra hadn’t attended church since her marriage. Victor agreed to getting married in the Catholic church, but after that he rebelled, refused to go and wouldn’t let her take the kids.

 The Unitarian service wasn’t anything like what she’d grown up knowing, but she found the quiet and peace something she sorely needed.

Because Eureka sat right on the coast, it was subject to dense fog almost all year long. Sandra would get up in the morning, look outside, and see damp streets and muddy front yards. And that was due to heavy mist, not the rains that began in autumn and wouldn’t slow down until summer. Lightning was rare, but when it happened, all three of them panicked.

One evening in October, Sandra and Emma sat in the stands watching Jake’s soccer team lose to a team from McKinleyville, ominous-looking clouds rolled in. The wind picked up, so strong that everyone had trouble standing upright. Laughter broke out from players, spectators and officials as bent-over participants attempted to stay in place.

When the rains began, umbrellas popped open. Sandra expected the game to be called, but a parent she sat near, told her that if every outing was cancelled due to rain, or the threat of rain, nothing would take place. It was the fact of life in Eureka.

When the game finally ended, a resounding loss of 12-2, Sandra ushered her drenched kids into the car and drove home.

Her windshield wipers couldn’t keep the rain off, even at high speed. Her headlights reflected on the pavement, creating a wavy pattern that made it difficult to figure out where the lane lines were. It was a harrowing drive; made worse due to the worst traffic she’d seen since the move.

By the time they got home, the rain on the roof sounded like jackhammers, as it streamed down the windows, making it hard to see outside. Day turned into night, even though it was only three in the afternoon. They turned on a bevy of lights so Sandra could see to fix dinner, The kids watched some television, but only after taking turns in the shower.

Sandra had just placed a tray of grilled cheese sandwiches on the table when the lights flickered. She held her breath as she stared at the old-fashioned chandelier, praying silently that it wouldn’t fail.

After getting the kids settled at the table, Sandra said, “I’m really sorry, kids, but I’ve got to get these papers graded tonight.”

“What about the rule that we can’t do work while we’re eating?” Jake stuffed half a sandwich in his mouth.

“Yeah, Mom,” Emma whined, “no work at the table.”

“You’re right,” Sandra sighed. “But I heard on the radio that this storm is expected to be a bad one. The lights might go out and then my students would be disappointed when I couldn’t return their work.”

Her kids exchanged looks that told Sandra she was making a huge mistake. “How about if I work for only thirty minutes? And then we’ll do something fun.”

“We can build a fort.” Thomas swung his legs back and forth so hard that his toes cracked Sandra’s shins under the table.

“Sounds like a great idea,” she said as she rubbed away the hurt. “Rinse off your dishes and load them in the dishwasher. Then get ready for bed, including brushing your teeth.”

“Can I get the sheet?” Emma’s eyes lit up with excitement.

An ear-splitting crack shook the house, which was then followed by the zigzag streak of lightning. The three of them shot up, eyes wide open, staring out the kitchen window.

“You said it didn’t thunder up here.” Shivers shook Emma’s tiny body.

Another blast jolted the house, making Sandra wonder if it hit something close by. A smell of singed wood slowly penetrated the house, causing Jake to cough.

She handed him an inhaler, which seemed to help.

Sandra slid into her raincoat, then said, “Stay in the front room until I get back.”

“Don’t leave us,” Emma whined as she wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs.

Sandra pried off the tiny fingers, leaned over and planted a kiss on Emma’s forehead. “I won’t be gone long. I just need to make sure we’re okay.”

Just as she opened the door, thunder roared all around them, a terrifying sound that felt as if the heavens were attacking their small house. The lights went out, casting them into total darkness.

The rain intensified as more and more flashes lit up the sky.

“I don’t think you should go outside,” Jake said in his quickly deepening voice. He squared his shoulders, making himself seem taller. “I say we all stay together.”

“Mommy, I’m scared!” Emma dropped to the floor and wrapped her arms around her bent knees.

“I have an idea,” Sandra said. “There are flashlights in just about every room. Let’s divide up. Emma and Thomas, you search in the bedrooms. I’ll check the bathrooms, the front room, and the kitchen.”

“Okay, Mommy,” Emma said. The little girl’s feet refused to move.

“Hurry, now,” Sandra said as she placed a hand on her daughter’s back. “When you’ve found at least one for each of us, meet back here.”

It didn’t take long for everyone to have at least one flashlight, which they quickly turned on.

Sandra shook her head. “For right now, we’ll only use one at a time to save the batteries.”

The trio found refuge on the couch, Sandra in the middle, with Emma tucked under her left arm and Jake, pretending to be brave, leaning against the arm to her right.

The wavering light danced against the walls, illuminating the few photos Sandra had managed to hang before she had to go to work the first day. Familiar faces took on a ghoulish appearance. Corners were filled with eerie shadows that danced in the yellow light.

As a native Californian, and especially someone who had lived in the Bay Area her entire life, Sandra had little experience with thunderstorms. The few times it did thunder, there’d be only a blast or two, and then the storm moved on.

This was frightening because it was unexpected.

There was another resounding boom which shook the house as if it were a thin rag. What felt like a jolt of energy pulsed through the air, causing Emma’s long hair to fan out like a headdress, Jake’s short hair to stick up in crazy directions, and Sandra’s hair to stand on end, almost like a halo.

As suddenly as the storm hit, it left, accompanied by a suffocating stillness that fell over them like a heavy blanket. Sandra pulled her children tight against her chest.

A warm, flickering brightness filled the living room and didn’t stop. It intensified with each tick of the clock on the mantle.

Sirens filled the air, seeming to be approaching her neighborhood. The kids wanted to go outside and watch, but at first Sandra refused to let them go.

When she smelled smoke, she stood and said, “Kids, I think we should go outside.”

“It’s still raining,” Emma said as she hung back, clinging to her mom.

Jake, on the other hand, flung the front door open and dashed out into the storm without putting on a jacket.

Sandra grabbed an umbrella she’d placed in the closet, opened it as they stepped outside, then led Emma out to the gravelly road.

One look behind her and Sandra knew the flickering lights weren’t cause flashlights, but by flames dancing up the walls.

By now a bunch of neighbors had gathered outside. A heavily bearded man wearing overalls with one strap dangling, told Sandra to move on down the road in case power lines fell or the gas line exploded.

It seemed like a terrific idea, so Sandra grabbed Jake’s hand as he dashed by, tucked Emma close to her chest and quickly walked down to the nearest intersection.

A small hook-and-ladder, pulled into their street, followed by small fire engine and the Chief’s SUV. They stopped in front of her house and the fire people immediately connected hoses to hydrants and began spraying the flames.

Two firefighters went onto the roof and punched holes, while several others pulled lines of hoses into the backyard.

An older woman that Sandra had yet to meet handed the three of them cups of hot chocolate. After checking them for smoke inhalation, paramedics wrapped them in foil blankets.

More and more people line the street, most of them talking animatedly despite the late hour. What surprised Sandra was that almost everyone stayed outside until well after dawn brought light to the world.

Once the fire was out, an inspector called Sandra over to his side.

“The roof is compromised, ma’am. There’s smoke and water damage throughout the house.”

“Please tell me all the bad news,”

“Almost everything inside is gone, and what’s left is filthy.”

News of the fire quickly spread through the tight-knit community. By breakfast time, neighbors arrived with burritos, juices, and bananas. The Red Cross ushered them to a hotel in town where they could stay until permanent housing became available. The kids didn’t complain too much once they discovered an indoor swimming pool and so many Internet channels that it was practically impossible to decide what to watch.

FEMA helped Sandra complete stacks of paperwork, coordinated with her renter’s insurance, and gave them vouchers for food and clothes.

The Unitarian Church surprised Sandra by offering them housing in a rental unit they ran for people in need. Strangers dropped off clothes at the Safeway in town, as soon as everyone’s sizes were made known.

School supplies, including brand new backpacks, arrived the day before the kids were scheduled to return to class. F

One more surprise were the bags of food and coupons for local restaurants.

Sandra had never experienced such kindness before and didn’t really know how to express her thanks. That is until a local reporter stuck a microphone in her face and asked a bunch of intrusive questions.

Sandra was used to taking control of a situation: after all, she kept her class in line even when silliness and complaints threatened to derail the lessons. The reporter gave up after a while and let Sandra talk, her earnestness coming across as sincere gratitude.

One night during dinner, the family talked about what would happen next.

“We’re starting over,” Sandra said, “but this time we are surrounded by community.”

Jake nodded. “My soccer team gave me new cleats, shin guards and a uniform. It’s not my old number, fourteen, which I didn’t like. Now I’m number one, perfect for the highest scorer on the team!”

 Emma tried to hold back her tears, but couldn’t. “I wish we could go back home. I miss my friends.”

Sandra patted her daughter’s arm. “We all miss our lives there, but this seems to be a fantastic place to live. We’re more than okay,” she said. “The storm gave us more friends than we’ve ever had. Emma, your classmates cared enough to deliver homemade cookies, and Jake, your teammates offered to help you catch up with your schoolwork.”

She wiped away tears threatening to dampen her eyes.

“This is the beginning to our new lives.”

Gratitude Comes in Small Packages

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

“Where are they going?” I asked.

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

“What’s school?”

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

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

“Why are all those kids carrying metal boxes?”

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

“Can I have one?”

“It’s too early for lunch.”

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

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

“Can I go to school now?” I asked.

“Not until you’re five.”

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

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

“What do you do at school?”

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

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

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

“I want a lunchbox now.”

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

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

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

“Can I have a lunchbox?”

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

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

My brother was already seated in his chair.

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

“Let it go.” My mom glowered at me.

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

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

“Shut up and eat,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Open it up.”

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

“No. It’s yours.”

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

She shook her head.

“Did Bill get a lunchbox?”

“He doesn’t want one.”

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

“Yes. It’s for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this what kids do at school?”

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

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

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

I was grateful.

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

A New Awareness

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            I’ve always moaned about the travails of being stuck in between my siblings. My mother worshiped my older brother, thought he could do no wrong. That was partly due to how disappointed my father was in having a son who was not athletic and had no aptitude for mechanics. My brother was not the child my father would have chosen. Unfortunately, this led to many incidents in which my brother was forced to spend hours in the garage, hands covered in grease, not enjoying what he was doing and getting yelled at for being incompetent.

            My brother took his frustrations out on me. He teased me constantly, called me offensive names, and when no one was looking, pinched or kicked or punched me, leaving huge bruises on my arms, legs and abdomen.

            We had a complicated relationship. I loved sports and would beg my brother to play. Badminton, whiffle ball, sledding, basketball, it made no difference to me. I picked up any sport quite quickly, and so as soon as I was consistently beating him, he found ways to torture me during play. He’d knock me down, through the ball so hard it bruised my palm, dunk me under the water, or let all the air out of my bicycle tires.

            Even so, when it was time to play, I’d look toward my brother. For one, we were intellectual equals. We enjoyed complicated strategy games that took days to solve. This meant board games as well as complex was games with dark green army men fighting beneath a sheet tent.

            My relationship with my younger sister was always rocky. My mother clearly felt a need to shelter her. This included making me take the blame for anything my sister did or did not do, such as cleaning her half of the room or making her bed. It was my fault if she made a mess anywhere in the house. This led to some interesting behaviors on my part.

            One time when I was particularly vexed at her, I asked Mom is my sister could have chocolate pudding, knowing that she’d have to eat it outside because she always made a mess of herself. Not satisfied with the low-level mess my sister would make, I helped make it bigger and better.

            I told her to stick her fingers in the container and rub the pudding down her legs and arms. All over her face and neck, and even in her hair. When it was gone, I went into the house to get my mom, expecting my sister to get the beating I would have received.

            Not so. My mom got the Polaroid camera and took a picture, enshrining forever the chocolate-mess that was my sister. And to make things worse, my mom laughed. She praised my sister for being so inventive, then commanded me to give her a bath.

            Over the years I was blamed for many things that I did not do. My brother accused me of flirting with his friends, none of whom had the brains to interest me. My sister said I’d kicked her and pinched her, which I hadn’t done.

            Those were some of the most miserable years of my life.

            The torture ended when I left home for college.

            I had no escaped my brother, however, as my parents would only let me go to the same college he had chosen. And then they empowered him to watch over me, control me, tell me what to do.

            They had not understood how clever I really was and how easily I could fool my brother. I did need his assistance to shop for food and necessities, and I did become a Little Sister to his fraternity, but beyond that, I led my own life. It was my first taste of freedom and I loved it.

            Many years later I learned about middle-child-syndrome. The term defined exactly how I felt. It also helped me understand why I took things to hard and why I kept so much of me locked inside.

            I used to dream of what it would be like to be an only child, and it seemed heavenly.

            Recently I heard a talk-show host talking about how lonely it was being an only child, and that with no siblings to take the brunt of the anger, he was the sole focus of every bit of torture his family could improvise.

            That gave me a new perspective. While I clearly was the target most of the time, my older brother was a bit of a cushion from my dad’s anger and disappointment. Because my mother felt a need to hover over my younger sister, it gave me a certain degree of freedom.

            This was a profound revelation. Only children have no one to blame if something gets broken or a task is left undone. Only children are the sole focus of parental energy. Only children, when not allowed outside as I was, have no where to go to get away from those prying eyes.

            I am now going to have to reevaluate my perspective on being a middle child. Perhaps it wasn’t as awful as I thought, or perhaps being alone could have been substantially worse.

            It’s interesting to ponder.

Crimes of Passion

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            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.

A Valentine’s Dilemma

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Part Two:

Just as he remembered, there was an old leather trunk in the corner, covered with a layer of dust.  He lovingly rubbed his hand across the top.  He opened the lid, revealing Nightingale’s treasures.

On top was a red velvet shirt with a beaded yoke, a string of yellow flowers attached to a white vine, all hand sown by Nightingale herself.  Next was a tiny pair of beaded moccasins, so small that he couldn’t fit his whole hand inside.  He found a bandolier of china tubes interspersed with blue glass beads and a pair of white buckskin leggings with a fringed tunic.

“This was her weddin’ outfit,” he thought as he held them up to the light. “She sure looked pretty in these.”  He held the tunic to his nose and inhaled, then cradled it to his chest.  For many minutes Grandpa sat on his haunches, rocking with eyes closed, remembering the beautiful girl who stole his heart so many years ago.  “This won’t do,” he chastised himself as he placed the outfit back in the trunk.  He rummaged around some more until he found the item that he had had in mind.  After taking it out, he closed the trunk, locked the door, and went back down the ladder.

About the same time Stan came in, leading Sally by the halter.  “Guess what I saw up on the ridge?”

“A beaver?”

“No.  Guess again,” Stan said as he led Sally into her stall. 

“Little Bear?” Grandpa chuckled at the thought of the creature from lore being spotted at the top of the hill.

“You know better than that,” Stan said. “Give me a real guess.  Something that lives up there, but you seldom see any more.”  Stan pulled off the saddle and the blanket and hung them over a rail.  He picked up a soft cloth and wiped Sally’s damp sides until she glowed.

“You saw a porcupine.”

“That’s it!  How did you guess that?  I haven’t seen one up there since I was a little boy.” Stan brushed Sally, removing the matted hair from her mane and tail.

“Well,” Grandpa drawled, “I was thinking of a porcupine that crossed my path when I was about your age.”

“Another story, Grandpa?”

“Yep.  You keep workin’ and I’ll talk,” he said as he settled onto a three-legged stool just outside the stall.  “Years ago, shortly after I met Nightingale, I wanted to give her something that showed how special she was.  I had little money to spend, so I figured I’d make something.  Now your grandmother always dressed in her traditional clothes.  Somehow it felt right to her.  None of that modern stuff.

“So I rode up on that ridge, just like you did, thinking maybe I’d see a nice piece of wood for carving.  Instead I ran across a dead porcupine.  Looked fresh.  Maybe died of old age, as I didn’t see any wounds anywhere.  Anyway, I got the idea to pull off the quills and make something out of them.  The quills are hollow, you know, so it is easy to lace them together to make a necklace or breastplate.  Plus they can be died different colors by using berries, roots, or mosses. 

“Red was Nightingale’s favorite color, so after getting as many quills as I could, I searched around until I found some nice berries.  I took it all back home, boiled the berries in some hot water, making a nice thick juice.  Then I dropped in about half of the quills.  While they were cooking, I found some rawhide scraps and cut them into very thin strips. 

“Once everything was ready, I prayed to the gods to guide my work.  The Blackfoot believe that the quills have religious powers, so I was extra careful not to offend anyone.  I had some blue glass beads left over from a necklace I made her as a wedding gift, so I used them too.

“Every evening I came out here to the barn and worked while Nightingale took care of the mother.  My fingers were too big and clumsy to make anything real fine, so I concentrated on the larger pieces of quill and the beads with the biggest holes.  It took me nearly two weeks, but when I presented her with a sash for her waist, she smiled so big I thought her cheeks would split.

“So, here it is,” he said as he held it up for Stan to see. “I found it in her chest.”

“Grandpa, that’s beautiful!”

“The colors have faded a bit, but Rose might like it anyway.”

“She’ll love it.  But won’t her father think we’re engaged?”

“Maybe yes to both.  But if you notice, I made a design like antelopes.  Blackfoot warriors place a lot of significance in the antelope.    Because they run fast, the antelope escape capture more times than not.  Curly Bear will remember that and know that this gift isn’t meant to tie Rose to you.”

Stan reverently held the sash up to the light, then ran his fingers along the lines of quills and beads.  “This is perfect.  Rose doesn’t have a sash nearly this nice.”

“Well, let’s go inside.  It’s nigh on to dark.  Soon it will be bedtime.”

Stan closed Sally’s stall door, turned off the light, closed the big barn door, then walked with his grandfather back to the house.  “One question, Grandpa.”

“Sure.”

“If this was Grandmother’s, don’t you want to keep it?”

Grandpa stopped at the top step and turned to face the now dark front lawn. He turned his eyes up to the sky, sighed, and then said, “The materials that went to make that came from the earth.  Yes, it was a special gift.  A way for me to tell my wife that I loved her.  But it holds no power over my memories.  Keeping it in that trunk is of no use to anyone.  If’n you give it to Rose, every time she wears it, Nightingale will smile.  Nope. It’s yours to give.”

Stan laid his right hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to say, except thanks.  This will make the best Valentine’s Day gift.  All I need now is a box and red wrapping paper.”

Grandpa nodded. “I just might have some of that upstairs.” With that, he opened the door and led the way inside. “Why don’t you get some studying done while I gather what you need.”

Stan pulled his Government textbook out of his backpack and settled at the wooden desk his grandfather had recently made. The surface was smooth even though it was a bit uneven.

He loved the care that had gone into its construction. In fact, he even knew which tree his grandfather had used. Not too long ago, during a rare windstorm, a walnut tree had blown down. He had helped cut the tree into usable pieces that he had stacked under an overhang on the backside of the barn.

He opened to the chapter on socialism and was just starting to read when his grandfather reappeared, his arms full.

“I found ever’thin’ you need.”

            Stan smiled when he saw the red Christmas paper. Rose would laugh when she saw dancing Santas and skipping reindeer. “That’s perfect. Thanks.”

            “So,” Grandpa said as he got out his pipe. “Happy?”

            Stan nodded. “Once again you solved my dilemma.”

            Grandpa opened the front door and just before he stepped through, he said, “Valentine’s is about love. I’d do anything for you because I love you. You know that, right?”

            “That I do.” Stan moved the paper and ribbon off to the side of the desk. “So what can I get you for Valentine’s?”

            “Every day you gift me with your love.” Grandpa closed the screen door behind him. “That’s all I need.”

A Valentine’s Day Dilemma

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Part One:

            Stan Ellis sat before his computer, furiously searching the Internet for a gift for his girlfriend, Rose.  He wanted to get her something for Valentine’s Day that said he cared about her, but nothing more.  After all, they were both seniors in high school headed for college in the fall.

            “That won’t do,” he thought as he looked at diamond necklaces.  “I don’t have that kind of money, and something like that spells L-O-V-E.”  He checked out watches, rings, hats, and various types clothing, but nothing seemed to fit what Stan thought were in Rose Tailfeather’s taste.

            Grandfather Ellis, looking on from the kitchen as he fixed dinner, smiled.  He remembered going through the same thing when he wanted to give his wife Nightingale a special gift on their anniversary.  He understood how hard it was to find just the right gift.

After putting the casserole in the oven to bake, he stepped into the living room. “Whatcha doing?”

            “Oh!  Grandpa, don’t sneak up on me like that, please.”

            “It’s good to know I can still sneak.  I thought these ol’ bones made enough racket to wake your long-dead uncles.”  Grandpa pulled his pipe from his shirt pocket, stuffed it with tobacco from a hand-tooled pouch hanging from a nearby shelf, tampered it down with his finger, lit it, then inhaled.  As he exhaled, he made perfect clouds of smoke rise toward the ceiling.  “I asked what you were doin’.”

            “Valentine’s Day is coming up and I want to get something special for Rose,” Stan said.

            “Go to Draper’s in town and pick up somethin’ there.  The old man carries a good variety of things to please a woman.” Grandpa settled into his old, worn recliner, put up the foot rest and got himself comfortable.

            After turning off the computer, Stan said, “You don’t understand.  Rose comes from a traditional Blackfoot family.  If I give her something too valuable, then her father will think I’m proposing.  If it’s not something Rose wants, then she will think I don’t care.  I’m stuck.”

            “Is Rose a nice girl?”

            “Of course.  You met her before the Winter Dance.  I brought her over, right?”

            “Is she the one that wore the old-fashioned buckskin dress with blue and white pony beads down the sleeves?”

            “That’s the one.  Rose is proud of her heritage and wears native regalia almost every day.  She’s in my Chemistry and English classes and her grades are always the highest,” Stan said as he fidgeted with his hands.

            “Doesn’t her family live outside of town on Little Creek Ranch?”

            “Yes.”

            “I remember her ol’ man, Curly Bear Tailfeather.  He believes the people’ll rise and take back the land.  He goes to Ghost Dances and parades about like he’s a medicine man. He’s kind of nuts, if’n you ast me,” Grandpa said, inhaling and puffing once more.  “You sure chose the wrong girl, Stan.”

            A look of shock swept over the young man’s face.  “Why do you say that?”

            “Because no matter what you do, you’re in trouble.  Curly Bear believes in all that ritual stuff.  Anything you give Rose is an engagement promise.”

            “That’s my problem, Grandpa.  Rose may come from a traditional family, but she has modern ideas.  She expects a boyfriend to remember her on Valentine’s Day. And not just with a cheap card, either.  She wants something in a box covered with bright red paper.”

            Just then the oven timer rang.  “Go check dinner, Stan, and I’ll think on it for a spell.”

            When Stan checked on the casserole, it wasn’t quite done. While it continued cooking, he put together a tossed green salad, set the table, and poured two tall glasses of ice water.  His grandfather had some diced potatoes in the frying skillet, so Stan turned on the heat, put in a little oil, onion, salt and pepper, and cooked them until the potatoes had a nice brown color and the onion slices were translucent.  After putting the potatoes in a serving bowl and placing them on the table, he pulled out the noodle casserole and centered it on the hot pads his grandfather had spread in the center of the table.

            “Dinner’s ready, Grandpa.  Come on in.”

            “Thanks, Stan.  I was so busy figurin’ I forgot about food.  I think I solved your problem,” he said as he walked into the kitchen and sat at the head of the table.  “Say the blessin’ for us.”

            They bowed their heads as the nuns at St. Matthew’s Episcopal had taught both.  “God, our Creator and Heavenly Father,” Stan intoned.  “Bless our meal and all the people who helped create it.  Watch over us as we go through our days.  We thank you for all the gifts you have given.  Amen.”

            “Amen,” echoed his grandfather.  “Pass the potatoes.  Got to eat ‘em afore they get cold.”

            As Stan ate he remembered Grandma Nightingale’s rules about chewing slowly and eating quietly in reverence to the animals and plants that gave their lives in order to sustain the people.  When he was finished, Stan said, “So, what idea did you get?”

            “Well, if you give Rose jewelry from a store, she might like it, but her father won’t.  He hates anything store bought and thinks old man Draper cheats the people.”

            “That’s what I was thinking.  Plus Rose might read engagement into it, and I don’t want that to happen.  We’re still too young.”

            “You can’t give her flowers, as Curly Bear’s anger would rise at destroying plants for no purpose.  That leaves clothing or food,” Grandpa said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his full belly.

Stan got up, picked up the dirty dishes and carried them over to the counter.  He rinsed them off and then placed them in the dishwasher.  The leftover casserole went into a refrigerator container.  He dampened a paper towel and washed off the table, careful not to disturb his grandfather.

“I’ve got to take Sally out for a ride before it gets too dark,” Stan said.  “Want to walk out to the stable with me?”

“Sure,” Grandpa said.  “What I was thinkin’ was that what you could give Rose is out there anyway.”

Together they walked across the lush front lawn to the barn.  Stan pushed open the large door while his grandfather turned on the lights. 

Stan looked around and saw only hay, harnesses, bridles and horseshoes. “What’s out here that I could give Rose?”

“Nightingale’s trunk is up in the rafters.  If I recall correctly, there’s something in there that would make Rose smile and keep her father happy as well.  You go out for a ride while I climb up and get it.”

“Sure, Grandpa.  I’ll be back in an hour.” Stan saddled Sally and headed out toward the distant hills.

After his grandson left, Grandpa climbed up the ladder to the rafters.  He walked to the far side where there was a locked door.  Pulling out a ring of keys, he found a small, old-fashioned one that fit the hasp lock.  Once the door creaked open, he allowed his eyes a moment to adjust before stepping into the dark storage area. 

Just as he remembered, there was an old leather trunk in the corner, covered with a layer of dust.  He lovingly rubbed his hand across the top.  He opened the lid, revealing Nightingale’s treasures.

A Thanksgiving Lesson

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            I am not a particularly good cook. In fact, I am a pathetic cook because I have no interest in cooking except for the simple act of putting food on the table. I can usually follow a recipe, but there’s no guarantee that the finished product will look or taste as advertised.

            The problem goes back to my teen years when my mom insisted I learn to cook. She’d make me stand next to her and watch every move she made. It was incredibly boring. I needed to study. If I didn’t earn straight As I’d be punished. My allegiance went to books, so I’d stand next to her with book in hand.

            That meant I wasn’t paying attention. So when I was told to replicate her concoction, I couldn’t. My mom cooked from memory, not from books. Unless she wrote it down, there was no way I could produce the item. When she did record her recipes, she often left out an ingredient or a crucial step.

            One year my family decided that my husband and I should host Thanksgiving dinner. Mike is a good cook, so he took charge of the turkey and gravy, leaving me to handle the rest. I pulled out every cookbook I owned to find recipes for dressing, green beans and pumpkin and mince meat pies. I chose the easiest options.

            Things were in the oven or on the stove when my family arrived. Altogether there were fourteen hungry people crowded into our house. Fortunately we had planned snacks of cheese and crackers for that kept the kids happy and held the adults at bay while they downed mixed drinks.

            There was only about thirty minutes to go before the turkey would be done, the gravy could be made, the potatoes mashed and the green bean casserole put in the oven.

            The adults were getting restless. They had arrived with a preconceived notion of when the meal would be ready and we were not meeting their mental deadline. I was anxious. While everything looked okay, what if my concoctions didn’t meet their approval? My family could be obnoxious when disappointed, so as time ticked by and tempers began to flare, I knew things were going horribly wrong.

            Then the power went out. One moment the stove was working, the next it wasn’t. Was the turkey done? The beans? Potatoes? Everything appeared to be mostly done, but what if it wasn’t? You can eat the side dishes even if they aren’t quite finished, but you can’t serve an undercooked turkey.

            We waited for the power to return, but after thirty minutes it was obvious that it wasn’t happening. My dad and brother offered advice laced with sarcasm, almost as if it was something we had done to switch off the power.

            My husband is a calm, easy-going man. He moved the barbeque into the backyard and lit the coals. When it was ready, he placed the turkey outside. Everything else went into the still-warm oven.

            The troops, however, were impatient, frustrated and hungry. They had allotted only a certain amount of time to be at our home and that time was ending. Either food would be served or they would leave. The options were not politely phrased.

            I hung out in the kitchen pretending that I knew what I was doing and that things were in hand. Mike monitored the turkey, which meant he was outside leaving me inside getting the brunt of the criticism.

            When the turkey was finally done, I was able to breathe a tiny sigh of relief. As he cut and placed meat on a platter, I pulled everything out and got it on the table. He made the gravy and poured it into the bowl.

            Dinner was served. People sat. Grace was said. The food was edible even though most things weren’t hot. Tempers settled. A bit of peace entered the house.

            Just as the last of the dishes were being rinsed off, the power returned.

            People left, some bearing leftovers.

            The meal worked out, but never again would I host a family meal. The stakes were too high and I refused to bear the brunt of their anger when the fault lay not in something I had done, but in the failure of the power to stay on.

            Later on Mike helped me understand that things had worked out despite my nervousness and fears. After all, food had been served. No one left hungry unless by choice.

            That Thanksgiving was over thirty years ago, but it left an indelible mark. Never again, I told myself, would I host a family gathering.

            Little did I know that when my mother-in-law died that my husband’s family would decide that we would host a brunch for sixty people. I announced that I would cook nothing. I would take care of paper goods, but that was it. The family would have to prepare every dish and clean up afterwards.

            Guess what? I held to my pronouncement. When cooking was happening, I stayed out of the kitchen. I picked up no dirty dishes, washed not a single thing, refilled no snack bowls and did not monitor the ice chests of drinks. I found myself a quiet place away from the crowds and stayed there for the five hours that people were in my home.

            One failure was sufficient to keep me from ever cooking for a crowd. Even though I had had not control over the power going out, blame was still laid at my feet. If my husband’s family wanted a party, they would have to shoulder the effort. Never again would I shoulder the mantle of responsibility.

            It’s amazing how liberating it is to refuse, to loudly proclaim that I would not be in charge. If only I had applied that motto to other areas in my life, things might have been different. But that’s another story for another time.

Missing Him

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I wonder where my dad is now?

What country or what town?

Do the people even know he’s there?

And care about his men?

I wonder what he’s thinking of?

While I stare at the clouds?

Does he see the same sky that I see?

And smile at the bright sun?

I wonder if he questions

What the war is all about?

Does it make a difference what he does?

And how will it all come out?

I wonder when he does come home

Whom he will smile at first?

Do you think he’ll even recognize me?

And know that I’m his son?

I wonder if he wonders

What I’m thinking of today?

Does he pray for me on bended knee?

And whisper I love you?

Mama’s Voice

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Low and sweet Mama called, “Honey Bee,” and when Collette arrived, Mam wrapped her with a smile and glittering green eyes. “Can I have some cold water?”

“Of course, Mama. Want anything else?”

“We have any lemon bars? I’d love a piece.” Mama resumed rocking, eyes closed, mind most likely drifting somewhere in the past.

Collette nodded knowing that Mama was happy. It didn’t matter that names got mixed up. Collette didn’t bother asking anymore if Mama remembered who she was. Suzanne, Maria or Abigail. Or rare occasions when Mama’s eyes were wide open she knew Collette. Maybe today was one of them, but if pressed, Mama grew upset.

“I got your water,” Collette said as she placed the glass in Mama’s hands and a small paper plate with a tiny bite of lemon bar on a rickety wooden table next to Mama’s chair. Collette then sat in the empty rocker, the one Papa used way back when.

“This is nice,” Mama practically sang in that not-quite-southern twang of hers. “I love me some cold water when it’s hot like this.” She closed her eyes and resumed rocking, humming a church song that Collette barely remembered.

“Is that “The Old Wooden Cross”?”

“Nope. Rugged. It’s Rugged Cross. Much more meaning to it.” Mama began singing, “I love that old Cross, but then she stopped and tears filled her eyes. “Darn I forget the words.” Her knees started bouncing, a sure sign of distress. “I forget everything these days. Half the time I don’t even know your name.”

“Collette. I’m Collette, your surprise baby daughter.”

Mama stared at her as if she had no idea what she was talking about. “I didn’t have no surprise baby daughter.”

Collette patted her mama’s right knee, just enough to add comfort. “It’s alright. Not important. Have some lemon bar.” Collette put the plat in Mama’s hand. “Just a piece. No more right now.”

“I haven’t been to church in ages. Not since Matthew died. I just can’t bear walking the same places he walked.”

Mama said in that sweet, persuasive voice of hers, “Maybe it’s time you and I go. Sunday’s tomorrow. Preacher Davis will be leading the service. Oh, my, I love the way that man calls on the Lord.” She set the plate on the little table and leaning on her cane a little too much for Collette’s comfort, headed inside.

“Where you going?” Collette grabbed glass and plate. Can’t leave nothing outside unless ou want birds and raccoons and stray cats coming around.

Mama’s words floated over her shoulder as she turned to go down the hall. “Got to pick a dress for tomorrow. Folks haven’t seen me in a while. Want to make a good impression.”

Collette frowned. She didn’t want to go to that church any more than she wanted to go to the one at home. Matthew loved the Church of Christ chapel in downtown Chillicothe because he felt more comfortable with the merchant families that came to his five-and-dime store. Collette grew up in First Baptist in Sterling Crossings, the church her Mama still loved, but it was a thirty mile drive from home.

Collette pulled a whole chicken out of the refrigerator and washed it off in warm water. Using the butcher knife she cut it in pieces. Froze half. Rubbed the rest in a mesquite marinade. Zipped it up and put it in the fridge for cooking later. Next came shucking corn and peeling potatoes. She didn’t like potatoes, but Mama said it wasn’t a proper meal with spuds of some kind on the table. Tonight she’d bake them so she could control how much sour cream and butter landed on Mama’s half.

“I found me a dress,” Mama said. “Lookee here.”

It was an old yellow cotton dress that Mama last wore to the Fourth of July Picnic four years ago. It hung a bit loose, but the pride in Mama’s voice kept Collette’s mouth shut. “Pretty color. Perfect for summer.”

“Hm, hm. I know. Your daddy bought this for me on one of his trips out of town. I think it’s from North Dakota, but I’m not sure. Every time he went away he brought home something. Sometimes a bolt of cloth. Once he gave me a pretty necklace. When I asked where he got the money, he wrapped me in his arms so tight I could barely breathe.”

“Nice memory.” Collette lead Mama down the hall to change back into her every day clothes. “Lift your arms.” She pulled the dress over Mama’s head and hung it on the closet door.

“That’s what caused me to kick him out. Smelled perfume on him. A kind I never wore. Knew he was cheating. He didn’t deny it. Just picked up his traveling bag and left. When that door slammed shut I yelled to never come back. He didn’t.”

Collette brushed her mama’s hair. She had to be gentle as there wasn’t much left. Mama had what they call female pattern hair loss. She’d asked her hair dresser last time she’s had a trim. Paula, that was her name, said there wasn’t anything to do about it except keep it clean and use a soft brush.

“Why you using that soft thing?” Mama said.

“Paula said it’d be better on your scalp. Like a massage.” Finished, Collette pulled hairs from between the bristles and dropped them in a nearby garbage can. “Let’s get your clothes on so as to be ready for dinner.”

Mama started humming again, this time a song Collette knew and loved. She sang up high in her soprano voice while Mama hummed the alto line. “Amazing grace how sweet the sound…”

By the end of the song they’d returned to the porch, Mama in her rocker and Collette heading down the metal steps to pull the laundry off the line. She hated that Mama’s clothes hung out front for the world to see, but everybody in the Wagon Wheel Mobile Home Park did the same. At least Mama’s house wasn’t worse off than the others’. Joe Maxwell’s siding was peeling off and Pete Smith’s windows were covered with plastic to keep out insects, wind and rain.

Matthew had kept up the place, hosing down the outside and replacing any windows that cracked. He’d kept the appliances working and even when he was feeling sorry for something he’d said, installed two room air conditioners, one if the front room and one in Mama’s bedroom. He’d done all that even though it wasn’t his parent’s house and without Collette asking.

Mama was asleep when Collette finished folding and putting the laundry away. She got out the chicken and placed it on a plate for carrying outside. She fired up the gas barbeque she’d given Mama back when her mama still cooked. Thank goodness she’d brought a new tank or she would have had to cook if in the oven.

Her cooking skills were limited. Mam had tried to teach her, but Collette’s head was in books. She was always reading. Most of the time for school, but she’d read just about everything she could get out of the town library. Then she’d gone off to college where she’d shared an apartment with three girls she didn’t know. They rotated cooking duties so she checked out a Campbell’s Soup Cook Book because the recipes were simple.

Potatoes in the oven. Chicken cooking. “Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes. You need anything?”

Thinking maybe her mama was asleep, Collette stepped as lightly as her two hundred pound body would let her. Mama’s floor creaked and groaned anyway.

At first glance, she thought Mama was asleep. She often slept ten or more hours a day. That’s why Collette had come home. Someone needed to be with Mama night and day and there was no one else to do it. No money to pay for help and even if there had been, Mama was too embarrassed about the condition of her house to let people inside.

Nobody with money lived out here, far from the center of town. It wasn’t on the wrong side of the tracks as no train came through, but it was the neighborhood that even the police didn’t like to enter. Not because of gangs, but because everything was so run down and dingy that it broke hearts to think that people actually lived there.

The tilt of Mama’s head wasn’t right. It leaned too far to the left at a crazy angle that made it appear as if someone’d snapped it. And her left arm hung limply over the chair’s arm, fingers too loose for comfort.

“Mama,” Collette said as she touched her mama’s shoulder. “You okay?”

She wasn’t and Collette knew it when she first saw her leaning like that. Mama had grace, even asleep. It didn’t matter how ragged the hem of her dress was, that dress was spotless and freshly ironed. A wide-brimmed fancy hat sat on that head everywhere she went, but her best ones only came out for church. She had ones with feathers, some with ribbons, a few with both. Mama knew which hat matched which dress and nobody ever changed her mind.

And when Mama walked about town with her head high and back straight as steel, people thought maybe she’d come from money. One of them debutante girls who’d fallen from grace.

Truth is, her family was dirt poor. Her daddy had been a tenant farmer who moved the family wherever he could find a bit of work. One time they lived in the barn with the horses. In summer it stank of moldy hay and manure. In winter their breath froze in midair.

The woman in the porch, this person leaning over the chair, was not her Mama. No pretty tune emanated from her lips, no humming “Precious Lord” in that sultry sound of hers.

Collette sat in her rocker and picked up her mother’s hand. She turned it over and rubbed the palm, over and over in gentle circles. “Mama, I guess your time has come. Too bad we’ll miss church tomorrow.”

Sobs broke loose, the loud racking kind that indicates a hurt so deep that it’s hard coming back. Just as in a movie, Collette felt a ray of sun warm her tear-streaked face. She looked up and noticed a flock of starlings high above, swirling in massive ever-changing streaks of black. They’d been Mama’s favorite birds because, as she’d said, “Them birds are like some people. They run in crazy circles, doing the same thing over and over expecting different results. Ain’t gonna happen.”

Mama’s voice was the sweetest thing Collette had ever heard. In times of trouble Mama sang to her soft, gentle songs of love and redemption, “Jesus Loves Me” a favorite of both of them. Collette closed her eyes and listened for the words:

Jesus loves me! He will stay,
Close beside me all the way;
He’s prepared a home for me,
And some day His face I’ll see

Even though Mama was gone to a better place, that home that Jesus has waiting for her, Collette would miss her Mama. No more late night bathroom runs. No more stories about the granddad she’d never known. No more cleaning this rickety home. No more humming in her precious Mama’s voice.