When he awoke, the apartment was dark. He had been sitting in the chair for hours, waiting for Holly to return. "I must have fallen asleep," he thought, looking at the clock. "Half past eight?" he said to the clock "So, where is she?" He worried that she had changed her mind and wouldn’t be coming back. He pushed himself up out of the chair and made his way into the kitchen to find something to eat. He rummaged through the cupboards and refrigerator, gathering enough to make a small, make-do meal. He finished eating at nine fifteen, late for him, cleaned up the dishes and set them in the sink to be washed. After the dishes were finished, he returned to this chair, clicked on the light next to it, and picked up the book sitting on the table next to his chair. He glanced at the clock again. It was nearly ten.
"Well, I guess that settles that," he said to the silence. He continued reading.
He awoke the next morning, still sitting in the chair, the book laying shut across his lap. "Drat," he said. "I’ll never find my place again." After a quick breakfast of instant oatmeal, toast, and milk, he jumped into the shower, then hurried down to his bench to see if she was there.
The late morning sun warmed him as he walked the few blocks to the park and the bench that faced Fourth Street. He arrived to find no one in sight. He sat down and waited. He waited several hours, finally, feeling unusually tired, he walked home. When he arrived, his eighty years seemed to fall on him like a ton of bricks, leaving him exhausted and feeling sick. He napped until late into the afternoon, waking up only to find something to nibble on before falling back to sleep. At six, he awoke, threw a tv dinner into the oven, made a small salad, then sat at the table to wait for the tv dinner.
After he had finished his meal, he returned to his chair. He picked up his book and started working through it to try to find the place he had reached the last time he was reading. Twenty minutes later, he found the place. He continued from that point until he thought he might break his neck from having his head drop down every time he nodded off. He finally gave up and went to bed. "Maybe tomorrow she’ll be there," he thought.
But she wasn’t there the next day, or the next. The old man was worried, and puzzled. She had seemed to warm to the idea of staying with him and giving up the lifestyle she was living, or, at least, that is what he thought. Maybe she was just pretending to like the idea. Maybe she was planning to rob him and that is why she agreed to go to his apartment. He ran several kindred ideas through his head, finally rejecting each one as just paranoia of an old, lonely man. He would just push the thoughts of having her stay with him out of his head. She would have to decide to help herself before he could help her.
It was anther sunny day, not as warm as the previous few, but nice anyway. The old man sat on the bench warming in the sun. His periodic bench mate, Ben, had just left for a doctor’s appointment to have his vitals checked, as he put it, and the old man was, once again, alone on the bench.
He watched two young women on roller blades approach from his right. He marveled at their grace on the blades, almost seeming to be gliding above the cement. He watched them until they passed him, talking incessantly as they wove back and forth on the sidewalk. As they passed, he turned to watch them continue down the walk. Then he saw her. She was facing the opposite direction, watching the traffic on Fourth Street. He was almost certain it was Holly. She was wearing her trademark knee high, six inch heeled, boots, a black, short micro mini dress with a wide red belt and a short, red jacket. Her hair was pulled into two pony tails at each side of her head. She was a mixed metaphor - part little girl, part Parisian call girl.
He stood and walked slowly toward her, trying to think of something to say to her that would not sound as if he was being critical, yet, in someway, say something that would help him understand why she had not returned. As he approached, she turned her head and looked at him, then, recognizing him, turned away quickly and started to walk away.
"Holly?"
She continued to walk, not looking back or acknowledging him.
"Holly!" he said, sternly, hoping he could get her to stop.
She stopped and slowly turned. As she turned, he saw her face. Her left eye was discolored and swollen, as well as the area under her eye on her cheek bone. Her upper lip was swollen and it looked as if the right side of her face was puffy. The heavy make up, that was applied to cover the damage, wasn't doing its job.
"I’m sorry I didn’t come back," she said, looking at the pavement.
"Did Eddie find you?" he asked.
She didn’t answer for a moment. "No," was her only comment.
"No?" Then what happened to your face?" the old man asked.
She looked at him, a mixture of hurt and anger flashed over her face. "What’s it to ya, anyway?" she snapped. "I don’t get it. Why do you keep buggin’ me? Are you a perv, or somethin?"
He didn’t answer. After a moments reflection, he spoke. "You went back, didn’t you. Was it the drugs?"
She was angry. "So what! I tried, ya know. I just wanted one more taste........... just one more.........that’s all, just one more." Her voice trailed off.
"You can beat this, Holly. You have too much promise to give up now," he said.
"What do you know?" she countered.
"Want to give it another try?" he asked, persisting.
She laughed a short laugh, more an exhale than a laugh. " I didn’t even try it once. I didn’t even get through one day. What makes you think it would be any different this time?"
"All I know, is that the only way you fail is by quitting....or never trying. I think you should try again."
She looked at the old man, still unable to understand why he was doing this. She thought he must be a dirty old man that had something up his sleeve, some other reason than wanting to help her. Everyone in her life had used her for their own purposes and she figured this old man wasn’t any different.
Her father had abused her from as far back as she could remember, up until she left home at sixteen. When she was on her own, she found a job at a car wash as a cashier until the boss tried to get handy. When she refused his advances, he explained that if she wanted to keep her job, she was going to have to ‘cooperate’, as he put it. She ‘cooperated’ until she could find another job. She was working as a waitress when she met Eddie. He immediately made her feel like a woman and treated her as if she were a queen. He gave her expensive clothes and jewelery and took her out to eat at fancy restaurants. And, of course, there was the drugs....the lovely drugs. She loved going away with them where no one could hurt her, where she felt good. The drugs were the anchor that kept her with Eddie. She hated having to work the streets, and she hated the beatings when she didn’t perform the way Eddie thought she should. All the men in her life have wanted something from her. She just couldn’t get her mind around what this old man’s angle was. "It’s too hard," she finally said.
"Anything worthwhile is hard," he countered.
"Why is it you always sound like a stinkin’ motivational poster?" she asked. "Maybe I like doing things the way I am. Did you ever think of that?"
"You like getting beat?"
She looked at him for a moment. "No," she said, quietly.
"Then, try again. I’ll help."
"I don’t think I can," she said, sounding more dejected than he had ever heard her.
"Well, if you don’t try, you’ll never know if you could have done it. At least, if you try and you don’t make it, you’ll know you can’t do it. So, you might as well give it another try," the old man said, trying not to sound like another poster. "I’ll help all I can."
"Why are you doing this?" Holly asked, looking the old man directly in his eyes. "You don’t even know me, I mean, what’s in this for you?"
"I just want to help. You seem like a nice girl......I just want to help," he answered.
"No body just helps someone else like that. There always has to be another motive. What’s yours? There has to be something."
"There is nothing."
"I don’t believe you," she said, putting a hand on her hip and standing hip shot. "What, do I remind you of your dead wife - daughter - niece - girlfriend......what?"
"No," was his only answer.
"Gads!!!" she exclaimed. "You just don’t make sense."
"And getting beat, being strung out on drugs and working the streets makes sense?" he asked.
She said nothing. They both stared at each other waiting for the other to speak. Neither would. Finally, she broke the silence. "Damn it! Okey, I’ll try it one more time - or, at least, one time."
"Great. This time will be different, you’ll see," he said, smiling broadly. "Besides, company is good. It is always good to have company."
End of part three
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Short Story, Part 2
The Old Man
Part Two
The young woman changed her purse from her left shoulder to her right as she pondered the offer from the old man. It would be a real gamble to stay at his place. She wasn’t really worried about what he’d do, she could take care of herself in that regard, but what about Eddie? He’d kill her if he ever caught up to her. And then, there was the drugs. Could she really beat them? She walked a bit down the sidewalk, then returned to the bench.
"Room and board free," the old man explained. "But, you’d have to help keep the place clean." Then, as an after thought, he added, "And, you’ll have to either go to school or find a job, or maybe both."
"I never was too good at school," she said. "Or a job," she added.
"Now, you will be," the old man said, an encouraging smile on his face.
"Yeah, right,"she said. "I’d be crazy to do this."
"Maybe you’d be crazy not to."
She paced up and down the sidewalk, a few yards on each trip. At the end of each lap, she’d stop and look at the old man. He waited for her to make her decision, not wanting to upset her like before. She stopped in front of him.
"No strings," she said, a statement, not a question.
"No strings. You can leave anytime you want. You just have to get a job or go to school." Then he added. "And, you have to stop using drugs and stop working the streets."
"Yeah, I know that part," she stated. She paced a few more laps. This time she stopped about ten yards from the bench and looked back into the park behind the bench. She thought for quite awhile, moving her purse back and forth from shoulder to shoulder, then she would resume her pacing, working things out in her mind. The old man watched. She would stop and stare into the park, swaying back and forth as she pondered her future. She stopped pacing, looked over at the old man on the bench, and walked up to him.
"Ok, I’ll do it. But, no strings and I can come and go as I want. And no nagging from you."
"I won’t guarantee the no nagging part," he replied.
She mulled over that for a moment. "I can handle nagging, I guess. So, now what?"
"So now, we go to my...our place and we’ll get you moved in," he said, standing up. He was unusually spry for a man his age, standing without a lot of the stops and starts and grunts and groans of his friends.
"I can’t go back to Eddie’s to get any of my things. I know he’ll know something’s up and I’ll be in a whole world of hurt," she stated.
"So, we’ll get new things," the old man offered as he started walking down the sidewalk. He looked back. "Coming?"
She hesitated only a moment, then hurried to catch up with him, having a hard time running in the high heeled boots.
"What’s your name?"she asked, when she caught up with him.
"Paul, Paul Wojoinski," he answered.
"I’m Holly," she offered
"Nice to know you, Holly," the old man said, smiling.
"Yeah, well, it’s nice to know you too, Paul."
The two of them walked down the sidewalk, not saying much as they walked. She was heavy in thought, wondering if she had made the right decision, then deciding that, no matter what happened, she would always have the option of going back on the street. "How bad can it be?" she thought. Living with an old man, room and board paid. All she had to do was find a job or go to school and she would have it made. That sounded alright to her. Especially the part of not having to put up with the beatings from Eddie. She could go her whole life without those. Her feet began to get tired as they continued to walk at a good pace.
"How much farther is it?" she asked.
"You’re not going to start with the ‘are we there yet?’ are you?" he asked.
"No, it just that my feet are getting tired walking in these boots. They really aren’t made for walking, you know," she stated.
"Those boots aren’t made for walking?" he asked, smiling.
"No, they are not."she answered, emphatically.
"Well, they must not belong to Nancy Sinatra then," he said, a twinkle in his eye.
"What?"
He started to explain, then thought better of it. "Never mind, it’s just a vague reference from years ago," he said, dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand. "We’re almost there."
A few more blocks and they arrived at a brownstone walk up.
"Here we are, home sweet home," he said, looking up at the building. "Second floor."
They walked up the outside stairs and then into the building using his key.
"We’ll have to get you keys made," he explained.
They walked up to the second floor and opened the door. The old man waited for Holly to enter, motioning with his hand for her to go first. She wasn’t used to that. The bunch she ran with weren’t into being very gentlemanly.
"Thank you," she said, stepping into the apartment.
"Your room will be down here," the old man said, walking down a short hall to his right. "This is the bathroom," he said, indicating the room on his left as he passed the door.
"Only one?" she asked.
"How many do you need?" he asked.
"Just one, but, I mean, for the both of us?" she added.
"We’ll work out a schedule," he offered.
He opened a door at the end of the hall. "This is your room. I’ve kept it furnished for company, occasionally, I get some,"he added as an afterthought.
She walked past the old man and stepped into the room. It was about twelve feet square with a twin bed, two night stands on each side of the bed, a dresser on the wall at the foot of the bed, and a door where the closet must have been. A picture of a table of dogs playing cards was hung on the wall over the head of the bed, representing the only decorations in the room. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was clean and neat and she thought she could fix it up a bit.
"It is nice," she said, smiling.
"You’ll grow to like it."
"I like it, already,"she lied. Life would certainly be different here. Eddie’s place was posh and spacious, with expensive art hung throughout. And there were the drugs. Eddie always had drugs laying around, almost like candy. She would miss the drugs. But, that was behind her and she was determined to change things, to get clean and be free of Eddie.
"So, we should make a list of the things you need and get you situated," the old man said, pulling her back to the present situation. "Come into the kitchen and I’ll get a piece of paper and a pen."
They walked into the kitchen and the young woman sat at the small table sat against one wall. Across from the table was the stove and oven. A refrigerator sat to the right of the stove. The old man pulled a sheet of paper out of a drawer and handed it to Holly.
"I have a pen around her somewhere," he said, digging through the drawer. "Maybe it is in the living room," he added. "I’ll be right back."
Holly sat at the table while the old man searched for a pen. She watched him as he headed off into the living room. He was taller than she was, making him about six foot or so and well built for an old man. He had fairly broad shoulders, with the thick waist old men sported, and a slight bow to his back, probably from years of heavy work. She thought he must have been nice looking when he was younger, maybe a real ladies man. But, she couldn’t really tell now, because of his age. She looked around the kitchen. It was small with little counter space and a single basin sink. The neatness of the place struck her. She always thought old people were messy, and smelly. The place was nice enough, but she was starting to have second thoughts about her decision to stay with the old man. Her life would be completely different here, none of the excitement, none of the parties, no drugs, no fun. What was she thinking!
"Here we go," the old man said as he stepped in the kitchen. "I knew I had one." He handed her the pen. "Now, you make a list of things you need, and we’ll get you fixed up." He smiled at her and she felt a legitimate warmth from his smile. "Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad," she thought, boring, but safe. But, was boring what she was looking for? She took the pen and wrote out a list of things she thought she would need to get her by for awhile.
"I’ll run and get these," she said after finishing the list.
"We should go together," the old man said.
"Don’t you trust me?"
"Of course I do. I thought it would be safer to go together."
"I’m a big girl. I can handle it. I’ll be back in a little while. Don’t wait up," she said, smiling and giving the old man a wink.
"You have a nice smile. You should let people see it more often," the old man said.
"Thanks, see ya." She hurried out the door and was gone. The apartment grew instantly quiet. The old man sat down, glancing at the cherry wood clock hanging over the small table that sat next to the front door. Each swing of the pendulum elicited a tick that sliced through the silence, reminding the old man of how lonely his life had become. He really hadn’t noticed the quiet until Holly had been in the apartment. When she left, the silence welled up around him, consuming him in its completeness, reminding him that it hadn’t gone away, it had just been set aside for a time. He would sit in his favorite chair and wait for Holly to return.
End of Part Two
Part Two
The young woman changed her purse from her left shoulder to her right as she pondered the offer from the old man. It would be a real gamble to stay at his place. She wasn’t really worried about what he’d do, she could take care of herself in that regard, but what about Eddie? He’d kill her if he ever caught up to her. And then, there was the drugs. Could she really beat them? She walked a bit down the sidewalk, then returned to the bench.
"Room and board free," the old man explained. "But, you’d have to help keep the place clean." Then, as an after thought, he added, "And, you’ll have to either go to school or find a job, or maybe both."
"I never was too good at school," she said. "Or a job," she added.
"Now, you will be," the old man said, an encouraging smile on his face.
"Yeah, right,"she said. "I’d be crazy to do this."
"Maybe you’d be crazy not to."
She paced up and down the sidewalk, a few yards on each trip. At the end of each lap, she’d stop and look at the old man. He waited for her to make her decision, not wanting to upset her like before. She stopped in front of him.
"No strings," she said, a statement, not a question.
"No strings. You can leave anytime you want. You just have to get a job or go to school." Then he added. "And, you have to stop using drugs and stop working the streets."
"Yeah, I know that part," she stated. She paced a few more laps. This time she stopped about ten yards from the bench and looked back into the park behind the bench. She thought for quite awhile, moving her purse back and forth from shoulder to shoulder, then she would resume her pacing, working things out in her mind. The old man watched. She would stop and stare into the park, swaying back and forth as she pondered her future. She stopped pacing, looked over at the old man on the bench, and walked up to him.
"Ok, I’ll do it. But, no strings and I can come and go as I want. And no nagging from you."
"I won’t guarantee the no nagging part," he replied.
She mulled over that for a moment. "I can handle nagging, I guess. So, now what?"
"So now, we go to my...our place and we’ll get you moved in," he said, standing up. He was unusually spry for a man his age, standing without a lot of the stops and starts and grunts and groans of his friends.
"I can’t go back to Eddie’s to get any of my things. I know he’ll know something’s up and I’ll be in a whole world of hurt," she stated.
"So, we’ll get new things," the old man offered as he started walking down the sidewalk. He looked back. "Coming?"
She hesitated only a moment, then hurried to catch up with him, having a hard time running in the high heeled boots.
"What’s your name?"she asked, when she caught up with him.
"Paul, Paul Wojoinski," he answered.
"I’m Holly," she offered
"Nice to know you, Holly," the old man said, smiling.
"Yeah, well, it’s nice to know you too, Paul."
The two of them walked down the sidewalk, not saying much as they walked. She was heavy in thought, wondering if she had made the right decision, then deciding that, no matter what happened, she would always have the option of going back on the street. "How bad can it be?" she thought. Living with an old man, room and board paid. All she had to do was find a job or go to school and she would have it made. That sounded alright to her. Especially the part of not having to put up with the beatings from Eddie. She could go her whole life without those. Her feet began to get tired as they continued to walk at a good pace.
"How much farther is it?" she asked.
"You’re not going to start with the ‘are we there yet?’ are you?" he asked.
"No, it just that my feet are getting tired walking in these boots. They really aren’t made for walking, you know," she stated.
"Those boots aren’t made for walking?" he asked, smiling.
"No, they are not."she answered, emphatically.
"Well, they must not belong to Nancy Sinatra then," he said, a twinkle in his eye.
"What?"
He started to explain, then thought better of it. "Never mind, it’s just a vague reference from years ago," he said, dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand. "We’re almost there."
A few more blocks and they arrived at a brownstone walk up.
"Here we are, home sweet home," he said, looking up at the building. "Second floor."
They walked up the outside stairs and then into the building using his key.
"We’ll have to get you keys made," he explained.
They walked up to the second floor and opened the door. The old man waited for Holly to enter, motioning with his hand for her to go first. She wasn’t used to that. The bunch she ran with weren’t into being very gentlemanly.
"Thank you," she said, stepping into the apartment.
"Your room will be down here," the old man said, walking down a short hall to his right. "This is the bathroom," he said, indicating the room on his left as he passed the door.
"Only one?" she asked.
"How many do you need?" he asked.
"Just one, but, I mean, for the both of us?" she added.
"We’ll work out a schedule," he offered.
He opened a door at the end of the hall. "This is your room. I’ve kept it furnished for company, occasionally, I get some,"he added as an afterthought.
She walked past the old man and stepped into the room. It was about twelve feet square with a twin bed, two night stands on each side of the bed, a dresser on the wall at the foot of the bed, and a door where the closet must have been. A picture of a table of dogs playing cards was hung on the wall over the head of the bed, representing the only decorations in the room. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was clean and neat and she thought she could fix it up a bit.
"It is nice," she said, smiling.
"You’ll grow to like it."
"I like it, already,"she lied. Life would certainly be different here. Eddie’s place was posh and spacious, with expensive art hung throughout. And there were the drugs. Eddie always had drugs laying around, almost like candy. She would miss the drugs. But, that was behind her and she was determined to change things, to get clean and be free of Eddie.
"So, we should make a list of the things you need and get you situated," the old man said, pulling her back to the present situation. "Come into the kitchen and I’ll get a piece of paper and a pen."
They walked into the kitchen and the young woman sat at the small table sat against one wall. Across from the table was the stove and oven. A refrigerator sat to the right of the stove. The old man pulled a sheet of paper out of a drawer and handed it to Holly.
"I have a pen around her somewhere," he said, digging through the drawer. "Maybe it is in the living room," he added. "I’ll be right back."
Holly sat at the table while the old man searched for a pen. She watched him as he headed off into the living room. He was taller than she was, making him about six foot or so and well built for an old man. He had fairly broad shoulders, with the thick waist old men sported, and a slight bow to his back, probably from years of heavy work. She thought he must have been nice looking when he was younger, maybe a real ladies man. But, she couldn’t really tell now, because of his age. She looked around the kitchen. It was small with little counter space and a single basin sink. The neatness of the place struck her. She always thought old people were messy, and smelly. The place was nice enough, but she was starting to have second thoughts about her decision to stay with the old man. Her life would be completely different here, none of the excitement, none of the parties, no drugs, no fun. What was she thinking!
"Here we go," the old man said as he stepped in the kitchen. "I knew I had one." He handed her the pen. "Now, you make a list of things you need, and we’ll get you fixed up." He smiled at her and she felt a legitimate warmth from his smile. "Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad," she thought, boring, but safe. But, was boring what she was looking for? She took the pen and wrote out a list of things she thought she would need to get her by for awhile.
"I’ll run and get these," she said after finishing the list.
"We should go together," the old man said.
"Don’t you trust me?"
"Of course I do. I thought it would be safer to go together."
"I’m a big girl. I can handle it. I’ll be back in a little while. Don’t wait up," she said, smiling and giving the old man a wink.
"You have a nice smile. You should let people see it more often," the old man said.
"Thanks, see ya." She hurried out the door and was gone. The apartment grew instantly quiet. The old man sat down, glancing at the cherry wood clock hanging over the small table that sat next to the front door. Each swing of the pendulum elicited a tick that sliced through the silence, reminding the old man of how lonely his life had become. He really hadn’t noticed the quiet until Holly had been in the apartment. When she left, the silence welled up around him, consuming him in its completeness, reminding him that it hadn’t gone away, it had just been set aside for a time. He would sit in his favorite chair and wait for Holly to return.
End of Part Two
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Short Story
The Old Man
The sun felt good on his face as he sat watching the traffic pass by, racing to, who knows where in such a hurry. He wondered if he had been in such a hurry when he was young and ambitious. He raised a thick hand to his cheek and rubbed it back and forth as he remembered days gone by. Surely, he thought, he couldn’t have been in that much of a hurry. He adjusted his hat to shade his eyes, then sat his hands at his side on the bench. He was feeling spry and young, wearing his new aloha shirt his sister had sent to him for his birthday.
"Eighty years," he muttered. "It went by so fast," he added. "And now I’m here talking to myself," he thought, smiling as the realization came to him.
A young man with several piercings, rushed by on a skate board, his long hair flowing back against the wind. The old man watched as the young man disappeared down the sidewalk, weaving back and forth, occasionally pushing with his right foot to keep up his speed.
"Looks like fun," the old man thought. "I should try it."
He looked up and down the street as if looking for something, or someone. "She is late," he thought.
He lifted his hat and ran his fingers through thin, grey hair. He checked his watch, another present from his sister. One twenty. Yep, she was late. She was usually there by one straight up. He wondered if something had happened to her. Maybe she had been hurt again. He squinted against the bright sun, lifting his hand to just below the brim of his hat, shading his eyes so he could look down the street. He thought he saw her, but wasn’t sure. It was a long distance, and his eyesight wasn’t what it had been. He watched, his gaze unbroken from the lone figure walking up the sidewalk, as if he were a predator eyeing his prey before he started the stalk. The walk was somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t be sure.
The young woman walked toward him, unaware of his watchful eyes. She walked without purpose, meandering more than walking, moving as if she had all the time in the world, completely unhurried.
The old man realized that the young lady approaching was the one he was looking for. The one he watched everyday from his spot on the bench facing into the sun. Sometimes he would try to start a conversation with her, but she didn’t have much to say to him, keeping her attention on the street in front of them. Her livelihood depended on that street. In fact, perhaps even her life. If she didn’t do well, her pimp would exact revenge in the form of a beating, some of which would render her unsuitable for work, thus making her pimp more angry.
Yet, at times, when the traffic was light and no one was stopping, she would talk to the old man. He would tell her stories from his past and make her laugh. He loved her laugh, so full of life and so uninhibited. He was happy to help her forget about her job and all the troubles she seemed to have surrounding her. He could see the tracks on her arm and knew she was supporting a habit as well as a pimp. He wished that someday she would get away from this life and the drugs and live a life of happiness. She seemed like a decent young woman who had, for reasons unknown to him, found herself caught up in the underbelly world of drugs and prostitution.
He smiled at her as she walked up in front of him. The smile was returned, with a quiet "hi". Her extreme high heel boots clicked on the concrete as she walked toward him. The boots reached up to just below her knees, then there was a vast expanse of tanned legs before the hem of her short, red micro skirt. A friend of his, who sometimes sat with him, said that if her skirts were any shorter, she would have two more cheeks to powder. Today’s ensemble was completed by a white, midriff baring, tank top. Her blonde hair, usually cascading over her shoulders, was pulled back in a french braid.
"It is a glorious day," he said, raising his hands and spreading them wide, gesturing to the sky.
"Yeah," was her reply, "Glorious". The sarcasm was thick in her voice.
"There is something wrong?" he asked.
"Something wrong? Hah! I’d settle for just one thing right." she said, looking out to the street to look for anyone slowing down to look at her, a sign they may be looking for some action.
The old man didn’t say anything. Mostly because he didn’t know what to say. Then he said the first thing he could think of, regretting it as soon as it left his tongue. "Business is bad?"
She didn’t seem to mind his intrusion into her life. "Yeah, it is bad, worse than bad. Eddie said that if I didn’t bring home five hundred bucks that he’d make me pay. He even said he’d throw me out on my butt!" she explained. She seemed to want to tell the old man her troubles. He figured it helped to talk about them. He sat quietly and listened, nodding at the appropriate times.
"That stinkin’......." she stopped herself, looking at the old man as if she realized who she was talking to and didn’t want to offend him with foul language. "...bugger won’t help me with my.....you know, problem," she explained, leaving the ‘problem’ to the old man’s imagination. He figured she was talking about the drugs. He nodded, knowingly.
She continued. "Besides, if it weren’t for me, he’d be out on his butt, cuz I bring in all the money, the jerk! I don’t know why I stick with him. He’s a nothin’, a stinkin’ pimp! I hate the bas......bugger." She was animated now, walking back and forth in front of the old man, waving her arms to punctuate her words. "I’ve got a mind to just up and leave. That would show him. Let’s see how good he does without me supportin’ him." She stopped talking and walking as she said the last sentence, as if she was letting that thought sink in to her mind. There was a long pause in her diatribe. The old man waited a few seconds then he spoke.
"Where would you go?" he asked. A simple question, but it seemed to stump the young woman. She looked at him, studying the question out in her mind. The stared at each other for a few seconds before she spoke.
"I don’t know. I guess I’m stuck, ain’t I?" she said, dejectedly. She stood in front of the old man, her back to the street, her hands hung at her side. She looked defeated.
Maybe not," he stated. "Maybe not."
"How do you figure that?" she asked. "I ain’t got no place to stay, no money, cuz I gave it all to that stinkin’ no good son of a b....gun."
"Any friends?" the old man asked.
She thought for a moment. "Naw, not really"
"Do you really want to get out?"
She thought for a second. "Yeah, I think I do. I’m sick of Eddie, and this..." she said, waving her arms at the street.
"What about the drugs?" he asked, not using the word ‘problem’.
She looked at the old man, studying him before she answered, wondering how an old man would know about her problem. She wondered the same thing, what about the drugs. It would be easier to give up hooking and Eddie than the drugs.
"I don’t know. They would be tough" she said.
"Could you do it?" the old man asked again. He looked her directly in the eye, watching for her reaction, watching for a lie.
"I don’t know, I told you," she said, getting a little miffed at the old man for pressing her. "Besides, what’s it to you?", she asked, gesturing at him with her left arm. "Its not like you could help. You’re just some old man that likes to stare at the hookers on the street. You don’t think I see you checkin’ me out? I know your kind, buddy, just a dirty old man!"she said, angrily. She wasn’t really angry at him, more herself for being unable to help herself out of her situation. She walked off, leaving the old man looking after her, feeling bad about prying into her life. He only wanted to help her. Now, he had made her angry and had added to her problems. He sat on the bench and watched her walk away.
She stopped at the next corner and watched the traffic. A small, blue sports car slowed down as it turned the corner, then if drove off down the street. The old man was happy the driver hadn’t stopped, hoping she would come back and he could explain that he wasn’t what she thought he was.
The sports car returned and stopped by the young woman. She bent down and talked to the driver from the passenger side. At one point, she stood up and looked at the old man sitting on the bench. He watched her look at him. She bent back down and continued talking to the driver. The old man couldn’t see her and decided she must have gotten in the car. Then the sports car drove off. The young woman was still standing there, looking back at the old man. She started slowly walking back towards him. He watched her walk slowly toward him until she stood in front of the bench.
"Say, I’m sorry about yelling at you, ya know," she said. "I’m just kinda scared about making any changes right now."
"It’s ok," the old man assured her. "You’re just upset."
"Yeah, upset," she agreed. "Boy, ain’t that the truth?"
"I can help," the old man stated.
"How are you gonna help?"
"Well, for one, you could stay at my place, if you don’t have anywhere to stay. I could help you with your problem," he said, smiling.
The young woman pensively studied the old man’s face, trying to read from it his intentions. She had been offered help too many times with strings attached. She had an idea what the strings were in this case. She was trying to decide if it was worth it.
"No strings attached. You stay as long as you want until you can get things together and can be out on your own," he said, as if he were reading her mind.
"Yeah, right, I’ve heard that before," she said, waving her hand at the old man. "Why should I believe you?" She slung her black purse onto her left shoulder.
"You shouldn’t," he replied. "You should be skeptical. But, what else do you have? Especially, if you really want to get out of this situation and make a change in your life." He paused long enough for that to sink in. "It’s a chance."
End of Part One.
The sun felt good on his face as he sat watching the traffic pass by, racing to, who knows where in such a hurry. He wondered if he had been in such a hurry when he was young and ambitious. He raised a thick hand to his cheek and rubbed it back and forth as he remembered days gone by. Surely, he thought, he couldn’t have been in that much of a hurry. He adjusted his hat to shade his eyes, then sat his hands at his side on the bench. He was feeling spry and young, wearing his new aloha shirt his sister had sent to him for his birthday.
"Eighty years," he muttered. "It went by so fast," he added. "And now I’m here talking to myself," he thought, smiling as the realization came to him.
A young man with several piercings, rushed by on a skate board, his long hair flowing back against the wind. The old man watched as the young man disappeared down the sidewalk, weaving back and forth, occasionally pushing with his right foot to keep up his speed.
"Looks like fun," the old man thought. "I should try it."
He looked up and down the street as if looking for something, or someone. "She is late," he thought.
He lifted his hat and ran his fingers through thin, grey hair. He checked his watch, another present from his sister. One twenty. Yep, she was late. She was usually there by one straight up. He wondered if something had happened to her. Maybe she had been hurt again. He squinted against the bright sun, lifting his hand to just below the brim of his hat, shading his eyes so he could look down the street. He thought he saw her, but wasn’t sure. It was a long distance, and his eyesight wasn’t what it had been. He watched, his gaze unbroken from the lone figure walking up the sidewalk, as if he were a predator eyeing his prey before he started the stalk. The walk was somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t be sure.
The young woman walked toward him, unaware of his watchful eyes. She walked without purpose, meandering more than walking, moving as if she had all the time in the world, completely unhurried.
The old man realized that the young lady approaching was the one he was looking for. The one he watched everyday from his spot on the bench facing into the sun. Sometimes he would try to start a conversation with her, but she didn’t have much to say to him, keeping her attention on the street in front of them. Her livelihood depended on that street. In fact, perhaps even her life. If she didn’t do well, her pimp would exact revenge in the form of a beating, some of which would render her unsuitable for work, thus making her pimp more angry.
Yet, at times, when the traffic was light and no one was stopping, she would talk to the old man. He would tell her stories from his past and make her laugh. He loved her laugh, so full of life and so uninhibited. He was happy to help her forget about her job and all the troubles she seemed to have surrounding her. He could see the tracks on her arm and knew she was supporting a habit as well as a pimp. He wished that someday she would get away from this life and the drugs and live a life of happiness. She seemed like a decent young woman who had, for reasons unknown to him, found herself caught up in the underbelly world of drugs and prostitution.
He smiled at her as she walked up in front of him. The smile was returned, with a quiet "hi". Her extreme high heel boots clicked on the concrete as she walked toward him. The boots reached up to just below her knees, then there was a vast expanse of tanned legs before the hem of her short, red micro skirt. A friend of his, who sometimes sat with him, said that if her skirts were any shorter, she would have two more cheeks to powder. Today’s ensemble was completed by a white, midriff baring, tank top. Her blonde hair, usually cascading over her shoulders, was pulled back in a french braid.
"It is a glorious day," he said, raising his hands and spreading them wide, gesturing to the sky.
"Yeah," was her reply, "Glorious". The sarcasm was thick in her voice.
"There is something wrong?" he asked.
"Something wrong? Hah! I’d settle for just one thing right." she said, looking out to the street to look for anyone slowing down to look at her, a sign they may be looking for some action.
The old man didn’t say anything. Mostly because he didn’t know what to say. Then he said the first thing he could think of, regretting it as soon as it left his tongue. "Business is bad?"
She didn’t seem to mind his intrusion into her life. "Yeah, it is bad, worse than bad. Eddie said that if I didn’t bring home five hundred bucks that he’d make me pay. He even said he’d throw me out on my butt!" she explained. She seemed to want to tell the old man her troubles. He figured it helped to talk about them. He sat quietly and listened, nodding at the appropriate times.
"That stinkin’......." she stopped herself, looking at the old man as if she realized who she was talking to and didn’t want to offend him with foul language. "...bugger won’t help me with my.....you know, problem," she explained, leaving the ‘problem’ to the old man’s imagination. He figured she was talking about the drugs. He nodded, knowingly.
She continued. "Besides, if it weren’t for me, he’d be out on his butt, cuz I bring in all the money, the jerk! I don’t know why I stick with him. He’s a nothin’, a stinkin’ pimp! I hate the bas......bugger." She was animated now, walking back and forth in front of the old man, waving her arms to punctuate her words. "I’ve got a mind to just up and leave. That would show him. Let’s see how good he does without me supportin’ him." She stopped talking and walking as she said the last sentence, as if she was letting that thought sink in to her mind. There was a long pause in her diatribe. The old man waited a few seconds then he spoke.
"Where would you go?" he asked. A simple question, but it seemed to stump the young woman. She looked at him, studying the question out in her mind. The stared at each other for a few seconds before she spoke.
"I don’t know. I guess I’m stuck, ain’t I?" she said, dejectedly. She stood in front of the old man, her back to the street, her hands hung at her side. She looked defeated.
Maybe not," he stated. "Maybe not."
"How do you figure that?" she asked. "I ain’t got no place to stay, no money, cuz I gave it all to that stinkin’ no good son of a b....gun."
"Any friends?" the old man asked.
She thought for a moment. "Naw, not really"
"Do you really want to get out?"
She thought for a second. "Yeah, I think I do. I’m sick of Eddie, and this..." she said, waving her arms at the street.
"What about the drugs?" he asked, not using the word ‘problem’.
She looked at the old man, studying him before she answered, wondering how an old man would know about her problem. She wondered the same thing, what about the drugs. It would be easier to give up hooking and Eddie than the drugs.
"I don’t know. They would be tough" she said.
"Could you do it?" the old man asked again. He looked her directly in the eye, watching for her reaction, watching for a lie.
"I don’t know, I told you," she said, getting a little miffed at the old man for pressing her. "Besides, what’s it to you?", she asked, gesturing at him with her left arm. "Its not like you could help. You’re just some old man that likes to stare at the hookers on the street. You don’t think I see you checkin’ me out? I know your kind, buddy, just a dirty old man!"she said, angrily. She wasn’t really angry at him, more herself for being unable to help herself out of her situation. She walked off, leaving the old man looking after her, feeling bad about prying into her life. He only wanted to help her. Now, he had made her angry and had added to her problems. He sat on the bench and watched her walk away.
She stopped at the next corner and watched the traffic. A small, blue sports car slowed down as it turned the corner, then if drove off down the street. The old man was happy the driver hadn’t stopped, hoping she would come back and he could explain that he wasn’t what she thought he was.
The sports car returned and stopped by the young woman. She bent down and talked to the driver from the passenger side. At one point, she stood up and looked at the old man sitting on the bench. He watched her look at him. She bent back down and continued talking to the driver. The old man couldn’t see her and decided she must have gotten in the car. Then the sports car drove off. The young woman was still standing there, looking back at the old man. She started slowly walking back towards him. He watched her walk slowly toward him until she stood in front of the bench.
"Say, I’m sorry about yelling at you, ya know," she said. "I’m just kinda scared about making any changes right now."
"It’s ok," the old man assured her. "You’re just upset."
"Yeah, upset," she agreed. "Boy, ain’t that the truth?"
"I can help," the old man stated.
"How are you gonna help?"
"Well, for one, you could stay at my place, if you don’t have anywhere to stay. I could help you with your problem," he said, smiling.
The young woman pensively studied the old man’s face, trying to read from it his intentions. She had been offered help too many times with strings attached. She had an idea what the strings were in this case. She was trying to decide if it was worth it.
"No strings attached. You stay as long as you want until you can get things together and can be out on your own," he said, as if he were reading her mind.
"Yeah, right, I’ve heard that before," she said, waving her hand at the old man. "Why should I believe you?" She slung her black purse onto her left shoulder.
"You shouldn’t," he replied. "You should be skeptical. But, what else do you have? Especially, if you really want to get out of this situation and make a change in your life." He paused long enough for that to sink in. "It’s a chance."
End of Part One.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Merry Christmas
I've decided to add a few pictures as a special Christmas edition of the Blog. Here you'll see Mikki and I as we practiced our peace signs. It took me several tries to master it, usually only using one finger(driving in Idaho will do that to you) - I'm just kidding. You may notice a long line of foot prints going just to the right of Mikki. Those are the prints of the itinerant who took the picture. What you don't see is our tracks as we chased him down the beach trying to get our camera back. The picture you see is the evidence that we did catch him. He wasn't too fast, but he was wiry and put up a pretty good fight, but was no match for Mikki. I was very proud of her. She subdued him with an arm bar and had him tapping out in about a minute. Actually, this is a picture of our back yard looking West.
This is a picture from last year when Jake was in Sandcreek Middle School. This was taken just following his coming in second in the 50 meter free style at the fall swim meet. I think he could have had first place if he hadn't worn his football gear. That crazy kid! Many of you will recognize the pretty girl growing out of his arm pit - his sister, Katie. Actually, Katie is the accomplished swimmer and Jake is the football player. As many of you are aware, they both are excellent musicians. Jake plays percussion in the Hillcrest band and and sings in the Men's Choir. Katie sings in the Choral and plays guitar and bass. 
These are the signs Katie and Jake took to the war protest we had last year. This brings back a lot of memories from the sixties when I was carrying signs. But mine said "Passing thru. Down on my luck. Can you help? God Bless." I carried one that said "Eat at Joe's", But I made more money with the other one.
This is from our trip to Monterrey, Ca to see Tyler Graduate from Language School. He learned Arabic so he could be stationed in North Carolina and keep an eye on the Arabs there. Just because there aren't any there doesn't deter the Marines. He is there in case some wander by. The slabs of rock behind them are actual pieces of the Berlin Wall taken from - well.....Berlin, where else? When we got there, the slabs were just plain, so we thought we'd jazz them up a bit. I thought it made them look more festive, but the Marines just didn't see it our way. Our trip was cut short after that. I really think they overreacted and didn't have to escort us off the base like that. And such language! I mean, really, they were only slabs of cement. You'll notice Jake's hair is a different color. That was part of his Halloween costume that didn't wear off like it was suppose to. 
We often go down to the river to feed the geese. We ran out of bread, so Zach tried Carsten, but the geese didn't care for that fare and left him alone. We fished him out and dried him off, but Carsten didn't seem to appreciate the effort. We saw it as feeding the geese and a quick swim lesson. The other people there were huffed, but I thought calling the police was a bit over the top. After all, we fished him out. Truth is, this is Zach and our grandson, Carsten. We were feeding the ducks and geese at the river.
This is a picture of Katie and the warning sign we were forced to post on our house and in several different places about the city when she got her drivers license. The State Department of Transportation and the State Police required it. Personally, I didn't think the accidents were that bad and just because that certain driving instructor, who will remain nameless, will never teach again, shouldn't mean we have to drive in front of Katie at all times with a bull horn to let unaware drivers know she is on the road. It is very inconvenient. But, isn't she cute? Actually, she is a very excellent driver and we are very, very proud of her. She has been driving for a couple of years now.
This last picture is for me because I'm tired of winter already and I wanted a picture of something with color. This was taken in some one's back yard. I snuck back in the yard when I thought no one was home. As it turned out, they were home and seemed to be a bit miffed when they found me taking pictures in their back yard. Still, a day in jail just for taking pictures? Geez!!! Really, this is a picture of our Pergola. The ladder is for picking grapes from the top. So much for pictures. I hope you liked them. And, I hope the season is good to you and that you all have a Merry Christmas.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Nine Words Women Use - A Primer for Men
I don’t know who wrote this, as it was given to me by a young lady in our office. It appears to be an email that was printed off. I thought some of you would get a kick out of it. I would hope this might be of help to some of the young men out there who haven't, as yet, discovered all the meanings of these nine words. I've added an addendum at the end as a post script contributing some additional advice. Ladies, if there are other words we men should know, please add them via comments at the end. We need all the help we can get!
1. Fine: This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up.
2. Five Minutes: If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.
3. Nothing: this is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in Fine.
4. Go Ahead: this is a dare, not permission. Don’t do it!
5. Loud Sigh: this is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing. (Refer back to #3 for the meaning of Nothing)
6. That’s Okay: This is one of the most dangerous statements a women can make to a man. That’s okay means she wants to think long an hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.
7. Thanks: A woman is thanking you, do not question or faint. Just say you’re welcome. (I want to add in a clause here - this is true unless she says, ‘Thanks a lot’ - that is pure sarcasm and she is not thanking you at all. DO NOT say you’re welcome. That will bring on a ‘Whatever’.
8. Whatever: Is a woman’s way of saying ‘Stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, mister!’
9. Don’t Worry About It, I Got It: Another dangerous statement meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking ‘What’s wrong?" For the woman’s response, refer to #3.
Here is some extra advice:
Always, always, always, say you are sorry when you find yourself in an argument with a woman, even if you aren’t sure why she is mad at you and especially if you think you are right. This will possibly save you the worst thing that a woman can say to you - NOTHING!. When you get the silent treatment, you are definitely in deep do do and you better be apologizing as fast as possible and hope you can get back to ‘Fine’, or ‘Whatever’. Any other course will only bring you more grief and you will be suffering the repercussions long after your original sin, possibly for years, as women DO NOT FORGET.
I hope this is helpful.
1. Fine: This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up.
2. Five Minutes: If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.
3. Nothing: this is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in Fine.
4. Go Ahead: this is a dare, not permission. Don’t do it!
5. Loud Sigh: this is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing. (Refer back to #3 for the meaning of Nothing)
6. That’s Okay: This is one of the most dangerous statements a women can make to a man. That’s okay means she wants to think long an hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.
7. Thanks: A woman is thanking you, do not question or faint. Just say you’re welcome. (I want to add in a clause here - this is true unless she says, ‘Thanks a lot’ - that is pure sarcasm and she is not thanking you at all. DO NOT say you’re welcome. That will bring on a ‘Whatever’.
8. Whatever: Is a woman’s way of saying ‘Stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, mister!’
9. Don’t Worry About It, I Got It: Another dangerous statement meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking ‘What’s wrong?" For the woman’s response, refer to #3.
Here is some extra advice:
Always, always, always, say you are sorry when you find yourself in an argument with a woman, even if you aren’t sure why she is mad at you and especially if you think you are right. This will possibly save you the worst thing that a woman can say to you - NOTHING!. When you get the silent treatment, you are definitely in deep do do and you better be apologizing as fast as possible and hope you can get back to ‘Fine’, or ‘Whatever’. Any other course will only bring you more grief and you will be suffering the repercussions long after your original sin, possibly for years, as women DO NOT FORGET.
I hope this is helpful.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Remember when........
Nostalgia is one of my favorite pastimes this time of year, since going outside requires thirty minutes of applying ten layers of clothes and, just as you have the last layer on, you have to go to the bathroom which requires removing several layers, thus negating any time advantage and removing all desire to go outside. Therefore, I sit inside and think about the good ol’ days when I was young and enjoyed winter and all the fun it entailed, because we were all young and stupid and thought being cold beyond numb was fun. So, dear reader, I remember when.......
We wore mittens that were attached to each other insuring we lost both mittens instead of just one. When we would slide down the street near our house, on our American Racers or, you may know it as Flexible Flyer, the sled with two steel runners that would invariably run over your frozen fingers, never worrying about encountering an oncoming car because the traffic was nearly non existent. I remember building snowmen that lasted several months because the weather was so stinkin’ cold! I also remember coming in the house after having played outside, for what seemed like two weeks, and having my Mom put my hands under lukewarm water so that I could experience the pain associated with extreme child berth.
While inside, I would gather around the radio (I was an only and lonely child) and listen to many programs that required an imagination. The radio didn’t have fantastic graphics or surround sound. The special effects were dismal, to say the least. BUT, my brain had all those features and much more.
During the detective mysteries, I could feel the fog as it rolled into the city, shrouding everything in a cloud of mystery and intrigue. I could see the bad guy’s blonde girl friend as she walked into the room and sat across from the hero. I laughed so hard at the jokes of Charlie McCarthy and his stupid friends that my side would hurt for hours. Fiber Mcgee’s closet was as real to me as if it existed in my house, and every time he opened and the contents spilled out, I could see every piece scatter across the room. When Jack Benny wound his way down to his vault, I could see every lock on every door, and could feel the cool, stale air rush from his vault as he opened it.
I feel sorry for the kids today who have tv, XBox, Playstation, DVD’s etc. who don’t have the opportunity to develop their imaginations. But, we aren’t talking about now, we are remembering.
I remember when everyone could recognize every car on the road and could name them all. Chevy, Ford, and Chrysler each had one body style each year with just a few variations such as two doors versus four. Or, a hard top versus a convertible. I remember when high schoolers drove old cars that they fixed up with moon hubcaps and dice hanging from the mirror. Some of the older ones actually could afford a cheap paint job, or do it themselves, many with flames along the side of the hood. Some of the rebels would run wires to a spark plug attached to the tailpipe creating flames as they shot out of the school parking lot. All the cool boys wore their hair greased back in a DA (duck’s A ) held in place with Pomade or Butch Wax that left an interesting grease spot on the pillow case. The girls wore pony tails and skirts with Krenelin (sp) slips that held the skirts out. Until the girls were older, they wore bobby socks with saddle oxfords or low canvas tennis shoes. At an older age, they started wearing tight skirts with nylons and dressier shoes. The latter option was the boy's favorite.
I remember ‘Sock Hops’ after school and all the girls would dance with each other because most of the boys were too shy to get out on the dance floor and dance. That was, until the advent of the Slide and another similar dance that I don’t remember the name of, perhaps it was the ‘Shuffle’, where the boys lined up along side each other facing a similar line of girls and then the couple at the end would dance their way between the lines, down to the other end. This would repeat as long as the song lasted. I’m sure the girls invented this style of dancing so they could get the dough brain boys to interact with them. Little did they know that they were playing with fire and they were about to create some ugly monsters that would come back to bite them in later years,(not literally, of course......well, maybe sometimes.). First the women couldn’t get he guys to pay attention to them, then they couldn’t get them to leave them alone. You just can’t win with guys.
I remember a coach that had a paddle with holes in it and if you got out of line, you ended up on the wrong end of that paddle. And, I can speak from experience that the coach didn’t hold back because you were on the football team, in fact, I think he laid it on with more gusto. He hit me into next week. I was only taught that lesson once, being a fast learner, and also enjoying setting down at least once a week, I didn’t need another lesson. There was no talk of abuse or assault or anything like that, it was simply effective discipline that the kids didn’t mention to their parents for fear of a second application of the same curriculum at home. Consequently, we never had discipline problems at school, no one had ADHD or behavioral problems, we never heard swear words in the halls or on the school grounds, teachers weren’t afraid to discipline their students and students treated the teachers with respect. I also remember we had to perform in school or hazard repeating the same grade, which was a real possibility if you under performed. The teachers weren’t so concerned with our self esteem as they were in teaching us something. If we performed, our self esteem would take care of itself, if we didn’t, too bad. Life was simple then.
I remember movies that ran continually, not having a starting time. Everyone just went to the movies and if they wandered in at the middle of the movie, they just stayed until the part of the movie came back around where they came in, then they left. I remember Saturday matinees that had serials, fifteen minute shorts that continued every Saturday, with cliff hanger endings designed to bring you back the next week. We would always go as a large group of kids and stay all day, watching the serials, cartoons, newsreels and coming attractions at least twice each.. We would scream at the screen when the good guys were in peril, and cheer when the bad guys got their comeuppance. We thought nothing of yelling instructions at the characters when they were doing something we saw as stupid, always telling them who we thought were the bad guys.
Back then, we could afford to go to the movies several times a week, if we wanted to, because they were affordable, even with the low wages people were paid. We would fall in love with all the actresses, and identify with the heroes. We would leave the theater thinking we were Roy Rogers, or Gene Autry, John Wayne, or Jim Stewart, pretending to ride our horses, shooting at outlaws or Indians as we rode hard for home. We learned about life in the movies, about honor and honesty, how to be fair and the results of unfair practices. We learned how to treat women and to show respect to them. We learned how to fall in love, and the heart break that could accompany that emotion.
I remember when tv first started in Idaho Falls, starting at three in the afternoon and ending at midnight. Shows like Howdy Doody, Rin Tin Tin, Superman, Dragnet, Lassie....the list goes on. Jack Benny and Charlie McCarthey came to life and looked nothing like I had imagined. We had two stations and no remote - the kids were the remotes. "Change the channel." Why do I have to change it?" "Because you’re younger." was an exchange heard in every household in America, in a variety of languages. Obesity was kept in check just by that one phenomenon.
Even with tv, our lives were filled with time outdoors. In the summer, we would play all day outside. If we weren’t playing baseball in the parking lot of Highland Park where the Russets played, we were walking on our stilts, or riding bicycles, trying new and bolder stunts until someone crashed and went home crying. We played hide and seek at night, or a myriad of other games, staying out until ten or so, when someone’s mom or dad would yell for them to come home, then we’d all wander home, promising to meet the next day to continue. Some of us, the more evil bunch, would play Devil on the Doorstep periodically, with one quietly walking up to the door, ringing the door bell, then all or us running as fast as we could to keep from getting caught. I’m not sure why we thought that was so fun, but we did - at least until we got caught. Then it the fun ran out real fast.
Well, I’ve remembered enough for now, and this has become some what lengthy as it is. But, I remember when reading was one of those pastimes that we all had time to do. I rememeber.........
We wore mittens that were attached to each other insuring we lost both mittens instead of just one. When we would slide down the street near our house, on our American Racers or, you may know it as Flexible Flyer, the sled with two steel runners that would invariably run over your frozen fingers, never worrying about encountering an oncoming car because the traffic was nearly non existent. I remember building snowmen that lasted several months because the weather was so stinkin’ cold! I also remember coming in the house after having played outside, for what seemed like two weeks, and having my Mom put my hands under lukewarm water so that I could experience the pain associated with extreme child berth.
While inside, I would gather around the radio (I was an only and lonely child) and listen to many programs that required an imagination. The radio didn’t have fantastic graphics or surround sound. The special effects were dismal, to say the least. BUT, my brain had all those features and much more.
During the detective mysteries, I could feel the fog as it rolled into the city, shrouding everything in a cloud of mystery and intrigue. I could see the bad guy’s blonde girl friend as she walked into the room and sat across from the hero. I laughed so hard at the jokes of Charlie McCarthy and his stupid friends that my side would hurt for hours. Fiber Mcgee’s closet was as real to me as if it existed in my house, and every time he opened and the contents spilled out, I could see every piece scatter across the room. When Jack Benny wound his way down to his vault, I could see every lock on every door, and could feel the cool, stale air rush from his vault as he opened it.
I feel sorry for the kids today who have tv, XBox, Playstation, DVD’s etc. who don’t have the opportunity to develop their imaginations. But, we aren’t talking about now, we are remembering.
I remember when everyone could recognize every car on the road and could name them all. Chevy, Ford, and Chrysler each had one body style each year with just a few variations such as two doors versus four. Or, a hard top versus a convertible. I remember when high schoolers drove old cars that they fixed up with moon hubcaps and dice hanging from the mirror. Some of the older ones actually could afford a cheap paint job, or do it themselves, many with flames along the side of the hood. Some of the rebels would run wires to a spark plug attached to the tailpipe creating flames as they shot out of the school parking lot. All the cool boys wore their hair greased back in a DA (duck’s A ) held in place with Pomade or Butch Wax that left an interesting grease spot on the pillow case. The girls wore pony tails and skirts with Krenelin (sp) slips that held the skirts out. Until the girls were older, they wore bobby socks with saddle oxfords or low canvas tennis shoes. At an older age, they started wearing tight skirts with nylons and dressier shoes. The latter option was the boy's favorite.
I remember ‘Sock Hops’ after school and all the girls would dance with each other because most of the boys were too shy to get out on the dance floor and dance. That was, until the advent of the Slide and another similar dance that I don’t remember the name of, perhaps it was the ‘Shuffle’, where the boys lined up along side each other facing a similar line of girls and then the couple at the end would dance their way between the lines, down to the other end. This would repeat as long as the song lasted. I’m sure the girls invented this style of dancing so they could get the dough brain boys to interact with them. Little did they know that they were playing with fire and they were about to create some ugly monsters that would come back to bite them in later years,(not literally, of course......well, maybe sometimes.). First the women couldn’t get he guys to pay attention to them, then they couldn’t get them to leave them alone. You just can’t win with guys.
I remember a coach that had a paddle with holes in it and if you got out of line, you ended up on the wrong end of that paddle. And, I can speak from experience that the coach didn’t hold back because you were on the football team, in fact, I think he laid it on with more gusto. He hit me into next week. I was only taught that lesson once, being a fast learner, and also enjoying setting down at least once a week, I didn’t need another lesson. There was no talk of abuse or assault or anything like that, it was simply effective discipline that the kids didn’t mention to their parents for fear of a second application of the same curriculum at home. Consequently, we never had discipline problems at school, no one had ADHD or behavioral problems, we never heard swear words in the halls or on the school grounds, teachers weren’t afraid to discipline their students and students treated the teachers with respect. I also remember we had to perform in school or hazard repeating the same grade, which was a real possibility if you under performed. The teachers weren’t so concerned with our self esteem as they were in teaching us something. If we performed, our self esteem would take care of itself, if we didn’t, too bad. Life was simple then.
I remember movies that ran continually, not having a starting time. Everyone just went to the movies and if they wandered in at the middle of the movie, they just stayed until the part of the movie came back around where they came in, then they left. I remember Saturday matinees that had serials, fifteen minute shorts that continued every Saturday, with cliff hanger endings designed to bring you back the next week. We would always go as a large group of kids and stay all day, watching the serials, cartoons, newsreels and coming attractions at least twice each.. We would scream at the screen when the good guys were in peril, and cheer when the bad guys got their comeuppance. We thought nothing of yelling instructions at the characters when they were doing something we saw as stupid, always telling them who we thought were the bad guys.
Back then, we could afford to go to the movies several times a week, if we wanted to, because they were affordable, even with the low wages people were paid. We would fall in love with all the actresses, and identify with the heroes. We would leave the theater thinking we were Roy Rogers, or Gene Autry, John Wayne, or Jim Stewart, pretending to ride our horses, shooting at outlaws or Indians as we rode hard for home. We learned about life in the movies, about honor and honesty, how to be fair and the results of unfair practices. We learned how to treat women and to show respect to them. We learned how to fall in love, and the heart break that could accompany that emotion.
I remember when tv first started in Idaho Falls, starting at three in the afternoon and ending at midnight. Shows like Howdy Doody, Rin Tin Tin, Superman, Dragnet, Lassie....the list goes on. Jack Benny and Charlie McCarthey came to life and looked nothing like I had imagined. We had two stations and no remote - the kids were the remotes. "Change the channel." Why do I have to change it?" "Because you’re younger." was an exchange heard in every household in America, in a variety of languages. Obesity was kept in check just by that one phenomenon.
Even with tv, our lives were filled with time outdoors. In the summer, we would play all day outside. If we weren’t playing baseball in the parking lot of Highland Park where the Russets played, we were walking on our stilts, or riding bicycles, trying new and bolder stunts until someone crashed and went home crying. We played hide and seek at night, or a myriad of other games, staying out until ten or so, when someone’s mom or dad would yell for them to come home, then we’d all wander home, promising to meet the next day to continue. Some of us, the more evil bunch, would play Devil on the Doorstep periodically, with one quietly walking up to the door, ringing the door bell, then all or us running as fast as we could to keep from getting caught. I’m not sure why we thought that was so fun, but we did - at least until we got caught. Then it the fun ran out real fast.
Well, I’ve remembered enough for now, and this has become some what lengthy as it is. But, I remember when reading was one of those pastimes that we all had time to do. I rememeber.........
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Martin's Law of Falling Toast
Here is a blast from the past, written, in part, while I was in Oregon. At least the genisis of the original story finds its roots in Oregon. I've embellished some parts and added others, but the heart of the story remains unchanged.
I awoke to a down pour. The weather could only be explained as Babe, Paul Bunyan’s giant ox, peeing on a flat rock just outside my window. Wow, another Oregon summer day! I performed a breach birth from my blanket womb and padded off to the bathroom. After dressing, I wandered into the kitchen to fix breakfast. Visions of fried eggs, bacon and toast floated through my brain as I shuffled around the kitchen gathering utensils, food and a final resting place for the finished product.
I fished the toaster out of the cupboard, added a new layer of electrician tape to the splice in the cord, and plugged it in. As was my custom, I jumped back in case the cord threw sparks again. No light show this time. I threw in the last piece of bread that wasn’t growing something, pushed down the knob, grabbed a nice heavy book to prop against the knob since it wouldn’t stay down anymore, and started singing Jaded Lover - a Jerry Jeff Walker song - which was just the right amount of time for a perfect piece of toast. As soon as I finished the song, the toast was ready. Who needs modern technology?
Big finish.......tag the last line and, voila, toast! I removed the book, pulled the knob up and pulled the toast out of the toaster. I spread on some butter then some of Smucker’s best grape jam, and turned to place the freshly spread toast on the plate. But, as I turned, the toast jumped from my hand. Yes, jumped. It is the only explanation. It was a desperate act, unplanned I’m sure, but well executed and with perfect timing. The toast fell to the vinyl, landing, as you would expect, gooey side down. I stood there, staring at the fallen toast between my feet, wondering what could have gotten into that piece of toast. Why would it want to end things like that? So sad and senseless. Plus, why did it have to land slick side to the floor? Had it landed the other way, the five second rule would have come into play and I could have rescued it and all would have ended well. But, noooooooo, it had to land slimy side down, negating the five second rule and invoking the, Trash It, Pal, you lose, rule. And that I did, trash it, I mean. But, it got me to thinking. Why does the stupid toast always fall jam side down? Days and weeks later, after extensive research at the local library (before the internet), I had the answer.
But, before I go into the physics of falling toast, let me add some of the history I uncovered while researching this phenomenon. I’m sure there are many, like me, who have wondered where jam came from. Who was the first to discover it? And why? Well, I found the answers to these two worrisome questions. The story:
The beginning began at the beginning, .........of time, I mean. At the dawn of recorded time - The Stone Age. Perhaps a quick treatise on Ages is in order here. As you know, first, there was the Stone Age, where all the men would go off on extended business trips to bring back the bacon, so to speak, well actually, that is exactly what they did. The women, who weren’t real happy about their husbands leaving them home alone and going off and doing, who knew what and certainly getting into as much trouble as possible, had to stay home and gather roots and berries, twigs and leaves to make up the stew for the meat the men would drag home. The women weren’t happy about the gathering thing either, and they let the men know how unhappy they were as soon as they returned from their business trips. This complaining and nagging resulted in a shift of ages, sliding everyone into the Agricultural Age. In the Agricultural Age, the men stayed home and, through animal husbandry, raised the animals instead of going off on extended trips to hunt and kill them. In addition, the men also tilled the ground, sowed and harvested crops of vegetables, tended orchards of fruits and generally kept busy all day. The women were happy with this arrangement, so the nagging slowed to a crawl.
Now, there was a brief period before the Ag Age where we found the Bronze Age. But other than something to do with baby shoes, there isn’t much known about that age.
The Agriculture Age lasted for many centuries until the time the women were tired of having to live on the farm and, due to lack of funds, not being able to go to town and shop like they would like, and that they knew was their birth rite. The nagging and complaining rose to new heights. So, the dawn of the Industrial Age was upon man. Everyone moved to the cities where there were jobs and stress and mortgages and stores and more stores and plenty of things to buy. The women were happy once again. At least, until men started going off on extended business trips and it started all over again with the nagging and complaining.
Sometime around the mid sixties, we had the Age of Aquarius, but there wasn’t much money in that age, and it quickly faded. But, I have digressed from the original story, the beginning of jam. As I mentioned, it was in the Stone Age we find the genesis of jam.
Mulut, son of Numbutt, was a middle aged man living, in what is now thought to be Ohio, at the dawn of civilization. Mulut, though he was only twenty two, was indeed middle aged for that time. Men didn’t live long then, due to the dangers of their extended business trips. The men would often band together for safety as they ventured forth to hunt their favorite prey - the mighty mastodon, the hairy elephant. On the occasion that is credited for the creation of jam, Mulut was out hunting alone. He was spirited out of his warm cave by his wife, who was tired of left overs and wanted something freshly killed to eat. Unfortunately for Mulut, there wasn’t a planned business trip on the calender, so he found himself hunting alone.
Mulut’s wife threw him a new berry bag as he stepped out of the cave door. He was ordered to pick up some berries while he was out. The freshly made berry bag was similar to all the berry bags of the tribe - made from the mammary of a female mastodon. These were just the right size, not too big, not too small. A leather draw string kept the bag shut and the berries in. Mulut was set for his trip.
Mulut’s luck was running strong and he fell into a large patch of berries a few miles from his cave. He filled the berry sack to capacity in a few short minutes. He was quite happy with himself and knew his wife would be happy as well. Mulut’s euphoria was short lived. His preoccupation with his good fortune in the berry patch fogged his small but agile brain and he let his guard down for just a minute. A minute too long, as it turned out.
A large, male mastodon, attracted to the scent of the berry bag Mulut was carrying and filling with berries, had lumbered up to within charging distance of Mulut. Before Mulut knew it, the male mastodon, smack dab in the middle of his annual rut - mating season, enamored by, what he thought was a female mastodon, was charging toward the object of his affection. Unfortunately for Mulut, that object happened to be him and his mammary berry bag!
Mulut was rudely shaken out of his euphoria by the sounds of the aroused mastodon rumbling toward him. Mulut took off running at his top speed, which, as you may imagine, wasn’t near the speed of an enamored mastodon. Mulut was losing ground at a rapid rate. He reluctantly jettisoned the heavy berry bag in an attempt to gain some much needed speed. The mastodon, fixed on Mulut, didn’t see the berry bag, which was actually what should have been his focus. The big, hairy beast stepped squarely on the bag, smashing it and its contents. Mulut, finding a small cave in a little patch of trees, dove in and hid from the mastodon, saving himself from a fate worse than death. The frustrated mastodon snorted and stamped and rooted around, looking for Mulut, hoping that he wasn’t going to go home alone. But, finally, the mastodon gave up and headed off to a bar down the street named Hairy's.
After the mastodon had left, Mulut came out and looked for his berry bag. When he found it he looked inside and saw that the berries were all smashed. His head slumped as he imagined what his wife would say when she saw the gooey mess. But, he knew he had to take the whole mess back. On the trip back, he concocted a story that he could tell his wife. Upon arriving home, he explained how he had decide to smash the berries so they could be spread on a piece of bread, that way making it easier on his wife when she prepared dinner. She bought it and jam was invented.
And now, the Law. Martins Law of Falling Toast states: An object, coated on one side with some type of gooey substance, will land sticky side down due to the added gravitational attraction of the gooey substance. This attraction is directly proportional to the amount of sticky goo applied to the object, and inversely proportional to the available supply of objects.
Well, I hope this little story will enlarge you appreciation for jam and what went into its creation. The next time you drop something with a side slathered in something gooey and sticky, and it lands slick side down, you’ll then remember this small article and will know why things ended as they did. Any thanks can be expressed in twenties or hundreds.
I awoke to a down pour. The weather could only be explained as Babe, Paul Bunyan’s giant ox, peeing on a flat rock just outside my window. Wow, another Oregon summer day! I performed a breach birth from my blanket womb and padded off to the bathroom. After dressing, I wandered into the kitchen to fix breakfast. Visions of fried eggs, bacon and toast floated through my brain as I shuffled around the kitchen gathering utensils, food and a final resting place for the finished product.
I fished the toaster out of the cupboard, added a new layer of electrician tape to the splice in the cord, and plugged it in. As was my custom, I jumped back in case the cord threw sparks again. No light show this time. I threw in the last piece of bread that wasn’t growing something, pushed down the knob, grabbed a nice heavy book to prop against the knob since it wouldn’t stay down anymore, and started singing Jaded Lover - a Jerry Jeff Walker song - which was just the right amount of time for a perfect piece of toast. As soon as I finished the song, the toast was ready. Who needs modern technology?
Big finish.......tag the last line and, voila, toast! I removed the book, pulled the knob up and pulled the toast out of the toaster. I spread on some butter then some of Smucker’s best grape jam, and turned to place the freshly spread toast on the plate. But, as I turned, the toast jumped from my hand. Yes, jumped. It is the only explanation. It was a desperate act, unplanned I’m sure, but well executed and with perfect timing. The toast fell to the vinyl, landing, as you would expect, gooey side down. I stood there, staring at the fallen toast between my feet, wondering what could have gotten into that piece of toast. Why would it want to end things like that? So sad and senseless. Plus, why did it have to land slick side to the floor? Had it landed the other way, the five second rule would have come into play and I could have rescued it and all would have ended well. But, noooooooo, it had to land slimy side down, negating the five second rule and invoking the, Trash It, Pal, you lose, rule. And that I did, trash it, I mean. But, it got me to thinking. Why does the stupid toast always fall jam side down? Days and weeks later, after extensive research at the local library (before the internet), I had the answer.
But, before I go into the physics of falling toast, let me add some of the history I uncovered while researching this phenomenon. I’m sure there are many, like me, who have wondered where jam came from. Who was the first to discover it? And why? Well, I found the answers to these two worrisome questions. The story:
The beginning began at the beginning, .........of time, I mean. At the dawn of recorded time - The Stone Age. Perhaps a quick treatise on Ages is in order here. As you know, first, there was the Stone Age, where all the men would go off on extended business trips to bring back the bacon, so to speak, well actually, that is exactly what they did. The women, who weren’t real happy about their husbands leaving them home alone and going off and doing, who knew what and certainly getting into as much trouble as possible, had to stay home and gather roots and berries, twigs and leaves to make up the stew for the meat the men would drag home. The women weren’t happy about the gathering thing either, and they let the men know how unhappy they were as soon as they returned from their business trips. This complaining and nagging resulted in a shift of ages, sliding everyone into the Agricultural Age. In the Agricultural Age, the men stayed home and, through animal husbandry, raised the animals instead of going off on extended trips to hunt and kill them. In addition, the men also tilled the ground, sowed and harvested crops of vegetables, tended orchards of fruits and generally kept busy all day. The women were happy with this arrangement, so the nagging slowed to a crawl.
Now, there was a brief period before the Ag Age where we found the Bronze Age. But other than something to do with baby shoes, there isn’t much known about that age.
The Agriculture Age lasted for many centuries until the time the women were tired of having to live on the farm and, due to lack of funds, not being able to go to town and shop like they would like, and that they knew was their birth rite. The nagging and complaining rose to new heights. So, the dawn of the Industrial Age was upon man. Everyone moved to the cities where there were jobs and stress and mortgages and stores and more stores and plenty of things to buy. The women were happy once again. At least, until men started going off on extended business trips and it started all over again with the nagging and complaining.
Sometime around the mid sixties, we had the Age of Aquarius, but there wasn’t much money in that age, and it quickly faded. But, I have digressed from the original story, the beginning of jam. As I mentioned, it was in the Stone Age we find the genesis of jam.
Mulut, son of Numbutt, was a middle aged man living, in what is now thought to be Ohio, at the dawn of civilization. Mulut, though he was only twenty two, was indeed middle aged for that time. Men didn’t live long then, due to the dangers of their extended business trips. The men would often band together for safety as they ventured forth to hunt their favorite prey - the mighty mastodon, the hairy elephant. On the occasion that is credited for the creation of jam, Mulut was out hunting alone. He was spirited out of his warm cave by his wife, who was tired of left overs and wanted something freshly killed to eat. Unfortunately for Mulut, there wasn’t a planned business trip on the calender, so he found himself hunting alone.
Mulut’s wife threw him a new berry bag as he stepped out of the cave door. He was ordered to pick up some berries while he was out. The freshly made berry bag was similar to all the berry bags of the tribe - made from the mammary of a female mastodon. These were just the right size, not too big, not too small. A leather draw string kept the bag shut and the berries in. Mulut was set for his trip.
Mulut’s luck was running strong and he fell into a large patch of berries a few miles from his cave. He filled the berry sack to capacity in a few short minutes. He was quite happy with himself and knew his wife would be happy as well. Mulut’s euphoria was short lived. His preoccupation with his good fortune in the berry patch fogged his small but agile brain and he let his guard down for just a minute. A minute too long, as it turned out.
A large, male mastodon, attracted to the scent of the berry bag Mulut was carrying and filling with berries, had lumbered up to within charging distance of Mulut. Before Mulut knew it, the male mastodon, smack dab in the middle of his annual rut - mating season, enamored by, what he thought was a female mastodon, was charging toward the object of his affection. Unfortunately for Mulut, that object happened to be him and his mammary berry bag!
Mulut was rudely shaken out of his euphoria by the sounds of the aroused mastodon rumbling toward him. Mulut took off running at his top speed, which, as you may imagine, wasn’t near the speed of an enamored mastodon. Mulut was losing ground at a rapid rate. He reluctantly jettisoned the heavy berry bag in an attempt to gain some much needed speed. The mastodon, fixed on Mulut, didn’t see the berry bag, which was actually what should have been his focus. The big, hairy beast stepped squarely on the bag, smashing it and its contents. Mulut, finding a small cave in a little patch of trees, dove in and hid from the mastodon, saving himself from a fate worse than death. The frustrated mastodon snorted and stamped and rooted around, looking for Mulut, hoping that he wasn’t going to go home alone. But, finally, the mastodon gave up and headed off to a bar down the street named Hairy's.
After the mastodon had left, Mulut came out and looked for his berry bag. When he found it he looked inside and saw that the berries were all smashed. His head slumped as he imagined what his wife would say when she saw the gooey mess. But, he knew he had to take the whole mess back. On the trip back, he concocted a story that he could tell his wife. Upon arriving home, he explained how he had decide to smash the berries so they could be spread on a piece of bread, that way making it easier on his wife when she prepared dinner. She bought it and jam was invented.
And now, the Law. Martins Law of Falling Toast states: An object, coated on one side with some type of gooey substance, will land sticky side down due to the added gravitational attraction of the gooey substance. This attraction is directly proportional to the amount of sticky goo applied to the object, and inversely proportional to the available supply of objects.
Well, I hope this little story will enlarge you appreciation for jam and what went into its creation. The next time you drop something with a side slathered in something gooey and sticky, and it lands slick side down, you’ll then remember this small article and will know why things ended as they did. Any thanks can be expressed in twenties or hundreds.
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