45. A Friendly Ghost in the Cotswolds

The pretty, honey colored, stone cottage in England's Cotswold area had been on the market for a “donkey's age” said the realtor who rented us the house. She must have been eager to get the house off her list, because to me that was short hand for the owners are desperate.

I didn't know why it hadn't sold or been rented. The house seemed in good repair and was located within walking distance of the train station and village green. It was surrounded by pink and red roses, yellow daisies, blue bells, and smelled sweet and minty like my idea of an English garden. A fruit heavy apple tree was also in the backyard. Rounding out my impression of a real British home were the chrystalline chimes of the nearby Anglican church striking the hours.

My husband, Ben, had been transferred to the area by his American firm which was trying to bring their gourmet brand of dog food to England. We were promised two wonderful years in a foreign country at no cost to us. We thought we had died and gone to heaven. As time went on, we wondered if heaven was the right word for where we were.

My first visit to the tiny, local grocery explained why the house had stayed vacant for so long.

“Ah, and you'll be the new tenants over at Woodside cottage, I reckon,” asked the owner, John Goodson, whose ruddy face seemed to shine with British honor.

“Yes, we're so lucky to be living in a real Cotswold cottage and this fine village,” I enthused. I decided that 'quaint' was not a PC adjective to those who lived here.

“Well, then, did they not tell you about the ghost?” he asked.

“Ghost?” I didn't know whether to be frightened or thrilled at the prospect of meeting an English ghost.

“Perhap I shouldna be telling you the story, but may needs you be forewarned.”

“I love ghost stories, please tell me.”

His clear blue eyes looked straight at me and he said, “Well, not ta worry, Bartholomew wasn't murdered or a suicide.”

“Bartholomew?”

“He's the ghost, you know. A very friendly one. But still and all, he puts some people off.” As he put bread, cheese, and tea into my string carrier bag, he added, “Ya don't seem to me to be put off, though.”

“As long as it's a friendly ghost,” I thought of Casper the friendly ghost I read about as a child. “I wouldn't mind one.” I smiled, accepted my change and walked on home with happy thoughts of meeting a real English ghost. What stories I'd have to tell my friends back home.

I was putting things away when Ben came home. “I think I'll go out and see if any of the apples are ready for harvesting. It'll be a treat to have apples from our own tree.”

A few minutes later, I heard Ben yell and he came stomping into the house.

“I think that tree attacked me,” he sputtered.

“A tree can't attack anyone.” I said.

“Then you tell me why, when I was trying to pick an apple, several others just jumped on my head.”

“Oh, for gosh sakes, apples can't jump on your head. You probably just shook them loose.”

Our phone rang and it was a friend from the states, so the jumping apple conversation was shelved and forgotten.

The next time I went to the grocery, I asked Mr. Goodson to tell me more about Bartholomew, the possibly friendly ghost.

“If he wasn't murdered or a suicide, how did he die?”

Mr. Goodson cleared his throat and then explained. “You understand he was already a fair old age. In fact, he was 101 on the day he died.”

“The poor man died on his birthday?”

“Aye, after all the birthday party guests had gone home, and after he had argued once again with his son about needing to move into a home, the old gent decided he wanted an apple to calm himself down.”

“Did the apples jump on him?” I asked, remembering what Ben had insisted they had done to him.

“Jump on him?” Mr. Goodson looked confused. “Nay, I never heard that. But a branch did break loose and crack him on the head. Doctor said he died immediately.”

“I'm so sorry. Is that why he hangs around as a ghost? Because he's mad at the tree?”

“Missus, I don't know why he hangs around. As far as I know it's all just women's gossip.” And he started talking about the beautiful autumn weather we were having.

That afternoon I made a pie using my grandmother's recipe and the tasty, red apples Ben had gathered without any more attacks from the killer fruit.

However, maybe I ate too much of the pie because that night I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. Faint cries drew me to the bedroom window overlooking the back yard and there I saw Bartholomew for the first time. The moonlight made everything glow with a misty light, but I clearly saw an old man dancing around the apple tree, shaking his fist at it. I jumped back into bed telling myself, I had eaten too many apples and was having a nightmare.

I never told Ben about my dream since I scoffed at his story of attacking apples. However, I did have concerns about eating apples from that tree. I refused, in fact, to make any more pies or applesauce or jelly from that tree's fruit. And I never looked into the back yard if I couldn't sleep at night.

In fact I was relieved when Ben complained all the apples from the tree had disappeared. None were on the tree or even laying on the ground under it. We thought maybe kids had stolen them. Since I was never going to eat another one, it didn't bother me a bit. Although by then I was beginning to doubt Mr. Goodson's story about Bartholomew since no one else ever mentioned him to me.

Another trip to the grocery store may have solved the mystery. The little market had old wooden bushel baskets filled with sweet smelling, red apples that looked a lot like ours. Did helpful Mr. Goodson tell a gullible American woman a ghost story for his own purposes?

The End

44. Her Last Wishes

Some people might call me a thief. I prefer to call myself a re-distributor of assets. What would you call me?

My Great Aunt Claire was the last of three elderly sisters to die. None of them had married or had children, so Claire inherited what few assets her sisters left. Now the question was what to do with Claire's (and her sisters') remaining assets. She named no executor, but since I lived next door to their home and had helped them in many ways, including fighting with the tax assessor to get their ridiculous taxes reduced, my siblings and cousins decided I would be the perfect person to handle all the minutiae that occurs after a death.

I dealt with the funeral home, cemetery officials, death certificates, and I notified social security and her pension plan of her death. Because I was on her checking account I was able to pay all her last bills. Until a person dies you have no idea how much work is involved in ensuring the deceased can lie easy in her grave.

Although I was sad Aunt Claire died, it was true she lived a long and full life, happy I don't know. But she was 101 when she fell into eternal sleep. She and her sisters must have baked a million German chocolate cookies for me and the others who stole them from my cookie tin in the night. I was glad to do whatever I could to help settle her affairs.

Claire and her sisters had one charity they supported as much as they could with their meager earnings, Mercy Childrens' Home. Since she left no will, no provision had been made for any last donation to help children who needed a home. As 'executor' it was my job to make sure all her funds in her bank accounts or from the sale of her house and household goods were divided equally among her heirs—myself, my siblings, and my cousins.

I was able to do all that without problems, and, even more amazing, without any fighting among all of us cousins. I had heard horror stories of families split apart over the tiniest inheritances or even over a worthless coin collection.

The only glitch was when I was doing a final walk through the house before meeting with the buyers to turn over the keys. We showed the house furnished as the realtor thought that would make it easier for potential buyers to envision how furniture would fit in the rooms. But after a sales contract was signed, we had an estate sale and anything that wasn't sold was given to the Salvation Army, after all the heirs had chosen anything they wanted, drawing numbers to determine in what order they would choose. I tell you, it's details, details, details when someone dies.

I was walking through the house, remembering good times our family had shared. None of us would ever forget the Thanksgiving dinner when the aunts told us they had cooked the turkey the day before to save time. No one said a word but it was the driest turkey we ever ate.

I fondly thought of the little odd things people sometimes did as they got older. That brought to mind my own parents and what they told me when I helped them clean out our family home before their move to a warmer climate. It was a very old house and still had hot and cold air registers in the floor.

My father whispered to me, “Don't forget to get the money out of the cold air registers.”

“What?” Did I just hear him say 'money in the registers'?

“You heard me,” he muttered. “Check all the cold air registers.”

I took the grate off the one in the living room. In it were three cigar boxes filled with $20 bills. The same with the dining room and master bedroom. My parents had squirreled away $2,000.

My husband said to my father, “So that's why you were always asking for my empty cigar boxes.”

“My gosh,” I yelled. “If there'd been a fire, all of this would've been lost. Or if you'd died we'd have sold it not knowing about this money.”

That was when the light bulb turned on, so they say. I started checking the cold air registers in Claire's old house. The final tally was $3,500. And no one knew about this except me. What should I do? What would you do? If I told the other heirs they would want a share of it, especially Hilary who just had a darling baby girl.

I had a few qualms about it but I did what I thought was the right thing. I deposited the cash in my checking account. Then I wrote a check for the total amount to Mercy Childrens' Home. Perhaps the other heirs would have agreed but perhaps not. I didn't want to take a chance with fulfilling what I'm sure would have been my great aunts' last wishes.

43. The Prodigy

Blond, curly haired Charles Dawson was three years old when he first started playing the piano. He pulled a box over to the living room upright so he could climb up on the bench. He figured out enough key sounds to pound out the melodies from his favorite TV commercials. He laughed as he realized he could make the music he loved. 

 

His mother was shocked and then amazed as his musical ability developed at an amazing rate. She enrolled him in a toddler music class and from there he quickly advanced to a professional teacher in the small town where they lived.

Charlie loved music and playing the piano more than anything else. Soon after he started high school, he was at the piano when his mother called, “Charlie, John's at the door. He says he needs you to fill out their baseball team.”

Charlie answered, “Sorry, Mom. But I've got this new piece I promised Mr. Taylor I'd master by my next lesson.”

Charlie's dad frowned when he heard this. “Charlie, it's Saturday morning, you should go out and play with your friends. Get some fresh air. The piano will still be here after the game.”

“But Dad, I'd really rather do this. Mr. Taylor says I might have a chance at becoming a student of Professor Wallowitz.”

Mr. Dawson threw up his hands. “I give up. If that's what you want to do, that's what you want to do.”

Mrs. Dawson said, “You've been talking about this Professor ever since he played at the Christmas concert.”

“Mom, he's world famous and he only takes three new students a year. I want to be one of them.”

His parents sighed, but felt as long as his school grades were OK they couldn't interfere.

At the end of his freshman year in high school, he rushed into the house dropping his book bag on the floor.

“Mom, Dad! Great news! I've got an audition with Prof. Wallowitz.”

Mrs. Dawson said, “Charlie, pick up your books. But that's wonderful, I know how hard you've worked for this opportunity.”

As he picked up his books, he explained. “He's going to be in town this weekend and Mr. Taylor told him about me and he agreed to hear me play. Gosh, I'm so nervous. I've just got to do well.”

Charlie practiced every spare minute he had until time to meet Prof. Wallowitz where he was rehearsing for his concert.

To calm himself, Charlie practiced the deep breathing exercises Mr. Taylor had taught him. Although his teacher had also said that a little nervousness was good, it gave you an edge.

He played the difficult piece he had chosen perfectly. When the final chord died away, he waited expectantly. The professor listened intently, silently nodding his head. Then he said in a causal voice, “Not enough passion.”

Charlie was crushed. He had played his heart out and it wasn't good enough. He never touched a piano again. He was a resilient young man and eventually realized he had other talents. He put the same dedication he once had to the piano, to his new love, the law. He became an excellent trial lawyer and was known for his meticulous preparation.

Although he stopped going to concerts, his firm was sponsoring a charity concert and he felt obligated to go. He hadn't paid attention to the program and was surprised when he saw and heard his former nemesis, Professor Wallowitz. After wards as one of the sponsors, he went backstage to meet the great performer.

He introduced himself and added, “Many years ago I auditioned for you and you said I didn't 'have enough passion. What did you mean?”

The old man laughed and said, “Oh, I say that to everyone.”

Charlie was stunned, “But I gave up the piano because of you. I could have been a great performer.”

The professor shook his head, “Not really. If you were going to be a great musician, you would have done so, no matter what I had said.”

                                             The End

42. A Scary Walk in the Dark

The summer storm hadn't dumped rain on us yet, but the cracking of thunder was moving closer and lightening flashes were more frequent. It was getting late and we realized we should have left the 'get away' cabin an hour before. There was no electricity or street lights in the Minnesotan woods and once we put out the cabin's kerosene lantern it would be dark.
      Marlene and I were college friends working as counselors at a beautiful but rustic camp on sparkling, clear, and icy cold Blueberry Lake in the pine scented forests. On our time off from herding little girls we had two options, we could get a ride into the nearby town of Ely for a wild day of walking around, shopping for authentic 'Indian' souvenirs, and eating lunch without 100 laughing or screaming children surrounding us or we could spend the day at the quiet cabin, reading or writing or whatever we wanted to do without the children and without electricity.
      Since we were both readers, we opted for the peace of the log cabin, about one mile down the road from the camp grounds. It had been a good day, sitting in comfy, overstuffed arm chairs with a view of the water. In the camp library, I found a battered copy of a Mary Higgins Clark thriller. Marlene brought her own copy of an Agatha Christie mystery. Perhaps not the best choices for a secluded location.
       It was time to go back for our evening duties. We turned off the lantern, startled by the instant darkness. We stumbled down a short path to the main road and turned right towards civilization and safety. But first we had to get there thru a black velvet world.
      “I think we better hold hands so we don't get separated.” Marlene suggested.
       “Yeah,” I agreed. “And if we trip, we can hold each other up.”
       Marlene complained, “I can't believe we didn't bring flashlights. I've never seen darkness like this.”
       “But it should still be light at 8. It's the heavy cloud cover that's making it so dark.”
      We didn't admit it to each other, but the thunder and lightening were scary. I could feel Marlene's hand clench each time one occurred and she probably could feel mine.
       But, really, thank heavens for lightening. It allowed us to keep on track as we forged our way between thick stands of ancient pine trees. If we wandered off the road we stood a good chance of never being found until morning light. The brief flashes of nature's light kept us going in the right direction.
       We walked along listening to the muted sounds around us. No sounds of birds, just the rustling noise of the wind through the pines and the intermittent ominous thunderclaps. We reassured each other that if lightening struck nearby it would go for the tall trees without hitting us.
       I tried to focus on the peace I found in this spectacular location, although I was mainly praying we wouldn't get lost. Gradually, I heard a different sound, it was a louder rustle than the wind and trees made.
      “Marlene, do you hear that?”
      “Hear what?”
      I whispered, “That louder rustle every now and then.”
      “Yeah, I thought it was just a burst of wind.”
      “No, it doesn't sound like wind.”
      “You think it's an animal?” Her voice wavered.
     “I don't know. Are bears around here?”
     “Oooh, I should have paid more attention during the local nature talk.” Marlene moaned.
     “It's probably just a rabbit or squirrel.” I tried to reassure both of us.
     “Shouldn't the weather keep all these animals in their homes or dens or whatever?”
      “You're right. It can't be an animal. They're all staying safe from the coming rain.”
      “But if not animals,” she asked, “what's making that noise?”
     “You don't think it could be a person, do you?” I voiced our worst fear and nightmare.
      She squeezed my hand so hard, I thought my blood circulation would stop. “Oh my God, we've got to walk faster. Feet don't fail me now.” She whispered.
      “But, if it's so dark that we can't see, whoever is out there can't see us either, right?” I reasoned.
      “Well, if we can see the road in a lightening flash, then we can be seen whenever that happens.”
      “Don't be so logical,” I complained. “What should we do?”
       Marlene being logical again, “What can we do except keep on going?”
      We kept on in the direction of camp, although our hearts jumped every time we heard the loud rustle.
      After what seemed a hundred miles, but was only one, we heard voices and slammed doors and other camp sounds. We could see the lights that lined the road along the camp grounds and started running as fast as we could towards safety. We headed over to the dining hall where some of the counselors hung out before putting the campers to bed for the night.
      We were huddled over hot cups of coffee when Mr. Swenson the camp owner, a tall, thin, muscular man ambled in.
      “Well, girls, you did a good job tonight.”
      “We did?” I asked, wondering what he was talking about.
       He replied, “When I saw the weather getting bad, I decided I better go over to the 'getaway' cabin to make sure you'd make it back here all right.”
       Marlene interrupted, “We didn't see you. Did we pass you in the dark on the road?”
      “No, no. I took a short cut thru the woods. I have night vision goggles and can see everything. By the time I got to the cabin, you were walking on the main road. You did good. You held hands so you couldn't get separated. And when you got confused you stopped until another flash of lightening showed you the way. You made it back here without any help from me.”
      “You were in the woods, following us as we walked?” I couldn't believe it.
      “Yah, I wanted to be sure you were safe, but I wanted to build your confidence so I didn't let you know I was watching over you.” His eyes twinkled as he tried not to smile. He needed to keep up his reputation as an unemotional Swede.
      I didn't know whether to hit him for scaring us or hug him for coming after us.
                                                                     The End

41. A Big Purple Bouquet

This story is in honor of the courage and loving heart of a good friend named Stacey.

Stacey was a cute little red-headed girl with freckles sprinkled across her happy face. She loved animals but was especially crazy about cats. She could not sleep unless one of her two cats was on her bed tucked up close and comforting.

       And she loved the color purple. She had begged and begged until her baby pink bedroom was painted a 'good' shade of purple. She had purple pajamas with different types of cats scattered over them. She would have worn purple all the time but her Mom coaxed her into trying different colored clothes with just a touch of purple—a purple pin or purple socks. Yes, Stacey was a character but charming and everyone liked her.
       At this particular time she was very excited because her 5^th birthday was coming up. She knew she was a big girl now and would be going to school soon. Her Mom and Dad were having a special birthday celebration for her with all her relatives and neighborhood friends as guests.
       Her Dad asked her, “Well, I hear you've got a special birthday coming soon.”
       Stacey's eyes sparkled and she nodded, “Yes.”
       Dad said, “A special birthday deserves a special present. What do you think you'd like to get?”
       Stacey screwed up her little face and thought and thought. “Purple.”
       Dad laughed. “I can't get you just purple. It has to be something that's colored purple. And what might that be?”
       Again Stacey thought and thought and then carefully said, “Bouquet.”
       “Hmmm, that's a big word. You must have heard it on TV. I'll see what Mom and I can do about getting you a purple bouquet.” He thought, Well that should be easy enough to get.
       And since Stacey's birthday was on June 22, you'd think it would be a great time for blooming flowers but it wasn't. The day before her birthday--Dad being a man had waited until the last minute to fulfill Stacey's wish—not a single purple flower was blooming at any florist shop, garden store, or neighbor's yard. Well, the garden store did have some spindly purple orchids, but he didn't think that's what she meant by a bouquet. She wanted a lot of whatever flower he got.
       He was appalled. He and Stacey's Mom tried to think of what they could do. Perhaps cut pictures of purple flowers out of seed catalogs.
      Mom said, “I don't think that would be much fun for a little girl.”
      Dad asked, “What else does Stacey like that's fun,”
      Mom's face lit up. “I've got the perfect answer. I know she likes these and I think I can get them in purple. We'll just have to touch them up with a magic marker. While you're making her cake, I'll run out and get them.” Dad was the baker in their family
       She told Dad her plan and he said, “It just might work. Worth a try.”
       Stacey was so excited waiting for the guests to come to her party. She had on a frilly, purple party dress and purple ribbons in her hair, never mind that her hair was red and the two colors usually didn't go together. They looked perfect on Stacey.
       Mom said, “Try not to get dirty before the party starts. You look so pretty right now.”
       Dad said, “We thought we'd give you your special birthday gift before the party starts so everyone can enjoy it.”
       Stacey laughed and said, “OK.”
       Mom went in the master bedroom to get the gift they had hidden. Dad set up the camera to take pictures of, hopefully, Stacey's delight when she saw her purple “bouquet”.
      And she was delighted. She smiled, clapped her hands and then went to grab her 'bouquet' of big purple balloons, each with a flower face drawn on it.
                                                                 The End

40. What's in a Name?

When I first saw the tiny, gold locket in the musty resale shop I thought it might be the perfect gift for my niece whose 13^th birthday was coming up. Most young girls liked sentimental objects. A second hand present might sound cheap, but I was squeaking by paying college tuition and rent. It wasn't that I had little 'discretionary' money, I had none. Every penny was accounted for before I even earned it at my night waitressing job. The locket was priced at $10, which was within my gift budget.
      As I held the delicate heart-shaped pendant and chain in my hand, it grew warmer as if sending out waves of love. I wondered about its past. Who had originally owned it and why had it ended up here? Its latch resisted my prying fingers so I couldn't see what was inside but decided to buy it anyway. At home, I could use a pointed nail file to pry it open.
      In my drafty studio apartment I placed the locket on a thread bare kitchen towel laid on the cracked Formica counter top. I gently worked at it until it popped open. Smiling at me was a handsome, young man wearing a naval uniform. It looked like a picture from a photo booth. Opposite it was a scrap of paper, folded to fit inside.
      Oh my goodness, I thought. Maybe this will be like those romance novels with messages in a bottle. With trembling fingers I smoothed out the note. It was handwritten and faded. I could barely make out the words. But I read:
      “Margie, Remember me always, for I will never forget you. All my love, all my life. Ralph. 5/30/44.”
       A sailor named Ralph. I plopped down on a kitchen chair. My grandpa's name was Ralph and he was a sailor who served in World War II. I shook my head, no, it couldn't be. It would be too much of a coincidence. And as a science major I didn't believe in coincidences. And besides, my grandma's name was Helen, not Margie. But still....
      I put the picture and note in my small jewelry box, which held the few gifts I received when my parents were alive. I polished the little necklace as best I could with my white toothpaste, all I had for such cleaning and tried not to think about a possible connection between what I was working on and my grandfather.
       The party for my niece, Emma, was in two weeks, so I had plenty of time to let the mystery of the locket fester in my brain. One of the reasons I wanted to be a scientist was because my bump of curiosity was 'too big for my own good'. My mother always told me that when I asked too many questions. It annoyed me then, but now I wished I could hear her say it again.
      Grandpa Ralph and Grandma Helen lived in a small condo at Shady Acres, an assisted living facility. They were both 86 years old and insisted they 'didn't need any help' but agreed to move there when they 'lost' their driving licenses as the facility provided free transport around town. I tried to bus over to visit them once a week.
      When he opened the door, Grandpa grunted his usual refrain, “Welcome to Shady Acres. Don't it sound like a cemetery. Come on in and sit a spell, but don't stay too long or they might try to bury you.”
      “Where's Gran?” I asked as I followed him into the cheery yellow living room. It smelled faintly of cinnamon. Grandma must have been baking.
      “Oh, she's at her bridge club. Actually, it's more her gossip club, if you ask me. Those women never stop talking long enough to make a bid.”
      “Good.” I murmured as I sat on the faded floral couch.
      “What's good about it?” His light blue eyes stared at me.
      “No, no,” I stammered. “It's just that I wanted to ask you something when she wasn't around.”
      “Now that sounds exciting. Secrets, huh.” He perked up. It almost looked as if his long ears were stretching forward to catch my every word.
      I didn't know how to ask him what might be a very sensitive question. But I thought I best be direct about it.
      “Grandpa, I found a picture in an old locket and I wondered if it could be you?”
      “Me? What the heck would a picture of me be doing in a locket?” He sputtered.
      “Could you just look at it and let me know?” I handed the small picture to him. I had put it a clear plastic envelope, the type that some greeting cards come in. I suppose it was silly, but I thought I should protect it.
      He shoved his glasses on his nose and peered down at it. He squinted his eyes and moved the picture back and forth.
      “Jumpin' Jehoshaphat! That's me! Where'd you get this? I must've been 18 years old. I sat in one of them photo booths before I sailed for the Pacific.”
      “I found it in an old locket in a resale shop. But there's more. It also had a note from the sailor.”
      “You mean from me?” He grinned and ran his gnarled hand over his balding head. “I just can't believe it turnin' up after all these years. What'd it say?”
      “Well,” I hesitated. This might be embarrassing. I worried about what might have happened to Margie, the love of his life. But I carried on, as they say. “It was to someone named Margie and you said you would love her all your life.” I paused and then asked the fatal question. “Who's Margie?”
      Grandpa laughed so hard I was afraid he'd choke. When he could talk, he said, “So that's why you were glad your Grandma Helen wasn't here. Don't worry, she knows all about it.”
     “Oh, that's good, but I don't see why it's so funny.” I was peeved after all the worrying I had gone through.
      “It's sort of like that Shakespeare fellow said, 'what's in a name'. Your grandma's full name is Margaret Helen, so of course everyone called her Margie. When I came back from the war, hale and hearty, God be praised, I married a woman I thought was named Margie. But in 1952 when the show 'My Little Margie' came on TV, my dearly beloved wife announced she was dropping the ditzy Margie name. She wanted to be known as the more sophisticated name of Helen forevermore. And so she has. But how did you get that locket?”
      “That's another story, for another time.”

                                                                      The End

39. Failed Dreams

This is an excerpt from a quirky mystery novel I'm writing, "Eula May and the Flim Flam Nun".  I hope to have it ready for e-books by December 1. If you like this, please leave a comment.

I stopped in to our small, independent drugstore owned by old school friend, Orin Phillips, to pick up some calcium tablets laced with Vitamin D. I thought I might as well get a head start on preventing osteoporosis, although at 40 I was much too young. I had recently moved back to Karnak after living for 20 years—two decades, Oh my gosh that sounds so long—in Los Angeles. I was a 'tired' dancer. Not 'retired' just 'tired'.
       Orin greeted me with a big grin. “Welcome back, Judy. We missed you.”
       “Thanks Orin. I'm afraid some people in town are glad I failed to be a dancing star in Hollywood and had to come back home dragging my leotard behind me.”
      “You did pretty well for a while, there. I saw you on TV a couple of times.” “Yeah, I made it on to a few variety shows, but nothing lasted.”
      “Show business is really hard, but then it's hard to be a success in any field.” He looked sad.
       I didn't want to pry but I wondered what happened to him while I was away. “Did something crush your dreams?”
      Orin stared off into space. “I know what it’s like to want a better life. I did have a special dream one time, too. But it never panned out.”
     “Oh, Orin, did you want to go to Hollywood?” I asked, although I didn't exactly see him as a movie actor with his spiky red hair and face that turned red anytime a stranger asked him a question. 
     “No, nothing like that. I dreamed of discovering a pill that would take pounds off sensibly and safely and permanently. I was going to call them—Orin’s Life Savers. Because that’s what they would have been. But someone stole my formula and the world of the overweight is still struggling to lose pounds in unhealthy, dangerous, and temporary ways.
     “That’s so sad, Orin. Who stole it?” I never knew Orin was ambitious. I thought he was happy being a person everyone went to with questions.
     “It was one of those big pharmaceutical companies that make money from selling diet pills that don’t work, so people keep buying more and more of them. They sent a con man down here to talk me into giving it up. He said they would pay me for the rights to it. He took all my research papers. Later, when nothing else happened, I found it was all a lie. They just wanted to bury my great idea. And I had no proof of the hours I spent working on it and how successful it was.”
     “Oh, Orin, your discovery would have really been a major boon to all the people who want to lose weight.”
     “Well, I can’t do anything about it now. But that’s why I understood why you took off for Hollywood.”
    “Maybe it’s not too late, maybe you could still have your dream come true,” I tried to inspire him.
     He just shook his head and rang up my purchase. “No, it's best if I just do what I'm doing.”
     As I walked over to Jack Rockenbuck's office, I wondered if there was anything I could do to help Orin. Jack was another old friend who grew up to be an accountant. My taxes were a mess and I needed to talk to him about them.
    After Jack and I discussed what could be done to straighten up my problems with the IRS, I asked about Orin. I repeated the story Orin told me of how the big drug companies stole his effective weight loss formula. I concluded by saying, “Poor Orin, he was just trying to help people and he became a victim himself.”
      Jack’s eyes almost popped out of his head and he jumped out of his chair so fast it swirled around. “Victim!” he protested. “That’s a hot one.”
     “What do you mean? What really happened to his weight loss product?” 
      Jack pounded his fist on his desk, “That little druggist who looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth nearly killed everyone who took his pills. The FDA shut him down, as soon as the complaints started piling up. He sold the pills as a natural product, so it didn’t really come under the supervision of the FDA with all the necessary research and clinical trials, and so forth.     
      "But it turned out the pills contained a super dose of natural laxatives. And since the customers were told to take them several times a day, they were literally shitting their weight off. But they also were losing important nutrients upsetting their electrolyte balance.”
      I interrupted, “Please Jack, not a lecture. I don’t need to know the whole history of nutrition. Just tell me what happened to Orin.”
      He sputtered a bit, calmed himself and continued. “Orin pleaded innocent, said he had no idea people would be misusing them. Since the written directions didn’t say anything about taking more than one a day, no one pressed charges. I think his weight loss customers didn’t want anyone to find out how stupid they had been. Orin just made a substantial donation to help buy the new colonoscopy machine at the hospital with the stipulation that no publicity go out about the pills. He just stopped selling them.”
      I fell back on his client’s chair, sinking down into its depths. “Orin almost killed people.”
      “Yeah,” Jack agreed. “But the amazing thing about it, human nature being what it is, some people were upset he wouldn’t sell them any more pills. They were losing weight and they didn’t care if that put their health at risk.”
      Welcome back to Karnak, I thought. Land of failed dreams and failed common sense.
                                                      The End

38. Too Hot or Too Cold?

Food and friends are always sources of fun, especially when things go wrong as they do in this story.  Based on actual events with names changed to protect the innocent.
     
JoAnne Simco loved to entertain. The short, peppy woman liked having friends over and treating them all as 'guests of honor'. She even made her own bread and her own salad dressings. She loved setting a table so her guests would both appreciate her creativity but also feel special that she had invested so much effort in pleasing them. However, as everyone who cooks knows, not everything always turns out as you've planned.
      One night in June, JoAnne and her husband Don, gave what she recalls as the worst dinner party in her life. It started as all her parties did, with a plan.
      “You know Don, I think it would be fun to have a circus party theme.” She was looking through one of her 113 cookbooks. Yes, she actually counted them just before Christmas so she would know if she could possibly put another cookbook on her wish list. She decided there was always room for another cookbook.
      “Ummm, whatever you want, Jo.” Don, a tall, thin and quiet young man, knew his role was to agree and just do whatever little chores JoAnne assigned him before any party. He didn't care. He knew that before dinner, he and his male buddies would be in the garage talking sports, so he wouldn't get in her way. And their wives would be chattering away in the kitchen with their offers to help that were always rejected.
      Don did his share after everyone left. He did the washing, drying and putting away of the 'good' dishes, silver, and pots and pans. JoAnne cleared up any left over food and picked up the living room. They would both fall into bed, tired but happy and with smiles on their faces. Usually it was another successful event. But not this time.
      “For fun, we could serve regular broiled steaks but call them lion steaks. You'd have to grill them but I know you like to use your new grill. I'll serve deviled eggs as an appetizer but call them ostrich eggs.”
      “Sounds good to me. How about cotton candy for dessert?” He suggested.
      “Ohhh, that would be great, but I don't know how to make it. I'll just check through my books, I'm sure I'll find something.” Everyone loved ice cream so she decided to make a frozen dessert.
      She found a circus theme children's sheet in a discount store to use as a table cloth. In the center of it she placed two large ceramic animals that were popular in the 1970s, a large zebra and a lion cub. For extra flare, she attached red and orange ribbons to the hanging light fixture over the table and taped them down to edges of the cloth covered table. Each place setting had a circus themed paper napkin that she found in a children's birthday party section. It was really fun to come up with inexpensive ways to carry out her theme.
      They had invited the three couples who were their best friends. And as good guests, when they arrived they exclaimed over the 'ostrich eggs' and 'tiger's milk chip dip'. The men had to be coaxed to try them, even though they were assured they weren't really ostrich eggs or had tiger's milk in them.
      Tonight Don was looking forward to firing up his Weber grill. Since he had 4 large sirloin steaks to grill and then slice into serving portions, he worried about making sure they were cooked to everyone's liking. He put them over the hot coals and went back into the garage to talk to the guys.
      JoAnne was getting the other dinner items ready when the phone rang. It was Gay, a new neighbor, who had just moved in behind them. “I hate to call you but I thought I better let you know.”
      “Oh, that's OK, what is it?” She wondered what on earth this neighbor needed to tell her right now when she was in the middle of fixing dinner.
      “Well,” Gay sounded apologetic, “I know some people cook in different ways...”
      JoAnne was beside herself thinking, get to the point, get to the point.
     “But, do you know,” Gay continued, “that flames are shooting out of your grill?”
      “What! What! No I didn't. Thanks, bye.” JoAnne hung up, ran out to the garage and yelled at Don, “The grill's on fire! The grill's on fire.” Don dashed to the back yard to see red and yellow and blue flames shooting almost as high as the roof. He rescued the burnt steaks and scraped off the singed surfaces. Everyone had a good laugh. It sure made for a conversation piece during the rest of the evening.
     Before they sat down to eat, JoAnne had taken the frozen dessert out of the freezer. It was a strawberry cream cake formed into a loaf. The recipe called for removing it from the freezer before dinner to give it time to soften enough for slicing.
      After the grilled (and scraped) steak, baked potatoes and tossed salad (filled with tiny pieces of red and green pepper, called circus confetti) had been eaten and used dishes taken out to the kitchen, JoAnne took a large carving knife to slice through the ice cream loaf. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't cut through it. It was still frozen solid.
      She went back to the dining room and explained it would take a while to defrost but they could 'rest' between courses. After a few minutes of conversation she went back to the kitchen and this time took out the electric carving knife and tried to use that. Still no success.
      Back to the dining room, this time she was so flustered she said, “I'm sorry it's still not ready. I'm just so glad you're all people I don't care about.” She thought about what she just said as everyone's mouth fell open and then they all laughed. She tried to explain. “No, no, what I mean is that you're all such good friends, I don't have to worry about everything going wrong.”
      “Oh, JoAnne, that puts the cap on a truly delightful evening. I guess if you serve us burned meat and no dessert, you really don't care about us.”
      JoAnne's face was bright red. Don came over to her and gave her a warm hug. “Honey, everybody loves you because you always say what you really, really mean.”
      Everyone laughed again. And enjoyed the dessert when it finally became soft enough to cut and serve.

                                                              The End

37. One Kitten is Enough

Harry and Martina Noles were friends who lived in the same Chicago apartment building when we were first married. John and I had a one year old boy, Stevie, while they had two children, Emma and Matt, already in grammar school. As a new mother I had lots of worries and questions and always turned to warm hearted Martina for sensible advice. One day, she came to me with a question.
      “Sue, I'm not sure what we should do about a pet. The kids keep asking for one. It seems like every book they read is about an animal or a family with pets. But we live in an apartment. I don't think it'd be fair to keep an animal cooped up all day.”
      I laughed, “Well, there's always a bird which is used to being cooped up in a cage. Or how about a gold fish? The good thing about gold fishes, depending on your point of view, is that they don't last too long.”
      “What on earth do you mean, they don't last long?” Martina looked dubious.
      “They don't seem to have long life spans and in fact they may even commit suicide.” I explained.
      “Oh come on now, I can't believe that.”
      “I had a suicidal goldfish when I was six. One morning I went into the kitchen and Goldie's fish bowl was empty. I couldn't believe she was gone. Where could a goldfish go? I looked all around the counter the bowl was sitting on and discovered my dead pet. She had somehow jumped out of the bowl. I worried for days that the fish hated me so much she wanted to kill herself.”
      “What on earth did you mother tell you?” asked Martina.
      “She told me it had nothing to do with me, it was just something that goldfish occasionally do—jump out of their bowls.”
       “That's a crazy story, Sue, and I don't think the kids would be happy with a suicidal fish. They're thinking more of a kitty or a puppy.”
      “I'm sorry I can't help, but at least let me refill your coffee. It might give you the brain power you need to handle this.”
      We continued to have coffee almost every morning while Stevie took his nap. But I didn't hear any more about the pet problem until three weeks later.
      Martina came in with a big smile. “We finally solved the pet problem but you won't believe how we did it.”
      Our apartment building was around the corner from a busy street with a barber shop, drug store, convenience store and, most importantly for this story, a pet store. Emma and Matt walked by this store every day on their way to and from school. Harry walked by it to catch the bus to work and even Martina walked by when she had to pick up extra milk or bread.
      After school one day, the kids came running into their apartment with the great news that the pet store had a family of three new kittens in its front window. They begged and pleaded to be allowed just one of the kittens. As all kids do they promised, “We'll take care of it, we'll give it food and water, and clean its litter box.”
      Martina said, “We've been over this before. We can't have a pet until we have a house. Daddy and I've been looking and planning and we think we can buy one next year. Then you can have your pet.” She closed her ears to their cries of "oh, Mom" and "we can't wait that long."
      When Harry got home from work, he was bombarded with more pet pleas. “Yeah, I saw the kittens in the window, too, and they're cute. But we've decided a pet'll have to wait until next year.”
      The next morning, Harry smiled at the kittens' antics when he passed the shop window but kept going. Martina couldn't believe all their milk had been used up with the morning cereal so she passed the kittens when she went out to get more. She thought to herself, that little orange and white tabby is so cute. Maybe one little kitten wouldn't take up too much room and the kids will be so happy. On her way from the market, she bought the kitten who caught her eye and her heart and whom she named Marmalade for its coloring. At home she hid 'Marmy' in her bedroom to surprise the kids and Harry when he came home. 
      The kids before breakfast had pooled their saved birthday money and knew they had enough to buy a kitten. After school they picked out the little grey and white kitten that ran up to  them and licked their hands. They put the kitten, now named 'Silver' in Emma's big backpack. When they got home, Matt complained about school to draw Martina's attention away from Emma who hid the kitten in her bedroom. The kids thought they could keep it there without their parents finding out.
      On his way home from the bus, Harry glanced in the window and saw there was only one little kitten left. The black kitten was pouncing on everything in sight even though his playmates were gone. Harry thought he looked like a tough little trooper. “I can't leave the little guy there all by himself. 'Tuffy' needs some children to keep him company. I'm sure we can find room for one small kitten.”
      Harry opened the front door, shouting “Surprise!” Martina and the kids stared at the black kitten. Martina said, “Oh, no, you're not going to believe this.” She ran back to the bedroom and brought out Marmy.
      Emma and Matt were dancing around with delight. “Two kittens!” “Oh, boy!” Then since their parents had bought kittens, they thought they didn't have to hide Silver and brought her out of the back pack.
      Martina said, “Three kittens. What're we going to do?”
      As she told me the next day, “The pet problem is solved. We now have three kittens. I've learned that once you've named a pet it's yours forever.”
                                                           The End

36. Entertaining Strangers

I thought there was something unusual about the couple my husband invited to stay with us. They acted like newly weds, always touching each other. On the arms, shoulders, back, even laying a palm lovingly on a cheek, facial at least, not lower down. Gordon, my husband, told me Clark had been married for 30 years. I guess it wasn't unheard of for long time married couples to be affectionate in public, but it was different from how our other long time married friends acted. Of course, Clark was visually impaired so maybe he made up for it with the sense of touch.
      But Gordon was losing his sight due to macular degeneration and he wasn't always touching me. Oh well, as someone once said, 'different strokes for different folks.'
      Gordon met Clark during a special Braille conference up in San Francisco for people who had serious vision problems. Here in the Palm Springs area we were lucky to have a local Braille facility which offered activities and training for the blind and visually impaired. Through this facility Gordon had been offered a “scholarship” to the conference, which included transportation and living expenses. He was randomly assigned to share a room with Clark and they became friendly over many long conversations together.
      During one of these 'talkathons' as Gordon termed them, Clark commented, “You're a lucky man. You live in one of the most beautiful resort areas in the world.”
      “You and your wife should come down and visit us. We have an extra bedroom and a swimming pool.”
      Clark demurred, “Oh, we wouldn't want to take advantage of your hospitality.”
      “No, it wouldn't be any trouble. My wife, Betty, can drive so we can visit interesting places and restaurants.” Gordon was a kind and generous man. And when he later told me that Clark and his wife would be visiting us soon, I seconded his invitation. Although it would have been nice if Gordon had asked me first before offering my services as chamber maid, chef, and chauffer.
      We picked them up at the airport and I drove all of us home. They seemed like nice people, friendly and enthusiastic. I had laid in lots of groceries for some easy cook meals and put fresh, fragrant smelling flowers in the guest room and bath. I was happy to do whatever I could to make feel at home.
      They were only staying for a long weekend, from Friday to Monday, but I wasn't getting younger. Although I was an active oldster, 73 on my last birthday, entertaining was tiring.
      Since Norma, Clark's wife, could drive I lent her my car so they could go off on their own occasionally. It was nice to see how much in love they were after all these years. Their last night with us, I made my special beef stroganoff and a lemon meringue pie. We had lots of lemons from our own trees, quite a treat for a New England girl like me.
      Gordon and I recently celebrated our 50^th anniversary and our kids had put together a photo album of our history together. It was in the living room on our tile topped coffee table. After dinner we were sitting there enjoying after dinner drinks of lemoncello, also a treat made by me. Norma picked up the album to look through it.
      She commented, “This is a wonderful book. And your children were very thoughtful to put it together for you.”
      I smiled. “I guess they wanted to honor our 50 years without a murder charge.”
      Clark looked down at our colorful Mexican striped rug and murmured, “Fifty years is a long time, especially today.”
      Gordon, trying to be tactful, said, “But you two have been married for quite a number of years, too.”
      Norma laughed and said, “Not really. We're not married. I just met Gordon at our town's senior center a few weeks before he went to the Braille conference.”
      My Catholic mind reeled as I realized I was entertaining two people living in sin. Trying to be broad minded, I knew it wasn't that unusual now days, even at our advanced age.
      Gordon sputtered on, “But Clark, I'm sure you mentioned a wife. You talked about a wife. Are you really not married.”
      Clark looked chagrined. “Oh, I'm married all right. My wife's name is Nora, not Norma.”
      “But where's your wife?” I demanded.
      “She's home babysitting the grandchildren.” Clark explained. “She thinks I'm down here visiting a Braille friend, which I am.”
     “We're so glad you invited Clark.” Norma beamed. “It was a wonderful opportunity for us to have some time alone together.”
      I stiffened. I had been knocking myself out entertaining two adulterers, helping them to deceive an innocent wife.
      I politely excused myself and went to my bedroom to read and steam until Gordon came in.
      “Oh my God, Betty, I had no idea they weren't man and wife. He never told me she wasn't his wife.  I just assumed she was.” Gordon knew I was upset.
      I gritted my teeth and snapped out, “Well, thank God, they're leaving early tomorrow. I couldn't bear to spend any more time with them. I'll dial the cab company.  You can arrange to have them picked up in the morning for their ride to the airport. I'm staying here til they're gone.”
      The Bible says you should always be kind to strangers, because you might be entertaining angels unaware. It never said anything about the possibility of them being lying, cheating devils.
                                                                The End

35. Mistaken Identity

                         Friends learn from each other and laugh with each other.

Eleanor Morgan, my best friend in college was tall, blond, and sophisticated from a Michigan resort city. I had brownish hair, was short and naïve, perhaps because I grew up in a small Illinois town surrounded by corn fields. We met when we were assigned next door rooms as freshmen. We were journalism majors and ended up joining the same sorority. After graduation we shared an apartment for a year until she married the young lawyer I introduced to her. A few years later when I was married and about to have a baby, she let me give a bath to her own baby for practice. A true friend.

      Once when we were taking a large reporting class I had to be absent. The instructor passed a sign up sheet to track attendance. A tiny part of our grade would be based on that. I asked Eleanor if she would mind signing my name to the sheet. She agreed, knowing I would do the same for her when necessary.

      Later, she told me, “I was sitting there, thinking about how I could disguise my handwriting. Perhaps I'd use my left hand to write 'Ann Fox'. But then the clip sheet came to me. I remembered Professor Scher stressing the importance of honesty and integrity in reporting. And I just couldn't do it.” She signed her own name and passed the clip board to the next person.
      I was chagrined. “You did the right thing. I apologize for even asking you to do it.” I was glad she had kept both of us honest.
      We shared many other experiences, including one we'll never forget, which also involved our names.
      One cold Wednesday night, our sorority and the Alpha Phis, another nearby sorority, had an exchange dinner. Eleanor and I were in the group assigned to go over to the other house.
      We bundled up in our winter coats and with our other 'sisters' hustled over to the host sorority. As we climbed the stone steps to the paneled oak door, Eleanor was first in line and I was right behind her. She rang the bell and the door swung open to their house mother. Eleanor explained later that she was rehearsing in her mind how she would introduce herself and then introduce me.
      She smiled, reached out to shake hands and introduced herself, “How do you do, I'm Amy Fox.” She continued, turning to me, “and this is...”
      A jolt of electricity swept through my brain. In milliseconds I thought, Now what? Should I cover up for Eleanor and introduce myself as Eleanor Morgan? But then I'll have to go through the whole evening using that name.
      Eleanor's face was turning bright pink.
      I stuck out my hand for handshaking, laughed and said, “No, she's not. I'm Ann Fox, she's Eleanor Morgan.” We've laughed over that story many, many times.
                                                          The End

34. Ice Cream Saves The Day

The scale hovered and settled. Henry groaned. He had gained another pound. Martha would never nag him, but he knew she would be disappointed. She was the perfect little wife. Little and perfect being the operative words. They were going to her 35^th high school reunion and she wanted both of them to look their best. That was no problem for her. To him she looked as good as she did the first time she skated into him, knocking him over at the Stardust Roller Rink back in LaSalle, Illinois. Her blond pony tail swinging back and forth over his felled body was the first thing he noticed when he stopped seeing stars.

      “Oh, my goodness, I am so, so sorry.” She crooned as he struggled to get up. She insisted on taking special care of him the rest of their time at the rink because she felt guilty. And she continued taking care of him right up until now, 30 years after they first met. Once, a little tipsy on champagne they drank to celebrate their first wedding anniversary, she confessed.

      “I ran into you deliberately. You were so cute, I thought you'd never notice me so I had to do something drastic.” He was flattered and flabbergasted.

      But now he felt he was looking older and he knew the extra weight wasn't helping his appearance. Martha was concerned about the effect on his health but he wanted to lose weight so her friends wouldn't think she had married a loser. Ha, he thought, that's funny. If only I could be a loser, of weight, that is.

      He left the weekly meeting determined to do better. But he was depressed. All his calorie and point counting had added up to another pound. He noticed the empty store next to the Weight Watchers office had a new tenant. Oh no, he whined, Satan, get behind me. It was a gourmet ice cream shop.

      After a short internal fight with himself and a longer time in the shop choosing his 'cheer up' consolation prize, he walked out of the store. It took two hands to carry a huge banana split, overflowing with scoops of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream, bits of banana, pineapple and walnuts. And then, sin of all sins, everything covered with mounds of white, fluffy whipped cream. His mouth watered just looking at it. He would eat it in the car, tossing the plastic bowl and spoon in the nearby trash so Martha would never know.

      Henry struggled to get his car keys out of his pants pocket while balancing the ice cream temptation. A woman shrieked and he jerked his head up. A scroungy kid was tugging at the black leather purse hooked over her arm. She fell and the robber jerked the purse away, swiveled and started to run, right into Henry.

      Splat! The banana split was crushed between the two of them and dropped to the asphalt surface of the parking lot. The boy slipped on the concoction falling on his back with Henry falling on top of him. The strip mall's security guard had heard the woman, called 911, and was running over to handcuff the thug.

      It must have been a slow news day because as a police officer was questioning Henry and the victim, a KWTV news van pulled up and started filming. A reporter waited until the officer left and then slid in with more questions. Henry was flustered, embarrassed to be seen with 'contraband' ice cream, and jumped into his car to escape, leaving the woman to deal with the interview on her own. The reporter called out to him. “You're a hero.”

      Home at last, he sighed, and snuck into their bathroom. Luck was with him. Martha was pulling weeds in the back yard. He stripped off his sticky, icky clothes and took a 5 minute shower. He hoped Martha wouldn't notice the smears on his dirty clothes now stashed in the hamper. After a 500 calorie dinner, they settled down on the family room love seat to watch the news. Too late, Henry remembered the TV news van. Sure enough, the lead story was, “Ice cream one, purse snatcher, zero”. Henry cringed as he saw his tubby body covered in ice cream. What was Martha going to say?

      Martha's mouth dropped open as she stared at the images flashing before their eyes. When the news switched to international events, she hugged him and said, “Why, Henry, I never realized a man wearing an ice cream suit could be a hero.”

                                         The End

33. Easter Eggs to Die For

There's an old saying that, "Too many cooks spoil the broth."  But what happens when there's too many eggs?

 

Marion rushed to get home before the kids burst through the back door, throwing their jackets and scarves on the floor, yelling, “What's to eat?” She forgot to get eggs on her regular grocery run and needed to dash out to get two dozen, one for each of her two crazy bunnies. Even her super organized neighbor, Jennifer, didn't have 24 extra eggs for her to borrow.

      At least she was ready when her husband, Tim, brought the kids home from the kids' movie at the Library.  Chris was first through the door. “We're home! Where's the eggs?” Tracy trailed in behind him, echoing him as a dutiful little sister. “Yeah! Yeah! We want eggs.” In first grade she looked up to third grader Chris and wanted to be like him.
      “There's a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table and I'll pour you some milk right away.”
      “Great, Mom. But what about the eggs?” Chris flung himself into a chair and grabbed the first cookie.
      “I have to boil them first. Otherwise they'll end up cracked and mushy.”
      Tim came in laughing. “I heard that. Remember the year the kids got up early and decided to color uncooked eggs. That took hours to clean up.”
      Tracy pouted. “We were little kids then. You can't blame us.”
      “I don't honey. It's just another funny family memory.” Tim ruffled her hair.
      Marion put the eggs in a large kettle of water over a high flame. Then she set out the old cups she saved for coloring, along with the coloring kit she got when they first went on sale. She did try to be organized.
      A few hours later, the eggs were cooked, cooled and ready for color. With lots of artistic flourishes and nothing spilled, the 24 eggs were dyed in all the colors available. Tracy used pinks and blues and baby animal decals. Chris liked vivid purple and red and drew his own monster faces. The decorated eggs went back into the 'frig until bedtime when the kids put them out for the Easter Bunny to hide when he (she?) brought the baskets.
      Easter morning, the kids jumped out of bed to find their Easter baskets. That was easy since they were large and stuck out of any hiding place. With the baskets discovered, it was time for the egg hunt. The kids each got a large plastic bowl to collect the eggs they found.
      Chris, a budding cynic, asked, “Why do we have to do the work of coloring the eggs for the bunny to hide?”
      Tim, trying to grab one of the chocolate eggs from Tracy's basket, said. “I guess the rabbit thought you'd have fun making them different colors. I heard you laughing as you put a mustache on the face you drew.”
      “Yeah, it was fun.” Tracy agreed and shoved her Dad's hand away.
      After searching the house until they couldn't find any more eggs, Chris carefully counted them to make sure none was missing. “Hey, there's something wrong.” he muttered. “I have 15 and Tracy has 10, but she should only have 9.”
      Tim counted them and then Marion counted them, but they always added up to 25.
      Tracy suggested, “Maybe the grocer man gave you an extra one.”
      Chris scoffed, “No, silly, because it wouldn't have fit in the egg carton.”
      Marion was worried. Could one of the 25 eggs been left over from last year? Good grief, what did it say about her housekeeping skills? And she didn't want anyone eating a year old egg.”
      What a mystery. Marion put the eggs in the 'frig until she decided what to do with them. They ate breakfast, dressed and went off to a crowded church. Marion's brain kept going back to the extra egg. What to do?
      Back at home, Marion was putting the ham in the oven, when the phone rang. It was her neighbor, Jennifer. “Hi, back from church and getting ready for dinner, I bet.”
      Marion tried to put a smile in her voice. “Yes, and Happy Easter to you.”
      “Did anything interesting happen this morning?” Jennifer asked.
      Marion's mind went blank. “No, nothing. What do you mean?”
      “Did the kids find all the eggs the Easter Rabbit hid from them?”
      Marion gasped, “There was an extra one. How did you know? I must be a terrible housekeeper.”
     “Don't worry. It was my little Easter surprise. Yesterday when Tim took the kids to the movie and you ran out to the grocery store, I hid one of our eggs in your house.”
     “But all the eggs were similar colors.”
     “Don't you remember we both bought the same coloring set.”
     Aha. Marion now knew who but she still didn't know why.
     Jennifer added, “You do know what tomorrow's date is, don't you? Today, Easter, may be March 31 but tomorrow is April lst. April Fool's Day.”
                                                           The End

32. I Never Kissed the Blarney Stone

In Honor of St. Patrick's Day, which happens to be my husband's birthday, I wrote this 'completely fictional' story.  I'm not Irish and the only resemblance to truth is that I never kissed the Blarney stone, either.  The day I was at Blarney Castle the cold, damp weather had me too sick to leave the bus.

All my life I was told our family had the Irish gift of gab. My friends and the friends of my two older brothers and younger sister loved to come to our house and laugh. They said it was such a relief after the gloom and doom found in their Scandinavian homes. When a new friend came to the house, my father would ask him, “Are you a friend or a best friend?” The poor kid would stammer out, “I don't know.” And my Dad would explain, “Well a friend is someone you can call to help you move. A best friend is someone you can call to help you move a body.”

      Rollicking good humor was not a surprise as both sets of my grandparents, the O'Malleys and the Branagans, came from Ireland. Their genes must have been strong. Both my parents and all my siblings were experts at turning frowns upside down. I was the black sheep of the family. I was 'the quiet one'. At family parties, my aunts and uncles and cousins would tease me and try to get me to laugh. They would tell me that I somehow missed 'kissing the Blarney Stone.' This is a slab at the top of a tower in County Cork. You have to bend over backwards with someone hanging onto your feet to smack it with your lips. Everyone who did this is guaranteed to 'never again be at a loss for words.' I was always at a loss for words.
      My older brother, Dennis, liked to warn everyone that “ahh, still waters run deep, you know. One day Mary Margaret's goin' to open her mouth and then watch out.” I had a lot of thoughts surging through my brain but I had no reason to talk as the air was already filled with everyone else's. I was happy. Who wouldn't be happy surrounded by people who loved you.
      This was back in the days when grandparents, their married children and grandchildren all lived within walking distance of each other in an Irish parish. All the O'Malleys and the Branagans lived in St. Ita's, parish on Chicago's far north side. We had a lot of family get togethers.
      A typical joke told at these gatherings was “Did you hear that Old Man Finnegan's dog died? Poor man he was so upset he asked Father Mike if he could have a funeral for his best friend, Jack. The priest asked, “Are you talking about your dog?” Finnegan replied, “Yesur aund he wus the bestes' friend aught cud 'ave.” The priest smiled and shook his head. “I don't think I could do that. But there's a new church just starting up that might be willing to do it.” Riley thought a while and asked, “Do ya ken a donation of $50,000 wud be enuf at sich a church?” Father Mike stared at him in amazement, “But sure and you didn't tell me the little fellow was Catholic.”
      Like everyone we knew, our family didn't have a lot of money. But we weren't starving and we knew we'd all get a good education, come what may. And, if we knew what was good for us, we'd better get good grades to warrant the family money used to nourish our minds, as well as our stomachs. Of course, it went without saying that our souls would be nourished every Sunday at the 9 a.m. Mass.
      To save money I commuted to the local Catholic women's college, Mundelein. The boys at near by Loyola University called us Mundle Bundles. A term that would be politically incorrect or sexist today. We didn't care. We ignored them. We were more interested in the guys who went to Notre Dame. Although I didn't go away for college, I had a wonderful opportunity to tour Ireland between my junior and senior years. The pastor of our church, Father Malcom was going to lead a tour of Irish Catholic shrines and he needed someone along who could help getting the old people on and off the bus, and generally make sure they weren't left behind. He knew I helped take care of Granny Maeve when she had her hip replaced the previous summer, so he offered me the job. No pay but I got my room, board and traveling expenses.
      At the farewell party the family threw for me, Uncle Tim said, “Now you be sure to kiss the Blarney Stone this time.” It was the first time I'd have the opportunity so I didn't have a clue what he meant, but neither did anyone else.
      The tour was lots of fun. Although some of the group were physically challenged, they all laughed their troubles away. A few were crabby, but I could usually jolly them along. The day we were to visit Blarney Castle and the famous Stone turned out misty and cold. That was something they never tell you about Ireland. The reason it's so green is that it's always 'wet'. I had been looking forward to seeing if kissing the slab would free up my tongue a little.
      Alas, it was not to be. There was no way some of the members would be able to climb up the Tower. I volunteered to keep them occupied in the 'teahouse and shop' while the others tried their luck. Father Malcom consoled me. “Mary Margaret, you've no need to kiss the Blarney stone. With all the talkers already in the family, what they really need is a good listener and God has given you that special gift.”
      I guess I am a good listener. I went on to graduate school and became a psychologist. I spend a lot of time listening.
      When I got my doctorate the family gave me a party. Dennis yelled, “Now that Mary Margaret's a certified psychologist, can you tell her what you call an Irishman who's bouncing off the walls.” Everyone yelled back, “Rick O'Shea.”
                                                             The End

31. You Never Know

I was 55, my children were grown and off on lives of their own. My much beloved husband had died three years ago in a car accident. I still grieved. We never had a chance to say goodbye. Death of a spouse is always heart breaking but with illness at least you can prepare yourself a little.

       My good friend, Ellie, was worried. She wanted me to go out more. I told her I was content as I was. She kept urging me and, frankly, annoying me. Finally I agreed to a blind date with her cousin, Ron, who was in town for a sales convention.

       When Ron called to make arrangements for where and when we'd be going to dinner, he sounded nice. But then what's not to like in a phone call.

       I drove myself to Biggs, an elegant contemporary restaurant with a pricey menu. I had read that on a first date it was best to have your own transportation and meet in a public place. I needed to feel in control.

       Ron was already at the bare surfaced light wood table when I arrived. I gave him a point for that. I hated waiting in a restaurant for dinner companions. He stood to greet me and I could see he was a couple of inches taller than I was. He still had all his hair, with some gray at the sides. His smile was pleasant and we made small talk until the waiter arrived.

      “Hi, I'm Steven and I'll be your server tonight. It's my first night so I hope I can make it special for you.”

       Ron rolled his eyes and said, “I'm hoping to impress this young lady so please don't spill anything on us.”

       Steven blushed and stammered, “Oh, no, sir. I would never spill anything on you.”

       I felt sorry for Steven, who seemed older than the rest of the wait staff. Perhaps he had had a different job before the recent economic turn down and now the only work he could find was as a waiter. Oh, I was great at creating sympathetic scenarios.

      Ron ordered a vodka martini with an olive and a twist, straight up, “and make sure it's filled to the top. Don't let them skimp on it.”

      “Oh, no, sir.” Steven turned to me, “And what would the lady like?”

      I smiled at him and said, “just a glass of the house Merlot.”

      Ron commented, “I guess you never saw the movie, 'Sideways.'”

     “Oh, I've seen the movie, and I know the famous line about Merlot. But I like Merlot.”

      He muttered, “To each her own,” and turned to the menu. “Order anything you want. I'm on expense account tonight and the sky's the limit.”

      I laughed and said, “I think the horizon is high enough for me.”

      He gave me a strange look. I guess my sense of humor was not to his liking.

      I was beginning to wish I was home reading a good book. The rest of the meal was uncomfortable. Ron seemed to want to make a good impression by pointing out all the waiter's flaws. I guess he thought the comparison would make him look good.

      We ate and drank our way to dessert. I didn't want anything else but Ron insisted. For some reason this restaurant featured flaming finales. Ron of course couldn't pass up anything dramatic so he ordered cherries jubilee. I just asked for an Irish coffee. I hoped that would be fancy enough for Ron.

      Steven served Ron a large bowl of vanilla bean ice cream. He placed between us a silver chafing dish filled with cherries in a delicious smelling sauce. As the fruit became heated through from a Sterno can, Steven poured some brandy on the cherries and lit the alcohol with a long wand style lighter. Blue and yellow flames immediately jumped from the sauce and onto the table top. Luckily there were no cloths to catch fire. Steven threw the napkin he had over his arm onto the flames, smothering them. His face was white with fear.

      I tried to laugh it off, saying “we're certainly having a hot time tonight.” Ron was furious. He stomped off to see the manager, while I wanted to crawl under the table.

      Our waiter looked mortified. He probably worried he would be fired. I fumbled in my purse to look for a pen and paper. I didn't have a business card. I asked him to wait a minute as I wrote my name and phone number.

      “I'll be glad to talk to your boss and explain everything. Give him my number and ask him to call me for a more rational discussion of what happened.”

      Steven gave me a sweet smile. “Don't worry. I think everything will be OK. I'm sorry I ruined your special evening.”

      “It wasn't a special evening. It was just a blind date and at least it's finally over.”

      Steven started to leave, hesitated and turned back. “Would you mind if I called you tomorrow?”

     “Why no, I guess not.” I was surprised. But I did want to help him.

      Before Ron came back to our table, I couldn't take any more and left. I figured he wouldn't want to see me anymore than I wanted to see him.

      The next afternoon I did get a call from Steven. He asked me to meet him for coffee. Curious, I said yes, thinking again that I would drive myself and be in pubic so nothing too bad could happen.

      As we settled with our coffee lattes, both vanilla flavored, Steven cleared his throat and said, “I have a sort of confession to make to you.”

      “Oh?” I asked warily. What had I gotten myself into this time?

      “First, I want to thank you for sticking up for me. You're a very special person. Unfortunately, I've learned that some people, not all thank heavens, but some people are not that kind.”

     “I know it's hard to get and keep a job today, so I didn't want you to get in trouble.” I smiled.

     “I wasn't going to get in trouble, but again, I do thank you.” He laughed and then asked, “Have you ever heard of the TV show “Undercover Boss?”

     “Yes, I have.” I frowned wondering what that had to do with anything.

     “Well, I'm the boss. I own a chain of restaurants and Biggs is one of them. The TV producer asked if I'd be willing to be a waiter for the show. It took a while for me to agree, but I'm glad I did. It's been an eye opener. And I got to meet a lovely, single lady like you.”
                                              The End (or just the beginning?)

30. Praying in Paris for Perfume

One of the fun things to do in Paris is shop for perfume. Since the most exquisite and expensive fragrances in the world are produced in France, they must cost less there, right? I don't know if that's true or not but as an American female tourist in Paris I had to buy at least one bottle to legitimize my trip. Of course, if you add in the cost of trans Atlantic transportation, hotel, and food the chic glass bottle containing the elixir of thousands of dead blossoms will costs thousands of dollars more than if you bought it at home.

      My favorite perfume all my life has been Chanel No. 5. Except for a few youthful years, when I spent my allowance on “Evening in Paris” a dime store perfume I gave my mother for any gift giving occasion. Many children I knew thought their mothers loved this strong scent. Now I know mothers didn't love that scent, they loved their children.

      Paris has hundreds of perfumeries, stores that sell only perfume. Ok, they also sell toilet water, cologne and creams with perfume scents. There must be one shop on every commercial block. Jane, my traveling companion, and I asked each other, “Where do we find the best bargain in the perfumes we want?” We couldn't answer. We turned to our every ready tourist guide and looked up perfumeries. We decided we would just concentrate on those in our arrondissement, the sixth, also known as the Latin Quarter. That way we could walk to all of them and not worry about buses or the underground.

        We were staying on the Left Bank near the Sorbonne University and not too far from the Seine River, Notre Dame Cathedral, and Avenue Saint Germaine with lots of cafes and French book stores. The famous English book store, Shakespeare & Co., was also nearby.

       Walking along in the cold April weather, we stopped at 5 perfumeries, mainly to get warm. No one warned us the song “April in Paris,” was false advertising. All the shops carried the same products at similar prices. I have since learned you can't judge more than 3 different perfumes at a time, because of olfactory fatigue. Your scent sensors got tired. As usual, we were naïve and just kept smelling everything we were offered. After four shops, with aching feet and red, frozen noses, we decided to buy at the next shop.

      The fifth store was beautiful. Its front window held beveled glass panes, crisscrossed with slender metal inserts. The ancient looking carved wooden door was painted a deep green and the walls inside were pale green, A saleswoman, black hair sleeked back into a smooth bun, approached wearing a precisely fitted black sheath dress and beautiful black leather pumps. She smiled. Which was a shock. Not many French people were kind enough to smile at two young women, dressed in drip dry plaid dresses. Although some may have laughed at our gaucherie behind our backs.
      She spoke English with a delightful accent. We fell under her charm and bought more than we would have otherwise. Yes, it might have been a smart marketing ploy, but we had found elsewhere that many French didn't care enough about making money to be pleasant (at least to young American tourists).
      The sparkling glass shelves and show cases were filled with hundreds of glass bottles, all shapes and sizes. I had already decided I would buy Chanel No. 5. In 1920 Coco Chanel wanted to develop a modern fragrance for women she had taken out of the constricting corset. Her chemist presented her with small glass vials of scent numbered 1-5 and 20-24. Coco chose vial 5 and decided to keep that number as its name as it had special meaning to her from childhood. She also thought the name suited her perfume because five was thought to signify the pure embodiment of a thing, its spirit, its mystic meaning. Perhaps I liked it so much because it was the first modern fragrance to use aldehyes which, according to those who know, have a champagne-like, sparkly, fizzy odor that makes the fragrance fly off the skin. Of course I didn't know this until much later.
      For my second bottle, I chose one I had liked on a friend back home, Replique by Raphael. It was younger than No. 5, not coming on the market until 1944. Its advertising said it's top scent notes included bergamot, lemon, cardamom, coriander, sage and neroli oil (from the bitter orange tree). This description sounds like ingredients for a stuffing recipe. Perhaps they make the wearer think subconsciously of food. To me it was a sweet yet sophisticated, woodsy fragrance.
     My third and final choice was a newer creation, Cabochard, created in 1958 by Gres, an important French fashion house. Its advertising made it sound like a men's club: a mix of citrus, leather and tobacco. Again, that's not what it smelled like to me, but maybe its aim was to subconsciously be attractive to men, who in many cases would be paying for their lover's scent. I loved its spicy, flowery scent.
      Jane also bought several bottles which she kept safely sealed in their original wrappings during the rest of our cross-Europe trip.

      I decided Cabochard would be my signature scent of Paris. So I opened and used it for the rest of our stay. However, I realized that as we continued around Europe in our bouncy little car, the opened bottle of Cabochard might leak. What could I do?

     The answer came while we were visiting one of the beautiful, old French churches. At that time Catholic churches still had tiers of lighted candles, holding the prayers of the faithful. Many contemporary churches use electronic candles. But in this church you could purchase a candle by dropping coins down a slot, then light and place the burning candle in a holder where it would stay until it burned itself out.
      I discussed my perfume problem with Jane and asked, “Do you think one of these candles might help?”
      She gave me a strange look. “You want to light a candle, say a prayer that your perfume won't leak and then leave the candle to keep burning as a reminder about your perfume?”

      “Good grief, no! I just want to buy a candle to take back to our hotel. I don't know where else to get one. I'll light it and let the wax drip around the top of my perfume bottle to keep it sealed.”

                                                            The  End