25. Kissy the Klutzy Kat

This is based on the true activities of a wonderful cat we once had. In case you've been following the saga of my twice-repaired (new!) HP laptop it will be going back to HP sometime this week. But they finally agreed to send me a replacement. I just hope this new one does not have the same curse on it.  

Crash! I heard dishes hitting the kitchen floor.  “Oh no, Kissy,” I cried.  “Not again.” Our orange marmalade cat, Kissy, expressed displeasure by shoving dishes off the grey granite counter top onto the unyielding Mexican tile.  The first time it happened, I thought it was an accident.  He wasn’t the most graceful cat.  In fact, one of the reasons we picked him out at the shelter was the sweet way he had of falling over his own feet.   He became even klutzier after he rammed his head into our mirrored wall a few times, thinking he was head butting an enemy cat. 

            I thought the broken dishes were the price we had to pay for choosing a slippery footed cat and for me not putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher right away.  The third time it happened I was convinced he pushed them deliberately. 

When I suggested this to our older daughter, Lori, she argued, “Come on, Mom, he’s just a kitten.  He isn’t mean.”

“Yes, he’s still a kitten, but he’s getting bigger every day.  Look at him, his belly is practically dragging on the floor.”

“He’s probably eating too much.  We should put him on a diet.”

I laughed.  “Put Kissy on a diet?  Then we would see broken dishes.”

“Mom, you always exaggerate.”  She looked down to check her latest text messages while she continued to excuse the cat claiming, “He’s just an awkward little guy.”

“He may be awkward, but he’s also selective.   He only knocks over rimmed soup plates, not flat dishes or round bowls.  Haven’t you noticed that when you help pick up the pieces?”

No, I didn’t notice that.  If he is doing it deliberately, maybe it’s because he hates his name.  What self-respecting cat would want to be called, Kissy?”

“That was Dina’s choice, not mine.  It was her turn to name a pet.”

Lori scowled at her little sister’s name choice.  “She would pick a dumb name.  But he is a dumb cat.  Do you really think Kissy’s smart enough to pick and choose what he destroys?”  She rolled her eyes at my foolishness

“I don’t know why he’s so china specific.  Maybe the flat bowls are easier to swipe with his furry paws.”

“The next thing I know you’ll be claiming good old loveable Kissy is a genius.”

“Well, no, I don’t think I’d ever say that.”  A few days later I was not so sure.

I decided I might be able to keep Kissy from breaking things by shutting him in the laundry room with his litter box after we all went to bed.  That night Kissy sat with me while I stayed up late to watch an old tear jerker movie, Johnny Belinda.  My husband and the girls were already tucked away.  They had pantomimed gagging when I suggested watching the movie.   

Good, old klutzy kissy was always ready to watch anything and it was comforting to have a soft, warm, furry cat on my lap during the saddest parts.  But when the final frames faded away, I acted on my decision.  I gathered Kissy up, set him down in the laundry, and quickly shut the door.

I climbed the stairs to get ready for bed.  I was taking off my watch when I felt something brush my leg.  I muffled a shriek, looked down to see Kissy giving me an impudent look.

            Oh, I thought, I must not have completely closed the door.  I picked him up and trotted down the stairs to close him up in the laundry room again.  This time I tried the door knob to make sure it was latched and marched back up the stairs, sure he was in securely. 

I had moved on to brushing my teeth when I felt Kissy against my leg. Was he a magic cat?  How on earth was he getting out of that room?  I reached down and ruffled up his furry little neck and asked him, “What are you doing down there?”  Back to the laundry room we went.  I shut the door and made sure the doorknob was latched.  But this time I stood outside it to see if he could materialize through the door like a ghost cat.

After a few seconds and a few plaintive meows the doorknob started to jiggle.  I gawked at it.  The cat could turn a knob!  The knob jiggled and jiggled until it became unlatched and Kissy’s little head pushed the door open.  How did his paws do that?  I stepped into the laundry room and looked at the inside doorknob.  Hanging from it was a small purse Dina had left on it. Kissy had pulled and pulled on it, reaching up with his agile paws, twisting the knob until he got the desired result.  Escape.

            I thought of waking Lori to tell her Kissy was indeed a genius, but decided that revelation could wait 'til morning.  I carefully removed the purse from the doorknob and put Kissy back into the laundry room for the last time that night.  

                                                                    The End                

 

24. The Magic of Old Books

“Books, Books and More Books”.  The beat up sign lured me in as flashing Las Vegas lights lure in the gamblers.  Perhaps I was a gambler, too; always hoping to find a precious, old book to add to my collection.  I pushed open the grimy glass door, smelled the familiar musty odor as a tinny bell rang overhead. 

            A balding man at a paper filled table near the door glanced up over his reading glasses..  “Can I help you find something?” he asked.

            “No, thanks.  I won’t know what I’m looking for until I find it.”  I smiled and stepped into the maze of bookcases filling the room.  Although narrow, the room seemed to continue a long way into the back.

            He looked down at the book he was reading.  “Just let me know if you need anything.”

            The cases and shelves had yellowing labels.  I kept going further into the land of books until I found a case of  “traveling narratives.”  My favorite bedtime reading.  I couldn’t afford to travel, but I could at least do so in my imagination.

            My Friday evening reward for getting through another frustrating work week was book store browsing.  I read and wrote technical journals all week.  I needed adventure in my week end reading.

            I stood, slightly hunched over to read the titles on the lower shelves. The books were tightly packed and one must have been squeezed in a little too much.  It popped out and fell at my feet.  I picked it up, “The Magic of Travel.”  Hmm, I thought, maybe it knows something I don’t.  It was only $1, probably because it was in bad shape and published according to the inside page in 1948.  After WWII when Europe was recovering and American women were being urged to stay home to give returning GIs a job.  It was written by Henry Rutherford, a former soldier.  He looked grumpy in his picture on the torn back cover.  I wondered if the title was meant sarcastically given he had been sent on his travels to fight a war.

            None of the other books I perused that afternoon struck my fancy.  I went home with just the one book.  The man at the door said, “It looks like you picked a good one.”  He probably said that to everyone to encourage them to return. 

            “I think this book wanted a good home, it landed at my feet.” But he just took my $1 and went back to his reading. 

             The book and I snuggled in for a good read that night.  The first chapter was about the country I had always dreamed of visiting, Italy.  It had everything--beautiful scenery, ancient history, friendly people, terrific food, famous art, and flirty, good looking men.  Of course the book was from the 40s so I wasn’t expecting too much relevancy today.  The first words I read opened my eyes and my heart.  The author was a romantic after all he had been through.

“If you dream tonight of Italy, you will start your journey tomorrow.”  I stopped reading to consider those words.  Could it possibly be true?  Was the book really magic?  I allowed myself to think about what a trip to Italy would be like.  I fell asleep with these thoughts on my mind and so of course did dream of Italy.

I usually slept in on Saturday mornings, but my cell’s ring tones woke me up

            “Matty, are you up?”  My best friend’s voice hit my ear loudly.

“Uh, yeah.”  I was now.

“This is Hannah. I’ve got great news.”  As if I didn’t know her voice. “I’ve entered us both in a terrific travel contest.”

“Yeaaah.”  She was always telling me about terrific contests.

“No this is for a Fantastic around the World Trip.”

“And what do we, or more likely I, have to do to win it?”  I asked warily.  I would not participate in any of those televised 'look like a fool’ contests.

“All you have to do is write an essay on why you want to win.  You’re a great writer.  You can win it.  And it’s for two.”

“I’ll think about it.” I started to put the phone on the bed table.

“You can’t think about it.  The essay is due first thing Monday morning.”

We spent about 15 minutes arguing about why I would or would not do it.  I agreed to do it so I could go back to sleep.

When I woke up a second time, I groaned and knew I would have to write something or Hannah would never let me forget that I had blown a trip around the world.  I didn’t have time to write a really good argument to win such a contest   Even if I wrote a terrific essay I knew I wouldn’t win.  I had never won anything in my life.

I started to get out of bed when my newly purchased book fell off the table.  It seemed to do a lot of accidental falling.  Could it really be magic?  I laughed at myself and then….

I looked down at it.  And thought a while.  Hmm.  Why not?  The author’s probably dead and nobody is ever going to read my entry, anyway.  It will make Hannah happy that at least I tried.  I rewrote the first chapter on Italy a little bit, a very little bit and e-mailed it off with the on-line form before the deadline.

Two months later, I panicked when I learned my entry had been chosen as a semi-finalist in the contest.  Hannah was joyful.  We were to be present at the naming of the winner at a Writer’s Guild Dinner at the Old Delmonico Restaurant.

I did not want to go to this event.  Someone was sure to recognize that I was a plagiarist and arrest me or something terrible.  This proved that no one ever read contest entries.  They were just pulled from a barrel. But Hannah insisted we go.  Perhaps I could withdraw my entry. 

Hannah and I were seated at the front table with the other semi-finalists, I felt my feet shaking.  I could not stand up.  The judges for the contest were announced and filed out on a small stage.  One of the three was a white haired gentleman, with a perpetual scowl.  I squinted my eyes.  It was an older version of Henry Rutherford.  OMG!  What now?

I barely breathed until another contestant won the grand prize of the Around the World Trip.  I was left in my obscurity.  But wait.  This year they had a special second prize.  And I was named.  Oh, no, this was worse than my worst nightmare.

I stumbled up on stage to win my all expenses paid trip for two to, where else, Italy.  Henry Rutherford glared at me as he presented it to me.  I relaxed.  He’s senile.  He doesn’t remember what he wrote.  I was safe after all.

He leaned over and whispered in my ear.  “I was tempted, very tempted to vote you the grand prize.  But, in fairness, I just couldn’t do that.  However, it's gratifying to know that someone still reads my old books.”

                                                     The End

23. The Mystery of the Christmas Stocking

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The Holiday season is supposed to be about love and caring and sharing.  Huh, try explaining that to an anxiety ridden and disillusioned 6 year old girl.   I grew up poor but honest, as most of the people on the planet.  We didn’t have a cozy fireplace with a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the hearth for Santa.  But the chimney for our house went from the basement furnace up through the roof alongside a corner in my tiny bedroom.   I don’t know what other kids did with their Christmas stockings but my creative mother hung mine on the corner of the plaster covered chimney.

                I was too young to know that the purpose of the fireplace was so fatty Santa could squeeze himself down it to get into your house.  And I was too dumb to know that there was no way Santa could blast through the chimney to get to my stocking without leaving a permanent crater in the plaster. 

            Young, dumb and innocent I curled up in my quilt covered bed on Christmas Eve.  I gazed with trust at the red and green knitted stocking dangling from the wall.  As I fought against sleep, I tried to remember last year.  I was sure I had gotten important treasurers in that fancy sock.  Of course, there had been walnuts, still in their shells; some hard Christmas candy that lasted a long time if you were patient enough to suck them; and in the toe of the stocking, a small round orange.  I guess Santa thought I should have at least one healthy thing to eat as I tore through my presents. 

            I don’t remember my dreams that night.  It was enough that I slept through until the first cold light peeked in my window.  I was saved from worrying about what the morning would bring.

            My sleep fuddled brain finally got through to me.  It’s Christmas!!  My eyes popped open to discover my reward for trying so hard to be a good little girl.

            AGGH!  The stocking was gone.  I closed my eyes and shook my head, my sleep-flattened curls flouncing.  I squeezed opened one eye lid and looked all around the chimney corner, the floor, even under the chair where my clothes were jumbled.  The stocking was gone.  Not only had Santa stiffed me on a gift, but he had stolen my hand knit stocking.  So much for being nice to my rotten cousins.

            Worried and confused I burrowed back under the covers and waited, and waited, and waited.

            Eventually my mother came in.  “Honey, why aren’t you up?  Don’t you want to see what Santa left you?”

            I had always worried about my mother’s brain power but now I wondered if she had vision problems too.  She didn’t even glance over to where the stocking should be.  She just reached down and picked me up.  I grunted.

            ‘”Grandma and Grandpa are waiting for you.  Daddy’s got the camera all ready.”

            She carried me into the living room where the skinny tree was already dropping needles.  My grandparents and Dad kidded me about being a ‘sleepyhead’ on the most important morning of the year.  I faked a smile and looked at the gimpy tree. 
Whoa, what’s this?  My red and green stocking was under the tree and something very bulky was sticking out of it.

            Mom set me on the floor.  As I scampered over to check out the sock, my Mom was saying something about the toy being too heavy to hang on the wall, so Santa had put it under the tree.

            I pulled out the unwrapped doll.  Wow, A genuine, authentic, General MacArthur doll.  The hero of the Pacific during World War II, he was dressed in his official Army uniform including hat and with his right arm cocked in a perpetual salute.  It was a terrible war and inflicted horrendous losses on many people.  But everyone including children, had hope and trust in our heroes.
            Many years later with my own children grown and scattered across the country I still have a Christmas tree.  My General MacArthur doll, a little torn and tattered, still has a place of honor under it.

                                                                      The End

 

22. Specially Made Latkes: Another Hanukkah Miracle

To start off the Holiday Season here's a story about an inept cook making a Hanukkah favorite.

As Karen talked to her mother, her glance at the kitten-themed calendar made her stomach clench.  The days seemed to scream at her.  ‘Hanukkah is coming!  Hanukkah is coming!  And it’s coming fast.’  

            “Oh, Mom, what was I thinking?  I can’t cook.  Why did I volunteer to bring the potato latkes to Aunt Susan’s party?”  She turned her back on the kittens to look out the kitchen window where nothing accused her of inadequacy.

            “Karen, Karen.  Now you listen to me.  It’s not such a big deal, and I can help.  You don’t have to cook it on your own.”  She knew her mother was trying to be reassuring, but it was irritating.

            “Right.  I’m a grown woman who still needs her mother to solve her problems.”  Karen was sinking into self-pity and she didn’t want anyone to throw her a life-saver.

            “If you’re determined to wallow in misery, I’m not going to listen to you.  I’ve got enough to do without spending time on a fruitless task.” 

            Karen tried to put on a happy face.  She smiled grimly having heard that salespeople always smiled when they made phone calls.  “I’m sorry Mom.  I know you’re just trying to be supportive.  Ooops, there goes my doorbell.  I got to go.  I’ll call you tonight, OK?”

            “All right, talk to you later.  Be sure to look thru your peep hole before you open the door.”

            “Yes, yes.  Don’t worry.  I’m always careful.”

No one had rung the doorbell.  Karen just needed to start on the pile of cookbooks she had checked out of the library.  She had tried searching the internet for recipes as she did for any information, but none of them seemed right.  She was going to make credible and special potato latkes without her mother’s help or die stuck to the kitchen floor with grease.  Maybe she shouldn’t have volunteered to be the special latke maker, but she was tired of being the family klutz when it came to cooking.  Everyone laughed at the store bought cookies she brought to every family gathering.

She took a deep breath and opened the first cookbook, “A Cheery Chanukah,” skimming her finger down the index looking for latkes.  She passed an hour looking for a perfect and easy recipe.  She didn’t realize there so many variations to what she thought was a simple dish.  “I guess it’s just like two spellings of the festival—Chanukah or Hanukkah.”

            At last. The recipe from the ‘Happy Jewish Cooker’ seemed to be just what she needed.I  t said latkes could be made a day ahead and kept in the refrigerator until ready to warm up and serve the next day.  She made a careful note of the page so she wouldn’t forget.

            Every time her mother called and asked about the latkes, Karen countered with a question about her Dad’s health.  That always got her mother off the subject.  She didn’t want any advice from her mother about how everything she was doing was wrong.

Aunt Susan’s family Hanukkah party was on Saturday night, the first day of the Festival of Lights.  She always liked to get a head start on everything.

            On Friday, after about her 100^th careful check of the recipe, Karen made a list of the ingredients she didn’t have.  At the grocery store she found everything she needed.  She had already checked her cupboards to make sure she had all the necessary bowls, pans and utensils to prepare and cook her special latkes.

Back home, she set out all the necessary ingredients and bowls and pans. She concentrated fiercely on doing everything exactly as the recipe called for.  She almost bit her tongue off when her phone rang.  “Oh, Mom, I’m in the middle of latkes making and I absolutely, positively cannot talk to you now.”  She hung up and turned it off.

She couldn’t believe how easy everything turned out to be.  “I think I must be a born cook.  I should do this more often.”  The latkes were light and fried nice and crispy.  When she taste tested them, she thought the special ingredient she added gave them an extra zip.  It was a gamble but she was sure everyone would love it.  After all, most potato recipes called for it.

 She put each latke between waxed paper and then in a shallow Pyrex casserole dish.  All she needed to do at Aunt Suzie’s was set the oven to the right temp, remove the waxed paper, slide the glass casserole in for the specified warm up time, and Voila!  Compliments to the Chef. 

Karen stood back proudly as everyone exclaimed over how beautiful and delicious the latkes looked.  She just ignored the insulting comments her younger cousins made. 

One asked, “Are you going to poison the whole family to get everyone’s inheritance?”

            “Ha, Ha.” She felt so self-confident, insults rolled off her back.

            As everyone sat down with their filled plates from Suzie’s beautifully decorated sideboard, the young kids started in, “Wow, these are the best latkes I’ve ever eaten.”

            The adults smiled warily.  Her mother bit into one and couldn’t stop herself.

            “Karen, there’s alcohol in these latkes!”

“No there isn’t,” Karen argued.  "I followed the recipe exactly.”  She crossed her fingers behind her back as she said that.

 Uncle George laughed and said, “Your Mom’s right.  But they sure are tasty.”

            Aunt Suzie said, “I thought they smelled a little different but I didn’t want to criticize Karen’s first attempt.”

            “But these aren’t different,” Karen maintained. “The only change I made was in the milk.  I had some special cream a friend gave me as a present.  Most potato recipes contain milk, so I thought it would make the latkes more delicious and special if I used a richer cream than everyday milk.”

            Uncle George reassured her, “Honey, everything’s fine.  But do you remember the name of the special cream you used?”

“It was Bailey’s Irish Cream.  Can’t you use Irish cream in a Jewish recipe?”

                                                          The End 

 

 

21. Reruns With Different Scores

Joe was 13 when his Dad took him to his first major league baseball game, the Chicago Cubs versus the LA Dodgers.  His mother never forgave the Dodgers for moving from Brooklyn so she didn’t go.  But his younger and older sisters went.  Ann, 15, liked baseball and was actually looking forward to the game.  Beth, 10, was happy to be going on a trip with her Dad, who she could wind around her finger like a piece of limp spaghetti, and who would buy her all sorts of goodies at the game.

 Joe had never been a baseball enthusiast and had been known to comment with disgust, after watching a few games on TV, “They’re just reruns with different scores.”

            But he was excited about driving from the northwest suburbs to Wrigley Field, picking up Dad’s friend, Martin, on the way.  Joe also knew they would be eating hot dogs, chips, and pop—not usually available in their nutrition conscious home.

            When they left, Mom called out, “Have fun.  Don’t eat too much junk.  I’ll have dinner ready by 6:00.”  Right, Joe thought, broccoli was sure to be on her menu.

            After picking up Martin at his condo, they got to the historic, ivy covered ballpark in time for batting practice.  After the game started, they ate their way through nine innings of salty, greasy, fatty treats.

            Back at home, the clock ticked around to 6:30 and they still weren’t home.  Even allowing for heavy traffic their mother thought they should have been home by then.  She was beginning to worry, “What could have happened to them?”

She tuned the radio to the Cubs station and heard, “Cubs 1, Dodgers 1.  Top of the 17^th and still tied.”

Oh, my gosh, she thought, the game is still on. No wonder they’re not home.  She didn’t know much about baseball since she turned her back on the game with the treacherous behavior of the Dodgers, but she knew this had to be a record.  She pulled the casserole out of the oven, so it wouldn’t dry out, and wrapped it in a towel, so it wouldn’t cool off.

Back at the ballpark, the game was being called because of darkness.  On August 17, 1982, Wrigley Field did not have night lights due to the neighbors’ determined objections.  The game would continue the following day.

Joe was annoyed.  “This is NOT fair.  We paid for a game, we should see a whole game.”

His Dad tried to explain, “It's too dark to see the ball.  The players can’t see it, and even if they tried to play we couldn’t see what they were doing.”

“Why don’t we just go over to Comiskey Park, where they do have lights, and finish the game there?”  Joe wasn’t a White Sox fan by any means, but he was willing to go to their field if they could see the end of the game.  He knew there was no way his Dad was coming back tomorrow to see the end of the game.

Ann and Beth were tired of sitting on hard plastic/wooden bleachers and ready to go home.  Martin agreed, “Hey, guys I got to get to work in the morning.  I need my beauty sleep.”

They wiped the evidence of greasy foods off their mouths and headed for the parking lot to start the journey home.

The baseball fans walked in the front door at 8:25. 

“Do you want any dinner?”  Mom asked.  “Or did Dad stuff you with junk?”

Dad defended himself saying, “For god’s sake it was 6 hours, I had to feed them something.”

“Right,” Mom agreed.  “I’ll just put this in the ‘frig for tomorrow.”

The next day, they all watched the end of the game on TV.  The Cubs lost 2-1 after 21 innings.

Joe grumbled, “We could have just watched the Highlights of the Game and saved a lot of time and trouble.”

                                                        The End

 

20. To Lunch or Not to Lunch

[Marriage is always a matter of give and take. This is especially true when traveling. Always remember-- Would you rather be right, or would you rather be happy? Sometimes when you choose one, you also get the other.]

"I swear Janice, if I hear one more word out of you, I will stop this car and one of us will have to leave.”

Charles and Janice had driven thousands of miles in their trusty VW van, from Chicago to southern Mexico, all around the province of Oaxca looking for interesting pottery and then back to Illinois.  Although they usually got along, on the last stretch home they were arguing about where to stop for lunch.

            Charles wanted to keep going to get home before dark.  He thought they had enough peanuts and other snacks to stave off starvation.  Janice was tired and knew he was too.  She thought it would be safer to take a break.       

            “If you’re that tired, climb into the back and sleep,” he snorted. “I’m not tired.  I’ve got plenty of get up and go left.”

            Janice held her tongue and climbed into the back of the van.  Although her mind raced with thoughts of what she should say to Charlie, she decided to keep the peace.  That old question played in her mind, “Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?”  Happy she decided and slowly fell asleep.

            Two hours later, Charlie noticed they were getting low on gas.  A billboard advertised a cheap price and he decided to pull in to the service station.   He got out, filled the tank, and went inside to pay.             

            Coming back to the car, he thought, Boy, Janice must be tired, usually she hops out at every rest stop.  Well, I can manage the driving until she wakes up.

            He continued cruising down the interstate under the speed limit, not wanting a ticket to ruin this last day.  Checking his rear view, he was surprised to see a state trooper coming up behind him.  As the trooper turned on his flashing lights, Charlie was astounded and called back to Janice, “Hey, there’s a state trooper wanting to pull me over.  I don’t know why.  I’m not going over the speed limit.”

            He carefully pulled over to the shoulder, rolled down his window, and started to pull out his wallet for his driver’s license.

            The trooper leaned into the window, smiled and asked, “Are you Charles Jordan?”

            Eyes bugging out, Charlie admitted that he was.

            “Did you forget something?”

            “I…I…don’t think so.”

            “Where’s your wife?” 

            “She’s…she’s …just in back, taking a nap.”  And Charlie turned around and took a good look in the back of the van.  “Oh, my gosh, she’s not there.  What happened?  Where is she?”

            “You left her back at the gas station.  She got out to use the restroom while you were inside paying.  I guess you didn’t see her, unless you did it on purpose?”  The trooper looked at Charlie with a question in his eyes.

            “Oh my gosh, no, no.  I got to go get her.  Oh my gosh.  How mad is she?”

            “Well, let’s just say, you’d better get back there as soon as possible.  There’s an interstate crossing you can use up ahead.  I’ll follow you to make sure you don’t get lost.”

            Meanwhile back at the gas station, Janice was sitting at the lunch counter, enjoying a hamburger and fries.  It had been a shock not to see the van when she came out.  And she did have a few bad moments when she thought Charlie had left her deliberately.  But she knew he would never really do that.  Everyone had been so nice.  The station manager had called the state police to track Charlie down and then had offered Janice a free lunch to sooth her frazzled nerves.

            Poor Charlie, Janice thought.  Nothing turned out the way he thought it would.

                                                               The End

 

             

19. Birthday Cake Blues

I used to work for a major weight loss program, which shall be nameless.  With obesity rates in the United States approaching the 50% mark, the program was turning out to be a platinum mine, for the owners.

          My job was to provide group counseling for our enrollees.  I also focused on how to substitute appropriate for inappropriate behaviors associated with eating.  You know the drill, always eat at a table, never eat while watching TV or reading.  Yada, yada, yada.

 I always told my classes they knew more about calorie content than I did.  But we were meeting to learn ‘mindful’ eating.  Sort of like a Buddhist retreat for chunky monkeys.

One of my clients was a sweet faced woman about 45 who was cute as a button, but the button was for a supersized jacket.  She never missed an appointment and took lots of notes.  She was a star performer, on a great losing streak, working off one to two pounds a week. 

However, at her most recent weekly appointment she had not lost any weight, which wasn’t that unusual for people trying to regain a healthy weight level.  But she had gained two pounds.  I went over her daily activity and food intake chart with her to find out what had happened.  Hopefully, if we located a problem she could avoid it in the future.

I pointed out one notation for Sunday and asked, “What does, “Badly Behaved Cake” mean?  Did it jump into your mouth and force you to chew and swallow?”

She sighed.  “I wish I could say that, but I was badly behaved not the cake.”

            “Well, that’s what we’re here for--to learn about behaviors-- so what happened?”
          “It was my husband’s birthday so I made his favorite chocolate cake.  We each had a slice and with four kids that meant half of it was eaten that night.  I put the rest of it away in the freezer.  I thought it would be easier for my husband to slice a piece for himself each night and easier for me to ignore it if I couldn’t see it.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” I complimented her.  “Out of sight, out of mind.” 

“Unfortunately, that’s not what happened.  It was more of an ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ plan.”

The rest of our group started smiling as if they knew what was coming.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about that cake and how good it looked and how good it tasted when I ate my small piece the night before.  I kept thinking about it and thinking about it.”

“Ok, now Linda, we’ve talked about this before.  What are you supposed to do?”

“I know, get out of the house or start cleaning a bathroom.”

I nodded encouragingly.  “That’s right.  So you know what you should have done.”

“Yeah, my mind knows, but my mouth overrides it.  I finally couldn’t stand it any longer and took it out of the freezer, cut a thin slice, and ate one thin slice at a time until the whole cake was gone.”

“Well, that wasn’t a good decision.  But now you can learn from that mistake.”

“Oh, gosh.  I’m not done yet.”

Now I was getting concerned.  “What else happened?”

Cindy, another group member with a love of chocolate, wanted to know more, too. “Yeah, we need full disclosure here.”

Linda continued, “I was so upset with my lack of willpower.  How could I eat all of my husband’s favorite cake.  He was probably looking forward to some when he came home for work. “

I pushed her to keep going, “What did he say when he discovered you ate the rest of his birthday cake?”

She laughed and admitted, “He never found out.”

I shook my head to clear it. “I don’t understand.  I can’t believe he forgot about it.”

“No, he didn’t forget.  I just hurried and made another cake and ate half of that one, too.”

                                      THE END

 

18. The Winds of Change

[Note:  This story is longer than usual--about 1,000 words, and it has a very different tone.  I hope you like the change of pace.]

She always knew that someday she would have to move—everyone said so.  She was too old, too weak, too frail to continue taking care of this old, frame house.  Its paint was peeling, window sills cracked, chimney leaning.  In fact, the house looked like she felt some times.

            But she had been born in this prairie house, married in it, gave birth to 3 sons in it, watched her husband, Don, sicken and die in it, and God willing she would die in it, too.

           Yes, she lived alone now.  No one wanted to come out here to the middle of nowhere, 20 miles from town and the grocery store.  Everyone thought she was foolish when she could live in comfort with one of her sons.   Or so they said. 

            Sometimes when she woke out of a sound sleep, she forgot that everyone was gone.  She thought she had to jump out of bed and run to the kitchen to start breakfast.  She didn’t want Don to start a hard day’s work without a full stomach and she didn’t want the boys to be late for the school bus.  But then she’d remember she had no one to cook for, no one to hurry for, and she’d sink back into bed, her heart rate slowly returning to normal.  And part of her would be relieved but part of her would be sad.

            Well, she’d tell herself that was what life was all about—some times you were happy and some times you were sad.  If you were lucky you had more things to be happy about.  Or at least you made up your mind you would be happy no matter what things you got in the life of chance.

            She didn’t want to be one of those old women who always complained about their health and how no one came to see them any more.  Actually she was in pretty good health for a woman of 88 years.  She supposed that’s why no one really pushed her when it came to the issue of moving.  And her boys and their wives were good about checking on her.  Even the grandkids, now that they could drive, stopped by to see her.  Of course, they all liked her chocolate chip cookies.  “Maybe I bribe them but at least I don’t whine,” she thought to herself.

            She heard the wind quicken and swirl around the house.  She peered out the dusty window at the setting sun.

            “Looks like there might be a breeze tonight.  I guess a little freshening wouldn’t hurt this old house and me any.”  She smiled as she climbed back into the bed that had once belonged to her parents.  These days she seemed to go to bed with the sun and rise with the sun.  Of course, that didn’t mean that she slept those long hours.  She happily opened her book.  Thank God, she still had her vision.  Heavens knew what she would a done if that had gone.  It was a new murder mystery that her oldest son’s wife, Martha, gave her.  Martha was a reader, too, and knew the joy of losing yourself in someone else’s life.  Not that her own life wasn’t interesting enough.

            “I guess that’s the problem.”  She thought other people couldn’t understand how she enjoyed watching the clouds shift across the sky, and how the breezes and occasional rain moved across the fields.  In town, in another house, she couldn’t live her own life and see the beauty she was used to.  She’d be living someone else’s life.  And although that might be fun to read about, she didn’t think it would be fun to do.  

            She would continue living her own life in her own house.  The only way she would leave this house, no matter what they said, was in a box, God Willing. 

            People asked her why she liked murder mysteries--weren’t they morbid.  But she didn’t think they were morbid.  In fact, most of them were funny.  The victim was usually hated by everyone in town, so you didn’t feel sorry he or she was dead.   Course then you did have to worry that the wrong person would be jailed and convicted.  But you just had to remember it was just a story and that justice triumphed in the end.  At least in the books she read.  She didn’t want any of those dark, dismal miscarriage of justice miseries.

            She noticed that the wind seemed to be picking up.  “Well, I better get to sleep now, so I can get up early to clean up any wind damage.”  She said her nightly prayers, asking for blessings on everyone she knew—which still took a long time.  And then she added, “ And please God, let me stay in this house forever.”  She slowly fell into a deep, comforting sleep.

            But it seemed that God was not willing--Later than night was was woken by a fierce, roaring windstorm that was sweeping across the prairie.  She used to laugh and say nothng was between her house and the Rocky Mountains, a thousand miles away.  The winters could get might cold.

             She sat up in bed, wondering if she should go down to the storm cellar.  The windows were rattling, the house was shaking, the chimney making sounds like a groaning ghost.  She shook her head, “No, I ain’t running away from a storm.   This house and me have stood up to much worse than this.  I reckon I’m safer where I am.”

            As she said these words there was a great creaking and breaking sound as the roof was torn clear off the house, she watched branches blowing over the open ceiling and felt the fierce strength of the wind come down into her room.

“Oh, dear, everyone was right,” she cried.  “I am going to have to move.  My house is going.”

She scurried out of bed and under it.  Laying there in shock she felt safe.  Her parents’ bed had been build from sturdy oaks that had been on the farm a long time.  She felt it could withstand anything.  But just then a ceiling beam still hanging from the remains of the roof, was pulled away by the wind and dropped across the bed, crushing it and the old woman beneath it.

The Winds of Change helped her keep her vow.   She would be leaving her house as she had wanted.

                                                               The end

17. No More Dogs

As a little girl I had, a wonderful dog named Skippy.  He was brown and white, happy and friendly.  He was a faithful friend for someone like me who didn’t have brothers or sisters and whose solider-father was far away in a foreign country.  Because my father was away, my mother and I and Skippy lived with my grandparents.  One day I came home from school and Skippy was not there dancing a circle around me, joyous to have me with him again.

            “Where’s Skippy?”  I asked Grandpa.  He frowned and said slowly, “Your mom will tell you about him, when she gets home from work.”

            My mother worked at the canning factory because all work was part of the war effort and because we needed the money.  Standing on her feet for 8 hours tired her out, but she always smiled when she saw me and Skippy.  While I waited impatiently for her to get home that day, Grandpa tried to distract me with a game of Chinese checkers.

            She must have known before she went to work what was going to happen that day, but she hadn’t said a word to me.  I threw myself at her when she stepped onto our wooden front porch.

            “Mom!  Skippy’s gone.  What happened?”

            She sat on the porch chair and held me.  “Do you remember the other day when the mail man said Skippy bit him?”

            “Yeah, but that was a lie.  Skippy would never bite anyone.”

            “I know, dear, I know.  He was a good dog.”

            “Why isn’t he here?” I demanded again.

            “Well, the mail man complained to the police about Skippy and although we argued that he was a good dog, they believed the mail man.”

            “So we have to keep Skippy locked up when the mail comes?” I asked.

            “Oh, honey.”  I could see her brown eyes glistening with unshed tears.  “They took Skippy away and we will never see him again.”

            Grandpa came out on the porch.  “It’s a terrible thing.  I never want to have another dog.”

            “I know Dad.  It’s heartbreaking to lose a dog.”  Mom tried to smile at me, “Skippy is in a wonderful place, but we'll miss him.”

            I was too little then to understand exactly what happened to Skippy, but I was told repeatedly that we could never have another dog.  Until one day, months later…

            My friend, Scotty, told me his little rat terrier’s puppies were ready to leave home and I could have one for only a nickel.  Excited and forgetting about the ‘no more dogs’ rule, I stopped at his house after school to see the squirming, little bundles of joy.  One in particular kept licking my face as I held him. 

            I raced home and asked Grandpa if I could have a nickel to buy my Mom a ‘puppy” for Mother’s Day which was the coming Sunday.  Grandpa thought for a minute, then pulled a nickel from a pocket in his workpants and said, “Be sure to pick out a fresh one.”  I ignored this strange comment and happily went back to Scotty’s to pick up this special gift for my mother.

            Grandpa’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw my wriggling purchase.

            “I thought…I thought…” he gulped, “you said ‘poppy’ not puppy.

            And that’s how the ‘no more dogs’ rule was broken at our house.  Tiny as he was, he had a large enough spirit to fill all of our hearts, though he could never take the place of my first love, Skippy.

                                                               The End