52. A Turkey's Thanks Giving

One November, we drove up from Los Angeles to northern California to visit relatives in the area and then go over to Salinas to celebrate Thanksgiving dinner with our nephew, Sam and his family. He and his wife, Carol, had invited both sides of their families and expected 45 people. With such a huge number, they decided it would be easier on everyone to have a delicious turkey plus dinner at their club house. The menu included roast beef and salmon for anyone who didn't like turkey. But all the traditional side dishes would be served, sage and onion stuffing, mashed potatoes, baked sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry relish, and of course, pumpkin pie with whipped cream. I knew there would be lots of other dessert choices, too, for non-pumpkin lovers. The star of the table, though, was always the golden brown bird bursting with flavor.

The day before, with the help of their red haired daughter, Morgan, they had set the round tables with rust and brown colored tablecloths and napkins. Each table had a centerpiece of yellow and orange mums interspersed with multicolored leaves.

The fall is my favorite season with its beautiful colors and crisp, fresh air. Of course down in the LA area we don't get too much crisp air, but the Salinas area was beautiful. Thanksgiving is also my favorite holiday—no gifts to buy, wrap and worry about, no major house decorating, and no required church service. Of course, at the dinner table we always go around the table, giving thanks for the past year's blessings. No matter how bad a year it may have been, we can always be grateful for our friends and family and that we have enough (more than enough) to eat.

On Thanksgiving morning my husband, Joe, and I stopped at Sam's for a light breakfast of croissants and strong coffee. Sam and Carol's house is located in a beautiful, wooded area and it was good to see the results of all the work they had put into making it comfortable. Other family members including our son, Bill, and his family were there having just arrived from Idaho.

Will, our 11 year old grandson, was going through his repertoire of turkey jokes. At that time his life's ambition was to be a stand up comic.

We paid closer attention when he qualified one, saying it might be unsuitable for children. His mother jumped in and said, “Well maybe you better not tell it.”

He brushed her objections aside, “Oh, Mom, don't worry. It's just a joke.” Then asked, “Does anyone know why you can't take a turkey to church?”

Grandpa Joe played along with him. “Gee, I don't know. Why can't you?”

Trying to suppress a grin, Will replied, “They use FOWL language.”

When his captive audience finished groaning, he continued on. “What happened when the turkey got into a fight?”

Winn, Will's younger brother, yelled out, “Oh I know that one. The turkey got the stuffing knocked out of him.”

Will gave him a dirty look. “Winn, you heard me rehearsing. You're not allowed to answer any.” But he didn't let the interruption stop him, he went on.

“I bet no one else knows what you get when you cross a turkey with a banjo?”

Before anyone could disappoint Will, I jumped in to reassure him, “I don't have a clue. What do you get?”

This time, Will had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing as he explained, “A turkey that can pluck itself.”

Carol said, “Thank heavens, when you buy a turkey now they're already plucked and ready for the oven. Of course, this year I didn't even have to shop for one since the chef at the club is doing all the cooking.”

Morgan shouted, “Hey everyone. Look out the window. Guess who's coming to dinner?”

We all turned our heads to look out the big picture window overlooking the rural road at the side of the house.

“Oh, my gosh,” I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I and everyone else went outside to get a better look. Mitzi, the little dachshund, was barking her head off.

Down the road, walking erratically as if they hadn't a care in the world, came a flock of white, wild turkeys. Mitzi was going crazy trying to drive off the intruders. It was wonderful. I had never seen a flock of turkeys before.

Winn laughed, “Hey, don't they know it's a dangerous day. They could get eaten.”

Morgan said, “No, they know everyone's already got their turkey. So they're safe for another year.”

I added, “Well, it is Thanks Giving day. They must be thankful they aren't on a dinner table.” Will, of course, had the last word. Although I think he must have been thinking about another holiday, Fourth of July – Independence Day.

He asked another of his 'fowl' questions. “What did the turkey say to the man who tried to shoot it?”

Winn's eyes lit up and he opened his mouth, but Will, with perfect timing, jumped in with the answer.

“Liberty, equality and bad aim for all.”

                                                              The end.

51. Cruising, Italian Style

I was surprised when I saw Antonio, our Italian tour leader, slip out of Anita's cabin. I was on my way to the ship's coffee set up for those of us early risers who couldn't wait for the breakfast buffet. Was Anita sick, did she need help? It had been clear from the first day of our trip that friendly, outgoing Antonio did not like Anita. What on earth was he doing in her room?

I ducked back into my own cabin and shook my husband's shoulder until he woke.

“Jim, there's something going on.” I sat down on his side of the bed.

“Unnn, there's always something going on. Let me sleep.” He rolled over and burrowed his head into his pillow.

“What do you think of Anita?” I demanded.

“Anita who?” he muttered.

“You know, the pretty blond girl who's traveling alone. I thought it odd she didn't have a boyfriend or even just a friend to travel with. But Antonio...”

“You're not going to let me sleep, are you, unless I play this guessing game with you?”

“Oh, go back to sleep. Barbara will be up getting coffee. I'll go talk to her.”

My best friend Barbara and her husband Dennis were with us on this two week small ship cruise down the western coast of Italy. We enjoyed blue skies with marshmallow fluff clouds during the day as we visited ancient, picturesque villages and in the evenings dined on too much pasta, pizza, and tiramisu. The trip was like a travel brochure. Except for the hostility between Antonio and Anita.

Jim and I had been on other cruises and the tour leaders were always friendly, knowledgeable, and helpful, no matter how difficult a traveler might be. And Anita was nice. But they avoided each other as if they were in a school yard and afraid of getting 'cooties' from each other.

Carefully holding my fragrant cup of coffee, I plopped on a green and white deck chair next to Barbara. I brought her up to date on what I'd seen.

“That is odd. Yesterday he yelled at her for being the last person to arrive for the day's outing. And she wasn't even late. There was still two minutes before departure time.” She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. “Well, it's not our problem, is it?”

I shook my head. “Nooo. But if he dislikes her what was he doing in her cabin? Could he have been looking through her stuff while she was up here with a wake up coffee?”

“I haven't seen her yet this morning, and I can't imagine that nice young man would go through her things. Why he'd certainly be fired, if he was caught.”

“I'm sure you're right, so again I ask what was he doing in her room?”

Barbara looked at me over her reading glasses, “Well if you really need to know why don't you just ask him.”

Of course I couldn't do that. My curiosity wasn't that rampant, but I vowed I would keep an eye on him to see if he did anything else that seemed odd.

Every night after dinner there was dancing in the little bar lounge. And every night Antonio took turns dancing with each woman who either didn't have a partner or whose husband didn't want to dance. Except I realized he never danced with Anita. But she didn't seem interested in dancing with him either. She always turned her back to him when he approached her table to see if anyone wanted to dance.

I pointed this out to Jim and being a man, he said, “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you never notice anything.”

The next morning I was quiet as I left our cabin for my early morning caffeine jolt, in case I'd see Antonio again.  The hallway was clear. I hate to admit it but I did slow as I passed Anita's door. She must have had the TV on for I could heard low voices murmuring. At least Antonio wouldn't be sneaking around her cabin if she was there.

Our excursion that morning was the seaside village of La Spezia. We were climbing about 100 uneven stone steps up to the heavily carved doors of a Baroque church. Anita, like a young colt, hair streaming behind her, was scampering up ahead of the rest of us, probably trying to avoid Antonio again. She yelped as she stumbled and fell to her knees. Antonio, his face pale, scrambled to her side and gently examined her ankle.

At last he was acting like a responsible tour guide even if he didn't like Anita. But as we gathered around to see if she was OK, he dropped her foot like it burned his hands.

Anita's brown eyes glistened with tears. “I'm so sorry to cause trouble.” She looked at him and then down at her rapidly swelling ankle.

“Can you stand?” Antonio demanded. He helped her up. “Can you walk?”

“I'll help her back to the ship.” I offered. “You need to stay here to continue the tour for the group.”

Jim and I helped her make her way down the hill to the dock, across the gangplank and to her cabin. He went to get ice while I put a pillow under her ankle.

After assuring myself that she was all right I couldn't stand it any longer. “What is wrong with Antonio? I've never seen a tour guide be so mean to a client.”

She looked at me stricken. “No, no, you mustn't blame him.”

“Well, then what's going on between you two?”

“Please, if I tell you, do not repeat this.” I promised to keep her story confidential.

"Antonio and I were married the day before the tour started.”

I almost fell on her bed. I was not expecting that story.

“We were supposed to leave on our honeymoon but the original guide for this tour got seriously ill and couldn't continue. Since Antonio had lead this tour many times, the company begged him to do it and offered to let me come on the tour free of charge. We agreed because we thought we could save the money we would have spent on a wedding trip, but of course, we couldn't let people know we were honeymooners. It would have been unprofessional.”

“So instead you acted as if you disliked each other.” I thought of that old saying, 'Oh, what webs we weave when first we practice to deceive.' But then I thought of how much I was going to enjoy telling Barbara this story. After we got home, of course. I didn't want to let the cat out of the bag just yet.

 

                                                                   The End

 

50. Cruising in France

I looked around the small cheerful cabin. The perky blue and yellow Provence print on the bedspreads, curtains, and desk chair echoed the style of the French countryside we'd soon be sailing through. Outside the wide window I could see steps leading up from the concrete dock to the road which ran alongside the Rhone river. I sat down on one of the two twin beds and considered my options. I could unpack, or go to the sun deck to watch the crew cast off, or I could go right to the bar and order a stiff drink, or just curl up in a ball and wait to meet the stranger I would be living with for seven days.

 

Emma, the oldest of my four children, who made the arrangements, urged me to ask for a travel partner. Not because a double was cheaper than the single supplement, but because she thought I needed someone to talk to. Although I didn't really want a room mate, I knew it would be less expense for my children who were paying for this French river cruise. Even if the person was difficult I only had to be in the cabin to shower, dress and sleep.

My husband Carl and I had always dreamed of traveling once the children were through school. I mused on how life has a way of changing the best laid plans. It had been three years since a fatal car accident had interrupted ours. He was only 53 and with our last child out of college we had been looking forward to life without tuition bills. I didn't want to go on this cruise, but my children wanted to give me a special gift for my 55^th birthday and thought it would be good for me to get away from my memories. But your memories travel with you.

A bustling out in the hall interrupted my day dreams. The door opened and a man carrying a huge overnight case stumbled in. He looked at me. “I'm sorry. I must be in the wrong room.”

I looked up at him. “This is cabin 224.”

He looked down at the sheets of paper in his hand. “That's where I'm supposed to be.” He stared at me. “You aren't Robin are you?”

“Yes, I am. Are you Frances?”

“This happens to me, all the time. Yes, my name is Francis, but spelled with the male i not the female e. The tour company's computer made a typo.” He gave me a shy smile, “And I thought Robin was a British nickname for Robert.”

“I'm not British.”

“And you're not a Robert either.”

The tour company must have thought we were both females when they matched us up. Well, I wasn't going to spend a week in the same cabin with a male stranger--no matter how nice or even how good looking. Oh, my friend Jenny would love to hear about this. She was always reading romantic novels.

He dumped his suitcase and said, “Come on, let's see the purser or whoever and get this straightened out.”

Fortunately, there was a gentleman traveling alone who was willing to share his cabin for a substantial reduction in price. Francis moved his bag from the room saying, “It's a small boat, I'm sure we'll see each other again.”

That evening I changed into fresh black pants with a black and white silk blouse. And since I was in France, I tied a red scarf around my neck. When I walked into the small bar that evening for a pre dinner drink to calm my nerves, Francis waved me over to his table. I went over but hoped he wasn't going to assume we were now joined in some special way.

He explained he was supposed to be with his brother, but his brother got sick at the last minute. Nothing serious just a flare up of shingles. So the tour company, thinking Francis was female, put him with the first available passenger, who happened to be me. We laughed and both said, “Small world,” when we discovered we lived in St. Louis, including his brother, but had never met until this cruise.

Francis taught French and history at a Catholic high school, which is one of the reasons he was on the trip. Jenny would have been disappointed, as no romance kindled as the result of the name mix-up. Francis was friendly to everyone on the trip and translated when we needed help bargaining with the merchants along the river. It was a wonderful trip and everyone shared interesting travel stories. My children would be happy when I reported that I had enjoyed myself.

The next to last day on the ship was a Sunday and the daily bulletin announced there would be a Catholic Mass celebrated on the sundeck. When I got up there I found out why there had been no romantic overtures from Francis, not that I wanted or expected any. He was the priest presiding at the service.

At lunch, he apologized to those of us at his table, “I'm sorry I didn't tell all of you I was a priest but I've found that people are usually more comfortable not knowing.”

“You certainly looked like a different man in your vestments. I almost didn't recognize you. Is your brother a priest, too?” I asked.

“No. He was a happily married man until his wife died a few years ago after a long fight with cancer. I was hoping he would have some fun on this trip. I think stress made the shingles pop out. But I do have good news.”

“Great, I love good news.”

“Paul sent me an email saying he had recovered from the shingles and would meet me in Paris so we could continue our driving trip to Belgium.”

“That is wonderful news.” I was happy for the brothers.

“Robin, I know you'll be in Paris for the few days included at the end of the tour. I hope you'll be open to meeting Paul and maybe having dinner with us one night.”

“If he's as good a talker as you are, I'll sure it will be a fun evening.” Hmmm. Maybe I'll have something interesting to tell Jenny after all.

                                                                        The End

49. Dad's Magic Paint Brush

Peter was two years old, cute as a baby panda, and his vocabulary was growing as fast as he was. His mom, Heather, said, “I think he learns one hundred words every time he grows an inch.” Of course, much to her chagrin one of the first words he learned was ‘tini, referring to the martini his dad relished after a long commuter train ride and a frustrating day solving computer problems. It was also embarrassing the way Peter said it with the same loving tone Dan used when mixing it each evening. Heather was afraid her friends might think she was raising an alcoholic baby. The little boy still staggered when he walked giving further support to a “drunken baby” allegation.

Neither Heather, Dan or the baby were alcoholics, of course. They were a typical, suburban family who had moved into a new house. New to them, but really about 50 years old and in need of repairs. They couldn’t afford everything they wanted to do to the house, but paint was a cheap and quick fix. 

While they were figuring out what colors the various rooms should be painted, Peter was engrossed in figuring how to communicate all the many thoughts that whizzed through his consciousness. When they first moved in, they only had 2 kitchen chairs. One Saturday morning, Dan and Heather were sitting in them, drinking coffee. Little Peter toddled in from his play area in the dining room. He looked around and asked, “Where’s my sit down?” 

Heather and Dan smothered their laughs when they realized what he meant. Dan said, “I always knew my son would be a genius. He’ll never have a problem asking for what he needs.” Heather brought in his little rocking chair from the dining room so Peter could ‘sit down’ next to them.

It was mid-January, very cold, although it hadn’t snowed yet. Dan was eager to get all the inside painting done, so he could start on the garden when the weather warmed up. He and Heather decided they should perk up Peter’s little room first. It was going to be a typical boy’s design of red, white and blue color scheme. Heather knew her dad, a former Marine would appreciate their effort.

She made red and white striped curtains with a trim of little blue cotton balls. Dan covered the beat up, built in wooden bookcases with a coat of Williamsburg blue to go with an old blue trunk they found in a thrift store.

Peter didn’t say much as he watched all this activity. His eyes followed every brush stroke as Dan used a paintbrush to cover Peter's gloomy green walls with a bright, clean white. The little guy tried to imitate his Dad, sticking his hand in the can of white paint, which caused a work stoppage for a major clean up. And then, when Dan turned his back again, Peter tried to use his little hairbrush to paint “like Daddy.” Dan couldn't let him do these messy things, but secretly he was proud that his son wanted to be just like him.

Although the winter had been snow free so far, the weatherman predicted a heavy snow fall for the day after Dan painted Peter's room. And for once it was an accurate prediction. When Heather saw her transformed yard and neighborhood, her eyes danced with anticipation. She knew Peter was going to love playing in the fluffy, cold stuff. Last year he had been too young to appreciate it.

As she looked out the hall windows, she heard Peter's happy morning sounds. She walked in to his room with a big smile. “I have a surprise for you today.”

“'Prize?” Peter asked. He raised his chubby arms for her to lift him out of the crib. Heather first bent to give him a good morning kiss and hug. He squirmed away and asked again, “Prize?” She nuggled his neck as she carried him over to the window. They looked out at a white world. Snow covered the front yard, the driveway, the street and all the trees.

“Honey, look. It's a surprise. Everything's all white.”

Peter opened his eyes wide as he peered through the frost framed window. He looked at the world that he'd last seen as brown and green and orange. He laughed and clapped his hands. “Daddy painted it all white.”

                                                   The End

48. Thank You

Thanks to everyone who downloaded my e-book, A Likely Story, by Amy Mull Fremgen, on amazon.com.  Last week my book was the 10th of those that popped up when someone searched for 'humorous short stories'.  This morning it is 8th.
I also appreciate the great reviews that readers have given me. 
If you are interested in seeing what the book looks like, downloading directions are in the following post, no. 47. 
When the cover appears on amazon.com, just click on 'look inside'.  You can read the first five stories without buying the book.
Now that the 'publication' process is over, I hope to have a new short story here Monday, September 20. 
 If you have comments you can send them to me at amyfremgen@gmail.com.
Thanks for visiting my blog.

47. "A Likely Story" now at amazon.com

My e-book, A Likely Story, by Amy Mull Fremgen is now available.

To order go to  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00F0X6QKA.

 

If you don't have a kindle reader, you can download a free app for your computer at:
http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_pc_mkt_lnd?docId=1000426311

 

It is based on the stories I created for this blog.  So I'm grateful to everyone who visited this site in the last two years.  Thank you for giving me the confidence to go ahead with the book project.

 

Now I'm finishing up a humorous mystery novel, Eula May and the Flim Flam Nun, which will first be published as a paperback in December, and then as an e-book a little later.

 

If you would like me to continue posting new short stories at this blog, send me an email at amyfremgen@gmail.com.     Thanks, Amy

46. Grandma Jean's Famous Soup

My grandmother was 18 when she got married. Unfortunately for her husband, Grandpa Jim, he never asked if she knew how to cook before he proposed. This was back in 1930 and he assumed every woman, including those only 18 years old, knew how to prepare a tasty meal. Of course, it's not really his fault for overlooking this important ability. Jean's mother was a wonderful cook and every time Jim came over for dinner, she let him believe that her unmarried daughter had prepared the delicious meal. At 25, Jim was already working shares with his Dad on almost 500 Illinois acres of planted corn. He was considered quite a catch. And he was a good, church going man who was just plain nice, too.

The first day in the kitchen of Jim's small cabin on his Dad's land, Jean decided to make a special soup for him. Her mother had given her the recipe and stocked the necessary ingredients to make it. She also added her own fragrant, home made bread to the pantry.

Jean brushed back her light brown hair when it fell over her face as she leaned down to read the recipe laid out on the scrubbed wooden work table. Her mother had wonderful penmanship and the directions were easy to read:

Place 1 whole chicken, including neck and giblets in a large pot, cover with water. Well she wasn't sure what giblets were but she just put the whole chicken and everything that came with it in the largest pot she could find. The next two ingredients confused her because they required 3-4 ribs of celery and 3-4 carrots. She though, “Why can't they make up their mind?” She decided they must mean 3 and ½ of each, because that was between 3 and 4. So she cut the 4^th rib of celery and 4^th carrot in half.

The two bay leaves and two onions were easy. She found them in the pantry and plopped them in, as they were. One teaspoon of salt and one-half teaspoon of pepper were also easy. Her mother had laid out the measuring spoons and explained them to her. Continuing to follow the directions, Jean put all these items into the pot with the chicken, turned up the gas flame under it and waited for the water to boil. She pulled a wooden, spool backed chair up to the stove and waited. She was afraid to go away because it might boil when she wasn't there.

After what seemed like hours but was only about 20 minutes she saw the water bubbling as her mother had described. She turned down the flame to let the water calm itself and just simmer. It was supposed to do that for three hours so she could finally get up and do other things, such as unpacking the clothes she had brought. The little cabin had no closets, but Jim had bought a pine chiffrobe for her from Sears that had a long mirror covering the door to her hanging clothes. The other side had drawers for clothes she could fold up. She was quite proud of it and polished it with the lemon scented oil her mother had given her.

Three hours later Jean went back to the pot, carefully removed the chicken and other pieces that floated out of the chicken. She put them on a large platter until cool enough to touch. She cut them into pieces to drop back into the pot with the vegetables and the water, now turned into rich chicken stock. She let the whole thing simmer softly until Jim was home from the fields, had washed up, given her a very satisfactory kiss and sat down to eat.

Jim said a quick “Thank You, Lord, for my beautiful wife and this wonderful bread and soup.”

He scooped up a big spoonful of the fragrant soup and chicken. He held it in his mouth before swallowing. His eyes got big and he gulped as he swallowed it down.

“Well, what do you think?” Jean asked, “Do you like it?”

Jim coughed and said, “It's absolutely fabulous. I've never eaten a soup like this before in my life.”

Jean went on to become a really great cook. But she and Jim laughed many times over that soup. He waited a while before he told her that he had never eaten a soup with all the chicken's innards in it, including liver and heart. But since they were all thoroughly cooked, he knew they wouldn't hurt him. He also had never eaten soup before with three and a half whole ribs of celery and three and half whole carrots. They usually were cut up into pieces. But as he told her, it wasn't her fault since the recipe didn't say cut them up. Also, it was a little unusual to have a whole onion, including the dry outside, in his soup, but again cooking it for so long made even the skin soft enough to digest.

[If you want to try this recipe, I'm sure you know the correct way to use the ingredients. You could also add some elbow macaroni to the final simmer. When it's cooked, ladle the soup into bowls. And then top each bowl with a generous serving of Parmesan cheese. Oh, be sure to note that the cheese should be grated not dumped in whole.]

Our family still prepares and shares Jean's Famous Soup, with a few necessary corrections. Bon Appetit!

                                                              The End

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