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

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

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

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

33. Easter Eggs to Die For

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

 

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

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

29. Give the Bully a Snickers Bar

I never considered myself an athlete. In school games I was always the last kid chosen for a team. Usually the coach or teacher just made a team take me. I never blamed the team captains. I was such a weakling I couldn't hit the ball over the volleyball net. A team member standing near the net had to boost my serve over to the other side. I wouldn't want me on my team either if I had a choice.

     I was good, though, at running. This skill was entirely due to the training I got trying to outrun Danny, the school bully. He was only in 4^th grade, like me, but legend had it that he beat up an 8^th grader. For some reason he had taken a real dislike to me. Possibly because my mother made me wear Sears husky jeans. I don't think they make them anymore, for which slightly portly boys every where should thank God.

      For three years I had run home as fast I could to escape being jumped on by the red-faced menace, Danny. He never actually drew blood. But he could cause enough pain and humiliation to fire my determination to avoid him. From third grade to sixth grade, I ran like a scalded rabbit, 5 days a week. And then puberty hit. Strange things happened. I slimmed down as I grew taller, and muscles bumped out on my arms and legs.
      I started outpacing Danny. One day I was so far ahead of him I could actually stroll the last half block to my house. My mother was happy I came home without panting like a walrus. When the Danny races first started, she thought I had a heart condition and had taken me to the doctor's. He said I just needed to lose some weight. Of course, I never told her I was being chased. I may have been weak but I wasn't a wuss.
      Since he couldn't catch me anymore, Danny stopped chasing me. And I was able to walk home with my friends.
      One day Jim piped up. “I saw Danny last night at Walmart.”
      “Danny? Who was he chasing—a little old lady.” I scoffed.
      “No, I think he was being arrested for shoplifting.” Jim's eyes gleamed as he passed on this exciting bit of news.
      “He probably deserved it, the skunk.” I didn't want to feel sorry for my nemesis.
      “I don't know but his Dad was really mad. In fact, he knocked Dan to the ground and called him a “dumb shit”, when the security guard accused him.
      “Wow, my Dad's been mad at me, plenty of times, but he's never called me that.” I said.
      “Yeah, and mine's never knocked me to the ground,” agreed Jim.
      I couldn't believe it but I was beginning to feel sorry for Danny.
      That night I asked my Dad what happened if you were arrested for shoplifting.
      “What! Why do you want to know that? Are you planning something?” For the first time ever he dropped his newspaper.
      “Oh gosh no. It's not about me. It's a kid I know at school.”
      “I guess it depends on what he stole and if he's done it before. Do you know that?”
      “No. Jim just told me he saw this kid, Danny, get arrested at Walmart.”
      “Is he a friend of yours? Does he need help?” Dad's eyes searched my face.
       “He's not a friend.” I snorted a little laugh. “Although he's been a running partner for a long time.” I repeated everything Jim had told me.
      Dad thought for a while and then he said, “It's hard to know how to help. I wouldn't want to make Dan's situation at home worse. The security guard saw what happened and if it goes to court, he'll have to testify. The judge may order a family investigation. Let me know if you hear any more about this, OK?”
      I didn't spend too much time worrying about Danny. I thought he had finally gotten pay back for all the times he terrified me.
      Several days later, he was back in school. He looked like he'd been in a fight. Both his eyes were bruised and his lip was swollen.
      Jim whispered to me, “Whoa, do you think his Dad beat him up?”
      “I don't know. But if he did, no wonder Danny's a bully.” Although I was only 11, I knew about parental abuse. We always had to read 'socially relevant' books 'suitable for our age level'. I just wanted to read fun stuff, like Harry Potter. Although I guess Harry suffered from a mean uncle.
      Jim and I passed Danny's desk as we went out for noon recess. The bully looked away from me as we went by. I pulled out of my lunch sack a Snickers bar and tossed it on his desk. “If I remember correctly, you always liked these.”
                                                         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

 

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

 

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

12. The Apple Lady

I heard a crashing sound of breaking plates over my head and then a child sobbing as a woman started screaming.  I cringed wondering what we had moved into.  Jim and I, recently retired, had sold our big suburban house and moved to a small condo where we could be nearer our daughter, Lisa, and her family.

It had been hard moving from the older Colonial home where we had raised our two children but Jim wanted the freedom to travel and I, of course, wanted to be as near as possible to our grandchildren. 

            It was a good solution all around.  We still hadn’t met any of our neighbors who lived in the two story, stucco covered complex.  There must have been 50 separate condos, varying in size with studios and one to two bedroom units.  We had a two bedroom so stacked above our head was another just like it.  I knew a young mother and father lived there with a little boy about three who was cute as the dickens, and I guess he also was a dickens of a hand full.  Both parents worked—I saw them leave in the morning and come home in the evening.  They seemed to take turns taking Andy to day care.  I didn’t know the parents’ names but I certainly knew Andy’s.  When they were home it was a constant litany of “Andy, no.”  “Andy, don’t do that.”  “Oh, Andy, what have you done now?” 

            He seemed to be a perfect little boy with reddish brown hair, green eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles across his chubby cheeks.  And as most perfect boys, mischievous.  The parents were probably good parents, just overstressed as most young people seemed to be nowadays.  I know, I know. I sound like an old fogy. 

            When the noise above started, I was concerned.  “Oh, dear, I wonder if I should go up and see if there is something I can do.”

 Jim looked up from his paper and just shook his head. “Now Martha, it’s none of our business and I haven’t seen any bruises on the kid, so it’s probably OK up there.”  Jim tended to be more laid back than I was.

I didn’t do anything and the noises eventually stopped.  But I worried about it.  I read all the stories about child abuse and my heart ached for the little ones who were hurt.  I didn’t think Andy was being abused.  It was more like an overworked mother forgetting to smell the roses and enjoy her young son as much as she could.  If there was just something I could do to help--without interfering of course.

The next day, a beautiful, October Sunday, Lisa and her husband Mark with their two daughters picked me up to go apple picking out in the country.  Sophia, our older granddaughter bustled in, herding younger Susan over to Grandpa Jim.  They both begged him to go with them.  He pretend scowled and said he had enough apple-picking for a life time and he was going to stay home and enjoy a better fall activity, watching his beloved Chicago Cubs.  I knew it would be best if I wasn’t around to hear his comments on their usual style of playing. The girls laughed and each pulled on one of my hands to urge me out the door.  I think Mark might have enjoyed watching the game, too, but he knew he still had family responsibilities.  So he played good daddy, maybe thinking of the day when he too would be retired.

We had a wonderful outing and they insisted I take home a bushel of red, sweet smelling apples.  “What on earth are your father and I going to do with all these apples?” I protested.  Lisa just smiled, her brown eyes sparkling, and said, “I know you love to make pies so here’s a great opportunity.”  Mark seemed to perk up a bit at that thought.

While Lisa and the kids waited in their SUV, he carried the basket into the condo and set the apples on the kitchen floor near the oven.  I guess he thought that would be a good hint.   He muttered a “Hi, Bye” to Jim as he rushed back to his girls.   I know he was looking forward to watching the Cubs game on tape.  He didn’t even want Jim to tell him how the game had turned out.

I looked at the apples, sitting there so innocently.  “Oh, Jim, I don’t want to make all these pies.”  I ran my fingers thru my short, salt and pepper hair.  “I’m sort of sick of making pies.  Does that make me a bad grandma?”“

You’re a great pie baker, but you don’t have to bake if you don’t want to.”  Jim was in a good mood.  The Cubs had won and he really didn’t care what I did or didn’t do.

I knew there was no way we could eat all those apples ourselves.  As I got into bed that night and flipped the calendar over to the next day, and saw the date I could never forget, I also got an idea of how to get rid of the apples.

The next day, I drafted Jim to help me wash and polish those apples until they shone.  And then we hustled them outside next to our building’s front door.  Of course I made sure to tell him how big and strong he was to help me carry all those apples.  But I stopped short of telling him he “looked like he’d been working out,” which I understand is a phrase young women use now days to flatter men.

I unfolded a green and white lawn chair so I could sit next to the apples with a big cardboard sign saying “Free Apples”.  It’s amazing what a free offer will do to some people.  Some were suspicious, “Did management say you could do this?”  “What do you really want, if I take an apple?”  But many people, especially with children, were happily surprised.  Some even chatted with me for a few minutes, so I got to meet some neighbors.  Of course, I was really hoping to see Andy and his mom. 

They finally came home.  The little boy was red faced and tear stained.  His mother’s hair was mussed up and her clothes twisted around as if she might have been wrestling with him.  Andy’s face lit up when he saw the bushel of apples.  He started to run over to them, but his mother jerked him back.  “Mind your manners, Andy.”  She started to apologize to me, but I laughed and said, “Boys will be boys, and I am giving them away.  We got too many at the apple picking place yesterday and I thought my neighbors might like them.”

“This is so nice of you to do this.  My husband, Justin, loves pie but it seems like I never have time to do any baking.”

“It’s tough doing as much as moms have to do nowadays.” I agreed.  “Andy, if it’s OK with your Mom why you don’t pick out three perfect apples for her and your dad and yourself.” 

He glanced up at her and she said, “Sure, Andy.  Just be careful and don’t knock them out of the basket.”   She looked like him with her freckles and reddish hair and seemed more like his older sister than his mother.  She held out her hand to shake mine.  “I’m Linda Cornell.  It’s nice to meet you Mrs.….”

I smiled.  “I guess I’m so busy giving away apples, I forgot my own manners.  I’m Mrs. Lewis but just call me Martha.”

As Andy carefully rooted around in the still half-filled basket, I chatted with Linda.  I hoped to make her feel better about her darling, but rambunctious son.

“He’s such a cute little boy.  I bet he’s smart, too.”

She smiled, “He is smart.  He was talking in sentences when he was only 18 months old.  But he’s so active.   It seems he never walked.  He runs everywhere and climbs anything he can.”

“But he’s a good boy.  He looked at you for approval when I said he could pick out some apples.”

She agreed, “Yes, most of the time he is a good boy.  It’s just that sometimes I’m a little tired and can’t be as patient as I’d like.”

“It’s hard being a parent, but they grow up so quick.  One day they’re in diapers and before you know it they’re walking down the aisle.”

“I know, I know,” she laughed.  “When toilet training seemed to go on forever, everyone told me that no one walked down the aisle wearing diapers.”   She paused, thinking.  “You seem to know a lot about kids, do you have some?”

“We raised two, a boy and a girl.  Lisa and her family live nearby which is why we moved here.”

“And where does your son live?”

I couldn’t help the tears that came automatically to my eyes.  “Luke died many years ago overseas.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, what happened, if you don’t mind talking about it?”  She put her hand to her mouth and glanced quickly over at Andy.

“It was during Desert Storm in 1991 and he was 19 years old.”  I had told the story so many times, I could do it without sobbing but it still was a painful memory.  “He and 27 other American soldiers were killed when their barracks in Dhahran was destroyed by an Iraqi Scud missile.”

She looked at me, her own tears starting.  “That must be the most horrible thing in the world.  A child dying.”

“Yes, it is.” I nodded, thinking of the sorrow that had never completely left me.  “Luke would have been 40 years old today.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him.  But I try to remember the good times.  How thrilled I was the day he was born.  His hee-haw kind of laugh and his crazy antics and I thank God I had him in my life for 20 blessed years.”

Linda looked over at Andy and whispered, “I think I know what you mean.”  

Andy turned to us with a big grin, his hands together, carefully holding three beautiful apples. “Hey, apple lady, are these OK to take?”

“Of course, they are, dear.  And you know what, that’s what my son called me too.  The apple lady, because he loved to eat my apple pies and I loved to make them for him.”


 

10. The Baby Raffle

“Hey, Charlie!  Did you hear?  They’re gonna raffle off a baby!”  Josh came runnin’ up to me, out of breath, and red of face.

            “Are you crazy?  You can’t raffle off a baby.”  I was disgusted.  Josh was always spoutin’ off stories that he got only half right.

“Well, my mom and Mrs. Schneider are talkin’ all about it.”  He pulled up his denim shorts that were threatenin’ to slide off his skinny hips and down over his scuffed up knees

 I looked at him with scorn.  “Even your mother knows you can’t do that.”  I tried not to emphasize the words, your mother, cause criticizin’ someone’s mom’s a good way to get in a real fight. And as loopy as Charlie could be, he had a strong, fast punch that I didn’t want to meet.

“Yeah, well you don’t know nothin’, Charlie.”  He sneered back at me.

“OK, OK, just whose baby are they gonna raffle?”

“This baby doesn’t belong to anyone.  It’s the one they found outside St. Casmir’s.”

“Wait a minute.  I thought they was gonna try and find its parents.  The newspaper has a story about it every day, with pictures and everything.”  I hated to admit it, but the little sucker had a cute face.  And I did feel sorry for it.  My parents drive me crazy but they try their best.  Everybody needs at least a mom.

“Mrs. Schneider says no one says it’s their baby, but lots of people want it.”  Josh screwed up his face, thinkin’.  “So I guess they decided the fairest thing was to offer the baby to the highest bidder.”

“Something is seriously wrong here.”  I shook my head.  I may only be in the 4th grade, but I know wrong from wrong.  “I gotta check this out.  Catch you later.”  I pushed and glided my scooter home, tryin’ to hit all the bumps in the road.

I shot the scooter into the back yard before I clambered up the steps into the mud room and kitchen.  Mom was takin’ something good smellin’, cinnamon, I hope, out’a the oven.

“Hey Mom, are they really goin’ to raffle off that found baby.”

“Good gravy, Charles.  Where are on earth did you hear that story?”

“Oh, that dumb Josh, he’s always makin’ up the craziest things.  I didn’t believe him.  I just wanted to know for sure.”  I started sliding my hand across the counter to where she had some oatmeal cookies cooling off.

“Stop sneaking cookies.”  She gave my hand a little slap.  They’re for my coffee group tomorrow.  “He must’ve just heard it wrong.  They aren’t raffling off the baby.  They’re raffling off chances to name the baby.”

I thought about this.  “Why?  Doesn’t the baby have a name?”

“I’m sure the baby has a perfectly nice name, but no one knows what it is.  And the baby’s folks haven’t stepped forward to claim it yet.  Too bad they didn’t pin a note to the pink blanket it was wrapped in.”

“Yuck.  A pink blanket?  Does that mean what I think it means?”  I’d been thinkin’ it might be fun to have a little brother if we’d won the raffle, but no way did I want a baby girl in the family.  Of course, it looked like there wasn’t going to be a baby raffle anyway.

“Yes, the baby’s a darling little girl, with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes.  Of course lots of babies have blue eyes and then they change as they get older.  Anyway a girl means you have to come up with a girl’s name to win.”

“Hey, I don’t want to win thinking up a girl’s name,” I muttered.

“Well, the prize is $100.”  She knew money always moved me.

“Hmm, I guess I could always use $100.” I thought of the computer games I still didn’t have. “What are the rules?”

“The name, of course, is just a temporary one until we find her real parents, or until she is placed permanently in a new home.  Auntie Rosie is taking care of the baby until then.  And she hates to call it Baby No Name.  The emergency baby care committee needs some new equipment and baby clothes and thought this could be a fund raiser.”

“What could be a fund raiser?”  I didn’t get the connection.

“Everyone who wants to suggest a temporary name for baby girl unknown has to pay $5 to have an entry considered.  All the names’ll be put in a big bowl, Auntie Rose will pull out a name and that person will win $100 and the rest of the money will go to the fund and…”

“And the poor sucker of a baby may be stuck with the worst name on earth!”  I was horrified.  Good gravy!  At least I was blessed with a fairly decent name, Charlie, but what about my friend Mortimer.  Nobody called a little baby or even a grown man that anymore.

“The baby’s name won’t be written in stone.  It’s something to call her until a more permanent arrangement can be made.”

The wheels were churning in my brain.  I didn’t even know the little sucker, but I had to at least give it a try.  And winning $100 was a pretty good incentive, too.

All day and all night and all the next day whenever I had a moments’ peace I worked on the perfect little girl name.  I thought of something frilly like a flower name, Daisy, Rose, Violet.  Nah, too fussy.  Then a more common name like Mary, Anne, Jane, or Nancy.  I didn’t like any a'them either.

Finally, the absolutely perfect name came to me as I was walkin’ home from school.  When I did my usual burstin’ into the kitchen lookin’ for somethun’ good to eat, I asked Mom for more contest details.

She said I just had to go over to the Public Library, pay my $5, fill out a name suggestion card, add my own name and phone number, and put it in the box.  She had already put in a name--wouldn’t tell me what it was ‘cause she didn’t want to influence my choice.

Up in my room, I pried out the rubber plug from the bottom of my stupid, silver metal, piggy bank.  I keep it hidden under my dirty clothes in the bottom of my closet.  I didn’t want any of my friends to ever see it.   I counted out two dollar bills and the rest in change.  I told Mom where I was goin’ and scooted over to the library.

I paid my $5 and filled out the suggestion card. I was afraid someone might stop me as being too young to gamble.  But no one paid attention to what I was doing.  The librarians and volunteers were busy babysittin’ all the little kids who had workin’ parents and had to walk over to the library after school.  I grinned to myself as I filled out the card, gave it a little crumble—I heard someplace that a little crumbling helped a card get picked—and dropped it in the bowl.

The raffle drawing was bein’ held Sunday afternoon at the library.  They had such a crowd, they had to move it out to the front steps.  I stood there with my mom waiting to see what name had won.

Auntie Rose made a little speech about how they’d collected $645 and after they gave the $100 prize, it still left a nice sum to buy equipment for the emergency care program.

Someone else was holdin’ the baby.  Poor little sucker.  I hope she likes her new name.  Auntie Rose slowly moved her hand around in the large glass fishbowl, clutched a card, drew it out and squinted as she tried to read the name.  I was too far back to see if it was crumbled, but I kept my fingers crossed.  I sure wanted a new computer game.

“The winning name is Heather!”  The crowd applauded again.  I held my breath.

 “And the person who submitted that name is Charlie Johnson.”

  I grinned showin’ all my teeth, which I really hated to do, but I was so happy I couldn’t help myself.

My mom looked at me in surprise, “Why on earth did you pick that name?”

“I thought a long time about what was the best girl’s name, ‘cause I really wanted that money.  And, a’course I wanted her to have a decent name.  I finally realized I already knew the perfect girls’ name.  Your name, Mom.”…

And whatever happened to baby girl Heather?  Well, that’s another story.

                                                               The End