30. Praying in Paris for Perfume

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                            The  End

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

28. Disaster at Dinner

It was almost time for Cynthia's guests to arrive. She took a pitcher of water from the 'frig and a dishcloth to catch any drips. She poured the icy water into the eight stemmed water glasses. Ice cubes were already in their bottoms, so it wouldn't matter if the guests didn't sit down to eat for a while.
       A soft pink cloth covered the table under the white china plates with fluted edges. Polished silverware was at each place setting. Pink, white, and red roses with baby's breath filled a sparkling crystal bowl set between two tall white candles. It was like a breath of spring with winter still outside.
      She sighed with pleasure as she looked around. Everything was perfect. Everything that is, except for her wrought iron etagere with glass shelves. Actually there was nothing wrong with it. She liked it. What she didn't like were the ugly multicolored crystal glasses that were displayed on its top shelf. They were up high, hopefully so no one would notice them. She had also placed several tall candles on the shelf below to distract a viewer's eyes. 
      Jack, her husband, came in with a bottle of red wine to put on one of the etagere's shelves until time for dinner. "Hey, honey, everything looks really nice." He leaned over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.
      "Thanks. I know my friends aren't picky, but I want them to have a pleasant, relaxing evening."
      "You do everything just right. I see you even put my Mom's old glasses out for display."
      "Yes," she knew he really liked those glasses his mother had given them as a wedding gift, although he had never asked her to use them. She would never hurt his or Mother Johnson's feelings. So she tried not to look at the ugly things and hoped her friends wouldn't think they reflected her taste. Not only were they a million bright clashing colors but they had bumps all over them. Oh well, it was a small price to pay for being married to such a great man and having such a wonderful mother-in-law.
      The door bell rang and soon all the guests had arrived with big smiles. Predinner cocktails and appetizers put everyone in a festive mood. When the rosemary scented pork roast was ready to serve, Cynthia finally lit the candles on the table and the etagere creating a romantic background for good food and conversation.
      Their friend, Bob, had just told a funny anecdote about his law partner. Everyone was laughing, when there was a loud crash. An earthquake? The top glass shelf on the etagere had shattered. Its contents spilled onto the tile floor. Glass flew everywhere. Jack and Cynthia jumped up to make sure no one was hurt.
      "What happened?" asked Bob. 
      Jack said, "I don't know. Why would the shelf go kaboom like that?"
      Cynthia looking at the mess that had been her display unit cried, "It was the candles. They were too tall and heated up the glass shelf above them. That's an outside wall and the shelves must have been cold."
      "It's not as bad as it looks like. Luckily nobody is hurt and only one shelf and what was on it are broken. The other shelves are OK." Jack reassured everyone. "Oh, oh, but that includes the glasses from Mom."
      All their guests expressed their sorrow and surprise about the accident. 
Jane laughed. "We always know we'll have a bang up time at your house."
      Cynthia tried to laugh, too, but couldn't. It was hard to believe that those ugly, ugly glasses were actually gone. And irreplaceable according to what her mother-in-law said. Still, she felt awful. It was her mistake that caused Jack to lose something he valued.
      Jack noticed her sad look and hugged her. "I know you're sorry to lose those wild colored glasses you like so much but, honestly, I thought they were ugly." 
     Cynthia just smiled and kept her mouth closed.
                                                                      The End

27. Can Nested Hens Mend a Broken Heart?

My heart was breaking.  I sobbed more tears than I knew I had in my body.  Earlier, when Joe and I decided to end our marriage, I was calm and stoic.  But sitting on my parents’ faded brown couch I had broken down.  My mother’s worried frown and her eyes glistening with unshed tears for me seeped through my fences of denial.   I felt like a child again.  She held me and patted my back, saying, “There, there, it’ll all work out.  Don’t worry.  Your boys’ll be fine.”

                I felt like such a failure.  Joe and I had been happy once.  How did it turn out so bad?  Was I depriving our sons of a father they needed? 

                Mom sorrowed with me as I cried.  She wanted to help, but I didn’t know how anyone could help me.  She reached over to hand me a tissue from the box on the coffee table.  Her fingers accidentally brushed one of her prized possessions, an amber colored glass nesting hen.  In two pieces, the hen sat on a bowl shaped like a nest.  During my childhood it was always filled with special candies.  Mom looked at it and looked at me. 

                “Darlin’ I know you’ve always loved this.  Please take it.”  And she pushed the carnival glass hen into my clenched hands.  I almost laughed.  My mother was trying to comfort me in the only way she knew how.    I carefully held the hen to my heart and thought, ‘At least this hen will be more faithful to me than my husband was.’

                I hiccupped, wiped my face with the tissue and shook my hair back.  “Thank you, momma.  I’ve always loved this cute little hen.   And I’m going to use it as a symbol for my new life.   Just as a hen doesn’t need a rooster hanging around to take care of her and her young’uns, neither do I.”

                That was the start of a new life for me.  I still had lonely nights when I cried myself to sleep, but I would look at my little nested hen and remind myself that I didn’t need any rooster, either.  I had an interesting job at our local college which kept me busy during the day, and running my two sons to after school activities kept me busy almost every evening. 

                I also discovered a weekend activity that kept me happy.  Flea markets.   I had told Diane, a close friend the pathetic story of my treasured sitting hen.   She encouraged me to go with her on one of these fun outings.  “You might even find another nesting hen.  They were popular in the 1920s.  And flea markets have a lot of old stuff.”

“No.  One hen is enough.  The whole point of the hen is that she doesn’t need anyone else to be happy.”

“Maybe she doesn’t NEED someone else, but don’t you enjoy our friendship?”  She gave me a mock glare.  “Everyone needs friends.”

 “Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed sheepishly.  “It’s nice to have friends, especially like you that I can talk to and have fun with.”

We started going to flea markets about once a month.  And that’s where I did find a second nested hen one sunny weekend.  It was made of white milk glass with tiny raised knobs all over it.  When we first saw it on the cluttered table filled with glass collectibles, Diane nudged me, “Hey, there’s a nested hen.”

“It is sort of cute and maybe my amber hen would like a friend.”  I consented.

 “You’re darn right.  Now buy this hen because I know you really like it, don’t you?”

Once my sisters, cousins and other friends heard I liked nesting hens they multiplied rapidly.  Everyone felt she should give me another nested hen to represent her relationship with me.

I can look around my house and see 100s of nested hens, in all sizes and colors and made of all kinds of material, from cloisonné enamel to braided straw.   I have to admit I became addicted to the cute little things.

And then the impossible happened.  At a flea market I almost got into a fight with a man over a special hen with a bright yellow beak, flamboyant colored feathers and a saucy tilt to its little head.    We both reached for it at the same time.  I looked up to see who was trying to grab ‘my’ hen.  A long, white sleeved arm was attached to a nice looking man with the deepest dimples. 

At first he tried to argue me out of it.  “My grandparents had a chicken ranch and this hen looks just like the one I had as a pet.” 

I rolled my eyes and said, “I’ve heard that story before.  I need this hen to give to my poor sick son.”  

He frowned.  “Are you messing with me?” 

I laughed and admitted, “Yes I am.  But I want that hen.”

He looked hard at me and said, “I’ll do you a trade.  If I let you buy that hen, then you have to buy me a beer.”  He looked clean and decent and had those devastating dimples.  I thought, ‘What the heck, it’s a public place.’

Ten years later, we still argue over who owns the yellow beaked hen sitting on the mantel overlooking our living room.

                                                 The End

26. There’s More to Love than Chocolate

This love story is a little early for Valentine's Day. Read on to find out why.
 

A big red heart decorated the calendar for February 14, Valentine’s Day.  The heart was to catch Mike’s eye and remind him that a special, gift giving day was approaching.  Remind him if he ever bothered to look at the calendar, Marcie thought.  She didn’t care if he gave her only a single flower, she just wanted to feel that Mike still cared for her romantically.  She didn’t want to be just his housekeeper.  She longed for the days when he couldn’t wait to see her after work, when he called her his little sweetheart.  With a mortgage and fatherhood, he seemed to hardly notice her at all. 

            The phone rang jerking her away from fond memories of their early days together.  “Hi, it’s me. Do you want anything from the store before I get home?”  Mike’s husky voice could still shiver her timbers and he was considerate to call.

“No, I think we’ve got everything we need.  But thanks for calling, I appreciate it.”

“OK, see you soon, then.”  And he hung up without any special words or endearments.  Oh well, Marcie thought, this is what happens after 10 years of marriage and two kids.

That night, Mike checked on Ethan’s and Marta’s baths and tucked them into bed.  He sighed as he plopped down on the family room couch next to Marcie who had loaded the dishwasher and left the pots to soak. 

Mike said, “Hey I see a special day is coming up soon.”

“Oh really, I hadn’t noticed.  What day do you mean?”  Marcie played dumb.

“I thought you’d be interested since you like chocolate so much.”

“Maybe I am, but what day do you mean?” Was he really going to talk about Valentine's Day?  Was he planning something just for her?

“February 9^th.” He smiled, but Marcie’s heart plummeted.  “I just discovered that Hershey’s chocolate company was founded on that day in 1894.  And that’s not all,” his eyes twinkled as he continued.  “That day is also National Toothache day.  Do you think there’s any connection?

“Oh, you!” She hit him with one of the blue and orange Chicago Bears’ pillows on the couch.  “I’ll just leave you to watch your old football tapes.”  Now that Super Bowl was over there wasn’t any new games, but Mike still liked to watch old ones.

The next few days went by as they normally did.  Kids going to school, Mike going to work, and Marcie keeping the household running while she also did her volunteer work.  She tried to stop thinking about Valentine’s Day and romantic dreams.  She forced herself to realize those days were behind them.  She actually lost track of what days were going by.

Early one February morning Mike woke her up with a big cup of hot chocolate.  “Hey sleepy head.  Did you forget what today is?”

“Whaa..what do you mean?  It’s just Saturday.  It’s a day when we can sleep a little later.”  She looked at the clock.  She had not slept a little later.  Why did he wake her up so early on a Saturday?

 “It’s “Hershey Chocolate Day”!  February 9^th!  Remember I told you about it last week?”  He grinned like a mischievous little boy.

“Yeah, I remember.”  Marcie said cautiously.

“Well, I know you think I’m not romantic or thoughtful or anything women want men to be.”

“Oh, no, honey.  You’re a great husband.  You always take care of the kids when you can, and help me out….”

“I know, I know, but you want and deserve something special.”

“Well, this hot chocolate is really special.  It was very, very nice of you to make this for me.”  Marcie reached up to give him a hug but he sat down on the bed and put his arm around her.

“I’m glad you like it, but it’s just the beginning.  I decided that instead of celebrating Valentine’s Day which everybody does and restaurants are so crowded, we’d have our own special day.  And since you like chocolate so much, what better day than Hershey day.” 

She just stared at him realizing he was not only a great husband but a great lover, too.

Mike continued with his plans, “I made lunch reservations at the little French restaurant you like on the pond.  I thought lunch would be better than dinner so you could see the ducks in the water.  And then for dinner, we’ll order your favorite pizza—it doesn’t have to be chocolate does it?”  He looked worried.

“No, no, of course not.  I love pizza.”  Marcie was dazed.

“I got a great DVD for us to watch tonight.  It sounded like something you’d like.  It’s called “Chocolate.”  And it takes place in France.  It must be romantic, right?”

All she could say was, “Oh, Mike, I love you so much.”  But then she thought of a problem.  “What about the kids, are they going with us on our special lunch?”

“No, no.  That was my master stroke.  I arranged with your parents to pick up the kids this morning and keep them until after church tomorrow.”

“You are incredible.”  She gave him a big kiss.

“Yes, I am,” he agreed.  “And I also have a special gift for you.”  He reached under the bed and pulled out a small, crookedly wrapped box.

“What on earth could this be?” she asked him.  She wondered if it could be more chocolate?  Certainly not lingerie or jewelry.  She ripped off the gift paper until there it lay, in all its sparkly pink and chocolate, two toned wonder.  A new toothbrush.  She stared at Mike.

“Remember I told you, today’s also National Toothache Day.  With all the sugar floating around you today, I wanted to protect your teeth.”  That was Mike, husband, lover, and protector. 

                                                The End

25. Kissy the Klutzy Kat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                    The End                

 

24. The Magic of Old Books

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, yeah.”  I was now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                     The End

23. The Mystery of the Christmas Stocking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                      The End

 

22. Specially Made Latkes: Another Hanukkah Miracle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                          The End