Jun 30 2007
There’s a rock
in my shoe
and I cannot lie
It reminds
me of you
that look in your eye
My balance
has faltered
I’m going down fast
The future
was altered
when you rushed right past
But the rock
in my shoe
doesn’t slow me down
Cuz I got
rid of you
and I’m less one clown
copyright 2007
Jun 24 2007
(This is a re-post of a story I posted here the first week I was a blogger. I thought I’d re-share it. Sarah)
Velma was the oldest fixture in the neighborhood; some say even older than the candy store which she owned and operated as far back as anybody could remember. People also said (sometimes, behind her back so as not to hurt her feelings) that she was batty. It wasn’t that she wasn’t well-liked because she was. She was famous for giving away candy, soda and chips to the kids who couldn’t afford to pay and who she often found trying to steal from her.“Just tell me you’re hungry, child,” is all she would say to the surprised child as she handed him or her a bag full of candy and other treats. “I understand what it’s like to be hungry and afraid,” she’d say. “You don’t know it, but I understand.”
Consequently, she would have a constant band of rag-a-muffins hanging about the store, mixing up the stock, making noise and in some (rare) cases, attempting to sweep the floor or dust the shelves for her. Velma didn’t mind. She loved children and regarded it as her most sincere sadness that she never had any children. Not for any lack of trying; she and her husband, Frank had tried all of the years of their marriage, but to no avail. Velma and Frank were destined to be a childless couple, who doted on any child who might cross their paths.The candy store had been Velma’s idea. She reasoned that if she couldn’t have a house full of children as she had prayed to God she might, she could surely have a store full of children. Even if they only came and went and she saw their soft, shining faces for seconds at a time, it was more than she could have hoped for otherwise. After Frank died, she dressed only in black, often with a babushka tied tightly under her chin. She often mumbled aloud conversations she had with Frank. And at times, even arguments, which all of the neighbors heard, causing everyone to feel sorry and a little afraid of her at once.Occasionally, a do-gooder from the neighborhood would come by and try to help her with the store, which always seemed to be on the verge of ruin. But she would just smile at their suggestions and nod her head and say,” Do you remember the time you tried to steal that red licorice out the jar? Remember how the whole jar fell to the floor and my Lord there was licorice everywheres?” She cackled. “I think the rats was eating licorice for days and days after that.”The do-gooder would shrug and realize Velma was never going to change and would never really be part of the present world in which they lived. “I was just trying to help, Velma,” is all they would say.“I know child, I know,” her grin exposed two gaps in front where teeth used to be. “And I appreciate it, child, I do. Here,” she handed them licorice, ” you have something sweet, it’ll brighten your day.”The do-gooder would accept the gift and leave pensive and chewing on soft, sweet licorice. Perhaps, even, in their own small way, remembering the days of childhood in the neighborhood, always with the soft croak of Velma and the sweet taste of candy.
At the end of the day, Velma would sweep the dust on the floor and scoop it into an ancient dustpan, deposit it in the wastebasket, dust the shelves with a duster made of peacock feathers, pull the shade in the store window and turn the sign around to read, closed. She would scuffle across the floor to the stairway in the back and climb the stairs to her apartment above the store.
On a hot plate, she would boil water for peppermint tea and make sandwiches out of whatever she had pulled out of the cold case in the store. After her dinner, she would open a can of tuna and place it on her window sill for any stray cat who might be hungry and toss the remnants of her sandwich in small pieces out the window for the pigeons and sometimes robins who had not found much that day in their scavenging efforts.
Her favorite stray, a big orange tabby, who she named Sweet Pea, almost always arrived for the tuna and ate as much as he could before the other cats arrived. When he was finished, he licked his paws, dropped down from the sill and sat with Velma on the brocade settee which was just a little older than she was. Together they would watch Jeopardy on the little black and white set that Velma had found on her doorstep one morning. There was a note written on a paper bag in crayon which read: “I found this for you Miss Velma.” She never learned who it was had left the set, but she treasured it and considered it one of her most valued possessions.
One night, during the final Jeopardy round, Velma and Sweet Pea heard a noise from downstairs. Sweet Pea jumped down from the settee and began to pace back and forth in front of the door, yowling, his tail straight up in the air. “Oh hush, Sweet Pea,” Velma said, “I’m trying to listen to the show.”
But Sweet Pea wouldn’t hush and the pitch of the yowl set Velma’s teeth on edge. She acquiesced and rose from her seat and went to the door. The cat paced between and around her legs, the yowling subsiding somewhat.
“Well, what do you think it is?” she asked the Tabby. “Think the rats are in the gum balls again? Sweet Pea got up on his hind legs and scratched at the door with his front paws. “All right, all right, let’s go see.”
Velma opened the door and Sweet Pea shot down the stairs ahead of her. She reached for the light switch and flipped it on but got no light. Then she remembered that she’d been meaning to change the bulb and just never had. She came down the stairs slowly, relying on the little light provided from her apartment above. By the time she got to the bottom of the stairs, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could make out the figure of a young man, hunched over the counter by the cash register.
“Hello there,” Velma called out.
The figure jumped and turned on her, his arm outstretched and pointing at her. Velma figured it was probably a gun, for a moment she thought she saw a glint of light reflected on it. “Don’t move,” a shaky voice instructed.
“What you want, child?” Velma asked. “Are you hungry? You need something to eat?”
The stranger hesitated, as if to determine what was wrong with the old woman. Didn’t she know he had a gun on her?
Velma began to move toward him, but he extended his arm even further to emphasize he meant business. “I said, don’t move!”
Velma stopped and chuckled softly. “All right, all right, if that’s the way you want it. What are you looking for?”
“Money, you stupid old bitch,” he said impatiently. “Where the hell do you keep the money?”
Velma laughed. “Oh, you want the money. Well, it ain’t in there!” she laughed a little louder. “Do you think I was born yesterday? Well I wasn’t born yesterday and if the lights was on you’d see I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Angrily, the intruder came around the corner, his arm still extended, and moved toward her. “I didn’t come here for no conversation, I came here for the money. Now where is it?”
Velma pointed to the cold case. “Over there, behind the bologna.”The trespasser was confused for a moment, then believed she was trying to trick him. “Oh yeah?”
“Well, I wouldn’t lie to you child,” she said quietly. “You having a gun and all, that is a gun you’re pointing at me, ain’t it? You having a gun pointed at me, I wouldn’t lie to you. It wasn’t my idea, putting the money in the cold case, it was the Burley’s, known them since they was just little ones. Well, they told me I should keep the money in the register on account there might be someone, like you, who’d come in one night and try to steal it. They said, you’d look in the register, find it empty and think there wasn’t no money. Said you wouldn’t never think to look in the cold cuts. And by golly, I guess they was right. If I wasn’t here to tell you, would you have thought to look there?”
“Just get the money,” he said his voice starting to ring a bell in Velma’s mind. Velma shuffled over to the cold case, reached behind the Oscar Meyer and pulled out a cloth sack, he could hear the change jangling as she held it out to him. “Here you go, child. I hope it helps with your troubles.”The kid took the bag abruptly, and still holding the gun on her, opened the bag and peered inside. “It ain’t much,” he said suspiciously.“No child, it sure ain’t. Candy store ain’t really a thriving business. But it’s enough for me. I get by because I don’t need much.”“There must be more,” he insisted.Velma shook her head and grinned her toothless smile. “Not in this life son, not in this life. Bible says, that what we suffer in this life, we are rewarded a thousand-fold in the after-life.” She nodded. “Yes, I think it’s true, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to,” the thief sounded remorseful. “I don’t have no choice.”
“I don’t mind, really I don’t,” Velma assured him. “I understand, child, I really do. You’re hungry and you got to eat, ain’t that right?”
“I never done this before,” he told her, sounding near tears.
“Don’t feel bad,” she comforted him, “I understand. Besides, you ain’t stealing, not if I give you the money.”
“You didn’t give it to me. I made you give it to me, I have a gun,” he insisted.
“Ain’t nothing in this world could make me do something I don’t want to do. You just ask anybody. They’ll tell you. Old Velma don’t do nothing she don’t want to.”
The boy could take no more and gave her back the bag. “No, I can’t,” he cried, “I can’t take the little bit you got.”
Velma refused to take the bag and pushed it back in his hands. “Yes you can, sure you can child. Go on, take it. You need it. I don’t need it near as much as you. Go on.”
The boy’s arm dropped, he let the gun fall to the floor. The sound of it, told Velma it wasn’t a real gun, but a toy, made of plastic and cheap metal. “I’m sorry Ma’am, I’m real sorry,” he cried so hard he shook.
Velma shuffled the four or five feet to him and put her arm around his shoulders. “There, there, now, don’t cry. You ain’t done nothing wrong. You just take the money and think of it as a loan. When you’re back on top you pay me back. How about that?”
The boy stopped crying, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Can I?”
“Course you can,” she said sweetly. There was an awkward silence; then. “Now you go home and get some sleep, growing boy like you needs his sleep.”
The boy nodded, walked toward the door and stopped. “Thank you Velma,” he said quietly, opened the door and stepped outside.
“You’re welcome Danny Boyd,” she called after him, “and tell your mama I said hello.”
copyright 2006
Jun 23 2007
I followed you
with camera
and ever-roaming eye.
You flew away
on guilded wings
as if you owned the sky.
I, patient in
the sunshine
waited for your return.
In dappled light
and sweet greenery
your secret golden urn.
When the time came
to lumber to my feet
and for me to get along.
You swooped right in
on the gentle wind
and finished nature’s song.
copyright 2007
Jun 20 2007
What a piggy
I do be
I ate up all
put before me
Salt, pepper
and butter too
anything
everything
All for you (me)
Now I’m sorry
my belly aches
I knew better than
to eat that cake
copyright 2007
Jun 18 2007
Green tomatoes wait
glorious globes born of earth
dream of red glory.
copyright 2007
Jun 16 2007
Dear Dad,
You’ve been gone a long time now. I still miss you. Obviously. We were the best of friends. Two peas in a pod. I was the chip off the old block. Much to Mom’s dismay. But maybe she didn’t really mind that much. Maybe secretly it made her proud that I loved you so. Maybe it assured her that I would grow up to be my own self - my own me.
So many things remind me of you. The early morning smell of coffee, deep and rich. Eyes, the color of the sky, backlit with sunshine. Strong, competent hands that know how to make things and fix things and hold onto things. A wink, a nod, that twinkle that says, “I understand.”
My memories aren’t the story or the words but the things that held me captive. That goofy grin of yours that I stole and made my own. Your proud exclamation that you were a hillbilly. The crook I snuggled into when I was tired or scared. The sips of beer I got for being ‘your girl.’ The collection of bows and arrows and rifles that hung on your wall. CB radios and old cars. Cowboy art and solving puzzles. You ground steel for a living but sowed seeds of curiosity in your kids. Your wisdom. Your kindness. Your papa-bear gruffness that could never hide your heart. All now, part of my heart, my being.
I just want to say, thanks - for always being there -for being my dad, my cowboy, my friend. For never giving up on me.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
All my love,
Sarah
Jun 10 2007
I remember rain. Lots of rain. Endless rain. It was good for reading books, baking cookies, watching movies and napping.
Tapping at my window, while I slept, it proved that I held some small piece of real estate in the world. A minute corner with my name on it. I could let go of it and dream for a while. Knowing it would be there when I returned.
A piece of gray. Mist and vapor, blurry views and shivers. I pulled my robe around me tighter, as though that would keep out the chill. But the chill came from inside, from some deep and dark place that never warmed, that never calmed. If only the sun would show itself, I would feel safe.
I picked this place for its beauty and remoteness. Because it was surrounded by woods and wild flowers - celebrated by squirrels and skunks and badgers and birds. I could walk for hours without ever seeing another soul. I could let the dog out to adventure without worrying about cars and traffic, cruel neighbor children or anything more serious than his being skunked.
But the rain didn’t stop - and how it soaked through to the core and left its chill to invade every living thing. The trees bent like gumby dolls trying to embrace it. The sky filled with it and liquified the ground beneath its relentless assault. Pots caught the drips as they wept from the rafters. The damp spread like varicose veins throughout my little farmhouse and ensnared it in its web of wet, dreary gray.
Turning up the thermostat only made the damp warm and steamy. I put poker to the fire and the flames spurted and sputtered. I needed more firewood - my last log had been sacrificed to the fire.
Mulroy, my golden retriever, followed anxiously as I pulled on rubber boots and threw my slicker over my robe. I sighed. I didn’t want to go out there. The bruised sky, angered and violent, dared anyone to defy her.
“Come on, boy.” I opened the door and cursed the sheets of water separating me from my wood. My source of warmth and solace. It was nestled in the shed, under a bright blue tarp and probably dryer than I was. An easy walk on a cool evening. A mere fifty feet from where I stood. But I could barely make out its shape through the vaporous curtain that the air had become.
I put a leash on Mulroy, hoping he would lead me to the shed rather than drag me through the mud. Perhaps I should have reconsidered. Should have listened to the nag in my head. But I shook off my doubts and plunged ahead with Mulroy. I would be soaked by the time I returned, but I would have in my possession the holy grail of lonely, rainy nights in the country. Wood. The source of all warmth and safety. The embers of life.
Delighted, my dear Mulroy galloped like a randy pony in the middle of it all. Puddles and mud flew into oblivion in every direction beneath our stomp and jump. I tugged on his leash to rein him in and help me to the shed, but Mulroy was too joyous an animal to ignore the adventure.
Several slips and mud successfully oozed into my boots and we made it to the shed. It was colder and damper in the shed than the house and I worried it was all for naught. The wood would smoke and refuse to catch but I was there and so was it - the choice had been made.
I had no flashlight or lantern, just the thinnest fingers of grey light through the open door. I threw back the tarp to get at my treasure and a plump rat leapt out and we shrieked at each other. Mulroy barked and took chase after the varmint as the leash slid through my wet and frozen fingers. “Damn it! Mulroy!” I peered through the open doorway and saw nothing but the sheets of water that pummeled the earth. “Where are you? Mulroy!” A distant bark, my only answer.
“Fine!” I gathered the driest logs into my carrier. “If he wants to get soaked to the bone in order to chase a damned rat, then fine!” I was mad at myself for being there. I should have just let the heater do its job, as poorly as it did, at least I wouldn’t be soaked and shivering and trying to figure out how to carry more wood than I was able to the house. Without getting it wet. “You’re out of your mind, Georgia. Just forget it and go back to the house.”
But my stubborn streak wouldn’t hear of it. No, I went for wood and I would return with wood. Period. I spied the wheel barrel behind the many rakes and tools I was convinced I needed once, but languished in the shed without notice. An annoying reminder that I’d never organized as I’d resolved to do countless times. Moving the tools only succeeded in wedging me between the wall and the stacks of everything else I had crammed into the shed. With a grunt, I wrenched the wheel barrel free. Thunk, went the wood. “That should do it.” I was proud of myself for my ingenuity. Soon, the fire would be blazing and I’d be reading my trashy novel and eating popcorn. I could taste the buttery, salty crunch in my mouth with the thought of it.
There wasn’t enough room to turn around with the heavy load, I would need to back out. I tugged with one hand and pushed open the door with the other. Easy does it. Ignore the thunder of the rain, just keep moving . . .
I heard a creak or a crack - was it Mulroy, back to help? And everything was falling down and the sound, oh the sound was so painful, so loud . . . crashing all around me and on top of me. And everything went black.
***
I opened my eyes but could not see. My brain told my arm to move but it could not. It was cold and wet and I could not move, could not feel anything except a weight . . . a pressure. “Mulroy,” I called with all of my voice but it was a hoarse whisper. The rain crawled over me and tortured with icy hands. And the world went black again. And I felt the overwhelming urge to let go. To join the blackness that surrounded me and dive in. Like a warm, cottony embrace that whispered of comfort and safety. My eyes popped open - and the heat of fear surged through me. I was not going to die in a shed, on a rainy afternoon, alone and helpless.
“Open your eyes, Georgia,” I told myself. I looked around, willing my vision to adjust to the shades of black and grey. I tried to see my arms and legs, to connect with them and get them to help me. Ah . . . my left hand wiggled. “Good. Now, where are you? ” I talked to myself as though a drill sergeant to a recruit. My vision slowly adjusted. And I could see some light above me - the source of the cold wet - part of the roof had collapsed and I was buried beneath it. Though not all of me, my left side was wedged beneath the wheel barrel, which was probably the only thing that kept me from being crushed. The door was behind my head and closed - I would have to inch back toward the door to try to escape. I took the deepest breath I could and willed my body backwards. “Ah!” The pain. Blinding. White.
My ears strained for Mulroy’s bark or whimper. “Mulroy,” I croaked. Rain, drumming on everything it hit. Another deep breath and push back. Stars this time and a shock seared through my body. “Again!” I commanded myself. I was not going to die beneath a collapsed shed in the rain. I would not stand for it. If I could only wrench my left arm free. Pull. Pain. Tug. More pain. Scream my head off, let the pain out and tug some more. Tears of fear and frustration raced down my face and joined the rain. I tried again and the blackness came.
From a distant place I heard him. A whimper, a cry, scratching at the door. “Mulroy? Here boy.” The bark came then, loud and welcomed. “Here boy, come to mama,” I egged him on. “Here boy,” I said again and again, sending him into a frenzy of need to get to me. He barked, scratched, whined. I heard his big snout taking in the scent of me, his mistress, his safety. Big paws thwapping at the door, nosing at the door, trying to get in. “Here boy,” I kept calling. “Come here. Here, Mulroy, here!”
And then I felt it, his nose on my face, his slobbering tongue licking my hair, my eyes, my cheeks. “Good boy,” I wept. “Good, good boy!” I had to get my arm free. I had to find the leash. I had to! “Ahhhh!” I screamed and it was free. My breath, shallow rushed in and out of my lungs. My heart pounded louder than the rain. Slow it down, had to slow it down. Focus!
“Good boy, Mulroy,” I reached for his snout and he nuzzled my hand. “Good boy,” I murmured. My fingers crawled down his neck for the collar and found it. They held fast, fearful of letting go - but I needed the leash. Where was it? My fingers were so numb I barely knew what the clutched. “Good boy,” I said to soothe myself, “good boy.” Slowly, I loosened my grip on the collar, tentatively seeking the leash, the strong leather leash that would be my lifeline. Metal, cold and brilliant made contact with my fingers, the connection to the leash and life itself. Yes, I had it! I pulled hard and Mulroy backed up - little. It would work. It might work. It had to work. “Back, Mulroy, back!” My beautiful boy obeyed and I started to move back with him. “Good boy! Good boy!”
He pulled and he pulled. My arm shrieked with pain but I concentrated only on being pulled free from the pile of wood and rain that trapped me. An inch at a time, the pressure lifted, my right arm free I reached over my head to join my left and held on during the white light of agony that surged. “Back, Mulroy, back,” I said endlessly. My boy always obeying, struggling but relentless. He would not leave me. He would die with me if he had to because he would not leave me. And with the final tug, I was free of the wreckage and I lie there, crying and laughing and unable to move.
Crash. The shed took its final leap and collapsed. A pile of sodden wood and tin that could no longer fight the rain. But could Mulroy, wet and shivering pull me the rest of the way home? A mere fifty feet that seemed impossibly far. I had to roll over on my stomach and crawl. If I could crawl and Mulroy could pull, we might make it. We might get home.
The sky opened up again and poured down on us. Lightening crackled and thunder boomed as though the earth would break open up wide. The pain was lost in the fear and I rolled. “Back, Mulroy,” I screamed in the roar. “Back!” He pulled and I crawled and the mud threatened to eat us both and swallow up what was left of us. “Back, boy, back!” And the blackness came again.
“Georgia?” the voice was soft and melodic. My eyes fluttered open and I felt the warmth of the sun soak into me. My heart soared and the fear fell away. “Georgia?”
I could not see for the sunshine in my eyes. “Who’s there?” My eyes could not see.
“Stay with me,” the voice cooed.
“Where am I?”
“Stay with me and you will be happy,” the voice came again - but different.
“Who are you? Where are you? I can’t see . . . ”
“You must stay with me,” the voice lost its benevolence. “Stay with me!”
My eyes opened to the gray and rain. So cold and afraid. Mulroy and I lie on the porch. He nestled against me to share his body heat. The rain thundered on the roof of the porch but did not pour down on us. We were home. Almost. I lie still and tried to feel my body. Was it a broken, useless heap or could I move? I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything but the cold and wet and numb that had been mine for . . . how long? How long had I been trapped? How long had it taken us to get here?
Deep breath, get up on all fours. Collapse to the floor. Another deep breath and will myself to my knees. “Here boy,” I whispered and he came to me, crying and cold. I could lean on him and he would let me. My hand found the doorknob and turned and we crawled inside. We were home. We were safe.
Kisses are a better fate than wisdom.
—
