La Habra 1957

                                                                                   

            One of the advantages of being a nine year old tom boy was being fearless. Okay, wrong word, but since this is my story, I will be fearless. Another advantage I had was being born on the wrong side of the tracks. I didn’t know it was the wrong side until I was in the fifth grade and a classmate told me. My neighborhood was called “The Camp.” I remember, sort of, that it was an army base at one time. The houses were made of tin and ours was painted Pea Green, maybe that was an army thing. The tract was surrounded by fields and the back field held more delights than can be imagined… Horses. Of course there was a fence around the horses and signs posted that read “Do Not Trespass,” but we didn’t mind that. We didn’t mind it almost every day.

            We could hear the horse’s neighs’ a block away as they lined the fence waiting for their treats of apples and sugar cubes. We didn’t have saddles and bridles, since we weren’t supposed to be riding the horses in the first place, so we had to ride them bareback. This presented the problem of getting on top of these magnificent animals. This problem was solved with some planning and careful timing.  My favorite horse was the one standing closest to the fence. I don’t know why we didn’t just use the gate, maybe it was locked and anyway the fence was easily climbed.  I had to be careful because sometimes I would get one leg across the horses back and he would walk away. There I would be dangling between the fence and the horse, and you know the horse won. If I was lucky, I missed the pile of warm manure the horse left behind and I still wonder if the horse didn’t plan for me to fall in the soft pile, I mean, his timing was perfect! Once on the horses back he would sometimes just stand there, but sometimes he would actually start walking, to my delight, around the paddock.

            The Miniature horses were easier to get on, but not as nice…I got bucked off every time. Bucked isn’t really the right word. When I knew he was getting mad, I would stand on tip toes and walk backwards as fast as I could, because he would kick up his heels, and getting hit with those hooves was a hard lesson learned. I loved walking around the corral, the smell of hay, the aroma of sweat, (mine and the horses) and I even liked the scent of manure. There wasn’t a better way to spend a summer day even though it was on the wrong side of the tracks. But really, how far on the wrong side could it have been, when we had hills to climb, horses to ride and Bastunchury Lake to fish in?

Another Ordinary Day

                                                                                                                       

          Lightning streaked across the black sky illuminating the old Eucalyptus. Wind swept through the tree thrashing the branches as though they were twigs, forcing them to the ground, beating the earth until the tempest past. The shaken limbs regained their height, trembling after the impact. Frank tiled his head back finishing the last bit of scotch, welcoming the warm liquid as it caressed his throat. He refilled his glass before returning to his chair.

          “Wish they would get home,”Frank whispered.                                                                            

 Frank expected his wife and children any time, Christmas was only days away and his wife had told him she needed to pick up a few things. She left dinner in the oven, so he headed for the kitchen. He wasn’t used to eating alone and if it hadn’t been for the rain and thunder, he didn’t think he would have been able to stand all the quiet, although he was always complaining about how much noise the kids made.                                                                                                                                                        

          “I guess I’m never satisfied,” He chuckled.

           Leaving the dishes on the table it occurred to him he should probably rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. 

         “I’ll get to it later.”                                                                                                                          

            He went back to the den where a stack of paperwork waited on the table. 

           “I should probably get that finished. What the hell, I’ve got tomorrow.”

          Frank freshened his drink, grabbed the newspaper then relaxed his tall frame into his favorite chair. There was an article about a drunk driver killing some pedestrians and Frank was glad he didn’t drink and drive, well, not lately. Sometimes, it couldn’t be helped. Like that time he had to pick up his twelve year old daughter, Amy, from school on the spur of the moment. He told his wife, Jenny, he hadn’t been drinking and not to worry.

           “I wonder if Amy ever told her mother I made her drive home. Must not have or there would have been hell to pay. That little Amy sure is a trooper.”

          Frank awoke with a start; the storm had passed leaving an eerie silence. He forgot where he was for a moment. He waited till his head stopped spinning then picked up his glass of scotch.                                                                                               

        “What would I do without you to get me through the day?”                                                 

        Frank was well aware of how his wife felt about his scotch consumption. He didn’t drink, not that much, when they first got married, but what with the kids and the business it seemed he was relying on it more and more every day. He had promised Jenny six months ago he would stop, but hadn’t kept his word.                                                                                                                 

     “I guess she’s gotten used to it.” Frank knew he had everything under control, including his drinking. He didn’t drink in front of the kids and his liquor cabinet was always locked. Jenny hadn’t complained for quite awhile.       

         “I sure married a great woman.”

          Frank wandered through the empty rooms. “Jenny keeps a nice house.” He past Amy’s room and noticed the big teddy bear he had given her wasn’t in its usual place on the bed. He opened her dresser drawers… empty. He ran to his son’s room… empty.  Panic swept over him as he ran to his bedroom. Everything looked normal. Walking quickly to his wife’s dresser he yanked the drawers open throwing them to the floor…empty. The noise in his head clapped like thunder. Frank sat on the bed until he could breathe, staring into the dark liquid he held in his two shaking hands. Forcing himself to his feet he walked slowly to the kitchen. Dropping two ice cubes into his glass he groaned,

           “I guess I don’t have everything under control.”

Penny and Grandma

                                                  

            A green pasture was the only separation between Penny and her grandma. Dainty yellow flowers bounced on slender stems across the field. Penny ran happily through the clover, jumping over small dirt mounds and gopher holes. She was surprised and delighted when she came to a mud puddle. Quickly taking off her sandals she stepped gently into the middle of the puddle, pressing her feet deep in the mud. She liked the way the mud felt. Little flat dark brown curly ribbons came up between her toes. She made an imprint of her hand in the firm mud around the edges of the puddle to bring to her grandma. Lightly tapping her muddy feet in the water, she rinsed them before putting her sandals back on.

            Penny easily climbed the five steps leading to her grandma’s front door. She sat down on the first step and removed her sandals, setting her hand print on the porch railing. When it was dry she would give it to her grandma.

            “Hello, my sweet Penny. I’ve been waiting for you. How would you like to make some oatmeal cookies?”

            “I love you, Grandma.” Penny put her seven year old hand into her grandma’s and they walked into the kitchen. Penny dragged the green step stool to the counter and climbed up.

            “I’m almost as tall as you Grandma.”

            “Yes, you are pumpkin.”

            Penny’s grandma always smelled of cinnamon. Her long gray hair was twisted into a bun and sat high on her head. Her apron had flour dust across the front and didn’t quite wrap all the way around, so there were flour handprints on her blue house dress. Grandma always wore an apron and a house dress and always had a dish towel over her left shoulder. Her house always smelled of bread, or pies, or cookies. It was the best place in the world to be.

            Grandma separated the cookie dough into two bowls. One bowl would have raisons and walnuts and the other would have only raisons. Penny carefully dropped the dough from a spoon onto the cookie sheet trying to make each one the same size. Her grandma whispered.

            “It doesn’t matter if they aren’t perfect, they will taste delicious.”

            Grandma poured two glasses of milk and she and Penny sat on the front porch eating warm cookies. Penny noticed her grandma’s large wrinkled hands. Blue veins showed through her thin skin. Her gold wedding band was worn thin from 50 years of wear. Penny set her cookie and milk on the table and crawled into her grandma’s lap. Rocking gently grandma held Penny close and sang sweet lullabies, the same songs she had sung to Penny’s mom, the same songs Penny would sing to her own children. Penny opened her sleepy eyes and looked across the field. Someone was walking toward them. Still nestled in her grandma’s arms she waited until the figure came into focus, then climbed down and stood with her grandma on the porch. Penny wrapped her arms around her grandma’s legs in a big hug, then ran down the steps into the field shouting.

            “Mommy, we made cookies!”

            Penny’s mom knelt down gathering her to her breast before picking her up and cradling Penny in her strong arms.

            ‘”Mommy, Grandma knows all our songs.”

            Penny giggled as her mom snuggled her neck.                                                                

           “Of course she does, my sweet.”

           

           

Ten Do's and Don'ts

                                                                            

      Remember this. No matter how much you do, no matter how much you give, no matter how much you love, you won’t make everyone happy, and that’s okay. You do the best you can and that’s all you need to do.

                                                                                                                    

1.       Don’t forget God.  Don’t wait until your teenager comes home with their hair dyed green before you re-connect with your Maker. You’re going to need all the kneel time you can get.

2.       Don’t hit your children.  They will soon be able to return the favor. Remember it’s okay to say no to the little dickens.

3.       Do live within your means. It’s actually alright for children to share a bedroom and a bath. With bunk beds you can really pack them in.

4.       Do smile upon your children’s sweet faces. We are the mirror in which they see the world. Will their world frown or smile on them?

5.       Don’t have children just because your mother wants grandkids. Unless she is willing to raise them and you get to visit once a week.

6.       Don’t forget to write it down. I can’t remember what it was at the moment, but I’m sure it will come to me later.

7.       Don’t be afraid to be afraid. No one else knows your stomach is in knots.

8.       Do learn to make bread. I mean the bread you eat, not the bread you spend. There is nothing better than the aroma of homemade bread fresh from the oven.

9.       Do have a cleaning lady. Someone to come in at least every two weeks to cleanup. I mean come on, how much are we expected to do?

10.   Do plant Sterling Roses and Double Delights. They are fragrant and lovely and will bring you joy.

A Perfect Summers Day

Susan felt it surround her like a warm sweater fresh from the dryer, that sense or smell of something in the air. She had to get into her new red convertible and drive with the radio blasting. She raced toward a feeling of well being and strength. Stopping at a red light the car next to her had their radio blasting too, she changed the channel so their music blended, floating on the perfect air. The other driver smiled at her as he sped off.

          “How nice,” she thought as she turned toward the mountain.                                                                                                                                             

 She hugged the center line of the curving road slowing just enough to prevent driving over the cliff. She had to resist the urge to close her eyes and tilt her head back, letting the sun and wind kiss her face. She felt young and vibrant and free. Halfway up the mountain Susan pulled over driving as close to the edge as she could and wondered what it would feel like to fly. She left the radio on and sat on the hood of her car. She was mesmerized by the sky’s clear pure beauty. Lying back, she let the music carry her.

          “How I love the clarinet,” she whispered as she listened to the ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ and silently thanked George Gershwin for writing it. 

          “I wish I had learned to play an instrument,” she mused. “There are a lot of things I wish I had done.”

          Susan pretended she was on vacation and flying over the ocean to a far away place. “I can practically feel the movement of the plane,” she thought. Perfect clouds formed perfect shapes in her perfect sky.

          “This is wonderful. I love that I have such a good imagination.”

          Susan sat up, keeping her eyes on the pure white clouds that seemed to float just out of reach.

          “Oh my,” she whispered, as the car slowly went over the cliff. “I guess I forgot to set the emergency brake.” She pressed her back against the windshield. “So this is how it feels to fly.” Susan stretched her arms wide as she floated on her pure clean air.

          The policeman reached in and turned off the radio as it blasted ‘Islands in the Sun.’ No one could figure out how she stayed on the hood of her car as it careened down the mountain, and even stranger, the smile that was on her face. The paramedics gently laid her on the gurney, then spread a sheet over her, pulling the straps tight across her chest. As they lifted the gurney into the ambulance they heard,

          “WEEEEE”.

          “Didn’t you check her pulse?” the doctor asked.

          “I thought you did.”

          “She isn’t dead.”

          “Of course she’s dead. Who could survive that fall?”

          “She didn’t really fall, she rode down the mountain.”

          “It’s probably just the last of the air escaping her lungs. Lift the sheet and take her pulse.”

          “You lift the sheet and take her pulse, you’re the doctor.”

          “You’re as much of a doctor as I am.”

          “Not really. You can operate, I can’t.”

          “Then operate that sheet and take her pulse. We need to know if she goes to the morgue or the hospital.”

          From under the sheet they heard a low moan,

          “Take me to the hospital. My back hurts a little.”

Under The Ashes

         Strong winds pushed the billowing black smoke across the dry hills, flames licked at the heels of the dark cloud. The horizon blazed in colors of orange and red, transforming the sun from its customary bright yellow to flaming crimson. From her front porch Betty watched as ash fell softly on her green lawn leaving black snow covered grass and shrubs.

            “It’s far away I don’t think we’re in any danger,” Betty whispered to herself, but just to be on the safe side she got her important papers together and set them by the front door. She walked through the house admiring family pictures she had collected through the years remembering the day they were taken, the children so young, her blond hair not streaked with gray. Her old Labrador lay on his bed on the patio, his black fur covered with a blanket of ash. The pool was dark and still with a thick layer of dead pine needles floating on the once blue water.  She was worried the giant Redwood might catch fire if live ash fell, so she walked to the back of the property to make sure it was alright, (too far from the house to hear the phone.) She was thinking about the coyotes, rabbits and squirrels that would make their way down the mountain, unless they got burned along with all the trees. The air felt hot as though the sun was too close to the earth. She could feel the heat on her back. The smoke was getting heavier. Her lungs ached with each breath. Betty had called her daughter to pick up the baby early. She didn’t want him breathing in all this smoke. She shivered in the heat as a sense of doom swept over her like a cold wind… the hair on her arms stood on end. She turned on her heels back toward the house in time to hear the sound of shattering glass. Flames danced on the roof, smoke poured from broken windows, fire made its way through her home seemingly joyous with the new found fuel.                       

 Betty took a towel from the fence and wet it in the pool covering her head as she ran. Holding her breath she ran blindly through the burning house led by instinct and memory to the

baby’s room. The first floor was in flames, but hadn’t reached the stairs; Betty cleared two steps at a time till she reached the landing. The door to the baby’s room was hot as she pushed it open.

Grabbing a blanket she wet it in the tub before wrapping her grandson and heading back toward the stairs. She stood at the landing and watched as the flames curled around the railings. It was too far to jump; she would have to run through the fire. She ran back and got another blanket wet to wrap around herself then went as fast as she could down the burning stairs. Her dog was barking wildly at the back door. She couldn’t see through the smoke, but ran toward the familiar sound. Her eyes watered, her lungs were empty; she knew she had to get out fast.  Her faithful old dog continued to bark as she made her way to the patio door. She could feel the flames crawling up the edge of the blanket; she ran to the pool and jumped in rising quickly then rushing to the far side of the property. Her grandson coughed as she laid him on the ground quickly removing the blanket. Tears streamed down his soft cheeks. Betty lifted him to her shoulder worried he had inhaled too much smoke, but he opened his eyes and gave her a big smile.

            “We made it little one.” Tears of relief spilled over her face as she smothered the baby in kisses. “We’ll be okay.”                                                                                                                         

 The wind had changed, moving the fire down hill. Betty held the baby tight against her breast as she watched the rest of her house fall leaving black timbers, hot embers and ruin.  Squirrels jumped from the Redwood to the pepper tree chattering a warning as they made their way through the branches. Soon all was still.  Betty stared across the flat space where her house once stood, where roses once bloomed, memories were made and children raised.  A coyote approached and rested on the other side of the chain link fence panting in the heat. 

Each sat in silence, not knowing where to go or what to do. Her life was saved by a barking dog, the coyote’s by instinct.  Betty waited until she saw her daughter’s car barreling up the street screeching to a halt at the blackened driveway. Betty and the coyote stood facing each other before each turned, walking slowly in opposite directions. They would both start over; both make new homes, new lives and new memories. The coyote stopped before he reached the end of the fence turning his head to face Betty, a question in his sad eyes.                                                                                                                                                   

“I know how you feel, old boy. You’ll be okay.”

Can't Trust a Monday

             I had hoped to be settled down by the time I reached the Coffee Shack, but I was still fuming as I stood in the doorway looking for a vacant chair. The place was busy for a Monday morning, there was only one seat left at the small counter.

                                                                                                                           

             “I guess this will have to do,” I thought as I squeezed in. My mind still racing from the drive over.

            “That guy nearly ran me off the road,” I muttered as I slipped my sweater and purse over the chair. Thinking better of it, I moved my purse between my feet. “Better safe than sorry,” I whispered. The man next to me turned slightly.

            “Yes, I know, sometimes I talk to myself.”                                                                               

             He didn’t say a word, just grunted and went back to his paper. Annoyance shot out from him like electricity.                                                                                                         

           “Well, excuuuse me,” I thought.

            “Grunt.”

            “Damn, I have to stop talking to myself.”

            “Grunt.”

            “Did I say that out loud?”

            “Grunt.”

            Holding my hand over my mouth I thought,

             “Do I need medical attention?” The man gave no response so I knew I hadn’t said that out loud!

            My coffee was delivered and I folded my newspaper into a small square, so I could work the crossword puzzle. The man bumped my shoulder as he refolded his paper.

            “Don’t worry about me,” I thought, “I’ll just scoot over.”

            “Grunt.”

            “Damn.”

            “Grunt.”

            I brought my coffee cup to my mouth to make sure I didn’t speak out loud and thought,

            “I have got to stop talking to myself.” I was surprised when my coffee bubbled under my lips. The man didn’t grunt, so I knew I was okay as I thought,

            “So I blow bubbles in my coffee, I’m sure that’s not so odd.”

            “Grunt.”

            I kept my eyes on my crossword and my arms tight to my sides, but I could feel his eyes on me. I’d had just about enough for one morning, so I turned to give him a piece of my mind, what was left of it anyway, and watched as he picked my sweater up off the floor and hung it back on the chair.

             “Thank you,” I said.

            “Grunt.”                                                                                                                       

             Getting a better look at him, I thought I had seen him before.

            “Do you drive a black BMW?” I asked tartly. I was sure he was the man who almost ran me off the road. My eyes were tiny slits as I glared at him.

            “Grunt.”

            “I’m talking to you!”                                                                                                                

            He laid his paper down, “I wasn’t sure you were talking to me or to yourself,” He said with a twinkle in his eye.

            “Well, do you?” My hands were starting to sweat, but I wasn’t going to back down.

            “Sorry, you were between me and my morning coffee. How about I buy you some breakfast?”  Surprisingly, my mind was a blank.

            “Accept my apology over some bacon and eggs?”  He added.

             My brain went all fuzzy as I pondered, “Your eyes are the deepest blue.” A slow smile spread across his face.

             “Damn,” I thought. His smile deepened. I could feel my face redden. Not wanting to embarrass myself any further I bit down on my tongue, held my lips tightly together and thought,

            “I’ll bet you’re used to always getting your own way.” He raised his left eyebrow like a dark brown question mark rising above his tanned skin. Keeping my lips tightly closed, I picked up my crossword puzzle, grabbed my pencil and turning my back to him I boldly replied,

            “Grunt.”