Once I opened the door, I knew there would be no turning back. Whether into the light or dark would be conjecture, speculation, a matter for future discussions on the perspective of choices. Closing the door was something else. How many doors had I closed, never to open them again? Shutting in the light, not letting it see the natural light of day, I’d leave it in the dark forever. Friends lost through neglect of past situations remained in the grey areas of my memory.
“I’m tired of waiting,” I murmured at the threshold. “It’s gone on too long. It’s time.” My voice drifted outward across the expanse of perfectly manicured lawn. No one was in hearing distance just the growing things that inhabit any lawn some visible, some invisible, and burrowers microscopic to our regular cursory glances like thoughts of little importance going about their business undetected.
Later others would probably remark, “She rarely spoke about it.” Determined to find the reason why, they might brainstorm baffled by aberrant behavior of someone they thought they knew so well. In reality they only had seen the surface not at all aware of what lurked below or not wanting to recognize what could be within them as well. “What caused her to do it? She had it all.” I knew the comments and questions would continue for awhile until as in all things, some other preoccupation came along to occupy their time and minds. Memories would cloud the meaning of my departure. “Business as usual” - all the phrases of non commitment, society uses to buffer themselves against understanding, true understanding. The kind of truth that includes the breath and depth of one’s being, leaving nothing unturned in its path until knowledge fills the void of an empty meaningless life. Peace settles over one then. A new level of spiritual attainment is achieved leaving others in its wake.
“You’d think I’d learn” I descended the stairs feeling the polished brass handrail warmed by the sun. “Why do I trust and believe that crap about inherent good. What bull. Inherent shit is more like it.”
“It’s in your best interest.” he’d said. Again replaying the tone of his voice in my mind, I focused on the memory of his face and watched the way the words slipped soothingly out of his sensuous mouth while his eyes betrayed his actions. Walking toward the car, thoughts of the many phrases, trite and meaningless, he’d plied me with. Thinking he’d won, that I had acquiesced to his wishes, he left me alone for a time. But I had choices. There was always a choice, dark or light, shades of grey.
Never again will I grace this estate with my presence. “How dare he think I wouldn’t know about it?” The indiscretions, the lies, the little manipulative tricks he thought would cover his trail. Behind my back, he would encourage others to think as he did. That I was the one who caused his problems. How transparent his actions were. Who could I trust? Who could I believe? Sorting it all out on my own I knew it was best to leave. Starting my life again, I’ll renew my spirit by a thorough cleansing, seek to focus and balance my life force, and release the painful memories endured with him.
Get thee to a nunnery; well it was close to that. The Retreat was far removed from this life style. Wait until his family sees what I have done. To be a proverbial fly on the wall, but I’ve had enough. I don’t need to see their reactions; it was after all so predictable. Money could buy peace of mind ... especially when you gave it all away.
Driving down the expansive tree lined drive, congratulations were in order. “I did learn. I learned to let go. Let them battle among themselves to no avail.” The attorneys’ assurances that the trust was airtight made it all perfect. The conservancy, museum and foundation would stand against all who would try to destroy it. I’m free, no more waiting. In opening that door, my burden was gone. My journey toward the light has begun.
EMM 5/12/98
rev 5/19/98
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Monday, October 19, 2009
Mr Johnson's Demise
She was being smug today. I hate the cliché about the cat who swallowed the canary but every time she spoke I expected cheery yellow feathers to puff out of her mouth to float gently into the air. Her hot pink lips were blindingly glazed. The desk lamp intensified the glare. The interview was almost complete; she had been brought in for a second round of questioning. You know the theory; the one who stands to gain the most when a husband or wife is murdered is the remaining spouse. Her artificial lashes flickered open and shut over eyes the color of fresh grass sprouting in spring. Obviously enhanced by contacts, the shade of green was too bright for hot pink lip gloss that was puckered into a pout.
“I told you everything I know… I’m really going to be late for the salon. I have to look my best for the wake tonight.” sighing she added, “I just haven’t had a moment to fix myself up since it happened.”
She emphasized the pout by tapping a perfectly manicured inch and a half pointer fingernail on my desk. The florid hot pink clashed with the olive drab surface of the metal topped standard issue police desk. I wondered how much she spent each week to maintain this perfected look. How many hours went into her beauty regime? How many people at the salon were kept busy meeting her quest for this perfect look?
His eyes drifted slightly to the right where the photo of his wife resided. Wind tossed hair, makeup free, resplendent in a flannel shirt standing in front of their tent. Some comparison, his wife would no sooner waste her time by allowing others to manipulate her outward appearance. His eyes shifted back to the mask before him with its cajoling voice repeating…
“Look… I told you again and again where I was. Now I really must go.”
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Johnson. We’ll be sure to inform you of any new developments in your husband’s death but like wise if you think of something else… please be sure to call us.” Extending his hand with his card, she reached across the distance to snap it free. Her high gloss nails closed onto the business card with the speed of a viper striking its prey.
He watched her retreating back saunter down the aisle. Actually so did half the staff… that is the male half. Her trim figure fully encased in a leather jumpsuit teetered on impressive high heals. The effect was hormonally electric; he could practically taste the testosterone level in the office.
“Get back to work….” He called to bring them back to focus. “Richards, what’s new? Bring me what you have.” “Unreasonably tight alibi, not unlike that leather outfit she had on, sir.”
“Well, I guessed it would be but some where there is something to expose… I don’t mean that surgically enhanced cleavage either.”
“Got you, its all to antiseptic: too obvious. No one can know such exact times.”
“Its definitely an inside job. No one saw anything unusual other than the usual spat before he left for the office. I can’t imagine what I’d do if Elaine even went once a week to the salon. Criminy, that woman practically lives there or at the plastic surgeon’s office.”
Maybe… maybe it’s just too obvious. Maybe the answer is staring us right in the face.”
“Well check with the limo driver and salon owner again. Maybe she slipped a fast one over on them as well. The insurance payout let alone the estate value is more than enough reason for temptation but her “remodeling” surgeries must have been costly.”
“Yah, not on my pay check...” Richards turned to follow the scent that still lingered from the expensive perfume that still hung heavily throughout the investigation unit office.
Picking up the phone, Adam punched the number for the Johnson attorney. He needed to know about any recent will revisions. Whatever would nail her for her husband’s murder was right out in plain sight… he just knew if you got past the layers of make-up, designer clothes, priceless jewels, and surgery enhancement.
“No, Mr. Johnson hadn’t recently revised his will. There was no pre-nup agreement, no hint of divorce, no legal problems. Look detective, everyone knew the old man had a bad heart. Christ, he was 81. How long do you think he could keep up with that living Barbie Doll he married five years ago?”
“Well how about the benefits to his first wife or the children? Heck they’re older than their step mother… must be some bad blood there.”
“All that was settled years ago, that’s what is so odd. He set up the boys as heirs to his corporate business. They’ve been running it with little advice for ten years. His daughter is successful in her own right as an artist with a designer line of clothing, house wares, original art that was backed originally by her father. The children seemed to have no bad feelings toward Nanci as their father’s last fling with passion in his old age. Hell their mother has been married three times and the last husband is quite young. Afraid I can’t help you make a motive type connection her from my office.”
“Thanks, attorney Kingly… Just let me know if something comes up that strikes you as odd.”
“As I said my client lived a long full life. What’s it matter now that he’s gone?”
“Someone has to pay for the crime attorney. I can’t turn away: murder is murder and someone needs to be brought in.”
Swinging his chair around to face the viewless window he shook his head. Maybe the Johnson attorney was right; the guy was 81. Probably older than I’ll get with the rate of this job stress and high cholesterol; Elaine was right he needed to chill out and eat better. Eyeing the box of doughnuts, he hesitated only for a moment. The jelly started to dribble down his chin, catching it quickly; he licked the glob of raspberry off of his pointer finger.
Something clicked, he visualized Nanci’s perfectly manicured fingernail tapping on his drab desk top. She said she hadn’t gone to the salon since her husband’s death but those nails held nary a nick. Acting on a hunch, he pulled the file folder on the Johnson murder. Flipping through the file, he located the part of the report about his fingernail scraping, the scratches on his neck and incidental fibers. The autopsy indicated the scratches were feline in nature but couldn’t explain a residue of hot pink flecks.
Calling the cell phone number of Nanci Johnson, he received the typical “not within cell area of operation” message. Dialing the mansion, the phone was answered promptly by Mr. Johnson’s man. The question was simple. “Does Nanci have a cat?”
“Mr. Johnson made her give up her cat due to allergies.”
Hanging up, he grabbed his suit coat. The other question would certainly be answered as he expected. That Nanci had been a nail specialist before her fortunate marriage to Mr. Johnson. He was willing to bet she had done her cat’s claws in a matching hot pink. He only hoped that remnants remained… digitalis dipped nail polish most like had speeded the end of eighty one years of life.
3/13/2001
“I told you everything I know… I’m really going to be late for the salon. I have to look my best for the wake tonight.” sighing she added, “I just haven’t had a moment to fix myself up since it happened.”
She emphasized the pout by tapping a perfectly manicured inch and a half pointer fingernail on my desk. The florid hot pink clashed with the olive drab surface of the metal topped standard issue police desk. I wondered how much she spent each week to maintain this perfected look. How many hours went into her beauty regime? How many people at the salon were kept busy meeting her quest for this perfect look?
His eyes drifted slightly to the right where the photo of his wife resided. Wind tossed hair, makeup free, resplendent in a flannel shirt standing in front of their tent. Some comparison, his wife would no sooner waste her time by allowing others to manipulate her outward appearance. His eyes shifted back to the mask before him with its cajoling voice repeating…
“Look… I told you again and again where I was. Now I really must go.”
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Johnson. We’ll be sure to inform you of any new developments in your husband’s death but like wise if you think of something else… please be sure to call us.” Extending his hand with his card, she reached across the distance to snap it free. Her high gloss nails closed onto the business card with the speed of a viper striking its prey.
He watched her retreating back saunter down the aisle. Actually so did half the staff… that is the male half. Her trim figure fully encased in a leather jumpsuit teetered on impressive high heals. The effect was hormonally electric; he could practically taste the testosterone level in the office.
“Get back to work….” He called to bring them back to focus. “Richards, what’s new? Bring me what you have.” “Unreasonably tight alibi, not unlike that leather outfit she had on, sir.”
“Well, I guessed it would be but some where there is something to expose… I don’t mean that surgically enhanced cleavage either.”
“Got you, its all to antiseptic: too obvious. No one can know such exact times.”
“Its definitely an inside job. No one saw anything unusual other than the usual spat before he left for the office. I can’t imagine what I’d do if Elaine even went once a week to the salon. Criminy, that woman practically lives there or at the plastic surgeon’s office.”
Maybe… maybe it’s just too obvious. Maybe the answer is staring us right in the face.”
“Well check with the limo driver and salon owner again. Maybe she slipped a fast one over on them as well. The insurance payout let alone the estate value is more than enough reason for temptation but her “remodeling” surgeries must have been costly.”
“Yah, not on my pay check...” Richards turned to follow the scent that still lingered from the expensive perfume that still hung heavily throughout the investigation unit office.
Picking up the phone, Adam punched the number for the Johnson attorney. He needed to know about any recent will revisions. Whatever would nail her for her husband’s murder was right out in plain sight… he just knew if you got past the layers of make-up, designer clothes, priceless jewels, and surgery enhancement.
“No, Mr. Johnson hadn’t recently revised his will. There was no pre-nup agreement, no hint of divorce, no legal problems. Look detective, everyone knew the old man had a bad heart. Christ, he was 81. How long do you think he could keep up with that living Barbie Doll he married five years ago?”
“Well how about the benefits to his first wife or the children? Heck they’re older than their step mother… must be some bad blood there.”
“All that was settled years ago, that’s what is so odd. He set up the boys as heirs to his corporate business. They’ve been running it with little advice for ten years. His daughter is successful in her own right as an artist with a designer line of clothing, house wares, original art that was backed originally by her father. The children seemed to have no bad feelings toward Nanci as their father’s last fling with passion in his old age. Hell their mother has been married three times and the last husband is quite young. Afraid I can’t help you make a motive type connection her from my office.”
“Thanks, attorney Kingly… Just let me know if something comes up that strikes you as odd.”
“As I said my client lived a long full life. What’s it matter now that he’s gone?”
“Someone has to pay for the crime attorney. I can’t turn away: murder is murder and someone needs to be brought in.”
Swinging his chair around to face the viewless window he shook his head. Maybe the Johnson attorney was right; the guy was 81. Probably older than I’ll get with the rate of this job stress and high cholesterol; Elaine was right he needed to chill out and eat better. Eyeing the box of doughnuts, he hesitated only for a moment. The jelly started to dribble down his chin, catching it quickly; he licked the glob of raspberry off of his pointer finger.
Something clicked, he visualized Nanci’s perfectly manicured fingernail tapping on his drab desk top. She said she hadn’t gone to the salon since her husband’s death but those nails held nary a nick. Acting on a hunch, he pulled the file folder on the Johnson murder. Flipping through the file, he located the part of the report about his fingernail scraping, the scratches on his neck and incidental fibers. The autopsy indicated the scratches were feline in nature but couldn’t explain a residue of hot pink flecks.
Calling the cell phone number of Nanci Johnson, he received the typical “not within cell area of operation” message. Dialing the mansion, the phone was answered promptly by Mr. Johnson’s man. The question was simple. “Does Nanci have a cat?”
“Mr. Johnson made her give up her cat due to allergies.”
Hanging up, he grabbed his suit coat. The other question would certainly be answered as he expected. That Nanci had been a nail specialist before her fortunate marriage to Mr. Johnson. He was willing to bet she had done her cat’s claws in a matching hot pink. He only hoped that remnants remained… digitalis dipped nail polish most like had speeded the end of eighty one years of life.
3/13/2001
Vegetable Barley Soup
One on my early forays into the art of cooking on my own was a big batch of vegetable barley soup. Checking over the recipes led me to believe that it wasn’t a big deal. Vegetables, broth and seasonings were all that was needed. I even did the old fashioned way with beef bones slowly simmered for the stock. The wafting aroma carried by the stove vent to the chill outside air must have had the neighborhood hounds chafing at their chains.
Saturday morning chores were completed while the stock cooled. Teaching art full time left the weekends for cleaning and cooking which was normally accomplished by noon. Various pursuits filled the remaining free time, but back to the soup. The cooled broth was skimmed on schedule. Disposal of the fat proceeded to the vegetable preparation. By the time my laundry was retrieved from the basement, the vegetables and quick cooking barley were finished cooking.
This soup was for Sunday dinner so the flavors would have time to season and bloom in the hearty broth. Little of this... a little of that, salt, pepper... something was lacking. Even with the beef broth the soup was bland. A quick call to my mother produced a possible answer. Lea & Perkins Worcestershire Sauce would enhance the beef broth. With a quick grab to the pantry shelf, a judicious tablespoon was added, but considering the amount of soup I decided that two would be better than one.
Free from the list of Saturday chores, I went off to do who remembers what for the rest of the day and most of Sunday. The soup was doing its own thing in the refrigerator. Seasonings seasoned while vegetables soaked the flavors up.
This Sunday dinner with family was the first at my first apartment. A last minute check list clicked off in my mind as I surveyed the tidy apartment. Extra toilet paper roll, special guest hand towels and soaps, flowers in vases, candles lit, table set, muffins cooling, designer salad, soup warming, and desert plates on the sideboard. All the usual stuff to do when trying to show the family how well adjusted to domestic life on your own you were.
Once the guests were made welcome and comfortable, the cheese and crackers were served with wine. Ushered to the table, my family ooo-ed and ahhh-ed over the salad presentation, so artistically arranged at first no one wanted to disturb the masterpiece of my creation. Enticed by the seasoned aroma, all were waiting on the main course as the salad was cleared. Carefully ladled into pre-warmed bowls the vegetables danced in the broth, their bright colors like evening gowns with brown velvet capes of thick broth. Small talk was hushed in anticipation as the last bowl was served. Steam rising from the deep bowls added to the peacefulness of evening as the winter chill settled on the closing day.
“Oh my God that’s hot!” “What did you .... put in this?” Various cries from flaming mouths shattered the serenity as spoons clattered to the plates. Tears rolled down faces as lunges for water glasses created havoc to the pristine table cloth. “More water... please” “This makes the Ellington Fireman’s chili taste bland!”
Sheepishly downing a third glass of water, I went to the pantry to check for the culprit. Pulling out the bottle of Worcestershire Sauce... Tabasco... Oh no I put two heaping tablespoons of Tabasco. The garbage disposal worked wondrously well after ingesting the fiery mix.
After a brief respite of nose blowing, throat clearing, eye dabbing and laughter, we proceeded directly to the desert. Apple pie Ala mode was served with an extremely generous ala mode of soothing vanilla ice cream. My name was entered in the family dietary fiasco logbook under H for Hot too Hot.
EMM 5/12/98
re 5/19/98
Saturday morning chores were completed while the stock cooled. Teaching art full time left the weekends for cleaning and cooking which was normally accomplished by noon. Various pursuits filled the remaining free time, but back to the soup. The cooled broth was skimmed on schedule. Disposal of the fat proceeded to the vegetable preparation. By the time my laundry was retrieved from the basement, the vegetables and quick cooking barley were finished cooking.
This soup was for Sunday dinner so the flavors would have time to season and bloom in the hearty broth. Little of this... a little of that, salt, pepper... something was lacking. Even with the beef broth the soup was bland. A quick call to my mother produced a possible answer. Lea & Perkins Worcestershire Sauce would enhance the beef broth. With a quick grab to the pantry shelf, a judicious tablespoon was added, but considering the amount of soup I decided that two would be better than one.
Free from the list of Saturday chores, I went off to do who remembers what for the rest of the day and most of Sunday. The soup was doing its own thing in the refrigerator. Seasonings seasoned while vegetables soaked the flavors up.
This Sunday dinner with family was the first at my first apartment. A last minute check list clicked off in my mind as I surveyed the tidy apartment. Extra toilet paper roll, special guest hand towels and soaps, flowers in vases, candles lit, table set, muffins cooling, designer salad, soup warming, and desert plates on the sideboard. All the usual stuff to do when trying to show the family how well adjusted to domestic life on your own you were.
Once the guests were made welcome and comfortable, the cheese and crackers were served with wine. Ushered to the table, my family ooo-ed and ahhh-ed over the salad presentation, so artistically arranged at first no one wanted to disturb the masterpiece of my creation. Enticed by the seasoned aroma, all were waiting on the main course as the salad was cleared. Carefully ladled into pre-warmed bowls the vegetables danced in the broth, their bright colors like evening gowns with brown velvet capes of thick broth. Small talk was hushed in anticipation as the last bowl was served. Steam rising from the deep bowls added to the peacefulness of evening as the winter chill settled on the closing day.
“Oh my God that’s hot!” “What did you .... put in this?” Various cries from flaming mouths shattered the serenity as spoons clattered to the plates. Tears rolled down faces as lunges for water glasses created havoc to the pristine table cloth. “More water... please” “This makes the Ellington Fireman’s chili taste bland!”
Sheepishly downing a third glass of water, I went to the pantry to check for the culprit. Pulling out the bottle of Worcestershire Sauce... Tabasco... Oh no I put two heaping tablespoons of Tabasco. The garbage disposal worked wondrously well after ingesting the fiery mix.
After a brief respite of nose blowing, throat clearing, eye dabbing and laughter, we proceeded directly to the desert. Apple pie Ala mode was served with an extremely generous ala mode of soothing vanilla ice cream. My name was entered in the family dietary fiasco logbook under H for Hot too Hot.
EMM 5/12/98
re 5/19/98
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Family Farm
Moonlight almost as bright as day was coating the fields and woods like frosting on a layer cake. Deer worked the shadows cast by trees bordering the field wary of the occasional headlights that washed over them. Returning to their nightly business they kept watch as they looked for succulent morsels among the dried grass.
From a lofty perch in a field oak, a horned owl glided out over the bright night landscape. The air not disturbed by his flight, a silent glide, a stealth glide for hunting. Cruising over the field like a heat seeking missile the owl zoned in on its mark. The field mouse was history. The sycamore tree next to the farmhouse became a temporary all-night dinner as the owl settled in with its prey. The children often discovered owl pellets under the massive tree, reminders of success in the long hours of darkness, of the struggle between life and death, another circle completed.
Their farm life gave them insight about the true nature of life; a living ecology project that was constantly redefining itself with the onset of every season. A new list of chores to fit the current needs, a new set of learning experiences about life around them, wild or domestic, beginnings and endings.
With no close neighbors, the children had to be friends with each other. Alliances switched weekly as the family dynamics were in constant motion, reflections of the cycle of seasons that surrounded them. Constant reminders of how swiftly life changes from one minute to the next, hour by hour, day by day.
The worn path that wound its way through the pasture ending in a turnstile was an important part of their daily routine. Traversed at least once a day by some family member over the years as they trekked to the older generations adjoining farm, the path became more a dry bed of memories. The farms handed down through the family had been worked at first by draft horse then modern equipment as each generation poured their love into the earth. Every walk along the path revealed new information about the microcosm that the farms occupied. Depending on the season, the clues given to the various travelers might be revealed in the mud or snow, observations of sky, seeing of seasonal birds or animals. Living on the farm was a slower way of life but hectic in its own way.
The race to complete each season’s tasks put the whole family under the thumb more than once. The unpredictable weather to unexpected emergencies caused as much stress as any high risk job in the city. The family was attached to the land in a way that regular family could not understand. Like a developing fetus that depends on the umbilical cord attached to the placenta as its life line, so generations of this farm family needed the land to continue its life. Nothing else nurtured them as well as the ritual of the seasons. The cycle of life was spiritual to them. There was no need for a building with a spire to make them feel holy and good.
Year in year out the land was replenished. What was taken out was returned in one form or another. The family graveyard overlooked the pasture and fields. Having worked the land all their lives, the past generations continued their watch from the hill extending from beyond the grave a protection over the beloved land.
Some family members tried to break the tie, this bred in attachment to the tangible. Off they would go with a different set of dreams in their minds, but their hearts always brought them back. Not beaten by the outside life, but with a sense of relief to return to the reassuring rhythmic cycle that seemed to be in their blood and ruled out any other lifestyle. They turned their talents to expanding the operation in a new direction to suite their altered dreams to blend with the old their own energy.
Each generation passed on to the next a firm commitment to the land and to the family. Picture albums and journals denoted the family history. Generation after generation, season after season, from birth to death the lives entertained with the land.
EMM 5/19/98
From a lofty perch in a field oak, a horned owl glided out over the bright night landscape. The air not disturbed by his flight, a silent glide, a stealth glide for hunting. Cruising over the field like a heat seeking missile the owl zoned in on its mark. The field mouse was history. The sycamore tree next to the farmhouse became a temporary all-night dinner as the owl settled in with its prey. The children often discovered owl pellets under the massive tree, reminders of success in the long hours of darkness, of the struggle between life and death, another circle completed.
Their farm life gave them insight about the true nature of life; a living ecology project that was constantly redefining itself with the onset of every season. A new list of chores to fit the current needs, a new set of learning experiences about life around them, wild or domestic, beginnings and endings.
With no close neighbors, the children had to be friends with each other. Alliances switched weekly as the family dynamics were in constant motion, reflections of the cycle of seasons that surrounded them. Constant reminders of how swiftly life changes from one minute to the next, hour by hour, day by day.
The worn path that wound its way through the pasture ending in a turnstile was an important part of their daily routine. Traversed at least once a day by some family member over the years as they trekked to the older generations adjoining farm, the path became more a dry bed of memories. The farms handed down through the family had been worked at first by draft horse then modern equipment as each generation poured their love into the earth. Every walk along the path revealed new information about the microcosm that the farms occupied. Depending on the season, the clues given to the various travelers might be revealed in the mud or snow, observations of sky, seeing of seasonal birds or animals. Living on the farm was a slower way of life but hectic in its own way.
The race to complete each season’s tasks put the whole family under the thumb more than once. The unpredictable weather to unexpected emergencies caused as much stress as any high risk job in the city. The family was attached to the land in a way that regular family could not understand. Like a developing fetus that depends on the umbilical cord attached to the placenta as its life line, so generations of this farm family needed the land to continue its life. Nothing else nurtured them as well as the ritual of the seasons. The cycle of life was spiritual to them. There was no need for a building with a spire to make them feel holy and good.
Year in year out the land was replenished. What was taken out was returned in one form or another. The family graveyard overlooked the pasture and fields. Having worked the land all their lives, the past generations continued their watch from the hill extending from beyond the grave a protection over the beloved land.
Some family members tried to break the tie, this bred in attachment to the tangible. Off they would go with a different set of dreams in their minds, but their hearts always brought them back. Not beaten by the outside life, but with a sense of relief to return to the reassuring rhythmic cycle that seemed to be in their blood and ruled out any other lifestyle. They turned their talents to expanding the operation in a new direction to suite their altered dreams to blend with the old their own energy.
Each generation passed on to the next a firm commitment to the land and to the family. Picture albums and journals denoted the family history. Generation after generation, season after season, from birth to death the lives entertained with the land.
EMM 5/19/98
Drawing a Blank
Drawing a blank; the immensity of the 24”X36” watercolor paper overwhelmed her today… brush poised she sat and waited for inspiration. What were the muses on vacation? Did they go south to soak up some rays instead of staying to encourage her brush? The paint dripped to the floor in slow motion… splat, splat, splat equaling the sound of the rain dripping from the eves. The grey and gloom seemed to permeate her thoughts; chilling her to the bone; and making movement impossible. How long had she sat like this before the white paper? She never kept a clock in her painting room or wore a watch. Time meant little to her but still she wondered. Thoughts traversed her mind but none stuck; none struck the nerve to send messages to her arm - to her hand to make the brush glide across the paper. The glare from the paper reflected off the windows, the water jars, her glasses. The white seemed to saturate everything around her, silence and whiteness, whiteness and silence. Time stood still. Her arm didn’t ache; it just hung in the air above the page.
The last drip descended to the floor to join the others flattened upon impact. Splattered against the white linoleum, the perfectly round epicenter of each dot was surrounded by an aurora of fine spatters. The past drips overlapped, the color lessened in intensity as they dried on the floor. Still she let her thoughts rush; she was in no hurry. She learned to wait patiently for her inspiration. Would it come? Did it matter? No phone to jangle and break the moment. The music of the rain on the roof was absorbed into the movement of her thoughts. She waited, poised, the brush dry; the paper blank. The process of creating put on hold; she closed her eyes while she stilled her breath even more; no longer counting to keep the rhythm of in and out in balance. Everything physical was ready: the paper, the brush, the easel at the correct angle, the painter’s chair the proper distance from the paper; the rinse jars and palette were within easy reach; her mind at peace with the constant bombardment of needless thought but still no direction of movement. No projected line on the paper to follow with quick sure movements.
Her husband rarely entered the studio if the door was closed. He deferred to his wife’s need to be closeted away while painting. He busied himself in the kitchen; his relaxation after his work day filled with hustle/bustle was to prepare their evening meal. The sound of his knife to cutting block matched the sound of the rain on the sky light. He didn’t notice the lack of sound or movement from the studio; the absence of lunch dishes set by the sink or lack of light beneath the door. Vivaldi filled his background as the rice cooker steamed a steady plume to the ceiling. The vegetables were all prepared to stir fry as the rice cooker flipped to warm. Still no acknowledgement of his presence from the studio, he was sure the smell of spices would seep into her inner sanctum drawing his wife out to eat. The wok oil crackled as vegetables hit the pan; within minutes the meal was completed. He was relaxed as he artfully arranged the food on the porcelain plates, chopsticks sat on their rests and sparkling water was slightly bubbling in their long stem water glasses.
He listened at her door; slowly he opened the door a crack; puzzled by the relative darkness of the room, he called her name in a whisper. Widening the gap in the door, he saw his wife engulfed in the glow from the lamp directed at a blank piece of paper. Her back was toward him but the light bounced off the page, reflected off the window turned mirror in the evening darkness. Frozen in time and space, on the floor at her feet her brush lay rigid and dry while she sat perfectly still. Panic rose in him. Calling her name softly, he eased himself into the studio. Quietly he approached his illuminated wife. Reaching out he touched her cheek with his finger tips; brushing along her chin, his receptors felt nothing but cold immobile mask. Looking into her face, he noted a glowing peacefulness, eyes wide open but without fear looked thru him to the page with a single brush stroke. Dry paint trailed into a rough heart shape. Before the brush had fallen, she had managed to create her last message to him.
Not disturbing a thing, he lifted a chair form the corner to sit in the quiet studio and admire the rough heart. Time to make calls later; he silently breathed in the love.
3/11/2001
The last drip descended to the floor to join the others flattened upon impact. Splattered against the white linoleum, the perfectly round epicenter of each dot was surrounded by an aurora of fine spatters. The past drips overlapped, the color lessened in intensity as they dried on the floor. Still she let her thoughts rush; she was in no hurry. She learned to wait patiently for her inspiration. Would it come? Did it matter? No phone to jangle and break the moment. The music of the rain on the roof was absorbed into the movement of her thoughts. She waited, poised, the brush dry; the paper blank. The process of creating put on hold; she closed her eyes while she stilled her breath even more; no longer counting to keep the rhythm of in and out in balance. Everything physical was ready: the paper, the brush, the easel at the correct angle, the painter’s chair the proper distance from the paper; the rinse jars and palette were within easy reach; her mind at peace with the constant bombardment of needless thought but still no direction of movement. No projected line on the paper to follow with quick sure movements.
Her husband rarely entered the studio if the door was closed. He deferred to his wife’s need to be closeted away while painting. He busied himself in the kitchen; his relaxation after his work day filled with hustle/bustle was to prepare their evening meal. The sound of his knife to cutting block matched the sound of the rain on the sky light. He didn’t notice the lack of sound or movement from the studio; the absence of lunch dishes set by the sink or lack of light beneath the door. Vivaldi filled his background as the rice cooker steamed a steady plume to the ceiling. The vegetables were all prepared to stir fry as the rice cooker flipped to warm. Still no acknowledgement of his presence from the studio, he was sure the smell of spices would seep into her inner sanctum drawing his wife out to eat. The wok oil crackled as vegetables hit the pan; within minutes the meal was completed. He was relaxed as he artfully arranged the food on the porcelain plates, chopsticks sat on their rests and sparkling water was slightly bubbling in their long stem water glasses.
He listened at her door; slowly he opened the door a crack; puzzled by the relative darkness of the room, he called her name in a whisper. Widening the gap in the door, he saw his wife engulfed in the glow from the lamp directed at a blank piece of paper. Her back was toward him but the light bounced off the page, reflected off the window turned mirror in the evening darkness. Frozen in time and space, on the floor at her feet her brush lay rigid and dry while she sat perfectly still. Panic rose in him. Calling her name softly, he eased himself into the studio. Quietly he approached his illuminated wife. Reaching out he touched her cheek with his finger tips; brushing along her chin, his receptors felt nothing but cold immobile mask. Looking into her face, he noted a glowing peacefulness, eyes wide open but without fear looked thru him to the page with a single brush stroke. Dry paint trailed into a rough heart shape. Before the brush had fallen, she had managed to create her last message to him.
Not disturbing a thing, he lifted a chair form the corner to sit in the quiet studio and admire the rough heart. Time to make calls later; he silently breathed in the love.
3/11/2001
David the Perfect
One more glance around the room revealed candles, lighter, Waterford champagne glasses placed next to the chilling Dom Perignon as the soft firelight danced across the teakwood floors and vaulted ceiling. The Apple wood scent filling the room into the far corners was subtle sweetness. All was perfect. Fluffing the pillows and arranging the objects ‘de art one more time, he admired his romantic creation, “Better do one more sweep.”
Controlled perfection radiated from each vista he viewed. “Well that’s as good as it gets.” He smugly remarked as he glimpsed the last room.
More than picture perfect each immaculate scene was right out of Architectural Digest. The perfection of a lifeless life, a still life frozen in time before the flowers wilt or fruit begins to decay, perfect enough to make your skin crawl, a truly sick perfect.
One more trip to the bathroom to release the building tension, he gazed upon his impeccable reflection in the wall to ceiling mirrors. Snappily dressed for causal comfort, he oozed Armani confidence. Checking his teeth, he flossed imaginary gunk from his smile. The ticking Louie the 14th mantle clock kept his mind in tune with the time. Its sound resonated with his heartbeat.
“She’s late... again.” He smoothed back his hair, brushed off his broad shoulders. “Late again, even with that Rolli… She could at least look at it.”
The fire burnt low, the chill was off the champagne as he sat utterly still staring at the mahogany door. The pillows, still perfectly fluffed, remained ready but the ramrod straight figure couldn’t relax. The pristine mood had turned sullen. The twisted shadows loomed from the corners to darken his mood even more. The small ring box sat with its hinged lid open displaying a 40 carat diamond surrounded by emerald baguettes.
He would never forgive her for this. His mind that was always locked with his own importance became narrower by her exploit. Images filled his mind of her death which would be the only excuse that he would accept for her rude behavior. Maybe the car broke down, but the Mercedes XL was brand new and the cell phone the best there was on the market. Maybe there was a car accident; after all she was very unfocused. Image after image trudged through his mind all night long. The morning light found him red eyed from lack of sleep and alone.
*******************************
The Mercedes hummed along headed for Vancouver. The wind whistled through the skies on the roof rack, steam rose from the Hilton’s breakfast bar coffee and the suitcases settled in the trunk from the hasty packing. The early morning light touched her diamond wedding band sending rainbows around the interior. Who would have thought she’d get hitched in a Vegas wedding chapel? Cruising along, she pictured David, the Perfect, sitting still waiting for her. He was so predictable and she had gotten what she needed from him: new Mercedes, new designer cloths, new ski instructor. David had insisted upon private lessons the only perfect way to learn how to ski. Private lessons - very private lessons that lead to this very private quick wedding and honeymoon. She couldn’t wait to tell her friends after all they had told her to dump David.
Jean Paul offered her so much more than David ever could. Even with all David’s money, especially his money, he could never buy the imperfection of love. Reaching across the seat she held her new husband’s hand as the impacted deer smashed through the windshield.
The police investigation team noted the lack of skid marks as the wrecker pulled the totaled Mercedes from the crash site. The game warden had counted 16 points on the buck’s rack. The shattered body would feed the shelter folks for a time. Meanwhile the road crew collected the scattered belongings including the “We’re on our Honeymoon” sign. The hearse heading for the morgue pulled past the crew and their small tangled heap of ruined worldly goods.
Controlled perfection radiated from each vista he viewed. “Well that’s as good as it gets.” He smugly remarked as he glimpsed the last room.
More than picture perfect each immaculate scene was right out of Architectural Digest. The perfection of a lifeless life, a still life frozen in time before the flowers wilt or fruit begins to decay, perfect enough to make your skin crawl, a truly sick perfect.
One more trip to the bathroom to release the building tension, he gazed upon his impeccable reflection in the wall to ceiling mirrors. Snappily dressed for causal comfort, he oozed Armani confidence. Checking his teeth, he flossed imaginary gunk from his smile. The ticking Louie the 14th mantle clock kept his mind in tune with the time. Its sound resonated with his heartbeat.
“She’s late... again.” He smoothed back his hair, brushed off his broad shoulders. “Late again, even with that Rolli… She could at least look at it.”
The fire burnt low, the chill was off the champagne as he sat utterly still staring at the mahogany door. The pillows, still perfectly fluffed, remained ready but the ramrod straight figure couldn’t relax. The pristine mood had turned sullen. The twisted shadows loomed from the corners to darken his mood even more. The small ring box sat with its hinged lid open displaying a 40 carat diamond surrounded by emerald baguettes.
He would never forgive her for this. His mind that was always locked with his own importance became narrower by her exploit. Images filled his mind of her death which would be the only excuse that he would accept for her rude behavior. Maybe the car broke down, but the Mercedes XL was brand new and the cell phone the best there was on the market. Maybe there was a car accident; after all she was very unfocused. Image after image trudged through his mind all night long. The morning light found him red eyed from lack of sleep and alone.
*******************************
The Mercedes hummed along headed for Vancouver. The wind whistled through the skies on the roof rack, steam rose from the Hilton’s breakfast bar coffee and the suitcases settled in the trunk from the hasty packing. The early morning light touched her diamond wedding band sending rainbows around the interior. Who would have thought she’d get hitched in a Vegas wedding chapel? Cruising along, she pictured David, the Perfect, sitting still waiting for her. He was so predictable and she had gotten what she needed from him: new Mercedes, new designer cloths, new ski instructor. David had insisted upon private lessons the only perfect way to learn how to ski. Private lessons - very private lessons that lead to this very private quick wedding and honeymoon. She couldn’t wait to tell her friends after all they had told her to dump David.
Jean Paul offered her so much more than David ever could. Even with all David’s money, especially his money, he could never buy the imperfection of love. Reaching across the seat she held her new husband’s hand as the impacted deer smashed through the windshield.
The police investigation team noted the lack of skid marks as the wrecker pulled the totaled Mercedes from the crash site. The game warden had counted 16 points on the buck’s rack. The shattered body would feed the shelter folks for a time. Meanwhile the road crew collected the scattered belongings including the “We’re on our Honeymoon” sign. The hearse heading for the morgue pulled past the crew and their small tangled heap of ruined worldly goods.
Circle of Oaks
It happened in the woods, far from the nearest dwelling. Removed from civilization proper, the forest primeval was deep, dark, silent. So remote, little human contact had been made with this section of forest. It stood untouched, sacred in stance. The eldest trees scratched the sky with tender twigs. The sunlight filtered through this ancient stand’s thick trunks and massive branches to the moss covered earth rich with centuries of leaf droppings.
She sat still, frozen in place, except for her heaving chest as she struggled to catch her breath. A faint finger of light slide through the tangle of forest canopy brushing her ebony hair barely giving form to her shade cloaked body. The forest sentinels surrounded her, their tight circle hid her from view, not that anyone was watching. She’d eluded them all, managed to find her way into this deep space. Sweat glistened on her pale skin; dark patches on her clothing disclosed her recent labor. Her ragged race was a desperate last measure to find freedom at any cost. Exertion ended, her breath gradually returned to normal. The sound of it whispered off the encircling trees, barely audible to even her. She listened, strained with her whole being to hear, dreading the possibility. When would they come?
She wished she could become invisible, disappear totally, sink into the soft earth, and become covered with a blanket of velvet moss. Her pale skin would shift to emerald green, delicate roots binding her to the soil in this new form. She wished she could slide into a tree, become immersed in the sturdy structure. Weren’t the Druids able to do that? Become so still that they could turn their cells to match the ancient wood, blend with ease into the heart of the oak.
Would they send the hounds racing ahead of them? The baying would echo back to the trackers leading them forward to their catch. Would they wait? Wait until she gave up, came crawling back to them out of this circle of oak. Their punishments from lesser crimes marked her tender limbs. They had warned her. She recalled tales told of her predecessors, sisters by the havoc wrecked upon them. Either way, her life had been made hell by them from day one. Any transgression no matter how small was dealt with immediately and cruelly.
No sound. Still pushing her entire body to the act of hearing, she heard nothing. Her exhausted body bruised and beaten, twitched uncontrollably in the dark shadows. The muscles strained to the limits from flight now renounced the lack of movement. The bark felt comforting against her back, she leaned forcing her trembling body to relax. She forced her mind to surrender to the silence, the peace, the comfort of the forest womb.
The faint light shifted, small breaks in the forest canopy trickled the light from her head to her chest. The sun was moving across the sky. How long had she been here? Leaves moved overhead, ruffled by a lofty soft breeze. She focused her sight onto her body, her breathing steady and deep. So dark, the gnarled oak’s roots seemed the same texture as her legs. She tried to move, to gently brush away a pesky black fly. No movement came from her stiffened limbs, her eyes flitted from side to side, and the bark encompassed her. A sigh as quiet as the sound of mosquito’s wings escaped her enclosed contour.
The yelping dogs moved toward her in the distance. Muted by bark, she relaxed deeply, melding with the ancient spirit of the massive oak. Safe at last, safe from constant fear, safe from their retribution, she was indistinguishable from the tree’s trunk. Peace enveloped her as the rough textured surface became her own.
The searchers lingered by the base of the tree puzzled by the distorted trunk. They had rarely ventured into this forest, its lack of light and steep terrain made it forbidding. The dogs kept working the area, pausing again and again by the disfigured trunk. The men focused their bright torch lights onto the forest floor since the flaming lights hardly penetrated the depths of the old forest. A reflection off of smooth metal radiated from the moss. Stooping the leader picked up the wedding band. “She’s been here. We’re closing in on her.” Holding his prize in his palm, he looked at the other men. “She can’t be far”.
The dogs milled around uneasily. Sniffing at the bark, making odd sounds, they refused to go further. The men fanned out into the surrounding area while the dogs curled up against the oak’s trunk.
Returning empty handed, the frustrated men took it out on the dogs. Yelling at them to go on, they waved a sweater with her scent on it under the hound’s noses. The dogs scratched at the bark, ripping their pads on the rough texture. Curses resounded and became absorbed by the sentinel trees. Leashes were snapped into place on the collars of the reluctant dogs that were then dragged from their worried site. The last curses faded, as men and cowed dogs retreated. Silence returned to the oaken circle as light beams moved across the trampled moss.
EMM 10/22/98
She sat still, frozen in place, except for her heaving chest as she struggled to catch her breath. A faint finger of light slide through the tangle of forest canopy brushing her ebony hair barely giving form to her shade cloaked body. The forest sentinels surrounded her, their tight circle hid her from view, not that anyone was watching. She’d eluded them all, managed to find her way into this deep space. Sweat glistened on her pale skin; dark patches on her clothing disclosed her recent labor. Her ragged race was a desperate last measure to find freedom at any cost. Exertion ended, her breath gradually returned to normal. The sound of it whispered off the encircling trees, barely audible to even her. She listened, strained with her whole being to hear, dreading the possibility. When would they come?
She wished she could become invisible, disappear totally, sink into the soft earth, and become covered with a blanket of velvet moss. Her pale skin would shift to emerald green, delicate roots binding her to the soil in this new form. She wished she could slide into a tree, become immersed in the sturdy structure. Weren’t the Druids able to do that? Become so still that they could turn their cells to match the ancient wood, blend with ease into the heart of the oak.
Would they send the hounds racing ahead of them? The baying would echo back to the trackers leading them forward to their catch. Would they wait? Wait until she gave up, came crawling back to them out of this circle of oak. Their punishments from lesser crimes marked her tender limbs. They had warned her. She recalled tales told of her predecessors, sisters by the havoc wrecked upon them. Either way, her life had been made hell by them from day one. Any transgression no matter how small was dealt with immediately and cruelly.
No sound. Still pushing her entire body to the act of hearing, she heard nothing. Her exhausted body bruised and beaten, twitched uncontrollably in the dark shadows. The muscles strained to the limits from flight now renounced the lack of movement. The bark felt comforting against her back, she leaned forcing her trembling body to relax. She forced her mind to surrender to the silence, the peace, the comfort of the forest womb.
The faint light shifted, small breaks in the forest canopy trickled the light from her head to her chest. The sun was moving across the sky. How long had she been here? Leaves moved overhead, ruffled by a lofty soft breeze. She focused her sight onto her body, her breathing steady and deep. So dark, the gnarled oak’s roots seemed the same texture as her legs. She tried to move, to gently brush away a pesky black fly. No movement came from her stiffened limbs, her eyes flitted from side to side, and the bark encompassed her. A sigh as quiet as the sound of mosquito’s wings escaped her enclosed contour.
The yelping dogs moved toward her in the distance. Muted by bark, she relaxed deeply, melding with the ancient spirit of the massive oak. Safe at last, safe from constant fear, safe from their retribution, she was indistinguishable from the tree’s trunk. Peace enveloped her as the rough textured surface became her own.
The searchers lingered by the base of the tree puzzled by the distorted trunk. They had rarely ventured into this forest, its lack of light and steep terrain made it forbidding. The dogs kept working the area, pausing again and again by the disfigured trunk. The men focused their bright torch lights onto the forest floor since the flaming lights hardly penetrated the depths of the old forest. A reflection off of smooth metal radiated from the moss. Stooping the leader picked up the wedding band. “She’s been here. We’re closing in on her.” Holding his prize in his palm, he looked at the other men. “She can’t be far”.
The dogs milled around uneasily. Sniffing at the bark, making odd sounds, they refused to go further. The men fanned out into the surrounding area while the dogs curled up against the oak’s trunk.
Returning empty handed, the frustrated men took it out on the dogs. Yelling at them to go on, they waved a sweater with her scent on it under the hound’s noses. The dogs scratched at the bark, ripping their pads on the rough texture. Curses resounded and became absorbed by the sentinel trees. Leashes were snapped into place on the collars of the reluctant dogs that were then dragged from their worried site. The last curses faded, as men and cowed dogs retreated. Silence returned to the oaken circle as light beams moved across the trampled moss.
EMM 10/22/98
Rose Garden Cat
The cat slunk between the shrubs. Low to the ground and keeping his body small, his movements were calculated and precise. His ears pricked forward as the sound reached his new position. Pausing he listened intently. Not recognizing its source, he continued to move cautiously. By the rock stairs he stopped beneath the wooden bench. Tucked himself into the shadow and waited. Old enough to know not to run directly into the unknown especially at night, he sniffed the air. Licking a front paw, he brushed his face clean. Working over his ears to his whiskers, he froze as the sound washed over him again.
He knew his territory well which included the places to avoid at what time during the day. He especially knew to avoid the children before and after school. He had learned quickly through pain of thrown objects directed at him by the boys. It was always a temptation to visit the garbage dumpster for a quick bite after the children’s’ lunch. Sometimes the cook’s assistant left him a special treat. He was wary of most people and kept to himself most of the time. At least there was a leash law and he felt safe from the dogs in the area. As a matter of safety, he knew where climbable trees were just in case.
Time to decide whether to find the cause of the noise; he knew he was close to it but it didn’t seem to be coming as regularly as before. The night was moonless and provided him with plenty of cover so he wasn’t concerned with his own peril as long as he kept to the shadows. Thankful for his dark coat, he eased from under the bench through a whole in the shrub fence that sheltered this public park garden. This was the part of the garden with sharp thorns on the plants. The summer night was thick with the scent from the low hanging flowers. One section of earth was freshly disturbed. The dampness of the soil filled his nose as he skirted the rectangle of soft dirt; there was also another familiar odor. He retreated to the overhanging Hosta leaves at the end of the bed that wrapped around the trellis bench. Before he even settled on his haunches, the muffled sound arose from almost in front of his feet. Temporally backing further under the large oval leaves he watched the soil move. His nose discerned many fresh smells but among them stood out the smell of the cook’s assistant. He had smelt her scent on the food dish she smuggled to him at the school. Why did he smell it here among the rose beds?
The rose bushes in this recently turned plot were wilted and limp. The soft earth was easy to move aside. Although dogs were much better diggers, he knew he had to dig deeper than his normal toilet needs dictated. Working the freshly turned soil, he scattered the dirt from where the last movement had cracked the soil. Rapidly his white paws threw soft clumps into the air two feet behind him. His back feet sank into the garden with the effort of his front paws. Closing in on the sound, he was getting nearer to something hard; the woman’s scent was encompassed in the soil.
His paws exposed part of her face; she tried to move her head but the dirt collapsed into the small hole he had created. He shifted his position and began again. Between digging furiously he would sit and peer down. Slowly he exposed part of her face enough so that she could turn from side to side. The duct tape was not sticking to her skin. The rose garden’s moisture helped insure its release. The cat sat beside her the rest of the night.
The city park gardener’s frantic call to 911 on his cell phone momentarily confused the dispatch operator. The poor man kept yelling about finding a cat sitting next to a buried body in the rose garden. The cat backed under the Hosta plants to watch as the gardener wildly yanked the wilted rose bushes aside, pulled away dirt and mulch to reveal more of the woman’s bound body. Sirens wailed as police and medics arrived within minutes of his call; police yellow crime scene tape draped the scene. The crime investigation team began photographing, collecting evidence and making notes to solve the crime of who had attempted to bury the cook’s assistant alive in the city park rose bed.
3/12/2001
He knew his territory well which included the places to avoid at what time during the day. He especially knew to avoid the children before and after school. He had learned quickly through pain of thrown objects directed at him by the boys. It was always a temptation to visit the garbage dumpster for a quick bite after the children’s’ lunch. Sometimes the cook’s assistant left him a special treat. He was wary of most people and kept to himself most of the time. At least there was a leash law and he felt safe from the dogs in the area. As a matter of safety, he knew where climbable trees were just in case.
Time to decide whether to find the cause of the noise; he knew he was close to it but it didn’t seem to be coming as regularly as before. The night was moonless and provided him with plenty of cover so he wasn’t concerned with his own peril as long as he kept to the shadows. Thankful for his dark coat, he eased from under the bench through a whole in the shrub fence that sheltered this public park garden. This was the part of the garden with sharp thorns on the plants. The summer night was thick with the scent from the low hanging flowers. One section of earth was freshly disturbed. The dampness of the soil filled his nose as he skirted the rectangle of soft dirt; there was also another familiar odor. He retreated to the overhanging Hosta leaves at the end of the bed that wrapped around the trellis bench. Before he even settled on his haunches, the muffled sound arose from almost in front of his feet. Temporally backing further under the large oval leaves he watched the soil move. His nose discerned many fresh smells but among them stood out the smell of the cook’s assistant. He had smelt her scent on the food dish she smuggled to him at the school. Why did he smell it here among the rose beds?
The rose bushes in this recently turned plot were wilted and limp. The soft earth was easy to move aside. Although dogs were much better diggers, he knew he had to dig deeper than his normal toilet needs dictated. Working the freshly turned soil, he scattered the dirt from where the last movement had cracked the soil. Rapidly his white paws threw soft clumps into the air two feet behind him. His back feet sank into the garden with the effort of his front paws. Closing in on the sound, he was getting nearer to something hard; the woman’s scent was encompassed in the soil.
His paws exposed part of her face; she tried to move her head but the dirt collapsed into the small hole he had created. He shifted his position and began again. Between digging furiously he would sit and peer down. Slowly he exposed part of her face enough so that she could turn from side to side. The duct tape was not sticking to her skin. The rose garden’s moisture helped insure its release. The cat sat beside her the rest of the night.
The city park gardener’s frantic call to 911 on his cell phone momentarily confused the dispatch operator. The poor man kept yelling about finding a cat sitting next to a buried body in the rose garden. The cat backed under the Hosta plants to watch as the gardener wildly yanked the wilted rose bushes aside, pulled away dirt and mulch to reveal more of the woman’s bound body. Sirens wailed as police and medics arrived within minutes of his call; police yellow crime scene tape draped the scene. The crime investigation team began photographing, collecting evidence and making notes to solve the crime of who had attempted to bury the cook’s assistant alive in the city park rose bed.
3/12/2001
4 o'clock rituals
Gurgles. Chugs and gurgles in rhythmic patterns announced the afternoon ritual. At precisely quarter to four, the coffee pot began to beat out the time in splunks and glugs. The car door slamming at four o’clock and measured footfalls on the pea stone driveway coincided with the coffeepots final burst. The kitchen scene was set with The Hartford Courant in place, the grey Formica table cleared, and the coffee poured into a mug. Year in year out with few variations, the lunch pail was placed on the sink counter, thermos rinsed, milk added to the steaming mug and with a quick peck on Mom’s cheek Dad would turn to sit down. Silence - Newspaper pages turned, coffee swallowed, and supper prepared quietly through this wind down time.
Caffeine released into a tired body soon brought him back from his work experience. Complaints would spill out, filling the air with punctuations until the available sounding boards had absorbed the trials of his day. Maniacal supervisor, Murphy’s Law in action, or the unbelievable routines of the goof-off crew which included the waste of expensive material tumbled out until the stream ran dry.
Supper was served with small talk about day’s events or idle chatter about friends and family while the television droned out the news from its corner in the living room. A monotone with splashes of commercial volume, neither conversation nor television background was too heavy. Indigestion was to be avoided. Once the meal was eaten, the table was cleared. A shared chore as each of us piled the remains onto the drain board. Unlike other households where the dish washing fell to our friend’s chore list, my brother and I were free to begin homework or catch a TV program.
Gazing out the kitchen window over the double enamel sink, Mom and Dad did the dishes. Every night, side by side with elbows bumping, Dad sloshed the sudsy hot water in the deep white sink washing more than the dishes. Periodically he stopped to spray soap residue away, while Mom dried and put everything away. The quiet murmur of conversation drifted into the living room during lulls in the programming. Summer breezes through winter sleet, they washed and gazed together.
The pendulum electric clock buzzed from its perch on the wall. Black metal hands moving time forward as daily rituals began and ended. Late night cups of dark tea consumed while forearms supported weary bodies that leaned into the grey table surface. The table’s chromed legs dulled by wear met glossy polished green linoleum. A few perfect triangles marred the surface from the iron leaping from the rickety ironing board during morning ironing sessions. The tea bag toss with Mom’s load protest splattered gravity defying droplets of tea upward toward the sink window. Midnight found Mom sitting at the table with a warm cup of milk and a Sear’s catalog to slow down her revved up mind. Endless games of solitaire or twenty-one illuminated by the domed ceiling light whiled away winter nights.
In summer with shades pulled to create the illusion of coolness in the half light, sweat ran in rivulets as Mom and I peeled blanched tomatoes before cramming them into sterilized mason jars. The cellar door was left ajar to omit its cooling dampness. The aroma of Bread & Butter Pickles clung to us, the cheap perfume of summer pickling. Dad, Mom and I chopped, sliced and diced bushels of our gardens riches, corn, green and yellow beans, eggplant and peppers. Canning shelves were weighed down by summer’s end with jellies, jams, pickles, canned tomatoes and relish. The freezer full to capacity with summer’s frozen produce.
Life revolved around this 15 by 15 foot space. Our kitchen, unimaginative and under equipped by today’s standards, functioned as an all purpose room for ironing, meal preparation and consuming, bill paying, homework center and more throughout each day and night. The sunny yellow walls, stenciled cabinets, gingham curtains, chrome coffee pot, white enamel electric stove and refrigerator were witness to our families ups and downs. Emotions bounced off the semi-gloss walls and echoed up the stairway. Listening from my bedroom door through the years, the fights my parents had over and with my brother crawled up the stairs to greet me.
My brother, older by five years, preceded me through school. I looked up to him when I was really little despite the “big boy” tricks that were played on me by him and his friends. Their two favorites were running off to leave me alone in the woods or making me test their skill at bridge construction. Crying, I’d stumble home let down by my big brother again. In winter, bloody noses from ice covered snowballs with rocks inside were my bane.
Trouble attracted my brother like a magnet. Whatever his friends or even our cousins suggested to him, he would do. Blame or a guilty sentence was not a burden to either group. All fingers pointed unwavering to my brother, the scapegoat. Escalated from his youth through his teens and beyond, his crimes were not drastic by today’s standards. His petty offenses and misbehavior plagued my parents. I grew more aware during my elementary school years especially with comments from teachers in September of “Oh, your Albert’s sister”. It was the tone of their voice that hurt me; they expected the worst from the onset. More writing on the walls or drawing on the playground with discarded stolen chalk from a waste basket. The weight of remarks as well as my brother’s behavior was too much for my little frame to move out of the way or sidestep around. This shadow loomed over me constantly. My unspoken goal was not to cause my parents or teachers any problems. This no problem and good behavior strategy made me almost invisible as I minced my way through each year but his troubles increased.Information on my brother’s activities came through my friends. Scrubbing away at the dishes, my parents tried to clean up the problem. Active in the Masonic Lodge and Eastern Star, their thorn was visible to everyone. Their problem solving discussions did not include me. Tears, frustration and anger exploded around and at my brother. Unscathed his journey continued. My burden increased.
I became a comedian; a ready quip or a bit of wit to carry me over the rough spots. Hiding behind a smile, I could make my parents or others laugh. This clown just might get them to forget who I was related to.
Caffeine released into a tired body soon brought him back from his work experience. Complaints would spill out, filling the air with punctuations until the available sounding boards had absorbed the trials of his day. Maniacal supervisor, Murphy’s Law in action, or the unbelievable routines of the goof-off crew which included the waste of expensive material tumbled out until the stream ran dry.
Supper was served with small talk about day’s events or idle chatter about friends and family while the television droned out the news from its corner in the living room. A monotone with splashes of commercial volume, neither conversation nor television background was too heavy. Indigestion was to be avoided. Once the meal was eaten, the table was cleared. A shared chore as each of us piled the remains onto the drain board. Unlike other households where the dish washing fell to our friend’s chore list, my brother and I were free to begin homework or catch a TV program.
Gazing out the kitchen window over the double enamel sink, Mom and Dad did the dishes. Every night, side by side with elbows bumping, Dad sloshed the sudsy hot water in the deep white sink washing more than the dishes. Periodically he stopped to spray soap residue away, while Mom dried and put everything away. The quiet murmur of conversation drifted into the living room during lulls in the programming. Summer breezes through winter sleet, they washed and gazed together.
The pendulum electric clock buzzed from its perch on the wall. Black metal hands moving time forward as daily rituals began and ended. Late night cups of dark tea consumed while forearms supported weary bodies that leaned into the grey table surface. The table’s chromed legs dulled by wear met glossy polished green linoleum. A few perfect triangles marred the surface from the iron leaping from the rickety ironing board during morning ironing sessions. The tea bag toss with Mom’s load protest splattered gravity defying droplets of tea upward toward the sink window. Midnight found Mom sitting at the table with a warm cup of milk and a Sear’s catalog to slow down her revved up mind. Endless games of solitaire or twenty-one illuminated by the domed ceiling light whiled away winter nights.
In summer with shades pulled to create the illusion of coolness in the half light, sweat ran in rivulets as Mom and I peeled blanched tomatoes before cramming them into sterilized mason jars. The cellar door was left ajar to omit its cooling dampness. The aroma of Bread & Butter Pickles clung to us, the cheap perfume of summer pickling. Dad, Mom and I chopped, sliced and diced bushels of our gardens riches, corn, green and yellow beans, eggplant and peppers. Canning shelves were weighed down by summer’s end with jellies, jams, pickles, canned tomatoes and relish. The freezer full to capacity with summer’s frozen produce.
Life revolved around this 15 by 15 foot space. Our kitchen, unimaginative and under equipped by today’s standards, functioned as an all purpose room for ironing, meal preparation and consuming, bill paying, homework center and more throughout each day and night. The sunny yellow walls, stenciled cabinets, gingham curtains, chrome coffee pot, white enamel electric stove and refrigerator were witness to our families ups and downs. Emotions bounced off the semi-gloss walls and echoed up the stairway. Listening from my bedroom door through the years, the fights my parents had over and with my brother crawled up the stairs to greet me.
My brother, older by five years, preceded me through school. I looked up to him when I was really little despite the “big boy” tricks that were played on me by him and his friends. Their two favorites were running off to leave me alone in the woods or making me test their skill at bridge construction. Crying, I’d stumble home let down by my big brother again. In winter, bloody noses from ice covered snowballs with rocks inside were my bane.
Trouble attracted my brother like a magnet. Whatever his friends or even our cousins suggested to him, he would do. Blame or a guilty sentence was not a burden to either group. All fingers pointed unwavering to my brother, the scapegoat. Escalated from his youth through his teens and beyond, his crimes were not drastic by today’s standards. His petty offenses and misbehavior plagued my parents. I grew more aware during my elementary school years especially with comments from teachers in September of “Oh, your Albert’s sister”. It was the tone of their voice that hurt me; they expected the worst from the onset. More writing on the walls or drawing on the playground with discarded stolen chalk from a waste basket. The weight of remarks as well as my brother’s behavior was too much for my little frame to move out of the way or sidestep around. This shadow loomed over me constantly. My unspoken goal was not to cause my parents or teachers any problems. This no problem and good behavior strategy made me almost invisible as I minced my way through each year but his troubles increased.Information on my brother’s activities came through my friends. Scrubbing away at the dishes, my parents tried to clean up the problem. Active in the Masonic Lodge and Eastern Star, their thorn was visible to everyone. Their problem solving discussions did not include me. Tears, frustration and anger exploded around and at my brother. Unscathed his journey continued. My burden increased.
I became a comedian; a ready quip or a bit of wit to carry me over the rough spots. Hiding behind a smile, I could make my parents or others laugh. This clown just might get them to forget who I was related to.
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