Angels Are Real People

Mom made most of my clothes right up until I started my sophomore year of high school. Everything she made was right in style and, of course, one of a kind. The dress I wore for my ninth grade photo, for instance, was a seersucker fabric with a tiny purple flower print. It was the first dress I ever had that required darts to accommodate what I at last had for breasts. I loved that dress because I felt really pretty in it with its cap sleeves and purple rick-rack along the hemline. It was also very short. I wore purple tights with it and had to take care when leaning forward—stooping down to pick something up less I show off more than intended. The morning I wore that dress while my grandparents were visiting, I gave Grandpa a peck on the cheek before leaving for school. In between his bites of Wheaties and without missing a beat he muttered, “Ain’t much material in that dress.” And he was right.

But it is one outfit in particular—a brown skirt with matching vest made out of a snuggly soft faux suede—that I was wearing the day I found I had a real live angel watching over me.

As I exited the biology classroom one afternoon, Jeannie, a girl who I actually resembled in a small way, blocked me from entering the hallway. Jeannie pushed my right shoulder and accusingly asked, “That the only dress you got girl?”

I noticed that Jeannie was flanked by two other girls—her posse I assumed—whose names I didn’t know. Confused, I meekly asked as if I hadn’t heard her properly, “What?”

I knew I was in some sort of trouble with these tough girls I normally had no association with, but I was really in the dark as to what I’d done. Jeannie pushed my left shoulder next nearly toppling the stack of books I held onto the floor. She leaned over onto one hip and tilted her head in a cocky fashion as she sized me up. “You seem to think our friend Pam only owns one dress, so I just wanna know . . .,” she looked to her cohorts for added intimidation, “That the only dress you got?”

The posse smiled at their leader's catty cleverness with the cornered mouse. Jeannie disdainfully gave me the once-over with her eyes indicating a reference to my brown skirt and vest. The number of smart-ass comments darting around in my head were plentiful: “You think this is a dress huh?” “Who taught you how to speak English?” “That the only pair of ripped up jeans you got girl?” “Someone sure needs to get you out of here, ’cause you’re making some sort of a big stink.” But not one would issue forth from my mouth. I stood caught in the eyes of a viper. If I’d been a cartoon, my own eyes would be whirling around like pinwheels. “Uh, no,” I stuttered in response, “I have several dresses.” Oh god. That was probably the wrong response.

“You givin’ me smart mouth, girl?” Jeannie questioned leaning closer into my body space.

“Uh no,” I shrunk away wishing I could put my hands on an Alice in Wonderland “Drink Me” vial.

The reason Jeannie was picking on me was because several days earlier, I had been sitting next to her friend Pam in chorus. Pam, like Jeannie, always wore jeans to school. Back in the fall, Pam had worn a cute red dress for picture day. Then, on the day in question, she had worn an equally appealing green dress. Having failed to compliment her on her red dress back in the fall, I took the opportunity when the second dress appeared to sincerely say, “I like your dress. And I liked the red one you wore on picture day.” I’d been rather pleased with myself but apparently Pam had taken offense. Upon reporting that her nose was out of joint to her friends, Jeannie had taken the matter in hand and I was now practically nose-to-nose with a bully and way out of my league in the bad-ass department.

“You’ve got just one hour,” she threatened with her right index finger held up in front of my face. She commanded me to meet her out back after school where she was going to “beat my ass.”

My only thought was, “But, I’ll miss my bus.”

Luckily there was no need to try to explain to Jeannie why this was impossible because just then Paula Adams, a six-foot-tall (to our five foot-fives) girl walked up to our intimate group. Paula and I were not friends. She sat next to me in homeroom. I don’t recall ever uttering more than a polite “hello” to her and here she was casually draping her long dark brown arm around my shoulders as if we were life-long buddies—blood sisters even. “Something the matter here?” she asked in her quiet effective way, her dark eyes lasered on Jeannie.

“Well, uh no,” stuttered Jeannie.

“That’s good,” Paula nodded, “cause I’d sure as hell hate to think that there was a problem concerning my good friend Deb here.” Paula flashed her beautiful smile and looked tenderly down on me like an angel of mercy. I looked at Paula in awe and wonderment. Rendered quite speechless, I stood silently by watching the scene transpire with amazement. “C’mon, Deb,” Paula coaxed, “Let’s get to class.” Moses himself couldn’t have done a better job of parting the way between Jeannie and her goons as Paula finished up her rescue mission. Paula kept her arm around me until we got around the next corner and then as mysteriously as she’d appeared, she disappeared into the crowded hallway.

In those days, kids of different races hardly associated with one another. Except for a short-lived experiment in bussing during the second grade, I had gone to school with white kids only until going to junior high. I don’t remember if I ever thanked Paula for what she did for me that day. I did thank her for telling me to stay out of the girls’ bathroom the day of the trouble in 1972. It was a couple days after Governor George Wallace of Alabama had been shot and protests were erupting all over the country trickling down even to the junior high level. That day even our African American science teacher Mr. White got egged. It was a confusing time in so many ways. Watergate was about to bust open, the Israeli students would soon be shot and killed at the Munich Olympics, and the Christmas bombing in Hanoi was just six short months away.

I think about Paula a lot. I think about her integrity and wonder what it was that motivated her to look after me. I was just a stupid naive white girl with blue eyes and long straight blond hair in home made clothes. Paula lived in the projects, and other than that I knew nothing about her, except that she was my hero, and my angel.

I wish I could look up at her right now and say, “I love you, Paula.”

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2008

Artwork image available at https://www.etsy.com/listing/276093594/african-american-angel-shotgun-angels

Nancy’s Mom

I should have known they would do things differently. They were from Canada and just a little bit foreign. Nancy invited me for lunch on a Saturday. It had to be a Saturday or a vacation day from school. Otherwise we would have to eat lunch at school. Anyway, I was at Nancy’s house and her mother was fixing us some lunch. Nancy had an obnoxious brother who kept getting into our Barbie things and goofing everything up. He was going to eat lunch with us too.

Nancy’s mom, that’s all I remember calling her, set our lunch plates in front of us. There were some potato chips and a pickle, but to my dismay, there sat a tuna fish sandwich with lettuce. I had never eaten a tuna fish sandwich before. I had never eaten a tuna fish anything before. Lettuce on a sandwich was also very foreign. I didn’t know what to do. I was a guest and a guest is always to eat what is placed in front of her. That’s the polite thing to do. But, tuna fish? Did I have to go that far to maintain foreign relations? I decided I couldn’t and resolved I wouldn’t go as far as that.

Meekly, while staring straight at my plate, I said, “I don’t like tuna fish.” Nancy’s mom turned toward me. I could feel her do this rather than see her, since I still stared at my plate.

“Have you ever tried tuna fish before?" she asked. Oh no, now what do I do? She’ll think me a fool if I say I haven’t but do I dare lie? No, I wouldn’t lie. Not that I couldn’t lie, I was capable. This situation just didn’t seem worth carrying around the guilt of a lie.

“No . . .”, I answered, my voice trailing off to barely audible tones. Then she started in on a full blown lecture on manners and how her children had been exposed to all sorts of different foods. She named numerous vegetables, fruits, and entrees many of which I’d never heard of before. She was very proud about how she had taught her children to eat anything put on their plates without question. Inside my head I wished I could be at home right now eating FrancoAmerican spaghetti. She concluded by telling me I had to at least eat half the sandwich.

I remembered when my mother had made my little sister and me sit at the table and eat some liver. I was willing to sit there until Doomsday and not touch the stuff, but my sister felt she should give it try. One bite was all it took and Susan gagged and vomited onto her plate. Was I going to have to vomit before this lady understood that tuna fish was way beyond my powers of experimentation?

Lips quivering, I slowly brought the sandwich up to my mouth and bit off the tiniest bite. You couldn’t even tell I had touched it. Nancy’s mom looked at me in total disgust and said, “Oh, you are ridiculous!. Don’t expect to come here for lunch again.” She withdrew my plate from the table in one fell swoop. I felt so humiliated. I decided on my walk back home that the next time I ate at someone’s home, I would eat what they served no matter what.

Several years later, my promise came back to haunt me when Kathy Anderson invited me for dinner. I accepted. Of course I was much more mature now (11 instead of 7) and anyway, I reasoned, Kathy’s family had the same last name as me. They were Swedish, we Norwegian. How different could things be?

Kathy and I appeared at the doorway between the hall and the kitchen and in unison we asked Mrs. Anderson, “What’s for dinner?” I really did my best to maintain an appropriate level of enthusiasm when she replied, “Chicken livers.” The left side of my top lip really wanted to curl up and my left eye really wanted to squint. But, I bravely kept up appearances. I kept thinking of Nancy’s mom and that whole experience. I thought of my promise. Would I be brave or would I make my excuses and run for home? Certainly Kathy would save the day and ask her mom if we could have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches instead. To my chagrin, she said, “Oh yum!”

To this day I am puzzled by “Oh yum!”

That night, I ate those chicken livers, not one, but three of them. I was making up for my past sins. I hated every bite. Each one was a chore made possible by great quantities of milk. They must have thought me to possess the healthiest bones in Indiana for the amount of milk I consumed during that meal. I have never touched chicken livers since nor cow liver for that matter. But, tuna fish I have learned to really like.

The first time I fixed my own children tuna fish sandwiches, in an effort to indoctrinate them early, to my surprise they gobbled them up without a word of complaint. Nancy's mom would be proud of my children.

Copyright DJ Anderson 2005

Is This the Party to Whom I Think I Am Speaking?

As I read the letter addressed to my husband from the Pennsylvania funeral home, my first thoughts were of Mark Twain’s cable, from London to the press in the United States after his obituary was mistakenly published. The cable read: “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

The case of mistaken identity began within a few days after our move to Atlanta two years ago. In fact, they began as soon as we had a listed telephone number. I was not working at the time and was thus home to answer every phone call.

“Mrs. Walker?” she began sweetly.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Is your husband’s name Simon E. Walker?”

“Yes.”

“Is his social security number 123-4516-0980?”

“No.”

“Is his birth date May 17, 1944?”

“No.”

“Have you ever or your husband ever . . .”

“Now just wait a minute,” I finally interjected. “What is this about?” An imperceptible pause followed and I imagined the person on the other end was deciding in an instant whether she should divulge the reasons for her call or not. Over time, and many calls later, I found that sometimes the callers would divulge, and sometimes they wouldn’t.

If the person did spill the beans to me, it went something like this: “I’m with the such and such credit collection agency and have been engaged to track down Simon E. Walker from Atlanta, Georgia, in order to make arrangements for the payment of several outstanding debts.”

“But, I have already told you that the social security number and birth date you have on record do not belong to my husband.”

“Is your name Pam?”

“No, it is not.” Another pause, usually longer than the first.

“How long have you lived in Atlanta?”

“Not that it’s any of your business since you obviously have the wrong person but about two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” she asked with incredulity dripping from her tone.

“Yes, two weeks.”

“Perhaps your husband is not the man we seek.”

“No, my husband is definitely not the man you seek.”

All in all, I think I spoke to fifteen different members of various credit collection agencies trying to track down the indigent Simon E. Walker of Atlanta, Georgia, who owed something to what seemed like just about everyone in the United States. Six months after we moved to Atlanta, Mr. Sixteenth caller rang our phone. We began down the now ritualistic inquiry path but this time I asked, “Mr. Sixteenth Caller, you sound like an intelligent person. You already know from my answers that you have the wrong Simon E. Walker. Is there any way you can get word to the person who has published our phone number to your company as a possible lead, to communicate that they’re barking up the wrong tree?” Mr. Sixteenth Caller agreed that he might be able to accomplish this task and indeed he did. We haven’t received another call since.

Last May, however, we began receiving a different kind of phone call. This time it was an electronic voice. It was always the same voice and the same message. Sometimes one of us would pick up the phone and hear it, other times it would be on our message machine. This time, the call came every single day including Sunday. “Hello!” the perky voice began, “This is Heather Kelly and I want to hear from you. This is not a sales solicitation so please call 1-888-123-4567 Monday through Friday.” When it became obvious that perky Heather Kelly’s voice was going to harass us until doomsday, I got to work doing some research on the internet. Turns out Heather Kelly is a front for a collection agency. From my research, her voice is harassing hundreds of people around the country who are delinquent on their Sprint bills. Only problem is that none of the people she is harassing have ever done business with Sprint except maybe the unfortunate “other” Simon E. Walker in Atlanta, Georgia. Because we are members of the “No-call List,” I used the system to report the problem. Within ten days, Heather stopped calling and so far we have been free from credit agency calls of any kind.

The final mix-up came to light a few months ago. A letter addressed to my husband arrived from a company in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. When Simon opened the envelope and read the letter he turned to me and asked, “Did you know you were dead?” I looked at the letter and enclosed pamphlet from the funeral home that sent the mailing. Simon was given six options for his dearly departed wife’s headstone—four of them were double headstones with engravings like “Together Forever,” and “On Earth and Now in Heaven.” All I can think is that poor Pam, the wife of the man born in 1944 with social security number 123-4516-0980 is dead. May she rest in peace.

copyright DJ Anderson, 2007

Going 25 in the Breakdown Lane

Anyone who has driven with me knows that I’m not a speeder. I have, however, been stopped four times over the course of my life for doing just that—once in my newly tuned 1968 Camaro as I pushed the speedometer past 80 out near Myakka State Park (warning), the second time in New Mexico as I tried to keep up with the lead car in a caravan I was traveling with (warning), the third in my neighborhood just as my son was being dropped off by his bus (warning), and the fourth time in my sister’s neighborhood speed trap in Illinois while driving a rental car (ticket). I have choice words to describe the cop in Cary, Illinois, but that’s not what this story is about. This story is actually about going 0 mph on my bike.

Last Sunday I went out to explore the many newly opened spurs that have connected parts of the Greenway together so that, except for one short span, one can now ride a bike from the Nature Center all the way to Morton Mills. As I sat on my bike, right foot on the pavement at the end of the Greenway, left foot clipped in, I marveled at the work that had been done. I imagined out what it would be like once the connector from Morton Mills to Harpeth River Park was complete and how much I was going to enjoy taking the ride in the future. But as I made my move to pivot the bike to head back in the opposite direction, I lost my balance, and fell down on my left elbow. Two hours later in the St. Thomas emergency room, I was told that it was more than just dislocated—the top of my ulna was shattered and it would require surgery to plate, pin, and screw it back together.

It’s going to be a long recovery, and I’m really not sure at this point about the length of the rehab, or the methods that will be used. All I know right now is that, metaphorically speaking, I haven’t excited the highway—I’m still able to do quite a bit on my own. It’s more like I’m driving 25 mph in the breakdown lane. I can only really use one hand so typing is a challenge, as is blow drying my hair. Think about that one. Cooking is also limited. I tried chopping some broccoli tonight and ended up with bits and pieces scattered about the kitchen floor. One piece even landed over on the living room carpet. I also can’t drive so am relying heavily on the kindness of my co-workers who have rallied to sign up to pick me up and drive me home each day. The kindness of my neighbor, despite her reservations about my condition (it wasn’t good), who dropped me at the MegaBus and then picked me up the next day, allowed me to experience the kindness of my high school classmates last weekend. I would have had to cancel attending the reunion a small group had organized in Atlanta, Georgia, if not for the effort they all made to mother me, and make sure I had everything I needed to join in the gathering.

People are wonderful! In fact, it was the kindness of strangers that got me to the ER last Sunday.

Maybe by the time I can get back on my bike, the rest of the Greenway will be open and connected. In the meantime, spend some time getting to know and enjoying those trails. They really are fabulous.

http://www.nashville.gov/Portals/0/SiteContent/Parks/images/greenways/small-harpeth%20river.jpg (some of the orange dotted lines on this map are actually already complete)

Copyright DJ Anderson, September 2013

Summer Nights

Between Camp Shawadasee in Lawton, Michigan, and Interlochen music camp, my best friend, Evy, spent between four and six weeks away every summer. While she was gone, I languished back at home feeling friendless and lost. But in January of my eighth grade year, when Evy’s Camp Shawadasee brochure arrived, I looked through it. Glossy color photos promised “a summer you’ll never forget,” “friendships unsurpassed,” and “a chance to build skills for a lifetime of enjoyment.” I got a notion: I wanted to go.

“It’s more than $120,” Mom argued. “You have to get your lifesaving certification first, and you can be sure there’ll be a charge for that. Then there’s the cost of driving you to Lawton and back. You know gas does have a price tag.”

I called the YMCA to get the cost of taking the lifesaving course. $15.00. I then took our atlas and calculated the mileage to Lawton.

“How many miles to the gallon does our car get?” I asked Dad.

He peered over the top of his newspaper and answered, “Fifteen. Why?” he asked.

I ignored him and asked another question: “How much does gas cost per gallon?”

Now he dropped his paper down low enough so I could see his whole face. I think he said something like 30 cents per gallon, I can’t remember. All I know for sure is that gas added about $5.00 to the total cost of going to camp. Throw in some wear and tear on the car and the cost of a few required camping items, and the bottom line was $175.00. I presented my figures to Mom.

The fact of the matter was it didn’t matter what the cost was. She didn’t want me to go. “Well, I’m not paying for it,” she flatly stated.

“What if I pay for it?” I asked.

Mom narrowed her eyes and said, “Humph. If you can get that much together, and that includes everything including paying for the gas up and back, I’ll allow it.” The smirk on her face telegraphed her utmost confidence in my failure. But, I was determined to do it, so set about earning what I needed.

I already had enough saved for the deposit of $25, so filled out the application at Evy’s dining room table with her mother’s help. I handed over my $25, and her mom wrote a check on my behalf. Evy and I sealed our applications, her mom gave us stamps, and out to the mailbox, and on their way they went. One week later, we both received word that places were being held for the two of us in the three-week-long canoeing program scheduled to begin right after the Fourth of July.

The remaining balance was due the first of May, so I got cracking. I babysat for every brat in the neighborhood including Jeff Barnaby. Jeff was one of those nightmare kids who no one would baby-sit after the first time. If he were a kid today, they’d have him on some sort of drug regimen.

With my first $15 of babysitting money earned, Evy and I signed up for Lifesaving at the YMCA.

Ten week later, Lifesaving certification and $95 in babysitting earnings in hand, Evy’s mother, again, wrote a check so that I could finalize my camp plans. Evy and I then received our equipment list. Much of what I needed I already had, having been in Girl Scouts since second grade with leaders who liked to camp. I had a mess kit, sleeping bag, ground covering, and jackknife, but I still needed things like mosquito netting, duffle bag, and backpack.

Once I presented Mom with the fait accompli, she was actually a pretty good sport about the whole thing, and drove me to do the shopping for what was left on my list. Maybe she figured I had passed the test for showing a sincere desire to do something by working to earn all the money myself.

The day of departure arrived. I was excited to be going to camp for the first time. I had never been anywhere on my own before and I was ready to have this taste of independence.

All the cliché stuff you hear about, like camp songs, camp nicknames, camp pranks, camp food, you name it, Camp Shawadasee had it.

We went twice a day to the lake. In the morning, we swam laps. In the afternoons, only those of us in the canoe program went back to learn about canoeing. We’d take the boats and paddles out of the boathouse and take turns stroking the bow and stern. Once the counselors felt we had the techniques mastered, we started taking the canoes out in the lake.

At the start of the third week, we were ready to take our first canoe trip. It was a day-long journey that demanded we portage our canoes several times. Rain for the area had been sparse and although it wasn’t exactly drought conditions, the river we were on was not running at its usual pace. We each were given a bag of food for the day that included German semi-sweet dark chocolate bars for quick energy. Evy and I were partners—she took the stern and I the bow for most of the journey. The day was blazing hot and the deer flies were brutal. We both got pretty good at swatting them just before the sting of their bite was felt. By the end of the day we were sunburned and tired. Our muscles were worn out and we were happy with the exhaustion of our efforts. Our counselor, Pretzel, announced, “You’ll all be glad to hear that today was a test. Our three-day trip down the White River will be a breeze compared to what you’ve endured today. Congratulations to you all for not complaining and doing a job well done.” That night we all turned in early after a shower and the evening meal.

“Deb,” our tent mate, Melanie, stage-whispered as she shook me awake. It was still dark out as I blinked to focus and rub the sleep from my eyes. “Time to get up,” she continued. Melanie, like Evy, was a veteran of Camp Shawadasee.

“What time is it?” I asked as I flung back the mosquito netting that surrounded my cot. Evy spoke in a regular tone as she answered, “Five o’clock.” We were getting a very early start this morning because we had a two-hour drive to our “put-in” spot up stream on the White River. We’d all packed for the three-day canoe trip the night before but there was breakfast to eat, canoes to load on trailers, and gear to stow in the back of the vans we’d be riding in. By 7:00 we were on the road being jostled in the bench seats of our van.

It was after 10:00 before we were all launched and paddling our way down river. Pretzel had been right about one thing: the White River was going to be a much easier trip than our adventure earlier in the week. The river was flowing beautifully after two nights and a day of rain. The sun was out and there was a light breeze coming from the Northwest that cooled the air to a comfortable 72°. With virtually no humidity, the day was Perfection personified.

The first two days were just about identical. We stopped at lunchtime to build a cook fire and take a two-hour break that included swimming or napping depending on one’s persuasion and attitude. We set up camp both nights along the bank and listened to frogs singing and crickets chirping. The clear skies were an inspiration as Melanie pointed out several constellations to Evy and me. We retired to our three-man pup tents and fell asleep as achy muscles relaxed from the day’s workout. Evy and Melanie made up a song for our trip that went to the tune of “Sailing Sailing, Over the Ocean Blue.”

Canoeing Canoeing, On the White River

When days are hot and nights are cold, on the White River

Snakes and spiders, alligators too!

Don’t you wish you never had, anything else to do?

On the morning of the third day, Pretzel announced that we could take our time getting started this morning. There was a hiking trail near our site with wild flowers, and we were encouraged to explore it. She explained that we would eat lunch here before starting out today as we only had about four more hours to our destination. “After lunch I have a surprise announcement,” Pretzel shouted to us as we all headed toward the trailhead. Speculation began immediately about what she could be referring to.

Melanie’s long strawberry blond hair was pulled severely back away from her face and held to the back of her head with a large clip. “I can’t wait to wash this mess,” she complained as we hiked along the trail. Evy and I were in complete agreement about our own hair. I had wrapped mine up in a red bandana and looked a bit like a cancer patient as not one strand was showing. It felt greasy and dirty and I seriously was considering breaking one of the cardinal rules: do not wash in the river.

The three of us were on clean-up duty when Pretzel made her surprise announcement. “Our destination is Owasapee Boy Scout Camp,” she said as if that was the most exciting news ever. We looked at one another trying to figure out why that was such a great thing. Evy then wondered aloud, “Do you suppose that means there will be boys our age there?” Melanie’s eyes grew wide with the possibility but my stomach did a little flip flop. I had never been very good with boys. I was a bit afraid of them and they never seemed to be much interested in me. Melanie tossed her dish towel over on a rock and skipped off to get more information.

That afternoon in the canoe I thought about where we were going. Owasapee was attended mostly by Boy Scouts troops who went together to work on badges. Pretzel’s boyfriend was a counselor for one of the troops and the two of them had hatched the plan. His troop would host her group for an evening, giving them a chance to see each other mid-way through the summer and, if everything went according to their plan, spend a night sharing a sleeping bag. Owasapee was almost perfectly located in that it was only two canoeing hours short of the original destination. They had plenty of space for us girls to pitch our pup tents and they had guest shower facilities in prime condition for us to use.

Before meeting our hosts, we hoisted the canoes out of the water and loaded everything on the trailer that had been shuttled down to Owasapee’s boat ramp. Pretzel showed us where to set up camp and pointed out the guest showers. By the time we were all ready, it was nearly 7:00 in the evening and the sun was dipping behind the tall trees bringing the glow of dusk to the area. We trudged up a hillside of green grass to a picnic area reserved for special occasions.

The boys, who were all two or three years older than we were, made a beautiful log cabin bonfire that blazed tall and hot for several hours. We ate spaghetti and meatballs, toasted bread, and iceberg lettuce salad, and watched the sparks from the fire shoot up toward the open sky. I sat next to a shy boy named Tom and didn’t have much to say to him. After dinner, couples began to pair off and head to the other side of the hill to star gaze. I lost track of both Melanie and Evy. Tom and I were the last ones left sitting at the picnic table as the embers of the fire continued to pop and flare. One of the counselors put a few more logs on the fire to keep it going. Even Pretzel was no where to be seen. “Would you like to take a walk?” Tom asked. I resisted the temptation to answer ambivalently. Not wanting to be rude by turning him down, I said, “Yes.”

We walked out on to the hillside where I could just barely make out the prone bodies of several couples. Tom and I sat down and he took my hand. I really didn’t want to hold his hand but didn’t want to seem nasty so let my limp hand rest in his. We sat, occasionally looking up at the stars, which he apparently knew nothing about. Thanks to Melanie, I recognized a few constellations from the previous night and pointed them out to him. “You’re a nice girl,” he said. Although I had no experience, I certainly could tell that he was getting ready to kiss me and I wanted no part of that. I jumped up from the ground and said, “Let’s walk.” We walked all over the camp and past all the cabins. Tom told me that he’d been here for five weeks already and would be here another three. I was amazed. “Your parents let you go away for eight weeks?” He sniffed back a laugh. “Let me?” he asked rhetorically. I didn’t pursue the subject because I could tell that this fifteen-year-old boy felt that this was a sentence each summer for him. We walked back up the hill just as several other couples were also returning. Melanie was there looking radiant in the glow of the fire. Her hair was freshly clean and framed her clear-complexion face. She and the boy she was with whispered to one another and exchanged a few kisses as I watched from the far end of the picnic table.

Pretzel announced that it was time to say goodnight and several of the couples did so with long deep kisses that made me embarrassed to watch. I looked around nervously hoping Tom wasn’t going to try to kiss me again and realized that Evy wasn’t anywhere in sight. Melanie and I headed down the hill toward the tents. A few minutes later I spotted her on the trail that ran around the perimeter of the boys’ cabins. “Evy!” I shouted. She turned toward us and waved.

That night, snuggled in our three-man pup tent, we exchanged stories. After I recounted my boring time with Tom, Evy and Melanie started giggling. “What?” I demanded of them. “Tell me what happened to you two.”

Evy began. “Do you remember seeing that guy Mark? You know, the one who looked older than anyone else?” Melanie and I both remembered him. He was hard to miss. Dark-haired, tall, and muscular, we all thought he was one of the counselors at first. It turned out he was 16 and had been coming to Owasapee since he was ten. Next year he planned to be a counselor-in-training so this was his last year as a camper. Evy and he had made eye contact and had an immediate attraction to one another. She had lied to him about her age after first ascertaining how old he was. She could easily pass for 15 though she was two years younger than that. Mark wasted no time on star gazing. He took her to his cabin where they spent the next hour and a half making out. Melanie and I were both titillated and scandalized. “What happened with you and your guy Melanie?” Evy asked.

“Greg was his name.” Melanie’s voice was soft and restrained. We were nestled in the pup tent like sardines. Evy was in the middle. I could hear Melanie but because the tent was dark and we’d turned out our flashlights, I couldn’t see her. There was a full moon that night but the trees around us were too thick to let any of its light through. The noises of other campers settling in for the night that had been the background music to Evy’s story had died down to reveal an underlayment of nature sounds. The occasional crack of a foot stepping on a twig as someone made their way to the privy or back to their tent was the only interruption. “He was the best kisser,” Melanie sighed. I wondered what it would be like to have been kissed enough times to know that someone was the best kisser. I hadn’t even had my first real kiss yet.

“I used to think that Gary Stein was the best kisser, but this Greg guy was definitely better,” Melanie continued. “We walked out onto the hill to look at the stars. Between the two of us we could name just about everything up there in the sky. Just as we thought we’d named everything we could see, something else would become clear enough to identify. It was great.” Even though I couldn’t see her, I could tell she was smiling with the memory of such a romantic time. “Then he started kissing me and I was enjoying it so much I didn’t realize at first that he was trying to pull my shirt out my pants.” I turned over on my side to see if I could see her face at all but could only make out the dimmest silhouette of her profile against the light shining on her side of the tent. “Then what happened?” I begged. At this Melanie started to giggle. She had the most wonderful tinkle of a giggle. Almost like a little dinner bell ringing. “Well,” she laughed. “You see, the shirt I was wearing was one of those body suits that snaps in the crotch so you can wear it with hip huggers and your shirt won’t pull out.” Evy said, “Oh my god! Did he rip your shirt? Those snaps aren’t very strong.” Melanie giggled again. “Yea I know they’re not very strong. In fact, this particular shirt had caused me all kinds of trouble. Two of the snaps had ripped out just after I bought it and there was only one holding it together. Sometimes at school, that one would let loose and I’d have to keep going to the ladies room during every break to snap it together again. When I complained about it to my mom, she solved the problem for me.” Evy and I waited breathlessly to find out what she’d done. “Mom sewed the crotch of that shirt shut.” As the full impact of what Melanie told us sunk in, Evy said, “You mean, that shirt has a sort of chastity belt?” Melanie giggled again and said, “Yes.” I imagined poor Greg pulling and pulling on that shirt and Melanie knowing all the while that there was no way it was coming out of her pants. The image was too funny and I erupted in gut-splitting laughter. Evy soon joined in and then the three of us were laughing so hard we all had to get up and go to the bathroom one more time before going to sleep.

On the ride back to Camp Shawadasee the next morning, we added a verse to our song.

Canoeing Canoeing, On the White River

You’ll stop at Camp Owasapee, On the White River

Star gazing, Star gazing, girls are clever, too!

Don’t you wish you never had, anything else to do?

So Camp Shawadawsee was everything it promised to be: “a summer you'll never forget,” “friendships unsurpassed,” and “a chance to build skills for a lifetime of enjoyment.”

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2005

If Wishes Were Horses, Beggars Would Ride*

Dad used to do a lot of traveling for work when we were young. He and Mom would go once a year to a TTMA (Truck Trailer Manufacture’s Association) convention, and I remember how jealous I was that they wouldn’t take Susan and me along to places like Hawaii, The Greenbriar, and Doral. And there were many weekend trips that he would make as well for business when he would combine it with pleasure and bring Mom, but never us girls. Except one time. When he was going to Detroit.

Dad decided to take the whole family with him on a business trip he was taking to Detroit, Michigan, to meet with vendors from Rockwell International. Mom had just finished making a suit for me. She used a searsucker material with a pattern of sailboats and nautical flags, and I’d then picked out a pair of white Grasshoppers by Keds to go with it. I felt very grown up in my “sailor suit.” And Susan and I were both excited to be going on a real business trip with our parents.

We piled in the car, and just as we were heading out of the driveway, Dad announced that we had to swing by Joe Phillips, our local commuter airport, to pick up a Mr. So and So, who was going to ride with us. I was in eighth grade, I think, so about 14 years old, and my first thought was how awful it was going to be having this man sit between Susan and me in the back seat of Dad’s Oldsmobile 98. We pulled into the parking lot of the little airport, and there, sitting on the tarmac was the most beautiful, sleek, bright white business jet called a Saberliner. It had the Rockwell International logo emblazoned on its tail, and the side door was, just at that moment, magically dropping away from the side of the plane to create a staircase for deplaning. Down the steps walked our Mr. So and So waving his arms at our car. I sighed heavily and petulantly, and said to no one in particular, “Wish I could go on a plane like that.” Dad opened the car door, stepped out and shook Mr. So and So’s hand, and then opened my backseat door. He looked me straight in the eye and said with his wonderful grin and twinkling blue eyes, “Sometimes wishes come true.”

I will never forget the thrill of going on that 10-seater jetliner, just like a movie star, all the way to Detroit—less than an hour’s flight from where we lived in Michigan City, Indiana.

Copyright by DJ Anderson 2013

• http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If_wishes_were_horses,_beggars_would_ride

Ariel Gets Married—A Tale of Two Christophers

My eldest, Ariel, got married on Saturday. The ceremony was held in Vermont, near Brattleboro, on property belonging to her fiancé Chris’s family. The address, 1003 Cow Path #40, she said, “Makes me smile.” It makes me smile, too, in its storybook-like sound.

The homily, given by one of Chris’s uncles, was uplifting, definitively secular, and inspiring. It commended the couple for being brave for making a commitment to one another at a time when doing so has become generally considered superfluous. I cried during the rehearsal—proud at seeing my beautiful daughter so happy, and happy that Chris, who she has known for three years, clearly adores her so very much.

During the reception, Ariel’s best friend, Jenny, who I believe she has known all her life, as Jenny’s mother, Nancy, and I reckon we first met one another when the girls were less than a year old, reminded me of one of their childhood moments. But, as with most of my stories, to understand the story, a back story is required.

Rosanne, a fellow Choate spouse, and I met one another when she became the second wife of a colleague. She had a daughter from her first marriage, and soon was expecting her second baby. Two months before she delivered her son, I, too, found I was expecting, and our friendship began in earnest. When her son, Christopher, was seven months old, Ariel was born, and Rosanne began fantasizing about becoming sisters-in-law once the children were grown as of course they would fall in love, and have a fairytale romance, and then get married. And, indeed, Ariel, too, fantasized. When she was just three years old she babbled on, during a time when the video camera was recording her, “When I’m a big girl, I’m going to get married to Christopher. We’re going to have five children and live in a house with five bedrooms.” Rosanne loved this notion and did more than just encourage it. Ariel and Christopher played together often.

Tragedy struck when the children were just five years old. Only just 41, Rosanne had a pulmonary embolism, and could not be revived by the emergency team that arrived. She was DOA at Yale New Haven. We were all in shock.

The only thing I could think to do upon learning of her death was to immediately go grocery shopping to make sure there was food in the fridge at their home. After the Mass—a closed casket because her husband, Carl, said of the aftermath of the EMT’s work, “Rosanne will haunt me the rest of my life if I ever let anyone see her like that,”—I still could not believe that she was gone.

In order to continue to try and be helpful, I volunteered to keep Christopher for Carl on Saturday mornings when there were classes. [N.B. At many boarding schools, classes are held on Saturdays in order to make for shortened Wednesday schedules to accommodate athletics.] And so, the friendship between Ariel and Christopher continued.

And now back to the real story.

At the wedding last weekend, Jenny told a story that I then found noted in one of my journals. Her story, and the following journal excerpt match just about word for word.

“Ariel and Jenny were playing outside the bathroom and did not realize that I was listening. They were pretending to be in a wedding ceremony. Jenny was the minister and Ariel the bride. The groom was in absentia. Jenny asked, ‘Ariel, do you take Chris to be your awfully wedded husband?’ Ariel answered, ‘Yes.’ Jenny continued, ‘Chris, do you take Ariel to be your awfully wedded wife?’ Chris then supposedly answered yes, too, as ‘Minister Jenny’ pronounced them husband and wife and told the ghost groom he could kiss the bride.”

So though Ariel’s Chris is not my dear friend Rosanne’s son, on Saturday, Ariel said, “Yes,” to marrying her Christopher, and he, in turn gave a clear and audible, “Yes,” response. When their officiant bade the groom to kiss the bride, they did so with great gusto and enthusiasm. They are truly destined, as Jenny so presciently predicted, to live awfully happily together.

The Tempest

It’s late on a Friday afternoon, and I’m alone in my dorm room. I ceremoniously rip up his handwritten note, but can’t quite bring myself to release the bits of torn paper from my hand. I, instead, hold them clenched in my right fist.

I go for a walk and end up in the music building where I wander around through the empty corridors before finding a trash bag that is definitely going to the dumpster that night. I release the crumpled, and now damp from the sweat of my hand, paper pieces, and watch them flutter in around the rest of the trash in the bag. I then push down the feelings of overwhelming sadness that threaten to envelope me and decide I have to try and wear myself out with exercise. I decide to swim as I’m certain I can’t cry with my goggles on.

I dive into the cold water.

The school only just reopened the pool two weeks ago and there hasn’t been time for it to come up to its usual temp yet. The rush of this icy sheath against my skin seems to purge my senses at first and I think I am saved by this baptism. Stroke after stroke, with only the sound of my own body rhythmically breathing in and blowing out air, I do ten laps, then twenty. As I make the turn into lap 28 . . . epiphany. I know how I will respond. I suddenly can’t wait to finish swimming but can’t stop. My speed picks up, thirty laps, forty laps, fifty. The adrenaline surge kicks in—a mile. My fingers and toes are now numb. Anesthetized.

I should have recognized the first signs. But, I don’t. Everyone in the dorm is exhausted. Exams are next week. But, I am wide awake and not tired. I type up my bitter response and then head to bed. Lying in bed, I start to shiver and the tears start to come. Sleep eludes me most of the night.

On Saturday, I clean my room, trying to work, work, work, seeking the solace of exhaustion. I do some studying and, at night, drink warm milk depending upon its soporific qualities. It works. I sleep from 11:30 to 4:30 and then fitfully until 7:30 on Sunday. At 8:00 I write, write, write, trying desperately to puke up something more meaningful than the hairball of bitterness that’s forming in my belly. I’m not jealous—a state of mind I can’t even imagine myself into—although his disclosure that it is Leslie Solinski is a literary irony that would put even Charles Dickens to shame. I swim another mile and write, write, write. I have decided not to send my first response and have written something much, much shorter.

At the start of a relationship, there’s mutual consent. The end can take place by the sheer will of one. It is a rape of sorts where the will of one person is forced upon another without consent. In our case, it is especially difficult for me to understand as it seemed by all standards I am used to monitoring in a relationship, everything was great, headed for a climax of magnificent proportions.

The only clue I have that my body needs food is the gnawing sensation in my gut. Nothing has a taste and I force feed myself with what I remember to be my favorite foods. I can’t even tell if I’m full only that the gnawing has stopped. Monday morning comes and I’m still gagging on my own saliva, finding his announcement difficult to swallow. I work on a problem that’s been hounding me for a month. I actually might pass the statistics exam. I run a mile and half even though the cigarettes I like to smoke on weekends make my chest burn. I try to find my sense of humor in the top-40 tunes that play through my radio imagining that he feels the way some of those songs sound. Around 6:00 I feel the melancholy start to move through my bloodstream, a knock resounds on my frontal lobe and inside my head I scream, “Go away!”

Day four . . . oh Christ! I’d forgotten this part—the self-loathing begins. “You are an idiot; did you really think it would last? You’re not pretty enough, sexy enough, you make yourself too available, you love too easily.” Synapses firing like a semi-automatic, I have an insatiable desire to know everything about her. How did they meet? How long has it been going on? Besides her being so very near him, what else attracts him? Where does she live? Does he sleep with her? But, most importantly . . .  does she treat him well? I want him, above all else, to be happy.

I am angry in a selfish way. He has not entirely ended us. I think, “How dare he suppose that I could possibly understand? Has he no mercy for my feelings? Be a man, thrust the dagger in all the way, kill me completely, but don’t leave me suffering like a wounded animal. If you’re going to close the door, close it all the way. Leaving it open a crack is cruel.” I wonder at this keeping the door open. Why is that? What does trust have to do with all of this? I am so grateful for that open door.

I take a shower and snap, another synapse fires. I ball up my second response and throw it in my trash can. I compose a third one.

Dear Thomas,

Your bomb successfully landed and since I am already your conquered nation, your wish is my command. I noticed you left the door open a crack, so I’ll return the favor and leave a candle burning in the window. Must say, I was surprised considering . . . well that’s irrelevant now I suppose, so never mind.

The Tempest; Act 5, Scene 1  MIRANDA O, wonder!; How many goodly creatures are there here!; How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in’t!

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2007

A Tribute to Grandma Anderson

Author’s note: On April 19, 2013, my sister, Susan, and I interred the ashes of our grandmother. Below are the remarks I made at her gravesite on that blistery day in Edgerton, Wisconsin, where every type of precipitation you can name made an appearance. The sleet was especially nice.

My memories of Grandma Anderson, as we called her throughout most of our lives, are . . . myriad. To pay tribute to her, and get it exactly right, I think might be impossible, for she was as many-faceted as the entire crown jewels of England.

She was a painter. Acrylics rather than oils. A small canvas with a perfectly stylized cumulous cloud sky with a fawn in the foreground. I thought it was Bambi.

She was a seamstress. Easter dresses, matching fabric, but styled to suit our age in yellow with girlie bows and sashes. Custom-designed Barbie clothes—a mink coat made from the old trimmings of a hat, gingham gathered skirts for Skipper and Skooter, a wedding dress for Francie and Stacy. The bridesmaids dresses for Susan’s wedding with a dress in matching material for one-year-old Ariel.

She was an embroiderer. Showing us how to transfer the pattern, stretch the hoops—cross, daisy, chain, and blanket—we made dish and tea towels, hot pads, and ornaments.

She was a crewler. Backstitch, buttonhole, featherstitch, and satin. A Thanksgiving cornucopia, a decorative pillowcase.

She was a quiller, which means to weave with pine needles.

She made Christmas ornaments with shells and sand dollars, she made porcelain dolls. She made literally hundreds of porcelain dolls as, at one point, I had 45 of them in my house. She poured the molds, cleaned up the bisque, painted the faces, hands, and feet, inserted the eyes, applied the wigs, eyelashes, and sewed the clothes. And she began this endeavor in her 70s and did it for over 15 years.

She was a musician. She played the piano, the organ, and the accordion. The accordion was such a large and heavy instrument that when I was a child, I could hardly wrap my arms around it. In fact, I couldn’t wrap my arms around it. And I couldn’t lift it either. She would set on the floor, and I would try to push enough air through the lungs of the thing to get some sort of sound out of it, but it was too hard. She, on the other hand, was a master. Deftly using her left hand to push the buttons, while her right played the keyboard, and her arms somehow (what kind of strength must that have taken?) squeezed the air in, and pulled the air out, bringing life to spectacular Polka, Jazz, and Pop tunes.

She was a bookkeeper. I’d watch and marvel at the way she could run an adding machine. The adding machine was, and I can just barely pull this memory from my brain, full of . . . push buttons. Vertical rows of buttons labeled from zero to nine. I don’t know how many buttons. 100? Perhaps ten rows of ten? She’d punch the number in or rather punch down the numbers . . . one, nine, seven, nine, zero, six . . . and then pull the handle on the right side of the machine. The numbers selected would cha-chunk against an inked ribbon, like on a typewriter, and $1, 979.06 would appear on the paper roll. Punch in the plus for addition, or the minus for subtraction, continue the process until whatever she was calculating was complete. Cha chunk, cha chunk, cha chunk, the final answer with an asterisk indicating Total would appear.

She was an entertainer. Her musical talents were at the heart of every family gathering. Whether it was playing in a combo, which she did throughout her lifetime, or a Christmas party in the basement of 6 Cherry Street where all of us would gather around and sing, or in the final years, listening to her play her signature song, “Alley Cat,” on her little electric keyboard, she was entertaining.

She was a shopper. And she loved clothes and shoes. An occasion would come along, and she’d get “dolled up” as Grandpa Anderson used to say, in something she’d pull out of her closet. “Where’d that come from?” Grandpa would ask having never seen it before. “Oh, this?” she’d answer, “I’ve had this for I don’t know how long.” She took me to J.C. Penny’s and bought me my first “mod” outfit. I think it was around 1972 or 73. She got me a bodysuit in a purple and black harlequin pattern, a pair of purple crushed velvet slacks in a hiphugger jeans style, a brown vinyl belt, and matching brown vinyl lace-up knee-high boots. Wow, I was cool. For the first time in my life. It was awesome.

She was a daughter, a sister, a niece, a wife, an aunt, and a grandmother.

She was a mother. Her only child, our dad, Lennie, named after her beloved brother who died young, was her pride and joy. During Dad’s last visit to her before it became impossible for him to continue without 24-hour assistance, she repeated something I had heard her say so often about Dad: “He was a good boy.”

She was a reader. Surrounded by books in the final years of her life, she read and read and read. Mysteries, romances, memoirs, it didn’t matter. She read all the time. And did crossword puzzles.

She was a neighbor, a co-worker, a friend. One time we asked her what the secret was for a happy long life. And she said that once she got into her 70s and she started to lose friends, and family members, she came to realize that she needed to make friends with younger and younger people. And that’s exactly what she did.

She was a documentarian. She spent untold hours researching and documenting her family tree, Grandpa Anderson’s family tree, and even both sides of my mother’s family tree.

She was my comfort and confidant when a childhood friend died. She was the person who taught us how to take care of our nails, our hair, apply make-up just right, appreciate pretty things and the loveliness of the world. The cardinal was her favorite bird. She understood the human condition, and taught us to think outside of ourselves. To put ourselves in the shoes of others, to be empathetic.

About the last thing she said was to Susan, in the hospital when we were about to transfer her to the rehab center knowing full well that she would not be going back to assisted living. She said in her philosophical way, “Well, I’ve lived a good long life. I have no regrets. I’m ready to go.” And about three weeks later that’s exactly what she did. And we admire this so much about her.

In a word, Grandma Mac—Maxine Grace Stricker Anderson Hussong—born December 2, 1909, died December 29, 2012, was amazing. She lived to be 103, and today we celebrate her life.

Vultures

A country road

With tall overgrown weeds

Winds along the Harpeth.

The old slave fence

In tumble down ruin

Reveals an opening.

A golden field

Of grasses and thistles

Bathes in yellow sunshine.

The lone black cow

With ebony dark eyes

Looks forlornly confused.

A stillborn calf

In effected repose

Lies dead on the hard ground.

The birthing cord

Of artery, of vein

Hangs limp, bloody, and chewed.

A mother’s cry

With low and mournful plea

Goes unanswered, unheard.

The hungry group

Of rank turkey vultures

Pecks the little corpse clean.

Copyright DJ Anderson 2013

Author's Note: In memory of the tens of thousands of innocents killed during the Iraq war, on this 10-year commemorative date.

A Valentine For Smokey

It was love at first sight. There are some who don’t believe in this phenomenon, but those of us who have experienced it know better.

He was just six weeks old—a fit-in-the-palm-of-my-hand grey kitten. His mew was as sweet as his breath on my cheek, his downy fur as soft as mink. I loved him the moment I saw him. And he loved me right back. Smokey and I bonded like mother and child.

He slept at the foot of my bed, and when I awoke each morning, he would stretch out his front and back legs, tucking his chin to his chest, and then yawn wide to greet the morning. “C’mon, Smokey,” I’d say, getting out of bed. He’d leap down to the floor and pad behind me, the little bell I affixed to his collar tinkling his enthusiasm. Up on the bathroom counter he’d jump where he’d cock his head while he watched me splash water on my face and brush my hair. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle again, as he followed me into the kitchen where I’d fill his food bowl and freshen his water. I would then fix my cereal while he finished his food, and though I knew darn well I wasn’t supposed to (most cats are lactose intolerant to cow’s milk), I’d splash a small bit of milk in the bottom of his empty bowl as a treat each morning. And I knew how much he appreciated this small gesture because he would say, “thank you.” That’s right. My Smokey could talk.

I first realized he could talk when, guiltily, after giving him some of the aforementioned beverage, I said accusingly, yet secretly amused, “You are so spoiled rotten.” Smokey lapped up the tablespoon’s worth of dairy, licked his lips, then his paw, before looking up at me to say, “Moy-id rah-wren.” Can you hear it? That’s cat-speak, but he clearly was saying, “spoiled rotten.” Try to say it like a cat, and you’ll see exactly what I mean. His “thank you” was “mape-oo.” Amazing, it was.

Each morning when I left for work, Smokey would follow me outside and then spend the day outdoors. Being a bird lover, and finding that Smokey was adept at killing them, I bought the little bell for his collar. That tinkle, tinkle, tinkle sound was enough to alert birds to his impending pounce. He still enjoyed stalking his prey, but after the bell, there were no more dead birds on my porch.

Smokey followed me everywhere. When I took a walk around the neighborhood, he would scurry from bush to bush, his bell tinkling madly. He somehow, however, knew that when I got in the car, he was to stay in the driveway as I drove away. He would mew and blink his good-byes, and I could see in my rearview mirror that he waited until I was out of sight before then presumably going about his daily hunting activities.

The summer after he turned one-year-old, I decided to take him with me on vacation. I didn’t even think about putting him in any kind of carrier, just picked him up and placed him in the car for a two-hour drive to a cottage on a lake in New Hampshire. He curled up in the back seat as if it were something we did every day, and took a little nap.

While unpacking the car, Smokey hopped out and immediately went exploring in the wooded area around the cottage. I didn’t worry about him at all because I knew he wouldn’t venture far from me. After settling in, I decided to go for a swim. I put on my suit, gathered up my towel, and headed down the rustic path that led to the cottage’s dock. Smokey’s bell tinkled and I knew he was following me down to the shore. I unfolded my towel and flattened it neatly onto the dock where I sat down to enjoy the rays of the sun. Smokey stepped onto the towel and settled in next to me.

Out in the middle of the lake was an anchored raft. I dangled my feet over the side of the dock to test the water. It felt very warm so I decided to make the plunge and swim out to the raft. After hoisting myself up to its surface, I sat dripping wet enjoying the sound of birds and nature. The breeze made goose bumps appear on my skin, but the peacefulness of the moment was divine. And then I heard Smokey crying. He sat at the edge of the dock crying, crying, crying at being so separated from me. It was one thing for me to be out of sight, and quite another for him to see me and not be near me. And so I said, “You’re okay, Smokey. I’ll be right back.” He continued to cry so that I really couldn’t torture him any longer. But before I had a chance to gather myself up to dive in to swim back to the dock, he stopped crying. I watched as he walked back toward the cottage. I was thinking, “Oh good.” But, he wasn’t walking back to the cottage. He was giving himself enough distance to gather enough speed to take a running leap into the lake. Smokey had chosen to go for a swim.

With all the determination of Lassie to “come home,” Smokey paddled his way out to the raft. I panicked because I didn’t know how I was going to get him on the raft, and then there was the bit about getting back to shore afterwards. He closed the distance, meowing the whole time. I couldn’t understand what he was saying but it was probably something like, “What’s wrong with you going so far away when I can still see you, and then making me have to swim in a lake for crying out loud so I can be by you?”

I stretched out prone on the raft and reached my arm down toward the water. Smokey grabbed on—claws in, of course—and I pulled him up onto the raft. He then spent the next half hour, as I sunbathed, licking himself dry. After another half hour, during which he slept next to me, I decided I just had to get myself back to the cottage to clean up and then start some dinner. “You’re not going to like this,” I said to him. His head popped up at the sound of my voice as he watched me go to the side of the raft and dive in.

When I got back to the dock, he started crying, crying, crying again. “I can’t believe it,” I’m sure he was saying. He then went to the far corner of the raft, gave a little shiver of anticipation, and bounded back into the lake, meowing the whole distance as he swam. I never heard Smokey say any swear words, but if he ever did, it was probably during that swim back to shore.

Alas, my darling Smokey was not destined for a long life. He was only a year and half when a congenital condition caused a heart attack. He died in my arms within a matter of moments. I was inconsolable for days. Co-workers thought one of my parents had died.

Yes, I was quite ridiculously brokenhearted. But, when it’s love at first sight, there’s no helping it.

Copyright DJ Anderson 2013

Wagner Suicide

Authors Note: I wrote this when I was 17. And though it's every bit what you might expect from a junior in high school, I've purposely left it unedited from its original in the hopes it serves as a touch point to the past. Spoiler alert . . . it's VERY dramatic. :-)

There had been better days in the past, but they all seemed to run together in a blur of grays and blues. That old clock on the wall over my bed ticked away endlessly. The only real joy I found in my meticulously clean abode were my memories. Were they memories though, or dreams? I had difficulty sorting out the difference between the two. No matter though, they wouldn’t let me do much more than sit and think anyway.

The past comes to mind . . . I couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old at the time. He was so handsome. The memory of our childhood arguments and hatred had already begun to melt away. A new watercolor painting was being formed on the old canvas.

Being young and at an easily impressionable age, was an obvious deterrent to resistance. The excitement of explorations in a new world seemed endless. All we wanted was to find a little peace and be happy. What an ambition! I have searched all the cavities of my mind in hope of finding the truth. I know that all truth exists in my head somewhere.

So, when Jonathan and I first took our leap into the unknown, we had a common goal. That goal was to make ourselves happy at the expense of no one but ourselves.

At first, we called our intimate desires merely games of pleasure. Jonathan always said that our secrets were ours alone. No one else was allowed to play in those days, so I could not share the stories with anyone. We were fearful of misunderstanding and jealousy by others that we could not let join in the fun.

At every ring of the phone in my mother’s country kitchen, came a burst of excitement that settled in the pit of my stomach. Sometimes I felt that the feeling was fear. I’d always been rejected by the circle of people that I wished to associate. Some murmurings about dress and the way I wore my hair. Such material and surface judgments were too trivial for me to comprehend. Innocence in youth is a superb advantage but has its disadvantages when it eats away at one’s eros.

Jonathan’s sister Linda was my best friend. It was quite convenient to have her as my neighbor. Linda knew about the games, necessarily. In fact, she arranged them most of the time. I really loved Linda. She was always around when I needed her, even in the white room with that clock. I despised that clock.

Our fantasy for happiness had come to life with such simplicity. Jonathan was an artist. His room was characterized by Peter Max, a miniature of Maxwell’s silver hammer, and a puppet’s head that dangled from the ceiling. The puppet’s face was sinister and had eyes that could burn through to the core of one’s mind. The nightmares I had about that puppet coming to life sent chills up my spine at the slightest recall to detail of the scenes.

The corridor leading to Jonathan’s place of habitat seemed miles long. Walking down the hallway, I had sensations of soundless noise that echoed through my entire body. There was no love, no emotion that could be described. I reached for the door knob and entered. Instantly, all was tranquil and the frustrations that had built to the point of explosion ceased. No one could emulate that touch that he had.

I was obsessed with giving him pleasure, but could never detect any success. He hardly ever spoke, and only years later did I find that he had deep admiration for me. I only wish that he could have told me his feelings then, for as I grew to love him, my hours spent alone grew. I have shed tears enough for ten lifetimes. All because Jonathan thought that his love showed through his actions and he did not feel that words were needed to reinforce what he thought.

Jonathan and Linda went West for three weeks of summer vacation with their parents, I desperately longed for their return after their first week of absence. I received a letter from Linda saying that Jonathan had dreams about me and she suspected that he missed me. I lived on that hope for the remainder of their trip. The day on which they were to return, I spent thinking about the games. The games had become a large part of my life. Even though they failed to give me as much pleasure as I had originally intended, Jonathan still wanted to play and I felt obligated to accommodate him. The sun was out, there would be no game playing today, only on rainy days.

“May I call you Rebecca?”

I gave Jonathan a puzzled look and asked, “What’s wrong with my real name?”

“Well, nothing at all. I just think you look more like a Rebecca. Now sit still for just a few more minutes while I finish some sketches and we’ll play the game.” He shot a glance that met my eyes with a force almost overpowering. I could not look at his eyes and inadvertently broke the gaze.

“Why can’t you look at me?” Jonathan always gritted his teeth and talked very slowly and deliberately when he was angry, “You can not expect any respect from people if you insist on evading their eyes. Laura, don’t make me angry with you. I’ve told you a million times, LOOK BACK AT THEM!”

He was always right. He told me to use my eyes as a spider does a web. Jonathan said if I did what he told me I would hold great powers.

“Jonathan, where are we going today? To another island or Paris?” He was unusually bland and lacked enthusiasm totally. Maybe it was my change of the subject.

He answered, “We’re staying right here. How does that make you feel?” Again, Jonathan looked at me with sour mockery. He was testing me again. Why was he always testing me?

“I don’t know.” I tried to sound affirmative in my answer so he would stop intimidating me. I had succeeded in only disgusting Jonathan with my reply. I could see the disappointment on his face. The corner of his mouth curved slightly downward and he made a noise that told me I had better leave. He gestured to me to do what I had suspected. I could feel the tears forming in the wells of my eyes as I departed from his room. I don’t want to cry again, too emotional.

Rejection. I had to find an escape that would enable me to cope with being an outcast. Jonathan says that Laura can’t deal with acceptance therefore, is always having to face rejection. She is the model child who caters to her parents every wish. Through her I am timid and fear all that exists out of the realm of traditional Old Testament teachings of Christianity.

Rebecca, on the other hand, is such a free living spirit. Jonathan created her in me just in time. The little puppet in my nightmares had caught me and attached the strings with the greatest of ease. The colors she painted were brilliant and new.

Linda was always my tower of strength. She perpetually was doing the right thing at the right time. Her eyes were deep chocolate brown in color. They were seducingly constant. Her warmth was inspiring and without her I would have swallowed a dozen or more barbiturates that would have rocked me softly to death. The spherically shaped, red-coated candies were looking incredibly better by the moment. The buzzing in my ears grew louder when I realized how opportune the moments surrounding me were. I felt a cold, dark, shadow fall across my path, beckoning me with a bony outstretched finger. I stopped briefly from my hysteria only to put “Lohengrin,” a romantic Wagnerian opera on the stereo.

I captured the brown bottle and began pouring the contents into my hand with intense determination. The opera seemed far away but the ringing in my ears and the hollowness in my gut seemed unbearable. I was at the apex of my flight, about to admonish the fatal drug into my bloodstream, when suddenly, Linda pounced on me unannounced. The water in my glass soaked my clothes and bed. I felt as if I had just fallen out of the sky after experiencing the eye of a hurricane. I could hear the bold chords of the traditional Wedding March penetrating my senses as I grasped the tides of reality.

Linda held me close and caressed my outer ear with circular motions. “My poor, sweet, baby Laura.” She spoke with so much tenderness. I could only wish that her brother would employ the same tenderness. I had allowed Jonathan to have infinite power over me.

Linda dated frequently now, and displayed abounding affection to me when she was between loves. I spent hours rationalizing her actions, finding only a minimum of comfort. As the days and weeks rushed by, I found a need for Linda’s soft words more and more. I didn’t dare demand the time from her because she spent her free time, which was precious to her, with the present boy of her dreams. Sometimes I felt used, especially when she had a lover’s quarrel and used my shoulder to cry upon. I wouldn’t deny her my compassion for her grief.

I was old enough now to accept dates and did so under Jonathan’s reasoning that, if I refused dates, others would become suspicious as to whom my heart was true.

I found that I enjoyed the company of Tom Robinson, a boy I’d had in classes since Kindergarten. He was very kind and he held my hand in public. Jonathan never spoke to me or even acknowledged my existence in the real world. My relationship with Tom hadn’t gone on long when Jonathan confronted me with his views on the situation.

“Sit down Rebecca, I must make a few things clear.” I sat. My heart was racing with a speed that was out of control. My mouth had gone dry the moment I had received his summons, and conversation on my part would be impossible. “Rebecca, you are only faithful to me aren’t you?” I nodded my head in agreement. “I knew you were. I’m not saying that you can’t have your little friends on the side, but, you mustn’t ever let yourself become serious or sexually attached to anyone. You have me and need no one else. The games have been better than ever lately.” He was right, they had been delightful. Jonathan told me that when I felt myself falling away from him, it was most likely because I was falling for someone else. So, as not to lose the security of Jonathan’s haven, I would have to run from the claws of emotional involvement. I silently regarded the rules as Gospel and continued to worship the great power that held me so tight. Inevitably, I flitted from romance to romance, not giving much of anything and leaving only broken hearts in my wake.

It had been over a year since my parents had uprooted our family in search of a more affluent existence. A bizarre sort of expression on Jonathan’s face when I departed haunted my memory. His cold gray eyes and accusing smirk had showed no warmth. I felt as if growth, inwardly, had stopped in my system. Emptiness is what I felt, void of the fire for life, I was possessed with a want for happiness. (Again, or still?) Under the influence of a pain-killing drug after minor surgery my fears burst forward and culminated in the form of a dream.

The fire surrounded me on three sides. On the fourth side stood a dark figure having no distinguishable features. The night was black and hindered my sight. The figure was wearing a sepulchural robe and manifested the Spirit of Fear. The tongues of the hot glow crept closer to my body. I could feel the perspiration that was dripping from my forehead. The heat was intense and yet a glance at the Spirit sent chills through my bones. I perceived no escape and in my panic to survive, screamed obscenities to release some of the stress. The fire was closing in and I decided to take what might be the lesser of two evils. My eyes were watering from irritation. I turned to accept the fourth side alternative and found that the walls of fire had met, forming a complete circle. I was trapped.

When I woke, I heard a ticking noise. The ticking was constant and unmoved. Opening my eyes I saw white walls, white sheets, white floor and ceiling. Tick, tick, tick. I have seen my watercolors run off the canvas into oblivion, am governed by the clock, but, still have a world that revolves beneath my feet.

Copyright DJ Anderson 1974