A Matter of Persuasion

 

It is with great excitement that we announce the publication of DJ Anderson’s second romance novel, A Matter of Persuasion. To purchase, visit Amazon.com.

PLOT

Laura is a brilliant cellist about to graduate from a prestigious New England boarding school and head off to one of the top music schools in the country. Jonathan is a formidable soccer player with dreams of completing his private school and university education before getting recruited to a professional team. Neither were expecting to fall so deeply in love and wish so fervently to start down their career paths together. Thinking that they have succeeded in arranging to attend the same college, they begin to make plans for their shared life together. But Jonathan’s family, furious that their son is not following their plan, intervenes.

Persuaded to separate from Laura or lose all financial support, Jonathan makes the painful decision to leave her to pursue his dream. In the wake of his departure, Laura finds that she is pregnant with his child. Upon deciding to go through with the pregnancy, her fears of what his wealthy and influential family might do to further exert their influence lead her and her family to make an uncomfortable pact. They decide to keep the child’s existence a secret from Jonathan.

Throughout the years that follow, and try as they might, neither Jonathan nor Laura can erase the love they have for one another. The pull to find each other again is strong and undeniable. As they both pursue their original career goals, they also make decisions that put their individual paths on a collision course with one another.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DJ Anderson was born in Wisconsin but has also lived in Indiana, Florida, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Tennessee. During her 23 years in New England, she lived and worked on the campuses of private boarding schools. It is from these experiences she draws to achieve credibility vis-a-vis the location and settings for A Matter of Persuasion.

In 2020, during the height of Covid and before vaccines were available, Anderson flew with her outline for the book to Massachusetts to isolate for two weeks prior to the arrival of her first grandchild. She spent the time in a lovely AirBNB garret apartment overlooking the Charles River while she began writing the novel. Swan House and its beautiful grounds became the inspiration for the home of one of her characters. After completing the first very rough draft, she moved over to her daughter’s house to meet her new grandchild. The next six weeks were spent in writing additional plot and character development for the novel while also doing laundry and taking care of the new parents. At least a dozen drafts and three years later, A Matter of Persuasion was published. 

A graduate of Stetson University and Wesleyan University, DJ earned a master’s degree with her thesis in art, “Behind the Façade,” an exploration of what is known and unknown about the individuals in our lives. As with her first novel, Mercy of the Fallen, A Matter of Persuasion explores this same theme. DJ is a noted storyteller and amateur psychoanalyst with a talent for detail. She approaches her writing just as she approaches the world—with compassion and matter-of-fact wisdom.

DJ currently lives in Bradenton, Florida, where she is an avid runner, bird watcher, and the director of her own communications business.

Caught in a Lie

The look on my sister’s face was unmistakable. She knew I was lying to her and she was both furious and disappointed in me.

Mom and Dad may have been away or out for the evening when the phone rang the evening before. Karen picked up and answered the ring.

“Hi! Is Carolyn there?”

“No, she’s spending the night with a friend. May I take a message?” Karen politely asked.

“Just tell her Kim called.”

Kim? Karen thought. “Kim who?” she asked.

“Kim Martin.”

With an edge now in her voice, Karen said, “Sure. I’ll tell her.”

The problem was that I had told Karen I was spending the night at Kim’s house. In our household, it went without saying that when I said Kim, I meant Kim Martin even though I rarely said her last name.

At first my sister must have been a bit worried. I know I would have been if confronted with a circumstance I wasn’t expecting. Could I have misunderstood? Has something happened that I should be concerned about? are questions I would have asked myself.

Karen greeted me the morning after Kim’s phone call with fire in her eyes. The look was mixed with a pinch of suspicion. “Where have you been?” my fourteen-year-old sister interrogated. I was amazed that she should ask me this and I couldn’t understand the tone in her voice at all.

“At Kim’s,” I answered, looking a bit down my nose at her.

“No you weren’t,” she accused. “Kim called last night asking for you.”

Without missing a beat I countered with incredulity, “Kim Lawrence called here?” 

For a moment, Susan’s expression changed from confidently knowing she’d caught the rat in a trap to cautiously unsure. “No,” she responded, “Kim Martin.” 

I was fairly certain I’d won this round as I tossed off the coup de gras. “Well, I spent the night at Kim Lawrence’s, silly.” 

I probably shouldn’t have added the silly. It was unnecessary and a mean. Even so, I’m pretty sure Karen didn’t believe me. She wasn’t sophisticated enough yet to have it completely figured out. The pieces didn’t quite all add up but she wasn’t sure why. If Mom had been in charge of getting to the bottom of the discrepancy, things would have turned out quite differently because the truth was, I had spent the night with my boyfriend. 

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2023

Camping in the USA

I knew with every cell of my being that I was going to love camping. My mother, on the other hand, could not fathom why in the world I was so excited to go with my Girl Scout troop. She was allergic to just about anything you can name from pollen to animal dander making the idea a bit horrifying. I was ten years old and, as far as I knew, not allergic to anything. My excitement stemmed from the knowledge that my troop was going to work together to earn not one, not two, but three new badges for our sashes–Outdoor Cook, Troop Camper, and Foot Traveler. 

Among the many skills we learned were how to pitch a tent and prepare it in case of rain, make a campfire and cook a full meal, and hike on designated trails to enjoy nature. We also learned basics in safe practices for wilderness living and first aid. I never missed a chance to go camping.

With all the skills I had acquired throughout my youth, the idea of camping across the United States for six weeks in the summer of 1982 was nothing short of a dream vacation. For our adventure, my then husband–an experienced outdoorsman–and I purchased the latest camping gear: tent, sleeping bags, pots and pans, lantern, cooler, Nalgene water containers, head lamps, hiking boots…you name it. Besides the gear, we were also equipped with the most recent additions of AAA’s campsite books for every state we were planning to drive through. We even had a Triptik, where our route had been marked by a travel agent. The markings included rubber stamped indicators where we might run into construction or other traffic issues. We had our United States Atlas and maps for just about every state. No GPS in those days! We were ready.

By the time we returned home six weeks later, we had driven 110 hours, 7,400 miles, through 24 states. We had been to the Knoxville World’s Fair, crossed the Mississippi, driven through the Texas panhandle, and explored the Grand Canyon, Zion, Bryce, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Napa Valley, Yellowstone, Salt Lake, the Badlands, Wind Cave, and the Oshkosh Air Show. We had water rafted, hiked many trails, spelunked, camped in national parks and forests, and stayed with relatives on a few occasions. Because my grandmother was just as horrified as my mother had been about plans to camp, she paid for us to stay at the MGM Grand for one night. And it was a good thing as it turned out; there were no campgrounds in Las Vegas. 

A number of years and two children later, we began what turned into nine consecutive years of two-week car camping adventures in different areas of the country. By the time we were done, the kids had been in 35 states and one province of Canada. On every adventure we included rafting, kayaking, or canoeing, horseback riding, caving, and some sort of swim. My son lost his first tooth in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, and wondered aloud, “Hey, who let those guys out?” when deer wandered through our site at Mammoth Caves in Kentucky. My daughter learned to fly fish in the backcountry (special pass required) of Wyoming’s Yellowstone National Park. We heard the yips of coyote pups rejoicing in their mother’s return to their den while rafting on the San Juan (special pass required) in Utah. We have stories to tell about the Lone Fir Motel in Washington State, spectacular night skies in Idaho, and thunderstorms on the Tobermory Peninsula in Ontario, Canada. 

On our last trip, our seven-year-old niece was with us. We still laugh about her telling people we went to Viagra Falls, and moan over our memories of having to carry our gear and portage heavy canoes in Wisconsin. By then I was dictating that there be a hotel room every third night. It wasn’t that I was getting too old, but I was increasingly less enthusiastic about the inconvenience and work that camping required. It just did not feel like fun to me any more. At that point, I knew with every cell of my being that I was going to start hating it, and I didn’t want that to happen.

The only camping I might agree to these days is of the glamping sort. A kayaking trip with a friend in Costa Rica turned out to be just my speed. Our tents were set up for us, there was a decent outdoor shower, and lounge chairs to enjoy the lapping waves along the shore. Our guides prepared gourmet meals, and offered us a selection of beverages throughout the day. After kayaking in the Pacific Ocean all afternoon, we would return to find margaritas waiting for us with cavichi made from the fresh fish they had caught off shore that morning. Now that’s the kind of camping I know with every cell of my being I can still love. 

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2023

Jellyfish

I am no expert when it comes to identifying sea creatures. All I know for certain is that I have had two jellyfish encounters. One may have been the Thimble, the other called a Moon. Of the two encounters, the Moon jellyfish hardly makes for a story worth telling. Thousands of them were off the coast of Connecticut in Long Island Sound during a triathlon I participated in there. They did not sting at all, but I do recall the slimy feel of them against my hands as I breaststroked my way through the first phase of the race. It was like swimming through a thickening bowl of Jell-O.  My experience with the Thimble jellyfish, on the other hand, makes for a much more interesting recollection. A group of us was snorkeling near a reef off the coast of Caulker Island, a caye about an hour’s tender ride from Belize City, Belize. We were there with a guide to visit a reef to view stingrays and tropical fish on an excursion offered by the cruise ship we were sailing on through the Caribbean.  We were warned by our guide to beware of jellyfish. He was quick to point out that though the variety found near the reef could sting, they were not a life threatening species. The jellyfish were easily identifiable and seemingly avoidable. I watched as a friend swam a few feet ahead of me with the intention of steering clear of the beautifully pulsating jellyfish in her path. But a miscalculation regarding the speed of the current ended with it grazing the inside of her right thigh. She felt the sting and maneuvered her body to get out of the way. But like a ball pinging from one side to the other of a pinball machine, I saw it bounce off onto her left thigh, and then into her left calf. I was paying such close attention to what was happening with her, that I then failed to notice, until I felt the sting, that I, too, was in harm’s way.  The stings felt nothing like a bee or the prick of a needle, but more like the zing or zap of static electricity. We finished our swim and returned to the tender with the plan being to let us spend a few hours wandering around the sandy streets of Caye Caulker. As the tender sped back toward the dock, the sting spots started to throb as our bodies signaled the need to produce histamines. I knew from past experience with anything biting or stinging, that mine would probably swell to the size of a golf ball. It would be unpleasant for a few days, but then the swelling would cease and I’d be fine. My friend and I talked as best as we could over the roar of the boat’s outboard motors and agreed that we would both be okay.  As we approached the dock, I noticed that one of the other women in our group was looking as if she was going to faint. Against the guide’s orders, I got up from my seat and quickly moved toward her. I squatted near her and asked, “Did you get stung by a jellyfish?” She nodded her head but said nothing. Her pupils were large, her skin looked gray, and when I put my hand on her wrist, I could feel her rapid pulse. The boat was slowing. I yelled, “Is there an EpiPen onboard?” The guide’s eyes widened, and the boat’s captain abruptly put the engine on idle. “EpiPen! EpiPen! She’s having an allergic reaction to a jellyfish sting.”   By then another member of our group had moved closer to the woman. “I’m a doctor,” she said.  The captain opened up a small compartment near the steering wheel and pulled out a box. He opened it and grabbed the EpiPen to hand over to the doctor, and then picked up the radio transmitter. He spoke urgent Spanish. The doctor tore off the EpiPen packaging and jabbed the plunger into the woman’s thigh. The guide grabbed the dock and began tying up the boat. “Everyone please remain seated,” he said in a shaky voice.  I moved back to sit next to my friend. “How in the hell did you know what to do?” she asked. I didn’t know how and shrugged my shoulders. Within a few minutes, a vehicle–made for navigating the sandy roads of the island–arrived. Two people hurried out and helped to get the woman inside to transport her to a nearby clinic. The doctor went with them.  The rest of us got out of the boat in a sort of state of disbelief. The guide asked, “Is there anyone else feeling like they’re going to be sick?” He then asked us to raise our hand if we had been stung by jellyfish. There were four of us. He asked that the entire group all stick close by and not wander too far. He pointed with his finger to say, “The Pelican Sunset Bar is just over there, and the clinic is a three-minute walk in that direction in case anyone feels they need to see a doctor. Let’s all meet at the Pelican in exactly two hours. If possible, I’ll give you an update then, and if our friend is in good enough shape, we will all go back to the ship at that point.” He looked us all in the eyes to make sure we all understood him. No one gave him any pushback at all. We were like obedient little children whose dad had just laid down the law. At the Pelican bar, ice felt good on our stings but what we really needed was some Benadryl. After eating some lunch, we asked the restaurant owner whether there was a drug store nearby. It was a five minute walk to see whether we could find an antihistamine. The effects of taking Benadryl were a relief. Our guide came back to get us as planned, but had no news about the woman. When we left the island to go back to the ship, I worried about what had happened to her.  The guide asked the four of us who had been stung to please go immediately down to the ship’s infirmary and check in with the nurse. When we arrived, I was very happy to see the woman up and about and looking just fine. I couldn’t believe she recognized us because I figured she would have been in too much shock at the time to have any memory of what had happened on the tender. She thanked us for our quick intervention and said she’d only been at the clinic long enough for the doctor there to say she needed to get back to the ship as soon as possible. She was transported separately on a speedboat. That night, the phantom stings began. As best as I can explain, they felt like zaps in random spots all over my body. The zaps continued to occur over the entire next year for both my friend and I. The spot near the top of my right knee, where I was stung, stayed discolored for six months.  Even though I have retained a bit of a phobia for them ever since, jellyfish are beautiful creatures to behold. I recently stood in the Boston Aquarium and stared at the exhibits of them with awe.  Copyright DJ Anderson, 2023

A Roma

 

I had flown internationally one other time. It was with my mother in the summer of 1984 to England, Scotland, and Wales. She and her group were flying from Florida, I was coming from New York. Due to airline schedules and prices, I would arrive a full day before she would. Worried about me spending a whole day alone in London, Mom arranged for me to spend a day and night with the cousin of one of her travel companions. The cousin lived in High Wycombe, requiring me to first figure out how to use a British telephone box to let them know I had landed, how to exchange my dollars to pounds, and to locate the bus at Heathrow for my trip into the countryside to their home. I didn’t have too much trouble. Speaking the language was a great help, and I wasn’t shy of asking strangers for assistance. I arrived to meet my host family, and had a wonderful time with them. They then drove me back to London so that they could meet up with their cousin, and I with Mom. Everything went smoothly and I felt very well cared for throughout the entire two-week trip.

One year later, I was very excited to be taking my second flight abroad. This time to Italy to join my husband for the first two weeks of his last term with Rhode Island School of Design where he was earning his master’s in art education. As had been the case with the England trip, coordinating our arrivals got complicated. He was traveling with his fellow classmates out of Boston. Including me on their flight was not possible–something about me not being a student, and liability. Consequently, I found a flight out of New York that would be arriving in Rome within an hour of their flight. The plan was to meet up at the airport…somehow…and I would then join the group on their bus to the Pensione. 

While standing in line to board the plane to Rome, the woman in front of me turned around and said with great excitement, “I’ve never flown into Ciampino before. Have you?”

“What is Ciampino?” I asked. She went on to explain that we were on a charter flight and that we had been rerouted to the smaller airport in Rome. 

I’m sure a look of horror appeared on my face. “You mean, we’re not going to Leonardo DiVinci now?” 

She shook her head. 

My head began spinning. There was no way of getting this new information to my husband. I imagined him looking all over the airport for me. I imagined how worried he would be. I thought about what I would do if things were reversed. I would check the Arrivals board and find that the flight number I had been given would not be listed. I would probably start to cry from panic and worry. 

Where was Ciampino? How far was it from Leonardo DiVinci? How would I get into Rome? How would I get to the Pensione? Did I have the address for the Pensione? I rifled around in my carryon bag and was relieved to find a paper with both the address and phone number for the residence written on it. The answers to the rest of my questions would just have to wait until I arrived and found out what I would be facing. It was nearly impossible for me to relax. 

I am a planner. I am an obsessive planner. I have Plan A, Plan B, often a Plan C, and on certain occasions, notions for other contingencies. The situation was anxiety provoking, and I didn’t like the feeling at all. But, there was nothing to be done, except maybe learn a few Italian words and phrases. For instance, Where is the bus to Rome? might come in handy. So I memorized Dov'è l'autobus per Roma?

After landing at Ciampino, I felt I had been transported back in time. We descended a flight of steps to exit the airplane onto the tarmac. The sun was blazing down from a perfectly clear blue sky. The barely more than a quonset hut terminal was 50 yards away. No one was there directing us, and the general attitude of the personnel was that of boredom. I followed everyone else and stood in line to have my passport stamped. When I asked the official, Dov'è l'autobus per Roma? he started speaking Italian and pointing in a direction off to my right. I, of course, had no idea what he was saying. Note to self: if you’re going to ask a question in a foreign language, you better have an idea of how to interpret the answers. I nodded and said, “Grazie.” 

I watched my fellow travelers to figure out the baggage claim. I watched to see what others were doing to exit the airport. Some were getting in cars, some were getting in taxis, and some were walking along a fence line and out a gate. There had been no opportunity to exchange dollars for Lira. The image of Blanche DuBois came to mind as I sighed and thought, I have always relied on the kindness of strangers. I followed the line of people out the gate.

Dragging my suitcase behind me, we seemed to be walking to nowhere. I couldn’t see any sort of landmarks. There was no skyline of the city. There was what looked like farmland to my right, and to my left were some nondescript buildings–maybe homes for all I could tell. Ten minutes into the walk, which I was hoping wouldn’t turn out to be a sort of Bataan Death March, I saw people disappearing into the ground, as if they were falling off the edge of the Earth. It was a stairwell–no markings–descending to what I supposed was a subway station. Down I went. 

An agent sat inside a booth. People plugged tokens into a nearby turnstyle, which then opened to allow them to enter to board the train. I stopped and stared at the turnstyle. I had to spend a moment admonishing myself not to cry because I really now didn’t know what to do. I looked pleadingly over at the agent who waved me over to his booth. What a forlorn little thing I must have been after my long flight. He began speaking to me in Italian. The only thing I could think to do was to show him the paper with the address of the Pensione and a US Dollar bill. He began nodding his head. He then pointed to a little side gate attached to his booth and it opened to let me through. “Grazie grazie grazie!” I said with a big smile on my face. He waved me off and said, “Buona fortuna Bella!” 

I sat down on the train and looked around for a subway map. I studied the map to decide what my current location was and to guess at which point I should get off. I decided my best bet would be the station with the biggest red circle: Roma Termini. Once there, I looked around for a place to exchange currency, but still found nothing. I stopped someone who looked official to ask, Dov'è l'autobus per… and then showed him my Pension address. “Ah, si, si, numero cinque cinque due.” I stared as I tried to use what little Spanish and French I knew to translate. “Cinque cinque due,” I repeated. “Si, si…” and then as if he thought I was hard of hearing he enunciated as he held up his fingers, “Five…five…two.” It was hard for me not to laugh. Instead I said, “Grazie!” and headed out the door to a vast parking lot filled with buses.

I was exhausted. Dragging my luggage behind me was no small feat. I walked through the parking lot, sweating with every step looking for the numbers 552 on each bus. At last I found one. I showed the driver the Pensione address and he waved me on board. I used hand signals to try and get him to understand that I needed him to tell me when to get off. “Si, si!” he said. 

I sat right behind the driver because I was so afraid of not getting off at the right spot. Everytime the bus stopped, I made eye contact with him. He shook his head each time until finally, he nodded his head and said, “Buona fortuna Bella!” I said, “Grazie grazie!” *

But now what to do? Where was the Pensione? I looked to my right. I looked to my left. I looked for street signs. I was so tired that even the thought of walking any distance seemed impossible. I decided to stop a stranger and show her my paper. She spoke in Italian and pointed me across the street. I crossed the street and stopped another stranger who pointed me to keep walking. I looked up at the numbers on the buildings and there it was: Pension Arenula. I entered to find myself face to face with a long flight of stairs. With a big sigh, I began to climb with my suitcase. 

The receptionist greeted me in English. I asked about the RISD students. They had not arrived yet. She told me I would have to wait for them before I could check in. She indicated a padded bench for me to sit on and wait. I sat and worried that they would be delayed because they would be looking for me and wouldn’t want to leave me on my own. I reasoned that perhaps my husband would offer to stay behind and they would make plans on how to get him to the Pensione. It was a very long 20 minutes as I waited and worried. But, then, a clamor of voices, and the sound of many people walking up the steps made me brighten that the group may be here. They were laughing and talking all at once. As they began to file in, I looked and looked for my husband. He was one of the last people to step into the lobby.

I anxiously anticipated how relieved he would be to see me safe and sound. He only said, “Oh, good, you got here.” I was very deflated by his bland greeting. He hadn’t been in the least worried. He said he was confident I would figure it all out. Well, that was something, to have someone with that sort of confidence in my abilities. I was just glad we were all now together and ready to enjoy Italy together. And we did! It was a wonderful trip that included Italian lessons, great food and wine, side trips to Sperlunga, Florence, and Venice, and a fun story about making fish chowder for the whole group before I left to go back home. (https://authordjanderson.blogspot.com/2017/03/lost-in-translation.html)

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2023

* Later that day I found out that I should have purchased a bus ticket before boarding. Drivers do not collect tickets, only transportation officials, who may or may not board a bus to collect them. Many people take their chances and ride the buses without paying. If you are caught, the fine is steep. But I didn’t get caught, and thank goodness! They would have taken me straight to jail.

The Mystery of the Missing Purse

I was not your typical woman’s purse because I was actually marketed as a man’s purse. I was black leather, the shape of a rather large book (think Revised Standard Version of the Holy Bible and you’ll be close), and I had several zippered compartments and a pocket designed to hold a pair of glasses.

One of the main reasons my owner, who was called either Sweetheart or Mommy or Deb, chose me was because I also had a builtin wallet for all her cards. A full list of these cards would exhaust me, but I’m sure you can picture them: credit, debit, library, voter’s registration, health, various rewards types, driver’s license, and her Wesleyan University ID. She was working on her master’s degree. I also had a spot for dollar bills, a small area for coins, and an insert that held photos. My outside zipper ran around the exterior of three sides, which allowed Sweetheart Mommy Deb to open me up like a book to have access to everything stored inside. I was rather unique.

Sweetheart Mommy Deb was what you might call obsessive compulsive in that her behavior on a day-to-day basis was predictable in its routine. She used me everyday because I really was so special and accommodating she couldn’t imagine anything better. She wasn’t one of these women who changed out her purse to match her outfit. She placed me in the same spot whether that was at home on the entryway table, or at work on the top of her tall filing cabinet. She knew exactly where to find me.

When we were at home, I was able to see pretty much all the comings and goings of her household. She had two young children, who were well-behaved enough that they knew not to touch Mommy’s purse. I heard her tell them not to touch me, and they both were very good about leaving me alone. One time she forgot to put her office keys back inside me and her daughter took them. Her daughter was only two years old so I’m sure the keys were very tempting. I saw the child plop the keys inside the umbrella stand next to the table where I sat. I knew those missing keys were going to drive Sweetheart Mommy Deb crazy. And I was right. It took several days for her to find them.

When we were at the office, my perch on top of the filing cabinet allowed me to watch her work, but I couldn't see out the window of the door. It was pretty boring watching her mouse and keyboard all day long, so sometimes I nodded off and stopped paying attention.

The day Sweetheart Mommy Deb had to supervise a photo shoot is one I will never forget. We got to the office like usual, she laid me up on top of the filing cabinet, and sat down at her computer. But after only a few minutes, a man came into the office. He had three different cameras hanging from his neck. She printed off a schedule of some kind, they talked it over, she made a phone call, and then they both left. I was all alone but I wasn’t afraid or anything. I was often left alone for various different reasons. She might have a meeting to go to, or she might go get lunch. I was safe, or so I thought.

While Sweetheart Mommy Deb was away on the photo shoot, a woman I had never seen before came into the office. She opened the doors to a storage closet right next to where I sat. She rummaged around inside for a bit and then she closed the doors. As she turned to leave, she made eye contact with me. She walked over to me, and then she picked me up and turned me over several times. She unzipped me and pawed around inside opening up my compartments and storage spots. She even looked at the photos. There was one of Sweetheart Mommy Deb’s husband, one of each of her children, a family photo from years ago with her, her sister, and parents, and there were several photos of high school friends and a couple of people she’d known since grade school. But the one photo I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was her favorite, was the one of her Kindergarten best friend–the one who died. I heard her tell the sad story many times and remember her eyes when she looked at the photo. It was one of a kind, and irreplaceable. The strange woman finally put me back together and zipped me up. I felt quite violated at this rude mistreatment, and wanted the woman to just leave me alone. But she didn’t leave me alone. She tucked me under her arm and left the building with me. All I could think about at first was how Sweetheart Mommy Deb was going to react to my disappearance. She was going to lose her mind thinking she had been the one to misplace me. 

The strange woman walked me out to a car and tossed me on the passenger seat. She then rifled around inside her glove compartment, but shut it without taking anything out. She thrust her arm under the seats patting about trying to locate who knows what. She then opened the back door and grabbed a roll of paper towels. She tore a piece of paper towel off one of the sheets before opening me back up. She took out the pen that was conveniently stored inside. She wrote from 185 Christian Street on the torn paper and stuck it inside me along with the pen, which she didn’t bother putting back in its specially designed slot. I then rode next to her for a long while as she drove, and drove, and drove. I’m pretty sure we even went out on the Interstate. When we finally arrived at her destination, she pulled the car into a garage, and got out. But she left me sitting on the seat.

I sat on the seat in the garage for several days after that. It was really dark and no one came or went. I must have dozed off because I was suddenly awakened by loud noises in quick succession–a bang, an alarm, and a terrible screeching sound that brought light into the garage. The car door opened and a different woman got in. She tossed a piece of notebook paper and a small purple pouch on the seat next to me. She jammed the car key into the ignition and started the engine. I then rode next to her while she drove off. 

When the car stopped and the engine was turned off, the new strange woman sat looking at me for a full minute as if she expected me to tell her what was going on. But, honestly, I was just as mystified as she was. She finally reached over and picked me up. She unzipped me a few inches and stuffed her piece of notebook paper and her purple pouch inside. She put my strap around her wrist and let me swing by her side as she entered a grocery store. I bounced against her leg while she placed items in her cart. When we got to the checkout, she took me off her wrist, and unzipped me just enough to pull out the notebook paper, which she briefly consulted before taking out the purple pouch. She took out some money and paid for her purchases. She then put the pouch and the notepaper back inside me. As we headed back to her car, she placed me in the grocery cart in the place where Sweetheart Mommy Deb always put her two-year-old. I sat on the cold metal and watched as the new strange woman placed her bags in her car. She then wheeled the cart to the area designated for used carts, and turned away from me. Wait! I thought, I know I’m not supposed to be here in the first place but don’t leave me outside abandoned in a parking lot! But, that’s exactly what she did. She apparently had completely forgotten about me. 

I looked around thinking someone might see and rescue me and hoped it wasn’t going to rain because my leather was not going to like that all. Not to mention what it might do to the photos inside, especially that really old one of the little girl who died. 

It wasn’t too long before a tall boy came to gather up the used carts to take them back into the store. When he pulled my cart out of the holding area, he saw me right away. “Oh geesh,” he muttered, “not another one.” Apparently people leave their purses in carts all the time. Who knew? He took me to the customer service desk and said, “Another person left their purse in the cart, Mr. Gruber.” He held me up to prove it and handed me over to the man with a beard. “Thanks, Jake,” Mr. Gruber said. 

Mr. Gruber then took me back to an office area and set me down on a desk. He unzipped me and went straight to my cards section. He first took out Sweetheart Mommy Deb’s drivers license. I happened to know that even though we lived in Connecticut, she still had her license from Florida. Mr. Gruber sighed. He then looked a bit further and found the Wesleyan University ID. I could see him nodding his head as if all was explained. Mr. Gruber looked up the phone number and punched it into his office phone. He waited for someone to answer. “Security office, please,” he said. A minute ticked by before he said, “Yeah, this is Bill Gruber over at Stop N Shop in Cromwell. A staff member of mine just found a purse in one of the shopping carts. Belongs to a student of yours?” They talked a bit longer and it was agreed that Mr. Gruber was able to drop the purse off at the school’s security office on his way home from work.

Mr. Gruber then wrapped me in brown paper like I was a package. He wrote something on the outside. He then picked me up, walked a few steps, and set me down. But he must have forgotten about me because no one moved me again for a long while. I lost track of time. 

When finally someone remembered me, I was picked up and carried many steps. I assumed Mr. Gruber had finally made a plan to take me to Wesleyan, but for all I really knew, it was yet another purse napping. I couldn’t see anything.

I was blind to what was happening, which was rather scary. All I was certain of was that I was back inside a vehicle. The person driving turned on the radio and we listened to some idiotic talk about aliens. Not sure how much time elapsed but we eventually stopped, and the person picked me up. I could hear footsteps as we walked to wherever we were going. A door opened and closed and then my handler, whose voice I recognized as Mr. Gruber’s, said, “Hi, names’ Bill Gruber. I called a couple weeks ago about a purse that was left behind in one of our carts at Stop n Shop. Seems it might belong to one of your students? I wrote her name on the outside there.” I felt a finger poke my paper wrapping. There were some shuffling sounds and I was handed over to someone else who said, “Give me a sec while I look this name up.” There were some clicking sounds, probably from a computer. The person then said, “Yes, she’s one of our graduate students. Their semester just ended so not expecting her back on campus for another week, but I have her contact information.” Mr. Gruber thanked the guy who then stowed me, presumably, under his desk. 

Between the phone ringing every minute or so and the predictable answer of: “Wesleyan University Security, how may I help you?” and a radio scratching out the voices of security guards on patrol reporting in every so often, the office proved to be a noisy place. They said things like “ten four” and “over” a lot. A television served as further background noise to the opening of a door, which would lead to a conversation between the officer on duty and various visitors, after which the door would again open. The hinges needed to be oiled. 

She didn’t call herself Sweetheart Mommy Deb, but I recognized her voice instantly when she stepped up to talk to the officer. He said, “Yes, it’s here some place. I was the one working when the guy from the grocery store dropped it by.” Sweetheart Mommy Deb said, “Grocery store?” The guy said, “Yeah, the grocery store where you left your purse in the cart.” If I’d had a hand and a head, I would have slapped my forehead and said, “Good grief.” Sweetheart Mommy Deb was going to be very confused.

She thanked the officer and took the wrapped package. I then felt her removing the paper. When I could finally see, she was staring at me in mystified disbelief. Well, no wonder! It was a pretty strange thing that had just happened to me, and, by extension, her. 

When we got home, I was so happy to be back in familiar surroundings. And I couldn’t wait for her to open me up to find all the weird stuff I had picked up since she last saw me. There was the piece of paper towel with the address of her office building written on it. There was the notebook paper with a list of groceries written on it. And there was the purple pouch with $17.34 inside. Her cards were all there, the money she had in the bill compartment was all still there as were all her coins, but what made her the happiest was that the photo of her Kindergarten friend was still safely preserved.

Sweetheart Mommy Deb made two changes in the aftermath of my disappearance. First, she took the little photo of her childhood friend out and put it in a frame. She placed it with other photos on a shelf in the house. She also started locking me in one of her filing cabinet drawers whenever she left me alone in the office, which made us both feel much more secure.

Copyright, DJ Anderson, 2023

Hold My Hand

The multipurpose room had three major functions: gym, theater, and lunch room.

As a lunch room, there were no lunch ladies to serve and no cafeteria lines to stand in. The children, ages five to twelve, brought their lunches to school in brown paper bags or in decorated metal lunch boxes and simply gathered there to all eat at the same time. 

The room was monitored on a rotating basis by two of the school’s twelve teachers. Except for the occasional attempt to start a food fight, the teachers expected, and were mostly rewarded, with an orderly proceeding. The teachers made no attempt to keep the room quiet. 

To accommodate the lunchtime purpose, eight mobile bench tables, which stood seven feet tall when folded in half, were rolled into the area and unfolded to their full length of twelve feet each. Sixth graders, being the oldest students at the school and being taught about responsibility, were in charge of setting up and taking down the tables. Four students were selected each week. This week, one of those students was Elena. 

Elena opened her brown paper bag and pulled out a bag of corn chips, a Ziploc containing her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a small plastic bottle of juice. Zoe opened her Scotch Plaid metal lunch box to reveal a thermos of two percent milk and a ham and cheese sandwich on buttered white bread wrapped in a beeswax cloth. A small silicone container held homemade applesauce. Her mother had provided her with a stainless steel spoon. The girls sat together at one of the bench tables, just as they did everyday. 

“Did I miss anything after I had to leave class to set up the tables?” Elena asked.

“No. That teacher’s aid girl handed out a worksheet we’re supposed to complete after lunch recess. It has something to do with a thing called a Venn Diagram.” Elena bit into her PB&J while nodding her head.

The girls gossiped a bit about Kim and Steve who, it had been rumored, were caught kissing out behind the school tennis courts during morning recess. They giggled at the very thought of doing such a thing.

When she had finished her lunch, Elena crumpled up her paper bag along with the Ziploc, the empty chips bag, and the plastic juice bottle, and tossed them in the trash bin. Zoe placed her beeswax wrapping, empty silicone container, and spoon in her lunchbox and latched the lid shut.

The teachers were beginning to hurry all of the students along to get them outside onto the playground so that the multipurpose room could be returned to its pre-lunch norm. “I’ll wait for you outside,” Zoe said to Elena who waved and went to join the other three students to take down the bench tables.

Zoe strolled down the hall to the area outside her classroom where each student had an assigned cubby and coat hook. She placed her lunchbox in her cubby. She thought about putting on the windbreaker jacket she had worn to school that morning, but decided it was far too nice for a jacket. She went outside to sit on the steps to wait for Elena. 

The minutes ticked by. When Elena still did not appear, Zoe began to chew on the nail of her right index finger. When several more minutes elapsed, she decided to go check on her friend.

As she walked down the deserted hallway, Zoe looked over her shoulder a little concerned that a teacher might ask her what she was doing. As she peered in through the door to the multipurpose room, she saw four teachers hovering around one of the mobile benches. The mobile bench was neither upright nor in its usable position; it was toppled over on its side. A whimpering sound reached Zoe’s ears as she edged closer to the gathered group. 

One teacher raised her head and looked Zoe right in the eyes. “Don’t come any closer,” she said. Zoe then heard Elena’s tiny little voice say, “I want Zoe, I want Zoe, I want Zoe.” Zoe could tell that the teachers were unsure what to do or say, so she made the decision for herself. She walked around to the other side of the fallen table and there on the floor with a part of her right femur pressing against the skin of her thigh was Elena. Zoe’s eyes grew wide. A teacher kindly said, “Let’s take you out of here, shall we?” But Elena said, “No, I want her to hold my hand. I want Zoe to hold my hand.” So Zoe sucked in her breath and put her brave face on. She sat down on the floor next to Elena and took her hand in hers. She held Elena’s hand until the ambulance arrived. 

Once the paramedics came in with their gurney, which they set on the floor right next to Elena, they asked everyone to move away so that they could work. They ran an IV line into Elena’s arm. They counted to three and moved Elena onto the gurney and then wheeled her out to the ambulance. Zoe saw Elena close her eyes. 

A teacher asked Zoe if she was okay. She said she was, except she wasn’t. She was feeling very cold. She walked back down the hall to get her windbreaker jacket. She went outside and walked around the corner of the building so no one could see her. She started to cry. She cried until the bell rang to go back inside. 

Zoe was allowed to visit Elena one time while she was in the hospital. Elena wanted her to hold her hand. It would be many weeks before Elena was able to return to school, but the girls were able to talk on the phone whenever they wanted. 

During one of their conversations, Elena said, “You're my best friend.” 

“And you are mine,” said Zoe.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2023

Bridge

 

The summer we moved to Bradenton, Florida, from Michigan City, Indiana, at the end of my sophomore year of high school was one of solitude. I spent it mostly riding my ten-speed around our neighborhood and then in ever-expanding explorations into neighborhoods further afield until I understood pretty well the geography of my new town.

On one occasion, I decided to go all the way out to the island, which included crossing the bridge that linked it to the mainland. Anna Maria Island was seven miles west–an ambitious undertaking to ride a bike out and back–but I had nothing better to do with my time. With no friends, and only my parents and a ten-year-old sibling at home, escape was all I had on my mind. I was not happy to be so unceremoniously and unsympathetically removed from the people I had gone to school with since Kindergarten. Try as I might to remain a loner, however, the effort was a failure. Inevitably, I met a few people before the start of school and started to make new connections. 

The day before we were to begin our junior year, Cindy, one of the girls I had met, called to suggest I meet her at her bus so that she could then introduce me to her core group of friends. I wasn’t a shy kid, but when you’re new, it’s hard to feel confident. Her offer was a great relief to me. 

I lived close enough to walk, so I left home early in order to be waiting at the front of the school as the buses arrived. The first bus pulled up to the curb and one kid after another stepped off and headed in their various different directions. No sign of Cindy on the first bus. The same thing happened with the second bus. When the third bus arrived, I heard a fellow student say, “The island bus is here.” I knew Cindy did not live on the island, but I was enjoying taking in all the new faces of my fellow schoolmates.

As I watched the students step off onto the curb, I made eye contact with a girl I was certain I had seen before. Behind her, a boy stepped off the bus whose face also was familiar. It was a strange moment–one that felt surreal. The girl and the boy came to a dead stop in front of me as the three of us just stared at one another. Finally, the girl said, “Debbie?” I swallowed hard as my brain tried to make sense of these two people. I knew I was at my new school in Bradenton, but these two people were from my old school in Michigan City. After looking rather stupidly at them both I said, “Gayle? Bruce?” Yes, incredibly, here were two people from what seemed to be a past life now linked to my present life.

As Gayle, Bruce, and I continued to marvel at one another, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Cindy. I explained to her what had just happened. We all started to laugh over the utter absurdity of it, and then I arranged to meet Gayle and Bruce at lunchtime.

At lunch, I found out that Gayle’s father worked for Bruce’s father, and that Bruce’s father had opened a second location of his construction company, Woodruff & Sons, in Bradenton. Soon afterwards, I began to see Woodruff & Sons trucks everywhere. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed them during all my bicycle outings.

Gayle and Bruce were not close friends of mine, but when you’re the new kids, and you share a history, it’s pretty cool to find one another and form a much-needed bridge.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2023

Basement Productions

I loved to play pretend as a child. I would make up stories and play all the parts myself because, until I was in school, I spent a lot of time playing alone. I would talk to my stuffed animals and to my dolls; I would dress up in my mother’s old clothes and shoes; and I even had an imaginary friend. [see blog post December 2, 2015] 

Making up stories led to writing down stories, which eventually led to writing novels and this blog post. But in those really early days, my stage was located in the basement of our home where I felt perfectly free to act out whatever story came into my head. 

Most of my stories centered around my being the lead or the person in charge who ordered everyone else around telling them what to do. Since everyone else was an inanimate object, I was obeyed without complaint. I had a pretty rude awakening once I had to negotiate with other kids for that lead position as most of them had already honed their skills with older and younger siblings. I didn’t stand a chance. 

Undeterred for the most part, however, one summer several of my neighbor girlfriends were bored enough to think my idea for putting on a play was a good one. Because none of them knew anything about directing a play, much less had been in one (I had recently been in our elementary school’s production of Jack and the Beanstalk, playing the giant’s wife), they were eager to follow my lead in putting on a new version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.

Wanting to make the story a bit more interesting, I wrote the character of Goldilocks as a thief. Rather than mysteriously wandering into the house of the three bears, my Goldilocks was to nefariously plan out her home invasion for the purpose of stealing some valuables from them. I was, of course, Goldilocks. Her entrances were, on three separate occasions, preceded by my also playing a familiar villainous rift on the piano. She successfully stole something first from Papa Bear, then from Mama Bear, but when she tried to steal something from Baby Bear, she was caught. In the end, justice prevailed, and the three bears captured their intruder and sent her off to jail. 

We practiced our play for several days before then advertising the production to take place in my basement on a Sunday afternoon. We set up chairs for our parents and siblings. We did not charge a fee. Our success was evident when our audience laughed in all the right places and clapped at the end. One father said he had never seen a play where several of the characters all talked at the same time–a tongue in cheek compliment to be sure.

Though that was the only play I did with my neighbors in my basement, there were many productions to participate in throughout my school days. I have many fond memories of Hello, Dolly and The Sound of Music in particular.

After I had my own children, I enthusiastically supported my daughter when she, too, wanted to put on plays. Hers were far more organized and frequent. There was a version of Cinderella during which I pulled a shower curtain back and forth between scenes in the basement of our house, there was a version of Snow White, and even a scripted one-act written by O. Henry, as well as many more. I loved watching her little group of friends practice and put on their productions.

Now that I have a granddaughter, who definitely has quite an imagination, and likes to be the lead as well, I am hoping the tradition will continue into a third generation. Afterall, all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.*

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2023

* William Shakespeare’s As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7

Resolutions

 

I’ve made this resolution before–a number of times. It’s annoying to have to keep revisiting it. It’s not about dieting or exercising–those are the top two New Year’s resolutions. It’s about being confident and setting boundaries. It’s about not giving anyone the power to tell me how I should behave. You know that bumper sticker…Well-behaved women seldom make history? Yep! That’s what I’m talking about. 

Hurricane Nicole was just about to cross the state of Florida. I was scheduled to fly to Memphis to spend a week or so ahead of Thanksgiving with my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. The trip had been coordinated with my daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter’s visit so that all of us could spend a few days together for the first time in a number of years. I also had agreed to drive up to St. Petersburg to care for my sister’s dog for the few days prior to my departure. 

With the hurricane on a path to hit Tampa Bay, I had some decisions to make. The first was to make sure I was on the south side of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge in case my flight out of Sarasota actually stayed on schedule. No cancellation had been announced. With high winds predicted, I just couldn’t risk the bridge being shut down and being stuck with trying to figure out how to get to the airport. I packed up the dog and headed home to Bradenton. Through texting, my sister and I put together a plan for a friend to take the dog for the 24 hours between my scheduled departure and her scheduled arrival back home.

Miraculously, my flight not only was not canceled, but it left Sarasota only 45 minutes past its scheduled departure time. That may sound like a lot of time on the tarmac, but even after we were airborne, I couldn’t believe I was on my way to Atlanta for my plane change to Memphis. It was going to be a tight–very tight–transition. I was positive my luggage wouldn’t make it. But I was excited that I wouldn’t miss any time with my family.

Upon arrival in Atlanta, I exited the plane and began walking as fast as I could to my next gate. I had been in the airport for less than a minute when I heard over the announcement speakers, “Will Debra Faulkner please report immediately to Gate 1 for departure to Memphis. Your plane is loaded and the doors will soon be closing.” My heart skipped a beat and then began pounding with a rush of adrenaline. My only thought was I thought people whose names were announced like this were sitting in a bar getting drunk. I supposed that there were now hundreds of people in the Atlanta airport thinking that Debra Faulkner was too drunk to realize her plane was about to depart.

I scurried up to the gate, said something about expecting that my luggage wouldn’t make it, whereupon the gate attendant said, “If you made it, your luggage will.” Huh! Really?

The plane was full. There was one seat left on this Southwest flight where seats were not assigned. It was a middle seat in the second row. Well at least I’d be one of the first people off the plane, I thought. Since the flight was only one hour, I was sure being in a middle seat would be just fine.

The person in the window seat was a very very large person. He clearly understood this about himself as he was squishing himself against the window as tightly as he could. The armrest between the seats was up because his body was too large to fit. He spilled over into the middle seat. He was either asleep or feigning sleep. I couldn’t tell. The young man in the aisle seat was watching something on his phone and either ignoring me or completely oblivious as I stood next to him waiting for him to notice that he needed to get up and let me in. I had to nudge him.

The young man looked startled at my nudge and stood to let me in. I sat down in my middle seat and went to stow my backpack in the space under the seat in front of me. Except the space was already full. I was very confused by this and turned to the young man with a quizzical look on my face. He dismissively said, “There’s not enough space in front of me so I put my backpack there.”

I said, “But, I need to put my backpack there.”

“It’s okay, he said, just hide yours under your legs.”

“That’s not allowed,” I said.

“They’ll never notice,” he said with a wave of his hand as he put his earbuds back in and resumed looking at his phone.

I am a 64 year old woman. He was perhaps…30? I have children older than him. And yet, here I was, feeling powerless, struck dumb with shock, and silenced by a man. Now grant you, I was stressed by everything that had come before this moment. But I felt gridlocked between the things I wanted to say and the things I feared he and the others around me would think if I said them. These infuriating, and I mean really, truly, I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this any more! Infuriating thoughts kept replaying over and and over in my head. Except none of those thoughts came out as spoken words. I didn’t do anything about my fury. I didn’t even do anything about my fury after I noticed that the young man had stretched his legs out in front of him into the space where his backpack should have been.

I sat in my middle seat, squished by the man on my right, who by the way actually opened his eyes at one point and apologized. He also asked me if he’d been snoring. I sat there fuming. Among the fantastical thoughts I imagined myself saying to the young man were: Move your fucking backpack! And I am old enough to be your mother, young man. And If you need the space provided by my seat, I am happy to exchange with you and sit on the aisle. And Would you prefer I punch that call button and have the flight attendant deal with this situation? Any of those responses would have been better than just sitting there letting my blood pressure climb to unhealthy levels.

Was I angry with the young man? Maybe a little at his being an entitled little brat. But I was mostly angry with myself for my silence. I remained silent because the other things running through my head were: Be a nice girl. And Don’t be a bitch. And It’s only for an hour.

I made it through the rest of the flight and was soon happily united with my children and grandchildren. But, I’m still pretty angry with myself for not saying how I felt at the moment and making it clear to that young man that he was absolutely in the wrong. 

My New Year’s resolution, and I’m sticking to it this time, is to speak my truth from here on out. And if some snot-nosed kid wants to think I’m a bitch, so be it.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2023