I’VE MOVED MY BRIDGE TO
my new blog
I hope to see you there.
I’VE MOVED MY BRIDGE TO
my new blog
I hope to see you there.
Of course my family played games at Christmas- I think one year we played dominos.
I don’t know who thought it would be more fun to set them up in patterns and knock them over, but I’m pretty sure nobody knew how to play them anyway.
If they did, they weren’t sharing that info.
We also played checkers
We’d cheat like crazy and it was fun. In fact if you didn’t cheat and make it amusing nobody wanted to play you. I mean, come on it was checkers- not high stakes Poker.
But by far we loved a game I actually got for my birthday when I was six.
I’m not sure whose idea it was to get it for me, but I think I asked for one and said it…
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One Christmas when I was a little girl, I asked my Grandfather why we always told Ghost stories after Christmas dinner. I asked whose idea it was to light the fire, turn down the lights and talk about cemeteries and bodies buried in basements and bones in hatboxes on dusty shelves in attics.
I said it was weird how we told those stories every year at Christmas.
We were sitting in the living room, the fire was roaring, the treats were placed on tables around the dark living room and the tree lights weren’t on yet.
The rest of the family were in the dining room finishing desert.
We took our seats under a painting of my Great-Great Grandmother.
He looked at me. ” I see your point. “
I wasn’t sure what my point was at that moment but before I could consider it…
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Anyone can forgive, some people can forget. I’m no exception to that.
Hold a Grudge though?
You bet- until the day I die.
Maybe even beyond that day.
I have this theory- when we wrong somebody we create a monster. It lives in the head and heart of the person you hurt until there is no head or heart for it to live inside.
When that place is gone, it goes looking for a new home, something dark and fetid and familiar. It goes back to it’s creator because there’s no place like home, is there?
It doesn’t matter what God you fall on your knees and pray to, it doesn’t matter if your conive or con forgiveness for the pain you caused.
It’s going to come home to…
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1973 was an infamous year in our family.
That was the year my Grandfather got into that accident on the Duwamish Bridge.
Something hit his card pretty hard from behind and his car was forced off of the bridge into the water.
That happened on Halloween Morning.
After the Police came by and told us that he was gone, where to collect his body and how sorry they were my Mom sent me and my brother outside to bring in the pumpkins.
She and our Aunt took down the decorations Dad was to busy to buy candy because he was talking with the Funeral Home and for the rest of the evening relatives came by and our house went from Holiday to Mourning in less than three hours.
As darkness fell me and my brother could see our friends darting from house to house in their Halloween Masks made from plastic and swinging their Trick or Treat Pumpkins wildly in the air.
” Grandpa would say we should be out there.” My Brother said ruefully. ” He’d have bought us eggs and TP too. Grandpa knew how to do Halloween right. Remember the time he stuck those fake heads on poles Because Mrs Green gave us toothbrushes and apples?”
” Yeah. He said he was surprised the old bag didn’t hand out socks and underwear too.” I remembered out loud. ” And remember the time the Brices forgot it was Halloween and he helped us wrap their car in plastic wrap
Just then my best friend Prixie waved as she ran by our window.
I flipped her the bird in return.
” They’ll be sorry, we’re gonna get tricked for sure and you know who will have to clean up the mess right?” my brother said with some satisfaction in his voice. ” I’ll bet this time our house gets tricked and I’ll bet eggs and shaving cream are in our future. THEY deserve it.”
“Serves them right for keeping us in doesn’t it?”
We ran up the back stairs to our bedrooms- I put on my thin plastic scary witch mask complete with scary witch plastic costume and met my brother was dressed up as race car driver on the way back down.
” Your costume is dumb” I told my brother.
” You don’t need to wear an ugly mask he told me.
Then snuck down into the basement and out the basement door that let us out into the alley and disappeared into the chilly Halloween Night.
When we got back our family was stunned.
” Do you know what tonight is? ” they asked us all at once.
Actually they were yelling it.
” Um. The day Grandpa died.”
” Yes. ” My Grandma said patiently. ” It’s also Halloween “
” That’s why we went trick or treating. It’s Halloween.”
” And you two should have been home a half hour ago.” Grandma scolded us ” Kids your age shouldn’t be out after seven-thirty alone.
My Grandma took my plastic jack-o-lantern and shook the candy out on the table.
” I hope you two didn’t eat the good stuff on the way home…”
” Your FATHER ” Grandma said pointedly at her son
“didn’t buy any candy and if we don’t have any of those chocolate bars your Grandpa liked-“
We heard a knock on the door-
There’s going to be Hell to pay.”
Oh her name matters very much and I’ll tell you why.
Her name was Penny- and she was indeed the lucky Penny, the bad Penny, the one cent people give along with their opinions so you won’t punch them in the throat when they give it.
He met the former Penny Dyen in a bookstore.
She was flipping through a book and chuckling to herself and that’s what he was taken with.
That deep rich laugh.
She looked up from her and he looked down into her dark brown eyes.
He introduced himself and she closed the book and gave him her name and two months later he gave her his last name.
It was on their first wedding anniversary he asked if she remembered the title of the book was that she had been enjoying so much.
The one that made made her laugh and drew him towards her.
” Oh. Yeah. Sure I remember, it was a hoot.”
He waited for her to answer because she had started to laugh again.
He couldn’t help but to smile.
” It was The Exorcist. The Devil in that book reminded me of someone I knew once.”
His mouth dropped open. ” You knew someone like…”
” Oh don’t worry Sweetheart. He wasn’t as cute as you and is totally out of my life now.”
He was never scared of Penny.
He felt like the person after they skydive for the first time, or fight off a shark or find themselves in the eye of a tornado. That’s what he felt like with Penny in his life
Penny never slept, he never saw her actually eat food and the neighborhood cats, dogs and small children all sounded someone was cutting their heads off when they saw her walk by.
But he would be the first to tell you after awhile he felt like a visitor in the world Penny came from- he never quite got a handle on the way she seemed to always know things before they happened or how she seemed to just appear for a second and was gone like a puff of smoke.
So every once and awhile He went back to his old world where people didn’t stare into mirrors for hours at a time talking backwards at their reflections because as Penny explained that was the only way the words would come out right on the other side.
His problem started when he brought someone into the world he shared with Penny.
She was an old flame- very old and when Penny found out how old she was Penny laughed and said, ” Sweet Baby Jesus, if you wanted a bag of moldy bones to love, we got plenty of those in the back yard. I could have dug some up for you. I’d be glad to, it’s getting crowded back there.”
Beyond that Penny didn’t seem to concern herself with His ‘Moldering Cadaver’ ( as Penny called her )
But the Moldering Cadaver cared very much about Penny.
She called Penny and Penny agreed to meet her at the Park down the street from Penny’s house.
Their conversation was actually very brief.
She wore rings on all of her fingers, her hair was cut like Penny’s and she was wearing nose bleedingly high platform shoes.
Penny looked down into Her eyes and was not surprised to see the Sanity draining from them as they spoke.
Penny was not surprised because she had that effect on people.
The part where She pulled out the gun and fired it right between Penny’s eyes.
That was new.
Poor Penny, the neighbors said with some relief.
To be shot in cold blood like that and how morbid- that old Park was actually part of an old cemetery and whoever had shot her in the head had also bashed her face in with a piece of broken tombstone.
That was a shame, people said with honesty. Penny had actually been a beautiful woman in life.
He married Her after a year.
Of course the sanity did not magically find it’s way back into Her head sadly enough.
She now drank too much, smoked too much and wrote far too much poetry about passion and regaining one’s youth again and made Him listen to it.
He would sometimes wish during those readings that Penny was there laughing into her books about Demonic Possession or history books about the Black Death ( good times baby she would say as she wiped the tears from her eyes ) and torture.
He missed Penny, but it was probably a stretch that she would take him back- being that he married the woman who killed her.
One night, he was sitting on his front porch smoking one of the Cuban Cigars that Penny had stashed in the library upstairs.
She loved to smoke cigars and the habit had rubbed off on him.
So on that biting cold November evening He was wishing Penny was there to smoke with him when Penny walked up the steps.
Her face was beautiful again, the bullet hole was gone.
He stood up, took her into his arms and he said
” Penny, I’m so sorry. I … “
Penny took the cigar from his fingers and kissed him. Her eyes burned bright and she ran her fingers through his hair. ” You always have been a little Devil my love-“
Penny turned him loose turned and opened the door to their house.
Then Penny squared her shoulders, popped the cigar into the corner of her mouth and called Her name- actually Penny howled Her name like a demon escaping from Hell is probably a better way to describe it.
And Penny said as she walked into the house-
” But as we both know, I’ve always been a bigger one.”
I post daily on My Enduring Bones…stop along to see what’s up!
I love it when people tell me about their nightmares.
I love having them myself and when I have boring dreams where my brain is sorting out the junk that’s been piling up in there I wake up and think, ” that was boring, what a waste of REM sleep. “
So if I had a day to do exactly what I wanted, I would spend my day crawling into people’s skulls and give them the best nightmares EVER.
I would hold nothing back, I’d fill peoples dreams with murderous Aliens from Venus, diseases where your body parts drop off and you spend your dream trying to glue them back…
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I never throw coins into a fountains and make wishes because of what happened at the Old Well on my Grandma Tilly’s property 50 years ago.
She had this well way back on her property- just passed the family cemetery and from there almost a half mile from the tree where people liked to hang themselves
Grandma Tilly figured about a dozen people hung themselves from that tree. Grandpa Wolfie was all for cutting it down but she was convinced those souls were caught in the branches and if she cut it down they’d walk around her property and make it creepier than it was already.
” I don’t think that possible Tilly.” Grandpa Wolfie said once as they stood under the tree and looked up into it’s…
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Tately Grund was always meant to do big things, great things, he was meant to make his mark on the world.
That’s what drove Tately Grund to do the things he did.
The very distasteful, odious things that would make the Devil blush. From what I understand he did exactly that on more then one occasion.
But I digress.
I’m here to tell you a story about Tately Grund and how he came to make the acquaintance of one Livia Frost- Frosty to her friends- not that she had many of those.
Livia owned the one and only Funeral home in Burnside, Washington. She owned the cemetery too and most of Cross County was buried there.
What that adds up to numbers wise is a lot of dead bodies and they’ve been taking up residence at Leaning Birches Cemetery since 1904.
Livia lived just across the street from Leaning Birches and her old bone white house with the stain glass windows and and her front door with the dog’s head knocker didn’t exactly say ‘welcome’- .
But you’d be surprised how many people did visit Livia’s Bone White House with the stained glass windows- they didn’t go to the front door though. They walked around to the back door- down that little path lined with those white flowers that only bloomed at night and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.
It wasn’t a long walk to her back door, it just felt like it if anyone were to admit to taking that walk which nobody ever admitted to doing.
So no, I don’t know how they figured out Livia Frost had a way of getting things done and knowing things that nobody should know- to be exact she knew the kinds of things that most people took their graves.
Tately Grund took that long walk to the back of Livia’s house and pulled open the screen door and knocked.
He heard footsteps, he heard a lock turning and the door swung open and Tately Grund looked up into the eyes of Livia Frost.
Part of Tately wanted to run, part of him knew that nothing good was going to come from stepping over that threshold into Livia Frost’s kitchen.
But he did it anyway.
He followed her through her kitchen, down a hallway lit, if Tately Grund new as much as he claimed, by gaslight fixtures. The hardwood floor under his feet were polished to a high gloss and there were pictures of the same man and the same cat and the same two dogs in different poses in frame after frame after frame.
He stopped and looked at one of the paintings of a cat and said, ” I had a cat like that once.”
” I doubt that very much Mr Grund.”
They stopped in front of a door and Livia took a key from her pocket and put it into the lock.
She led him into a sparsely furnished room.
One table, two chairs a fireplace that needed to be cleaned. The curtains were closed. It was cold in that room.
She motioned for him to sit.
” So how does this work?” he asked as he sat.
” You tell me what you want. And then we figure out how to make it happen.”
” And it costs…”
” Does it matter?” she asked as the light fixtures around the room blazed on and the shadows grew long around them.
It took him less then a second to answer.” No.”
” Fine Mr Grund. Talk to me.”
” Do you know Astor Brock?”
Livia rolled her eyes up and shook her head. ” Politics. ”
” Exactly. Politics Mrs Frost. Astor Brock’s wife was a suicide, and more then a couple,pf people,believe she was driven to it with a little help.”
” She wasn’t.”
“Well. What they don’t know is why. I do. That good woman-”
“For the most part she was. Actually.”
” She k Continue reading
They were two ladies- about the same age with the same hair style and both had the same type of phone and both were riding the bus to work on what would turn out to be a very hot summer day.
The woman who sat close to the window looked over to her seatmate and smiled and said:
” I really like this phone, don’t you?”
Her seatmate looked up from her phone ( they had the same models ) and down into the hands of the woman who sat close to the window and she saw ” Proverbs” and lots of writing under Proverbs in bloody red bold print. The woman smiled. Her eyes were dark, her smile was darker and her voice was as cool and refreshing as first breath of Spring.
” I love it. You can find anything you need to know on this, can’t you? “
The woman near the window looked down and saw that the screen on her seatmate’s phone was black.
Her Dark Eyed Companion said, ” You wouldn’t believe what I have on this thing. Notes. Pictures. More notes. It’s just chock full of what I need to make it through my work day.
They rode in a comfortable silence and then the woman next to the window said, ” My name is Lia Anne. “
Her seatmate smiled. ” Embers. Embers Eastman.”
” You have a very interesting name.”
Embers shrugged. ” My Father has a very unusual sense of humor. For example, I wanted to travel. I ran away a few times. I was quite the upstart. He said if I liked traveling so much I could hit the road for the family business and do all the traveling my heart could stand. So here I am. Working the family trade. “
” Well you know what they say, Spare the Rod and spoil the child.”
Embers rolled her eyes up and shook her head.
” What sort of business are you in?”
” Import/Export. Do you know the Sardo Building on 6th and Main? That’s where my office is.”
Ember’s phone pinged and she honestly looked surprised. She turned and looked around and she even stood up and looked at the people seated in front of her. She shook her head and sat back down and then she held her phone up and squinted at it with annoyance running rampant all over her face.
She made a clicking sound with her teeth and then she pushed the little silver bar on the side and the screen popped up. When it flashed on she squinted at the sudden burst of light and read what was there.
” Oh hey. This is was an easy one and look here’s our stop.”
” Mine is the next stop.:”
Embers Eastman was her father’s protégé and his favorite child- which was hard for the people who knew them to believe. On her good days, it was said, she even had his charm.
This was not one of those days.
She held her phone up and showed it to Lia Anne, ” Murdering your lover’s wife and killing her dog…her DOG Lia Anne is a sin. Now get up. Follow me. “
” No. I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re insane. “
” Very much so.” Embers assured her seatmate ” And if you want to see how bad I can really get, I can crawl into your skin like a maggot going to town on road kill and you can see for yourself exactly why Father chose me to go from one end of the Universe to the other to pick up the trash.”
” He keeps me as far away from pleasant company as he can.”
Embers put her face so close to Lia Anne’s it looked like they were going to kiss.
” You are not pleasant and you are coming with me.”
Embers pushed her palm against Lia Anne’s chest, just over her heart and they were gone- just like that.
Embers- as her Father would say- was a handful but she was an efficient Little Devil when it came to doing her job.
If my blog were a house, would you brave the long lonely drive here
Once you’ve arrived you wouldn’t have to knock, just walk right in and take a seat, feel free to read a few pages of what I’m working on.
I don’t mind.
It’s pretty quiet here on most days, sometimes I have bad spells and don’t feel like myself. That doesn’t happen very often and if it does while you’re here…well…you can always leave.
Just do it quickly.
If you want to look around you’ll find here and there the things I’ve worked on, safely stored but not locked away. Things in my house have taken on a life of their own.
No I’m not laughing.
I just have a little tickle in my throat.
I hope you’ll spend a little time here.
I’m willing to bet though…
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I’ve started a new blog and will be posting daily at:
Hope to see you there!
Asking me to pick a favorite nightmare is like asking a parent to ‘fess up and admit who their hands down favorite child is.
I love all my little nightmares equally- but here are a few that I do love more then the rest:
I had this nightmare back when I was about 12.
The Soldiers With Silver Eyes
I was walking to school and it was dark outside.
I saw the sun shining in the sky but the sky was jet black and I knew it was morning because the stars weren’t shining.
This was morning.
There were only a few people on the street- a couple of kids walking…
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The first time I traveled alone, I ended up in Hollywood, California at a club where the hair was tall and the dresses were short and the guys were wearing more eyeliner then the girls.
I was wearing a pair of Calvins a lavender cashmere sweater and motorcycle boots- in those days I didn’t wear a lot of makeup so all in all I felt under dressed.
Didn’t bother me though, back in my young day I didn’t care if I fit in or not and for all of my issues seeking approval from strangers wasn’t high on my ‘ to do list of life’.
So back to the Club.
I was on my way to the restroom, which was the most sketchy, weirdest walk I have ever taken in my life. It was like…
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Over the last couple of years I finally got around to visiting art galleries and museums.
In my heart of hearts I always wanted to be Indiana Jones before Indiana Jones ever existed.
Museums were always places I loved but didn’t learn to appreciate until I actually had the time to wander through them as opposed to just walking through them.
Art was another kettle of fish.
I just didn’t get it.
On one trip I learned how to stand in different places in front of a painting and at different spots on the floor and then to look at the painting and surprise!
I got it.
I learned to see a painting and then I finally saw them.
It was like when I put on my eye glasses for the first time and was I stunned! I had no idea before then that the world wasn’t this…
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One of the great blogs I follow is called Perspectives On.
Terri had this great idea- creating a facebook page tied to her blog- so monkey see monkey do I decided to do the same thing.
I’ve changed the title of my blog- slightly- and set up a facebook page for it.
I’m hoping it will help me keep focused on writing and what it takes to bring a story together.
So please give it a like- and if you do the same let me know in the comment section.
(Hit The Logo To Go To A.L.C.B Facebook Page )
” Follow me ” she whispers from Faraway
where the night is forever
and awake is dream she used to have
a very long time ago.
” Follow you? ” he calls down to her from Faraway
where the night is forever
and all but a handful of stars have burned out
from his sky
a very long time ago.
Follow Me, Follow Me, Follow Me
her voice echoes from Faraway
where awake is a dream and the night is forever and all but a few stars still burn in the sky.
From The Diary Of
June 20th 1911- October 31st 1992
Today I dug up a grave.
I turned the key, pulled the locks and opened the lid.
The body in the coffin was as it had been for a long time… it was still very much a corpse.
Corrupted and decayed it was a shell.
Looking at it in the bright March sunlight, it was hard to believe it had ever been anything beside a rotted husk.
Had it ever been alive? I wondered as I lowered myself down into the ground.
The eyes weren’t empty as I expected they would be.
They were full of death.
Then I crawled out of the grave, away from the shell of what used to be and I when I was far away from the opened grave I ran because I still could.
And I laughed with relief as I ran with death’s scent trailing after me.
This took me awhile to figure out. But when I did I went straight for my bathroom mirror and kissed my reflection.
I would take:
J sometimes referred to in some circles as G
( old , tough and probably gristly but it’s soaked in wine so I’m sure it’s good for broth making )
( definitely good for roasting )
( a little of this goes a long way )
( Oh, why not)
and of course
( no taste at all- for garnish only )
So is this me being clever?
Do I intend to take as many food stuffs with those letters with me to the nowhere place that I’m going to be sent to?
All I can say is, I’m well schooled in human anatomy, corpses hold no fear for me I’m one hell of a cook and I’ll eat like a queen till help arrives.
Help for me.
For them it would be too late.
Writing is about the only thing I can make myself do.
I can do it on my bad days, my good days even on days when I don’t have anything to say.
So if I could clone myself what crud jobs would I give my secondary me?
I’d have that ‘me’ do all my caretaking stuff- the day to day grind- the housework, the cooking- almost everything except for my day job and taking care of my cats and dog.
But the reality is, I hate that stuff myself and when I slack off I don’t feel bad about it.
So how would I get my clone to do it?
I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, me and my clone would agree to blow it off.
I know myself, if I don’t want to give I don’t.
However, I’ll bet if my clone and I put our heads together we could find someone else to do the work for the BOTH of us.
Of course honesty is the best policy.
Honesty earns you trust and respect.
On the other hand, we’ve seen honesty used as a blunt instrument in many a murder of the heart and mind haven’t we?
So, that led me to wonder, are you being honest when you take the truth, twist it around someone’s neck until they turn blue and their tongue pops out of their mouth and they are for sure dead?
I don’t think so, I think at that point you used honesty for your own personal gain that makes it a lie.
When I was a kid one of my classmates referred to me as ‘ the black cat sitting on a Cadillac’. It was a TV jingle at the time. But before you knew it I was being called a Black Cat by everyone…she would not stop. So one day I hauled off and punched her in the eye and ended up in the Principal’s office with my Teacher- who was very fond of grabbing me by hair on the top or back of my head and shaking it from side to side to get my attention.
In fact, that’s how she got me to the office that day. Dragging me down past my classmates, other teachers and a janitor by the hair on the back of my head.
Nobody looked surprised.
So, we get into the office and the Principal and Teacher tell me, in all honesty ( they said ) that it wasn’t my classmate’s FAULT that I was different. I was told -almost kindly- by our Principal that I looked different and what I NEEDED to do was develop a sense of humor about BEING DIFFERENT from everyone else.
And then they brought my classmate in – with her Mother who they called right away ( my Mom got a note two days later) and told me I needed to apologize.
I looked into those self righteous faces, and into my classmate’s smirking expectant one- and from the bottom of my racing little heart- in all honesty- and on the verge of tears said with amazement
” That shiner is a beaut, isn’t it?”
Just a thought:
Sometimes when I mention I used to work in a Funeral Home some people will say that they always wanted to do that work because
” They feel comfortable in a funeral home” , that they think death is “beautiful”, and dead bodies don’t ‘bother’ them.
For the most part I listen politely.
But this is how I really feel:
The living VISIT funeral homes, even the people who work there. It’s not your home, it’s a weigh station for the dead.
Show some respect for that. It’s not a club house.
Death is NOT beautiful.
It takes babies and children, old people, good people, bad people, beloved pets .It takes you when you’re happy, vulnerable, when you’re sad and depressed and lonely, when you’re driving your car or just living your life and minding your own business.
How messed up is that?
Like Lister said in Red Dwarf, ” If Death comes near me, I’ll rip it’s nipples off “
For the most part that’s how I feel about death.
And FYI dead bodies SHOULD bother you.
They should make you think, feel, react, run, vomit SOMETHING.
Once there was all the hope in the world for that dead person and now it’s gone.
No more chances, no more reset, you get put into the ground or and urn and that’s all she wrote folks.
So please, if you want to work in a Funeral Home remember you are in service to the living and your job is to care for their loved one who has passed.
You’re not ‘of the night’.
You’re of the living and if you forget that you’re not going to be of much help to anyone.
About 17 years ago I lost 50.00.
I was shopping and I’m pretty sure that when I reached into my unorganized purse and pulled out my unorganized wallet the 50.00 dropped out.
Do you know what really made me mad?
It wasn’t that I lost the 50.00- though that did sting. No. What really made me mad was that some lucky ducky found 50.00.
I have never looked down and found anything larger then a penny.
That’s what really made me mad- in my life I have never been that lucky but on that day I sure as Hell made sure somebody else was.
So ever since that black marked day I don’t carry cash.
I use my debit card.
And here’s the reason why.
When I was in high school I went to church with my friend.
Her Church was one of those people speaking in tongues and writhing in the aisles with snakes kind of church.
It was better then any horror movie because the feeling in that church was dark and oppressive and if something would have reached up through the floor in an explosion of brick and mortar and faded plum colored carpeting and pulled us down one by one and kicking and screaming and dripping entrails all the way through the gates of Hell..I wouldn’t have been surprised
But on that day they were going on about people being marked with numbers- specifically credit card numbers.
That was how Satan was going to mark us…so whatever you do, don’t get one of those cards.
No problem. I was like 17 at the time. I didn’t see myself to ever be in a position to be ‘marked by Satan’.
It was shortly after I lost that money and made someone else very lucky I remembered that day in the Church- how we would be marked and cursed and turned into Demons doing the Devil’s work for all of eternity if we got numbered.
Oh really? I thought. Is that how it works? Because I was tired of being the softie who gave in ( most of the time m) with just about everyone in my life…my kids, my job, holding the doors open for people, and now apparently I am throwing money around like confetti at a New Years Eve Party.
I dug through my desk drawer, found my Debit card, activated it and since then I haven’t carried cash. I’ll be damned ( literally ) if I ever make someone’s day like that again.
I must say though:
When I pull that card out I feel wicked.
And it feels….good.
Every morning I take the same bus with the same people to the Transit Center ( they don’t call it a Park and Ride anymore ).
I like my bus driver, I like most of the people I ride with.
” Most ” being the keyword here.
One of the passengers is, as a very young commuter once pointed out, a ‘motor mouth’.
She will ask me a question and then answer it herself.
So I let her do all the talking.
Does she do that to the other passengers?
And in the event I can get a word edgewise I’m always wrong.
And then there are the three jackasses on the second bus I catch.
These three guys all get on the commuter bus together- they each take a seat, put there backpacks or jackets or whatever next to them and then they lower the backs of their seats so far that it’s impossible to sit behind them.
And then they pretend to sleep- so nobody sits next to them and you can’t get to the seat behind them without climbing over one seat to take the one they’re not using as a futon.
So this morning when my alarm went off and before I opened my eyes I saw those four doughy faces and I wondered if it was possible that today is the we get hit by a planet killer asteroid and the earth turns to dust or we get zapped by a gamma ray and if today is not the day, what can I do to make it happen?
But I got myself up, did my morning routine went to my bus stop and did I play with my phone, stand on the corner away from the Motor Mouth like a couple of other people have taken to do after hearing her ‘talk’ to me?
I said my good morning and looked straight and stood a few feet away from her.
When she started with our one way conversation I stopped her mid sentence and said, ” I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?”
When the bus showed up I got on and prepared for round two on the Commuter Bus.
My little sleeping beauties were settled into their seats and I chose one, sat right behind him, pulled out my notebook ( and not the electronic ones, it’s an old school binder and weighs about five pounds ) and used his head rest as a table.
When he turned around to glare at me I said ” Oh gee, I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”
” Can you move that?” he asked.
” No. It’s pretty heavy and I’m stuck.”
He got up, moved to the seat occupied by his jacket and as he did a woman with the big, I mean a HUGE purse sat next to him.
She proceeded to pull her phone out of her bag and and as she did I saw her elbow her seatmate a few times.
With my compliments, I thought merrily to myself.
At this point I may have said it out loud though.
At least, I hope I did.
So this morning before I opened my eyes I guess I had revenge in my heart.
And when my eyes were completely opened it sort of poured out of me like chocolate from one of those giant chocolate fountains they have had weddings and fancy parties.
It’s funny how that happens sometimes.
A few years ago I became weary of people who repeatedly told me how proud they were of me.
I’m not sure why I felt that way, but a couple of people seemed to say it non-stop and it got on my nerves.
Not that I’m one of those people who say, ‘ I don’t care what people think of me’ because I do. I care a lot. I guess I’m just a wad of insecurities.
But when I heard, ” I’m so proud of you.” I realized, recently, that I tell my puppy the same thing.
When he does what I tell him to do.
When he performs to my expectations.
I am so proud of him for being what I want him to be.
Parenting is scary, just like Mrs. Daisy says.
Do you know what is on the side of the Moon that faces away from the Earth- the mysterious side?
Lots and lots of craters.
Not a single one of those Spiders that hatch from rocks, no ghost ships.
Lots and Lots of Craters.
I know this house with the missing windows, the door that only locks from the outside, the yard chocked with sand and weeds.
It’s a warm house, this house with no windows. The wooden stairs plunge down to a basement that is painted a dull blue and there is a clutch of skeleton keys hanging from a hook shaped like a lady’s hand in the kitchen above the sink. I think one of the fingers is missing.
The water still runs, rusty and fetid from aged pipes, the electricity still flows up and down rotted copper wires and the radio in the basement works sometimes.
The House with the missing windows, the one with the well used stairs that lead to the basement with the dirt floor where there is one chair sitting in a dark corner festering with spider webs, was never a nice house.
It has always smelled of death and decay and the attic roof always leaks when it rains and rats seem to come from miles around just to decompose in it’s walls.
A lady named Miss Giuliana Coffin died there.
A few times.