Dispatch from a Soldier in Seoul

Who knew that a letter in the mail written carefully and stylishly by hand from a young soldier stationed in Korea is such an event?  Reflexively we handle the envelope delicately and examined it thoroughly. In the pile of bills and slick color paper ads, it rises to the top like a magic trick for the rarity it is: A hand written letter. A thoroughly tactile dispatch from across the earth. We all sniff it to see if it had an exotic scent. After all, it had come so far. And the letter itself, written in black ink on thick white note paper bearing the watermark of a map of the world, is a treasure packed with detail.

It is science fiction the way we communicate now via the internet where instantaneous utterances and images fly at the speed of fiber optic light. Type, click, enter and it is gone. Forgotten is the close, word by word, reading of someone’s personal script transmitted by ink to paper and I’ve missed it. 

Dearly it seems.

With his permission, here is Tim’s letter exactly as he wrote it

Goodmorning, Linda,

How is everything in Florida? How are you? Also how is Sean, Tori and David? I do hope all is well.

Let me start by saying I Love Korea and Korean culture. Its very respectful, and very calm. Almost to the point of being shy. Age is very important here. The older you are the more respect people give you. Sweet 16 parties are unheard of here, because everybody turns 16. No when you turn 70, that’s when your family really celebrates here. They feel like that was lifes true challenge to live that long. If a buss is full people will stand or leave to make room for a older person. I think its very cool.

Another note, Koreans can’t drive and traffic laws are not enforced. Driving off post is a thrill ride of its own as everyone speeds, and does whatever they please. Like driving on the sidewalk for example. Its crazy but I have yet to be in an accident so heres hoping I never am.

The Korean war is still fresh in the minds of many people here. They live as is it happened yesterday, and it will be happening again tomorrow. Most bridges are set to blow to slow the norths invasion. Battle positions all face north, true and ready.

Because of the Korean War most people actually like Americans. They remember the USA coming to save them and helping them to the point they are today. So everyone is friendly and are always willing to talk and have dinner and drink with you.

Yes they eat dog here. Its very expensive and kinda hard to get, but it taste good and is an experience I recommend. They own pet dogs, and are 2 very different types between the one that cuddles your lap and the one that cuddles your rice. Not for the weak of heart.

Every Korean loves soccer, and dancing. Internet here is 4 times faster then in the states. Wifi is free, and everywhere. Never tip your waitress , it’s an insult to her. Theres no such thing as“separate” bills. One person will get the check. Never point at someone with one finger, it means you want to fight. People here dress in suits…everyday. That’s just a few. I will send you more later. Take care.

Timothy Everett

Tim is in the Army Military Police and was deployed to Afghanistan prior to Korea. He is a pal of my son's, an Eagle Scout, and I wrote about him in '09 here entitled They're All Tim to Me.

It is rough, lonely and isolating for a 20-something American guy in a foreign country. Writing is a way out, even if for just a brief moment, and I push him like a Tiger Mother to pick up a pen and just go stream his thoughts.  Now that I have wiped my eyes and smiled, I am awash in the gravity of what a hand written letter can do. After I get over the dog thing (!), he’ll be receiving something hand written and home made soon.

Salute, Timothy!

Riding patrol in Seoul

With the big gun in Afghanistan

If you would like to send Tim letters or care packages he can share with his unit and Korean friends, here is his address:

Timothy Everett

142nd MPCO

Unit 15254, Box 69

APO AP 96205-5254

Winn-Dixie Bodhi

          They studied me as I flipped a family-sized jug of ketchup and a jar of pickled banana peppers into my buggy. Usually at the market, I am immersed in my grocery list, coupons and my mission to make every penny count, but something made me look. Caught in the act of staring at me, they twitched a little, furtively averted their eyes and began an animated conversation about salad dressing. My one fast glance their way yielded detail.

         The tall one had long brown hair and wore a tight fitting floral blouse with acid washed jeans and flip-flops. Her face was shiny, not made up, and her eyes, sparkly and dark, were recessed under a set of savagely plucked eyebrows.  The short one had short bleached permed hair that stuck out at right angles from her head and wore what once were probably beige shorts and a faded t-shirt, barefoot. Her face was shiny too and mottled with scabs.  She held her head cocked back so that she stared out of lidded inflamed half-closed eyes. I got the “what are you looking at?” stink eye from that one so I quickly kept my eyes to myself. These ladies were not Thelma and Louise. They were more like Squeaky and Aileen

          Grocery shopping not my favorite activity.  I literally bribe myself out the door, clutching my enviro-friendly grocery bags and my club discount card, making promises to reward myself with ice cream or wine (or both) if I complete this onerous task.  I opt to shop at odd hours of the day or night. That way, not only do I avoid the rush hour crowds, as a person with Parkinson’s, I can take my time. No one is running up on me in the produce department impatiently clipping my Achilles tendon ram speed with their cart. I don’t have to navigate around huge expanded families including day-old screeching infants and audibly flatulent grandpas wielding mean walkers arguing about whether Cap’n Crunch is better with crunch berries. Or not.

          And, even better, I reduce the incidence of having to explain to little Johnny or Janie why I shake while their helicopter parent unabashedly stares at my active limbs and walks away murmuring “There but for the grace…”.

        Off hours make shopping do-able for me especially when you can fire a cannon down any aisle and hit no one. But that day, it was different.  I shared the store with two women who, and this is without being intentionally mean or judgmental, creeped me out. It was a vibe I couldn’t shake. And as a woman who thinks I can do anything if I just devise a work around, I try to deny any reminders of my inconvenient vulnerability.

         They seemed to materialize down every aisle I chose.  I was forced to squeeze by them a couple of times as they held their positions not moving or yielding me the right of way. Eventually I just didn’t go down an aisle where they were.  Their cart was filled to overflowing with food.  So was mine.

         It was a relief to roll my buggy into the cashier chute which was one of three chutes completely available. The lights were on. I was halfway through unloading my order to be checked out when they rolled in behind me. My cashier paused briefly to let them know there were other cashiers open, but they ignored her and moved further in behind me.  Ever feel someone enter your personal space with purpose? 

         I had a huge cartful and the only bagger in sight, a vapid aimless Tweedle-Dee, was walking away tenaciously avoiding eye contact with either me or the now panicked cashier. I hoped those women would focus on the magazines on the racks right there because this was going to take time.

         Then, the short one, waving her tatted sleeve arms brandishing an unlit cigarette, called out a long indecipherable sentence ending with “…too fuckin’ slow.”  

         And she shoved her cart into mine with a loud clang.  “Someone’s in a little hurry” said the pale cashier.

         I am a babbler. And a flapper. When this kind of stress rears up, I go kinetic and flood the immediate area with jabbering and flapping and this was no different. “Sometimes it’s hard to be patient. Patience is difficult when you can see something is going too slow. I just try to take deep breaths and stay calm…I like to listen to what the Dalai Lama says on these things…” and on and on as I worked as fast as I could to get this task done and me out of there.

        “Young lady, may I have the distinct pleasure of escorting you and your groceries to your car on this lovely day?”

         I hadn’t seen him coming. A tall elderly Morgan Freeman of a man in a white apron and a black Winn Dixie cap materialized, bagged my stuff with flare and speed picking up where I left off talking soothingly of patience and calm and service to others.

        Clapping his hands together and laughing, he allowed that he is a fan of the Dalai Lama too. And a Baptist. And couldn’t see a conflict between the two.  I looked back at the two women, who could plainly hear the entire conversation, and they had turned their backs on us conferring with each other in whispers. A manager dropped by and sent my poor frightened cashier to her break taking on the next check out himself.

        And Lucius and I strolled out into the beautiful day.

        He says that even at his age, he is considering a tattoo on his chest. Peace on one side and Amazing Grace on the other.

Say 33 Reverse Engineered: A Social Media Experiment

Ever wondered what the people you befriend on the internet perceive about you without ever having met you in person?

The "Say 33" meme has been floating around so, since I can't leave well enough alone, I took a liberty by turning it upside down. Instead of answering all the questions myself about myself, I sent it to some writer friends whom I have never met face to face to see just what I have put out there, like so many breadcrumbs on the path.

Two fellow writers from Open Salon took up the challenge and answered these queries about me. 

First this from pundit and humorist,  Cranky Cuss:

1. Her main trait: The ability to laugh
2. The quality she likes best in a man: Sense of humor
3. The quality she likes best in a woman: Kindness
4. Her main flaw: Doesn’t write nearly often enough
5. Last time she cried: Just now, when she read #4
6. Her ideal job: Collector of Tony Awards for Best Play
7. Her most remembered scent of a place: The fireworks while workin...g for The Mouse
8. Beloved movie: Nobody’s Perfekt (yeah, I remember that post)
9. Book on her nightstand: Chicken Soup for the Teenager’s Mother’s Soul (OK, I made that up, but if there isn’t a book by that name, I’ve got dibs)
10. Her First and best kiss: I wasn’t there, dear, honest!
11. She couldn’t do without: Her daughter
12. How she would like to die: Quickly and painlessly, like the rest of us
13. Song she sings in the shower: “Pumped Up Kicks”
14. Her deadly sin: Tempting fate by using her blog to criticize priests and nuns
15. Her not-so-deadly sin: Over-generosity (just a guess)
16. Her motto: “Let me tell you a story.”
17. Ideal first date: a night at the theater
18. Favorite present: Her avatar from Dianaani (it’s one of my favorites)
19. In the train: Reading a book
20. Something she’d change in her body: I’m not going there. Wait, that sounds dirty. I mean, I’m not going to touch that one … oh, crap, I give up.
21. Her addiction: Air conditioning (come on, she lives in Florida)
22. Now on her left: The dog
23. Now on her right: Something decorative that makes her feel comfortable while writing
24. Now in front of her: The computer
25. Now behind her: A lot of good and bad memories
26. Names for her children: Um, well I know she’s got a daughter, can’t remember if she’s ever mentioned her name
27. 3 things in her purse: Wallet, keys and HER DOG!
28. 3 places that fascinate her: Stage left, stage right, the dressing room
29. 3 people she’d like to meet: Luciano Pavarotti, Joan Haskins, the father of her grandchildren (but not any time soon)
30. 3 traits she hates in people: Intolerance, cruelty to animals, conceitedness
31. Values inherited from her parents: Humor, tolerance (how else to get along with siblings)
32. In her past life she was: Hell on wheels
33. In her future life she’ll be: The precocious daughter of Neil Simon and Eve Ensler

And then, this, according to a lovely poetess from Open Salon, Doireann.

1. Her main trait: Compassion
2. The quality she likes best in a man: Humor
3. The quality she likes best in a woman: Wit
4. Her main flaw: Excess soul
5. Last time she cried: Last week (after Pumped Up Kicks-Redux)
6. Her ideal job: Doyenne (of a Salon for artists of all sorts & philanthropist novelist)
7. Her most remembered scent of a place: Citrus, creamy coconut, warm fur, salt-water and beach grasses carried on an errant ocean breeze (with the long,slow moan of a train whistle in the background)
8. Beloved movie: Buddha
9. Book on her nightstand: Lucky Man
10. Her First and best kiss: 12 years old
11. She couldn’t do without: The Boy, T, Bella, Family and the furry ones
12. How she would like to die: Telling a tale to her great-great-grandchildren and finishing with "the end, my loves."
13. Song she sings in the shower: Pumped Up Kicks seguewaying into Nessum Dorma (humming the melody)
14. Her deadly sin: Howling at the moon
15. Her not-so-deadly sin: Passion
16. Her motto: Let Me Tell You a Tale
17. Ideal first date: The theatre and drinks after
18. Favorite present: Does she have a favorite? (I think she may have many. How to choose?)
19. In the train: Listens to music to block out the cacophony, carries a book but secretly observes people and begins a story in her mind
20. Something she’d change in her body: Maybe the second toe (mine is longer too)
21. Her addiction: Pocket Poms
22. Now on her left: Spirit of Calamity Jane
23. Now on her right: T, The Boy, Bella
24. Now in front of her: An unlimited horizon and a view of the most perfect pristine, softly falling snow over Salisbury Plain
25. Now behind her: Disney World, Ted Bundy (whew) and Kim Cattrall and a plethora of rich experiences both mundane and amazing
26. Names for her children: The Boy, T
27. 3 things in her purse: Bella, keys, cellphone
28. 3 places that fascinate her: Stonehenge, Paris, Dublin
29. 3 people she’d like to meet: Anne Bonney, William Shakespeare, Michael J. Fox
30. 3 traits she hates in people: Arrogance, cruelty, pettiness
31. Values inherited from her parents: Strength, perseverance, honesty, love of mankind and all denizens of the Earth
32. In her past life she was: Anne Bonney
33. In her future life she’ll be: A combination of Hypatia, Cleopatra, Elizabeth I, Calamity Jane, Sappho and Dorothy






They say what you put out there on the internet stays out there forever.  So, with all the permenance one can derive from telling stories on the web, it is nice to know that, at least for Cranky and Doireann, I have not wandered this way without leaving a mark.  Maybe a good mark. And neither have they.

As for question #5:  Now.  And upon reading again, now.

Again.

Hollywood East. Naked Ambition.

“If you got a lead part in a movie, but it had a nude scene, would you do it?”

She sat down next to me on the back steps of a vintage coquina stone mansion located in wealthy Coconut Grove and bounced the question at me as though we had been friends for years.

We were on location there shooting the insane asylum scenes for a picture called Nobody’s Perfekt starring Gabe Kaplan, Robert Klein, Alex Karras and his wife Susan Clark.  The Director was Peter Bonerz.

I was one of three Production Assistants on the set.

I thought she was an extra.

Her hair was pulled back with a headband accentuating her cat-like eyes. They turned up at the sides like she was always slightly bemused and she squinted when she concentrated.  She was my age, early 20’s, so I guess that’s why she asked me the question. 

I can only suppose that she needed perspective from someone who wasn’t middle-aged, predatory and male; the basic profile of  those who were making movies in Florida at that time. 

Hollywood East, we liked to call it. That’s what we hoped for.

It was lunchtime. I remember this specifically because, as a Production Assistant, it was the only time I could sit down with my radio (walkie-talkie) off and not get verbally lashed for it.  The first rule of motion picture Production Assistants was never to be caught sitting down, leaning against something or even squatting on a movie set.  If caught, you’d best be puking or swelling up from some kind of sprain or insect bite because otherwise no one hesitated to call you out for slacking.  

My role was to always be at the elbow of the First Assistant Director ready to spring into action at his every utterance.  Once tasked, I was required to chirp out an audible “Copy that!” before scampering away to fulfill the request. 

It was my job to police the lunch line making sure everyone ate according to rank on the set; the star actors first, then the producers and directors followed by the union technical crew, the Teamsters, the day players, the extras and then, after repelling the homeless guys who always snuck in, me, dead last and starving. 

I was trying to wolf down something to fuel the rest of my 12-plus hour day.  The second rule for P.A.’s was to be first to set with donuts before dawn and last to leave after posting the Production Report at night. 

Her question caught me off guard.

“I’ve been asked to be shot nude and I turned it down.”

“But what if it was your ticket? The break that would make your career?  Would you do it then?"

“I sort of turned down Playboy, so...”

“What? WHAT?! You’ve got to be kidding me?” 

“When  I was in college, a guy named Dwight Hooker came through town on assignment to find college women for a special feature in Playboy.  I was modeling for a local Lerner’s store and my photographer set me up for an interview.”

“Did you have to be nude at the interview?”

“No. Wore a nice flattering Lerner’s swim suit and borrowed heels. Hooker took some Poloroids then. I thought it was a long shot but surprise!  I got a call back for a test photo shoot at some estate with a pool outside of town. That’s where I would be required to show that I could, well, do it.”

“Pose naked?”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you? God, you probably blew a big opportunity…”

“I called my dad. We talked about it for a long time; about how it could mean making connections that would lead to a big time career; about how I felt about being seen that way by anyone passing by a news stand all over the world; about fame and money and its advantages and downfalls; about the character of the people who promote celebrity…All of which I told him I thought I was strong and smart enough to deal with.  I was actually kind of leaning toward doing it…”

“Yeah?  SO?  Those are good arguments..."

“It was the last thing he said.  He has lunch with his friends every day. Lawyers, judges, businessmen and doctors.  All close friends.  One of them is my godfather.  Dad just let me know that it would be a very bad day for him should one of them pick up that particular magazine and see his daughter, me, in it. That was all I needed to hear.”

Her eyes widened a little and then she squinted, folded her hands under her chin and rested her elbows on her knees while looking out toward the gardens at that mansion. It was a beautiful dignified estate with great bones and history, cast for the day as an insane asylum.

The Assistant Director yelled, glaring at me, “We’re back in. New set up, let’s go!”

“Thanks for that.  I guess that’ll help me give an answer to the guys shooting Porky’s. They offered me a big part.”

“Oh, yeah.  I heard that was coming up.  Wow. Well good luck, um, never caught your name?  I’m Linda…”

“It’s Kim.  See ya!”

Photos:  IMBD

Video: Youtube

Smoking Nuns and Cafeteria Jesus



St. Anthony Catholic School



"Hey, there’s a spot! We must’ve done something right along the way.”

“Yep. Karma. Maybe.”

Scoring a parking place right in front of the church was something we agreed seemed kind of tricky.  Years of religious conditioning rolled our rational thinking.

St. Anthony Catholic Church

It felt awkward lucking into it, like we didn’t deserve it, so we quickly jumped out of Karen’s car and scurried across the road toward our old elementary school before anyone could tell us otherwise. It was a hot, cloudless Sunday morning assuring me (somewhat) that no bolt of lightning would strike down the two of us irreverent middle-aged delinquents in flip-flops for sneaking into school.  

Especially if we serpentined.

Karen and I, a couple of 50-somethings who were notorious little trouble makers in our youth, just wanted to see our old elementary school again. St. Anthony Catholic School.

“I didn’t get picked to play Mary in the Christmas pageant. They chose Darlene. She had blonde sausage curls, straight A’s and was such a flippin’ saint all the time. Remember? The stable used to be right here in front of the convent..."

A news story about the St. Anthony pageant. T'was a big deal.

“I always had to wear my dad’s robe, my brother’s sandals and a hand towel on my head to be a shepherd. I think I even wore a beard one time. I was taller than everyone. I never got to be a girl in these things.”

“There were real animals though. I remember a donkey and a calf or something. Sheep too? I think I played an angel one time.”

“Did you hang by your waist from a tree like you were flying? I seem to remember…”

“Wasn’t me…”

“Everything seems so small now. It was huge when we were little. Even the Angelus Tower seems shorter now. We used to climb up there y'know. All the way to the top. Bill and John and me. Altar boys knew all the great secret passages…”

“Yeah, I heard they used to get the wine from the sacristy and drink it up there…”

“Well, I didn’t do that…I did, however, climb up to the school roof over the principal’s office once thinking I’d avoid getting busted for something or other. Found Sister J. there, her veil off, having a smoke. We promised that we wouldn’t snitch on each other for being on the roof. Or smoking. She had brown hair. It kind of marked me for life to see she actually had hair under her veil. Didn’t we think they were bald? I don’t think she stayed a nun…”

“No! Really?”

“Stack of bibles.”

Math class about '64 when Sr. M.T. tapped a stick while we recited times tables. 
The girl with her back to the camera probably had her nose stuck
 in a circle drawn on the blackboard.  Looks a little like Karen...

“Aww, damn, the gym’s locked. Remember the locker room under the bleachers and when we had to wear these special jumpers for P.E.? They made us look like powder blue pumpkins. Well, so did our regular uniforms as I recall.”

“It always smelled so funky in there.”

“Probably because there was no air conditioning.”

“Can you believe we had no A.C. in 90 degree heat when we were kids? I don’t know how we did it. Let alone the nuns. May explain some of their behavior…”

“No hard soled shoes on the basketball floor! God, they got mad when we wore our loafers out there on the shine. I could slide almost all the way across in my socks.”

“I loved that crazy stage where we put on plays. It had real curtains we could open and close…”

“You were always directing something, yes, I remember.” 

“Oh, I can picture the Christmas Fair here. My mom always ran the bazaar. We stuffed ourselves with cotton candy, candy apples, and hot dogs and then we barfed it all up on the rides later! It was weird to see the nuns and the priests out playing carnival games and just hanging around wasn’t it?”

“We’re walking around in a closed school on a Sunday…”

“What’ll they do if they catch us? Call our parents? We went here, we have permission!”

“Here’s a memory: On this very spot, right outside the cafeteria, I will never forget Jose the Janitor sprinkled his magic sawdust down where Terry puked after lunch.”

“I think Terry projectiled on a bunch of us in 1st grade too, during reading circle.”

"And right here they gathered in a clump.  A penguin convention.  All the nuns sent us home early that day in '63 when Kennedy was assassinated. Remember? They cried. Nuns crying. THAT was awkward."

“It’s a little spooky how much things haven’t changed isn’t it?  Will you just look at this cafeteria with the turquoise tiles and the columns that flair at the ceiling and the weird statue up there of Jesus watching over everyone eat?”

Cafeteria Jesus

“It’s Jesus as like maybe a 6 year old all decked out in a fancy-schmancy medieval robe and a crown, like he was aware of his special powers even as a kid…”

“It’s the same, yes. Wow.”

“I have a question. Your mom volunteered in the hot lunch line with my mom right?”

“Yep.”

“Did she ever reveal how they could get the fruit salad  chunks to suspend in the jell-o? And, really, what was ‘meat sauce?’”

“Nope. They were sworn to secrecy on the jell-o and I believe meat sauce was also a proprietary recipe.”

“Hey, first grade classroom is open. The alphabet is still up on the wall. It looks the same. Oh, damn. I’m welling up. What the hell? I never wanted to leave first grade. I hung on to Sister S.P. like a spider monkey the last day.”

The uber-cool Sister S.P. when we were graduating 8th grade. We knew she had hair.

“Sister S.P. was the best nun ever. She was so cool.  She played kickball and ran the bases like a flippin’ gazelle.  Taught us how to make crayons last forever.  And to read.  Dick and Jane and Puff.”

"Brave too. She stomped one of the biggest scorpions I have ever seen. Didn't hesitate, just crushed it!"

"Gross!" 

“The old live oaks are still out on the playground too. I can see them out the first grade window like I did then. Man, did I daydream about recess in those days.  All around those trees.”

“Hey, where’s the bench that used to be outside the principal’s office?  I left my very own butt impression there and I am not happy they removed the thing!”

“The principal, Sister M. from 8^th grade, was a tiny woman. Remember? She had to reach up to put her arm around my shoulders."

"She had a hard time catching me. Most of us were too fast for her."

 "She told me I had some ‘unusual views on things about which we will be having many serious discussions.’  Maybe my face-off with Darlene in a debate contest rang her bell a little, I don’t know. Topic was abortion. I kind of went all scientific on her head.”

“Well, someone had to debate the little angel.”

“C’mon.  I’ll show you where I kicked a hole in the wall and was made to clean the boy’s bathroom on a Saturday as a punishment…”

When the coast was clear, we snuck back out of St. Anthony even though it really wasn’t closed for Sunday with catechism classes in full session all around, as we sheepishly discovered.  We heard the Angelus Tower ringing the noon bell as we pulled away from our lucky parking space. It was intoning "Bye-bye, Bye-bye!"  It was a gorgeous sound, so familiarly solid and reliable and yet so far away.  Like a memory.

Later, we rode by Karen’s childhood home. She wanted to see the tree she climbed as a child and if the house had changed.  We followed the house numbers right up to where she remembered, and the house was gone. Only a vacant lot remained.

It was a shock. Especially since we had only just wrapped the solidity and timelessness of our elementary school around us like a warm reassuring blanket.

Growing up was inevitable and a hefty helping of unwelcome change came along with that. Every cell in our bodies has turned over seven times since we ate our hot lunches under the watchful eye of a well-dressed deity.

It’s all a mystery, what endures and what disappears.

We both know that the ghosts of two free spirits, one too tall to play an ingenue and the other elfin and quick,  will always roam those sacred spaces hand in hand plotting new shenanigans together in our dreams.

"Oh, Lenzen, that was sappy!"

"Yeah. So?"

Golf Course Gorts

“Wake up.  They’re back and they need our help again.”  

I could hear Dad growling in a groggy fugue while she repeatedly bumped his shoulder nudging him awake. 

“Well, go get my bag then. I thought you told them last time we were done with all that…” 

“I did but this is serious.”

Mom trained us up early about unexplainable things.  In fact, she was certain all could be explained if she just got a shot at interrogating the parties involved.  She always quizzed us thusly -

“What are you going to do if a UFO lands on the golf course out back?”

“I’m to say, ‘Wait right there! I’m getting my mom and she’s got some questions for you…’”

“Correct!”

Unidentified flying objects were never poo-pooed in our house. Mom, ever the romantic, was fascinated by the topic.  So much so, I think besides A Wrinkle in Time and anything by Maurice Sendak, the book I most remember reading at a tender age (although forbidden to, I snuck it by flashlight under my bedspread) was Mom’s copy of Interrupted Journey.  It is the story of Betty and Barney Hill, a married couple who were allegedly abducted from a rural country road in Connecticut and experimented upon by space aliens. The experiments they recounted under hypnosis stood my hair on end.

Science fiction had me in thrall. For an “active” child with a hummingbird span of attention, this was a miracle.  I was dedicated to movies like The Day the Earth Stood Still and Plan 9 from Outer Space on our local horror flick channel late on Saturday nights.  Robinson Crusoe on Mars still does it for me.

Me and my brothers:  Typical homemade costumes created by Mom

So between Mom and me, anything super or extra natural, or even paranormal with all its idiosyncrasies, was worth poking with a stick.  Still is.

“Mom, who’s out there?” I called out from my bed that night hoping to halt her sprint down the hall to get Dad’s doctor bag.  She didn’t miss a beat.

“Just one of the golf course workers. He hurt himself. Dad’s going to take a look at it.”

“Oooh! Can I come see?”

“Nope. You stay there.”  She didn’t even look in my room at me on the return trip with the bag and towels. They were the nice towels reserved for guests. I'd get whooped if I so much as dried my pinky finger on them.  

Naturally, I planned to sneak a look if only I could kick my way out of the bed sheets.

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t move my feet or arms, just my head and eyes.  The cats, my fat warm Siamese cats were pinning me down, one on each side of me stretched out the full length of my body, their bottomless Siamese blue eyes sparkling. They purred and calmed me.  Funny, I never even felt them jump up on the bed. The frangipani tree blooming outside my window sent a sweet cloud of fragrance drifting in.  I felt sleepy, like waves of warm water were rocking me, but resisted with every piece of me.  Then I pinched myself in the thigh – Hard!

Oh no, this all was too good to let sleep get in the way.  

I listened really carefully so I would remember.

The usual night sounds on this suburban golf course were just the lonely scree of night hawks and the wind slapping around the eucalyptus trees and Australian pines.  Occasionally the putt-putt sound of gas fueled Cushman carts would jangle by carrying the night shift golf course workers to their assigned chores. Every once in a while, on a normal night, I could hear them talking in low tones with each other in foreign languages as they groomed sand traps, mowed fairways and moved the holes around on the putting greens. That course was “play ready” every morning by 7 a.m. with only tire tracks left on the wet grass telling the story of the night’s tasks done there by shadow workers.

The Cushman cart that brought the injured golf course worker to our back door that night sounded slightly off to me as it idled in our yard; more like George Jetson’s cartoon commuter jalopy. The headlights on the cart sprayed light across the ceiling of my bedroom, but it wasn’t the usual tired yellow color. The light was intensely white, and a shadow play danced on the ceiling. Dad and Mom rendered assistance to the person outside who was moaning in pain, their shadows and others, expanding and contracting...

“How did he get this?  Mmm-hmm. Ok. As he came through? Ok. Well, I can’t stitch him up as you know, his skin is too delicate, stitches won’t hold, but keep pressure with these towels on the wound until you can get back. I can set the bone though. Mmm-hmm, yes, it’s painful but you guys can block that right? Do that now so he’ll stop making those sounds. The neighbors…”

And the moaning stopped.  I heard some shuffling and a muffled wet crack and then Dad.

“Ok! That should keep you until you can jump again. Let’s wrap this up with an Ace bandage…Good. Done. Would you guys do me a favor and quit using that damn thingamajiggy until you work out the kinks? Too many of your guys get mangled in it still…Thanks. And maybe find another doctor who lives on a golf course please?”

And then Mom.

“Oh no, he’s just kidding. You are welcome anytime. Never mind about the towels! Come when you can stay longer, I have a few questions…”

Fabulous photo courtesy of deserttrumpet at Flickr, Creative Commons





 

Click on titles for more family stories starring Dr. Dad:

Dad Flipped a Coin for Mom and Lost

Dad Creates a Stir

Dad's Sunday Lesson or Jesus in My Stomach

Dad Builds Character

Dad's Mandatory Family Dinners
Of Mice and Dad
Of Mice and Dad:  The Tale of the Tail

Golf Course Gorts

Dad and the Purple Schwinn

And from Dr. Dad’s sister, Aunt Polly:

Georgia Justice Hostage Show: Aunt Polly’s Ordeal in Cordele

The Space Between Hell and College

Bullies were always stereotypically singular and identifiable. They were the loner sweaty-faced angry kids who shoved and punched their way around knocking books out of the hands of the meek or making “meet me at 3 on the playground” challenges. They were always in the company of just themselves and the anonymous mob kids who watched, egged on and color commentated the rough handlings of these snarling malcontents like Romans in a warped Colisseum. The mob kids shouted louder when the dust rose, the fists flew. “Fight, fight. Fight!”  The mob kids had to side with the bully so they wouldn’t be next on the bloody dance card. 

Until now, I thought a bully to be handle-able.  I never took the first swing, but if I was punched first, I had permission to end it right then and there. I believed that all a bully needed to quit was a good nose bloodying, or a knee to the crotch.   I did my share of leveling the field in those days, both for myself and others.  I stuck up for the ones who couldn’t fight. Not terrifically girlie of me, I know, but my sense of social justice was simmering.

If someone would just hold my glasses and my retainer, it was on.

If adults got wind of it, we’d endure a “come to Jesus” meeting. The bully, the prey, both sets of parents and the school principal usually cleared it up. Deal sealers like a “no contact contract” or the threat of a lawsuit would stop down the whirling gyro of anger and then, after an appropriate period of time, the bully casually targeted the next victim in the chute, and the games began again.

The bully was, for me, a surly kid sitting in a chair. A singular I could diminish with one well-aimed punch.

Fast forward to now.

The bully at high school is a cyberspace phantasm named Rumor.  Its genesis is secrecy, anonymity. 

Who knows what sneering voodoo princess hatched that first untraceable egg a year ago?  Someone who hates the Girl’s spark, her courage, her confidence, her independence, her beauty, probably.  Someone who took her boisterous “ah, screw it” attitude personally.  Someone who wanted her love and loyalty...

But hatch it did. 

It splits like an atom over and over again dividing exponentially along razor sharp web fibers sending soul killing lies and accusations from cell phone to laptop to hissing sibilant whispers echoing in steamy cement corridors.  There is no bully to blame, no singular to bloody or restrain by law.  

The bully is a ghost.

When the electrical storm of lies abates, Girl breathes, but just a breath or two.  It comes again in waves, she knows.  It’s not stopping, not flaming out. Friends don’t battle with her, stick up for her, fearing the ignition of their own personal incineration. 

It is invincible.

It comes from the space between hell and college.