Special Powers 

For Mothers and Daughters  

all of whom have Special Powers

       

Light falls from above on four women standing in a straight line, single file upstage to downstage at center.  There is a grey Queen Anne chair set up stage left, a saffron yellow minimalist Scandinavian Knoll chair upstage right, a purple chaise lounge down right, and a miniature burgundy papa-san chair down left.  

The last woman in line is elderly, around 74, with silver-grey hair pinned up.  She wears black gaucho length slacks and a loose white shirt with Keds.  She carries a tray of small seedlings and seed packets.   The second from the last woman is in her late 60’s with short hair and wears a more colorful but similar rendition of the clothes worn by the lady behind her, and tennis shoes.  There is a wicker wash basket at her feet. The third from the last is in her 40’s,(but resisting it) dressed in flare jeans, red T-shirt, jewelry, short cropped hair and no shoes.   And the first is a 9-11 year old girl, hair long and loose, dressed similarly to the second woman but blazing in colors, again no shoes. She is Puckishly prone to invading the personal space of others by holding hands, leaning in, putting her arm around shoulders etc.   

The girl begins…and as she does, the other women reach to each other and clasp hands, and travel to their chairs carrying their things… Music fades.

VICTORIA

There’s something that ticks me off about fairy tales.  I mean, why don’t girls in fairy tales have Mothers?  Did you notice that Cinderella got the short stick and ended up with an evil stepmother?  Where’s her real Mother?  And the Little Mermaid, Ariel, was being raised by her Father and no Mom? Not that it’s a bad thing. Daddies are really great! But in fairy tales, it’s the same with Belle, Pocahontas, Rapunzel, and Snow White.  Dead Moms.  Think about it! 

My Mom says that …

             

 VICTORIA & LIN 

(Together)

…in the old days, women often died in childbirth, so it makes sense that Moms were written out of the tales...                              

                       VICTORIA

   

(Holding up her hand to make a point) 

Well, that’s one idea, but here’s what I think about why all those fairy tale girls didn’t get to have their Moms in the picture…The people who came up with the stories probably knew Moms were a little too powerful and would use their special Mom skills against evil so nothing bad would happen.  Then, where’s the story? 

 

I think they could’ve done much better, though.  See, if they added in the Moms, they would’ve added the Special Powers every Mommy has. Special Powers are those things that Moms do naturally but seem so magical when they happen. So fairy tales could’ve been much better stories!

People who know about Special Powers think they’re genetic.  And MamaLo, my Grandma, says the gift is linked to the X chramasso –chromasim – 

LOIS

-  Chromosome....

VICTORIA

…gene. If you are lucky enough to be born a girl, you get it at birth.  Mom says some guy named Jack London wrote about it.  It’s called…

        

      LOIS     VERDA      LIN      VICTORIA

(In concert) 

Genetic   Genetic   Genetic   Genetic

          memory    memory    memory    memory

VICTORIA

In easy to understand terms, basically you get a nice library of all your ancestor Mom’s memories. It probably goes all the way back to when our ancestors lived in caves, so it’s been building up over a long time…

   

LOIS

(With glee)  All that DNA combining and recombining adding more and more magic…

VICTORIA

…but my Mom and MamaLo can remember best as far back as Great Grandma Verda …

VERDA

That would be me. 

VICTORIA

…who, even though she said she didn’t, had what we call Special Powers.

LOIS

(Victoria steps aside, but never is without some kind of physical contact with one of the ladies.) 

My Mother, Verda Fern Mize, could grow any flower, vegetable, and plant that she put her mind to growing.  Even her name was earthy meaning, loosely, green fern corn.  The minute the frosts passed in rural Illinois, she would till up her dirt patch into neat rows and plant…

                         

                     LOIS & VERDA

…corn, tomatoes, chiles, zinnias, zucchini, onions, pole beans, water melons, you name it.

   

VERDA

Yes, I could grow corn the size of small logs and tomatoes as big as your head. Oh those tomatoes were mellow on a BLT in the summertime!   I grew so much zucchini one time, I had to put it in bags and sneak it onto my neighbors doorsteps in the middle of the night like orphan children just to get rid of it!

LOIS

And I mean it when I say put her mind to it…She would walk out early in the morning still wearing her silky nightgown and stroll down the long rows of her garden, barefoot, and just talk and sing “How Great Thou Art” and “Amazing Grace.”  Her voice could get living things to grow…She could just look at her garden thinking good thoughts on their behalf and all the plants would just wiggle in anticipation of growing.  That was her Special Power. 

 

VERDA

Oh hogwash, my Special Power was sheep poop…

LOIS

Here I am pointing out the best things about you and you say it’s poop?

VERDA

No, Lo, I used sheep poop for fertilizer! Horse and cow manure just didn’t have the punch!  I’d just go down to the sheep farm and load some bags with fresh sheep droppings, take ‘em home, and spread it around.  You might say I could really shovel the…well you know what I mean!    By the way, all this Special mind powers stuff is not Christian…

VICTORIA

So with Great Grandma Verda’s Special Powers, nobody in fairy tales would starve, there would be no famine, and nobody’s daughter would have to be a servant to an evil king or troll or something just to get food. See my point?

LIN

And I know personally that the Powers flow along down the maternal line…I remember a moment at Grandma Verda’s graveside…

VERDA

I am right here!  What’s all this about gravesides...

LIN

…I was carrying Victoria in my belly. I suppose there’s nothing sadder than a pregnant woman saying goodbye to her kin at graveside.  So, I guess to cheer me up, my Dad said that Verda would carry on in Victoria, like a spirit stowaway for my daughter. He clinched it right then and there.

   

      VICTORIA                     VERDA

I look like her.             She looks like me.

LIN

And you’re stubborn like her. 

        

     VERDA                    VICTORIA

        

         Good!                    Fine with me!

LIN

Now Lois, my Mom, can ball up her Special Powers and unleash them in sprints.  Lois’s Special Power is…Drum roll please because it must be dramatic… a voracious appetite for adventure! 

LOIS

I can’t resist a good road trip. 

VERDA

I’m taking some credit here.  That’s how she became known as “Lois the Linen Lady” at antique shows.  She’s come visit me and we’d run around the Illinois country side to estate sales.  For pennies we’d buy crates of mildewed junk from people’s attics and mine out pure gold from them.  I taught her how to clean up and mend those antique linens as new looking as the day they were created and sell ‘em for money.  Good business and her own cash to spend. 

LOIS

Tried to do the business on EBay and that’s for the birds. Computers are possessed in my opinion.   I like antique fairs…More people, close up and personal.  People watching is my guilty pleasure…But having my own money is what it’s all about.  Then I can do what I really like...

VICTORIA

Go to Cherokee and play the slots?  C’mon, Wild Cherry!

LOIS

Victoria!  You said you wouldn’t tell!

   

LIN

Every day is an adventure for Mom and she infects us all. One time, Dad had a fishing trip with his friends and when she saw that stinking bass boat leave the driveway, Lois bundled me and my brothers into the wood-paneled family cruiser station wagon and we toured Florida’s hot spots…Ringling Museum, Silver Springs, Cypress Gardens, Miami Seaquarium, The Keys…We skipped a bunch of school that time and the nuns were in a wad when we showed up about a week later sun burnt with ear infections but full of stories about swimming with dolphins and mermaids who 

could breathe underwater, about giant old paintings from real famous artists, gardens tamed to look like rooms in the Palace at Versailles...We learned more on Lois’s adventures than in school anyway…

VERDA

Lois knows no stranger.  This can be embarrassing if you’re with her and don’t feel particularly like chatting with, oh biker guys or crazy people.   

LIN                VERDA              VICTORIA

She talks to        She talks to        She talks to everyone…          everyone…       to everyone

VICTORIA

She likes characters.  That’s because she’s an actress!

LOIS

Oh, that was a long time ago…Again, you little stinker, you said you wouldn’t tell.

VICTORIA

(Trying to fit it in before being hushed) 

On TV, in commercials, on stage…

LIN

She was known as South Florida’s Grace Kelly…

                 

VERDA

And before that she was a cheerleader at Mizzou…That was an adventure.  She has a little of that PT Barnum fellow in her, I think. You can make up for stuff with sheer showmanship sometimes.  She was an ok cheerleader but while all the other young ladies did the routines to the “t,” Lois just got up and whistled.  Loud.  Lois got on that squad by virtue of her singular talent - an ear-splitting whistle…

     

               LOIS                   LIN

Go Tigers!  (Whistle)     Go Tigers!  (Whistle)

LIN

Gotta have a gimmick…To be an adventurer you’ve got to have courage too and Lois has it locked.   It came from Verda, magnified itself in Lois so Victoria and I inherited (Pause) a foolish lack of constraint.  We’re the bungie jumpers in the family.

VICTORIA

Yep!

LIN

Whenever we take a risk, fall face down and run whining to Lois, we get her brand of sideways sympathy.  Let me just for the sake of form put this in fairy tale terms:  (Sarcasm) She casts a restorative spell with these “magical” words -

LOIS

I say - 

   

LIN                  VICTORIA         LOIS

Pull yourself   Pull yourself       Pull yourself

together        together              together

You’re stronger  You’re stronger  You’re stronger

Than that        than that             than that

LIN

(Pause) Infuriating yet somehow comforting. 

VICTORIA

Ok.  Back to my original idea - MamaLo and her Special Adventure Powers prove my point that Moms would’ve been great in fairy tales.  Just think of all the awesome adventures Cinderella would’ve had if her Mom was MamaLo. First of all, that evil stepmother would be toast! Then Cindy still would’ve met the Prince, but he would’ve fallen for her because she was courageous and adventurous and strong like her Mom, instead of just getting by on the pretty.  What a concept!

VERDA

And she’d be rich too!  (They all look at Verda and nod sagely in affirmation)

LOIS

Well, since I made her, I ought to know my own daughter’s Special Power, shouldn’t I?  I have it too…

VICTORIA

(Jumping about)  What is it?  What is it?  She won’t tell me…

VERDA

I know what it is…I have a tinge of it myself.

VICTORIA

And?

LOIS

She attracts living things to her.  People and animals.  They orbit her and there’s always a reason. Like it is planned.  It’s actually kind of odd.

LIN

Well, ok, I’m a card-carrying critter whisperer.  But I can’t help it.  It’s your genes!  Besides, fur therapy is loads less expensive than shrinks.  Lord knows, I’d be counting tiles on the ceiling of the padded room if not for my animals.

VERDA

See?  It is passed down.  I liked sheep and they liked me!

LIN

I just know one thing, wherever life puts me, even if it seems like a disaster at the time, fate put me there with the people and animals around me who seem to need for something.  If I can focus on this, life is good…

LOIS

It started with that Mother cat, you know. 

LIN

You know some people are alarmed by this one, Mom.  Old wives tales about cats suffocating infants and all.  Stealing their breath…

LOIS

That’s their problem!  And they’re so WRONG!  This Mother Siamese cat we had would pack her cute little newborn kittens in around Lin in her playpen.  This cat would carry each one of those wiggly kittens up over the playpen rail and leave them to Lin, who giggled out loud as they climbed all over her little baby body. Then they’d all settle down in a little furry pile and just sleep the sleep of the innocent.  That’s how it started.  It’s a Special Power and animals can sense it.

VICTORIA

Meow

LIN

(Smiling)  Cut it out little missy, I know where you live!

LOIS

That’s not all – Remember the skunk?  The rabbit? The mice?  The snakes? The flock of geese? The fox? The hummingbird?  All those cats, dogs, fish, ducks, racoons?

LIN

Ok ok!! Build me an ark!! 

VICTORIA

The deer?  I know about that one, Grandpa says it just proved how close you are to the unseen, the spirit world.

VERDA

Stop that!  I hope you are telling ghost stories because otherwise this talk is the work of the devil.

LOIS

Mom, we don’t know everything…We’re not meant to.

LIN

He had an eight-point crown of horns.  I was alone in the autumn woods in North Carolina. I could hear him before I could see him.  He looked at first like a giant feral hound, maybe a wolfhound, because he was huge; crashing and snorting. I could see his tawny fur bounding through the brush directly at me…So I assumed the defensive position taught to me by my Dad, crouched with my arms around my neck, my eyes cast down so this big dog maybe wouldn’t kill me.  Maybe just injure me…Then I heard him burst out of the cover onto the path and stop.  He breathed on the top of my head and I looked up into a wild face with liquid bottomless brown eyes framed by eight lethal antler points…He was in full defensive battle stance and I wondered if they’d ever find my perforated and trampled body.  He merely dipped his head, brushed his hoof on the ground and melted into that flaming forest of October.

VICTORIA

He was a spirit guide.

VERDA

Aren’t you going to a private school?  What in blue blazes are they teaching you!  All this spirit stuff!

LOIS

Mom, it’s all good.  (She smiles)  Just what do you think you are at this very moment?

VERDA

Well, hmm.  I suppose.  There’s a Special Power. I’m haunting you! Ha!  

LIN

Usually it’s not so mystical.  I usually employ my Special Powers to tell someone their fly is down or there’s spinach in their teeth. Always ready to help out!

LOIS

Or save someone from themselves.  You’ve saved people by just listening to them when no one else would.  You don’t know how many you have rescued…

LIN

(Chuckling) I wouldn’t want to know.  Too much responsibility!

    

 VICTORIA

But like the animals, people who need you are sent to you. 

LIN

I know what it’s like to be marginalized.  Everyone has worth.  Victoria, you’ll find out. 

VICTORIA

See?  Here it is again.  Maybe if Belle’s Mom had Special Powers like my Mom, she would’ve made meeting the Beast a lot easier!   She’d have known just what to do to calm him down and solve his problem. Much better!

  

VERDA

   

We are certainly the stuff fairy tales could be made from, that’s for sure.

LOIS

How many Grandmothers, Mothers and Daughters have stories like ours?

VICTORIA

They just have to find their own fairy tales like we did…

By now, Lin, Verda and Lois have surrounded Victoria and they begin a slow set of square dance patterns with her.

LIN

Tori, when you become a Mother, you’ll have to fire up your Special Powers too, you know.

VICTORIA

Of course!  Look at you and MamaLo and Great Grandma Verda.  I’ve got great genes.

LOIS

Just so you know, you’ve already got a Special Power…It’s kind of a blend of ours…All that DNA combining and recombining…Magic!

VICTORIA

I’m going to make my very own fairy tale with my daughter.  And when people tell the story, MamaTori will be a big part of it using my Special Power.  What is it?

VERDA

Healing, pumpkin. 

LOIS

You have healing hands.

LIN

You know how your hands feel hot sometimes?  That’s the Power…

VICTORIA

That’s exactly what I wanted!  To make people feel better.  And all I have to do is put my hands on people and I can heal what pains them?

                 LOIS      LIN       VERDA

                  Yes       Yes       Yes

They finish the square dance moves and pause, hands together in the middle…

VICTORIA

So who gets the first back rub?

Blackout.

The End

Humans In The Hospital: What Is Behind The Curtain?

^{Starting a new facial accessory trend.} 

The door flew open too quickly to squeak out its horror movie sound-effect hinge creak. I had no warning; no time to gently derail, to calmly negotiate or even to freak the hell out about what was coming next. I sat up in my bed blinking, disoriented and completely tied down by an IV, a hose up my nose anchored to a wheezing suction machine, and a big heavy metal box trailing a tangle of telemetry wire. 

“You’re getting a roommate,” said a night nurse and her tone made me believe she’d deliver a particularly painful procedure on me if I even uttered a peep in opposition.  She flicked on the fluorescents in the room, all of them, and began to change out all the linens on the “B” bed station in the room. Loudly. 

It was 1 a.m. 

My creaking door was asleep on the job.  Usually a hospital door like that would make me extremely cranky and I would have it WD-40ed. But I loved that door. During this recent hospital stay, that door was my pal offering a pre-warning alarm system allowing me to be alerted to the presence of my nurse. Who was stealthy, believe me.

The door squeak meant there was no sneaking up on me by the 4 a.m. blood drawing vampires who drift silently like wafting fog through the hospital halls in the wee hours.  They roll white Rubbermaid wagons around containing all their “sharps” and tubes and blue latex gloves that they pinch the forefingers off so they can easily find a compliant throbbing little conduit to poke. They can, and do, draw blood unerringly in the dark. They go in and out of rooms in a Rubbermaid ballet collecting samples for analysis before the docs show up at 6 a.m. 

With that noisy door, I got just enough time to wipe the dollop of drool from my chin and arrange my easy access hospital smock modestly to cover my bits before fam and friends can crash in.  And, even better, the hospital’s business office zombie stalkers couldn’t just appear at my bedside like voracious apparitions with claw hands and glowing calculators asking how I would like to handle my co-pay. 

Thanks to the crazy loud dungeon door creak, I had time to pretend to sleep opossum style. Deeply.
After the night nurse’s abrupt no negotiation “you’re getting a roommate” decree, I fixed her with a bloodshot yet potent stink-eye.

“Whoa! I was told that I would have no roommate tonight. Last night with a roommate didn’t work out. I can’t get the rumba tango lambada ringtones out of my head. Ask my nurse, she knows.  Isn’t there any room elsewhere?”

My first roommate spoke a miniscule amount of English causing her drill sergeant nurse to mistake her lack of linguistic facility for deafness. Every instruction the nurse gave her was met with a small frustrated “Que?”  Whereupon her nurse would crank up the decibel level past 11 to ask the same exact question capped off with an ear-splitting “COMPRENDE?” To which the little woman would say “Si, si, si.”  

She also had 4 cell phones that rang incessantly emitting snappy Latin ringtones. She would have up to three conversations at a time, loudly with great drama.

She turned her phones off, however, when a proud little Hispanic woman came to visit.  Her guest chanted a fervent healing prayer for a full hour.  She was a spirit woman so I was especially nice to her. She could’ve been Santeria and it’s best to stay on their good side. She kindly held her hands out over my messed up stomach and delivered a 10 minute mini-chant, no charge, for my healing. I was most grateful. 

I like having all bases covered. 

And the chant was a soundtrack to my pain-killer induced visions of melting artwork, giant cursive writing in red ink on all the walls, and the bunched up blood pressure cuffs resembling that talking puppet, Lamb Chop.

So she left (Gracias, Senior!) and I had the room to myself to cultivate some blessed peace, catch up on the sleep lost, and enjoy the Dilaudid as it did its noble work slipping roofies down the maw of my gnawing stomach dragon.  The nurses all agreed I would have the room to myself unless there was a disaster of some sort. Apparently that didn’t stick…"

And the night nurse said as she fluffed the pillow on my new roommate’s bed:

“I am very sorry, I know you wanted to have privacy, but the scheduler assigned this bed to someone who just got admitted from the E.R.”

“Ok, I can be a sport. Can you get her to go right to sleep once she gets in here?” 

“I’ll do my best.”

And. She gave me earplugs.

My room was at the nurse’s station near the elevator, so I heard my new roommate’s voice booming up in the shaft. The elevator doors opened and we were greeted by a loud, wet, phlegm-filled cough followed by the sharp crack of a throat being violently cleared. To conclude, we were treated to the sounds of a generous deposit of mucus being expectorated, with moist gusto, into a tissue. 

“JESUS H. CHRIST! God damnit! John did you bring the friggin’ vaporizer.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Lemme see my bag.  I got to see for myself. You suck at packing my things I don't see no Mucinex in here dumbass.”  I heard zippers being ripped open and closed.  Her wheelchair was making little squealing effort sounds.

I tried so hard to hide, diminish; make tents of my bed covers and build a sound proof pillow fort for protection from what was shaping up to be a fiasco. Hard to do without yanking out my nose hose or my IV or both causing a cacophony of alarms in the nurse’s station. I am determined to be non-judgmental, to appreciate that, in spite of how rough she may seem to be, I will be gracious and kind and just roll over, jam in the earplugs and sleep.

And it was 1:30 in the morning.

They decanted her from the wheelchair in the hall and she let out a few gravelly annoyed sighs as she hoisted herself up. Her nurse made her walk to her bed which was separated from mine by approximately 3 feet and one of those ¾ length curtains on a curved ceiling rail.

In the brief moment I peeked out to look, I was surprised all that wet whiskey-voiced vitriol came from a petite square-shaped gnome woman of about 60 years in age. Her bleached blonde and steel grey hair stood upright barely obeying an earlier spritz of Aquanet. She was clad in her own pajamas with faded Mighty Mouse cartoons on the drawstring yoga pants. Her very deep tan exaggerated the cascades of Sharpei wrinkles on her arms and neck usually earned during a lifetime of habitual excessive smoking and drinking and tanning. She had very light pink frosted lipstick and those Pepto-Bismol lips were anxiously clamped around an unlit Virginia Slim giving her mouth the sere look of cracked earth in a desert. 

Her nurse introduced her to the bathroom we were to share.

“Oh, good. There’re those fancy toilet seat covers in there. Never know what shit you’ll pick up if you don’t use those. ‘Specially when you have to share a room with a flippin’ stranger.What’s she got? She don’t have something I could catch does she?” She walked by the foot of my bed without looking up to acknowledge me.

Let the games begin.

2 in the morning.

By eavesdropping, which could not be avoided because all conversation with this woman was held at a decibel level that would provoke deafness with prolonged exposure; I learned that the little general's name was Jill. The tall man following her seemed a decade younger than her. He was downcast, exhausted and lugging her stuff.  He was the husband, John. He resembled a beaten down eunuch slave lugging the must-haves of a persnickety bitch queen who would snap his neck on a whim.
Tracking her growling and muttering, I could follow her progress around the room.  She sat on her bed as her nurse explained the paging system, the light switches and how to control the TV. We each had our own TV with a hand held speaker meant to be held close to the ear to hear whilst not disturbing your roommate.

Right.

The room tour concluded.

Good they’re done. Lights out. I thought. Nope. Her nurse had to ask a few health questions. This is when I let out a loud pissed off sigh. Maybe more like a hiss.

Highlights? She smokes two packs a day, drinks four hard liquor cocktails every night, and has cardiac arrhythmia. Apparently at home, she and John threw down a scene that could only be compared to the vile exchange of virulent insults in Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe? At the crescendo of their booze-fueled hurt fest, he shattered a martini glass against the wall to emphasize a point and she grabbed her chest and screamed for the paramedics. Her heart was flopping in her chest like a beached mullet. 

Then Jill was up and pacing and tearing at her bags. I could hear things flying.   

“Where’s my water bottle? What the fuck? Did you forget my water bottle you idiot?  Oh! My bad. Heh 
heh. There it is…Now, let me be clear. God help the poor bastard who wakes me up before I am ready, understand?” I heard her unscrew the cap and swig down a few gulps of "water."  Sure enough, the scent of rum floated past my nose. After all, I was tucked in to my bed only 3 feet away and I can smell rum at 100 paces.

“Ok. It’s late and time to go to sleep. Jill climb into bed here and we’ll get you comfortable. Let’s get the rest of this done tomor...”

“I’m hungry. What’s the phone number to order dinner?”

“C’mon Jill! This ain’t the Ritz Carlton. It’s a hospital!” said John.

“It’s late.Way past dinner. Kitchen’s closed. But we have some good snacks up here. Sandwiches. Would you like one?”

“Well, isn’t that just great! Cheap assholes can’t even keep decent food around. I knew this hospital was a craphole. Go get me a McDonald’s John.”

“No” said John. 

I am pissed and tired by now, but it was starting to get good.

“What the fuck did you just say? Did you actually say no?”

“Can she use this to help her sleep?” asked John, artfully changing the focus to something else Jill must have.  It was a “white noise generator.” The nurse and John looked around the curtain at me.  

“How loud is it?” I asked trying to be a sport. 

“Real low. Hardly hear it at all!” said John.

“Ok.” I said. “But only if we settle down and get some sleep now! I want to rest before the vampires show up to tap a vein.”

“Vampires? What the fuck is she talking about? She think that’s FUNNY? Stupid bitch.” 

This silliness, as amusing as it had become, was getting old and exacerbated my reason for being in the hospital  –  Teeth grinding, black-out quality pain…abdominal pain. A small bowel blockage. I was out on the edge of the Dilaudid plank and the pain was back.

Suddenly, John made a break for it tossing a rapid goodbye to his unpleasant dominant alpha wife and exiting with haste stage left. 

“Call me in the morning and we’ll figure something out.” 

“God damnit! JESUS H CHRIST! You can’t leave now, you selfish bastard. How am I supposed to…”

But he was gone taking the stairs down three at a time to make his getaway.

“Alright Jill, good night!” said her nurse, firmly. “Let’s settle down now.” Nurse put her in bed and I swear she swaddled the little gremlin to keep her immobile.

And then, as she turned off all the lights, the nurse made a break for it too leaving me alone in a room with a complete stranger, a pissed off belligerent queen bitch and an ambulatory drunken munchkin all wrapped up in one freaky package!

I heard her wriggle out of the bed covers and jump down to the floor. She stood in the middle of the room and made three phone calls leaving tortured pitiful voice mails for people who didn’t dare pick up.  No one cared about her. She didn’t deserve how people treated her. Then she dropped a very heavy object on the floor giving me a painful startle.

"Shit"

Then quiet. 

She was just standing in the middle of her part of the room breathing and muttering. She cracked her knuckles systematically working from digit to digit and may have even included her toes in the effort.. 

Then quiet. 

She clicked her TV on, and demonstrated how high the volume could go.

Twice.  

This is where my Rule of Three kicked in. Starting now, three more demonstrably rude behaviors and I will raise hell. 

I was losing my ability to be a sport.

“Yeah, figures. No Fox channel here…damn pussy liberal sons a bitches.” And her TV goes off.
Loud raspy breathing and knuckle popping and throat clearing continued.  Still not in bed. She then shared one enormous fart and found that pretty amusing.

Number One.

She used the button to call her nurse…

“I need something to let me turn the lights on and off while I am in bed.  What can you do about that?” 
In a minute the nurse returned with a long lamp pull that would reach her bed.  “There you go. Get in bed. Now, GOOD NIGHT JILL!”  Even the nurse was losing her patience.

Number Two.

The sound of diesel turbines filled the room, like every one of my neighbors cranked their leaf blowers at once, like the guy who owns the Harleys down the street fired up all of his crotch rockets simultaneously.  It was the white noise generator and she had dialed it up to a volume intended to make ears bleed or small animals spontaneously mutate.

This could be good, though. Maybe she’s going to settle now that the dulcet tones of a Space Shuttle launch provides her with an effective lullaby. I am still trying to be patient, kind and graceful. I had ear plugs too.

Number 3

Click.

Lights on.

Click.

Lights off.

Click.

Lights on.

Click.

Lights off.

Click!

The unmistakable sound and scent of a butane lighter putting fire to tobacco…

And. There it was.

That was number three plus one. 

I gathered up my suction bucket, my IV tree and my telemetry box, slid out the creaky door, eased over to the nurse’s station and sat down waiting to be noticed.

“I tried. I really tried. But I can’t do this. Does anyone have an office with a couch or something where I can just get some sleep?” 

And, as the ear plugs ejected themselves from my ears with audible pops because my head was dangerously close to exploding, I told them all about the shenanigans in my room.

Like white cells swarming a bacterium, I was surrounded by apologetic nurses who went directly into action to relocate Jill. I watched four high- ranking nurses go into the room and heard a flurry of cursing and complaining as they extracted her. It was much like prying a barnacle off the hull of a boat.  

“Why should I move?  Why can’t she? This is frickin’ unfair.  I’ll SUE you bastards. Where is that bitch? I want to talk to her…”

Well, that wasn’t happening.

3 a.m.

As I snuggled into my quiet dark bed with all my tubes and wires organized tidy-like and pain under good control, night nurse came in.

“We’re surprised you lasted as long you did. Thanks for being a sport.”

And I got extra purple popsicles for that.



photo by David Treiber

Dad Flipped a Coin for Mom and Lost

John and Ted were unabashed bachelors in paradise.

 ^{John and Ted. Men on a mission.}

Beach tanned and up for anything from scuba diving to formal dinner dances, they ranged around in Fort Lauderdale in the 50’s cutting a wide swath socially. 

Young, handsome and professional, John a doctor, Ted a successful businessman, both were widely celebrated "good catches." Mothers of eligible girls bent over backwards to put their offspring in the path of these potential sons-in-law and were not above bribing them with home cooked meals and fresh baked cookies.  They never went hungry. 

For them, dating was sport and they were champs at flying wingman for each other as they charmed the smorgasbord of single women in the famous beach town “where the boys are.” 

But finding “the one” was elusive.

At lunch one day, John and Ted were stupefied by someone new in town.  They spotted her simultaneously across the restaurant as she dined with a friend.  She was a stunner; a drop-dead gorgeous blonde with blue eyes, model poise, and, to them, that angel aura accompanied by heavenly choruses singing.

   ^{A stunner who caused men to question their friendships.}

^{A model. With turtles sometimes.}  

 The men tripped all over each other vying to approach her first.

“I saw her first.”

“Nope. I did.”

“No, you didn’t, I did and I’m asking her out right now.” 

 This opportunity to snag a golden-haired goddess nullified the wingman’s oath of loyalty according to their “man rules.” The stakes were too high.

“Let’s just say we saw her at the same time,” said John, adopting a cool negotiating tack at this point, “I’ll flip you for who gets to ask her out first.”

Ted, a confident gambler, scrutinized John for any hint of chicanery, and seeing nothing suspicious, warmed to the idea.

“Deal!”

“Call it…”

The coin went up, spun about in the ether, and dropped on the diner booth table with the ominous gravity of destiny.

Ted won. 

He got to go first. He strolled cooly over to her table, chatted her up and made a date.  Her girlfriend was all aflutter at the swashbuckle boldness of Ted’s approach.

Swaggering back to the table with a grin, Ted expected to see John brooding over the beat.  John was not anything like brooding.  Just smiling.

“All set Ted?  You were first to make a date right?  That was the deal…”

“Yessir!  Friday night.  Her name’s Lois and that’s her roommate with her by the way.  Thanks for being such a good sport.”

“Don’t mention it,” said John, grinning like a cat.

Later that day, Lois, home from work, received a phone message from a certain doctor.  Thinking it might be urgent, she called back immediately.

“Hi, Lois. I’m John. Your roommate is a patient of mine and thought you wouldn’t mind if I called.  I heard you’re busy Friday but what are you doing tonight?”

~~~

^{Photos:  Personal Collection and Google 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

Dad And The Purple Schwinn

For Dad, with love, on his 90th birthday.

“Let’s take a bike ride!”

Dad liked to ride bikes along the golf course road before dinner some nights.  Since our house was one of the first built on this new course on the outskirts of Ft. Lauderdale, he enjoyed checking out all the new home sites rising up from those scrubby sand lots. 

He had his English racing bike painted rusty brown and equipped with impressive toe harnesses on the spiky corrugated pedals.  My brother had his banana- seat high-handlebar Easy Rider thrasher. My younger brother still had a fire engine red tricycle so he was stuck rolling around the driveway in circles under Mom’s watchful eye. 

And I had my brand new shiny purple Schwinn girl’s bike with the saddle bag baskets over the rear tire.

Or did.

“Ready to go?  Where’s your bike?”

It was my birthday present and I hated it. 

All my friends had ten-speed boy’s bikes with handle bar brakes. I asked for one of those. But somewhere my request got lost in translation, or Dad got a good deal, and I was burdened with a prissy purple Schwinn girl’s bike.  It had only one speed and to stop I had to brake by backpedalling.  

Ungroovy.

I was expected to ride that pixie dust and moonbeam mess to the school bus stop every morning, lock it up, and then ride it home every afternoon along with everybody.  I felt like a sparkly unicorn leaving a slip stream of rainbows amidst a herd of sleek racehorses.  It was humiliating.

But the purple Schwinn was gone. And, I only just then remembered what happened to it.

“Where’s your bike?”

Half way home that afternoon, the chain fell off the purple Schwinn and made me fall down. I was miffed and had two skinned knees to show.  So I left it by the side of the road and walked home. I meant to tell Mom right away but forgot. I was easily distracted at that age by things like snacks, cartoons or dust particles floating in sunbeams.  And looking back, I wonder if it was semi-subconsciously on purpose to forget about it.  I just put it out of my mind.  Now I had to ‘fess up.

Bike ride cancelled, Dad loaded me into his car and we went to pick the purple Schwinn up.  But, oops, it was gone.  Stolen. Apparently a shiny new purple Schwinn lying on the side of the road for three hours was too much temptation for those so inclined. 

“Oh no, Dad! It’s gone. Gosh! Darn! Shoot! Maybe we can get a new ten-speed boy’s bike with handlebar brakes for me now?”

He gave me the “look.”  It’s the one perfected by every pissed-off disappointed Dad since time began. He cleared his throat and issued the edict in a measured, yet intimidating, tone -

“You could not take care of the bike you had and you think we’re going to just run straight out and buy you a damn new one? No. Now you will be walking…everywhere.”

Thus began my wilderness weeks of walking across wet golf course grass and vacant lots prickling with sticker burrs in the dank Florida heat to and from the bus stop.  Much of the trek was spent swatting clouds of mosquitoes that lay in wait to chew me up and suck me dry.

No matter how much time I spent on my grooming each day, I always arrived to school a disheveled wreck with pie plate sized pit stains and soaking wet saddle shoes speckled with golf course grass.   After school, I pretended I didn’t care as I watched all my friends hop on their ten-speeds and zoom off to 7-ll for Slurpees and penny candy. Or to the pier.  Or the community pool. I was left to slog home, sweaty and downtrodden. I cried a lot. But only when no one could see.  I still had my pride.

Nights I lay in bed and listened to tree frogs chirp in the eucalyptus trees. On my transistor radio a woman with an airy quavering voice trilled a song: “Don’t it always seem to go, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone…” I fervently wished, even prayed, that my purple Schwinn would miraculously appear in the garage sparkling loyally waiting for me to wheel her out and ride. But no amount of wishing was going to fix it and surely Jesus had more important things to think about.

One day Dad stuck his head in while I was moping and reading in my room. 

“Come on out here a minute.”

I spent a significant amount of effort dodging Dad’s attention during this time.  So when he actually addressed me directly, I jumped like a cricket following him to the driveway where he was pulling something out of the trunk of his car.

“Fix this up if you want. One of my patients was going to throw it away, but maybe you might want it? There’s sandpaper in the workshop…”

It was a relic. Rusty from handlebars to wheel rim, this thing was a flaking stinking disaster. An ancient crone of a broken down girl’s beach bike, she was a beast.  No ten-speed derailleur here, no handlebar brakes. She was fat all over, including the tires. And they were flat.

I was never so grateful as I was at that very moment.

For days, with help from Mom and Dad, I worked on her.  I sandpapered all the rust off and found that she had at one time sported black paint.  I soaked her rusty chain in Coca Cola and oiled it, used my saved up birthday money to get the bulbous white-wall tires repaired, and buffed up her pitted chrome parts to a righteous shine. I found an old chamois cloth and sewed a new seat cover.  A smooth coat of black enamel Rust-o-leum paint finished her makeover and a white wicker basket garlanded with purple flowers strapped to the handlebars added a surprise feminine touch.  She was a proud dowager wearing her Sunday hat in the islands; the flowers an homage to the long lost purple Schwinn.

She wasn’t pretty, but she was mine. And she could roll. Big and powerful, I could speed along just as fast as a ten-speed. Better than a ten speed too, I found out, was not having to fiddle with all the levers and pulleys.  I just stood up on those pedals and rode like the wind.

The kids with fancy racing bikes were superior in every way, and they let me know it.  But somehow I shook it off and just appreciated that big beast of a bike. My big beast of a bike.

I think Dad had me figured out.

I love you, Dad.

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’ Ordeal in Cordele

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