Alabama on My Mind: Grandmother's Friend by Keita Annie Whitten

It was my very first time out of the city, my first time on an airplane, and my first time meeting my father's mother. (My dad had not been around… well, I knew he was around somewhere. I just didn't grow up with him. That’s why I didn’t know about his mother.) I was also meeting my aunt, my grandmother's sister, and all my cousins I never knew I had. I was fourteen. It would be my first summer in Alabama!

When I arrived at the airport, a man greeted me, “How d’you do? I’m your second cousin Jessie.” He was a tall, lean, and handsome mocha-brown man. He wore a dark blue jumpsuit. He looked nice. He picked up my suitcase and pulled out his keys. Boy, he had lots of keys, like hundreds of them! Leaving the airport behind us, we walked outside. The air was unfamiliar, warm, and thick. It smelled different, sort of sweet. I found it hard to breathe. We walked over to an old beat-up blue pick-up truck. We got in. It creaked, bounced, and jiggled a lot—like those bucket seats you rode in on the rides at Coney Island. On the way to my grandma’s house my cousin warned me about everybody I would be meeting. He was very funny. He spoke like Bill Cosby in those records where he would make jokes describing his family, growing up, and how he and his brothers would get into trouble. We laughed and laughed so hard. It was so much fun.

My father’s people went to church regularly. I never went to church. My mother grew up Catholic. Once she turned 18, she not only ran away from her abusive father, she ran away from the Catholic Church and vowed never to return. I grew up hearing her tell my sisters and me scary stories about how mean nuns where, and how they would beat her with rulers.

One day after church, my grandmother wanted to "pay a visit" (as she would say) to her friend. When we got there, I saw several women in a room. They were sitting around a table and talking. Two of the ladies had on white gloves. One of them had a matching white hat with a veil. I recognized that lady from church. When we walked in they looked up at us with loud smiles and stated (as if they were in some sort of chorus) “How do you do child? Miss Annie?" My grandmother made sure I said hello to each one of them properly.

The room was bright and sunny. It had lots of windows. Back home our apartment in the City was kind of dark. It only had about six windows (if you counted the bathroom). Across the room I spotted a huge white floral couch with matching armchairs. Each one was encased in plastic coverings. The first time I experienced furniture covered in plastic was at my grandma Mais’s house in the Bronx when my sisters and I would visit. We weren't allowed in the "sitting room.” It was only for special occasions, like when guests came to visit our grandmother or her roommate (we called her Aunt Toots). When my grandma was busy cleaning or reading her Bible, I would sneak into the sitting room and sit on the forbidden plastic-covered couch. I would pretend I was some fancy, wealthy white woman.

“Honey, you want some lemonade?” a melodic voice called out from another room. I continued to scan the room. In the corner were huge windows dressed in lace which danced in a light breeze, while the warm sun spilled into the room onto a large piano. I had never seen one quite so beautiful before. In fact, I had never seen one up close, period—especially not in some Black person's home! Just then another breeze entered the room. It was hefty. This time, when the curtains danced, they reached out to touch the keys if only for a brief moment. With my eyes I followed the piano towards a

rectangle mahogany table. It took center stage. Its wide legs buckled outwardly and then down back in, stretching down towards feet that coiled and curved into beautiful spirals. I really wanted to touch the table legs and follow their curves and coils with my fingers, but I knew better. On the table sat a delicate tea set with gold rims and tiny painted florals with matching saucers which sat on top of circle- shaped lace. The set reminded me of a school trip with my class to the Museum of Old New York. I can remember staring at similar sets in glass cases and table displays while imagining what it would have been like back in those days being a white woman drinking tea in the parlor. The three women we said hello to were gathered at the rectangle table where they were drinking tea and using the set.

"Child, sit down,” my grandmother ordered. When I sat on the couch, it creaked and made a whooshing sound as the air escaped from beneath me. I sank down. I continued to glance around the room. I saw crystal vases filled with fresh flowers, popping with vibrant colors placed throughout the room. I also noticed many, many photos in different shaped and sized frames. Brown and white photographs were placed all over the mantel and tables. Pictures of family members seemed to stare out from behind their glass sheets, which separated them from us. Their eyes looked determined. Everyone stood tall and proud. In each of these photographs I noticed that all the women wore dresses. Many wore fancy dresses like the ones I saw Billie Holiday wearing on her album covers. Little girls wore dresses with ruffles and ribbons, and braids with matching bows. Many of the men wore military uniforms or suits with their chests held out and heads held high.

"Little girl, come here. Let me get a good look at Miss Annie's granddaughter!” My grandmother's friend's voice was stern yet melodic. I followed this voice. It seemed to be leading me towards the kitchen. "Your grandmother says you're so lazy. All you want to do is sit outside all day and play on those darn swings. When I was a kid, we had chores to do. There was no time to sit around and being lazy!”

Oh, no! Not her too! My grandmother was always saying the same thing to me all the time. Who is this woman, and why did my grandmother have to go say that to her anyway? Doesn’t she know this is my first summer in Alabama? Doesn't she know…? Grandma butts in, “I hate to think of what your mamma lets you do." Her voice grew loud, having to rise above the clanging sounds of pots and running water. I realized I had stopped in the doorway. Why is she nagging and complaining about me? She doesn't even know me. The woman’s voice also gets louder as she continues to mix stuff. "It's a shame that a child at your age does not do any chores!" I started to feel guilty, but I was also was in no mood to prove her wrong. I did not like this woman.

My grandmother and this woman attended the same Baptist church. The very same church they had attended their whole lives. “Where are you, child? Come here where I can see you," she commanded. The woman was big and hefty, just like my grandmother. Her stockings were half-way rolled down her leg. They looked more like socks to me. I noticed that her ankles were swollen and that they squeezed over the tops of her white shoes. (I saw lots of women at church with the same shoes.) My grandmother's ankles looked the same. Grandma’s friend seemed to have a slight limp as she moved about the kitchen. She had huge thick hands that reached up for a big cast iron frying pan, Bang! She slammed it onto the stove. Then I felt these heavy fingers digging into my hair and scalp. How did she get over to me so quickly? "Child, you got nice hair, so fine. Just look at those curls! Don't she, Miss Annie?" My grandmother beamed. Grandma and Auntie loved to dress me in dresses with ruffles and show me off like a doll to all her friends at church. She had insisted the night before that my Aunt Laverne press and curl my hair. Pressing hair was new to me. I never knew you

2 SUMMER 2012 IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Collage by Keita Anne Whitten © 2002

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Cinderella and Colored Ray by Collette Nagy

Once upon a time a slender girl with golden hair lived in the

Village of Potomac. The children she babysat told her she looked just like Cinderella, whom they had met in person while on vacation in Florida. She often walked to the crossroads of “River” and “Falls” back when they intersected at the top of a short, steep hill. She also rode a bicycle all over town but she was known more for her orange tractor with which she maintained the pastures and sprawling estates of many of her neighbors. When she was doing that work, she wore her golden hair in a long braid down her back. Sometimes she rode over a bump in high gear and the braid would fly up in the air.

I never saw the girl on the tractor because she was me. Only recently I heard about the braid flying up in the air from an old neighbor. She brought back some unusual memories from a life that seemed quite ordinary at the time. Looking back, I can see that it was a rare life that cannot be replicated, only recounted.

There used to be a horse farm where the Washington, DC, beltway passes under River Road, Al-Marah Arabian Farm. Old news clips indicate that champion horses were bred there in the 1930s through the 1950s. The first time I set foot on that tract of land was after the developers acquired it. Site work had begun and dump trucks rolled through constantly. A couple acres up close to the road needed to be cleared of weeds and briars. My assignment was to mow it with the bush hog, a tedious process that involved slowly backing the tractor into each new spot because the ground was uneven and unpredictable. Unlike the under-slung belly mowers I usually operated, this implement was attached to the back of the tractor. The only way to cut down the brush without driving on it and possibly falling into a hole was by backing up.

Not long after I started clearing the undergrowth, the site superintendent came out of the construction trailer to talk to me. He was a weathered little white man in his late fifties with a rural drawl. He told me he was afraid "one of them big ol' black treck drahvers" might climb down and drag me off my tractor. I was so stunned by his suggestion I was speechless despite all the self-confidence of my seventeen years. He repeated his statement of concern as I silently wondered what made him think I would be afraid of a black truck driver and not a white superintendent. I figured he probably thought he was non-racist because he refrained from using the term “colored.”

I spent a lot of time during the prior four years working with a colored man from downtown, Ray. Actually, I did not always know him as Ray. For the first few years I called him Mr. Watson because he had a daughter my age so I owed him respect. I don't exactly remember meeting him because he was just sort of always there, since the late 1960's. That was when the proprietor would drive his pickup truck to the District Line at Friendship Heights where day laborers would wait to be hired, right outside the bus station. Several men at a time would accept work and ride in the back of the truck to the jobs, then back to the District Line at the end of the day.

I was a small child still, not old enough to work with the family lawn maintenance business. To me, a trip to the District Line at the end of the day was just fun and games. Against Mother's clearly stated wishes, the proprietor considered it safe for me to ride on the wooden tool rack that was built above the truck cab. One or two of the colored men would extend their arms protectively between me and the front of the vehicle or sometimes grip my ankles, just to make sure I didn't end up on the pavement in front of the truck. I had no idea back then how significant was their concern for my welfare after a hard day of pushing lawnmowers in the hot sun.

By the time I started working, the bus routes had been extended and Ray alone was taking a bus to our house, which had a barn and lean-to garage that served as the "the shop." Ray never drove. He wasn't inclined to get on a tractor, either, always just pushed a lawn mower or used a leaf rake. When I turned sixteen and started driving the trucks, I still called him Mr. Watson but not for long. One day he told me to just call him Ray. I don't remember him ever addressing me by any name or honorific. He didn't talk much.

I knew of Ray to distance himself from a stranger who approached him at the bus station by saying, "You know, I killed a man once." The stranger stopped talking and walked away in a hurry. Ray was not very big, but he looked like someone to not mess with. He always had a cigar in its holder hanging out of his mouth, usually unlit, and he always smelled of liquor, although I never saw him drunk. It was the rare customer who would attempt to converse with Ray more than once. He was polite and listened attentively but responded unintelligibly, deftly using a technique I eventually came to know as “polite non-cooperation.” Back then, none of the white people around Washington had heard of Gullah, but the ones who interrupted Ray’s work to talk to him learned that they would not be able to understand what he said in response. So they left him alone.

He wore a hat with a narrow, descending brim all the way around pulled down over his eyes. I never knew Ray's opinion of anybody. He kept to himself at lunchtime. He knew all the jobs and worked steadily. Sometimes he would show a new worker what to do, but he wanted no part of supervisory duties. Despite my youth and inexperience, I was the one in charge when I worked with the crew.

One especially hot, humid August day I worked with them the whole day, hauling workers, lawn mowers and tractor all on one rig—a pickup truck pulling a single axle trailer with a tilt bed for my tractor. When we finished our last job I got into the driver's seat, Ray sat in the passenger seat, and the other men climbed into the pickup bed with the lawnmowers and burlaps. It was so hot that Ray and I were the only ones who had not stripped to the waist. He always wore his work shirt no matter how hot the weather.

As we got moving down the road I saw Ray out of the corner of my eye doing something I'd never seen him do. First, he removed his hat and set it on the engine cover between us. Then he unbuttoned his work shirt and laid it down, too. Finally, he took off his t-shirt and held it out the window to dry in the wind. He turned his face toward the open window, giving me a chance to take a better look. If not for the gray patches on his bearded chin, he could have passed for a teen-aged boy, an unimposing one. Holding his shirt out the window was the closest he came to complaining about the heat. He was fully dressed again by the time we got back to the shop.

On another long, miserable day, my tractor started running rough. It sounded like there was a blockage in the fuel line. The engine quit running in the middle of the customer's front yard, and I was too tired to care about whether it ever got fixed or how I would finish the job. I must have dropped my head because I know my sighing could not have been audible over the clatter of several two-cycle lawn mower engines. Ray shut off his mower and came over. In perfectly understandable, clearly enunciated English words, he said to me, "Unlatch the hood, Sweetheart." I was thunder-struck. I had never before perceived any indication of fondness from him. Suddenly, I knew that not only did he like me, but also he felt sorry for me in my role of indentured servant to the family business. In addition to being surprised I was thankful. He bled the fuel line for me and we finished the job and headed home.

We had guys on the crew who had “done time” in another city far away. We had a juvenile delinquent or two. At least two of the men I worked with went to prison within three years after they left our business, one of them for attempted rape. However, at the time I worked with them I was not conscious of how dangerous they were. I bet Ray was fully aware, though. In retrospect, I realize that his

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In every issue, we feature books written by up-and-coming authors, in the hopes that our readers will check out their work.

Getting Roosevelt—a Homeowner’s Nightmare by Yvonne Mikell

Roosevelt, an old Victorian nestled on the border of upscale Chestnut Hill and middleclass Mt. Airy, is the obsession of two people: Elizabeth Samms and Gordon Roosevelt. Gordon is a realtor who likes to flip properties. Handyman Donovan Smith helps his employer eliminate prospective buyers who do not live up to his standards. Protagonist Emma Samms and her autistic son love the house and are willing to fight for it. But a stranger appears with claims to the house. Will Gordon relinquish control?

Excerpt from Getting Roosevelt—a Homeowner’s Nightmare Chapter 1

January 2005 “The flight crew would like to be the first to welcome you to the

Federation of St. Kitts and Nevis. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened until the cockpit turns off the fasten-your- seatbelt sign. At that time you are free to gather your belongings, but be careful of opening the overhead compartment. Your things may have shifted around during the flight. Once again, enjoy your stay on St. Kitts and Nevis.”

“What a picturesque view,” she said stepping off the plane, “a world away from Philadelphia.”

“That’s the whole point Mrs. Rupurtus, to take you away from the urban grit,” he said.

“Jonathan, don’t be such a cynic. Philadelphia has just as much charm as this island,” she said.

“If you say so,” he mocked. “Careful, newcomer, you don’t get to talk about my hometown

after you’ve been there a couple of months,” she said. “Your father lived here many, many years and always held Philadelphia in high regard.”

“Of course, he did. It offered very little responsibility,” he said. “You are unaware of the tremendous amount of responsibility

your father carried on his shoulders,” she said. “Responsibility to whom, to you?” he asked. Stung by his biting remark, Kathryn shifted the conversation, “Perhaps when his estate is settled, Mr. Luna will have some

answers.”

They stood inside the airport terminal looking at the travelers ready to board the plane they just departed.

“Don’t they look well rested? Hopefully when I return to pick you up, you’ll have that same glow,” he said.

“What is the projected date of completion?” she asked. “Four weeks at best,” he said. She gasped, “You said a week and a half! Why do you need the

extra time?” “I want to take my time and do it right…and I decided to update

the bathrooms,” he said. “Don’t damage Roosevelt too much. He’s been in the family since

1910. I don’t want anything to happen to him while I’m in control,” she said.

“Mrs. Rupurtus, Roosevelt is in these careful, loving hands. He will be standing when you return. The airline should have unloaded our luggage into claims by now. Wait here while I get them,” he said.

Jonathan hastily walked towards baggage claims. His strides made it seem as if he reached claims in three giant steps. He handed the clerk their tickets. “Looking for Kathryn Rupurtus and Jonathan Smith.”

The clerk walked into a room and came back with a brocade suitcase and a black carryon.

“Thanks,” he said, giving the man a $10 tip. He adjusted his carryon across the shoulder and picked up her

suitcase and was amazed at its lightness. “I can’t believe she took my advice.”

He slowed his gait on the way back, taking time to ogle a beautiful Asian woman talking on her cell phone. He smiled at her. She smiled back.

Another time, another place! She continued smiling at him while talking on the phone. He

turned his attention to the bench where he left Kathryn, next to the information desk. It was empty. She was gone. Startled, his eyes searched every nook and cranny. She was nowhere.

“Think Jonathan, think! Where would a woman go in a new country?”

He walked up to the information desk, “I’m looking for my friend, the old woman who was sitting here with me. Have you seen her?”

“Mrs. Bush— Jonathan corrected him, “Her name is Kathryn Rupurtus.” “She looks an awful lot like Barbara Bush,” said the ticket clerk. “I

should have known the First Lady of the United States would not be sitting there alone and unattended. Nah, I don’t know where your friend went.”

“Thanks,” he said. He walked away with the luggage that suddenly felt heavy. He

frantically searched nearly all the boutiques in the terminal. She was not in any of them. He struggled to contain his anger, failing miserably. He blurted, “Where could this old ninny be?”

He surveyed the room again, he did not see her. A woman with two small boys walked passed him, jogging his memory of the time he and Donovan were on a trip with their mother. “She’s probably in the bathroom.”

He went back to the information desk and asked the clerk for the location of the bathrooms. He went there and asked a female tourist who was on the way out if she would go back in and check for him. She was on the verge of saying no until he whipped out a $100 bill. The lady went inside and checked, returning almost as fast as she went in. She reported there were no old ladies in there. He thanked her for her time and gave her the $100.

“Way to go, Jonathan! Your own target eluded you!” He inhaled sharply. Nostrils flared on his narrow nose, making

him appear ethnic. His eyes, usually bulging, narrowed to a slit as he scoped the place. She was gone.

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“Where on earth can you be?” He thought aloud, “Maybe you’re outside.”

He briefly patrolled outside the airport. The only people out were cab drivers and natives picking up or dropping off loved ones at the airport. No old ladies with blondish-white hair. He walked up the steps of the airport, glaring inside the thick windows. His glare became less prominent as he noticed an establishment he had missed. He sprinted to the store and noticed it was unmanned.

He stood outside of it for a few minutes, peering in, wondering when the clerk would return to the cash register. Impatient, he turned to walk away, but a blur came into his peripheral view. He backtracked and looked in the store again. A blonde popped up between the displays of clothing. He rushed in and spun the blonde around. He blew a sigh of relief.

“Sorry,” he said, fixing her dress at the shoulders. “You almost scared me to death.”

“Here I am, but I really shouldn’t be here,” she said. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” he asked. “Jonathan, I’ve been having second thoughts ever since I stepped

on the plane. I’m too old to be vacationing,” she said. “You’re not too old. You’re never too old to go somewhere new

and exciting,” he said. She stared at him for a long time. Unexplainable was her

stomach in knots, something only one person could make her feel, and that was her little sister, Thelma. She knew where Thelma was— back in Pennsylvania, some 2000 miles away—and yet she felt as if she was in Thelma’s presence. She wondered why she felt this way now and why she did not feel it when she was home when she first invited him to stay with her.

“I can’t believe I trusted you,” she said. “Whoa! Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?” he

asked. “No, you haven’t. I suppose I’m being overly dramatic. Please

excuse my accusatory tone. It’s just that it has been years since I went on a vacation,” she said.

“It’s alright to be apprehensive, Mrs. Rupurtus,” he said. “I wanted to do something for you, so I thought you could use an updated kitchen. Think of it as a token of appreciation for being my father’s friend and for embracing me. You took me in, a total stranger, when you didn’t have—

She interrupted, “And I told you before, it was the least I could do for Fred’s son. Listen, I’m giving you two weeks to renew the kitchen. Leave the bathrooms alone, okay?”

“I guess partial repayment is better than none,” he said. “By the way, what’s the name of the hotel where we are

staying?” she asked. “I had arranged for us to stay at Cliffdwellers in a bungalow

overlooking the ocean. I hired two ladies, nationals, to take care of our needs. Since you cut my time in half, I won’t be staying,” he said.

“Another surprise. You seem to think of everything,” she said. * * *

September 2007 Megan Woodson stood at the picture window and tried hard not

to be neurotic. Things were going as planned, but she couldn’t help wondering how long it was going to last. She was the newest employee, highly recommended by her old employer, days before he expired. On the surface it appeared to be of natural causes. Underneath, an unanticipated side effect of a wonderful concoction she found on the internet.

Megan’s father, insisting on making her the boy he always wanted, taught her all he knew. To date, the Smiths had been pleased with her performance. She showed them her vast repertoire, an unnerving ability to adapt to any situation presenting itself. Jonathan was impressed.

She heard a car door slam and assumed it was her one o’clock appointment. She hurried into the powder room opposite the kitchen and checked her appearance. She tweaked her shoulder- length auburn wig around the hairline and pressed the spring curls inward. Her pale skin, two shades darker, courtesy of Jergen’s natural glow moisturizer, was holding up although it was applied hours ago. A coating of bronze shimmery powder provided the finishing touch aimed for—the look of being at a resort. The blue contact lenses, strictly for cosmetic purposes, covered her brown eyes along with a pair of reading glasses.

She smoothed another coat of red lipstick before primping the collar of her olive oversized shirt. Underneath is a floral V-neck tee, chosen because it camouflages her homemade tummy. She adjusted it while scrutinizing the position of the pillow. She also double checked the pillow hovering over her butt, flattening the duct tape. She gently tugged on the stretch pants, extending them over and above the pillows. Delighted that she looked like a pregnant tub of lard, she sauntered to the foyer, opened the front door, and waited on the front porch. It was show time.

* * * Today was the day Elizabeth had been waiting for. She and Joe

would drive by this Victorian home, way back in the 1990s when they were both young and dating, and dream of one day being its occupants. The location was ideal for them, on the border of Chestnut Hill and Mt. Airy. A quaint area known for keeping its historic charm intact, she envisioned herself gazing at the trolleys hurrying along the rails up and down Germantown Avenue or the splendid view across the street. Spring Garden College had nothing but acres of green pastures.

However, if Joe was here, today would not be happening, at least not yet. They did get married years later and struggle like most couples. Joe was different than most young men his age. He said from the beginning he wanted to have his own business. By the time he was 30 years old, he did, by working hard at his craft of carpentry. Joe had a gift for whittling wood. He could take a log and carve the most beautiful design you’d want to see.

Two months ago, he was on his way to meet a new client. Running late, he tried to navigate rush-hour traffic. His car slid under the belly of a soft rig and burst into flames. Elizabeth was crushed. She tried to hold herself together, though was barely successful. She always found herself looking at the clock around five, the time he would have closed the doors and begun recording the day’s receipts. She was not the only one missing him. There wass Desmond, their son.

“New surroundings would do us both a world of good.” * * *

Megan sized up Elizabeth. With a height of five-foot-five, two inches shorter than she, she muttered, “No hips whatsoever,” though she admired the snug caramel shawl coat hanging on her petite frame. Megan zoomed in on thick thighs flaunting designer riding boots. She licked her lips as those thighs peeked out from the skirt’s placket. Her mind danced to I’m going to take you under

Megan stepped off the porch and greeted Elizabeth at the top of the walkway. She flashed her real estate agent’s identification and introduced herself. “Good afternoon, I’m Shelley Yanoff, a realtor with Petraeus and Corzen. I’m covering for Margo Goodman. She’s ill today.”

“I’m Elizabeth Samms. I hope she feels better.” “We all do. Food poisoning has a way of making you feel like

you’re dying. I had it once—bad Chinese food. You have to be careful of those places,” said Megan.

“Yes, you do,” she said. “Are you ready to see what’s inside?” she asked. “Can’t wait,” she said.

10 SUMMER 2012 IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Megan led the way into the home. She stood back and let Elizabeth explore, all the while watching Elizabeth’s big brown eyes stretch even wider. She covered her mouth with her left hand, prompting Megan to notice her glitzy wedding ring.

So what? You’re married? “This house is absolutely beautiful, very elegant,” crowed

Elizabeth. “Yes, it is. Let me tell you a little bit about this house, “she said,

glancing at her notes. “It was built in 1910. There are a total of 12 rooms—

She gawked, “Whoa! 12 rooms!?” “Yeah, 12 rooms.” She continued, “The house has an open floor

plan with a total of 3,573 square feet. The first floor has 1,325 square feet. The area we came in is called the foyer. This is the living room slash dining room. It is 22 by 22 feet, pretty large huh?”

“Yeah, it is perfect for me. I don’t like being confined to small quarters. Ooo, the kitchen…,” she said.

Elizabeth hurried to the kitchen and began opening the cabinets. “White, nice and clean, like a hospital. The black granite sets it off though.”

Megan flipped through the file. “The size of this eat-in-kitchen is 13 by 11 and a half. As you can see there is cabinetry at the top and bottom, giving you plenty of storage space.”

“And counter space… love the double sink,” she said. Elizabeth glanced over at the bathroom, “Ooo, double sinks in

the bathroom!” She sprinted out of the kitchen into the bathroom. “Oh, yeah, I like a good size bathroom too. If you open that door,

you’ll see the bath and shower area,” said Megan. “Wow! Joe was right about this house. He was so right about this

house,” she said. “He saw the house before?” she asked. “No, but he had an eye for measurements and always said that

this house was the perfect size for us,” she said. “Your husband had a good eye for measurements,” she said. “Yes, yes, he did,” she said. “He said that this house probably has

a family room, and he was right, it does, and it’s a good size. I can place our entertainment center on that wall.”

“The back entrance is right by the laundry room, which makes it easier to keep a watchful eye out on your son while he plays out back,” said Megan.

“Yeah, I suppose it does, but I would never let him play outdoors alone. C’mon, show me upstairs,” she said.

They climbed the stairs. Elizabeth noticed the high ceilings. “I hope you’re not going to let the fact that this house has 13

steps stop you from buying it,” said Megan. “I’m not superstitious,” she said, “Wow! These bedrooms are

huge!” “And they aren’t even the master bedroom. They are a good size

for children, and you can get a full-sized bedroom suite in them. Oh, by the way, all closets are walk in closets, the closet in the bedroom next door is slightly smaller than this; however, the room seems to be a little bit bigger,” she said.

Elizabeth moved to the room next door, “Probably to compensate for a smaller closet. I want to see the master bedroom.”

The moved out into the hallway. Elizabeth quickly glanced in the bathroom.

“This bathroom is identical to the one downstairs, except the vanities are on the opposite side. Do I have a master bathroom?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid this house has only three bathrooms. One on each floor,” she said.

“Does it have a private entrance to the bathroom?” she asked. “Afraid not. You’re going to have to go down the hall,” she said. “Oh, well, you can’t have it all,” she said, entering the master

bedroom. “The closet is right by the door. It’s a good size too. Ooo, now I can have a king size bed!”

“Yeah, you can, and have plenty of space to maneuver,” she said. “I like it and I’m taking it. Me, in my very own mansion,” she said. Hmph! Another progressive Black trying hard to assimilate into

the upper echelons of my community! You may have the money and you may have the clothes, pretty soon you won’t have either...you people, I don’t care how much money you have, you’re still dimwits.

“Mrs. Samms, this house is not considered to be a mansion. A mansion is very grand, very imposing. This just happens to be a very large house.”

“I know the difference,” she said.

Chapter 2

Megan drove into her designated spot of the parking lot. She waited for Elizabeth to park her car. It took a while. For some reason the parking lot was filled with cars. Megan scrutinized a crowd coming and going inside her neighbor’s store. She realized why. She had forgotten the owner told her about their clearance sale. Elizabeth’s sudden presence startled her.

“Have you ever been in that store?” she asked. “Yeah, Expressive Lighting has an extraordinary collection of light

fixtures. Some are quite sophisticated. Others are very traditional. Some of the light fixtures in the home you saw today came from them,” she said.

“When we are done, I think I’m going to go and have a look,” she said.

“Our office is this way,” she said. Megan directed her to a door that took them up a flight of very

steep stairs. At the second landing was another door. Inside, Elizabeth bristled at the disheveled office. It was dark and dank and void of any desk lamps.

I don’t know about this. Megan flipped the light switch. The overhead lighting flickered

dimly. Elizabeth managed to see Megan’s arm gesturing her to a nearby chair.

“Please, have a seat. I’ll be back in a moment. The case file is in the other room,” she said.

You can do this! You are moments away from your dream home. Don’t let her unprofessionalism stop you!

Elizabeth swept the chair full of papers clean. She sneaked a peek at a few of them. They were blank sheets of paper with a photocopied letterhead. She stacked them atop one another and placed them on the desk. By the time her bottom touched the seat, Megan was walking through the doorway with a stack of folders tucked under an arm. She carried a coffee cup.

“Are you a startup realtor?” she asked. “No, we’ve been around for a number of years. Why do you

ask?” she asked. “Your company’s name is quite distinctive. I was expecting

something a little more…cleaner,” she said. “You’re right. I admit this place is a pigsty. Please, excuse our

appearance,” she said. “Where is your secretary?” she asked. “Unfortunately, I had to let Betty go, but my not having a

secretary isn’t going to change your mind about the property, will it?” she asked.

The overhead fixtures finally brightened the room. Elizabeth surmised that it would be a matter of hours before there would flicker again. She surveyed the room, this time counting the desks. There are only two.

You’re not going to stop me from having this house! “No, but maybe you should take advantage of that spectacular

sale next door,” she said. VOL 7, ISSUE 6 WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM 11

“I’ve already been next door. My order has been set aside while I wait for the electrician. Can I offer you something to drink?” she asked.

The aroma of the fresh-brewed coffee told her it was Maxwell House. She wanted a cup, but not from her guest realtor.

“No, thank you,” she said. Ring! Ring! “Excuse me,” she said. Megan deposited the folders on the table and walked to the

desk. She sat her coffee cup next to the phone, cleared her throat, then picked up the handset.

“Good afternoon, Petraeus and Corzen Real Estate…oh, Mr. Roosevelt, I have a buyer for your home. We’re about to begin the paperwork…yes, sir…I have everything I need…she’s the perfect person for your house. I’ll call you back when we’re done.”

Megan put the receiver down on the base and joined Elizabeth at the table.

“That was the owner. He’s pleased that you are interested in the house and has asked when can you move in?”

“Move in!?” “Yes,” she said, “he doesn’t want the house empty while we wait

for the bank’s approval. I was told to ask if you’d be willing to move in now.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked. “Yes, I am,” she said. “I can’t believe he wants me to move in,” she said. “How much do you have for a down payment?” she asked. “I’m prepared to give $50,000,” she said. Megan thought she had hit the jackpot. Now all she had to do

was cement the deal, “Now that deposit will serve as a down payment; if the house is damaged in anyway, $20,000 will serve as a security deposit,” said Megan.

Elizabeth interjected, “Wait a minute, slow down, you’re saying—

Megan cleared her throat, then she talked, “Since the owner is prepared to let you move in now, $50,000 will go towards the purchase of the home. It will be placed in an escrow while we wait for mortgage approval—

“You won’t have to wait for approval because I’m not getting a mortgage,” she said.

Megan cleared her throat again, “Um…the asking price is $330,000. You have that in cash?”

“I do, I mean, I will…soon, very soon,” she said. “Some people have all the luck,” she said. “I don’t call this luck. It’s possible because of my husband’s

death,” she said. Megan apologized, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so cynical.

I’m sorry for your loss. Perhaps your moving into the property while you wait for that transaction will help your grieving process.”

“Apology accepted. You can’t help the way you are,” she smirked.

“Excuse you?” she asked. “Excuse what? I simply said that you could not help the way you

are. There’s nothing to excuse,” she said. Infuriated, Megan knocked over the cup. Its contents quickly

traveled toward Elizabeth, barely missing her. Freddy Mercury came to the forefront. I’m going to take you under. I’m going to take you under,

under the bridge, deep in the water where no one can live, where you can’t return. Just you wait and see, we’ll take you under the bridge.

Megan shrugged the music off, “Okay, okay, let’s reel it back in. We’re getting off track here.”

“You are so right,” Elizabeth replied snidely. “There’s no reason why two intelligent ladies can’t set aside their differences to come to

an agreement. I want this house… Anyways, I thought the buyer couldn’t occupy the property ‘til after the settlement process is completed.”

“That’s usually the case. Nowadays short-term leases are drawn up. In fact, we have one on hand for this property,” she said.

“That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” she asked. “The owner outlined what he wanted done with his house and

how it was to be done before he chose us to represent him,” she said.

“Let me get this straight. The buyer can move in during the approval process or, in my case, wait ‘til the insurance money arrives. But what would happen if the buyer isn’t approved?” she asked.

“The down payment would be returned to the buyer,” she said. Elizabeth stated, “Well I’m leaving a down payment, but I need

clarity about the short-term lease.” Megan fumbled through the pile of multicolor folders on the

table. She grabbed a blue one and began flipping through its contents, from which she took out one thick packet.

“This is a temporary residential lease,” she said, handing a copy to Elizabeth. She went on to explain, “It is for the occupation of property by the buyer/ purchaser while waiting for bank approval and the closing process. Part one lists both parties, which would be Mr. Gordon Roosevelt, the owner, and yourself. Part two lists the address of the property—7410 Germantown Avenue, Philadelphia, PA 19118—and the date the agreement is signed.”

Megan continued, “Part three gives the term or length of occupation. Part four covers the rental. Part five is about the security deposit which I’ve already explain unless you have questions?”

“No, I understand what you said,” said Elizabeth. Megan resumed, “Part six is about the utilities. This lease should

be sufficient to get the electricity and gas turned on. Part seven talks about the use of the property. Part eight talks about pets. Part nine talks about the condition of the property. Part ten is about alterations…

“Let’s go back to the security deposit. I do have a question,” said Elizabeth.

“Sure,” she said. “Okay, I don’t have to wait for bank approval, but how long does

it take to close?” she asked. “On average, about 90 days,” she answered. “And you said $20,000 will act as a security deposit if the house

is damaged in some way. Can you explain to me what you consider to be damages?” she asked.

“Damages can be holes in the walls, shattered windows, and cracked concrete. Mr. Roosevelt also considers negligence as damages. Fires caused by negligence, such as leaving the stove unattended or forgetting to unplug an iron, will cause you to forfeit your entire down payment,” she said.

“Well, I can always purchase renters insurance to cover that,” she said, “as far as the rest goes. I have no one living with me who would cause that type of damage. Let me get clarity here. You are saying that my entire deposit of $50,000 will go towards the house. If the house is damaged before closing date, I forfeit $20,000. If there is a house fire, I forfeit the entire $50,000?”

“Yes,” she said. “Wait a minute! While I’m living in the property, who’s

responsible for home owner’s insurance?” she asked. “Mr. Roosevelt,” she said. “So if there is a house fire, he keeps my deposit and collects from

an insurance policy?” she asked. “Yes, he does,” she said, “But Mrs. Samms, the insurance policy

will cover the time period beginning when you move in and up-to-and-including the closing date. After the closing date, it is your

12 SUMMER 2012 IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Sweet shorts from “Bubble Wrap for the Mind” by Chuck Hoyle In our last issue we featured Bubble Wrap for the Mind in our Book Look section. We would like to offer you a few excerpts from this marvelous book of preponderance.

Interpretation of the Clouds

Jabbing at the air with one index finger, holding a briefcase and puckering his lips, Ernie let out a groan knowing what was coming. The two big brown doors of the conference room loomed large as he walked down the hallway. He adjusted his red tie and then made sure his fly was up on his blue trousers from his last stay in the bathroom. There were many papers in his file and as he pulled them from his case and went through them some of the papers fell to the floor. As he stooped and collected them, the large brown doors opened. He looked up and a stoic looking man, which he correctly guessed as being a secret service agent, gave him a small sneer. Who else would be wearing sunglasses and an earpiece in such a dark place?

Though the diminutive man scooping up the papers had been through security in order to get into the building, the secret service agent was required to pat him down prior to seeing the three congressmen. The small pudgy man called himself Ernie though his name was Ernest; a name meaning devotion and honesty. He had been through the pat down drill before, but always felt uncomfortable when it came to feeling around his groin region. When the pat down was done, Ernie realized he had been holding his breath during the pat down and then wheezed out a puff of air when it was done. After an inspection of the briefcase, the stiff, suited, sunglass wearing man motioned with an index finger, without a word, for Ernie to enter the room.

Is and Was (The setting is a world renowned news organization television studio. There is a flash on the screen saying, “Breaking news.” A very thin woman named Leslie, in a nice suit, comes on the screen with a serious expression on her face)

Leslie: This just in, professor Hartford of Eastern Illinois University has just published a report predicting that, “We are who we once were.” The professor says this theory was established over a period of twenty years of careful observation of the student population of at least one University. For more on this shocking theory, we now turn to our legal advisor, Harry Bestial. Harry, what about that notion that we are who we once were? Or, perhaps better phrased, we once were who we have become. Harry?

Harry: Well, I’ve known professor Hartford for a lot of years and he has always been prone to hyperbole. However, given his lifelong passion of deciphering the human condition, one cannot categorically throw out his conclusions.

Just a dog

The crunching snow, ice crusted, had an effect on the German Shepard. It splayed its paws, wide as duck’s feet, but was still unable to make its way through the deep crusty mass comfortably. The German Shepard, old and lazy, looked around the white countryside and then back to the owner, as if for some sort of direction to extricate itself from the frosty mass. She urinated, and then sniffed around for a place to defecate. Upon completion, she pranced her way back to the owner. Panting and galloping through the deep snow back to where the owner was standing, tail wagging like a well propped fan, she came up and started to lick the old gnarled hand offered to her.

“You did your business,” said the old man. “You’re a good dog.” The old man stretched his legs and patted the large dog on the

head. He turned to the house and hobbled on his one good leg. The ice was treacherous for even those with two good legs, but for him, it was a nightmare. The dog followed, still observant of the surroundings of ice, snow and a squirrel in a tree, but wanted to keep up with her master’s progress. The dog sniffed to the left and then to the right, ate some snow then went into the house.

Chuck Hoyle is a Chemist by schooling and a writer by passion. He is also an avid adventurer and has spent many a year overseas working and traveling. Mr. Hoyle spent ten weeks living in an Eskimo village fishing for salmon in Western Alaska at a young age. He has served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa, worked as a high school science teacher in Micronesia and

as an English teacher is South Korea. Being a motorcycle enthusiast since adolescence, he has taken two extensive motorcycle tours across Western and Eastern Europe and into Northern Africa. He spent two years as a rescue diver on a SCUBA dive boat named the King Neptune on Catalina Island. All these experiences have given perspective to his writing. Currently, Chuck lives in Maine with his wife spending his time wishing for mild winters, endless summers and travels that will never end.

Chuck Hoyle’s books are available for purchase on

14 SUMMER 2012 IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

The Stampede: A True Cowgirl’s Tale by Janet B. Reed

It was an early June morning. The weather in North Carolina was always variable. In June, the weather could change from hot and sunny to a heavy rain, thunder, and lightning commonly known in the South as when “the bottom falls out.”

This beautiful day was going to be a day when I was driving the cattle from one pasture to another—just a part of the job being a rancher’s wife. The drive would take us by a lake to another pasture. The lake was nature’s fresh water source for the area. It was beautiful blue water in a setting of trees and green forage. The usual number of cattle per move was 200 head. The pasture was about four miles from the Creswell farm office.

My husband Richard and I had moved cattle many times. I met Richard when I was on my college Rodeo team in 1964. Richard had most of the experience between the four of us. He knew the cattle better than all of us. He had selected and planted the seed to help the cattle regain the weight they had lost due to the former manager’s lack of knowledge, and that pasture had now grown thick and lush enough to be nutritious. We left early so the cattle would be up and willing to move. Cattle tend to move around in the morning to graze, then lie down midday to rest. Then they graze later in the day. So if you want them to move, early is best.

There were four of us: Richard, Leon, Bert, and myself. Bert and Leon were good hands; however, they had limited experience driving cattle on a road. Leon was of slight built and stood 5 feet 7 inches tall. With very little education, he had a big spirit to learn new things. Bert, on the other hand, had a better education but was just down and out and traveling with a lady from Phoenix, Arizona. So working as a cowboy sounded real good to him as well. Bert was taller than Leon and had a charm about him. Bert, like Leon, was willing to try doing anything they were asked.

Richard and I hauled the horses to the first pasture where the cattle were located. Then Leon and Bert showed up in the company truck. This ranch was 425,000 acres and covered most of four counties.

The new pasture was natural and higher in protein grasses which made a healthy mix for the cattle. Richard had planted this mix in August of 1974 when he first arrived here from El Centro, California.

The pastures were in soupy peat moss soil, which was normal for the area, and it had sink holes. Wherever the tree stumps were not, your horse could suddenly sink into the ground. So rounding the cattle up was difficult. The soft and uneven soil created a challenging ride for horse and rider. At one point while I was herding the cattle, my horse sank into the swamp without notice. Suddenly, we were in a bog. Partially panicked, I threw my reins forward and kicked my beloved horse, Sunny. He bolted out of the mud and lunged forward over and over again until we were on more solid ground. I had sunk into bogs before, but usually my horse’s shoulders were at least above ground. I never had anything like that happen before. I got back on the drive, safe and sound. We herded the cattle toward the gate. Richard held it open, and we moved them out to the road.

The day grew hotter and the black soil covered my sun-browned arms. Finally, we got our 200-head of cattle onto the road. Richard rode as lead cowboy and controlled the lead cow. He was the Will Favre of our drive. Leon and Bert rode as “hazers,” keeping the

cattle out of ditches and on the road. The ditches were about twelve feet wide and usually curved downward making the bottom about ten feet down. Those ditches would help Richard later re-start the herd. I rode drag, which kept the cattle moving up. If you had a wanderer, drag picked it up. As drag, I rode about 150 feet back. The dust was terrible. It was thick and stuck to my skin like clay. I soon was covered with dirt. But my job as drag today was going to be a life-saving position. It would prevent a disastrous mess, and Sunny would save my life.

Three hours into the work, we finally got to the lake. What a beautiful site that was. The lake was clear with clean water almost a royal blue in color, surrounded by pulp trees. There were snakes in the lake that were poisonous. They seldom bothered large animals though. They were dangerous, but for that moment in time, the view was so beautiful I did not notice the snakes.

Richard said, “Let’s stop for lunch and let the cattle rest a while.” We drove the cattle into the lake for a drink and let our horses also get a drink. Sunny was thirsty. A nice lady from the farm’s Creswell office brought us lunch, which we ate off the back of her brown Dodge truck—a modern-day chuck wagon. I tied Sunny’s reins so he could graze then made my sandwich. Boy, did that taste good! I did not realize a simple sandwich could be so good.

Thirty minutes later, we gathered the cattle again and began to move them the rest of the way toward their new pasture. The sky was still clear, the sun hot, and the air muggy. The only relief was a short swim in the lake before mounting up again.

Then the air began to get a heavy feel to it. The sky became cloudier and darker. The cattle began to get nervous. A rain drop fell followed by another and another. The lead cow panicked and turned the herd toward me. Suddenly, we had a stampede on our hands. I was fortunate I was back about 150 feet, so I had time to turn and run and try to turn the cattle before I was trampled. Sunny my wonderful and obedient horse ran as fast as he could. I began to yell and swing my lariat in the air while running away, trying to frighten the cattle into stopping. Sunny did not become afraid. He was like a soldier who followed my every direction. He knew as well as I that one false step would mean being overrun and stomped to death.

About two hundred yards out with the cattle gaining on me, I chanced running back and forth on the road. I swung my lariat and began yelling at the cattle in hopes they would stop stampeding. They seldom do. My heart pounded as I ran back and forth on the road. I thought it had to work, or I might be trampled and Sunny along with me. The cattle kept coming. I kept yelling and screaming. Richard, Leon, and Bert were helpless. The road established the path for the cattle. It would be certain disaster if I did not stop them, I yelled louder and swung my rope more wildly and asked Sunny to run back and forth on the road. I hoped and prayed the cattle would stop, but they continued toward Sunny and me at a terrible speed. I prayed, “Please God, help me!”

Then, just like that, the cows stopped! They stopped about 20 feet from Sunny and me. There was complete silence at that moment. No one spoke. No cow mooed. Not even the birds sang. Richard quietly said, “Don’t move. No one move.” Richard slowly rode off to the side of the herd to find the lead cow. I slowly began to encourage the lead cow to turn around. There was no time to breathe. We all had to stay very calm and controlled. Richard turned the lead cow around.

Carefully we moved the cattle back the way we needed them to go. Bert and Leon were speechless and grateful they were hazers and out of the line of fire. I was grateful I was alive and glad I had that tireless and obedient horse named Sunny.

20 SUMMER 2012 IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

P.M.S. -- Processed Meat Syndrome by Caroline McCormic

Summertime is a hotbed of cherished family memories. Picnics, cookouts, and time by the pool are all ways families bond beneath the sun and amongst the mosquitos. One beloved summer memory I have involves hot dogs, a summertime staple. Ballparks and the 4th of July wouldn’t be the same without them. But my memory is not about food. Instead, it is about a type of “hot dog” I had no idea existed. When my husband Patrick and I were dating, he dragged me to the house of Harold, his mom’s current flavor-of-the-month. It was a hot and humid July evening, and Harold was hosting a poker game. The only time I had ever played poker was over the kitchen table with my family in a failed attempt to learn the rules of the game. Our pot was super sweet—full of Hershey’s kisses, Rolos, and Jolly Ranchers. I only liked to gamble in an attempt to satisfy my sweet tooth. I had no interest in spending a perfectly good Saturday evening holed up with a bunch of drunken strangers, but I relented since I always wanted as much time as possible with Patrick. I knew it was going to be a miserable evening. A huge cloud of cigar smoke radiated out of the foyer when we opened the front door. I felt my chances of cancer triple as I took a step in. Beer cans filled a grab bag of random promotional Koozies in the men’s hands and littered the dining room table. As we ventured further into the house, a glimpse out the window revealed a similar scene. The poker players’ dates were gossiping on the back porch. Each woman grasped a margarita in one hand and dangled a Virginia Slim from the other. The sound of laughter, the gentile glug of boxed wine splashing against the bottom of red plastic cups, and a blender obliterating ice permeated the air. As Patrick joined the men at the poker table, I was unsure where to go. As usual, I didn’t fit in with his family and their friends. Patrick’s younger sister and Harold’s daughter ended up my company. It was awkward since they were much younger, usually ignored my existence, and I didn’t really know them. I served as the invisible third wheel. As they happily chatted, I stared into space. As I blankly stared, one couple drinking and chatting caught my eye. The forty-something man wore a way-too-oversized football jersey and a purple do-rag held back his shoulder-length curly hair. An image of Rosie the Riveter popped into my head. His wife was his age, yet she dressed like one of my fellow college students ready for a night out on the town. She wore a black velour, midriff-baring shirt - spotlighting her rhinestone-encrusted belly button ring. The outfit looked like a failed attempt at Britney Spears in her glory days. The wife’s low-rise black pants revealed a bit too much information about her grooming habits. As my gaze wandered lower, I noticed the couple had a young daughter standing at their legs. “Why was a child at an adult poker party?” I mused. Like me, the little girl didn’t fit in. She was the only child present and continuously flitted between the adults. She spun around and waited to see if she had gained anyone’s attention. Unfortunately, the cards and salt-rimmed glasses were winning all of the adults’ attention. The girl looked around the room puzzled by her lack of audience. Suddenly, her stare fixed upon the tweens and me. She was in front of us like a bolt of lightning! Before we could even greet her, her eyes zeroed in on my completely covered chest. The little girl looked up at my face and loudly proclaimed, “You’ve got big

milkers!” Wait...what?! Our jaws dropped, and we were dumbfounded. What was going on? We must have misunderstood her, right? First off, why was this child discussing a stranger’s bust? Secondly, I was surprised by her description since I had never been accused of having a large one. Perhaps her small stature and close proximity made everything appear larger? I decided I would clarify her declaration - “What did you say?” I asked cautiously. She proudly repeated herself. Nope, there had been no misunderstanding. “All women have milkers, silly! It is how mommies feed babies,” she announced as if it was a new development in human evolution. Of course, I had heard of breasts referred to by many appropriate terms and inappropriate slang over the years. I had NEVER heard “milkers” used. The more I thought about it, why hadn’t I? It actually made total sense. It was a more sensible name than all of the other jargon floating around - knockers, melons, headlights, et cetera. You can’t milk a headlight, can you? I wondered if she had come up with this terminology herself. If so, what an insightful child! While I pondered the genesis of “milkers,” I could tell the little girl was thrilled to be getting some undivided attention. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. Did she have something else to tell us? Oh, she had plenty! She thought the tweens and I needed a further education on female anatomy. I wasn’t going to stop her - this was the most interesting thing that happened all evening! “My mommy has a hot dog between her legs!” she squealed. Wait...what?! Now, I really had no idea where she was going with this one. We have all heard “hot dog” or “wiener” as colloquialisms for male genitalia. Who has EVER heard a woman’s private parts referred to as a “hot dog?” If she had to use a fast food analogy, I would have understood using “taco.” Why was she telling strangers about her mother’s nethers?! Yet again, the three of us were completely dumbfounded. Apparently our shocked silence served as a sign for her to continue - “Mommy’s hot dog is in a hot dog bun! I saw it in the shower!” Goodness gracious. Where was this coming from? Was it the product of the little girl’s imagination? Did an older sibling teach it to her as an amusement? I completely understood her use of “milkers,” but I was having a hard time wrapping my head around “hot dog.” I felt speechless, but I knew she wanted a response. I was able to muster an “Oh, really?” The tweens couldn’t stop laughing. The little girl was triumphant! She wanted our attention, and she had definitely gotten it. While I couldn’t stop the unwanted imagery filling my head about what lay beneath her mother’s Forever 21 ensemble, the girl took the depiction even further. She proudly declared, “Once a month, mustard comes out of my mommy’s hot dog!!!” Mustard?! Wow. Either something was seriously wrong with her mother’s health, or the girl was seriously confused about condiments. While her wording was perplexing, I was surprised she already had knowledge of menstruation. I didn’t know about it at her age. I remember finding a blue Tampax box under my parent’s sink, and I assumed they were noisemakers for a New Year’s Eve party! I would never have imagined their actual use. Just as quickly as the girl appeared, she was gone. She had gotten the attention she wanted and lost interest in us. “Kid’s say the darnedest things” couldn’t be truer. Children can really shock you. They are often aware of things you don’t expect and can be surprisingly insightful. I didn’t expect to have anything amusing happen on poker night, but that little girl left me with a funny story to tell. Although, I could never look at a glass of milk or a hot dog the same way again.

22 SUMMER 2012 IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

How I Got Older (in Four Parts) by Rachel Hill

Iberian Air I took the cash and the checks, the handshakes and the hugs, the greeting cards, smiles, and the all well-wishes of my graduation luncheon, and bought independence. I realized what I had done when, in the airport in Madrid, Spain, I took out my journal and wrote commentaries on the passersby, imagining I knew their wives, kids, and secrets, and nobody travelling with me asked me what I was doing. Neither did they ask what I was doing when I stalked out of the duty-free store, interrupting my own relentless quest for booze-filled chocolate, because the speakers began to play that obnoxious Black Eyed Peas song that had unfortunately followed me to Europe. The people I travelled with didn’t mind when I blocked them out with my headphones, and they didn’t wonder where I was going when I got up to brush my teeth in the airport restroom. Nobody asked me anything at all. I was alone. By the time I landed in Seville, that sun-kissed Andalucían tangle of corridors and cobblestone, I was tired of being alone. I realized this when Kristen wasn’t waiting for me outside of airport security. Panic began to course into my circulation and seep through my ventricles as the payphone beeped cruelly in my ear. Dazed, I sank onto an airport bench, and as I sat I was acutely aware of only the bones in my rear, teetering unpleasantly against the dull, thick plastic, sealed over an advertisement trying to tell me things in Spanish. At once I began to consider any possible return policy on whatever it was I had purchased with my graduation loot. But there I was, stuck in terrifying independence, watching the hand of a foreign clock tick away foreign minutes in a foreign time zone, until finally through the doors burst one marvelous thing that wasn’t foreign: Kristen. Labyrinth Kristen and I grew up together, excavating mica off the rock walls in my family’s living room, exchanging mild curse words, coloring chalk murals, eating bugs. Now she lived in Seville, in a tiny apartment with her sister Brenda and two college-aged Italian guys (Patrick and Marco) who split rent with them out of convenience, and they all studied at the university, and Kristen and Brenda painted, and the Italians ate pasta. I became a part of their world my freshman year of college, during the one short week I had off for Thanksgiving. Most days Kristen and I would do all the things visitors in Seville ought to do; we dipped churros, some long and thick, some short and spindly, all crisp and sugary, into hot, thick chocolate custard; we spiraled up to the belfry on top of Giralda tower backwards, just because we could (the Sultan ordered ramps be built instead of stairs, so the muezzin could ride his horse to the top.) But other days Kristen had class, and I had the labyrinth. Av de Menendez Pelayo is a busy street near Kristen’s apartment, and if you cross it and walk a little ways, you find a small gap in the fence leading to a discreet path, where stray cats dart from beneath your feet and under the bushes, and cars park too close to each other’s bumpers. If you follow this and make all the right turns down all the right alleyways, you can find the Seville Cathedral, or if you get lucky you can find the palace Alcazar. I know these things because I used to walk that way on days when my camera and I explored alone, and I had to memorize our way home. One morning I spent three hours wandering alone around Alcazar, the old Moorish fort and palace, taking pictures of the same

windows and staircases ten, fifteen, twenty times until I got the angle right. After the other tourists, in their noisy, excited clusters, had moved through the room I was in, I pretended to be irritated that all these people were hanging around my pretend house, and went to the pretend kitchen to microwave a pretend burrito. I couldn’t find the kitchen, much less the microwave, so I went to sit by my pool. But the chatty and bothersome gobs of tourists were hanging around there, too, so I headed to the Hunting Courtyard. A sign informed me the courtyard was constructed in 1364, and I became very impressed with myself for having such a historic courtyard and such a historic palace as my house. Alcazar was tucked away in a labyrinth of Spanish architecture, with hushed, peaceful streets, so narrow that I imagined the hem of my skirt would gently brush each building if I spun around. Each path became a small, cobblestone-laden ravine, winding between castle remains and smooth, yellowed buildings with window boxes full of bright geraniums, turning so sharply that I could see nothing of what lay ahead, and reaching so high on all sides that I could see nothing but walls. Every time I entered the maze I meandered, nearly witless, until I saw a familiar archway or stone wall, a trace of hope to guide me until I popped out somewhere I recognized: the Seville Cathedral, Alcazar, Menendez Pelayo. I spent several afternoons getting myself nearly lost in these serene passages and then escaping them; they would spit me out onto a bustling main road where people sat laughing and eating tapas under large, vibrant umbrellas. At one point during an afternoon I spent roaming and waiting for Kristen to get home from class, I decided to hold a grand gelato contest for all the vendors on Av de la Constitution. Intoxicated with the freedom to purchase and eat as many scoops of gelato as I pleased without being scolded by my mother or judged by girls on diets, I moved slowly down the bustling block, stopping at every gelato stand and ordering a different flavor. A scruffy street musician sat hugging his accordion, and I stood directly in front of him, enjoying the eerie notes and my tiramisu gelato. When I decided I was finished listening, I dropped a Euro into his paper cup. “Gracias,” he uttered with a smile. I smiled back, and then asked myself what I would like to do next. Evening fell and Kristen and I went to watch the Flamenco dancers. Afterwards, as we wound our way back home through the corridors, Kristen pointed out the vines growing on an old castle wall. “Look at all the grapes!” Laughing foolishly, dizzy and unsubdued, we climbed the ancient stones and picked ample bunches. Our tittering echoed off the walls of the labyrinth as we scampered home, adrenaline gushing, munching the sweet and freshly thieved grapes. Pilgrims and Indians I had never celebrated Thanksgiving without my mom and dad. Patrick and Marco had never even celebrated Thanksgiving. They’re Italian, so why would they? Besides, the only turkey Kristen and I could find, after foraging for it in every grocery and convenience store she could think of, was in a small, cat food-like can. Turkey that looks and tastes like something that was once alive is, I learned, largely an American concept. “So you have a whole holiday in America just for eating turkey?” Patrick asked me Thursday morning as he stirred the soft wisps of steam out of his pasta and I watched him, captivated. “Yep. Well, actually it’s not really about turkey. It’s more about celebrating a special feast that supposedly happened between the Indians and the first pilgrims in America.” “I thought you guys killed off most of the Indians. Or banished them to the shitty lands or something.” He shoved a mountain of pasta, no sauce, into his mouth.

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One Afternoon on the Surreal Side by Katherine Cleland

“Way to relax!” Debra thought, as she lay stretched out on her chaise under the oak tree with her book on her lap. Savoring the moment, she glanced contentedly at her neatly tended vegetable garden. Just beyond the garden, as son Philip walked down the driveway toward his car, she waved lazily to him. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” she wondered. Glancing at Ringo, who lay snoozing in the warmth of the sun’s rays filtering through tree branches, she caught sight of whiskers in motion, like little antennas illuminated by sunbeams, and she realized a kitty dream was definitely in progress. With paws wiggling in hot pursuit, Ringo would certainly “corner” the little phantom garden beast. At least no actual harm would be done to the critter, and she smiled at the thought as she began to focus her attention on the old book she’d brought outside with her. It had been much too long since she last visited Alice’s adventures. “How delicious, this day,” she mused. This would be the perfect setting to get back in touch with one of her favorite fictional characters. Sipping fruity zinfandel from her favorite goblet, she sat peacefully, enjoying the sensation of warm afternoon breezes flowing gently over her bare arms and legs. The stage seemed set for immersion into this beloved old story—and once again she would “literarily” (as she characterized it) accompany Alice down the garden path into Wonderland. Getting comfortable, Debra opened the book and then closed her eyes a moment, intending to preserve the memory of this moment on a perfect day and in a perfect place. “Wait a minute!” Hey, this can’t be right!” she called out to Alice. (Funny, she hadn’t remembered being able to speak to Alice before.) “We passed the rabbit hole, didn’t we?” But Alice wasn’t answering Debra’s question. “Where did that rabbit go?” Alice muttered crossly, instead, as she passed by. She was running now and plainly headed toward a garden that Debra recognized as her own! “She’s chasing Ringo!” With that recognition, Debra stopped dead in her tracks; it was as if she was momentarily paralyzed by her confusion about this familiar story that had begun to go haywire! Alice and her quarry had disappeared. Confusion was added to disbelief as Debra turned to face her garden. “This is all wrong! My vegetables are much too large! This just can’t be happening!” Now she was getting angry. This lovely afternoon was being ruined! She hollered for Ringo impatiently, “Here, kitty, kitty! Where is that cat? Could he have gone down the rabbit hole?” (And, Alice was off to who-knows-where…) Trudging through the tangled thicket, Debra realized she was alone. “Jeez, it’s hard to get around in this garden! And, to think, I weeded it just this morning!” Things were becoming more surreal by the minute. As she approached what seemed to be a giant yellow squash, Debra muttered to herself, “This was an organic garden, last I knew—but now it’s become a freaky garden, like somebody’s been using monster chemicals on it. This is too much!” Moving closer to the big yellow veggie, she became aware of something stranger (to add to her diminishing reality). Music seemed to be wafting through what appeared to be an open round door in the squash, next to what resembled a porthole. Instead of peering in through the porthole, Debra could not resist and walked through the door, which slammed shut behind her. Panicking, and try as she might, she could not open the latch. “Well, shoot! Am I now trapped … in a squash? A damn yellow squash!” Shouting at the absurdity of it all caused her all at once needing to laugh—but also to cry.

Instead she yelled impatiently, “NOW, WHAT?” She realized she was probably demanding answers of nobody in particular. Nevertheless, she believed that she remained in possession of her logic—though it was obvious to her that she was beginning to feel less secure about anything at all at this point. And so, she was not really surprised to hear her own voice shrinking down to tiny and growing weak. “There must be a microphone here somewhere…”But, there were no microphones—and, curiously, no loudspeakers, for that matter. “Anyway, who’d believe my story about this bizarre situation?” With that thought, she began to realize she could be in peril, though it remained some consolation that the music was still there, quite cheery sounding, and even somewhat familiar, though hardly audible. “Oh, well, I give up, I suppose.” (Maybe those words of surrender would buy her freedom?) She waited … Suddenly, the squash lurched forward—and she fell back. A sense of dread came over her: “Ohhh, my G—! We’re moving toward the lake! As the oversized, and apparently motorized, vegetable slid down the path, Alice came into Debra’s view through a porthole. Pressing her face against its thick glass, Debra yelled, “Alice, help me, please!” Alice was seated in the shade of a large, ornately decorated mushroom, apparently enjoying the company of a rabbit—and of Ringo, Debra’s now disloyal cat. Were they having a tea party? No one responded or even looked at her. “Hello! Help! Please help me!” She tried again to be heard, but realized that even she could not hear her own screaming. She had lost her voice, completely! “Try to look at this as an adventure,” something seemed to be telling her. Maybe it was herself, thinking about it more calmly and reasoning that that if Alice had survived her experiences, she, Debra, could survive all this, too. Relaxing a bit, she focused on the music she could still hear playing in the background. “It sounds like some kind of movie music. Maybe I’m in a movie! Nice explanation, but I’ve already investigated and there is no ‘equipment’ of any kind. Yet…” “Uh-oh! Here we go!” By now, she wasn't terribly surprised that the squash was launching itself into the water and quickly becoming submerged. Soon they were approaching what Debra incredulously recognized as a garden—under water. Scattered around in intimate groupings were fancy white wrought-iron garden chairs and tables. An ornate gazebo was centered among them, presumably to serve as a bandstand. Since she had not drowned (so far, anyway) she found herself getting a little more into this surreal adventure; she began to smile as she joked with herself, “Is this the lost city of Atlantis, or what?” She was actually relieved that she was able to feel a less anxious about this utterly absurd situation, in which she had no recourse but to experience anyway. And, she was grateful that (so far) this yellow “Nautilus” seemed water-tight! So, in spite of herself, she agreed—with no one in particular, “Nothing is real anymore; anything goes, right?" She still had no voice. "Luckily, I can still think," she reminded herself, and began to feel a bit more light-hearted, and laughed (though there was no sound to it…), even feeling more hopeful that somebody could see (even if they could not hear) that she was not afraid anymore. In fact, though she thought it curious and a bit weird, she was pleased that the only thing she was feeling at this moment was hunger! Hey, was that food she smelled? As the squash came to a halt in the garden on the lake-bottom, a sort of fateful, if not quite fearful thought briefly occurred to Debra; she couldn't help but wonder, “Will I be trapped forever under the sea, like Captain Nemo?” But then, in quick succession, “Okay, that dark thought won’t help,” and she chuckled as she reminded herself, “Silly! This is the lake, not the sea! So, if I can break out of this veggie, I’ll just swim to the top.” At that moment, there was a change of tune in the soft background music, and again, she was aware of its familiarity. It was catchy, though she barely had time to think about anything, as the

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