Never Say Never

“Mommy?  Why does that lady have a moustache?”

            I heard my molars clack together.  I kept 'em clenched.  Turned slowly.  Tried not to be obvious.  There she was.  Looked like she’d stepped right out of Little House on the Prairie.  Her blue calico dress L’d where it hit the ground.  A creamy apron, edged in eyelet, bathed her front.  Or is that called a pinafore?  A circle of lace hugged her storm-colored bun.  In her hands lay a hank of yarn, yellow-orange from an onion-skin dye bath.  Her blunt fingers caressed the fibers as she gazed off into the fire-colored foliage.  Whew!  I don't think she heard.

            I put my finger to my lips.  “Shhh!” I told my daughter.  “Remember the Thumper Rule?  If you can’t say anything nice—“

            “But, Mommy.  I wasn’t being--“

            I pounced my pointer finger on my lips and made mad eyes.  She shushed.  I pretended to fiddle with my younger daughter’s stroller blanket.  At the same time, I stole another glance at Gunsmoke gal from beneath my lashes.  I had to nip my lower lip to keep from gasping.  Cream-gone-to-butter strands sprouted above her pursed lips.  Honestly?  I’m not sure moustache was the right word for the thing.  It was more of a fringe.  Reminded me of the stringy edge of the off-white muffler my Nan made me years ago to match my camel-colored, Bobbi Brooks winter coat. 

            I murmured.  To me, not her.  “God bless her.  Why she doesn’t yank that thing is beyond me.” 

            I gave the stroller a shove to get it out of a mud rut.  Then I couldn’t help myself.  I did a Lot’s wife.  Glanced back one more time.  I puffed at my bangs and shook my head.     
            “Gracious!  That’s never gonna be me.”

Know where you can find us the first Saturday of every October?  The Springs Festival in Springs, Pennsylvania, but don’t go on a Sunday.  It won’t be there.  Most everyone over that way, especially the Amish, Quaker, and Mennonite folk—will be in church ‘cause  Sunday’s the Lord’s Day.

            The first thing we do when we arrive is buy a couple homemade, soft pretzels.  I love the salt polka dots, almost big as pebbles, all over the glossy brown surface.  I squirt sunny mustard all over my pretzel and open wide.  The kids gobble theirs plain or with nacho cheese.  Fight over the leftover viscous orange sauce that  paints the waxed paper.

            I smile and hand the girl who can't stop blushing two dollars.
           “Two lemonades, please.  ‘Cause it’s so good, one is never enough.”

            Next we head for the Forest Trail.  My older daughter tugs at my jean jacket sleeve.    
             “Is it time, Mom?  Or did we miss it?  I hope not.  We've never missed it before.  Not even once.”

            I peruse the printed schedule.  “In five minutes the sheep shearing gal from Morgantown will be here.  Run up and save us a seat on the front row.  Or snag us one of those boulders, one that's dry.”

            We oooh and ah over the lamb getting its first ever haircut.  My girls tear up when "she" gets nicked in her pink, fleshy armpit. Of course, my daughters assume it's a girl. 
              After they pet the shorn she, we get back on the Forest Trail and continue the loop.  We pause at the soap maker and sniff every flavor of her essential oils.  Then we use broken pretzel sticks to sample all the dips and spreads the Tasty Shoppe vendor has to offer.  We listen closely as Musket Man, who looks like a skinny Santa in buckskin instead of red velvet, does his demo.  We can almost recite his whole spiel.  I cover my ears right before he pulls the trigger.  KABOOM!  I feel the sonic force in my skeleton.  We clap and he bows low.  I grin and toss my hair behind my shoulder when he winks at me.

            “There’s a blacksmith this year,” I tell the girls as we continue on.  “Let’s go see.  And then we’ll get homemade ice cream, pet the Alpacas, and buy a broom for Gram.”

            My older girl steps in front of me and locks her brown Bambi  eyes with my blue ones. 
           “Can we take a hayride too?  Pretty please?”

            I herd her close with my arm. Bend to kiss her curls.  “Of course, sweetie.  You know how this is.  We do every thing, every year.”

My younger daughter sits criss cross applesauce on the sidewalk next to the flagpole outside her middle school.  I pull alongside the curb and push the gearshift to P.  She stands.  Opens the back door.  Drops her bookbag on the seat.

            I look over my shoulder.  “Did you tell your music teacher you’ve got a good excuse for leaving play practice early? That we’re going to the Springs Festival?”

            She nods as she opens the front door.  “Can I ride shotgun?”

            “Sure.  You’re almost twelve.  But when we get your sister, she’ll probably--”

            “I know.  I know.   I’ll sit in the back then, with the little guy.”

            I flip the visor down to check my lipgloss status in the mirror.  I feel my daughter’s gaze and turn to her. 
            “What?”

            “There’s something on your face.  On your jaw right there.  An eyelash maybe?”

            I flip the visor back down.  “Where?”

            “There,” she says.  She puts her finger on my chin.  Jerks her hand back and rubs it on her shirt.

            I huff.  “What?  Why’d you do that?”

            Her mouth pulls to one side.  “’Cause it’s icky.  Wiry,” she said.  “You touch it.”

            I release my seat belt.  Scoot forward to get closer to the mirror.  My fingers search my jaw line.  Brush toward my neck, then away from it.  Finally my fingernails find the thing.  Tug. 
            “Oh, poop!”

            My daughter’s eyes are huge.  “What?  What is it?”

            “It’s attached, that’s what it is!”

            She makes a gagging noise.  “Ew!  Are you kidding?  Gross!”

            I yank, hard.  My eyes water.  I inspect the offender.  It's a silver S.  It almost gleams in the noon day sun.  A tiny speck of skin, a flesh rootball, clings to one end.  I hold it in a pincer grip.  Offer it to my daughter.  Her glossed lips curl and twitch.

            “What do you want me to do with it?”

            “Put it somewhere safe,” I say.  “’Til we get home.”

            I watch her swallow.  Her nostrils flare. “You’re not going to do that thing, are you?”

            I grin and re-buckle my seatbelt.  “Of course I am.”

            She moans and presses her palms into her eyelids.  “I hate that urn where you keep all our personal stuff. Our belly button stumps after they fell off, our first fingernail clippings, Dad’s super long eyebrow hair, L'il Paint's toe.  Do you know how weird you are?”

            I chuckle and put the car in drive.  “I think the word is sentimental, dear.”

            She shakes her head.  “No, I’m pretty sure it’s weird.” 

            She turns the radio on, then off.  “Oh, and just for the record?” she says.  “The whisker on the chin thing?  That’ll never happen to me.”

            I snort.  “Really?” I say.  “Oh, sweet pea.  If there’s one thing having children has taught me, it’s to never say never.”

Almost Christ-like

There was a day I was almost like Jesus.  ‘Cept Jerusalem was Morgantown, and the Roman guards were rednecks.

See, Jake and Wilbur lived in the same dorm, on the same floor as me, my sophomore year of college.  I'll cut to the chase and tell you right now, they were real sickos.  I may not speak the truth in love, but I promise you this, I speak the truth.

Some folks thought Jake and Wilbur were brothers ‘cause they both had buzz cuts the color of straw.  Jake was taller though.  His eyes reminded me of blue copier paper.  Wilbur 's face was best friends with Clearasil.  His eyes looked like puddles.

When Jake and Wilbur were bored and/or drunk, they'd drive around Morgantown, in search of roadkills.  Jake kept a coathanger in his truck at all times.  Whenever he or Wilbur saw a roadkill, whoever was driving would pull over, and they’d jump out.  Take the coathanger and a camera.  Wilbur would lift the roadkill as best he could with the coathanger.  Jake would snap a picture.   The corkboard on the door of their dorm room was covered with candid camera roadkill shots.  It was for this reason I renamed Jake and Wilbur.  I called Jake Warped and Wilbur Twisted.  The names stuck.  Pretty soon everyone in our dorm called ‘em Warped and Twisted.

One day, Warped and Twisted turned their attention to me.  I don't know what got into them.  Not sure if they did what they did because they liked me, or 'cause they didn't.

It was almost dark.  Seems like most bad stuff happens when it's dark or pert near.  I walked off the elevator and into the common area.  There they were.  Waiting.  For me.  They didn’t have on their usual attire--jeans and flannel shirts.  That day they both wore camo.  They had a weird look in their eyes too.  Like the zombie dancers in Michael Jackson's Thriller video.
           

Without a word, they positioned themselves on either side of me.  They each grabbed an arm, firmly but not gently.  They dragged me over to, then pushed me down on, a chair they'd placed nearby.  They used electrical tape to secure me to the chair.   Next they sprayed me in the face with whipped cream.  When I opened my eyes there were little white puffs on my eyelashes.  They shook bottles of beer and opened them with their teeth, a favorite party trick of theirs.  As soon as the beer started to spray, they aimed the bottles at me.  Doused me head to toe.  My flesh popped out in goosebumps as the cold beer drenched my clothes.
           

I decided early on stillness was my best strategy.  I didn't think I was in danger, per se.  My guess was they just wanted to do a real good job of humiliating me.  If I whooped and hollered for help, it would attract a crowd. Exactly what they wanted.  Definitely not what I wanted.
           

Warped knelt down and fished a string of Christmas lights out from under the sofa.  Twisted chuckled, but to me it sounded like a donkey with a carrot caught in its throat.  Warped walked around me.  Wrapped me in Christmas lights.  I pulled my lips in.  Looked at my knees.
           

Warped and Twisted shoved me across the floor of the common room.  I waited for the chair to get hung up on a crack in the floor or a snag in the carpet. I envisioned the chair falling forward.  There’d be a loud thunk as my head encountered the floor.  Surely my nose would shatter.  Blood would spray everywhere.
           

Warped and Twisted continued to inch me in the direction of their goal.  I peeked from under whipped cream lashes. Saw they were headed for an electrical outlet. My broken nose concern was replaced by the possibility that fluids and electricity might terminate me.  Snap!  Crackle! Pop!  Smells like chicken.

I held my breath as they jammed the plug into the socket.  Twinkle, twinkle!  Sparkle, sparkle!   I picked a spot on the ceiling and stared at it.  Would death be fast or slow?  Neither.  Something, God's hand maybe, spared me.
           

Warped and Twisted weren't finished.  They pushed me back across the common room.  Onto the elevator.  My fractured nose fear returned with each whiplash jerk of the chair.  The guys leaned down and in and grabbed the underside of the chair seat.  I smelled beer and chili dogs with raw onions on their breath.  I held mine.  Shut my eyes tight.  I will not cry.  I will not cry.
           

"Uh, uh, uh," came out of Warped.  On the third uh, they lifted me up and into the elevator.  They held me for a minute, a foot off the floor, then let go.  My teeth made a snapping sound.  Twisted kept his middle finger on the open door button.  Warped produced the roadkill coat hanger from his back pocket.  Handed it to Twisted.  He stepped backward off the elevator and reached into the cargo pocket of his pants.  Pulled out a camera.
           

Warped's eyes narrowed.  The right corner of his upper lip twitched.

"Lift her up," he said. 

           

Twisted hooked a belt loop of my Levis.  With both hands, he yanked up.  I thought the crotch seam of my jeans was gonna split me in two.
           

Warped grinned.  A rare exposure of his big, corn-colored teeth.  "Smile." 

           

I turned my head as far as I could.  Away from the camera.  Flash!  I blinked several times to get rid of the spots on my eyes.  Warped and Twisted guffawed--a choking donkey and a goose on coke.  They pointed under my chair.
           

"Looks like she wet herself," Warped said.
           

I wondered if I had, then realized it was beer dripping off me.
           

Warped stepped back on the elevator.  He leaned across me and hit all the buttons--G-9.  We rode up.  The doors opened at each floor.  People stared.  The doors closed. We went down.  Stopped at each floor.  People gawked.  The doors shut.  Then we did it again.

I was almost Christ-like that night.  Like him, I was abused.  Mocked.  Stared at.  Not rescued.  People looked away.  So they wouldn't have to be responsible. Some even laughed.  And me?  I remained silent.  Lamb led to the slaughter, no sound does it make, silent.

(Formerly known as Warped and Twisted)

Warped and Twisted

Jake and Wilbur lived in the same dorm, on the same floor as me, my sophomore year of college.  I'll cut to the chase and tell you right now, they were real sickos.  I may not be speaking the truth in love but I promise you this, I am speaking the truth.

Some folks thought they were brothers because they both had buzz cuts the color of straw.  Jake was taller though, his eyes the color of blue copier paper.  Wilbur 's face had known acne and his eyes were the color of a puddle.

When Jake and Wilbur were bored and/or drunk, they'd drive around Morgantown, looking for roadkills.  They kept a coathanger in their car at all times.  Whenever they saw a roadkill they'd pull over and get out of the car with the coathanger and a camera.  Wilbur would lift the roadkill as best he could, using the coathanger, and Jake would get a picture.   There was a corkboard on the door of their room and it was covered with roadkill candid camera shots.

It was for this reason I renamed Jake and Wilbur.  I called Jake Warped and Wilbur Twisted.  The names stuck.  Pretty soon, everyone in our dorm was calling them Warped and Twisted.


One day, Warped and Twisted turned their attention to me.  I don't know what got into them.  Not sure if they did what they did because they liked me, or because they didn't.

It was almost dark.  Seems like most bad stuff happens when it's dark or pert near.  I walked off the elevator and into the common area and there they were, waiting for me.  They were not in their usual attire--jeans and flannel shirts.  That day they were both dressed in camouflage gear, like they were going hunting or something.  They had a weird look in their eyes, like the zombie dancers in Michael Jackson's Thriller video.

Without speaking, they positioned themselves on either side of me.  They each grabbed one of my arms, firmly but not gently.  They led me over to, then down on, a chair they'd placed nearby.  Using electrical tape, they secured me to the chair.

Next they sprayed me in the face with whipped cream.  When I opened my eyes I could see little white puffs on my eyelashes.  Then they shook bottles of beer and opened them, using their teeth, a favorite party trick of theirs.  As soon as the beer started spraying out, they pointed the bottles at me and doused me from head to toe.  I felt my flesh pop out in goosebumps as the cold beer soaked into my clothes.

I decided early on that stillness was my best strategy.  I didn't think I was in danger, per se.  My guess was they just wanted to do a real good job of humiliating me.  If I whooped and hollered for help, it would attract a crowd which was probably what they wanted and definitely not what I wanted.

Warped knelt down and fished a string of Christmas lights out from under the sofa.  Twisted laughed but to me it sounded like a donkey choking.  Warped walked around me, wrapping me in the Christmas lights.  I looked at my knees.

Warped and Twisted then pushed me across the floor of the common room.  I kept waiting for the chair to hit a crack in the floor or a snag in the carpet. I envisioned the chair falling forward.  There would be a loud thunk as my head encountered the floor.  Surely my nose would break and blood would spray everywhere.

Warped and Twisted continued inching me in the direction of their goal.  I looked from under my whipped cream lashes and saw they were heading towards an electrical outlet. My broken nose concern was replaced by the possibility that fluids and electricity might kill me.  Snap!  Crackle! Pop!  Smells like chicken! 

They plugged me in and I waited.  Twinkle, twinkle!  Sparkle, sparkle!   I picked a spot on the ceiling and stared at it.  Would my death be fast or slow?  It was neither.  Something, God's hand maybe, spared me.

Warped and Twisted weren't finished  yet.  They pushed me back across the common room and onto the elevator.  My broken nose fear returned with each jerk of the chair.  The guys leaned down and in and grabbed the underside of the chair seat.  I could smell beer and chili dogs with raw onions on their breath.  I held mine and shut my eyes tight.  I will not cry.  I will not cry.

"Uh, uh, uh," came out of Warped.  On the third 'uh,' they lifted me up and into the elevator.  They held me for a minute, a foot off the floor, then dropped me.  My teeth made a snapping sound.

Twisted kept his finger on the open door button.  Warped produced the roadkill coat hanger from his back pocket and handed it to Twisted.  He stepped backwards off the elevator and reached into the cargo pocket of his pants for his camera. 

"Lift her up," Warped said.  Twisted hooked the hanger into a beltloop of my Levis.  He pulled up, using both his hands.  The waistband of my jeans cut into my belly.

"Smile," Warped said.  He grinned, showing big yellow teeth.  I turned my head as far as I could to the right.  Flash!  I blinked several times, trying to get rid of the spots on my eyes.

Warped and Twisted started laughing--a choking donkey and a goose on coke.  The guys pointed at the floor under my chair. 

"Looks like she wet herself," Warped said.

I wondered if I had, then realized it was beer dripping off me.

Warped stepped back on the elevator.  He leaned across me and hit all the buttons--G-9.  We rode up, the door opening at each floor, people staring, and we rode down, the door opening at each floor, people staring.  Then we did it again.


The whole whipped cream, beer, Christmas light,  elevator nightmare made me appreciate Jesus because like him, I was abused, mocked, stared at and not rescued.  People looked away so they wouldn't have to be responsible. Some even laughed.  And me, I remained silent.  Lamb led to slaughter, no sound does it make, silent.