Daughter Dearest

The phone in the kitchen demands attention.

            I sprint to answer it, holler through the house as I run. “I got it.” I grab the mustard receiver from its wall mount and press it to my ear. “Hello?”

            “Hey. What’re you doing?” It’s Karen, my best friend. She only lives a block away but it’s too cold and too late on a school night to meet on the corner to yack. I stretch the phone cord taut and huddle, legs criss-crossed-applesauce, in a corner of the dining room. 

             I cover my mouth so Mom can’t hear me. “Algebra, but it can wait. What’re you doing?”

            Karen and I chat for over an hour. Even though supper was ages ago, Mom doesn’t leave the kitchen. At one point I hear her announce to no one in particular, “Think I’ll make Toll House cookies.”

             More than once I spy her shadow as she hovers near the doorway. I twist myself even closer to the china cabinet, tuck the phone between me and the wall. 

~~~~~~~       

One day during my lunch hour in downtown Cincinnati (I lived and worked there in the 80s), I was walking toward Fountain Square and these two gals—mother and daughter—came at me, arm in arm. The younger woman’s grin was the spitting image of her mom’s.   When I stepped in front of them, they stopped walking and talking, their limbs suddenly stiff, their eyes wide.

            The mom gathered her girl close. “Yes?”

            “You all don’t know how lucky you are,” I said. I swatted my hand at their togetherness. “I wish— I wish me and my mom were like you two.” I blinked away the burn of close tears.

            In that moment, they seemed to melt. The mother reached out tentatively, rested her manicured hand on my forearm.

            “Why, you should tell her that, honey. Surely she wants the same.”

            I bit my lip and shook my head. “Nah, we’ll never be like you two. Enjoy what you have.” Before they could say anything else, I ducked inside Lazarus Department Store.

~~~~~~~

A couple years back, I got to thinking about the Ten Commandments, the one that says honor your father and mother.  I did okay with Dad but Mom was different. We were never  close but that afternoon as I puttered around the house, I thought maybe, just maybe, things'd be better if I came up with a list of good stuff I remember instead of . . .  

            I arranged myself, my journal, and fountain pen at the dining room table, cradled a mug of coffee, drew its hazelnut steam into my nostrils. Seconds then minutes passed as I tapped my pen on my front teeth, crinkled my forehead, and waited for good stuff to arrive. Then all of a sudden, there it was: good stuff.

            I like scallops, but Mom loved them first.

            My mother adores stories. I do too.     

            Mom used to take me shopping and in between Stone and Thomas and Nassar's, at McCrory’s five and dime, we'd order club sandwiches, wavy Lay's potato chips, and made-in-front-of-you cherry Cokes.

            "This'll pick us up," Mom always said.

            In the evenings, we’d sit side by side on the sofa and she’d teach me how to embroider. My French knots never got as good as hers.

            My mother was a nurse. I never told her but I thought that was pretty cool. She got so freaked out when my brothers beat each other up, it was hard to believe she could stomach blood and guts. From the hallway outside her bedroom, I used to watch her bobby pin her stiff and quirky nurse’s cap into her dark curls. No one told me how much I resembled her, not till years later.

            Sometimes we'd dress up and drive downtown to the Elephant Room in the Hotel Frederick for lunch. I’d clutch the armrests of my chair as the sweet, super old waiter with shiny mahogany skin scooted my chair in. I’d peek under the snowy table cloth to watch my patent leather Mary Jane shoes dangle above the plush, crimson carpet.

            When the waiter asked for our drink orders I’d cross my gloved hands in my lap and peer up at him.

            "May I have a Shirley Temple, please? With two maraschino cherries on a pink plastic sword?"

            Every year, out in our backyard when the weather warmed, Mom showed me how to grow lilies of the valley, zinnias, and Shasta daisies.

            "Poke your finger inside there," she'd say as we crouched beside a clump of snapdragons. "It's like a tiny mouth, don't you think?”          

            On summer mornings our Keds sneakers would leave green trails in the silver dew as we made our way to the pussy willow bush on our property’s edge. Mom would smile as she stroked the furry catkins.

            "Don't they feel like kitten paws?"

            I don't remember Mom saying no much.

            "Since I'm in fourth grade now, can I have my birthday party at the roller rink?” I asked her that one night as I sliced green olives for the salad.

            “That sounds fun.”

            One evening as we watered the garden I presented her with my heart’s desire.

            "Can I take horseback riding lessons with Karen? I checked, a half hour lesson costs ten bucks."

            “I think we can manage that.”

            “I’ve had my driver’s license a month now. Is it okay if I take the car tonight?”

            “Ask your father.”

            “Can I go to Myrtle Beach with Suzy, Stretch, and Natalie after graduation?”

            “Is it okay with their folks?”

            Mom did tell me no once, after she found Suzy's Eve cigarettes in my room, in a drawer, under my undies.

            "Do not ever, ever smoke cigarettes,” Mom said. Her mouth was a thin, coral-colored line. “You'll die of cancer. My best friend from high school's husband had to get a talk box put in his throat because of cigarettes."

            “But you smoke.”

            “That’s beside the point.” I whimpered as she gripped my wrist hard and marched me into the bathroom.          

            "But Mom, they're not mine. Suz— This girl I know asked me to hold them for her and I forgot to give ’em back. I swear."

            She pursed her lips and squinted. "Nice try. Now flush them this instant. I mean it.”

~~~~~~~

For the past few years, from time to time, I’ve been sending her my stories, some of them real, some not. I fold then crease them, tuck the pages into the stamped and addressed envelopes and hand them to the mailman. It’s wonderful to get real mail these days, not just bills. I wonder if Mom feels like she’s getting a present when she opens her mailbox and sees a letter from me?    

            When the phone rings these days I squint at the caller I.D. screen. Is it her? What’d she think of the last story I sent? Did she think I did good?

            “I liked your latest story,” she told me just the other day. “You’re getting better, you know.”

            Now here I sit with this one. And a stamped addressed envelope. It’s almost Mother’s Day. To send or not to . . . 

Something Else

            I didn’t mean to hurt you. That time I said he was my favorite. Brother. It’s not that . . .  What I meant was . . . Well, you’re different. You’re something else.

            I will give you this: you never came at me with stealth, a certain anarchy oozing from your pores. And not once did you approach me hands choke hold ready and cheeks stoplight red but forging through anyway. You were different. A low tide. Quiet, steady.

~~~

        
            I like to look at your senior picture and consider how your hair was like the bunny slope at Canaan Valley when I went there in eighth grade with the Beverly Hills Presbyterian Church youth group. Not white, but a smooth, nut brown arc with one perfect dip in the middle. 
            That first morning I hurtled down the hill over and over, winter’s edge both thrilling and terrifying me. Right before lunch, the ski patrol gal advised me that falling down in a six-point star formation at the bottom of the slope was not a safe way to stop. She demonstrated the snow plow a couple times. Recommended lessons. I never skied again. Ever.

            In your portrait your eyes seemed serious even as they smiled. Did you already know you had healing (and therefore much responsibility) in your hands? Your irises matched the widest stripe in your chubby tie—fall-morning blue-gray sky.

~~~

            Remember all the stuff we dabbled in? I do, because I made a list. That’s how I write a story. I jot down everything I can remember then comb away all the stuff that’s not so hot. Here, I’ll show you:

Stuff We Did Together

Yoga (living room): For a whole summer we copied the moves of Lillias as she did Hatha Yoga on public television. We wore Marshall green gym shorts and gray Thundering Herd t-shirts. I was way more flexible than you.

Weight Lifting (basement): You lifted. I watched. Because you’d read somewhere my bones wouldn’t be ready for resistance work until at least fourth grade. I wept, but you insisted.

Archery (back yard): We set up a range behind the house, crammed the target into the tangle of honeysuckle that concealed the chain link fence. We were evenly matched until our flimsy green bow broke and you replaced it with a red, white, and blue compound model. I couldn’t budge the string so I became the designated arrow fetcher.

Church (Ohio): You invited me to come along when you started attending church across the river. We’d hold our breath as we drove over the bridge. Make a wish when we got to the other side. You suggested we start a gospel group since I was taking piano lessons. We practiced a few times but then you went off to college. I was sad to see you go but also relieved that I wouldn't have to inform you that your pitch was less than perfect.

~~~

            Did you know that writers are supposed to show instead of tell? You never told me, “I like spending time with you,” but you didn't have to. The stuff we did together showed it. Proved that you were in fact something else, something better than “favorite.” I might go as far as to say you were the best. Brother.

* Songs from the Wood *

Three lefts are all it took to get to Gideon Woods from my house.  I probably could've made it in fifteen minutes.  Maybe even ten. But there was so much to see and do.  It wasn't like I had A.D.H.D. or anything.  Heck, they hadn't even thought of it yet. 
            Back then, Green Oak Drive was cement, not blacktop.  If you looked real close, you could see tee tiny pebbles in it.  It was put down in big, square sections.   If no cars were coming, I liked to run my finger in the little gutter that ran curb to curb between the sections.  When the cement cracked, they patched it with black springy tar.  On hot days, I liked to press my thumbs (or my big toes if I was barefoot) into the warm, smooth, darkness.
            Half a block down, I always stopped to pet Missy, the little black dog with soft curly fur.  I called her Tripod after she lost one of her back legs chasing cars.  She still tried to run after 'em, but with only three legs, she'd get tuckered out quickly and plop down on her rounded, refurred stump.
            Four houses later, I'd wave at Mrs. Meek.  She'd either be sweeping her front porch or sitting in the Adirondack chair out in her yard, reading a library book.  I always wondered what it would be like to have a mom who looked like Barbie with short hair.  Like Cloris Leachman really.
           
After the second turn, I almost always stopped at the Biebers.'  

            "Should we play whiffleball or kickball this afternoon?" I'd ask Lisa, as we sat on her front porch steps.  Her mom taught fourth grade at our school.
            "Or, we could have a horseshow," she'd say.
            We put on horseshows, on our Schwinn bikes, in the parking lot of Beverly Hills Presbyterian Church.  I didn't always win the blue ribbon for Best in Show, but I always looked the realest 'cause I'd wear one of my brothers' batting helmets.
            I'd say bye to Lisa and walk up the road that ran between her house and the Swisher place.  I liked the Swishers’ house 'cause it had chubby, super tall, white columns in the front.  They had a big, ole RV parked in their extra wide driveway.  I bet they went cool places on the weekends.  

            I'd stare at each of their windows, hoping Jeff Swisher would look out.  When he was younger, people mistook him for a pretty little girl.  Not anymore.  What would it be like if he was your brother?  Or . . . your boyfriend?  I'd swipe the sudden mist of sweat off my upper lip and continue up the hill.

After I made the third left, I'd see Miss Lorna's house.  Miss Lorna was best friends with our next door neighbor, Mrs. McCallister.  Miss Lorna's daughter was a real live Rockette in New York City.  I got to meet her once when she visited.  Her teeth were super white and her lips the color of maraschino cherries.  A couple times, her false eyelashes got stuck in her eyebrows.  I turned my head so she wouldn't see me smile.
            On the corner past Miss Lorna’s, I had a choice.  Make the sharp left down to Gideon Woods, or veer slightly right and walk across the street to the property of the rich people who had two horses.  I only stopped to pet the horses if I'd remembered to bring them a treat.  No carrots, apples, or homemade sugar cubes?  Then it's down the big hill.  I usually ran this part.  You can run faster and longer when it's downhill.
           

At the bottom of Forest Drive, Gideon Woods was on the right.  There's a trodden and driven down half-circle bald patch by the side of the road.  This was where parents picked up kids who'd scamped around in the woods all day.  This was the spot where teens turned off their headlights and turned toward each other.  This was the place where people dropped twist-tied garbage bags of trash, puppies, or kittens, when they were too lazy to do the right thing.  I always ripped an air hole in the bags.  You know.  Just in case. 

             This spot always made me think of the time John Edwards' giant, super soft, all white sled dog put my whole face in her mouth.  Guess I got a tad too close.  Thankfully, the dents on my forehead and chin went away by bedtime.  Unlike the time when Peaches, our next door neighbors' Peek-a-Poo, gave me puncture wounds on my ankle when I got within nipping range of her.  Had to get a tetanus shot for that.
            Man, I hate shots.  I remember the time Mom tricked me.  Told me we were going downtown to shop at Stone and Thomas.  We were really going to get me a Mump's vaccine.  I flinched so hard I broke the needle and they had to shoot me again.  Mom kept apologizing and she did take me to Shoney's afterwards for a hot fudge cake, extra whipped cream, so it wasn’t all that bad.

There's a slight rise to get into Gideon Woods.  Then, at the top, there are ruts like someone drove a pickup in there awhile back.  And then maybe they changed their mind or thought they'd get stuck, so they backed out.
            Weeds and high grass were everywhere.  Trash too.  I don't think the ad campaign with the Indian guy crying over pollution worked. There were pop and beer cans.  Crushed cigarette packs.  Wadded up, snack-sized chip bags.  Unless the Scouts had been there recently.  Couple times a year, they came and cleaned up that front part.  So it looked nice when the rich people drove by. 

I went to Gideon Woods for lots of reasons.  Sometimes I collected shotgun shells.  The aqua ones were my favorites, but I was always on the lookout for new colors.  If you searched real hard, you could find .22 shells.  I think they're pretty--almost the color of a new penny, or an old one you’ve shined up with lemon juice and salt.  They're dainty looking.  To me anyway.
            I always went to the woods when the warm days started to outnumber the cool.  That's tadpole time.  I'd take a Skippy peanut butter jar with me but first, I'd use one of Dad's Phillips-head screwdrivers and a hammer to jab airholes in the metal lid.
            There were no ponds or creeks in Gideon.  Just really big puddles or places where the ground couldn't hold any more water so it climbed up the rough, sawgrass blades an inch or two.
            I listened.  That's how I knew where to look.  The grown up frogs would make a ton of noise 'til they heard the shush-shush of something coming.  Or, maybe they felt the vibration in the water.  Their peeping would stop.  Everything would get real quiet.  Even the birds hushed.  It's like the danger signal of animals is silence and people's is noise.  "Wheee-oohhh!  Wheee-oohhh!"  or "An! An!  An!  This is a test.  This is just a test, of the emergency broadcast system . . . " or "Clanga!  Clang!  Clang!"  That was the bell on our front porch that Mom or Dad rang when they wanted us in the house.  “Right now.  I mean it!”
            So after I listened, I'd look.  For snot.  I mean really.  That is what frog eggs look like, you know.  Like someone hawked a lugy.  All gelatinous.  Egg whitey.  If you happened to have a magnifying glass with you, you could see the individual transparent spheres with black spots.  They looked just like the googly eyes you get in the craft department of Hill's. 

            At least once every spring I’d get a scoop of muddy water--wiggly egg whites, googly eyes, and all--into my Skippy jar.  Sometimes the eggs had already turned into tadpoles.  I’d speak into the jar.  “Hi, little guys.”  Then I’d screw the lid on.  And grin.  Mission accomplished.

If I didn’t plan on harvesting frog eggs or tadpoles, I’d bring our dog to Gideon Woods.  She was a liver and white Beagle-Spitz mix.  We named her Holly 'cause we got her in December.  Plus, my mom said the mark on her head resembled a holly leaf.
            One day when Holly and I were in the woods, I found this little white container.  It looked like a plastic lip gloss tub.  I picked it up and read the label:  "Contains 3 prophylactics.  Not intended for the prevention of sexually transmitted diseases."  I wrinkled my nose.  Do what?  I unscrewed the top.  Out rolled three slippery, cloudy discs.  I squinted at ‘em.  They look like rolled up balloons.
            I unrolled one.  Thought it looked like a test tube or a sock.  That gave me an idea. 
           "Hey, Holly!  Come here!" 

            I stuck one of the slippery white things on her tail.  Then I let go of her leash and she knew it. She trotted into high grass.  All I could see was her tail.  It stuck straight up with its little see-through rain coat on.  I giggled.  A few minutes later, her tail disappeared.  I heard the crush-schmush of grass and the pleased grunting of dog happiness.  I scowled and ran toward the noise.  Just as I suspected.  She was anointing her back with eau du dead critter.
            I clapped several times.  "Here!  Stop that!" 

            I grabbed her leash and yanked.  She stood and did a get-every-hair-back-in-place shimmy.  The tail decoration was gone.
            I glanced at my Timex and squeaked.  “Criminy!  I’m late for supper.”
            When we stepped out of the woods and onto the trodden down half circle, I frowned at my feet.  Picked up a stick and dug mud out of the treads of my purple Chuck Taylor's.   A car horn honked.  I jumped and straightened.  It was a green Buick Skylark.  My oldest brother rolled down the window. 

            "Mom's been ringing the bell like crazy.  Didn't you hear?"
            I huffed.  "All the way down here?  No."
            "Get in."
            Holly and I climbed in the backseat.  I cranked the window down just enough so her ears and tongue could flap in the wind.  Her wagging tail 'bout put my eye out so I sat back and turned my head away from her.  Shut my eyes.  Listened to my tummy growl.  Won't be long now 'cause there's just three right turns and we'll be home.

Burying Barney

My best friend buried Barney Fife all wrong. Karen Dandelet was my best friend. She lived right around the corner from me in the 70’s. At night, we could see each other when we looked out our bedroom windows.

Barney was her hamster. Next to each other, Barney was our best friend. We played with him every single day. We always got him out whenever we watched our favorite tv program--The Andy Griffith Show.

“Man, Don Knott’s Adam’s apple sure is big,” I’d say.

“Andy Griffith is pretty good looking for an old guy,” Karen’d say.

Karen named her hamster, Barney, after Deputy Fife. ‘Cause they both had bug eyes.


Karen was crying Sunday night when she called to tell me Barney had gone to hamster heaven while I was at church camp down in the southern part of the state. She gave me a quick rundown of his funeral, in between sniffs.

I didn’t take her fresh grief into account when I said, “I can’t believe you buried him in cardboard. Now we’re gonna have to do a grave digging do-over.”

You see, by that point in my life, I was pretty much a pet burying expert. Karen hung up on me. She’d never done that before.


The next morning, I told my mom there’d been a death in Karen’s family. She let me walk over to the Dandelets’ even though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock.

I knocked on the screen door so the doorbell wouldn’t wake her four brothers. Karen’s eyes looked red when I stepped into the living room.

I put my arm around her and squeezed. “Sorry I was mean last night.”

She pulled away and headed for the back door. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

“He was only two,” I said as we walked down the back porch steps. “How’d he die?”

“Last week he was running so much on his exercise wheel, I had to put him in the basement so I could sleep.”

“Could’ve tried some WD-40 on his wheel,” I said.

Karen snapped her fingers. “Ah, man! I didn’t think of that.”

“Maybe he had a hamster heart attack,” I said. “When did you figure out he was dead?”

We stood in the back yard. “Mom noticed it when she was switching a load of whites from the washer to the dryer.”

“Did he have rigor mortis?”

“Who’s Vigor Morris?” Karen said.

“Rigor mortis,” I said. “It’s when their legs stick up in the air.” My oldest brother was going to be a doctor when he grew up. He taught me all kinds of cool stuff like that.

Karen shook her head. “Nah, he was just flopped over on one side.”

We went into the garage, and Karen grabbed a shovel and handed me a spade.

“Should be fairly easy to dig him up since it rained all night,” I said.

Karen closed the garage door behind us. We stepped into the wet grass, and I took a deep sniff of summer—Karen’s mom’s roses, the honeysuckle climbing the fence, the mock orange bush on the other side.

We walked out to the apple tree. Karen pointed to a round spot of fresh dirt clods by the trunk. She put her foot on the right side of the shovel back and pushed down hard. The soil was West Virginia clay--rusty in some spots, the color of Velveeta cheese in others.

I dropped my spade, bent, and grabbed a handful of dirt. It stuck together like pie crust dough.

“We could make some cool pinch pots outta this stuff.”

Karen turned more soil over.

“You know why we gotta do this, right?” I said, throwing the clay ball up in the air and catching it.

“’Cause we don’t want to eat Barney in our applesauce next summer,” Karen said.

“Yep. Too bad you buried him in cardboard.”

Karen leaned the shovel against the tree. She crouched and put her hands into the small grave. She pulled out Barney’s coffin. It was floppy with ground moisture but still recognizable as a Hartz hamster food box.

I held my hands out. “Give it here. You go in the house and get something else to bury him in.”

She turned to go.

“Get a Cool Whip container or an old Skippy jar,” I said. Peanut butter still came in glass jars back then, and those are the best thing for burying dead critters. The small ones any way. Glass lasts forever in the ground.

Karen held up a Jif jar and a paper Big Bear bag as she came out of the house.

“That’ll do fine,” I said.


We sat criss-cross-applesauce on the ground beneath the tree. Karen laid the grocery bag on my lap, and I placed Barney’s burial box on top. I was a bit freaked out about seeing him. What if he was crawling with worms?

Not to worry. There were no worms. He didn’t even smell like death. He smelled like wet hamster food. His nose was pointier than usual, having been smooshed into the corner of the box for a week. The white places on his body were multi-colored because Karen had wrapped him in the Sunday comics.

“I thought it would keep him warm underground.”

I leaned forward and wiped a tear from her freckly cheek. “Ah, Karen. That was sweet of you.”

She looked down at him. “He kinda looks like he was just born, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, the way he’s slimy from the underground moisture, that’s like placenta.” I said.

We sighed.

“Poor little guy,” Karen said.

I tried to think of a way to cheer her up. "Remember how he used to flick his poop?"

Karen smiled at me. Finally. “It always stuck on my wall and looked like polka dots.”

I found my clay ball in the grass and squeezed it.

Karen started to giggle. “Remember the time we were mad at Chucky, and we put Barney poop in his Coke bottle when he wasn’t looking?”

I laughed. We sat in silence for a little while.


After awhile, I glanced at my watch. “I have to go home for lunch soon. Did you get a rag to wrap him in?”

Karen pulled a cloth diaper out of her back pocket. She leaned over and rubbed it against my cheek. “Is this soft enough?”

“Yep. That’ll do.”

I picked up Barney’s cold, stiff form and placed it in the middle of the diaper. I folded the left side in, then the right. I brought the bottom half up, then the top half down. I put my hands on top to keep it from springing open.

Karen unscrewed the lid from the Jif jar. I pressed the Barney bundle to make it even smaller, and slid it inside.

I took a miniature golf pencil and a piece of crumpled notepaper out of the back pocket of my jean shorts.

“Let’s both write a note so if anybody ever digs him up, they’ll know what kind of animal he was and that we loved him a whole lot.”

Karen nodded and wiped her nose. “I like that idea.”

She wrote her note, and I added my part under hers. She stood and screwed the top on the Jif jar.

“Don’t put him in the hole yet,” I said, as I stood. “I wanna say a few words first.”

We bowed our heads. Neither of us had ever been to a real funeral, but we’d seen ‘em on tv.

“Dear Lord,” I said. “We’re gathered here to bury our beloved pet, Deputy Barney Fife. He was a good friend and a great pet. We ask Sir, that you and he forgive us for the time we blew his cheeks up like a balloon. And we pray he forgives us for the many baths we gave him in my bathroom sink, but wasn’t he cute when he did the dog paddle?”

Karen tapped my shoulder and whispered. “Tell him we’re sorry for the time we gave him a teaspoon of your dad’s beer.”

I nodded. “Yeah, Barney. We’re sorry about the beer incident even though you seemed to like it. It probably wasn’t the best idea.”

I ran out of things to say, and we were quiet for a minute.

“Oh, and please comfort Karen in her sorrow, Lord. We pray that her parents will take her to Petland to get another hamster this weekend. We pray this in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

Karen crossed herself ‘cause she’s a Catholic.

“Amen,” we said.

Karen put the box in the hole and grabbed the shovel. As she covered the box with dirt, I looked at the sun through the apple tree leaves. Without thinking, I started whistling the Andy Griffith theme song.

Karen looked at me and smiled. And started whistling along.

(FYI, this is a new and improved version of a prior post--Oct. 12, 2009.)

Songs from the Woods

Four lefts is all it took to get to Gideon Woods from my house.  I probably could've made it in 15 minutes.  Maybe even 10. But there was so much to see and do.  It wasn't like I had A.D.H.D. or anything.  Heck, they hadn't even thought of it yet. 

For starters, Green Oak Drive was cement, not blacktop.  If you looked real close, you could see tee tiny pebbles in it.  It was put down in big, square sections.   If no cars were coming, I liked to run my finger in the little divot that ran curb to curb, between the sections.  When the cement cracked, they patched it with black springy tar.  On hot days, I liked to press my thumbs (or my big toes if I was barefoot) into the warm, smooth, darkness.

Half a block down, I always stopped to pet Missy, the little black dog with soft curly fur.  I called her Tripod after she lost one of her back legs chasing cars.  She still tried to chase 'em, but with only three legs, she'd get tuckered out quickly and plop down on her rounded, refurred stump.

Four houses later, I'd wave at Mrs. Meek.  She'd either be sweeping her front porch or sitting in an Adirondack chair, reading a library book.  I always wondered what it would be like to have a mom who looked like Barbie with short hair.  Like Cloris Leachman really.

After the second turn, I almost always stopped at the Biebers'.   "Should we play whiffleball or kickball this afternoon?" I'd ask Lisa, as we sat on her front porch steps.  Her mom taught fourth grade at our school.

"Or, we could have a horseshow," she'd say.

We put on horseshows, on our Schwinns, in the parking lot of Beverly Hill Presbyterian Church.  I didn't always win the blue ribbon for Best in Show, but I always looked the realest  'cause I'd wear one of my brothers' batting helmets.

I'd say bye to Lisa and walk up the road that ran between her house and the Swisher place.  I liked the Swisher's house 'cause it had chubby, super tall white columns in the front.  They had a big, ole RV parked in their extra wide driveway.  I bet they went cool places on the weekends. 

I'd stare at each of their windows, hoping Jeff Swisher would look out.  When he was younger, people mistook him for a pretty little girl.  Not anymore.  What would it be like if he was your brother?  Or . . . your boyfriend?  I'd swipe the sudden mist of sweat off my upper lip and continue up the hill.

After I made the third left, I'd see Miss Lorna's house.  Miss Lorna was best friends with our next door neighbor, Mrs. McCallister.  Miss Lorna's daughter was a real live Rockette in New York City.  I got to meet her once when she visited.  Her teeth were super white and her lips were as red as maraschino cherries.  A couple times, her false eyelashes got stuck in her eyebrows.  I turned my head so she wouldn't see me smile.

When I got to the next corner, I had a choice.  Make the sharp left down to Gideon, or veer slightly right and walk across the street to the property of the nice rich people who had two horses.  I usually only stopped to pet the horses if I'd remembered to bring them a treat.

No carrots or apples?  Then it's down the big hill.  I usually ran this part.  You can run faster and longer when it's downhill. 

At the bottom of Forest Drive, Gideon Woods was on the right.  There's a trodden down, driven down, half-circle, bald patch by the side of the road.  This was where parents picked up kids who'd scamped around in the woods all day.  This was where teens turned off their headlights and turned toward each other.  This was where people dropped off garbage bags of trash, or puppies and kittens, when they were too lazy to do the right thing.  I always ripped an airhole in the bags.  You know.  Just in case.  This was also where John Edwards' giant, super soft, all white sled dog put my whole face in her mouth.  Guess I got too close.

The dents on my forehead and chin went away by bedtime.  Unlike the time when Peaches, a neighbors' Peek-a-Poo, gave me puncture wounds on my ankle when I got too close to her.  Had to get a tetanus shot for that.

Man, I hate shots.  I remember the time Mom tricked me.  Told me we were going downtown to shop at Stone and Thomas.  We were really going to get me a mump's vaccine.  I flinched so bad I broke the needle and they had to shoot me again.  But, she did take me to Shoney's afterwards for a hot fudge cake, extra whipped cream.

There's a slight rise to get into Gideon Woods.  Then, at the top, there are ruts like someone drove a pickup in there awhile back.  And then maybe they changed their mind or thought they'd get stuck so they backed out.

Weeds and high grass were everywhere.  Trash too.  I don't think the ad campaign with the Indian guy crying over pollution worked.  Pop and beer cans.  Crushed cigarette packs.  Wadded up, snack-sized chip bags.  Unless the Scouts had been there recently.  Couple times a year, they came and cleaned up that front part.  So it looked nice when the rich people drove by.  The ones who lived above the people with horses.


I went to Gideon Woods for lots of reasons.  Sometimes I collected shotgun shells.  The aqua ones were my favorites, but I was always on the lookout for new colors.  If you looked really hard, you could find .22 shells.  I think they're pretty--almost the color of a new penny.  They're so dainty looking.  To me anyway.

I always went to the woods when the warm days started to outnumber the cool.  That's tadpole time.  I'd take a Skippy peanut butter jar with me but first, I'd use one of Dad's Phillips-head screwdrivers and a hammer to jab airholes in the metal lid.

There were no ponds or creeks in Gideon.  Just really big puddles or places where the ground couldn't hold any more water so it climbed up the rough, sawgrass blades an inch or two.

I listened.  That's how I knew where to look.  The grown up frogs would make a ton of noise 'til they heard the shush-shush of something coming.  Or, maybe they felt the vibration in their water.

Their peeping would stop.  Everything would get real quiet.  Even the birds hushed.  It's like the danger signal  of animals is silence and people's is noise.  "Wheee-oohhh!  Wheee-oohhh!"  or "An! An!  An!  This is a test.  This is just a test, of the emergency broadcast system . . . " or "Clanga!  Clang!  Clang!"  That was the bell on our front porch that Mom or Dad rang when they wanted us in the house.  Right now.  I mean it.

So after I listened, I'd look.  For snot.  I mean really.  That is what frog eggs look like, you know.  Like someone hawked a lugy.  All gelatinous, like egg white.  With little transparent spheres with black spots, like the googly eyes you get in the craft department of Hill's. 

I scooped mud puddle water, wiggly egg whites, googly eyes and all, into my Skippy jar.  Sometimes, the eggs had already turned into tadpoles.  Hi, little guys.  I screwed the lid on.  Mission accomplished.


On the days when I wasn't harvesting frog eggs or tadpoles, I brought our dog along.  She was a liver and white Beagle-Spitz mix.  We named her Holly 'cause we got her in December and 'cause the mark on her head looked like a holly leaf.

One day when Holly and I were in the woods, I found this little white container.  It looked like a plastic lip gloss tub.  I picked it up and read the label.  "Contains 3 prophylactics.  Not intended for the prevention of sexually transmitted diseases."

I wrinkled my nose.  Do what?  I unscrewed the top.  Out rolled three, slippery, cloudy discs.  They look like rolled up balloons.

When I unrolled one, I got an idea.  "Holly!  Come here!"  I stuck the unrolled, slippery white  thing on her tail.  Then I let go of her leash and she knew it. She trotted into high grass.  All I could see was her tail, sticking straight up, with its little see-through rain coat on.  I grinned.

A few minutes later, the white rubber-clad tail disappeared.  I heard the shush-shush of grass and the grunting of dog happiness.  I scowled and ran toward the noise.  Just as I suspected.  She was anointing her back with eau du dead critter.

I clapped several times.  "Here!  Stop that!"  I grabbed her leash and yanked.  She stood up and did a get-every-hair-back-in-place shimmy.  The tail decoration was gone.

We stepped out of the woods and onto the trodden down half circle.  I frowned at my feet.  Picked up a stick and dug mud out of the treads of my purple Chuck Taylor's. 

A car horn honked.  I jumped and stood up.  It was a green Buick Skylark.  My oldest brother rolled down the window.  "Mom's been ringing the bell.  Didn't you hear?"

I huffed.  "All the way down here?  No."

"Get in."

Holly and I climbed into the backseat.  I cranked the window down just enough so she could let her ears and tongue flap in the wind.  Her wagging tail 'bout put my eye out.

Four right turns and we'd be home.