Flying Fan Day

Because I was with her nearly every day, I stored more love in my heart for Gracie than I did for my own grandmothers. Her living room, and often her kitchen, was a refuge to me when things got crazy at home which was often. Like the day my middle oldest brother hurled a  fan at one of my other brothers. It yanked the outlet cover and the metal box behind it out of the wall as it sailed across the room.

           My mother squeezed the sides of her head. “Call your father at work,” she said, her voice all quivery. “Tell him the boys have gone wild. Again.”

            I did what I always did. Dialed the number for time and acted like I was talking to Dottie, my dad’s secretary.

            We had fans instead of air-conditioning. Because Dad was cheap. That’s what Mom said. I didn’t mind too much except when bedtime rolled around and the soaking sponge of humidity would squish me flat against my pillow and steal my breath.

            “Come on in, Pet,” Gracie’d said as she opened the door on Flying Fan day. “Things rough at your place?”

            I nodded.

            “You hungry?”

            I said yes, even though I’d just had lunch, the usual—a fluffer nutter sandwich, Charles’s Chips, an apple from my other next door neighbor's tree, and Kool-Aid made with half a cup a sugar instead of a whole. Because like Mom said, Dad was stingy. When I tattled on Mom, Dad told me he was careful with money because his daddy was a banker and also because he’d lived through the Great Depression. He called it being prudent.

            “I baked a strawberry rhubarb pie this morning,” Gracie said.

            My eyes bugged and my mouth watered. Behind my jean short waistband, my lunch moved over to make room for more.

            I rubbed my hands together and grinned. “Oh, boy!”

            In the living room, Gracie clicked on the TV and while we waited for it to warm up she reached inside Dicky Bird’s cage, her hand in the shape of a pistol. Dicky daintily transferred himself from his perch to her pointer finger.

            “Do you want him on your shoulder or hand?” she said.

            I held out my finger.

            “You tell him everything, Pet,” she said. “Talk to him as long as you want, long as you need. I’ll be back with your pie in a jiffy.”

~~~

I was licking my plate when Big Mac came in. His face brightened when he saw me. I stood carefully so as not to panic Dicky Bird. I tucked him in his cage but left the door open so he could come and go. Gracie’d trained him to only do his business on the newspaper that lined his house.

            I ran to Mac and inspected him head to toe. He worked at a meat packing plant and I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any yuck on him before I strapped my arms around his waist and squeezed. That day, finding him blood and guts-free, I launched myself at him. I knew he’d swing me around in a circle so I wound my legs around his so they wouldn’t fly out and knock my TV tray over.

            “I brought you something,” he said after he set me down.

            I grinned and clapped. Stuck a finger in my mouth and nibbled a cuticle in anticipation.

            He held his fists, big as beefsteak tomatoes, in front of me.

            “Put out your hands and close your eyes and I will give you a big surprise.”

            I felt something heavy and smooth in my palms and when I opened my eyes, I saw two objects that resembled shiny silver fingers.

            I squinted up at him. “What are they?”

            “They’re magnets. You see, when one of the guys thinks a cow swallowed a nail, he’ll drop one of these down its throat. It’ll attach itself to the object in the digestive tract and the animal will . . . You know . . .”

            My face broke open. “Poop it out?”

            Mr. Mac studied his workboots, then the ceiling. “Yes. Exactly.”      

            "That is so cool! Wait until my brothers hear this!" Off I ran. 

         

Wonder Woman Was My Best Friend

So there we were. Me and my best friend, Katie Lynn. Waiting in line to get into Spanky’s, the fancy new dance bar on Fourth Avenue. Per usual, we were decked out. In  mini skirts and high heels. Kent had done our hair that day. Mine was so short it looked like a baby bird’s. Katie Lynn’s hair resembled Billy Idol’s in the front, except it was almost black, not white. But in the back it hung in waves almost to her bra strap. Guess that means she had a mullet, but back then it was cool.

            I wiggled out of my shoes. “These heels have to go,” I said. “Least ‘til we get to the front of the line.” I sighed. “Looks like it’s gonna be awhile.”

            All of a sudden, Katie Lynn whipped around to face the building. She grabbed my arm, taking me with her.

            “Don’t look now, but your brother, Judas, and his pothead pals are headed this way.”

            I cringed. “Aw, man!  Maybe they won’t see us.”

            Unfortunately, Katie Lynn is pretty hard to miss since she’s six foot one in heels and kind of looks like Wonder Woman. Judas paused next to us on the sidewalk. Slid between us and the wall. We brushed our fronts off. In case some of him got on us.

            “Evening, lady,” he said to Katie Lynn. He sneered at me. “And girl.”

            I glared. He curled his lip. I stuck my tongue out. He wobbled. His eyelids were flying at half mast. I knew what that meant. He fished a roll of Certs out of the front pocket of his Levi’s and unpeeled the wrapper. Bit off the top mint and held the rest out to Katie Lynn. She shook her head and opened her mouth to display her Bubble Yum.

            He raised his eyebrows a couple times. “Lucky gum.”

            I snorted and crossed my arms. “Ga-ross!” 

            Judas put one hand on the wall and leaned. A moment later he dropped his arm and straightened, probably because he figured out leaning made him a whole lot shorter than Katie Lynn.

            “So, Katie,” he said. “I see you’re wearing your Western bra.”

            Katie Lynn squinted. “My what?”

            “Your girls,” he said, pointing at her chest. “The bra’s hitchin’ ‘em up and movin’ ‘em out.”

            I smacked him with one of my pumps. “You stink, Judas,” I said. “You’ve got so much beer on you, I can’t even smell your Old Spice.”

            Judas rubbed his arm and scowled.

            I flicked his chin. “Haven’t you figured out yet that when you get high, you develop a mysterious hole in your lip?”

            Judas burped and blew in my face. Dangled his pointer finger an inch from my nose. His eyes began to cross as he tried to focus on me and his finger.

            “I’ll get you for this tomorrow, you know.”

            “Hey, Jude,” Katie Lynn said. “Why don’t you do us a favor and get lost. And while you’re at it, take your Muppet Pals with you.” She flipped her long dark hair in the direction of his friends. “Go find some girls who actually want your company.”

            I huffed. “Yeah, if there are any!”

            In a second, something changed in Judas’s eyes. The ornery glint got mean. I heard his molars clack together. He took a step toward Katie. And another. I watched her lashes hit her brows.

            “You know what I want, Katie Lynn?” he said. “I’ll tell you what I want.”

            And he did. I thought I would die. Right there, in front of all those people waiting to get in Spanky’s. He said stuff so nasty my ears curled in on themselves.

            Katie Lynn didn’t speak. Didn’t even twitch. I gulped. Nibbled a fingernail.  After a minute of silence, Judas started jacking his jaws again.

            “And if you were real nice,” he said as his eyes narrowed to slits, “You’d let my buddies watch.”              

            My mouth fell open and it was like I blinked in slow motion, because when I opened my eyes, Katie Lynn had Judas pinned to the brick wall. His arm was twisted behind him, and she was forcing his fist toward his copper curls. Judas screamed like a ninny and cussed a blue streak, all at the same time.

            Everyone around me started clapping. “Woo hoo!” they yelled. “Get him, girl! Kick his butt!”

            I couldn't make out what Judas was saying because his mouth was crammed into the bricks. I leaned closer but was careful to stay out of punching range.

            “Uncle!  Uncle!” he mumbled. He tried to turn his head but Katie increased the pressure on his arm. A whimpery grunt escaped him. “Guys!  Help me out here!”

            I searched the area. Spied his buddies across the street. They huddled together and kept their eyes on Katie Lynn, ready to bolt if she decided to turn her superpowers on them. Finally, she let go of Judas’s arm. Gave him a shove. He flung his hands out to keep from busting his knees, but his right arm didn’t seem to work quite right and he hit hard. From the ground he threw Katie Lynn one more super dirty look before he scrambled across the street.

            I put my fists on my hips and squinted  at the pack as they made their way down the sidewalk.

            “Run, ‘fraidy cats, run!”

            I stepped back in line and adjusted my skirt. High fived the girls who gathered around, giggling and congratulating. 

            “Those goobers remind me of sand crabs at Myrtle Beach,” I said. “They come out at night, but when you shine a light on ‘em, they skitter back in their holes.”         

            Katie Lynn pointed down the block. My gaze followed her finger. One of the flannel-shirted guys had fallen off the curb into the street. Judas and the others gathered him up. I took a dozen steps toward them. Cupped my hands around my mouth.

            “Losers!”  

            Judas flipped me off without turning around. I smirked and headed back to Katie Lynn. There she was. In conversation with a tall, good looking guy in a dress shirt with a skinny purple tie. I smooshed my lips together to redistribute my gloss and held out my hand.

            “Well, hello," I said. "I’m Dana, and you are?”

            He took one of my hands and one of Katie's. “I'm Jonathan,” he told us. “I’m the manager here. I want to personally thank you ladies for dealing with the riffraff. May I escort you inside? Get you a cocktail?”

            I bumped Katie Lynn with my hip and let my shoes drop. Stepped back into them and ran my fingers through my hair to re-spike it.

            “Why yes, Jonathan. That would be lovely.”

Bat Attack at 110 Green Oak Drive

A crash of thunder destroyed my dream. It was a good one too. About a Kentucky Derby where the cast members of Gilligan’s Island were the jockeys. I scootched to the end of my bed and pressed my nose to the window. No rain? Then how—

            “Bats! Bats! To arms! To arms!” All three of my brothers sounded the alarm in unison. I heard the thunder noise again. Oh, it’s just them. On the stairs.

            I almost went back to sleep. Shut my eyes for a second. Then I sat up. Threw off the covers. 

            “Did someone say bats? Oh, my! I have to save Houdini. Else the bats'll suck his blood!”

            I felt my way over to the hamster cage on my desk and pried the lid off. Plucked my little guy out of his Habitrail and snuggled him to my chest. I dove back in bed, careful not to squish him in the process. I buried us both in my Mary Poppins sheets and tulip basket quilt. The air felt close so I carved out a tee tiny air hole near the wall.

            I stroked Houdini between the ears. But then my petting finger froze. “Oh, no!” I said. “The crack under the door!”

            I flung the bed clothes down again. Positioned Houdini on my pillow. Pointed at him. “Don’t move! I mean it!”

            I dug under my bed. “Where is it? I know it’s here somewhere!” 

            Found it! The beach towel I’d forgotten to give Mom to wash (last month). I crawled over to the door and stuffed it in the gap. The boy noise muted. Still, I could hear activity. The sound of it carried from the basement up through the ductwork. Wire hangers jangled on the coat rack bar.

             “They’re getting their winter coats on,” I whispered to Hou. “Bat fangs can’t penetrate parkas, you know.”

            I recognized the thump of snow boots on the furnace housing.

            “They have to protect their feet,” I said. “I can’t imagine a bat drinking my pinky toe blood, can you?”

            All of a sudden Dad’s voice boomed. “Men, don’t forget your gloves,” he said. “Don’t let any skin show. I guarantee those flying rats can smell exposed flesh.”

            No one spoke for a minute. I knew what they were doing though. See, this wasn’t the first bat invasion at one ten Green Oak Drive. It happened almost every year, usually during leaf-raking season. 

            I cupped Houdini in my hand. “I bet they’re putting paper grocery bags on their heads. They always do that. Hear that rippy sound? That's them tearing out eyeholes.”

            The noise shifted. To the metal shelves over by the fireplace. Clang!  Clank!

            “One for you,” Dad said. “And one for you. And here’s yours.”

            I rolled on my side and put Houdini next to my belly. “That’s Dad handing out tennis racquets. They’ll use ‘em to shoo the bats outside. Least, I hope they do. Oh, goodness. I better say a prayer for the bats.”

            I closed my eyes and put my hands together. “Dear God, I pray they only stun the little, grey guys and take them outside. Death isn’t really necessary, is it?”

            The house shook again as the boys ascended. Holly, our liver-and-white Heinz 57 pup, followed them through the kitchen, then the dining room, belting out a Beagle howl all the while. Out in the living room, the guys paused. A moment later I heard the whap of wood on wood.

            “Touche!” Mike crowed.

            “En guarde!” Geof countered.

            Someone threw open the front door with too much zeal. It cracked against the dining room archway. Dad took the Lord’s name in vain. Right before he blew Taps on his bugle.

            “Good golly,” I said. “He’s gonna wake the whole neighborhood!”

            “Women! Children! Abandon ship!”

            Don’t have to tell me twice. With Houdini clutched against my sternum, I sprinted out of my room. Dang it! I backtracked to grab the shades of blue zigzag afghan Mom made when she learned to crochet at the YWCA. When I got to the living room, I collided smackdab into her.

            “Move it, Mom,” I said. “Do you want to get rabies?”

            Mom didn’t seem to have the same urgency as the rest of us. She stopped to gather her cigarettes and silver lighter from the coffee table. Then she sipped at the dregs of Tab and melted ice in her topaz-colored juice glass. In her shiny satin housecoat with her hair wrapped around prickly rollers, she looked like a Lost in Space alien—“Danger Will Robinson!”

            Outside in the yard, Mom turned two lawn chairs to face the house. “We don’t want to miss this now, do we?” she said.

            I plopped into the chair on the left and she took the other one. I busied myself wrapping every inch of exposed flesh and hamster hair with blue afghan. Mom smacked her pack of cigarettes on the chaise lounge arm ‘til a butt peeked out. Flicked her other wrist to open her lighter. Rolled her thumb down the little wheel. A flame sprang up, a tiny bright teardrop in the night. I inhaled through my nose. I know cigarettes cause cancer but I love their fragrance in the moment right after they catch fire.  Mom sucked in until she could hold no more, then she huffed out little grey halos.  I watched her mouth go from flat line to smile.

            We were out there a good half hour while the guys raced up and down the stairs, whooping and hollering. At the bottom of the steps Dad gave orders.   

            “Men! Watch out! There’s one above your heads. Swat it! Shoo it! Someone open the door! Dagnabbit, Michael! Geoffrey! Whichever boy you are! Get out of the way!”

            Mom moved her head side to side so her smoke stream made an 's.' “Hear that? That’s his Navy voice.”

            I squinted and listened close but he sounded like plain ole Dad to me. I leaned back and shut my eyes. Maybe I can catch a nap. A minute later Mom tapped my wrist. Nodded to the wall over to her right. I held my breath as I saw movement in the shadows. Slowly, elegantly, our cat Ginger emerged from the darkness.

            Mom dropped her non-cigarette hand into the grass.  Snapped her fingers.

“Here, kitty, kitty. Come on, girl.”

            Ginger slunk over then sprang into Mom’s lap. I watched as Mom smoothed her white, black, and pumpkin fur. Then I screamed. Mom jumped up and Ginger went flying with a yowl.

            Mom turned and glared at me. “What?”

            I pointed a shaky finger at Ginger’s face. Ginger opened her mouth and deposited something, a small furry grey something, onto the sidewalk beside Mom’s chair. It didn’t move. Awww!

            I covered Houdini with my hand. “Don’t look, sweet boy.”

            Without flinching, Mom cleared her throat. “Yoo hoo! Oh, men,” she said. She waved her cigarette hand. The little orange beacon bobbed.

            The guys all gathered out on the porch. “What?” Dad said. His voice had a snarl in it.

            Mom nudged the little dead guy with her slippered toe. “Looks like Ginger did your job for you.”

            The boys came down the steps and into the dew-dropped grass. “Aw, man!" John said. "She killed it before we did.”

            Dad took the paper bag off his head and used the bell of his bugle to sweep the little grey guy into it.

            “All right then,” he said. “Our job is done here. Men, escort the women back inside.”

            Mom tucked her arm into the loop of Mike’s.  She glanced back at me and winked.

            “I feel so safe having all these big, strong men in the house, don’t you?”

            I rubbed Houdini’s soft warm flank against my cheek. “Actually, I feel safe having Ginger around,” I said.

            Back in my room, I returned Houdini to his Habitrail. Put the lid on and draped the cage with the beach towel that needed washed.  Just in case. Then I crawled back into bed and carefully tucked myself in until all that showed was my forehead and eyes. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. At the Kentucky Derby. With Ginger and the gang.

Playing Favorites

I follow Mom out to our car.  When we're both in and buckled, she glances at me in the rearview mirror.

            “We’re not going to stay long,” she says. “Maybe five minutes. He’s bound to be exhausted.”

            I nod, blow on the window, and draw a smiley face in the condensation. Then I sit back and consider how the five minute visit might play out.

            I want to show him how much I love him. How much I miss him, even though it’s only been a week. A void happens when seven days pass without someone you're used to seeing every day. Feels like there’s an empty bucket in my belly. And it’s blue.

            My plan is to show him my fingernails. How I stopped biting them. Just for him. I haven’t nibbled all week. They don’t yet touch the tips of my fingers, but I painted them anyway. Borrowed Mom’s Avon polish—Peppy Poppy—without asking her. The color reminds me of the cherry hardshell coating you can get on your twisty cone at the Dairy King on Route 60. I lick them. To see if maybe they taste like-- Naw. They're bitter. Chemically. Shiny though.

            Hopefully, Mom'll leave us alone. In the hospital room. So I can hiss to John, “I hate them.” The boys who did this. Because of them, I’ll never sit behind him on his motorbike again. My arms strapped around his midsection. My cheek flush with his shoulder blade. I never really felt safe there and where I hadn’t had a tangible excuse before (besides I’m chicken), now I do.

            ~~~

A week ago, a whole car, a Lincoln Continental, had slammed into John and his Honda. Tossed them both into the air—him left, the bike right. When I picture it in my mind’s eye, I imagine he bounces, then falls back to earth. The black top receives him none too gently.

            The Lincoln was stolen. The driver ignored the red light. All the guys in the car were drunk. High too.

~~~

I change my mind. I'm not going to hiss. I intend to yell.

            “I hate those boys!” Maybe even, “I wish they were dead!”

            My mad words'll ricochet off the almost pistachio green walls (or will they be make-you-squint-bright-white?) and he’ll be satisfied. John will. That I'm on his side. When ninety per cent of the time, I'm nothing but a pain in his butt. That’s how he always introduces me. Never, “This is my little sister.” Instead he usually says, "Her? She's just a pain in my butt. That’s all.”

            After “I hate them,” I 'll say, “It’s too bad.” That he won’t get to do his Steve Martin imitation at his high school's talent show. Not too long ago I’d stood outside his bedroom door, my face smooshed to the wall just out of sight, while he practiced in the mirror. I peeked in and saw him flop a pillow case on his head. He watched himself sing. “King Tut, Tut. Funky Tut, Tut.” I stole another look. Giggled into my hand as he shimmied and crowed. “I’m just one wild and crazy guy.”

            When he finished, I pounced through the doorway with a grin. “You’re the funniest guy ever! For real! They’re gonna love you.”

            That earned me a beating. For being a spy.

            Maybe I’ll apologize too. For the whipping he’d taken that night on account of me. And for all the other times. More than once I’d lied. To my dad. I told the truth that night, but I didn’t always. Sometimes I squealed just because. Truth or no, it didn’t matter. Daddy believed me without fail. For no other reason than I was the only daughter, the youngest child.

            Dad’s face would get super red, especially his nose, and his eyes would go all squinty.

             “How could you do that? She’s just a little girl for crying out loud.”

            John would glare at me. Mouth two words. “Spoiled brat.” That was his favorite thing to throw at me. Besides a fist.

            Whenever I tattled, Dad would grab John in a Vulcan nerve pinch and steer him to another room. In the minute before I heard the siss of Dad’s belt speeding out of its constraints, I’d grin. Snicker. Enjoy a certain satisfaction. But when the thwack sounded--cow skin on boy butt--I winced. Regretted. Power didn’t seem so cool then.

            ~~~

John isn't my only brother, but for some reason, I like him best. I have no idea why. He did, after all, try to kill me once. On the chocolate milk-colored sofa in the basement. After I told him no way he was going to my ninth grade prom. He was too old (two years and three months my senior) and besides, it was my school dance, not his. And did he not know what Tammy Carter did with Joey Howard behind the Convenient Mart? Did he really want to go out with a girl like that?

            He launched at me, hands all T-rex clawed, his metal mouth gleaming through a froth. Crammed my head into the arm of the couch. Choked me until I saw stars, then nothing.

            “Mom,” I yelled after I came to. “John tried to murder me. I blacked out. I’m serious.”

            She didn’t answer. Turned out, she was out back picking zinnias and cherry tomatoes.

            ~~~

I think maybe John and I are like Dad and our cat, Ginger. Dad's forever grouching about what a nuisance she is. All the time honking into the handkerchief he keeps in his front pant's pocket.

            “That blankety blank cat is single-handedly making Benadryl rich.”

            Whenever Ginger perches on the sill outside the living room window, I take the screen off and let her in. Not Dad. He talks to her real nice so she thinks maybe—Then schwing! He cranks the window open super fast and she goes flying into the yard with a yowl.

             And when she sits by the front door, daintily grooming her pumpkin paws, Dad'll stroll up to her and point to his Hush Puppy oxford.

            “Here, kitty, kitty. Let me introduce you to the number nine shoe. I don’t believe you all have met.”

            Once again, she goes flying. With a yowl.

            Ginger loves Daddy anyway. She arches her back under his hand whenever he falls asleep in his Ethan Allen wing chair during the nightly news. She's not stupid though. When he's awake, she holes up under his chair, her twitching tail the only evidence of her presence.
            I think he must like her a tiny bit because one time I saw him give her an empty tuna can to lick. When he thought no one was looking.

            So, yeah. Ginger's just like me. Wants to be around the person who likes her least. Is okay with getting one pat on the back for every hundred times she goes flying with a yowl. Doesn’t make a lick of sense, but she doesn’t care and neither do I.

            I pull out the picture I brought of Ginger. To show John. In case he misses her.

            ~~~

On the elevator Mom tells me John's right arm will be in a sling and his left leg will be casted and in a pulley gizmo over his bed. I roll my eyes. I know, Mom. You’ve said that  a hundred times this week.

            “He may be out of it,” she says. “What with the pain meds and all.”

            My lower lip pushes forward. “I sure hope not.” I glance at my hands. “I want him to see my manicure.” Want him to hear me say, I hate them. And, I’m sorry. And maybe if Mom leaves the room, I’ll grip the side rail of his bed and lean close. "Don't tell anybody," I'll whisper. “But you’re my favorite brother.” Then I'll watch his face, especially his mouth. To see if maybe, just maybe, he'll say . . .

Are We There Yet?

It always took forever and a day to get to Granny and Grandad's.  Know why?  'Cause my dad drove so daggone slow!  Do you have any idea how long it takes to get the 45 miles between Huntington and Charleston, West Virginia, when you drive 45 miles an hour?  Darn tootin' it takes an hour!  And that's if no one got car sick.  Whenever that happened, we always had to pull over and let whoever barf in the designated coffee can.

My three older brothers and I tried to make the time go faster.  We’d play the Alphabet Game or Bury the Cows, but it didn't help much.  Even though the big, green "Stink Bridge" outside of St. Albans smelled worse than the container of ham salad my brothers tried to make into catfish bait, we were always glad to see it. 

"Won't be long now."

Granny and Grandad lived on Swarthmore Avenue in Charleston.  The turn into their driveway was tight.  I always closed my eyes and waited for the scrench of Buick Skylark bumper on metal fence post.  Miraculously, it never came.

When I opened my eyes, there was Tara, or what I imagined Tara looked like, before I saw Gone with the Wind.  If you looked at the house from the driveway, it was pretty ordinary, just a larger than average, brick Cape Cod.  But if you walked around to the front, it did a presto change-o into a mansion, thanks to the semi-circular appendage that was more veranda than porch.  What made it truly grand though, was the presence of four white columns that supported the porch roof.  I'd hang onto a column and do a skippy dance around it, leaning out like half an 'x.'

Someone would always shout, "Last one in is a rotten egg." Twenty seconds later we'd be inside the house, lined up like the von Trapp kids, for Granny kisses.

"Go see your Grandad," she'd say as she swatted each of us on the behind. 

Grandad was usually in a suit and most times we found him in the living room, reading The Charleston Gazette.  He'd pound each boy on the back and say, "How much do you weigh, son?"  We spent many an hour speculating why he always asked that.  Then he'd pull me onto his lap, and my feet would dangle over his shiny wingtips as he scraped his face against mine.  I don't think he shaved on Sundays 'cause his face always felt like 80 grit sandpaper. 

I remember his breath the most because it was what I dreaded most.  If I had to say which smelled worse, the Stink Bridge or Grandad's breath, I don't know if I could.  I've smelled that odor a couple times since.  It's a cross between unflossed teeth and stale coffee.    I reckon it could've been worse--if he licked an ashtray or ate a chili dog with onions.  I have always been a faithful flosser, thanks to Grandad.

On the other end of the smell spectrum was Granny's rump roast.  It was to drool for.   When I heard the oven timer buzz, I'd hightail it into the kitchen.  If she was in a good mood, she'd let me chew on the roast beef strings.

Granny always carried the roast platter into the gymnasium-sized dining room with much pomp and circumstance.  She was a very good cook, and she knew it.  We'd eat off delicate, white with gold trim china plates, even it it wasn't a holiday.   

My brothers and I would make mashed potato dams and flood 'em with Granny gravy that was more au jus than gravy.  The boys and I would wolf down firsts, seconds, and thirds, as fast as possible in order to get to the best place ever.


The attic was the best place ever because my grandparents lived through the Great Depression.  When you live through a depression, you save stuff.

There were hundreds of books up there.  I liked to sit on the old brass bed, under a quilt, and read the first pages of as many books as possible.  I wanted to see if any of them were interesting.  They never were.  I mean, what story in a super old book could measure up to the adventures of Nancy Drew or Alec Ramsay and his big, black stallion? 

The boys would root through scads of military uniforms and paraphernalia.  Dad had four brothers, so there was lots of both.  I'm pretty sure my brothers were looking for guns.  Boys like guns.  My brother, John, could make the best machine gun noise ever.  Hold your mouth like you're gonna blow a bubble and say to-to-to-to super fast.  I don't know why, but it always sounds better when it comes from a boy mouth.

When my brothers weren't around, I'd hold Granny's evening dresses in front of me and look in the giant mirror, tilted against the wall.  I'd rub my cheek against the satin lapel of Grandad's tuxedo and inhale the sharp scent of moth balls.  They must be important to wear these super nice clothes.  

One time I asked Granny about her fancy dresses.  "You can't look like a tramp when you visit the Greenbrier, you know." She told me that as  she gave her hair a hundred brushstrokes.  I nodded like I understood.

One day I found four unopened boxes under the brass bed in the attic. 

"It's probably beans," one of my brothers said.  "They ate a lot of beans during the Depression."  

I found a pearl-handled knife and sawed through the stringy packing tape.  All four boxes were full of Estee Lauder beauty cream.  My brothers couldn't believe it. 

"I was sure it'd be food," one of 'em said.  

I knew why it wasn't canned goods.  Granny stockpiled beauty cream in case Mrs. Lauder stopped making it.  Granny loved her country, but she didn't want to stop being pretty on account of the war.  


It always made me sad when Mom or Dad called upstairs.  Sometimes they wanted us to come down for a bowl of Valley Bell Ice Cream, but more often than not, it was  time to go.  

Sadder still was the day 20 years later when my dad called.  I lived in Cincinnati, Ohio at the time.  

"They've got a dumpster pulled up to Granny's house.  They're throwing everything out but furniture, china, and silver." 

My bottom lip came out, and I slumped over on the sofa.

"Gosh, Dad," I said.  "Why didn't you tell me sooner?  It's not like I live 45 minutes away, you know."

All in the Family

My oldest brother put his hand on my shoulder.  “Want my paper route?  Since I leave for college in August?”

I nibbled a fingernail.  Regular spending money ("The tips are great!")?  Something to do besides watch Gilligan’s Island every afternoon, Monday through Friday?

I grinned.  “Sure.”

“Fold the left side over two to three inches,” he said.  “Crease it.  Then roll the right side toward it and tuck it inside.”

My brother, Mike, stood at the curb and tossed the paper roll onto Mr. Waugh’s porch.  I whistled in admiration.

He gave me a thumb’s up.  “Rubber bands and plastic bags are for sissies.”

He took the big canvas bag with the wide, bright orange strap off his shoulder and held it out to me. 

“You carry it.  So you get used to it.”

Two weeks later he left. For Concord College. 

“Can I talk to Mike?” I asked Dad when he made the usual Sunday night phone call.

Dad handed me the phone.

“How often do you miss Ms. Thorn’s paper box?”  I said.

Mrs. Thorn lived on North Queens Court.  She had at least eight dogs.  Eight dogs and their poo piles.  And the reek of their poo piles.  There was a chain link fence all around her yard.  You had to throw the paper into a two foot by two foot box on her porch, so the dogs wouldn’t shred it.  If you missed, you had to go into the yard and fetch it.  The dogs weren’t mean, you just had to navigate your way through the poo pile landmines and the gauntlet of wagging tails.  I’d pet the pups with one hand and pinch my nose with the other.

“Can I talk to Mike again?” I said to Dad the next Sunday.

He held out the phone.

“Guess what, Mike?  Mr. Perkins on Green Oak Drive said he’ll give me his antique Karmann Ghia, the robin’s egg blue one, not the Atomic Fireball red one, when I grow up.”

Mike huffed.  “Don’t believe it for a second.”

I stuck my lip out.  “Really? 'Cause I love it.  He says when I get my license—“

“Does he hold your hand a long time when he pays you?”

My eyebrows went up.  “How’d you know?”

“Be careful with him, okay?” my brother said.  “Maybe take someone with you when you collect money.  Promise?”

In the summertime, on really hot days, Mrs. Fitzgerald always let me spray myself with her garden hose.

“That’ll cool you off,” she’d say. 

When it was super muggy she’d offer me a glass of iced tea and we’d chat in the breezeway between her house and garage.  Then I’d cut through her yard to get over to Locust Street.  Four boys lived in the house behind hers.  

“Woo hoo!” the youngest one always said.  “Wet t-shirt.  I like it.”

He wouldn’t say that if his mom was on the porch.  Sometimes in the fall she’d give me an old Big Bear bag.

“Get you some chestnuts, honey.  I know how you love them.”

I usually gave her a free newspaper.  She always tried to pay me for it. 

“Don’t worry about it,” I’d say.  “They always put one extra in my bundle.”

“Hey, Dad,” I said.  “Let me tell Mike about the dogs that attacked Holly last week.”

Mike growled.  “The black and white Great Danes over on Linden Circle?"

"Yeah.  How'd you know?  The lady came outside to write her check, but she didn't shut the screen door good.  The dogs tore out of the house, and they were on Holly like rice at a wedding."

Holly was our Heinz-57-mostly-Beagle dog.

I heard Mike inhale through his nose.  “How’s Holly?”

“Her tail might be broke, but she’s okay.  I beat the tar out of 'em with rolled up newspapers, and they backed off. I think the lady felt bad 'cause she gave me a five dollar tip.”

“Cool.”

“You calling Mike tonight?” I asked Dad.

He dialed and pressed the phone into my palm.

“I busted my lip on the route on Friday,” I told Mike.

“How?”

“You know the last house on the route?  At the bottom of Locust, before Norway Avenue?  And how there’s that bent over fence in between it and the house next door?”

“Yeah.”

“I pretended like I was a horse jumping it, but my foot got hung on the lip of it.  I busted my knees to beat all, and my hips are black and blue now."

Mike groaned.  “Bummer.”

“Oh, that’s not the worst part,” I said.  “My bottom teeth went through my lower lip. Mom thought I might need stitches, but I talked her out of going to the emergency room.  I hate needles.”

“You’re doing a great job with my route, you know,” my big brother said.  “I’m proud of you.”

I handed the phone back to my dad.  Wrapped my arms around my belly and smiled.

I kept the paper route for years.  Blew pretty much all my profits on Certs, candy cigarettes, and wax lips at the Convenient Mart.  Mr. Perkins never did give me the cute blue Kharmann Ghia.  His wife gave him a divorce though.

Then one day John, another one of my big brothers, said, “Want my job?  At Biscuit World?  Since I’m starting Marshall soon?”

I tapped at my front teeth with my fingernail.  A weekly paycheck?  Air conditioning?  All the made-from-scratch-biscuits you can eat?

I grinned.  “Sure!”