Candy Is My Favorite Poison

New Life

2011-01-12T11:58:00.000-08:00

I have a new life. I live in a lovely apartment which faces east and I wake with the sun in my face. It is peaceful as there are woods called Deer Run, there are several such runs through Long island. I have thus far seen two deer and many rabbits and though this is not a farm land we have a family of turkeys who on occasion rule our traffic. It is sweet. Two foxes have passed by my window, one in the bush of the woods another this morning its thin red coat prancing through the expansive yard in the deep snow blanket to which we awoke. What joy to see nature up close. I have permanently left my old cheap opera glasses on my desk so I can follow the creatures as they emerge.

My last car supported my comings and goings for almost 22 years. My new silver hatchback will do the same I hope. I talk to my cars, they know that they are loved, just like my kids and my cats and my friends.
I am hustling to get a job. The money received for the sale of the house must be put away to let it grow. Doesn’t sound quite right, just leaving it there all by itself. We could have so much fun together!

At least fifteen inches of snow fell out here in eastern Long Island last night. Yet, when I went to clean off my car it was a joy. I keep a shovel in the car and an adjustable broom. All I had to do was shovel two feet into the road. What a difference from when I started shoveling at midnight and kept going through the night to keep my 50 foot driveway cleared.

Life had changed. In some ways it is good. Call me grandma! Of course MY granddaughter is the most beautiful child in the world. And, I expect that my other daughter is going to marry a man she has known for over twenty years: a widower. Then I will have three granddaughters!

And I have discovered that I have a terminal disease.
It is called life.

checkin out for a while

2010-02-19T17:35:00.000-08:00

Packin, movin, and settin up! I'll write when I am settled. Be well!

New Blog

2010-02-12T10:41:00.000-08:00

Please visit my new blog:

http://hailsfromthebronx.blogspot.com/

This blog is reserved for my biographical stuff and my attempts at creative writing.

If you have been a follower you will recognize some old pieces-am trying to bunch things together.

Hope you stop by!

Thanks
Sugar

The last snow

2010-02-10T14:55:00.001-08:00

I believe that it is safe to say that this will be the last blizzard I will see while living in this house. I have shoveled five times since 7 am this morning. It is now 5 pm. Yea, I know the blog time is ALWAYS wrong. I gave up on that years ago.

The trees are snow encrusted looking like floppy angles wings. But real heavy. I thought of putting up a picture but nothing could touch the beauty of this place for me now.

My arms are not too bad but my shoulders are killing me. My ribs are wrapped up due to sustaining several broken ribs a few weeks ago. That was supposed to be gone by now but I guess Mother Nature doesn’t know the six week rule. Not being the fragile type I just keep shoveling. It’s only three or four inches at a time and I have been doing this since 1987 generally on my own so I am used to it. Kind of makes me feel like a senior version of Super Woman whizzing through 125 feet of the front sidewalk.

I am actually kind of tearful. I have mowed this land, hand sawed branches, felled trees with an axe-no I am not a butch-I am the frilly type. But I was a daddy’s’ girl and when my dad died I inherited his ability to fix things, figure things out, paint, (I have painted this house several times on my own) mow, chop and……

I was going to buy a house but must move out so soon that there is just no time. Where will all of these wonderful talents go to if I am in a mere apartment? How will I honor my dad’s gifts?

Just needed to blow off some steam. The real blizzard is yet to come. We will not be clear until 6am on Thursday. I am drying my cloths on ladders, five feet of boxed books and lamps that are awaiting their new shades upon entering our new residence.

During the summer I bitched and moaned about mowing this gigantic piece of property and ordinarily I would be bitching and moaning about the snow but I now realize what I wonderful vehicle of physical strength this property has been for me all of these years.

I hope all of you fair well during this event. Try to enjoy it-be grateful that you have what it takes to do it. I am.

2010-02-08T16:51:00.001-08:00

The house is SOLD!
Yup, can't believe it!

I am racing around looking for a new home. I also have plans for a new blog where I will publish the memories of a kid from the Bronx as well as my creative pieces.

I have not been very creative lately. I hope to get my juices going again when I settle in my new home.

It's all good!

2010-02-05T18:06:00.001-08:00

Lots going on but I am Italian and quite superstitious.

Serenity

2010-02-01T17:06:00.000-08:00

I walked along the ocean shore yesterday. Though only nine miles from the Atlantic I have not been there for too long a time. For years, I daily strolled along the magnificent shore with it's beige-white sand. The water was a crystal blue and the waves were uneven: Some were high, rough-white, ruffles of cream and lace.

In the past I arrived by six in the morning, even on the coldest days. I belonged to a club of diehards who never spoke and rarely nodded. The business at hand was different for each. Some whizzed by in their reserved bike lanes. Others sped by in their wheelchairs surpassing all others. If you want a definition of determination, look into the face of an athlete manually directing those wheels.

Though cold, the wind on my face was velvet and caressing. It was a coming home. There was pure peace, calm and serenity flowing through my being.

When blessed with such "peace that surpasseth understanding".
One is grateful!

Invictus

2010-01-29T05:57:00.000-08:00

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

Closer to Fine

2010-01-29T04:22:00.000-08:00

Read her map post-nuf said!

St. Joseph upside down

2010-01-27T10:23:00.000-08:00

Though I mentioned my prayer for release from the house and the visit from the spiritualist in my ‘house as spouse’ blog (Jan 7) I neglected to mentioned my St. Joseph adventure. See ‘a leave taking’ (Dec. 22, 2008).

In that 2008 blog I spoke of my friend’s suggestion that I bury a statue of St. Joseph in the yard to ensure a quick and profitable sale of the house.

St. Joseph is considered the Patron Saint of housing as he taught Jesus the skills of carpentry and always provided his family with a roof over their heads.

He is revered by Sicilians who believe it was his spiritual intervention that saved the Sicilian nation from famine by allowing the Fava bean crop to flourish.

Wonder if Dr. Hannibal Lecter knows about that!

I was visiting Marie in her new condo. When desperation took over she buried a statue of Saint Joseph head down in her yard. The house sold within a week so of course she suggested that I do the same!

No way was I going to bury a statue, upside down no less. Who does such a thing? Tell me!

My initial argument in the 2008 blog was that I was not comfortable with subjecting good old St. Joe to such an indignity. Well, I no longer had any qualms!

Marie went into her bedroom returning with a tiny effigy of St. Joe. “I want it back.” she said with solemnity. “Certainly.” I responded, successfully containing the smirk that was about to emerge on my face.

I have known this woman for 30 years and have never seen such gravity on her face.

I took the plastic statue home. It was a mere four inches long with quite sharp edges. His robes flowed in the traditional earth colors of brown and green. He held a long stalk of lilies which is the symbol of virginity. The earthly father-albeit the biological father of Jesus-I will leave that argument to those who are steeped in the da Vince code, of course, also securely held the infant.

When I returned home I sat and watched TV for a while while I tossed the little figure from palm to palm. This is madness I thought-I have my share of crazy beliefs and practices but……..

Would I actually do this? Head down no less!

It was dark and pouring out. I certainly wouldn’t do it tonight. Yet, there was less likelihood that anyone would see me burying the body. I laughed out loud.

I peeked outside the front door, the soil was getting drenched. I could slide it into the ground by using a cork screw motion after soup spooning a tunnel-like hole. Looking around the kitchen I choose a large narrow spoon and headed for the door when I realized that I had to return the statue to Marie. It would certainly suffer some weather damage if buried au naturale. It was well defined and at least some dirt would settle into its minute crevices.

Food wrap! I would wrap it to prevent any harm. I knew I had a roll that had a tiny remaining bit. Peeling the edge of the food wrap was a pain in the neck. I placed the tiny figure in the middle of the wrap to provide for full coverage. As I rolled it I flapped the remaining wrap over the head and feet as I would wrap any package. Hysteria resulted when I realized that the tiny remaining wrap amounted to about four feet. Think about it four feet of wrap!

When I finished the statue was unrecognizable. It could have been just about anything one might find in the freezer.

I thought that I might as well take advantage of the rain and with spoon in hand I headed for the door.

I didn’t want to mess up my cloths so I changed into a pair three-quarter gardening pants, an ancient pair of boots, a sweat shirt which I use for painting, a Yankee cap and as is my evening ritual my face was slathered in cream to ward off the ravages of age that run in my family. Though I probably looked like a derelict the only thing that really bothered me was the fact that my lower legs were bare and I was in need of a shave.

When I got to the front door I realized that I had done such a great job of wrapping that it was impossible to discern St. Josephs head from his feet! He had to be buried head down! Another detour! Back to the kitchen. I unwrapped the little icon looking from side to side as though protecting myself from the ridicule of anyone observing my inanity. I wrapped him again and used a freezer pen to mark the saint’s head. I knew I was sabotaging this adventure because it was going against my gut.

Always follow your gut!

The rain was coming in spurts. I eschewed any rain gear because the intended burial plot was just a foot to the side of the front door under some massive oaks.

I closed the front light and began my dig. All I needed was a mere six inches. I hit roots at two and was already soaking wet. Venturing to another spot was not any more productive. As I began my third dig I was shocked to see a bright light shine on the outside wall as I was facing the house.

“Stop, wait, put your hands up.” I was so startled that I fell face first into the mud which antagonized the cops even more. “Hey, you, I said stop, put your hands up and turn around slowly.” So I did. The mixture of cream and dirt irritated my face and I instinctively went to wipe it off while holding the spoon. “ Drop it, drop it now!” he shouted as he approached me aiming the flashlight directly into my eyes.

So, finally something for my astronomical taxes!

house as spouse

2010-01-07T10:43:00.001-08:00

This Tudor was built in 1929. The original eighty-year-old knotty mahogany door still guards the entrance and sometimes it's hard to even get it to open.

There is only one remaining intact area: my bedroom. It’s not the same: no longer feels like my home. Eighteen months and counting. Looks more like a warehouse of some kind. Boxes line the walls. They are not large boxes no forklifts are needed, just a few hefty guys. Chinese chairs, which were antiques 45 years ago, are wrapped in old sheets and tightly held by wide duck tape. They await the mover’s thick grey quilts. My beautiful oriental rugs are long gone. Rolled into totems resting in the corners of this exotic storehouse. Bare wood floors make the footsteps of my slight frame echo like a careless thief at night.

Only the largest paintings remain hanging-they will be packed at the last moment. Whenever that moment comes. There were so many near misses-near imminent sales, things sort of got packed, and then more things got packed in spurts. One of the two cash deals had me hurriedly packing my clothing in space bags. I felt like an executioner each time I sucked the air out of the plastic parcels rendering cloths, pillows, shawls, duvets, and jackets limp and melting their colors into Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I like the feel of them –they are hard little mounds. If you step away and take a glimpse, they look like miniature replicas of foreign terrains. Pathetic that I have a sense of accomplishment because the space bags worked as promised.

My real estate agent and I sat on the patio on a warm day last April. I was faithfully polishing furniture then and the hand carved Tibetan musicians still hung on the wall: a celestial orchestra that only God’s special creatures could hear. “I don’t feel you here anymore.” She said. I looked at her and smiled sadly. I knew what she meant. I had hoped to serenely leave the house but with at least some pangs of sorrow. That was nine months ago.

I sat down and wrote a letter of appreciation to the house. I thanked it for its solace and strength against the wind, rain and snow. I asked it’s forgiveness for my mismanagement of repairs. I asked it to let me go in peace, release me so another could revive it, live in it and again fill it with happiness.

I am now a mere boarder waiting for somebody-anybody to give me the ticket to move on. It’s like standing on an abandoned train platform waiting for a phantom train to come. The trains come full of promise, stop, then leave me abandoned. This is the twilight zone.

I had packed my books: left just a bunch without which I knew would be inconsolable if not within reach. Besides my bedroom, they are the only semblance of normalcy in this house. Even the linen closet was packed. At present, the same two sets of sheets are repeatedly used.

Life is stagnant. At times I realize that I am not breathing. The master bedroom is now the main abode for the cats and me. Nothing has changed in here. It is a desperate effort to pretend that I am living a normal life. The cats have many spots throughout the house that they commandeered through the years. Apart from an occasional swipe at a plastic flower that I dangle in front of her, the girl cat and her brother are inert. Now they lay at the foot of the bed as though they had been subjected to premature taxidermy.

I once had a penchant for luggage. I’ve done a good deal of traveling but no one needs that many luggage sets. The large ones stand hither and thither throughout the living and dining rooms, short, bulging polyester replicas of Stonehenge. They speak of my own enchanted past: the rituals into altered states, candles and humming bowls, and whispers emanating from the shadows cast on the stark white walls. They are like time machines. Lugging them, I crawled into different times and far off places leaving this house –always returning, it’s faithful spouse.

A spiritualist came in to cleanse the house and release any blocks to its sale. “This house is clean.” he joked. “If this doesn’t work use dynamite!” I smiled and felt my head shake imperceptibly, even he doesn't understand, I thought.

The stone foundation of the fireplace holds pieces of coral plucked by my stepfather from the bottom of the Aegean Sea, carefully-albeit illegally brought here from his native Greece sixty years ago. One of the few remaining pieces that adorn the wall is an ornately framed gold- thread Buddhist altar cloth. The cloth was a gift from a loved one way back from my ardent Zen days.

The couches are just sitting there covered with clothe that is stapled to the bottom strapping’s. A bunch of other stuff is strewn over them: photo albums, hand laundered Belgian lace table clothes , silk flowers, bubble wrap, two large porcelain bowls sans any protection-their real protection being their visibility, throw pillows that escaped the last space bag, a silver evening bag that a friend returned to me a few weeks ago.

It is cold out-feels like a meat locker in here. No matter how high up I put the heat it seems to disappear. No carpets or drapery to keep in the heat. As soon as the coziness permeates my body, I feel an icy chill. Where has the warmth gone? From where comes the frosty draft? It happens in any room I enter.

Leaving this house will now be easy after all of this trauma. That is, if it ever lets me go.

Happy New Year from Sugar and the Wolf

2009-12-31T12:05:00.001-08:00

crossing the pond

2009-12-13T16:46:00.001-08:00

just when things were getting better..........

2009-12-08T16:54:00.001-08:00

2009-12-06T15:50:00.001-08:00

rebirth

2009-12-05T15:43:00.001-08:00

i have become like a child-i see all anew.....

2009-12-02T15:33:00.001-08:00

2009-12-02T15:26:00.001-08:00

2009-12-02T15:21:00.001-08:00

2009-12-02T08:29:00.000-08:00

2009-12-01T12:29:00.001-08:00

2009-11-30T14:58:00.000-08:00

2009-11-29T16:05:00.001-08:00

FOLLOW THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

2009-11-28T16:25:00.000-08:00

2009-11-24T20:15:00.000-08:00

2009-11-22T17:44:00.000-08:00

2009-11-22T16:19:00.001-08:00

2009-11-19T20:13:00.000-08:00

one of my inner selves

2009-11-19T19:44:00.001-08:00

Searching for a new home

2009-09-26T07:26:00.000-07:00

can cause physical transformation!

A CHILD IS BORN

2009-09-19T07:18:00.000-07:00

dawn of a new life

2009-07-07T00:00:00.000-07:00

what is the universe saying?

2009-07-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

My wires are crossed, or at least SOMEBODY'S wires are crossed. I put an ad in Match.com. Last week I received eleven emails/winks from MEN!

Of course I contacted the powers that be and was repeatedly reassured that the problem had been fixed-but there I was at midnight Thursday and yet ANOTHER! MAN! Not half bad actually; tall, handsome and well educated.

But that ship sailed years ago.

I do not contact anyone. I figure if the universe has some wonderful woman for me, well, she will come.

Now the boys are outnumbering the girls. Eleven to one! I have a freakin football team!

The third representative was totally baffled. She kept repeating everything I already knew; everything I was complaining about.

"Why don't YOU try contacting some nice lady," asked the representative.

What was I supposed to say? That I was waiting for the universe?

"Well that won't really solve my problem will it?" I responded.

"Hmmm, I guess not."

By Friday late afternoon I had enough men for a football game-two freakin teams-so I called again.

I was finally told, with many apologies, that I had previously been misinformed. In fact anyone, men included, can read and respond!

Should I give the universe a push and help my process? Take a more active role?

I changed my profile. The first sentence reads, PLEASE NO MEN.

I am considering giving the universe a little kick.

Just how big is the universe's behind?

Or, should I just implore?

Or, should I quit!

for what it's worth # 8

2009-07-05T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Prayer of St Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred . . . let me sow love
Where there is injury . . . pardon
Where there is doubt . . . faith
Where there is despair . . .hope
Where there is darkness . . . light
Where there is sadness . . .joy
Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled . . .as to console
To be understood . . .as to understand,
To be loved . . . as to love
For it is in giving . . .that we receive,
It is in pardoning, that we are pardoned,
It is in dying . . .that we are born to eternal life

2009-07-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

Thinking

2009-07-02T07:17:00.001-07:00

I have been accused of thinking too much:
considering the consequences of my actions.

What do you do?

for what it's worth # 7

2009-06-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Universal Law of allowing

The Universal Law of Allowing means dropping all judgments and all emotional attachments to what others are, have, or do. This is quite different from being tolerant. Being tolerant is not liking what someone else is or does and holding emotion-laden, negative thoughts about them, but letting them be or do it any way. Practicing The Universal Law of Allowing requires granting to others the same rights you ask for yourself -- the right to be, have, and do whatever you choose. Here's one interpretation of that law:

I am that I am and You are that which You are. I accept, honor, and respect you as you are. I honor, allow, support, and respect your right to be who you are, do as you do, and have whatever you have. I honor your right to live your life as you choose, to worship God, or not, as you choose. I honor those same rights in me and call for you to do likewise.

I honor the Golden Rule, “Do onto others as they would be done onto” and call for you to do likewise. As long as you avoid violating others, violating the rights of others or destroying our collective environment, I will honor your right to be, do, have, express, and experience whatever you choose.

Here’s another way of expressing this law:

Love God, love your neighbor, and love yourself.

This concept may be vitally important because if the reincarnation belief system is correct, God, your neighbor and you are all one and the same thing.

Christian tradition has done well at teaching about love for God and your neighbor. Unfortunately, it has been a dismal failure at teaching people to love themselves, and as you may already know, if you don’t love yourself, your ability to love anything or anyone else is drastically reduced.

Some Expression of this Law: Most Buddhists are quite skilled at practicing this law. You might also notice that Buddhism is the only major religion that has never started a war.

You've probably also heard the Native American saying: Before you judge a man, you need to walk a mile in his moccasins."

Here is a way to practice the Law of Allowing: When you have an emotional reaction to someone else’s behavior, stop and tell yourself: "He (she) is neither good nor bad. I neither like him or dislike him. He just is. He's another human being doing the best he can. Given his conditioning, his beliefs, his circumstances, his present needs and desires, I’d probably be doing pretty much as he is."

one of my favorite inner selves

2009-06-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

new life

2009-06-23T06:03:00.000-07:00

I am grateful for the years that have passed
And now
For the years ahead
I have seen cycles of life and death
Rejoiced at the morning sun
And mourned when the rains
In my heart have come
I have had scared knowledge
Now
Divine
I have felt the power
To heal
Through the gift
The
Depths of compassion
I have been blessed with the ability to learn
To teach
Through the depth of gifted understanding
Through grace
I now have the power
To bring forth
A new and better time through grace
My heart is now
A womb to a new life
I have come far
Finding rest after the blood of war
I now see
A new chapter as wounds heal
My past and future
Transformed
I become now
A renewed channel
For self-love and respect
Appreciation for
Myriad gifts
Again, a doer of good
Again the receptor
The creator of joy
And, as this
Only the good
Come my way

a variation of marianne williamson's work

for what it's worth # 6

2009-06-21T00:00:00.000-07:00

Do not criticize yourself because in darkness you could not see.
When you find the light within you, you will know that you have always been in the center of wisdom. As you probe deeper into who you really are, with your lightedness and your confusion, with your angers, longings and distortions, you will find the true living God.

Then you will say: "I have known you all of my life and I have called you by many different names. I have called you mother and father and child. I have called you lover. I have called you sun and flowers. I have called you my heart. But I never until this moment, called you myself."

~Emmanuels Book

caption this

2009-06-19T16:00:00.000-07:00

A stay at the Point

2009-06-18T06:40:00.000-07:00

I had to finish this book. She was gone, three years in the making, she was gone, enough, I had to finish this book!

Five, seven days at the most? I do most of my writing at the beach. I often revise at home. I had to escape. I was losing my grip. Too many memories.

I’d get a bargain. It was the end of the season and the rates were cut. I could afford a week; hell, I deserved it!

I packed my books. I wanted to make sure that I had my original references with me. There is nothing more mind-bending then the need to look up that one little fact in that one single book that you neglected to bring. Writers are like that you know, it goes beyond having a magical number of sharpened pencils: we’ve got all sorts of hang-ups. I am unusual in that I can write just about anywhere. However, my books are my security blanket.

It was Sunday, with the weekend over; I knew by the time I arrived I’d have my pick of the myriad motels that sprawled throughout the famous hamlet, which is the main tourist attraction of Long Island. The Montauk Lighthouse was the first to be built in New York. It started lighting the way in 1797. Its name is derived from an Algonquin speaking Native American tribe, the Montaukett.

There was actually a small bit about Montauk Point in the book that I was trying to finish. I hadn't been to Montauk since Joya and I had stayed there several years earlier. We were the main characters of the book. Should I let them die in peace or let them live to destroy each other yet, again?

Big decision!

I drove close to the tip of the Point and stopped at the motel where we had stayed. It was fresher looking: obviously some improvements. And busy! Folks leaving, heading for the city: The workweek started the next day.

"Take your pick,” he said. “Just give us a few minutes. Got to dust and stuff and all,” he turned around and opened the small fridge behind him. “A drink?” he asked then stepped aside so I could see its contents.

“Sure, a diet coke please.”

"I guess you have rooms in the main house?" I thought if I stayed in the room Joya and I had shared, it would help me resolve some creative issues.

"No, closed, closed."

I gave him a questioning look.

“Yea, today, today. Hey I'm only lettin you in cause you're cute!”

I laughed and gave him a wrinkled nose and a smile. But in truth, I wanted to slug him.

He handed me the coke as he handed a sheet to a young man. “Lady says she got a bag with books in it, a big bag, mind taking it up?”

“Sure,” said the thin, prematurely bald young man.

“Thanks JJ.”

“Where to?” asked JJ.

“Gee, I don’t know but my lucky number is three. May I have three?” I asked the manager. “Sure.” he said. “The place is yours.”

“Lucky for me,” said JJ. Three is right at the top of the stairs. I mean since your bag is so heavy, show me." He stretched his head over the throng of cars. "Suite #1 is on the corner you see,” he said as he extended his arm. “They have the end suite, the wrap-around balcony, and 2 is right next to you. And number 4 on the other side.”

He grabbed the bag containing the books out of the trunk. “Not so heavy,” he said with false bravado.

There were at least forty books in that thing along with eight revisions. I wasn't taking any chances. I had everything that had anything to do with that book in my possession: I was going to finish the damn thing if it killed me.

“Do you mind, I mean, you can sit out on the balcony while the sheets are changed and the suite is vacuumed? The lounge in the big house is closed. Is that OK?”

“Oh, sure JJ."

I poked my head in the bathroom and found a young woman sealing the toilet with a fresh ‘welcome’ tape, proof that it had been disinfected. We smiled at each other. “There are your towels,” she said as she nodded toward the built-in shelf.

“I’ll bring up the other bag," said JJ.

“OK thanks.”

I sat on the balcony with the Atlantic Ocean only a hundred feet away. I drank my coke while I was plotting the end of the book and observed the semi-circle of balconies to my left being searched for lost toys and misplaced sunglasses. I could not see the first half dozen as there was a privacy wall up at the end of each balcony but as the semi-circle widened I could see the last few suites maybe 20 balconies away.

The place was noisy but everyone was packing up and I figured that it would calm down soon enough because if anyone left later than this it would be bumper-to-bumper going back to New York. These people knew the ropes. They had their trip timed.

“OK-your other bag is next to the bed,” said JJ as he poked his head out the balcony door.

“Thanks. Any chance of not having someone next to me?”

“Need quiet?”

“Yes. Is it too late to change?”

“No, I promise," he said with a big smile, "no one will be on either side of you for sure. Lots a rooms –the season and all. You won’t be disturbed, no noise, no nothing, no people at all!"

Quite reassuring! When I say I don't want noise, I don't want noise. I was going to pretend that this was my private ocean villa. Just pretend that no one else existed.

I closed the sliding door as she vacuumed and I peeked through the glass as she fixed the bed-she was quite meticulous-had real pride in her work. When she was finished, she knocked on the glass door of the balcony and motioned for me to come in and observe her work.

“This looks lovely, thanks, what’s your name?”

“Jean and I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Jean, please don’t bother. I will have the ‘do not disturb’ sign out the whole week. I have very strange sleeping habits.”

“But the bed and fresh towels,” she protested.

“I don’t need the bed fixed thanks. I am in and out of bed all day, just to change position/location. I move the computer around like it’s a part of my body. It’s really an umbilical cord.” I chuckled.

A wary look came my way. “However,” I continued, attempting to regain my dignity, “if you’d bring me a week’s supply of towels I would be most grateful and then you can basically forget about me. I’ll be okay. There’s no rush, anytime today is fine. I am going out to buy food to stock the fridge so I don’t have to leave the room for the week.”

"You are staying the week?" Her eyebrows crunched.

"Yes," I answered wondering why she was surprised.

"The boss, he knows?" Another crunch.

I smiled and nodded yes.

When she left I got a smile with an, ‘I wonder what you are up to’ look.

Upon returning, I was pleased to find a mound of beach, bath, hand and face towels on my bed. She forgot the soap, but that was OK because I always traveled with my own.

I moved the desk from the corner so it would face the ocean through the glass doors. The sunscreen automatically went outside on the balcony table. It would stay there until I headed back west. The bag with all the books lay open on the floor next to the desk. I had an idea, something was stirring in my head, and I had to write it down.

I unpacked my computer and got connected and worked for five straight hours except for using the bathroom, snacking on pretzels and drinking coke. When I finally looked up, the room was bathed in a dusky glow and the ocean was a white rush coming towards me.

Something was off, there was a shaft of light. I got up and turned to face the entrance. I hadn't noticed it before. The outside door to my suite was glass, a thick frosted glass. I had never seen that before in any motel. Frosted: you coundn't see in. However, I didn't like the fact that the bright light at the top of the stairs shone directly into my room. I could clearly see the shadow of the large fire extinguisher that hung on the left side of the wall outside my room.

When I want light-I want light. When I want dark-when I turn the light off-I want dark!

I liked the room. I felt like I could write there. However, I didn't want the light behind me radiating onto the chrome of the balcony glass door in front of me. Confession: writers are crazy people.

It wasn't a great night‘s sleep because I woke up at least three times with a couple of ideas and revisions. Once when I went to the bathroom I was scared silly as there was the shadow of a tall kid with a ball at my door. I figured they had arrived late and hoped that they wouldn't end up next to me. He was still there when I came out of the bathroom, kind of still, waiting for his family I guessed. He had momentarily turned and was facing my door. Kids can be so weird and unmannerly sometimes.

I wanted to shout, "get lost," but I didn't want to scare him.

I went back to bed. After ten minutes I got up to see if my visitor was gone. Good! My bed was against the wall with the door out of sight. However, as I lay down I could see the light, a laser crossing the room pointing to the ocean. I would know if I were in trouble because the light would flicker.

Room change! Next day! No more top of the stairs stuff!

Just as I had made the decision, I got spooked because I heard some music. I recognized it. It wasn't loud but it was creepy because it sounded like it was coming from the four walls of the room. Too many candy bars, overwork, sushi? Time for a ‘sleeping remedy’!

I finally rolled out of bed at around noon, showered and headed down to the office. As I descended the stairs, I looked around, sure enough, all of the rooms had thick frosted doors. Should I bother?

A subdued hoot came out of my mouth when I saw the empty parking lot. It would be quiet. Families were already out for the day. Only a few people would come during the week: retired persons, maybe a young mom with her kids. The season was over.

The office was closed but it was lunchtime and I figured people had a right to eat. Besides, I had the whole day.

I took a walk along the shore before shutting myself in for the day. Nothing like having the ocean to yourself! As I walked up the path a car pulled away from the office leaving my old wreck basking in the sun. In any case, I was I no mood to pack up and move. Ideas were popping out of my fingertips.

I worked for hours. A real high. Ate my way through chips and dip, cookies and a Three Musketeers bar. I had even found a deli with fresh sushi. You can find just about anything in Montauk, it can be high end.

The night had gone from cool to cold. This was a perfect time to come to the Point: warm sunny afternoons and cool nights with stars scattered about in brilliant clarity. I sat on the edge of the bed with the balcony door wide open and the heat as high as the dial would go. The beach shore was black and desolate. I undressed, stood naked at the balcony entrance feeling the cold on my nipples, but incredibly my body felt warm as the heater blanketed my back like a fine layer of fur. It’s hum and the Gregorian chant emanating from my laptop mesmerized me.

Only blackness, surf, chants, and stars prevailed.

However, the sleep ahead would again prove restless. Dreams of fierce lightning, enormous waves, grave thunderstorms that would be responsible for shipwrecks and for death, caused me to wake in sweat and anxiety.

I awoke to the music again, it was hardly discernible but I could hear a voice this time, a male voice. Concentrating on the sound I thought I saw the light stream flutter, I jumped out of bed. But there was no figure outside the door. Writer’s imagination! Nevertheless, just in case, I coughed aloud, banged the bathroom door, and then freely acknowledged my lunacy.

The next day I drove to the famous lighthouse at the farthest end of Long Island. There were still some tourists at the beach side and restaurant. Few people spoke without foreign accents. I stood at the ocean’s shore; its calmness was deceiving. When I looked to the right, I saw the waves hit heavily up the rock formations at the base of the lighthouse, leaving white foam, which rapidly disappeared as the bubbles burst in sightless succession. I headed to the lighthouse, walked through the museum and took in some history.

Suddenly, the wind sped up and it began to rain furiously. This was wonderfully fortuitous. The motel was a eight-minute drive away; getting soaked would not be a problem when the warmth of my room was an immediate surety. What could surpass being on the top of a cliff at the ocean’s edge in a furious storm? I fought the wind and rain to the back edge of the point and was barely able to maintain my balance along with several other sightseers. We all stood in front of a statue of a fisherman commemorating the men who had died in the waters below. The last to die here was as recent as 1978. How surprising-modern times! No wonder I had dreamt of shipwrecks the night before.

However, no one would invade my privacy tonight. The night began to pass differently from the prior evening. A sense of peace permeated the air. The slumber was all encompassing. Though I was dreaming, I had an awareness of breathing with contentment under the ocean’s surface as the water entered my lungs and escaped with ease.

Such wonder! Each breath took me deeper and deeper. A blanket of the ocean’s volume weighed heavily down upon my body. What an incomparable comfort, being cradled in its warmth, in a tailspin, happily plunging into the depths of the origin of creation. Colors swirled in front of me causing my eyes to widen in appreciation of the unknown species. Taking in the beautiful nectar, hearing the mellifluous fins against the froth, I became one of the new species. My body was now a jagged coral, receptive to the flow between her portals.

Suddenly I began to suffocate, consuming arms, legs, fingers, hair, and teeth. Death was imminent; I fought desperately then bolted up in bed. As I longed for air, tossing my limp, soaking hair from side to side while clutching the bed covers and slowly recovering, I raised my head with my chin jutting into space grasping the air like a hungry viper. My eyes broadened with my mouth in a soundless gasp and my heart stopped.

The light was moving rapidly as though a hundred people were passing in front of my door and suddenly I could heard the words to the song, it was a favorite of Joya’s, an ancient song. I leaped out of the bed to the door and found the light undisturbed, yet in my abject fear I yelled at the door “Go away, go away. I have a gun and I am calling the manager.”

Surely, I was losing my mind!

I sat on the edge of the bed with my face in my hands. I could not get the song out of my head, it was!‘You, you’re driving me crazy’. They played it over and over. Crazy people!

There were no lights at the end of the balconies to the right or left. It was midnight. Everyone was in bed behind closed doors. There was overcast. I could hear the ocean and its rhythmic swish but I could not see anything but a black haze over the sand. What a shame. I wanted to see it once more, but, there was no way I was staying here another night. I started packing before I went to bed.

"Lucky you caught me," said JJ, wiping up some hot coffee he had just spilt on the counter.

“What are you hours JJ?" “Oh, no hours, not now. Jeanie was glad that you didn't need nothin. Sorry to see you go so early."

I gave him my card. "Yea, she sure was glad she didn't have to come the whole time."

"How about the other guests?"

He stood there looking perplexed. "No, no other guests. That’s what I meant when I said no one would bother you. You thought I was kidding you? We closed for the season when you came. Boss figured-why not? You looked like a nice lady. But, we’re just down the block there," he said pointing east.

"I–ah-do you mean I've been here alone?"

He burned his lips on his coffee and pulled away from the counter. "Yup-you’re lucky you caught me today seeing as how you said you were staying the week. I had stopped by, now when was that, lookin for my wallet.”

He was wiping the counter again. “It was behind the desk on the floor, don’t really use it a lot here in town."

“No one was here?" All I could think of was the music. "I have been in this place entirely alone?" JJ was pleased, smiled and said, “Yeah!"

Copyright © 2004-2009 by m.m.sugar

one of my inner selves

2009-06-17T13:27:00.000-07:00

for what it's worth # 5

2009-06-14T00:00:00.000-07:00

There are 6 Risk Factors to Alzheimer's:

How old is your mom, your granny? Are you paying attention? Are you just letting little things pass?

DON'T!

1. Age – Alzheimer's disease usually develops after age 65. Less than 5% of people age 65-74 have Alzheimer's, but the chance of developing the disease doubles every 5 years after age 65. Almost 50% of the population over 85 has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

2. Family History – Chances of developing Alzheimer's are up to 7 times greater if one has a first degree relative (parent, sibling) with the disease. This number is even higher if multiple family members have the disease.

3. Genetics – A special gene called APOE-e4 gene has been identified as a risk gene for Alzheimer's. A risk gene only increases the likelihood of developing a disease, but fortunately doesn't guarantee that one will develop it.

4. Gender – Women have a greater risk of developing Alzheimer's than men.

5. Education – The more a person uses their brain and keeps up with adult education the less riskthere is of developing Alzheimer's.

6. Head Injuries – Serious traumatic head injuries, such as concussions, have been linked to an increased risk of Alzheimer's.

Dr. Dharma

the grin

2009-06-13T06:05:00.000-07:00

This is actually animal abuse!

2009-06-11T16:05:00.001-07:00

Please don't call me a killjoy OK?

Can you imagine how long it took to get these poor little puppies into the gear they are in? Their legs are not touching the ground. Therefore, their under paws are carrying the weight of their bodies. Their genitalia are being pressed with their weight. Do they look happy to you? Their shirts are up around their necks. Do you think that they are breathing properly?

Would you volunteer to be put in such a position?

for what it's worth #4

2009-06-07T00:36:00.000-07:00

Remember

remembering the dead

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

From: Goblin Market, The Prince's Progress and Other Poems.
Christina Rosetti. London: Macmillan 1879.

change

2009-06-04T16:17:00.001-07:00

All changes,

even the most longed for,

have their melancholy;

for what we leave behind us

is a part of ourselves;

we must die to one life

before we can enter another.

~Anatole France

removing the hex

2009-06-01T19:21:00.000-07:00

Well, I have learned my lesson. The next time I put a hex on anyone, well, no one is going to know about it!

The following is a record of a pretty messed up day, the day after I concentrated all of my formidable witchy ways and hexed you-know-who.

I woke up and literally fell out of bed and laughed myself silly until as I rose and fell over my baby cat, almost killed her and banged my head into the edge of the bedroom door. I laughed again-ha!

As I prepared my coffee I dropped the jar. The coffee splattered on the counter, stove and on the floor that I had washed the previous day. What's the big deal you ask? I absolutely hate washing the kitchen floor as it is always dirty because its door exits onto the driveway and I had seldom put as much energy into washing it as I had the day before.

When it was time to start the morning routine I nearly choked to death on the one and only prescription drug that I take. I take a zillion vitamins and herbs a day some the size of a Boeing 707. This pill is ten times the size of a pin head!

After my shower upon doing the usual mirror mirror on the wall thing I observed a huge zit(I never get zits) on my face. Would you like to guess exactly where a pimple would emerge on a witche's face?

That is what vanity gets for using a 10 magnification mirror!

Scouting around for my glasses still wrapped in a towel-yup-I sat on them. Without bending the nose bridge I managed to flip both earpieces totally out of their pockets in the glass and sat there with a magnifying glass and twizzers and glue for an hour putting them back into a somewhat useful order.

With new resolve I left the house intent upon doing everything on my list. I would not be deterred!

I decided to start out at the local deli for some nourishment and ordered two eggs sunnyside up with cheese on a soft buttered roll.

I sat down and bit into my roll as the yolks burst open and a thick yellow flood spewed from the roll onto my shirt and into the crotch of my slacks.

This is when I realized that the hex had backfired: I went home to bathe and change my cloths.

From now on no more pubic hexes for me-only private ones!

for what it's worth #3

2009-05-31T00:00:00.000-07:00

"Without change, something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken."

Frank Herbert

let's play guess what the hex is

2009-05-28T19:20:00.000-07:00

caption this

2009-05-28T09:30:00.001-07:00

JUSTICE IS BLIND IN AMERICA

2009-05-26T19:13:00.001-07:00

MY LIFE AS A GAY WOMAN IS BEING DETERMINED BY OTHERS

one of my inner selves

2009-05-25T08:53:00.000-07:00

For what it's worth #2

2009-05-24T03:43:00.000-07:00

It is kind of corny-but worth the read.

A holy man was having a conversation with God one day and said, 'God , I would like to know what Heaven and Hell are like.'

God led the holy man to two doors. He opened one of the doors and the holy man looked in.

In the middle of the room was a large round table. In the middle of the table was a large pot of stew, which smelled delicious and made the holy man's mouth water. The people sitting around the table were thin and sickly. They appeared to be famished.

They were holding spoons with very long handles, that were strapped to their arms and each found it possible to reach into the pot of stew and take a spoonful. But because the handle was longer than their arms, they could not get the spoons back into their mouths.

The holy man shuddered at the sight of their misery and suffering. God said, 'You have seen Hell.'

They went to the next room and opened the door. It was exactly the same as the first one. There was the large round table with the large pot of stew which made the holy man's mouth water. The people were equipped with the same long-handled spoons, but here the people were well nourished and plump, laughing and talking. The holy man said, 'I don't understand.'

'It is simple,' said God. 'It requires but one skill. You see they have learned to feed each other, while the greedy think only of themselves.'

Sometimes Life is a Trainwreck!

2009-05-23T10:27:00.000-07:00

warmth

2009-05-18T21:00:00.000-07:00

for what it is worth #1

2009-05-17T08:53:00.000-07:00

"You could have golden treasure buried beneath your feet, and walk over it again and again, yet never find it because you don’t realize it is there. Just so, all beings live every moment in the city of the Divine, but never find the Divine because it is hidden by the veil of illusion.”

The Upanishades

seahorse

2009-05-15T14:14:00.000-07:00

A relatively calm, and mild-mannered creature, the seahorse is seemingly content to roam the seas. Their bodies are geared for ambling-type motion - not for speed. Thus, they are symbolic of patience and contentment - they are happy with being where they are, and are in no hurry for advancement.

Further testimony to these attributes is the lack of evolution of the seahorse’s body style. They have remained with this body style without change since their inception. Content to be who they are, and not feeling the need to change - these are a few profound lessons the seahorse provides us.

However, along with a resistence to change, and a carefree approach to progress, the seahorse can be a symbol of inflexibilty or stubborness. To wit, the seahorse wraps its tail around the nearest object in order to anchor itself in turbulent waters. This is a lesson to be persistent in our goals, but be mindful that we are not too inflexible or stubborn in our achieving them.

A unique aspect of the seahorse is that the male is impregnated by the female and carries the offspring to term. This is a message of sharing the load in the home, and gaining perspective of both sides (genders) of an argument or situation.

The seahorse has a boney exoskeleton which is a message of protection. Often when the seahorse comes to us it is a sign that we either need protection from our external circumstances, or we are building walls that aren’t needed. Their armor-bodies are a sign that sometimes we might need to let our guard down - or perhaps we are leaving too open to get hurt.

Lastly among the long list of symbolic meaning of the seahorse and its lessons is the idea of perception. The eyesight of the seahorse is incredibly sharp, and each eye moves independently. We take this as a symbolic message of perception and awareness of those around us and our situations. When we are lost or confused, the seahorse asks us to take a good look around - not just with our physical eyes but with our spiritual eyes in order to get a better persepective of the situations.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

one of my inner selves

2009-05-13T15:18:00.001-07:00

uno scorcio di vita

2009-05-12T10:22:00.000-07:00

It was 2:45 and Sister Margaret was chatting away at the junior class, which should have been dismissed 15 minutes earlier. Sugar tensely sat on the edge of her seat. Her teeth hurt because her mouth was glued shut. She felt the pain up into her palate and practically into her ears. Her right calf held the weight of her tiny frame while her left buttock was slightly raised from her seat in anticipation of sprinting from the chair. She firmly held the handle of her cherished music case in her right hand. Sugar’s brain was telling the nun to just finish-shut up. Panting! On your mark, get ready, set, now go!

There was a train to catch!

As Sister Margaret rambled on about the ticket competition Sugar mentally reviewed the path she would take to the train station. First, she had to get out of the school. It was late; it was a problem. She’d have to take a chance and sneak out the senior exit in order to catch the 3 o’clock. Otherwise, she’d have to run through the interior of all three buildings.

Sugar usually had enough time to leave through the ‘workers’ door and leisurely walk to the train. However, pin-chin Margaret had stopped in “just for a sec.”

Miss Auditore, the homeroom teacher, was patiently sitting, listening to pin-chin with her hands demurely folded on her lap. She mechanically nodded like a puppet from one side of the classroom to the other with a wide unconscious smile on her lips.

It was 2: 53 she would have to chance the senior ‘queen bee’ exit. If she were caught, got a demerit, she’d deal with it later. Her voice lesson was at four at the Ansonia Hotel in Manhattan. If she missed the express, she would have to take locals all the way down town.

She’d never make it on time. Maestro Polumbo was a professional coach and like many of the other musicians who lived at the historic hotel, his coaching was his livelihood. If you scheduled a lesson-you paid, no matter what.

The rain was smacking at the large classroom windows. The day had lost its April brightness: No hat, no raincoat, only a school blazer.

“Class dismissed,” said pin-chin. Did she have the check? Panic! Sugar unclasped her case, felt in the pocket for the $15 check, snapped it shut, then like a cat, slid from her seat and ran.

Not breathing, she hoped her deflated lungs would allow her to pass more easily through the horde of chattering girls.

The rough seam of the leather handle carved its way into her palm.

Fumbling for a token from her blazer pocket, she escaped, nose-up out of the senior exit.

“Hey, Sugar,” yelled a familiar voice. Defiantly, she continued.

As she splashed through the puddles, the huge clock over the train station came into view. Always slow, it read 3:08. No chance.

Hoping that it looked like rain, she wiped away her tears as she settled on the 3:20 local.

The singing lessons with Maestro were a sacrifice for her parents. Perhaps there would be a miracle today: no one scheduled after her. It had never happened.

She snuggled against the cold metal wall, shivering.

The uniform was a problem. When she was young, no one bothered her because she was with her mom. Now she was a teenager. Guys liked to tease girls in uniform.

“Hey, little girl” whispered what was known as a ‘greaser’ who had just taken the spot standing directly in front of her. He winked and smiled as his knee began to rhythmically hit hers with the tilt of the train.

“You want some candy?” he said as he nudged his friend in the ribs while they laughed.

Though she left the train before them, she had not gone unscathed. He had managed to get his knees between hers at least twice. However, she had remained calm and dignified, just like mom had taught her. As the train hobbled along, she sat with closed eyes, mentally singing the Puccini aria she had so diligently rehearsed.

Sugar wanted to surprise her coach. She had repeatedly concentrated on the most difficult passages while singing in the mirror daring her chin to stiffen or her diaphragm to fall or her tongue to lift from the back of her bottom teeth. The soprano had angrily pointed a finger at the mirror and chided the face for lacking concentration and sometimes-even talent.

Today Maestro would hear the fruits of her labor. She would support her high pianissimo notes with a calculated slow stream of air that started with a strong abdominal hold, which carried her breath to the ‘tippy tippy top of the head’ as Maestro would say. Interpreting from the heart, Sugar would create a jewel!

It was pouring. However, the treasured case was protected under her half-open blazer. She lifted her face to the rain. Her long auburn hair was sopping. She could see the reflection of black mascara rolling down her cheek-she was a martyr.

“Mi dispiace-I am sorry-only ten minutes left,” said Maestro with sincerity.

The soprano stood at the Steinway vocalizing while drying her face with the ever-present tissues that were kept for fits of hysteria known so well to singers. Half- way through her piece, the red signal-light flashed throughout the studio.

Maestro arose from his piano bench. "Mi dispiace."

In silent resignation, Sugar took her music from the stand, slid it into the case, handed Maestro the check and smiled at the dear man as he shrugged his shoulders. As they walked to the door, he suddenly turned, caressed her chin and chuckled. "Uno scoricio di vita!" "Just a slice of life!"

Copyright © 2009 m.m.sugar

A walk on the ocean........

2009-05-11T20:12:00.000-07:00

Caption this!

2009-05-09T07:08:00.000-07:00

Feeding Baby Tina

2009-05-06T06:35:00.000-07:00

The Fanellies lived downstairs in the largest part of our old Victorian house. There was Frank, his wife Anna-Maria, three boys: two older ones, Joey and Carmine and then there was Giorgio, the ten year old. Giorgio was short and fat and looked like an unbaked loaf of Italian bread. Belinda was thirteen, had stringy black hair like her Mother, and was so ugly that my mother told me to pray for her.

Somehow, I didn’t think my prayers would work.

Everybody in the family had dark black hair and I mean black: Except for Marialana their oldest daughter, the college student, who was the only one who ever got sunburned because she had pink skin and blond hair.

I was not yet in school when my mother sat me down one day.

“Oh!” she said with a smile on her face while my grandmother was saying, "vergogna” under her breath to the back of my mother’s head.

Vergogna means shame.

“Oh.” said Mommy and Grandma said “vergogna” again. My mother threw her hands up in the air and then they landed on her hips. She looked at my grandma and gave her what we called a dirty look.

I looked from my mother to grandma and back to Mommy again. What did I do? Of what was I to be ashamed? I sat up straight, ready to take my medicine for whatever crime I had committed.

You didn’t always know until they told you.

“Momma!” Said Mom without looking back at Grandma. “Can you please …?” Just then, we heard Grandpa banging his walking stick on our kitchen ceiling and Grandma went upstairs.

“Well guess what has happened?” continued Mom.

I hunched my shoulders.

“Marialana is coming back from school!”

I was very young; not quite six, but I knew things. I wasn’t sure what things I knew: but I knew things!

I was trying to figure out how they were gonna blame this on me: Marialana coming home from school!

I sat there in total acceptance, smiling.

“And guess what?” said Mom. “Well, guess, guess!”

Squirming in my chair, my mind was blank. “What Mommy?”

“Marialana is bringing home a surprise!" And she clapped her hands.

Well surprise, surprise! Marialana’s surprise was the Fanellies “vergogna”: a child born out of wedlock. I overheard Grandma say to Mom. “It is a sin, paid for by a sin, paid for by a sin. Tragedia!”

Though Grandma eschewed Marialana and her baby, my mother embraced them especially after Anna-Maria had a life-altering stroke soon after baby Tina was brought home. “Payment for the first sin!” said Grandma.

I had no idea what that meant!

I often went downstairs with Mom to visit Marialana and Tina. Sometimes I was allowed to give her her bottle. My mother sat on the couch with me, held me while Marialana slept in my arms and helped me prop the baby’s bottle under her chin when she cried for milk. It felt nice.

By the time I started school, Tina was in a highchair, and I visited her often. Even Grandma had become helpful because Marialana was taking care of her entire family, which included her bedridden mother as well as Tina.

Tina was fun. She had lots of toys and sometimes after school while Marialana cleaned the house and washed cloths she gave me five cents for playing with Tina, changing her diaper and feeding her. Mom taught me how to feed her with her pink plastic spoon. You know, “here comes the choo choo train open up and eat.” She was a real good eater, especially for me. I spent most of my weekends with Tina. I loved her, she became my real live baby doll.

I was especially proud when Tina got chubby because Mommy said that I was doing a good job feeding her. Her cheeks were pink. “See how pink and chunky her cheeks are? Ooh! Look at that chubby little tummy!” Mommy would pinch Tina’s tummy, which I didn’t like because I was afraid that it hurt her.

I wanted to pinch Mommy’s tummy!

As time went by Tina got chubbier and chubbier and I was prouder and prouder.

Then one Saturday afternoon mom asked, “Where are you going?”

She knew where I was going, downstairs! “I’m gonna go play with Tina.”

“She’s not there.”

“Why not? Where is she?”

“Now mind your own business little missy. Just go off and play now. I have sewing to do and there is dinner to be cooked. Play with your dolls.” Then Mommy had a lightening flash. “Go play with your sister!”

That’s when I knew that something was very very wrong. Yet, I dared not ask any more questions.

I listened for sounds. Mr. Fanelli and the older boys were home. You get used to people. When you live above them, you know who is banging the side door and who is playing a particular piece of music. You even know who is cooking the sauce because people use different herbs and things. I saw Giorgio come home late from playing ball but didn’t know that Belinda was home until I heard Gogo, as we called Giorgio, and Belinda screaming at each other around eight-thirty at night.

No Marialana sounds and no Tina sounds. I cried myself to sleep.

On Monday afternoon, I saw Marialana walking into the house with her brother Joey’s arm around her shoulder. Her head was down and her hair was messy.

I knew that Tina was dead.

“Guess what?” said Mommy when I ran upstairs. She knew that I knew! I could tell in her eyes. She looked guilty! Grandma's head was bent low on her chest. I could tell that she had been crying. She said under her breath, "it's the circle."

“Tina has gone to heaven to rest in God’s arms! Isn’t that wonderful?” said my mother. I just looked at her. For some reason I hated her, I wanted to kill her, and I blamed her for Tina’s death until she said. “You did such a great job of taking care of her, chubby and all, that God decided that you made her so perfect that he wanted her to go be with him in heaven!”

My mother had not killed Tina.I had.

Sometimes I would go downstairs to visit Marialana. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry, that I didn’t mean to kill Tina. However, all I did was help Marialana clean the dishes: stuff like that.

One day she said to me, “Do you really want to come down here even though Tina isn’t here anymore?

She was wearing a pink robe. It was dirty and she had it stretched across her body with her arms tight against her chest. Her hair and nails were dirty. Her face was red and puffy.

I was very very sorry, but I never did apologize.

Copyright © 2009 m.m.sugar

FOLLOW THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

2009-04-29T15:53:00.000-07:00

Following the yellow brick road isn't always that wise. I did it this weekend. I'll tell you about it when I can wrap my head around it. If I ever do!

Intuition!

2009-04-25T16:36:00.000-07:00

Albert Einstein

The only real valuable thing is intuition.

And I've got it!

m.m. sugar

Ah! Spring!

2009-04-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Breakup

2009-04-24T03:20:00.000-07:00

Now come on, you knew that it had happened didn't you? No long-winded reminiscences about cooking together and walks along the sea!

No tears about the lonely trip home and the plans to return.

She couldn't live with me. She couldn't share her space, I was too demanding! Too much of a free spirit. Our cultures were too diverse. She absolutely hated that I wore my pj's till noon! And, I .................Oh well!

So she went and got a puppy, who, she says is worse than me!

The puppy appears to have a mind of it's own!

My house is no longer for sale as I am not moving to Scotland.

Hmm....

My house and I are renewing our vows next week!

The truth is-we are perfectly fine. Love does not die-it is simply transformed!

We know you wish us well.

Daddy Local Man..... The End

2009-04-23T03:50:00.000-07:00

Jimmy had appeared at my window. That meant he had to have sneaked out of his house, sneaked into our yard, let down the fire escape ladder without making noise, climbed up and waited. I had no idea how long he had been there and I had no idea what he had planned to do.

When I saw him at my window, I was just falling off to sleep. I was so scared! I could never tell anyone what happened.

The next day was Sunday. We went to church on Sunday, not Daddy, but Mom and my sister. I had no choice otherwise, my father would kill me. By this time, I couldn’t figure out who I wanted to kill me. Who would do it the fastest and the most painlessly? I figured my father was a better choice because Jimmy would skin me alive.

But why?

I sang in the choir. I was the soloist. The problem was that one of Jimmy’s sisters also sang in the choir. We got through the mass and though I tried to leave with the other choir members the two amazons, Jimmy’s sisters, one fifteen and the other, sixteen, cornered me.

“Excuse me.” I said to Siobhan the eldest. “I have to go to meet my mother right now.” Her sister stood in front of me. “Don’t tell.” she said with her chin leaning into my face. I ran passed her and flew down the stairs.

The next day Jimmy's father was arrested.

This is what my father told me.

It started before I was born. It was 1942. War. Though we were essentially safe. Daddy said that each neighborhood nevertheless took precautions. My father, the electrician, became an Air Raid Warden. He served quite honorably until June 1945 by which time he was an established member of the local police precinct’s poker games. He was tight with the cops. This was the thing Mom was alluding to when she said,” Some things are best left unsaid.”

“But, you see I did not want to concern mother with such issues. It went beyond poker. You know how things are at home.” He lit up a ciggy, blew into the air, widened his mouth till I thought that it would break while the cigarette rocked precariously on his lips, rubbed his large nose with his left hand and put up his collar around his thin neck with his right hand all while puffing away.

We were sitting in the backyard. It was a windy day. The story had come out but not in the newspapers because the cops at the precinct would have gotten hell for it. If it had been in the paper, it would have read:

Local Man Felice Zucchero Undercover Narc Foils Drug Gang and Prevents Murder.

Daddy was a thin man of 5 foot 6 perhaps a little taller with a small potbelly. He had thick salt and pepper hair, a small ruddy face and a five o’clock shadow that came out before he got off the train in the evening. He had small brown eyes, a huge nose and ears to match.

Daddy didn’t look like a narc. Well, he wasn’t exactly a narc but he wasn’t a stoolie either, he was quick to point out, because he took no money. He was a rather simple man who had gone from helping his community during the war to now doing his civic duty in another way.

They called him ‘ears’.

I was not breathing: could not take the chance. Sure, it was an incredible story. However, what was more incredible was the fact that my father was talking to me: in full sentences.

“It started with small stuff. I would go to play checkers or play cards and one night the lights were out in the Captain’s quarters so the Captain naturally asked me to fix it: Me being an electrician and all. I figured I had the privilege of hanging around the precinct so it was like paying dues. I made my way to the basement where the electric fuse box was located and in a few minutes the Captain’s quarters were fine.”

Daddy looked at me. I didn’t know what to do. I froze and tried to smile and I remember that I had to blink but was too afraid. I wasn’t going to be the one to break the spell.

“Well,” he continued, looking rather concerned at me, “that’s how it really started. It was the usual checker game and I was hunched over the board. I had to win this game. Captain Walsh had won the last round and I didn’t want to lose face. The room was tense as I contemplated my next move. Walsh maintained his calm. His wide amiable smile taunted me. We had known each other back to the war days before you were born.”

Daddy turned to me and smiled gently. “He has deep green, understanding eyes you know and your Mom has told me that he sometimes takes his elderly mother to church.”

He took a puff. This was my father?

“The constant tingling of the hourly precinct reports came pouring in, but I won the game.” He straightened up in the chair and wiggled his shoulders to unkink the knot about which he often complained. “I was quite pleased with myself but I knew it was time to leave. It was apparently a busy night in the neighborhood. I stepped out into the rain under the big green light above the precinct signpost and quietly felt proud. I had beaten Walsh but I had been coming and going through that door with the men's respect for years. Then the Captain’s car stopped in front of the precinct door. ‘Hop in Phil.’ He said. ‘But keep your shirt on, understand?’

‘Sure!’ I said.”

“I am not quite sure what year it was, but it was the beginning. After that, I often rode with them. I was quite useful because as an electrician I was able to get into places: Official ID shirt and all. ” Daddy looked at me with an apologetic look. “I began to get what you would call assignments-you know, at Russo’s poker game and listening to things on the street. As far as anyone knew, I was just a leftover air raid warden who had made friends with the cops. No one took me too seriously.” Daddy inhaled deeply, smiled ironically and said. “Jimmy Flynn’s father was already in the picture: just doing punk things. Unfortunately for his family, he moved up last year.” Then Daddy’s face turned stern and he looked down, shaking his head as he stomped on the ciggy. “Bastard should have never gotten his kid involved.”

He quickly turned his face to me. “Do you know why I am telling you all this?” I said ‘no’ with my eyes and a shake of my head. But I did perk up a bit. I was not only supposed to be listening, I was supposed to be understanding! Dad stared ahead, thought for a second, lit up, and inhaled deeply. “There was a make on big Jim. It was me who talked him into going to the Captain." He looked into my eyes. "I took him in myself. It saved his life-he was as sure as dead: now his family can visit him instead of bury him.”

Though he enjoyed a new quiet respect in the neighborhood, Daddy was now ‘made’ and never again walked through the precinct door.

Captain Walsh’s son was stabbed in the schoolyard. Walsh left the force to protect his family.

James Flynn went to jail.

Jimmy Flynn went to reform school.

I was to meet another Jimmy Flynn in my youth.

But, that is another story.

The End

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

Daddy Part III Local Man.....

2009-04-22T03:50:00.000-07:00

I was very scared of Jimmy and his threats. However, I figured that as long as I was with someone all the time and kept volunteering for the nuns, there was always something they needed or wanted, I would be safe.

I decided that I had to get my father alone. The best thing to do was follow him the next time he said he was going out, but only when my mother responded with, “I’ll take the kids to Moms.”

Oh my god! That had been happening my entire childhood and it took me until thirteen to figure it out? It was one of those, “Some things are best left unsaid,” things.

It was a Saturday afternoon. I was sitting out on the fire escape looking at the Pastorrini brothers playing ball two backyards away with their girl cousins. There were advantages to living on the second floor. I could feel something in the air. I didn’t know what. I figured I would prepare.

I made my way back from the fire escape through the window into my room. “Mom, I think if it’s ok, that I’ll go meet Marlene at Barbara’s house. They’re working on the paper and invited me but I wanted to do it myself, but I guess we could fool around and get some stuff done.”

“Oh?’ Ok, when?”

“Oh, I’ll call Marlene and see.” Better to be laid-back with Mom. You never knew.

Jackpot!

“I think I’ll go out for a while,” said Dad.

Bingo! What timing! I just knew that my father was gonna do something today.

“I’ll take the kids to Moms.” That was the cue!

“Mom I’m gonna call Marlene now.”

“You go ahead honey.” She yelled to my sister to pack up her books. My sister acquiesced. Grandma had a new, larger than life TV. It was called a console. Though she would bring her books upstairs, we all knew that she would watch the boob tube while Mom, Grandma, and my fake grandpa played cards. She was sixteen but never went out with friends because she was practicing being miserable because she intended to enter the convent the next year if she failed algebra, which we all knew would happen.

It was the gutsiest thing I had done in my life. I called Marlene and told her to pretend that I was there if anyone asked. I didn’t give her a chance to say no. I just hung up and started out the door.

“Young lady where is your book?”

“I really don’t need it Mom and Marlene has paper.”

“Oh.”

Off I went down the stairs to follow my father. My heart was in my mouth because Jimmy could appear at any time. At least I could yell for my father if I was really desperate.

This was the cagey part, following my father in the light of a summer day. I had an advantage because our blocks were slightly hilly going down so sometimes you could easily hide: duck into a drive way, something like that.

Then I almost dropped dead –what if he took the car?

I saw him ambling down the hill with the proverbial cigarette in his hand. He smoked like a chimney and often lit up one ciggy after another.

We ended up at the library! All of this for the library? Daddy spent time in the library? He stood on the corner, took a last puff, stomped it out, and proceeded to the backside of the library. I almost dropped dead when he went in the door under the large signpost that read 47th Police Precinct.

I ran to Barbara’s house and spent the rest of the afternoon managing to keep my secret even though they both threatened me with telling my mother that I had had a cigarette two weeks before. I knew that that would never happen because they had also smoked Marlene’s father’s cigarettes. After all, it was her idea. However, it was worse for me because I was a trained singer. No kidding!

I was safe for now because Barbara’s father would drive me home.

I couldn’t tie it together. Was my father in trouble like Sister St. Mary Elizabeth? Was he alphabetizing stuff because he had committed a crime? Were they letting him off the hook because he was a family man? God, he cursed a lot, smoked, drank, gambled and never went to church!

Is that why Jimmy pointed to the police precinct sign?

When I got home, I laid down in my bed. Thinking!

Daddy came home before Mom and my sister came back downstairs.

The lights were off and my door was partially opened. I heard him come in the door light a cigarette from the stove and empty the ashtray into the kitchen trash can so my mother wouldn’t yell. He walked past my door and stood for a moment and the smoke from his cigarette flew into my room like a pretty cloud. I was just about to shout “hi” when he said “nuts” real loud and then ran and picked up the phone, put it down again and said aloud, “Better go back.” I do that sometimes when I say, “Oh shit! I left my notebook home!”

I sat up in bed. He was going back? Did I dare follow him again? The moon was out. I was afraid that he might see me. However, I was afraid that Jimmy was out there loose and looking for me.

This time he raced to the precinct, he threw one cigarette into the street yet didn’t take the time to light another.

I was thinking that my mother was gonna kill me if I ever got caught and then my father was gonna kill me and then Jimmy would finish the job.

He came out so fast that I almost screamed as I hugged the corner of the building.

“Great game of checkers said a uniformed officer.” “Great game,” repeated Dad. “I always pay my debts.”

They both laughed. They laughed a lot! Then they shook hands and Dad started walking up to the avenue while I took the family house route. I just had to be sure not to let my cousin Frankie see me. I would go west and cut at 222 street then run for my life to beat him home.

Checkers?

Well, there was a sense of relief, but that night in bed, I kept thinking and thinking. So Daddy played checkers with cops? How much can you lose in checkers? He went back, for what? Why is that something not to be spoken about? I was thinking and thinking. Everyone was asleep. I was looking at the glare of the street lamp on my fire escape. The moon was very bright, and the breeze felt good. But, I couldn’t sleep so I got up to pull the curtain to hide the light when I almost dropped dead as Jimmy appeared on the fire escape, poked his head half way in my window and blew smoke in my face and hissed a "hey, hey, hey," laugh at me.

I slapped my hands over my mouth tripped backwards over my slippers, bumped into the doorway, and ran to the bathroom, sat on the cold tile floor and at thirteen years old: I wet myself.

No! This was not about checkers.

The End-tomorrow

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

Daddy Part II Local....

2009-04-21T03:50:00.000-07:00

“You better tell you father to lay off. He ain’t got no authority anyway!”

I looked at Jimmy Flynn in stark terror. Though we were only around thirteen he was six feet tall just like his father and two older sisters.

He was especially intimidating because he was the only boy in the family much to his mother’s shame and father’s chagrin; however, that meant that he was next in line.

I know that my mouth was open but I did not know what to say. We were in front of the library. I had just finished reading Leon Uris’ 1958 bestseller, Exodus and still had tears in my eyes.

It was the longest book I had ever read and my sister was trying to get my mother to make me report the story to her every day because my sister wouldn’t believe that I was actually reading it.

“What? What are you talking about Jimmy?” I said in genuine confusion.

“You know, you know,” he said as he flared his hand in front of my face in a Zorro-like fashion that scared me silly. The Flynn’s ‘were known’, a phrase used by my mother to indicate something that was off the beam, but I was not allowed to ask any more questions. “There are things better left unsaid.”

Jimmy walked away yelling at me at the top of his lungs.“If you don’t know you’re the only god damn idiot in the neighborhood who doesn’t!” Then he suddenly turned around, rushed at me and was in my face. He lowered his voice, stopped in his tracks, his body leaning into mine, looked around, and in a hiss said, “Liar!” while his long finger was pointing ominously in my face and then slowly, deliberately to the huge signpost that jutted out of the back side of the library indicating the location of the 47th Police Precinct.

I looked around and where there had been a bunch of kids on the library steps and a bunch on the two opposite corners, there was no one.

I was shivering. I started to walk home. I was still suffering the impact of reading the story in Exodus as well as suffering the loss of coming to the end of the 600-page book. I had used it to reward myself with reading a chapter for doing things that I didn’t want to do like math homework, going to singing lessons and going to Sunday dinner with my Grandma and her husband.

I started to trot when I realized that no one was on the street. It was getting dark. Jimmy was Irish. He had cousins all over the place. In addition, the girls were just as dangerous as the boys were. I had almost a mile to go before I got home.

I would usually go along the family streets where I could play with the dogs and visit my cousin Frankie’s rabbit but somehow I figured I would be safer walking up to the avenue where there were people shopping.

However, I did not doubt that Jimmy was right. My family always kept things from me. They had kept my sister's very formal sweet-sixteen birthday party from me. Apparently, the entire neighborhood knew about it. I found out the afternoon of the party when a girlfriend asked me if I was excited about the party and I said, “What party?” and went home to find a dress waiting for me hanging on the closet door. “Oh, well, we couldn’t let the cat out of the bag now could we?” Said Mom.

If my mother wouldn’t tell me what Jimmy was talking about I was going to go on the longest hunger strike ever!

I was skinny. I didn’t like to eat anything except sweets.

I ran the last block. It was past 5:30 so I knew that my father would beat me home.

I caught up with Daddy at the top of the hill near our house. I ran to his side.

“The book.” he said without turning or saying hello.

“Yeah, I’ll never forget it. I cried in the library and all the kids made fun of me but I don’t care because they always make fun of me when I sing in school anyway.”

“Um.”

I knew better than to say anything else. It was time for spaghetti and beer. I was busting a gut!

All evening I was trying to figure out to whom I should talk about Jimmy. I really knew that I couldn’t ask Mom. “Some things are best left unsaid!”I couldn’t talk to my sister because I hated her and she hated me more. My Grandma was now married to a man who looked like Frankenstein. They lived upstairs but I never wanted to see them again. Anyway, I figured since the whole deal had to do with my father I would have to talk to him but I didn’t know when or how.

I saw Jimmy in school every day and he glared at me with bullets in his eyes. The fact that he was wearing the St. Mary's school uniform like me didn’t matter. We were both in the eighth grade-we were adults soon to graduate. For the whole week, I volunteered to help Sister St. Mary Elizabeth so I wouldn’t have to eat in the lunchroom or go to the schoolyard for recreation.

I knew that I was Jimmy's prey.

My girlfriends laughed at me calling me a brown nose. Yet, I was safe and Sister St. Mary Elizabeth had goodies left over from all the holidays, cookies in tin cans, wrapped chocolates and soda. I helped her alphabetize loads of junk. I never saw so many papers and folders in my life. My gut told me that she was being punished for something. Why else would she be stuck with such crap to do?

All I knew was that I had to be with somebody at all times because I knew Jimmy could find me, anywhere, any time!

Part III tomorrow

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

Daddy Part I

2009-04-20T03:50:00.000-07:00

Please see April 17

My family lived in the same house for the first fifteen years of my life. When I was born, it was a large Victorian piece of art, which housed four families; the Fanellies on the first floor, my family and the Russos on the second floor and my grandparents on the third floor.

My grandfather died when I was seven and Grandma became the escape haven when Mom went on a rampage.

Dad was an electrician, commuted to New York City, and arrived at our train station about 5:30 every night by which time I had come home from school, taken off my uniform, put on what we called dungarees and a polo shirt and walked the three blocks down to the station to pick him up and walk him home.

It used to be a beautiful neighborhood. There was that empty lot where the dogs and we kids played. Now, for years it was filled with stuff: first with loads of metal then loads of cement blocks with wires. It was there, years before, that my friend Napoleon, the first black boy in the neighborhood, and I, first saw what the other had. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.” The great realization was that I had seen one before, but much smaller. Mary Pecorino’s baby brother had one. I had figured it out. I was content.

However, Napoleon was ecstatic! (Napoleon was so grateful for our exchange that he told me that he would never forget me. I figured I’d return the favor.)

While waiting for Daddy I would go to the all-in-one shop. It was owned by Mr. Russo’s son who still lived on the second floor next to us with his mourning black-clad, forever-ailing mother whom Mom said had killed her husband by wearing him down through her complaining.

Ernie (Ernesto) who, though quiet and polite, possessed a good business sense and a little creativity. Daddy said, “That can take you a long way.”

When his father died, Ernie bought the building next to their family candy store and made a kind of grocery, ice cream parlor, smoke shop, and poker beer lounge out of it. In those days, kids didn’t have to show proof of anything except with whom they came. We kids played in the street, caught lightning bugs and lit firecrackers while alternately standing behind our father’s chairs making faces until being yelled at by the men across the table.

Before Daddy walked down the two flights of the subway station, it was called the ‘El’ for elevated, I had invariably managed to coerce a piece of candy out of Ernie with the promise that he would not tell my parents. He took that promise to his grave when he got hit by a church door, it was a Catholic Church, their doors are big and dropped dead of a brain aneurism leaving poor Mrs. Russo totally alone.

She wore black for the last sixty years of her life having buried her husband, both of my grandparents, my father and her son and others too numerous to count.

When Daddy got off the train, he would take me into Ernie’s store and buy me a candy bar. Then we would walk through the door into the other store and sometimes buy a loaf of bread and generally a bottle of beer. I had a stash of candy at home. Always wanted to have a little in reserve.

On Friday nights, the family would sometimes go down to Ernie’s who now had established a habit of sending out for pizza for the guys who were playing cards and drinking beer: what was called a brewski.

When instructed I would go to Ernie and say, “My Dad wants a brewski please.” Then I would plunk 25 cents on the bar.

I was known as Daddy’s pet. It was a myth. Daddy was a drinker, always had a ciggy in his mouth, and he had a reputation as a singing poker player.

He was gentle most of the time. He was known for spontaneously breaking out in song, Way Marie, Way Marie, which means Oh! Marie and Let Me Call You Sweetheart. Sometimes he disappeared for hours at a time. I never knew where he went and once with my persistent questioning my mother said, “Some things are best left unsaid.” In my house, it meant that you never asked that question again.

My mother could get pretty crazy. She and Dad didn’t talk much.

One day when I got to Ernie’s, there were cops all over the place. I was real upset and envisioned myself dramatically trying to push through the crowd like an hysterical woman in the movies crying, “Let me through, let me through, that’s my husband in there!” However, I couldn’t get to Ernie but I knew that it was just a robbery and he was ok because I heard one cop say to another, “Russo, yea you know, Russo, he’s the owner. The Captain came in. He’s talking to him now.” So I relaxed and waited with everybody else. However, I think that I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t married to Ernie.

I heard the rumble of Daddy’s train. Suddenly, there was the realization that I wasn’t getting candy from anyone today!

Then I went ballistic, that’s a term we used in the fifties. Because, as the Captain emerged, he spotted my father coming down the train stairs and waved. They walked toward each other; Daddy bent his head while the Captain whispered in his ear and then walked away. Dad lit a ciggy, his hand covering his match from the slight breeze. Then he caught my eye.

Remembering Mom’s adage that, “Some things are best left unsaid,” I kept my mouth shut. I was ten and would have to wait until I was thirteen to find out what that conversation was about.

Part II tomorrow.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

Off to the Cemetery Tra la, Tra la!

2009-04-17T09:06:00.000-07:00

I went to the cemetery on Easter Sunday to visit my parents' grave. Now stay with me this is not maudlin! Big day for cemeteries! Flowers, balloons, little kids running around in their Easter best.

I saw no tears.

I spoke with my sister upon returning home. We have had this conversation many times. You see, there are only three spaces in the cemetery plot. What were my parents thinking?

One of us has to go first.

It all came down to rummaging through family documents looking for the deed to the family plot; at least one of us would know where it was and inform the kids.

You cannot be buried without an official stamped deed. Did you know that? You just cannot point and say, “Well that one is mine. After all my parents are there you idiot!”

Just what you want to read about, right?

When mom died in 2000, I gathered all of the family documents and categorized them by year.

I sat there for hours looking through my grandparents' citizenship papers, baptismal papers, etc and then I found something that, immediately upon seeing, brought back a childhood incident concerning my dad that has been totally out of recall for more than fifty years.

My dad’s Anniversary is April 19. He will be gone almost forty years! Of course, I thought that finding this paper was a sign from the celestial heavens. I figured after all of these years he’s made it to that Big Tent in the sky and is thus free to make contact with us mere earthlings.

Dad wants his due; at least it is comforting for me to believe that.
I have often written about Mom, though there is far more to write, but have seldom touched on Dad.

The found item was a commendation from the then Mayor of New York, Fiorello La Guardia to my father for being a Deputy Sector Commander in the Civil Service of the City in The Air Warden Service. It was not an uncommon document. Daddy had been an Air Raid Warden from 1942 to 1945. Air Raid Warden’s were responsible for gathering people during the war in case there was a security threat, direct them to the air raid shelters and provide for the safety of the elderly and infirm and myriad other things.

The document was simply the trigger to my reliving this incident about my dad, which I remember as if it were yesterday. I am trying to get it down on paper and share it next week, the week of his anniversary.

I hope that you will join me.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

The Smoke Shop

2009-04-14T04:37:00.000-07:00

My maternal grandfather emigrated from Italy. He was granted citizenship in 1938.

I have a picture of him in hunting cloths in his hometown on the southern coast. A rifle hangs from his right arm as he looks down while caressing the face of a dog whose paws lean heavily on his chest. It is an old picture and sometimes I think I see the dog’s tail wag.

He had been a prominent lawyer in Italy. However, he was unable to pass the law exams in New York which led the reticent man to be known for a humble exterior protecting a quiet rage. Grandpa was a man who wore double-breasted suits when he wasn’t hunting upstate.

Grandpa smoked.

I don’t remember too much about him. Two things stand out: our regular visits to his smoke shop and my being forced to kiss him, as he lay dead in his bed.

It was an old bed, very high with multiple down mattresses. My father’s right arm swept me up by my waist and propelled me onto grandpa's body and my cheek was pressed hard against his.

Every Thursday afternoon, I don’t know why it was Thursday, but every Thursday afternoon my mother would say, “I think I hear grandpa coming down the stairs. Oh, no that wasn’t him, because I just heard their door close. Now that’s him!”

Once, in a school play, I had to say, “Wait, I just heard the upstairs door close.”

My mother would help me with my coat or sweater. When you were that young, you had to be helped with outerwear. Grandpa, “Went to rest in God’s arms,” when I was almost seven. Our ritual was of a three to four year duration.

We took a trolley to the smoke shop. I had a favorite seat and I got it every time. It was the seat in the back that was right at the door. Actually, there were no doors on trolleys. I secretly enjoyed the breeze on my legs even in the winter.

The smoke shop was on Arthur Avenue,a famous place in old New York where a man could have his shoes shined and his hat steamed in the front of the shop while in the back his wife picked the chicken for that night’s dinner. Tools, pictures and dresses hung on the sidewalks and you could buy, hot out of the oven, bread filled with meatballs that were cooked in a family size pot and made fresh hourly with new veal, ground beef, basil, garlic, onions, grated parmesan, bread crumbs and pieces of mozzarella.

The smoke shop was dark even on the sunniest days. It had wall-to-wall wood paneling. It stunk because there was a smoking room in the back where men played Briscola, an Italian card game. I remember the anticipation of my eyes burning and was never disappointed.

It was a maze of smoke.

There was a room lined with shelves of boxes. The owner and grandpa went in while I stayed leaning at the doorway pondering the mystery of cigars. The two men stood close to each other while grandpa toyed with his large signet ring. Their bodies shifted, grandpa rested on his walking stick, taller than the owner, he looked down at the man’s face with great respect and near intrigue as the owner alternately spoke and grunted while rolling a large cigar between his thin smacking lips.

Cigars were serious business.

There was a room that I saw just a few times during the ritual between ages three and seven. There were men; sometimes one, two, or three sitting at small tables with large, dry, dirty brown leaves in front of them. One day one of the men looked up at me, smiled, and tipped his knife to his forehead in salutation.

I put my head down and backed away so the closing door would hide what I thought was their secret playground. A place, about which, I never spoke to grandpa.

When the door closed, I leaned against the wall and viewed the other three sections of the smoke shop: where they bought cigars at the counter, the private sanctuary where only one man and the owner could go at one time and the smoking room where the men looked suspiciously at each other and where the only communication I ever observed was the up and down movement of thick eyebrows and smirking moustaches while they played cards.

When grandpa was done, he would come to me without a word, touch the back of my neck, and tug my red braids in the direction of the door.

I am a child. I can see this place. I can see the men's rumpled shirts hanging away from their suspenders exposing large soft bellies. I can see the growth of beard on their faces. In retrospect, I think that some stayed many hours: Perhaps days.

Did they all look at their cigars the way grandpa did? Did they too stand in the private room; run their fingers up and down the various lengths and widths of those dirty brown sticks? When they were in this sacrosanct room, did they smell the length of the cigar with intent and discernment?

Why didn’t grandpa play cards? Why did he leave with the three cigars in his shirt pocket? Why did I never see any money exchange, only quiet talking and nodding heads? Why did he acknowledge the owner and never speak to anyone else?

Emerging out into the world was a relief because I was convinced that the smoke shop was the hell of which grandma always spoke. The trolley ride home was, at all times, crowded. Why did we go at a time when he knew that it would be crowded upon return?

When we got to our stop, I was allowed to go into the candy store and was given a treat by our neighbor Mr. Russo.

Upon the return home my mother repeated her mantra, one which I adopted by pure instinct. She would take a whiff of me. Holding me firmly by the shoulders, first whiff the top of my head, then she would grab and sniff the sleeve of whatever I was wearing and repeat, “That man, that man.” Then, for some unknown reason feel my forehead as though I was feverish and then say, “Oh, now we have to bathe you.”

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

RENOIR

2009-04-11T19:57:00.000-07:00

MONET

2009-04-09T17:50:00.000-07:00

Student Runs Away!

2009-04-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

Lying, spineless scumbag gone! Couldn’t face the music. Twelve credits thrown away! How guilty can you be? Ah! Validation. The preverbal thief in the night is a no-show.

Now, I do not sound angry, do I?

Question. How do you throw twelve credits away? When you are guilty and you know that you are going to be taken to task. I cannot imagine how he feels. However, I am probably giving him too much credit.

Actually, everyone was upset with me because I would not let go of the integrity issue. I took this miscreant to task. The Administration tends to stay in the student’s corner. Unfortunately these days keeping the student=keeping the money!

I was just informed that this pathetic person, yeah, I feel sorry for him, has quietly dropped out of school completely. This boy, I call him a boy because he was completely lacking in insight and maturity, thought that he could do anything he wanted without consequences.

I believe, said person found out about all of the support I had from the students and their anecdotal offerings.

Therefore, with tail between legs he sneaked away in the night. Convenient isn’t it? I could not believe it. Yet, one cannot help wondering what he is going to do now as he will have to explain his untimely exit to his next school. There will be time and lost credits.

I tried to keep my ego out of it. I prayed, meditated and according to the Four Agreements, I was impeccable with my word. He was not.

The energy that was used on this fiasco has me spent. I am free of having to expend anymore!

Therefore, I wish everyone Happy Holidays-whatever your faith!

And, many thanks to those who kept watch with me. Your supportive comments were quite helpful.

Now let's party!

Update-Three Deans Meeting on Thursday

2009-04-07T12:23:00.000-07:00

THIS IS ME ON THURSDAY!

Help, Help, he's after me!

2009-04-02T11:26:00.000-07:00

Big problems in school. I have suggested to a student that he might not pass the course. He is a big guy and quite threatening. I received a threatening e-mail from him, which I had to take to the Dean.

He actually shot himself in the foot by sending that note. All he had to do was a makeup paper addressing the issues that needed improvement.

I have been teaching many years and never experienced such a thing. I have never been scared of a student!

Big comings and goings all day. I bounced from one Dean’s office to another. I haven’t been involved in this much intrigue since… well never.

Guess I have led a rather boring life.

This thing followed me home: One e-mail after another, one call after another.

Just for the heck of it I went to the local grocery store where-yup-we have a blood pressure machine.

Sky high!

Therefore, now I am in bed, in my sweats, have taken an aspirin, and am watching the boob tube with the window open.

Fresh air feels good.

There will be more calls throughout the day.

If you do not hear from me. I have either dropped dead or have been done in by this fellow.

Or, I have done him in and have taken residence in the local jail!

So how sweet is this?

2009-04-01T06:57:00.000-07:00

True story!

2009-03-31T22:10:00.000-07:00

A zoning board in Buffalo unanimously approved plans for a slaughterhouse (as in, a place where chickens, goats, lambs and calves will be killed and chopped up).

Said operation will be housed in the back of a building that has a Subway Sandwich Shop in the front.

Felicia and Bobby Horton, the owners of Subway sandwich shop, are concerned about odors (presumably malodors) that could possibly come from the slaughterhouse.

Felicia Horton inquires/protests: "If they're cutting up [animals], are you going to want to come up front and eat some meat?"

Perhaps all sandwich shops should be housed in abattoirs.

Home again

2009-03-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

One is always happy to return home.

Well, almost always.

The snow is gone!

What remains is a sea of tired grass, branches from a foot to six feet, twigs, enough to build the bonfire of the vanities!

So I complain about the snow-big property-lots of shoveling and now about it's absence.

Funny how when we have something we complain about it but when it is gone-we wish we had it back.

Now I see the mess I have been left with. It is time for a major cleanup. Get rid of the old twigs that are stiffling the new green that is trying to poke out and reach for the sun.

New life is sometimes difficult to achieve. Sometimes you must actually replant.

Six dogs die in Iditarod

2009-03-26T03:18:00.000-07:00

Mar25

Iditarod 2009: Six Dogs Dead

btinternet / CC

When we discussed the first dog to die during the 2009 Iditarod, I mentioned that more were likely to follow. Now, at the end of the race, the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner reports that this year's death toll stands at six.

Six dogs. Dead.

And for what? A belt buckle. A long shot at some money, a pickup truck, and a few endorsement deals. I suppose they think that they're covering themselves in glory, too, but it looks more like blood to me.

Consider this: Two of the dogs may have frozen to death in the punishing weather. Two others died with fluid in their lungs. The most recently reported death apparently happened during a turbulent plane flight after the "musher" gave up. Even the generally Iditarod-supportive Anchorage Daily News called the number of deaths—only five, at the time—"troubling," but that misses the point: Even one dog dead is too many, and it is unacceptable that the dogs who survive are run to exhaustion or injury, only to be stuck back on a chain until the next race.

To paraphrase a classic cartoon, we say it's cruelty, and we say the hell with it. PETA has asked the Alaska State Troopers to open a criminal investigation into the deaths of these dogs in the Iditarod. We'll keep you posted on any major developments. In the meantime, even though this year's event has mercifully ended, it's not too late to tell the 2009 Iditarod sponsors to make this the last year that they contribute to dogs' deaths.

Posted by Jeff Mackey

DOG ABUSE

2009-03-23T15:01:00.000-07:00

MARCH 23, 2009

FIVE DOGS HAVE DIED IN THE IDITAROD

ALREADY

Folks this is a repeat re the Iditarod from Saturday, January 17, 2009

It is essentially a dispute between myself and some goof who believes that dogs WANT TO RUN 1000 MILES IN SEVENTEEN DAYS IN BELOW ZERO WEATHER!

Why I choose to post or not post my name is of no import.

Of course it is. A person who is proud of their view honorably backs it up.

Why do you not publish my post and the links to rational folks who have different opinions? Are you afraid of an actual discussion?

Look at it this way. It costs between $30,000 and $50,000 just to run the race. The winner is about the only person likely to recover those costs. Most of the costs are tied up in the dogs. Why would anyone with that kind of cash invested in an animal abuse it?

Now therein lays the ENTIRE issue. Why would you mention money? Because THAT is your real issue.

I had not even brought up the subject.

Something else to think about; you cannot MAKE a sled dog run. The dogs and the musher are a team who work together. A musher who abuses his/her dogs CANNOT win.

You’re kidding right? During the holocaust, human beings were tied together and when they were told to go-they went. Hell, if you put a chain around ME and attached me to others and said, “mush,” do you really think I would push my paws into the mud and say “woof-no, I’m not gonna”?

Have you ever seen a dog stand up and say, “gee not today folks,” then take the collar off and walk away?

There are NO doctors on the trail, only vets. Why is that? More abuse?

I cannot speak for them. Perhaps some are desperate to help. Others are, like yourself, invested in some way. However, not in the love or health of the dogs.

I'd dead serious, you need to get to a race and watch these magnificent animals. They do what they do because it's what they do.

Of course they do, they have no choice!

So come on, take a chance, let the 'evil' side have some time on your conversation.

There, you’ve had you’re say.

Goodbye for now!

Six Days

2009-03-21T16:12:00.000-07:00

We wax and wane.

We are like two halves of a whole.

We pass each other and smile, or touch, or peck.

We cook for each other.

We talk-we understand so much.

Perhaps it is our age?

We are pressed against each other.

We are like children.

Yet, wise and passionate.

Others look.

Some confused.

Some with bowed heads.

No matter!

Is there anyone else in the world?

2009-03-17T04:55:00.000-07:00

I wasn't kidding when I said this was going to be an interesting trip.

Nothing horrible happened. It actually came down to the DOING part!

I had not wanted to waste a day. So, I figured, just do it -ala Reebok style.

So get up early, go to the damn city, teach the little buggers, who, by the way, are all thirty and forty year olds, hop back on the train after going up and down the steep stairways half a dozen times with the luggage, take the train to Jersey, fight for space on the air train.

I started in the day in a frenzy because for the first time in my traveling history, which is quite extensive, I was not allowed to check in on line.

Your documents must be verified by the authorities.

I guess being born an Italian Catholic created the ensuring hysteria. Surely this must happen everyday!

And, yea, when I got to the airport, they just ran my passport through a machine and voila'.

Then all I had to do was get to the gate. Any one out there know gate 133 at Liberty International Airport?

It is in ALASKA AND YOU CAN SEE RUSSIA, that's how far the thing is from the rest of the airport!

Yet, it was by far the most peaceful and comfortable flight I have ever had.

I lugged that carry on all day which was filled with pajamas and a couple of sundry things. When my beloved, picked up my bag she mocked me for my complaints because according to her brute- strength it was weightless.

So, here I am instead of my neighbor's barking dog I am looking at tiny baby lambs across the street on the hill.

Not a bad exchange.

I am with Wolf who did up homemade lentil and dumpling soup for me-all from scratch!

And did other tasty things too!

anticipation

2009-03-13T19:37:00.000-07:00

Going across the pond again.

2009-03-11T13:44:00.001-07:00

Yes, I am going back over the pond again. I should have sprouted wings by now.

She left the day after Thanksgiving. Long time without a hug.

This is going to be an interesting trip.

I leave the house on Sunday to teach at a large hospital in New York City on the day that many will celebrate St. Patrick.

Have you ever been in New York City on such a day?

Yes, universities do have Sunday classes.

Let me make it as concise as possible.

I have a full wardrobe, replete with cosmetics and sundry other things in Scotland so I just bring a small wheelie with pj's, replacement vitamins for my beloved, etc.

You know.........

On Sunday, with carry-on in hand, I will climb fifteen considerably steep stairways, use two escalators, two elevators, gratefully, take five trains, and walk at least one mile combining the customs visit on both sides of the Atlantic.

By the time I land in Scotland I will have been awake for 24 hours, have taught for six, have eaten any kind of junk I could get my hands on, and be at the end of my rope with full regrets for having met this lunatic I have been cavorting with for almost five years!

Ah! Love!

Do you have 16 seconds?

2009-03-10T17:04:00.000-07:00

The town weaver

2009-03-06T05:53:00.000-08:00

My significant other was born and raised in South Africa. South Africans know how to drink. When you walk in the door, politely smile and put out your hand you are given a drink rather than a handshake.

It’s the same where she now lives –Scotland.

Now the Scots have it down to a fine science. They begin by drinking and end when they pass out.

This saves a great deal of hemming and hawing and everyone knows what the plan is which cuts down on extraneous things like what time you go home etc. There is no such thing as a designated driver in our village as it is too small to use a car.

We have one pub, The King’s Arms Hotel. And, that’s kind of it, except: People do drink at home.

A lot!

This brings me to the town weaver-my significant other, who, is occasionally known as the town drunk. You get it-town weaver, town drunk who weaves? Anyway.

When Friday comes, I start worrying. We speak on the phone before she starts her Friday adventure, which entails walking down and around the corner to visit her friend for their Friday afternoon thing.

She is happy to lunch with her friend whose house can be seen from our kitchen window. They have come together in a warmth that only an older lady and an emotionally motherless woman can achieve. Though they eat and drink, my love knows her work. She is weaving a mother's love.

Did you know that Friday is associated with Venus? Venus, of course is associated with love, peace and relaxation, which has led to casual Friday. In most countries with a five-day workweek Friday is the cause for celebration simply because it is indeed the last day of work before the weekend.

My girl takes this TGIF mentality to a completely new level. She doesn’t even work.

They alternately meet in the other’s house on Fridays. There have been rains and winds, which prevent one from standing without tilting. However, there have been no cancellations.

The wine is decided upon before the luncheon takes place. Today my love advised me that it would be a couple of bottles of light red. The food is virtually of no importance, “oh, some ham wrap, no matter’ said my beloved today. These folks never mess up their priorities.

By the time she walks home which, according to her this morning, “could be four, five, six, o’clock who knows?’’, she is four sheets to the wind which is saying something as the Scottish winds normally blow at a brisk 30 miles an hour on an unimpressive day.

Now let’s get to the town drunk part.

Every Scottish town has one. They were badly in need of one when she arrived two years ago as the official town drunk had permanently taken to his bed.

There was no question when first observed by the townsfolk that my beloved was the perfect candidate for the town's title.

My girl was a sure thing! And, she was happy to oblige!

You see, she weaves!

She is a natural weaver: Drunk or not and therein tells the tale.

Though born with the most glorious blue eyes that one can imagine her right eye has an undetectable slight cast, which is a contributor to her weaving, first to the right then to the left, walk.

At sixteen while working at a bank, she had been removed from the convent school after being caught reading erotica; she had her first weaving run-in, literally.

Her bank manager was blind in one eye and as a result walked unsteadily. On Friday afternoons, they would venture to the post office to secure parcels filled with used South African money.

According to my girl, it was quite humorous as they walked side-by-side holding boxes the size of small microwaves continually bumping into each other. Their eye inadequacies worked well to guarantee a proper and rhythmic collision as she had a right eye problem and he was blind in the left.

Fast forward to life in Scotland and the natural breakdown of the human body. In other words, a worn out hip and a broken left foot upon which my girl had been bravely prancing for eight months because, SHE WOULD NOT LISTEN TO ME WHEN I SAID IT WAS BROKEN!

There now, I am calmer.

To her tricky eye, deteriorating hip and broken foot add the fact that we have a spiral staircase, which we must climb in order to reach our living quarters.

It goes to the left, goes to the left, goes to the left.

Buy the time I have reached the top one can bet that the words, “I hate these stairs!” will leave my lips. My beloved does not complain or exclaim nearly as much as I do. However, I have recently noticed a stronger left-thrust weave as she descends these stairs at least fifteen times a day to venture out-doors to smoke.

When lighting her perpetual cigarette she can be observed balancing from one foot to the other as her short, silver-crowned head bends into her hands shielding those instruments of pleasure from the southeast gusts. She usually tilts to the left as her jacket’s shoulder sleeve falls slightly open revealing her shirt collar.

She is striking indeed!

When we walk up to the town shop she invariably walks on the street side to shield me from any local marauders. When we walk home, she again walks on the street side to protect me.

When we walk up, she bumps into my left side.

When we walk down, she bumps into my right.

In any case, she is at my side.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

Rachel Maddow visits the View

2009-03-05T15:23:00.000-08:00

Rachel Maddow visited the View today. Rather than the tailored jacket which she invariably sports, our girl was dressed in a black top and slacks and heavy black framed glasses.

Maddow, make that Dr. Maddow, described herself as a real tomboy even though she had long blond hair as a child. Today she described herself as "a tall lesbian who looks like a man."

The political commentator who makes an effort to attain some degree of balance on her show is the first openly gay recipient of a Rhodes Scholarship. She attended Oxford University where she completed a doctorate in politics. Her thesis dealt with AIDS and the prison population.

The 35 year old is also the first openly gay person to anchor a prime-time program.

Born Rachel Anne Maddow on April 1, 1973 RM, as she is affectionately called by our community, admitted that her 'coming out' put her conservative parents at a definite disadvantage.

At seventeen she declared her sexual orientation on the girl's restroom wall. Her parents were not pleased. However, she states that all is now well.

Rachel explained that she receives a great deal of hate mail. Most of it mentions her homosexuality.

RM is, in part, exemplar of the attainment of equal rights. Hopefully young gay women and men will not have to be armed with a Rhodes Scholarship, stand 5'11 and possess an eye catching smile to attain happiness in their lives.

Hopefully marriage/civil partnership will no longer be an issue.

All they will require is birth and a dream.

Ah! communication

2009-03-04T04:07:00.000-08:00

The love of my life and I had a bit of a phone exchange the other day.

She sent me this loving reminder of how thoroughly I was able to communicate my thoughts to her.

anthropomorphizing cats.

2009-02-28T05:00:00.000-08:00

They are quite sedentary during the day. At night, they sometimes prowl. There’s the boy, all black and the girl, Baby. She is eleven pounds to his 16. They are litter mates. I call them the twins.

He has a favorite spot, the edge of my bed. She owns the house.

One is compelled to observe them. They do not deviate from their clearly defined set of rules. Do they negotiate when I am not home? Do they communicate telepathically? Is it only instinct? I think not. Two wise creatures rule my home.

The species has been around long enough to develop some brainpower! The Egyptians literally adored them and bowed to them: Had designated resting places for them. The Egyptian cemetery at Beni-Hassan yielded 300,000 embalmed corpses!

A prospective buyer looked at the house today. A twist of incredulity seized the woman’s face when we walked through my bedroom.

After she left, I returned to turn off the lights. There was a large lump under the duvet at the bed’s edge. Well, I knew it was the boy.

Some people are accused of anthropomorphizing cats.

That would be me!

Charles Darwin concluded that cats do indeed feel emotion. More recent research indicates that they experience fear, pleasure, terror, frustration, happiness, grief, stress and depression.

The reasons for the other’s rationalization/denial of this scientific proof are well known.

So, let them eat meat!

While sitting on the bed last night I was reviewing the ways I had rearranged this room during the years. Baby suddenly perked up and looked at the dark green floral-draped wall behind me.

“What, what,” I said. “What do you see?”

Not a flinch! Though her head remained still, she quickly rose on her haunches. Her staring intensified. Predictably, the boy hopped on the bed, stood motionless next to her, staring at the same thing. Apparently, it was just over my left shoulder but higher. They were looking at my eye level.

Cats have been credited with a gift for seeing ghosts. I figure if I can see ghosts, what's the big deal?

Their four eyes widened, then moved slowly up the drape and then to just above my head. Can cats exhibit intrigue?

In a flash, in unison, their heads swiftly went to the door to my right. “What?” I pleaded again. In an instant, their bodies melded into each other’s. Baby licked the left of his collarbone, they simultaneously sniffed each other and the night visitation ended.

We sleep here in my bedroom. On any given night my body is taken over. I have on occasion wakened with his front paws resting in my open left palm on the pillow near my head. He gently kneads. He purrs in utter contentment.

She is devious. She waits until she thinks I am sleeping, jumps into the valley of my waist, and rests her head on my hip. I allow her five minutes. She groks when her time is up, beats me to it and indignantly jumps down. I can hear her thump down the stairs to view the pitch of night on the bay windowsill.

The 17-foot wall behind the bed is draped. There is no headboard. I have a disdain for headboards as I have curtains. Artwork, paintings and prints cover the walls of the house. Curtains rob attention. I prefer that the windows remain in obscurity-just let the sunshine through. White, diaphanous shades and in some places blinds separate us from the world.

At some point in the evening, we retire to this room. He confiscates either the right or the left edge of the bed. She spreads out on the cable box. It’s warm. There is a TV about five feet from the foot of the bed. My jewelry armoire stands to the left of the dresser that holds the boob tube. It holds four generations of jewelry. I have two bracelets that I know were my maternal great-grandmother’s. A delicate Asian lamp brings the armoire's height to just above my head. It is a square porcelain block standing on a four-legged cherry wood platform and painted with the colorful wings of a male peacock.

To the left of the bed is my vanity. Several Chinese jars hold makeup brushes. Lipstick pencils. A crystal bowl holds silver dollars dating from 1885 to the JFK era. A black framed, gold Chinese filigree mirror hangs above the vanity. Two herons freely fly at the top within a sky reminiscent of a familiar Chinese scroll. Though the room is peach, it is a dark, cave-like room even on a sunny day, as I keep the bamboo shades down.

Sanctuary!

Three women grace the walls. Over the jewelry cabinet hangs, van der Weyden's, Portrait of a Lady ,next to the mirror hangs a print of a nude Japanese woman combing her lustrous black knee-length hair. The polished frame is the color of her bare skin.

Below her is a sad, elaborately dressed Chinese concubine whose thin, long tress falls to her side, her fingers are adorned with ancient gold talons, the razored tips of her right hand barely grasp the silk of her gown, the other hand, a beacon in the air, points to what might have been.

Her eyes are downcast.

These are my former selves.

I have an original cloth print, as the lamp, it is flooded with the glorious colors of the male peacock.It is of no value except to me. A friend in my undergraduate art class made it. She was pleased with it and our teacher thought it merited an A. On our last day, she held it up in mock humor, “Going for a buck.” She laughed. I gently took it from her hand.

It covers the night table to the right of the bed. My most current reading material is hidden there: My diary, a couple of meditation books, my current I Ching journal, the first vitamins of my day and three pennies.

They are lying on the green duvet. They face each other, their paws stretched directly in front of them. Their eyes are closed. His breathing is inaudible, she is wheezing slightly. They have commandeered the left side of the bed-that means I will sleep on the right tonight.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

The kids on our block.

2009-02-25T19:41:00.000-08:00

As I drove up the street, I was struck with the barrenness. 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon: no ball playing, no skateboards. The neighborhood had grown up. Looking to the east and then to the west, not one car, not one person.

In the front yard across the street, our flag was waving in the air with Ireland’s colors below it.

My friend lives there. Friends come to us in different ways, at different times in our lives.

I will miss her.

She cuts my hair, prays for me. Her husband shovels my snow if he can beat me to it. He seals my leaking pipes.

She was a child when I moved here in 72. She once purposefully threw a ball at my youngest daughter’s head. I saw her take aim. On a spring day in the 80’s she was terribly rude to me and her mother shouted, “Get in that house! You’re grounded for a week!”

She was going to grow up and be a tramp! I am psychic and I was sure.

She has four children and will soon be a grandma.

The house next to her parent’s became available around the time of her first marriage.

She has lived her entire life on this block.

She has had cancer twice. Her first husband abused her; this husband is a nice person.

A gust of wind from nowhere. The white stripes of our flag and the yellow and white of Irelands’ dance off the cloth as the sun pierces through.

I realize that there is food to get into the house.

I came here a mother of two. However, I was myself, a child.

The streets were daily filled with children playing and fighting and sneaking cigarettes while others watched out for the trusting adults.

The only child left is my friend’s thirteen year old, a daughter who is now walking up the street, her backpack laden with books, her blond hair swishing as she listens to her IPod.

Seventeen kids grew up on this block. There are now twenty-three grandchildren.

None of them mine.

Of the six boys-one has simply disappeared. There is a psychologist, bank manager, hotel manager, and newspaper editor and construction worker.

When the construction worker was 10, he was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. By fifteen, he was cancer free and a notorious delinquent. He became a full-blown alcoholic and drug abuser and got sober only 15 years ago. He now lives quietly with a woman whom he met in AA. Every year his parents have an open house on his anniversary. No booze allowed.

When he was nineteen he also became addicted to me. A classic crush. He’d help me with my groceries. He would report seeing my cat three blocks away. “Should I go get him-that’s far.” He was my protector when the 12 year old next door started throwing garbage in my back yard after I huffed about him playing his drums with the windows open. I witnessed, “You better stop.” The boy stood in wide-eyed terror. “You better stop and if anything ever happens to her. I’ll just plain kill you!”

His mother and I spent a lot of time on the phone that summer.

The boy in the house next to him was quite brilliant-he‘s the editor. He was an abused child. During an exceptionally hot day, I asked him why he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. I knew that little boys insisted upon dressing themselves.

“I, I am ok.” he responded, looking remorseful, rubbing his covered arms. I knew in that very second. I made a call. That family lived on the block for thirty more years. They never spoke to me again.

He got inebriated the night of his bachelor party and came pounding on our side door around 4am. My husband ran down. He returned and told me, that the now grown man, apologized for being drunk but for years had wanted to thank us. “He said that we had saved his life hon.”

The psychologist and bank manager are brothers. One is divorced and the other married a woman with two gravely disabled children. Never seemed to be anything remarkable about him when he was a kid.

Of the girls from our block eight are mothers. There are amongst them: an author, home health aide, a doctor, TV reporter, cosmetician, nurse, lawyer, social worker and English teacher.

There have been two grandchildren born out of wedlock, three abortions of which I was personally privy, and at least six miscarriages.

Two of the original seventeen live out of state. One in Seattle, the other in Florida. Only now do I see the extremes.

All of them are said to be financially stable.

I know nothing of their religious or spiritual practices except that one lived in an ashram for many years.

Must get into the house. It’s not all that warm out here.

There have been two divorces. And, I am aware of a marriage of convenience as both partners are said to be gay. I never had an inkling.

Of the original seventeen, three remain unmarried: two women and one of the guys.

We don’t know anything about the boy who disappeared however; there were early rumors that he committed suicide when he first went off to college.

We became conditioned to simply forget his existence when speaking with his family.

Managed to get my shopping into the kitchen. The blinds are drawn. It’s somewhat dark. It's also quite chilly I tend to put the heat down when I leave the house for extended periods of time.

Soon, I will leave it forever.

The eldest of the seventeen is a woman; still feels funny to call them women. She wanted to become a plastic surgeon but let go of her dream when her husband received a prestigious position at a renowned hospital. Ah! The ever-sacrificing wife. She’s a gerontologist and according to her mother her mood varies from depression to extreme glee.

The youngest of the seventeen has just given birth to her second set of twins. I see her on occasion when she visits her parents. Bobbing in and out, first the five year olds then the infants one after another.

I will leave this house, this country, by summer.

I will take them all with me.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

Oh Cap'n, My Cap'n

2009-02-25T15:16:00.000-08:00

Waiting for the boiler man.

2009-02-23T18:20:00.000-08:00

It's 7:30 Monday morning, cold, yet the sun is brightly shinning.

I expect the oil company guy. That’s why I’m sitting by the window, so I can see his truck and greet him before he gets to the door. It’s time to clean the boiler, which I hope will keep trucking until I move from this house.

I’ve made some instant coffee.

I‘m in here, it’s what we call the library. If you look on the floor you will see pennies. When we first moved in, mom threw pennies in each room. It’s a sign of prosperity.

There is no hesitation to pick up a penny from the street. It means that mom is around.

A small room perhaps twelve by ten. Mom liked to sketch here because of the intense sun. As you enter, the wall on the left is a built-in bookcase and holds a few hundred books including the white and blue vinyl of my high school yearbooks, my wedding album, and a sadly worn leather bound tome of The Poetical Works of Longfellow, circa 1851, my father’s prized possession. Dad signed it in 1931.

Small prints piled on top of each other. They’re not valuable-just fragile, flimsy. My kid's drawings, a couple of mom’s-but she mainly painted in oil, Life Magazine’s issue commemorating JFK's life. A newspaper from 1934 that my mother had saved. I have read and reread that paper a hundred times and have not been able to fathom why she kept it. It was dated June 7.

She died June 7, 2000.

There are about seventy three-subject spirals-journals of my daily explorations into the I Ching, which I started before 1972. When I peruse them, I see the questions that I asked the oracle and say aloud “idiot why no date on this one? Why no name?" Ah! Self-recrimination –the delicious lifeblood of an Italian upbringing!

The I Ching had hinted at her impending death.

There are many psych books, which I really don’t need, as I had devoured the material long ago. It’s been only four years since I threw out my college notes. When I divulged this to some friends, they laughed and said it also took them a zillion years.

Thick collected works on ethics and world religions remind me of my professor who taught virtually all of the courses that comprised my undergraduate minor. He was a pompous ass. Nevertheless, he was endearing because he knew it. If you watched him carefully, you could perceive his internal struggle. The battle was whether to just teach the subject matter or wax endlessly on his vast knowledge and astute understanding of all that existed in the universe. He tried.

He had a daughter named Wilma May.

He morphed, humanized when he spoke of her. He would say things like, “Wilma May doesn’t understand this yet, but.”

Mom once said, “That’s a strange name for an Irish child.”

I got an A in all of his courses. I knew my stuff-I deserved my marks. At semesters’ end he said, “You deserve straight A’s just for putting up with me this whole year.”

On the eye-level shelf of the bookcase stands a tall ice-cream soda glass filled with cemented pink pebbles, fake whipped cream and a permanent protruding straw.

As my mother lay dying, she requested an ice-cream soda. I couldn’t get one in the hospital but was thrilled when I saw this tasty curiosity in the gift shop. I was so happy to have found this for her but was immediately shattered, when, upon its presentation, she looked at me with pained and confused eyes. “Why would you do this to me?” She said.

As you enter the library, you see across the street through the bay window. In the middle of the wood windowsill stands her exquisite two foot high, hand painted vase, which though chipped around the opening, suffers no loss of beauty or dignity.

A few dried sprigs gently emerge from it's mouth. Anything more would thwart it's splendor.

My mother taught me how to see a things innate beauty and allow it to become its own vehicle.

Two director’s chairs sit at the window. They are at least thirty years old if not more. Yet, I have not had to replace the canvas. They used to be a deep blue and have been washed into a faint sky. She used to move a chair close to the window lean her left arm on the sill while she drew with her right hand. My husband and I used those chairs all over the house. In the backyard. I used them in my office for a while. One of the kids periodically used one while the other sat listlessly waiting for some attention-the chair not the kid! Unfold me at least –just for a little while for Pete’s sake. Give me some attention!

To the right of the room is a captains’ bed covered with a duvet and a dozen throw pillows. It was my youngest daughters and has three draws below which house thousands of photos and small frames made from everything ranging from plastic to gold filigree. Things I have been planning to frame for years. There is a small desk with a useful lamp and one of her miniature oils.

I am afraid to move from here. I am afraid that I will forget the texture of the walls and the smell of the wood when it rains, the warmth of the radiators when I pass by the hall, the sound of the perpetual drip from the faucet.

I am afraid that if I trip that there will be no wall and the thing that I lost will not be miraculously retrievable from the back of the closet. I am afraid that I won’t be able to decorate a new home with the surety I did this one. In the past twenty years, I have painted the entire house three times.

When I look at new walls, will I be able to paint? Will I have pride in the fact that I have fixed toilet bowls, sanded door saddles, sealed window leaks, put down linoleum squares in the kitchen and had successfully found a way of greeting people without them ever knowing that the front doorbell has never worked: never-since I moved here?

And who will throw pennies on the floor?

The maintenance truck is coming up the driveway. That’s why I'am in this room, to greet him at the door.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

I deserve empathy!

2009-02-21T07:56:00.000-08:00

With full awareness that I am being TOTALLY self indulgent, well, I need a pat on the head.
I know that everyone has their hands full, no one has an easy ride.
Yet, this is my blog and I reserve the right to bitch and moan.
So, here goes.
This is what I am doing these days.
Attempting to sell a house that I have occupied for 38 years.
Teaching a college course in the city. I am accustomed to teaching DOWN THE BLOCK.
Preparing my cats for our transition to Scotland. This deserves an entire blog.
Dealing with moving companies. I don't trust a SOUL!
Working on papers and finding family documents, dates etc. which will allow for my entrance into the UK.
Trying to eat responsibly-not working AT ALL.
Keeping the house in order 24/7 while I am trying to get all of this stuff together and attempting to be civil while strangers look at the papers on my desk and the jackets in my closets.

I need a vacation from all of this work!
And, once I get all of this going there is the REAL GOING. Bag and baggage and cats and books and 20 or 40 foot shipping containers.

I am writing this because I had to get this off my chest. I have no liquor in the house!

She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me!

2009-02-19T20:12:00.000-08:00

Well it was Valentine's day. Reef was in transit SOMEWHERE between South Africa and Scotland. We had not spoken since Thursday. Friday came and went. Though I sent a text or two-no response.
I didn't know if I should be worried or angry.
I finally left the house Saturday afternoon. I had no idea where I was headed. Fresh air and the sun always does it for me.
As I backed out of my driveway an SUV drove slowly, suspiciously passed my house.
I slowed down. The SUV stopped. A rather husky man emerged from the driver's side.
He pointed to me and then pointed to the house. He shouted out, "Are you Ms. MM?"
"Who are you sir?" I enquired rather sternly. Frankly, I don't have patience for ANYONE these days.
If teeth were gold the guy would be wealthy. A brilliant smile, quite jolly, bridged his face as he approached my window.
"I have flowers for you." he said, pleased as punch with himself and then backed up with great enthusiasm signaling that I should stay put.
His personality transformed in a nanosecond. Well, maybe it was MY personality!
I drove back into the driveway and rummaged through my bag for a few dollars tip.
As I retrieved the money from the depths of my pocketbook I raised my eyes to his beaming smile and a beautiful Asian vase filled with roses, baby's breath and all sorts of other nature's gifts.
As soon as I brought my lovely gift in the house the phone rang.
I had not received her texts and she had not received mine.
She had managed to think about me and my girlish needs from six thousand miles away.

Thank you honey.

HE WON!!!!!!!!!

2009-02-18T19:00:00.000-08:00

Feeling down? A little hopeless? Never give up!

HAPPY V DAY

2009-02-14T05:04:00.000-08:00