Pulp Fiction

Here’s my fantasy for today:

The paparazzi apologize to the president.
"The tea party made us do it. We were blackmailed."

If the tabloids can do it, why can't I?   I doubt if it will work in a novel, but you never know.  Maybe someday it'll even come true.

Have a happy day,
Elaine

If Quilts Could Talk part II

What's in an attic?

Junk?
Or treasure?

A flour sack.
Long ago it carried
Flour - daily bread -
    four cakes,
         seven pies,
             a month's worth of breads, and dumplings,
             and who knows what else.

What's in an attic?
A flour sack -
And -



Qult squares!

The quilt squares were made around 1900, maybe a few years later.  They were to be sewn together into a friendship quilt.  We think they were given to Lela (Leila?)  Dierdorf  (Carlton?).  There are twenty squares in all.   I'm trying to find out more about the people, who made the squares. 

If you know anything about old quilts and have any ideas about how to handle the squares and what to do with them, please comment.

I wonder why Lela didn't make the quilt. 

                                             Elaine

Here are the individual squares:

Dear Lela,

A candle in the window,
A fire in your hearth,
And love in your heart
Say, "welcome" to your home.

                Ethel

     The hours we spend at your quilting frame -
     and our laughter and friendship -
     kept away Iowa's winter gloom.

                           Beulah

Remember Easter morning? 
And the muddy footprints Pepper
and  Fido made chasing the possum
through the kitchen?
We told our kids the Easter Bunny
left them.
Simple, trusting, the kids believed us.

                        Iva


 


                          Where kindness dwells,
                          With love,
                          Where kindness dwells -
                                    God is there.

                                                  Della

Friends forever
and ever.


                Margaret

Your pies were always the best,

The crust flakiest,

The cherries juiciest.

Your quilts were always the best,

Your stitches tiniest,

Your corners perfect.

I am jeallous.

       

                             Jessie

My children called you "Moma two".

And I loved yours like my own.

You held my baby, my little one,

I remember,

And you held my hand,

When Joey passed to God.

        

               Vida

     Through the miles,
     Through the years,
     Best friends forever.

              Pearl

                                             
Every day,
You have been a blessing to me.
I thank God.

           Love,
                      Mother








A mother's love is forever.

        

May this quilt and our friendships
Keep you warm in winter.
          
                    Floy









Jim and I danced at your wedding,
and you danced at ours. 
May we all keep dancing
for a long, long, time.

                      May

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine gently on your face.
May the rain fall softly on your field.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
                 Effie

Think kindly of me through the years. 

                        Grace

Remember when Lovell let the snake loose at Valley Baptist Church?

                        Ruth

In our gardens, we planted sunflowers, and memories. 
Tall, smiling flowers, and friendships lasting forever.

                         Hazel

You're nearer to God in the garden,
Than any place else on earth.

               Ethel

Remember when Pete and Jessie played hookey from school, and walked two miles up the road before Pete's Pa found them?
They got whopped, and you and I watched through the knothole and didn't get caught.
                                Alice

May your life be full of flowers and music.


                          Margaret

We raised flowers, and children.
We raised the barn and raised the roof.
We raised our glasses in friendship.
We raised cain and laughed.

              Your friend,
                      Audrey

If Quilts Could Talk

The first thing about quilting you have to know – it’s an act of love.

Making a quilt takes days (at least) and the materials cost as much as buying a finished quilt from Target.  So if someone makes you a quilt treasure it. 

Why would anyone make a quilt instead of buying it?  Because of the love and prayers that go into the quilt along with the stitching. 

In olden days, the actual quilting - sewing the front of the quilt to the back - was done by hand on a frame the size of a kitchen table.  Women would gather around the frame, sew the quilt together and talk about love, death, religion, cooking recipes and anything else on their minds.  An evening of quilting beats a session with a therapist any day.

Often quilts were given on special occasions.  A double wedding ring was the traditional pattern for a wedding gift.

Double Wedding Ring

Great Expectations

Here's Chapter I of my novel. If you like it, please pass it along to anyone who'll read/listen.

Elaine

The effects of the sedative were wearing off. At first the foggy sluggishness was too compelling and Johanna basked in the languorous calm of prescription medication, enjoying that she didn’t care how disturbed and unsettled everything was. The room was dark, and there were no sounds floating down the halls to her, so it was probably sometime between midnight and five in the morning. There was no telling the time any more accurately until first light crawled through the bars of the tiny window opposite her bed.
An hour or so later, some strength returned to her body, and Johanna stirred, and tried to sit up, then fell back down against the pillow. Some kind of restraint was holding her, but Johanna was still too dazed to try to figure out exactly what it was and where the knots were tied. Suffice that she couldn’t get up, she had no idea where she was, it was still some time before dawn, and Johanna had to be in serious trouble.
After several hours had passed, a false dawn played the promise of light into her window. Through the darkness, Johanna could make out some shapes of objects around her – a couple of closed doors, something that looked like a bureau and some waist high pieces of furniture that might have been chairs or a table. The room was small - bigger than a closet, but not by much. And the air had a strong smell of disinfectant, the kind they use in hospitals and other institutions.
Johanna dozed and woke. She listened for sounds, but there were none – no one talking outside, no ticking clocks, not even a motor. She moved her foot along the bed, listening to the shushing sound it made rubbing along the sheet, loud against the backdrop of quiet.
She peered out at the darkness, trying to get her mind to come up with a plan for coping, a plan for escaping, a plan to make all of this go away. Except that she wasn’t even sure what all of “this” was in the first place.
She remembered hanging a sign - her feeble protest against the imminent invasion of Iraq. It had been written on a bed sheet with a felt tipped pen. Someone had displayed an American flag at the overpass to highway four, and she had hung her sign just below the flag, fastening it to the wire fence that safeguards pedestrians. She remembered the material flapping wildly in the wind as she struggled to attach it to the wire. She remembered how hard her heart had pounded, half with fear and half with excitement, as she secured the sign to the wire, making her message known to thousands of commuters. And she remembered telling God, “I sure hope that this is what you want.”
That memory at least was clear, but the rest – the rest was all noise and confusion. There was pain, a lot of pain, and shouting, and maybe policemen or federal agents or something, and then…then… well, there was no then. There just wasn’t anything until the bed and the fog and the restraints. It was as if her mind had stopped and started all over.
What else? She tried to pull some more information out of the sticky goo that was her memory. But she couldn’t think for more than a second or two before some singsong ditty popped into her head. “You can’t go to Heaven on roller skates, ‘cause you’ll roll right by those pearly gates.” The tune from childhood knocked her thoughts over the way an exuberant dog’s tail knocks over a project painstakingly put together, and Johanna was back like Alice in a medicated wonderland.
Dawn broke. Things happened. They let her use the bathroom. “They” were a hospital sort of “they” - white jackets or smocks, and how-are-you-feeling-today smiles – the kind of smiles you could cut out of a magazine.
They fed her – some mashed orange stuff, which they shoved into her mouth with a spoon. The taste was similar to sweet potato, only it had a gritty feel to it and was so sweet that she gagged on the second mouthful. Johanna considered not eating, but that would have taken more effort than she could muster.
After the meal, Johanna hung limp while they washed her face and dressed her in a gray pair of sweat pants and T-shirt. Then they left, and came back and took her temperature. They left, and came back and gave her juice. They asked her what day it was and who she was and where she was. Johanna could only answer the second question. Then they untied what seemed to be a vest, which had held her attached to the bed with two plaited straps. And, finally, they left her alone - for a while.
With the restraint gone, Johanna dragged herself up off of the bed and stumbled around the room. There wasn’t much there. Both doors were locked. The furniture, what there was of it, was bolted to the floor. Johanna made two full circles around her room, touching, probing, looking for something to come loose. Then she plopped back down on the bed and dozed.
With a sound like a cricket makes, the door creaked open, and Johanna stirred awake. “How are you feeling today, Miss Johanna?” The woman who spoke wore a nurse’s uniform, and the words were startling after the quiet. She was young, barely old enough to have made it through nursing school, with black hair cut into a pageboy, and light brown skin. “My name is Maria.” Her voice was calm and soothing, with a hint of a Filipino accent.
“Uh,” said Johanna.
“Come with me please. You’re going to see Dr. Heckleweit this morning.” She put a hand under Johanna’s arm to support her, and Johanna leaned against it. Maria’s touch was gentle, reassuring. And Maria was the first human in this institution who had told Johanna her name.
Johanna was still pretty groggy, but was able to stumble around with Maria holding on to her arm. They walked down a long hallway. To Johanna, it seemed to go on and on with no end. Finally they reached an elevator, and Maria held up a plastic card to activate it. The elevator dropped a few floors, and they walked through a maze of corridors that culminated with a cherry-wood door, and a yellow smiley face. “You are welcome,” said the sign next to the smiley face. “Please come in and be seated.” Maria ushered Johanna inside and sat her down on a folding chair.
“Is… this Dr. Heck…is this… his office?” It was an effort to speak. Probably Maria didn’t understand her because she just nodded, smiled and said, “Yes, Honey.” Or maybe it was Dr. Heck’s office. Johanna looked around, scuffing her feet against the floor as a child would do. In fact, Johanna felt very much like a child – a miniature person in an adult world, - and very much out of control.
After a time, a large, brisk man in a white doctor’s coat walked Johanna into an inner office and positioned her like a throw pillow onto a cream-colored overstuffed couch. Standing in front of his walnut desk, he towered menacingly over Johanna.
“Good morning, Johanna, I’m Dr. Heckleweit,” said the doctor-looking person. “How are you feeling today?”
“Okay.” The words were thick, muffled. They fell through her teeth like wilted lettuce. Her head nodded to the left and her thick black curls dangled matted, pulled back into a snarled tail behind her neck. Greasy wisps drooped sadly down around her ears.
Dr. Heckleweit smiled with his teeth, a professional smile. While his lips turned up in greeting, his steel-gray eyes examined Johanna, alert for any information that her body language might give away.
“So, my friend,” he said, “we’ll be meeting like this every day for a while. “Please feel free to tell me anything that’s on your mind. You’re safe here. You can say anything, anything at all, and know that whatever you say will not leave this room.”
Johanna looked up into his eyes. He was very tall. Johanna felt like she was staring up at a stone monument. Words buzzed inside her head like mosquitoes. ‘Be not afraid. Be not afraid.’ “Okay,” she said out loud.
“So, my friend,” Dr. Heckleweit continued, “I’ll ask you some questions, and you answer. Easy questions. For example, tell me your name.” He touched some buttons to start up a tape recorder and a video camcorder; then he pulled up a chair from behind his desk, and sat down, a notepad and pencil poised in his hand.
“Johanna Jacobson,” she said.
“Good. Now tell me a little about yourself.”
The words came slowly, with large gaps of silence between them. “I work… for… the Up…start Gazette. Live in Berkeley... Forty-three years…old.” All the talking seemed frightening somehow after the silence of her room.
“Please go on,” said the doctor. “How do you feel right now?”
“Tired… Confused. I don’t…know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“What…Why I’m…here.”
“Tell me about your job.”
“Write a…column.” It was hard for Johanna to talk, but she put together a few phrases. “Nature…environment… stuff.” He let her ramble for a few minutes to give her a chance to feel comfortable, to drop her guard.
“Who told you that they torture prisoners at Guantanamo?” he asked casually, and his eyes searched Johanna for clues.
“No one,” said Johanna.
“You thought it up by yourself?” There was a sharpening in his voice.
“Yes.”
The room was still for a second. Dr. Heckleweit waited and studied Johanna’s face. There had to be something important here, something Johanna was holding back.
“Tell me what your sign says.”
“Make me…a channel of…your peace.”
“Why did you put it up under the American flag? When your country is on the brink of war?”
Johanna shrugged like a little girl. She was too woozy to actually explain what she believed. “Be not afraid. Be not afraid.” The words kept on buzzing, and her brain ached with the effort of talking.
“Are you a member of Al Qaeda?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Are you a Moslem?”
“No.”
“Are you a Christian?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you write that sign? Why? Why would you betray your country and your God? You said you’re a Christian. Do you fear hell?”
“Just hung …a sign.”
“Why…my friend?”
Johanna shrugged. Dr. Heckleweit watched her breathing and her eye movements. He looked for twitches, coughs and grunts, any movement that might indicate discomfort, but there was nothing conclusive.
“What do you know about anthrax?”
“Probably tied …to… White House.”
“Who told you this?”
“No one.” She was tired and upset.
“And the link between Al Qaeda and Sadaam Hussein?”
“Probably…made up.”
“Who told you this?”
“No one.”
“Sadaam’s arsenal of weapons of mass destruction?”
“Made up.” It was very had to talk, and Johanna felt heavy and sleepy.
“Who gave you this information?”
“No one.”
’ “Then why did you post it on the Internet?”
“Just…wanted…to.”
“But why? If you weren’t sure?”
“No reason.”
“There’s always a reason.”
Johanna sighed. She knew better than to tell the truth, but the words had to be said. Otherwise she’d be denying the most essential core of her being. She took a breath.
“Well?”
“God….told me to.”
Here Dr. Heckleweit wrote some notes on his pad.

John and Jane - a Love Story

Jane’s story:

To be honest, I always thought Penny was a little spoiled, always grousing about this thing and the other. Always complaining that there were no fellows, no dances, no parties, and no fun. You see, it was Topeka during the war years, and I guess if I were completely honest, I missed it all too. So when Penny said she wanted a vacation in San Francisco, I jumped on it. We bought the plane tickets.
We figured we’d see the sights, and go dancing at the USO and it’d just be marvy!
Penny and I, we were both secretaries. It took us months to save up the money and we had to ask in advance for the time off of work. But it was all going to be worth it...until...
Until Penny came down with appendicitis. “You can’t go by yourself,” she said from her hospital bed.
I said. “The tickets are non –refundable and I can’t postpone my vacation days. They already got a replacement for me at the bank. And I worked too hard to just give up all that money and time.”
“Well, you can’t go to San Francisco alone. It’s dangerous. It’s not proper. And besides how much fun can you have without me?” But she winked as she said it.
“Watch me,” I said. We both laughed and I hugged here as hard as I dared to after her surgery.
From San Francisco International Airport, I took a bus to the city, and I got into San Francisco on a bleak, drizzly October afternoon as shadows deepened along the streets. My first view of the legendary city was the inside of the Greyhound Bus Station, its gray walls decorated with graffiti and coffee splashes here and there. Benches were laid out row upon row, their wood shiny with old varnish.
I have to admit, at that moment I wished that Penny were with me. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and Popsicle sticks, and you could hear the sound of snoring echoing through the terminal. It made me flinch. The snores came from passengers and vagrants curled up on the benches and covered up with jackets and newspapers. Not what I’d hoped for at the beginning of my adventure in the big city. I flagged down a taxi and directed the driver to the YWCA.
Pretty soon I was starving and, according to the girl at the YWCA front desk, there was a diner only a block away. For half a second, I got hit by an attack of shyness - I didn’t know anyone in San Francisco, and there’s something sort of sad about eating alone. But this was the beginning of my big adventure. So, clutching a book like a life-preserver, I headed for the diner. It turned out to be a typical hamburger joint. The floors were black and white checkerboard, and the walls were mostly pink. I ordered a hamburger, fries, and a Coke. I remember it well. That was the hamburger meal that changed my life.







John’s story:

So I was sitting alone in a dumpy diner nursing a coffee and not even hungry. My buddy Andy and me, we’d planned to do Frisco together. Maybe meet some chicks, have a few laughs – but nothing serious. See, we were shipping out in five days, and there was no sense in anyone getting a case of bleeding heart. So nothing serious – that was the plan. Except Andy met this red head, and he’s always been a sucker for red heads, and next thing I know, he’s taking her somewhere for coffee, and I’m on my own in the dumpy diner staring at the linoleum.
But wait a sec – suddenly this girl walks in, and I’m understanding what happened to Andy. She sits down a couple of booths over, and she orders a burger and fries, and I’m trying not to be obvious about it, but I’m staring at her. And now I want a burger too.
Such a bitty thing she was! She took off her hat, and her hair sort of swooped up at the sides, and suddenly I had this incredible urge to touch that hair. I wanted to put my arm around her waist, and of course I wanted to kiss her, but also - I know this sounds dumb, but I wanted to protect her.
She was alone and she really did look like she could use company. I stood up, suddenly strong and brave, and walked over to her. I guess I swaggered a little. “Hey, I’m John. May I buy you a coke?”
“I already have one,” she said, “but bring your coffee over here if you want to.”
So I told her I was shipping out in five days, and I told her it had to be nothing serious, but I’d enjoy her company. I ordered a burger for myself and we talked forever.
And then we went dancing at the USO. The last number they played was “Tennessee Waltz”. I fell asleep that night thinking about Jane’s perfume, and Jane’s arms around me, while “Tennessee Waltz” danced in my mind.

Jane’s story:

Maybe it was the war, or maybe it happened because I needed a partner for my adventure, but I don’t think so. I think it was John, just the man he was, who won my heart. He had these deep blue eyes and, when I said something, he looked at me as if I was the most important girl in the world. And when he smiled or talked, he had this peaceful way about him that just made me happy.
And, yes, I did think about what Penny had said about being proper. Remember – you had to worry more about looking respectable back then. But, talking with this guy who was shipping out in five days, and said so right off the bat – well, I just felt safe – so very safe, and so happy I felt like hugging myself.
The next day we found Playland at the beach. There was this crazy life-size fat-lady doll in front of the fun house laughing hysterically. We had to go in. They had these really tall fast slides. “Are you sure you want to try this?” John asked, but I was already climbing the steps up to the top. You had to sit on a burlap bag sliding down, or you’d get burns on your legs. That was my favorite part of the fun house.
We explored the fun house from one end to the other – there was this circle that everyone climbed up on. Then it started to rotate, faster and faster, until almost everyone had slid off and there was only one person left in the middle.
Outside, there were arcade games. John won me a Kewpie doll, and I won a goldfish which I gave to a little girl because I wasn’t sure I wanted to trek back to Kansas with a living souvenir.

John’s story:

The best days of my life. I refused to think about shipping out. She was so delicate. I wanted to stay with her, to protect her, to take care of her.
“Can I get you something to eat?" I asked.
"Popcorn, I guess”
I walked to the concession stand and, apparently while I was gone, a smarmy marine zeroes in on Jane as if she’s a transport vessel and he’s a submarine. Walking back with the snacks, I saw the worm making moves on her. The marine was clearly drunk, the kind of drunk where he was shouting slurred threats and looking around for someone to punch. He’d gone beyond rude and obnoxious. I figured he was dangerous. Instinct to protect swelled like corn kernels popping in hot oil. I dropped the Coke and popcorn. I ran back ready to protect Jane, my Jane. Was she my Jane? I didn’t care at that moment. But I needn’t have bothered. To my astonishment that bitty half-pint, that lady bug, that bunny rabbit gave the marine a knee to his anatomy and turned her back to him. He mumbled some garbage sheepishly – something designed to save face - and left, limping slightly.
Don't underestimate, I told myself. She's not a delicate orchid. But she is rare and she is special.
We held hands and rode the roller coaster. After the fifth ride, I looked over at Jane. I had to say it. “You don’t need to be protected, do you?”
She laughed.
And she hugged me.
We spent the next three days together. The weather warmed up some and we walked all the way through Golden Gate Park from one end to the other. We saw Coit Tower. (Big deal, we both thought.) We bought crab on Fisherman’s Wharf.
We watched a movie. I forget which one - I mainly remember gingerly putting an arm around Jane's shoulder. And, just like that it was Sunday, and I had to be back at the base by three p.m.

Jane’s story:

Sunday, our last day together! We’d spent the morning walking along the beach. I gave John my address. We stopped at a stupid gift shop and he bought two souvenir wood carvings of sea gulls – one for him and one for me. Then we had to scramble to get his things packed and get him on to the base before three. We weren’t sure how much trouble you got into if you were late. At the gate to the barracks, he kissed me. Long and slow. My hair shot out of my head. He was holding me like he’d never let go. And I didn’t want to let go. I couldn’t let go. Except I couldn’t let him get in trouble with the army. I’ll write to you, I said. John kissed me one last time and walked through the gate.
All around me, couples were holding onto each other, kissing each other, saying good bye, telling each other they’d wait forever. Then the doors opened and John came running out and he ran up to me and grabbed me and threw his arms around me and lifted me into the air.
“Daylight savings time!” He exclaimed.
“Daylight savings time?”
“I don’t have to report for another hour.”
Then we were crying, and laughing, and kissing, and hugging, and yelling “daylight savings time” for the next fifty-nine minutes.


A flurry of letters:

Darling Jane,
I can’t get my mind off of you. I wake up and see your face and then remember I’m on a ship bound for Europe… I’m making my bunk, and suddenly I’m thinking about you again….

Dear John,
The days we spent together were precious. I know you’ve only left a few days ago, but it already seems like a lifetime that I’ve spent waiting. I get the newspaper, and expect to see headlines that the war is over and that you’re coming home….

Dear Jane,
When we first met, I said “nothing serious”, but I hadn’t expected to fall in love so quickly….

Dear John,
This stupid war can’t be over soon enough. I think about you a lot. I find myself asking myself about every little old thing, “Would John like it?” “What would John do?” I picture you with me all the time. There was the most beautiful sunset last night. All I could think of was that I wanted to see it with you. But I guess you have your own sunsets….

Dearest,
We have sunsets over here as well, and some are beauties. Each night, I’ll make sure to watch for the sunset when I can, and I’ll imagine you're watching it too. I know it’s not really the same sunset we’re seeing, but it makes me feel close to you. Oh, Jane, I love you so much….

John, my Darling,
Can’t Hitler just apologize and call this whole thing off? I wish I could actually see you, and touch you, and be near you. I still watch sunsets every night, and I still imagine you watching them wherever you are…..

And finally:

Dear Jane,
I’m coming home. I just got my orders….


Jane’s story:

Mom and Dad had squirreled away some money, which they gave me for another trip to San Francisco, and I was down at the docks ready to meet the ship when John came home.
The dock was this amazing human crazy quilt - wives and sweethearts, waiting for their men. They’d put on their prettiest dresses, and dolled themselves up with makeup and perfume. Everyone was smiling and craning their necks as the ship approached, trying to see their soldier. All that happiness just floating around in the air! Children fidgeted and ran around under foot – they hadn’t seen their daddies in years. And then there were the babies to whom Daddy was still a stranger.
I was nervous. We hardly knew each other, John and I, - had hardly spent any time together at all. What if we weren’t really in love at all? Or, even worse, what if only one of us wasn’t in love at all???? And then John was running towards me and I ran into his arms and kissed him and held on and we laughed and kissed and couldn’t let go of each other.
John came back to Kansas with me, and for the next few weeks, we spent every free minute together.
Mom and Dad adored him, especially when it turned out he could replace a broken clutch.
And then there was the night he asked me out for dinner and told me to “get gussied up”. His restaurant was French and very elegant, without a hint of snooty. John ordered champagne to celebrate being together. Was it my imagination, or did the waiters give us extra service? A musician came by our table singing “Tennessee Waltz”. And by the time dessert crepes were served, I felt spoiled beyond all reason, and so happy it couldn’t get any better.
Only it did. Because John knelt beside me, one knee to the floor. “I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be here with you,” he said. “Jane, please marry me. Say you’ll be my wife and I’ll love you as long as I live. I’ll make you happy. Each day will be a blessing and a celebration - just because we’re together.” Then he took my hand and put a ring on my finger. “And each day we’re together we'll be living a new chapter of a of a great adventure, I promise, a love story that will last as long as we live.”

No one had a lot of money in those days, so we arranged the wedding ourselves. We were married in a Lutheran church in Topeka, Kansas on December 15th 1946. I wore my mother’s wedding dress which was trimmed with doves and rosebuds made out of heavy old-fashioned lace. My Aunt Dorothy had to hem it to fit me, and she removed three huge bows to make it more modern. Mom and Aunt Carol made a fantastic three-tiered wedding cake, which they topped with real roses. And we decorated the church with pine branches and ivy. It was all so beautiful!
Penny was my maid of honor and Andy was John’s best man. And I take it all back about Penny being spoiled. She was the best friend a girl could have.
I tried to hold on to the memories and feelings of that day for as long as possible: walking down the aisle and John waiting for me, my mother trying to hide her tears. And I remember the look in John’s eyes when we said our vows. “I, Jane, take thee John to by my lawful wedded Husband…” I still get chills thinking about it.
And then we had a party, the best party in the history of weddings. We danced and sang and laughed well into the night.

And then we were married, and the real adventure started...





Suddenly, we weren't kids any more. We were like my Mom and Dad, grown ups starting a life together,getting jobs, learning to cook, taking care of each other. It was an adventure all right!
I'd been feeling funny for days now, queasy and tired. On a misty November morning I showed up for my doctor’s appointment - fifteen minutes early, and all but giggling out lout. I was 99% sure it would be good news, but, there was always the possibility that something was wrong. I hadn’t told John anything yet. Just in case.
The walls in the doctor's waiting room were painted green. Why did they always paint doctors’ walls that ridiculous dying-philodendron green color that was supposed to relax you? It did anything but relax you. I picked up a Good Housekeeping magazine and fingered the pages.
I fantasized about how I’d tell John. I’d cook a fancy dinner. With chocolate pudding for dessert? No something fancier. Apple Brown Betty. I could put a diaper pin inside. No you could accidentally swallow a diaper pin. A candle. Apple brown Betty with a candle on top, and the table decorated with nursery rhyme pictures. “Don’t get too happy yet,” I told myself. “There’s still the exam to get through.”
And finally a chubby red-headed nurse poked her head into the waiting room and said those wonderful words: “The doctor will see you now.”
The doctor and his nurse were very businesslike. They took a urine sample and a blood sample. They asked questions. They poked and prodded, and stethoscoped, and blood-pressured, and then I had to wait three days for results. I was washing dishes when the doctor called and told me, “you’re pregnant.” I cried. And laughed. My mouth smiled on its own. And kept smiling until John came home that night.
Our next adventure - pregnancy. First there was morning sickness. I didn’t care. I was too happy. Then about the fifth month, I felt a thump, and then another, like someone tickling me from the inside. “John, John come over here. You have to feel this.”
After about eight months, the novelty of pregnancy wore off. Morning sickness gave way to heartburn and leg cramps. Pounds showed up on their own, and attached themselves to the truck tire ever expanding around my waist. Bigger and bigger – I got so I couldn’t wait for this leg of the adventure to be over.


John’s story:

Jane woke me in the middle of the night with contractions coming quick and hard. I’d imagined and planned for the baby’s birth, but I didn’t expect it all to be so huge and overwhelming. I hope I acted cool and in control in front of Jane. I didn’t feel that way. I drove to the hospital in panic - imagine driving the Indie 500. Then I paced in the waiting room. Back and forth – it went on forever. It seemed like days passed, but it was only seven hours, and I held Carol Elizabeth in my arms. She was so small and so wonderful! I couldn’t help it. I cried. Carol Elizabeth, our princess. Now I had two darlings to care for. I looked over at Jane. To me she’d never looked more beautiful.
We took Carol home, and then adventure followed adventure – night feedings, diapers, and an occasional fever that sent me into a tailspin. We celebrate the “firsts” Jane and I did – the first step, the first word, the first poop in the potty.
Then Jane told me she was pregnant again. This time I felt like an old hand at having babies. And before I could blink, it seemed, Janet Victoria – our Jan – was born.
More adventures and more “firsts” blessed our lives - the first day at school, the first recital, the first boyfriend. It all went by like a dream. I wish I could have stopped and held onto some of the moments, but time doesn’t work that way.

All too soon, we were planning weddings, giving our daughters away to a couple of kids, nowhere near old enough to get married, and who looked as nervous as I was on the day of my wedding to Jane.
In time they had their own adventures - Jeffrey Scott, Victoria Jane, and Lisa Marie joined the clan. How did the time go by so fast?


Vicki’s tale:

This year, the grand kids – that’s Lisa and me - were cooking Christmas dinner. And we wanted to make it special. I could feel Christmas magic all around me. Playing the carols. Buying the presents. For Grandma Jane, some perfume, and a “special” gift from Victoria’s Secret”. You could get Grandma a present like that. And Lisa and I shared the cooking. I got the turkey, stuffing, drinks, dessert. She did the rest. We did the tree up with ornaments and tinsel. The house looked like a winter wonderland. The work wasn’t work. It was love, love, love. We couldn’t wait for Christmas to get here.
Grandpa John and Grandma Jane drove in mid afternoon, and they even admitted to being tired. So we sent them up to my bedroom for a power nap. They came back down shortly before an early dinner followed by the traditional opening of the presents.
We sat around the table, and Dan said the blessing, and we began passing around food and laughing and talking. But I noticed Grandma. She looked distant. Like she was making an effort. You have to understand that Grandma Jane was the ultimate grandmother. She lived for stuff like this. But this Christmas she looked like she couldn’t wait to leave. How could Grandma not like my cooking. Food poisoning???!!!! That was the only explanatin I could think of. It seemed awfully sudden. Wasn’t there supposed to be an incubation period before you felt sick??
But Grandma was almost eighty. Maybe she was extra fragile. Grandpa John didn’t look so hot either. I was sure I’d cooked the turkey long enough. And the stuffing had been bubbling in the oven. That should have taken care of any germs. Oh please don’t let me be the one to poison my grandmother!
We adjourned to the living room to open presents. I expected a couple of laughs at the Victoria Secret present, but there wasn’t so much as a chuckle from Grandma or Grandpa. And they didn’t seem too thrilled by the perfume and the shirts either. I’d wanted Christmas to be so special, and somehow it was turning out to be a big mess. Grandma and Grandpa weren’t interested in anything, not even the kids.
They left early.

John’s Story

I didn’t want to say anything. Sitting at dinner, I felt queer – peculiar - dizzy, nauseous, and with a pounding headache. Could it be my heart? I tried to remember the symptoms for heart attack and stroke. But nothing seemed right. I felt my pulse under the table. It seemed okay. I wasn’t sweating or hurting except for my head. I could raise both arms together, and, looking in the mirror, my smile seemed normal. My speech wasn’t slurred, and as far as I could tell, the words weren’t coming out garbled. What the hector was going on?

Jane’s story:

Something was very wrong. My head ached, and everything was blurry. I’d been feeling fine until dinner at Carol’s house, and suddenly, I felt disoriented, out of control. Dinner seemed to drag on forever, and then we opened the presents. I felt awful. I had to get home. I signaled John. Let’s go home, I mouthed the words. He nodded, and a few minutes later, he and I were thanking Vicki and Lisa and saying goodnight. “We had a lovely time. Thank you for everything.” I barely got the words out of mouth. On the way home, neither John nor I said much of anything.

John’s story:

I’m not sure how I got us home. The road was a blur, and it was all I could do to concentrate on my driving. Fortunately I knew the road so well I could have driven it in my sleep. Which is just about what I did. At home, we all but collapsed into our beds peeling off our clothing and just throwing it - not at all Jane's style. I removed my glasses, and they felt strange in my hand. And I looked at Jane, and she looked at me.

We were wearing each other’s glasses.


Jane's Story

We’d hit our eighties in full stride. “Let’s go to France,” John said one day, just out of the blue. And we did. We practically waltzed through the countryside - woke up to sheep bleating and roosters claiming their kingdom, and fell asleep with the scent of lavender floating above our bed. We ended our trip in Paris. They say that Paris is made for lovers, and, apparently, John and I were still lovers.
Our friends began to complain – about everything from heartburn and bad hips to operations, walkers, and pill bottles lined up across the kitchen counter like soldiers. Body parts were leaking - heart valves, noses, bladders and a few things they didn’t even know they had. And John and I somehow avoided the whole mess. In fact, while everyone we knew was overweight and gaining in spite of eating nothing, it seemed, but rutabaga and lettuce, John was dropping pounds without trying. We’d somehow bypassed old age.
But then, John had a bad day and a bad night and another bad day. The bad days became more frequent and got worse quickly. Finally our doctor confirmed that it was cancer and that John was dying. “Thank goodness we got to see France,” was the first thing out of John's mouth.
We called hospice, and they helped us set up the house for John. Kids and grandkids, and special friends stopped by. They gave us love in so many ways. They tended the things that needed tending - buying groceries, setting up a hospital bed, feeding pets. Neighbors and friends sent their love and their casseroles, as well as cards, and prayers by the hundreds.
The minister visited with communion, and he'd stay and we'd talk about France, fly fishing, the museum's fund-raiser. His name was Dave, and he had an easy way about him. "So," John asked, "where do you think I'm headed?" He downplayed it - made it sound like a joke.
Dave shook his head. "Be careful of anyone claiming to know God's plan. But here's how I imagine Heaven: Take the best of all of us; Take the best of the world, remember times of love and of peace, remember Christmas, take all of that, wrap it all up into a huge pot luck party - where everyone's welcome. And I do mean everyone."
And John looked at me long and hard. "I'll see you on the other side," he said.

I wanted to say all kinds of soppy, mushy versions of ‘I love you’ to John. I wanted to hold onto every last second I had with him. Holding on and kissing him like that day years ago when he had had to report for the army. Only this time he wasn’t coming back home.
But we'd said all the mushy, soppy things so many times... and over so many years! Instead, we held hands, and I touched his face. And the touching was more real.

Our last days together went by so quickly! John got weaker until he couldn't get out of bed, and he lost all interest in food. His breath got shallow and raspy until it was all he could do to make the air move in and out. The rattling sound got louder still, and the hospice nurse said it would happen in a matter of hours. I sat next to him, held his hand. Sometimes I'd dose off, resting my head next to his arm. They'd given him a strong dose of morphine, and he seemed at peace. "I love you, John," I said. "Thank you for making my life so wonderful." The breathing came slower and slower until it stopped. That's when I cried all the tears I'd been holding back.

A part of me - the best part of me - was torn from my heart that day.

They say time heals. Months have passed, and I still ache and wish I could have him back with me - just for one more night. I cook dinner and wish I were cooking for two. I raise my orange juice glass each morning. "Here's to you. See you on the other side." I say the words out loud. Sometimes I am moved to tears knowing what a treasured life I've had with John. I hold his memory close to my heart hold it for as long as I can. Then it flutters away, and I'm left to move through the world on my own.

Love - the Real Thing

When you’re writing a love story, it’s supposed to go like this: girl meets boy; boy meets girl; they act like idiots; they finally get together. Real life is like that as well, but love is something so much more.
The real life love stories that I collect and cherish are about the couples who love each other for thirty or forty or fifty years. And when they’re together, they act like best friends. And I do know people like that. They walk every day around the neighborhood, and they hold hands, and you can see in their eyes that they’re still special to each other.
Do you remember a news report where a bear attacked a man on a camping trip? His wife went after the bear – I’m not sure with what – and she chased it away and saved her husband’s life. Later she said that that’s just what they did. They were a team. They helped each other.
I remember once, when I was in college, my boyfriend and I were at the beach at sunset, and we saw a couple probably in their sixties. (That was really old, back then.) She had her gray head on his shoulder. Maybe they were kissing, or maybe just watching the sunset, and that’s what a real love story is about. So that’s the kind of story I’m working on. Parts of the story are about people I know and they’re true.

San Francisco Story

Call it sibling rivalry, but I had always considered myself smarter, and, by inference, better than my sister Alex. I was especially haughty when she was in the last stages of alcoholism, and her whole body, including her thinking were showing the results of having been pickled in booze. In her teens and twenties, Alex had been oh-my-gosh gorgeous. Imagine a girl five–ten with long, long legs, blue eyes, glowing cheeks, gently waving chestnut hair, and a dresses and accessories that all looked like she was wearing them for the first time. She’d modeled for The Emporium and Macys, and everyone thought she was beautiful. And she had a matching, laughing, happy personality that made you want to talk to her and, if you were a guy, to flirt with her. Now fast forward twenty years. Imagine sallow, wrinkled skin, stained clothing, and the smell of tobacco, liquor, and, often, something much worse. And according to her, everyone was a bitch or bastards unless she needed something from them. As Alex’s life spiraled downward, I often got roped into helping her, and it was hard to tell where helping left off and co-dependency began. Anyway, one day I drove her to her bank on Market Street in San Francisco, feeling used, self-righteous and huffy the whole way. You should never drive to Market Street in San Francisco, if you can at all help it. Side streets join Market at weird angles; cars and buses creep along like three-legged possums; and the area is a mine field of one-way streets and no-left-turn intersections. And, oh, the pot holes! They’re just lying there waiting to attack your tires. So many pot holes!!! I also got huffy at the idea of paying to park the car. Downtown SF parking is outrageously expensive. And, yes, I was going to be the one paying for the parking. The nearest parking garage was several blocks from the bank, and Alex was pretty sick and a very slow walker. So I decided to just let Alex off by the bank and drive around while she withdrew her money. I let her off at a bus stop about a half a block from the bank on one of the side streets. “But where will we meet?” she asked, hoping that I’d come with her. That wasn’t going to happen. “Right here at the bus stop.” I was mildly irritated that she had been the one ask such an obvious question, since, as I said, I was the smart one. I dropped her off, turned onto Market Street and drove around aimlessly for a few minutes, avoiding pot holes and other motorists. There were a few metered parking spaces here and there, and I pulled into one of them and sat in the car until I got bored. I decided to drive by the bus stop and see if Alex was there yet. It was the weirdest thing - I couldn’t find the bus stop. I couldn’t find the street that the bus stop was on. (Sense of direction was never my strong suit.) Cars magically appeared daring me to hit them, and between avoiding collisions and watching for one-way streets and no-left-turn signs, I got very confused. In a nutshell, I couldn’t find the bus stop. I thought maybe I’d have better luck on foot. I found a fifteen-minute metered spot, pulled into it, and set out to find my sister. It was cold, and the sky was threatening rain. I hugged my jacket tight around myself, but I was still cold. And I felt the first pang of guilt. Alex’s body didn’t regulate temperature. She’d be cold sitting inside a room with the heater set to eighty. Out on the street, without a warm jacket like mine, she must have been freezing. I walked along Market looking up and down the side streets trying to identify the one with the bus stop, threading my way through the crowds. The people on Market Street broke up into two groups – the suits and the street guys. The suits were the ones with business downtown. The men wore suits and ties, and had good haircuts and leather shoes. They carried briefcases. Watches peeped from under the cuffs. Their stride was long and with purpose. The women wore either suits or high-fashion dresses. And you could hear the chink, chink of their high heels on the sidewalk, and the soft swish of their nylon stockings. Here and there you'd catch the flash of accessories – dangling hoops, and chunky necklaces. And, of course, there was the occasional Starbucks coffee, safely contained inside its cardboard sleeve. The street guys wore anything and everything - dusty jackets with clumps of newspapers stuffed inside for insulation, fatigues, serapes, jeans and Dockers. Their clothing was decorated with studs, and brads, frayed edges, torn knees, raspberry jam stains, and cigarette burns. They protected their feet with everything from combat boots to running sneakers, and then there was the pair of knee-high moccasins tied with green string. A minute or two later, I entered Hallidie Plaza. It was originally designed as a sort of town square, but most of the trees had been cut down, and the benches had been ripped out. The suits passed through Hallidie Plaza as quickly as possible, while the street guys and pigeons lingered. A couple of artists had set up folding tables, peddling jewelry displayed over a bright purple cloth. Another group was beating on drums, while a guitarist strummed a tune I couldn’t recognize. An upside down tambourine invited the passersby to throw in some coins or – even better – paper money. I can’t tell you what their faces were like. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to make eye contact. I’ve always been a little scared and put off by street guys. It’s not that I was afraid they’d hurt me or anything. It was more that I’d be embarrassed, that I wouldn’t know how to say “no”, or that I’d be talked into doing something I didn’t want to do, or giving something I didn’t want to give. I’ve always considered myself better than the street people, and, as a Christian, I’ve always felt guilty for thinking that way. But – but – but – I liked that better-than feeling. Whenever I’d feel small and guilty and dumb, it was nice to be able to point to someone smaller and guiltier and dumber than me. I think advertisers and politicians use our love of being "better than" to their advantage. They manipulate us by our love of gossip and put downs. In one corner of the plaza, a man, a portly guy, with a balding head and skin like weathered lumber was selling something. Street person. He’d typed a religious quote next to a clip-art picture of a dove, and he’d copied these over and over on a sheet of typing paper. Then he’d cut them apart to make bookmarks. Very enterprising! I avoided his stare. I think the quote was, “God loves you.” I walked along the streets. Still no sister. Still no bus stop. I hugged my jacket tighter. I peered up and down the side streets. A street guy, hunkering down inside a doorway, was lining his jacket with newspaper. I kept on looking. It really shouldn’t be this hard to find a bus stop. I had to go back to my car and move it. But it was almost four o’clock. After four, commute traffic regulations would be enforced, - no parking between four and six p.m. - and any cars parked by the meters would be towed. So I had to find Alex soon. I walked along Market Street searching the cross streets for something familiar. I hugged my jacket harder. I was running out of time. It was getting really cold. And I was scared for Alex. I asked God, “What do you want me to do?” I had entered Hallidie Plaza again, and I was walking past the man selling bookmarks. His jacket was worn at the edges, and dirty shirt sleeves poked out at the cuffs. His shoe had a hole. But he was handling the cold better than I was, and he seemed happier than me – even though I’d eventually get away from Market Street, but he’d probably be back tomorrow. And, as I searched for Alex without success, reality slapped me in the face – I was no better than the man with the bookmarks. I really looked at him. And I had to acknowledge him as a human being, a member of my family of human kind. How much for a bookmark?” I asked. “25 cents.” How many should I get? I bought one, and I gave him his quarter. “God bless you,” he said. “Thank you,” I answered and I meant it. For that moment, I understood that we were the same. I was no better; he was no worse. We were people. Capable of great good, capable of stupidity and baseness. And while I was hugging my jacket and feeling like pidgeon droppings for losing Alex and leaving her freezing in the streets, he was smiling and clearly God was pleased with him. It was a moment only, a window into God’s love. I understood that he and I were both pilgrims walking on the downtown streets, no more and no less - he selling his bookmarks, I searching for Alex. He said, “God bless you,” and I took in the words trying to hold onto them, trying to absorb the blessing down to my bones. Because I needed it badly. “God bless you, too,” I said, wishing that I could give him as much as he’d given me. Maybe I should have bought more bookmarks. That's when I decided to go inside Alex’s bank. The tellers there were wearing suits and coordinating jewelry. And I was aware of my jacket, not filthy, but demonstrating less fashion sense than the bank tellers’ outfits. But I was still better dressed than the street people. I waited to talk to one of the tellers. And I wondered if the street people would get to talk to someone as I was going to do, or if they would be told to move on because of their shabby clothes. But, of course, I was projecting my own judgments on the tellers. I told the teller I was looking for my sister, and she said that she’d helped Alex, and that she had noticed Alex turning right when she left the bank. I had been looking in the other direction. I ran back to my car. I had about two minutes till they’d begin towing parked cars. And I drove past the bank, where I immediately found the street and the bus stop and Alex. I had the heater running full blast. I pulled up to the bus stop where Alex was waiting, shivering badly. I handed her my jacket as she climbed into the car. It wasn't the end of the story. Alex pulled on my patience many times after that. I never knew quite how to handle the situation. I did my best. I tried to remember the person underneath the alcohol, the kid who’d run to do the dishes after a family meal, the one who’d give up Saturdays to take Mom shopping. I remembered the sister who’d played paper dolls with me, and who’d been my maid of honor, and the special sister-to-sister moments which had been far too few. In the end, one day, she stepped off of the curb on Market Street, fell and hit her head, and was rushed to San Francisco General Hospital. At the hospital, she went into a coma, and never recovered. She was forty-eight years old when she died.