Gremlins

I’ve never been a great housekeeper. I was telling Sherry about my housekeeping phobia, and said that I often wished for gremlins to clean my house for me.
And Sherry made this weird face. “No! Bite your tongue,” she said. “You want fairies and elves to clean your house, but definitely not gremlins. They’re the ones who make your car battery die the day that your kid stars as the yoghurt cup in the healthy foods play. They’re responsible for your dog getting skunked an hour before the huge party you’re throwing. When you buy the best Christmas presents ever and your house gets burgled, blame the gremlins.”
So I’m writing about the Christmas gremlins. I hope my computer doesn’t crash.
Elaine Glimme

The Christmas Gremlins

The Christmas Gremlins -
Whenever a diaper fails, another gremlin gets his boots.

Only twelve days until Christmas. The gremlins were scurrying around like – well – like little gremlins. It’s their busiest time of the year, as everybody knows.
But Waldo wasn’t scurrying. He was marching ramrod straight - shoulders back, head high, and his feet blue with cold, carrying the garbage out to the compactor behind Gremlin Hall. No, he wasn’t an apprentice gremlin. He had earned boots eleventy-seven years ago. But they’d been stripped from his feet by the head gremlin, the Grand Exalted Gombah, because of the great soda debacle. He’d even been stripped of his socks. Every time Waldo looked down at his feet, he was once again reminded of the whole shameful incident.
It had all happened eight months ago. He was standing over the cola can assembly line adding extra fizz to the cans so that they’d shoot soda into your face when you pulled the tab. But he lost his balance and fell into one of the cans. Imagine Suzy Boonstople’s surprise when she pulled the tab and found a gremlin inside her Monster Cola can. “Never be spotted by a human” – that’s the first rule of being a gremlin, of course, and Waldo had definitely been spotted. But that wasn’t even the worst part. Monster Cola claimed that it was all a publicity stunt. “Find a monster in your Cola, and win a prize.” And the company gave Suzy and her parents an all-expenses-paid trip to Disneyland. And from then on, Monster Cola put a furry monster toy into every millionth can of Monster Cola. Well, I’m here to tell you - sales of Monster Cola shot through the roof. Suzy was happy, Monster Cola was happy, and customers, hoping to find a monster in their cola were happy. Everyone was happy. Except Waldo. He was brought up on charges before the Grand Gombah. Waldo received no mercy. “For conduct unbefitting a gremlin, for being seen by a human, for – shudder- helping, I hereby order you demoted to apprentice gremlin, bottom rank. Hand in your boots, and your socks.
You think Rudolph had it rough? That was nothing compared to the hazing that the other gremlins gave Waldo. They nicknamed him purple toes. They put tacks on the floor next to his bed. And while he was sleeping, they stuck chewing gum into his beautiful handlebar mustache. They never let poor Waldo join in any gremlin games.
But Waldo was determined to win back his boots. This Christmas would be his big chance. He’d show them all. He’d be the worst gremlin ever. Sitting by the garbage compacter in Gremlin Hall, he dreamed of fame and glory and beautiful warm boots decorated with gold braid and maybe a couple of stars symbolizing excellence.
So intent on his daydreaming was Waldo that he didn’t notice Dingus, junior gremlin second class, galloping at him and stumbling over his feet. Dingus had all the finesse of a Labrador puppy with a mouth full of hot dog. “Macafee wants to see us double quick in the conference room,” he said. “To hand out Christmas assignments, I suspect.” Macafee was the head honcho of gremlins. He’d risen to greatness because of his prowess with computers - viruses, worms, spam, phishes, etc. He was master of them all. His crowning achievement had been hacking into Stanford’s computer and flunking the entire senior class.
Waldo slicked down his hair, stuck out his chest, and goose-stepped towards the conference room, determined to excel on any assignment Macafee might give him. Dingus followed grinning like the crocodile after he’d spotted Captain Hook.
As gremlins filled the conference room, Macafee mounted his platform in the front of the room and paced back and forth with a self-important grimace playing on his face. Finally, he cleared his throat with a long harrumph, and began his speech. “Last year’s Christmas was a bitter disappointment,” he began.
The senior gremlins nodded their heads and murmured amongst themselves in agreement. Since Santa had computerized his workshop, Macafee and his staff, naturally, had set about hacking into it. Only, it seemed that Santa had equipped his system with every firewall, spam filter, anti-virus software and pop-up blocker known to man. (or elf). In spite of Macafee’s best efforts, Santa’s Christmas ride had gone off without a hitch.
“This year will be different,’ said Macafee. My ten most senior gremlins will be assigned to project N.P. I, of course, will be the project leader.
“The rest of you will report as follows:” Here, a long list ensued. Waldo stood at attention waiting for his name to be called. Finally, Macafee got to the bottom of the list. “Waldo – air conditioning.”
In his mind, Waldo began mapping out his strategy. He’d head south for hot weather – Hawaii, Rio, Acapulco. Waldo smiled thinking about thawing out his tootsies on sun drenched beaches. Eagerly, he looked up at Macafee, who glared back and continued. “Waldo, you are assigned to Alaska, Canada, Iceland, Greenland, Norway, Sweden and Denmark." Macafee grinned – and a malevolent smirk of a grin it was – A little drool crept from the corner of his mouth as he watched Waldo’s face deflate like a stuck balloon. “And, Waldo, your partner is Dingus.”
Not Dingus! The air conditioning assignment was bad enough, but, with Dingus as a partner, Waldo didn’t stand a chance of earning back his boots.
“Oh boy, air conditioners, oh boy!” Dingus jumped up and down and clapped his hands in expectation. “Do we have a great assignment or what!”
And so the gremlins set to work. While Dingus and Waldo deactivated AC’s throughout Alaska, report of operation N.P. made up most of the coffee break gossip.
In a brilliant coup, Macafee had breached Santa’s firewall and planted an M-17 hula popper virus in Santa’s mainframe which immediately began disabling toy production. “By December 24th, there should be nothing but rust and sawdust to load onto Santa’s sleigh,” said Dermot, one of the senior gremlins.
Waldo’s toes were so cold, he feared that they’d break off. Nevertheless, he persevered – plowing though snow banks to disconnect AC cables, crawling through icy ducts carrying water in a thermos bottle to short out circuits. No one noticed. No one cared. The humans were too busy stringing pop corn and cranking up the heat to notice that their AC wasn’t working.
“W-w-what’s next boss?” Dingus’s teeth chattered so he could hardly speak. “That last one was a good one, huh! Rats chewing the wires. We’re geniuses. Let’s find some more rats.”
‘You adlepated twit,’ thought Waldo. “Right, geniuses,” he sighed and shook his head wallowing in the misery of it all.
Meanwhile, Macafee was creating links from Santa’s e-mail to every other computer on the face of the earth, including those not connected to the Internet. On Christmas Eve, everyone would get the following message:
“The woods are dark
And full of snow.
Santa’s retired,
Ho, ho, ho, ho!
No toys for you.
No, no, no.”

The senior gremlins were working double quick, daydreaming of promotions, million dollar bonuses, and other magnificent perks. They expected the rewards to be great.
It wasn’t fair. Waldo knew he was born to greatness. If only he’d jumped on to the computer craze earlier. Stupid computers!
“I’ve got it, boss,” Dingus danced a little jig of excitement.
Waldo sighed. Oh, joy, he thought. Another stupid idea from the Dingleberry. (his nick- name for Dingus.) “What’s your great idea this time?”
But Dingus didn’t even hear the sarcasm, only the words, ‘what’s your great idea?’ He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Computers," he said.
Waldo groaned, and he actually pounded his head against an icicle in exasperation. There it was again, that horrible word, his nemesis - computers - the bane of his existence.
Dingus hugged himself in happy anticipation of explaining his very good idea. “The only place in all of our assigned territory where air conditioners are turned on – is the computer rooms. They have to be kept cool for the computers to work.”
Waldo almost smiled. In a fair world, he would have been the one to come up with the idea. He gave a last smack to the wires he was working on, and the two gremlins hurried to the nearest Starbucks to plan their strategy.
The news from the North Pole was nothing but bad – or good. The gremlins had finished ahead of schedule - five days before Christmas. The only toys coming off the assembly line were defective batteries and dolls without arms. And electronic e-mails were flying through the airwaves.
Santa’s elves were feverishly putting in overtime trying to debug the computers. Santa was contacting every news service on earth trying to do damage control - apologizing to the children, promising to make it up to them next year. “Have faith,” he said but in his heart he was scared. Santa had let all the children down. Somehow, some way, he’d screwed up. Maybe computers weren’t the way to go.
Macafee and the senior gremlins had all flown south (first class) to the Bahamas and were sipping margaritas and tanning their toes in the sun.
With only five days left, Waldo figured they should target the really important computers first. He looked down at Dingus, frowned and rubbed his beard. “Our first stop – the University of Oslo,” he said.
After several wrong turns, they noticed a humming sound emanating from a locked enclosure nestled between the cadaver room and the chemical storage locker. Waldo was the one who picked the lock. “Jackpot!” he said. Inside he saw row after row of computers. Waldo immediately went to work checking out the AC system while Dingus danced a cha cha across the face of the computers.
“Look at this,” said Dingus. "It’s Macafee’s message coming over the wires. Check it out. Macafee’s a genius.”
“Waldo pretended not to hear.”
“Too bad we can’t monkey with the computers,” Dingus complained. I’d give it an undo tweak - make it reverse everything. Like this,” said Dingus. And he poked and prodded the keys. “Change A’s to F’s turn 'off' to 'on'". He began to sing and jump along the keyboard. "Backwards is forwards, left is right."
“Leave it alone,” said Waldo. "Let’s just turn off the AC and get out of here.”
“We ought to be making the AC stick on instead of turning it off,” said Dingus.
Waldo smacked his forehead. “And you pick now to tell me this. We could have been jamming ACs to 'on' all this time instead of turning them off. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“From now on, just follow directions and don’t say anything. I’ll do the thinking for both of us.” Waldo threw back his shoulders and stroked his mustache as he gave the order.
But Dingus was so fascinated by the computers that he didn’t even hear Waldo. “Hey, get a load of this. Look at what I did. Now the computer’s sending a different e-mail from Santa. Listen to this: “The woods are dark and…”
“Shut up and get busy. Do I have to do all the work around here?”
“But look at what I did. Macafee’s message…”
“Macafee frosts my pancakes. I don’t want to hear about it. That’s all I’ve heard for the last month – Macafee did this. Macafee did that. Macafee’s the greatest gremlin that ever lived. I’ve had it up to here.”
While Waldo jammed up the AC, Dingus lovingly stroked the keyboards making the keys dance in time to the William Tell Overture. Things might have gone so differently if Waldo had listened. But then, Waldo never did understand computers, so it might not have made any difference anyway.
Mrs. Boonstople heard Santa’s apology on television. Santa told the children that he still loved them and to ignore any e-mails from him. Well, Mrs. B. didn’t want Suzy to be disappointed, so she checked her e-mail, planning to erase anything discouraging. But Santa’s e-mail was anything but discouraging.
“Christmas is coming
So is the snow.
You’ll all get your presents.
Ho ho ho ho!”
‘What a lovely gesture,’ thought Mrs. Boonstople. “Suzy, come see Santa’s e-mail.” Suzy giggled and squirmed. I hope he brings me a computer game,” she said.
On Christmas Eve, Santa readied his reindeer for their midnight ride, then walked to his workshop, head down, expecting the worst. But maybe there was something to salvage out of all the malfunction, something that the computers hadn’t destroyer. So imagine his surprise finding his workshop filled to the brim with his best toys yet. The elves loaded up Santa’s sleigh lickety split, and Santa took off with the heartiest “ho ho” he’d laughed in a long very time.
On December 26th, news of the Great Christmas Fiasco (as it was later known) was making its way through Gremlin Hall. Two Christmases in a row, Macafee had failed, failed, failed! Standing on the podium in front of all the gremlins, he was stripped of all decorations, and as a final blow his boots and socks were forcibly removed from his feet. A new head gremlin was to be appointed to take Macafee’s place. All the gremlins muttered and whispered among themselves, wondering who it could be.
Waldo wasn’t wondering. He was sure he’d be elected. Clearly he was the only gremlin who succeeded in his assignment. The University of Oslo was giving out diplomas in dog catching, sausage manufacturing, and on-line potty training – all thanks to him and Dingus.
Any second now, the voice of the Grand Gombah of gremlins would be broadcasted over the loud speakers announcing Macafee’s replacement. The gremlins were beside themselves in anticipation. “The new head gremlin is….” Here, a drum roll boomed throughout the building, rattling windows and shaking the chimney dust loose. “The new head gremlin is Dingus - for accomplishments of mayhem and confusion at the University of Oslo. With a special commendation to Waldo for his help in Operation Oslo.” Gremlin Hall shook with excitement. Along with the commendation, Waldo is hereby promoted to executive assistant to head gremlin Dingus.
Waldo looked about for an icicle to bang with his head.
All over the world, diapers were leaking – in joyous salute to Dingus.

Merry Christmas!

Elaine Glimme

November's Post

I want a story about winter so I picked ”Josia’s Tale”. It’s a story I wrote about ten years ago, and I’m hoping to tweak it (take out the boring parts and spice up the good parts) have it on my blog way before my January 31st deadline. So is there a problem???? Of course. I have to find what I did with it. That means organizing my office. And I hate organizing. If I didn’t hate it, my office would be all in order and I could have found “Josia’s Tale” in the time it took me to type the first three words. Wish me luck.

Yes!!!!!

EEK - October's Post - With Appologies to my Friends in Haz Mat

I must dehaz the haz mat in the can
Before the fire and smoke can knock me down.
I get to use the gizmos in the van.
My friends are cheering from a far-off town.

"What is this haz mat's haz?" I ask aloud.
"Perhaps a dirty bomb that could explode,
And on exploding form a toxic cloud,
Or grow a third eye to a horny toad."

The bells on the detectors make me wary.
The gas tech's warning buzzer gives me fright.
I never meant to be a mine canary.
I plan to chug a cold one Friday night.

Before the yellow smoke can knock me down,
I'll activate my feet and leave this town.

Immigrant

Someday, I want to write a book of stories about immigrants. I’ve know a few, most of them friends of my parents, and I’ve been fascinated with their stories. Most of the immigrants have a touch of “poor, tired, huddled masses yearning to breathe free” somewhere in the stories of their journeys to America. For some of these people, I only know bits and pieces of the story.


Art had lived in Azerbaijan and, one night, had left his home and everything he owned. “Do you know what means ‘pogrom’?” he asked me.

Some time in the midst of World War II, Father George and thirty friends were trying to escape from Stalin’s Russia by way of the Balkans. They ran into a U.S contingent, and he was given the choice of being sent to Nazi Germany or returned to Russia. Then, miraculously, it turned out that the American secretary was a friend of his

Another friend escaped from Viet Nam on a small boat, and after several unsuccessful attempts made it to freedom.

Some of the stories seem too incredible to have actually happened. It’s like watching the news – sometimes it’s so bad that I can’t believe it’s not made up.

My story for September is “Immigrant” and it’s Omar’s story. I’m writing the story as I remember it from thirty odd years ago. I’ve changed the names – just in case – and please excuse the geography and politics, which include, I’m sure, some serious errors. Just enjoy the story.



It was an evening in 1988, and I was working late at the lab. Omar was the only other person working with me. I was probably grumbling about still being at work, and about work in general, and about how slow the gas chromatograph was. There's something about being stuck at work after everyone else has gone home that makes conversation very real. Sort of like a slumber party after midnight.

Somewhere in the conversation, I think I mentioned that my parents were immigrants, and I wondered if they were ever homesick. Omar said that he had wanted to be a doctor. He said he’d even started medical school in Tehran. And his black eyes glittered - as if he longed for his land and his life so far away.

“So what happened?” I was sitting perched on a lab stool, and, as I said it, I hoped I hadn’t blundered my way into a story where he was going to have to tell me that he flunked out.

“I always wanted to be doctor,” he said. "And there were rumors that they want to make military camp on university." The night was quiet, with only the hum of the machines breaking the stillness. "Then they want to draft me.” “I did not want to fight. So I leave. I do not take much. Only some money and passport and birth certificate. Some clothes. Maybe that’s all.

“I remember, my mother, the day I leave home she makes a special meal. And she cried. And my sisters cried too. I was not worried. I think the trip is big adventure. Maybe some small trouble. Nothing serious. I did not tell my family where I was going. Safer if they do not know. I just say good bye. I would be gone few weeks, and they do not hear from me, and then I call them when I reach America. All very simple. But I hugged my mother and she cried, and I hugged my sisters, and they cried. Now my father is a strong man and solid like a tall mountain. Never in my life he hug me. He does not show sadness or fear. I remember two times when I was a boy he patted my head. Two times, that’s all. Two times he touched me with sign that he love me. But that evening, he hugged me close to him and he held me to his chest so long and I think he never let me go.

“Next morning, I am supposed to report for draft. So I leave in the night. I leave city. I do not take car. I travel by taxi or by bus. When I reach Isfahan, I meet Nasser. And he say he help me. The way ahead has few roads. Much wild country. Nasser has camels and he knows where we find water, and he knows tribes who wander in the wilderness. He knows which men help us if we have trouble, and he knows which men –clck.” Omar made the a shlashing sign across his throat.

“We begin the journey. We walk some ways and we ride camels some ways, and after many days I become restless. I want the journey to end. ‘We can ride faster,’ I say to Nasser, but he shakes his head. “To our left,’ he say, ‘Dasht-i-Lut.’ And he shivers. ‘Allah protect us,' he say. Because Dasht-i-Lut is desert, very dry, very hot in day, very cold in night.

Next day, when shadows grow long before evening, Nasser takes me arm suddenly. He pulls the leads, and motions for me to follow. I do not understand. He pulls me behind large rocks, and gives me binoculars, and then I see. There is dust, tiny puffs like from a pipe after good meal, and the faint sound caclunk caclunk. And at first I do not understand. And then I hear it. Horses. Running swiftly. And Nasser find hollow place and we hide the camels there, and we stay back and try to be small. The ground is hard, and we leave no traces – no footsteps. They ride fast and they come close and I can see scimitars, curved swords, making shining flashes when sun hits them. But they ride past us and do not see us. And we stay there and we are quiet very long time. And then Nasser he say it is safe to go farther. But we turn toward the left. And we walk some more and we ride some more. And there are more rocks and less grass and I see waves like water, and I ask Nasser what is this. And he say Dasht-i-lut. How far I ask, and he say maybe twenty miles. And we walk some more and we do not talk. Finally, we reach Iranshahr and Nasser and I part ways. And he say ‘may you walk with Allah. ‘ And I say ‘may Allah be with you.’

"My journey is almost over. I inquire for a taxi who can drive me across border to Pakistan. In Karachi I can get on airplane to the United States. Abbas say he will do it. His car is old. A gray Volkswagen beetle. I paid him 500 rial, which was a very good fee. We taped my papers and my money to bottom of his taxi, in case someone should stop us at the border. We begin our trip and I pray that we do not get stopped. The crossing was peaceful. In Karachi, I thank Abbas, and I paid him and shook his hand.

"Then, just as we make farewell, we hear shots. Loud and close by. There was shouting. People ran. People screamed. I never knew what happened, what shooting and shouting was all about. We all ran to hide. Everything was confusion. I run until I was too tired to go farther. And I sit down and breathe hard. And then I think about what to do next.

"Then I remember my money and my papers still taped to bottom of the Volkswagen. I hang my head and I cover my face with my hands. I have no money. I have no friends. And I have no name. Karachi is full of beggars. No Salvation Army, no Red Cross, but many beggars. People die in streets all the time. This is nothing unusual. And there is nothing special about me. No reason why anyone should care about another beggar. I have nothing to do now. I walk in the streets and I try to beg. I am hungry and dirty all the time. Children spit on me. After four days I was disheartened to death. And I prayed to God. “I lay my life in your hands. Do with me as you will.” And that night, for the first time in Pakistan, I sleep. The next morning I woke up. In the hazy morning sun, I see grey Volkswagen . I couldn’t believe it. Abbas say the last four days he drive through Karachi looking for me. This was his last day to try to find me. Then he must leave Pakistan and go back home to his family. I hug him like my brother, and I cry like a child. With my papers and money I fly to Europe and then to the United States. "

Now I cannot pass a beggar but I give him money and a blessing."

I Am From - The Longer Version

I am from Eugenia and Lewis who skated on the Sungari River in Harbin Manchuria. I am from Lewis, who ran off with a model to Bangkok, and from Eugenia, who stayed home and raised me.
And I am from Nictopolean, the iron man and Irene and Alexandra, my sisters.
I am from San Francisco hills and Golden Gate Park. I am from Burke’s private school for young ladies. Oh well!
I am from dark solemn churches with icons, lots of icons, illuminated by votive candles. I am from incense and smoke. I am from standing butt-high behind the man in front of me. “Again and again in peace let us pray to the Lord.” I am from bushy beards, pectoral crosses, and thick brocaded albs and stoles. And batushki coming to our house in the week after Easter. “Again and again in peace let us pray to the Lord.” – I am from hoping that the neighbors don’t hear.
I am from outside, not knowing the words and the games.
I am from salmon roe sandwiches, boiled tongue and boiled chicken. I am not from bologna and PB and J. But I am also from piroshky, and stroganoff, and blini, and from pasha and kulich after Easter when the batushki have finished praying.
And I am from midnight snacks and paper dolls, and rolling down the San Francisco hills on a broom perched on top of a roller skate.
I am from Eugenia and Lewis (My mom and Dad). Like other refugees from the Russian Revolution their families gathered in a Russian colony in Harbin, Manchuria – in the northern part of China. Mom and Dad met and were married there.

Then during World War II, the situation in China became unstable and they fled to the United States.
My Dad served in the United States army and Mom followed him around the bases while he did his training. According to a letter I found, I was conceived in St. Paul Minnesota. My Dad was part of the reconstruction effort in Japan after the war.
I am from Lewis who fell in love with Vera, a glamorous model. Mom must have been devastated. She was a proud woman and very much a “what would the neighbors think” kind of person. Back then, no one got divorced, but she did. When she found out about the affair, she kicked him out. Clearly my Dad was the bad person in the divorce, and Mom made sure to protect me from him. I was about two when they divorced and I didn’t see him again until I was about twelve, but I fantasized about him, and, since he was a fantasy and not a real human, he was perfect. I remember imagining him coming to the front door in an army uniform and telling me, “Hello, I am your father.” I used to write him letters, but I never heard back, and once I found a letter I had written a month earlier in Mom’s dresser drawer. No, it wasn’t a mistake. She never mailed my letters to him.
I am from Nictopolean, the iron man and Irene and Alexandra, my sisters.
Mom married Nictopolean when I was five. I think he was actually a better match for Mom than Lewis ever was. Lewis and Vera were adventurous. They ran off to Bangkok and created The Star of Siam – a silk manufacturing company. My Dad ran the production end – manufacturing the silk, and Vera designed clothes. They were glamorous types, while Nictopolean and Eugenia were more grounded. Or maybe it just seemed that way because Nictopolean and Eugenia raised us kids.
Sometimes, I’d get presents from Thailand, exotic presents. But to me they seemed weird. I was fascinated by the Tai silk when I first saw it, but I really didn’t like it. The silk had a lot of texture – bumps and ridges – very different from the smooth shininess of Japanese silk. I preferred more conventional presents.

I called Nictopolean “Iron Man” because he was the man of the family and the king of the house, as most fathers were back then. I had to call him “Daddy” and I had to accept him as my father, and I had to be happy and act like I loved him. I wasn’t one for rebellion, at least not on the outside. I never admitted to being sad or angry. And if I ever looked sad or angry, I’d be laughed at. So I kept very quiet and kept my feeling in check. But I didn’t outgrow teenage rebellion until my thirties.
Alexandra was the youngest of the family, the child of my Mom and Daddy. She was a sunny, happy little girl. We nick named her “Tata” when she was six months old. We’d go out to dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf, and, at three, she was so cute that she could mooch cookies from the other diners.
I am from dark, solemn churches, Russian Orthodox churches. The first thing you notice inside an Orthodox church is the wonderful odor of incense. The priest carries a censer which is a golden dish suspended from a golden chain, and inside the dish is some burning incense. The priest waves the censer, directing the smoke towards the icons and towards the people, making the church all smoky and smelling wonderful.
The walls are covered with icons, and most of the icons are illuminated by votive candles. And throughout the church, there are stands with metal candle holders – imagine upside down thimbles - where worshippers place lighted candles as a sign of devotion. I remember the churches as dark places, and, writing this I’m wondering how that can be with all the candles. When we had to go to church, I liked to put out the candles that had burned down low before they could make a waxy mess inside the holders.
There are no pews in a Russian Orthodox Church. You stand. There are a few chairs off in the corners for sick or elderly parishioners, but most people stand throughout the services which last a couple of hours. The Russian Orthodox religion is not for the faint of heart or weak of leg.
We didn’t go to church all that often, and when we did, it was usually to Vesper services, which start at six p.m. and are considerably shorter than Sunday morning services. We’d each hold a lighted candle throughout the service, and the candle would be stuck through a flower-shaped piece of cardboard to catch the dripping wax. I liked to play with the melted wax, catching the drips with a finger nail and pushing them back up into the flame.
The litany was in Slavonic back then, and it was close enough to Russian that I could understand bits and pieces but not everything that was going on. There was a lot of repetition in the service. Prayers were chanted by the priest, and the singing had a lot of monotone in it. It had the feel of a Taize service.
I was short, standing about butt-high to the person in front of my, and back then the churches were usually crowded, so my view was limited. Another think about being short – carbon dioxide, the product of people breathing and candles burning, is heavier than oxygen and sinks in the air. As a kid, I used to get dizzy and sometimes even faint in church. I liked this because it meant I got to go outside and sit on the steps until I felt better, and, if I actually fainted, I got to cause a little commotion.
As a kid, I didn’t like going to church with one exception. I loved the service on Easter Eve. You got to church at about 11:30. The church was dark – only a few candles lit – and the singing was minor key and melancholy, mourning Christ’s death. We stood holding candles that were not lit. Then at midnight, all the lights in the church went on. We lit our candles, passing the flame from one person to another. The priests would yell “Christ is Risen” at the congregation, and we would reply “He is Risen Indeed” (in Russian, of course). They’d say it three times, and we’d answer three times. There were several priests, so there was quite a bit of joyful shouting. The singing shifted to a major key. One song got sung over and over –“Christ is risen from the dead, Trampling down death by death, And upon those in the tomb bestowing light.” Back then the churches were packed and often, for Easter Eve service, we couldn’t get inside the church but had to stand on the steps outside.
Our family never observed the Orthodox lent, which is a vegan diet for seven weeks with a fast on the Saturday before Easter. Instead, we gave up meat and watching television on the first fourth and seventh weeks of lent. After Easter Eve services, you’d go home and break the fast, and that tradition we did observe. The table would be covered with food. There would be at least five kinds of meat – roast turkey, ham, duck, smoked chicken, roast beef – and side dishes – Russian potato salad, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, pickled fruits, and the traditional Easter dessert – Kulich and pasha (pronounced pas-ha). Pasha is like cheesecake without any crust, and it’s delicious, but you can’t eat very much of it. Kulich is a very rich, sweet bread studded with candied fruit and nuts, similar to panetoni, only more buttery. It takes about twenty hours to make because of all the times you have to knead it and let it rise. My aunt Maria used to call up my Mom each year and cry because her Kulich didn’t rise properly.
For the week after Easter, the priests – the batushki – came around visiting every Russian Orthodox family. There were about six churches, so we got about six visits during that week. They’d perform a service in our house, and then we’d all eat the ham, turkey, Kulich, etc. Most Russian Orthodox priests were chubby.
I was embarrassed by the priests’ visits. They wore black cassocks with brocade stoles. They did not shave or cut their hair. (Remember, this was in the days before hippies. All men were clean-shaven with short hair.) When they performed the service, they sang and chanted in Slavonic. I remember one time when Mom wanted to take a nap and told us not to let the batushki in, so, when the doorbell rang, Tata and I hid under the dining room table and giggled.
I am from outside, not knowing the words or the games. When I was three, my grandmother came to live with us, and, since she didn’t speak any English, we all spoke Russian and so Russian was my first language. They sent me to kindergarten when I was four years old. I was the youngest one in the class, and I didn’t speak any English when I got there, and I understood that I was different from the other kids. Burkes was a private school. The other kids came from rich families. I didn’t. When Mom and my Dad got divorced, she asked for a huge settlement, which he gave her. (Guilt, I think.) And she used it to send me to Burkes school for girls. Burkes was all white, back then, and mostly WASP with a few Jewish girls. So, as a Russian kid, I was the minority – at least that’s how I felt.
You could get lunch at the cafeteria, but I always got a brown paper bag with a sandwich and celery or carrot sticks, and a thermos filled with milk. The sandwich had either salami or ham, or salmon roe, or smoked salmon or boiled tongue. Mom usually buttered the bread with cold butter which ended up in chunks and sometimes tore the bread. A lot of my lunch ended up in the garbage, and I was a skinny little kid. After we finished eating, the kids could play until the bell rang, but I usually just watched.
After school, I had to wait in the office for Mom to pick me up – another example of being different from the other kids. One day, I felt lonely because I was so different and didn’t have any friends. I was picking up English, and wanted to tell the principal about this, but I didn’t have enough language to explain what I was feeling. I did the best I could. “You know, Miss Catherine, I don’t like your school.” That’s what I told her. She looked at me. And she said some things, but I couldn’t understand them. So I just stared. She kept on talking. “That makes Miss Catherine very cross,” she said. Her voice sounded as if she cared about me. I assumed that “cross” meant sad. I liked that she cared about what I was feeling. “Oh, I’m glad,” I told her. Then she said some more things. She said many more things. I didn’t understand them, but I learned that “cross” didn’t mean sad. It meant angry. Finally I said, “I’m sorry,” because I knew that was something you could say when people were angry at you. Later, Mom told me that I was in big trouble, and that they were going to kick me out of school because I was rude and arrogant. (Mom always misused the word “arrogant”.) I think Mom was exaggerating to make sure I’d behave myself. Mom was always telling me “stop bothering these people,” and “look, that lady is staring at you,” and, “what’s wrong with you? Are you crazy or something?” So I was scared to say anything, and usually just kept quiet.
Growing up, I had a few friends, and even some close friends. But I always knew that I was different. From an adult’s perspective, I think that most kids sometimes go through those feelings of being an outsider – even popular kids have some insecurities, I think. But at the time, I figured that I was the only one who felt that way.
Mom was usually more proper than loving, but I have three memories of her letting her hair down and of us just enjoying each other:
When I was little, Mom used to grab me by one hand and one foot and swing me around until I was dizzy.
We weren’t allowed to eat in our rooms, but once in a while, after we went to bed, Mom would sneak up some food to us. We called them midnight snacks, although they were more like 8:30 snacks. I think she really did sneak them up, and Daddy didn’t know about them. And we’d giggle, and eat the snacks and tell stories and secrets, and it was a sharing time.
I always wanted a flexi flyer, but since I was a girl, I never got one. So I invented broom skating. We lived on a fairly steep hill, and one day I got the idea of putting a roller skate under the straw end of a broom, and sitting on the straw and rolling down the hill using the broom handle to steer. It worked. You had to stick your legs out in front of you, and your feet acted as brakes. You wore out the heels of your shoes really fast. And here’s the best part of broom skating – to come to a complete stop, you pull up on the handle until the skate comes out from under you, and you’re sitting on the straw, and the broom comes to a complete stop. One day, my very proper mother, who never did anything unconventional tried broom skating. She had no problems with it. Broom skating is very safe, and I loved that she did it.
I am from… all these things. So what does it mean? Examining the memories and putting away childish things, I see people doing the best they can with what they have. And I see that, as a kid, I missed a lot of subtleties.
Most of the time, Mom was the parent and very intent on preserving her image. So the times when we could goof around and just enjoy each other’s company were very special. I wish we had more of them, and I think Mom wished the same thing. But here’s the revelation. I could have made us have more good times if I’d just loved Mom without a chip on my shoulder. That’s what she wanted. As an immigrant, she’d left everything familiar and had to start all over. She even had to start with a new language. She was also an outsider looking in, not knowing the rules.
As a kid, I imagined God as a whiskery old man with a clipboard. And He’d check off the things I’d done wrong – “talked back to mother”, “didn’t make her bed”, “squirmed too much in church”, “was mean to her sister”, etc. I never got goodie points for doing good things, only demerits. It wasn’t way into my adulthood that I experienced God as loving, and forgiving. I’m trying to find words for the beauty of the Russian Orthodox religion, the beauty I’d missed growing up. But as an adult, when I’d strayed from God – and I mean really strayed – that church was there to forgive me and welcome me back. I remember the smell of incense wafting through the doors as I walked in and I knew I’d come home again. There is something about the Orthodox Church that makes you aware of God’s greatness in a way that’s different from any other experience.
Reading this, I wish I’d loved more, forgiven sooner, appreciated more and judged less.
I rejected Mom’s “what would the neighbors say!” mentality, and I rejected Mom’s love of style and decorum in favor of the informal. I wish I’d taken just some of that in. Sometimes being proper is a good thing. I wonder what Mom and Daddy would have said if they’d read my blog. Hmmm…..

On Writing, Friendship, and Canadian Tree Fairies

On Writing, Friendship, and Canadian Tree Fairies

Charlotte is my best friend and she’s dying. She has Lou Gherrig’s disease which means she’s gradually losing the use of all of her muscles. Back when she was still able to drive, we took a writing class together at Diablo Valley College, and during one of the writing exercises, Charlotte wondered:
If you discover a fairy in your back yard, will the EPA classify it as an endangered species?
Will you have to file an Environmental Impact Report to dig up your petunias?
What effect will the fairy have on the native wildlife?
Maybe you should just call the exterminator.

Anyway, Charlotte never finished the story, and a couple of month ago, she asked me to do it - but to write my story, not hers. Being slightly dense, it took me two months to figure out that she’s giving away everything she has, and that included her stories.

I couldn’t remember all of the agencies Charlotte had mentioned vis a vis the environmental impact of fairies in northern California, so I had to add a few of my own - a dog catcher, an insane… no that’s giving away the story! Anyway, I got as far as Iverson’s incarceration in the pound, and then I hit writer’s block and put Iverson and his Vision Quest on the back shelf of my work area. And, it turned out later that California wouldn’t work and I had to move the Hartmans to New York.

Of the two of us, Charlotte was always the talker and I was the listener. She’d get to talking a blue streak like the little cartoon mouse Snuffles. Remember him? “My name is Snuffles. Do you know why they call me Snuffles. I don’t…..” That was Charlotte.
I’m shy and frequently can’t think of anything to say. So it was quite unfair that her voice was the first thing to go, and she had to be quiet, and I had to come up with conversation for both of us.
One great thing - Charlotte can smile and laugh, even now when almost nothing else works. Sherry her caregiver says it’s because the smile is involuntary, and that really makes me feel good. That means when she smiles it’s for real – she’s physically incapable of just being polite.


On Writing about Canadian Tree Fairies and Other Technical Difficulties

Once, when I visited Charlotte, her caregiver Sherry was on vacation and Dan was home with her. I had gotten as far as incarcerating Iverson in the pound, and Dan was really helpful in that he appreciated the technical aspects of the story. Dan asked, “What do fairies do?”
“Woah! I had not read up on my fairy lore." I said. "They’re magical. They can fly. Does that mean they can do magic?” Charlotte squeezed my hand, “yes.” Then how come Iverson can’t get out of the pound? I had to think about that. Later, from the internet I found out about the cold steel. What kind of tricks do they do? The only fairy tricks I could remember were in Midsummer Night’s Dream, when Puck changes Bottom’s head into the head of an ass.

Then Dan asked me, "can Iverson talk?" Again Woah! If Iverson can talk, they’re not going to treat him like an animal. So I gave him a high, chirpy voice and had him adopted by a French-speaking family.
I had the idea of a disgruntled ex-contestant from “The Apprentice” and of Iverson infiltrating Trump Tower and causing a military skirmish. Dan wanted to include Trump’s comb over, hence the crazy glue episode.

I’d been typing like a trooper, and I got the story finished up to the invasion, and I couldn’t wait till the following Monday. I could read her the story and I didn’t have to come up with anything to talk about.

I called in the morning before I barged on over and got the answering machine. I never got a call back, and later, I drove by the house. The big van that holds Charlotte’s wheelchair was gone, and Dan’s car was still in the driveway, so I drove away hoping that everything was okay. But the thought crossed my mind - what if I never see Charlotte again? I knew that she had a “do not resuscitate - no heroic measures” directive so I couldn’t imagine them going to the hospital. I did hope I’d be able to read the story to her. I hoped they were at clinic.

I knew that the day would come when I couldn’t have my Monday visits. Of course I knew it would happen some day. And, I knew that being alive and not being able to communicate at all would be horrible.
With a weak squeeze of her hand, Charlotte can acknowledge “yes”. It may not seem like much, but it’s a very useful “yes” - as in
Do you have to use the bathroom? - squeeze “yes”
Do you need your chair adjusted - squeeze “yes”
Tilt up? Squeeze “yes”
Are you in pain?
Is the sun in your eyes?
And so on.

The following weekend, I called from my Writer’s Retreat to tell Dan that I wouldn’t be able to visit on Monday, and he said they’d been to clinic and he hoped I hadn’t worried.
“No, I figured that’s where you were.” (Like heck, I hadn't worried.)

So here it is - “Iverson’s Vision Quest”. I hope you enjoy it. I know you would have enjoyed Charlotte.

Epilogue

"If you receive this letter, I have died. I hope you will miss me some, but don't be too sad for me. I have had a wonderful life, filled with love and lots of interesting things to do and learn about. I have been lucky in my birth family and the family Dan and I formed. My folks gave me unconditional love and didn't load me up with a lot of emotional baggage. Dan and my children made my life a joyful and interesting one. Dan has been a wonderful husband and I am very proud of how my children have turned out. They are both beautiful, interesting, caring individuals.

You all, my friends, have given me love and encouragement and unlimited entertainment. I loved listening to all your stories, and you have all taught me something about life. I cherish every one of you.

Even in my last illness, I was lucky to have so much support from hospice, medical professionals, volunteers, caregivers and friends and my wonderful family.

Now a word of parting advice: In everything you do you are creating part of reality itself. Every choice you make is a small piece in the patchwork of the universe. If you believe in God as the creative force that makes everything, you must be a piece of God because you make the universe every day, by how you treat other people, by the way you decorate your homes, by the work you choose to do, by the things you create whether they are works of art, or gardens or meals or groups you organize. Everything counts. So create well. And if you think of me, plant something green to contribute your share of oxygen to the planet. After all, I am a biologist.

I had fun. Hope you did too. Goodbye. I love you all.

Charlotte"

Quested Vision

Iverson had a weakness for anything chocolate, and that craving proved to be his downfall. He’d spent two nights in the Canadian Rockies on a Vision Quest, a rite of passage for a boy entering manhood, and he was bored, hungry, and tired, and completely without visions. In fact, on the night of his disappearance, he was trying to make up a good vision story to tell his adopted parents, when he noticed a family of campers. They couldn’t see him because he was seventeen feet up a Canadian maple tree and hidden from view by an orange-red leaf the size of a Denny’s Grand Slam pancake.
And that’s when he espied it - an open rucksack containing Reese’s chocolate peanut butter cups. He fluttered his wings in anticipation, as he counted the chocolates - one, two, three – who cares – a whole lot of chocolate! And he decided to take the risk and swoop down into the rucksack for a tiny smackrel of chocolate. In the failing light, a fairy didn’t look much different from an oversized cicada - well, maybe more like an oversized dragon fly or a small bat.
Anyway, he was overlooked. With one hand holding onto his pointy green hat, Iverson dive-bombed the bag and, blissfully unaware that the humans were stirring, he sampled its contents.
But while Iverson was feasting, the Hartmans, were packing up their belongings and getting ready to leave for home the next morning. They’d had a splendid two-week adventure in the Canadian Rockies. Dan hated to leave, but it was time for them to head back to New York. “Hustle, everyone,” he said to his kids. “All that food has to get packed up good and tight into the coolers. We don’t want to attract any bears tonight.”
High on chocolate, Iverson didn’t notice the activity until, suddenly, he heard a zipping sound and everything went dark. He was locked inside. A weaker fairy might have panicked, but not Iverson. With nothing better to do, he applied his attention to a peanut butter cup as big as his face.
The next morning, everything got loaded into the car. Alpo was the only one who noticed the rucksack’s faint twitching and he snarled and lunged at it with all the ferocity of a trained attack Chihuahua, but, as usual, the humans didn’t understand. “For heaven’s sake, keep that dog away from the snacks,” said Charlotte, using her gesturing finger for emphasis, and sixteen-year-old Meg lunged for Alpo’s collar and hauled him back into her lap. Oh, the ignominy! She treated Alpo as if he were a common - shudder - dog. Alpo sneezed, licked his nose, and scratched his rump in protest. It’s hard to demand respect when you’re a Chihuahua.
They crossed the border from Canada into the United States, and said good bye to their camping adventure, and five-year-old Stuart waved to the mountains in the distance and told them he’d see them next year.
At the border, Dan waited in line with the other cars crossing into the United States. “Have you anything to declare?” asked the border guard, looking stern.
“No, nothing, said Mr. Hartman. Alpo yelped and yipped, and snarled at the border guard. He had a thing about uniforms. “Quiet, Alpo,” scolded Dan. “Meg, keep that dog still.” The border guard paused for a moment eyeing Alpo, then motioned the Hartmans to drive on through.
Meanwhile, inside the rucksack, Iverson began to get thirsty after eating all that chocolate. That was when he realized that the comfy bed he was lying on was really a juice pouch. And, several sharp bites later, he managed to poke an eyetooth through the plastic and get a deep satisfying drink. Red and sticky - this is good stuff, thought Iverson. So between the chocolate, and the Hawaiian punch, Iverson had a reasonably comfortable ride into The United States.
Back at home, Charlotte was the first person to notice the rucksack’s movements. Figuring it to be some sort of large insect, she took the bag into the back yard, unzipped it and quickly walked inside - just in case whatever was inside could sting. And so Iverson got his first glimpse of Middletown, New York and of the Hartman’s back yard.
Charlotte’s fertilizing, watering, and her war of the weeds had paid off. The bright purples, pinks, and blues of the hollyhocks next to the Kugglemans’ fence caught Iverson’s eye, and he bounced around from petal to petal, glad to be able to stretch his wings and his kneecaps.
Well, all this activity did not go unnoticed. With a terrible yap, Alpo charged at the hollyhocks biting and snapping, but Iverson was able to dance just out of the Chihuahua’s reach. However, Alpo’s persistent, annoying bark woke Mr. Kuggleman from a blissful couch nap.
Now Mr. Kuggleman and Alpo had had run-ins before, and this one was the last straw. He’d gotten used to quiet while the Hartman children and dog were on vacation. First Mr. Kuggleman tried to ignore the yapping. Then he yelled “shuddup, dog” through the window and threw his sneaker at the fence, and finally, after Alpo had been snarling, growling, barking and whining non-stop for another fifteen minutes, he filed a complaint with the County’s Animal Control Office.
Dorothea Blakley went to the Hartman house to investigate. Alpo was at the side fence barking at the hollyhocks and his tail bounced up and down with each bark.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” said Charlotte. “He’s been doing that ever since we got back from Canada. She and Dorothea went closer to investigate, and that was the first glimpse any human had ever had of a Canadian tree fairy. (Iverson was still pretty drunk on the chocolates and not at all careful about keeping hidden from view.)
From her truck, Dorothea extracted a butterfly net, and, the next thing Iverson knew, he was trapped in a small cage in the pound. He tried to bite a hole through the mesh, but it was made of cold steel, which provides protection against fairies, as anyone knows, and anyway, the steel was much stronger than Iverson’s teeth. Dorothea consulted her supervisor because she’d never caught a fairy before, and wasn’t sure what to do with Iverson. Protocol required holding a stray animal for seven days and then either euthanizing it or making it available for adoption; so that’s what they did. They fed him crushed cat food. Iverson tried to change it into fillet mignon, but the cold steel dampened his powers, and the cat food remained cat food. Still, Iverson managed to choke some of it down to keep up his strength.
Well, the future looked grim for Iverson, and, indeed, that might have been his end had not Dorothea’s boyfriend Tom Bustly, who worked for the Department of Fish and Wildlife, made a special point of visiting the pound to see Iverson.
“That’s…that’s…I can’t believe it.” He sputtered and stared, then whipped out his digital camera and took pictures of Iverson from every angle. I’ve never seen anything like that before. “You can’t euthanize it!” he gasped. What you have here is a new species. Probably an endangered species. This is an abso-fantasmagorically amazing find.” He poured through all of his taxonomical books, but couldn’t come up with any animal matching Iverson’s description.

Every biologist dreams of discovering a new species, and Tom was no exception. “Ornithoptera, bustlii - the name swam in his head. Or maybe Magicicada, bustlii. Tom wasn’t sure of the taxonomic family much less the genus. This was huge. He invoked the Endangered Species Act and forbad the pound from euthanized Iverson. However, Tom had overlooked one detail. Iverson was not officially on the list of endangered species, and therefore was not privileged to protection under the act.
In desperation, Tom told his boss, Carney, about the creature, but Carney’s reaction was unexpected. “How did this creature get past the agricultural check point,” he asked, and, muttering something about heads rolling, made a call to his supervisor.
Kneeling next to the keyhole, Tom could hear snatches of the conversation. “Introduced species”, “threat to native wildlife”. And then there was muttering about “eradicate the threat,” and finally, “You know, chief, I’d like to dissect it.”
Tom had heard enough, and, with screeching tires, he whipped around in his Edsel and high-tailed it down to the pound at twenty-two miles per hour. He counted out his shekels and sprung Iverson out of jail - I mean the pound, and triumphantly brought Iverson’s cage back to his apartment only to be met at the door by Saidy the landlady.
“I think not,” said Saidy.
“But look how cute he is.” Tom gave her his little-boy-lost look, and held up Iverson’s cage to prove his point.
Iverson’s voice was high and squeaky, much like a cricket rubbing his hind legs together. “ Un gateau, peut etre,” said Iverson. (As a young nymph, he’d been adopted by a patriotic Quebec family of fairies).
“Agh, kill it, eradicate it, quick before it multiplies,” said Saidy. “I just spent $762 on poisons and sprays and bombs and baits, not to mention traps, glues, gloves, goggles and a gas mask. I even bought a DDT-pellet blunderbuss from a “Guy” whose address is 2.74 miles east of the village baobab tree.”
Saidy paused and gulped for air. Her face alternated between Chinese New Years’ red and ghostly bride white. “We had cockroaches the size of coconuts. They organized an army in the sub-basement and practiced military maneuvers every night under cover of darkness. And I poisoned and squished, and drowned, and bazookaed every last gushy, crunchy one of them and now you think you’re bringing another - another… thing… in here???? Not on my blunderbuss, you’re not!!!” She screwed her face into a grimace resembling a baboon’s behind.
So Tom quickly removed Iverson from the apartment and hid the cage under his Edsel’s front fender.
“Are you hungry, little guy?” asked Tom and he filled up a parakeet feeder with bird seed.
“Un morceau de fromage s’il vous plait,” chirped Iverson as Tom walked away. Glumly, Iverson picked out the sunflower seeds and managed to choke them down. Anyway, the gasoline fumes had dulled his appetite.
Tom was nothing if not resourceful and stubborn. He found numbers for the National Enquirer, the Star and the Globe and pestered the reporters. He out-paparazzied the paparazzi. This was breaking news.

That first day he got three tabloid interviews - the Globe, the Star, and a cover shot on the National Enquirer. Not satisfied with his success, he then hounded the mainline news reporters - radio, TV, and newspaper - and, finally, the Oprah show. With Oprah, he hit a soft spot, and Iverson’s plight finally got some coverage.
Meanwhile in New York, Melvin Miroguchi was feeling like dirt on a hot dog that had fallen into the cat litter box. He’d drowned himself in malt liquor, and was systematically throwing the contents of his tool box - screw drivers, electric drill bits and wrenches at the TV set when his crescent wrench hit the TV’s “on” button. Just as he was fixing to launch the electric drill at the TV sending it to its final reward, Iverson’s cherub face on Oprah caught Melvin’s attention.
Melvin’s ego was still raw from his disastrous appearance on “The Apprentice” and the infamous Porky Pig challenge, where contestants had had to sell live pigs in downtown L.A. His team mates had been dodging hog tusks and prodding the back sides of the angry swine - seven-hundred-pound slabs of thundering bacon still on the hoof - as Melvin later put it. And all the while what was Melvin doing? He had been caught on camera snoring behind some landscaping with his head propped up on a pregnant sow’s belly, the sow having been rendered unconscious by a generous serving of Stolichnaya.
Melvin was still smarting from Donald Trump’s verbal deluge to him in the board room: “Useless, blubbering chicken-twit,” and “maggot man” and “bleeping, bleep, bleep, bleeping, bleep of bleep,” and the Donald’s ultimate pronouncement: “You’re fired.”
In spite of Melvin’s misery, Iverson’s cherub face piqued his interest. Surely there was a way to cash in on this creature.
So he told Tom he wanted to help. Melvin’s gold tooth gleamed in the sunlight as he spoke. “I’ll take exceptional care of the little fellow. What a remarkable creature! What does he eat?”
“Coca Cola, et chocolate.” squeaked Iverson.
“He doesn’t seem to need much food. I’ve been feeding him bird seed, but you could try hamster pellets or maybe live crickets or mealy worms,” said Tom.
He handed the cage to Melvin who stuffed it into the back seat of his Lincoln Townhouse.
“Fois gras, Puille Fuisse, crepes Suzettes,” chirped Iverson, fondly remembering better times.
“Oh, said Melvin, “You speak French. Francais?”
“Merci a sacre nom de Dieu,” squeaked Iverson.
Melvin purchased a French-English dictionary and pushed it into Iverson’s cage, and the fairy began working with it immediately, eager for the power of being able to communicate. “Cheeseburger, French fries and a milkshake,” were Iverson’s first words in English.
While Iverson taught himself to speak English (he was a fast learner), Melvin worked on his plan for glory, wealth, and revenge on the Donald. During those days, Iverson dined on French fries, artichokes with Hollandaise, beef Wellington, and chocolate ice cream. And he discovered a new and wondrous American delicacy - lox and bagels. Melvin cheerfully shopped the gourmet food stores looking for treats for Iverson. Given Iverson’s size, it didn’t take much to fill up the fairy, and Melvin consumed the remainder.
And all the while Melvin was hatching his plot against the Donald. While a contestant on “The Apprentice”, Melvin had always felt caught off guard. If only he’d had advanced notice of the nature of the challenges and some knowledge of where the cameras would be placed! Melvin decided to use Iverson, first to learn about Trump’s plans for the next run of “The Apprentice”, and then to discover material for blackmail or bribery to guarantee Melvin a second chance to appear on to the reality show.
Iverson’s mission was to infiltrate D.T’s inner sanctum and to glue a microdot listening device to Donald Trump’s scalp underneath the Donald’s thick, lush hair. “Do this for me, and I’ll drive you all the way to Canada, Melvin promised holding crossed fingers behind his back.
“Oh, c’est marvaileuse!! Merci, merci, mon ami,” said Iverson. In a moment of ecstasy, he had reverted to his native French.
So Melvin suited Iverson up in a mini camouflage suite fitted with a back pack of mini burglar tools and a micro-dot listening device, along with a mini tube of super glue for sticking the dot to D.T.’s pate.
Shortly before five o’clock, Melvin drove Iverson to a spot three blocks north of Trump Tower and pointed the way to the tower’s front door. Iverson entered the lobby of the building unnoticed, and settled himself behind a lush, potted ficus to wait until most of the employees had left the building before making his way to the air duct. Iverson had memorized his path through the ventilation system. Right turn, left turn, proceed past the dining hall to the vertical chute, and then straight up to the Donald’s penthouse suite. Inside the penthouse he found Mr. Trump alone in his study pouring over his notes for the next “Apprentice” series. Iverson eased his way through the vent’s grill and landed unnoticed on the Donald’s head.
Now fairies, even good fairies, are known for their love of mischief, and it had been a long time since Iverson had had a good chuckle. “Atten-hut” he commanded the hair and all the strands stood straight up at attention. He squeaked another command, and the hair styled itself into a Mohawk, then into spikes, then into a comb-over.
Trump suddenly became aware of a strange tingling sensation occurring on his head. Trump’s room was decorated with floor to ceiling mirrors, and checking his reflection in them, he was surprised to see his hair waltzing, bee-bopping and hula-ing across his head, and finally settling into the comb-over.
Meanwhile, crouched behind the comb-over, Iverson took the top off of the crazy glue tube, plopped a big glob of glue onto the Donald’s pate, and quickly dropped the microdot on top of it. But the glue was runny and dribbled out of the tube and all over Trump’s head. Iverson had to jump onto Trump’s ear to avoid getting stuck. And that’s when the Donald spotted him. He swatted at Iverson first with his left hand, and then his right, and of course both hands got stuck to his hair. He grunted, swore, and, with a mighty lunge, pulled both hands free, removing two huge hunks of that lush hair he’d been so proud of. Horrified Trump looked into the mirror to see pink skin and red welts where abundant waves and curls, so carefully styled, had once lain.
 
Ever the helpful fairy, Iverson provided Donald Trump with a possum-hair toupee, but that just seemed to infuriate the Donald all the more. His face turned bright red, then purple, and Iverson wished he’d had his French-English dictionary available for all the new words he heard that night. “Impudent cockroach!” screamed Donald. Iverson understood that. In retaliation, he elongated Donald’s nose and ears. (Well, Iverson did need to practice!) He examined his work; he grinned; he chuckled; and finally he collapsed in hysterics on the Donald’s laptop, and Trump quickly overturned an ornamental cold-iron chalice on top of the computer, trapping Iverson inside it.
Then, in a fit of rage, Donald Trump pawed his furry hands around the telephone receiver and speed-dialed a direct line to Homeland Security.
Captain Chuck Walton, Homeland’s duty officer that night, was surprised to hear Donald Trump’s strained voice on the other end of the hot line. “Major threat to national security…..Direct attack to my person. …Eluded the most sophisticated security system next to the Pentagon.”
On the other end of the phone, Walton snapped to attention. He’d been preparing for this moment all his life, it seemed. “Aye, aye, sir. Right away, sir! You can count on me, sir.” Straightaway, he dispatched an NYPD SWAT team to Trump Tower. Then, to be on the safe side, he activated two squadrons from the National Guard, the Blue Angels, three stealth bombers and seven helicopters for initial reconnaissance. And so began the ill-fated invasion of Trump Tower.
Helicopter pilot Lester Barkley was first to report in. “No sign of Trump,” he said, “I see only one terrorist - a strange man - Caucasian - average height and build - with pronounced ears and nose, and a truly terrible toupee. Other terrorists are probably somewhere inside hiding. I’m now commencing hostage negotiations.”
And with that Barkley brought the bull horn to his face. “Ahoy, terrorist,” he said. “You are completely surrounded. Resistance is futile.” (He’d always wanted to say that.) “Place your weapons on the table slowly and walk over to the window. Keep your hands in plain sight at all times.”
It took Donald Trump several minutes to realize that the man was talking to him. “I’m no terrorist, you Dunderhead,” said Trump.
“What have you done with Trump?” asked Barkley.
“I am Trump,” said the Donald, and he started to explain that the terrorist in question had been sitting on his left ear, and was now buzzing around inside of a chalice on top of his computer but realized he’d better not go that route.
“How many of you are there?”
“All a mistake,” said Trump alarmed by the helicopters buzzing around Trump Tower. “No threat to national security.” Maybe he had over-reacted.!
“That’s what they all say,” said Barkley. “Why should I believe you, you sicko terrorist bastard?”
“But I’m the one who called you.”
“Donald Trump called in the threat, and you, my twisted, misguided friend, are no Donald Trump. Do you think I don’t know what Trump looks like? I’ll give you ten minutes - five minutes to release Trump and five minutes for you and your friends to give yourselves up - or else me and my pals here, well, we’ll just teach you what it means to mess with the good old U. S. of A.”
The ten minutes passed in a twinkling.
“Commence firing,” ordered Barkley. Leading the attack, he lobbed a couple of smoke bombs through a window into the room. Trump scrambled under his desk. A round of sub-machine gun fire followed. Trump’s cherished sculptures crashed to the floor in bits. Paintings fell. One of the bullets hit the rim of the chalice knocking it over and freeing Iverson. His wings were crumpled, his back was scrunched, and his pointy hat was now pointy in several new angles but he was fundamentally okay. Then he took a breath and his lungs protested, with squeaky spasms of gasping and coughing, against the cloud of toxic gas, and his eyes burned as if scratched by hawk talons. The magic spell he needed was new and strange to him, but Iverson was able to manufacture a mini gas mask to protect his eyes and lungs from the stinging, choking smoke.
“Sacre nom de Dieu,” said Iverson to himself, surveying the disaster scene. Trump’s bed, desk, dresser, and TV had been hit. Sparks from the dying television threatened to send the living room up in smoke. Trump was hugging the floor of his penthouse trying to breathe. It had started as a joke - just a harmless, prank. How had everything gotten so out of hand? Iverson felt a sudden unexpected pang of guilt for his part in causing the invasion, and he tried to make a larger gas mask for the Donald to wear until the peppery gas cleared away.
Then he remembered the rain dance his adopted grandfather and had taught him -
“Hey, wey, ey, ey, hey, wey, ey, ey,” he chanted, while flapping his arms in the air high over his head and hopping on one foot - three hops on his left foot and six hops on the right. A light mist began to collect over Iverson’s head which grew into a drizzling rain that filled the penthouse and began to knock the tear gas out of the air.
And while the helicopters continued to shell the Donald’s suite from the air, foot soldiers from the National Guard began swarming into Trump Tower from the street. Concerned that the elevators could be booby trapped, the troops climbed the emergency staircase up to Trump’s apartment. Periodically, they noticed what could be suspicious activity, and shot off a round of fire just in case.
The first object to enter Trump’s apartment was the butt of a rifle belonging to private first class Thomas Glimme, followed, shortly thereafter, by Thomas Glimme himself, all one hundred and eighteen pounds of him. Iverson had enough presence to conjure up a Photo-Hut-sized boulder which completely blocked the doorway behind private Glimme, keeping the rest of the guard out of the penthouse, at least temporarily. Thomas squinted. Dust and smoke still hung in the air. Shrapnel, crushed pottery, and pieces of furniture covered the floor. ‘Like the morning after a really good party,’ thought Thomas surveying the scene. He looked under the remains of the desk and caught sight of the possum-my Donald Trump wearing what appeared to be a muzzle, alternately bellowing and shivering next to an enormous butterfly-like creature in camouflage tentatively removing a gas mask from its face.
Thomas’s orders were to shoot to kill anyone not fitting the description of Donald Trump. And he figured that Iverson was some weird new biological weapon of mass destruction, but Thomas was also a biologist, and couldn’t bring himself to destroy these specimens. Meanwhile rifle butts and combat boots were crashing through the front wall of the penthouse. “Sacre nom de Dieu!” breathed Iverson.

“Oh, you speak Italian,” said Thomas.
Iverson was able to produce cement to dam up some of the holes in the wall, but he was still immature as fairies go, and he was fast losing ground against the National Guardsmen trying to break down the front wall. ‘We need a diversion,’ thought Iverson and succeeded in pouring a pool of blackberry Jell-o just outside of the penthouse.
The room stilled. Dust settled. As Trump cautiously removed his muzzle - I mean his gas mask - Thomas looked at Iverson in wonder and smiled.
“Enchante,” said Iverson, bowing. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Thomas also bowed. “Would you like some salami and foot cheese,” he asked and pulled a snack out of his pocket. A bond instantly formed between fairy and National Guardsman.
“Peut etre,” said Iverson, stuffing a largish hunk of the salami into his mouth, “we could get away from here and discuss le pax - the peace.” And as a gesture of good will, Iverson removed the pointed nose and ears from Trump replacing them with Trump’s pre-incident features.
Trump surveyed the ruins of what used to be his luxurious apartment. “Agreed,” he said, knowing a good deal when he heard it.
“Sure,” said Thomas. “These combat boots are killing my toes.”
Iverson tried to return Trump’s hair to what it had been, but his magic wasn’t powerful enough, and Trump ended up - to this day as far as I know - with a bad toupee glued to his head.
Moments later, the front wall collapsed and dozens of Guardsmen poured into the room.
“This is the hero who saved my life,” said Trump, throwing his arms around Thomas like a long-lost brother, while Iverson hid from view in Thomas’ pocket.
“But the terrorists…. Where is everyone?” The rest of the National Guardsmen were dumbfounded.
“Gone,” said the Donald gesturing into the air and shaking his head. “When this brave man broke into the room, they knew they had lost, and they blew themselves up. Their remains lie buried somewhere in all this debris.”
Shortly thereafter, Thomas walked out of the penthouse with Iverson still in his pocket.
“Shall we grab a brewsky or two?” suggested Thomas.
“Certainment,” said Iverson.
Several brewskies later, Iverson became quite talkative. “Before a boy can truly call himself a man, he must go alone into the woods, there to wait for a vision - a sign that points out his way in the world and the meaning to his existence. But I have failed as a seeker of wisdom. I have seen no vision, and I long in vain for home - for my home - for my Canadian trees. They stand so tall you can climb until your head touches the heavens. And the Rockies never lose their snowy hats, even on the hottest summer day, and when the sun sets it’s as if the sky has exploded with wine and berries. And the birds - the geese and hawks and eagles and songbirds - they’re all my friends, and I know them and I honk and whistle and chirp to them, and when we ride the breezes together, it’s as if the earth is playing catch with us and we are her beanbags.
“And mon pere, et ma mere.” Here Iverson blew his nose loudly on his shirt sleeve. “My family, my home!”
Weeping softly, Iverson broke into song.
“Oh, Canada,
My home and native land.”
Deeply touched by the story, Thomas pulled out a hankie and wiped his own eyes and nose.
“Will I ever see them again?” Iverson sighed.
“Well,” said Thomas after a deep swig of Heinekens, “I think we should see C the Great.”
“C the Great,” Iverson repeated in wonder.
“Yes. C the Great. She is all-knowing. If anyone can help you, she can.
They found C the Great in the middle of a field of irises making greeting cards out bits of leaf and petals and strips of rattan. She wore a green muumuu and gold lame´ slippers.
Iverson bowed low in respect and told her his problem.
“Are you an American citizen?” asked C the Great. Iverson shook his head. “Do you have a green card? A visa? A passport?” Again Iverson shook his head.
“Are you a political refugee seeking asylum in America?”
“Mais, non!” said Iverson vehemently shaking his head yet one more time.
“That’s the answer then - the Border Patrol,” said C.
“Qu’est que c’est que ca?”
“Imigration and Naturalization. You’re an illegal alien.”
“I never rode a space ship in my life!” said Iverson.
“An illegal alien to this country. The authorities will deport you back to Canada”
“Home, my family!” said Iverson beginning to hope. “I’ll be home. But, sadly, my vision quest has failed.
“Have you not journeyed?” Charlotte demanded.
“Well yes, from Canada to New York, to the pound, to the front fender, and the ventilation shaft and the exploding penthouse in the sky.”
“And you have learned?” Charlotte prompted.
“Never take chocolate, especially a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, that doesn’t belong to you, and don’t turn anyone into a possum.”
“Your purpose is peace; your path is with mortals; and your animal totem is the lofty possum. And don’t discount your vision simply because it really happened. Now wait here while I call Immigration and have you deported. C the Great flounced out of the room with Iverson calling out to her, “thank you and good bye!”

Days later in Quebec, Iverson recounted his experiences in America to his family - his incarceration at the pound, the battle of Trump Tower, his new friend Thomas, and the wonderful fishy experience of lox and cream cheese.
“Incroyable,” said his father. “Quell visions fantastique! Vraiment tu es un homme, en plein, maintenent!” And he hugged his son, now a man, and kissed him on both his cheeks.

The Way of the Pack

I finally had my human trained. We were sleeping in the woods - a church campout, they called it, and oh, it was a glorious time! We ran through grass and mud with human puppies, and I almost caught a gopher! No fooling! I sniffed behind a rock and there was its scent. Well, dirt was flying faster than I could sneeze it out of my nose, and pretty soon I had a hole big enough to stick my whole head through.

And all the time the humans were patting my head and rubbing my tummy and making a big deal over me. “You’re such a good girl, Molly.” “Good dog, Molly!”You’re so beautiful!” And so on. I was positively giddy with delight.
The best part of camping was the night. I’d sleep on my human’s sleeping bag curled around her feet. My heart was at peace, and I fell asleep each night next to her. Our smells, our warmth, the rhythm of our breathing came together I n a supreme oneness. Before this camping trim, my human had never let me sleep with her. But this the way of the dog pack and the way is good.

I have to say Molly was really well-behaved on the campout.
I don’t know what possessed me to stop by the pound last week. I guess I was getting pretty lonely rattling around my house all by myself. But once I saw her huddled in the corner of her cage, I knew I had to have her. She looked so miserable shivering and cowering, her hind end all wet. Sadder than any other dog in the pound, sadder than any dog I’d ever seen in my entire life. I’d signed the papers before I knew what hit me.

But this campout may have been my last. I don’t sleep well in a bed with an expensive mattress, and these last three nights were like some kind of torture. I’d forgotten to bring an air mattress and pillow, so I had to lie on hard ground with a sweater under my head. Molly took up a huge chunk of the sleeping bag, so I couldn’t do much stretching or tossing. She did keep my toes warm, though, and she went right to sleep the minute I did. I couldn’t wait to get home to a really good bed and a really good night’s sleep.

After a car ride where I got to stick my head out of the window, we came to our house. Right away, I recognized the pine tree in front, which the neighbor’s beagle had marked. Inside I was overjoyed by the comforting familiarity of the smells of carpet and couch leather, with my master’s smell blended into everything in the room. I licked her nose, then jumped about from couch to couch while my master played fetch with some suitcases.

I was so tired and groggy from not sleeping, it was all I could do to get the camping gear into the front hallway. I threw a load of laundry into the washing machine, using the last of the laundry detergent, then started dressing and showering for bed.

My master’s bedroom door was open. I jumped onto the bed finding a good spot in the middle and I dug at the cover making a nice nest for myself. My master’s smell was everywhere lulling me with security.

“Molly, No! Get off the bed. Bad dog!”

I cringed. Had she learned nothing from our nights at the campout? I rolled over onto my back. Why was she so angry? What happened to “adorable” and “great dog?” I wagged my tail and cocked my head in a submissive manner.“Molly, No. Get down.”
Now she was grabbing my collar and pulling me off the bed. And so I humbled myself still more. Lying on my back on the bedspread, I leaked the yellow water, letting it dribble down my hind legs and onto the bedding. This the way of the pack. The way the weakest shows submission.

“No, you stupid dog!” No!” I've never called a dog stupid in my life, but I was so tired. I pulled Molly off the bed and yanked off the bedspread and the blankets wet with dog pee. In a fog of sleep deprivation, I drove down to Safeway for a gallon of Tide. By the time everything was washed, I was too tired to think in a straight line. Gratefully, I collapsed into my bed.
Was the front door locked? Probably not. I was so tired, it was easy to forget locking the front door. I pulled back the covers and fumbled around for my slippers.

The bedroom door was open. If my master could feel the oneness of sleeping with me, our smells blending together, she’d let me jump on the bed. She’d pet me and call me ‘good Molly’ and everything would be harmony. Besides, her bed was so much softer than the pillow she’d left for me to sleep on.

“Molly, No! Get down. Go sleep in your own bed.”

She didn’t sound pleased. Not at all. I leaked more yellow water as a sign of submission, but she got even madder and put me into the garage without speaking to me.

I shivered from the loneliness and misery even though the garage wasn’t particularly cold, and fell asleep listening to the sloshing and thumping sounds of the washing machine which reminded me of the slathering grunts of a pit bull.
I scratched at a throw rug she’d left for me and huddled and shivered myself to sleep and dream myself back in dog jail. Cement cell walls confining me. Humans staring at me through wire and talking with loud voices, and laughing because of my wet tail. But the worst was the canine sounds. There were the yelping sounds of a dog in pain, and maybe the next yelping dog would be me. And always the throaty threats and rumblings of the dog gangs – the Dobermans, the German shepherds, and the junkyard mutts. These were the dogs whose characters had been toughened by survival in the dumps and back alleys, and whose sweet doggie tempers had been beaten until the dogs were hardened into killing machines. I understood the language of their growling.
And then there was the room in the back. We dogs didn’t understand, but we could sense the terrible air of fear and sadness mingled with the smell of antiseptic. Sometimes a dog with a rope around its neck would be pulled into the room, its eyes, wide, bulging with fear. And the dog never came back out…
The cold hard floor of the garage was like the floor of my cell in dog jail. In my dream, I could hear the taunts of the gang dogs. “You’re next you collie bitch. First I’ll hump you, then I’ll tear you apart for pleasure.” A rope was tight around my neck, and I was being dragged past the pit bulls and Rottweillers toward the back of the jail. I strained against the human guard and dug my pads into the cement floor. I tugged against the rope tightening around my throat, but it was in vain. They were too strong. Slowly, relentlessly, they pulled me toward the Room. I saw the door open. Rough hands pushed me through.I was wakened by the sound of my own howling. Was this a dream or a premonition? I needed my human to console me, to rub my back, and pet my tummy and talk quietly to me, but there was just the garage. Even the washing machine was still now.

I woke up feeling a little better. I called in sick at the office, fed Molly, and went back to sleep. It had been a mistake to get a dog. I didn’t need this aggravation. I should just take Molly back to the pound. She was so pretty, surely someone else would adopt her right away. Remembering the night before and the wet bedding, I gave her a final dirty look and went back to sleep.
I slept till about ten o’clock, drank some coffee to put my brain back in gear, then straightened the house, finished the laundry, and stowed the camping supplies, thinking about Molly and the dog pound all the while.
“Come on, Molly, let’s go for a ride.” She came willingly, panting with a doggie grin. She’s adorable, I thought but I just can’t handle a dog right now. “Get into back seat.” She jumped in knowing that a car was meant for fun. I tied her back with the tears starting. I petted the fur under her oh so soft chin, and looked into her oh so trusting brown eyes. “Good bye, dog. I’ll miss you.” We drove toward the pound.
Just one last run at the park, I thought. I have the day free anyway.
Molly was a perfect lady on the leash, walking by my side with only an occasional tug at a passing squirrel. Here eyes looked up at me adoringly. I remembered the campout, and how well she’d behaved. I remembered her cuddling next to my feet at night on the sleeping bag. No wonder she wanted to sleep on my bed.
I took her home and gave her a great big Milk Bone, and petted her stomach and told her what a truly remarkable dog she was. She needs me. Whatever else happens, she’s my dog now.

I gaze longingly at the human’s bed and yearn to feel the softness of the mattress and the warmth of her feet under my chin. To be one with her in slumber. But the ways of her pack are foreign and strange, and I have much to learn.
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The End

Meg's Tale

The phone rang, and it was Mom’s caregiver, Stephanie. “You need to come now, Jenny. She’s asking for you and she’s looking fragile. I don’t think she’ll last the night.” Of course I’d been expecting this phone call for some time, and I thought I was ready for it, but apparently, you’re never ready for it.

Mom had been fragile for some time now. And I was used to it. I was used to her rambling conversations, and her hands shaking, and the times she couldn’t make it to the bathroom, and all the other losses one after another - the indignities that came as her body shut down, one function after the other.

When I got to her room, her hands were drumming on the coverlet, marching to a beat that only she could hear. And she shook her head hard against the pillows until she’d mashed her hair into a rat’s nest. And all the while, her eyes darted back and forth, glassy with panic. She was agitated, really agitated. I hadn’t seen her that bad in a long time.

“It’s okay, Meg,” Stephanie said, her voice steady and soothing. “I’ll get something to help you relax.” She prepared a syringe with morphine while I held Mom’s hand. “No morphine,” she said. “Not yet. I have to. See… they’ve been here and I must.. .oh, whatever it is. Where did I put it?”

I had gotten used to those words. She had to catch a bus or meet Pa – now dead for seven years, or return a library book or buy ice cream, or a hundred other things. I usually couldn’t tell what it was that she had to do. So I’d just nod and smile and say okay until it passed and there was something else she had to do.
“Bottom drawer. On the left. Important, see it’s the bottom. I left it there.”
“Okay Mom, I’ll get to it.”
“Right now. Get it.”
“Okay, just let me sit a minute.”
“No! Now!” She would have screamed, if she’d had the strength. Instead, she whispered a raspy, gurgling sound, and her eyes bulged like a Boston terrier’s.
“Okay, Mom. Please take it easy.”
I got up, hoping to find something in the drawer to stop her restlessness. Meanwhile Stephanie tried to ease the needle’s point under Mom’s skin. Mom screamed and threw her arms rigidly into the air, and I had to hold her as gently as I could, willing her struggling to subside, while Stephanie gave her the morphine.
“Get it now. And check for ants,” Mom said. After a few moments, she softened in my arms like a rag doll.
“I love you Mom.”

“You were only three years old.” Those were the last words she ever said. About an hour later, she died. And I cried. Like a baby, like someone who lost everything important. Because she was my life, my best friend, and my comforter.
And my brain wrapped itself in fog as I called the coroner, and then waited, and answered questions, and signed papers, and saw my mother’s body taken away. And finally, numb and trembling, I drove back to my house. I showered and climbed into bed, and stared at nothing, wishing Mom were back, and wishing I were asleep.

The next day, still in shock and very shaky, I did those things you have to do when your mother dies – call a priest, arrange for a funeral, write an obituary. I began the phone calls to friends and family. Mom had had lots of friends but she was ninety-two when she died, and most of her friends had gone before her, so the phone call list was pretty short. And then there was nothing to do. The air was thick, the walls seemed to close in, and there was just nothing to do.

For distraction, I turned on the TV, and got flooded with advertisements. My Mom had died, and all the TV could talk about was eyeliner, hamburgers, and designer fashions for cheap. And then, Meg Whitman ads hit the screen - three of them in the space of ten minutes. I bristled. She had my mother’s name, but nothing else about her was like my mother. She’d paid herself a hundred million dollars. Mom and Pa had struggled their whole lives.

She had my mother’s name. Meg. That was the name my grandmother used to call Mom when I was a little girl. And I loved it. Because the name spoke of home and of hearts as warm as the arms that hugged me tight.

Another ad. Can you buy a state with enough money? Meg Whitman blamed the unions and the little old guys drawing pensions, and the undocumented aliens for California’s woes. She stood for big business - rich, clever and good.

Mom would have flipped her finger at the TV. I could imagine her clear, low voice: “Tax cuts for the rich, the housing market crash, Enron, rolling blackouts, banking scams and million-dollar bonuses doled out to the very ones responsible for the mess. And now they hope we’ll elect them to run our state!” The words disappeared in a twinkling, replaced by ideas tumbling around inside my head.

Mom would have taken a stand. And I wanted to speak up, as a sort of tribute to her memory, but I couldn’t see it or express it or draw it or sing it or shout it, or even pray about it. The words hid themselves behind a shapeless wad that was feelings, all stuffed inside of me. Lukewarm, mush that’s been standing, that’s me, I thought. Absentmindedly, I rubbed my hand along my leg, feeling the bumps of a very old scar.

That night I dreamed about a wild little boy swinging a baseball bat. The principal said that the child was violent, and there wasn’t anything she could do.

He kept on swinging; only now he was swinging paddles instead of a bat. I came up behind him and got his arms pinned to his sides. So much I wanted to say. “You have power now with those paddles, but it’s only temporary. And you’re giving up so much for that power. Who’s going to trust you? You can’t play with the other kids, or have fun or get to go places or do things. You can’t be trusted. Who knows what you’ll do? And there are so many good things you could do. You could be a friend. You could make things better. As it stands, you’re good for nothing.” He struggled, but I held his arms pinned to his sides. And he was inside me.
I woke up with my hand clapped tightly over my mouth.

A couple of days later, Mom's landlady called with her condolences, and said that she’d give me some extra time to clear out the apartment, but she really needed it empty by the fifteenth of August.

So one particularly lousy Saturday, I let myself inside and went through her things. There were pitifully few of them. Most of her cherished knickknacks had been sold at the garage sale right before she’d given up her oh-so  loved home and moved into the apartment. Independent living they called it.

I didn’t think Mom had made out a will, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t have much money, and, anyway, I was the only one left. Still, there might be some charity or some friend that she wanted to remember. And maybe that’s what she wanted me to know with her last words. I looked in that bottom left drawer, and in the very bottom I found a worn, yellowed manila envelope. From inside of it, I pulled out a spiral notebook, and I cried because the pages were filled out in Mom’s handwriting. The writing was faded and it was hard to make out some of the words. On the first page of the notebook, she’d added a Post-it, and the shakiness of the handwriting indicated that she’d added it recently. “This happened in 1939,” said the Post-it. “And I was too frightened to speak.  But we can’t forget it, because if we do, it’ll happen again.”

I half expected Mom to sit down next to me and drape an arm across my shoulders. In fact, I imagined that she did exactly that, as I sat down on her chintz-covered couch and began to read the notebook.

The day James landed the job in the petroleum refinery, we celebrated with Gallo wine and Spam sandwiches. The money was nothing at first, barely enough to scrape by on, but everyone knew that, if you worked hard, you’d climb up the ladder and then they’d treat you good and you and your family, you’d be sitting easy. Only trouble was we never did know anyone who was sitting easy – least not any of us.
Well, the work was hard, but James, he never grumbled. But I worried. He came home every night smelling of sulfur and diesel, and the smell was on the clothes, and if they got mixed up with Jenny’s clothes, then her clothes smelled of diesel and sulfur too. And I noticed that James was coughing a lot and getting short of breath. Pay wasn’t much, but we didn’t want to get branded as trouble makers, so we weren’t complaining about it.
Maxfield Grossman used to show up outside of Gate 14 at 5:30 a.m. on the first Tuesday of every month. Every month he had a new flyer that he was trying to pass out. And he’d try to get the men to come to a union meeting. “How about it, James?” he’d say. And James would say, “I need this job, and I’m not about to risk losing it for a couple of extra dollars.”
But then there was the turnaround – when they had to shut down one of the plants for maintenance – and, during this particular turnaround, Harvey and Earl had to muck out the still bottoms. Near as I can figure, this is what happened. They had to crawl into the reaction tanks and clean out the tar which was stuck to everything.
There’s supposed to be someone on watch whenever anyone’s inside the tanks, and that was supposed to be Milton. Only Milton had been called down to the pier to help unload, so no one was watching Harvey and Earl. And Earl had asked KO, the foreman, if they could wait till Milton got back so that they could have someone on watch, but KO just said to be careful. And KO was all grumbling and mean because, while the plant was shut down, there was no product heading for market.
Turnarounds always took longer than they were supposed to, and everyone was grumpy on account of the long hours and the heavy work. And KO was grumpy because his boss kept on his back about when they’d get the plant up and running again. But mostly KO was grumpy because he was just plain mean. So he told Harvey and Earl to get their asses inside the tank and start mucking.
Well, Harvey and Earl, they hung a sign on a post or something saying that they were inside. All the equipment was already turned off on account of the turnaround, and then they dressed down to their skivvies and put on a rubber suite attached to a thick hose that supplied clean air for breathing, and climbed down a ladder into the tank and started the cleaning. Only trouble was there were still a few puddles of a soupy liquid in the bottom of the tank, and someone – they never did figure out who – turned on the pump while Harvey and Earl were still inside.
First the ladder got knocked over. The puddled liquid was strong acid and it started splashing, and it ate through the rubber suits in next to no time, and Harvey and Earl, they started hollering, only no one could hear their voices from inside the suits and over the roar of the pumps. Earl, he climbed out, but Harvey’s hose line got hung up on something.

Well, James, he was the first one to hear the ruckus and he slapped at the controls to stop the machinery. Earl had run over to the safety shower, but no water was coming out of it, and Earl must have been panicking, because he just kept yelling and pulling on the handle, and still no water came out.
So James grabbed at Earl’s arm and managed to steer him across the walkway to another safety shower, and he yanked at the handle and managed to get water out of it. He tore away at the pieces of suit that were still stuck to Earl’s body. They both stood under the shower just catching their breath, and James could feel the acid stinging him through his shirt. Meanwhile, some of the other guys got Harvey out of the tank, and everyone could tell then and there that he wasn’t going to make it. They got him on a stretcher, and by that time, he wasn’t screaming or crying or anything. Only his arms and his legs were twitching and shaking, and his eyes kept rolling back into his head.
KO said it was all Earl and Harvey’s fault for going into the tank without a watch, but James had heard the whole thing.
And they’d promised the men time and a half for working the turnaround, but it turned out that the work was badly behind schedule, so instead they docked the men for the extra down time. And the next time, Max showed up at Gate 14 with flyers announcing a union meeting, James said, ”count me in.”
And I said, “James, I’m going too. This union stuff scares me to Kingdom Come, and if you’re going to do something dumb, I want to know what it is.”
Mrs. McConnell next door was going to watch Jenny, but she couldn’t at the last minute, so we bundled her up in a nightgown and took her with us.
Well, seventeen of the men showed up that night, and they talked about money and safety. Jenny was almost asleep, and, truth be told, so was I, and that’s when some union busters crashed through the door and all hell broke loose.
James and Jenny and I were sitting near a back window, and James pushed us out through it. And for a while I thought we were safe, that we wouldn’t be discovered.
There were about thirty of them, each covered up in a sheet, and they started swinging at our guys with clubs.
The ghost men! I remembered it suddenly - like water spilling over the side of a dam, the memories all but drowned me. Ghost men! In my head, that’s what I called the bad men because of the sheets. I remembered it – remembered the night - crouching in some bushes behind a big old half-dead tree. Ma had told me to be quiet, but I screamed, and she put her hand over my mouth. They must have beat up Pa. I remembered the sounds – swishy, slapping sounds like when you work on a punching bag. And sharp, stinging sounds. I could recognize Pa’s voice trying not to scream but still some grunts and groans and swearing got out of him like bursts from a shotgun.

And I could hear the sounds as if they’d just happened, and they sent a shiver through me, a prickly frozen feeling, dull and prison gray - like walls of fear, keeping the screaming inside, not daring to let it loose.

With every inch of me, I wanted to throw the notebook away, never to touch the sensations associated with it. But I knew I had to finish reading it. I owed at least that much to my mother. And I had to do it right now, because this was a place in my mind that I didn’t want to have to visit again, ever. I turned the page.

Instead of Mom’s loopy writing, the next page had pictures attached by yellow, crinkled tape. The first one was of Pa with a swollen lip and dried blood around his nose and mouth. Next, there was a photo of his leg, all bruised purple and swollen. And a photo of his back criss-crossed with thick, bloody cuts and welts. And finally, there was a picture of a small child’s leg, my leg, with a bright red burn on it.

The picture of Pa’s back was the worst. It made me ache to look at it. Instinctively, I slapped my hand over my mouth to stifle the scream. My hand was clammy, and suddenly I was oh, so cold. And my chest was heavy, as if crushed by rocks.

I turned the page to find more of Mom’s journaling.

There we were crouched down in some sorry shrubbery. I tried to keep Jenny still, but she was only three and she was scared, and her screaming attracted the men’s attention. One of them grabbed me and another snatched Jenny. Just pulled her right out of my arms. They taped her mouth to still her screaming. And one guy lit a cigarette, and he brought it up to her face. I watched the dull orange ember and I saw the tail of ashes grow. Closer and closer, he brought it up to her face. I remember screaming “No!” and just crying and crying. And he dropped it into Jenny’s lap.
“Hey, let her be,” said the other one. “She’s just a kid.”
“Hell, she’s nothin’ but a red diaper baby.”I remember his words, the way he spit them at us, like we were dead sewer rats, stinking, disgusting. He played some more with us and with the cigarette, and then he put it out – on Jenny’s leg. She screamed, but the sound couldn’t get out on account of the tape. He put it out as if Jenny’s leg was an ashtray.
Then they raped me. They hurt me bad. I never did tell James. I don’t think he ever found out.
I can’t write any more about that.
Then they threw us all into the backs of a couple of pick-ups and they drove us out to the fields and left us there still tied and taped. Like buckets of hog slop. Some of the men finally managed to work their ropes loose and we began the long walk towards home.
I think James had a sprain or break or something and he limped like crazy, but he didn’t let on that it hurt ‘cause Jenny was so young and so spooked. I knew she was hungry and hurting but somehow, she knew not to cry – just stumble along. Pa and I carried her some, and some of the others did too, but we were all pretty messed up, and she ended up walking a far stretch of the way by herself.
My hand still covered my mouth, pressing hard to hold back the scream, because, if I could just hold it back, then that terrible night wouldn’t have happened. Pa’s back and Mom’s crying, they were all my fault. All my fault because of me screaming. But I’d never do that again. No matter what, I’d keep still. For the rest of my life, I would keep still.

Then everything would be all right.

But it had happened, and I remembered it, the explosion of pain, and the smell of my burned flesh. I could still smell that tobacco mingled with my burning flesh. That smell was to stay with me for the rest of my life, a crushing, stifling feeling. I never did try smoking. I was just about the only kid in my high school class who had never smoked.

I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and I was cold through to the bone and shaking like I’d never stop. Fearful memories rushed through me like a typhoon, pressing hard against my chest. It felt like I was having a heart attack. I was about to die, and I’d die with Ma’s words hidden behind my hand. So I forced my hand from my mouth, and threw back my head, and screamed.

At first it was just a mewing sound barely strong enough to make it out of my mind, then a sick croak, and finally, a long wail and a full, scream – primitive, torn from my soul.
For a long time I rocked back and forth and cried like I’d never stop, and the rhythm and the tears were soothing like balm on a bad wound. And I just sat there rocking and crying my body’s rhythms back to normal. The crushing, icy dread subsided. I felt lighter, stronger, as if I’d just wakened from a nightmare, as if I’d killed Sauron. I looked back at the journal. There were only a few more paragraphs left.

It was the KKK that did it. Most people think that they only bothered blacks, but they also went after Jews and communists, and union organizers. And they surely went after us.
Looking back, it’s amazing that unions ever got on. It seems like they had everything stacked against them. The owners had money, respectability. They had the ear of the newspapers, and the use of the sheriff to keep us in line.
And yet the unions had to win. There were too many of us. And we didn’t have much to lose. When our kids went hungry or got sick and we couldn’t afford a doctor – well, then you’d do just about anything, and that includes organizing. But in the end we had to win. There were too many of us and we were too poor.
I looked down at my hands, now resting in my lap, and I knew I would speak and write, and shout and sing and pray my mother’s story - as if I’d ripped the tape off of my mouth. And as for Meg Whitman’s ads, well, they were a step backwards, a step towards the days when profit counted for more that human lives.

So I copied my mother’s journal, and published it in a blog on the internet. And at the bottom of the page, I added:

“FIX CALIFORNIA. TAX THE RICH.”

“DID YOU GET A MILLION $ BONUS? GIVE IT BACK.”

“WHOEVER DIES WITH THE MOST TOYS LOSES.”

And I made up business cards and passed them around everywhere I could think of. They had the web address on them and the words “I love you, Mom.” I hoped that people would read the blog and know my mother, but at least I felt comforted knowing that I had done my best to tell her story to the world.

About a week after I’d given away the last business card, I saw a car with a bumper sticker on it FIX CALIFORNIA. TAX THE RICH. And the address for my blog was there in tiny letters. I felt like hiding. It wasn’t my style to be noticed. But this was about Mom. At least that’s what I told myself. So I made up a bumper sticker for myself as well. And I made up some posters and hammered them into the ground where motorists could see them.
The bumper stickers and signs multiplied into the thousands, until they were a common sight throughout California.

Then, a six-year-old kid walked into a clinic with a Tupperware container filled with pennies and nickels that he wanted to donate. His story made the news. After that, others donated to the clinics and the after-school programs. Welfare moms volunteered their time. People volunteered and donated in droves. Everyone wanted to help fix California.

And then the miracle happened. A billionaire gave away his bonus. Not to fund his political agenda – he just gave the money to three public schools, with no strings attached. Some of the others followed, giving their bonuses to hospitals and Head Start programs, and to Oakland’s police department, and to the cities and counties that had cut their budgets. Because it was the locals who, ultimately, had paid for the bonuses. WE were the ones who had paid for the bonuses.

It happened all over the country. “It’s only fair - the right thing to do,” someone said. I saw it on the news – the best news cast I’d ever seen.

I went to work on another poster with a song of thanks on my lips.