Five Stars for Fifty

 

            Half a century of life must be celebrated big.  So, reaching this ancient of days, I cautioned my husband: No Party.  Selfishly, I wanted all Joe's money and time spent on me, even refusing to travel; that would take his time and resources from this birthday girl too.  So we drove over the Betsy Ross Bridge and twenty minutes to a swanky hotel in Center City Philadelphia.

            “Is this your first time in Philadelphia?” the woman at the check-in desk inquired.

            “We were born and raised here.  This is our first time in a five star hotel,” I aswered.  She smiled and gave us the lowdown about a breakfast package that included wifi accessability.  Turns out, breakfast was the most enjoyable and impressive part of the hotel. 

            Disappointment set in when I saw how compact our room was, with no double shower or heart-shaped bathtub like in the motels and travel lodges I was used to.  Peering back at New Jersey from our panoramic 20^th floor window, I wished we had booked over there at the Inn of the Dove.

            The portable closet with a safe, full-sized iron and ironing board, wooden coat hangers and dry cleaning bags made it clear the room was for a high-end business person who traveled.  I'm still curious why the monstrous closet smelled like cherry candy.  A draft bolster hung from one of the coat hangers.  With our room so high in the building, this didn't make sense.  Until we found in the desk, ear plugs and instructions for light sleepers on how to block out the light under the door and sound. 

            With all the accommodations for a peaceful night's sleep, I wondered what was in the closet or drawer to help when our headboard began bumping from the other side.  This transported me back to when we lived in a thin-walled rowhouse.  I didn't mind the disturbance so much after dinner the night before, but at 3:20am I just had to ride it out, remembering it wouldn't continue for long before the shower on the opposite side of ours started running.

            On my first trip to our bathroom, I had found banding around the bathroom mat hanging off and the rubber underneath it with chunks missing.  Nit-picking began: a hand towel sported a wear spot; the refrigerator couldn't have been smaller; I doubted the bed we slept in was king-sized.  We were used to a full-size, but enjoyed king-size when away from home.  I asked the friendly housekeeper about the bed but she didn't know for sure since they used only flat sheets to make the beds.  A tag on the mattress said it was manufactured on April 10, 2006. 

            Big city parking naturally has challenges.  One upside of staying at a luxury hotel is its parking garage.  We paid $30.00 a day to self-park because no one drives my husband's truck.  He made the parking attendant promise that we could come and go throughout our stay.  Of course.  That's how it works for guests like us, business guests, the two brides we saw posing for photos that weekend, and their individual guests. 

            After a tour of the city's awesome outside murals, a visit to the Rosenbach Museum, and a stroll on the famous South Street, we wandered the cozy side streets and wondered at the imposing two and three-story row houses. 

            Ready to rest, we pulled up to the hotel's garage.  A standing board obstructed the entrance.  It said: “Valet Parking Only.”  This was the only entrance to the garage.  A museum parking lot across from the hotel's was barred with a notice saying it was full. 

            We enquired about this to the valet director in tails, a flat hat and a whistle, standing at the entrance to the hotel.  He apologized and told us to drive back around to the garage, and that he'd radio for the attendant to allow us in.  So we did, but found a different board that said: “Parking Lot Full.”  The attendant there said, “The only thing I can tell you is to have them valet park your truck.  You'll need a large space for it.”

            “But we already paid to self-park.  We're guests at the hotel.”  I waved the ticket Joe paid $60.00 for to park in the garage for the weekend.

            The attendant said, “Have them valet park your vehicle.  Sorry, that's all I can tell you.”

            Once again, we drove to the entrance of the hotel and explained to the whistle and tails guy.  He said, “Park in the museum lot.” 

            “It's full,” my husband and I said in unison.

            I added, “We're guests here and have been out all day.  I just want to get back to our room.  The attendant at the garage suggested we valet park our truck, but I don't want to pay the extra $10.00 since we already paid to self-park.”

            The valet couldn't promise we'd be spared the extra expense.  He told us to pull up and leave the key in the truck.  Joe grumbled, pulling off his truck key from among the rest on his ring.  “They better know how to drive this truck.”  I think he expected the hotel to contact us and say something happened while parking his vehicle.  After a brisk night walk, he calmed down.  Until we checked out.

            “Hi.  We're checking out, but had to have our truck valet parked because there wasn't room in the garage.  I don't want to pay the extra fee.”  I spoke pleasantly with a tinge of no-nonsense.   

            It was a different woman at check-out than from check-in.  “We're aware of the problem.  Please give me your ticket and I'll have them pull your car around.”

            Lugging luggage, we waited outside for our truck to drive around the circular driveway in which only two vehicles could pass abreast.  One of the brides, now in white ballet shoes and jeans, leaned on a baggage cart draped with a wedding gown and stacked with gifts.  Other exiting guests joined us as car after cab circled the drive slowly in single file around two cars and the hotel bus partially blocking one lane. 

            Then came the longest limousine that Joe, who works in the fair city, and I had ever seen.  Our crowd on the sidewalk outside the hotel gasped as the thing's turn signal blinked and its nose began turning into the crowded circle.  It braked and the signal stopped flicking, but the guy in tails stopped the limo from leaving. 

            “Come on, come on, bring it in.”  He whistled and waved.  Tension built as the long, white monster car backed up, turned, pulled forward, backed up, pulled forward, following the whistler's instructions around the parked cars and curb of the circle.  Everyone sighed with relief as it made the turn unscratched. 

            Joe spied his truck and fidgeted faster than the previous forty minutes.  The circling vehicles sludged along.  A red car blocked one exit lane now.  The hat and whistle guy said he didn't have the key to it in response to a valet driver running back and forth from the hotel garage. 

             A young attendant yelled instructions from Joe's truck window to the hotel bus driver to move the bus forward.  He signaled other valets, attempting to get thing moving.  My husband grabbed our laundry bag from me and stepped towards his stuck truck.  I refused to go, worried that his impatience in that line of cars would cause damage.  He stopped and growled. 

            Then the lily white limo parked next to the red car, totally cutting off exiting vehicles.  Our crowd on the sidewalk gasped again, wondering how our vehicles were going to reach us.

            The young attendant finally got out of the truck and held up the keys.  I hailed him and Joe took the laundry and his key.  Then the circle cleared, starting with the red car.  I think my husband was so glad to get his truck back, that he passed the smaller vehicles and great white limo without incident.          

            “Do you want to go to the shore?” he asked.

            I didn't.  “Sure.”          

                 

           

                  

           

             

Footprints That Don't Match

 

Royal blue sculptured wall-to-wall carpet. This fantastic tint is better fit for play than décor, with surrounding golden walls our undying sun. The carpet's visible texture is little rippling waves. We sail along. Our vessel is Grandma’s Early American seaworthy sofa. When our baby brother climbs aboard, we spring a leak and all five of us abandon ship.

*

     A fog rises outside our front door from our car that’s under the weather. Grandma teeters through the smoke that mixes with real rain. It’s slippery for Grandma to get up the slick front steps. But a dark cloud in our living room ceiling finally got too heavy from the bathtub leaking, so she had to go to the hardware store for an elbow pipe that doesn’t bend.  

Grandma comes into the house limping over the carpet leaving damp footprints that don’t match; one print is wider than the other because her real foot got bigger but the artificial one didn’t.

My sister struts from side to side carrying the elbow, mimicking Grandma behind her wide back. I never tried crossing the ocean like that before. My sister walks a gait of faith; if Grandma sees her she’ll be damned. I’ll try my strut after Grandma swims upstairs along the continuous blue carpet that flows upstream.

My sister gives me the elbow and disappears. Grandma’s now swimming her special stroke, bobbing to catch a breath every few feet. Our grandma is like God. She’s huge and strong and old and alive. Dad’s not. He’s in a silk box with his head shaved, sleeping from cancer. I remember him lying there so still. I don’t remember him walking on the water much when he wasn’t sleeping. 

I feel bad for Rosa. She’s my friend who sits next to me in class. Her dad didn’t get sick; he got mean. He doesn’t live with her anymore. He’s not in Heaven though. Rosa and her mom moved into her grandma’s house. If Rosa’s dad moves into her grandma’s house too, maybe he will be in Heaven.

     Grandma just swam over the horizon. I’ll try to do it. Back up against the far wall, between the two front windows with my heels touching the baseboards. Take a deep breath. Maybe I’ll close my eyes.

     Uh-oh, Grandma’s calling me. I’ll have to paddle upstream fast.

     “Go downstairs and get the wrench from my pocketbook. It’s beside my chair,” Grandma calls from under the bathtub when I hand her the elbow. The front of her dress is wet and her artificial leg is standing beside the toilet. The leg’s metal like the pipe, but it does bend and if it gets wet, it’ll rust. I go downstairs and look for the wrench.

     Back upstairs, I pant, “Grandma, it’s not in your pocketbook.”

     “It has to be. Look again.”

     I look again.

     “Grandma, I looked real hard and it’s not there. Just the hammer.” Now I’m breathing hard.

     “Well then it has to be in the tool box in the cellar.”

     After swimming downstream again and hopping down rocks that are the cellar steps, I look for the wrench, praying it’s there. Yep!

     “Here you go Grandma.” I beam, dripping like I really did go swimming.

     She curses. “The spigot’s leaking back here too.” Grandma takes the wrench. “Go down in the cellar, on the shelf, under the stairs. There’s a small baby food jar with washers in it. Bring me up one.”

                             *

     The ocean is now a football field. Furniture and toys crowd along one side of the living and dining room thoroughfare. The TV and more toys cheer us on along the opposite side. Our team runs from the kitchen's back door straight through the house to the front door and greets visiting players. The fifty-yard line is marked by a fraying hole. No one knows who made it. Or who dropped the gum that’s now a flat black circle on our thirty-yard line.

     Many long, hard games are played here. Grandma referees in her striped dress that looks like the rest of her wardrobe; H-line (I don’t know why they call dresses A-line) with no sleeves. She made them all herself. She has the patience of a saint.

     “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Stop running in the house. And close the god damn door. You weren’t born in a barn,” Grandma yells to my brother Dan. She stops him at the sixty-yard line.

“But Grandma there’s still more wood at the curb that Joe from the shop next-door said I can have,” says Dan.

Grandma fouls his hoarding. “There’s enough wood in that yard as it is. We’ll have a firetrap back there soon.”

“Please Grandma, the trash truck’s comin’?”

She shakes her head. Dan breaks away and makes it to the twenty-yard line as the truck roars up our block.

     Grandma forgot the leg upstairs so she uses a crutch to penalize our offending player. In mid-air the yellow flag crutch becomes a harpoon and we are back on a calm ocean.

*

     The stairs are a pier now. We dangle Grandma’s crocheting yarn from it. We have fun casting it from her crocheting hook and pretending to reel in a big catch.

     We’re fine sports, but Grandma isn’t because the store doesn’t sell that color yarn anymore.

The pier disappears and we’re rowing upstream, dodging harpoons and One-legged Pete. Tonight we also sport tanned hides. Onto The Old West.

     In the morning we’re herded from our corrals beyond the stairs’ horizon, through the blue grass carpet to where we’re fed. Grandma nips at our heels so we’ll hurry. She growls when my sister reaches for the TV. Those pastures are forbidden; it’s a school day. But Grandma has a date with John Wayne at 1pm. I watched him last week when I was home from school sick. He walks funny as he approaches his horse, like he used Grandma’s yarn for a lasso. He’ll just be riding into the sunset when we come home.

     We learned in Sunday School that God has different names; Jehovah, Yahweh, Alpha and Omega. Grandma does too. She gave my mom a different last name than she has, and my uncle an even different one than those. Goodness knows how many others she has. Could Wayne be one? When I ask her about them, Grandma always needs me to do something for her, so I stopped asking.

*

     I don’t know why Grandma gets upset when the neighbors ask questions about our family. I like our neighbors. They’re so friendly and concerned about us.  

From our kitchen snack bar I see Mrs. Rudner looking at me. She’s peeping out her sun porch window which is across our street. I don’t wave to her because she may think I’m staring at her and that’s rude.

     The other day she asked me if our dryer was broken because she saw Grandma hanging laundry in our back yard (I hope Grandma remembered not to wave). When I told her we didn’t have a dryer, she made that tsk-tsk sound with her tongue and mumbled, “...with five children in that house.”

I assured her that we had a washing machine, but that I’m not allowed to help with the laundry because my mom got her finger stuck in the rollers when she was my age. Mrs. Rudner just stared at me with her mouth open.

     I heard our next-door neighbor say to her neighbor how awful it is when Ms. Gimpy says “gd” all the time right in front of her grandkids. From the way they whispered, that must be worse than a four-letter word. When I asked Grandma who Ms. Gimpy is, she says, “Those god damned gossips should mind their own business.”

*

     “Grandma, can I play with this?” my brother asks.

     “Where’d you get that from?” Grandma barks.

     “He was rooting around behind your chair,” my sister tattles.

     “What is it?” I ask.

     “That’s my Bingo dabber,” Grandma says.

     “Can I see it?” my sister dares.

     “No, put it back in my Bingo bag right now.”

     “Are you going to Bingo at OLPH, Grandma?” I ask.

     “Yeah. Now get that from your brother before he gets it all over...Jesus Christ!”

     We tease my brother about being the Blue Boy, like the picture hanging in our hallway upstairs. He snickers as we watch Grandma lug her Bingo bag and huge pocketbook into her friend’s car. Her blue eye shadow almost matches my brother’s hands.

     Grandma has lots of friends at Bingo, including the priest. They’re glad to see her come, and even pick her up when our car isn’t running. I don’t know why she can’t take communion on Sunday mornings at OLPH. I guess because we’re Protestant. That means you go to a smaller church when your car is running and drink watery grape juice.

*

     “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!.............Ass...Sh...”  Grandma’s talking to the nativity again. As I walk into our house after school, I hear her voice coming from the open cellar door. Tip-toeing to the TV set, I turn on Speed Racer.

     “Dawn Marie! Get your nose out of that TV and do your homework.” Grandma’s no longer talking to clay figures.

     My stomach hurts and the back of my neck feels funny when I hear the muffled thud of Grandma’s artificial leg on the bottom step. My body jumps and I grab my school bag. I’m sure she’s coming because of more thuds. Time is running out. The thuds are louder, closer. I scramble to get out my loose leaf book and flip to spelling. The thuds stop. I hear breathing. I feel her standing there but can’t look up from my list of words. She coughs her familiar cigarette cough and says, “Hand me your spelling words.” 

I hate spelling. I hate Thursdays because every Friday my teacher gives us a spelling test. Grandma makes me study right after school. She says to just do it and get it over with.

“Spell ‘receive’.”

“R-E-C-I-E-V-E.”

“Try it again.”

“R-E-C…E-I-V-E.”

“Spell ‘conquest’.”

“C-O-N-Q-U-I-S-T.”

“No.”

“I studied. Honest, but I can’t get ‘em right.”

“You got most of ‘em. Conquest.”

“I can’t get them last ones.”

“Yes you can. Medicine.”

“M-E-D-I-C-I-N.”

Grandma stares at the list. “Am I right?” I ask, but Grandma’s still quiet, leaning her ear at me. “E.”

“Good. Now listen, conqu..e...st.”

“C-O-N-Q-U-E-S-T.”

Grandma gives me back the list and says, “You got ‘em all.”

“Shouldn’t I try it one more time just to make sure? I don’t wanna get one of those hard ones wrong.”

“You’re done. Go play.”

*

     We’re on vacation at the real ocean. Grandma teases us about sharks so we don’t go out too far: “Damn things swim faster'n a man. Can swallow ‘em whole too.”

     We meet a kid who plays in our half of the beach house the whole week we’re here. We don't know his name. He just shows up, even when we don’t want him to. Grandma serves us Kool-Aide. She drinks iced tea with no sugar, and has to take off her artificial leg when it gets too hot for her to wear it. 

The day we go home, we say good-bye to the kid we’re hoping came with the house we’re now leaving. He takes a good, long look at Grandma and says, “Hey! You ain’t got no teeth.” Grandma laughs her hardy laugh that comes from deep down in her big belly and struts into the bedroom to check for stuff we forgot. She has us each grab a bag or box to take to the car.

I feel bad for the kid because he isn’t one of us. He’s different, like one of those kids who have their own bedroom. I bet he’s scared at night all by himself.

I think he’s gonna cry standing in the corner of the living room watching us. You can tell he wants to come along because his body leans side-to-side as we come back for more stuff and go out again.

The car’s packed and Dan whispers, “Hey Grandma, that boy’s still here. Is he comin’ with us?”

The kid’s feet don’t move until Grandma says, “You’re gonna have to go home now.”

He looks at Grandma and the rest of us like our dog looks at my brother when he’s leaving to go to school in the morning. That’s how I’d look if I were him. He doesn’t say anything and runs away fast.   

### 

 

Grandma Sticks

Grandma, grandma sick in bed.

Called the doctor and the doctor said,

“Grandma, grandma you’re not sick,

All you need is a peppermint stick.”

I don’t know about peppermint sticks, but Grandma really likes those cancer sticks. That’s what my sister calls them.

I don’t like peppermint. It burns and takes forever to dissolve. But Grandma’s cigarette's gone in a few minutes. It gets short faster when she puffs on it. That's how the glow gets brighter and makes the white paper disappear. I watch as she talks and puffs and squints one eye to let the smoke go by. Her friends do too as they laugh and cough together.

“Go get me a pack of Marlboro 100s,” Grandma yells from our front porch, and I drop my jump rope onto the concrete. The other adults smile at me from our rusty metal chairs, holding their sticks, when Grandma hands over the money to me. “Bring me back the change, you hear?”

I hold it tight. Grandma thinks I’ll loose the money. But I won’t. She’ll see, just like a big kid. I don’t know why my sister doesn’t like to go to the store for Grandma anymore.

I run up the street to the corner store, and listen for the little bell to jangle again when I close the greasy door. Dust and that old wood floor smell dance in my nose with the nasty salami that's being sliced.

On one side is the refrigerator with butter, milk, eggs, and orange juice in it. A freezer next to this has ice cream and Popsicles packed into it. On the other side is the high counter with the huge slicer on top. I see luncheon meats and cheeses through the glass. It’s late Sunday morning and Bill’s & Joe’s isn’t too crowded.

There’s a lot of stuff on the shelves that reach the ceiling: tea, coffee, jars of baby food, bread crumbs, flour, sugar, Crisco, mayonnaise; cans of baked beans, vegetables, fruits, soups, condensed milk, Spaghetti Os, Beef-a-roni, chili; boxes of cereal, macaroni and cheese, baking soda and spaghetti noodles. There are even things hanging from the ceiling, like stuff you’d find on your dad’s work bench – if you still had a dad. Sometimes Grandma pulls stuff like this out of her big black pocketbook, like electrical tape, a screwdriver or pliers.

Next to the first counter is a smaller counter and behind it on the wall are the cigarettes. I can peek over this counter to see the smudgy apron of Joe. Or Bill. I never knew who was who. I always thought they were brothers, so it didn’t matter if you called them by the wrong name. Grandma does that to us kids, and we just answer. No one ever corrects Grandma. You just figure out who she means.

I guess the sticks are behind the candy counter because there's no room around the store to put them.  The candy is inside a see-through belly like the meats and cheeses. While I wait to be served, I peek at Mallo Cups and Pixy Stixs. Wax soda bottles and Smarties.  

“Yes?” Bill or Joe says stepping down from the cold cut area. I swallow and check to see if I still have Grandma’s money.

“A pack of Marlboro 100s, please,” I say, letting the coins peel themselves from my palm onto the counter.

“Soft or hard?”

“Hard pack, please.” I remember that from before, when Grandma got mad because I had brought home the wrong one.

I see Swedish Fish and Wax Lips.

Bill or Joe turns around and slaps a hand on the counter. “This is for your grandma, right?” His eyebrows were scary but his eyes aren't.

I nod, careful not to hit my face on the counter like last time, when the other Bill or Joe asked me and my sister this.

“Here you go.” He tosses the box onto the counter. “Matches?”

“Yes please,” I reply. Grandma always wants the matches.

“Wait for your change.” But I remembered and would have turned back even if he didn’t say something. “Here you go,” he adds, handing me different coins over that worn counter with its scratches and faded white streaks.

My hand is sweaty as I sprint home. But I won’t loose Grandma’s change. I squeeze tight until my nails dig into my palm and make a row of commas. The sticks I hold in my other hand tight, but not too tight; they'd be no good if I squished them. I run up the cement steps that still smell friendly from the rain last night. The black wrought iron gate complains as I swing it on its whiny hinges.  Everybody must be inside getting something to drink.   

“That you Elizabeth?” Grandma yells as I enter the vestibule.

“Yes Grandma,” I call back. Elizabeth’s my sister, but I know Grandma means me. Grandma must have been so busy talking that she didn’t see me come down the street. She usually is looking out one of the front windows – the one next to her chair. Grandma likes greeting people before they appear from the vestibule. Her voice booms greetings to friends and family. I'm proud to be one of them as I appear and hand over the things to Grandma. Her friends smile and say what a big help I am.

I sit on the floor near my grandma’s only leg. The warm breeze from the fan makes Grandma’s dress wave at me. This and the rubber smell from her crutches help me daydream so that I don’t eavesdrop on the adult conversation. I'm happy.

Philadelphia at the Shore

            When planning a vacation near the Atlantic Ocean, a resident of Philadelphia says, "I'm going to the beach."  Someone from New Jersey says, "I'll be down the shore."  I'm from Philly but now live in the Garden State, so I use the latter expression these days.  However, my first trip through the shore towns of Ventnor City and Margate, along the Jersey coastline last year, had me scratching my head wondering where I was and which way to express my location.

            As we drove, I asked my husband, "Why do these shore towns feel so familiar?"  It was as if I was back in Philadelphia where I grew up, and still loved to visit. 

            "The buildings here are designed like the ones in Philadelphia."  Joe began rattling off examples as we traveled along Ventnor Ave.  His specific recall clicked more keen than my foggy memory.

            Hardly a building expert, I was floored that I not only noticed the similarities in these small communities to the big city, but could also feel the affinity to them that I had to the urban neighborhoods.  It amazed me how architecture reaches out in its essence as well as art form. 

            The house we rented in Ventnor wasn't a row home, like the Philadelphia ones I had lived in, but had that aura as I sat on the open front porch looking across the tiny car lined street at other houses.  I realized after Joe's information, that these houses didn't have to connect for me to get the same Philly feel. 

            Reading the street names from the truck window as we drove, we had also noticed many of the same ones we remembered from familiar areas of the great city: Wissahickson, Wyoming, Oxford, Jasper.

            Joe pointed out true row houses we passed in Ventnor that resembled those in the Somerdale area of the city.  Ventnor's two story homes with a balcony on the second floor mirrored Philly's Mayfair and Northeast sections of the city. 

            My childhood neighborhood of Kensington's sister greeted us with its storefronts, each also topped with an apartment dwelling.  The delicatessens and pizza joints made me want to get out at a red light and stroll these reproductions of my youth.  The stores also mimicked ones Joe'd seen in Port Richmond and Fishtown.  "You're right," I cried, as the originals focused from my past.  I almost heard the neurons firing in my head.

            Margate's colonial flare ballooned in its city hall, designed after Independence Hall in Old City Philadelphia.  Similar to the Mayfair brick homes in the city, these shore ones only told me I wasn't on the other side of the Delaware River because they clearly were more recently built.

            The Tudor style houses at N. Haverford and Ventnor Aves. screamed to me that we were in Mayfair.  The intersection of Frontenac and Gladstone Aves. teased, 'You're at Frankford and Cottman Aves.'  Margate's fire hall could be a newer Philadelphia Firehouse, and its Community Church is a descendent of the ancient Christ's Church at 2^nd Street in Old City Philadelphia.

            We ventured back to Ventnor for this year's vacation.  It was like coming home again.  Even our temporary neighbors chatted with each other and greeted us.  At night, this friendliness was like sitting outside in the city waiting for the ice cream truck while chewing the fat.  And dogs.  What city neighborhood would be complete without the occasional barking of a dog?  I met so many dogs on my vacation whose owners were as gentle as they were.  Were these people duplicated from my childhood city home, like their architecture?  I didn’t know, but what I did know is that I wanted to visit again next year.            

              

           

           

The Life and Adventure of Mortimer T. Turtle Byrne

Isn't Mortimer T. Turtle Byrne handsome? He's a perfectly painted slider who's social and not camera shy. M.T.T.B. joined our family 26 years ago. And, he wasn't a baby then, when I bought him from a pet store on Kensington Avenue in Philadelphia.

I had wanted a pet that didn't take up much space in our small row home; something low maintenance that wouldn't die anytime soon. Mortimer started off in a 3 gallon sized tank on our kitchen table near a window. This put him at eye level for our 4-year-old daughter to see him.

Mortimer, even though not a baby turtle, continued to grow. Now he lives in a 40 gallon sized tank that, along with its stand, is larger than most pieces of our furniture. So much for low maintenance and not taking up much space.

We learned that if Mortimer is scared, he hisses and snaps. That was during the salmonella outbreak in New Jersey, so I had no worries about my little girls handling our pet turtle; he freaked them.

At that time, our family had moved from Philly to New Jersey. Mortimer had enjoyed swishing around his tiny tank in the U-haul next to my brother-in-law. As he drove the massive truck over the Tacony/Palmyra Bridge, my brother-in-law unknowingly smuggled a turtle which was illegal to own as a pet, while wondering, “What the hell?” was splashing at his elbow.

Mortimer's favorite pastime is climbing out of his tank. I worried he'd crack his shell falling from the rim of the tank. People have suggested I get a lid or covering for the tank. However, Mortimer is now so big and strong, that this would cause him more injury when he puts his shell's weight behind his clawed paws to remove anything sitting on top of his tank that can allow in oxygen. Remember, turtles don't breath under water and must surface for air about every three minutes.

During M. Byrne's longest excursion, I panicked, trepidatiously sniffing around the house. Surely after 3 weeks he'd died, being out of his watery habitat for that long and not being fed his daily ReptoMin floating food sticks. Our girls were optimistic that Morty didn't haunt the house as a passed away pet. I could tell by the way they continued to walk carefully around the house and kept their feet off the floor when watching TV or eating dinner.

Instead of a new smell, a new noise joined the usual sounds an old house makes. The girls mentioned hearing a thumping sound while doing their homework, but were afraid to investigate on their own. They were familiar with the sound Morty's shell made hitting the bottom of the bathtub as he tried climbing out while I cleaned his tank. As a busy mom of four, I wasn't in one place in the house long enough to hear the muted thumping.

I almost cried with joy when I found Mortimer while cleaning behind our entertainment unit. The bottom of the thing sat solid and flush with the floor and wall, but the back side of it was exposed above the surbase. The noise must have been him trying to scale the wall over the surbase to slip sideways through the narrow opening again to freedom. If Mortimer was a land turtle, with a higher shell, he couldn't have slid himself sideways between the unit and the wall above the surbase in the first place. Now that his body had dried, he had no more gription to hoist himself above the surbase.

Heaving the entertainment system away from the wall, I grabbed hold of him. I prayed as I checked his shell. No cracks, no seepage from cat nails or signs of dehydration. Morty was smart to hide where the cats couldn't get to him. And he was as perky as ever. Well, as perky as a turtle going into semi-hibernation can be. That's probably how he survived.

His lovely green and off-white striped body slows its metabolism in the cold months. He stops eating and is not as feisty as in the warmer months. He did snap at me with his sharp beak-like mouth when I removed the dust bunnies stuck to his face, taking off a layer of skin from my index finger as I pulled the fuzz away. This time he'd really gotten himself into a situation, and was a nervous wreck. I set him back in his tank to chill out, so glad he was safe.

We've tried several types of filters for his tank, trying to find one powerful enough to filter turtle water sufficiently; one that Morty can't climb on top of and tip himself over the side of the tank. The current filter seems the best because it can lay flat at the bottom of the tank. We've also limited the water level so Morty can't swim high enough to grab hold of the lip of the tank and flip out. The only piece of the new filter that is near the top of the tank is the cord running from the element at the bottom, out of the tank and down its outside wall to the electrical outlet.

Recently I've seen Mortimer with his gorgeous long claws on the cord. Could he be trying to use it as a rope? On another occasion, I saw his arm wrapped behind the cord. Now this may sound cartoonish, but Morty has had this filter for years. Maybe watching the TV series “Cosmos” has me thinking that, given enough time, Morty could evolve to once again climb out of his tank. And he has plenty of time. I'm thinking he'll outlive me. My granddaughter may be shopping for a cordless filter to keep him from jumping his tank in the future.

Ageless and Fun

Gardening is also excavation and treasure hunting. I've unearthed needles, pieces of glass from broken bottles, and decomposing stuff I can't identify. My favorite finds are toys, like the plastic piece from a pistol. Pictured above are my favorites because after a good scrubbing, I could play with them. The marble reminds me that glass, like the sharp not-so-fun pieces, don't break down naturally at all. 

The two treasures seemed almost new, making quality toys not just fragile collectables to pass from one generation to the next. After being underground for years, they hadn't lost their magic.

The army guy had me scratching my head to know who he was. So I took him on an adventure to Wegmans. The toy sparked interest from other writers assembled for our serious meeting. But no one could give me information about it, until R. J. (Robert) Repici slid into his seat as the meeting began. Catching a glimpse of the action figure that still held center stage on our shared table, Robert said with his usual calm comportment, “Oh, Sergeant Savage.”

“Robert. You know who he is?” I asked, excited.

This teacher, screenwriter and pop culture aficionado pulled up a site on his computer featuring Sergeant Savage and the Screaming Eagles. Hasbro had made this line of 3¾ inch G.I.Joe action figures in 1995. “Wow, thanks Robert. I was wondering who he was,” I said, grateful and impressed.

At home, I added the marble to my childhood collection and stationed the sergeant to guard my dinning room table.

I guess writers never grow up. Maybe we appreciate toys more as we get older, especially the playthings that don't age, even after a tough life underground. And it's finder's keepers when someone else's playthings surface in my yard.

Cheap Thrills

 

 

            Creativity is the mother of keeping daily life on a shoestring budget from becoming ho-hum.

 

            Our need to be frugal with entertainment keeps my husband local; in front of the TV.  On the side table next to where I sit on our comfy loveseat beside my hubby in front of his electronic mistress Boob Tube Betty, that seductress of attention via mind numbing massage, I keep foot cream. 

            As Betty lures my husband visually with her explosions and fast vehicles, my work is hands-on.  Starting at his feet, I'm in competition for his attention.  My odd fetish of finding this humble service relaxing myself, works to help digestion after dinner and connecting us hands to feet while questioning Alex Trebec.

            Prying my husband from Betty before dinner came about with the concept of sexy mashed potatoes.  Since he doesn't like whipped potatoes and my mashing left lumps, I prepared the spuds as usual, saving the last step for him.  I promised to watch his biceps bulge as he pounded with the manal masher.  He seemed to enjoy this because he could assure the texture was to his liking.  Could I get away with sexy meatballs?

            Goading a loved one to the table without Betty lit up as the center piece can be challenging.  Although allowing her in the bedroom, I yank her cable when it comes to replacing my lit candles for her lit monitor. 

            I don't trust myself to not turn certain subjects of conversation volutile during our evening meal, so I adopt other people's words.  Recently, I printed out Bill Withers' lyrics to the song, "Lean On Me" after hearing it sung on the "Mike and Molly" situation comedy (alright, thanks Betty).  I put the copy at our man's place setting as a foretasty reminder.  During dinner our attempts at harmony were more fun than a half hour of Betty.  The key was choosing a song with a tune familiar to both of us that had meaning.

            Timing is everything.  A spouse knows when to suggest something new, and when to let Betty have her way after a long miserable work day that's left a spouse empty for antics.  That's when only Betty will do, and I'm grateful for her.       

 

Taurus Taps

 

            Not just a tap, as you can see, the car never had a chance.  A truck hit it, but I suffered no alignment damage or crushed frame.  Like a stunt woman in movies I don't like to view, my car spun on ice until it faced the vehicle that impacted it.  Another first: facing north in a southbound lane, nose-to-nose with the truck that should be behind me.

            Poor Taurus.  You served us well.  Even now in your deformity, you kick over and labor forward.  But no.  You must rest now, as we harvest your still beating innards to give automotive life to other Tauruses, even those who've outlived your years.  This is more dignified than resurrecting you as a Frankenstein's monster car with stitched skeleton and multi-colored panels.  Unlike the fiction, your compromised system is beyond endurance.  Your resurrection would be brief and more lethal. 

            We stripped you of your magnets, CDs, Ezpass, camping chairs and other trunk contents.  And yes, even the simple wooden cross that hung from the rearview mirror as I watched in horror the truck bearing down on us.  You may keep the Mickey Mouse head antenna decoration fashioned into a soccer ball that has weathered into a ping-pong ball.  I no longer need it to help me find you among the other blue Tauruses parked in the ShopRite parking lot.  I will nevermore seek your comfortable, dependable body from other similar makes and models.

            Our family mourns your youth, low mileage and neat upholstery.  We can't replace those.  Our brightest hope is another used Taurus whose previous family hasn't abused it.

            In the end, all is rust.  And to rust and the graveyard all Tauruses must go.        

              

           

Chevette Shade

 

            Our totaled 2006 Ford Taurus arose (reincarnated may be a better word) in a white 1995 Nissan Altima. 

            Come to think of it, it's really the ghost of my mother's old Chevy Chevette.  That car took a beating hauling food, people and even furniture.  Like Mom's brown Chevy, our new but very used Altima jiggles and clunks with its rust-worn doors and spunky little motor.  As it bucks into gear, I realize I've become my mother.  Neither of us like driving.  Memories of nasty break downs on the side of the road would make any technically challenged old gal panic driving a vehicle with mysterious mechanical issues. 

            So far so good, though.  The only disabilities are: broken gas gauge (I don't own a cell phone, so hubby is bracing for a call from an unknown number with my voice pleading for gas), sunroof doesn't retract (doesn't leak though, bonus!); the overhead light rattles if I remove the tattered cardboard air freshener that's wedged into it; wing of visor actually flaps when in use; if turning the key while in park doesn't turn over the car, putting the control in neutral will.  And like us grandmas, the smell an old car gives off makes one glad all the windows work.

            To keep this mobile ghost friendly, on its rearview mirror I hung the same wooden cross that swung in front of me during the accident.  I'm still debating removing the air freshener wedge and replacing it with a cross I made from palm given out last Sunday at church.  I added a trusty umbrella to the back seat, an Aldi quarter to the side compartment and shopping bags to the trunk.  Since all cars look alike to me except for their size and color, I wrapped a bright orange pipe cleaner around the Nissan's antenna to save time finding it in a parking lot glowing with small white cars.

            I'm trying not to be super religious or superstitious in my blessing of the auto.  But, not taking any chances, my first trip was to church.  The accelerating rev and loud idling were hymns of comfort, as Mom's Chevette had sung similar tunes. 

            Memories of sitting in the passenger's seat with Mom at the wheel are nostalgic with a feeling of safety.  In spite of her stress, she typically appeared confident.  Not me.  My kids were the best behaved travelers.  They knew any distraction could easily frazzle me and send us all to the hospital instead of Grandma's house.  Today I gladly sit in their passenger's seats but still create tension.

            Mom continues to laments the loss of her car.  "My Chevette was a good little car," she's incline to say when the subject of autos comes up.  I hope history continues to repeat itself in her car's 1995 ghost.         

           

                  

           

           

                   

             

SIPS and SHOTS with GRANDMA

 

I lifted down the teapot my mother-in-law had given me from the top of our microwave for my granddaughter. Her three-year-old frame scuffled into a kitchen chair wide-eyed as I placed it in front of her face that was flush with the table. The fat flowery thing sat on a wide-mouthed over-sized tea cup, which served as its base. I separated the two in front of her.

She chose the only triangular tea bag amongst the boxes of teas on the table. With pinky up, she dangled the bag by its tab, submerging the bag into warm water I had run into the pot. After bobbing the bag, she poured the weak tea. Palming the cup with both hands, she could have been a guest at the Mad Hatter's tea party, slurping from the bowl-like ceramic.

She giggled, squeezing lemon juice into her teacup from a yellow plastic container. After each squirt and sip, she added a honey stick by pinching and sliding out the sweet stuff. Tea splashed onto the table when the stick slipped from between her fingers, causing her hand to hit the cup. More juice, more honey, splash. Juice, honey, splash.

A childhood memory of having tea with my grandmother inspired me to push the sloppy stuff aside with a magical flourish of hands. “Let's do an experiment,” I said with my eyes widening now. No objection from my guest as she sat expectant.

I got our shot glass from the cabinet. We typically use it for rinsing paint brushes when water-coloring. This time I reached behind my granddaughter, opened the refrigerator and added milk to the tiny glass. My elementary school science process mingled with the childhood teatime memory.

“First, take a look at the milk.” Feeling more like a poor magician, I gave the second step. “Okay, squeeze the lemon juice into the milk.”

I bent my head close to hers and we both said, “Eew.”

“It curdled,” I explained, repeating the word.

As with the tea, she added more and then more juice, stirring the mixture. It separated into larger chunks of curdled milk. “Let me empty it and you can start again,” I assured her, taking the brimming glass. I rinsed it and poured more milk. This time, she dipped her face towards the glass before she lifted the plastic container. The science process had already set in.

“What do you think will happen?” I asked.

“It's gonna curdle,” she said and shot a stream into the glass.

Knowing that my granddaughter has a natural interest in science prompted this fun event. Not especially scientific, I patted myself on the back for coming up with this idea. But it really came from adding lemon to tea with milk while tea partying with my grandmother. As a writer, I also loved introducing, “curdled” to my granddaughter and repeating the funny-sounding word.

Simple, precious incidents like this recur through generations, mixing nostalgia with learning and laughter. What better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than experimenting with shots of curdled milk and spilt tea? I basked in the childish magic that turned a modest kitchen from a recent painting studio to an English tea house, and then into a laboratory.

Alien or Allergic to Earth

 

            I'm reaching into cyber space to hear from fellow earth dwellers.  I'm begging for information, in the form of your experience, about an issue that's bothered my health since I can remember, and until now I could handle. 

            Blowing my nose and squinting through swollen eyes, I've grinned and bared it.  I functioned as a working mother of four while running through life whipping tissues from my pocket or handbag.  I've sneezed my way through most of the year, most of my life.  But allergies have sunk deeper roots into my body over the last few years.  Today, I long for those drippy days.

            Still in my forties, I thought I was aging on the inside earlier than most people.  I need a nap to get through the day.  As I move, my body is weighted by an unseen force.  Medical tests came up negative.  Continued fatigue and extreme thirst almost convinced me I was a hypochondriac.

            Recently my gums and jaw hurt so bad I rocked in pain.  I couldn't chew without hurting.  Drinking hot or cold beverages made me scream in agony.  A lump formed under the flesh of my lower lip.  The dentist gave me a clean bill of health and suggested seeing an ENT specialist. 

            These new symptoms caused my imagination to conjure up a health issue yet unknown to medicine.  I could understand if my throat swelled shut or I had trouble breathing, but these weren't the case.  Oral and nasal medications have no effect or make me feel worse.  I considered depression at one point.  The ENT specialist mentioned that cronically feeling lousy could sink a person into depression.  He suggested allergy testing.  But I needed relief righ away.

            For years I owned a neti pot, but couldn't believe something so simple could help me.  It grossed me out just reading the instructions.  I hate when ocean water goes up my nose.  The sensation bothered me so much as a kid that I had avoided salt water near my face.

            Two week ago, in painful desperation, I used the strange little pot that reminds me of Aladin's magical lamp.  The pressure in my mouth and face subsided.  The neti pot had mystical powers too.  The temporary relief was euphoric.  For good measure, I chased this sinus experience with an over-the-counter pain reliever. 

            I posted my neti pot results on Facebook.  The response comforted me to know I'm not an alien having trouble surviving Earth's atmosphere, or a hypochondriac.  Renee Ericson, author of "Forgetting Yesterday" "After Tuesday" and her latest book coming out this summer, "Deciding Tomorrow," is a fellow sufferer and confirmed my situation as similar to hers.  Pete Curran who works at New York Life Insurance also uses saline solution to alleviate symptoms.  So I'm in good company and not crazy or on the wrong planet.

            After allergy testing, the results floored me.  Shall I list what I'm allergic to?  Just skim the following to save time:

MOLDS:

Alternaria

Aspergillus Fumigatus

Helm Solani

Aureobasidum

Fusarium

Mucor Racemosus

Rhizopus Nigricans

Botrytis Cinerea

Phoma Betae

 

INSECTS:

American Cockroach

 

EPIDERMALS:

Dog Dander

Cat Hair

Goose Feathers

 

DUST MITES:

D. Farinae

D. Pteronyssinus

 

GRASS:

Timothy

 

WEEDS:

Ragweed

English Plantain

Lambs Quarter

Cockelbur

Mugwort

 

TREES:

Ash Mix

Oak Mix

Maple Mix

Sycamore

Willow (black)

Elm

Mulberry (red)

Pine Mix

 

            And I have yet to be tested for food allergies.

            Allergic to everything under the sun and in the house, my only hope is allergy shots that take three years to build immunities in my body. I never realized environmental allergies could be so difficult to control.  

            A nurse friend I used to work with told me she never had allergies before she moved to New Jersey.  This and her lovely New England accent made me want to move to that area. 

            This is where you come in.  I'm hoping for information about environmental allergies and how those suffering with them cope.  I feel my quality of life could be better.  My fear is that three years of allergy shots may prove unsuccessful.  I've heard this is possible from other sufferers. 

            I want to feel my age before I reach that age where it's more natural to often feel sluggish.  Heaven help me if I need dentures.

 

 

             Since writing this post, I've found out that the lump in my gum was an infection in my tooth.  I'm disappointed that my dentist didn't see this.  I'm still getting allergy shots and seem to be doing well.  So glad I went to the ENT.