The One That Got Away


"Do your ski?" he asks.
"I have run down a snow-covered hill with sticks on my feet," I say. "But I am not very good at it."
I may have been voted most likely to succeed in my 1958 high school class, but the voters could not see ahead to the summer of that same year when I got a job as a car hop at Hall's Drive-In. Often the hamburgers, the Hall's Specials, spilled on the floor as I ran with my tray held high in the air, blond hair flying, racing to place it against a car window at the curb. Women were understanding. Men were usually impatient. High SAT scores did not impress them as much as a deft waitress with snappy patter and a size 36 C bra.
But I digress. The questioner was Steve, an old boyfriend from high school and college, and even grade school many years ago. We were sitting side by side at my 50th high school reunion. Dressed in a black shirt and a textured black/gray patterned suit, smelling of expensive men's after shave, white hair cut fashionably short, he looked successful. Not like me, a little on the thick side, especially around the waist. No glasses, squinting, trying to read the Memory Book without them, as if I didn't need them. Hair newly frosted, earrings too big, cascading down on either side of a pudgy neck, drink in hand, trying to bolster my courage to face fellow classmates. Did I have to tell them that for the last 15 years I was an office nurse, doing a job I could have done straight out of high school? That my report card 'A's
didn't really count for much when it came to the real life job of getting along with wayward spouses and fussy children? Did I have to share that I was divorced once, twice married and still didn't feel like I had gotten it 'right'? That my cholesterol was 301? That my 40 year old son hadn't married, maybe the result of my own failed attempt?
I looked over at Steve's wife, smiling confidently, hand around her husband's arm, proud to be in the company of a good catch. She had known what she wanted and went for it. Not like me, who had dated many men in college but could never really decide who would have been the best one, the star to hitch my wagon to, so to speak, the one who would have an interesting job some day that would take us to Europe many times to live and move among the 'beautiful people'. She smiled knowingly, as if to say, "You had your chance and you blew it. Now he's mine. Too bad."
Then I heard Steve say, "Well, come and visit us anytime you're in Oregon. We have lots of room." I pictured a mansion with 24 rooms, all with fireplaces and complimentary perfumes on the dressers, a wait staff to take your coat when you arrived at the door, a stable of horses out back, a vineyard and huge vats of wine lined up, waiting to be tapped. Suddenly, someone at the mike cleared his throat. It was Dick, our Senior class president. A little paunchy, but still very quick witted, at ease with a crowd, and able to recall the smallest detail of old classmate escapades, he moved expertly through the crowd. "Janis," he said, "Would you come forward, please?" My reverie broken, I stood, uncertain as to why I had been summoned. I sucked in my stomach and wobbled on new high heels toward the mike. "Janis, we've taken up a collection. Here's a check for one million dollars. And we have arranged for you to choose to live with any man in the room for a trial marriage of one month. If, after that time, you decide this man is your true soul-mate, his wife will grant him a divorce and you can live happily ever after." I didn't know what to say. I looked at Steve, then at Dick, and back at Steve again. But then a man at the back of the room stood and yelled, "Rip up the check! She's a fraud and I've known it for a long time!" Who was that, I wondered. My first husband? How did he know that I was coming here? Did he follow me? Was he waiting for his chance to humiliate me in front of all these people? "Ken?" I said, "Is that you?"
"Of course! Do you think I'd let you lie about me and our life together? You'd make it my fault that we didn't stay together. You'd say I left you, helpless, with the children to raise all by yourself, when really you were the one who couldn't decide whether to stay or go. You wouldn't commit. You didn't know what you wanted. You never knew and you still don't know. You're just as mixed up as ever!" Stunned, I started to tilt backward and fell into a heap on the floor.
Just then, a voice from far away called "Janis, wake up! You've only got an hour to get to the airport! You wouldn't want to be late for your reunion, would you? All those disappointed boyfriends would never forgive you!" I smiled to myself, shuffled out of bed and reached for my suitcase.

Putting My Voice Out to the World

"The Hawk"

Watercolor and Pen & Ink

Hi all,
Just wanted to say I thoroughly enjoyed the Writer's Readings at Barnes and Noble on Friday night. And it was good publicity for the Center and all the wonderful teachers who reside there. We had a nice cozy group of writers and a great receptive audience to hear our creations. I found myself rather relaxed in front of the group as I was reading. I must have gone into a zone, merging with my words, going into a subconscious trance? It was a growth experience for me, pushing me outside of my box. I think it is very powerful not only to write our passion, but to speak it out to the world. I was quite energized by the experience and hope to do more of them. I know several of us are talking about future possibilities and venues. Any thoughts about this, please comment.
The painting of a hawk posted here goes along with the story that I read at Barnes and Noble. I wrote a story about nature and how humans can damage the fragile ecosystem. The hawk was the central character. I will post the story here soon but it is quite long. Well, enough being inside now. The sun is shining and I want to fly towards this beautiful ball of glow and dry my wings. (Yes, I've become the character I've written)! Am I a ghost writer now?
Bev

Dream Drop

I plump up the pillow and turn it over to the cool side. Squeezing my eyes shut, I will myself to sleep. Now, I say, let go, float in space, relax, don't think about anything. Don't plan your day for tomorrow, don't write out your shopping list in your head. Just dream of peace, of cold raindrops on the window pane. Watch the path of a drop as it glides down to the sill. Hear it plop when it falls to the ground and soaks into the spongy earth, oozes into the roots of a weed that's gnarled around the crack in the sidewalk. Follow the drop as it snakes up the stem, bleeds into a leaf and spreads to the jagged tips. It pauses, undecided, where to go next. Should it continue nourishing or skip to the surface and roll away? The shiny liquid sphere wants to be on its own, to jump into the darkness, reflect the moon, mirror the sky, wash the world clean with its watery coolness. It has its own dream.

THE BACK COVER

I thought this might make a good back cover. What do you think ?

You asked for it

This is Bev's Idea for the cover of the magazine or booklet or whatever you want to call it. What do you think ?

Mean People - I don't mean you

I don't know why people are mean to each other. Take this birthday cake for instance. Would you eat it if someone gave it to you on your birthday ? I would not and I did not think that Lin would either. That's why I kept it and its luscious creamy chocolate-ness to myself. Sorry Lin but someone had to save the world from this mean cake, so I chose me. And that is why you didn't get this cake from me. Happy belated birthday anyway.

Neighborhood Rumble

Their voices carried across the prairie into my backyard. His was the loudest, accusatory, strong, self-righteous. I tried to make out the words. F--- was all that I could hear clearly. Then came her voice: angry, cynical, defensive, maybe a little whiney. It was clear, he would win. He was the most strident. What was the fight about? Burned steak on the grill? Too much shopping going on? Junk in the backyard? I doubt it. Something more like, I'm embarrassed by your stupid outbursts, your temper, your constant complaining. Why can't you be like Joe's wife--a looker, slim, big boobs, full hair, holds her liquor, real whistle bait, always agreeable?
Because I'm your wife. You, the big bafoon, overgrown ape, can't fix anything but good at breaking everything, including our marriage! I could have done a lot better, but I thought you would be different. The best of the lot, I thought. Boy, what a fool I was. All that bragging you did about how much money you made. Now you got fired and you're sitting at home in front of the TV. Day after day. You don't even shave! My girlfriends keep asking what's wrong, why am I down in the dumps? I don't know what to tell them. The truth? Would you like that? Oh, my husband just got ticked off and told his boss where to go. Next thing, he's out the door.
And what about the kids? They need school clothes, shoes, books, lunch money. Where is that going to come from, huh? Your drunken father? My crippled mother? It was your idea to leave Iowa and move to Chicago. More work opportunities, you said. Well, here we are. I should never have let you talk me in to it. What was I thinking?
Oh, yah. Well, you have arms and legs. And a backside. Why don't you get a job? Always talking about how attractive you were to your old boyfriends. Get out there and prove where your looks can get you. It's not my fault housing construction has shut down and guys are being let go. I tried. Honest to God, I did. Every day in the hot sun, sweating, aching from carrying shingles up those ladders. I just couldn't take being yelled at all the time. Hurry it up, he said, move faster. It felt like those slaves building the pyramids. So I told him to shove it, that's what I did. So Monday, I'll sit in the hall and wait for work. I got it before; I can get it again. (to be continued...)