Ordinary Thoughts, Essays and Short Stories

Author: Virginia Boshears (Page 7 of 9)

When the Womb Lets Go

[Warning: Some material may not be suitable for delicate constitutions.]

 

September 11, 1974

My husband and I stood at the nursery window and stared at the incubator on the other side of the room. Our new baby was lying on a flattened diaper – a preemie diaper that was too large to fasten around her tiny body. The skin stretched so thinly over her closed eyes that she looked like a baby bird. She was frighteningly small.

We weren’t allowed to hold her in the beginning, and even the nurses kept their handling of her to a minimum. She was simply too fragile. All we could do was stand at that window and gaze at her inside the plastic capsule that would be her home for who knew how long. We’d watch the nurses work around her, adjusting things and checking vitals. They would periodically turn her from her stomach to her back and move her head from one side to the other. When they did that, the top of her little ear would sometimes be folded down from where she’d been lying on it. Her dad always panicked when that happened because he was afraid it would stay that way. He’d tap on the window to get the nurse’s attention and motion for her to smooth our daughter’s ear back into place. And the nurse would always comply. My guess is we weren’t the first parents to obsess over their preemie’s condition…even if it was something as trivial as bent ear cartilage.

The events that led us to that place were swift and unexpected. I was six months pregnant and had experienced no physical trauma or unusual health issues. I simply woke up during the night, went to the bathroom and began bleeding profusely.

We’d moved to a new state the week before and I didn’t yet have a doctor. My husband was in the military, so he rushed me to the hospital on base. Prior to this, my only experience as a hospital patient was when I had our first child, and that was at a military hospital in our home state. Everyone I interacted with during my time there treated me with great care and respect. When we arrived at the emergency room at this hospital, I expected the same type of treatment. I soon discovered that those expectations were much too high.

To say I received less than stellar care would be an understatement. While I have no recollection of the person who checked me in, I do remember that when it came to most of the orderlies and nurses, I felt like I was imposing on their time. It’s not that they were blatantly rude – with the exception of the obstetrician – but there was a general air of detachment. I was clearly worried about the state of my pregnancy, yet no one made any effort to ease my fears.

The initial assumption was that I was experiencing placenta previa, a condition where the placenta covers the opening of the cervix, but an ultrasound showed no evidence of that. After running a couple of other tests, they still didn’t have any answers, but they told me I was free to go. I sat up on the examining table and began gushing blood again, so the ER doc said I should probably stay a bit longer for further observation. Had I been as snarky then as I am now, I undoubtedly would have deadpanned, “Good call.”

They kept me lying flat and the bleeding lessened, but I continued to pass large clots. A nurse would closely examine those and when I finally gathered the courage to ask what she was looking for, she matter-of-factly said, “Fetal tissue.” I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just kept my horror to myself.

Before they had a chance to try and ship me off again, I began having contractions. In an effort to stop them, they hooked me up to an alcohol IV. I don’t know how long I was on that drip, but I do remember hearing a woman in another room screaming with labor pains. An orderly came in to see how I was feeling, and I drunkenly told him I felt great. I then happily suggested they give the woman down the hall the same thing I was getting. I have to confess…that alcohol drip was the highlight of my time as a patient there.

That course of treatment was only temporary, and the contractions started up again the next day. When a nurse came by to check on me, I told her I was in labor and she pooh-poohed the idea, saying it was nothing more than Braxton Hicks. I told her I’d already had one baby and knew labor pains when I felt them. She continued to ignore the situation until it became obvious that the contractions were more severe and much too frequent to be anything but active labor.

It didn’t last long, though. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even make it from the gurney to the delivery table. When the orderlies started to lift me, I made them stop. And when they asked why, I clenched my teeth and said, “I’m having the baby.”

They looked under the sheet and, sure enough, there she was. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know whether I’d had a girl or a boy. I didn’t find that out until after I was transferred to the delivery table for the removal of the afterbirth. And I wouldn’t have known it then had I not made a point of asking one of the nurses. All I got in return was a perfunctory, “Oh, it’s a girl,” as they whisked her away. I remember lying there after that, feeling cold and alone and very, very scared.

A few days later, I was standing at the nursery window when a man came up beside me to admire his own newborn. He pointed his baby out to me and asked about mine. I told him how early she was, that she weighed less than 2.5 pounds when she was born and that I had no idea how long she’d have to remain in the hospital. I also told him I hadn’t been allowed to feed her yet because she was too weak to nurse and had to be given formula through a tube. I was taken aback when he asked if I was planning to breastfeed her once she was able. Right after her birth, a nurse gave me a shot to dry up my milk. I told him this, and he sadly shook his head saying I could have expressed the milk myself until she was stronger. I remember looking away, embarrassed by my own ignorance. They never discussed options with me, and they certainly didn’t ask permission to give me the shot. They just did it. I would have liked to have breastfed her, but I never had the chance.

A uterine infection kept me in the hospital for a week. The day I was released, instead of nestling a baby to my heart, I went home empty-handed.

Within 48 hours, I was back in the emergency room with itchy welts from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. The doctor attributed it to the penicillin I’d received and said I wasn’t to take it again in any form. I told him I’d never before had an allergic reaction to this drug, and I suggested perhaps the breakout was due to nerves. It had, after all, been a very stressful week. My baby was premature, I still hadn’t had a chance to hold her and, while I was still on the delivery table, the stern obstetrician had brusquely informed me my daughter’s chances of survival were slim to none.

The ER doctor either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He simply prescribed an alternate antibiotic and sent me on my way.

The obstetrician told us our daughter’s early birth was due to placental abruption, but he didn’t bother to explain what that meant. After I got home from the hospital, I looked it up in my trusty instruction manual…pretty sure the book was Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. The condition was described as the placenta tearing away from the inside of the uterus and it sounded brutal. The book also said this occurred most often in women over 40 who had experienced four or more pregnancies. This was just my second and I was only 19.

Our other daughter couldn’t understand why her little sister didn’t come home from the hospital with me. She’d been excited to meet her brand new, homegrown playmate and wasn’t the least bit happy with the fact that there was still no baby in the bassinet.

Neither was I. But I wasn’t quite ready to deal with having our tiny girl home yet. I agonized over all the things that could go wrong. And there was one particularly irrational fear that always wrestled its way to the forefront. What if, when we brought the baby home, her sister decided she didn’t want her after all?  What if she snuck her into the bathroom and flushed her down the toilet? I examined the opening in the bottom of the bowl and convinced myself her little body would fit. My husband found the whole thing comical and, looking back, I have it admit it was pretty funny. But at the time, the very idea terrified me.

The people working in the neonatal intensive care unit were the polar opposite of those I’d experienced in the OB ward. The level of care I received was subpar at best, but the treatment our baby received was phenomenal. The NICU staff was friendly, attentive and compassionate. And because she really did resemble a baby bird, they lovingly nicknamed our daughter “Tweety.”

Shortly after I was released, we were cleared to go into the nursery to be closer to our baby and we visited every day. We had to gown up, put on surgical masks and scrub to our elbows with soaped pads that felt like sandpaper. It was a cumbersome affair, but it was always worth it.

When I finally held our daughter for the first time, I was unprepared for how weightless she was…and how perfect. A baby boy slept in another incubator nearby, and he had tubes and monitor wires connected all over his body. Our little one had arrived three months too soon and her doctor was cautiously optimistic, but that little guy was full term, and his prognosis was grim. No one could have predicted such a thing, and my heart broke for his parents when he passed not long after.

Our phone rang a few weeks later and, as soon as the caller identified herself as one of the NICU nurses, I felt my knees start to buckle. I was sure she was calling to say they had done all they could but that my baby was just too tiny and weak. I was convinced we had lost our little girl. But that wasn’t what the nurse said at all.  Instead, she dragged me from my morbid reverie by telling me they had just removed our daughter from the “Serious” list, and she was improving rapidly. We should be able to bring her home in a few weeks.

For just an instant, anger choked my relief. I visited every day. If the nurse had waited until I arrived at the hospital that afternoon, she could have given me the good news in person. By then my eyes would have already witnessed that my daughter was still alive. Still breathing. Still here. But, instead, I nearly drowned in those few seconds of fear. It took a moment before I managed to appreciate what the nurse was actually telling me, and then all I could do was thank her over and over.

 

November 11, 1974

Exactly two months after her birth – and one month before she was even due to enter this world – little Jennifer Rae came home.

She did so well in the hospital that, instead of waiting until she reached the usual 5-lb weight requirement, they released her at only 4 ½ lbs. All the newborn clothes we had were still too big, so I made a doll-sized dress for her to wear on Thanksgiving. And we definitely had much to be thankful for. The care she received in the NICU was outstanding. She battled valiantly to survive. And her big sister did not flush her down the toilet.

Miracle of miracles…she lived.

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It’s Now or Never

I’m the type of person who has a bad habit of thinking back — or ahead — rather than concentrating on the now. That makes it challenging to be truly present in the moment. And that, by default, causes me to miss out on fully enjoying special snippets of time.

I remember, back in the 90’s, one of my friends discovered a sort of movement called “Know Now,” and she even had a watch with that phrase on its face. She explained that it helped her ignore life’s distractions so she could concentrate on the present. While I didn’t give it much thought at the time, the idea has always floated around in the back of my mind. I know I’m not alone when it comes to letting random thoughts overshadow what’s right in front of us.

In an effort to appreciate what I tend to overlook, I’m trying to focus more on what’s going on while it’s actually happening. Special moments aren’t necessarily monumental. Quite often, they can appear to be just the opposite. Dare I say, “quotidian” even. It’s the acknowledgement that makes them special.

Whether this will become a series of essays about those tiny epiphanies, or a one and done, I don’t yet know. I just know that by writing it down, I hope to make “noticing” a new habit.

To see what I mean, click the button below and read Seeing the Forest as Well as the Trees.  

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Seeing the Forest as Well as the Trees

My husband is a very private person who keeps a lot of things close to the vest. In deference to that, I don’t write much about him. But I will share that, after more than seven decades of being healthy as a horse, he’s been plagued the past few years by various medical issues. One of those being a really stubborn case of glaucoma. Many people can control the progression of this disease with prescription eye drops but, after those didn’t work for him, he had to undergo multiple eye surgeries. Due to that, I’ve been the designated driver whenever his eyesight has been out of commission. That would generally last for only a few weeks, but he hasn’t healed as expected from a surgery nearly 10 months ago, and he still hasn’t regained his full vision.

I don’t really mind doing all the driving, but most of my husband’s medical appointments are about 70 miles north of where we live and, no matter how much you love your driving companion, being on the road can get tedious after a while. He’s finally somewhat comfortable with my driving habits – in other words, he no longer fears for his life – so his side-seat-driver commentary has lessened significantly. Now, instead of me defending my questionable chauffeuring skills, we spend a fair amount of time carrying on normal conversations. But a body can only jibber-jabber for so long. Eventually, we just fall into a quiet space that sometimes borders on boredom. At least it does for me.

During our most recent trip north, it occurred to me that I’ve wasted a lot of driving time by merely steering the wheel, hitting the brakes and making sure I don’t ram into another vehicle…or a pedestrian. Those things are without a doubt absolutely critical, but there are interesting sites along our routes that I’ve been totally neglecting. For example, one of the highways we take has a long stretch that’s lined with trees. Lots and lots of trees. And in areas where they thin out close to the road, you can still see groves or tree-covered hills in the distance. It’s downright breathtaking. While I know virtually nothing about dendrology (don’t be impressed…I had to look that up), I’ve always loved trees. That’s one of the reasons I feel so blessed to live where we do…in a cabin in the woods.

At this time of year, the trees’ full foliage makes them undeniably beautiful, and traveling that highway the other day was a feast for the eyes. Before long, those same trees will sport gorgeous fall colors, bringing them to another level of magnificence. And what makes it even more enjoyable for me is the fact that I’m one of those fortunate souls who isn’t bummed out when the leaves start to fall. Some people experience a deep melancholy as the skies gray, the cold sets in and the trees shed their finery, but the beckoning of winter has never bothered me. In my opinion, bare trees are every bit as lovely as those that are fully dressed. Like I said…I simply love trees.

We expect a lot more medical trips in our future and, for as long as necessary, I’ll be the one behind the wheel. I’m happy to do it because it just so happens my husband is a pretty great guy. Whatever he needs that I can provide, I will do so to the best of my abilities. And when the jibber-jabber dies down during those long drives, I’ll take the opportunity to give the scenery the appreciation it deserves.

When the Creator presents His handiwork so selflessly, acknowledging it is the very least I can do.

 

Trees

Joyce Kilmer – 1886-1918

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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Edna and Harold

There were three types of people Edna Withers despised…solicitors, nosy neighbors and relatives. That didn’t leave many on her list of tolerable folks, but she had no problem with the teller at Old Birch Bank or the bagger at the Thrifty Spend. And that pretty much covered it. She could do without most of the others. Which is why, when her doorbell startled her out of a late afternoon doze, she was more peeved than curious.

As she debated whether or not to just sit there until her unwelcome caller got tired of waiting, she heard what sounded like glass smashing. For the first time in a long time, the hair on the back of Edna’s neck bristled in fear. Someone was breaking into her house.

Fueled by anxiety-driven adrenaline, Edna’s 84-year-old body stood and quick-stepped over to the edge of the doorway that led to the front hall. Her breathing was so rapid and harsh that the crotchety part of her mind wondered if a heart attack would kill her before the intruder had a chance to slit her throat. 

There was a mirror on the opposite wall that reflected a bit of the entry way. Edna peered into its glass and could see nothing amiss so, clutching the front of her housedress, she eased her head around the corner. The short hall and entry way were empty. There was no place for anyone to hide unless they found a way to get into the coat closet that had been locked – and the key lost – for over a decade.

Edna forced herself to take a deep breath and then stepped into the hall. She slowly made her way toward the front door, one hand still grasping her dress front while the other slid along the faded wallpaper for support.

With eyesight as sharp as a person’s half her age, Edna immediately noticed the corner of a slip of paper sticking out from under the front door. She also noticed the chain lock was still in place. With a cautious glance toward the closet, she continued on to the door and placed her right toe over the paper. Pressing her foot down, she eased it back and revealed some sort of flyer. At the same time, she glanced out the sidelight and saw that one of her flowerpots was shattered.

“Infernal advertisements,” she muttered as she strained down to retrieve it. Talking to herself was a practice Edna had perfected over the years. “Bad enough they bother an old lady with trash like this, but they vandalize property when no one answers the door. Got to be a phone number on this thing. I’ll show ‘em what happens when you harass Edna Withers.”

Adrenaline gone, she straightened up and read the front of the ad as she carefully moved back toward the living room. Coming to a dead halt, Edna’s hands began to shake and she leaned against the wall…barely aware she was losing altitude.

2

The afternoon light had been reduced to dusky shadows by the time Edna came to. She found herself crumpled up against the wall in the hallway and there was a piece of paper clutched in her hand. Disoriented, she peered around, trying to make sense of what had happened. She looked down at the paper again and it all came back. Whimpering, she wadded the flyer into a ball and tossed it on the floor.

Although scampering was beyond Edna’s physical capabilities, she made an impressive effort of crawling the rest of the way into the living room. Laboring to breathe, she grabbed the chair arm and pulled herself up to a kneeling position. She cast a furtive glance at the paper wad in the hall and then heaved herself to her feet. A cold, clammy sweat bathed her forehead and made her sagging breasts stick to her chest. She swayed slightly as the room began to spin, but she grasped the back of the chair for support and regained some sense of stability.

“How can this be? No one knew about it. No one was there. No one,” she mumbled as she dropped into the chair, gasping when her inflamed joints protested. “I never told a soul. Not a single soul.” Hitting the heel of her hand against her forehead, she gritted her teeth and said, “Think back, Edna, way back. You must’ve let it slip. Sometime back when you still talked to people. But, who? Who would I tell? And why? No one was to ever, ever know.”

Without realizing it, Edna had begun to weep. Not a sob…just a soft, tearful moan that left her drifting off into nothingness.

3

Edna awoke to screams of pain emanating from her back and hips. The room was dark now but for the faint illumination from the small digital clock on the side table. It declared the time to be 2:13am. The sound of crickets filtered in through the open windows, and the cross breeze was still almost as warm as it had been during the day. Edna wasn’t one to turn on the AC unless it was blistering hot and now, sitting here drenched in sweat, she regretted that decision. 

With an anguished groan, Edna managed to stand and make her way into the small kitchen just off the living room. Her medicine bottles stood in a tidy row on the windowsill above the sink. Having convinced the druggist years ago not to use those blasted childproof caps, she popped the lid off the bottle containing her pain medication and dry swallowed two pills. She then lumbered back through the living room and entered the tiny bathroom. Trembling fingers flicked on the light and, momentarily blinded by the fluorescent attack, she stumbled against the toilet. Steadying herself, she lifted the hem of her housedress and gingerly sat on the seat.

Once that business was finished, Edna shuffled to her bedroom. Without bothering to turn back the spread, she curled up on top of the covers and immediately fell back to sleep.

4

 “Wha…what is it? Who’s there?” Edna sat straight up in her bed and hugged herself tightly, her heart jackhammering through her chest. She stared into the darkness and willed herself to be still. She listened. There was nothing but the hitching sound of her own breathing, so she slowly got up and crept out of her room. The living room shades hadn’t been drawn as they were in her bedroom, and the faint light of dawn filtered in through the window.

Edna looked around the room and then on farther into the kitchen. Every shadowy shape was familiar. Heart still thumping, she tiptoed through the living room and peered around the corner into the hallway. Empty. Or almost empty. There on the floor, just inches from where she stood, was the wad of paper.

Edna’s eyes filled with tears as she carefully bent to pick it up. “Time to face the music,” she said to no one. “Pay the piper. Strike up the band.” She started to cackle and then collapsed on the floor, hiccupping, tears streaming down her lined cheeks. “Oh my, oh my, oh my…” She smoothed the paper out over her outstretched legs. “There it is, for all to see. Edna’s sin.” She leaned her head back and shook it side to side as her cackles took on a slow crescendo.

Edna’s laughter died as suddenly as it started and, ignoring the stabs of pain, she got to her feet and made her way into the kitchen. Tossing the paper on the counter, she opened the refrigerator and took out the orange juice. She got a glass from the drainer and filled it half-full. “Shaky ol’ fingers’ll slop it everywhere if I pour too much. Ain’t that right?” she asked the empty room. She grabbed the flyer again and sat down at the kitchen table.  

“Well now, let’s take a good look at this.” Edna flattened the paper as best she could, staring at the picture and what was printed above it. “Yep, it’s all there. Everything spelled out in just a few words. How many of these adverts were passed out around town? Probably hundreds. Thousands, maybe. And so now everybody knows. I was crazy to ever think I could keep it a secret.”

Edna quickly glanced at the other side of the flyer.  There was something printed there, too, but she didn’t bother to read it. Nothing it said would be news to her. “Almost made it, though. Thirty years before they caught on.” She struggled up out of her chair and turned toward the kitchen. “Wonder how they found out? Don’t matter, I guess. It’s done now, that’s for sure. It’s done and so am I.”

Edna walked to the sink and stared out at the pond beyond the back yard. She could just barely make it out in the early morning light. Oh, how her Harold had loved that pond…fishing, skimming stones and feeding the ducks that chose it as their summer getaway.

He was mighty proud of it, too. Dug it himself during the tenth year of their marriage. He’d hauled in tons of rock from the riverside, spread it along the edge of the pond and then surrounded it all with weeping willow saplings. He even stocked it with bass and blue gill. That pond – half the size of a football field and 20 feet deep – was quite impressive for a backyard endeavor. If he’d ever loved anything in his life, it was that little body of water.

Harold spent a lot of time out there over the years. He even had a tiny boat he’d row back and forth just to feel the water flow underneath him. As a matter of fact, the last time Edna saw Harold, he was in that boat, frantically waving his arms and hollering for her to help him. His little boat had sprung some leaks, likely due to the holes Edna had thrust through its bottom with Harold’s awl. Just as she’d anticipated, it didn’t really start to take on much water until it had labored under Harold’s huge frame for a while. By then, he was sitting well out in the center of the pond. Seeing as how he’d never learned to swim, and he thought life jackets were for sissies, Harold was up the proverbial creek with a paddle that was about as useful as tits on a boar.

Momentarily transported back to that fateful day – the day after their 30th wedding anniversary – Edna recalled how she watched her husband from the kitchen window. Watched as he flailed about, teetering back and forth in his sinking vessel. Watched until the white tips of his fingers were the only things visible. Then they, too, disappeared beneath the water’s surface. She remembered reaching up to push an errant strand of hair from her face and wincing as her hand brushed against the newest bruise. Only a few hours had passed since that last beating, but her left eye had already swollen shut.

People talk about memories flooding back, but that wasn’t the case here. This one was always milling around in her mind, just under the surface. Funny how the sheriff’s office never did much back then about her husband’s “disappearance.” Edna was always too scared to press charges, but they all knew Harold liked to knock her around, and they were pretty sure she miscarried her only two pregnancies with a little help from his size 13 work boots. In those days, the good old boy network was alive and kicking in their little town and, when it came to domestic violence, the authorities generally turned a blind eye in hopes the problem would remedy itself. So, even though Harold Withers was officially listed as a Missing Person, they likely figured she was better off with him gone. Why rock the boat? No pun intended.

Now, as Edna pulled down the window shade, she felt more at peace than she had in three decades. Everybody knew now, and it was just a matter of time before they did more than merely ring the bell and stuff notes under her door. “That’s fine,” she sighed. “Let ‘em come. I’ll be waiting.”

Edna took her medicine bottles from the windowsill and carried them over to the table. Settling back into her chair, she lined them up in front of her.

“Well, now. Don’t we have a pretty bunch of pills here? We’ve got blue ones for the ol’ ticker, yellow ones for thick blood, purple ones for heartburn, pink ones to sleep and white ones for pain. All those happy colors. And always there when I need ‘em.”

One by one, Edna picked up the bottles and popped off each lid. They were all fairly recent refills and the contents filled her palm. But Edna was a tough one. She managed to swallow every last pill without draining the juice from her glass.

Picking up the flyer once again, Edna stood and – shuffling more slowly than usual now – she returned to her chair in the living room. She eased herself down, took the remote from the side table, and turned on the TV. “Oh, good,” she whispered. “The Today Show. I like that nice weatherman.” She let the wrinkled paper drop to the floor and hugged the remote to her chest while she smiled at Al Roker.

Six Days Later

“Man, Potts, I can’t believe this stench!” The young officer turned his face and gagged.

“Yeah, well, now we know why people around here have been putting up such a fuss on the mayor’s hotline.” Potts’ words were muffled from behind the handkerchief he held over his nose and mouth.

“Why do we always get the shit detail? That’s what I’d like to know.” The first officer was huffing out breaths like he was practicing Lamaze.

“Andrews, quit your bitchin’ and just ring the doorbell.”

“Okay, fine…don’t get your panties in a twist.” Andrews hit the button and then wiped his sleeve across the sweat that clung to his forehead. A mid-August sun beat down on the pair as they stood on the roofless porch.

When no one answered, Potts said, “Maybe the old lady’s asleep. Try again.”

Andrews held his finger over the button, hearing the doorbell chime repeatedly until he let up. They waited an interminable three minutes and Andrews turned to the other officer. “There’s no answer. Let’s just let ourselves in and get this over with.”

Potts nodded and stared expectantly at Andrews. Andrews stared back. Potts tilted his head to one side and said, “Well, are we gonna stand here making googly eyes at each other all day or are you gonna open the lock?”

“What? I don’t have the kit. I thought you had it.”

“Jeez Louise!  So, what…we have to go back to the station and get it?” Potts looked heavenward and sighed. “I just want to get in and get out and go have a damn beer!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll bust the sidelight. We’ll tell Chief it was already like that when we got here.” Andrews bent down and picked up a loose brick from the step.

Looking down at the ceramic shards near the door, Potts said, “We can chalk it up to vandals. Looks like somebody already did a number on one of her flowerpots.”

“Probably just a cat or something. Stand back.” Potts moved to the edge of the porch while Andrews tapped the corner of the brick against the glass. It broke easily. “Wow, a gust of wind could’ve cracked that sucker.”

“Single pane, but no surprise there. It’s a pretty old house.” Potts stepped back up behind Andrews and said, “Okay, no stopping now. Let’s get in there.”

Andrews knocked aside a few glass fragments and reached through the window to undo the locks. He swung the door in and both men staggered as the putrid air swirled around them.

“Aagghh…oh, man…where’s my rag?” Potts covered his face again and, blinking back tears, he stepped into the hall. Andrews followed.

“Mrs. Withers?” Potts called. “It’s the police, Mrs. Withers. We got a call that you might need some assistance. Are you able to answer?”

No response. But then, they didn’t expect one. The steamy, fetid air surrounding them didn’t bode well for any signs of life.

Andrews and Potts walked down the hall to the living room and there, bathed in warm sunlight, sat Edna Withers. Purple, swollen twice her normal size and smiling.  Edna was as dead as a skunk on a highway and smelled twice as bad.

“Well,” Potts mumbled from behind the kerchief as he walked to the kitchen, “let’s call it in. The coroner can take over from here. And it doesn’t look like foul play. Check out these prescription bottles. All empty and, from the dates on them, they should be at least three-quarters full. Looks like Old Lady Withers sent herself home to the Big Guy in the sky.”

“Yeah, looks like,” Andrews said. “Hey, what’s this?” He bent down and looked at a piece of paper on the floor by Edna’s foot. “Looks like some kind of flyer.” He read it and shook his head. “Huh. Wonder what it says on the other side.” He started to pick it up when Potts yelled at him.

“Don’t touch that!  It’s evidence. You know we can’t rule out homicide until the coroner gives the green light.”

“Fine, I won’t touch it. I’ll just flip it over with my shoe.” He slipped his toe underneath the paper’s edge and exposed the other side with a quick flick of his foot. “Oh, big whoop. No mystery here. Didn’t have anything to do with Mrs. Withers buying the farm.” Andrews started for the front door. “You’re right. We need to get this called in, but let’s do it from the car. I gotta get away from this smell!”

As they were heading down the walk, Potts asked, “So what was on that flyer, anyway?”

“Nothing pertinent. It was just some cheap ad. The front had a picture of a guy up to his eyeballs in water, and it said ‘It’s no secret. Everybody knows.’. The other side said something like ‘Drowning in debt is no fun. Let Johnson Finance save you.’ It sure didn’t cause that old lady’s death.”

“I don’t know,” Potts said as he opened the driver’s side door. “Maybe that is what killed her. You know…death by junk mail.” He waved his hands around his head and whistled a very bad rendition of The Twilight Zone

Andrews rolled his eyes and both men laughed as they climbed back into the cruiser. 

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What? Me Lie?

You know how parents — I think mothers, especially — plant mental seeds that take root so deeply we couldn’t forget them if we tried? They say stuff like, “Money doesn’t grow on trees,” “Do as I say…not as I do,” and “You better go now because I’m not stopping once we get on the road.”

That last one was probably more of a dad quote than a mom one but, regardless, there are certain phrases that simply stick with us. And, as we get older, we find ourselves repeating those same things to our own kids…even though we vowed never to turn into our parents.

One of my mom’s favorite admonitions was, “Be sure the truth will find you out.” I’m not gonna lie now by saying I never kept things from Mom when I was growing up but, because she drilled that warning so firmly into my head, I can say with all honesty that I didn’t try to pull the wool over her eyes nearly as often as I might have been tempted. I was much too afraid of the consequences.

Besides getting into trouble, one of the worst repercussions of being dishonest is the guilt that weighs so heavily on one’s psyche…even if the lie felt necessary at the time and even if it was never said aloud. An unspoken truth may have been kept a secret because doing otherwise would be problematic but, bottom line, a secret is often just a silent lie. The fact that it was never talked about doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

If someone’s secret is exposed, that person may go to irrevocable extremes to avoid having to face the truth. For a prime example of what can happen when it looks like your chickens have come home to roost, click the button below and read Edna and Harold.

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It’s Just a Matter of Taste

A former friend once accused me of having an unsophisticated palate.  It’s not the reason we’re no longer friends — that’s a whole other story — but her comment never left me.  Not because it was hurtful but because, according to certain standards, it was true.

Using similar criteria, I suppose I’m guilty of a lack of sophistication in quite a few areas.  I never developed a high appreciation for art, music or poetry.  At least not the sort that would be considered valuable or cultured.  And telling the difference between an authentic Louis XVI armoire and a decent knockoff is something I couldn’t do if you held a gun to my head.  Same thing goes for designer clothes.

While I admire folks who educate themselves in these matters, I’ve never had the desire to devote my own energies to such things.  I suppose it would be nice to possess that sort of knowledge but, to be honest, I pretty much hate the learning process.  I’d just as soon magically know stuff…like through osmosis.  That might be because my attention deficit makes it so challenging to digest information, or it could just be that my lazy nature lends itself more easily to that which requires little effort.  Regardless, the whole osmosis thing hasn’t worked, so I tend to consider myself a bit of a simpleton, and I’ve spent the majority of my life worrying about being harshly judged by others.  I’m not exactly a cretin – I mean, I’m intelligent enough to walk to my mailbox without stopping to ask for directions – but my depth of edification leaves a lot to be desired.  Knowing I don’t necessarily measure up when it comes to being refined has always left me feeling insignificant and out of touch.

That doesn’t mean I’ve kept myself hidden away in the shadows.  The majority of my jobs actually required that I be front and center, and I somehow managed to choreograph my way through working with the public without coming across as the village idiot.  I even had someone once compliment me on my ability to finesse.  It was a nice thing to say, but I knew what she really meant was I was rather adept at the art of BS.  And she wasn’t wrong.  Dealing with individuals from all walks of life requires a certain level of savoir faire and, for whatever reason, that seemed to come naturally to me.  Still does most of the time.  As an introvert, maintaining that persona can be tiring, but it’s doable.  Even so, the back of my mind never lost that pesky notion that suggested I was somehow less than

I’ll never forget a coworker’s surprise when he found out my highest level of education was a high school diploma.  When he said I didn’t sound like someone who hadn’t gone to college, my snarky comeback was, “So, in other words, you’re saying I talk good?”  He turned red, tried to eat his words and we both had a good laugh.  But it served as a reminder to me that people might think something was missing in my general makeup because my horizons hadn’t been particularly broadened. 

I’ve had a lot of come to Jesus talks with myself over the years, and the most recent have involved letting go of thoughts that do me more harm than good.  Like thinking I’m not worthy because I was never schooled in haute cuisine, upscale fashion or fine arts.  My comfort zone has always been more in the neighborhood of Kool-Aid wine, blue jeans and classic rock.  (70’s…not 80’s.  I do have standards.)  When it comes to a posh lifestyle, it’s just not my thing.  A higher price tag doesn’t necessarily dictate worth to me.  I simply like what I like.  If it’s pleasing to my eyes, ears or palate, it doesn’t matter what value someone else might place on it.  My idea of the finer things in life are experiences that speak to me on more of a gut level than an intellectual one.  

It’s been a long time coming, but I’ve finally stopped dwelling on the fact that I will never be a connoisseur of anything.  There are probably those who think I missed out on the greater gifts in life by not pursuing further education – formal or otherwise – but, when it comes to what’s truly important to me, there’s nothing lacking in my little world.  I hold no envy toward those who enjoy sipping fine wine on their snazzy yachts, and they don’t need to pity me for savoring a local sweet red while swaying in my creaky old porch swing.  It’s actually quite fulfilling.  Shoot, sometimes I even get a little fancy, raise the bar, and throw in a couple of cheese sticks.

What can I say?  Happy is as happy does. 

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Who Decides This Stuff Anyway?

We all have pet peeves…for example, people who think it’s A-OK to barge out the IN door, sneeze without covering their mouths or talk out loud during a movie.  It’s normal to wish folks would use common courtesy when in the presence of others.  

But something else that has always bugged me is the fact that some unseen entities from the past decided to throw together a bunch of “rules” that we all had to follow if we wanted to live in a polite society.  Ridiculous things like never wearing white after Labor Day and keeping your elbows off the dinner table.  Many rules of etiquette definitely do make sense – belching and passing gas in a packed elevator come to mind – but I can’t help but wonder why we place so much importance on other people’s standards if what we’re doing doesn’t even affect them.  Call me a savage but, if I want to eat my entire meal with the salad fork, that’s what I’m going to do.  It really shouldn’t be anyone else’s concern.

Besides rules of etiquette, I also find it bothersome that the idea of not being conversant in certain matters might cause people to question my level of couth. 

It’s very possible that the real problem here is that I simply overthink stuff but, if you’d like to see what I’m talking about, click the link below and read It’s Just a Matter of Taste.  Who knows?  Maybe one or two of my little irritations get your goat, too.

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Reading is Fun…So Why Am I Not Doing It?

Most people spend their working years looking forward to that golden chapter where they no longer have to punch a clock.  They long to devote their energies to the things that bring them joy without having to squeeze everything into weekends and annual vacations.  Fun stuff like painting, hiking, writing and, yes, even couch surfing.  The idea of eventually being untethered enough to spend each day following our dreams is what keeps us going until our bank accounts tell us it’s safe to escape the daily grind.

While I never created what I’d call a bucket list, there certainly were specific activities I intended to do once I retired.  The top two were reading and creative writing.  I’ve finally gotten back into the latter, but…reading?  Not so much.  It’s not as though I don’t have the time.  Time has become abundant.  And it’s not as though I don’t have books crowding my shelves – both virtual and old school – that I’d like to sink my teeth into.  Those are abundant, too. 

So, what is it that’s standing between me and that next great escape?  I’m embarrassed to admit that, over the past couple of years, I’ve become addicted to three of the worst timewasters out there:  TV, the internet and the multitude of games on my iPad.  And that’s extremely counterintuitive because I love books.  The dream of one day being able to read to my heart’s content was quite the enticing carrot on a stick when I was slogging away in the office. 

If you were ever a fan of The Twilight Zone, you likely will recall a particular episode starring Burgess Meredith as Henry, a nerdy little bank teller who spent every spare moment reading.  When he wasn’t reading, he talked about reading.  Ad nauseam.  It didn’t seem to matter whether it was a book, a newspaper or a cereal box, reading was the only pastime he cared about.  The problem was, real life had so many extraneous interruptions, he couldn’t spend nearly as much time reading as he would have liked.

That all changed when Henry inadvertently avoided nuclear annihilation because he was hiding away inside the bank vault with his nose stuck in a book.  When he stumbled out and began wandering the remains of his town, he was at first frightened and then despondent.  He realized he was the only person left alive, and he didn’t consider that a life worth living. 

Henry’s miserable outlook did an about-face when he came across the rubble from his local library.  There were piles and piles of books – all for the taking – and he was overjoyed at the prospect of living out his life doing what he loved more than anything else.  Reading.  And the best part was, there would be absolutely zero interruptions.

Of course, as with any good Twilight Zone episode, there was a twist at the end that made you cringe and throw your head back while cursing the show’s writers.  As Henry sits amidst his treasured stacks of books, he leans forward and his very thick – and very necessary – eyeglasses fall from his face, shattering as they land on the concrete steps below him.  He is left alone with all the time in the world, and enough unread stories to entertain him until his dying breath, yet he can do nothing more than stare out into a blurry eternity, muttering, “That’s not fair.  That’s not fair at all.”

Since the day I retired, I’ve unwittingly emulated our practically blind Henry.  Obviously, there are a few glaring differences.  For one thing, my glasses are still very much intact and, for another, I’m fortunate enough not to have been thrust into some dispiriting, post-apocalyptic existence.  Also, I’m not decrying my current situation as being unfair.  Quite the opposite.  I’m well aware that this time in a person’s life can be wonderful and freeing and loaded with possibilities.  And I’m more than a little grateful for that.  I just haven’t been using it the way I’d anticipated.

To put it simply…my inner vision hasn’t been much better than poor Henry’s literal vision after his glasses hit the skids.  I’ve allowed other things – activities that are somewhat enjoyable, but not particularly riveting – to blind me to the very thing my heart wanted unrestricted time to do.  Read.

While I’m not the least bit interested in psychoanalyzing why I haven’t been utterly drowning myself in books the last two years, I am determined to stop wasting so much time on electronic squirrels. 

Those who know me know that my favorite author is Stephen King.  If he writes it, I read it.  That’s how it used to be anyway.  I’ve had one of his more recent books downloaded to Kindle since last fall, and it still sits there…heartbreakingly neglected.  I plan to begin remedying that situation today.  The very thought of it already has my mental taste buds tingling.  When it comes to those first appetizing paragraphs, no one prepares them better than Mr. King. 

At least, that’s how I see it in my book. 

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Time

You know how people often claim they don’t have time for this, that or the other?  Chances are, they actually do have time, but they choose to use it for something unrelated to…well…this, that or the other. 

Oh, sure, there are those with such truly busy schedules they don’t even have time to change their minds but, for many of us, that old “I don’t have time” excuse is just that.  An excuse.  Once all our daily obligations are addressed, we likely do have some time to spare, but we choose to spend it doing things we want to do instead of things we’d rather not do.  I’m pretty sure the official term for that is “human nature.”

There are a few of us, though, who complicate it even further.  Our spare time is spent on things we sort of like to do instead of things we really love to do.  It doesn’t make sense, but it happens all the same.  There are certain activities that bring us more joy than others, yet we backburner those and while away the hours with mediocre pastimes.  Of course, I might be taking liberties with the pluralization here.  Maybe there’s a small cadre of people who share this trait, or maybe it only applies to the knucklehead sitting right here at my keyboard. 

To see if you possibly relate, click the button below and check out my essay Reading Is Fun....  If you find you don’t relate at all, odds are you’re much more levelheaded than I. 

But don’t get too cocky.  I set that bar extremely low.

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What to Write?

A few months ago, I started this blog as a creative outlet…creative being a rather relative term.  Once I got over the technological hurdles, I discovered blogging can be a fun way to get essays and stories out there that I might otherwise take to my grave.  One of the things I really love is that it’s a fairly inexpensive hobby that doesn’t require many skills beyond balancing a laptop on my legs while lounging on the sofa.  (Which I happen to be doing at this very moment.) 

The only problem is, publishing new content on a regular basis can be stressful.  Frankly, it shouldn’t be because I set my own schedule.  But just like I did when I was working in the real world, I have a tendency to put things off until the last minute.  Sure, I could always move those self-imposed deadlines, but my usually non-competitive nature turns ridiculously aggressive when I break my own rules.  I try to avoid facing that side of myself as much as humanly possible.

While writing has always been something I enjoy, I never quite know where it’ll take me.  Most of the time, I don’t even know where it’s going to start.  I’m not one of those writers who manufactures a plot and then creates an outline before ever typing that first sentence.  I have to pay attention to the chatter in the back of my brain and jump on it if it sounds the least bit story worthy.  Of course, being the procrastinator that I am, I’ll often ignore the chatter and play computer games or watch TV instead.  Because of that, it can be a real challenge to plant myself at the keyboard and string enough comprehensible words together to have something ready to publish every couple of weeks.

Fortunately for me, the story I’m posting this time is one I started a couple of years ago.  Back then, I didn’t get beyond the first several paragraphs.  I can’t recall if that was because other pressing matters kept me away from writing or if the chatter just suddenly stopped.  But, whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter now.  The main character found her way back to my forebrain and finished telling me what she wanted me to know.  And now I’m here to tell you what she told me. 

All you have to do is click the button below to get a glimpse of what it was like Being Basil.

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