Stories and Articles
ANNIE
Annie pressed her face against the screen door as she listened for the sound of the bus, her eyes fixed on the road where she knew it would first appear. Impatiently she pushed her nose harder against the wire mesh, but the door didn’t budge. It was locked and she couldn’t reach high enough to unlock it.
The warm breeze flowed past her into the house, but she didn’t notice it any more than she heard the birds twittering or smelled the scent of the newly mown grass. She was waiting for Rae.
Every day she waited for Rae, hopping from one foot to the other, constantly pestering her mother with the question, “When will Rae come?” She didn’t know it, but Rae was only gone four hours each day. How could she? Annie was only four years old, and time had no meaning except that it was endless while Rae was gone.
Ah, there was the sound she had been waiting for all morning. The school bus came into sight from behind the old olive tree and pulled up in front of the house, and Rae got off.
“Mommie, Mommie, she’s here.” Annie jumped up and down with excitement as six-year-old Rae skipped up the walk to the house. “Open the door, Mommie, open the door,” she begged, grabbing her mother’s dress and tugging her to the door.
As soon as Rae was inside the house Annie grabbed the books she carried and rushed to the kitchen table. She carefully put the books up onto the table, climbed onto a chair, and waited for Rae to do the same. “Let’s play school,” she announced. “You be the teacher and teach me.” She folded her hands the way Rae had told her she did in school and waited for Rae to begin.
The next year Annie went to school. Her first days at kindergarten were exciting. Pencils, paper, chalk, the big blackboard, crayons, scissors, and glue, but best of all were the books. Lined up on the shelf like brightly colored popsicle sticks, they were irresistible to Annie, but she knew she had to wait.
Diligently she drew and colored and cut and pasted. She went outside at recess and played until the bell rang for the children to come back in for their rest period. But all the while, day after day, Annie gazed longingly at the bookshelves.
By the end of the first week she was starting to get impatient. Were they never going to get to the books? When the second week passed without the books being taken out she could stand it no longer.
“Teacher, teacher,” she raised her hand at the beginning of class on Friday.
“Yes, Annie, what is it?” responded Mrs. Todd.
“When can we read the books?” asked Annie.
“The books?” smiled Mrs. Todd in answer.
“Yes. Those books.” Annie pointed to the shelf containing the books.
“Why Annie, we’ll get to those later when you’re learning to read.”
“But I already know how to read,” Annie said and grinned happily at her teacher.
Mrs. Todd shook her head and smiled indulgently at Annie. “You already know how to read?” she said.
Annie wriggled excitedly in her seat as she vigorously nodded her head. “Yes, Rae showed me how.”
Mrs. Todd thought for a moment and then said with her eyebrows raised, “Come up here, Annie.”
Annie didn’t waste a moment, but bounced out of her seat and almost ran to the front of the room. “Do I get to read now?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment,” said Mrs. Todd. “But first I want to talk to you about telling the truth. It’s very important to tell the truth.”
Mystified, Annie looked up at her and said, “But I am telling the truth.” Tears began to well up in her eyes and the corners of her mouth turned down.
Mrs. Todd raised her eyebrows again and said, “Okay, then I want you to read something to me.”
Annie’s face broke into a big smile as she pulled from her pocket a very small copy of the New Testament and quickly opened it and started reading. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He ma…”
“Wait, Annie,” Mrs. Todd interrupted. “I didn’t mean for you to read something you already know. I want you to read something I pick out.” Mrs. Todd was aware that the entire class was listening now.
She was certain Annie couldn’t read and she felt that a good lesson needed to be taught right at the beginning of the year about lying. So she went over and picked out one of the books from the shelf.
Annie’s eyes brightened as she watched Mrs. Todd open the book and then hand it to her. “Start reading here,” she said to Annie and pointed to a place in the book.
Then she sat back in her chair with a small smile on her face as Annie opened her mouth.
“’See Spot run,’ said Dick to Jane. ‘I will run now too.’ Dick ran and Spot ran and Jane ran.”
Mrs. Todd suddenly sat straight up in her chair. She watched as Annie read on to the end of the page. “Okay, Annie, that’s enough,” she said, and took the book out of Annie’s hands. Quickly she put the book back and took up another book from on top of her desk and handed it to Annie.
“Start reading on page 29,” she instructed Annie.
Annie flipped through the pages until she found page 29 and started to read at the top of the page, “…came into the house and wanted something to eat. So he looked in the cupboard for some bread, but there wasn’t any. Then he looked in the re… refer….” She stopped reading and looked up at Mrs. Todd. “That’s a big word and I can’t read it,” she said with a quiver to her lips.
Mrs. Todd gently took the book out of her hands and said, “Annie, where did you learn to read?”
“I told you, Rae showed me how.”
“Who is Rae?” Mrs. Todd asked the question expecting the answer to be “my uncle” or “my Sunday School teacher” or something similar.
But Annie smiled a big smile and said, “My sister. Rae’s my big sister.”
“I didn’t know you had a big sister. How old is Rae?”
“Oh, she’s old. Almost seven now.” Annie grinned proudly. “And she goes to second grade.” Then she looked confidingly up at Mrs. Todd and said, “We play school. She’s the teacher and I’m the poopel.”
Annie finished kindergarten and started first grade the following year. But in the middle of the year the teacher didn’t know what to do with her, so Annie was skipped up to the second grade.
Excerpts from Annie’s third grade report card:
First Report Period: Annie is a capable pupil. Sometimes she gets interested in a book and neglects her other work. She could be a little neater.
Third Report Period: Annie is doing above average third grade work. She likes to read library books so well, that I have to watch her or she will read and neglect her other studies.
Annie always said that Rae’s was the best class she ever had. Rae said Annie was a nuisance and the only way she could get her to stop pestering her was to teach her to read so she would go off and do it on her own. It worked.
THE WOMAN - My Mom
The slender woman sitting across the table from me with a fragrant cup of steaming black coffee in front of her is obviously enjoying the prospect of another game of solitaire. She deftly shuffles and lays out cards as we carry on a desultory conversation.
That she is no longer a young woman is evidenced by soft lines around her eyes and mouth and on her neck. Her salt and pepper colored hair gives her away too. It is cut short and casually combed back away from her face with only a small amount of teasing fluffing the top.
I glance at her hands busily moving the cards around. The nails are neither perfectly shaped nor polished, the skin is rough, and there are small scars from cuts and other minor injuries from her years of daily chores.
Her style of clothing is that of an active person, one who enjoys getting out and doing things. She is appropriately dressed for a casual dining out, an afternoon of shopping, a walk down the road, or visiting friends or neighbors. She could even go bowling or golfing just as she is.
Her loose, comfortable pantsuit is made of a dark blue knitted material and her simple, white, blouse under the long-sleeved jacket is accented only by a necklace of small blue beads. She wears no other jewelry unless you count the practical round-faced watch secured to her left wrist by a leather band.
As she gets up to go get another cup of coffee I notice that she walks easily and confidently in a pair of low-heeled wedged black shoes. I also notice that there is no hesitation in her manner or actions. She is not clumsy and does not get flustered by the uncooperative lid to the coffee container, but pries it off with an ease born of years of coping with minor kitchen emergencies.
And finally, in great contrast to me, she shows no irritability at the frequent interruptions we have been subjected to by my children. Her whole person, at least from my observation during this visit, has a great deal going for it. She may not be young, but she has learned to enjoy living by accepting and participating in what goes on around her.
Bringing her coffee back to the table she stops by my chair, looks at what I have written, and laughs. Her eyes twinkle behind her glasses and I know she considers it funny that I am describing her in such detail for a class assignment.
When I think more about it I conclude that her attitude toward being my "subject" is simply another example of how she enjoys living. Oh yes, in case you were wondering, this woman happens to be my mother.
THE HEAD WRANGLER - My Dad
When he steps into the firelight after checking on the horses, conversation ceases. He shoves his hat back on his head, takes off his worn leather gloves, and holds his hands out to the warmth. Everyone waits to see if he's got anything to say because he's the boss, or as they all like to affectionately call him, the head wrangler.
The collar of his fleece-lined deerskin jacket is turned up against the chill of the autumn evening air, and his clean-shaven cheeks are ruddy with cold. He squints his blue eyes while he looks into the fire, and then finds a vacant stump in the circle.
Someone passes him a steaming cup of strong black coffee and he immediately cups his rough hands around it and takes a sip. The steam momentarily fogs his glasses, but he takes a deep contented breath and pays no attention. As the conversation picks up again there is some discussion about who wants to make a spike camp.
Deer season opens tomorrow and some of the younger guys want to be on their stands at dawn. But he just listens because spike camps no longer beckon him. A warm sleeping bag on a four-inch sheet of foam inside a tent is what he likes now.
Happiness sits on him like a second skin. This evening and the ones to follow are what he's been aiming at for the last two months. He has guided the group through the complicated process that makes this evening and the ones to follow possible.
There was the preparation of the tack gear; reviewing the grocery list; buying the groceries and other supplies; getting the horses shod; planning the transportation of horses, people, and gear to the trailhead; filling the pack boxes; loading the horses; taking care of a thousand other things; and finally, leading the way up the nine-mile trail to the deer camp high in the mountains. His experience and know-how are what stands between this well-organized camp and chaos.
He stretches his bony blue-jeaned legs and dusty leather boots toward the fire and answers questions about the best places to hunt on the next day. His talk is filled with descriptions of ravines, peaks, meadows, willows, and various other landmarks of the rugged country that surrounds the campsite. He joins the discussion about technique and strategy, but his is the final word. After all, he's filled his deer tags every year for longer than this group has been hunting.
The snaps of his western-style shirt catch the firelight as he begins to relax and really enjoy this year's gathering. He glances around at the faces and the lines in his face get deeper as he smiles at his companions.
His bald head gleams when he briefly lifts his hat to rub his scalp. Some old stories are being told, and events of the days just past are being discussed, some of which will become stories for future campfire circles. There is much laughter and plenty of ribbing for those who did something silly, but the head wrangler is satisfied.
His name is Ray Swanson and he's surrounded by his family and friends. It's the third weekend in September, 9,000 feet up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, and life is good. If you ask him why he does all this, he'll tell you that it's so he can come up here into these mountains that he reverently calls "the country."
But what he doesn't say is that without this group of people it wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel.
MATTIE AND THE $400 CHECK
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” Mattie leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them and looked at the piece of paper in her hand. “How will I ever tell Jake,” she moaned. “What a mess. Oh dear!” The last words were almost a wail and as the words hung in the air she realized she was parked at the Diamond Springs Post Office with her windows open. Guiltily she looked around but no one seemed to have heard.
“I’d better get home and get this over with,” she muttered as she started the Bronco and headed out Pleasant Valley Road.
The spring beauty of the Sierra Nevada foothills didn’t thrill her today; her mind was too busy trying to think of how tell Jake she had, without his knowledge or permission or anything, written an anecdote about him and sent it to “Life in These United States”. Now here was a check for $400. Oh dear!
At the mailbox mounted on a giant horseshoe she turned and drove up the driveway to the house. She could see Jake outside his blacksmith shop talking to a customer, which meant she’d have a little more time to think. But when he came in for lunch he’d ask what was in the mail. He always did. And she would have to tell him.
Mattie unloaded the Bronco, put the mail on the desk, except for the tell-tale envelope, and started making sandwiches. As she worked she frantically tried to think how to tell Jake she’d told the world he was afraid of spiders. Yep, that’s just what she’d done, and he wasn’t going to like it. On the other hand he needed the $400 to buy a new blower, and there’d even be some left over so he’d have a few bucks in his pocket the next time he went to the Roseville Auction. There was always something he wanted but didn’t think he could afford.
The screen door slammed and she heard him splashing water as he washed. “I’m hungry as a bear,” he called. “Three horses this morning, and two more lined up this afternoon. I gotta hurry and get back by one o’clock sharp.” He leaned down from his six-foot-four height to plant a kiss on top of her head and dropped into a chair. Mattie put the sandwiches on the table and got two glasses of milk before she sat down.
“What was in the mail?” Mattie froze, then cleared her throat before replying. “It’s on the desk. You can go through it after you eat.” She didn’t look at him as she took a bite of her sandwich, which suddenly tasted like sawdust.
A quick drink of milk, a swallow, and then, “Jake, you remember last fall when we were clearing out the old shed?” “Yeah.” He shifted in his chair and Mattie didn’t dare look at him. “What about it?” “Well, you remember what you did when you thought a spider landed on your nose?” “Yeah.”
He was being economical with his words. Not a good sign. “Well, I thought it was so … I mean, it was very …” she swallowed hard and spoke fast, “… funny. You know, with you being such a big guy and all, and landing on the sprinkler the way you did, and then the water just shooting up all around you, and the twig with a death grip on your nose, and ….”
She trailed off as she finally got the courage to look at him. “Why’re you bringing this up now?” His face was unreadable.
“Uh … well … uh, because I … uh … oh, shoot! I wrote it down and sent it to Reader’s Digest. They liked it and here’s a check for $400!” She almost threw the check at him.
He just sat there staring at her for a moment, then abruptly shoved his chair back and went out the door. Mattie was trembling. He was really upset and she didn’t blame him. He hadn’t even looked at the check. She dropped her head in her hands and felt like crying.
“You know, you just made it a lot easier for me to tell you something.” Mattie looked up in alarm. He was standing at the kitchen door with a large manila envelope in his hand and a resolute look on his face. “Here,” he handed her the envelope and then sat back down.
Mattie looked at the return address for a moment and then slowly opened the envelope, her heart beating so hard she felt like she was suffocating. She drew out the papers, laid them on the table, and started reading the letter on top. After a moment she said in a strangled tone, “When did you do this?” “About three months ago. I knew you’d never do it, so I did.”
Mattie couldn’t believe what she was reading. The letter, dated a week ago, was from a publisher and the papers were a publishing contract for her to look over. It seemed that the publisher liked the first three chapters of the novel she had written based on her own experiences as the child of Molly and Daniel Fielding, the rodeo clown team now retired and living on a ranch outside of Virginia City. He wanted to set up a meeting with Mattie.
“How could you do this without telling me?” She almost screamed the words, but then her eyes caught sight of the $400 check still where she had thrown it. She looked at Jake. “You should’ve told me, and I should’ve told you. But we didn’t, and now we’ve got $400 and maybe more.”
Jake reached over and took her hand. “Don’t you see? It’s sort of like the story about the guy who sells his watch to buy some combs for his wife who sells her hair to buy him a watch chain. People who love each other sometimes do secret things because of the love. And we’re just lucky enough that I don’t have a watch and your hair is already short.”
ZEKIEBOY
When we first saw him at Foothill Dog Rescue of the Sierras he was a terrified little doggie, crying and wanting absolutely nothing to do with us. The doggie we had seen on their website and decided we wanted was taken by the time we got there, so they said they had another who was even cuter. Then they brought out “Hiker,” a little red/blond Chihuahua/Terrier fellow.
We are Ray and Beverly, and we’d had small doggies for most of the 42 years of our marriage. We had lost Zena, a Miniature Pinscher, in 2019 and Ray was lonely for a little one to be his baby and mostly his friend. So we decided to rescue a small doggie and on September 2, 2023, after looking online, we ended up in the room with “Hiker”.
It was a little distressing that he was so frightened, but my heart went out to him and I knew he needed us. He would be loved and cherished, and given attention beyond anything a doggie needed. And that would overcome his fear.
They told us he was a runner (an escape artist we later learned), and he didn’t like men. That was not something we wanted to hear because Ray was going to be his “person”. They also told us to keep his leash on him for a week or two because that would be the only way we could catch him, even in the house. Whew, a lot of things that could be tough, but we wanted him anyway.
They made us sign our lives away and then put him in a crate for the trip home, telling us he would likely cry all the way. But that didn’t happen. I had the crate on my lap and he stopped crying before even getting out of the parking lot.
After we got home I watched him run from Ray and seek “protection” near me. This was not good, so I told Ray what I thought he needed to do to establish himself as “person”. When it was dinner time he would be the one to feed “Hiker”, and he would be the one to take him out, and when it was bedtime he would be the one to put him to bed. All of this so it would be clear to this little doggie that Ray was the one who would take care of him.
I couldn’t believe how well that worked!!! The next morning, after Ray fixed breakfast for “Hiker”, that little doggie ran straight across the living room and jumped up into Ray’s lap! We were astonished, and I almost cheered. Of course then Ray proceeded to pet him and talk to him and shower love on him.
But that was not the end of things. He still ran from us if we tried to pick him up, and he still did not like men. It took weeks before he would accept our grown son as a member of the household. And when our granddaughter and her fiancée came to visit he told them they were not welcome (in his doggie bark, of course), but then something different happened. He decided to investigate and interrogate them. He climbed all over them both, sniffing and softly growling. He finally decided they were okay and returned to Ray.
The next thing was that he got a new name. We didn’t care for “Hiker” so Ray thought and thought and decided on Zeke, which seemed to fit. He said he wanted a “Z” name to fall in line with Zeus and Zena, his last two doggies. To me, Zeke seemed a little chopped off and impersonal, so to me he became ZekieBoy. He seems to know he has two names and answers to them both.
We know very little about his history. He was found on the street in a town called Merced. They calculated that he was about 5 1/2 when we got him. He’s healthy, well trained, and a loving little guy.
But then the day came that we learned why he had been named “Hiker” (it should have been “Flash”). Ray was due home soon and I thought I heard his car in the garage, so I opened the kitchen door a crack (big mistake). ZekieBoy zipped past me and was down 8 steps and gone from sight in a matter of seconds. He was fast!!
I was barefooted but went down the steps after him and onto the driveway. I thought he had gone to the right around the front of the house, but I couldn’t follow because there is gravel there. I tried, but it was a no-go with bare feet. Back into the kitchen for my slip-ons, then out around the front as fast as I could go, calling him of course.
I couldn’t hear or see anything so back to the house. I remembered they had given us a phone number to call in this circumstance, so I called and finally got a very nice lady. Instructions were to call neighbors, post on fb, and wait for her to come up. I did what I could of that, and then sat on the front porch swing and cried.
Ray soon got home and started looking for him up and down our 2+ acres, but no luck. I couldn’t stay inside the house I was so devastated, so I sat out there feeling terrible. Forty five minutes had passed and Ray was still looking for him when all of the sudden ZekieBoy appeared out of nowhere on the gravel driveway in front of me. I couldn’t believe it!
I called him and he ran up onto the porch and leaped into my lap. He was so excited and wriggling so much I could hardly hold him, but I was determined not to let him get away. We were so relieved and glad he had come back. It meant he knew where home was located.
Of course we became even more careful about doors after that, and he became a treasured member of the family. He has a delightful personality, and loves to play keep-away with Ray. He grabs a soft toy and zips around the furniture while Ray sort of chases him.
He also is very smart. One day Ray was working at his computer and ZekieBoy decided he had waited long enough for a walk. So he got one of Ray’s socks and put it in the hall. Then he got his leash and did the same. Of course, he got his walk and wormed himself a little deeper into our hearts.
In the morning after he is out for his time in the yard, he runs to where I am sitting in my chair and burrows his way into my lap or climbs up under my neck for some Mama time. He accepts me as “alternate person” when Ray is not here.
But, everything changes when Ray opens the garage door and drives in. The other day ZekieBoy was dozing in a favorite position beside my leg when all of the sudden he came to attention. He knew Ray was home, and he was so excited he didn’t know what to do!
So he walked and climbed all over me and my chair, all the while whimpering and almost barking. When he heard the kitchen door open I was forgotten. He immediately became “Flash,” and in a flash, was in the kitchen to welcome Ray, his very special person.
We are so lucky we have him. He brings joy and comfort to all three of us, and is a far different doggie from the terrified little creature we first met. The people at Foothill Dog Rescue of the Sierras still stay in touch with me to ask how ZekieBoy is doing. Of course I tell them he is great, because he is, and I share some of the little ZekieBoy stories with them along with pictures, which they love.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1984
1982 Subaru BRAT (Bi-drive Recreational All-terrain Transporter)
Monday, October 15, 1984, was a day to remember! It started snowing during the day, and when I left work in our 1982 Subaru BRAT at about 4 pm, there was already about six inches of snow on the ground in Englewood (suburb of Denver, Colorado). I got on Highway 285 and headed SW toward home up in Conifer.
By the time I reached S. Turkey Creek Rd near Conifer the snow was at least a foot deep. I was toasty warm with the heater and defroster on, and the wipers were doing a decent job to keep the windshield clear of the falling snow. I hadn’t had any trouble so far driving in the deepening snow, and was looking forward to getting home.
However, I could not believe what I saw when I got to the foot of City View Drive. Our home at an 8500-foot-elevation was a mile and a half up this county maintained gravel road. There at the foot was a huge cluster of vehicles whose owners were all putting on chains, which, by the way, I didn’t have. The cars were mostly 4-wheel-drive Broncos and other vehicles appropriate for the snow. But chains too? I could be in trouble!
My husband Ray was still in Pennsylvania waiting on his job transfer to Colorado, so I knew it was up to me to get up that mile and a half on my own to our 14-year-old daughter.
I stopped and thought for a moment, and then put the BRAT into low 4-wheel drive and low gear (thankfully it was a stick shift), and gently let out the clutch. It started moving at a walking pace in the deep snow and I just let it go without touching anything but the steering wheel. No accelerator and no brake.
The lower part of City View Drive was a gentle upslope, and I had no problems although I could see that others did. I passed some vehicles that were stuck in the ditches off the sides of the road, but I just kept steering. I was nervous and scared because ahead of me was a climbing hairpin turn that was uncomfortable even in good weather. But I had no choice, so I kept going and the BRAT never faltered.
When I got close to the hairpin turn I really got worried. There was a very wide area to the left of the road, and I could see another big cluster of vehicles parked facing in all directions, including some off into the shallow ditch on the right side of the road. Again people were putting on chains. Oh dear!
Miraculously there was a narrow clear “lane” through the cars so I just kept steering. I remember that I looked at the people out there and they looked back at me as I continued at a walking pace on up around the bend. I’ve always wondered what they were thinking as I went slowly past them in my little pickup with no chains and hardly any clearance.
I think at that point I was plowing snow it was so deep. You can’t know how relieved I was when I made it up around that turn. Just another right turn, up a short straight stretch to the top, and then down a couple of blocks to our driveway. I was almost home.
Of course things are never that easy. When I made the turn to the right I saw a pickup about halfway up the short stretch. It was stopped dead in the middle of the road. I looked at that pickup and thought, “No! I’m not stopping!” I wasn’t sure I would be able to start again if I stopped, so I didn’t. There appeared to be just enough room to go around to the left in the unbroken snow, so I just steered and kept going, and made it the rest of the way home.
We had a switchback driveway and I knew I could not make it all the way to the top, so I went up to the first switchback area and turned the BRAT around so it was facing out. I was so relieved I’d made it home. After I floundered up the rest of the way to the house I was so proud of myself. I stood at our front window and looked through the falling snow down at the BRAT that had brought me safely home.
Then I had a terrible thought. If it kept snowing and got really deep, how was I going to get the BRAT down the driveway to the road. My daughter and I could not shovel all that distance.
So I got back in my outerwear and boots and moved the BRAT to the bottom of the driveway and climbed back up to the house. The next morning we had over 37 inches of snow. The BRAT was completely buried - just a hump in the snow. Denver had so much snow that everything was shut down. No work, no school, etc.
The Sun was brightly shining in a beautiful blue sky. So my daughter and I took a broom and a shovel down to the BRAT and dug it out. It was easy because the snow was that powdery stuff that can be swept or blown away. The road had been plowed, so we went for a drive in a beautiful fantasyland of pristine snow.
Skip ahead 40 years and we still have the BRAT as seen in the picture above.
The reason I remember the date so well is because that was the night the Denver Broncos played the Green Bay Packers and won the game in what is called the “Broncos Blizzard Game of 1984”. The song Sleigh Ride was played on TV at the opening of the game - “Just hear those sleigh bells jingling ...”
On March 24, 2025, I visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. for the first time. In the large entrance hall there is a small exhibit off to the side called Remember the Children: Daniel’s Story. The purpose of the exhibit is to explain the Holocaust to elementary and middle school children.
But how can they understand such a horrendous event! The cruelty done to children during those years can hardly be explained or understood by adults, much less children.
As I moved through the exhibit my heart broke at what I was seeing. It captures the moment when innocence was shattered and the world changed forever.
That exhibit lives in my mind, so as a poet, I began to write a poem that would show a small part of the reality for a child.
1933
I went to school one day like I’d done the day before,
but something was different.
Other kids looked at me strangely,
and wouldn’t sit with me at lunch.
I wondered why and finally asked the boy who was my friend,
but who today, wouldn’t sit with me either.
“What’s the matter with everyone?” He squinted his eyes and said,
“You’re a Jew.”
I don’t even want to be writing this article. My family doesn’t want me to share the poem because they think it is such a controversial and sensitive subject. But I’m a writer and a poet who speaks truth, so here it is. With a gut punch in my stomach, I share it with my readers.
WHAT THE BUYERS DID!!
After I had been in real estate in California for three short years, I had a transaction in which I represented both the out-of-state Sellers and the local Buyers.
The escrow was supposed to close the Friday before Memorial Day weekend. but because of a paperwork delay on the Seller side, the closing slipped to Tuesday following the long weekend.
The Buyers were anxious to get their hands on the vacant and slightly run-down house and begin to do some work, so when I called them on Friday to give them the closing date change they were disappointed. At that point I was just thankful that they weren’t blaming me.
On Sunday afternoon on my way home from church I decided to stop and get my lockbox off the house. When I pulled into the driveway my mouth fell open and I could hardly breath I was so shocked.
The deck was missing! Completely ripped off the front of the house!
I knew the Sellers hadn’t done it; they were in another state.
Which meant the Buyers had jumped the gun and gone ahead with their plans to begin work on a house they didn’t yet own!!!
This was terrible. Not only were they trespassing, they had laid themselves open to a charge of felony vandalism.
So what was I, who had a fiduciary responsibility to both principals, going to do?
I finally began to breathe again, and managed to get my lockbox, so I left. All the way home I alternated between laughing out loud at the audacity of the Buyers, and saying “Oh my goodness! What am I going to do?”
I finally decided that I was going to do nothing.
#1 There was no point in calling the out-of-state Sellers and upsetting them. They needed and wanted to sell the property.
#2 What good would it do to call the Buyers and tell them they were busted? It wouldn’t get the deck back on the house. All they wanted was to do was buy the property.
#3 So instead, I called my Manager and told her what had happened, and that I wasn’t calling either the Buyers or Sellers. I was going to let the escrow close on Tuesday and say nothing to anyone. She was just as horrified as I was, but agreed with my decision.
Four years later I was sitting with the Buyers who now wanted to sell that same property. In the midst of conversation, I casually mentioned that I had gone by that Memorial Day weekend and discovered their “jumping the gun.”
They sheepishly confessed so I told them the story of my discovery on Sunday. Of course I included my horror/laughter, and my subsequent decision to “let sleeping dogs lie.”
Thankfully there were no repercussions, but it taught me that very strange things can happen in real estate transactions.
NO GUARANTEE ON TOMORROW
(This story was written in the spring of 1978, but the events probably took place in 1971–1972.)
My family goes camping every year around the end of September when deer hunting season opens as we are all avid deer hunters in addition to simply enjoying the experience of living out in the mountains every once in a while.
Our deer camp is located in the Sonora Pass area, and we ride horseback about nine miles on a rugged trail that climbs from about 6000 feet to an elevation of almost 9000 feet. Once there, we are totally isolated from any form of civilization.
Just how isolated was made very evident to me one night about six-seven years ago. The feelings I had almost caused me to quit going on this yearly trip.
As usual the hunting season opened on Saturday. Before daybreak the men had spread out all over the mountains to hunt and by early afternoon several of them had been successful and had brought deer back to camp.
My cousin, John Lyons, one of the successful ones, had not been able to bring his deer back alone so he had returned to camp for help. Together he, my Dad, and my brother had saddled a couple of horses and ridden out to get his deer.
My Dad was riding a big gray-white gelding named Jeb, a horse he had raised from a colt, broken himself, and loved in the way men love their special animals. But besides being so special, Jeb was one of the few horses that would pack a deer. Many horses cannot be used to carry dead deer because they don’t like the smell of blood, but it didn’t bother Jeb.
The area in which my cousin had shot his deer was quite a rugged bit of mountainside, but they managed to get to the deer. They had started preparing to load it on Jeb when they heard him make some noises. Upon investigating, they discovered he had jumped around and fallen against a dead tree laying on the ground.
One of the dead limbs about the size of an index finger had pierced his stomach pulling a piece of his intestine out when he pulled away from it. My Dad tried everything he could think of to help him but soon realized there was nothing he could do. So he had to shoot Jeb.
It was after dark when they got back to camp. I had been a little worried, and when I heard my Mother asking what was wrong, I went over to where they were standing. I heard my Dad answer in a terrible voice that he had had to shoot Jeb.
I don’t remember what I did then but I remember how I felt — vulnerable. I suddenly saw just how easily it could have been one of the people that had been injured instead of a horse, and I faced the horrible realization of just how fragile our hold is on life. It wouldn’t take much to hurt one of us badly and as isolated as we were, a person could die before help could be obtained. I think I didn’t sleep at all that night.
I feared not only for us there in the camp, but for my children hone with relatives, and I wanted to leave the camp and never come back even though I knew we would be no safer at home. A car accident could wipe us out without warning or some unbalanced person could shoot us.
I felt so frightened. It was as though life was going to be snatched away at any moment, and I had no control over the situation. Maybe that was partly what unnerved me so badly, the feeling of no control over what would happen next, I almost felt like I couldn’t live with this feeling.
Somehow that night finally ended and the next day and night passed and I began to feel better. Getting home and seeing for myself that the children were all right helped too, and by the time the next September rolled around I was ready to return to the mountains for the opening of hunting season.
I have never forgotten, though, that night when I faced the knowledge that none of us have a guarantee on tomorrow or even the next five minutes. Because of this, it became very important that I do now, or say now, those things of value instead of putting them off until tomorrow.
Tomorrow just may not give me the opportunity.
MY WATERLOO
Our family trips are always full of adventures, and this one to New York City and beyond was no exception. After four days of sightseeing with a few mishaps sprinkled in, we were moving on to Danbury, CT. At our hotel in Lower Manhattan, the six of us and our luggage piled into a large SUV we’d rented and headed north.
By the time we arrived at Danbury, we’d hilariously recounted the tally of mishaps so far on the trip starting before we even got to the airport in Sacramento. My husband, who was not going on the trip, was driving me to the airport in our pickup. The rest were using Uber. The group had decided to meet at a restaurant for a bite to eat because we were taking the red eye - food would not be served.
When the Uber left the restaurant, we stood looking at the huge pile of luggage in the parking lot in consternation. The picture of us carrying it all into the restaurant was so ridiculous we started laughing. It didn’t seem to be the optimum solution and neither did loading it into the back of the pickup. So, you guessed it. All the luggage for six adults was crammed into the cab of the pickup.
The absurdities continued. Things like the six of us sleeping for hours in one room the day we arrived at our hotel at about 8am; my sister Irene falling into the arms of a strange man, and my son, Don, accidentally ending up on the Brooklyn Bridge instead of at our hotel. Each event was, of course, fodder for endless teasing.
My Waterloo came at a cozy restaurant in Danbury where we were ready to eat and unwind after a long day. Gathered around the table in the back room, our jokes and jabs bounced back and forth like a game of verbal ping-pong. When our food arrived we quieted down and bowed our heads while Andrew, my adult grandson said grace.
When he finished with an enthusiastic “Amen,” Irene, true to her quirky grandmotherly ways, clapped her hands loudly and declared, “This is what I do with my grandkids!”
It sparked a lively discussion about her unusual habit. Irene swore it made her grandkids more excited to pray, so we were joking about clapping after grace at every meal on the rest of the trip.
And then it happened. I piped up and started to say, “Well, looks like we’re going to spread “the clap” around the country!”
At the word clap, my brain finally caught up to my mouth, and I froze. My hand flew up to cover my lips, and I stared at the group with wide eyes, praying no one else had noticed. But oh, they had.
For a moment, there was dead silence. Three whole seconds of everyone just sitting there, blinking. And then—chaos.
Don nearly fell out of his chair laughing, Carla was choking and pointing at me, and Andrew slapped the table so hard he sent his fork flying. Verna looked a little bewildered but laughed, and Irene, the cause of it all, was shrieking with laughter along with rest of them while I sat there, face flaming, mortified beyond words.
“You’re never living this down!” Andrew howled.
“I—no! I didn’t mean—stop it!” I stammered, but it was hopeless.
The cherry on top came later when we found out Verna hadn’t even understood what was so bad about what I’d said. She genuinely thought we were laughing about Irene’s hand-clapping tradition. Explaining it to her made the whole thing even worse—or better, depending on your perspective.
By the time we left the restaurant, I knew this was not the end of it. I’d be tormented with this story not only the rest of the trip, but the rest of my life and I was not wrong. Every chance they get….