I must have been about 7 years old on this day embedded into my memory. I know I was in the first grade and it was spring. Mom and Dad had separated and were in the process of getting a divorce. We lived in a small little town a couple miles west of another small little town where my Grandmother lived. The school system that I attended was a consolidation of two small schools. My little town had a first grade and there was another first grade in the town that my Grandmother lived in. The rub from my parents pending divorce was that Mom needed for Grandma to watch us kids both before and after school so that she could go to work to support us. Mom must have convinced the School Board to let me continue the few months left in the school year in the classroom that I was used to and officially should attend because of our residence. Special permission was given for me to ride the High School bus to get to my school from my Grandmother’s house. Apparently that was a huge concession on the school board’s part because there was one little girl on a bus with millions (well it seemed like there were that many to my little eyes!) of teenagers.

My uncle David, much to his chagrin, was assigned the task of keeping an eye on me during the bus ride to and from school. How mortified he must have been to have to babysit this chubby little girl who never stopped talking. I could tell that he hated this job he had been given because he would rarely speak to me as we walked each day to the bus stop. He would roll his eyes on some days and grunt a response on others. But mostly he would just tell me to “Be quiet for crying out loud!”

Now, Uncle Dave was a nice kid. He never got into trouble or into fights. He was kind of shy around his peers, as I remember. Not ever a man with a lot to say. One of the kids who would catch up with us most days was a guy named Kenny. He was a scrapper and always in trouble. A real bully and I was terrified of this guy. Sometimes, I thought Uncle Dave was afraid of him, too.

On this particular day, I remember the sun was shining and there were the most beautiful flowers in old Mrs. Smalley’s yard as we passed. I didn’t hear the comment that Kenny made because I was admiring the flowers. Whatever it was, my Uncle David didn’t like it one bit! All of a sudden, I heard books hit the sidewalk and my Uncle Dave was spewing out a tongue lashing like you wouldn’t believe. I turned to see him with his fists in the air as he started in on Kenny. He was ready to beat the crap out of the resident bully and it had something to do with me.

“You don’t ever talk like that about her again you piece of shit! She is a little girl and she can’t help what her parents have done! You even look at her funny and I swear I’ll kick your ass! Now get out of here!” was part of what Uncle David screamed as I stood there in utter disbelief.

Kenny high tailed it out of there muttering something about our family being a bunch of nuts. Uncle Dave took my hands in his and asked me if I was OK. I nodded that I was and I’m sure my eyes were as big as half dollars as I did. Uncle David picked up his books, gently took my hand and led me to the bus stop with his head held high that day.

I think my little head stood a little higher that day, too. I was proud of my Uncle David for standing up to the meanest guy I knew at the time. After that morning, every time I look at Uncle Dave I see a White Knight. I asked him not too long ago if he remembered what Kenny had said that morning that made him so angry. He said he didn’t remember but there were tears in his eyes as I recalled that morning that I found out that I had a Knight in shining armor who would never let me down.

As she drove into town, Ellie marveled at the subtle hints of autumn color beginning to spread across the countryside as if by a painter’s brush.

“Why didn’t you come to the cemetery yesterday?” a familiar voice asked.

Ignoring the voice, Ellie glanced at the heater controls on the dashboard of the Bonneville as the temperature seemed to drop. She slowly glanced over to the passenger seat as the feeling of not being alone crept over her. It could not have been her husband’s voice; he had been dead for five years.

“I won’t tolerate the silent treatment. I asked you a question! Why didn’t you come to the cemetery?”

Fear clutched at her entire being as she saw him in the rear view mirror. No it can’t be Jake – he’s gone. I must be losing my freaking mind! A dead man can’t be riding in my backseat!

“You haven’t lost your mind. I am here, I never really left you. Don’t you know that? You can be so dense sometimes! I’m pretty pissed that you missed your visit with me yesterday! I’m really tired of being lonely. I’ve decided you are coming with me today.”

“Coming with you? No freaking way in hell am I going anywhere with you today or any other day!”

“Oh, you’re coming with me, Ellie. You have no choice in the matter. I’ve been working on a plan for several months. Everyone already thinks you’re nuts. I’ve helped to plant that little seed by coming to you in your dreams. You played right into my hands by telling people about them. Remember the last one, Ellie? You told everyone that I wrote something on a piece of paper and put it in my pocket. The grin on my face looked menacing, I believe you said. I tried to get you to go with me that night but you made yourself wake up. My plan won’t be foiled, again! Like I said, I’m real tired of being lonely. Today, you will come with me!”

“YOU are tired of being lonely! Well, now isn’t that rich? You sorry bastard! You chose to take yourself out of our lives. YOU did that! It is just too damn bad that you are lonesome. I see death hasn’t made you any less selfish!”

“Do you want to know what I wrote in that dream? It was your suicide note. You are going to ram this Pontiac into that bridge a few miles down the road. People will see your note, shake their heads in sorrow, and talk about how you haven’t been right in the head since I took myself out. I told you, they all think you’re crazy.”

“Jake, you need to look for that light to go into and move on. You lost your bullying privileges when you put that bullet in your head. Golden Eagle, the protector of my spirit will not let this happen. He will stop you!”

“There you go with that Native American crap! You have no protectors! It is all bullshit! Just listen to me like you used to, Ellie.”

“Get the hell out of this car! I will not die today!”

Ellie felt a chill on her cheek as he hissed, “Fine! Have it your way!”

He was gone, she could feel it. She looked up and saw the note stuck in the visor. Panic gripped her as her eyes focused back on the road; there he was standing in front of her, laughing! Ellie swerved to miss him and saw the bridge as darkness overtook her consciousness.

Her nose twitched at the sterile smell invading her senses as her eyes opened. Ellie saw her daughter sitting next to her bedside and touched her hand.

“Oh, Mom, if that old Indian hadn’t been fishing under the bridge we might have lost you! He said your car just missed the bridge as it sunk into the mud at the water’s edge. He saved you! He gave me this paper insisting that it was not written with your hand. Oh, he is right over there in the corner; I’ll let him explain it to you. Wait a minute, where did he go?”

“Golden Eagle was here? You saw him? He must have stayed until he was sure that my soul was safe. Is that a feather in the corner?”

When I think of my maternal Grandpa, the first sensation is the aroma from the cherry tobacco he smoked in his pipe. I see him in his bib overalls with the red leather ball cap on and the pipe in his mouth. I know he must have worn other clothes, I’ve seen pictures of him dressed differently. He lives on in my memory in the bibs, red hat, and sweet smelling pipe though.

Lester was his given name. He was a simple hard working man who loved to tinker in the old railroad building that he had moved onto the property long before I was born. He must have had a thing for red because my memories call up the color red when I think about him. The red leather cap, cherry tobacco, and an old red tractor that we were not supposed to play on.

Grandpa expected us to mind and if we didn’t we got a spanking from those strong firm hands. There was an old apple tree near the kitchen that he had told us that we were not allowed to climb in. As an adult, I realize that the tree was probably suffering from some sort of disease or was unsafe for us to climb in, hence the rule. As a child, the tree just called to be climbed! One afternoon, my uncle and I were climbing in that very tree. (I should explain my uncle was a few months younger than me so we played together a lot.) Anyway, we are in the tree having so much fun when we spot Grandpa walking down the alley towards the house. My uncle was trying to hurry me out of the tree before we got caught. He shoved me with his foot and I fell out of the tree injuring my left arm. Grandma said that she never saw him run so fast through the yard! The first thing he did was yank me up by the injured arm and paddle my backside. Then he saw the pain in my face and said, “Princess did you hurt yourself?” He picked me up and carried me off to his old Chrysler and off to Doc Holland’s office we went. After the cast was applied to my arm, he bought me an ice cream cone and took me home. He never brought up the apple tree episode and I never climbed it again.

There were several times that I made the decision to disobey Grandpa and each time he firmly reminded me with a paddling that obedience was a virtue I needed to pay more attention to. He taught me early on that there are consequences for my actions.

Grandpa had a wonderful laugh and a smile that would light up his whole face. He always seemed to have time for my never ending curiosity about what he was doing. He, more than any other man, became the measuring stick for what I wanted in the man I would spend my life with. I never got to have an adult conversation with Grandpa because we lost him when I was nine. He has been gone for almost 50 years and I still smell that cherry tobacco, hear his laughter, and see that red leather cap. He lives on in his granddaughters memories because he was a good and loving man.

In response to the Memoir prompt – The Itch

I learned at a very early age to recognize the plant above, Poison Ivy. I’ve always had a hypersensitivity to the plant. Experience taught me quickly that being around this seemingly innocent looking plant would make me miserable with a rash and itch that could easily make me lose what little sanity I possessed. Grandmother and Mother alike would smack my hand if I even looked like I was about to scratch and would insist that if I touched the rash it would spread.

In the fall of 1972, my then fiance and I were taking a nice leisurely drive in the country near where we both grew up. The temperatures were mild so all of the windows in the Chevelle Malibu were down and the radio blared. We noticed a guy along the roadside and some pretty nasty looking smoke so we slowed down to see if there was any help needed.

As we slowed, we saw that the guy at the roadside was someone that we went to High School with. He was burning weeds between the fence and the gravel road. We sat and chatted for probably 15 minutes and happily drove off to enjoy the colors of the fall leaves that were beginning to turn.

The next morning my alarm went off telling me it was time to get up and get ready for work. I noticed then that my face felt funny. Slowly getting out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom, I turned the shower on so that the water could begin to warm up (it took a while in that old apartment!). One look in the mirror made me scream. My face was swollen and had a rash all over it. Dang, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I had poison ivy! How the hell would I get it on my face?

At the time, I worked for an Internist as his assistant and knew that he would be able to figure out what the problem was. By the time I got to work, the itching had started. This time it was actually more painful than itchy, though. Doc actually jumped when I walked in the door to the office. Apparently the swelling had gotten worse. He came closer and looked me over and said, “Young lady, I don’t EVEN want to know what you were doing to get poison ivy on your face!”

“Poinson Ivy? Doc, I wasn’t anywhere near poison ivy this weekend, honest! I thought it looked like it too but I wasn’t anywhere near the stuff and I certainly wouldn’t have buried my face in it!”

He scratched his head and looked me over again and then asked what I had done the day before. I related the story of the drive but left out the burning weeds part because I didn’t see any connection. “You had to have been around it somewhere, Bev. Now think. Did you stop anywhere and walk around?”

“Nope, Doc. Well we did stop and talk to a guy we went to school with. He was burning weeds at the side of the road.”

“Well, there must have been poison ivy in what he was burning. The oil must have been in the smoke and you are so sensitive to it that it got all over your face.”

He gave me some medicine and sent me home saying, “You stay home until the swelling is down. I can’t have you scaring the patients with that face.”

Just what a girl of 19 needs to hear…she has a face that would stop a Mack truck but not in a good way. Doc could have used some lessons in his bedside manner too.

Yes, some would call us strange and those of us involved in the world of collecting Pulp Fiction would agree that we do have some mighty fun adventures.  So, Strange Adventures does describe a little about the world that we traverse in on a regular basis. Trolling around websites, hitting garage sales, flea markets, and antique shops is what many of us can be found doing in our spare time.

The Players:

First, I’ll let you in on the players involved in this Strange World. The population consists of Finders and Keepers for the most part. The roles can interchange from time to time with no penalties accumulated. Some stick to strictly finding these wonderful old pulp publications to sell to the Keepers. However, Keepers can be finders and finders can be keepers in this quirky world of old paper.  I’ve heard tell a time or two that some died in the wool Finders get converted after seeing the light and quietly become Keepers of the best stuff. I call them Secret Keepers. They don’t want the other Keepers to know about their private stash…someone might try to persuade them to part with a treasure.  Secretly, I can see some of these Secret Keepers standing in the dark with a flashlight drooling words like “Oh my PRECIOUS!” It could be the Secret Keepers are just a myth, we may never know for certain.

The World:

Finders and Keepers, otherwise known as collectors, live in an interesting world. They visit digital lands where they can find pieces to add to their collection. They sometimes travel to garage sales to sort through stacks of old magazines looking for a hidden treasure. It isn’t unusual to find them driving several hundred miles, on the premise of a vacation with the family, to a destination where there is a flea market or antique shop that is known to have some coveted old pulp rags to look through.  Finders and Keepers will enter sizzling hot attics and damp basements when told that there are several old boxes of magazines they can look through.  The world will sometimes take on a musty smell from the old paper having gotten damp. Finders and Keepers both know that they will have to be quite cautious in handling these old magazines, as sometimes the paper has gotten so brittle it will crumble as the pages are turned.

The Treasures:

Finders and Keepers, collectors, are looking for treasures in their Strange World. The treasures will be the wonderful old cheap magazines that can go back as far as 1896.  Some will look for spectacular artwork from the covers.  Many have particular artists that they search for. Margaret Brundage, a female artist, is quite popular. She did covers often of scantily clad damsels in distress for pulp fiction magazines like Weird Tales. The January 1936 issue of WT just sold in an auction for $37,343.  (Boy, howdy, I would have loved to have been the Finder of that one!)

Another popular artist of pulp covers is Norman Saunders. His covers can be found on Eerie Mysteries, Wild West Weekly, and Saucy Movie Tales to name a few.  At one time he was receiving $25 to $75 a pop for doing the cover for a pulp. A copy of his May 1951 Marvel Science recently sold for $50,787.  L. Ron Hubbard was one of the authors in that issue.

Frank Kelly Freas is one of my favorites. He started out doing inside illustrations for some of the less popular pulps and eventually worked his way up to Astounding Science Fiction which was a goal for many of the Sci Fi artists as this pulp was printed with a little better paper.  He later became the cover artist for Mad Magazine from 1955 to 1962. He was also an official NASA artist with his posters now hanging in the Smithsonian.

Hugh J Ward illustrated many covers of pulps. His August 1936 issue of Spicy Mystery with a brunette in a pink two piece outfit being held captive to a bullseye with an arrow in her hair just sold in auction for…are you ready? $143,400!

Granted, not all Finders and Keepers come across pulps with this kind of value. We love the art though and there is always the chance that we just might stumble across something really special. Most of us feel that “the fun is in the hunt” anyway.

Many of the Keepers are not just interested in the cover art. Some find treasure in the authors included inside and collect solely for those purposes. They may collect Paul S. Powers stories. Powers is the grandfather of Laurie Powers who will be our guest this week on EWNN. Authors of a variety of genres are collected. L. Ron Hubbard, Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, and many others are coveted for their short stories, novelettes, and serials contained between the covers of these old Pulp Fiction magazines.

My Role:

Some of you may know, many of you might not, and still others will care less; but my role is mostly of a Finder in this Strange World of Pulp Collectors. My day job is that of an Ephemera Specialist in the Antiques World. Ephemera is a fancy word for old paper and Pulp magazines fall into that section of antiques and collectibles. Ephemera is something that was meant to have a short use and then tossed away. I’m mostly a Finder but do cross over to Keeper from time to time when something really awesome crosses my path.

Please tune in Sunday, August 22, 2010 at 6:30 PM (Eastern) to hear Laurie Powers interviewed about Pulp Fiction and her role in this wonderful world of collecting at EWNN.

Broken Wing noticed the crow flying with her as she gathered the healing plants that Grandmother had sent her out for today. Grandmother was the healer for her people and needed these plants to make a special mixture to apply to the wounds of Stands Tall. The man had been injured by the long tooth tiger on a hunting trip and the People feared they would lose their best hunter.

“Caw! Caw!” she heard the crow call out, noticing it was flying off toward the East winds.

“Oh, Sister Crow, I can’t follow you today. I must gather a few more of these plants and take them back to Grandmother. She is worried that Stands Tall will soon have his life waters turned to yellow if we don’t get fresh plants on his leg.

Broken Wing heard the rumbling voice of the Thunder Beings and knew she must hurry back to camp. Before she went but a few paces the sky turned dark and the winds began to blow fiercely. The Thunder Beings began dancing in the sky all around her and the Sky Waters stung her skin as they fell.

Sister Crow came flying from the East Wind cawing loudly. She circled Broken Wing and started flying back to the east. The bird turned toward her cawing frantically. Again, she turned back to the east.

“Follow me! The Swirling Wind is coming! Follow me!” she heard the crow call out.

Broken Wing heard the roar behind her and without looking back ran after the crow. As her little lungs began to ache from running, she saw the crow fly into a cave. She followed the bird without hesitation, fearful of the approaching Swirling Wind.

“You have saved my life, Sister Crow. Thank you!” Broken Wing let out a nervous giggle before saying, “I thought I heard you say in my people’s words that the Swirling Wind was coming and to follow you. But, that is silly, Crows can’t talk! It is so dark in here and cold. I wish I had the makings for a fire to keep us warm.”

Broken Wing had no more said the words when a fire started in the center of the cave. She backed into the cave wall in fear as she noticed that the crow was no longer a small bird but was as large as she was. Crow was standing by the fire motioning for her to come closer.

“Don’t be frightened, Broken Wing. Come sit by the fire and warm yourself.” As Crow spoke she transformed into a woman with long flowing black hair. She wore a long hide blanket with crow feathers attached to it. “Keep your heart brave, little one. I am Crow Spirit. The Spirit Creatures of the sky, the land, and the great waters wish to speak to you on this day. Listen with your pure heart, little one.”

Broken Wing saw the figures approaching from the darkness of the cave. At first they appeared as though they were of white smoke. As they got closer to the fire she could see them each as an animal. There was buffalo, bear, coyote, and eagle. One of each of the creatures seemed to walk out of the darkness toward her, forming a council circle around the fire. As each sat down, they transformed into a human wearing clothing made from the creature they had been.

Crow Spirit handed a talking stick to buffalo after the last animal had transformed.

“Broken Wing,” the Buffalo Spirit began. “We chose your spirit long ago to be the one who would teach the People about us and our medicines. We knew that the two legged humans would come to a time when they would need to know of our existence. The People would need to learn of the lessons our spirits can give them to help them live prosperous lives in balance and harmony. The day has come and you will be their teacher.”

“But I am only a girl of ten winters. I know nothing of these lessons. My people will not listen to someone as lowly as me. They will laugh or throw stones at me,” Broken Wing said with a heavy heart.

“Before we leave this council fire you will be given all that you will need to teach the People. They will see that you are different when you return to your camp,” said the Bear Spirit as he took the talking stick from Buffalo and then passed it on to Eagle.

“You are to be called White Crow from this day forward. White is a sacred color and Crow guards Sacred Law and ancient wisdom. You will travel from camp to camp telling the People stories of the creatures of the Great Spirit. You will be the first in a long line of storytellers teaching of our protection and medicine. The People will begin to learn from you that we are all related and belong to the Great Spirit.”

The talking stick was passed to each creature and the young girl heard all of their stories. The talking stick was, at last, passed to her. As she took the stick into her hand, energy flowed through her body. The talking stick transformed into a white crow feather. She pointed the feather in each of the four wind directions and said, “I am White Crow, the first teacher of the Creature Spirits. I am White Crow, the teller of stories to help all Peoples walk on the Good Red Road.”

Each Spirit began to fade, the fire went out and White Crow stood alone with no fear in her heart.

As she walked back into her camp, the People noticed that there was something different about her. They gasped in awe as a white crow flew over her and then landed on her shoulder.

“My People, I am White Crow. I have much to tell you of the Creature Spirits that live with us….

At around age 12 or 13 I wanted a pair of white Go-Go Boots so badly I couldn’t stand it.  Those short white boots that the girl dancers wore on shows like Hullabaloo and Shindig were something I just absolutely had to have.  Oh, it wasn’t like I would die if I didn’t get them, but you remember how we all wanted to be cool and have the same things that we saw in the magazines and television shows.  So, I asked for a pair for Christmas.

Seems like a pretty innocent wish and one that could easily be taken care of, except for a few extenuating circumstances of that time in my life.  Mom was a single mother raising three kids by herself with a low paying job and sporadic child support payments from Dad.  She did her best, she honestly did! Money for frivolous things like Go-Go Boots wasn’t growing on the tree in the backyard,  but I wanted those boots.  My logic was that I needed a new pair of shoes anyway so why not snag two birds with one stone? It would help Mom out, I thought.  The much needed shoes could be a Christmas gift too. My request would save her money. And did I mention that I REALLY wanted those boots?

Mom bought our Christmas every year at the Guarantee Auto Store.  That probably seems like an odd place to shop for Christmas but at the time they would let Mom put things in layaway. I probably don’t have to tell you that the Auto Store did not have a line of shoes let alone short white go-go boots.  I didn’t let that foil my wishes, though. I told Mom that those boots were all I wanted for Christmas, she didn’t have to buy me anything else. There was no need for any other presents and that would actually save her money. The cost of the boots would be less than she normally spent on my Christmas.  See, I was being economical along with my zealous wish to be cool and hip!

Christmas morning came and we gathered around our little tree. My younger brother Bill played Santa that morning and passed out the presents. There was a sweet little locket, a book, and a few other various things for me; but no boots. Oh how I fought back the tears! I had only asked for one thing! One!

Just as soon as the presents were opened, Mom herded us into the car to go to Grandma’s house.  The entire family would be there for dinner. Each Thanksgiving our family drew names out of a hat and we were to buy a Christmas gift for that person to be given on Christmas Day at Grandma’s.  There was a limit of $5 to spend on those gifts, I remember that so clearly for some reason.  As I was carrying in our meager little gifts to be given after dinner, my Uncle Harry met me at the door.  “Guess, Santa ran out of boots this year, kid”  he said. I wanted to kick him in the chins! How insensitive he could be, I thought.

Dinner was over and it was time to pass out the gifts. Uncle Harry did the honors that year. As everyone in the family opened their gifts, I watched and waited. Mine was the last gift handed out that afternoon.  It was an envelope with a note that read:

“Dear little Beverly, I left your gift out in Uncle Harry’s car. Sneak out in a minute so the other kids don’t see you. Love, Santa”.

As soon as I could I went out to find a large box with a red bow.  I lifted the lid and there they were…my short white go-go boots! Strong arms wrapped around me as he whispered in my ear, “I just couldn’t stand the thought of you being disappointed on Christmas so I spent a little over the limit.”

This is my happiest childhood memory of Christmas and the day that my Uncle Harry went from being scary and insensitive to the kindness man I knew…a real Santa Claus.

Written in response to the prompt of “sound” in the Memoir Group:

As I sat there in the kitchen located 700 miles from my closet friend, I began to weep.  No phone was ringing to disturb my homesick thoughts.  No laughter echoed from these walls from the morning gatherings of the girls in the neighborhood after the kids got off to school.  No creak of the back door as a friend walked in knowing she didn’t have to knock first. No whispers lingered in the air from secrets shared with each other.  No clinks of the spoon touching our coffee cups as we stirred.

I heard him walk in the front door and his footsteps entering the kitchen.  I didn’t have to turn to look at him to know he was standing there with his hands on his hips.  With obvious annoyance in his voice he asked, ”What are you doing just sitting here?”

”Listening to the silence.”

He looked at me oddly and shook his head, ”That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say! You can’t hear something silent!”

My voice cracked and a lone tear slid down my cheek as I looked at him, ”Oh, I hear it and it’s roar is deafening today!”

I was on my way to pick up my oldest daughter that night.  About 10 days earlier, her car had been stolen from a parking lot.  The police had called and said the car had been found and we could pick it up at the Impound Lot that evening. I was to meet her at the bagel shop she managed, help her close up and we would retrieve her vehicle.  As I drove in traffic hitting every single stop light on the way, I became really frustrated. Our plan was perfectly orchestrated to get to that lot before it closed and these delays were throwing it all off. What I didn’t know was that I was driving toward the most frightening night of my life and the gods of time had their own schedule for the events about to unfold.

As I approached the bagel shop looking for a parking space, I saw the guy behind the counter with the ski mask on.  I whipped my car into the first space I saw.  I got out, locked the doors and started towards the shop thinking I was going to really lay into my daughter for joking around like that, someone might think they were being robbed for crying out loud.  As I started to go through the door, my daughter looked at me with such terror in her eyes and mouthed, “No! Mom!”

“Holy Crap! It isn’t a joke this guy IS robbing her. Think quick, Bev. Don’t alarm him. Go get help but don’t be obvious. MOVE Woman!” I listened to the voice in my head and tried to act nonchalant backing away from the door like I had changed my mind about going in. I think I even snapped my fingers like I had forgotten something.  So I walked out of sight and then I ran like a crazy woman to the bar a couple of doors down the street where cops were known to hang out on a regular basis.

I stormed through the door and did a quick scan of the place. Not an obvious cop in the whole joint! So I yell out, “Are there any cops in here?”

“No lady. No men in blue in here tonight. You got troubles?” the bartender yells back.

“Well then call the cops!  The bagel shop is being robbed and my daughter is in there by herself!”

I see the bartender pick up the phone and I turn and start back to the bagel shop with about half of the bar behind me. As I get to the door, there is no one in sight.  No guy in a black ski mask and no daughter, the place looks empty.  I start to barge in to see if I can find her but two strong hands yank me back.  I swear the guy actually picked me up and sat me down.  “Now lady you need to stay out here! The cops are on the way, I can hear the sirens. Just stay here and let the cops do their jobs. If you go in there, they might hurt her and you too.” says the burly bouncer looking guy that is holding me in place.

All sorts of awful scenarios start playing in my head. They could have hit her over the head and she was bleeding on the floor somewhere.  If the guy had a gun and he saw me run for help, he might have shot her. He might have decided to take her hostage. All I knew was I saw the terror in her eyes and now I couldn’t see her at all and I was more frightened than I’ve ever been in my life!

The cops swarm the place from the front and back with guns drawn walking slowly and clearly not seeing my daughter or they would have stopped.  That is when I started to talk…

“Lord, you know I’m not strong enough to lose that girl! Listen Lord, if it is written in a book somewhere that she is supposed to go home with you tonight, take me instead! Don’t take her! I offer myself right now in her place, take me but not her!”

A woman with an angelic face stepped into my vision and said so very softly, “No one is going home with Him tonight.” I didn’t see her walk away, it is like she vanished. What I did see was my daughter walking out with the cops from the back. She was alive! She didn’t seem hurt, shaken but not hurt.

After what seemed like an eternity the police finally let me in to hold my daughter and they took my statement. I couldn’t stop shaking.  The fear of losing my daughter to some punk with a gun had a solid grip on my heart! And then I realized that the gods of time had orchestrated the whole thing in perfect timing. They delayed me so that I would be able to get help for her and I had to be thankful for that.  They knew that I would dig deep for the strength to get help. The going just a little crazy and offering myself as a sacrifice might have surprised them a tad.  I still don’t appreciate having to face the mortality of my daughter like that, a mother shouldn’t have to see that sort of terror in her child’s eyes, not ever.

Almost 40 years ago, I made and drank my first cup of coffee and I’ll admit that I was not really impressed with that brown nectar that some people in the world refer to as Arabian wine. I was young, working in an office that rotated the female employees through a schedule of taking care of the break room with the male employees exempt.  When your week fell on the calendar you were responsible for keeping the room clean and making the coffee each morning. Sheer terror enveloped me when I learned that this task would be a requirement of my employment in said office.  The only experience I had with coffee was watching Mom make a cup of instant coffee when she had a hangover from the night before.

The break room had an area like a little mini kitchen with a sink, refrigerator, and a huge coffee percolating  urn that made around 50 cups of coffee.  A couple of cabinets on the wall and under the sink held supplies, dish washing soap, towels and everyone’s personal coffee cups.  On the wall next to the monster looking urn was the calendar showing who was scheduled that month for break room duty.

The first time I saw my name written on the calendar, I panicked! I didn’t know how to operate a contraption like that and besides I didn’t even drink coffee! So, I marched my young little naive self out to the Wicked Witch’s desk (otherwise known as our Office Manager…seriously she could have been a sister to the one who taunted poor Dorothy) and explained that there was a mistake because I was not a coffee drinker and therefore should not have to make coffee.  “It matters not to me whether you drink coffee or not. You will be a part of the rotation so I would suggest that you learn to make coffee before your week arrives. Besides young lady, how do you ever expect to get a man if you can’t make coffee?” the Office Manager says with such conviction and venom in her voice.

Well, I did need that job so somehow I would learn to make coffee. As for getting a man because I knew how to make coffee…I was pretty sure the lady was stuck back in the Victorian Age or possibly had seen too many Mrs. Olsen commercials!

I asked the gal who had break room duty that week to teach me how to work that contraption and to make coffee. I found I liked the aroma that wafted through the room as the coffee began to percolate and I enjoyed playing with the amount of coffee that I put in for each urn full. After a couple of times of being on duty, I started to get compliments on how good the coffee was so I decided maybe I should try some. My first cup was black and I didn’t like it at all. Again, I began to experiment by adding cream and sugar until I thought it was sort of tasty. You should know that in order for me to think it was tasty, I had a little bit of coffee laced into my cream and sugar. What can I say, it was very cheap coffee but I didn’t know that then. To me coffee was coffee, right?

Fast forward 40 years, coffee is now my beverage of choice and because I no longer use the cheap stuff there is less need for heaps of sugar and cream.  Maybe Mrs. Olsen and that wicked witch of an office manager weren’t so off the mark after all, a gal might not catch a man because she can make coffee but he might want to stay around longer if among other things he gets a great cup of coffee in the morning…and that’s my trip down Coffee Lane.

Little six year old Veronica was bracing herself for the storm that was about to hit. That is how she thought of the fights that her parents had, they were like human storms. The winds of anger would start to blow. The shouting was like the rolling thunder. Her father’s hand striking her mother’s skin sounded like the crackle of lightning to her young ears. Human storms, she had lived through enough to know this one was going to be really ugly.

Her mother had thrown all of her father’s clothes out into the front yard this afternoon.  He had not come home for two nights. Veronica didn’t understand what her mother meant when she had said, “Your little tramp can wash and iron the damn things!”.  It didn’t make any sense, especially since her father wasn’t there to hear her say it as she threw the last batch out. All little Veronica knew was that when her father did come home there would be another storm and it would be a bad one. She wondered why her mother did things like this to start the winds blowing.

Veronica saw her father’s car pull up and her little body trembled. She knew the wind would start, the thunder would be deafening, and the bolts of lightning would come with a fury.  She took her little brother by the hand and led him into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.  They sat in the middle of the floor while Veronica cradled her brother in her arms. She gently rocked him and started to sing, hoping to drown out the raging storm in the other room.

The thunderous shouting started and a single clap of lightning sounded.  It didn’t sound right, that wasn’t skin against skin.  Veronica’s little head snapped towards the door as she realized the sound had been her father’s gun firing.  “No! No! Oh No!” her little voice screamed as she started for the door.  She stopped as she heard the second shot ring out and she knew the storm was over. Really over this time, there would be no more human storms from her parents…