Daymare

Thirsty Seniors, Episode 3

Lunch was at Gregario’s where Maddie and Junie sat in a booth sipping strawberry margaritas. They were there to discuss a new learning experience for their Thirsty Seniors club. Junie was complaining about a next door neighbor who was hard of hearing and played her fifty-inch TV too loud, when Maddie interrupted to talk about her disturbing disjuncted dream.

     “I had just walked out of the hospital coffee shop right into the path of a robot. It didn’t stop but glided around me and turned into a corridor. It was as tall as me, made of four white metal tubes stacked on top of each other but shaped like a human body; it had one arm with an elbow and a lego-like hand; and a black screen for a face displaying the number zero zero. I felt like I had walked into a science fiction movie. Anyway, I went to the x-ray waiting room, checked in with the receptionist, sat down, and leaned my head against a wall. That’s when my brain drifted off, into a, uh, daymare. Like Alice following a rabbit . . .

     I followed the robot down a corridor. My feet barely touched the floor.  I watched  the robot get on a dimly-lit elevator, the kind with a black iron grill door. It closed automatically, silently. As it descended out of sight, another small elevator appeared. I got on and went down what felt like several floors to the hospital basement. The elevator stopped in a massive dingy parking garage. But in its place of parked cars were rows and rows of ghostly old people strapped in wheel chairs. Some were attached to intravenous bags hanging from metal stands, all of them were hunched over, heads down, drooling on their hospital gowns. I could barely see them, yet I saw them clearly. I looked around for the robot then saw it fade into a concrete pillar. I wanted to follow it, but I couldn’t stop searching the faces of the old people for signs of life, life that didn’t seem to be there, no expressions, just dull half-opened eyes trapped in long sagging wrinkles. Finally, I turned to escape when . . .

        “NO. I'm not giving back MY engagement ring! MY diamond engagement ring! I don’t care if it was your grandmother’s! I earned it, putting up with your mousy weak stinginess for three years!” Screamed a young woman seated a few tables from Junie and Maddie.

     “I, I’m sorry, I’ve . . . I’ve been trying to tell you this just isn’t going to work,” a young man softly stuttered, wanting to escape what he feared would be a combustible marriage. Her reply was to throw her drink in his face, that not being sufficient to satisfy her rage, she stood up, leaned over the table and violently slapped his face. A waiter rushed to their table, manager trailing behind him, both tried to calm the outraged young woman who was screaming profanities, crying loudly and declaring all she had sacrificed for her now definitely ex-fiancé. Customers nearby looked on, stunned, concerned, and afraid, some pulled out their phones to video her fury, others called friends, maybe the police. 

     Maddie, interrupted from describing her own horror, found herself staring intensely into the face of that young man, recognized fear is an exit, felt her brows slightly raise, only whispered, “Run.”

The Perfect Weekend

It wasn’t a new idea, just an old one that had been usurped by decades of life getting in the way of one of the most important events in her life: the perfect weekend.

          She was standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes when she closed her eyes, shivered and whispered to herself, “Decades of working in office groups, teams they called it, endless boring contentious meetings; the frequent business travelling and standing in airport lines only to be jammed and sealed in air-tight flying tubes; two years of volunteer teaching, team meetings, and side projects; five years of volunteer county garden projects; teaching adults, teaching teenagers, teaching children, bookclubs, HOV meetings, political marches, crowded Sunday services, choir practices.  It just didn’t stop, the pounding pressure of trying to conform to prescribed healthy living.” 

     Safety and physical comfort led her to live in what she called a warehouse for old people. Officially, it was called independent living for seniors, but to her it was a place where much of daily life was consumed in groups–group eating, group TV watching, group game playing, group painting, singing, meetings, a place where she feared the loss of real independence and her sanity.     

      Staring at the soap bubbles on a plate, her thoughts were, before all that other stuff,there was a time I instinctively knew how to detox my brain, and refresh my soul: on a Friday, right after work, I’d go to a book store and buy books, shop for groceries, drive straight home, bolt the door, cover the TV, unplug the phone . . . oh my gosh, I had to unplug a pink princess phone . . . I’d close the drapes, no lights in the living room, just candles lit in the kitchen and bathroom, maybe play some soft jazz and soak in the tub. Afterwards, I’d put on a long soft satin night gown. 

    She remembered how she would stand at the kitchen counter with the glow of a small candle light on her face and munch on a sandwich or a salad, a dessert, fruits and nuts that she washed down with a glass of wine. She remembered how she would crawl into bed caressed by fresh linens, turn on a small light, and lose herself in a book until her eyes tired and her brain closed down. Sometimes, after shuffling to the bathroom, she would instead curl up on the sofa with her book.

     As she reminisced that delicious feeling of quiet peace on those perfect weekends, she thought, by Sunday morning, I’d find myself with a cup of coffee, gazing out through the patio glass door watching birds, gazing at the sky, maybe even people. No ringing phone, no TV chatter, another candle-lit bath, maybe a little Chopin, another book and just solitude where my thoughts floated freely undisturbed by the noisy outside world. I can still do this.

(Word count 479)

Old Dream, New Adventure

Thirsty Seniors: Episode 2  

Margaret and Maddie felt light-headed but had yet to recognize what was happening to them. “What did you say you put in that pineapple juice?”  Maddie asked Junie.  “Must be the flavored effervescent,” Junie replied giggling, just as there was a tug on Maddie’s fishing line who reached for her notes on how to reel in a fish but quickly realized this was no time for reading, the fish was escaping with the bait and pulling her into the pier railing. Junie quickly bear-hugged Maddie around the waist to hold her steady; Margaret grabbed the fishing net to hold it over the railing but slammed into it and dropped the net in the water.They laughed with delight and confusion, shouting and squealing, “Hold on Maddie, hold on!” Finally, she remembered to reel in, give the line slack, reel in, give the line slack; but on the last try, she lost the fish. Bent-over laughing, they deteriorated into staggering drunks.

     “You spiked that pineapple juice, didn’t you!” Margaret shouted at Junie who simply grinned and poured another round of vodka laced pineapple juice into their cups. No one really cared, until Margaret remembered she was the one to drive everyone home. Instead, she carefully walked to the pier fish and bait shop where she got the attendant to call an Uber van; but only after he gave her a severe tongue lashing and threatened to ban her and her drunken friends from this family friendly fishing pier. Drinking alcohol on the pier was prohibited. 

     That morning’s event was like a fog in Maddie’s mind as she slowly opened her eyes from a long nap on the sofa, and with a punishing headache. She wanted the girls to experience another learning adventure. Poor Margaret, Maddie thought, had suffered the embarrassment of being lectured to by a boy young enough to be her grandson. 

     For decades, Maddie had imagined herself a sitting shadow in a graying dawn, gazing at an orange-yellow glow rising over a horizon, sipping hot coffee from a thermos with a fishing line swaying in the water. She saw herself lost in the peaceful rhythm of a slow-moving stream where the bank was filled with bouquets of tall wild flowering weeds, scattered patches of overgrown grasses, where willow-like trees stood guard. Her mid-century upbringing ruled this as man’s space, a woman merely packed his lunch. But the Thirsty Seniors club rules were that there were no rules in their pursuit to try something new; it gave her the courage to chase her old woman’s dream. Despite the throbbing in her head, she felt it worth the beating in her heart. 

Birth of the Thirsty Seniors

A Conversation

It began at the senior center swimming pool. Margaret and Junie were sitting on the edge of the pool, legs softly swinging in the water, having an animated conversation while waiting for water aerobics class to start. When Maddie sat next to them, they looked over at her, grinning. 

    She smiled and asked, “two Cheshire cats? I wonder what Alice would say to that!” They all laughed, they were always laughing about one thing or another.

      Margaret, the oldest having reached her early eighties, loved driving around in her old SUV going to second hand stores and flea markets searching for small furnishings which she repurposed and resold. She had been describing her latest project to Junie. Bubbling over with excitement, Margaret turned to Maddie and repeated her news: “$10.50, that’s what I paid for a patio wicker, a rocker with a solid wood back, a very unusual piece, and in good condition. All it needs is just a little sanding and . . .  

    “Paint of course,” Maddie interrupted, “I suppose you’ve already got an idea for what you’ll print on the back of it?” 

    Junie chimed in, “Crap Stops Here!” In a loud chorus, they all laughed again.

    After class, Margaret suggested they stop by her place to see her new find. There, she was met with a barrage of questions as the others examined the rocking chair. Where do you think this was made? The patina is beautiful, why paint it at all? Is this back made of teak? Why not just a clear varnish? It’s beautiful! What’ll you gonna do about the nicks on the stretcher? Junie sat in the rocking chair, rocking back and forth, and started singing “I don’t need your rocking chair . . . I ain’t ready for the junkyard yet, ‘cause I still feel like a new corvette.” A round of laughter erupted when Maddie announced, “Lunch on me, girls, my place.” 

A  Confession

    They had just finished chips and chicken salad sandwiches on croissants followed by small bowels of mixed fruits of strawberries, blackberries, and cubed honey melons. For dessert, Maddie delivered a plate of macaroons which was met with greedy eyes. Their attention quickly followed Maddie returning with a black faux alligator tray, a sleek steel gray electric kettle and three borosilicate tea cups.

    “I was a Starbucks brat,” Maddie blurted out as if it was a confession of sinful extravagance. “When I was working, I donated a good chunk of my salary to Starbucks pastries and coffees, and always without guilt. It was my escape after another boring contentious meeting. When I retired, it was too much of a bother to drive to Starbucks just for coffee and pastries, so I started researching how to make my own specialty drinks. 

    “Coffee shops can be addictive,” Margaret mused, as she bit into a lemony macaroon.

    Junie suggested, “It’s not just the overpriced coffee and pastries, and so-called healthy sandwiches, it’s the whole atmosphere that makes you feel like you’re part of some special class of people.

The Rabbit Hole

    With an agreeing nod to Junie, Maddie continued, “Yeah, you’re right about that; but, I like the environment, ordering a specialty coffee or tea, cool music in the background, stylish commercial cushioned sofas and chairs, and the calming colors. Still, it’s fun to concoct my own coffee, my own tea at home. 

    I was looking for a good cha recipe when I got sidetracked reading about the history of tea, its origin from just one plant, the Camellia sinensis, how its variation and processings morphed into other types of teas; its expansion through trade routes from China to Japan, Turkey to North and West Africa, to Great Britain then India. The story of tea includes wars and rebellions,, imperialism and colonialisms, I might add; and the cultures and rituals that grew around drinking tea.

    It’s really fascinating! I even bought a world map just to trace the route! Black tea, green tea, white tea, yellow tea; say nothing about herbal teas. Good Heavens, I had no idea just how expansive the world of teas is. 

    “Oh, dear, sounds like you're an Alice, sliding down the rabbit hole,” laughed Margaret. “So what did you discover about the medicinal values of tea?

    “Please…,” Maddie groaned, “Don’t get me started on that. My poor brain could barely decide on which tea to try first.

    “What’re we having? I’m ready, and I want a full report of its tea profile!” Junie demanded.

    Maddie had opted to serve an oolong tea from the High Mountain area of Taiwan, a light semi-oxidized tea. Reading from her notes, she went on to say that this oolong has floral and grassy notes, that it offers a bright and sweet flavor and is an excellent pairing with the macaroons. She paused with, “You be the judge!”

    They cheered her on, badgering Maddie with questions: Where did she buy the tea? These don’t look like leaves, they’re little balls. So how was the oolong processed?  What’s oxidized? What does it do? Is it really good for your health? Maddie flipped through pages of her research notes to answer their questions.

    That passion for new experiences didn’t wane for these senior ladies. Junie confessed that she would often forget much of what she had learned.  

    To which Margaret replied, “Yes, but you do retain some of what you learned. Besides, it’s not about remembering everything. No one can. The adventure is in the search, digging, and tripping through all the exciting places you go to learn. I once had a professor say you don’t need to remember everything, just know where to find the information.”

    Maddie suggested, “That gives me an idea. Why not each of us research something we want to learn more about, then talk about it together.”

    “I’m in. We can do it monthly, alternate going to each others’ homes, or go somewhere,  any topic that piques your interest,” Junie added.   

    “Three Cheshires?” Margaret laughed, “or how about Thirsty Seniors! Who’s next? I’m game for an adventure.”

By Any Other Name

It was a lovely community, nestled under tall pine trees, large old maple trees, and a pond visible just beyond the tree line. The dwellings were mostly two story and patio apartments, townhouses, and a few cottages that faced large patches of grassy landscapes. Maddie particularly liked that it was diverse, not just by age and occupation, but also by ethnicity and gender. She had rented a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor with a large screened-in porch. Downsizing was so difficult to do, having to sell her home and give up so much stuff, she still had a lot of stuff, stuff she felt defined her life.

     On her very first evening, the weather was mild, so she left the porch door open while she was unpacking. Then she saw it, crawling into the apartment. Her dog, Susan, saw it too. They both stood still watching it stride in, owning the place. Susan was a no nonsense dog and slowly walked up to the cockroach. It then made a dash under a packing box. Maddie quickly took off a shoe and went in pursuit of the intruder. She hated, hated cockroaches, had zero tolerance for them, and knew she wouldn’t sleep until she smashed it dead. This was just the beginning, she would see them at night crawling onto the concrete porch floor, crawling up the brick building facade, once even flying past her face just as she was getting into bed. 

    Maddie talked to her neighbors, “There are cockroaches here!!” She would get blinking eyes and, “Oh, the water bugs?” “No,” Maddie would reply, “cockroaches!” After a few days of that, she went to the front office to complain that her apartment was being invaded by cockroaches. “Oh, water bugs?” the assistant manager said. “No, cockroaches!, Maddie would say. An order was placed to send an exterminator to spray the perimeter of the building, as well as Maddie’s apartment. “I call these creatures cockroaches,” she complained to the exterminator, “So what are they!” It turns out like her, he was from Wisconsin, and like Maddie, he knew them as cockroaches, in fact they were the brown cockroach variety. He said they lived under the pine mulch on the shrubs and trees next to the building. He too was confounded that people in the area called them water bugs. She was disgusted, but felt vindicated that by any other name, they were still cockroaches.

     A week passed, no bugs to her relief until another lovely evening, she and Susan were lounging on the porch enjoying a late spring breeze when she spied a cockroach crawling onto the porch under the metal balustrade. Maddie sprung into action, shoe in hand and violently smashed the bug as flat as a piece of paper. “Ugh,” she moaned with furrowed brows and lips formed downward. She cleaned it up, but when she sat down, she had an unwanted memory—

     It happened in West Africa, a suburb just outside of the capital where she would work as a Peace Corps volunteer teacher. She had rented a small house in a compound with a main big house and two smaller houses. Maddie was cleaning her small house before moving in her few sticks of furniture. She started in the kitchen, then the bathroom, poured cleaning solution in the tub and the drainage, but before she could run the water, a few cockroaches ran out of the drainage. Maddie ran to get her African sweeping broom, a hand broom usually made of palm dried fronds that force you to bend over while sweeping floors. By the time she had returned, the tub was filled with cockroaches. The battle began. She was beating them with the broom, they kept coming, more of them, then hundreds of them. She continued to beat them. Maddie found herself backing out of the bathroom as the swarm of cockroaches spilled over the edge of the tub dropping to the floor rushing towards her. Still, she beat them, and beat them with the broom while backing up into the hall, then the living room, beating them, and beating them until she simply ran out of the house, screaming.

    “This place is infested! It’s infested! It’s infested!” Big mama, as Maddie referred to her, and two of the sons all came running out of the main house, wearing expressions of just another “toubab” freaking out about something. The eldest son, in broken English shaking his head said, “No understand, ‘fested?” Maddie shouted slowly, “That house is infested with cockroaches.” He shook his head, “No!” She shook her head, “Yes!” He went into the house, but hurried out within seconds, eyes wide open in shock and disbelief.   

    That afternoon, Maddie reported the incident to the Peace Corps nurse who immediately sent an exterminator to the resident. He sprayed the entire house. But while spraying the outside perimeter, he discovered that the septic tank was located just a few feet from the bathroom. He had never seen anything like it, he told the nurse and Maddie. All she felt was vindication. 

    As Maddie sat on the porch, cringing with horror from just the memory of what had happened so many many years ago, she sneered and mused that cockroaches were ancient creatures, even the modern varieties have survived over 125 million years. She whispered to herself, “It’s still a cockroach.” 

Dinner With The Refrigerator

Staring at the old refrigerator, Maddie wondered, “Where else can I put it? It was the day before a holiday, her guests were expected the next day, and the new bottom-mount refrigerator was due for delivery within two hours. But she couldn’t get the old refrigerator picked up until two days after the holiday. She felt the desperation in her voice, as it wavered asking outloud, “Where can I put it.”

     She pulled out the phone book, again, searched on the internet, again, and made phone calls, again. She was ready to beg, plead, even cry; some guy must want a little extra money before the holiday, would feel sorry for her and pick up that old refrigerator, take it anywhere! She was wrong. Begging, crying, and offering extra money as an incentive didn’t work. 

    The menu was set: beef Wellington, her first, recipe courtesy of a popular cuisine magazine; sauteed asparagus with lemon sauce; double baked potato with shrimp and blue cheese; a cabernet sauvignon, and for dessert, a store bought pecan pie from Costco to be topped with vanilla ice cream. Of course, coffee would be served afterwards. She had a lot of food prep to do–the beef, the potatoes, the asparagus, the lemon sauce. Then there was the house–a quick dusting, vacuum the rugs, clean the powder room, rinse and dry her special china, set the dining table, walk the dogs, and the list went on and on. These things clogged her thinking as she stood in the kitchen doorway, wondering what to do with that refrigerator.

The doorbell rang. It was the truck driver ready to deliver the new refrigerator. “Merde!” She swore, one of the few curse words she knew from her days of studying French. Then she remembered, she still needed to empty the old refrigerator of storage containers, bowls and platters of food. Maddie sighed, ready to beg the delivery men to move the old refrigerator, but where, as she answered the door trying to mask her distress. Instead, she immediately started crying, explained her dilemma to the delivery men, then pleadingly asked, “I know this isn't your job, but could you please move the old refrigerator? I’ll pay!” They agreed and said, “no charge, ma’am, where do you want it moved to?” Blank faced, she blurted out, “the dining room, just on the other side of the kitchen wall. Put it at the head of the table . . .what the hell.” The men moved the butcher block table out of the way, even helped empty the old refrigerator. After the new bottom-mounted fridge was delivered and hooked up, she stood in the kitchen and smiled at it. That joy soon faded when she stepped into the dining room and glowered at the old one.

And so it was, she decided she had an extra guest for dinner, a refrigerator. “Why not a fridge?” she said, “I’ll make a place setting for it too.” She found herself talking to the refrigerator. “I hope you like beef wellington, I certainly paid enough for that tenderloin. I know you’ll love the double-baked potato, but no wine for you! I’ll need it more than you. Besides, can’t have you getting tipsy and fall, there’s no one to pick you up! I guess you want a name too!”

By the next day, she had an elaborate apologising story for her guests, something to the effect the refrigerator insisted on staying for dinner. It was lonely, feeling unloved, and she couldn’t resist. Everyone could barely stop laughing and added their own jokes. Her co-worker’s husband asked for a black sharpie pen and drew a happy face on the refrigerator, along with hands, as if they were joined over a belly. Dinner was superb, the hostess glowed with pride and more so after each glass of wine; although she shared center stage with a guest refrigerator.

The Pleasure of an Unfettered Mind

Maddie was looking out the window at the blinding white snow, its brightness intensified by the morning sun, when she thought—

Why did I keep laughing and laughing, like a kid playing in the snow, all by myself, struggling to get up from that icy-covered snow bank, next to that busy roadway, fast passing traffic, and drivers who must have seen me, probably hoping I wouldn't fall into the street, they'd have to come to a screeching stop . . . should I get another cup of coffee?, humf, even if my stomach won't like it, its been really finicky lately ever since I ate all those sweets over the holidays—peppermint bark, chocolate almond filled croissants, Mmmm, love that stuff, hot pecan pie with vanilla ice cream, and that banana puddin' with a two-inch high meringue, it was so good, and those Nordstrom royal chocolate chip cookies, filled with shredded coconut and macadamia nuts, hot sweet chai for a chaser—good grief girl . . . I know, I know, sometimes I’m disgusting! how is it I can remember eating a bag of potato chips when half the time I can't even remember why I walked into a room, no wonder I sometimes feel nauseated with just the thought of, well, I'm on my way off this planet, so why shouldn't I eat what I love as much as I want and whenever I can . . . as the man said, in life, after the important things, the rest is just gravy, but what are the important things? dear God, could you please give me at least ten more years? enough time to have another dog, there I go again, I can barely take care of myself, how many pills am I taking now? can’t seem to keep count . . . awww, they look so sweet against the white snow, coming out of the woods, Bambi, and her family, except they don’t look so sweet when their dinning on my hostas in my garden, they treat my whole garden like a smorgasbord . . . that sky, it’s so beautifully blue, those long, thin wispy white clouds . . . turn your eyes away, the brightness of the sun on that white snow hurts.

Guess I should get up and do something. Why? I don't really have to do anything, I'm retired, I can do whatever I want, whenever I want . . . wonder how that answers the question, that song, how did it go? Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing. We'll bring out the booze and have a ball, if that’s all there is, funny, at the time, I used to think, what was her name? Peggy Lee? yeah, I used to think she was singing to me—miss party girl, every weekend, sometimes weekdays, a party, a cocktail lounge, a jazz session after work, and now, just another old person shuffling off to bed at nine, pass out for an hour or two, wake up, can't sleep, then stay up most of the night scrolling through videos of baby elephants and pandas and puppies, they make me smile . . . I think I'm losing more than a misstep when I stumble, walking, sometimes I think my brain missteps too, well, what else would you have me be? a bitter old lady, angry at life ‘cause it wasn't always kind to me, worrying about not enough money, my disappearing body, boobs hanging, bra or no bra, afraid when this‘ill all be over . . . that crow's back, again, perching itself on . . . here they come, and so many of ‘em, what a huge flock of geese, noisy as usual, on your way to the pond? your morning breakfast table? but it's covered with snow, wonder where they’re goin’? . . . well, I have things to do too, places to go, forget the laundry, think I’ll do something fun today.

(Word count 638)

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Puppies Can Be Hazardous To Your Health

Puppies Can Be Hazardous To Your Health

The Love

In a bookstore, on a discount table, there was a big coffee-table book on dogs. Maddie flipped through its glossy color-filled pages, then her heart stopped. The photo was of a soft-coated wheaten terrier, often called a wheaten in reference to its color, a long-haired breed with long whiskers, big brown round friendly eyes veiled under sweeping bangs. It was described as a working farm dog, a ratter, with a friendly, loyal but feisty disposition. Maddie was in love.

    Weeks later, having purchased it from a breeder, she picked up a wheaten puppy from the airport, her very first dog. It was all brown, as wheatens are born and with the classic short black whiskers that fan outward. Maddie greeted the puppy with hugs and kisses, “Hello sweetie, um, I mean Tess, I’m so ready for you!”

    On the ride home, she told Tess all the wonderful things she had in store for her, “You have an appointment with a vet for a wellness checkup, shots, and a microchip; yummy organic chicken and veggies with probiotics; and lots of healthy treats. You’re gonna’ love all your new toys.” Maddie chattered on, “Like your pink collar and matching leash? When we get to the condo, you’ll see your own private space in the kitchen, and a crate with a plushy cushion bed.” Maddie had even scheduled future appointments with a dog trainer. Nothing was too good for her little girl, no matter the strain on her budget.

    The first night sleeping arrangements did not go well. Tess cried all night from being left alone in the kitchen. By four o’clock in the morning, Maddie was crying too, from lack of sleep and not knowing what to do. The second night, Maddie informed Tess, “I’m moving you and your crate to my bedroom.” By night four, she sighed and said “Okay Tess, would you like to sleep in the bed with me?” That next morning, she woke, thinking finally, sleep uninterrupted, as she looked up at a bright-eyed Tess who was already awake, sitting, and looking triumphant. That’s how things went for the following weeks, as Tess trained Maddie right up to the first appointment with a professional dog trainer.

The Training

    Her name was Jane. She came highly recommended. She was short and stocky with broad shoulders. Her hair was short, curly and brown, she had piercing brown eyes that matched a tight knowing smile. Tess loved her. Maddie feared her. In less than 30 minutes, Tess learned the sit command, the down command, and to walk next to Jane’s side, always attentively looking up to her.  Then Jane announced to Maddie, “The dog knows what to do, now it’s your turn.” She instructed Maddie on how to give commands without excessive verbiage, even when and how to give praise. Tess, sit. Tess, down. Good girl, Tess.  Jane showed Maddie how to hold the leach, how to walk with Tess on on the left side, not allowing the puppy to walk ahead of her. Jane said firmly, yet sympathetically, “The dog does not lead! You do! You are the leader of this pack or Tess will take over. And stop chasing her around the condo to brush her hair! Make her lay down on her side and then brush her.”

    Maddie took it all in, took a deep breath, and focused on being the pack leader, although her heart pounded with doubt. She wasn’t sure of who frightened her more, Tess the tail wagging puppy or Jane the no nonsense dog trainer. Maddie told herself, “I can do this, I can do this.” As the weeks went by, Tess and Maddie learned new commands and tricks. Maddie’s confidence grew. She adopted a routine to practice the commands, followed with treats and play time. She found a perfect spot near her condo, where a hill sloped down to a small recess area that opened to a busy avenue, but was private enough to shield against distractions. “Free dog!'“ she would say at the end of practice, and the beginning of play time as they would run up the hill.

The Hazard

    One day, the start of play time did not go well. Maddie accidently dropped the leash, Tess kept running up the hill, over the top, and out of sight. Chasing after her, Maddie tripped; her chest crashed against a concrete curb, the air in her lungs rushed out, leaving her breathless as her brain registered a sharp pain. She struggled to her knees, slowly got to her feet, then walked on weak shaky legs to the top of the hill. Images of Tess running into the street raced through her mind, bracing for the sound of screeching cars. But no such sound came. What she did see when she reached the top was Tess sitting, looking out at the cars. “Tess . . . Tess,” Maddie haltingly whispered through sharp chest pains, “What a good dog you are.” She picked up the leash and sat next to Tess.  Both looked out at the passing cars for a while, then slowly walked home.

    Maddy decided to take a nap and gingerly walked up the stairs to the bedroom. Tess joined her. Hours later, Maddie opened her eyes to a dark room and called, “Tess.” Nothing. She called a little louder, as much as the pain in her chest would allow. Still, no Tess. Painfully, Maddie lifted herself out of bed using the wall as support. She turned on the ceiling light and made her way to the top of the stairs, where she fainted. Totally unaware that her body was free falling backwards down the stairs, she twisted her wrist on the railing, banged her head against the wall and all fifteen steps. At the bottom of the stairs, her body crumpled onto the floor. Moments later, she opened her eyes. Tess was sitting next to her, gazing down into her face. “I wish you could bring me my cell phone,” Maddie whispered. Tess only licked Maddie’s face.

    An ambulance brought three burly men to her door. One picked up the puppy by the back of the neck and placed her in the kitchen, locking the puppy gate behind him. Maddie strained to recount her now two accidents. At the hospital, she described her accidents two more times, once to an emergency room nurse and then the doctor. She was soon rolled into an x-ray room where her body was transferred to an MRI bed. The technician said, “Ms. Manners, I’m going to need you to be very still. It’s cold inside the machine but imaging will be over in just a few minutes.” Unable to look around the lighted tube, Maddie thought, Don’t worry, I won’t move, I can hardly breathe. I just wanna’ throw up and sleep, and she drifted off.

    “Ms. Manners, Ms. Manners, Can you hear me? There you are,” Dr. Brown said with a gentle smile. Maddie partly opened her eyes and nodded her head to say yes. He continued, “You had quite a fall, I mean falls. You have a cracked rib. It punctured your spleen which is causing internal bleeding. That’s why you fainted. When you fell down the stairs and bumped your head several times, it caused a slight concussion. That explains the headaches and feeling nauseated. Although your wrist hurts and is swollen, the bone isn’t broken.  We’ll wrap it for now, and check it again in the morning.” He went on to explain that he wanted to keep her in the hospital on complete bed rest for seven days–meaning no trips to the bathroom, just a cold bedpan, warm sponge baths, and a liquid diet. His plan was a hope that the punctured spleen would heal naturally, he didn’t want to remove it, if possible. Dr. Brown ended his diagnosis with, “Do you have any questions?” Maddie closed her eyes as the tears rolled down the side of her face with thoughts of her puppy.

(Word count 1,341)

Eating Peppermint Bark

When Maddie, with her dog Kelly, returned home from their walk, the plumber was already waiting at the front door. They walked into the house, he to the kitchen, Maddie and Kelly to his feeding station. Then the doorbell rang. It was her next-door neighbor, Rachel, standing in the doorway. Her normally smiling eyes were now filled with tears that began to roll down flushed red cheeks. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, “Let me tell you what those SOB’s did to me now!”

     They lived in phase three of a new housing community for active adults over the age of 50 where the developers were still constructing new homes. All the new homeowners, up and down every block, hated the builders with livid passion. The model homes were beautifully designed, but the homes they got were poorly constructed, leaving the new homeowners with endless issues. For example, the developers didn't wrap the exteriors of the homes which made them particularly drafty, and expensive to heat. 

     Maddie had never heard Rachel swear and was startled that her new neighbor even knew how to swear.  Around Rachel, Maddie, who had a rather wealthy vocabulary of swear words, always spoke guardedly when she was angry about one new or ongoing issue with the builder. She didn't want to offend Rachel. When the plumber peeked around from the kitchen to see what was wrong, Maddie wrapped her arm around Rachel's shoulders and guided her to the library, with Kelly trailing their heels.

     They sat on the sofa where Rachel continued, nearly screaming, "Those damn slimy bastards installed the wrong fireplace! We got an electric bill for last month for over $900.00!, over $900.00! Jim traced it to running that f'ing fireplace every evening! We thought it was romantic. He got an electrician to look at it, only to learn that the unit is new, but it's an old model, not an energy-efficient one, it can't run without that expensive heater being on. An old model!" She went on and on, while injecting more SOB’s, then a’holes, dumb a’holes, and a lot of mother-f’ers.

     Normally, Maddie saw a generous-hearted Rachel, calm, polite, soft-spoken, careful in her manner and appearance.  Every strand of hair knew its place and stayed there but was now poised to revolt. Perhaps, Maddie liked her for selfish reasons. Every day, after Maddie went to work, Rachel walked Kelly, who expressed his dislike for being left alone by raising his leg and urinating on the hot water tank in the utility room, a room Maddie had especially decorated just for his comfort. Her neighbor was determined to change that nasty behavior by taking him for long potty walks morning and noon, she would even spend a little time petting and talking to him. "He won't have a drop of pee left in him when I'm done," Rachel would say. Like Maddie, Rachel failed, but she tried.

    The tirade slowed to a pause. Maddie saw her chance to say, "I have just the right thing for you." She took Rachel to the kitchen, introduced her to the plumber, then gave their shadow, Kelly, an extra-large milk bone. She opened the pantry door, took out a red and white tin, and pulled out a sheet of peppermint bark. Just breaking it apart made them salivate. On top of the thin first layer of dark chocolate was another thin layer of white chocolate, on top of that were scattered small broken pieces of red and white peppermint candy. A strong chocolate minty aroma filled their nostrils. They stood around a butcher block island crunching on peppermint bark. Their eyes would meet, they smiled and smiled, giving out soft sighs of "Mmms," and spoke in near whispers that turned into loud laughter. That's what peppermint bark can do for you.

(636 words)

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