More Vacation Spillover

At many points during our week in a third world country, I came face to face with my ethnocentrism. Sometimes I forget I have it. The first time I noticed myself aghast at something the native population took for granted was watching a fire burning out of control as we drove along in our air conditioned van.

Burned rubble along the road, patches of ground blackened and deserted, homes reduced to charred lumber stood out against the lush green fields and tropical growth. At one point I pointed out to our guide that the grass was on fire and seemed to be spreading along the roadside. “Yeah,” he responded, “It does that.” My mind swirled—shouldn’t we call the fire department? Does my cell phone work in Belize? Hasn’t anyone reported this yet? Then I reoriented myself: third world country; no fire department to call.

How privileged we are here in the U.S. If we run out of stamps, we go to the grocery store or the bank, usually open until 6pm. In Belize, there’s one tiny post office miles away from anywhere which may or may not be open on any given day. If something catches fire, we call 911 and the fire department sends trucks, ambulances, and help in a variety of forms. In Belize, yeah, it burns. If we want to go somewhere, we hop in our car, swing by the gas station if we’re running low on gas, and go. In Belize, one waits at a little bus stop for a rattley old bus that runs between villages on an irregular schedule, and fills its tank at the one gas pump in the district; or hops on a bike, or even more commonly, walks—very long distances—to get where one is going. If we’re cold in our homes, we turn up the heat. In Belize, there may not be heat available except for what the sun brings.

My eyes are more open now to the things I once took for granted; I had become complacent, entitled. A trip to a foreign country and four little words, “yeah, it does that,” have restored a sense of appreciation for the abundance in and the ease of my daily life.

Belize Adventure

Vacations are great inspiration for potential stories. For instance, I just got back from Belize with friends Trudy, Joan, and sister Sus. We flew into the International Airport, walked into a reception area with a Customs desk on the left. Through my jet-lagged eyes, I saw a huge pedestal behind which three or four mean-looking, suspicious men and women glared down at us weary, scraggly travelers, just daring us to try and smuggle a fruit-fly laden apple into their country. They were heavily uniformed—I have a trauma-based aversion to anything uniformed (even head waiters creep me out) from the 60ies, and possibly armed. I told you I was fatigued—and sleep-deprived. Somehow, we cleared Passport inspection with only a question or two about our intent.

Ahead, we aim for the luggage carousel. By implicit agreement, we all keep a look out for each other, two of us never having traveled abroad. Three of us wander to the right of the carousel, Joan wanders to the left. Slowly, the bags are placed on the conveyer. Trudy and Sus pull theirs off and are waiting behind, out of the way. I spot my little bag with the bright red ribbon and hoist it up off the carousel. Smiling with the success of my trip so far, I turn to Trudy and Sus. We glance around for Joan. Hmm, in such a small space (a one room lobby), where could she possibly be? Oh, yeah, the bathrooms. Joan? Joan? No Joan. Okay, don’t panic. There’s the duty free store just across the lobby. Sure, that’s where she is. No Joan.

How many headlines have you seen on the evening news about women or children who disappear without a trace in foreign countries? All those come roaring back to me in my head. Breathe. Don’t jump to conclusions. Okay. OH MY GOD, SHE’S BEEN KIDNAPPED! My head swivels back and forth, up and down (I knew she wasn’t really on the ceiling—it was just reflex). We speak to someone in the office. They have no idea, figure she’s cleared Customs and has probably gone on outside. No, she wouldn’t do that, we mumble between us.

There were forms to fill out before we could even go out and see if she was on the other side. Once out, we can’t return to the lobby. How will we communicate with each other? Group decision: we’ll go out, hope she is returned by the kidnappers and figures out we’re not in the lobby. Perhaps she’ll find her way through customs and meet us outside. Okay—that’s the plan.

We fill out our forms, have them stamped, and are herded out the door to await our connecting plane. I cast a furtive glance behind me as I leave the lobby. Stepping through the door I see Joan to my right, looking bored, tired, wondering where the heck we’ve been. She had grabbed her bags as soon as they’d hit the carousel and in her expedient little way headed on through Customs to wait for us on the other side.

Relief pours out of my body like sweat from the change of climate. Kind of an anticlimactic ending for a potentially great kidnap/ransom mystery, but I’ll trade that any day for the safety of my good friend.

For information about the Belize Jungle Dome Resort and Adventure Tours: www.belizejungledome.com
Check it out; you won’t be disappointed.

Traveling Ivory

I love writing. I especially love blending reality and fiction so the edges blur and you can't discern one from the other. Traveling Ivory is a fictionalized version of several real life stories woven together. It's long, but you'll have two weeks to read it. I'm taking next week off. Be well.


The morning sky pulsed gold, crimson, and umber pierced with shards of sun that glinted off the highly polished cherry wood. AdriAnne loved the way the ivory and ebony keys felt silky under her small fingers. Her span fell short of an octave, but she knew she would grow into it. Diligently, she ran the scales up and down, silently, without pressing on the keys—she made no sound, not while he was home.

The turn of the century Wurlitzer was the family jewel on her father’s side, guarded by Aunt Hazel until her death, upon which it was transferred by will to AdriAnne.

Hazel knew it wouldn’t save the child, but perhaps it would sustain her into adulthood. She firmly believed her brother should be shot, but didn’t know anyone who did that sort of thing. She also believed that what goes around comes around, though she might not live long enough to see the day.

Nine-year-old Adri traveled into the night sky where no one could touch her, transported on the moon-drenched notes of Claire d’Lune.

In the early morning hours after her door clicked shut and the footsteps receded, she would pull herself from bed and, wrapped in the faded quilt, quietly float Somewhere Over The Rainbow, her short legs straining to push the quiet pedal, her fingers dancing over the keys. Indeed, she owed the Wurlitzer, and Aunt Hazel, her life.

As an adolescent, Adri was a good girl. And, like many good girls, she had a soft spot in her heart for bad boys. A therapist later would refer to it as loyalty to the abuser.

She married one in her early twenties—a bad boy, an abuser. When he was good, he was very, very good. She became practiced at intentional evasiveness in the ER. Not very convincing, she supposed, but what can one do.

Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man of Mine, she played the mournful tune repeatedly on the piano, even when he threw the telephone that cracked low C because he couldn’t hear the Raiders game over the quiet torch song. She reconsidered when he slammed the lid down on her fingers because she didn’t look at him when he spoke.

Down on his luck and out of a job, he moved them into a studio apartment across town. No room for that damned piano, he had barked. A backhand to her left cheek convinced her that tears of protest would be futile.

A friend of his would store the piano for her. No need to fuss. He was sorry. She could have it again when things improved, as surely they would. Didn’t she know he was doing this for her, to keep them from going deeper in debt? Didn’t she know how much he loved her? Where was her gratitude?

When unemployment ran out, true to his word, he got a job, and life did improve, mostly because he was gone a lot. Though inconsolable without her piano, Adri managed to keep a cheerful presence in the home. It was convincing if you didn’t look too closely. He had seen to it that there was no one in their life, no one to look too closely.

After a year, they moved again, into a house that was big enough to reclaim that part of her that was as important as her heart. Her spirit soared.

With a shrug, he turned to her after hanging up the phone and reported that a few months ago, his friend had sold the piano to a young couple, cheap, to settle a debt. They had since moved, the house was empty, and the piano was nowhere to be found. What can you do?

He certainly hoped she wasn’t holding him accountable for the actions of his friend, he said in a puffed-up peacock sort of way.

Again, her spirit soared. This time, right on out of her body, and it stayed gone.

As irony would have it, the aforementioned young couple moved just across town into a one-bedroom condo, too small for the cumbersome piano. The day before the move, they called their friend, Laura, and left the following message on her answering machine: “This is your lucky day. The piano you’ve been drooling over, the one with the interesting past, is yours for free if you can find someone to pick it up and move it today!” They grinned at each other as they hung up, knowing the joy they had just bestowed on their friend. What goes around comes around.

Laura cherished the Wurlitzer. She even took lessons and spent hours patiently practicing the scales and working her way through simple children’s songs with glee. She polished the rich, dark wood until it gleamed. She didn’t mind that the “C” key was cracked, and made up a funny story about a mad musician who played with such passion the ivory simply cracked in ecstasy.

As irony would have it, within the year, she was called to the other coast to care for her ailing mother for an indeterminate period. In the bigger picture, it made sense to give up her apartment, put what she could in storage, and take only what she could carry in two suitcases.

Though it broke her heart, parting with her beloved Wurlitzer seemed to be in the stars. The thought of it sitting in cold storage was unbearable. She put a call out to her circle of friends leaving the following message: “This could be your lucky day. My beautiful piano is yours, free, if you can find someone to move it by this weekend. It’s had an interesting past,” she added. “Call me.”

Denise was the first to return her call. She shrieked with excitement. A therapist by profession, she had begun to bloom in her late fifties. Creativity oozed from her pores, her slight body seemed not large enough to contain this sudden growth spurt. She composed songs, picking them out on a tinny-sounding child’s keyboard. A real piano, well, that was heaven sent. She was grateful beyond words.

Laura beamed. She had found her piano a suitable home. What goes around, comes around.

The only available inside wall in Denise’s tiny home, was in the kitchen. She moved the old oak table to the center of the room, and installed the Wurlitzer in its place. The cherry luster gave the room rich warmth, and the melodies that floated from the kitchen enchanted the iridescent hummingbirds outside the window and the Calico on the deck. Denise luxuriated in her good fortune.

On a gray Tuesday morning with a light rain making a stay-at-home day oh, so tempting, Denise tore herself away from the piano, finished her mug of French Roast and headed for her office.

Her ten o’clock client was a referral from a colleague who was closing her practice. The woman had a history of depression and suicide attempts. She was the victim of domestic violence and still lived with the abuser. Denise was not hopeful.

AdriAnne surprised her. She was forthcoming, vulnerable, honest, and insightful. She had a delightful sense of humor, not the self-denigrating kind so many victims hid behind. AdriAnne was a survivor. She was bright, and talented. Denise caught a fragment of a sentence about music being important to her. She asked her to expound, excited by the possibility of finding an interest in common.

AdriAnne told her how music had saved her life through childhood, how her soul drifted in and out of the piano, and how the music wrapped itself around her like the arms of God. She told a tale of misery when her beloved piano was taken from her during her difficult and often abusive marriage, and how her life went quickly down hill as she became isolated in the abuse. Large tears pooled then spilled freely as she spoke of the loss of her piano as a death of her spirit. She confessed she had spent countless years praying to a God she no longer believed in to reconnect her with her beloved, turn of the century, cherry wood Wurlitzer.

No! Denise’s mind balked. It can’t be. The moral dilemma of possibly having in her possession the very instrument that was this woman’s lifeline, twisted something deep inside Denise’s heart.

“I can see this loss has altered the course of your life,” Denise said quietly. She leaned forward, gently attentive, as AdriAnne unfolded her story. Emotionally spent, the young woman sat back, exhausted.

“What do you imagine you would do if you were to find your piano once again?” Denise posed.

AdriAnne straightened her shoulders, took in a deep breath, and with her mind riveted on the question, said, “I would leave my husband and start a new life for myself. I would know I had my spiritual strength back.” She sighed deeply. “But, that will never happen, will it.”

Denise scheduled their next appointment in a week, with a promise to herself to call her colleague for a consult as soon as the woman left.

“What do you think is the right thing to do?” Denise asked after telling the story and her hunch about her unintentional involvement in the woman’s misery. “I mean, if it’s true, should I give her the piano?” she asked as her throat tightened with a sob.

“Is it possible it’s not hers? Are there any identifying marks or anything, before you jump to conclusions and give away your precious piano?” her friend asked.

“I guess I should find out. It’s going to be so awkward to ask,” sighed Denise.

In the days that followed, she devised a plan. She would return the piano to the woman if she knew for sure AdriAnne was the true owner. It would break her heart, but she knew that was the right thing to do.

Denise stepped out of her office and into the waiting room the next week to find a transformed AdriAnne beaming at her.

“Well, tell me, what is responsible for this change I see in you?” Denise smiled as they settled in for their session.

“I’ve given what we talked about some deep thought this week,” AdriAnne said. Her whole demeanor was different. She looked alive and vital, strong and sure. Her eyes were bright, and her skin was luminescent.

“And?” Denise prompted. She was aware of a clench in her stomach.

“And, I realize how I’ve been holding out for the impossible before I felt strong enough to make a change. It will never happen. I need to let go of the past and move on,” she said with commitment.

“What will that look like?” Denise asked, truly curious.

“I’m leaving my husband,” AdriAnne grinned. “I have some money saved up, enough to get a place of my own, and…” she paused dramatically.

“And?”

“And, a piano! I’m going to buy myself a new piano. Can you believe it?” she grinned hugely and clapped with excitement. “No more dragging the past around with me. I don’t have to wait for miracles, I can make them myself,” she said.

Denise was aware she’d been holding her breath, which she released in a whoosh.

“I know, I can hardly believe it either,” AdriAnne said.

“That’s wonderful,” Denise beamed, aware of the truth of that statement on so many levels.

“There is a drawback, though,” AdriAnne said. “I’m not going to be able to do all this and continue therapy. I’m so thankful for all you’ve done in getting me pointed the right direction,” her eyes moistened, “but this will be my last session for now.”

“The door is always open,” Denise said at the end of the session as she hugged AdriAnne goodbye.

“So you don’t know if it was really her piano or not?” her friend asked her over coffee and croissants the next morning.

“Nope. That’s the thing about miracles,” Denise grinned, “they’re hard to explain.”

At home that evening, Denise’s fingers ran gently over the keyboard, randomly touching down to create a soulful sound. As she became conscious of the pattern of notes she was playing, she grabbed a piece of paper and jotted them down.

Over the week that followed, more snippets of tunes presented themselves when her mind came to rest for a moment, as though her brain was full of music just waiting to find a way into expression. Each night, she would scribe the notes onto lined paper, weaving a musical fabric of her day’s musings.

“Seems to be a hobby that’s taken on a life of its own,” she mentioned to Cami, a pianist friend who stopped by to return a book on Monet, the lithographs used as muses for her own musical creations.

“Can I take a look?” Cami asked, and Denise nodded her to the piano bench. Cami ran through the piece, adding chords, embellishments, and flares, her shoulders hunched and her eyes squinted in passionate attention. “I love it,” she declared as she sat back on the bench. “Could I use it in my winter concert?”

“You want to play my song?” Denise asked, aghast. “But, it’s just…”

“It’s just beautiful, is what it is,” Cami smiled. “It makes me think of a young girl, fresh and innocent. What do you call it?”

“I don’t know. Let me think about it,” Denise said, still stunned.

The lights in the Civic Auditorium dimmed and Denise slipped her program under her seat. She shrugged her coat off, nestled it behind her, and settled in for her friend’s performance. She and Cami had grown up together in Missouri in the 50ies. Not children of privilege, but children who believed, against all odds, that they could do anything they wanted if they applied themselves. They’d become each others best advocate and support through childhood and into adulthood.

A ripple of applause turned thunderous as Cami, red hair flashing like fire, golden gown sending sparks of light across the stage, stepped into the spotlight before taking her seat at the grand piano.

The expectant hush as she let her long slender fingers hover just above the keys was broken by the metallic click of a door hinge at the back of the auditorium. The latecomer settled quietly into a seat at the rear as Cami poured herself like molten gold into her first piece. Smooth, liquid, fluid notes blended and lifted first as gently as a gliding butterfly, then as powerfully as a soaring nighthawk.

Denise, with misty eyes, was captivated by the beauty of the music that only a month ago had swept through her own soul to be born on paper.

The latecomer at the back of the auditorium sat with rivulets of tears dampening her cheeks, one hand over her heart as if to keep it from breaking. She had never given herself the gift of a piano concert, had no idea what to expect. How very strange to find herself awash in sadness, fear, and innocent hope, memories of her own childhood wrapping around her, and threatening to squeeze the life out of her as the music filled the auditorium. Spent by waves of devastation, she inhaled the powerful surges of hope as if they were life itself. So overcome with emotion, she was unable to join the audience in a standing ovation.

Cami acknowledged their appreciation and when the din quieted, began her second piece. The latecomer gathered herself as best she could. When her breathing regulated once again, she angled the program so the light from the Exit fell on the title of the piece just finished and read, A Gift for AdriAnne. Her cry was muffled by a crescendo of music that surged through the room.

http://vimeo.com/5732745

Well, I had something entirely different in mind for today until I received an e-mail from one of the members in my choir. For anyone who has convinced her/him self she/he couldn't sing, didn't understand music, etc. PLEASE click on the url above where Bobby McFerrin explores the pentatonic scale in a hands-on, or I should say feet-on, manner that will change your mind. We've got it in our bodies, folks. Enjoy. Back to some writing next week.

The Three Muses

This week, something a little lighter of heart. On the brink of self destruction, Winnie experiences an intervening force (a trio of angels? muses? guides? - you decide) that reroutes her life.


The hoot of a barn owl and her own reflection against the black night on the other side of the sliding glass door startled Winnie. Her hand jerked and Merlot leaped from her goblet onto the carpet where it was absorbed like quicksand by the cream-colored wool.

“Stupid chicken shit!” Winnie hurled at the night sky. The words ricocheted off the glass pane and splattered all over her.

“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself as she uncorked the bottle and refilled her goblet for the fourth time.

Winnie’s armpits itched and a rancid odor wafted up when she lifted her elbow. She yanked a cord and drew the vertical Venetians closed, and then stumbled toward the utility room for spot remover. Her eyes caught the slight movement, a shift in the corner of the darkened room.

Holding her breath, she took a step backward. The wood planks beneath the worn thin carpet creaked under foot and she froze. Winnie ran a hand along the wall until she reached the light switch, dreading, yet compelled to illuminate the bogeyman hiding among the Hoover attachments.

With a shaking finger, she flipped the switch. A glare of white light from the bare 100 watt bulb above her head flooded the room.

“Jesus! You could blind a person,” hollered the bag lady like visage in the corner shielding her eyes with a bony hand. She was older than dirt, dirtier than dirt too, it appeared. She wore a ragged housedress of faded indefinable print and a tattered musty sweater several sizes too large for her scrawny frame.

Her sparse white hair spritzed out in all directions. Her eyebrows, same color as her hair, were like two fat caterpillars napping above rheumy blue eyes that squinted out under heavy lids at Winnie.

“Who the hell are you?” Winnie gasped, holding one hand over her palpitating heart. “And what are you doing in my utility room?”

“Relax, missy, I’ve been sent,” the woman croaked as she stepped out of the corner, over the attachments, and dusted herself off as best she could.

“I’d planned to land on the porch. Guess I’ve lost my night vision. Call me Gwynyth,” she said, extending a liver-spotted hand with dirt encrusted fingernails.

“What do you mean you’ve been sent?” Winnie recoiled. Her nose wrinkled and her mouth tightened with judgment.

“Think of me as your guardian angel,” Gwynyth said. Her crooked smile was missing a few teeth. She dropped her hand to her side, noting that this woman was not the friendly type.

“I don’t need a guardian angel,” Winnie said in a huff. “And, if I did, I certainly wouldn’t choose you!” She pulled herself up to her full 5’5” stature and stared down her nose at the old woman.

“You don’t choose us, dearie, we’re assigned.” She took Winnie’s elbow and spun her around toward the bedroom door. “I musta really pissed off the boss to pull this assignment,” Gwynyth said aside.

“Unhand me!” Winnie cried out. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You left a mess on the floor in there. Thought I’d sort of show you my credentials,” she said as she ushered Winnie, protesting all the way, back into the bedroom.

Gwynyth pointed at the blur of red wine diffused among the fibers of the carpet. “Spit clean,” she uttered. The spot vanished.

“My god, you’re a witch,” Winnie whimpered.

“Nah, that was another lifetime,” Gwynyth smiled amicably. I’m here to help you clean up the mess you’ve made of your life, help you with your problems, and stuff like that.”

Winnie brushed a stand of her own graying shoulder length hair back from her face. “I’ll have you know my life is NOT a mess, and I have no problems.” This creature was working her last nerve.

“Well, here’s one problem; your bed faces West,” Gwynyth sighed in disgust, shaking her head slowly.

“What’s wrong with West?” Winnie asked in spite of herself.

“Sun rises in the East. Hell, at your age, just to know you made it to the next day when you open your eyes has gotta be worth something,” Gwynyth cackled.

“At my age? I’m only sixty-two,” Winnie hoisted her chin.

“The Golden Hours,” Gwynyth continued, ignoring her, “ that’s what you want to be waking up to: sun rise; new day; fresh start; clean slate; all that crap.”

Gwynyth tugged at the cord and whipped the vertical Venetians open.

“Yikes!” she yelped at her own reflection.

She pulled, grunted and groaned until the rounded brass foot of the bed was aimed squarely at the sliding glass door where the earliest rays of tomorrow’s sunrise could not be missed.

Gwynyth wiped her hands briskly on her faded dress, surveyed the room. She lifted the ceramic goblet from the bedside table, slid open the glass door and heaved the contents out into the night.

“That was a perfectly good glass of Merlot you just wasted,” Winnie complained.

“Stunt your growth,” Gwynyth retorted.

“I’m sixty-two—there’s not a lot of growing I’m likely to do,” Winnie groused.

“‘Sup to you,” said Gwynyth. “A friend of mine said ‘whether you believe you can or believe you can’t, you’re right’. I’m here to convince you you’re not done yet.”

“A moment ago, you had me on the very brink of death,” muttered Winnie. She yawned and sat down heavily on the bent wood rocker next to the bed. This had been a very tiring evening.

“I was just messin’ with you,” Gwynyth said as she bent down to remove Winnie’s slippers. She turned down the blankets on the bed, fluffed the pillow and reached out a hand to Winnie.

“Beddie-bye time,” she said.

Too tired to resist, Winnie allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, and guided into bed where the covers were tucked up under her chin. As her eyes closed with the heaviness of sandbags, she decided this had all been a wine-induced hallucination. Things would look better in the morning. Across the room, the light clicked off softly and the last sound she heard was the shuffle of feet leaving the room.

Somewhere in the neighborhood, a rooster crowed. Winnie twitched the muscles of one eyelid, then allowed a crack of vision. A blaze of peach, melon, and mauve lit the morning sky. Before she could clamp down on it, a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“Stunning, ain’t it?” Gwynyth’s voice crackled next to the bed.

Winnie jolted upright, groaned, rubbed her temples then collapsed back against a just-fluffed pillow propped against the head of the bed.

“Quick—what do you hate most?” Gwynyth demanded.

“Living a meaningless life,” Winnie said. Startled by her own vulnerability, she yanked at the flannel sheet and swiped angrily at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Not fair,” she hissed.

“When you first wake up your defenses are down. That’s when I can get an honest answer out of you. By the time you leave the house, you’ve already got your armor on,” Gwynyth explained.

“Why are you still here?” Winnie groaned.

“Told you. We have work to do. Fresh start, new day. Today’s the first day of...”

“Don’t say it,” Winnie warned.

Gwynyth produced a bamboo tray laden with English muffins topped with cream cheese and marmalade, three crisp strips of bacon, orange juice, coffee and a multivitamin. A colorful cloth napkin was folded into something resembling a giant bird that stood watch over the food. The smell of hot coffee made Winnie’ stomach rumble.

“Eat up. The others should be here soon,” she said.

“Others? What others? You can’t just invite people into my home. My god, the sun’s not even all the way up yet,” Winnie sputtered.

At just that moment, a rumpled heap landed with a thwump on the deck just beyond the sliding glass door.

Winnie shrieked.

“Musta lost her landing gear,” Gwynyth mumbled as she opened the slider.

She watched as AfroDidee chortled, pulled herself to her feet, rearranged her face into a big smile and hollered, “Gwynnie!”

The two old women fell all over themselves in a clumsy, bear like embrace.

“Ya don’t look a century older than the last time we worked a gig together,” AfroDidee wheezed. “Creation sends her regards,” she reported to Gwynyth. “She got busted in a Save-the-Redwoods rally in San Francisco.”

“That girl always has a cause,” Gwynyth nodded respectfully.

Winnie, sitting propped up against the headboard, watched wide-eyed as Gwynyth and her friend entered the bedroom.

“Winnie, this is AfroDidee, Goddess of Luv,” she said, making a grand sweeping gesture toward the old woman whose steel gray hair looked like an electrocuted Brillo pad. She was dressed in a Go Raiders sweatshirt, and adult diaper covered with colorful Valentine’s Day stickers, and red sneakers.

Her walnut-colored eyes twinkled in her leathery face as she dipped a quick curtsey and said, “Hi-dee.”

“No—It’s Winnie,” Winnie corrected. “She’s wearing diapers,” Winnie stage whispered to Gwynyth.

“I can take ‘em off...” AfroDidee offered, but was interrupted.

“Oh, god no—please!” Winnie covered her eyes with shaking hands.

“I meant the stickers,” AfroDidee explained to Gwynyth, her voice apologetic. “You know, for different seasons.”

Gwynyth patted her arm. “It’s okay, she’s just a little jumpy,” she reassured her friend. They both regarded Winnie who was now squinting through her fanned fingers as if watching a horror show.

A rap on the glass slider startled the trio.

“Hey, hey, whatta ya say...” a voice boomed on the other side of the door. “...Open up or I’ll go away.”

“Fate!” both Gwynyth and AfroDidee called out.

Gwynyth slid the door open and pulled a stout old woman in a large straw hat into the bedroom. She wore a flowered muumuu and rubber flip-flops. Her skin was the color of hickory and her hair was died deep auburn like the last rays of sunset.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked, a righting the hat that had been knocked askew by the doorjamb.

“This here’s Winnie,” AfroDidee pointed to the woman who had pulled the quilt up under chin and held it there with a death grip.

“Fate’s the name, intervention’s the game,” she said by way of introduction. She turned to Gwynyth and said, “What’s wrong with her?” She crooked her head to once side then the other, studying Winnie from different angles.

“Nothing’s wrong with me except I have a room full of lunatics and I haven’t even had breakfast,” Winnie squawked.

Fate munched thoughtfully on a marmalade-spread muffin.

“I think we need a game plan,” she said. “Did she come with instructions?”

“Why me?” Winnie moaned. “Why not Mrs. Rosenblatz down the block?”

“Mrs. Rosenblatz doesn’t hate her work and drink herself silly at night or spend her weekends watching bad television all by herself with the blinds pulled,” Gwynyth explained in a reasonable voice.

“Can I help it if I’m trapped in a crappy job? I don’t have a college degree and I couldn’t run a computer if my life depended on it. My lousy ex-husband left me penniless, the bum. If I had any money, I’d retire. If I had any sense, I’d kill myself,” Winnie ranted. “So I drink a little bit at night to brace myself for the next day. So what?” she challenged.

“Hey, you are the weaver, you are the web,” AfroDidee offered.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Winnie asked.

“We create our own reality by the choices we make, and then we’re stuck with it until we make new choices,” Gwynyth answered.

“All roads lead to Mecca,” added Fate.

Winnie scowled.

“Or, you might say,” Gwynyth explained, “there is a master plan, but how you get to the outcome is through a series of making one choice after the next.”

“Each choice has its own consequence,” Fate added.

“It’s like when you married Harold back in the 60ies. Remember? You wanted to be a librarian but you couldn’t afford to finish college because he couldn’t keep a job,” Gwynyth tsked.

“Harold was a toad,” Fate muttered. “A mere stumbling block on your path, but you gave up on yourself.”

“You mean I’m responsible for the way my life looks?”

“‘Fraid so, kiddo,” chirped AfroDidee.

“If you had your druthers, what would life look like?” Fate inquired.

“My druthers?” Winnie sneered. “Well, I’d be lounging on a South Seas island with my wealthy husband, sipping one of those drinks with the umbrella in them. Why?”

“And that would be a meaningful life?” Fate asked.

“Look, you’re Fate. You already know the future. Why not just cut to the chase?” Winnie asked in a pique.

“Well, I’m not really supposed to do this, but you are one pathetic case. Maybe just this time.” Fate pulled up a chair opposite Winnie. “Remember, how you get there is up to you.”

Winnie sat up straighter in bed. She had to admit; it wasn’t every day that Fate just laid it on the line for you.

“Okay, you’re not so far off. I do see you on a South Seas island with your husband. He seems to be a native there.” Fate squinted her eyes and peered into the distance. “You’re finally doing what you were meant to do. You have a fair amount of notoriety on the island,” she finished. “Whew! Plumb wears me out,” she muttered.

Just then, the phone on the nightstand trilled. AfroDidee lifted the receiver. “Winifred’s residence, AfroDidee, Goddess of Luv speaking. How may I help you?”

A pause while AfroDidee nodded her wiry hair.

“One moment please,” she said grinning hugely, “I’ll connect you.” She handed the phone to Winnie, gave a palms-up shrug and said, “Looks like my job is over.”

“No fair,” Fate mumbled. “You didn’t even break a sweat.”

On the phone, Winnie was saying, “Palo? Yes, of course I remember you. Well, how very nice of you. Tomorrow night? Oh, my. Let me check my calendar and get right back to you.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, before Winnie hung up. She sat in stunned silence.

“Are you going to leave us here dying of curiosity?” Gwynyth asked.

“How strange is that?” Winnie said. “I thought he moved back to Fiji. The man I met at my aunt’s funeral three years ago just asked me out to dinner.”

* * * *

Remnants of breakfast remained on the tray. Gwynyth finished the cup of coffee. Fate wiped a bit of bacon from her lower lip. AfroDidee set the juice glass down carefully. Winnie swallowed the last of her muffin.

Gwynyth leaned against the pillow at the head of the bed, her sweater draped over her shoulders. Fate propped herself against the foot with her straw hat perched on bent knees. AfroDidee rocked in the wooden rocker, a blanket snuggled over her lap, her red sneakers resting near the nightstand. It looked like a pajama party for the demented.

Winnie perched on the edge of her bed, holding her robe closed with one hand, and gestured wildly as she spoke.

“I can’t just have dinner with a man I barely remember,” she said, with an openhanded smack to her forehead. “I’m sixty-two, I’m fat, I’m wrinkled, I’m gray....”

“I’m waiting to hear something that matters,” AfroDidee offered.

“What was it he saw in you three years ago that would lead him to call you out of the blue?” Gwynyth asked.

“He said he like my droll humor,” Winnie smiled in spite of herself. “And we talked about poetry, right there at the graveyard, waiting for my poor aunt to be planted in the ground,” she shook her head in wonder.

“Sounds like he was looking at the inside of you while you seem determined to focus on the outside,” Fate offered. “Which, by the way, there’s nothing wrong with the outside of you,” she added.

“Go ahead; choose happiness just once for yourself. Step outside the box and take a little risk,” Gwynyth urged.

With a trembling hand, Winnie lifted the phone and dialed, amidst smiles and winks all around her.
* * * *

The three old women sat slumped around a wrought iron table on the plaza, lulled by the noonday sun, the trickling waters of a nearby fountain, and an icy pitcher of Margaritas, which sweated an ever spreading circle on the checkered tablecloth. A multicolored umbrella turned lazily overhead.

Gwynyth smiled and refilled her own glass before passing the pitcher on. Fate, sporting an Easter bonnet covered in bright Azaleas, fanned herself with an envelope while Gwynyth unfolded a letter, hand written on cream colored stationery. AfroDidee laid two glossy photos on the table. One was of a clump of children, Winnie, and Palo in front of a small wooden building with a brightly hand-painted sign that read LIBRARY just above the door. The other was of Winnie and Palo sitting on beach chairs at the water’s edge, smiling at the camera, each holding a tropical drink with a tiny umbrella.

Gwynyth took a gulp of her Margarita before reading the letter.

Dear Ones, she began. “Ah, she called us dear ones.” Gwynyth stopped, sniffed, and blotted a tear that trickled down her cheek. Fate moved the pitcher of Margaritas to the other side of the table. AfroDidee poured herself another glass.

Greetings from the South Seas where Palo and I have opened a small library on the island, with guess-who as Head Librarian? I’m also teaching English as a Second Language to the children. I couldn’t be happier...”

“Ah, she couldn’t be happier,” Gwynyth dabbed at a tear and blew her nose.

“That’s our girl,” Fate said.

“She looks kinda blissful, doesn’t she?” AfroDidee observed.

I’ve truly found my bliss, Gwynyth continued. She raised her eyebrow at AfroDidee.

“Hey, it didn’t hurt that you pulled Palo out of thin air just when you did,” Fate addressed AfroDidee.

“I thought you did that,” AfroDidee looked at Fate.

“What’s that little word on the bottom of the picture?” Fate squinted.

“Over,” said AfroDidee, flipping the photograph.

Here’s to better choices. Love, Winnie p.s. those are virgin Mai Tais.

“I’ll drink to that!” smiled Gwynyth.

I Am Addiction - Anonymous

A client brought me the following essay. She found it on the internet—author unknown, or I surely would have gotten permission to reuse it. I am so moved by the way creativity has shown up. For anyone who has ever suffered from any form of addiction, please read and pass this along. If we can’t use blogs to help make the world a better place, why bother? If you’d care to share how this essay affected you, please e-mail me at the address below in the About Me section. I wish you health, well being, and a joy filled life.


I hate meetings…I hate higher power…I hate anyone who has a program. To all who come in contact with me, I wish you death and I wish you suffering.

Allow me to introduce myself; I am the disease of addition. I am cunning, baffling, and powerful. That’s me. I have killed millions and I am pleased.

I love to catch you with the element of surprise. I love pretending I am your friend and lover. I have given you comfort, haven’t I? Wasn’t I there when you were lonely?

When you wanted to die, didn’t you call on me? I was there. I love to make you hurt. I love to make you cry. Better yet, I love to make you so numb you can neither hurt nor cry, when you can’t feel anything at all. This is true gratification. And, all that I ask from you is long term suffering.

I’ve been there for you always. When things were going right in your life, you invited me. You said you didn’t deserve these good things, and I was the only one who would agree with you.

Together we were able to destroy all the good things in your life.

People don’t take me seriously. They take strokes seriously, heart attacks, even diabetes, they take seriously. Fools. For without my help these things would not be possible.

I am such a hated disease, and yet I do not come uninvited. You choose to have me. So many have chosen me over reality and peace. More than you hate me, I hate all of you who have a 12-step program. Your programs, your meetings, your higher power. All of these things weaken me, and I can’t function in the manner I am accustomed to. Now I must lie here waiting quietly.

You don’t see me, but I am growing bigger than ever. When you only exist, I may live. When you live, I may only exist. But I am here…and until we meet again, if we meet again, I wish you death and suffering.

Color Pallet – Travel Musings

Neck stiff and travel weary, I turn my head and look past the haggard, sleep-deprived sojourner next to me, beyond my reflection in the Greyhound window, into the early morning sky.

Black clouds stretch like raven wings along the horizon, back lighted by steel gray as the sun waits off stage to make her entrance.

Miles down the road at sunrise, the moist, peach California sky is the same color that lines the inner folds of a seashell I found on a beach in Coral Gables, Florida; the clouds--shifting wisps of mauve—a similar hue as the Colorado mountains at sunset. At daybreak, midsummer hills imitate the variegated yellow, gold, and brown tassels topping fields of corn from my Iowa childhood.

We pass a County fair; the double Ferris wheel stands in bas-relief like a giant infinity symbol.

Beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, shimmering fog swaddles San Francisco. It is slow to lift and gives only a hint—a mere suggestion—that a city lies within.

The stippled waters of the Bay spread like cellulite-laden thighs.

At the edge of Golden Gate Park, a body lies prone in the underbrush of eucalyptus and cypress; one less nameless, faceless, homeless mark of urban blight for the equestrian patrol to roust.

Gray pigeons on the rooftop of a cheap motel smirk down at the pink neon sign flashing vacancy in a filmy window. Irony is not lost on them.