Summer 2013

What Will Be Your Legacy?

The New Battle of Gettysburg

by Claudia Aragon Recently while doing research on the Civil War, I came across a disturbing discovery. There is a new battle brewing in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

The new battle began initially in 2005 when developer David LeVan obtained a gaming license and proposed building a casino, only two miles from the hallowed battlefield. The borough of Gettysburg and the surrounding areas known for being tight-knit communities, once again bore witness to civil conflict, as neighbor turned against neighbor, verbally and at times physically.

Just as the rest of the country has suffered due to a collapsing economy over the last eleven years, small communities such as Gettysburg are no exception. Looking for salvation in the form of new job prospects, the citizens turned to the developers for deliverance and fulfillment. Half the community was fighting for preservation of sacred ground, while the other half fought for economic stability.

One can’t help but wonder…

Once the door is open to the development of national monuments and treasures, where does the cancer of progress and expansion stop? Will we allow gaming casinos at Ground Zero, Arlington Cemetery, the Washington and Lincoln Memorials? What about Pearl Harbor, the Vietnam Memorial or the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier?

If gaming is allowed to infringe on these sacred areas, the lessons honored and taught for well over a hundred years will be lost forever on the new generations to come who need to learn from and embrace the lessons and mistakes of our nation’s past.

Fortunately for Gettysburg and the country as a whole, in 2006, the gaming commission rejected LeVan’s bid to build a casino due to its proximity to the battlefield. All was right in the world again, so to speak.

Then on July 23, 2009, in an act of philanthropic generosity, David LeVan, yes, the same one, donated a 61-acre parcel to the Gettysburg Foundation. The parcel of land lay directly adjacent to the Gettysburg National Military Museum and Visitor Center. Known as the Baltimore Pike, Gettysburg Easement, the property is located along the Baltimore Pike corridor adjacent to the Culp’s Hill area of the Gettysburg battlefield, as well as the Museum and Visitor Center and is in its entirety located within the boundary of the Gettysburg National Military Park, bringing the total acreage preserved to 700.

Some believe LaVan’s generosity was a smoke screen created to disguise his next move. In 2010, with his eye on the Eisenhower Inn and Conference Center located in Cumberland Township, in Adams County, Pennsylvania, LeVan partnered with a group of unidentified investors and applied for a Category III slots license, which would allow no more than 500 slot machines in a facility. According to the license requirements, only the hotel guests or pass holders would be able to gamble within the gaming casino.

LaVan argued his proposed casino would bring much-needed commerce and jobs to the small community. His newly devised plan was more demeaning to the fallen soldiers of 1863 than his original proposal in 2005. The Eisenhower Inn stands a mere 3,000 feet from the entrance to the National Park. The proposed resort would sit directly on the national scenic byway “Journey Through Hallowed Ground,” just minutes from locations of civil war carnage such as Pickett’s Charge.

Opponents of the proposed Mason-Dixon Resort & Casino told a public hearing on Tuesday, August 31, 2010, that the 70,000-squarefoot resort with 50 gaming tables and 500 slot machines would 2

violate a treasured piece of American history. Once more there was civil unrest as the casino war ensued. Heated debates were held over who was right and who was wrong. Citizens were eagerly waiving petitions to be signed for their cause. There wasn’t any sand. The line was being drawn in the Gettysburg battlefield and cemetery.

This time LaVan’s plan proposed building his state of the art casino approximately a half-mile from the hallowed sight. The community at large was once more split, embattled over the sight of the three-day st rd battle which took place in 1863 on the 1 through the 3 of July.

Several engagements ensued around the four acre site of the first shot, which occurred at Knoxlyn Ridge, just west of the borough of Gettysburg proper, to East Calvary Field on the eastern side of Gettysburg. Prior to this confrontation, all military engagements were located at the Gettysburg Railroad trestle extending over Rock Creek, which was subsequently burned to the ground earlier on June 27, 1863.

At the close of the famous battle there were almost 22,000 wounded still laying on the battlefield and 8,900 dead. The wounded were subsequently treated at the Camp Letterman hospital or at field hospitals nearby. Makeshift hospitals and rehab centers sprang up in churches, homes and surrounding buildings, as the war-torn community rallied together to save everyone they could. They were no longer brother fighting brother or neighbor against neighbor, North against the South.

The enormous amount of human waste and carnage helped the populace at large to regain and embrace their humanity. In 1863, before the battle occurred, the population of the Gettysburg borough was a modest 2,400 citizens. After the bloody battle, the population was 33,300 including the dead and wounded.

The sheer number of casualties and battles during the Civil War boggles the mind. For the nation and world at large, just like the Alamo, when the Civil War is mentioned, they always remember Gettysburg, which is in large part due to Lincoln’s visit and the Gettysburg Address.

David Warren was one of the many contractors hired to bury the overwhelming amount of dead soldiers and animals. The majority were buried where they fell. Graves were scattered like petals on the wind across the hills, fields, and meadows. Samuel Weaver was in charge of overseeing the burials. Within two days of the battles end, the first trainloads of battlefield visitors came to witness the devastation firsthand.

On July 10, 1863, Pennsylvania Governor Andrew Curtin visited Gettysburg and expressed the state’s interest in locating its dead and wounded veterans. Once soldiers were identified, Attorney David Wills arranged for the purchase of 17 acres of the Cemetery Hill battlefield land to be used for a cemetery, which is now known only as Cemetery Hill.

On August 14, 1863, another attorney, David McConaughy recommended the implementation of a preservation association and consequently sold membership stock in order to purchase parcels of th battlefield acreage. By the 16 of September, 1863, the Gettysburg battlefield protection had begun with the monies raised and 600 acres were obtained, including the purchase of the heights of Cemetery Hill, Little Round Top and the Culp’s Hill land.

On November 19, 1863, Abraham Lincoln arrived by train and delivered the Gettysburg address at the dedication of the Soldiers’ National Cemetery, which was completed five months later in March 1864 with the last of the 3,512 Union soldiers reburied.

The strong southern women of Richmond, Savannah, Charleston and Raleigh, created the Ladies Memorial Association, and with their help 3,320 bodies were disinterred and sent to the cemeteries in those cities for reburial between 1870 and 1873. Approximately 2,935 Confederate soldiers were reburied in the Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia. Seventy-three bodies of the recovered soldiers were reburied in home cemeteries. The Soldiers’

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IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

National Cemetery was transferred to the United States government in May of 1872. After being discovered in 1997, the last body from the battle of Gettysburg was reburied in the national cemetery.

Casino opposition did a shout out to enlist the power of Hollywood elite to help spread the cry of "Save Gettysburg." To fight back, developer David LeVan pitched his plan for the Mason-Dixon Resort & Casino as a well-established concept in other historical places such as Vicksburg, Mississippi and Deadwood, South Dakota. He went on to further state how a casino can bring tourists, investment and tax revenue to the Gettysburg area. Failing to realize the national park already accomplishes those same three points.

The fierce opponents to the casino project responded to LeVan with a polished video featuring filmmaker Ken Burns, actors Sam Waterston and Matthew Broderick, Pulitzer Prize-winning author David McCullough. The video also featured local residents who stated the casino's approval would betray everyone in the country’s duty as Americans to protect the place where soldiers died to save the nation.

LeVan argued back that his $75 million project would generate 375 jobs and save 100 more in the existing hotel. He further argued recent opinion polls had shown 60 percent of the local populace supported his plan.

His opponents, however, disagreed, having collected more than 30,000 signatures from around the country. The stacked petitions were in multiple cardboard boxes marked "Save Gettysburg." At the gaming board hearing, the boxes were placed in front of the five board members and the pro-bono video production by Ken Burns was submitted and played by the Pennsylvania gaming board on August 31, 2010, in which eight national celebrities appear on behalf of No Casino Gettysburg.

Cinda Waldbuesser, of the National Parks Conservation Association spoke at the hearing and stated, "This petition is signed by Americans nationwide and shows that this is much more than a local issue. Gettysburg National Military Park is a national treasure that belongs to all Americans."

The following letter is a plea on behalf of the people in the areas surrounding the National monument and of Gettysburg and contains only the first 223 signatures.

Mr. David LeVan, Owner Battlefield Harley Davidson 21 Cavalry Field Road Gettysburg, Pennsylvania 17325 Dear Mr. LeVan: As citizens of Adams County, Pennsylvania, we are writing to respectfully request that you reconsider applying for a state license to place a casino in the Eisenhower Inn and All Star Complex on the Emmitsburg Road south of Gettysburg, just one-half mile from the boundary of the Gettysburg National Military Park.

We acknowledge the numerous good works you have done for the Gettysburg community, and we ask that you, in the same spirit of civic responsibility, change your mind.

In 2005 and 2006, a similar debate over the previous Gettysburg casino proposal tore Adams County apart. Recently, former Borough Council president Dick Peterson called that controversy the “most divisive” event of his tenure. Speaking to The Gettysburg Times, he said, “That split everyone asunder. It wasn’t just the council that was split, the whole community was split on the issue. That was something that I think we were all glad when it was over, and we all came out somewhat scarred with bandages.”

This new casino plan could be far more contentious, since this proposed location lies in a more rural part of the county, within the Journey Through the Hallowed Ground Heritage Area, along a recently established National Scenic Byway, and less than 3,000 feet from the National Military Park.

VOL 8, ISSUE 5

Although your new application is not due until April 7, already the same hostility has begun to permeate our everyday lives and impact our community’s many guests.

Please weigh the unintended consequences of reigniting this controversial issue, and the harm that will come to our community if you proceed with your proposal. You have it in your power to help us heal once and for all, to emerge as a stronger community, ready to embrace the heritage tourism opportunities associated with the upcoming Civil War Sesquicentennial.

We, the undersigned residents of Adams County, therefore request that you stop your casino plans now. You are the only person in the community that can prevent this divisive debate. We ask, instead, that you consider creative alternatives that we could all embrace.

Very Respectfully Yours The Pennsylvania State Supreme Court upheld the Pennsylvania Gaming Control Board selection of Nemacolin for a resort casino license on 4/20/12, rejecting the lawsuit by the Gettysburg Casino investors wanting to place the Mason-Dixon Resort Casino at the site of the existing Eisenhower Inn and Conference Center located just a half-mile from the boundary of the Gettysburg National Military Park.

David LeVan had been attempting to bring a casino to Gettysburg since 2005, although none of his proposals had ever received a single yes vote from the Pennsylvania Gaming Control Board or the Pennsylvania Harness Racing Commission. His public proposals were met with national opposition, and the Gaming Control Board was flooded with thousands of letters and petitions opposing his illconceived project.

LeVan and his Mason-Dixon Resort Casino partners sued the Pennsylvania Gaming Control Board, asserting they were biased in their choice of failing to choose an established up-scale resort in Western Pennsylvania over a run-down hotel next to one of America's most valued national heritage sites.

The battle is far from over. Whether it’s an historic icon like the Statue of Liberty or Mount Rushmore, Yosemite or Yellowstone, there will always be someone capitalistic looking out for number one, not giving a second thought to the sanctity of the landscape or the animals we were sworn to protect. Whether its big oil or gaming, the community and nation aren’t always the winners they profess we’ll be. We need to wake up, be aware and stand up for what’s right, even in the face of strong arm opposition.

Claudia Aragon lives in San Diego, California. Her poem, “You Move Me” was just published in the 2013 Magee Park Poets Anthology and her writing has been featured in The San Diego Reader, The Paper and The Sacramento, Chico and Tahoe News and Review papers, as well as The Adventures for the Average Woman Tough Lit IdeaGems and Green

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Photo courtesy of www.prx.org 3

Angel on the 620 to Phoenix

by Joanne Jagoda Catherine scrunches in the seat avoiding the passengers entering the Greyhound. She makes herself small and inconspicuous and prays no one will sit next to her. She absently reaches for her hair to lift it off her shoulders realizing with a start that she had chopped it off—her, blonde, perfectly-highlighted, thick gorgeous hair. All that is left is a short stubble covered in Clairol’s Minky Brown #33 that she got at Long’s Drugs two days ago. She closes her eyes and relives this morning— taking the sheers and cutting it in chunks, the awful feel of her hair falling to her shoulders then covering the ground. Like a robot, she snapped on the blue kitchen gloves and got in the shower to do the dye job.

When she got out she was shivering so hard her teeth hurt. She cleared away the steam from the mirror and a stranger was looking back at her —blue hollow eyes framed in a too- white face but with a triumphant grin that she didn’t recognize. She hadn’t felt good about herself for a long time and she knew at that moment that she was taking her life back. The rest of the morning was a blur—grabbing her carry-on out of the closet and tossing in only a few basic clothes she’d need for now until she could get on her feet. She was leaving her overstuffed walk-in closet with rows of shoes and designer labels. She checked the bus schedule for the tenth time. She was taking the 620 to Phoenix leaving at 2:30 p.m. Then she cleaned up the bathroom meticulously to not leave any trace of hair or dye. She took a last look at her beautiful apartment with each piece of furniture and knick knack so carefully selected and placed. She and Eric were going to live there until they bought a house. She slammed the door and hurried so she wouldn’t miss her bus.

The cab driver left her at the bus station in a grungy part of Oakland she’d never ventured in to. She bought her ticket but paid in cash. She had seen this on TV and knew not to leave a trail that could be easily tracked. Catherine found a seat in the drafty terminal idly watching people coming and going and waited until it was time to board. She found the correct line for her bus and took a seat in the middle next to the window. Now people are filing on holding bags and worn valises: a man with no teeth and a sour smell when he passes her; a burly tattooed teenager with a Mohawk and darting eyes; a young, sad-looking Hispanic woman holding a sleeping baby covered in a pink blanket. No one wants to be on this bus, and she fits right in. She is one of them now.

A big African-American woman with two shopping bags and a huge purse comes lumbering up the steps barely squeezing down the aisle just as the door is closing. Oh please don’t sit here next to me. I don’t want to be squished for twelve hours. The woman plops down breathing heavily smelling like she just sprayed herself with cheap cologne.

“Afternoon, darlin’. “ She greets Catherine with a friendly smile, but her eyes appraise her with surprisingly direct scrutiny. “On your way to Phoenix? I’m going to visit my sister Cheryl, and I hate airplanes. If people were meant to fly, we’d have wings.” She chuckles and her whole body shakes. “My name is Margie.”

Catherine mumbles,” Uh, hello,” then goes back to pretending to read an Enquirer magazine she found stuffed in the net seat pocket as though it is the most interesting literature she has ever read.

Margie doesn’t give up. “And you are…? You know we are going to be roommates for the next fifteen hours.” She laughs again with her rumbling laugh. Catherine squirms. She doesn’t want to be rude, but she just wants to be left alone. She’s never been rude—not to anyone, be they maids, janitors, car attendants. She has lived her life 4

being considerate and polite, never wanting to hurt anyone. She sighs. It was being too nice and sweet and weak that landed her on this bus.

“Uh, my name is, uh, Tess.” Catherine decides at that exact moment she isn’t going to be Catherine anymore. Catherine is her old, pampered life of manis and pedis, designer clothes, and every indulgence a spoiled only-child could receive by adoring parents. That girl is dead. Yes, Tess, she likes the sound of it—simple, clean, unencumbered.

“Well, nice to know you Ms. Tess. Would you like one of my DEElicious sugar cookies? The trick you know is sprinkling the sugar while they’re still warm when you take them out of the oven.”

“No thank you Ma-am, uh Margie. I’m going to rest.” Tess closes her eyes tilting the seat back, but it only goes maybe an inch. This bus isn’t business class for sure she ruefully smirks. Her mind is a cyclone of careening thoughts. I can’t believe I got away. She puts her hand protectively on the $5,000 in cash she wears in the fanny pack strapped to her stomach. Wait till Eric finds out I cleaned out our wedding account. He’s going to be so pissed.

Then it hits her like a cold ocean wave washing over her body and she shudders. What have I done? Oh, God! I’ve run off four days before my wedding. My $6,000 Lazaro gown is at the dressmaker, the caterer is expecting final approval for the five course menu, the florist is getting in hundreds of imported roses and tulips. I insisted on yellow tulips which are out of season. I’m such a brat. Tonight is my bachelorette party. I’m nauseous. Everyone is going to be freaking out when they can’t find me. And what about Mom and Dad? They’ll be calling the police by tonight.

Tess swallows so she won’t retch, then sniffles, but tears roll down her pale cheeks like a hot river. As hard as she tries, she can’t stifle them, and the sobs and hiccups start. This goes on for a good hour.

Margie doesn’t say a word but keeps pulling tissues out of her shopping bag and handing them to her. When she cries herself out and is quietly hiccupping, she falls into a fitful sleep and leans on Margie’s shoulder.

Tess wakes up, and for a few seconds, doesn’t know where she is.

Then she remembers the worst dream of her life. With a sickening awareness filling her, she knows it isn’t a dream. Margie holds her hand.

“Darlin’, you feeling better? Sometimes you just got to get it all out. Here have a cookie.”

Tess takes the sugar cookie. She even manages half a smile.

“You feel like talking? By the way, you missed a spot on the top of your hair. You shoulda stayed blonde. The brown is a little dark for your skin tone.”

Tess stares at her, surprised that this stranger has pegged her so easily. She nibbles a few more bites of the delicious cookie, wipes crumbs off her lips, and starts in. “I’m supposed to be married this Sunday,… huge church wedding, designer gown, fancy hotel reception, eight bridesmaids, the whole nine yards. My parents have been planning this extravaganza since I was in diapers.

“You’re probably wondering about where my fiancé fits into this pretty picture. He is perfect— smart, rich, and has a great personality. He’s a doctor no less. Just one little thing I left out.

He…uh, raped me more than once. You see, uh…he has a vicious controlling side and a terrible temper, and he knew how to hurt me so it wouldn’t show.”

She lets out a relieved breath that she got those words out and told someone, even this kind stranger.

Margie asks in a quiet voice, “Now what, dear?”

“I’m not sure. Phoenix is where I went to college, and I have contacts there. I’ll try to find a job in marketing and, uh, start over.”

“What about your parents?”

Her eyes well up and she clenches her hands. “I, uh, was going to

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IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Here Comes the Bride

by Linda Boltman The music starts, the bridesmaids move stiffly, a dichotomy of flowing organza around their feet, while my mind races, reaching for that silent voice within me, to find the courage to step forward and say, “I cannot do this.”

In the prior three months, the entire wedding had somehow taken on a life of its own. I was a surfer, caught up on a giant wave as it moved silently and powerfully through the ocean. I could not struggle to my feet. So I simply rode the wave. I was hanging on, hoping for a smooth ending. Yet in my heart, I knew that if I were to slide quietly and silently to the shore, the ride would have been unsatisfying. There would have been no thrill, no excitement, no danger to the ride. In a nutshell, there was the problem. * * * In 1964, during my junior year in college, my parents relocated from the small farm town in Northern Illinois where I’d grown up, to the suburb of Barrington, an upscale neighborhood of Chicago. They chose to live in a condo until they found a house. Three bachelors, Bernie, Wes and Dave, lived next door. I’ve always found it ironic the way life’s littlest twists can change one’s path forever. I was standing at the altar because of a series of life twists.

Several months after my parents moved into the condo, I arrived home unexpectedly for spring break. I drove non-stop five hours to surprise them, but when I got there, the surprise was on me. The house was dark and locked. My family was out and I had no key. One of the bachelors next door to my parents saw my attempts at breaking and entering and approached me. Embarrassed, I explained that this was my home, of sorts, and I had no key because I’d been away at college for more than three years. I was impressed when he lifted me to his shoulders to allow me to open a second story window, then pushed me so I could crawl inside. After that event, we became not only partners in crime, but friends as well. That was my introduction to Wes. For the next year, Wes, Bernie and Dave made it a point to invite me to parties at the bachelor pad whenever I came home for school breaks. Not knowing anyone in the Chicago area, I was pleased to be included. They were wonderful guys who gave great parties, but my relationship with the three bachelors was strictly platonic.

January of my senior year, I came home for winter break. By that time I’d become rather serious with one particular guy I’d met at school during the previous year. This was during the height of the Viet Nam War and, knowing he was close to being drafted, he had enlisted in the navy. Shortly before the holidays, he was transferred to Rhode Island. There was no way he could be with me on New Year’s Eve. I was devastated.

Not only could I not be with Jim, but I was stuck in a city where I didn’t know anyone except the guys next door. No offense to my parents, but at twenty-one years old, I couldn’t imagine staying home and watching TV with them as the ball dropped. Wes offered to be my “date” to a party the guys were having next door.

Somewhat anticlimactic, that officially became our first date, although I’m not certain you could technically call it one. We went next door to their party and the evening turned out to be great fun. I think we mingled more than dated.

After I graduated that summer, I moved back in with my parents in order to pay back a student loan. Saving rent money meant I could repay the loan in about six months. By this time, my parents had found a cute little bungalow in downtown Barrington. I had broken up with my Rhode Island boyfriend and needed a “safe haven” to lick my emotional wounds. Moving back home and dating Wes seemed like the perfect solution. Enter life twist number two.

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So in all fairness, the entire relationship pretty much “coasted” into development. It took me a while to even fully comprehend that I was in a relationship. There wasn’t a great deal of passion and excitement, it was just friends getting together to do things and it was comfortable. That’s the best way to describe our entire relationship; it was comfortable.

You couldn’t have paired two greater opposites. At the time, I was a product of the 60’s, struggling to come to terms with my new identity as a woman after living through the 50’s in a small, rural community. I’d graduated from a small town high school class of 147 and very few of the women went on to college. Most were expected to marry their childhood sweetheart and start a family which, in fact, most of my high school peers did. The joke in those days was that a woman went to college to earn her “Mrs.” degree. If you weren’t fortunate to find a husband by the time you graduated from college, you’d better have a teaching or nursing degree to fall back on.

I went for the teaching degree. I really wanted to be a doctor, but in another of life’s twists, my family had lost everything in an unfortunate farming incident the summer before I went to college.

At the last minute, I had to change schools and apply for a scholarship for a teaching degree. Teaching was my only option if there was any chance of me furthering my education. There was no way we could afford college any other way. So I went to a state school on a scholarship, worked part-time during the school year tutoring and cleaning houses and spent my summers working full time at the Del Monte canning plant while my parents moved from the farm to a condo near the city.

I spent those four college years partying hearty and making any child of the 60’s proud. We were the new generation, completely opposite the generation before us. Instead of wearing pillbox hats and white gloves, we went braless. Unlike our moms who wore “Leave It To Beaver” Mrs. Cleaver dresses with short, tightly curled haircuts, we lived in sweatshirts and jeans and wore our hair long and loose.

I was too much of an independent, wild child for any man to tame and combined with something we didn’t know anything about at that time, ADHD, the two made a lethal combination. I dated randomly and frequently, went to parties every weekend and was lucky to be so bright I could squeeze by with a “B” average. I loved life and participated with a gusto. I was prepared to go to Woodstock with four friends, until we realized none of us had enough money for gas.

The summer of my junior year, I backpacked through Europe for three months all by myself on just $200, teaming up with other students I encountered along the way. I stayed overnight with incredible locals I met in my travels and came home to my small home town with literally only twenty-cents to my name. I was a product of the 60’s and loved it. I was born in the perfect era.

After graduation and a short stint in the corporate sector, I joined the airlines and did what I loved most – I traveled. I worked on Michigan Avenue and at O’Hare Airport. At that time, airline employees could “swap days” with other employees. If I had Mondays and Tuesdays off, I could swap those days with another employee who had Saturday and Sunday off and have enough time to fly to St Thomas or Paris for the weekend. It was not unusual to work thirty days straight, swapping days so I could have almost two weeks off to travel to Europe or Central America. I took advantage of the opportunity and traveled consistently and extensively.

Wes had gone into the Air Force shortly after he graduated from high school. His parents had never encouraged him to further his education, so it had never dawned on him to go to college. He was based right on the border of Viet Nam, setting up maps for the General. After the war, it only stood to reason that he would go into mapping. He took a job with a survey company as a draftsman. That was the first of two companies he worked for his entire life.

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So how Wes and I became involved, I’ve never quite understood. A man of few words who rarely showed emotion, was paired with a woman who was never at a loss for words and went into throws of emotion over the simplest things. A man who loved to sit and relax in front of the television, was suddenly flying to Detroit or Boston to play in a Pan Am league volleyball game and all night party to be back at work the next day. My life was always go, go, go…and his was slow and easy.

But I was still a product of small town thinking. By the time I was going on twenty-four, my grandparents disclosed there were reports of grumbling from my old home town. Is she ever going to settle down? Hasn’t she found a husband yet? She’s almost twenty-four, for God’s sake…she likes men, doesn’t she? Soon she’ll be too old to have children. Even two of my best friends at Pan Am had already gotten married. The pressure was on to make the next move.

Alright, I’ll admit it, I buckled. I had been asked by several men in college to marry them, but it seemed absurd at the time. I felt I was too young and having way too much fun to be tied down! But by this time, Wes and I had been “dating” for two years. He had asked me once to marry him, but I told him no. He said, “Careful, I may not ask you again.” Inwardly, I laughed, but after several months I began to give it careful consideration. I am almost twenty-four years old. What if he doesn’t ask me again? What if no one ever asks me again? What if I wind up an old maid?

That line of thinking may seem ridiculous now, but during that time, women actually thought that way, especially if you grew up in a small farming community. Being old and unmarried was a real fear. So one night while we were sitting at the table eating pork chops, he brought it up again. “I don’t know why you won’t marry me.”

I said, “You told me you may never ask me again.”

He said, “Well, I’m asking you now.”

I said, “Okay.”

That was it. Not exactly the proposal every woman dreams of, but that’s how I found myself standing at the end of the church pouring over the right moment to tell the congregation of friends and family that I was backing out. * * * I went over various scenarios while my Mom and I were in the dressing room putting on my wedding dress and veil. Nothing sounded right. When I came out and stood next to my Dad, preparing to walk down the aisle, I took a deep breath and looked at him. I was prepared to say, “Dad, I’ve changed my mind.” The bridesmaids had already started down the aisle. I looked into his eyes. This man will kill me if I stop everything now. The dress, bridesmaid’s dresses, flowers and reception are all paid for and the event is in process. Not a good time.

He took my arm and we started down the aisle. My mind raced. I can stop half-way down the aisle, thank everyone for coming and tell them I’ve changed my mind. I looked from side to side at the beaming faces of friends and family. I couldn’t look at them. I need to say it when I’m not looking into their eyes. I’ll tell the minister, then turn to face them. By that time my Dad can’t reach me to react and I’ll only see a sea of faces, not these individual eyes staring at me.

That was the plan. But by the time Dad handed me over to Wes and we stood in front of the minister, I became acutely aware of what my actions would do to Wes. I can’t do that to him. In a moment of madness, I actually came to the conclusion that I would go ahead with the ceremony and just not sign the documents afterwards. My reasoning was that if I didn’t sign the paperwork, the marriage wouldn’t be legal. It seemed like the perfect plan. I wouldn’t have to face the congregation or my parents and I would save Wes the embarrassment of bowing out of the ceremony at the last moment in front of all our friends and family.

Well, sometimes we learn lessons a bit too late. That’s not the way a wedding ceremony works. Imagine my surprise when, after the minister pronounced us husband and wife, we went back to the reception line. I was advised there were no legal documents to sign. What? As soon as you’re married, there’s a receiving line and wedding pictures to be taken and then you hurry off to the reception. So I drank.

We had one hell of a reception, I’ll have to say that. Everyone had such a good time, it was talked about for years afterwards. Our usher ran off with the best man’s girlfriend, the up-tight cousin from a strict religious family wound up drunk, face down in the front yard and the party went on past the time of the reception into the wee hours of the morning back in my parents’ back yard. I had a great time. After all, what party girl doesn’t love a good party?

Earlier, I said I felt as if I was a surfer who simply rode the wave, hanging on, hoping for a smooth ending. Well, life doesn’t always have smooth VOL 8, ISSUE 5

endings. I should have trusted my heart, knowing that the quiet and silent glide to the shore would not hold the thrill, excitement and danger that I craved in life. Wes had all the right ingredients for a normal woman to be perfectly happy. He is stable, kind, dependable and a wonderful father. The key word there is “normal.”

The first several years of marriage I thought we had a lot in common. We seemed to love to do the same things. It was only after the initial thrill of marriage wore off and things settled down to the point he could just “be himself” that I discovered that the Wes I thought I knew wasn’t the real Wes at all. He didn’t like all the travel and volleyball games and parties and constantly doing things. He was happier just staying home, sitting on the couch watching basketball or football games. He enjoyed being a loner.

What? Who is this man?

For almost ten years and two kids, we tried to make it work. We desperately attempted to meet on middle ground, but in doing so, we both gave up so much of ourselves and who we were that we grew to resent who we had to become. The distance between us became greater. We began leading separate lives, each pursuing what we enjoyed most. He stayed home and watched television while I went out with friends on bicycle trips, volleyball games, classes and events. Later, when we had children, the kids and I went on hikes, had “Sunday Family Fun Days”, went bicycling, swimming, to the zoo…all without him. The division became a chasm. Finally, we gave up the fight.

Years later, after my divorce, a good friend’s response to a statement I made once took me completely by surprise. I lamented that I didn’t know why I was having so much trouble dating, since I was so easy to entertain. He said, “Are you kidding me?” I looked at him. “You have to be the most difficult woman ever to keep interested,” he continued.

I looked at him in shock and said, “What do you mean? I’m happy doing almost anything! A guy can suggest almost anything and I’d be up for doing it.

I don’t care if it’s pulling a futon out on the patio to look at the stars!”

“True,” he said, “But it takes a very special man who can continue to keep coming up with ideas that will keep you interested. You thrive on the unexpected.”

Hmmm. He gave me something to think about. It didn’t take me long to realize he was right. There it was in a nutshell. My Mom always told me that I was one of those people who could be given a ball of sting and keep herself entertained for hours. I can find pleasure in the smallest things. As a result, I assumed I was easily entertained. But my curiosity and zest for life keeps me craving something new and different to experience or learn. Unfortunately, Mr. Excitement, as I affectionately called Wes, was the antithesis of that.

Comfortable in routine, the predictable and a solid, comfortable home life, he could never keep me interested enough. There’s nothing wrong with that; we’re just different.

Fortunately, we were adult about our situation and pending divorce. Our feeling was that because of those two children, we were going to be bound together for life. We could either make each other’s life (and the kids’ lives) a living hell, or we could work together. We chose to work together. We divorced amicably through arbitration rather than attorneys after twenty years of marriage and two children. We created a Parenting Agreement that basically said that the divorce was between the two of us and not our children. Neither parent would say anything bad about the other in front of the kids and would support the other as a parent. It worked. Friends and family say that we have the most nuclear divorced family they’ve ever met.

We continue to parent together and remain good friends today, just as we were over forty years ago. Occasionally all four of us go on vacation together, David and Wes staying in one room and Erin and I in another. We laugh and we cry together during the good times and the bad. We celebrate holidays and birthdays as a family and work together to be good parents for our children, trying to continue to be a united front. He’s there for me when I need help and I’m there for him. We’re both always there for our children.

We joke that in 2021 we will celebrate fifty years together, even though we’re not married. We will celebrate as two old friends who worked together to make a divorced couple raise two well-adjusted children. We will celebrate life as it really is.

Linda Boltman is a writer and a painter. She has published nine ebooks on Smashwords, which have been released in the U.S. and internationally. Her short story, “The Captive” was selected by San Diego Writer's Ink Anthology, Vol 4 in 2010 as representing one of San Diego's finest writers. Linda’s stories have appeared in Tough Lit Magazine, GreenPrints, Grand Magazine and The San Diego Reader.

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9

Embracing the New

by Charles E.J. Moulton Somehow, Ulf knew it even before his boss gave him the news— the obvious hidden hints, the lengthy lectures about having to save money, the boss waffling back and forth when Ulf needed assistance.

Ulf knew it all along.

He bit on the pencil, feeling the wood and the aluminium leave that bitter tinge on his tongue. It tasted like detergent.

Leaning back, Ulf analyzed the situation. Ulf drank no beer and he told no dirty jokes. His honesty, his happy wit without sexual innuendo, his “niceness,” his efforts to unify the staff: all that hit a metaphoric brick wall. Strange thing, though. The only staff member not interested in any game sports still got along with everyone. No complaints ever reached his office. So, why had he been fired?

Because of Paul Matthews? Nepotism? What was this about?

Refusing to join the company Superbowl party?

That letter lay on his desk, printed on high quality paper, signed by his one superior.

The managing director, so he said, wanted to hand out Ulf’s tasks to the other departments. That closed position would bring in more money, he said. The boss gave out several notifications of contract termination and all of them, supposedly, because of financial emergency. Ulf’s assumption of economic prosperity triggered smiles. He knew the books. He saw the papers. The economy prospered. What was this? Why was Matthews lying?

Ulf stood up, throwing his pencil into the pen holder, walking to the window.

He mumbled something to himself, shaking his head, loosening his tie.

“New York City, I won’t give you up this easily. Not because of some boss that would rather hire his nephew.”

He sighed.

The knock on the door startled Ulf. Looking toward the door, he cleared his throat.

“Come in,” he said.

The doorknob turned slowly. In spite of that sinister feeling, he had to laugh. So many horror movies showed him that doorknob turning.

Now, that door opened revealing not a monster, but a pretty girl. His eyes met black shoes, a grey skirt, a white blouse and brown hair tied into a bun. The woman walked in, smiling sadly. The look of defeat spread across her features like a plague. Ulf’s eyes met the woman’s eyes and for a moment the spiritual connection persisted. Chemistry, no, spirit soared within. Ulf knew what she held in her hand.

“Can I come in?” the woman asked.

Ulf nodded. “Come on in, Barbara.”

The woman walked in, closing the door behind her.

She stopped at the front of the desk, saw the letter on Ulf’s desk and sighed.

“He gave you one, too.”

Ulf nodded.

“You needn’t worry that the staff dislikes you. I told them that you probably have been fired as well. You’re not a member of Matthews’ club.”

Ulf nodded. “Not many people in this company can sport a Harvard degree. This isn’t about skill. This is nepotism. He would rather turn this into a family company.”

Barbara slumped down in the chair. “The five people who didn’t join the company field trip last month were all fired.”

Ulf raised his eyebrows. “He can’t fire people because they didn’t join a party.”

“He can fire people because they don’t fit in.”

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Ulf turned around and waved one finger in the air.

“Because he thinks they don’t fit in.”

Barbara shook her head. “He is a bastard.”

Ulf leaned back in his chair again and looked out the window at the skyscrapers.

“We’ve got to fight this.”

Ulf felt Barbara looking at him, her eyes tenderly caressing him, her breath shallow, waiting and wondering what to say.

“How?” Ulf looked back at her. His tender gaze triggered an even more tender response.

“I know that nerdy geek he wants to fill my position. The guy is fresh out of some two-bit college. No experience, just a flashy grin.

Call the union. Something. I don’t know.”

Barbara cocked her head, closed her eyes and nodded.

“He is probably going to replace me with his younger sister.”

Ulf shook his head, looking out the window.

Another careful knock at the door brought the attention of the sad couple. Silence met the three people that slowly wandered into the assistant manager’s office.

The smallest of the three people stuck his nose in the door. His thick glasses covered half of his face and was only exceeded by the amount of hairgel smeared on his head.

“Hi,” the man said, smiling. “Am I disturbing something?”

Ulf shook his head. “No, no. Come on in, Scott! You’re most welcome!”

Carefully, the shy man wandered in. The mousy looking secretary that followed him clutched the same letter that all of them held in their hands. The sorry bunch reached its climax with a a tall, lanky boy in a suit about a size and half too big for his corpus.

Ulf knew them all. Extraordinarily competent and hard working people. Misfits. People, who didn’t follow the crowd. Loners, independant thinkers. Ulf knew that no one had anything against them. No one but Paul Matthews responsible for firing these five, he also knew that no one wanted to socialize with them. Somehow, Ulf, Barbara, Scott, Laura and Robert had found each other. They loved classical music, bike riding and Woody Allen. Everyone else spent the field trip indulging in beer, superbowl and raunchy jokes. The decision not to visit the superbowl and sports party was based on a mutual understanding between the five. Was this a reason for letting them go?

No, Ulf thought to himself. However, the last nail in the coffin now rested in its socket.

Soundlessly, Scott and Laura sat down in the two remaining chairs.

Robert decided to lean against the archive closet.

So much hope here, Ulf thought to himself. It seemed hopeless to fulfill all of that hope. A loser named Ulf took four other losers by the hand.

He slumped further down into his leather chair.

“We have all been fired, colleagues,” he said. “We know that this is only Paul Matthews’ decision, based on the fact that we are different, that we don’t drink beer or slap each other’s backs. That is just one step away from fascism. I don’t really think anyone else minds. What’s the verdict on this?”

Laura raised her finger. She looked like a schoolgirl afraid to displease the teacher.

“You can speak up, Laura. You don’t have to be afraid.”

The girl smiled insecurely. “It’s just that this came as a shock. I really need this job. I base my entire medical insurance on this. I am a diabetic and I am not sure that I can support my dad without this money. We should sue. We know we are good. I have not called in sick once. I always hand in my reports on time. I am friendly to the customers. I don’t know what this is about, folks.” Laura spoke louder now. Her courage soared. “This is unfair. Just because some hotshot Yale grad wants to hire his family, I have to go to welfare and

SUMMER 2013

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collect social cash. Who knows what might happen? A homeless diabetic might just die.”

Scott shook his head frantically, wrinkling his nose in order to support up his glasses. Sweat dripped off his forehead down on to the chair he sat on.

“Take it easy, Laura. No one is gonna die. We just gotta fight this. I think we have to fight this. What do you say, Ulf?” Scott stood up. Ulf looked up at the nerdiest guy in the staff, turning into Che Guevara.

Ulf suddenly realized how sad he was. The son of a Swedish immigrant, who had come to America with nothing but a bag and some dreams. On his deathbed, his dad made him promise never to give up his dreams. Had he actually come all this way just to sell his goals to some creep?

Ulf stood up, nodding. “I’m talking to the staff. We’ll have to see what they say.”

Barbara’s eyes opened wide, full of admiration. The prettiest girl in the staff now seemed to admire him more than ever. Okay, Ulf knew that his manhood never needed a boost to go ahead with this, but the nice bonus of her support made it easier.

The assistant manager took a look at the lanky guy over by the closet in his Walmart suit. “Robert, you with me on this?”

The man received an inner poise from an unknown source. He nodded. “Yes.” Now, these five people ceased to be losers.

They were winners, fighting a common cause.

Ulf strode to the door, grabbed the doorknob and turned to his colleagues.

He felt like Abraham Lincoln freeing the slaves.

“Stand behind me. I going to hold a speech.”

Ulf’s hands shook, his heartbeat sped up.

“I have to do this. All or nothing.”

His four devoted staff members smiled. “We’re behind you on this.”

“Here goes nothing.”

As Ulf opened the door, a good two dozen perplexed faces stared up at him. The bleeping of the computers ceased, the receivers returned to their telephones, pens dropped onto the floor, paperclips became at one with the documents.

Silence, a stunned silence, met him. He must’ve looked like the leader of a very small gang of sad rebels fighting a hopeless cause.

Ulf looked at each and every one of these faces. Brave faces, weak faces, faces lacking courage, faces lacking strength, faces full of love and faces full of questions.

“Colleagues and fellow professionals. I have an announcement to make, so would you please listen. This morning, I and the four other peers behind were fired. You probably know us as friendly colleagues, but five such that mostly keep to ourselves. It is Paul Matthews’ belief that we don’t fit in, so he wants to replace us with his nephews and sisters. That is called nepotism. It is also fascism.

You know me as a professional that helped turn this company into what it is today,” he began. He pointed to Paul Matthews’ executive room down the hall. “That man is not the only one responsible for the success. Still,” he said, walking around the room and gathering courage, “he claims we need to cut expenses and so he has fired me and four other people who didn’t join the company field trip to Shea Stadium last month. We don’t think that is politically correct.”

The chatter now sounded like a buzz of bees approaching a honey jar. Staff members looked at each other and shook their heads.

“I am sure that you were not angry at us five for not joing you.”

More than ten shook their heads. A couple of “of course not”reponses accompanied the occasional “you guys are great”comments.

“Nevertheless, Paul Matthews has now used our absense from the VOL 8, ISSUE 5

field trip as a means to fire us and hire his family. He doesn’t want to admit that. He tells us we need to save money, but I do those books. Our economy prospers. This has to be illegal. The least we got to do is fight it. Are you with me here?”

One person, an older gentleman, sprung up from his seat. Right away, three others followed. Soon enough, the whole staff of twenty something workers stood applauding. The five, formerly sad and now hopeful, staff members, hopelessly devoted to a lost cause, started laughing. Laura gave out a loud sigh, at last seeing herself being able to keep injecting insulin and paying for her dad’s nurse.

The standing ovation triggered an opening door. A fat executive came out, clutching a contract. A younger woman came out behind him. Her dyed red hair was tousled and her unbuttoned blouse was wrinkled.

“What the hell is going on here?” he spat.

Ulf’s body still faced the staff, but his head turned toward Matthews. All of the fear gone, he gave the executive a snotty grin.

He felt nothing but contempt for this man. Now, this wave of strength from almost thirty people behind him made him strong. The spiritual support he felt made him feel like a surfer on a wave. He couldn’t lose.

Someone behind Ulf, he didn’t know who it was, shouted: “You can’t seriously mean you are firing these people?”

Another one added: “If you do, I am quitting, as well.”

Paul Matthews grew pale. His cocky ego shrunk to the size of a peanut.

He stammered: “Uhmm, I don’t know what you mean ...”

A young man shot up from his desk, passed Ulf and ran up to his fat boss, scaring the woman that stood behind him and said: “If you think that all your sexual innuendo jokes and all that beer really impress us, you are out of your mind, man. I should’ve stayed home, just like those five brave people. Stop telling those stupid jokes. We are not like you.”

The young blonde computer operator pointed at Ulf and the others, who grinned from ear to ear.

“If you fire them, I am leaving.”

Paul Matthews started laughing.

“You can’t seriously mean that ...”

The young man ran back to his desk.

“I go to the opera in my free time. I drink wine. I read Shakespeare.

If you fire them because they are different, that is called fascism.”

“Come on,” Matthews began. “Who is talking about firing anyone because they are different?”

The older man that started the standing ovation spoke up.

“Why have these five outsiders been fired after not joing the field trip?”

“If that is not the case, then fire us,” a blonde woman exclaimed.

The blonde computer operator crammed in his desk and brought out a key. Running back to his boss, he dangled the key in front of his face. “Look, man. Here is the key to my locker. You can have it. They go, I go.”

Matthews turned his back, swung around a few times, started sweating, stammered, paced the hallway and the pointed at the rest of his staff. All of them remained standing with folded arms. They had not moved since the standing ovation in Ulf’s favour.

“What about the rest of you?”

After a short silence, a few workers agreed: “You will loose at least half of us.”

“At least half of us,” the older man shouted.

Paul Matthews sighed, rubbed his forehead and turned around to the sexy redhead behind him. After exchanging a few words, she grabbed her bag and left for the elavator. The boss walked up to the five victimized staff members. He took away all the official documents they were clutching, claiming they were fired, and

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13

walked to the door of his office. There he turned around and ripped the five documents into small pieces. Before striding back into his office, he threw the scraps of paper into a wastebin and muttered: “For all I care, we can go to the opera next time.”

The young, brave staff member answered: “If you don’t behave better, sir, there’s not gonna be a next time for you.”

Paul Matthews gave the man a dirty look, but said nothing more.

The executive door closed and with it a cheer arose that transported itself to every member of the staff. The greater portion of the company colleagues rushed toward Ulf, Barbara, Laura, Scott and Robert. Exchanged embraces followed kisses and congratulations. Scott felt more akward than Laura. He kept looking back and forth for a way out. The lanky Robert in his oversize suit tried to seem cool and only succeeded because he stayed close to Ulf. Barbara felt secure only because she stayed close to Ulf. And Ulf’s gnawing feeling persisted. He had his staff behind him. Not just those four victims, but everyone. A feeling of pride in having turned a hopeless situation into a victory made him feel strong. But without complete collaboration, prosperity would disintergrate. The staff unified, they still had the executive manager against them. This made Ulf uneasy.

Ulf shook hands, he smiled and nodded. All the while, he shifted from foot to foot, grinning nervously. A couple of people chatted, invited him for coffee, and exchanged ideas. Someone asked him for advice. Laura sat down with Scott and the older man and started brainstorming ideas. Ulf and Barbara chatted with the computer operator, but all the while Matthews drilled into his brain like an insect. The nervous feeling bugged him. A united staff against one man? Why not try to get him on our side?

Barbara seemed oblivious to all of this. She held on to what seemed to be a new boyfriend, but that boyfriend seemed only keen on striding into the manager’s office.

Ulf wanted to work toward creating a colleagial atmosphere where mutual understanding at the workplace rose the level of competence. Field trips or no, professional competence and a caring respect among professionals could bring more than fake laughter and beer by a billiard table or a football game.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

Ulf put his hand on Barbara’s shoulder and said: “Excuse me, dear. I have to do something.”

Was it the right decision? Ulf did not know. He just knew that his hands shook again, more heavily this time. But he had gone too far down the road to be a chicken. He had to do this now. He just had to follow his gut. A company divided against itself must fall.

He knocked on the executive door.

No answer. Taking a big risk, he clutched the doorknob and turned it, feeling like that monster in the horror movies.

Slowly, he opened it.

Matthews sat behind his desk, reading Carter’s Executive Manual, when Ulf came in.

He looked up. “You won,” he spat. “Are you coming in to gloat? Buzz off already!”

Ulf shook his head and walked in. He closed the door behind him. “No, we have to settle this. The whole company is unified and still you see out there that people are different. Not everyone likes beer, not everyone likes football, not everyone is your nephew.”

Matthews threw the book on the desk with a loud slam, pointing the finger at Ulf and standing up. “You are pushing this way too far, man.”

Ulf’s hands still shook, but now his yellow belly felt like steel.

He walked to the door and knocked on it from the inside.

“You have close to thirty people together on this out there. The union is going to go crazy. If you now try to replace anyone with the members of your family, you are going to see yourself without a company or without a job. Get your priorities straight. You have to speak to the staff, Paul. You have to.

Don’t turn this into a personal vendetta or you will loose your company.

Choose what road you want to take.”

Ulf walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Taking fast steps away from the executive office, he strode over to his room. Before he got there, the executive door opened. Out came Matthews, who seemed more like a lost school boy than a CEO. He cleared his throat.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Could you not leave me? I have an announcement to make and it concerns all of you.”

Ulf turned around and looked at his superior officer. That overweight, egocentric personality began shifting. Now, the cocky, brash CEO

14

transformed. Modesty mingled into his persona. The attention of the staff rose to the level of acute awareness. Everyone listened. For the first time in all those years, everyone listened.

In that silence, you could hear a pin drop.

Hitler apologized for killing the Jews.

Matthews started laughing nervously, trying to approach his staff for the first time, not on his own terms. On their terms.

“I guess I was wrong for trying to impose my lifestyle on yours. When I founded this company almost two decades ago, I tried to assemble people who I thought were like me. When I saw that these five distinguished people remained outsiders, in spite of my efforts to intergrate them, I drifted back to those days when I myself felt like an outsider and wanted to gather people around me that were like me. My ways of keeping the staff together were wrong. It almost took a disaster for me to realize that just now. Of course, you don’t need to like beer or superbowl to work here. We don’t have to like the same thing. This is a workplace, not a country club. In the continuation, we can have our parties right here at there office, but only if you want to come. If not, that’s fine, too. No one will get fired because of it. We are not family, only colleagues. I am sorry that I tried to push my familiarity upon you.

Let’s keep business and private in the two different areas where they belong.

I will not hire any members of my family and I will not fire anyone because he is different.”

Paul Matthews analyzed the faces that looked more like frozen statues than a company staff, so he nodded humbly and smiled.

“Thanks for listening.”

The mixture of stunned surprise and sceptic wonder spread across the hallways of the small company. The desks were no longer overloaded with obligations. The documents on there seemed to entail hopeful promise.

Insecure happiness arose on the faces of the peers. The staff members looked at each other and then finally at Ulf and Barbara, who stood hand in hand outside his own office, kissing.

Matthews shrugged. “That is all. Go back to work.”

He turned to go back to his office. But before Paul Matthews could close the door, Ulf withdrew his lips from his new girlfriend and started clapping his hands. The shock of the assistant manager supporting his enemy inspired some strange gazes. Ulf walked closer to Matthews. When he did, Barbara joined in. Scott, Laura, Robert, the computer operator, the old man, the blonde woman. Soon, the entire staff arose, applauding.

Matthews turned toward his company, first with fear, then with shy surprise and finally with happiness. He started laughing, realizing that he actually had created the kind of company he had wanted all along. He had done so, not by holding on to the old ways. He achieved his goals only by embracing what was new.

A single thought arose in his heart: “Sometimes, in order to stay the same, you have to go through fundamental change.”

The elevator to the company floor opened and an elegant young couple wandered in. They seemed to be handsome, well dressed, rich customers that could bring money into an aspiring firm. When they saw the thirty staff members applauding their boss, their perplexed faces spoke volumes.

However, it gave them joy to see a company so unified. That impressed them and made them smile.

The woman turned to her husband and said: “This seems to be the company for us.”

Agreeing with her, the husband strode up to speak to the first person that seemed to be the manager. They chose not Paul Matthews, but Ulf. Matthews only smiled. He knew his company staff gave him support.

If Ulf needed him, he would come.

All was well. New customers were arriving.

Paul Matthews walked in and closed his door. This time, he put Carter’s Executive Manual into the bookshelf and brought out another book, A Guide to Creative Professionalism by Ulf Hansen, the only man in the staff carrying a Harvard degree.

Charles Moulton has been a professional stage performer since he was 11.

Charles is following in his father's literary footsteps as a professional writer with credits such as the short story “The Bloodhound & the Magician” in Another Wild West (Pill Hill Press), book reviews and articles for The Battle Cry as well as biographical articles for Vocal Images and Hackwriters. Charles graduated from Stagnelius High School in Sweden. For more information about his career, go to: http://www.reverbnation.com/charlesejmoulton

SUMMER 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

THE MRS. MARDORF SAGA From the Glen-Ellyn-Biography “Damn the Depression, Anyway!” by the late, great Herbert Eyre Moulton As a professional actor, I have had the joy of working worldwide with the likes of Clint Eastwood, Alan Rickman and Larry Hagman.

Being MCA’s star in the Dinner-Show-Scene in the 1950’s proved to be just as fun as conducting the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir during the Korean War. The joy of spending my later professional years creating student programmes for the Austrian Radio and becoming well-known as the commercial face for Viennese chocolate and continental banks crowned my career.

Not bad for kid from Glen Ellyn, Illinois.

I never forgot my roots.

Therefore, I will take you back to those good old days before Illinois was online. Back then, life was different. And I’ve often wondered: was it only during Depression times that people got so overly sentimental or has the economy nothing to do with it? I recall tears shed by my mother Nell and her lady friends, sitting in our Glen Ellyn house at 429 Taylor Avenue, on occasions both doleful and joyous. I always put down these lachrymose demonstrations as being a part of the territory, and on Nell’s part, pure Irish.

But others, as well. Menfolk, even myself included, often succumb.

Turn on Puccini’s La Boheme and watch my reaction. Breaking down and having a good cry has always been a kind of release from the tensions of hard times, especially the 30’s in Glen Ellyn, as I remember them.

The very titles of the films saw at the old Glen can still tickle the tear ducts: Of Human Hearts, Valient is the Word for Carrie, Imitation of Life, Stella Dallas, Little Women, Dark Victory. Not to mention those that came later, such as the Lassie series. Anything to do with animals, strays or otherwise made us awash in sentiment, most likely as a counterbalance to universal unemployment and businesses and banks folding up like lawn chairs.

Among countless birthday cards and scattered newspaper clippings, as well as documents about carnival prizes and Pet-andHobby-Shows, are a series of post cards, notes, booklets and prayers from the First Congretional Church Sunday School to which my devout Catholic mother sent me from 1931 to 1933. Our family was a living Ecumenical Movement. My father Big Herb was from old Protestant stock, Nell an intense “bead-roller,” all three of us dwelling in splendiferous peace and harmony, decades before Pope John XXIII. Nell and my redoubtable Sunday School teacher Mrs. Mardorf prepared me better for my Christian future than they knew.

Although portions of this collection are sentimental, they still count as authentic Depression Days attitudes, the very stuff of our lives in those far-off, no doubt over-romanticized times. Anyone who has leafed through these Moulton family books has paused smiling, sometimes laughing at, for example, all the “We-miss-your-smilingface”-bits and “Your-little-chair was empty”-quotes.

I seemed to have been absent a lot.

Of the contents in general, the common opinion has always been: “But what a legacy your parents have left you! These are priceless!

They could never be replaced!”

Decades before Women’s Lib, here we have endearing and enduring evidence, as if it were really needed, of how strong a matriarchal a society America was in those days, and all the better for it.

Our sentimental saga begins with my immortal words: “Now I go to Sunday School, and I enjoy it so much!”

VOL 8, ISSUE 5

MY FIRST DIPLOMA This certifies that Herbert Moulton is promoted from the Cradle Roll Department of the Glen Ellyn First Congretional Church to the Beginner’s Department.

(Three impressive signatures) st September 21 , 1931 So, I’d been attending that stalwart Cradle Roll Department for some time before I received my first diploma, which was accorded all the deference and respect such a document might receive were it issued from Oxford or Yale. Pinned to it was a lapel button with a toddler’s face and Beginner’s Department, which I still wear now and then for fun.

My entrance into that department, however, was accompanied with the usual childhood “disease”. Mine, luckily, were always of the mildest variety, beginning with...

Glen Ellen News, Friday, September 30th, 1931 ILL WITH WHOPPING COUGH Little Herbert Moulton of 429 Taylor Avenue, is quaranteened at the present time with Whopping Cough. At least, that’s what the sign next to the Moulton’s front door states. Luckily, this is an extremely mild case, due perhaps to the nine injections administered lately by the family doctor from Villa Park.

Nevertheless, Little Herbert will have to be quaranteened for at least another two weeks. He is grateful for all the phone calls and Get-Well-cards he has received and he and his parents hope it will not be long before he is his usual happy smiling self and out among his little friends once again.

Nell pasted the clipping into the Moulton Family Album and next to it, of course, the usual photo of the little patient, big as life and smilingly pointing to the quaranteen sign at the front door.

This caused a ripple among that same circle when Nell sent one them, Irene Marley from across the street, home in tears because of the quaranteen. A moment later came an indignant phone call from Irene’s mom, Myrtle, a strict Catholic-turned-Christian-Scientist.

“You don’t have to worry about Irene,” said Myrtle. “She’s God’s child. Nothing can happen to her.”

“Well,” countered Nell. “Herbert is Nell’s child and he is quaranteened by law because he has a contagious disease. Irene can come back and play when the sign is down.”

My light siege of illness (neither a whoop nor a cough, apparently) brought a nice post card from Mrs. Mardorf, ever on the job, bless her. It depicts two sad looking little urchins seated on either side of an empty chair and looking utterly despondent.

The printed message reads: “Your little chair is empty We miss your smiling face, We certainly hope next Sunday Will find you in your place.”

Note: even then people were seeking to put Little Herbert in his place.

And a personal note, of course, from Mrs. M.: “Dear Herbert, we surely miss you at Sunday School and hope you can come back soon. It was so nice of Mother to call when you could not come. Lots of wishes for a speedy recovery from Mrs. Mardorf and the Beginner’s Department.”

I was no sooner back among my Little Friends when one of them, again Bold Irene, God’s Child, lured me into a nasty accident. Four months older than me, she was forever challenging me into feats of derring-do, this time to ride my three-wheel velocipede down the

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little hill in our yard. Well, of course I did, and of course, somehow I crashed against the edge of the cement sidewalk, causing a broken collar-bone and a lot of pain, as well as indignation from Nell.

Again, she dispatched my Dulcinea in floods of tears and rushed me to the hospital.

Back in the headlines once again: Glen Ellyn News, Friday, November 6th, 1931 FALLS FROM VELOCIPEDE Little Herbert Moulton, 429 Taylor Avenue, is once more on the village sick-list. He fell from his velocipede last Saturday and is suffering from a broken collar-bone and sprained wrist. He getting along nicely, however, and it is hoped he will soon be his happy self again.

Accompanying photo shows plump patient on the front walk, outrageously smiling, right arm in a sling, and left entwined round a broomstick – whether to fly away on or just to sweep the leaves away, who knows? Nell’s handwritten comment: “Just a little fall, but a big ‘airplane’ brace which I wore for three weeks.”

Lord, the woman tempted me.

And sure enough, a day or so later, our friendly mailman, Mr. Gorman, delivered the following from – you guessed it – Mrs. Mardorf and Co. Two tots in mini-cloche hats clutching buttercups on their way to a distant church: “I think these tots are talking As to Sunday School they‘re walking, They’re wondering if they’ll see your smiling face.

For you’re missed when you’re away, And I hear the children say That they’re always glad to see you in your place.”

We missed your little face this morning. I hope you are not ill for if you are I’d be very sorry. I will look for you next Sunday. Love from Mrs. M. It did the trick.

Besides spending my life on the theatrical stage, I would later study theology, conduct the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir in Georgia and sing hundreds of church concerts.

At that point, though, the Glen Ellyn son of an Irish immigrant was more intent on lying in bed and reading Superman comics. Okay, and listen to my father’s opera records.

I took a longer look at Mrs. Mardorf’s enclosed picture of Jesus and his lost sheep painting with a caption: The Savior said: My sheep hear my voice and follow me. – John 10:27 A subtle hint for little Herbert? th Now, with the breaking news of March 6 , 1932, we come to one of the landmark news items. The headline alone, if chanted over and over again, becomes a fine Mantra: HERBERT MOULTON JR. IS ALIVE AND WELL The Glen Ellyn News, Friday, March 4, 1932

(Note: again that emphasis on putting me in my place.)

Dear Herbert, writes Mrs. M., we surely missed your little smile last Sunday and we were all sorry you were hurt. We want you to come back as soon as you feel able. We will be glad to see you. Love, Mrs. Mardorf Christmas 1931, on 429 Taylor Avenue in Glen Ellyn, produced a pasted example of my own handiwork. It featured an extremely creepy bit of verse, as gooey as it was theologically bogus.

Back in the good old days of the Holy Inquisition it doubtless would have led to an extended session on the rack. The Sexist Propaganda machine had been working overtime: “I know that God loves me, Mother dear, Because you tell me so, He loves me every single day, And all the whole night thru, I have never seen him, really, Nor heard his voice, ‘tis true, But when you hold me close, I know he looks and talks like you.”

The next step is outright Worship-of-the-Mother-Goddess, or just plain old-fashioned American Mom-Adoration. And the Grand Inquisitor is already heating up the irons.

For this effort, we used flour-and-water paste and I was soon standing in a puddle of water, to my intense embarrassment. As I remember the actual Christmas foll-de-roll, though, it was all, in a word, glorious. Even the visit from St. Nick, who always polished off the sherry and cakes my folks had left for him by the fireplace, was impressed. th The first Sunday of new year, January 4 1932, was the first Sunday in a year for the world and for America: Happy Nadir, 16

Everybody!

But with The Mrs. Mardorf Saga, it was just a variation on an old theme.

For the first time, a certain crispness informs the greeting. But first the printed biblical bit – with a rather sugary picture picture of Jesus as The Good Shepherd – and the request: May we not count on you to be with the other children in Sunday School next Sunday?

And the weekly pep-talk from our Mrs. Mardorf continued:

Little Herbert Moulton, son of Mr. and Mrs. Moulton, of 429 Taylor Avenue, was reported to have been electrocuted on Wednesday by a live wire, which was absolutely untrue, but the rumor spread like wildfire and Mr. and Mrs. Moulton have had a constant stream of visitors and telephone calls from friends who heard of this report.

They are very grateful and appreciative of all the kindness, courtesy and sympathy shown by everyone in what seemed a terrible calamity and want them all to know that they have a new conception of the generous and sympathtic heart of all Glen Ellyn, and especially of little Herbert’s place among his friends and their parents.

How the story started no one knows, but young Herbert is alive and well, we are told.

I well remember the circumstances centering around this nugget.

One of those horrendous ice-storms that devestate the Midwest along about March every few years. We’d been out somewhere in the car, and when we came over the hill and approached our house, we saw a crowd of people gathered outside the front door – all of them there to check out this story they’d heard about what Nell in her report so modestly called “a terrible calamity”.

There, my mental newsreel ends, but it’s obviously a true recollection.

Seven decades later, my friend Cal Potts in his Golden Oldies periodical The Gray Bard, reprinted it for kicks, and it got considerable feedback. Throughout, one detects the fine IrishFlorentine hand of Nellie Moulton.

Anything for publicity, some of the latest readers grumbled, even at the age of four. Reuters, Time, CNN, feel free to copy.

Springtime, 1932, Glen Ellyn, Illinois.

My happy, smiling face seems to have been missing quite a lot that season, for here’s the next number in the on-going Mardorf-Moulton website correspondence, 1932-style. The postmark is incomplete, but the sentiment is as ever compelling. * * *

SUMMER 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

The postcard depicts a forlorn landscape, and not for the first time we have a brace of tykes – umbrella, raincoats – gazing at a vast rainbow across a darkling sky, with a text that wouldn’t have been out of place in one of those highway Burma-Shave advertising series:

Thru the years that used to be, Many time you caught me bluffing Just to keep you close to me.

Thru my sorrows you would cheer me, Driving all my tears away, And I feel your presence near me, Mother mine, on Mother’s Day.

Did you ever see a rainbow Lacking yellow, red or blue?

Well, your class is such a rainbow, And the missing part is you!

For my love for you increases With the coming of each dawn.

Like the sun it never ceases Though my baby shoes are gone.

And Mrs. Mardorf’s inevitable follow-up: Dear Herbert, we missed you so today and hope you are not ill.

Please come back soon for your little chair is so empty and we miss you so. Love, Mrs. Mardorf It sounds a bit like Lilliput-Land, doesn’t it?

It must have been in May 1932 that the iron entered the soul of Mrs. Mardorf for good and all. Here’s the next, mimeographed with spaces left to fill in the names. Mother’s Day and the most unashamedly sexist effort yet ...

Dad could just as well have dropped dead years before.

The form, dialogue, is, of course, pure ancient Greek.

Anon. (as well it might be!)

Friday, July 15th, 1932 – Well, I do remember birthdays in our cosy Sunday School.

Delicious home-baked cakes with lighted candles, fruit juice, and being allowed to waltz up to the front of the room where the paper birthday apple-tree stood, covered with paper-blossoms, and pick out one to take home and keep as a souvenir – which I did, for almost 70 years. Verses, too – first on the small tag attached to the blossom, complete with a song-bird:

Dear Herbert – Who do we love most of all in our home? I think it is mother!

(Subtext: And to hell with Dad.) Who loves you most? I think it is mother!

Who gets you ready for Sunday School?

(The tone grows wearier.)

I think it is mother.

(Remember, repetition is one of the cardinal characteristics of Brainwashing.)

Does mother know what a happy time we have in our class every Sunday? We want her to know so we are asking that you bring her next Sunday on Mother’s Day. All the others are asking their mothers, and it would be so lovely to have all our mothers with us.

(And here comes the bottom line, the true nitty-gritty:) Perhaps mother could not come and stay as long as we do, but we would be glad to have her for a little while.

Lovingly, Mrs. Mardorf Rather obvious, wasn’t it?

Mom is welcome to come and hang out for a minute or two, and then get the hell out. Come, come, Mrs. Mardorf, that isn’t like you at all. Maybe, she was having a bad hair day. Not impossible, even with her.

The card was another flour-and-water-paste-up-job with a silhouette.

During this same summer of 1932, I was also enrolled in the Daily Vacarion Bible School at The First Methodist Church, playing no favorites, as always: “My first school days,” writes Nell, “I learned many interesting things, had milk, and enjoyed it very much. Mother took me at 9 and came back for me at noon.”

All I retain from this is the memory of the milk and the vanilla wafers, and laying our heads down on the table afterwards for a little snooze, which had the walls rocking with our cascades of giggles.

In case an emetic is needed at this point, here’s the poem that was cut out of a daily newspaper and pasted next to the Mother’s Day masterpiece. This is one of the several that must have appealed to our editor, Nell – neatly typical of the early 1930’s, and well in keeping with the opening remarks I made about “Period-Sentiment."

TO MOTHER When my baby shoes were scuffing VOL 8, ISSUE 5

Oh, Herbert dear, we’re happy, That the rainbow is now complete, Your Christian future shining, Sunday School is sweet.

Inspired by this warm welcome, I admitted it. I just had to.

Herbert Eyre Moulton, son of an Irish immigrant and a Glen Ellyn salesman with ancestors that arrived with the Mayflower, was after all very happy to be back.

Just like Bogie told Claude Reins at the end of the 1942 film Casablanca: “Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”

Always re-enacting scenes from the movies of my youth, I, in my later years, felt compelled to take Bold Irene to the side and tell her that I was looking at her, kid.

But I might have just told her that I, frankly, didn’t give a damn.

All in all, though, the romantic sentiment of those days gave me hope that humanity’s sense of wonder was a victory in itself.

Herbert Eyre Moulton was born in Elmhurst, Illinois as the grandson of irish immigrants. His great love of theatre and opera lead to a lifetime of wide artistic endeavour. His passion for knowledge inspired him to studies for Roman Catholic Priesthood, Archeology and Literature at University College Dublin and Music at Northwestern University. He sang at the Chicago Opera and conducted the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir for CBS Broadcasts during the Korean War. For MCA he became Herbert Moore singing at New York Supper Clubs and appearing on Broadway. In Ireland, Herbert spent seven highly productive years. Besides film roles and commercial television, he wrote opera librettos, sang at Glyndebourne Festival and performed Shakespeare, Wilde and Musicals in at least in six Dublin Theatres. He married his wife, experienced opera-mezzo Professor Gun Kronzell, in 1966 and began touring Europe with mutual concerts. His Son Charles was born in Graz 1969 and together they all moved to Sweden, where he played such roles as “Sweeney Todd” and Kemp in “Entertaining Mr. Sloane”. His working relationship with the International Theatre spans 3 decades. 6 productions of his plays have been performed here and in over a dozen productions has he played leading and supporting roles at the I.T. Among his favourites were Pollonius in “Hamlet”, Christmas Present in “A Christmas Carol” as well as his roles in “Our Town” and Tennessee Williams’ “The Last of My Solid Gold Watches”. His film credits include Firefox, Dead Flowers, Desert Lunch and Johann Strauss. In Austria he will be most remembered as the Milka Tender Man. Herbert Moulton passed away this year at age 77. His remarkable wit and love of living was a great example to us all. Among his other works are the OffBroadway play “The Minstrel Boy” and his novel “The Twittering Machine.”

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Peter’s Monkeys

by Margaret Reveley Martha lay in an awkward position. She was partially sitting up and one of her hands was free, but her left leg was twisted to the side and bent back at the knee. It hadn’t hurt much at first, but the longer she lay, the more it ached. As uncomfortable as it was, she was thankful that it was not her arthritic right knee, which would have been unbearable. Something sharp was poking into the small of her back, and her Hawaiian print housedress was bunched up under her arm pits. She had tried to push it down, but there was just too much stuff in the way.

“Good afternoon, Vancouver. I’m Chris Channing, and this is your 4 o’clock early news,” a voice said from the living room.

How could it be 4 o’clock? Martha thought.

She must have dozed off. The last thing she heard coming from the TV in the living room was Wheel of Dollars. She knew that came on at 2:30. That meant she had been lying here for over nine hours.

Usually she didn’t leave the TV on all night, but she was thankful she had this time. The voices coming from it had kept her company and given her something to focus on.

“We’ll get to today’s top stories after a look at your weekend weather. Over to you, Tim,” Chris said from the TV. Martha listened to Tim the Weatherman drone on about hours of sunshine and chances of precipitation and what the UV index was going to be. She needed to pee again. She relaxed her bladder just a little and felt warmth spread around her crotch. The relief was so intense she let out a little groan, unable to hold back the flood that followed.

“The weekend looks dry and hot,” Tim the Weatherman said.

“Not for me, Tim. Looks like the old girl has peed herself,” Martha said aloud, her voice lispy from missing teeth.

Her dentures sat in a glass in the bathroom not three feet from where she lay trapped. She ran her tongue around her gums and tried to work up some saliva for her dry mouth. When Gordy was still in the house she would never have gone around without her teeth.

In the two years since he had been gone, she hardly wore them at all anymore.

“Who gives a crap what an old woman looks like?” she said aloud.

She tried again to push back a lopsided tower of magazines that had partially collapsed onto her left side. The pile barely shifted, and a few more did a lazy slide off the top and landed in front of her, the spine of one coming to a stop directly at her eye level. Even without her glasses on, she could see its date clearly—February 15, her boy’s birthday. She loved that date and saved everything that had it on it even if it was the expiration date on food packaging. It was a particularly treasured find when it not only had that month and day but also 1972, the year she had given birth to him.

“A woman was taken to hospital after a vicious attack by a pair of spider monkeys that were being kept as family pets,” Chris said from the TV. “Monkeys? Peter loved monkeys, Chris,” Martha answered back.

She remembered when she had made him a sock monkey for his fourth birthday. He had dragged it around the house until one of its eyes fell off and it was crusty with dirt. How he had cried when she had finally convinced him it had to be thrown out. When he was eight, she had redecorated his room and he had shrieked with childish delight when he saw the monkey wallpaper. When he went off to university, he had laughed when she gave him a keychain with a little plastic monkey hanging from it. She didn’t start collecting monkeys until after he was dead.

VOL 8, ISSUE 5

“What the hell have you got there now?” Gord would say whenever she came home with another one.

“It’s for Peter,” She would say.

“For Christ’s suffering sake woman, the boy is dead,” he would say.

When monkeys started taking over the bedroom, Gord had moved into the guest bedroom. Martha didn’t really care. She would lie in bed at night and look around the room, the faint glimmer of light coming from the hallway nightlight silhouetting the tops of round little monkey heads and glistening of glass eyes. Before there were too many, she would go around the room and touch them all before she went to bed. It gave her comfort.

Martha’s wet underpants had now turned cold and goose bumps pricked at her arms. With her free arm she could reach across the pile far enough to hook the corner of a plastic bag with one finger. It was crammed full of grocery bags in all sizes and colours. One by one, she flattened them out as best she could with her free hand and wrapped them around her shoulders and bare arm.

“This old broad ain’t stupid, Chris,” she said.

“Relief efforts are still under way in the wake of yesterday’s devastating typhoon that tore through Southeastern China,” the TV replied.

It was an Asian that Gordy had run off with. Bit by bit , he had withdrawn into the guest bedroom until he virtually lived in there.

He had setup one corner with a TV and his computer. When he could no longer use the kitchen for any cooking, he would bring home take-out food and retreat to his sanctuary. When he wasn’t home, Martha would sometimes open the door and look around. To her it looked and felt like a room that belonged in another house and was lived in by a stranger. One afternoon she had peaked in and noticed the new webcam sitting on top of his computer screen.

“What does a 67-year-old man need that for?” she wondered before closing the door.

The end of their 45 year marriage had come quite quietly one night. Martha had been sitting in the living room watching a reality TV program when Gord had come in and stood between her and the screen. He didn’t speak for a few moments, just watched her. He hadn’t been in this room for years. She tried to read his face and realized how long it had been since she had made direct eye contact with her husband.

“Marty, I need to talk to you,” he said.

The quietness with which he spoke and calling her by that long unused nickname made an ominous rush of adrenaline run through her body.

“I’ll clear you a place to sit down,” she offered.

“Don’t bother. I just came to tell you I’m done, finished with this,” he said.

Martha didn’t know who it was that her husband had been building an online relationship with until a month after he left. He had come to the door one day with divorce papers for her to sign.

She could see his old Buick sitting at the curb, a young woman with sleek raven hair and pale skin was sitting primly in the passenger seat. All those years she thought Gord preferred blondes. She signed the papers without argument.

After the car pulled away, she put on her coat and walked down to the second hand store at the corner. She came back with two bags and had even found a little ceramic monkey with green eyes and a small chip out of its curling tail.

Once Gordy had gone, she never had anyone in the house again.

Not even a plumber to fix the toilet when it sprung a leak. She simply turned its water supply off and used an old ice cream pail to do her business in. It had been much easier to dispose of when she could still get out the back door. Now she had to sneak it through the front door and into the backyard. She didn’t want that nosey old neighbour of hers seeing her, so she made sure she did it after dark.

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She had lived beside Lucy for close to thirty years now. Many years back, when Peter was just a young boy, they would occasionally go and have tea with the aging spinster. Lucy always had a plate of freshly baked cookies set out for him. After Peter’s death, Lucy had tried to revive those afternoon teas, but it always seemed so uncomfortable and superficial, Lucy not knowing what to say to the grieving mother and Martha having lost her ability to make small talk.

After Gordy left, Martha quit answering the door when anyone came to the house. At first she would peak out the peephole to see who it was. It took the persistent old Lucy months to finally stop ringing her doorbell. The only people who came to her front step now were city inspectors or bylaw enforcers who, after futile attempts to get any answer, would stick their notices in the screen door and leave. Occasionally, when Martha did go out, she would catch a peak of her neighbour’s curtain parting and a glimpse of the old woman’s face at the window.

Lying here now trapped under a collapsed mountain of clutter, Martha knew that no one would ever come and check on her.

“Am I going to die here, Chris?” she asked the TV. “You may want to check your lottery tickets as a winning $16 million dollar ticket was bought in this province,” was all Chris had to say.

Now as she listened to Chris and Steve the sports commentator talk about baseball scores, she tried not to think about how hungry she was. When the news team signed off and the next program started, she knew it was 6 o’clock. She hadn’t eaten all day. There was a granola bar in the pocket of her housedress, but she couldn’t get at it. She had slipped it in there when she had gotten up that morning. There was a narrow path that led from the bedroom to the bathroom. At its narrowest part, she had to turn sideways to get through, and even that was a tight squeeze. It was mostly books and magazines that she kept in this part of the house, but there were other things stacked on top of the piles. The side seam of her housedress had been coming apart. She pinned it closed with a line of safety pins. When she turned to squeeze through the narrow part of the tunnel, one of the safety pins caught on the spine of a book.

This was enough to bring the precarious tower toppling over. It fell like an avalanche, slowly at first then coming with a rush— decade’s worth of books, newspapers and magazines knocking her over. She grabbed at the wall of paper on the other side but only managed to bring that tumbling down too. Now here she lay, buried up to armpits in debris. Gord had warned her that one day this was going to happen.

“This is nothing but a Goddamn death trap and fire hazard. Stop bringing that shit home and start cleaning this place up,” he would say before retreating to his room.

Martha had a hard time concentrating on the next program. She thought she could hear two women talking about gardening and when the best time would be to prune roses. In the growing darkness of the hallway she listened to the little noises that the house made: the steady, rhythmic ticking of the big wall clock in the den, the one she had bought for Gord on their ninth anniversary; the occasional sickly rattle of the refrigerator as it tried to defrost its over packed freezer; the faint scurrying of mice she knew were in the house as evidenced by droppings, holes chewed in cardboard boxes, and tiny nests of shredded paper.

Her stomach growled wildly, and a wave of light-headedness washed over her. Outside, the sun was beginning to set. As the daylight slid from the hallway, a glimmer on the wall to her left caught her eye. The failing light was shining off the glass of a picture that hung on the wall. She hadn’t seen it for maybe 15 years, before the pile had grown high enough to cover it up. From the photo a

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confident young Gord smiled back at her. His head crowned with thick black hair. It was taken just after they had moved into this house when it was new and modern and what she thought was their dream. Behind him Martha stood, her hand resting casually on his shoulder, an expensive-looking cocktail ring sparkled on her finger, her honey blonde hair styled to perfection. Peter sat in front of them, smiling an impish grin and showing off two missing front teeth.

The innocence and assurance of his smile could only come from a child who is confident in his parents love and protection.

Martha smiled back at him and felt the sting of her dry lips cracking.

“Look, Gordy, there’s our boy,” she said aloud. “Look at how perfect he is.”

Martha had started to either drift in and out of consciousness or she kept dozing off. She was not sure which. Thirst had become unbearable, and she knew her blood sugar must be getting dangerously low. She had been diabetic long enough to know that she wouldn’t last long without food. Her lips and tongue felt numb, and she was having a hard time focusing her eyes. She no longer had any feeling from below her waist.

In her lucid moments she kept her eyes on the picture of that perfect little family until the darkness robbed her of seeing Peter’s face again.

By now it was after 1:00 AM. She could hear snippets of an infomercial coming from the TV, this one flogging the latest in a home security system that would do everything from caring for your aging parent to calling the authorities if there were a break-in or a fire.

Somewhere, buried deep within her hoard, was the box of papers that had probably started it all. It was a cardboard banker’s box filled with newspaper clippings, forms from insurance companies, letters from lawyers, and correspondence from the school, everything that had to do with the fire that had taken Peter from her. He had only been away at college for 8 months when they got the call. One of his classmates had fallen asleep while smoking a joint and started a fire that destroyed the entire dorm. A handful made it out unscathed.

Fourteen suffered injuries ranging from minor cuts to severe burns.

Peter was the only one who lost his life.

Martha and Gord had tried for ten years to have a child. The one they did finally manage to produce was a brilliant, kind, young man.

When they sent him off to university to study pre-med on a full scholarship they foresaw nothing but a promising future for their boy. Nothing could have prepared them for burying him on that rainy th February morning just a few days shy of his 19 birthday.

Martha tried to calculate how long it had been since she was trapped here. If it was 1:00 then that would make it 18 hours.

“Is that right, Mr. TV Man? Have I really been stuck here all that time?” she asked the TV. “And if you call within the next 10 minutes we will double your offer,” the TV answered back. “That’s right, two for the price of one!”

“How about you come and take some of this stuff, Mr. TV Man? I will give it to you two for the price of one. Or three or four or five for the price of one,” she said.

When she came to again, the infomercial was over, but she could no longer concentrate well enough to figure out what program was on. Hypoglycemia was taking over her body. Her head ached, and her hands trembled uncontrollably. A string of drool hung from her gaping lower lip. This time when she fell into unconsciousness, she did not come around. * * * Across Martha’s overgrown yard and on the other side of a leaning wooden fence, Lucy sat in the living room of her neat little bungalow.

SUMMER 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Champagne Therapy

by Caroline Taylor Herman Sligo was a bit actor who played Uncle Emil in three episodes of the popular television series The Five Sisters. He was remarkably good at the role, shifting effortlessly from adorable teddy bear to creep— usually dictated by whatever designer drug the scriptwriter had ingested beforehand. Too bad they had Emil killed off, but the network Suits insisted that he had to be punished for what he’d done to Melissa.

Don’t get me wrong. People who do such things in real life should never get away with it, but Herman made Uncle Emil so credible, it was a pity to see him go.

As for Melissa (played by none other than Garen Gandolfi of Swimming with Dolphins fame), I figured her middle initial had to be E, for emoting seemed to represent the full range of that child’s acting abilities. I shudder when I recall the number of times we had to retake the flashback scene where Uncle Emil comes into Melissa’s bedroom in the dark of night and (off camera, of course) gives viewers that “ah ha” moment they’ve been craving in order to understand why Melissa has been such a train wreck teen throughout the series—and elsewhere, I might add.

Garen just didn’t seem to get it that she is supposed to giggle and laugh in innocent delight when Uncle Emil suggests they turn out the lights and play a little game. Instead, over and over again, the tension and dread of what poor Melissa is about to endure creep into every gesture, signaling way too far in advance the menace of hitherto dear old Uncle Emil.

Herman nearly walked off the set, he got so irritated. “Effing amateur,” he muttered as he passed me on his way out the door.

I found the whole thing irksome, but that’s showbiz. And in showbiz, everybody has the job they’re being paid to do—in my case, fetching coffee, water, coke, whatever, for the director and his crew. Plus their real job—which, for me, meant keeping an eye on Garen Gandolfi.

“You’re the motherly type,” said Rob, our director. “Mother her.”

Right. Like she’d go for that. I personally do not consider myself motherly at all, but I knew what Rob meant: “You’re slightly overweight, definitely over age, not drop-dead gorgeous, and a brunette. Ergo, motherly.” Not that he’d have the nerve to tell me to my face.

To make sure Garen stayed sober, I emptied the mini bar in her hotel room of anything alcoholic. Then, right before the so-called actress would be finished for the day, I’d go over the suite again, checking and double-checking the fridge and all the other nooks and crannies where a dim bulb like her might hide a secret stash.

I also had to ride herd on her about learning her lines. Did I tell you how much I love nagging people? Yeah.

Oh. And finally, I was to make sure that Garen behaved professionally.

Whatever that meant, since misbehaving is what gets these celebs noticed. As for time actually spent in front of the camera, anything goes these days, right? Nudity? What a yawn. Bathroom humor? So yesterday.

Explicit sex? Only a matter of time before we see it live and in HD. So, yes, I envied Herman Sligo. All he had to do was show up, do his bit for whatever episode we were filming, and leave. He never had to redo a scene, he was so good—well, except he had to endure the endless remakes of what came to be known on the set as the Scene from Hell. He never actually threw in the towel, though.

It was during what seemed like Take Number Nine Hundred and Three that Rob turned to me and muttered through gritted teeth, “For Chrissake, Sally. Do something.”

For a moment there, my heart leapt to my throat. My chance to shine!

Only. . . Only, of course, that’s not what Rob meant. “Give me a couple of minutes,” I said.

I dragged Garen into the shadows to deliver a brief lesson in Method.

“You’re twelve years old, okay? All you care about while you’re getting ready for bed is what happens tomorrow at school.”

A tiny line formed between Garen’s eyebrows. “Do I know what happens?”

I rolled my eyes. “My point was you should be thinking only school thoughts—like does Johnny like me? Will I ace the test? Stuff like that.”

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“Who’s Johnny?”

Our lesson ended there. Rob was calling everyone to their places. I held my breath as Take Number Nine Hundred and Four joined its predecessors in the trash bin. This time, Garen/Melissa seemed so preoccupied that viewers were sure to wonder, had she forgotten her lines?

“Don’t tell me you forgot your lines,” snarled Rob. “No. I was just . . . Oh, I don’t know.” She stood there wringing her hands.

Rob turned toward me, arms folded across his chest. “You’re gonna have to try harder, Sal. I am running out of patience.”

“Give me twenty-four hours,” I said.

“One.” “Three.”

This got a heavy sigh from my boss. “Okay, guys, let’s take a break.” He scowled at Garen, muttering under his breath, “dumb (bleeping, bleeping) bitch.”

My sentiments exactly.

I must confess, it was a real nail-biter meeting Rob’s deadline, especially as it involved asking for favors from the dark side of the biz— favors that I would one day be obliged to repay. Still, Herman Sligo deserved better, even if he was only a bit actor. And by zero hour, minus three seconds, I was standing beside Rob, confident smile pasted firmly in place.

Only to be ripped away because of a slight miscalculation on my part.

The minute the amiably docile, pink striped, pajama-clad Garen/Melissa sat down on her frilly canopy bed, she passed out cold.

“What the (bleep)??” A purple-faced Rob turned to me, hands on hips.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? That’s all you can say? He leaned over, his garlic-laden breath hot on my face. “You do value this job, don’t you, Sally?”

“Give her a break, man,” said Herman/Emil. “I got a sore tooth anyway.

Think we could call it a day?”

Oh-oh. Rob drew himself up to his full five, foot six, and then seemed to reconsider. “Get it looked at, Sligo. We’ll try again tomorrow. But, if that doesn’t pan out . . .” He slashed his throat with an index finger.

The menace in Rob’s words hung over the set like a sword of doom as everybody packed up their stuff. Everybody but Herman Sligo, that is. He grabbed me by the elbow and drew me into a darkened corner. “You familiar with the phrase ‘pick your poison’?” he asked.

I nodded, breath caught in my throat. “Clearly, I overdid it.”

He shook his head and winked. “Wrong poison. Your gal Garen there?

What you tried won’t work with her.”

At the look of astonishment on my face, he continued, “Not saying she’s pure as the driven snow. Not saying that at all. No sirreee. She’s got lots of vices—men, boys, women, thankfully not old codgers like me, but Miss Dumb and Don’t Know It does not indulge in the trendy stuff.”

“Such as . . . ?”

He shrugged. “Whatever’s making the rounds. It changes all the time.

Used to be Ecstasy; now it’s stuff from the medicine cabinet. But, what I’m saying? Garen Gandolfi doesn’t do ’em.”

My shoulders slumped. “Oh, Herman. You shouldn’t have to put up with this.”

“Naw. I like it. Gives me a chance to release my inner perv.”

At the look on my face, he burst out laughing. “Oh, sweetheart. You are a keeper.” Patting my arm, he pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and covered his mouth until the laughter subsided. He looked around, checking for eavesdroppers, and leaned down to whisper one word in my ear.

Luckily for me, and thanks to Herman Sligo, Take Number Nine Hundred and Six went just fine. Not perfect, mind you, because some of Garen/Melissa’s lines came out a bit slurred. But it was good enough for television, and her giggles were priceless.

“It’s a wrap,” said Rob, mopping his brow. The crew and cast applauded as he turned to me. “Sally. Why don’t you break out the champagne?”

Piece of cake. To celebrate my Sligo-bestowed status as “a keeper” (whatever that meant) and in anticipation of what he’d promised me would bring success, I’d already opened a bottle. (See Caroline’s bio. on p.29)

SUMMER 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Disposables

by Doris Fisher Harris "Let's see. We want to take as many disposables as we can. It will lighten the suitcase as we buy souvenirs." He sat at her desk in the bedroom, looking like a giant gnome in a doll-house chair. He was working on another interminable list . "Disposable camera, plenty of disposable contact lens, pens, razors."

She looked at him thinking bitterly to herself, And disposable dreams.

For him this long-dreamed-of trip was a gesture. It was a pathetic bit of gallantry stemming from a guilty conscience at being unable to understand exactly what it was she wanted of him.

She was not sure she could put it into words. For her it was an eager clutching at a nebulous fragrance of romance... an undefinable element without which she could not be happy. She was a romantic, but not one without practicality. Yet for her, there MUST BE more. There must be an undercurrent of magic that lifts daily routine into something more than the ordinary.

Is that a basic difference between man and woman? Does his need include a sense of romance? It seems that creature comforts satisfy his life-need. She looked at the beloved curve of his neck. We used to talk about everything. We talk. But never about things that really matter. She knew there was no other woman there was just... the apathy that comes from long life together.

"You know," he said absently, "If we take old underwear and nightwear we can throw them away as we go and have room in our suitcases for things we buy."

Disposable. Disposable. Disposable.

"What do you think," he said. "Hey, are you there?"

She shook her head. "Oh, I'm here. I'm always here."

He looked puzzled. "Look, don't you want to go on this trip? I planned it primarily to please you."

"Which means you don't want to go," she snapped.

"I didn't say that." He sighed with the familiar who-can-everunderstand-a-woman expression. She used to think it an endearing quality when they first met. She was touched that he cared, that he genuinely wanted to understand.

She thought that perhaps she still should feel it an endearing quality.

But it should be obvious that she wanted a PLACE. Any man of his intelligence and expertise should know that she didn't want to travel. She wanted to settle. She ached for her own rooms. She longed to plant bulbs in her own earth. She longed to look forward to seeing them bloom spring after spring in the comfort of the same warm bed of earth. She took magazines with names like remembrance and olden days and goodmemories and changed the addresses over and over as they moved from luxury apartment to luxury apartment. He always gave her what HE thought she should want.

The voice that burst forth wasn't hers. " I want to pull a weed that is my own."

"What has a weed to do with a long dreamed of trip?"

"Long dreamed of by YOU." He looked momentarily stricken and regained his composure.

"You never once indicated…"

"You should have known.”

His gesture stopped her heart. It was so simple and so childlike and so unsophisticated. "How?" "I'm your wife. You ought to know what I want and what my dreams are."

"How?" "You know me. You know everything about me. You should know everything I want."

"Do you know everything I want?" he said.

He sat down and took both of her hands in his and turned her to him.

"What do I want?"

"You want creature comforts. A nice apartment, good food, nice clothes. You want to be able to pick up and go at any minute. You want

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me to follow you in that life and you've never stopped to think or to ask me if that's the life I want. You want a disposable life. Just like those... those things that can be left behind." She waved at his list for packing.

"Disposable life?" He smiled the crooked smile and she felt her heart leap.

"One you can leave behind at any moment. One in which you can pick up in a new place. Sometimes I feel disposable too."

He sat quietly and looked at his hands. She loved his strong, fine hands.

His body slumped with dejection.

"I thought you loved our life-style. It hasn't changed from the beginning."

"People change."

"Yes," he said slowly, "People change."

She had the uncomfortable feeling that he was speaking of her and not of himself.

"Have I changed?" he said directly, “or have I failed to change as you’d hoped I would?"

She'd always prided herself of being honest. She started a quick answer and then stopped abruptly. She looked at him. He looked tired.

He was older. There was salt and pepper in his hair and deep lines where he laughed. The restless energy had not changed. The crooked grin and the cow-lick that would never be restrained had not changed. Had he changed? Had she wanted him too? What did she want? Could she put it into words?

"We never hang on to anything. Not really hang on... not even to each other."

"Like you said, disposable?"

"What makes it permanent."

"Deep things. Plants that stay in one place and sink their roots deeply into the same soil. Doors that have opened and closed so often by the same hand that the hinges creak, steps that have cracked under the weight of the same feet, beds that are so settled that your body fits their contours. Heritage! Tradition!"

"Sameness".

"But there is nothing wrong with sameness if it is wonderful sameness."

He shook his head sadly. "How long have you felt like this? Something made you change."

"They say women are nesters," she said sadly.

His eyes clouded with pain.

"But I thought the nesting was finding a home in my heart.”

"Oh, it is. But can't both hearts settle in one spot?"

"Where?"

"That's the question."

"Can one of us change?"

"Do we have to?" he said.

"I have to have the missing element. The romance and the excitement and the something extra that puts zest into life."

"And you'll find that by settling in one place?"

"Never, without you" she said suddenly.

Dinner was quiet. He ate quickly. "I've got an errand," he said. She mechanically took care of the cleanup, put on a comfortable chenille robe and curled up in her favorite reading corner. She was emotionally exhausted.

When she woke up she heard his shower running. She stretched and opened her eyes. Then she sat up straight. The room was filled with pots and flats of... of flowers. There were pansies and petunias and larkspur and verbena and daisies. In the middle was a plastic urn... brimming with weeds. Weeds! Plain, ordinary, run-of-the-mill beautiful weeds! Her own weeds. She moved slowly to the urn and pulled up a dandelion. She looked wonderingly at the delicate roots. She felt rather than saw his presence at the dooirway. She opened her arms over the inside garden.

"You did all of this for me. I feel treasured. Oh, darling, I feel treasured." She ran to him and pressed her face against him. She could feel his heart. She knew for sure. What she needed was the assurance that she was treasured. That is how you put romance into words. All that she'd ever need for a home and happiness and romance and beauty and that undefinable something was the unshakable assurance that she was (See Doris’s bio. on p.29) treasured in his heart.

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23

A Spectacular Leo

by S. D. Gale Another branch snapped behind us in the forest. I turned and peered over the half-buried log and scanned the cedars and firs some thirty feet away. Maybe a cougar or black bear was lurking in the dark. Maybe after seeing us awake he decided to leave. Or maybe he was waiting around until we fell asleep before he attacked—had to be a he if it were flesh-eater. Easy prey. A woman and her dying father.

I stared for a minute, hearing nothing, then ran my eyes along the rock formation running from the forest into the ocean, where it jutted out like a natural pier. The beach, with its horseshoe shape and scattered driftwood, hadn't changed much since I was here all those years ago. Still, this thought didn't bestow the sense of comfort and security I was hoping for.

The wool blanket we were sitting on had failed to stop the sand from sucking the warmth from our bodies, and now a crisp breeze was blowing off the Pacific, so I rewrapped the duvet tightly yet gently around our shoulders and hunkered us behind the log.

Snuggling my father like a mother sparrow nestling her chick—the only one left.

As the tide flowed onto the sand, the smells from the sea, which I'd never forgotten in the twenty years away from here, wafted in the air. My father was sitting hunched over. Silent. I didn't want to force conversation. Instead, I watched the sky while the deepening purple changed to black, awakening the half moon and stars.

Some time passed, and the silence became too much for me to bear. I needed to hear his voice. Was I selfish?

"The moon and stars are out," I said, rocking him gently.

He tried to lift his head, but it dropped and he coughed and spittle drooped from his lips. I didn't wipe it. I was worried that moving would hurt him too much.

"It's okay, just relax, you don't need to look. I can describe them."

I searched the sky for an image to share, remembering our first visit to this spot, and said, "Remember when you taught me the planets and constellations?"

He was lethargic, a husk of his former self. Hiking down to the beach had wiped him out, and me, too. He'd been so robust, so full of gusto, so alive when he knelt down in front of me all those years ago, when he guided my finger to a constellation and said. We were born under Leo, Brianna, that's our sign. We watch him from the Earth and he watches us from the Heavens. The times we shared here emboldened me with dreams of who I could be.

I said, "I can see Mars, Saturn, and Spica." I looked northwest. "Big Dipper, Draco, and the Little Dipper."

"Leo," he whispered, feeble and raspy. "Is Leo there, Bri?" I searched again and thought I saw its stars flickering, but they weren't there. ''Yes, Leo's there. A spectacular Leo." He grunted and nodded. Satisfied.

A rumbling sound began to shake the night. Looking west, I spotted the bright lights of a cruise ship as it cut through the strait towards us.

He patted my arm and said, "We missed our cruise," then chuckled softly.

I rubbed his hand. We had always talked about flying down to Acapulco, Mexico, and boarding a cruise ship and then heading up the West Coast to Anchorage, Alaska. My eyes moistened as I watched the ship rumble past and disappear around the small peninsula to the east. It was headed to Victoria to give the tourists a chance to see the city my father called home for twenty years. Until today.

A minute later the ship's wake collapsed softly onto the beach, 24

washing up froth, and rinsing away a stretch of our trail. I shut my eyes.

I hadn't slept for thirty hours, since my nap on the plane, disturbed as it was by "Mr. NHL," who was leering at me every time I opened my eyes. A more appropriate moniker would be: "Mr. I-Have-A-TanLine-For-A-Wedding-Band-So-Call-Me-Pig." Picking my father up at his house, the drive, the hike, all of it had overwhelmed me, emotionally and physically. My mind and body were begging for sleep, even with the possibility of the flesh-eater returning and eating us both before the arrival of my father's sunrise.

He coughed. I perked up and opened my eyes. He pawed at my hand and said, "Down," his face flinching from the pain—he said on the ride here—he knew as intimately as a scornful lover revealing her infidelity. Even in the final hours, he remained the consummate poet.

"Okay, let's lie down." He winced as I slowly laid him on his side, so he faced the strait. Then I eased down behind him, listening to his wheeze, and cradled his bony chest, feeling his shallow breaths.

If I hadn't flown out from Ontario, he would be in the hospital right now, exactly what he didn't want, and I would be on stage—what he'd always wanted.

He'd been too stubborn to accept Ben and Rupeet's help. He had fooled himself thinking it would all go as planned. I'd been fooled too. How can you plan for the unpredictable? You could prepare, but you couldn't plan. None of it mattered anymore. We were here now.

We would see this through.

I closed my eyes. Memories were orbiting in my consciousness as if waiting patiently to comfort me, to give me strength so I could be strong for him. Some dimly remembered, others painfully vivid, as I listened to the waves pulse. * * * The waves were lapping against the rocky shoreline. Dad and I were sitting on the dock in Muskoka chairs beside the boathouse, looking out at Lake Joe. The sun had just dipped below the treetops.

We hadn't had the opportunity to really talk since Milo and I arrived at the family reunion the night before. My younger cousins had asked round after round of questions. How big was Big Ben? What was Charles Dickens’ house like? From Chantal, Did you see Daniel Craig? Which I thought odd. She was only twelve. My Aunt Mel—her mother and the sole psychologist in our family—assured me it was quite natural for girls Chantal's age to be infatuated with older men, especially men like Daniel. I got the feeling Chantal wasn't the only one with the infatuation. But, then again. I seem to remember Harrison Ford adorning my bedroom walls. How quick we are to forget.

"When I was a boy," said my father, "Grandpa Lewis and I would sit here and watch the boaters heading home before dark. Like we are now. He always told me stories while we drank Coca-Cola. War stories. A tale of love. And when the stars appeared, sailing stories."

A mosquito buzzed my ear, and landed on my shoulder. I swatted it, and then brushed it off. "How's your memoir coming along?"

"Slow. I'd like to have it complete by this time next year."

"What happened to not rushing greatness."

He smiled and sipped from his bottle of Pilsner. "I thought I'd have more time after retirement. But that hasn't been the case so far."

"Were your students surprised?"

"Not as surprised as when I sing a superb rendition of Blue Rodeo's Lost Together at karaoke. The campus pub had no idea what it was getting itself into by throwing me a retirement party."

We laughed, and then he continued, "I'm glad your audition went well."

"Hopefully I'll hear back in a few weeks. This student loan's like an axe hovering over my head." I took a sip of green tea.

"I'm sure they'll scoop you up for their stable. Foolish not to."

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"I'll be happy as long as I don't have to deal with another maniac prop master." I whisked away a kamikaze mosquito, which cooled me a sec from the sultry air. "I swear Tully the Tyrant tried to kill me—the name should have been warning enough. Everyone called me Zena the Warrior Princess after our clash. And the bellicose politics that went on over there were unbelievable. And a bit entertaining."

"Your mother must be excited?"

I curled my hand under my chin, struck my aristocratic pose, and with an English accent said, "You know her, she's already telling their congregation that her daughter, Brianna Lewis, has just returned from London's Fortune Theatre and is the next big star at Stratford."

"She's proud of you. Cut her some slack."

I dropped the accent. "But I haven't even got the call yet."

We both laughed.

I said, "She and Robert keep pressuring me to join their church."

"She can be tenacious." He coughed and wiped his nose with a handkerchief.

"When I told her I was exploring, she got in a kerfuffle. I'm sure she thought of Aunt Tammy coming out of the closet."

"I've always liked her. Is she still in Spain with her partner?"

"Jasmine, yup, I chat with Tammy on Facebook all the time. She's doing well selling real estate, even with the poor economy."

He coughed into his fist.

"Handsome beard by the way, very Ancient Greek. I don't ever recall seeing you with one."

"I've heard manly. But not handsome or Greek." He rested his Pilsner on the chair's arm.

"Milo seems like a nice fellow."

I thought of Milo laughing with my cousins, and his pleading eyes as Chantal's infatuation shifted to a more tangible target. "He's kind and has a great sense of humour.

"And he takes his career seriously. Oh, yes, you two share a love of classical literature."

"He couldn't have stayed another night?"

"Dad, you know how this profession is. His future depends on his reputation, and he's so close to a directorial debut."

He uhmed and nodded and looked at me. "Are you sure you're ready to start dating again?" Concerned.

"It feels right." Kamikaze struck my right arm. I whacked him, spilling tea, and flicked him off. Definitely a he. But weren't all mosquitos female or something? I'd been occupied with rehearsing for drama class during science classes.

"As long as you're ready."

A loon yodeled somewhere in the night. Dad tipped his Pilsner slightly towards the water and said, "My experiences here had such a profound impact on me."

I looked across the lake and spotted the lights on a cottage shining through the trees. "I can see why, it's Utopia, a perfect blend of human and nature. Cottages perched on the rocky shore like birds' nests, and trees—what kind are they?"

"Spruce, pine. And I think elm."

"Spruce and pine and elm, the lake, even the boats."

"It's the waves. I always want to be near the sound. Whether it's a lake, river or ocean. You know, my first memory is me swimming in the waves here. I'm glad we can share this."

"Me, too, Dad." Laughter carried from the cottage. Uncle Roger's accordion bleated to life and he started to sing, hands clapped along. I turned in my chair and glanced up through the large picture window. Figures were dancing about. My Aunt Mel, Uncle Terry, my cousins, Chantal and Matt—and Grandma Lewis?

"Are you sure Roger isn't a gypsy?"

"I don't know what to think anymore."

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We listened to the merriment for some time as the sky darkened and the stars brightened and the half-moon waxed, shimmering off the lake.

I began to search for constellations.

A minute passed, and he said, "What did you find?"

"Andromeda and Pegasus."

"I can see Draco and the Little Dipper. Way over there is our Leo. And right there," he tracked a bright object gliding through the sky, "is the space station, I believe."

I watched it a moment, and then turned to see him staring at me with glassy eyes, an expression of sorrow on his face as if he'd lost something precious and beloved. And knew he could never get it back.

"Dad?" I reached over and rubbed his forearm.

He removed his glasses and wiped the back of a hand across his eyes. "I'm nostalgic, that's all." * * * Six months after the reunion, in late November, I flew to Victoria to visit my father. He met me at the airport. When I saw him I knew he wasn't well. His Gatsby's brim failed to shadow his sunken eyes. His beard couldn't hide his gaunt face. And the pea coat he wore failed to cloak his thin frame. When I questioned him, he said we would talk after dinner, which I thought strange.

An hour later, we arrived at Luchenso's on Wharf Street, and sat down to order. After our dinner arrived, I picked at my seafood salad and drank red wine, watching him. He picked at his food, eating little, as he asked about the Stratford Festival, about my understudy for the female lead and Milo's directorial debut, both for the play The War of 1812. I answered and continued to watch, feeling my shoulders and neck tensing.

Was it cancer? Maybe some other disease? Maybe it was nothing serious and I was overreacting. I wanted to question him. But did he pressure me when I came to him in my first year of university, when I was distraught with my secret? No. He waited days until I revealed to him that I'd been raped, and then he listened as I confided about the steps I had planned. Not judging. Only understanding. So I wouldn't pressure him. Instead, I wrung my clammy hands under the table, in between deep drinks of wine. All the while the Flamenco music and patrons' chatter was clashing with my growing angst, and the smell of spice and cooking meat was suffocating.

After dinner we walked along the inner harbour's promenade under the dull orange light cast by the lampposts. Docks were rolling, grinding on their pylons, and boats rocking to and fro on the waves.

Somewhere in the gloom of the harbour, a flag or sail was whipping about and a loose bumper thumping against a hull.

"Let's stop a minute," he said with a cloud of steam. He wiped a handkerchief across his mouth and nose. I'd watched him slink it out a dozen times since my arrival, several times at dinner alone.

He stepped to the edge of the promenade and placed both hands atop a waist high post and gazed out at the harbour, reminding me of a starved sailor in a Chekhov play. A saxophone began to wail.

From one of the city's clubs, I thought.

No more waiting.

I said, "Tell me what's wrong?"

He was silent.

I stepped forward and clutched the chain between the posts, cold steel biting my palms. "Dad, tell me."

He was still gazing stared out at the harbour. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and then he said, "I'm very, very sick."

"Is it cancer?" I held my breath.

"Yes." "What type?"

"Pancreatic. But it's metastasised."

"Spread?" My heart was pounding.

"Yes."

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25

Not the end of the world. My friend in university, Beth, was diagnosed with cancer, left for treatment, and returned the following year healthy. A drizzle had started, so I let go of the chain and buttoned my top collar. "Okay, when do you start chemo?"

He turned away and looked towards the waves crashing against the harbour's breakwater.

I grabbed his forearm. "When?" He wouldn't look at me. I shuddered and began to pant as if I were being dipped into frigid water. "Dad?" He shook his head, sighing. "It's spread to my lungs and liver—it's complicated."

Tears swelled in my eyes. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He stepped back from the post and faced me. "To have you worry over something out of your control?"

"That's selfish. You should have told me."

"I didn't want you to drop your life and come here and play nurse until I..."

"Say it. Until you die."

He avoided my eyes and coughed into the handkerchief.

I heard footsteps and saw a dark figure wearing a hoody stride past us. Shaking my head, I said, "I should have had the choice, but you were never good at that, giving me a choice. You'd rather just avoid me, like you did for all those years." Tears were rolling down my cheeks.

He was staring at the breakwater.

It was like a scene from a production. Boats for props, the setting and lighting, the saxophone from the music pit, and the Parliament Building as the backdrop—lit up with strings of Christmas lights—and our improvised scripts, and even the hooded figure foreshadowing death. Only it was real. As real as it could possibly get. There would be no curtain closing, no curtain call. Only cold reality. His and mine.

I huffed a cloud of steam and wiped my eyes. "So what now?"

"Well. There are plans," he said.

"Plans? Plans? What kind of plans?"

"I'm not going to die surrounded by disease and death. I'm going to die with dignity."

My face surged warm. "Spare me, you're going to kill yourself."

Hang on. His unexpected retirement. The handkerchief was there during our family reunion, tending to his 'allergies'. The beard and his lean face. All of it was there, even his eyes, but I'd been blind to the signs.

"You knew back in the summer at Grandma Lewis's, even before then. How long?"

His mouth tightened and he looked toward the parliament building.

I bit my lip and clenched my fists and turned away.

Condo lights shone like man-made stars above the city, their lights wavering in the rain. I stared a moment and then whirled at him. "I know what you're doing," I thrust my finger like an épée, "you want to be the director of your own performance and the tragic hero who beats fate at its own game. Choose your exit. Make it romantic."

"This is reality," he said, turning to me, gesturing wildly above his head.

"There's no deus ex machina dropping from the heavens to save me." He thumped his fist against his chest. "I drive this bus—me."

"And what about the passengers? What about me?"

His head bowed and he sighed loudly. "This isn't easy for me, Brianna. And I know it's not for you."

"You're right. I'm not as strong you think."

He removed his Gatsby and ran a hand through his wispy hair. The orange glow from a lamppost's light haloed his skull, and his foggy glasses hid his eyes.

I was scared. He looked scared, breathing heavily. And I had pushed, fought, and provoked him to use energy he didn't have. I began sobbing. "You already left me once."

26

He opened his arms and I rushed forward and we embraced. * * * Two days later, we stood facing each other beside the departure gate in the Victoria airport. We hadn't spoken about the cancer since the promenade. We chose instead to reminisce; it made the future seem a bit less bleak.

"I'll be back next week to stay for a while," I said.

"You'll do no such thing," he said, shaking his head. "Ben and Rupeet have agreed to help me with anything that comes up."

"Dad, please."

"It's not up for debate. You have your career to think of. There's nothing you can do besides sit around while I write. And Milo needs you."

"Dad." "Bri. You're the lead's understudy."

"Milo can replace me. There's a wealth of talent at Stratford, and the show doesn't open until June." ''Brianna. End of debate."

We stood silently. His expression turned rigid, reminding me of my grandmother's when she refused to meet a rug vendor halfway on five dollars—then stormed off without the rug. So I conceded with a nod. But with conditions.

"Okay, but we keep in close touch."

"Yes, we keep in close touch."

"Promise me if anything comes up, anything at all, you'll be open with me."

He placed a hand over his heart and said, "I promise."

"After the show ends in August, I'll fly out and stay for a while.

Maybe I'll ask Milo to come. He'll need a holiday."

"Alright," he said, nodding. "I'll be here. Ben wants to have a launch party for me. Like they do at NASA." I laughed, placing a hand over my mouth, ashamed. "I can't believe you just said that."

He grinned, and a twinkle glimmered in his eye: the first one I'd seen since my arrival.

From the airport's speakers, a woman's voice announced the boarding of my flight. People began to file past the gate.

Stepping forward, he said, "Come here," and hugged me. "You following your dream, sweetie, makes this bearable."

As we held each other, I thought of our argument on the promenade. I thought of the reasons for his choice. I thought about our last two days together. His coughing spasms, blood-specked phlegm on his lips, and the winces when he talked, flinches when he walked. There was no question in my mind. He was dying. My eyes dampened as I rubbed his back.

A few minutes later, I took my seat on the plane. While the flight attendant instructed the passengers on safety protocols, I opened my purse to search for Chapstick and spotted a brown envelope tucked at the bottom, which I didn't recognize. I removed and opened it to see a note in my father's wild handwriting: The axe is no more. Love Dad. In the envelope there was a bank draft for twenty thousand dollars. * * * On the morning of June 26,1 was rehearsing lines at the kitchen table when my cell phone rang. It was my father calling. Thankfully. I hadn't spoken with him for over a week. He had missed our Sunday phone call and hadn't answered my calls. I was worried.

I answered the phone.

"Brianna."

"I've been trying to reach you all week."

"Brianna," he whispered. "I can't wait any longer."

This was it. The words I'd been dreading. I stood from the chair.

"I'm on my way."

"No, sweetie. Don't."

I froze and said, "Do not push me away right now."

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He was silent as I darted into my bedroom. I yanked a suitcase out from under the bed, making a mental list of what I needed. I was trembling and hoping he wouldn't fight me on this. "Dad, are you there?"

"I'm too weak to make it."

I knew the spot. A month ago, he shared his plan in detail. The beach

by Witty's Lagoon. "Dad, I'll be there tonight."

I heard a muffled cough, and he said, "I'll be here," then hung up the phone.

My stomach cramped. I left my bedroom and walked to the kitchen.

Numb. All that mattered in my life was about to collide. I wondered if would I be able to pick up the pieces. If I would I be strong enough to see this through. I noticed my hands were shaking, so I placed the phone down on the table and sat down, and then brushed my hands through my hair and tied a ponytail.

I waited a minute and then phoned my mother: "I have to go to Victoria."

"It's your father, isn't it?" No surprise. She knew he had cancer, but didn't know of his plan.

"Yes." I heard a spoon chinking in a teacup, and then a slurp. Choral music was playing in the background. On the radio in the kitchen, I thought.

"But Brianna. You've already had dress rehearsal. And tonight's press night for 1812. Did you tell him you're the new lead?"

"No, Mother."

"I'm sure he would understand. Your understudy's only had a few days to prepare."

I squeezed the phone.

"And what about Milo," she continued. "What's he going to do? The press critics will sink his ship—and the audience. Robert and me. Our friends. And the prime minister's going to be there with his family." ''Mother, we're talking about my father."

"Brianna Lewis, everything you've worked for is for tonight."

"You are absolutely right. Everything I've done in my life is for tonight."

I heard her drag on a cigarette and exhale. "So that's it, you're going?"

Shutting my eyes, I pictured her sitting at the kitchen table, chain smoking, sipping tea, and staring up at the crucifix above the archway.

Maybe Robert was sitting across from her.

"I should've been with him this whole time."

"What he's doing is wrong, Brianna," she said, in her preachy voice.

"It's insane for you to be involved. And remember, he left us."

"What about the affair while dad was peacekeeping in Bosnia? Was it wrong!

Was it insane, mom?"

She gasped. "Did your father tell you that?"

"No your sister did. Dad's far too gracious."

"Sharon?" Her preachy voice was gone.

It was all out now. "No Tammy." The pariah unbound by the Catholic dogma her siblings and mother held onto like starved dogs clenching bones in their jaws. Minus an affair or two.

"Don't you patronize me," she yelled. "You don't know a thing about it." Robert definitely wasn't there.

"Give me a break, I do know about it. I have for years." I mimicked her preachy voice. "Ms. Holy Roller, humping a retired police officer from the church. With a wife and five kids. Sounds pretty flippin’ sinful to me."

"Brianna."

Wait. What did she say? "How do you know what he's doing?" My stomach knotted.

There was a pause. "Well, he told me some time ago." Return of preachy.

"What's some time ago?"

I heard her suck on the cigarette. "When he was diagnosed," she said, exhaling.

'Two years ago. We discussed the whole thing. Why, dear, he didn't tell you?"

As I lowered the phone to the table, tears swelled in my eyes.

"Briaima," she said, her voice just audible. "Brianna. Talk to me."

I hung up the phone, then swiped the 1812 script off the table. The patio door blinds were blowing, like silent wind chimes, and street sounds and children's laughter were carrying on the breeze. I struggled to hold back tears, my lips tightening, and dialed Milo. I listened to the phone ring. * * * Small birds were twittering and chirping. My arm was wrapped around my father's chest. His breaths were shallow and his body cool. I could smell morphine and dried sweat in his hair, on his skin. I blinked a few times, then opened my eyes wide. The sky was amber. Close to sunrise. I heard a boat burring somewhere in the strait. I looked around and saw the backpack open, and a half-empty bottle of Evian lying in the sand.

There were pattering sounds and a moment later I spotted a mother raccoon tailed by two of her young; they scampered past us in the wet sand left by the ebbing tide. Not the flesh-eaters I had envisioned.

The first rays of sunshine lanced over the horizon and I watched as they as began to unveil the Olympic Mountains.

Dad rubbed my hand and whispered, "Am I dead?"

"No." I bit my lip.

"Dawn yet?"

"Right now."

"Eyes won't open... tell me."

"The sun's rays have hit the mountains. But the moon's still out."

"Stubborn... stubborn.

"Yes. it's stubborn."

"Like me."

"No. Like us, always." * * * It was a clear, purple dusk. I was standing outside on the starboard lower-passenger deck of the cruise ship Coastal Dancer, near the stern. I leaned against the rail and glanced down, the wind fluttering my hair.

The hull was churning the ocean, wafting sea mist into the air.

A year had passed since I was here on the West Coast. A lot had changed in my life; it's sometimes difficult to gauge just how much until you return to a place you hadn't been for a while. A place which meant a great deal.

The rumble of the engines softened and the ship began to slow, shuddering. I grinned and shook my head.

"I'm glad we scouted this out earlier," said Milo. I turned to see him walking towards me. "Otherwise I wouldn't have found you."

Beaming, I said, "Did you have a part in this."

"Moi?" he said, touching his chest and winking. "The captain is a pleasant chap. It seems we both enjoy the company of great stories— Moby Dick and Lord Jim in particular. And when I gifted him with tickets for the opening of our next show, he became putty m my hands."

He took the last few steps to my side and said, "Your mother and Robert will meet us at the lounge when we finish," and then reached out and grabbed me and gently pulled me into his body. We kissed, our lips tender yet eager.

I leaned back and looked into his blue eyes, and I was reminded again why I loved him so much and why I had said yes when he asked me to marry him.

Tapping his shoulder, I nodded and he nodded and then he let go of me. I slipped off my backpack and passed it to him, unzipped it, and reached inside and lifted out the steel urn.

As I held my father in front of me, my eyes moistened.

After I released my father's memoir, posthumously, some called him a hero, others a coward. I assured everyone he was neither. I was at his side in those final days. There was nothing heroic, cowardly, or romantic in the event which took place. With the reality of his circumstance—and the savage cruelty—he made a decision that I understood, because I would have made the same one.

I drew a deep breath and exhaled and then turned and gazed at the sky above the Olympic Mountains, and after searching for a moment, I spotted stars glittering.

"It's a spectacular Leo," I said.

Milo unscrewed the urn's top. "Yes, it is."

(See S.D. Gale’s bio. on p.29)

VOL 8, ISSUE 5

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

27

Later, ‘gator!

See you in the fall!

‘Gator in the Pool painting by Claudia Aragon