Short-Short Stories

Apples – Five for a Dollar

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AppleTartIn many ways I am my father’s daughter. I acknowledged that today when I bought five apples from a supermarket discount rack. Five apples for one dollar! Walter was rarely proud of me, but today I imagined him nodding and smiling. The man counted every nickel, invested wisely, and drove me crazy with the cost of living.

Walter did the grocery shopping as my mother’s poor health and early demise left him no other choice. At meals he would recite with pride the price of the sole – two dollars a pound. We knew he paid fifteen cents a pound for string beans. Ten cents a pound for peaches. Chris and I knew the cost of just about every food put on the table. Walter took pride in the bargains he found. He threw in the story about children starving in China and how on merchant ships he often ate food spoiled by maggots. My sister and I listened. In his post-Depression world spending wisely meant money saved. To keep peace at the table, we had better eat everything on our plates.

Getting back to my bargain apples – I rolled pie crust out on a baking stone. (Not a perfect circle, but good enough.) The fruit was tossed with cinnamon, nutmeg, a dash of cloves, lemon juice, and raisins. Once arranged on the stone, I sprinkled streusel topping. Baked at 375 degrees and cut into strips when cooled. There you have a totally thin, delicious apple treat.

Iceland – Scenic Beauty

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Icelandair offers independent self-drive tours. I followed a 7-day glaciers, geysers, and waterfalls itinerary that covered 800 miles. Being on the road meant few conversations with people who call Iceland home. A taxi driver said that people who receive retirement benefits will not see an increase in 2016. He also said that Harpa, Reykjavik’s concert hall, was a financial drain. Lacking conversations about politics and education, I focused my Nikon on Iceland’s physical beauty.

My Bumper Sticker

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My bumper sticker reads Don’t Believe Everything You Think. The internet attributes the words to lyrics in a Lee Brice song. Anyway, an old car in Bozeman, MT had those words stickered on the rear bumper. I was on my way to Yellowstone, and those words rang true for me. Let go of negative thoughts. Stop being judgmental and stop second-guessing. A woman in a Sam’s Club parking lot read the sticker and commented to her friend, “Jimmy should read that. It’s one frickin’ good sticker.” If only those words had reached George Bush before he attacked Iraq.

Bumper Sticker
Bumper Sticker

Maggie and Laila

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 Old dogs are still good dogs. They deserve love, care, and respect until life ends. I wrote the the story of Maggie and Laila with as few words as possible. I trust your imagination will fill any gaps.

Although her hearing has collapsed,

Maggie reads lips and responds to gestures,

Twice a day she chows down chicken and kibble,

And takes a daily walk to sniff the rocks.

She damns the day a rescued dog came to the house.

By retreating to distant spaces,

Maggie shunned her eventual replacement.

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Laila, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, has special needs,

Insulin injections twice a day, 12 hours apart.

One cup of kibble and a piece of cheese,

Injection in the nape and a rub,

Another piece of cheese, please.

Her brown eyes flash the “I’m Still Hungry” sign.

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The adoption agent said Laila was trained,

Not so said I when she stayed for a week,

Peeing on the carpets and using the dog door

Only when she pleased, surely

Competition for food and affection upset her balance.

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Maggie deserves stress-free senior years,

No matter how short the leash on life.

Sadly, Laila needed another home,

The girls were not meant to be friends to the end.

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Maggie
Maggie

Liala

His and Hers – Foreman Grills

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I want to tell a story about two people and their Foreman grills. The man’s grill stays outside on a wooden table. A hummingbird feeder shared by goldfinches and bats hangs from a chain right close to the grill. (Yes, those are feathers on the dish.) When the woman wants to grill, say a 3-cheese sandwich on rye, she takes her Foreman from a kitchen cabinet, sets it on a counter top, and plugs into an electric outlet.

The woman equates the man’s grill to a mangy dog left to live outdoors with minimal care. No grooming. No bathing – fend-for-yourself-until-you-die, Buster. When the woman is done, she removes food stains and grease from her grill. She likes things clean. When the man wants to grill, he pre-heats the Foreman and shuts the lid on a sausage for 10 minutes. The juices drain into the catch dish until the hot Italian sausage is smokin’ done. The man ignores the build up of carbon and crud. After all, the grill is an electrical device and high temperatures burn away bacteria and bugs. The man never grills on his Foreman when friends are invited for dinner. End of story.

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Clothes – To the Heart

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My walk-in closet holds a trust fund in clothing I cannot toss into the rag bag or give away. I mix old clothes with new ones, and they get along fine.  As I reflect on why I have kept some pieces, I realize that clothing stores memory. If I were to give away particular items, which I will tell you about, I would lose tactile reminders of experiences, adventures, and even relationships. I would lose reminders of aromas, weather, and other sensual tags linked to life’s adventures. Thankfully, I don’t have the nighty I wore at age sixteen when Steve and I . . . well, nevermind. I would light a match to that piece of cotton because Steve turned out to be a jerk messing with a high school kid. Yet, the memory of that relationship, more than the nightgown, has hung in my mental closet these many years.

         I have a long-sleeve, silk blouse with green stripes. I haven’t worn it in years, but somehow I cannot give it away. That blouse reminds me of the night after work when Gail and I took an express train to Fordham Road in the Bronx.  Loehmann’s was a wonderland of bargains for the working girl, and we were giddy to have spent so little for so much. I loved wearing the blouse with cuff links I bought in Florence. Would I forget about Florence or Loehmann’s if I donated the blouse and the cuff links? I want to keep that experience alive, and I’m not taking the chance of a memory lapse.     OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The teeshirt from the M/V Santa Cruz with its blue-footed boobies and the word Galapagos, will rot from old age. I will never cut the fabric into dust rags. I feel the same about the tee shirts I bought in Nazca. After dizzying swoops in a prop plane with scratched plastic windows, I realized I saw the fabled lines more clearly at the Ica museum’s mockup. After we landed, I staggered into the gift shop, almost but not quite air sick.  I rewarded myself by buying a red and a turquoise tee shirt. Just seeing them in the closet brings a smile as I recall that crazy flight and those crazy lines in the desert. I also think about the Japanese tourist with the telephoto lens who sat behind the pilot. I did not see him buy a tee shirt.                              

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In the way-back space of my closet hangs the why-did-I-spend-$400 on that skirt and matching top at Maya Palace. I bought a green outfit with shiny trim, fabric flowers, and red ribbons at the skirt hem for my now-divorced son’s wedding atop Squaw Valley. When I see that outfit suffocating under a plastic bag, I burn over Kate’s impatience to marry Greg. I ask myself if I could have pressured them to wait another year. I did not interrupt the flow of their love, and we all suffered from the pain of their divorce. I realize that outfit, as lovely as it is, is a candidate for Craigslist or something worse. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

A few years ago, I slipped another plastic bag over Talbot’s little black dress and put that in the way-back, too. Long sleeves, short skirt – that was my power dress for important dates, a job interview, and funerals. Under the same dust cover, hangs the funky beaded, crazy-patterned short jacket I bought at Jasmine on 4th Avenue. The piece has become vintage – so old and yet so beautiful. I fall in love with fabric and design, and with the memory of how I chose the purchase. For my ordinary clothes, those items that lack an investment in passion or memory, off to the Goodwill store they will eventually go.

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Flossie – The Fly

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A week ago I adopted a fly from FlyFinders.com. I’ve been without a pet since Amber Dog died two years ago, and I can’t bear the thought of replacing her. Flossie flew into our lives through the open screen door. She knew exactly where Richard and I live.

Sweet Flossie, a gray fly with a pink nose, does not need to be walked or groomed. A few toast crumbs for breakfast satisfies her simple diet. Leftover bits of food on the kitchen counter please her, and she uses her front legs to brush her face when done eating.

“Don’t land on the cutting board, Flossie,” I told her. “I know your feet are clean, but flies can pick up germs.”

On Wednesday, Flossie disappeared for hours. She wasn’t walking on the floor or sitting by the sink. I began to worry.

“Richard, did you kill my fly?” I asked the man who drowns pack rats and mice caught in the Have-A-Heart trap.

“No,” he laughed, “I didn’t kill your fly.”

Flossie revived my memory of going to the butcher shop with Auntie Alice when I was a kid. I would sit on the window ledge while Alice talked to the meat cutters. The window had dozens of dead flies with silver wings and black noses. Having nothing much else to do except wait, I would pick up a fly and pinch off its nose. The noses separated as if they were only screwed to the body.

My pet fly is wild and fast. Flossie’s not pesty like flies that buzz your ears or want to taste your sweat. I’ve tried to capture her under a glass, but she gets away. She’ll land close by and stare in wonder as I concoct breakfast. I’ve opened the screen door inviting her to the grassy yard. Flossie likes the air-conditioned rooms and tiled floors.

On Thursday, Flossie went missing again. She was not in the kitchen. I shrugged and acknowledged her independence. After all, who wouldn’t love flying through these cool rooms with high ceilings? Sadness came the next day when I dust mopped the floors. Behind the bathroom door lay Flossie’s still gray body with its pink nose. Sad to say good-bye to such a cute, perky fly.

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