body of work piece of work

Hetty's Mending

2007-08-24T16:08:00.000-07:00

Hetty loves to mend. It's another one of those art forms that has passed away. Once a part of survival, a weekly chore. Stitch up a seam, sew on a button, darn a sock, patch a hole. Now it's just throw it away; buy a new one.

" Such a waste," Hetty would mutter whenever she saw evidence of this throw away society.

"I have lived too long, " she'd say, "Too too long."

Hetty lived in a little half Cape , down a half mile drive, back in the dunes. She had lived there as long as anyone could remember and before that. People used to see more of her, but now you didn't see her as often. The pressures of modern life disturbed her mental balance too much.

Twice a year you would see her, when she came out to the bi- annual church rummage sales. Spring and fall. She would come in the hall with her radio flyer wagon.

"Hello Hetty" the old timers would say. "How was your Winter- or Summer?"

"Oh I got through it."was her reply.

It wasn't that she didn't like people. In years gone by she had always been a good neighbor. Lending a hand when a person needed it. That's how people survive out here at the end of the world, surrounded by seawater.

She would spend four or five hours at the sale, patiently going through piles. She'd pick out things that needed mending, or a button. She'd take a break at noon for a bowl of chowda and maybe a homemade brownie or cookie; then back at it.

There weren't too many faces left she even recognized now. Some people, remembering a kindness she had made to a parent or grandparent, would speak and say "I'm so and so's Granddaughter or son." Hetty would smile and nod, but wouldn't waste too much brain power on trying to remember the person.

"Momma who's that?" children would ask hiding behind a leg.

" That's Miss Hetty dear. She lives out off Beach Rose Lane. She's always lived there."

Hetty, hearing this exchange, would look at the child in such a way as to make them scream and then she'd laugh.

Around two o 'clock or so she'd pull the flyer to the cash out table. By now the stuff was real cheap, even tho she'd been there picking since nine. All you could stuff in a shopping bag for $2.00. They didn't mind because Hetty didn't pick the good stuff. The expensive sweaters and blouses and skirts that the yankees with money about ran each other down for at opening.

No Hetty took the stuff that had seen better days. So she actually did them a favor, taking it away.

"$8.00 Miss Hetty." That meant she had four bags full.

"My husband sure would like to have that flyer Miss Hetty."

"Well maybe I'll give it to him when I can't pull it anymore." Hetty opened her ancient brown leather coin purse and handed over eight one dollar bills. One was mended with red thread.

"Thank you Hetty. See you in the spring."

Hetty's kitchen was more of a sewing room now. She ate just enough to keep herself going. Old people can't be bothered with cooking and eating. So slowly, over the years, all the shelves in the pantry and the kitchen cupboards had been emptied of cans and pans and dishes and stacked with piles of cloth. The garments she brought home were taken apart and cut up. The usable sections were washed and ironed and folded. Then stacked on the shelves in the right color group. There were bits of fabric there that represented a whole textile history. Calicoes and plaids. Madras and tartan. Every type of print you could imagine. Swatches with big gay flowers from the sixties.

Hetty didn't care much for the blends. She would feel out the real cottons and wools and silk. Garments that were too good to cut up she would mend and patch. Sometimes she would really get going and make a real piece of artwork; almost entirely constructing another piece of clothing on top of the original. She spent her days sewing and mending, humming to herself and listening to the waves roll in.

When one of her "special pieces" was done, she would put it on a hanger and take it into the parlor. She would find an empty spot on the walls and hammer in a nail. Then she would hang up her new creation. There was barely any wall space left. Then she would sit in the rocker and admire what she had made.

April 15th, the date of the spring rummage sale came. It was the usual bustle and scramble for the good stuff. Everyone happy with their buys. A chance to visit with each other over the chowda lunch and catch up after being holed up all winter.

As the volunteers were packing up the leavings around 4 o'clock one woman remarked, "Know what I just thought of?" "No Hetty."
"Oh you're right- oh that can't be good."

The next day after church, two couples rode out Beach Rose Lane to see. Sure enough, there was no sign of life at the cottage. The kitchen door was unlocked, although a two foot sand drift was banked up against it.
They opened the door and called in, "Hetty? Hetty?"
All was still as they gingerly stepped into the kitchen.

"Oh my Lord will you look at this. Look at all this cloth."
As the wives were fingering the piles of cloth, agog; the two men went ahead towards the front of the house.
The short hall beside the steep stairs led them to the parlor. They saw a figure in the old rocker facing the front windows.
One let out a low whistle as his eyes tried to take in the dizzy array all over the walls.

"Hetty?"

The men inched into the room and came around the side of the rocking chair. Hetty's skeletal remains sat in the rocker with needle and thread and a crazily patched blouse in her lap. There wasn't even a bad smell. It was like the salt sea air coming in the open front windows had mummified her.

The two women were calling from the kitchen. They were afraid to go in.
"Well--see anything?"

"Oh yea" came the reply.

After the coroner had taken Hetty away to her final rest, some of the women from the church sewing circle went out to the house to see what to do.
On the kitchen table they found Hetty's Bible under a stack of neatly pressed squares. On the family entry page they found her listed in weak brown ink.

Hetty Almstead
daughter of Matthew and Hanah White Almstead
born April 2 1872

"Geeze--- I knew she was old..."

A piece of paper was tucked into this same page. It was a note from Hetty saying she wanted her creations sold and the money to go to the Ladies Sewing Circle coffers at the church.
And give the Radio Flyer to Harry Wilson, Mary's husband.

Through some contacts with summer people who attend services while in town, a show of Hetty's "Outsider Art" creations was held at a posh gallery in New York City in the fall.
The 274 pieces garnered the Sewing Circle $190,800.00. There would be no more to come from Hetty's needle. The Ladies Sewing circle established a charity fund in Hetty's name for families of fishermen who were down on their luck, or lost at sea. Or anyone else who lived in town year round for that matter. Hetty would have been surprised at the amount her love brought....and pleased.

2007-08-04T08:44:00.000-07:00

"How about some stewed tomatoes for camouflage? Yes that's nice." She lifted the spoon to her lips for a taste as she was immune to her own cooking.

"O K Tabby------Go!" Thump onto the floor from the counter and bounding out the door, Tabby ran with a live one in her jaw. Stealthy as a- well- cat, she wove through the sea of people and chairs. She darted across the street and into the bushes behind the camper. Unseen she ran up to the beer keg and stuffed the little body in the pump hole. A couple of days ago a special feed had been put down in the basement for the rodents. Enough poison to sicken them but not kill them... just yet. This would taint the beer via the body. It would make the partiers feel very under the weather, to say the least.

Momma Bubba was in a lawn chair at a folding table stuffing bologna and egg salad sandwiches and piling them into a cooler behind her. She was in slo-mo so it gave Tabby plenty of time to hop into the cooler and relieve herself, plus have a slice of bologna for a snack.

Dash! back across the street unseen.

"10:30 A M !" The old woman announced the time to the air. "The parade is stepping off!" The day was growing hot- nearly *% degrees already. That's how it has been these last few years, cool late into June and then bam- 80's and 90's with little chance for the body to adjust.

"About an hour and a half to go and we'll be in the thick of it."

Across the street the bubba crew was taking a little break.

"These egg sandwiches taste funny" a couple of the little bubbas said. A sharp backhand from momma was the reply. The musical selection was now rap at warp 8. Clara's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene from behind the curtain. She looked left and right of the camp site. None of the other expectant parade watchers seemed to be bothered by the bubbas - even when their stray hoop shots landed on them. Swearing- yelling - carrying on was just expected behavior apparently. Clara's eyes were slits by now and the Connors of her mouth turned down. "I don't know whats wrong with people; no respect for anyone else."

People napped, babies cried, over heated dogs panted and snipped at the heels of the constantly milling crowd. Back in the kitchen, Tabby was catching a nap herself after her busy morning.

"Go ahead, nap my pretty. You'll be busy soon." Clara gave the stew on the stove a sniff and a stir. The boiling had reduced the mixture to a thick red froth. She took a slotted skimmer and pulled out clumps of hair and little bones until the stew looked more normal.

"Whew! smells bad! Hope the neighbors are good and drunk by after noon."

2:10 The parade is making good time. Sirens are heard in the distance down Hope St. People rouse from their snooze in the sun. Newspapers and paper bags slide to the ground as they hoist themselves out of their lawn chairs. People step into the street and peer towards town to see if it's in sight yet. A little longer.

Across the street it's more beer and sandwiches; a little jack when no one's looking. Momma bubba is slumped in her lawn chair with baby bubba's head in her lap. Suddenly baby bubba's head sprang up and a projectile vomit spewed forth covering momma bubba who flew out of the chair, dropping baby bubba into her own puddle. "CRAP!" shouted momma and crap baby did- "the egg salad must have turned. " Clara just happened to be at the window in time to see this little display and howled with glee. "Did you see that Tabby? That was perfect!" Short of jumping in the bay for a wash, the bubba's were going to spend the afternoon smelling pretty bad.

Clara snuck out on her porch to watch the parade pass. Tabby was on her lap but didn't last long before the loud noise of the guns sent her to her retreat in the basement. For the two and a half hours it took the parade to go by, everyone on both sides of the street was pretty much taken up with watching it. On her side, Clara managed to relax a little and made herself a long island ice tea. On the bubba side Momma and baby; in a fresh change of clothes; napped between canon shots. The men got drunker and louder and told each other war stories. The kids continued to run around the street getting in the way of the marchers. Weaving in and out and cat calling the girls in their band outfits.

3 PM Now it's over for another year. The parade portion anyway. Now it's GRILL TIME!

The bubba men are so drunk they nearly set themselves and the camper on fire with lighter fluid. When Clara saw that she said to Tabby, "now that would have saved us some work." But whoever watches over Yahoos was on the job and cooking got underway.

"O.K. Tabby Showtime!" Clara had heated the stew back up to warm. She carefully ladeled it into a save lock container she'd bought special. She took the nice loaf of Portuguese bread she'd bought at Baptista's, straightened her apron and at 4 o'clock carried the stew across the street.

"Hello folks. I see you're back again this year. How Many is it now? 10 years? 20?" "I thought I'd be a good 4th of July neighbor and bring you this stew and bread for your meal."

Tabby was rubbing back and forth between her ankles, looking like a sweet kitty. The men just stared at her slack jawed. Mumma bubba and a couple of the other wives looked surprised but managed to say thank you and put the container on the table.

"That was so nice of you- would you like a hot dog?"
"Oh no- no thank you. I'm not as young as I used to be. I'm worn out! going to go back and take a nap." "Don't worry about the container!"

Tabby and Clara hightailed it back across the street and up the porch steps and into the house. They sat behind the curtains and watched. The stew sat on the table untouched during the first round of hamburgers and hot dogs. "Drat" More loud music, more basketball, whomp whomp yell.

"Don't these people ever wear down?"

Around 6 o'clock Clara passed by the window and saw one of the bubba men licking some stew off his fingers.
"Damn this tastes kinda like my venison stew." "Kind a gamey" "Here LLoyd have some."

"Yes! Finally!"

As dusk drew on the music was still going full tilt, but otherwise it seemed somehow quieter. People were packing up and moving out on their way home til the next 4th of July.

9 o'clock the bubba encampment was the only one left but that wasn't unusual. They usually stayed late annoying the neighbors til near 11.

The camper door swung open and Momma and baby bubba stepped down the folding stair.
"Where is everybody?" "They must have gone for more beer."

Over at the picnic table and some on the folding chairs were a bunch of little mice burping and holding their stomachs with their little claw hands.

Back at the house Clara sat rocking on the porch in the cool night air with Tabby on her lap. "Well girl... I don't think we'll be seeing them next year."

"Happy 4th of July!"

Parade Hex 2

2007-06-24T08:42:00.000-07:00

In the last couple of years the onslaught had been full on. People had actually come to her very door and offered her money for her cottage; and lots of it at that. They craned their necks while speaking, trying to get a better look inside. Marveling that the place was nearly untouched- un- modernized- virgin post contact era territory. Even tho they would yank out her wood range like an old tooth and put the stainless "over there". She slammed the door in their faces. Little did they know what had been cooked on that stove over the years.
The 4th dawned grey and muggy. Clara opened her eyes and felt the heavy air coming in her bedroom window off the water. Under the low eves the clamminess had settled on her like a thin cotton blanket.
Before the movement of her legs roused Tabby the cat, she heard it. The first clanging of aluminum tent poles hitting the pavement. They were here.
Clara sprang out of bed sending Tabby flying. Clara bent to look out the low window- across the street- just in time to see the big bubba turn up the volume on the red neck radio station. Little bubba and several bubba children were the ones clattering the tent poles, trying to erect the canopy off the side of the camper. Female bubba was loading the first case of beer into the cooler. She popped a top and took a long pull. It wasn't yet 6 a.m. The blood pressure rose in Clara's ears. "God damned sons of bitches. I'll fix your sorry asses for ya this year".
No one would be coming to the lawn for a parade picnic this year. This year Clara had begged off her parade hostess duties to the disappointment of her cronies. This year Clara had other plans.
"Come on Tabby- lets go downstairs and get breakfast before you run off to hide in the basement for the day. You may have some company down there this year."
Clara fired up the wood range even tho the heat was already gathering in the house. She put on the old tea kettle and poured some milk into Tabby's bowl. Both of them jumped in their skins as a boom of hillbilly music blared into the air. 6:15.
The street was filling up. Blankets were spread on the sidewalks; lawnchairs, coolers and people people people, were packing in to every available inch of space. It would be a good five hours before the parade got down this end. A long time to kill while guarding your spot. Some slept on their blankets, some read, some took a promenade up and down the street a ways. The rednecks settled in with their beer. More came to join them and a pickup game of basketball against the side of the camper began. Whomp whomp whomp yell- over and over.
Every little while Clara stole to the front window and watched them. "What asses. How dare they come here from out of town and ruin our day?" Tabby jumped up on the sill and rubbed back and forth on her Mother's arms.
"Now my sweet girl-I want you to do like I told you. Remember how we practiced?" Tabby glared her own look at the bubbas through yellow slitted eyes before she hopped down and ran back toward the kitchen. The basement door was ajar and she ran down the steep steps. Quick quick she was back up again with something wiggling in her teeth. A fat mouse squealed in terror. Tabby's jaws closed hard and the mouse went limp. Clara had replaced the breakfast kettle with an old enamel pot on the wood range. Tabby flung the mouse into the boiling brew in the pot and gave Clara a satisfied smirk. She lifted her head for a stroke. "Good Girl!" This route was redone several more times until a pot full of little bloated bodies roiled in the enamel pot. All the while Clara added a dash of this and a pinch of that, muttering unknown words as she worked; smiling for the first time all day.

Parade Hex

2007-06-24T06:55:00.000-07:00

Spring was cold again this year. Not quite as wet as last year, but each day we got out of bed and poked our noses out to see if it was warmer yet. Only one day in all of June was almost 90 degrees and then the next morning it was back down in the 40's at first light. What happens with years like this is it makes for a short summer. If we can include the last half of June and the first half of September it's a good year. Then we can stretch our slim paradise of Summer to three months. To add to the lateness of Spring's arrival, the children were released late from school as well. A mere week before the 4th of July. In that last week town swings into extra high gear.

American flags bloom up and down Hope and High with the neighbors in an unspoken competition of who's flag is the oldest or the biggest. Someone on High St is always winner of the "biggest" division with the one that hangs across the sidewalk from the corner of the house to the top of the utility pole and reaches nearly to the ground. I noticed this year a disgruntled dog walker tied a knot in it.

The Carnival pulled onto the common and all the townies go the first night because it's "Dollar Night". Let the tourists go the rest of the week and pay $4.00 bucks a pop. If you live on the parade route forget about a full nights sleep for a few days. You're lucky if you make it to 3 a.m. because the street sweeper is out making sure the freshly painted red white and blue lines stay clean. Then there's the partying that goes on all night the night before and then after the day of festivities there's the clean up. The town does a very good job of clean up.

Also, it seems, a blind eye is turned to public drinking. If your cocktail of choice fits in a coffee mug we don't seem to notice that you get louder and wobblier as the day goes on.

In certain spots along the two and a half mile parade route campers pull in and set up shanty town for twenty four hours. During this period the drinking is non-stop. If you have the bad fortune to abut one of these areas, your patience is stretched to the limit.

If you are not from here, let me try to have you understand the importance of the parade. For two and a fifth consecutive centuries-with a very few exceptions for war and pestilence that we forgive- people here have marched down the street with musical instruments and guns on the fourth of July. Balls and beauty contests, picnics and fireworks and band concerts of every ilk lead up to the parade every year. Planning is a year round production and to be chosen Grand Marshall is akin to being elected President. This is no small small town parade.

One year the patience of town resident snapped and here is where the tale begins.

One bunch of camper revelers comes to the same spot every year. It's the parking lot of a posh waterfront restaurant who's owner has the good sense not to open on parade day. Directly across the street the land rises in a slight bank. In the middle of a row of old houses sits a Cape style cottage set back a little and three quarters hidden in an overgrowth of hedgerow and wild antique plants.
Every year for the last twenty; Clara, who lived in the cottage, had been driven crazy by this same group. Every year her 4th of July was ruined by these slobs. This year she was ready for them.
Clara is a native and her foremothers have been here for all the generations since white people set foot on Mt. Hope. She had watched the town be changed time and again by new comers moving in with their ideas of how the town could be "Better".

2007-06-24T06:41:00.000-07:00

The Night the Mayflower Burned to the Ground

2007-04-15T14:29:00.000-07:00

"Ethan! Ethan get the cart!"

Horace looked forward to Saturday night all week long. Not that drinking was reserved for one night a week. A tip of hard shine or a beer was an ongoing part of life. Saturday "drinking out" was the one means of sociability in this back woods hum drum existence.
People like Ethan and his Father lived in shacks, clumped together in enclaves, tucked away along back country roads boardering farmland and stands of scrub pine. Saltboxers they were called. Not after the saltbox style of the old Cape Cod cottage; but more like shanties covered in tar paper. Saltboxers were mostly family groups with alot of close marrying and the folks reflected that. Their world was small; but the people were passionate in love and in hate.

Horace was a tall man with rheumy blue eyes. His wife Bette was dead; but in life she had been considered pretty. Dark hair and eyes. She wasn't from the Saltbox, but Hogtown, some twelve miles North. So Ethan had more color than alot of his peers. He was quite handsome at fourteen in fact and the girls liked him.

As far as the neighbors knew Bette had died an accidental death while on a visit to her folks. She just never came home. Ethan was four at the time. He had gone with his Mother to visit his Grandparents and Aunt up to Hogtown. Only he returned when Horace went to bring them home. Altho Ethan was quickly hustled into the house, the shacks were closely situated and some of the neighbors saw the bruises and cuts on Ethan. The cheerful pretty child became dour after that and people didn't ask questions. They just figured it had to do with his Mother's accident.

Horace was never pleasant to begin with, but after Bette's death he became even drunker and more wrathful. Bette had been the one bright spot in his sour world. People gave him a wide path, especially when he was drunk.

It was into the 1950's and people did have cast off cars and farm trucks; but on Saturday night they left them behind because they knew they would be way too drunk to drive home. Not that they had any regard for the life and limb of themselves or anyone else, but because they prized their vehicles. Besides the pony carts were tradition.

It was nearly five p.m. when Ethan led the pony from his small coral behind the shack and hitched him to the home made cart. Nearly every family had a pony cart. Some were gaily painted and had been passed down through the generations of a family. Horace's was plain and boxy. Ethan brought the pony and cart around and Horace heaved himself aboard. Father and Son set off for a night of hard drinking. Along the rural roads they drove; cars passing them with children craning their necks at the sight. Strange rigs like some apparition from the past.

After about seven miles North they turned off the hard road onto a cart path into the swamp. The pony well knew the way in as well as out, hours later, when they were too drunk to navigate themselves home. Going on six thirty the cart pulled into the yard of a large barn. Other carts were already there. Only a few old rusty edged tin beer signs nailed to the wall gave away the fact that this wasn't just another old barn but The Mayflower. A place for drinking and dancing and flirting; frequented by the rural poor and once in a while a few brave young people who went to gawk at these people ; a remnant of a time soon passed. Inside the place was decorated with every manner of antique farm implement nailed to the walls and the ceiling. Hell even an old pony cart was suspended from the rafters. An accumulation of years and years since before prohibition. An old jukebox offered a mixture of music also spanning decades. On Saturday nights some of the locals brought instruments and played the old songs for country dancing.

A knot of young people loitered around the door.
"Hello Ethan" a pretty young girl flirted. The drinking age started about twelve here, along with sexual encounters. Ethan turned red and dropped his gaze to the dirt. Then he followed his Father inside. Once inside Horace sat at the bar which was built along a side wall and ordered a whiskey for himself and a beer for Ethan. Ethan took his drink and went off to sit in a corner near the jukebox. There he stayed all evening, getting up only for more beer. He watched the other young people dance and flirt. He watched his Father get shit faced drunk.
Now feuds are not just the stuff of Southern legend. They are real. Especially among the poor uneducated people in any woods who have little else to sustain them. The Mayflower was located nearer to Hogtown than the Saltbox. Almost every week there would be a fight in the Mayflower yard over some infraction of local decorum either real or imagined. This raw undercurrent was always present and grew hotter, more volatile, as the alcohol haze thickened with the night. Police didn't go there unless they were off duty and part of the mix.
For a few years after Bette's death, Horace didn't go to the Mayflower. Instead he sat at home and drank. Ethan was still little. Once the boy was old enough for beer they began the weekly trip. It didn't take Ethan long to notice the feud between Horace and Walter. Walter was a cop who tended bar for extra cash at the Mayflower. Walter was also a Hogtowner who considered himself better than most because of his job. Walter was also Bette's cousin.
Ethan would watch his Father start to pick a fight with Walter after the fifth or sixth whiskey. Many nights ended up with them rolling around in the yard in a drunken brawl. This night, hot and sticky in late August, Horace was particularly aggressive and nasty. It was the anniversary of Bette's death. About eleven o'clock Walter left his post as bartender and started to match Horace shot for shot. Ethan grew nervous and went outside for some air. He sat in their cart and watched the young people in the yard stealing kisses and wondering off into the trees. About midnight he went back inside to try to convince his Father to go on home. He couldn't see Horace and he didn't see Walter either. He sat. Then he went back to the cart to wait and dozed off. Ethan began to dream. In his dream he was being pulled hard by the arms by his Grandmother. He could feel himself trying to thrash his way out of her grip. He cut himself on her nails. He dreamt of hearing angry shouts.
"It was you!"
"It was you who killed my Bette! You killed her because she loved me more and she left you!"
A lantern was hurled at one man by the other. "I'll kill you- you son of a bitch- like you killed her!"
Ethan woke with a start to see flames engulfing the Mayflower. People were rushing out into the yard screaming. Flames quickly swallowed up the old oil soaked wood.
Ethan tried to shake his head clear but he couldn't figure out if the angry voice had belonged to Walter or his Father.
Sunday morning the fire was the talk of every surrounding town. Everyone drove out to see the smoldering pile of barn planks. A half burned pony cart stuck up through the pile. Neither Horace or Walter was ever seen alive again.

A couple of POEMS for Valentines Day

2007-02-10T16:44:00.000-08:00

Wandering in Samsara

Our perceptions of self
body image
at the bottom
form our opinions of our worth.
In the eyes of the beholder
no matter how funny
no matter how smart
no matter how kind
We think we are not worthy of the handsome one
the smart one
the rich one.
Like a blessing
the handsome one appears
and loves us
Not preyfully
Wanting nothing
but our smile
our touch our blessing.
That is Grace.

for John Morin

GURU Devotion

Being such a fan
of actual physical Love
all these years
I -off and on-
flirted with the idea
of loving an entity
a spirit
a physical person- but removed-
out of reach
in accessible
by reason of distance
or taboo.
Love of another nature.
To simply gaze on an image
of the Beloveds face
brings overwhelming joy. The sound of the Beloved"s voice
is heartbreaking.
I could not imagine
a love like this without conclusion.
Then I realized
that's how I feel about you.

for Bob Dylan

The Wild Olivine

2007-01-07T15:24:00.000-08:00

She will not be tamed
the wild Olivine.

Some women have polite
cats that purrr and coo

Sit on your lap and
raise their faces for a kiss.

Not Olivine! The nine arms
cannot contain her!

I chose her when just
her round head poked out
from beneath her mother.

Her Mother was also wild.
Wouldn't allow a stroke
Altho her body seemed
to yearn for one.

She barely consented to
live in my little house
for three months
Only for her kittens.

Mostly under the bed.
Once in a great while
when all was still
She would sit in the
kitchen by the door
to rest from the nursery.

Olivine's eyes were
big shiny black buttons
when they opened.
She is black and tan
just like her Mother.

The only one like that

Now her Mother is gone.
Survived the Winter
but died in early Spring.

I tell Olivine all about her
when she slows down
long enough to listen.

The Kitchen

2007-01-07T15:10:00.000-08:00

Almost homey
Light thru the gingham at the windows
softens the rows of tables
as many as the room will fit.
The old Cadillac of a stove
is warm in nature.
Holds many pots.
Burns the arms of the volunteer cooks
leaning down to pull the pans of American Chop Suey out.

The giant Hubbard squash someone brought
sits atop the refrigerator.
It has become a house pet
and vibrates it's benediction whenever the motor goes on.
Barry has dubbed it THE GREAT ORB
who sees all.

Sees the extra muffins stuffed into pockets
sees the needles passed under the tablecloth.
Sees the intentions of all in the room.

As the light fades we all return.
Another day completed
survived on the street.
Another meal provided to sustain us.
Amen.

Quaker

2007-01-01T12:11:00.000-08:00

Thomas Tabor is a Quaker. There were once Quakers in my family and this was our bond. An unlikely meeting; but maybe not. New Bedford in the Whaling days was a center of Quaker activity. These streets, so near the long whalves, held the counting houses and the shops of Quaker merchants. Barrels and sails and salted meat and hardtac, harpoons and ships log books. Ships "out", whale oil "in" the ledger columns. The money mounted in plain Quaker pockets.

Now in this latter day the Quaker Thomas was tending bar and drinking as well. All our Yankee Ouaker families had watered down, thinned out, run out; through intermarriage with Canadians and Catholics and Portuguese; until the last vestiges of the Friends lifestyle were ghostly memory. Such memories haunted some- like Thomas.

He remembered his family, his Grandparents, his ancestors and the way they lived. He knew their stern hand and their disapproval of his life.

In the town still stands the meetinghouse. It's double curving stairways and separate doors for male and female give the plain brick building it's grace.

Inside, the white boxed pews with hard board benches are Quaker austerity made manifest. Any noise is hollow for no cushion or curtain soften the sound. Plain but graceful wrought iron chandeliers hang to hold the oil lamps once fueled by the behemoth. And that is all here, but the silence of worship.

Off to the side is the parish hall. Now, so few faithful gather, this is where they meet. More comfortable; kitchen chairs and rockers, some with a thin pad in the seat, covered in faded calico. An old wooden playpen for babies and a few hand me down toys to occupy the little ones. A new generation of Quakers yet. I had gone to this house of worship on a few occasions; looking not so much for God as for some sort of tie to my familial past. What had my ancestors been like? I have only faded photos of pinched Yankee faces.

I don't remember how it ever came up in conversation with Thomas about being decended from Quakers. My name was no longer a Quaker name, by way of generations of marriages. But Tabor is. Males hang on to their names and Thomas also hung on to a shred of his family identity; even tho he had been cast out as a black sheep. Strayed from the fold by way of drugs and alcohol. Out to sea on a scalloper and washed back up on shore. Cast up at the door of the National Club. Like so much flotsam- there we found ourselves- one on each side of the bar.

"Would you go to Meeting with me sometime?" I could tell it took all his courage to ask. Thomas is one of those men who is by nature so soft spoken you can barely catch their words. He wears his hair long and it waves around his face. Wire rim glasses complete the look,along with the ever present peacoat. To see him standing at the foot of Union St. at dusk would cause you to look twice, for he looked like his own ancestor just disembarked from a whaler.

And so we went to church. If you've never been, Quaker Meeting is formed of silent reflection. A reading, some hymns, the rest silent meditation. Each is still in their own seat. The collective silence gathers in the room in a kind of tension if you aren't accustomed to it. Sometimes someone will be moved to speak and it is received like a sacrament and the silence continues.

And so we sat, Thomas and I. I must confess I watched him. It was as if he went away off. Lost in his private thoughts. Were they tormented self reprisals for his shortcomings, or happy remembrances of going to meeting as a little boy? His face did not tell me.

BANG! A thunderous loud noise returned us to the present. Somewhere a book had dropped to the floor. We both about came out of our skins and the spell was broken.

We never went to Meeting together again. Nor did he ever mention it. I don't know if he ever went again by himself or not I doubt it. Perhaps once was enough.

Going out for New Year's Eve

2006-12-31T13:43:00.000-08:00

Flash The Picadilly Lounge

I was a girl- new to the big city. Cokes and fries after school in the old drug store.

A connecting door with a round glass window- down the dingy hall to the bathroom.

Peeking thru into another world the first time I ever saw a nightclub.

I remember dove grey walls and lots of pink and gold decor around the mirrored bar.

Little round tables with pink skirts and shaded lamps that I knew twinkled to life at night.

No one there during the day. The stage along the back wall where the music would come

from for the dancers. Who would hold each other close in the dim light.

The women would be alluring shiny in sleek dresses and silk stockings. High heels and

fur wraps. Hair done high that Saturday morning at the beauty parlor.

Before the Afro there was the elegance. Marceled hair kept overnight in a tight do rag.

Little row after row of Billy Dee waves pencil thin mustache fine features and high yella

skin. Beautiful clothes fine elegant fine.

A man knew how to make a woman feel like the most beautiful creature.

And a woman would later reward such special treatment with a heat you could feel

thick in the air as the dancers swayed on the wooden floor.

The Picadilly Lounge on Union St New Bedford 1942

Uptown

Have a wonderful safe and romantic New Year's Eve

How To Be A Yankee

2006-12-31T13:23:00.000-08:00

How To Be A Yankee

1. Don't carry money This keeps you from buying anything because surely you can make do with something you have at home. If you do have to have something, someone else will pony up.

2. Get vaccinated against the fashion bug Don't buy any new clothes. That Kakhi and madras is good enough. Wear with your children's outgrown shoes.

3. Don't pay more than $2.00 for a hair cut.

4. Don't keep pets. They cost money. If you must love something- there are cats in the shed.

5. Build your own sailboat It's cheaper and you learn a trade.

6. Don't cross any bridges you'll be too far from home.

please add to my list if you wish

a New Year

2006-12-31T13:08:00.000-08:00

Turn the key

open the box

no mail

log on

no e mail

out of minutes

no phone calls

Back where I started

Buddha keeps returning

me to no - thing

Go back

no free pass

I keep trying to avoid it

Return to go.

2006-11-15T14:25:00.000-08:00

FIRST THANKSGIVING PARADE GIMBEL'S DEPARTMENT STORE PHILIDELPHIA 1921

The Craneberry

2006-11-15T13:59:00.000-08:00

The Craneberry- so named by the Pilgrims because it's pink blossom reminded them of the heads of Cranes. The local Natives already had figured out they are good for you and made them a staple of their diet in Pemmican- a mash of dried berries, dried deer meat and melted animal fat. An early trail bar. The red juice was used to dye fibers to add some color to blankets and rugs. Who knows how the berry first came to grow on Cape Cod. Perhaps a bird dropped it and it took root in the sandy soil. Kettle ponds left from the passing of the last ice age filled with rotting vegetation and some became bogs. The berries liked bog land and sent out their woody tendrils. In the early 1800's a Captain Henry Hall of Dennis noticed the berries did better where the sand blew in over them and cultivation of the berry began. In 1820 he shipped 30 barrels of the red berries to New York City and they were a big hit.

CRANBERRY SALSA

2 cups whole cranberries 1 fresh jalapeno pepper seeded and minced
1/2 cup red pepper finely diced 1/4 cup cilantro, chopped
1/2 cup red onion, finely diced 1/4 cup fresh Italian flat leaf parsley, chopped
1/2 cup celery, finely diced 2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon sugar 1/8 teaspoon salt

Place cranberries in a food processor. Pulse a few times until chopped. Add everything else. Process until well mixed. Pour into serving bowl. Cover and chill over night. Serve with Thanksgiving dinner.
Happy Thanksgiving!!!!

A Thanksgiving memory

2006-11-15T13:48:00.000-08:00

As Thanksgiving approaches my mind turns to a reflection of my youth in Plymouth Massachusetts. My family spent our summers in Manomet, south of Plymouth. We often drove into "town" which was Plymouth. In 1957 something special happened.

My Father had a few hobbies. Amateur photography was a big one for a while. In the summer Dad took hundreds of pictures...of seagulls. Oh he took pictures of other stuff too, but it was a joke in our household- how close could you sneak up on a seagull and take it's picture? We had hundreds of slides of seagulls from every angle. When he bought a zoom lens we thought he had reached the ultimate; the eye of the seagull.

But then something happened in 1957. The buzz began about a year beforehand. All year the excitement mounted. A Great Coming was in store. Right to our very own shores - The Mayflower 2. What a photo op.

Previous to this time, the whole Pilgrim thing in Plymouth was a somewhat naive venture. I remember the Statue of the handsome- and nearly naked -Massassoit perched atop the hill looking out over the harbor from whence would come his demise. I remember the granite Portico protecting Plymouth Rock. I didn't know at the time that that was the second portico and previous to that the rock had been dragged around town a few times. And I remember one House and one Fort and being enthralled by something called Thatch on the roof. This was back in the days when we believed all the pretty white history about the coming of the Pilgrims to the new land. But the coming of this Ship was going to usher in a new beginning of understanding.

For some reason, my Father was totally taken up by the excitement. The hundreds of pictures of seagulls gave way to hundreds of pictures of the Mayflower 2.

It was a glorious day when She sailed into Plymouth Harbor. It was like the Forth of July only more so. Every boat from row boats to yachts, from Boston to Ptown came fully decked out to escort Her into her new homeport. A parade of sail fit for the Queen. Horns and whistles blew. Fire works went off. Camera shutters fluttered faster than the speed of light.

One marked difference that came with the ship were the costumes. Here for the first time we saw how the Pilgrims really looked. They were, after all, Elizabethan English. I have no idea who dreamed up the rigs we were used to seeing. Those black sacks with big white square collars and hats. They didn't use buckles, that was the Puritans with whom they are still confused. Somber woolens true, but much more colorful. Here was mulberry, here was sage and navy blue. Here was a splash of Turkey Red! I was right there taking in all the pagentry and pomp-- but in my heart of hearts I was always on the other side- I was in the indian camp- even then. At eight years old I didn't understand why these people thought they could just come here and move in on the people who were already here without so much as a by your leave. I still don't. But it was a great day in American history--and I still have the slides to prove it!!!

Urban Legend

2006-10-29T10:00:00.000-08:00

When you live in the New England countryside it's nearly a law that you adore Halloween. It was certainly that way in 1963 when Pamela was 15. Young people in the 60's had a double dose of bloodrush going on. 15 at the threshold of being a full blown teenager and this life event taking place as the infamous 1960's were just picking up steam. A heady combination. So much so, even teens living off the beaten track were not immune. They gave their parents instructions to bring them things from the city when returning from work or the supermarket. The latest Bob Dylan record or a magazine with a multi-page spread on the British Invasion. Turn tables rotated constantly and phone lines buzzed.

It has always been recognized that country kids matured early. After being cooped up at home on a back country road with just your immediate family, by 12 or 13 you were pretty well itching to broaden your horizons. So you found a group to join in at the new Regional Highschool which included some members old enough to drive. In order to do this Pam cultivated a mature look and reputation early on. Fall of school year '63 found Pam settled in to the tenth grade. If you were at all pretty, which Pam was, you already had a boyfriend. This didn't mean an awful lot yet, other than you were cool enough to get a boyfriend or vice versa for the boys.

Pam was on the cheer squad and her boyfriend Rob was on all the ball teams. Poster children for their type. There was another type that during this historical period enjoyed an unusual popularity. The Bohemian who would morph into the Hippie. There is always an "artistic" faction among teenagers. They dress in black and mope while being painters, writers or musicians. They contemplate death and worry their parents, who try to decide if they are playacting or truly suicidal.

At the highschool this year, the beat group is almost edging out the jocks. The times they are a-changing! A strange un-voiced competition for popularity ran an undercurrent through school activities.

Claire was on the other team from Pam, even though they had been country neighbors; living a half mile apart; since they were little. It's interesting to witness the unspoken way things like clique politics work themselves out between teenagers. While Pam and Claire remained friends in the neighborhood, at school they each drifted off into their own peer groups. Claire was in all the art classes she could fit into her schedule. She wanted to be a painter. She didn't think she was very good, but she kept at it. As Pam was pretty, Claire was plain. A little chubby. Her baby fat never left as people kept promising her it would.

The beats had a tendency to conduct their social life in groups rather than couples. Even so after a while they would pair off because they wanted to explore their sexuality and we weren't quite into the whole free love thing just yet. Claire found her counterpart in the art room. Thomas was a good painter. He was from a farming family and the real ideal of who would evolve into a Hippie. They made a good pair, not ultra popular by jock standards; but well liked and included.

The school year was well underway. Students and teachers settled in. Days were growing shorter and colder. By mid-October houses up and down the country roads were sprouting Halloween decorations. Pumpkins and hay bales and mums. Paper cut outs in windows and Indian Corn tied to doors and lamp posts. Every year stories would circulate about scary events that had taken place in the rural surroundings.

"There is a rock on our farm that has a Witch's footprint in it" Thomas was telling a group in the art room. " Four generations ago my family bought the farm from the Haskell family who had owned it since colonial times. The Haskells proudly told the new owners of the rock they had purchased and it's attending legend."

"It seems one Mercy Brewer had been run out of Boston colony because she was suspected of being a Witch. Her transgression was stealing a baby for what was thought to be a ritual sacrifice. Truth of it was she did indeed steal a baby from it's cradle, in a neighboring town, in the dark of night. Her intent was not to harm the child, but to return to Boston claiming that the babe was hers and the product of an affair with a well respected magistrate, who had a wife already. She had hoped that the ensuing scandal would dissolve his marriage and she could have him and the babe for her own. What she didn't count on was the wife's refusal to give up her husband and more so, her life style. Nor the denial of the Magistrate as to the affair with her. Instead he used his influence to have her banished from Boston by trumping up the " baby sacrifice " tale.

Cast out, she took the babe and fled south to Middleborough. There she was taken in by the original owners of the farm as a farm hand."

Now of course you would have to be more than a bit unstable to trump up such a plan to begin with and her ensuing plight made her seethe with rage every time she thought about it. Her anger clouded her thinking further and she began to think perhaps the powers of darkness could help her exact revenge on the magistrate. She would wonder the woods behind the cow pen and sit on a table rock and ponder a plan.

"There must be something to this witch stuff or there wouldn't be such an uproar over it. Perhaps the Devil would help me." The more time went by the more obsessed she became with revenge. The last night of October she again took the sleeping babe from it's cradle and carried it to the rock in the woods. She laid it on the table rock and began to walk circles around it muttering curses she had invented in her head.

"Take this babe I beg of you and in exchange for this life strike down the Magistrate who betrayed me!" She kept repeating this plea and walking faster and faster around the rock. The child just lay there not even crying- just watching her.

As her ranting reached a crescendo, she grabbed a rock from the ground, jumped upon the table rock and held it above the baby's head. Just as she was about to fulfill the curse a mighty lightening bolt smote her down into a vapor.

The next morning the farmer and his wife went searching for the missing girl and her baby. The wife had become very attached to the baby and had prayed for some way to have it be her own. Finally they came to the table rock and saw a bundle there. Running to it, fearing the worst, they saw the baby was alive and sleeping. Just beside it was a pile of blackened ash burnt blacker than coal. The farmers wife lifted the child tenderly in her arms. The farmer, curious, brushed at the ash on the rock. He felt of it and bent to smell it. It smelled so acrid he reacted by sweeping it to the ground. Beneath the ash, burnt into the rock was a clear footprint. Small and in the shape of a woman's boot sole.

It was so burnt into the rock face it has lasted all these years and every Halloween it turns black black again. There is a legend that says if a pregnant girl steps upon the print she will not be able to remove her foot until the adulterer is punished."

"That's just a story!!!" the listeners said.
"Well you can think that if you want or better yet come see it for yourselves !" said Thomas, thinking it would be a good hoot for Halloween.

And so a Halloween field trip was planned. The story spread like wildfire through the school. Before long kids from all the different social sets were making plans to converge on the woods of Thomas' farm.

Pam had just confided to Claire that she was pregnant. No one else knew yet. Not Rob and certainly not her parents.
"This can't be happening to me!" "I can't have a baby--what about college?"
"Well if you really don't want it, you'll have to have your parents send you away to get rid of it." 'They'd probably rather do that than have everyone know you got pregnant."
"You're probably right there knowing them." "Swear you won't tell a soul."
"Of course-- I would never--you know I love you like a sister." "What are you going to do about the Witch Rock Halloween party?"
"Why?"

"Well you know the legend says...."
"Claire don't be ridiculous!" "That's just a Halloween story and an excuse for a party."

The week before Halloween the excitement grew. There was to be a bon fire in the field and food and drink was being trucked in for the party. It really seemed group politics had been put aside for this uniting event.

Halloween night was perfect, not too cold. At dusk everyone started pulling their cars and trucks onto the hayfield. Hamburgers sizzled- music blared- lots of Rolling Stones. The beer keg was tapped and plenty of doobies made the rounds. Around nine o'clock the bonfire was lit. People started telling Ghost stories to get people in the mood for the hike.

Claire and Thomas had been busy keeping things at a manageable level of revelry. At eleven o'clock Thomas jumped up on the back of his pickup truck.
"O.K. Everyone.... we're heading out. It's about a mile so stay on the trail. Don't wonder off ...there are wild dogs back there...." He knew he was wasting his effort but had to at least try. "Use flashlights!!!...no fires!!

And so the procession began. Much laughter and drunken stumbling. At various spots along the trail spooks jumped out to wild shreeks.

Finally at the rock, Thomas lit the TIKI Torches he had placed in a circle around it. The rock was about six feet by four feet. and sure enough, there towards the back side was the footprint plain as day, or should we say night. The girls touched it in awe. The boys scraped at it to see if it were freshly painted. Little stone steps had been placed beside it and the procession across the rock began. All the girls walked across- some holding their breath- and placed their foot on the print. When they didn't stick they jumped off the back side and their boyfriends gave cheers and pats on the back.

Pam hopped up on the rock, turning to give Claire a sly smile. At the stroke of midnight she gave one long hop and her right foot came down on the print. A loud rumble crossed the sky and when she would have naturally completed the motion of landing on her left foot she crumpled to the stone. Her right foot would not budge. Lightening pierced the sky with another loud crack, leaving the smell of sulpher in the air. Pam was out cold with fright. Girls screamed for real this time. The boys tried to pry her foot loose. After the midnight hour passed the foot released and a badly shaken group of young people straggled back to their vehicles.

"WOW That was awesome!!!" was the word around the halls before first class the next morning. The light of day made the whole thing not so scary. No one saw Pam or Rob.

The students for first period civics class opened the classroom door and stopped in their tracks. The smoldering remains of Mr Jenkins was strewn across his desk.

Happy Halloween Everyone!!!

Use It All

2006-10-23T16:05:00.001-07:00

Ermine lived in the little hut behind the corn field. It was very small but it was enough for her now. At middle age she found herself alone except for her cats and other small creatures that came out of the field for little treats she left for them.

Her life had not gone as she had hoped. She couldn't say planned because that was the problem. She hadn't made a plan. She had just drifted along, year to year, dealing with whatever came along. Life was so different now than when she was young. In these modern times. So fast and so expensive. It made her life feel so tenuous. Used to be you had your job for most of your life. Now you were lucky if you had the same job for five years. Technology made it possible to have all the world's problems delivered to you every day- all day.

Some people liked it, the new caffeine driven existence. Some people couldn't take it. Ermine couldn't take it. So she dropped out. Pulled the plug. Carted her T.V. set to the curb and moved a few times. Each time was to a place a little more removed. Now here she was.
The little hut was twenty feet square. Just one room, open space. It had a wood stove which was what Ermine loved best. It was work but she didn't mind. The hut was built for workers to live in while they worked the cranberry bogs. She made a deal with the owner to live there in exchange for work around the place. His wife was ill and needed help. So Ermine settled into a routine of work and her off time ,which she used to write her stories. She didn't see many people but that was o.k. She had had enough of people and enough of the world.

Part of her work included taking some of the care of the animals around the place. She liked that too. So there were her indoor cats, the farm animals and the wild critters. She made a study of them all. How they differed in their varying states of wildness. How they related to her and to each other. Their family ways. They were much more sensible than people.

Ermine didn't have much money. She made a little from her stories and that had to cover her food and her bare needs. She became very proficient at making do and using up everything. Nothing went to waste.

Ermine learned about death. Everything is born and everything dies. It is just how it is. She became fascinated with the breath. She assisted at births and witnessed life enter the body with the first breath. She was present sometimes when beings died. She would cradle them in her arms the same way, if they let her, and watch the last breath leave taking the spirit with it. Then she would just be holding the empty body. It felt like someone had just left a room or a house leaving it empty. Ermine could never understand people's attachment to the corpse. All you had to do was look at it to see the being was long gone.

So after a respectful period , the body was used up as well. If it was something that could be used for food you dressed it out before the blood cooled. Over the course of years Ermine learned more and more. She learned how to be able to make use of the skins or feathers, the horns and nails and teeth. Everything was used.

In Ermine's house, things she had brought with her began to be replaced with things she made from things that once lived or grew. She learned to carve, to replace cups or plates. She sewed articles of clothing. What she required from the outside world became less and less.

Eventually the farmers wife died. Ermine held her as that last breath passed out of her. The farmer was there but could not give her the same comfort. The two of them dug the grave out in the woods behind the bog. In a little while the farmer wanted Ermine to move into the house with him but she didn't want to. She was passed all that. She continued looking after him though, and the animals.

Sometimes Ermine thought about what would happen if she were forced to go back to the world. She didn't think she could do it. Once in a while some horror story would find it's way back to her about what was going on out there. She knew she would never make it.

One night the farmer didn't come in for supper. Ermine ate her meal and cleaned up. She put his plate in the fridge finally and went to her hut. At nine o'clock she checked the animals. No sign of him. Not much she could do in the dark.

Next morning brought no word. So now Ermine took the dog and started walking the land. She wasn't at it very long before the dog started barking. They found him in the corn field. His body was slumped on the ground. Altho he had hit his head on a rock when he fell, she didn't think that is what killed him. Looked like a heart attack. At any rate he was dead now.

If he was dead and people knew, she would have to leave. She would have to go back. Ermine went into the shed and got the butcher tools. Nothing went to waste.

Child Vanishes From School Trip

2006-10-14T13:07:00.000-07:00

Little Billy didn't want to go to school on Friday. "I hate school trips Mom. They're boring!"
Truth be told Billy was scared. He was an over-sensitive child- afraid of everything. His Mom was well aware of his fears in life and worried a lot about the best way to deal with it. She did her best not to show him her concern and encourage him to be more at ease in his world.
"But Billy you like history class and you like boats. The Whaling Museum will be fun. They have that whale skeleton and the big boat you can go aboard. Here's your hat - give me a kiss."

"O.K. Mom I'll try" said Billy as he tugged his ball cap on his head and pecked his Mom on the cheek.
Little did Mom know Billy's fears would be well founded.

Everyone at the Museum liked Ibraham. No one could remember a time he wasn't there. Small of stature, he was all sinewy muscle. He still whipped around the big building keeping everything spotless and ship shape. No one knew his age, he'd never say. His hair was white now, close cropped tight curls. His copper skin had few lines and his dark eyes flashed when he smiled. If you looked at him real close you could just see the faintest blue tracings of tattoo on his cheeks. You almost thought you imagined it.

Ibraham liked to stay around after work and tell stories of the great whaling days to the children who would come on field trips. Was it his Grandfather's stories he told of going after the great beasts in little matchbox longboats? Or how they had been plucked from their native islands while drunk to build these vast fortunes? Everyone was enthralled by Ibraham's stories, no matter how often they had heard them.

Ibraham's favorite room was the one who's walls were covered with old sailcloth painted with scenes of native South Sea villages. In glass cases were relics brought back as curios. Even little heads stared out to scare you. In here Ibraham told his family stories to groups of wide eyed children.

Billy was feeling proud of himself for doing O.K. on this trip. He even allowed himself to enjoy climbing all over the boat and hearing how the marine science people had reconstructed the whale bones high over head. At the end of the day Billy walked off to go to the bathroom. He didn't think to tell anyone. Dawdling as children do, when he came back to the foyer it was empty. The bus was gone from outside. Only Ibraham was there mopping the floor.

The next morning the police were combing the building before opening time. Billy's Mother was in the lobby hysterical. The teacher was seeing herself fired because she hadn't done a proper head count and realized Billy wasn't on the bus.

Ibraham watched out the corner of his eye as he mopped the hallway.
"Is this your son's ball cap Mame?" "We found it by the big black pot in there."

Biting the Hand That Feeds You

2006-10-14T11:06:00.000-07:00

For such a high tone New England town Bentley had a few problems. The town Fathers turned a blind eye to up the hill away from the waterfront where all the money was. This was the part of town where the mills had been. After shipping money dwindled, the mills came with their sizable immigrant populations to work in them. First it might be French, then Irish or Polish, then the Portuguese. It was the same all over New England. Each group came to work in the mills churning out cloth or rubber shoes or metal parts of things. Each wave left it's imprint on the town. Then manufacturing moved South and left the empty mills behind.

There was a long span of emptiness before the condo craze came along. The glass windows got broken, pipes froze, doors got pushed in. But Bentley was too busy turning the waterfront upscale to be worried about the old mills. Tourists and condo dwellers never went east of Woodlawn St.

One cluster of buildings had fallen particularly far into disrepair and because of it's easy accessibility it was no longer vacant. Homeless people had discovered it and moved in. Not enough of a population to even be noticeable. There were no houses right nearby. Nobody wanted to live near the mills. Besides once they got in they could go way back away from the street side, through the maze of rooms to the very back. There weren't as many broken windows there and it was warmer. Plus people didn't see the barrel fires so they could fix something to eat and then roll up in their blankets and sleep. Pretty good.

Those hiding out there didn't know that they were not alone.

There was another problem that Bentley tended to ignore. It's ever growing number of feral cats. Not the polite kind of pampered house pet, but in many cases their off spring. Summer people and kids from the college had a habit of getting a cat and then leaving it behind after the season or after graduation. With no one to care for them, they reverted to their feral nature and learned to take care of themselves. Not being "fixed" they multiplied greatly and Bentley had numerous colonies all throughout town. The colonies ranged anywhere from 5 or 6 members to 20 or 30. It's a hard life and the average age span was around five years. Those in the neighborhood of the abandoned mills moved inside after the local teenagers broke out the windows with their baseball bats. Life was a little easier then.

At least they had shelter from the elements and a nice old lady who lived down the road religiously came morning and night with tin pie plates of food for them. They started living longer. Their numbers grew. Pretty good.

When the homeless people came they hid. And watched. After the people fell asleep the cats would creep out of their hiding places and eat whatever scraps of food were left. Little by little they grew bolder and once in a while they would show themselves. Being basically soft hearted, the homeless people took to sharing their food with them. This went on through the fall. Once in a while someone would even wake in the night to find a cat or two curled up next to them sleeping. Some of their kittens became quite tame and were good company. Everyone was reasonably fat and happy.

Then winter set in. It was a bad one. The temperature dropped low early in the season and stayed there. Most of the homeless people stopped riding the bus out from the city and stayed the winter in the city shelters. They didn't have as much freedom but it was warmer. Only a couple of the old die hards vowed to hold out up in the mill over winter. They trucked in extra blankets and food and a little something to keep the chill off. But by mid January rations were growing slim. The cats weren't getting enough to eat. They reverted to hiding in the shadows watching.

A couple of Northeasters dumped foot after foot of snow around the mill. Inside supplies had run out except for some mad dog 20-20.

With the Spring came more condo people. The town Fathers decided it was time to expand up the hill- running out of room on the waterfront.

"I think we should get rid of those old mills on Fulton St. and build. More tax money coming in."

A team went up the hill to check out the situation. The town planner and his favorite construction guys. They pulled open a metal door. "GEEZE What a smell!" "What died in here?"
Their question was soon answered. They found the body of an old woman picked clean. Her bony hand was extended nearly touching a rusted metal pie plate.
furthur to the back they found more bones also clean and shiny.

In the shadows some big Toms sat grooming themselves.
"Hmmmmm foods here."

2006-10-12T09:47:00.000-07:00

The Ebony Brothers had been very well received by the Bomb's patrons and they were booked to play every other Saturday night. Two weeks seemed like an eternity. One Wednesday afternoon over the books, Mozel said to Rhonda, "You'll never guess who stopped in here the other day."
"Who?"
"That Lemar from the Ebony Brothers. He wanted to know about you and Henry"
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth."
"NO"
"Yes I did. Why not? He is head over heels about you. Why shouldn't you have some love in your sorry life?"
"Why! because Henry would kill us both- that's why. You know that."
"Well you're full grown now. You could get a divorce. It's the sixties for crying out loud!"
Rhonda didn't answer but she sure got to thinking.
"Well here." Mozel said as she slid a note across the bar to Rhonda.

Rhonda boldly took the note. No trembling hand here. She had become amazingly self assured given her young life's circumstance. Two things were responsible for this; her own strong spirit and the nuturance of her community of Mothers. Rhonda had made up her mind that she would one day have a love and a home and a family. She just had to figure out how.

Mozel watched Rhonda's face expectantly.
"Meet me Wednesday afternoon at the lunch counter at Woolworths around three. Lemar"

Although they both had big smiles, Rhonda and Mozel both knew this was fire they were playing with.
"Girl you better be sure you want to do this." Rhonda had never been more sure of anything.

Wednesday at 2:45 Lemar took a seat at the far end of the lunch counter, away from the street side's big picture window. At 2:55 Rhonda approached from the rear of the store. She had come in the front door and circumnavigated the entire store giving herself a chance to gather herself. At 3 o'clock the lunch counter was busy with the after school crowd having cokes and fries. Rhonda slid into the seat side of Lemar.

"I didn't know if you'd come." Lemar said. "But I'm glad you did."
His smile was warm.
"I had some errands to run uptown." Rhonda said. But then her reserve broke when she looked him full in the eyes.
"I don't know what we're doing."

It wasn't like they were strangers. It was like they had known each other always. Every opportunity to found them together. A lot of that time was spent at the Bomb. Lemar moved nearby so it wasn't surprising he spent time at the club. Rhonda had her job as a reason to be there. Richard gave Lemar a few shifts bartending. As they always had, the community surrounded them and protected them. It wasn't that they usually supported infidelity, but they did oppose what Lewis and Henry had done. They felt no remorse for either of them. Quite the contrary.

1971 found a matured relationship between Lemar and Rhonda. It was hard to imagine Henry didn't know about them, but his health was failing. Not that he was that old, not at all. But he seemed to be fading. Henry went to his Doctor with complaints of lack of energy and vitality. He seemed to be losing his substance. The doctor ran some tests and gave him a multi-vitamin. A week later he went back for results, expecting to hear something bad like cancer. No, the doctor found nothing out of the way. His red blood count was a little low- keep taking his vitamins. He waas getting older after all. "Maybe it's trying to keep up with that young wife of yours," he joked. Yes indeed.

Rhonda and Lemar were just the opposite of Henry. Rhonda was at her height. Like a rose in full bloom. Even Henry wondered how she could be so happy. In his heart of hearts he knew what he had done and how he had treated her were not right. It began to eat at him. Then the fact he was even having these guilty thoughts began to trouble him because he had never been big on conscience. More often than not lately, when he tried to have sex he found he wasn't able. Needless to say this made Rhonda very happy.

Besides the day to day work and community life of the neighborhood, other things went on with the women. They were, after all, descended from people who were tribal; whose ideas on the workings of life went way back. Way back. Potions and charms spells and sacrifices were all part of the old way of looking after yourself and those you loved.

And so Henry continued to diminish. No bloody murder that would sacrifice someone else's life to jail. That wouldn't help anything. Just slowly remove him.

By the Spring of 73 Rhonda and Lemar were married. It was a hell of a wedding; the reception, of course, was held at the Bomb Shelter. The music business was serving the Ebony Brothers well, but Lemar had quit the group. He didn't want to travel away from Rhonda. So he got a degree and taught music in the school system. As the years went on they bought a house and had children. Community life continued to center around the church and the Bomb. Rhonda and Lemar never traveled far from their little community because they did have one other person to look after, an old old man.
The End

2006-10-09T13:44:00.000-07:00

At about nine o'clock they left for the Bomb. Half way down the stairs a cloud of cigarette smoke was sucked up at them by the cold air from the opened door. Fall was getting underway early this year. Henry escorted Rhonda to a little table and went to the bar for drinks. Lemar had been keeping half an eye on the stairs wondering if Rhonda came in on Saturday nights. The stage had a clear view of the stairs and the first thing you saw was peoples feet and legs coming down. Lemar perked up when he saw a shapely pair of fine legs in high heeled shoes descending. Sure enough it was Rhonda.

Then he spotted Henry behind her and didn't know what to make of it. Was she with her Father? Then he watched as Henry put his hand at her elbow and escorted her to a table. Lemar missed a couple of beats staring and his band mates were staring at him staring at them. He re-grouped and returned his attention to his sax, crestfallen.

As the evening wore on people drank and smoked and talked loud and danced. Henry could be counted on to dance with Rhonda two or three times over the evening. The third dance about eleven o'clock they were up front near the band riser. Lemar thought they looked stiff and not at all like the other couples who by this time were dancing with heat. When this number was done the band took a break. Lemar went to the bar for a drink, but even more to ask Mozel what the heck the story was.
"That's her husband," Mozel said. But she said it with a sorry look on her face. " It's a long story."

"Hi" Lemar turned to his right and it was Rhonda at his elbow.
"The band sounds real good tonight." It took a few seconds for Lemar to gather himself.
"Good evening Rhonda. You look very pretty tonight."
Mozel watched the exchange from the other side of the bar. Rhonda told Mozel and therefore also Lemar, that Henry was in the back playing cards. The last couple of hours of the night found Rhonda at the bar keeping Mozel company and watching Lemar.
"Ain't he pretty."
"He sure is."

And he was. He had an understated elegance. He was very lightskinned. Even lighter than Rhonda. His eyes were not blue but grey. His hair was shorn close to his head but still waved. Over six feet tall and slender, he walked with an easy stride. Yet his demeanor was relaxed and open, as though it didn't occur to him how nice looking he was.

At one thirty a.m. everyone tumbled out into the street, drunk, happy, amorous. Saturday night was over for another week. Lemar went home thinking of Rhonda; wanting to know more about her situation. Rhonda went home with Henry but thinking about Lemar. She was very happy Henry had had too much to drink to want sex. He was asleep by the time he hit the bed. Rhonda lay awake wondering what it would be like to share a bed with someone you actually loved.

2006-10-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

Rhonda was a pretty thing. Light skinned and her hair was fine and didn't need much processing to look good. She was brought here from her island at thirteen in 1959 by an uncle. Her parents back home thought she would have a good American life so they tearfully let her go. What they didn't know was her uncle Lewis had made a deal with another man to sell Rhonda to him for a wife. By 1961, at fifteen, Rhonda was married to a man named Henry who was 45 years old. Needless to say there was no love between the two. Rhonda's purpose was to keep Henry's house and receive his sex whenever he wanted which was often and brutish. The women of the neighborhood were irate at the whole situation. Lewis was ostrasized from community doings but he didn't care. He got good money for Rhonda and threatened her that if she tried to run off her family would be disgraced. Never being allowed to go to school Rhonda was easily manipulated.

So all the neighborhood woman could do was to try to look after Rhonda as best they could. They taught her the skills to keep a good house so at least Henry wouldn't beat her for being slovenly. And they gave her their remedies so she would not become pregnant too young. Henry didn't even think to question her not getting pregnant because he wasn't interested in having any children. He just wanted sex. The women taught Rhonda what reading and writing and figuring they collectively knew. She actually was very bright, especially with numbers. All this kept her content enough to not be totally crushed in spirit by her situation. By 1966 when Rhonda turned twenty Henry was easy enough in mind to think Rhonda had no desire anymore to leave him. So he let her take a little job up the street at the Bomb Shelter doing the books.

By 1968 the world was an exciting place. Women's rolls were changing and free love was in the air. As Rhonda was blooming Henry was well on the decline.

Rhonda would go to the club every other afternoon to do the books for the previous couple of days. On the weekends Henry would take her there for the sociability of other couples and puff himself up over having a pretty young wife. The club had started having a group come in to play the new music on the weekends. Something different from the old folkloric stuff. Times were changing.

One Saturday afternoon Rhonda went by the Bomb to return some bookwork. Henry was at a neighbors playing cards, so she felt she had a little free time. Walking down the stairs she heard music playing. A new group, The Ebony Brothers, was rehersing for the Saturday night gig. Rhonda took a stool at the bar and swung around to face them. That's when she first saw Lemar. He was tall and thin and light skinned like herself. He was beautiful. He was playing the sax and Rhonda fell in love right there on that stool, for the first time in her life. She could not take her eyes off him. When Mozel looked at Lemar she saw he was returning the gaze to Rhonda. "Oh no" Mozel muttered to no one.

At the break Mozel had no choice but to introduce Rhonda to everyone. The band was from a nearby city, just coming up in the world. Playing local clubs for exposure.

That night Rhonda dressed and did her hair with extra care. Henry didn't notice.

2006-09-30T13:04:00.000-07:00

The Bomb Shelter

People are not going to stop drinking just because you tell them to. You might be better served to figure out why God made drink and then figure out the best way to handle it. There was a neighborhood of Cape Verdean people in New Bedford who gave it a good try.
Everybody knows that members of the Cape Verdean people were snatched off their rocky islands to serve on whaleships and ships of other kinds. We here in New Bedford are concerned with whaleships.

Everybody knows these Godfearing salt of the earth people made excellent whalemen. So they settled here and sent for their families until gradually a sizeable community took hold.
Everybody knows the Cape Verdean people are good Catholics and go to Mass on Sunday and sometimes Wednesday and honor the crown and do the good works of the church.
Everybody knows they are also clannish as Hell and superstitious and behind closed doors light extra candles in closets and mutter spells and read signs.

Everybody knows the Cape Verdean people like to party and never miss an occasion to party. The women like to drink and cook and drink and fool around and drink and have their hair done. They are one group of people where the women like to drink as much as if not more than the men.

All these elements came together at the Bomb Shelter.

As is wont to happen, groups of like people form neighborhoods in cities and go about their lives as much like they are back at home as possible given they are in a foreign climate. They start up churches for their own brand of Catholic. They open stores where the aroma of their own native foods cooking flavors the air. Beauty parlors and barber shops perform rituals on hair that won't conform. And they open social clubs. When prohibition told them they couldn't drink they just went underground- literally.

Mojel and Richard had managed by hard work to buy their own house. They lived in the first floor tenement and rented rooms out on the second and third floors to mostly single people and a couple once in a while who needed a place to live but couldn't afford a house just yet. Like in most neighborhoods, every few blocks there was a social club where after work the men would go to play cards and drink. On weekends the women would join them to drink and listen to music and dance. When prohibition came along everybody was stunned.

At first they tried to comply but it didn't take long to figure out they liked to drink too much. On the Avenue it was decided that Mozel and Richards house was the most likely spot. So the black -out curtains went up, the basement was cleaned out and painted and a bar was built and bootleg liquor was snuck in the bulkhead under cover of night. By the time the wars came along and along and along the word was" I'm going to the bomb shelter." Wars came and went , as did prohibition, but the place just stayed. A dance floor was laid, a jukebox carried in and little tables with straight chairs crammed around. The place was so crowde you could hardly walk in there. More illicit affairs took hold in there than you could imagine. Such a story was Rhonda and Lamar.

to be continued

You're Invited

2006-09-21T14:02:00.000-07:00

A lifetime of living in the southcoast area of New England has created Minniepeckham, author of body of work piece of work.

She is varied to put it mildly. Old seaside Quaker roots - homeport, New Bedford. Tho she cannot bare to leave this piece of waterland, her mind travels. Getting on now, Minniepeckham prides herself on staying current in world affairs and pop culture. The stories she writes may be rooted in Historic New England or an up-to-date horror story.

Everything stems from Minnie's mind but then takes flight. Come along for the trip!

2006-09-21T13:28:00.000-07:00

hello world