Those Poor Frogs

Those Poor Frogs

By: Darlene Rogers

My pink conch shell went next thrown into the black and white screen of our only television set, hitting it with such force that one would think that it had made my dad mad, my pretty pink shell shattered into a million pieces like the shells you see on the beach beaten by the constant waves.

There we stood in the doorway of our living room, my two brothers and I watching with horror as he destroyed the only nice things left in our little house. The only room that held anything that meant something to my mama. I would no longer get to sit in the big overstuffed chair and listen to the ocean and pretend to see the waves roll in and out. As a child that was the closest I would ever come to actually hearing the waves.

I stood there watching my mother as she tried to stop him from destroying everything watching her face change to hate as he finally broke her crystal vase; the only flowers I ever saw in it was the ones from the yard, the ones I brought her. He was crushing it with his heavy work boot. Finally when he was all finished she sat down on the floor and cried. He turned and pointed at me and my two brothers who were crying.

“You do not deserve anything and there won’t be another damn thing brought back into this house!”

“Get up off of that damn floor woman and help me find the car keys, I need a drink!” he bellowed

“The car keys are not here. “she whimpered.”

“You probably left them in the car at The Road House; someone could have stolen it by now” She could no longer yell her throat was burning from all of the hollering she had done pleading with him to stop.

Looking at him with disgust in her eyes tears falling faster than she could wipe them off of her cheeks she hoarsely said. “Because of that stinking drink we have lost everything that meant anything to any of us.”

Pete my brother was the middle child and had just turned eight. He had this habit of when he was mad he would curl the side of his top lip up and come at you with his fists balled, ready to fight anything.

His lip was curled up tighter than I had ever seen it and he was ready to charge. Before I could reach out and grab his arm, he swished past me and attacked. With a smirking look on his face I realized that he had seen him coming, and with the force of a bucking mule, smacked Pete landing right back beside me and Bud.

Bud my six year old brother and the baby of the family was crying his heart out hugging me around both of my legs. I remember shaking like I was freezing as I was trying to protect him. I grabbed each of them by the shirt sleeve and we ran to my bedroom. I pushed them down on the floor and we crawled under the bed.

I looked at Pete and whispered “Are you ok?”

He had a very large bruise on the side of his face

“Yea I’m ok but if you hadn’t grabbed me I was gonna kill him for hurting mama’s stuff”

I knew what was coming next and sure enough I felt the floor vibrating and heard the footsteps as the bedroom door opened.

“Ruby” he yelled “you and them boys get outside and you stay out there until I tell you to come in, and I better not hear a peep out of you.”

We stuck our heads out from under the bed like turtles from their shells and looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over like a mad mans eyes might look. I think it was then that I nicknamed him the “Alien”. He did not look like himself at all. He looked all twisted like something off of the Twilight Zone.

I crawled out from under the bed first and pulled my brothers out behind me .As we walked past him to get to the back door he hit each of us on the top of the head hard with is knuckles and gave Pete a little extra push. This was his way of reminding us he meant business.

We marched out the door one by one. I felt the vibration of the door slamming behind us. Instantly Bud was wrapped around my legs again; “Bud” I said it’s alright he will go to bed now, we have some time to play before he bothers us again.” We marched down the steps into our safe place, I could hear in the back ground the Alien calling our mother

“Joan come here woman”

In the back of my mind I could only imagine what was going to happen. He had broken everything. Was he going to break my mommy now?

All three of us stood there huddled together looking around at the large rocks that our mother called boulders she said they had been there for hundreds of years, the rocks were our play ground and our safe haven. As I looked around, wondering what to do. I imagined that it would save a lot of trouble if the Alien just picked us up and threw us against those big rocks. Throw us hard like he did everything else we owned, smash us into little pieces like diamonds scattered all over the ground. We would not be in his way anymore, we could be free.

I shuddered and looked at the two boys and said.

“Well let’s get us some dinner before it gets to late.”

“Bud run get us some onions from the patch under the tree” I said

“Ok”

“Can I get something sissy?” asked Pete

“You can go get us some of those big leaves from the Magnolia tree”

“Here is the onions sissy; do we have to eat these again today?” asked Bud.

“Yes we do. We have to sit quiet until we know that it is safe to move about so that the Alien does not come and hurt us. Don’t you remember what happened the last time we got loud and he heard us through the window? I still cry sometimes thinking about it.”

“I try not to remember” Bud said.

“I close my eyes and look for something good whenever he is around like the rainbow flavored Popsicle’s that Pete takes from that store down the street. He brought me one Ruby. I tried to go with him but he said I was to little. He’s only eight and I am six. He ain’t much bigger than me. Can I go down there when I get to be eight years old?”

Suddenly Pete shoved Bob

“ Shut up you little tattle tale, you promised you would not say anything. Now I won’t get to go anymore.”

Pete looked at me and I just glared at him, I was tired of trying to protect him, He was always doing something to upset any sense of normalcy we had.

“Get over here and sit down right now. I want to be able to play some before it gets dark”

Pete ran toward me yelling his fool head off.

“I get the big chair!”

“NO I do!” cried Bud “You had it last time!”

“Be quite,” I hissed. He will hear you and if he makes you get him a hickory switch like last time I ain’t gonna help you.” The last time I got a whooping too because your hickory was not big enough. I am sick of you always getting us into trouble.”

“Now get over there and put some water in this jug” I ordered and be quiet about it.

I put some onions in three of the magnolia leaves and poured us some water into our paper cups.

“Now eat and stop playing around I need some time to myself.”

“Clean up your mess and you two can play with your trucks while I climb the rocks and look out over our land to make sure more Aliens are not out there.”

“No Ruby.” Bud cried. “I want to go with you. I don’t want to stay down here with Bob. He is mean to me and makes me eat dirt.”

“I do not Bud. You always make things up so that I get in trouble.”

“Pete I have seen you do that to Bud stop lying.” You had better play good because if he sees you do anything to this baby boy you have really had it.” “He’ll bring out that big old leather belt and whoop your butt and legs. Remember the last time you cried for hours and had to hide your bruises for weeks because he hit you with the buckle.”

“Yea I remember, but Bud gets everything he wants and ya’ll believe everything he says just because he’s the baby, and I feel like I have to be mean to make him get away from me. Let him play with you on the rocks.”

Grunting I snapped. “Come on Bud. You can watch me climb the rock. I will let you be the guard of my castle, so that the Alien does not find me.”

I turned away and ran around the large boulder where I knew there was a ledge that I could climb onto to help me get to the top. I noticed as I got to the spot the ground was kind of soggy and there was a lot of green moss. As I put my leg up on the ledge my foot slipped, I lost my balance and that was all I remembered until I woke up lying face down on the slick green floor beneath the ledge.

I must have hit my head because it hurt bad, and I had a knot. I lay there looking into the darkness under the ledge being quite trying to think of what it was that was making that weird noise. All of a sudden there was motion and a frog about as long as my hand jumped right onto my face. I was so shocked I could not even yell. I reached up and grabbed it. and we just looked at each other for a minute. Then I realized there were more sounds coming from under the ledge. I slid under a little more and reaching into the darkness felt the cold wet skin of another frog. I put him and his friend in the back pocket of my cutoffs and reached in for another one and another one, until I had six frogs neatly packed in my shorts.

Rising slowly because my head still hurt, I wiped as much of the green stuff off of me as I could and slowly climbed up on the rocks.

After reaching the top, I must have been about a mile off the ground. I stood tall shading my eyes with my hand, looking around to make sure that the Alien had not come out of the house, leaning over to make sure that Bud was still ok, I could see him with his little hot wheels playing in the dirt below.

The frogs were starting to wiggle in my pockets, I reached in and pulled out two of them. I held them up in the air pretending like I was sacrificing them so that the Alien would disappear. I closed my eyes tight and prayed real hard, not realizing that I was squeezing the little things so hard that their insides was coming out of their mouths and their eye balls were bulging out of their sockets. I brought my hands down and just stood ther staring at what I had done to them, I had killed them. Kneeling I laid them down at my feet side by side, lined up like little army mean wounded from war laid out on cots.

I reached into my pockets and got two more frogs telling myself that it would take all six of the frogs being sacrificed before the Alien would flee for his life. Raising my arms, I did the same thing to them as I did to the first two, but when I squatted down to lay them beside their friends I smelt something like chicken cooking and saw that the first two frogs had turned all crusty and they had melted into the rock. The heat from the sun had cooked them. I thought this would make a tasty treat for the Alien King. He would be pleased and would gladly take the Alien with him when I told him I would trade him for the fried frogs.

While sacrificing the last two frogs, I heard Bud at the bottom of the boulder screaming and looking up at me in horror, He was yelling.

“Mama, mama! sissy is killing frogs. Make her stop, mama!”

About that time mama opened the back door, called us to come in. She looked at all three of us smiling and told us it was time to wash up for dinner. As we ran to the door I noticed that she had a cast iron skillet in her hand. She was smiling, she gently rubbed my hair and said.

“ Come in my babies. That mean old Alien will not be hurting us anymore.”



_______________________________________

Darlene Rogers grew up in Smyrna Georgia, a rural town outside of Atlanta. She is happily married and the mother of two daughters ages 20 and 27. Darlene loves writing short stories and can’t get enough of reading. She is in the process of writing the book she wished she had when going through breast cancer.

Spring has Sprung in Pecan Lane!

More wonderful Tennessee pictures from Poopie at Pecan Lane.... The girl has a talent!

Beehive Blues - Part 2

Beehive Blues

By Mellie Duke Justad

Part Two - Continued from April 19th

Only one parking lot in town could rival Marthalene’s on any given day---Goolsby’s Groceries, our one and only supermarket. Its shiny black and white checked linoleum floor had recently replaced the old wooden planked one that was always covered in piles of fuzzy sawdust.

I still preferred the feel of the old place, which contained one Mr.Goolsby, a kindly gentleman with snow-white hair and an infectious laugh. The only advantage this ultra modern store had over the old one was that it had something the old one didn’t --- Eustis Harper.

Eustis Harper was a senior at Cedartown High. A tall, drop-dead gorgeous football player, with wavy black hair, dark curly lashes, big brown eyes, and a muscular tanned physique, he was worshipped by every girl in school--- myself included.

One of my girlfriends, Joye, informed me that he was working in the produce section of Goolsby’s Groceries. She had seen him herself hosing dirt off the cantaloupes just last week.

“I’m going on a diet tomorrow,” I declared to Mama enthusiastically. “How about we stop in Goolsby’s pick up some stuff.

“Okay, dear,” she mused paying me little attention. “Which diet is it this time, dear? Bananas and buttermilk?

“Nope, uh, cantaloupes,” I replied way too quickly.

“Just cantaloupes, dear? Never heard of that one.”

I glanced around the kitchen and spotted her antique cookie jar, a large golden yellow pig with brown hoofs and big snout.

“Uh, no, cantaloupes and pigs feet,” I blurted out too quickly.

I was always, on a diet, but this was insane, even for me. Pigs feet? I didn’t believe that one. She raised an eyebrow. I’d never been what you would call an adventurous eater. The dreaded grilled cheese sandwich had eluded me until only last week. I didn’t want to tell her about Eustis Harper. I knew I’d be sorry if I did. I tried to hold out, but it was no use. She’d practiced worming confessions out of snot-nosed first graders for years. I was no match.

So I told her everything about my non-existent love life with Eustis Harper. I had no plan. But she did and we arrived at Goolsby’s the very next morning.

It’s true I was hoping to have a romantic “Eustis Encounter,” but didn’t know what I would do if I did. Just how attractive can a girl make herself while standing conspicuously next to a Dole pineapple display with her Mama hovering?

Eustis was thoroughly engrossed in his work and never noticed me gawking at him from behind the safety of Mama and the okra bin. Overcome with unbridled pride and emotion. I nearly threw up. Was this the result of too many “Pop Tarts” at breakfast or just a hormone rush? I was still too young to be sure. He resembled a Greek God in his porcelain-white produce apron, his brown and black checked tie peeking out from underneath.

“Look Mama. It’s him, Eustis Harper,” I gasped.

She took a good long look at him and to my horror, deliberately walked towards him. The heat rose in my neck and up into my face like a wayward marble in a pinball machine unprepared for what she would do next.

And suddenly there they were. My mother and Eustis Harper! In the same aisle! Engaged in the same conversation! It was too horrible to conceive. With nowhere to hide, I had little choice but to join her as she continued to call my name. I prayed I could think of something to say. Something that made me seem more mature than fourteen. It was impossible. The very idea was a complete contradiction in terms.

Predictably, all words did escape me. My mouth open wide I let my gum do all my talking as it popped out onto my sweater and lay they silently.

“Hey,” was all he managed to utter in his thick, husky Southern drawl.

Mama wasn’t so easily distracted by Eustis’ charm and good looks.

“Eustis, was it?” she asked. I’m Mama, everybody calls me Mama, and I sure would love it if you came over to supper sometimes for a fried chicken dinner, you like fried chicken and biscuits don’t you, oh, of course you do, everybody loves fried chicken and biscuits, and why, my little girl here’s been practicing frying chicken since last summer, and if you don’t mind it a teensy bit rare, you’ll be in for a real treat, what day is good for you we have next Friday night open, but any time is fine with us any time at all.”

I looked at Eustis, his eyes were spinning clockwise, then counter clockwise. Tuna swirls, beautiful, chocolate tuna swirls. That’s what they looked like. Friday’s specialty in the school lunchroom. His wavy hair was disheveled, and his mouth ajar. He was still reeling from the rate of speed with which Mama could converse. It usually took a minute or two for the average person to recover. Five minutes passed before the fog appeared to lift in the banana section. Eustis could only stammer a weak, “Uh, I forgot the question, Ma’am.”

But he did surprise me by offering to take our groceries to the car. I had made some kind of impression, in spite of my Mama. Little did I know, there was a big storm brewing outside and all Hell was about to break loose.

We were half way across the parking lot when I felt the first cool drop of rain. The first bucketful would soon follow. I only took my eyes off Eustis for a second when I glimpsed Mama looking up, a deep frown etched across her face. She stopped cold, and in full frenzy, like a diabetic in search of insulin, began frantically rummaging through her purse. By now, I too, had noticed the big black thundercloud directly overhead. Cumulous Nimbus. Big rain producers for the average person, beehive Kryptonite to Mama. She really wasn’t any different from all the other women in the south whose biggest fear in life is not being attacked by Bigfoot or even eaten by Jaws. It’s getting her hair wet. Water. The dreaded H2O. The killer of all beehives, real or manufactured.

Don’t panic, Mama!

“Oh, damn!” she yelled.

Oh, damn? Tilt. What was that? She rarely ever cussed, and never in public. But, they were the last words I remember hearing that entire day. It was the day the earth stood still in Goolsby’s parking lot. The day my life as I had known it abruptly ended. For in a heartbeat, she jerked that highly coveted wig off her head---I think it was Babs- and frantically stuffed it in her purse! Her hair of many colors now out in plain out, sight for the whole world--- and Eustis Harper--- to behold.

Giggling like a silly schoolgirl Mama dashed towards the car, her pocketbook slung over her shoulder like Santa’s pack, while Babs hung on on the ride of her life. As for Eustis, he too had run back into the store, and as for me, well, I did the only thing I could do. I died.

Drenched in the cool pouring rain, only the sound of Mama impatiently honking the horn drowned my happy thoughts of picking out which dress to have her laid out in.

I glared at her as she checked her hair in the rearview completely unaware of what she’d just done. Just you wait. I’ll get you my pretty. And your little wig too!

I never went out with Eustis Harper.

I hadn’t thought of him for years until I was back home for my own bridal shower. I stopped in at Goolsby’s to pick up a few things for Mama, and there he was. A little heavier and a little gray, but it was him. Eustis Harper.

My heart skipped a beat. My palms were clammy, my knees began to buckle, my stomach was doing loop de loops, and my throat completely closed up. I wasn’t sick. It was far worse. I was fourteen again. I grabbed my stomach.

“H-e-y,” he said, in that familiar husky Southern drawl as he spotted me.

I’d heard Eustis had divorced. I desperately tried to stifle the nervous laugh that was tickling my vocal chords. I couldn’t believe the effect this man still had on me after all these years--- that is, until he popped the “big question.” The question I’d longed for day and night for years.

“Uh. Wanna go and eat a fish?” he asked.

Crash! Ka-boom! Thud. Hiss. Zip. Plop. Splat. Fizzle. That’s what a humongous dream-bubble sounds like exploding in your head after twenty years of floating around inside.

“What?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Uh, what did you say?”

He repeated himself. No mistaking that. It was horrible. It was terrible. It was grammatically incorrect.

“ Got my old job back at Goolsby’s, ‘cept I gotta work my way up again. Soon I’ll have enough money put aside to get my own place and my own car.”

“So, how about that date?” he asked again.

“Ah, just my luck,” I said, as I showed him my engagement ring.

We chatted a bit longer and said our good-byes. I watched him slip the familiar white apron over his head his next few hours would most likely be spent hosing dirt off cantaloupes and putting stickers on bananas. Who knows, if Mama had kept Babs on her head like she was supposed to, today I might be living the sweet life, waist high in free produce. I guess sometimes Mama really does know best.

stonehenge caves in for the seventeenth time:

stonehenge caves in for the seventeenth time:

shadows hold no grace periods over our lives. birds perch in reminiscence and we wonder why the housed baby bluegilled perch yells. i am sure of only one thing when i cry: that my eyes will dry out so i cannot snivel anymore. we are autonomous and bullwhipped. we quip quip quip. quotes are our only fallback like poptarts. i know a perfection of legs when i see one. and gaggles google treetypes to find a date. yoga could help. the stationary people and tattered walking prancing leaping people weep. i’ll warp the glass and stick frames around them so their eyes don’t strain so. wouldn’t you do the same. simple arithmetic. stones as hedges and rolling. ridicule in red; we wear the lipstick of our forefathers and their forerunners. i have a different take on camp. of course pants belong on legs that sweat and sweats belong on legs that cramp. the leaf had no cognition or recognition of her final demise; her last smell was that of a deepseatedly filthy foot. i have a certain infatuation for a bird who sits and sings. i have a certain infatuation for a person who sits and sings. we lay our filthy bodies in freshly mussed beds and let our minds mingle. the manner in which he gestures so freely and jubilantly together with the aggregate wrinkles upon his weathered face; these endear him to us. i’ll have you know that roof dwelling is our only wholesome pastime. we draw the curtain to the side; lift the window pane, and clamber out. we are graceful creatures; yes. there we stand, there we sit on the edge, we swing our legs over in our heads. i leaned over but not so far. a light in a nearby window flickers on then off again. they’ve spotted us; they’ve pegged us for who we are: roof creatures. a helicopter colours the horizon red; we know they’re headed home to bed, any reasonable sane people would. we see a famous palace and take the tube. fine dining every night on beans and bread. life is a lovable creature at times.
______________________________
author: faith mingus
clamber pander slander; we walk the tightrope of relegation and abbreviation.
we are the very same crumble of brambles and barnacles as that goose who flew loose.
born in the mitten; raised in the same and indiana; currently sojourning near chicago
while at an institution of higher learning where higher learning occurs with static, electric eel,
interim, off/on, off/on, ill-precision. pine(sol)ing for the oceanmountainpeople of the west
and the over/undertheseas. published in assorted figments of the admonition admiration imagination,
and various actualities: figments, unknown. actualities, upthestaircase, hobocampreview, and now,
dewonthekudzu.

Spiders and Crows

spiders and crows

ellen was my older sister
for two hours
of slush puddles and stinging promise.
upon learning my poetic intentions,
she carved a question mark
into a snowbank,
you'll need this alot

when i am able to imagine ellen,
sharp winter rain
resembles falling spiders,
leather boots trudging through silk,
belly-up flies exposed
as patches of asphalt.
i'm reminded often of the siblings
i've lost with each season.

when you find somebody,
somebody who comforts you,
dig in your heels
it's this voice, smooth dirty ice,
knotting my throat with
an articulate ache,
as familiar as crows perched on wires,
black warnings for bad days.

my last impression of ellen
colored me old-man pale,
she was red-knit hat, yellow stockings,
a memory preceding departure.
odd moments catch me tearful
over question marks
and the slow fade of children.

***originally published in Cantaraville

******************************************

Author: Derek Richards

Honey Bear

Danny P. Barbare

_________________

Honey Bear

Honey shaped into a teddy bear

made to be squeezed, spread

sweet love. A plastic bear

with a

heart that lifts its sunny golden

hat. Now that's a real honey bear,

a teddy bear to keep one warm

especially with a little bread.

Beehive Blues

Beehive Blues

By Mellie Duke Justad

The situation she found herself in was nothing short of a travesty. It was the end of an era. It was almost the end of Mama, who had to face living with what I referred to as “The Hair of Many Colors.” To her shock and horror, there was only one solution. It was unbearable. It was almost unspeakable. It was ... a wig!

“Me, wear a, a wig?” Mama stammered. Her face turned a peculiar shade of gray, her lips pasty white. She looked at Marthalene, her beautician, as if she had just suggested Mama run stark naked down the middle of Main Street.

“Me, walk around in fake hair, or worse yet, somebody else’s hair?” Mama said in a hoarse whisper, as she began swaying from side to side running her slender fingers through what was left of her once luxurious, thick hair. In the South, the only thing more important than a woman’s hairdo was her fried chicken. Mama was no exception. I glanced uneasily over at Marthalene. She had no idea what a can of worms she had just opened.

Mama had been in first grade for an eternity--- teaching it that is. And for the most part, it had gone off without a hitch. But things suddenly changed that fall when she’d gone back to school to pursue her Master’s Degree. Since then, Mama’s bleached blond hair began falling out in clumps. Big clumps. Marthalene concluded without a doubt that stress was the root of Mama’s problem. Mama didn’t look well. Not at all.

Marthalene moved fast for a woman in heels, instinctively grabbing Mama’s arm and escorting her to the hideous, faded garnet antique fainting-couch right before she hit the floor. So that’s why she put that thing in here.

She was a cool one, returning in two seconds flat with a small, doily covered, silver-serving tray. I watched and prayed that Marthalene knew what she was doing. I didn’t know how much first aid training she might have had in beauty school.

Quickly removing a bottle of peroxide from the tray, she poured some into a small glass bowl and daintily waved the strong smelling liquid underneath Mama’s nose with all the ease and style of a refined hostess serving high tea. Mama’s eyelashes fluttered and she began to cough.

“There. That’s a good girl,” she said as if comforting a small child instead of a middle-aged mom. “Oh, she’s coming ‘round now. Breathe it in slowly, dear,” she continued, patting mama’s shoulder. “Just the shock you know. Seen it before. She’ll be all right in a jiff,” Marthalene assured me, as confident as a surgeon who’d just performed a successful open-heart surgery with a nail file.

Sitting down next to Mama, she gave me a quick wink, leaned in close and whispered, “Nobody will ever suspect a thing. Remember, only your hairdresser will know for sure.”

That old cliché. Coming from Marthalene it sounded almost believable, at least more convincing than from the lady on the TV commercial. But was Mama going to buy it? Who knew? She was still dazed like a panicked deer in the headlights.

Master hypnotist Marthalene remedied that in a hurry, snapping her hot-pink painted fingers together bringing Mama out of her trance. Now fully alert, she looked at Marthalene as if she was the devil herself. Mama was nobody’s fool. She knew better. She wasn’t sitting in some top-secret room at the Pentagon, but in broad daylight inside Marthalene’s Beauty Shop. The virtual nerve center of town. Cedartown’s Media Mecca. Mama looked around the room with sheer terror in her eyes--- and for good reason. She had problems---big problems. Big Mouth Eula-Mae Hill for one, who was sitting just two feet away in an ugly, multicolored floral house-dress hooked up under the permanent wave machine. Its eight black octopus arms extended far out from its luminous, gold metallic dome shaped head. The arms looped back up into the domed hiding place where underneath they were aggressively attacking Eula-Mae’s straight henna dyed tresses and transforming them into curly ones. She peeked up from behind her Ladies Home Journal. Her ears pricked straight up like a German Shepherd as she tried desperately not to miss a single word.

And if things couldn’t get any worse they sure were about to. Across the room, sporting her matronly, “going uptown” blue crepe dress, having her equally blue hair teased four stories high, sat the biggest busybody in town, Laudine Itson. “Old as the hills,” and a former librarian, she didn’t bother “pretending” to read her magazine, she made sure she never missed anything, and blatantly stared Mama down with a evil smirk painted across her heavily “pancaked” made-up face.

“What’s new, Dearie?” she chided, baiting Mama for more information her freshly penciled in eyebrows raised.

It was certain. Mama was dead meat.

The term “gossips” offended them, it was too crude. They preferred “informers.” That’s what they did, inform folks. About anything and everything. I knew what Mama was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. The Hamilton Beach Mixer Fiasco.

A few months earlier those two “informers” successfully enlightened the entire town of an incident involving an unfortunate local woman, Cleava-Nell Webster. She was all but beaten to death after getting her nightie caught in the beaters of her Hamilton Beach Mixer. Her husband came home and found her tied up and twisted in the wreckage, mangled in a sea of chocolate cake batter and blue chiffon. Though it took the paramedics nearly two hours to free her, it took those ladies only forty-five minutes to circulate the news all over town from Marthalene’s. The story even interrupted the radio station’s live remote during the grand opening of the new embalming room of Litesey’s Funeral Parlor. That very Sunday evening, every preacher in town held a candlelight prayer vigil for the poor woman, her mangled breasts, and her dilapidated stainless steel beaters.

News as juicy as Mama’s would be around town before we made the ten-minute drive home. I knew it. She knew it. And pretty soon the whole town would know it. It was after all Wednesday. Wednesday night in Cedartown meant only one thing---“prayer meeting.” In just a few hours every minister in town, including her own, would be praying for her and what was left of her hair. Mama nearly fainted again.

Truth was, Marthalene was a bit of an informer herself.

“I don’t gossip, I just like to pass along news to folks,” I recall Marthalene, the still attractive fifty-ish anchor woman, saying once in her newscast uniform, the familiar Pepto-Bismol pink gabardine smock and matching heels.

“And you know, anything can be considered news,” she hummed, pursing her lips together, her orange penciled-on eyebrows arched slightly above her dancing hazel eyes.

Her shop stood in the center of town. A virtual shrimp net, it was strategically positioned to catch news coming in from both sides of town. Right off Main Street and adjacent to one of only four traffic lights in the whole town, the long, narrow rectangular concrete block building was painted a crisp white, except during the summer months when the red clay and gravel parking lot stained it a pale shade of orange.

It was a three-chair operation, four, if you counted the fainting couch. Having a weekly, standing appointment in Marthalene’s chair was as highly prized as owning a seat on the New York Stock Exchange. Rarely coming up for grabs, it usually stayed in ones’ family for years passing on from mother to daughter.

Completing her little enterprise were five hair dryers that were attached to pink vinyl upholstered chairs and lined up along the “hospital green” painted cinderblock walls. Two small, white, porcelain hair-washing sinks---you know kind with the scoop in it to put your neck in---were affixed to the walls next to the supply closet in the back. Each was specially equipped with its own big black hose--affectionately dubbed by Marthalene “Disaster Blasters.” As big as washing machine hoses, they were essential for penetrating the dense hairspray barrier encasing the previous week’s now beaten and battered beehive, popping it like a Mexican piñata. When the “hive” popped it was a virtual treasure trove, its secret contents dropped into the sink making a clanking sound. It wasn’t at all unusual to find a few stray misplaced items such as pencils, pens, lipstick tubes and once even a set of house keys mixed in with the several hundred bobby-pins that it took to achieve “the look.”

Pink and white checked curtains hung in the windows which were always raised slightly to let out some of the noxious fumes that emanated from inside. This was due to the massive amounts of hair spray that were required for the “mile-high beehive”--- Marthalene’s signature doo.

That spray became lethal if breathed in for too long. It was only after I happened to witness one patron, Miss Moeena Baker, become woozy and doing everything shy of barking like a dog that I realized the power of “The Spray of the South”--- Aqua Net. At Marthalene’s this potent concoction still covers beehives as sure as the dew covers Dixie. The only spray capable of withstanding two hundred mile an hour winds, monsoon rains, and ninety-percent humidity.

Most of her clientele has adapted to the stuff over the years. A true example of survival of the fittest, it has resulted in nearly tripling the lung capacity of our town ladies. Mama included. I’d have to say without a doubt, Marthalene’s produces big- lunged women the way Texas produces beauty queens. I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if some of those ladies could inflate a spare tire to over fifty pounds if they tried. Apparently it’s all in the breathing, or not breathing as the case may be. Thanks to Marthalene, my Mama can hold her breath for over three and a half minutes without even flinching.

As darkness fell and the busybodies had gone Mama summoned every ounce of courage she had and whispered, “Go get Marthalene.”

“Are you sure, Mama? I asked, as I sat on the couch next to her still holding her hand afraid she might keel over again.

She nodded. Her wavering figure on that fainting couch did little to convince me that she was sure of anything. Marthalene was still sweeping up when I gave her the news. Without a sound she dropped her broom and walked over to the windows drawing every curtain in the shop. She hung the pink and white “closed” sign on the front door and locked it. I watched intently while she pulled a gold necklace from underneath her pink smock revealing a small brass key. What was she up to? Moving as slinky as a cat burglar in a spy flick, her thin, willowy shadow flickered eerily across the walls as she headed to the rear of the shop.

She disappeared to the back closet where locked away were beauty secrets only Marthalene’s eyes had ever seen. The shop was dead silent. It was a little unnerving. My heart began to race and I wondered if I was up to the challenge. In all my fourteen years, I had never been in a situation as serious as this. Mama eyes wide were fixed on the closet. Her upper lip sweating, her breathing shallow. How much longer could she hang on? Could we both hang on? What was taking Marthalene so long? Would this madness never end?

The familiar “clicking” of pink heels came closer and broke the deafening silence. Marthalene emerged with two blonde, beehive wigs on white Styrofoam heads. She carefully wrapped the forms in thick, black sheaths like a couple of bottles of bootlegged whiskey, handing them to Mama as if they were newborns. A small “squeak” emanated from Mama as she took a quick glance at them, shuddering as if looking at a couple of furry rodents.

She spoke in a low, controlled voice, “Now, Hon, these wigs are the top of the line--well worth the money all the way from New York City. Two of my very best. You’ll have to take real good care of them so nobody will suspect anything.”

Those wigs definitely had their work cut out for them. If those wigs knew what was good for them, they’d hop aboard the first two heads that popped by and make a beeline back to New York City where they’d come from.

Mama nodded silently as if under a spell. Marthalene, serious as a mortician in her neatly starched pink smock with not a hair out of place gave us a confident nod.

“Just make sure you comb ‘em out every night, and be sure you keep them on top of those heads at all times, too. “Call me if there’s a problem with ‘em, and I’ll come a runnin’,” she promised.

We drove away into the night and headed home. Passing by the First Baptist Church, the lights burned brightly through the stained glass windows. Prayer Meeting was in full swing. Mama took one look and blubbered all the way home.

After struggling for a few weeks, she finally managed to take the entire situation in stride. Brushing and fussing over those two wigs as if they were small children. She followed Marthalene’s instructions to a tee. I hate to admit it, but those Styrofoam heads started to take on a human quality, especially after I drew faces on them, complete with big red lips, blue eye shadow, and false eyelashes. “Hooker Heads,” that’s what they looked like. We dubbed one of them Bambi and the other one Babs. Eventually, we began referring to the wigs as Babs and Bambi, too. The true secret to their success was not due to the hours of combing and shampooing they received, but the massive amounts of hair spray they could endure.

Mama was spraying for two now. No one ordinary can of Aqua Net would do. She resorted to using a gallon container with a hose that could cover both wigs in one huge blast. Her clandestine hair appointments were on Wednesday nights now instead of Wednesday afternoons. Now of course, Babs and Bambi were sitting under the dryer in curlers instead of Mama.

--------------------------------

Continued on April 26th

Knights in Shining Armour

Knights in Shining Armour

By gina below

1969

The early Southern morning had a warm haziness to it that hinted of mystery. Excitement wrapped around me at the coming adventure, this would be my greatest to date. My very first day of school, my first time ever to ride on a school bus. I had watched with envy as it took my older siblings away each morning in previous years and now I was old enough. I was a big girl of six now. I even had on my best big girl hand-me-down dress, and my Sunday shoes on a weekday. What fun it must be to ride the big yellow contraption with all those other children on it. Their faces peering out the many windows as they pulled alongside our driveway. My older brothers had tried to warn me of the do’s and don’ts of the upcoming event, the biggest being “Do not be a crybaby”. They had repeated this warning several times so it must be the most important. It must be a great crime to be one, I know it was the greatest of insults to be called one. So I would have to make sure that I did not fall prey and give in, no matter what!

The familiar rumblings of our approaching ride could be heard lumbering down the hill. It would be nearly a full two minutes before we could see it as we listened to it cross the bridge over the creek and make its way up the winding road through the trees. When it could be seen coming around the bend, I felt myself laugh. Strangely my four older siblings were not nearly as thrilled as I and they seemed just the slightest bit grim. As it prepared to come to a halt in front of us with all of its unique sounds and squeaks, I felt a hand reach out and hold tight to the back of my dress. I’m not sure which one of them it was but one of my older siblings knew me well enough to know my excitement would override my common sense and I would be under the wheels of the bus before anyone could stop me. This was not their first outing with me. The big yellow school bus came to a screeching halt in front of us, the brakes gushed and the door slapped open to reveal a dark haired stranger. “Mornin’ folks” he said as we all scrambled up the metal steps and into the abyss. I smiled a weak smile at him as I moved by and then I was caught up in the mass movement of my group and propelled into the belly of the beast. One by one members of my party dropped off or shoved past me to waiting friends and saved seats and then I was alone in the sea of strangers that had swallowed up my siblings.

Panic seemed to paralyze me and the icy grip of fear tried to steal the breath from my lungs. Any earlier bravado seemed to crumble around my now leaden feet. I stood frozen alone in the mist of many. Tears burned the back of my eyes and scalded my throat as I searched for a familiar face. I bit my lip to keep it from trembling, I was alone in a crowd. “Don’t be a cry baby! Don’t be a cry baby! Don’t be a cry baby!” I repeated to myself over and over.

An adult voice from the front of the bus rose above the chatter, “Find a seat” it boomed and I felt my knees began to shake. A pair of caring eyes found mine in the forest of faces in the back of the bus and I took a shaking breath. I knew these eyes well and I could see the concern in them, just as I knew he could see the fear in mine. He began to rise to come to my aide but the pressing crowd and shuddering bus inhibited him. Then from my right a strangers voice came to my ears, “You can sit here” he said and I turned to look into a smiling face. I watched him as he scooted over revealing a small bit of seat, his companion next to the window glared at him as he shoved him into the bus wall to make room for me. He was an older boy, older than my brothers and I did not know him, and my hesitance made his smile soft as he said “It’s Okay”. I looked to my brother in the back of the bus for guidance and he gave me a nod and a smile and I moved slowly toward the stranger and his kind offer.

The bus lurched around a corner and threw me off balance and a big hand reach out to catch me to prevent my impending fall. “It’s Okay ‘little bit, I gotcha” he said as he guided and lifted me to a safe place beside him, and I found myself shaking as I sat down next to him. “You’ll get use to it”, he said calmly and the same hand that had saved me earlier now prevented me from being flung from the seat as the bus rounded yet another sharp corner. It was like being tossed around at sea in a storm and my feet did not reach the floor. “Are you Okay now?” he asked and my head twitched yes as I continued to look at the floor. “Do you have a name?” he tried again and my head twitched yes again, but I did manage a sideways glance at him as I heard him softly chuckle. “Can you tell me what it is?” he asked with laughter in his voice and I shook my head no as my cheeks turned flaming red. “Well maybe next time”, he conceded and he chuckled again “I’ll just call you ‘little bit’ then” and this time I could not prevent a little smile as I snuck another sideways glance at him.

We road in silence for a while as I managed to relaxed beside him. Other passengers would engage my protector in conversation, and all the while he kept his arm on the back of the seat behind me. On more than one occasion he would prevent me from sliding off the seat by tucking me neatly under his arm as the bus rumbled over hills and around sharp curves and even when it came to abrupt halts to admit yet another passenger. Then calmly he said “There it is” and he pointed up to a hillside where the school buildings were located. My eyes followed the direction that he was pointing and he looked at me as I let a long shaky sigh escape. He kept his hand on my shoulder as the bus made it’s way up the long drive and as the bus came to a stop in the school parking lot he said “Here we are” and he scooped me off the seat and set me down on my feet in front of him. He kept both hands on my shoulders as we made our way to the front of the bus and just as we started down the metal steps he took my very small trembling hand into his very large one.

He stood with me on the side walk and held my hand and as we waited he asked me “Do you know where your room is?” and I shook my head no as I looked at the ground at our feet. “I think here comes someone who can help us” he said with a chuckle and I looked up to see my brother approach us. As my brother took my other hand my new friend released the one he held and leaned down to my eye level, “It was really good to meet you, ‘little bit‘” and he touched my cheek where earlier they had been red with embarrassment. As he straightened my brother stuck his hand out and they shook hands like the southern gentlemen that they were raised to be. After they exchanged a few kind words, my brother and I struck out for our new destination. I managed a glimpse over my shoulder as we walked away, he still stood on the sidewalk in his high top converses and cream colored oxford short sleeve shirt and new dark jeans, and he raised his hand to wave as we rounded a corner. I managed to get my free hand up to return the wave before we disappeared around the corner and I saw him smile and turn to go.

He would save me a seat every morning for many weeks and then one day he was gone. Where, I do not know. But like the knight in shining amour that he was I am sure it was to save some other damsel in distress. Thank you, kind sir, wherever you may be.

THESPIAN

THESPIAN

"The heart has its reasons–" Pascal

In life and laughter,

Both in and out of school,

I have seldom played the wise man,

But I’ve often played the fool.

The heart may have its reasons,

The mind can never know--

But only sorrow follows

Where the heart will go.

No matter where the boards you find,

Or how you play the part--

Always-- the mind betrays the heart,

And the heart betrays the mind.

Thanks again.

jp　

_________________________________

Jack Peachum
Jack's poetry volume Polyamory will be published this month & will be available sometime after the 24th.

HERBAL

HERBAL

Murmuring voices of passersby drift
in the air to my open window
four stories up, drowned
in a sudden blast of rap music
from a passing car. In its wake,
relief. Pitcher in hand,
I climb the fire escape,
crouching on the wrought-iron bars
to tend my plants.

An arc of water dances on the soil
of my fire escape garden, and I breathe
the rich scent of wet earth, admire
the fragrant herbs in fourteen pots,
my faith renewed after last year’s failures.
One ripe tomato was my crop.
Out of six plants, three didn’t flower.
Basil fared better, but scarcely
flourished. Abandoned in the fall,
the plants withered and died.

All winter the pots remained outside,
a reproach. One night, drunk and angry,
our upstairs neighbor shattered his window.
Glass rained down, splattering the pots,
a volley crashing on the fire escape,
followed by cursing and wailing.
Another binge, we learned. Weeks later
I met the culprit in the elevator,
a beret covering his sparse hair.
Wearing shorts like a boy, gripping
a walker, he slurred a greeting,
as he beamed a silly, innocent smile.
I pretended with him not to know.
Will he survive the next one? I wonder.
He’s quiet for the moment, if not sober.

Charmed by an upstate nursery,
I’ve multiplied my hopes
and spent my cash on a flat
of thriving plants, more this year,
plus thirty pounds of potting soil,
and a blue potion named ‘Miracle Grow.’
I’ve taken the old pots,
dumped last year’s dirt,
scrubbed them with bleach
and rinsed them clean,
transplanted the herbs,
watered, with new earth.
There’s basil again, and coriander,
silvery sage and flat-leafed parsley,
tarragon, thyme, and rosemary,
and lemon balm with candied breath.

I’ll stake these plants and water them,
protect them as I can against
the weather, predators, drunkards.
I’ll harvest them leaf by leaf.
Nourished, I’ll let grow
back what’s taken.

________________________

Anne Whitehouse is a Southern writer, born and bred in Birmingham, Alabama. Her website is www.annewhitehouse.com and you can see reviews, her blogs in Poetica magazine and her other publications. her short story, MINNIE LEE’S FUNERAL, set in Birmingham, was just republished in THE 2ND HAND.

Anne Whitehouse is featured in the Editions Bibliotekos blog writing about
“Early Literary Influences.” in connection with the anthology Pain and
Memory and the 4/22/10 reading at St. Francis College, Brooklyn Heights,
New York.
http://www.ebibliotekos.blogspot.com/


The Dew will be reviewing her newest book: Blessings and Curses on June 6th.

Sweet Summer Memories

Sweet Summer Memories

By Jane-Ann Heitmueller

Almost sixty years later I can still picture Toby. Every summer the Thompson’s had their chow dog, Toby, shaved to help him endure the smothering summertime heat in Alabama. All the kids in the neighborhood called him a lion, due to his reddish coat, neck ring of thick fur and the puffy plume at the end of his tail. Although we never discussed the fact, we each felt a bit embarrassed for the dog because when he was shaved he looked so…exposed… especially from the rear view. Our childish snickers said it all and we referred to him, while shaking our heads, as “Poor Toby”. However, his strange appearance never seemed to bother our four legged friend and Toby happily remained our constant, beloved companion and partner in crime on those smoldering southern days of heat and adventure.

I suppose that in today’s lingo our little rambunctious band of warriors might be considered a gang, when in reality we were just a bunch of kids in the forties enjoying our summer of childhood to the fullest extent. We each knew the unspoken geographical neighborhood boundaries our parents had set and were completely satisfied with any and all entertainment we could discover or create within that four block area. Our own little corner of the world!

The well used, once grassy lot next to the Thompson house had long ago become our kickball field. In time, it had worn down to the pure Alabama clay base, the same red coloring as Charlie Thompson’s hair… and Toby’s. By the end of summer all our clothing had taken on a reddish hue, having endured numerous skids and falls on the barren ball field.

Experience had taught us that when Dot Webb was up to kick we better all back up into the far corners of the lot…she had a mean left foot and knew how to use it. Hilda, on the other hand, was just too petite and ladylike to seldom kick the rubber ball beyond the pitcher and when she did, she never ran fast enough to make it to first base. Barbara, our most athletic pal, delighted in making her ball soar high over our heads and the street beyond, all the way into the Edge’s front yard.

It’s a wonder any of us survived some of our daily shenanigans, for we were a fierce and fearless bunch of rascals. One day we gleefully jumped on the back bumper of the gas truck as the driver was delivering gas to Harvey’s residence, right next door to the Thompson house. When the delivery was made and the fellow quickly drove off, unaware that we were hanging onto his truck, we all went flying backwards and landed on the ground. I vividly recall that very first frightening experience of having my breath knocked out! Looking back, it terrifies me to think that the driver could just as easily have backed up and run over his whole group of foolish hitchhikers.

Saturday was our favorite gathering time, since that was the day the cattle barn owners had their weekly auction. With an abundance of milling county farmers and cattlemen there to attend the auction we could sneak into the stables to play hide and seek amongst the bales of hay that were stacked to the rafters. No one noticed, nor was interested in a pack of climbing, hooting kids as the auction progressed and the snorting, stomping bulls, cows, horses or goats raced down the loading shoots and entered the large center ring for inspection and bidding.

A few of the old cattle traders made a habit of taking a nip or two during the auction and sometimes hid their whiskey bottles in the stables under a pile of hay. Oft’ times, we would hide behind the hay bales and watch, while one of the traders quietly slipped away from the sale to retrieve his bottle and take a swig, before carefully returning it to the hiding place and himself to his seat on the bleachers. More than once we noted that the gait of these gentlemen changed dramatically as the frequency of their little trips increased in number.

On occasion, when there were rumors of a particularly mean bull about to enter the ring, or an especially beautiful horse was up for bid, we would sneak under the wooden bleachers and peek through the legs of the farmers to catch a first hand look at the animal. One had to be especially careful at this point. Nearly every fellow attending the auction either dipped snuff or chewed tobacco and the dirt floor under the bleachers was the perfect target for them to deposit their nasty, liquid stream of spit. It didn’t take us long to learn that getting splattered by a blob of the warm, vile brew was the chance we had to take when choosing to put our self in such a precarious environment.

My best buddy, J.W., stills tells the tale of the argument and ensuing fist fight the two of us got into in one of the stables, which ended when I socked him in the nose and he ran home crying, his hands and face dripping with blood. It takes a pretty well adjusted fellow to admit that his nose has been broken by a girl!

All of us felt sorry for our friend, Bobby, who lived in the pretty, Victorian, two story house just up the street from the sale barn. He was an only child to older parents who were a bit less lenient than the rest of our parents. Dirt was a “no, no” in his household. Now what kid can have fun and not get dirty? In time, Bobby learned what activities he could join in and which he needed to just observe in order to stay in the good graces of his mother, yet still have a bit of fun. Much of his summer was spent alone, while reading in the swing on his large front porch and attempting to tune out the gales of our joyous, childish play just down the street.

Barbara lived with her single mom in a brick duplex across the street from the sale barn. Her mother was a robust, harsh lady and a heavy smoker. None of us liked to go inside the smoke filled home, but one afternoon Barbara finally enticed us inside to view her new litter of beautiful, blonde, Cocker Spaniel puppies. With quiet curiosity we all peeked behind the front door and were thrilled to view a clothes basket filled to the brim with chubby, hungry, grunting pups, snuggled placidly with their mama while enjoying their dinner. Suddenly, Mrs.Willis, engulfed in a cloud of smoke and her ever present Camel cigarette in hand, came barreling out of the kitchen and screamed for all us to go away! Stumbling and tripping over each other we made a hasty retreat out the back door.

Every neighborhood has a resident of intrigue and mystery. Such was the case of the reclusive Mrs. Lillian Brown. Alone, none of us dared approach the quaint, unkempt clapboard house, well concealed behind the dense tangle of trees and bushes, but as a group we felt safety in numbers and would sometimes gain the courage to creep up and have a peek inside the well secluded dwelling. Holding our breath and fiercely clinging to each other for security, we would cautiously ease our way to a side window and steal a quick glance inside. On most occasions we spied Mrs. Brown sedately rocking beside the fireplace and reading her Bible, while her skinny, yellow Tabby contentedly snoozed in her lap. A far cry from the person and scene we had imagined and expected.

Miss Gertie Foote, a well known spinster in the neighborhood, worked in the grocery section of Stiefelmeyer’s Department Store downtown. She was a very tidy and prim little lady who drove her immaculately maintained black Chevy to work each day. One afternoon, about dusk, as she returned home from her job, we decided to hide behind a large oak tree in Hilda’s front yard and throw corncobs and pine cones at her car. Miss Foote, apparently oblivious to the foray of objects striking her windshield, drove right through the barrage with her head held erect, looking straight forward. None of us slept well for a few nights, fearing that our parents would somehow find out about our attack on Miss Foote and that a swift, harsh punishment would be our reward for such foolhardy antics.

The Milligan family owned and ran a small café next to Mrs. Brown’s cottage. I never understood why it was named “The Red Wing Café”. The four Milligan family members lived in the small apartment connected to the back of the café. Ken, the teenage son was quite a handsome fellow and the local girls flocked to the café to play the jukebox, eat a burger and flirt with him. A narrow alleyway passed between the café and the Dr. Pepper Warehouse and became a busy walkway for those who attended the Saturday cattle auction. None of us were allowed to enter the café, but often hovered in the bushes outside to watch the customers coming and going. As the heavy screen door swung open and shut we could get a brief glimpse of the activity inside and hear the raucous laughter, mingled with the loud music of the jukebox. Our imaginations would run wild considering just what was going on inside that forbidden establishment. Once, we even spied Ken and one of the girls hugging and kissing in the alleyway…such scandalous activity to our innocent eyes!

As fall approached our joyous days of mischief came to a close in the neighborhood and the excitement of a new school year became our focus, but those sweet summer memories shall nestle in our hearts for a lifetime and become even more precious with each passing year.

you know, child

you know, child

when we received that last letter
from your mother,
well, you know, child,
we thought you might just be one of those babies
without any hope at all,
i mean, me and gramps are approaching seventy
and your dad ain't gettin' out for another
fifteen to twenty...

you're a smart kid, james, and you got
something my voodoo aunt would've called
a cavalier soul,
your eyes shine brighter than most,
you know, child,
like you're seeing something beautiful
in the dark trash the rest of us
call everyday

i'm not sure just what to do
a boy needs a mama, you know?
we've been talkin' about adoption or foster care
but everytime you look at me
all i see is a desperation fixin' for a family

we love you
we love your mama too and we've tried damn hard
to forgive your daddy
but we ain't gonna live forever, you know, child,
we gotta think about your future
and don't think we ain't up to date
on the hell that's outside these doors
we might be comfortably old but we're not stupid

have i told you that gramps prays everynight
for an angel to come down to this earth
and look out for you?
i can hear him as i brush my teeth
he speaks softly but his heart attracts volume,
you know, child,
it's obvious that one day
you'll be alone,
did we love you enough?

***originally published in The Foundling Review

Author: Derek Richards

My Summer Vacation: An Essay for Mrs. Baker’s 9th Grade English Class By Jeremy Fitzhugh

My Summer Vacation: An Essay for Mrs. Baker’s 9th Grade English Class By Jeremy Fitzhugh

by Jim Harrington

My summer vacation started at a Boy Scout Roundup. Kids from all over the state attended. The first day, Frankie Jacobs decided to show Billy Maine, both members of my troop, how to throw a hatchet. I came out of my tent and stood up as the blade whizzed by my head and buried itself in a tree. Unfortunately, the rope holding up one end of my tent wasn’t as lucky as my head. The next day we had a pig roast. I could smell them cooking all day. By dinner time, everyone was ready, but the pigs.

Eight days after I got home, I got the measles. My little brother came down with them the next week. His were worse than mine. Served him right for forgetting to feed my goldfish while I was at camp. I wasn’t mad the fish died. I was upset, because I didn’t get to watch Sharkey circle a few laps of the toilet before going to fish heaven.

I saw Frankie Jacobs in the park one day. I rode my bike to where he was throwing a knife into the ground and yelled at him for almost killing me. He charged at me, and we fought, until he pinned me spread-eagle on the ground and told me he’d knee me you-know-where if I tried to get up. I stayed very still, only breathing when I had to, until he got bored and left.

Mom, dad, my brother and me spent a week in Florida. Disney World would have been fun if my brother hadn’t thrown up (twice!) and gotten us kicked off a couple of rides. Mom was so embarrassed she made us go back to the motel. The next day we went to Daytona Beach. I hung out with some guys I met and got one of the worst sunburns mom had ever seen. She’d forgotten the sunscreen.

I learned a lot during summer vacation. I learned I don’t like to eat raw pork. I learned that people are like snowflakes. No two get the same disease the same way. I learned that Frankie Jacobs is stronger than me and a little crazy. I learned the importance of not staying on the beach all day. I learned what a thong bikini is, and that my mom thinks my dad shouldn’t smile when a girl walks by wearing one. And I learned that no matter how bad my summer vacation is, it’s still better than writing a dumb essay.

Anyway, I hope you like my essay, and that you had as much fun this summer as I did.