SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

There’s a Light

After a summer bonfire, newly coupled teens Josh and Sandy found themselves walking hand-in-hand on the moonlight beach in front of the old Jacob mansion on the hill.

“I bet I can hit one of those windows,” Josh picked up a rock and lifted his arm.

“No, please don’t,” Sandy pleaded. “That mansion has a very special history. My mother told me the tragic love story of the woman in the dark tower.”

The ornate Victorian mansion was a perched on a hill above the beach with two distinct turret widow towers which can be seen vividly from the sea. Owned by the wealthy Jacob family shipping magnates, it was easily the largest home in the small New England town. Edmund Jacob had two twin daughters, Susan and Sarah.

Jacob was widowed when the twins were ten years old and dove into building his empire, ignoring the girls, so they became very close and raised each other. Susan was vivacious and outgoing, while Sarah was creative and introverted. They were yin and yang but relished in their differences and loved each other deeply. When they were eighteen, their father decided to choose husbands to ensure their future.

Jacob betrothed Susan to a young congressman. She acted as her father’s host for many parties and dinners for prominent guests and clients and he thought her social skills would prove to be beneficial on the arm of an up-and-coming politician.

He promised Sarah to a young executive, who he was grooming to take over his company someday. As the husband of a Jacob, Edmund thought the young man would be accepted as his successor.

Susan was an obedient popular girl who loved the social scene and dutifully agreed to marry the congressman and move to Washington, DC for an exciting life as a politician’s wife. But Sarah had no interest in marriage or the young overly-ambitious executive who her father considered a surrogate son. Sarah ‘s only interest was painting. Day after day she roamed the quaint seaside town searching for inspiration, plopping her palette and easel at the exact point of muse and painting interesting landscapes from sunup to sundown.

One day as she was painting the intricate ocean waves, she met Daniel, a sea hand who worked for his father’s shipping company. Daniel romanticized the ocean and took great interest in her work. For months, they walked around town as she listened in amazement to the poetic detail as he spoke of the beauty in everything around them. She was smitten by his keen artistic intellect and sweet gentility. He returned her affection and appreciated her mind, heart and great talent. He was very observant and encouraged her creative vision.

The young shipping executive was very different. He thought both she and her art were silly and useless endeavors and made it clear, when they were wed, her job was to have babies and hold dinners for his clients and influential people in town; a life that Sarah considered a hopeless prison.

Susan loved her sister and was sympathetic for her perilous situation and her love for Daniel. She tried to help them meet in secret, by crafting a signal. Susan would turn on the lights in the home’s towers as a warning to the couple. She light both tower lights when their father was home and one tower light if the coast was clear.

But one day, their father came home unexpectedly and caught the lovers. In punishment, Jacob and his aide sent Daniel away on a ship.

Sarah was forced to spend her life in a loveless marriage to the young magnate. In protest she bore him no children and refused any outward pretense of happiness. Instead, she locked herself in her tower studio and sadly lived out her days painting thousands of watercolors of the sea, hoping for Daniel’s return to rescue her miserable existence. She kept one light on in her dark tower studio as a signal to show him the way, but he never came back.

Susan lived a society life and helped her husband climb the political ladder and navigate his way to become a powerful senator, while Sarah wasted away on a forlorn dream until she died at age 100.

Looking at the dark towers in the big abandoned mansion as they left, Josh and Sandy suddenly saw a light brightly illuminated in one tower.

Home

Our room did have a small electric heater, and we used hot stone water bottles in the big bed at night. My sister and I shared this room in our small rowhouse flat. It was an old drafty building, so my parents gave us the top floor room. The rising heat made it the warmest room in the house. We had a small kitchen with a wooden table and a brand new icebox. It made the milk nice and cold. Our drawing room had a chair for mommy and one for daddy and we shared the big chair, but we mostly liked to sit on the floor and listen to mommy sing and play the piano at night. She had a beautiful voice. We also had a lovely garden outside. It was our home.

In that room and in our garden, my sister and I crafted a world of adventures every day after studies. We were Indians on the hunt of the great water buffalo; pirates on a ship combing the seven seas for buried treasure; archeologists searching for lost tomb of kings in the great pyramids; and Sherlock Holmes and Watson trying to crack the case of the missing crown jewels. We daily played out the pages of our storybooks and made them come to life. But our favorite game was called Princess. We’d pretend to be Princesses Margaret and Elizabeth having tea and biscuits. We’d dress up in our Sunday clothes and gloves and talk about all the wonderful balls we attended and the handsome princes we’d marry. Daddy made tiaras out of tin cans and we glued hard candy on them for jewels.

With the war and all, bedtime was right after supper. No lights or piano music were allowed because of to the blackout, but mommy and daddy snuggled up with us and told us beautiful tales of wonderful places with princesses in big palaces like India, Africa and Greece until we fell asleep. I dreamed that I could see them someday.

I often think of life before the Blitz. It still haunts me with echoes every night when I close my eyes.

We awoke to sounds of loud whistles, then thundering explosions and searing high-pitched screams of the planes dropping their bombs. It seemed so close. In the dark, my sister and I huddled together, shaking and crying, not knowing what to do. The bursts came closer and closer until we heard the crash of bricks tumbling and felt sand and dirt falling on us from a gaping hole in our ceiling.

Petrified and screaming, we quickly crawled on our hands and knees trying to find our door. We heard mommy and daddy yelling at us to get out, but we couldn’t see. Then the night moon shone a small beam of light to show us the way. We hastily ran out the door and down the stairs to mommy and daddy. Then we all ran to the loo where we four sat in the bathtub with mattresses over our heads to protect us.

For hours, we sat in silence in the dark trembling and holding each other while blindly hearing booming blasts and deafing bangs among the sounds of screams outside. Finally, it stopped.

Daddy went out first to make sure it was safe. After he waived us in, we slowly walked out into our drawing room. Mommy gasped as she saw the wood beams in the middle of the floor, tossing the chairs around the room and the piles of bricks dumped on her piano. In the kitchen, the new icebox was still there, but the table was cracked in half.

As the dawn broke, the shafts of light gleamed through the small holes in the walls and broken window glass to brighten the room, showing the full damage. Dirt, dust, wooden beams and fallen bricks from above tore a mess through the drawing room and kitchen, but it was still standing.

Suddenly I was hopeful for our room and ran up the stairs without a thought. Daddy ran after me yelling to come back. I abruptly stopped after only a few steps. There was no room, just remnants in the rubble. Our bookcase of storybooks was in splinters. Our tea party set and crowns, gone. Our big bed lay atop the missing wall exposed to the daylight below. There was nothing left to see.

Tears strewn down my cheeks as Daddy took me down the stairs. I tried to hide my face to spare my sister the pain, but she knew. We all did.

My sister and I sat on the bottom stair watching as Mommy and Daddy sift through the ruins to find what remained. Daddy found our radio under a pile of dust and turned it on. Prime Minister Churchill said “…It’s time for everyone to stand together and hold firm… as we draw from our hearts the means of inspiration and survival…for our people will not flinch from the struggle.”

He was right. We were still together and we would start over again. Home was not the building or our things, but our family.

Reboot and Say Yes to Fun!

“Work, you damn computer!” Katherine pounded on the keys of her laptop in frustration.

It was a year Katherine thought she would never see. In one year the pyramid of her life tumbled one block at a time. A twenty-year marriage, a cheating husband, a failed business she loved and now the last straw, a frozen computer. After two hours of hearing press number two for technical support, a simple solution was finally offered – press control, alt, and delete to reboot.

After the successful resurrection of her computer, Katherine thought she needed a break. An hour soaking in a bubble bath with soothing eucalyptus candles, one Netflix movie, one quart of Cookie Dough ice cream, and a half bottle of wine later, Katherine emerged with renewed purpose. Like a baptismal dunking, she could wash away her old life and start anew. She needed a complete reboot.

Step one, Alt. Step one of her new spirit must be to seek an alternate reality, Katherine thought. Say yes to Fun.

Katherine believed she had always been a fun-loving person, but in recent days the chasm of her abysmal life made fun and laughter impossible. Now that she decided to accept and even seek out fun, she used her now-operational computer to Google, the most fun things to do. Right there was an article from Women’s Day magazine entitled 43 Fun Things to Do in Your Lifetime. Quickly copied all 43 items down and vowed to achieve them all in this year. The year of no fear!

First on the list…Go to a concert! Katherine remembered all the concerts she attended in her teens and twenties. As shown by the many solo concerts held for an audience of one in her car and shower, Katherine loved music. What’s not to love? Screaming and singing at the top of your lungs with hundreds or thousands of others doing the same thing. Music filling your heart and ears to near deafening levels. Dressing like a rock star, roadie or groupie with the secret and likely unrequited ambition of being pulled up onstage to sing and party with the band. Yes, a roaring rock concert was the answer.

An online search later, Katherine found her favorite teenage band was appearing a mere three hours away that very weekend and still had tickets available. Click and buy.

After an urgent text plea to her two girlfriends, announcing a girl’s night road trip, Katherine was ready to go.

Dressed in a black tank top with mesh wrap shirt, black jeans and as much silver jewelry with chains, rings, big hoop earrings, silver looped belt, black heeled leather boots and dark eyeliner, Katherine was ready to see Kiss. She considered full cat makeup, but decided that would be over the top.

She and her friends stood in line with baited anticipation. As she looked around, she saw many people of different ages and many more dressed as they were going to a picnic in khaki shorts, t-shirts, ball caps and white sneakers, instead of a Kiss rock concert. She saw very few people dressed up in Kiss makeup (glad she didn’t do that), but gratefully saw a few people similarly dressed for a head-banging concert. Upon reaching the front of the line, the attendant asked Katherine to remove her jewelry as it would set off the metal detector. Confused and in disbelief, Katherine peeled off her metal armory as if she was peeling layers from herself and then quickly passed through the checkpoint and relayered.

An endless beer line later, they found their seats just in time for the lights to fade. A singular bass note sounded, red and gold streaks of light climbing up the stage background screen, then an echoing guitar chord and synthesized sound revealed a huge light-exploding firework sign with the letters K-I-S-S. Then the music began and the band emerged to the roaring and raucous sounds of the crowd of fans.

Katherine smiled and looked around at her friends and surrounding strangers with their hands in the air bopping to the beat of the music and singing gleefully at the top of their lungs.

“This is fun!” She raised her fist in the air, jumped up and down and sang loudly. “I want to Rock and Roll all night, and party every day.” Her new mantra.

Echoes in Time

From photographs and slides to digital, preservation efforts often past memories to be technologically updated, providing opportunities for different views.

Although I’ve flipped through photos in scrapbooks and albums numerous times before, but television viewing afforded the possibly for a room full of people to view the same photograph at the same time. And the large screen with apt-era background music made it seem like a movie of my life.

Pictures capture a moment in time with different meanings for all who view. My children, nieces and nephews mercilessly heckled the muttonchop sideburns, bellbottom and plaid pants, clunky platform shoes, and revealing halter tops amid other clothing and hairstyle choices of the day, which although stylish then ring comical in today’s mirror.

But as I watch each picture go by, I see the pair of white knee-high gogo boots that I begged my mother to buy me. The denim purse I bought myself with my baby-sitting savings. And the painful rollers worn overnight to achieve the curls in my very flat hair for my wedding do.

Each pixel evokes different memories behind the camera in the time before and after the shutter opened and closed. The baby picture of my sister with her dress turned back to front, since right before the photographer clicked, she spit up all over the front of her dress. Or the joyous picture of family fun on Disney’s Splash Mountain a split-second before we were all drenched to the bone from a waterfall drop tsunami.

Sometimes feelings frozen in celluloid are a stark reminder of the tenure of an exact instance of time. The sullen teenage scowl which resulted from teasing for a refusal to have my face painted like a clown at the Ringling Brothers museum. I was very aware of my oily skin and didn’t want the greasepaint to clog my pores and give me pimples. Or a distant and uncooperative frown portrayed in a Hawaiian vacation photo from terribly missing my Navy boyfriend who was at home on leave while I was forced to be a world away.

Remembrances of the ridiculous kitschy tourist traps my father never seemed to miss are encapsulated for posterity. The secretive Ft. Hood, which unknown to most people lies underneath the Golden Gate Bridge, the mermaids at Wiki Wachee, and the sarsaparillas at the OK Corral café were severely mocked back then, but now offer more nostalgic perspectives with time and age.

Regardless of how many technological evolutions these pictures will endure in the future, they remain echoes in time preserved for the next generation and those who follow to glimpse into past moments and draw their own conclusions about the time and place.

Irish Eyes

Twas a cool breeze out that night on the streets of Manhattan, but for me, it was as frigid as the snow queen herself. I felt the icy stare of me mistress, my friend, see straight through me as if I were nothing but a ghostly figure, not even there. To her, I may have well been as it was the deepest of cuts, a breach of faith and trust which finds me out on me ars on this New Year’s Eve.

I wander around a bit, not sure what to do and where to go. The church was me first thought, to light a candle. But if I’m honest, my faith is a bit shaken this day. Damn my big emerald eyes and Irish temper for betraying me and always gettin’ me in a spot of trouble. But I just couldn’t help meself. That bastard of a husband of hers, him and his roving eyes…and hands. He’s the one to blame. Hand to God, the mister has grabbed hold of me backside more times a day than I count me holy cards. Some days I had to use liniment just soes I could set down at night. That one, he’s always grabbing, poking and pinching any skirt that passes him by. But this time he went too far. Poor little Molly O’Brien. A mere babe, only fifteen in years. I caught the bastard up against her in the butler pantry. She looked at me like she saw the very devil himself. She was not struggling, but she was terrified. So, I tells her to go help cook right away and stop lollygagging. It worked at first, she got away. But then the mister grabs the back of me apron and drags me into the drawing room. He yells at me and I couldn’t help my Irish, I gave it right back to him but good.

The nerve he has to compromise young girls and lord over his position. And what about the mistress? They hardly even married a year and him with his devilish ways. She was so innocent and in love. She didn’t see is dastardly black coal soul, but I saw him for the messenger of Satan he was. Only me mistress didn’t. She saw the image of a young handsome rogue who swept her off her heels in the fields of gold back in Cobb County and dazed her with his impish charm. Turns out the faithless fiend has had every lass he sets his evil eyes on. My rolling green eyes always gave me away to him, they did. He knew that I knew of his wandering ways.

Just when I was puttin’ him in place though, he turned randy. The devil he was smitten with my ire and didn’t he grab me right there and kiss me hard at the exact moment the mistress walked in.

The look in her sweet eyes was more than I could take. The demon spawn lied to her of course and said I, Katherine Mary Margaret Donnelly have been chasing him around. The bastard son he is. Of course, she believed him immediately, how could she not, she’s mesmerized by love. And now I am out on my sore kiester. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be out of that hell of a house, blast to all of them. But I worry about me poor girl. She is so young and naïve. He’s going to hurt her somethin terrible. I will never forget the look in her eyes til the end of me days. The scorn, the betrayal, it wounded her to the very core. We had been so close, the best of us since wee lasses. We’ve seen through every scrape and sorrow in our short lives. Now, she cuts me to the quick, never even a brief thought that it was himself. I pity her and the day she comes in from the mist of adoration. It will be a dark day for her, it will, and her soul will weep. But I need to put that in arrears now and think of what’s to come.

So in my own thoughts, I didn’t realize I had walked nearly ten blocks into a loud gaggle of half-frozen people in the middle of Times Square celebrating the New Year. I looked around at their joyous faces all rising to see the giant globe on the flagpole atop the building above.

I’ve never seen anything like it in me life. Took six whole men to tame the beastly wonder with ropes. Then I heard the people start chanting all at once. 10, 9, 8 and down it came like an angel lofting from the heavens. 7, 6, 5, 4, they kept going. The snow started to gently fall just as they yelled 3, 2, 1. And signs on all sides of the building lit up like the stars in the heavens to say Happy New Year with thunderous flames of colored light streaking up and bursting here and there in the sky. Twas a glorious site to behold.

Then a chorus of the random gatherers sang aloud to ring in the New Year. I recognized the tune as one from the old country I heard the Scottish shepards sing in the fields. I listened carefully to what they said, “old acquaintance be forgot and never thought upon.” That Auld Lang Syne was right. The past is just that. I’m young and sturdy and I’m in America, the land of opportunity. It’s time for me to begin anew and turn over a leaf. So I welcome ya 1908, it’s bound to be a good year.

Dreaming In a Wartime Christmas

Author’s Note: This is a brief peek of a WWII historical romance novel You’ll Never Know... that will be released in Jan-Feb 2021 about the whirlwind romance and lovesick heartache of a a USO singer and her boyfriend on a ship in the Atlantic during the later part of the war. Thousands of miles apart, they only have their letters to each other for comfort. With so many people missing loved ones and being apart this Christmas, I thought this was a good comparison for this year. Merry Christmas to all…it will get better. It always does.

December 25, 1944

My Darling, Darling Davey,

I can’t believe you did this! I got your Christmas surprises…the flowers, the sweets and the beautiful necklace. I don’t know how you managed it. The necklace is so perfect – two golden hearts linked together. Just like we are. I love it and will wear it always.

This is an especially hard day. It’s my first Christmas away from home and our first Christmas together, but we’re apart. Your presents were so wonderful and made me so happy. It made it feel like, just for a minute, you were not so far away.

I really had a hard time finding you a present because of the size restrictions on mailing to you. I hope you get it in time for Christmas. I sent it at Thanksgiving just to be sure it caught up with you.

Today wasn’t so bad. Since everyone in the USO is away from family today, we kind of had our own special Christmas brunch. Everyone got a small gift from the USO. And we told jokes, pretending to be each other. That was really fun. I guess it is some kind of English Christmas tradition. It kept my mind off being homesick and lovesick.

Tonight, we have our big Christmas show. We’re in Nashville, Tennessee and will be performing on the stage of the Grand Old Opry for our Special Arms Services broadcast. The USO troupers are going to do a big show with the country stars, they call it Christmas Extravaganza. It’s a really big deal. I’m a little nervous. It should be a great show. Armed Forces Radio will be airing it tonight. I hope you will be able to listen, wherever you are.

Oh, and by the way, I am glad you’re bored. What I mean is that I’m glad you’re not in the fight, risking your life. I worry about you. I want you to come back to me!

I’ll be Seeing You… Love Suzy

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December 25, 1944

My Sweet Suzy

Merry Christmas. I know you won’t get this by Christmas, but since I’m writing it on Christmas, I wanted to wish it to you. Well at least I hope it is a Merry Christmas for you. Here everyone is really sad, including me. This is my first Christmas away from home. Same with most of the guys. But it’s extra hard because it’s our first Christmas together too. I hope you got my present by now. I keeping thinking how neat it would have been to give you the present and see your reaction in person. Plus the really big kiss you would give me, because I always give really good presents. I hope at least you like the present I sent. I really miss you.

Here the guys are planning some kind of crazy party. They chef is supposed to cook up a real Christmas dinner. He said there’s going to be egg nog…well, made from dried milk and eggs and stuff, so we will see how it tastes. We’re not allowed alcohol, because you never know what will happen, with the war and all, so that takes some of the zing out of it. Supposedly we’re getting a Christmas ham with mashed potatoes and vegetables. My family always had turkey with dressing at Christmas, but I hear ham is popular with some people. I guess ham is easier to keep out here. My favorite is the dessert. I heard a rumor that there will be minced meat pie and figgy pudding. Our chef is kind of a joker though, so I bet it’s just regular instant vanilla pudding with fig newtons stuck in it. I like apple pie better, but it’s traditional.

We’re supposed to see some fighting soon so Cap said we could have a little wingding, just this once. I need to go now, the party is about to start. I will finish this later…

What a surprise!! You made a celebrity out of me. They piped the Armed Services Radio Christmas broadcast over the whole boat and everybody heard you sing. My girlfriend is a famous radio singer!! The guys were all slapping me on the back and razing me. It really picked up everyone’s spirits, especially mine. Everyone was singing along with you. And I can’t believe you said my name on the radio. It really meant so much to me. It was just like you were singing only to me, just like in New York. It made me miss you a little less, at least for today. Thank you. And don’t worry – I‘ll be seeing you soon…I promise.

Love Always, Davey

New Book Release: Diary of a 6th Grade “C” Cup: Growing Up Girls Series

Ebook available until Jan 31st free on Kindle Unlimited. Available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.

Growing up is Hard. School is Tough. Girls can be mean and boys can be dumb. This first in a new book series for girls aged 8-14 explores the perils and pluses of being every day unique. Everyone has something about them that makes them different. But often, those differences are treated with ridicule and bullying.

The first book in the Growing Up Girls series, Diary of a 6th Grade “C” Cup follows Katie and her diary from 4th to 6th grade through a difficult period when puberty makes her the first in her class to get a bra. Her development causes ridicule, strife, teasing, bullying and some self-realization about being yourself and growing up.

This series, written for girls 8-14, celebrates differences and shows how just a little joking or teasing has much more impact that first would appear. These books shine a light on the need for people to accept others and for young girls to accept and celebrate themselves from an early age.

Written by Suzanne Rudd, this book is partially autobiographical based on the author’s experience. “Decades ago when I was growing up, bullying feel into three categories. Either you were the perpetrator, the victim or one of the lucky ones who fell between the cracks. In those days, no one talked about it, got punished for it and teachers, principals and parents often shrugged it off as just a part of growing up. How many adults relish their preteen and teen years and how many would rather forget it ever happened?”

“Now, luckily more attention is paid to diversity and less tolerance of bullying is allowed. Bullying messes with the delicate balance of self-esteem which can serve children throughout life. And it should not be tolerated. But kids learn from parents and there is still bullying out there regardless of the strides in the positive direction.”

For those parenting girls in this age and for those girls growing up this book can be a must-read snapshot into the pitfalls and promise of growing up at this age.

“Judy Blume was my bible when I was growing up. I always wanted to write something for girls in other unique situations to pay it forward and show them, it’s good to be different.”

Chatty, but not Cathy

Everyone is unique. It’s the engine which makes us go through the world. Some people ridicule differences and many people dwell on what they consider to be bad personality or character traits. I believe self-clarity and acceptance is the path to serenity. Here is my response to a writing prompt from my group which asks about character or personal traits you may or may not want to change. And don’t be surprised if this goes into my Growing up Girls book series. The first in the series “Diary of a 6th Grade “C” Cup” was just released on Amazon.

“Suzanne is a good student and contributes to class, but she does have a tendency to chat too much.”

That comment on a Kindergarten report card was the start and not the last such comment of my school career. Did I chat too much? Yes. Should I have? No, I’m sure it disturbed class. In grade school, a few friends and I even learned to sign a bit to chat silently during class.

Yes, I’ve talked to everyone who would listen, since I could speak. And maybe some that wouldn’t listen. This is perhaps one of the reasons my husband now has deaf ears from tuning out my voice. Sometimes I worry and guard about this with new friends. But I argue that being a “Chatty Cathy” is a benefit in many situations.

When you’re new in school, in class, or in a neighborhood, who makes friends first? The person who chats people up and gets to know them.

If a job interviewer has a choice between someone who sat silently during the interview or someone who was able to articulate why they should be hired, who would get the job?

At a wedding, party or any other event, who has a better time? The one who initiates conversation with everyone at the table.

Answering questions and giving speeches or oral tests in school never causes queasiness for a Chatty Cathy or an action which required janitorial clean up. Instead, that talent earns high marks in school and makes speech and debate classes a breeze.

In the job market, being chatty is particularly useful when in sales. Talking to a customer as a friend and giving them a lot of information gives a quick sense of trust and familiarity, which is useful when convincing them to buy large ticket items like a home or a car.

And while not a requirement, being chatty gives you self-confidence that can be used to act or sing in front of others. This self-confidence is also helpful in creating early self-esteem in young people. Something experts have lauded for helping youths resist peer pressure and temptations.

Yes, the chatty technique must be honed, as you must also learn to listen. And will it get you in trouble? Yes, more than once.

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not admonishing the strong silent types. I believe you must be true to yourself. But I cheer in admiration instead of correct or scorn those who are labeled chatty. It serves you well.

Sound Not Silent

That sound. First faint, a distant murmur of a hum. Then the crescendo as it comes closer.
A taunting echoing cackle of sporadic random cadence at a fortissimo of booming sound. Your heart beats faster and your steps quicken as you note the gathering one, then three, then six, then more.

As you walk, their eyes follow your every step with one collective slow panned movement. Your breath gasps in silent bundles of air, escaping in momentary release.

Their eyes are locked on your path peering a hole in the back of your head as your pace increases. Your head rapidly pivots back and forth desperately looking for retreat, shelter or an avenue of reprieve. Yet that sound keeps bounding, grating on your exposed nerves and picking unrelenting even though slightly fading to distance. Like a programmed ambush, another gathering moves in synchronous stopping your forward motion and redirecting your path. That sound again plucks at your brain with increasing intensity leaving you feeling trapped. Why were they following me? What did they want? Panic took over as i succumbed to fear and darted into the nearest bar in surrender, defeated by their numbers.

After one hurried and two relentingly slow imbibements numbing the binding fear, I cautiously ventured out into the streets. I paused and listened carefully. I heard only the welcome chaos of street noise. No hum. No cackle. I cautiously looked back and the forth down the busy street and released a large sigh of heavy air. Thankfully they were gone and I could continue on my journey unfettered and unafraid. That is absolutely the last time I watch the Hitchcock movie the birds. Never again.

Soda Poppers

BEEP BEEP! “If we don’t get out of this traffic, I’ll miss my stories!”

Pam was distressed. Her little VW bug was stuck in traffic with grocery bags, two babies in car seats, one niece, and a big dog in tow. She was going to miss her daily serenity appointment, a one-hour escape into a different world, while her kids were napping .

Luke loves Laura, but Laura is married to Scottie. Noah loves Bobbie and a few others. And no one loves the Quartermaines, who only love money. For one hour each day, Pam was entranced by the trials and tribulations of the residents of Port Charles and specifically the friends and family of their hospital staff.

Every day offered something new. Romance, kidnapping, love-triangles, deadly diseases, hostage crisis, mistaken identity, evil twins, life-threatening accidents, corporate takeovers, teen pregnancy, adultery, and some simpler day-to-day domestic problems, all happened in this little town.

I watched in amazement as my normally calm and easy-going aunt unloaded the kids, the groceries, the dog, got the kids to sleep, dog fed and perishable groceries sorted with lighting speed just in time for the opening hospital shot. Whew.

I sat with her and curiously watched above my book perplexed as she simultaneously folded a huge pile of diapers and other laundry with eyes glued to the television, hanging on every word of the characters and talking to them as if they were in the room, even advising their actions.

After it was over, I asked her what program it was. She said it was a soap opera and regaled me in detail of the past and present lives and current events of each and every one of the residents of Port Charles. She made it sound so interesting and exciting how each and every person’s lives intertwined and tangled in each other’s existence.

The next day, I decided to put down my book and watch with her. It was engulfing. It had all the drama and peril of a Shakespearean play with the romance of a Harlequin novel. As we watched, she pointed out each character and their relationship to the others. I thought I needed a notebook and a family tree chart to keep up. But after a week, I was hooked. It was exciting, tender, and completely compelling.

For the rest of the summer, each day she and I spent one hour together absorbed in the stories. We even discussed them and debated possible resolutions while performing other daily duties.

One day my uncle came home from work early, looking for some papers he left. My aunt and I were so engrossed, we didn’t even hear him or the little boy who awoke early from his nap and was quietly playing in another room.

“What are you doing awake, little guy?”

“Shh,” he said with his tiny finger covering his mouth. “Mommy and Suzie are watching soda poppers.”