SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

Accidents Happen

It was an accident. A spectacular accident, but an accident nonetheless.

I’m an artist. Graduating from a very prestigious art school, for years, I diligently worked on paintings for the important gallery opening I always saw in my future. But to pay the bills I painted commissioned art for commercial billboards to sell various products like breakfast cereal, gum, milk, and anything else someone would pay me to paint.

Until two years ago, when my boyfriend and I discovered we were pregnant with twins.

I put my career on hold so I could manage the very difficult job of feeding, clothing, cleaning up after and caring for the minute to minute needs of these two humans-in-training I brought into the world.

To be honest, it was exhausting. Everything had to be done twice. I’d diaper one, then the other. And although I tried to feed and bathe them on mass, there were still two little people that needed to be dried, dressed or cleaned up.

And after they started walking, I had to be on my toes all the time. Sometimes they would get into things together, but often they’d go in different directions for their mischief. Then I had two messes to clean up.

Finally, when they were two, I thought I achieved a rhythm that made life hum along.

About the same time, a friend of mine who worked at an art gallery called me to see if I would be interested in a commissioned work. Sometimes rich patrons and their interior designers look for a painting with a specific color scheme or subject matter to fit a design concept for their space. If they can’t find the painting, sometimes they commission an artist to paint something with exact specifications.

I hadn’t worked in two years and I wasn’t sure I could do it with the twins at home, but my friend dangled a carrot I could not resist. She said this patron was very rich and influential, and if she liked my painting, she’d spread the word and it could lead to a future gallery opening. How could I say no?

I had one month to finish the painting so every night after I put the boys to bed, by the light of the moon, I sketched and sketched for three weeks leaving a litter trail of unfinished and unworthy drawings. It started to accumulate into a mound that I called Mount Crap. In one evening of frustration I actually mounted a flag on top to commemorate my ultimate failure.

I just couldn’t get it right and quite frankly started to think I’ve lost my touch. After all, I was rusty.

One night I started drawing and it all came together. Muscles I hadn’t used in years sparked with renewed creativity. It felt wonderful. I was truly an artist once more.

With only a week to go, I started painting feverishly. My sympathetic boyfriend even took a few days off work so he could watch the boys and I could complete my work. I was riding high on fantasies that I could do it all, artist and mom. Supermom.

I was nearly done when it happened.

Stepping away for only a minute to mix a color, I came back in horror to find my two little cherubs, smearing my painting with their hands. It was ruined.

Standing there, you would think I would’ve screamed, but I didn’t. I couldn’t move. I actually felt like I was having an out of body experience, wrought with disbelief that those weeks of work were for nothing, and my golden opportunity slipped away in a moment.

When my boyfriend came into the room and saw what they were doing, he quickly grabbed the boys and pulled them away from the painting.

“No boys no!”

But the damage was done.

As he held them, they innocently looked at me with their big blue eyes, hands all soiled with mixed colors of paint.

“We paint too, mommy,” one said is they both smiled at me.

They didn’t mean to trash my painting or my hopes and dreams for a revitalize career. They were trying to be like me and didn’t know any better.

I think I scared my boyfriend standing there like a statue.

“Oh honey. I’m so sorry, they got away from me. Are you OK?”

“Yes. It was just an accident.”

As he took the boys to clean them up, I gazed at my career going down the toilet.

Again, I surprised myself by my calm. Maybe it was an accumulation of two years practice cleaning up their artistry on walls floors, and each other.

They didn’t mean anything by it. They are just kids.

But then the dread of reality crept in. What comes next? Can I get an extension on the time or will they think that unprofessional of me? My kids ruined my painting sounds kinda like the old dog ate my homework excuse.

I’m almost embarrassed to call my friend at the gallery and ask. But I have to tell her something. So I called.

“Emily. I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I was nearly done with my painting and my kids ruined it by accident. I can replicate it in a week. Any chance of getting an extension?”

The silence on the other end of the phone was endless, leaving me terrified with uncertainty.

“Well, we usually don’t do that,” she said.

“I understand,” I said, defeated.

But as I was picturing my career going down the drain, she said something surprising.

“Wait, I think the patron is out of town so I can buy you three days, that’s all.”

I thanked her profusely and hang up the phone with renewed vigor.

I’d have to work around the clock, but I thought I could get it done. Unfortunately my boyfriend had to go back to work so I called my mother and she agreed to take the boys to her house for three days. It was a huge ask, but I didn’t have many options.

Three days later, it was finished. I turned it in at the gallery, and Emily really liked the painting.

“I promise to get a lock on my studio, if you have any more work in the future,” I told her.

She smiled, but made no commitments. But ultimately, I proved to myself that I can get back in the game. It’ll take some heavy duty coordination, but it’ll be worth it. I can do both.

Buried

Staring down at the four story staircase, we slowly descended… step by step.

I didn’t think I was claustrophobic, but as we lowered further into the abyss, I stared at the walls in complete understanding of how someone could feel them closing in.

When we reached the only remaining Edinburgh catacomb, appropriately called a close, my emotion was torn. I wondered how people could live everyday all day without fresh air or sunshine. It was depressing.

I closed my eyes and tried to picture the bustle of people traveling the corridors, the marketplace and various workshops to satisfy daily needs, as the tour guide described. But when I opened my eyes, I saw only emptiness.

A few steps later was a small hovel that would house a family. There was a simulation of a small table and floor bedding to show how they lived. It was bleak. The air seemed thin. The ceiling was very low and the small area had no measure of privacy. It was like bears hibernating in a cave. I couldn’t imagine living like that, especially for years.

Remembering that during the bubonic plague, the catacombs often housed quarantined individuals, the last step on the tour was the hovel they called the chapel. As soon as I entered, I felt a cold chill of eeriness I couldn’t shake. Prominently displayed was the ragged doll of a little girl called Annie, who died in the plague. The guide told us that many feel her spirit captured there. I did.

But then he explained that some catacombs were actually preferred by poor people for the security of living below ground. Astonished, I gasped in disbelief. To me it was like being buried alive, sad, hopeless and forgotten.

Maybe I was reflecting my own bias or perhaps I channeled the echos of spirits left behind. But as we ascended the staircase, my mood lightened with each step as if I was reaching for warm sun and fresh air.

As we reached the top, I thrust open the door, ready to inhale salvation, yet while I spent an hour buried beneath the streets of Edinburgh, a thick Scottish moor enveloped the entire area. We walked back to our boat shrouded and perplexed by the mystery and past of its subterranean dwellers.

Masters of The Game

Author’s Note: My creative writing group has recently been doing exercises in point of view perspective writing. This is from the second person point of view, which has very limited applications and not often used. Still, couldn’t you see this being a real TV show?

Are you ready to hear the roar of the crowd and win a valuable record contract?

This new reality show puts you on the stage. As a future rock and roll star, you can sing or play your way straight to the top in a few short weeks.

“What do you have to do?” you ask.

For eight weeks, you will live in the same house with 14 other musicians all vying to be the last one standing on stage when the crowd applauds, creating a new band called the Masters of the Game.

Each week, you will learn a new piece of music at a jam session in the home studio. Watch for tempers to flare when you and your fellow musicians eye each other up to compete for the ultimate prize and the audience’s approval.

You need to impress viewers as they rank you 1,2,3 in your category of proficiency on guitar, drums, bass, keyboard and vocals, as well as looks and personality.

You say “It’s a popularity contest? Yes, you are right.”

Everything counts and the audience is the sole judge.

But watch your back as the other musicians can torpedo your performance in the 2nd weekly do or die challenge when your fellow players choose you to sing or play out of your chosen genre without any practice or music. Hear it once and you must perform.

It’s trial by fire in this premiere contest that will tax your every nerve and ability until

your elimination at a concert in front of 1000 people where they will cut off your sound and boo you off the stage.

We’re looking for a few good players. Are you up to the challenge to be a master?

Spring Fling

It’s Spring gala season, when a young woman’s fancy turns to love. Each season young women of the New York Society elite are debuted for young men to meet, court, and marry. Each ball had a mist of romance hanging in the air.

For the Viscountess Caroline, this ball season held the spark of an exciting mystery. One that could blossom into something or remain cocooned forever.

At the last gala, she found something completely unexpected. A very dashing young man gazed at her and filled her every sense with a rush of excitement. Like a first firework blast… pop…surprising and shockingly different and very nice.

Ever since she saw him, her thoughts were consumed with anticipation.

She fantasized if he would attend the next society ball and if he would look at her that same way again.

On the carriage ride over to the next ball at the Johnson home, her heart fluttered like butterflies, remembering his relentless gaze, his slight crooked smirk and his deep sapphire eyes that said everything without speaking a word. Would he or wouldn’t he?

But what if it was just a brief moment in time? She worried.

As the viscountess entered with her vacant husband, she walked through the reception line, trying not to allow her eyes to give her away, but secretly hoping once again, their gaze would lock.

As the music began, the Viscount held out his hand for their one obligatory dance, to keep up appearances. Gliding across the floor she scanned the room, her eyes darting back-and-forth as she was spun around, concealing her real purpose while intermittently smiling at her husband.

When the music stopped, they parted to opposite sides. In the corner, she fanned herself, holding her breath, begging for a glimpse of his wavy golden locks, milky skin and sparkling eyes. But she saw nothing.

At first disappointed, she then admonished herself being such a silly twit.

“I don’t even know what I would do with this. Nothing. It’s just a simple flirtation. Or maybe even that would be too dangerous. If my husband or the society women discovered the deception, my position, my marriage, my reputation, it would all go up in flames. But it was nice to feel that way again. Like I was back in Ireland, a silly innocent girl full of wonderment about what love and romance could be. That girl is gone now,” she lamented.

Stuck like mud in the reality of a scurrilous cheating husband who snuffed the spark from my eyes years ago, she wondered what it would be like to feel that way again.

Briefly lost in the moment, she glanced up and saw him staring at her from the other side of the room.

Surprised with delight, she let out a quick gasp and then swallowed it. Her heart skipped a beat, yet she could not give any indication of what she felt inside.

Any glint, any sparkle, any smile could give her away. Although she found his boyish good looks attractive and alluring, she knew she had to internalize any thoughts and emotions. If anyone knew, it would be saucey scuttlebutt for the flapping gossip gums of the elite.

Playfully, she averted her gaze and paused then looked at him again. Overjoyed at his perpetual glance, she locked her eyes on his.

She batted her eyes, teasing a bit, holding her fan just under her lashes, revealing one part of her face at a time.

He grinned widely showing his perfect smile and shot her a casual but naughty wink.

Caroline gripped her fan and struggled for breath. Giddy as a young girl, she had to close her lips to keep from giggling. He was flirting back with her!

Her mind soared with possibilities. What if they met? What if he kissed her? Could she bear a clandestine tryst? Could she successfully deceive her husband? Even though his betrayal was obvious, could she carry a secret? Could she live two lives?

But as he ruffled his hand through his long golden curls, she forgot everything else.

How could she give up this luxurious feeling?

Closing her eyes, she reveled in thoughts of him whisking her around the dance floor, his hand on her bare back. Feeling his breath near her face and experiencing every nerve in her body tingle all at once.

But when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

With slight panic and disappointment, she quickly glanced around the room trying to find him.

Then she turned around and exhaled a startled heave. There he was right in front of her.

He bowed his head and gently took her gloved hand.

“Ma lady.”

One Ides of March

Log date March 15 0700 hours.

My nerves are raw. My anxiety at peak. I did not enter any REM sleep last night. All I could do is glare at the ceiling for the clock to strike.

Waiting for the alien invasion we’ve expected for sometime is unnerving. We’ve prepared. We’ve trained. But I don’t know if we’ll ever be ready for this unknown.

Log entry 1100 hours

Still no sign of the alien. Staring out into space we’re all on edge, watching, anticipating. Any disbursement in the star field could mean at any moment, it will happen.

In the blink of an eye, life will change. Nothing will be the same ever again. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Just holding on.

Log entry 1500 hrs

You can cut the tension with a knife. No sign of the alien yet. At some point, I wonder if it’s trying to drive us insane biding its time. The watched pot that never boils, as an old saying goes. Or at least I think that’s how it goes. Maybe this is a part of their mental warfare – psyching us out. I’m trying to keep it calm and light, but our nerves are on the razor’s edge. I’m just hoping it will not impact our ability to perform when the time comes… whenever it comes.

Log entry 1900 hrs

Cesar was told to beware the Ides of March. Historically speaking, since he was stabbed and killed, it’s not the best historical day for a battle. But when in the realm of humankind do you ever choose if it’s a good day to die?

We are at a fever pitch. A half an hour ago, we had a near miss. A garbage scour dropped out of warp entering our space and was nearly obliterated by the itchy trigger finger of my gunner. Luckily, I saw it first and prevented disaster. I’m sure that poor sap didn’t think today he would be faced with the admiral’s fleet and a date with mortality.

Still I get the feeling they’re toying with us. To see how far humans can be pushed before they crack. In the case of that gunner, apparently not that far.

Log entry 2000

Damn the admiral’s regimented log requirements. I have nothing to report.

I feel like I’m standing at the precipice, ready to jump.

Gazing into the void, I picture myself floating on air, hopping from star to star. Anything would be more tranquil than holding breath for something to happen. I can’t eat. I can barely think. This is mind numbing. I wonder how long we can last.

Log entry 2400 hours

They nearly missed their day, but one minute ago they broke through. Finally the alien has arrived. I know I will feel different tomorrow, but I must concentrate on my task. It has begun. Help us one and all.

Log date March 16th 0400

It’s over. Or maybe it’s the beginning of a new life. Our former life is unrecognizable. We are entering a complete unknown. The alien is among us. They’ve taken over. Life as we knew it is gone. I get the feeling this new frontier will tax our patience and intelligence. It’s a new dawn.

Author’s Note: This was from a prompt to write something on the Ides of March in a style I don’t usually write in. This is a sci-fi attempt. But even sci-fi can be based on reality. So, this story is actually based on my experience on one Ides of March giving birth to my first child.

The First Ladies

Author note: The unnamed First Lady is completely fictional and does not portray any real person.

The last year has been a whirlwind. Roaming all over the country in a different town nearly every day meeting people, then the election. I wasn’t ready for this. I’m still not.

Now I’m sitting here in a a beautifully decorated empty void of an office in the dead of night with the haunting echo of a clock chiming my fate. Time’s up. My staff comes in for the first time in a few hours and I have no idea how to be a good First Lady. It’s such an important job. Everyone is counting on me.

I’m surrounded by the remnants of generations of First Ladies. Elenor Roosevelt’s solid oak writing desk. Just like her strong and wise.

Abigail Adams’ blue and gold damask sitting chair where she sat with her president husband to give him support and advice. Can I do the same? Is that what I’m supposed to do?

The cornflower blue taffeta curtains Jackie Kennedy installed on her famous White House renovation flank the darkness while I sip stale room temperature coffee from her chosen china pattern of simple classic gold lines. I wish I had her confidence.

I hand-picked all the treasures I inherited from these great ladies to fill my office with their essence and inspire me. But it’s not working.

I look down at the stack of papers left for me and throw them in the air.

What cause should I take up? There are so many wrongs that need righted. What wisdom and comfort can I give to the people?

“Who am I kidding? I’m just a simple magazine editor. What do I know about… anything?”

“You know more than you think.” A sweet whispy voice gently blows in on the wind.

“No I really don’t,” I immediately answer as if I’m talking to someone and then shake my head sane.

“How do you know? You haven’t tried!” a different deeper female voice fills the room.

Now I think I’m really going mad. I’m hearing multiple voices in my head. That’s truly a sign of stress. I’m overwhelmed. Maybe I need a smoke. But I quit for the election. And marijuana is still illegal. I think. I have to check today’s news.

“Above all else, don’t let them see you sweat…” another posh voice says clearly, like she was right in the room.

Now I know I’m crazy. Maybe temporary schizophrenia. I frantically search my purse for a rogue cigarette and a lighter. And when I look up, there they are as plain as day… my favorite First Ladies.

I close my eyes and quickly light the cigarette, taking a long drag. Then inhale a deep cleansing breath and open one eye.

“Dear, I assure you, there is no need for fright. We are simply here to aid,” Abigail poises on her chair with a kindly glance.

“You have an opportunity we never had. You need to pull yourself up by your bootstraps!” Elenor urges, her brow furrowed with determination as she pounds on her desk.

“All they would listen to me about is decorating and fashion. You can have a fresh new voice on any topic and be heard,” Jackie smartly explains as she takes the cigarette from my hand and puffs on it. “OOo. I forgot how good these were.”

But instead of being frightened, I’m suddenly calm, almost soothed by their generous counsel. I don’t know how they got here or if they’re just a machination of my nervous overwrought mind. Still, it’s comforting.

“Just like I told my John, follow your true path one step at a time,” Abigail’s gentile voice whispers, stitching an embroidery.

“But that’s it. I don’t know what my path is.” I state with a questioning quiver.

“Know your worth! And don’t let anyone get in your way. I didn’t. And women have come so far since then. It’s your duty,” Elenor champions stamping her foot on the floor.

Jackie hands the cigarette back to me and glides across the room.

“You don’t need to stay in the shadows behind your husband. You can stand strong in the light. Don’t you want make a real difference?” Jackie pointedly asks in her subtle sophisticated tone.

“Yes I do!” I enthusiastically answer.

I feel warm sunlight beaming a beacon light on the desk. It’s a new day offering new possibilities. I turn my head to the window and see the morning dew on the roses in the garden, a small but memorable legacy left by many First Ladies to endure for generations. It reminds me, even something small can evoke change.

But when I turn back to the room; they’re gone. Or maybe they were never there.

“I’ll do us all proud. I promise. There are a pile of ideas here and I’m going to champion at least one of them.” I shout into the vacant space.

Somehow I believe they hear me. And they’ll be there again, when I need them.

Tales from the Backseat: Viva Reno

Soon after our California departure, the view from the backseat was blank. Literally nothing to see.

But then some snow capped mountains appeared bigger and bigger in the windshield, despite the 70 degree temperature.

It was so out of place in the desert, it almost looked like a movie set, so my dad decided to stop and take a picture near a babbling brook with the mountains as background.

“Kids, put your feet in the water,” he directed and poised his German Brownie camera as though he were Cecil B Demille.

We removed our shoes and socks and innocently waded into the babbling brook, instantly receiving a great shock. It was cold. No it was freezing. Within seconds it felt like needles were stabbing at my feet.

My brother looked at me and I could tell he was feeling the same thing. Then my sister started to cry.

“It’s too cold. Everybody get out,” my mom grabbed my sister out of the water.

Thank God, saved by the baby.

My dad shook his head in defeat and walked back to the car.

“All right, then let’s move on.”

But soon the annoyed tension in the car lifted as the scope in the window changed to a series of fanciful signs dancing with neon lights.

No, it wasn’t a UFO. And not Las Vegas. It was the second city of lights in the middle of a desert…Reno, Nevada.

Reno at the time was a small town version of Las Vegas with many similar trappings.

We were mesmerized. Every square inch of the road was stuffed with blinking signs containing arrows and cryptic messages like:

Girls. Girls. Girls. Two for one. Best odds. Eat at Joes.

Recognizing the word eat, my sister pointed gleefully.

“I’m hungry.”

My dad smiled. “That’s a good idea. Let’s all go to a restaurant and eat lunch.”

He followed the glittering beacon and we walked into the seemingly normal diner, yet were instantly plunged into an alternate world.

There were flashing lights and sirens emitting from every direction with every available wall filled with the electric excitement of slot machines.

We were not in Kansas anymore or even the desert, but had arrived into a puzzling juxtaposition of fantasy versus reality.

We sat in a small booth, eyes widened in disbelief at the wonderment all around us. It reminded me of Disneyland’s carousel with all the melodious high-pitched earworm sounds of continuous songs emitting from the glitzy machines.

Even the food had sharp piffy names, such as Snake Eyes eggs and bacon, Double down grilled cheese sandwich and Blackjack hamburger with Monterey Jack cheese.

And when the waitress approached, you could hear audible gasps as my dad’s eyes popped out of his head.

Entranced, my father smiled from ear to ear when she asked for our order. But it was my brother who aptly spoke for us all.

“Wow!” He remarked.

Unlike most diner servers, she was dressed as a showgirl in a revealing costume. Tall and slender, her very pale skin accented the canary, bedazzled outfit and nude fishnet stockings.

As she stood close to the table right next to me, I curiously examined her costume with metal stays at the chest and waist that looked very uncomfortable, as well as very high heels and a heavy looking headdress. I couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to work in that get up all day.

The atmosphere in the entire place was intoxicating, drawing us all in until my sister uttered what we all were thinking.

“Can we play these games?”

This time it was my mom who relented, her face lit up with anticipation.

“Sure, I don’t see the harm. It’s just a nickel.”

She took my sister‘s hand and walked over to the machine next to our table with my brother and me and tow.

“Here’s a nickel for all of you. I’ll show you how it works.”

She put the nickel in the slot and pulled on the long silver handle with a ball on the end.

It was amazing. The machine lit up like a Christmas tree and chimed several bells and a little song as three different wheels flipped around so fast you couldn’t even see what happened until they stopped one at a time…one, a cherry, two, a cherry, and three, a black rectangle that said bar. Then a few coins dropped into the chrome bin below happily clinking as the landed.

We all gazed in awe. It was better than gumball machine.

Now it was our turn. My mother lifted my sister up first to put the coin in the slot and helped her pull the arm down.

Once again, the machine lit up and began its kaliedscope melody. But this time as we were watching the wheels spin round, two disgruntled men in black suits swooped in like the Secret Service protecting the president.

“Please step away from the machine,” the one man said in a strong surly voice while the other put his body between the machine and us, coaxing us away.

Alarmed my mom held my sister and led us away, while my Dad intervened.

“Look guys, what’s the big deal? It’s just a nickel?”

The lead man in the black suit glared at my father sternly.

“Sir, children are not allowed to gamble. It is a big deal. It’s against the law.”

By now a small crowd gathered and my dad tried to make a joke to ease the tension.

“It’s not like they’re gonna bankrupt the place or anything.” He chuckled, looking around at the curious faces.

Needless to say, the men were not amused. Then one of them grabbed my dad’s arm.

“Sir, you and your family have to leave immediately.”

I could tell by his angered face that my dad didn’t like being pushed around by these guys, but glancing in the cherub faces of his children, he decided to acquiesce.

“OK, everybody let’s go,” he said and we left the restaurant.

Without a word, we all got in the car. We didn’t really understand what had happened, but it was obvious my parents were upset. We drove a few minutes down the road until my sister broke the silence.

“I’m still hungry,” she whined in her little girl voice.

My dad nodded and pulled into the first diner available. This time we just ordered and ate, but to lift our spirits, my dad and mom allowed us to pick out trinkets from the gift shop attached to the restaurant.

My sister picked out a showgirl Barbie. My brother got a deck of cards. And I selected a book about Reno.

It was a short trip, but we learned something along the way. Casinos are serious places. And kids can’t gamble.

Unfortunately, my family did not learn their lessons as this incident was repeated in casinos for decades on cruise ships, the Bahamas, and in Las Vegas. I guess we can’t be taught.

A Whole New World

Caroline sat in front of her picture window with a steaming cup of coffee gazing out in the glowing amber ball of the morning sun rising as if it were ascending for the first time.

The last eight hours much like the prior two months and even past 30 years had been a nightmare.

Prisoned in an unhappy marriage, each day was filled with a gloom of unkindness at the least and a barrage of verbal torturous abuse at its peak, heightened with venom and belittling, which made every day seem like carrying 100 pounds of extra weight.

Stricken with fatal illness and frightened of its result, her husband took every opportunity to saturate the house with misery and darken her every moment with a pain to match his own.

Even in his final hours, she kneeled over him, trying to help comfort his last minutes. Collapsed and gasping for each breath, he grabbed her collar and with his last cruel word said.

“You did this.”

But the fault was not a her feet, but written is the cosmos along with every other being.

As the ambulance took him away, she closed the door and inhaled fully for the first time in years, trying to get her brain to compute what happened. But the only thing she could muster was a blank expressionless shell roaming about the house in search of answer.

Finally, as she stared silently at the same yellowed hues folding into a landscape of gradient burnt orange hues gently ebbing into the swaying trees in the pocket of the horizon, she inhaled the crisping air and took stock of her senses. She felt nothing. No sorrow. No regret. No apprehension. Absolutely Nothing.

The blackened clouds which overcast her existence had cleared. It was a whole New World for her to explore unencumbered and unchained without compromise.

“It’s going to be a new life. A better one. And it’s all mine.”

She pulled a blanket around her, smiled and drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow would be a new day.

Brace For Impact

In southwest Florida bridges are an unfortunate bain of existence. With a myriad of waterways monikered with a variety of names like bays, gulfs, oceans, channels, canals and lakes, the boats which traverse these often conflict with the roads, motorists and straight lines, thus resulting in what I like to call scary bridges. And in a recent incident, me, my mother, my car and a particularly scary bridge had a rubber meets the road incident.

Coming west on I4, I somehow missed the sign and directions from my phone GPS to turn south on I75, automatically directing us to the unfamiliar landscape of I275.

“Mom, this doesn’t look right. Did we miss 75?” I ask puzzled.

“I didn’t see anything,” she replied.

But the terrain was new and we were lost. Quickly remembering that a two in front of a three digit number was a highway bypass and noting the short descending mile markers, I decided to just ride it out and inevitably meet up with 75.

Heading south and with the ocean to my right, I was nervous, but somewhat confident with my navigational prowess… until we saw the scariest of all bridges in the windshield.

“Look, there’s a very high bridge,” my mother innocently remarked, not knowing that unlike most parts of my fearless existence, driving on bridges terrify me to my core.

“Mom, could we not talk about it? I don’t really like bridges,” I said.

I don’t know what it is about bridges that frightens me, but I always picture my car careening off the bridge plunging into the water below.

Ridiculous, yes. But for now, I told myself it was off in the distance and maybe it wasn’t on a collision course with us. But I feared it was.

As the bridge got larger and larger in our windshield, we passed a sign that said sky bridge toll $1.75. Even the name was horrifying.

I had the sudden urge to stop the car and throw it in reverse several miles to the last exit. But that wasn’t going to happen.

It was inevitable. There was no place to go. We had no choice. We were going over the sky bridge.

Brace for impact I told myself.

We passed thru the toll and facing me was a vertical incline reminiscent of a roller coaster. The difference is roller coasters are fun and controlled. This was not.

In a panicky sweat, I took a deep breath, trying to push my concern away by having a logical discussion with myself in my head.

Many people go over this. It can’t be that bad. You’re not going to plunge into the water.

Except the other side of me kept chanting, who cares. yes it is and yes, you will!! Panic! Panic! Panic!

As we continued to climb seemingly into the clouds, I held my breathe and could feel my heart beating out of my chest. I white-knuckled the steering wheel with both hands and tried to suppress my worst inclinations. But it wasn’t working. I was petrified.

I went into flight or fight mode. My logical self knew there was only one thing that could calm me down. My reliable security blanket since childhood… music.

“Mom, sing!!” I yelled.

Completely caught off guard, but realizing the urgency in my voice, she stuttered.

“What, what do I sing?”

With sheer terror bubbling inside of me, I yelled.

“Anything!!”

And she began to sing as I joined in… “this land is your land..”

I laser-focused my eyes ahead and kept singing. My breath steadied a bit, but as we reached the peak for the descent below, my calmer demeanor is blurried by the picture of the ground below and the thought of gravity taking my car like a matchbox car on plummeting a direct vertical impact like my brother and used to do.

“Keep singing,” I urged as I took another deep breath.

We kept singing all the way down until finally reached a level plane and a heaving sigh of relief.

“OK, that’s done,” I said.

Seeing the scary sky bridge in the rearview mirror, I made a mental note never to come on this bypass highway again no matter what. And as God is my witness,I won’t.

Different Eyes

Shopping at garage sales is my jam. I’m a handy crafter and relish making old things into new things. Somehow, I don’t see them as they are, but as what they can be.

Where someone would see an ugly old octagonal 70s end table with orange felt on the sides and a broken door, I see a little bed house for a small dog.

Today this estate sale I’m at is filled with many wonderful pieces of jewelry, furniture, art, and vintage clothes… someone’s entire lifetime of possessions.

I walk among the items determined to breathe the next chapter into something and make it reborn. But I can’t help but find it sad that no one in the family wanted this person‘s memories.

So when I find this 1930s secretary desk in a darkened room, my wheels started turning. It’s not as ornate as other secretaries I’ve seen, but furniture was made to last back then, so while plain and simple, it’s just waiting for a new useful life.

In my mind, I see a crafting table with hidden storage, something that looks nice in a room, but then when you’re ready to craft, you can open the doors, pull down the table and boom…instant crafting studio.
I can’t wait to get it into my garage workshop to make it new again.

Once home, I open all the drawers and doors and look at it carefully, creating a blueprint in my mind of its new image and how to get it there. With the new plan, I pull out all the drawers and take off all the doors. But then behind each of the drawers, I find some old folded, black-and-white pictures.

“Hmm, what are you guys doing in there still?” I say to myself. I do that a lot.

By the faded ink, thin paper and crinkled edged borders, I recognize them as old-time photos I had seen in scrapbooks.

I unfold and flatten them out and take a look. One is a group of smiling young women, sitting next to a soda fountain. From their hairstyles and dress, it appears to be from the 1940s.

“What a cute group. I bet they were having a good time when this was taken,” I notice.

Another is a picture of a man in a sailor suit with a precocious crooked grin, standing on the deck of a ship with his arm around a gun.

“I’m not sure I would smile with my hand around a gun, but he’s very nice looking. He has one of those superhero jaws.” I laugh.

The third one is a larger photo folded accordion style from being trapped behind the drawer. I carefully untwine it to reveal a picture of the handsome square-jawed sailor and a beautiful young woman.

“With these big smiles on their faces they look overjoyed, like happiness is bursting right out of them,” I admire.

Then I realize one of the girls at the lunch counter is the young woman with the cute guy in the photo. She has the biggest round, bright eyes-just like a doll.

I sit for a little while, with the three pictures in front of me, weaving a tale in my mind with more questions than answers.

“Maybe it was a whirlwind wartime romance. What if they locked eyes across a crowded room and instantly fell in love? What if they were star crossed lovers, never supposed to meet, but fate got in their way.”

I chuckle at my vivid imagination and put down the pictures.

“Or maybe I just need to lay off the Hallmark movies.”

I get to work on the secretary, but while sanding and installing new hinges and drawer slides, my brain concocted a whole movie playing in my head.

She worked at a jewelry store and he came to buy a locket for his sweet little old mother before he went off to war, so she’d remember him always. They gazed into each other’s eyes and were mesmerized, staring without stopping until the store closed. Then he proposed out of nowhere, and even though he she knew nothing about him, she said yes.

Before I know it, hours passed and I had done very little to this piece of furniture. All I can think about is these pictures and this couple.

I have an insatiable need to find out what happened to them. I can’t help look into their eyes wondering what their story was. Their faces were so happy.

All night my mind raced. I had to know something, anything about them. So the next day I drive back to the estate sale to see what I could find out.

I show the pictures to the manager and ask about the people.

“I know this is unusual, but I found these pictures in a piece of furniture I bought here yesterday. First, I want to return them, but second, I’m wondering if you know anything about these people.”

She shrugs her shoulders.

“The only information I have is their names, Kate and George Barry,” she explains.

Disappointed, I begin to walk away when she runs after me.

“Wait! If it helps, the Barry’s are in living in the St. Francis home fairly close to here. I bet they would love to get these pictures back. They don’t have any family and I’m sure they’d love the company.”

Walking to my car, I start to feel like a stalker.

“This obsession has gone too far. I need to get over this,” I tell myself.

But before I know it, my car is driving itself right over to the Saint Francis nursing home on the other side of town.

As I pull into the parking lot, I pause at my steering wheel.

“I think you’re crazy. What are you going to say to these people?”

But apparently, I don’t listen to myself because before I know it I’m at the nurse’s desk asking for them by name.

“I’m here to see Kate and George Barry, please?” I confidently declare.

And that was all it took. She points in the direction of a recreation room and I’m on my own.

Within a minute, I’m staring into the faces of many old people looking into their eyes, trying to see a glimpse of the young people still alive inside of them.

“Which ones are they?” I ask myself.

And then I see a gentleman with a square jaw, a little saggy, but still looking like a superhero drawn in a comic book.

I approach the man.

“George Barry?”

“Yes.”

When he looks up at me, smiling, there is no doubt in my mind. It is George. I’d know that grin and chin anywhere.

“You don’t know me, but I just bought a secretary at your estate sale and found these pictures. I thought you’d like to have them back.”

I hand him the pictures and he lets out a big belly laugh.

“Katie come here and look at these pictures.”

An old woman in a wheelchair turns around, and I can see that same young girl in the photos with the beautiful Cupie doll eyes. It’s her.

He hands her the pictures and she laughs too.

“Can you ever believe that we were that young?”

A sudden wave of curiosity took hold of me and I couldn’t help myself.

“I’ve been wondering about these pictures for the last day and a half. Please satisfy my curiosity. Did you have a wartime romance? Was it wonderful?”

The duo glance at each other and laugh heartily.

“My dear, I’m so sorry. But neither of us ever married. We’re brother and sister,” George replies.

With that one sentence, I feel like melting into a pool on the floor and seep into the pavement. But after the initial shock, I realize I still want to hear their story. The fact that they weren’t married, probably makes it even more interesting.

“If you’re willing, I’d love to hear about what went on in these pictures,” I ask.

They smile at each other, offer me a seat and sweetly spin the tale of their close lifelong sibling relationship. An hour later I’m back in my car satisfied and grateful for what I learned.

“Sometimes you have to look at people and things in a different way to understand their journey. Everything old is new again.”