SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

Family Gobble

Thanksgiving is a holiday I dread. It just seems to be a hotbed of dysfunction and a recipe for disaster. Like Uncle Burt asking people to pull his finger in between inappropriate off color and mostly unfunny jokes. As a kid, I giggled and reveled in the somewhat forbidden nature. But now it’s just a dated and pitiful cry for attention.

And then there’s the trio of aunts who relentlessly interrogate about my love life with the precision of stalag guards.

“Are you seeing anyone? When are you getting married? Don’t you want to have children?”

Even if I wanted to answer, I can’t even take a breath to interject between their rapidfire, Tommy-gun succession of questions.

And finally my annoying brother and sister-in-law who parade their Von Trapp family brood around extolling their many accomplishments lauded in my face like a billboard.

That’s why I haven’t been home for Thanksgiving in three years. But after my grandma and grandpa passed this year only months apart, we all agreed to gather together in their memory. At least, that’s the way my mother put it when she phoned me. It was mandatory attendance. Practically a required command performance.

Going through the front door, I hold my breath, knowing everybody would already be there. I hear rumblings in the living room, so I head through the dining room to the kitchen.

I can smell the wafting aroma of turkey and fixins immediately fill the room. That was the best thing about Thanksgiving.

Mom decked out the dining room in the finest linens, china and crystal glasses that she received as a wedding presents and the sterling silver she inherited from her grandmother.

But something is different. Placed on each plate is a paper scroll wrapped in a gold ribbon. I’m curious, but the sweet sense of the upcoming meal draws me into the kitchen like bait with a hook.

There is mom seemingly stirring two pots at the same time, surrounded by bowls, plates, pots and pans, concocting her annual delicacy. She is in her element. She loved cooking and welcomed every opportunity to cook for her family.

I sneak up behind her, trying to grab a taste and laughs as she smacks my hand away.

“Not ready for eating yet,” she laughs and hugs me.

“Say, what’s the deal with the papers on the plates in the dining room?” I ask curiously.

“That’s for me to know and you find out. Just like this turkey, everything in its own time.” She shoots me a cheeky smile.

Then I see my trio aunts rolling in like the opening witch cauldron scene in Macbeth and grab a glass of wine and quickly make my escape through the other door.

As I carefully venture toward the living room, I can hear my uncle’s bawdy laugh all the way from the dining room and stop in my tracks. I can’t do it. Not yet.

So I sit at the dining table alone and sip my wine, remembering the good and bad moments echoed at this table. Then I stare at the scrolls, trying to unlock their secret through osmosis. Maybe it was a belated inheritance or the treasure map to a scavenger hunt?

Finally, everyone came in and sat down in front of the feast my mother and aunts prepared. Thank goodness they made my brother’s kids sit in the kitchen. It’s quieter.

As soon as everyone settles down, my mother stands at the head of the table.

“Now I know you’re all curious about the scrolls at the table. As you all know, we lost both grandma and grandpa this year. It was a horrible blow and started me thinking about Thanksgiving. Sometimes we give thanks, but mostly we talk about nothing important. Thanksgiving is after all about family, so this year I’m instituting a new tradition. It’s called The Family Gobble. As we gobble up this food, we’re going to gobble up information about our late grandma and grandpa to keep their memory alive at this table. Everybody open their scroll. I’ll start and then we’ll go around the table and read from each scroll. Mine says… Did you know grandpa was a radio operator on an aircraft carrier in WWII?”

Then she nodded to the person to her left and they read their paper.

“Did you that grandma trained as a ballet dancer?”

Then the next person read aloud.

“Grandma and grandpa were married on a canoe in Hawaii.”

And the next one.

“Grandpa played jazz trumpet”

On and on are salient pieces of information about my grandparents. Some I heard, some a surprise, but all were as interesting as listening to someone depicted on the Biography channel.

When they are all done, my mother nods and sits down.

“Everybody dig in and we’ll discuss each one of these and everyone will tell information about what they know, so we can piece together information and share with everyone. It will be like they are here with us.”

For the next two hours, no one discusses politics, religion or what movie they recently saw. And no one interrogates me about my life. It’s all about grandma and grandpa. My aunts, uncle and mother chime in interesting stories and throw in tidbits of information here and there. Some I heard before, but much of it is new information about the interesting lives my grandparents led, before I knew them. I’m intrigued, but mostly amazed that very often, my mother and her siblings didn’t agree about facts and events, making me wonder if their memory was going or if they’re just bad at remembering things. They say if you get 10 witnesses in the same place, they’ll all give you a different story about what they saw. Maybe that’s true with family memories too.

But the meal was pleasant. The food was plentiful and the conversation warm and inviting. I think this family gobble is a great idea. I hope my mother institutes it next year. Maybe I’ll come back after all.

A Christmas Quest for Power

Parents want to give everything to their kids and deny them nothing. Before I had children, though, I remember watching with confusion and slight disdain the news coverage of otherwise normal parents turning into mob rioters just to score a Cabbage Patch Kid for their children’s Christmas present. I couldn’t believe people could put such importance on an individual gift.

Fast-forward into the early 90s and I am a young mother with two small boys who were captivated by the Power Rangers. They faithfully watched every episode and constantly acted out their karate movements… against each other. I even enrolled them in karate classes so that they could safely learn these things without hurting each other. Needless to say karate wasn’t what they were interested in. It was being a Power Ranger.

They even wore the Power Ranger costumes and clothes daily.

Then came the first Christmas after the show’s airing and the continual nonstop advertisement of action figures.

If my children were any indication of their popularity, I knew this was going to turn into another Cabbage Patch Kids incident.

Trying to get ahead of the curve, I frequented every store around my house that sold toys every day since I first saw the commercial. For a few weeks, all they had was the yellow and pink rangers, the girls. Much to my feminist chagrin, my boys were uninterested in the Power Rangers as a group of boys and girls. They only wanted the rangers they liked, the green and red ranger dolls.

One day I picked up a blue ranger and another day a black ranger doll, but as any parent knows, I needed two of everything.

Day after day, I went back to multiple stores to talk to their workers and managers to see when they expected shipments of the action figures. As unhelpful as they were, they couldn’t commit to any particular dates or what toys would come in. Their stock answer was always “check back tomorrow.”

Eventually, I was able to get another black ranger and blue ranger, however, the green and red were eluding me.

Christmas was getting closer, so I expanded my daily visits to new stores and enlisted my husband to widen our circle. As a working parents, this was no easy task, so we worked in tandem, leaving excuses for why we had to run an errand, while the other watched the kids watched the kids. This was a solo mission.

Finally, one day while digging through the unorganized bin of action figures, I dug down beneath the piles of yellow and pink rangers and yanked up a red ranger doll. Then out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the only green ranger and quickly snatched it.

Elated, I couldn’t believe my luck after all the time spent looking. I found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Smiling ear to ear as I checked out, I was relieved and patted myself on the back that my perseverance paid off

But as I took my bag out to the car, my glee was followed by disastrous deflation when I remembered that I only had one of each.

Driving home, I kept logically rationalizing that I could give one to each boy, but which one would get which? They like the green and red rangers equally. And I did have two other rangers for each of them. But by the time I got home, I knew it wouldn’t be enough.

With only a week left until Christmas, I would have to press on. I found two, so I thought there must be two out there somewhere.

Getting our single siblings and parents into the act too, we expanded our search parameters. I felt like a general issuing orders for a reconnaissance raid on enemy territory.

It was hard to make them understand the importance of this. I didn’t even know if I understood it myself. I just knew I had to turn over every stone to find these action figures. And time was running out.

The day before Christmas Eve, one manager told me they thought they were going to get one last shipment in early the next morning. So I woke up at the crack of dawn to go to this store, leaving the kids with my husband.

Dreading mission failure I drove there with anxious hesitation. If I failed I would have to make a Solomon-like decision. I could picture each of them opening up the gifts, disappointed that one got the green and one got the red. No matter what else they received, in their young minds it would be tragic and could cause fighting.

I sped along the wintry roads, hoping and wishing what I sought would be there, but concocting multiple scenarios, not knowing what I would encounter. If I found one of either the green or the red, I decided I would give the same thing to the boys and keep the other one for maybe a birthday gift in the future.

For a moment, I wondered if they could share the two dolls, but immediately dismissed that idea. Kids are not good at sharing anything.

But ultimately, I desperately wanted to give them what they wanted.

Walking into the store early, I held my breath as I approached the action figure bin. There they were, gleaming brand new packages of red ranger dolls. I ran up to the bin and grabbed one satisfied that I had achieved one goal. I could give both boys red, blue and black and that would be fine. But then I saw someone next to me with a green ranger doll in their hand.

Energized, I feverishly dug through the bin looking for another green ranger doll. But I came up empty.

As if stepping outside myself, I couldn’t believe my envy at this innocent parent, who was probably doing the same thing I was doing for the last few weeks.

For a split second, I actually thought about asking the woman if I could buy it from her. But then realizing how ridiculous I was acting, I stopped myself cold, staring at the red ranger doll for a minute.

Suddenly disappointment washed away and reality dripped over me as if I was waking up from some stupid dream.

I realized my kids would have to learn that you can’t get everything you want.

On Christmas morning, they opened their gifts and both were thrilled with the three action figures they each received, ripping them out of the plastic packaging and immediately playing with them and each other.

They were happy with what they had. Neither of them asked why they didn’t have a green ranger. Turns out, maybe I related some of those ideals in their young lives already. Mission accomplished.

Ghost Light

Stepping onto the darken stage, I feel the wood boards under my feet. The seeping glow of the single bulb ghost light provides very little light, but somehow I see everything clearly.

There’s the full audience enthralled with every note and spoken word. Over there are the actors dancing on the stage in perfect rhythm in front of the glorious scenes. The stage is set. I finally made it to Broadway. But still, somehow I feel unworthy.

“Can I make it here?” I hear the echo of my words ring out in the empty chasm.

“Yes,” a faint whisper flew through the air.

I look around, but couldn’t see anyone there and chalk it up to my vivid imagination.

“I guess the ghost light may be doing more than keeping me from falling off the stage.” I chuckle.

With make up case in hand, I march to my assigned dressing room. It’s amazing. There are notices and playbills from productions that came before, signed by the many who just played in the background.

Staring at each poster, I could feel the excitement and nervous energy they left behind in the room.

I place my case down on the counter and sit in front of the big mirror framed in bright bulbed lights.

“This is it. It starts tonight.” I tell my reflection.

Suddenly I hear a giggle wisp behind me. But when I turn around, there’s nothing there.

Shaking it off, I unpack my makeup, put up my hair and begin to create the face of an old women in the mirror, transforming myself before my own eyes.

Adding the last final touch, the gray wig, the deed is done.

Admiring my handiwork, a shadow in the corner of the mirror startles me. But I blink and then it’s gone.

So when the door creaks open, I jump high out my seat.

“Don’t be alarmed, ma’am, it’s just me, Barb, your dressing roommate,” a tall slender woman with dark hair utters.

Embarrassed, I chuckle to release the tension.

“I’m not a ma’am. This is just a wig and make up. My name is Sarah. I’ll be playing the old woman.” I extend my hand to shake hers.

Barb laughs and places her make up case down and sits in the chair next to me.

“This is my first Broadway show,” I confess.

Barb barely looks at me while busily making up her own face.

“I stopped counting how many this is for me. But I never have any lines. I’m always in the background, like wallpaper. At least I’m on Broadway,” she shrugs.

Studying her for a moment, I try to decide if I can confide in her. Then I quickly sum her up to be a good egg. I have no evidence to prove that. It’s just a feeling.

“Can I tell you something weird?” I ask.

“Why not. I got a few minutes,” she says while continuing to apply her make up.

Not sure if I should say anything, I hesitate. But then summon my courage and blurt it out.

“Is this theater haunted? I know it’s silly, but I keep feeling like something’s following me.”

Barbara lets out a laugh, almost mocking me.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s Grace. She’s a good one, like our mascot,” She says and points to the poster on the wall.

Confused I go over to the wall and read the posters, but can’t figure out what she’s talking about.

Obviously picking up on my confusion, Barb laughs again.

“Don’t you know all theatres are haunted?The ghost light shines their way back to us. Grace was a young dancer in a musical 100 years or something ago, who turned her ankle and fell off the stage, breaking her neck. Ever since then, she hangs out in the theatre looking after us like a guardian angel.”

Somewhat relieved that I wasn’t going crazy or letting my nerves get to me, I gaze at the poster of a showgirl kickline, wondering which one she was.

“Thanks. If I’m going to get through this, I’m going to need a little grace. Please stick around.” I whisper into the void.

Then I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and smile.

Now I know everything’s going to be OK. I have someone who’ll watch over me.

If you want to know more about the history of ghostlights in theatre, click here If you want to know the history of ghost lights in the theater, click here https://www.onstageblog.com/editorials/2020/3/25/the-history-of-the-ghost-light

Fun, Fame and Family Secrets – Episode 2 Tales from the Backseat

Traveling in 1970 something was quite different than in 2020 something.

Without the all-powerful and knowing internet, planning a trip meant visiting the library to look up travel books or arranging everything through an expensive travel agent. Hours in a library for a busy mother of three was not an option and travel agents were not really for family road trips.

But brochures and travel guides were free from many states and localities.

So, my mother wrote “snail mail” letters to the areas we would visit to get books and brochures for local attractions. She kept them in a tote bag in the back of the car and took out what was needed for each state. With all the motel and restaurant books at her passenger side feet, she could only handle one state at a time.

With two almost teenagers and a little girl several years younger, she tried to plan one activity each day or at least every other day to minimize the mundane and torturous time locked in the metal tube on four wheels. So, programmed each day’s events, while trying to navigate the road for my dad, to ensure he turned the right way at the right time to stay on our route.

Without the auto navigation tools we rely on today, she read maps and plotted the course with remarkable precision. Her bible was a giant USA road atlas bound in an imitation leather snapping case we got courtesy of Triple A. We weren’t members, but somehow my dad finagled a free copy. He was a consummate salesman and had a knack for talking people into giving him free things.

Following the maps, we were on our way from southern Illinois to Missouri to the Silver Dollar City theme park on Interstate 55, otherwise known as the famous Rt. 66.

I didn’t know the significance of the road’s famous moniker and understood it even less when my dad tried to explain this 1950’s TV show where cool guys roamed the country on Rt. 66. Much to our dismay and ringing ears, he attempted to sing their theme song about getting their kicks on Route 66. Unfortunately, he couldn’t sing or remember a lot of the words to the song, so it all fell flat to kids who didn’t care about some old TV show.

A few short hours later, as we neared the amusement park, billboards and signs began to lead an exciting path down the yellow brick road. Each rolling advertisement showed good ole’ down home family fun and my dad did his best job to whip us up into a frenzy of anticipation.

“Look kids, only 50 miles until we get there,” he said, counting down the miles with each marker like a rocket mission into space.

With three whole amusement parks under my belt, I thought I was an expert. Years ago, we traveled to the Magic Kingdom of Disney World in Florida. The rides there were mostly travel through rides, depicting the storybook characters from their movies.

The other two were local permanent amusement parks in our area that had typical carnival rides for kids, along with a Christmas theme. They consisted of carousel rides which spun around at slow pace on horses, cars, boats or motorcycles while nearby parents waved and took pictures. Pretty tame for budding teenagers.

Sometimes we saw bigger and more thrilling rides at local summer festivals, but my father never let us go. Calling them transient carnivals, he believed they hired local drunk indigents on a daily or hourly basis to erect the rides with very little supervision or safety in mind. It may have reflected a bad experience he had in his youth, he didn’t say, but true or not, it was a concrete rule.

On the way, my father would hype us further with tales of my parents’ favorite date night amusement park. He loved to tell stories and did a decent job of captivating an audience, even though we suspected some of the tales were a little tall in nature. Luckily, my mom would chime in to correct the story, if it went too far into fiction.

The park, called Riverview, was located on the outskirts of Chicago. Constructed to vie Coney Island in New York, it maintained the rivalry of the first and second largest cities of the United States to stay in competition for everything.

“Riverview had roller coasters that carried you up and down at breakneck pace climbing to high hills and plunging to low valleys,” he explained.

My dad always used his hands when he told stories, illustrating the ebb and flow of the ride. He laughed and hollered to describe the excitement and thrill of each high and low, putting us right in the roller coaster car each step of the way.

When he told the stories, he’d peek back to see our fascinated smiling faces. But as he was driving, my displeased mother would purse her lips and watch the road carefully, ready to interject or intervene to keep us from colliding with other cars or tumbling off the road.

My mother’s favorite ride, as my father told, was the Rotor. He described in detail the cylinder which moved at a high pace using centrifugal force to paste you to the walls without any safety mechanisms.

“From the drop of your stomach as the floor removed, you felt perilously helpless at the possibility of falling to your death as you slid slightly a few inches at a time, laughing and screaming for the few minutes until the rides eventual end,” he told us.

“I loved to watch the faces of the stupid people who just ate lunch and went on the ride. Their faces would turn green and red and their cheeks would puff out. And unfortunately some couldn’t hold it in,” he laughed and called out only five miles until our arrival.

By this time, we were all on the edge of our seats thrilled at the possibility of real amusement rides.

We parked our car and my mom prepared the necessary clean wipes, toilet covers and anything else she may need in her Mary Poppins carpet bag of a purse.

Walking through the arched opening gate to Silver Dollar City with bated breath, we strolled down the narrow paths, finding less of an amusement park and more of a time loop where southern drawl speaking people wearing wide brim straw hats, overalls and bandannas showed city dwellers how country folks live.

There were butter churners, loom weavers and blacksmiths, among others, all displaying how things were done in the good old days. Pretty boring for a bunch of kids who wanted to careen down a rail on a wooden track. They did have some tame kiddy rides and carnival games, so we made the best of it.

And we rode a pretty cool iron black train replica around the park. And at an old general store, we each picked out a whole bag of penny candy. My brother, who was a notorious sugar fiend, filled his up with pixy sticks, rock candy and root beer barrel candies.

To satisfy my particular sweet tooth, I stocked up on licorice ropes, taffy, caramel and some butterscotch. Under my mother’s supervision, my sister took a bunch of lollipops and chocolate. It’s funny how different tastes can be within the same family.

At the photography studio, we took an old-fashioned photograph where you can dress up like cowboys, Indians and saloon girls. When we were done, a man from the park asked us if we would appear in a commercial they were filming. They needed some all-American kids to skip through the park, looking like they were having the time of their lives.

Although I thought it was a little dumb at the time, the man sold the idea of being on TV and after my shark dad negotiated some swag compensation, we agreed.

So, we spent an hour or so skipping down several areas in the park laughing and holding hands.

Despite my indifference, we were paid in gift certificates for free stuff at the general store, which we redeemed for t shirts, hats, trinkets and more candy. Not a complete loss.

The commercials were local, so we never saw them, but a relative in the area later said they did, so we had our fifteen minutes of almost, but not real fame. At least we were paid, sort of.

With our first tourist attraction ticked off the list, we were off to a motel for the night and more adventures in the “show me” state.

Part of traveling is living and breathing history. Instead of reading something in a textbook, you can see where it happened and feel a little bit of what people experienced. It brings it all to life.

My dad loved history and delighted in telling his children everything he knew, like an extreme field trip for Social Studies class. Unfortunately, the Venn diagram of what parents and children both appreciate is a narrow intersection. But as this was not only a quest for family fun, my parents thought it had to be educational too, so we saw history.

After a bright and early start the first order of business was breakfast. Because of the edict of eating exclusively at the few chain restaurants available at the time, my mom opened all her books to find a someplace acceptable on our path. She found it – Howard Johnson’s. For those who never ate at a Ho Jo’s, as it was nicknamed, was a nice reasonably-priced eat in chain restaurant that served every day family meals.

My dad wanted to eat in sit down restaurants. He deplored fast food outlets and scoffed at them as garbage. Despite the fare, there was something about sitting down and eating that he enjoyed. But he also didn’t like to waste money, so when I asked if they had cereal instead of a hot meal, my dad immediately put the kibosh on that.

“This is a nice restaurant where you’ll order a regular meal. I’m not paying for an overpriced cereal box,” he said succinctly.

To me cereal was breakfast, just like at home, but my mother suggested I order pancakes and I did what I was told.

With full bellies, we were on our way to Meramec Caverns, five miles of caves that were formed from limestone deposits over millions of years.

On the short trip my father tried to explain to us how the caverns came to be. Something about water dripping and carving out these caves and how they only existed in this area. I was only half listening as I was reading about Laura Ingalls Wilder and her family’s adventures and hardships as pioneers. At the time, I thought her adventures were much more interesting.

As we entered the caverns, being underground with no sunlight was eerie and a little scary. The guide told us the scientific components of the caves, such as the stalactites that hang down and the stalagmites which poke up. To me, it all looked very neanderthal and I thought maybe that’s why they called them cavemen.

My mother made sure to keep track of all of us, as she was concerned about three kids walking around on slippery rocks. She kept control of my sister and had my dad hold hands with my brother and I.

The guide continued with a fanciful but true tale of how the famous western Younger Gang outlaws, which included brothers Frank and Jesse James would hide in these caves to avoid capture.

The thought of somebody staying in this place full time amazed me. With no light, hiding in a wet damp, dank and dark cave for long periods seemed impossible. But then again, if you were trying to stay out of jail, it seemed like a good place to hide. I That story brought the caves out of the science experiment and into real history for me.

We luckily escaped the tour without injury, but as we settled into the car, my mother lays the bombshell that Jesse James may have been our relative. That suddenly got my complete attention.

“My mother once told me a story that when her great-grandfather James emigrated from Wales in the 1800’s, they asked him if he had any relatives in the United States. He told the Ellis Island attendant that he had a distant cousin who lived in Missouri named Frank James, but had never met him. But as they were notorious and wanted outlaws, they detained him thinking that he knew the whereabouts of the famous James Gang. He didn’t. He was literally fresh off the boat and didn’t know anything about his infamous relatives,” she said.

We all smiled and listened with great interest. Although we didn’t know if it was true, we tucked that little family nugget in our memories. Somehow it made Meramec Caverns and the Younger Gang a little more personal and memorable. We had a connection with history.

As the caverns receded in our rearview mirror, we left Missouri for parts west. Our next stop was a ride through the sooner state to our next location, Dallas Texas.

The Gamble

It was as if they were statues all standing still… no one talking or laughing, just holding up their cards and sizing each other up.

It was the tensest poker game of her life. Inside she was sweating bullets. For most of the game, luck was not her lady and the cards favored others.

Staring at her minimal pot, she knew this would be her last hand and the only chance to recoup losses.

Tense all over, she took one card at a time, holding her breath with each deal.

She glanced at the others looking for some semblance of inflection in their voice or facial expression, even a twitch to indicate their hand. But these were seasoned professionals and they never made mistakes.

The first card she received was a two of clubs, then a three of clubs. Her hopes began to sink.

She turned over the next card, a six of clubs and felt her heart beat a little faster, but she dare not even breathe heavier or her opponents would surely pick up the tell.

Focusing on their stolid masks, she Internally panicked. Is it possible? Could she be dealt into a straight flush?

Just then she heard thunder bound outside their little room. She nearly jumped out of her seat, but recognized anything could tip off these hardened card sharks. No one else flinched. So, she swallowed her nerves and played on.
Next…
the two of diamonds. Cassie felt a pit in her stomach.

At least I have a pair, she thought. But knew she was just compensating.

Louder and louder, the thunder and lightning
boomed outside like a war zone, echoing the tension inside. It was a battle,
one she feared she would lose.

The last card was dealt. For a moment, she just
stared at it, dreading what it is, but excited at what it may be.

She reached out and turned it over. It was an
ace of spades.

Somewhat defeated, she cheered herself up; she
could still draw. But what to do?

Did she dare go for the golden straight flush or
get rid of the maximum three cards in an attempt for another two to give her
three of a kind. It was like picking the lady or the tiger. Which door would be
the right choice?

She momentarily held her breath and closed her eyes. She would go for it.

But while contemplating her fate, she didn’t
realize all the players were gazing directly at her.

“Cards?” The dealer snapped in annoyance,
glaring at her.

“Two,” she said with as much confidence as she
could muster.

But the minute she placed her two of diamonds
and ace of spades on the table, she had second thoughts.

Too late to look back. She was going for the straight…
all in.

Slowly, she turned over the first part and
placed it in her hand. It was the five of clubs. Giddy, she sat up in her
chair. Dare she believe she could pull off this coup? She understood the odds,
but enthusiasm got the best of her. She’s gazed at the next card, chanting to
herself, willing it to be the four of clubs.

She turned up the corner and saw a black three.
Excited, she wanted to shout it from the rooftops, but must keep her concrete
façade.

Swiftly flipping the four over and placing it in
her hand, as if on cue she heard another clap of thunder with a chaser of
lightning.

And then she noticed… it was the four of spades.
Her stomach dropped like an elevator perilously plummeting to the ground. But
then she remembered it’s still a straight. That’s a decent hand.

And now the games began.

The first player bet a typical opener. But then a raise and another and another. Everyone obviously had a good hand or an equally potential bluff.

Cassie looked at the pittance in front of her doing the sum in her head. It would take everything she had to stay in. It was an all or nothing proposition.

Suddenly, she remembered the song by Kenny Rogers, The Gambler. He sang you got to no one to hold them, when to fold them, when to walk away or when to run.

She called and pushed everything she had in the pot. It was time to take a stand.

One by one the other players put their cards down. Three of a kind, no challenge. She began to hope.

Pair of kings. It was happening.

Nothing, a bluff.

She stared at the pot in elation. Could it be hers?

Just one more and it was all over. In that moment she believed she could win it all.

She put her cards down grinning.

“Straight,” she boasted, daring the last player. It was a standoff.

The last player smiled with a Cheshire grin.

“Four of a kind, Ace high,” the player said and Cassie felt herself slunk in her chair.

Rain began to pour outside mirroring her sorrow. It was over.

As she left the room in devastating defeat, she grabbed her umbrella and walked outside.

Grimacing at her loss, she chastised herself with each soggy step.

Then she looked up and saw a rainbow in the midst of the rain.

“I guess a $20 loss was worth a couple hours entertainment. But just in case, I may stay away from the card room at the senior center from now on.”

I Left A Lot in San Francisco: Tales from the Backseat Episode 7

xr:d:DAFMCWykCMw:4,j:35139615596,t:22091217

The difference between being a preteen and a child on a family vacation is like the comparing Mount Everest to the dirt hill kids jump their bikes over. It’s a continental divide.

During my preteen years, I wanted to be cool and strived to seem grown-up. And I definitely did not want to act like a little kid. Unfortunately, touring around any city like the Von Traps with parents and little siblings in tow is the antithesis of all I held dear.

On our month-long family trek across the country, embarrassment was as common as fast food and motels, making me want to distance myself to closely remain outside their bubble and keep my percieved coolness intact. But my family had their own agenda.

My mom always wanted to keep us together and make sure everyone wiped their hands before and after they touched anything and ate. My dad often made inappropriate and all the time goofy jokes, while my brother tried to remain invisible and my little sister enthusiastically garnered attention.

But our trip to San Francisco showed me a humility that I would never forget, no matter how hard I tried.

As usual, plans for the day included tourist traps on our never ending quest to find any and every offbeat, strange and odd site that no one has ever seen.

Case in point, a little known and nearly forgotten historical remnant called Fort Point, lying in the darkness beneath the Golden Gate bridge.

And no one did know about it, as evidenced by the lack of any tourists.

The National Park Service man, dressed in Civil War Union garb seemed elated to see us, making me wonder if we were the only ones he had seen that day, that week, or maybe even that month.

He gave us a brief tour of the very small encampment and described its intended but never consummated use to guard the west coast. Then we all received a little certificate of our visit. As usual, bored and mortified, I watched the rest of my family seemingly enjoy what I considered torture.

Not to be undone, we then visited the mysterious Winchester House. I didn’t know much about it, but standing in the gift shop listening to teasers of its eclectic owner Sarah Winchester and the tales of her curious house, I was intrigued. An avid, Nancy Drew reader, I was ready for something interesting to see and hear.

But, while popular, the Winchester house was what my father considered a tourist ripoff, that charged exorbitant fees for a tour. A sentiment he loudly expressed in the gift shop.

“Can you believe what they’re charging. Do they want us to pay for a new addition to this place?”

Instead, we bought slides of the home and a book chronicling the mystery. Once again, I was annoyed that the one thing that interested me blew out in a puff of smoke.

My mother sympathized and to placate my angst decided to buy us our favorite candy at a nearby store. Both notorious chocolate lovers, my parents rarely passed up a candy store. Unlike the rest of my family, chocolate was not my delicacy. Strawberry Twizzlers were my confection of choice.

So as my father hilariously negotiated the treacherous ups and downs of the streets of San Francisco like a Hollywood stunt driver, I snuffed out my annoyance by rolling my eyes and chewing on licorice ropes.

Finally, we arrived at Fisherman’s Wharf and its iconic ship’s wheel sign. My dad was charged in anticipation. It culminated many of his favorite things, boats, the open water and eating fish.

All day he gushed about walking around the marina, seeing the boats and picking out his own fish to eat at the restaurant.

Unfortunately, no one else shared his affinity for boats or fish. But as veterans of many boat shows, we knew we just had to find a perch or bench nearby and let him enjoy it. My brother always dutifully accompanied my father without complaint. The reward and burden of the only boy.

But as both my mother and I have bloodhound noses and are extremely sensitive to smells, very soon the pungent odors of the raw fish buffet on ice began to take effect. But oddly, it was my little sister who chimed in first.

“Mommy, this place is stinky,” she whined.

Covering her mouth and nose with a scarf from her purse, my mother nodded in agreement and gave my sister, some crayons and a coloring book to distract her.

However, despite holding my nose and trying to read from the Winchester book, I was lightheaded and my stomach felt queasy.

“Mom, I don’t feel good,” I said.

In a typical mother move, she placed her hands on my forehead.

“You’re not hot. I’m sure it’s just the fishy smell. I know, it’s disgusting. Hopefully your father will be back soon and we will go into the restaurant. It shouldn’t smell bad in there.”

I learned a long time before that, waiting for my dad was an inevitable pastime.

Yet try as I might to occupy my brain with the strange history of the Winchester Mansion, my stomach had different ideas. The combination of nearly an entire bag of licorice and the affrunting fish aroma was too much. I began to swoon and sweat.

“I think it’s getting worse.” I told my mother.

“You do look pale. Let’s find your father and get out of here,” my mother said and grabbed my sister’s hand as we scurried down the pier and quickly met my father and brother coming toward the restaurant.

“Susie doesn’t feel well. I think we need to skip the restaurant and get back to the hotel,” she told him.

I saw my father’s joyous demeanor instantly deflate. He’d been salivating over this fish all day only to be denied, but he didn’t even argue. He couldn’t miss my pale and perspiring face.

“OK. But we need to take the trolley car to the hotel as we parked the car in an overnight parking area. I’ll get you guys settled and go back for the luggage.”

He kindly put his arm around me to prop me up as we walked past the ships wheel and left Fisherman‘s Wharf.

The further we got from the smelly fish, I began to feel slightly better. And sitting at the window seat of the open trolley with the wind in my face, at first I was relieved, but it’s jolting movements made my stomach turn somersaults and it wasn’t long before I literally left my mark on the streets of San Francisco.

No matter what my family did to embarrass me on this trip, it never reached the heights of my own gastrointestinal acrobatics. I was thoroughly embarrassed, but this time, at my own hand.

Remarkably, my family didn’t say anything. They didn’t tease or cast any aspersions my way. We just moved on with the trip as though it didn’t happen. A hard but good lesson for an anxious teen. Families can be goofy, but they can also have your back in time of need.

Never Have I Ever

It was a cool and somewhat snowy Chicago weekend in early April. The point in winter when everybody felt listless and annoyed with one more month of gray days, cool temperatures, and intermittent snow that was supposed to be gone in March. So five friends decided to embark on a long weekend to sunny warm Jamaica.

Proudly wheeling one carry-on bag each they gleefully arrived in Montego Bay ready for some fun in the sun, an endless pool bar and good 5-star cuisine, all included.

Removing sweaters, jackets and anything else they could on the way to the bus, they inhale the sticky humidity and baking sun rays they desperately missed for the last seven months.

“Can you feel the warmth of the sun? It’s like a shot of vitamin D,” Anne said raising her hands to the sky.

“I am ready to get my margarita on. Let’s go,” Carl agreed.

An hour later the quintet was waist deep in chlorinated water within arms reach of the pool bar, toasting their weekend.

“Hey, check out the young skinny pale guy at the bar. He’s got no game,” Greg chuckled.

The others turned their heads to find the young man trying to strike up a conversation with a woman at the bar.

“Are from out of town? Rrr i’m from New York. Where are you from?” Carl mimicked, trying to simulate the out of earshot conversation.

“Oh, I’m from California,” Cindy laughed, anticipating the flippant non-engaging reply from the girl.

Then Greg began to give the play-by-play. “Never dissapointed, he goes in for another.”

“Um. I’m a graphic designer,” Carl continued, pretending to be a little too proud.

“That’s nice,” Ann imitated cooley.

“It’s a swing and a miss,” Greg chuckled. “And as soon as he goes up to the plate again…”

“Oh no, she’s getting up. Not good pale guy,” Cindy closed her eyes to avoid seeing the conclusion.

They all uttered a unanimous grown as the girl left the bar.

“Too bad pale guy. Crash and burn,” Greg laughed.

A little annoyed at the mocking play, Tanya eagerly changed topic.

“Now that that’s over, let’s play a drinking game. I saw it on television, it’s called. Never have I ever. Somebody says something and if you’ve done it, you drink, if you haven’t, you don’t,” Tanya suggested.

“OK, I’ll start. Never have I ever smoked a marijuana joint,” Cindy said, waiting for the others to reply.

“Just so everybody knows, I may drink whether I did it or not. I came here to drink and these margaritas are good,” Carl asserted while sipping his drink.

The four gazed at each other cautiously, like a high noon standoff wondering who would sip first.

Carl took a drink any others stared at him and surprise.

“It’s medicinal,” he yelled. “Why not?”

They all burst into laughter, while Tanya loudly announced to the pool goers

“Anyone selling any ganja? We got to taker here.”

“Or a toker,” Greg laughed and they all followed.

“Hey, what happens in the pool stays in the pool,” Cindy jokingly admonished her.

“OK, here’s one. Never have I ever had sex on the first date,” Tanya snapped with a satisfied grin.

Everyone looked at each other again, no one wanting to show their hand first. But this time nobody said anything.

Tanya became increasingly annoyed and then she drank from her cup.

Everyone dropped their jaws in shock and Tanya laughed.

“At least I’m honest,” she said.

The next day, they decided to move the party to the resort clothing-optional beach. Something foreign and in varying degrees of discomfort to most Americans.

Walking amid the partially clothed, Ann shielded her face.

“I didn’t think this would bother me, but I don’t know where to look,” Ann admitted.

“Well, I’m looking,” Carl smiled.

“You would,” Cindy chuckled.

“I’m intrigued, but personally I like my boobs in melon shapes not cucumbers,” Tanya said.

Everyone laughed and they found someplace to sit down when Ann noticed the armed guards with automatic rifles positioned on either end of the beach.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m a little uneasy with the heavy duty hardware all around us,” Ann said.

“What? Guns are more frightening than a fruit salad variety of naked breasts,” Greg kidded.

“I know they’re here for our protection, but I agree. It freaks me out a little bit,” Cindy added.

For the next two days they ate, they drink a lot and were merry with each other’s company.

Then on day three, they were all sitting in restaurant having breakfast when the manager came flanked by two armed guards, alarming everyone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry but you must extend your stay a little longer. We just got word that a band of armed rebels have taken over the airport and no one can leave the island. We are doubling our security to keep you safe. There is no need to panic.”

The five friends glared at each other stunned into silence.

“I don’t like this at all,” Cindy said with concern.

“Don’t worry the airport is more than a half an hour away. They’re not gonna come over here. They’re just trying to make a point with the government.” Tanya tried to ease her fears.

“I hope so. That’s what I’m going to believe,” Ann said.

“As long as the food and drinks hold out, I’m OK.” Carl said jokingly, but his eyes defied him, revealing his worry.

For the first time in the weekend, Greg took a serious pose.

“Look guys. Let’s just promise to stick together and we’ll get out of this OK.”

They all shook their heads in agreement.

Four days later, the government took back the airport and the relieved five musketeers traveled back to Chicago vowing never to don Jamaica’s island again. But as time passed, they regaled many with their tale of the long, long Jamaican weekend. Something they would never do again.

Work To Live

Work was frantic in Stephanie’s real estate office. On one line she was talking a buyer with cold feet off the edge while on the other lines she had an attorney and another agent on the phone about problems with other pending deals. And in front of her, an assistant holding bunches of files trying to get up to speed before Stephanie could leave on her vacation.

After finally resolving all the calls, she looked at her assistant, Laura and sighed with exhaustion.

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth going on vacation. It seems like you have to work harder beforehand just so you can leave.”

Laura nodded while staring anxiously at Stephanie like a deer in the headlights, terrified to be left alone with mountains of work.

“But you’ll have your phone on, right? And you’ll be checking emails… daily? More than daily?”

Stephanie smiled and took the files out of Laura’s hands.

“Take a breath. You’ll be fine, but I’m not gonna leave you in the lurch. You’ll be able to reach me when you need to.”

With that, Stephanie grabbed her bag and exited the office getting into her car. On the way home, Laura only called her two times.

At the airport, she called her three times. And sitting on the tarmac, she was talking to Laura until the flight attendant made Stephanie turn off her phone.

Unplugged with nearly 7 hours time difference between her and the office, Stephanie caught up with emails on the way to the hotel, much to the irritation of her husband, Bruce.

“Steph, we’re on vacation. The world will not come to an end if somebody’s appraisal doesn’t come in on time.”

Deep down, Stephanie knew he was right, and she wanted to let go, but as someone who worked on commissions, she worried if deals didn’t go through and clients weren’t satisfied, she wouldn’t get paid.

“It’s easy for you to say. Somebody takes over for you when you leave. I own my own business. I’m all I’ve got.

Bruce shook his head and threw up his hands in frustration.

The next day on the tour bus to a 1000 year-old Spanish vineyard, Stephanie received two calls from Laura, trying to talk quietly as the tour guide explained about the region and the history of the vineyard that shockingly remained in one family handed down from parent to child for a millennium.

Sitting next to her at the window seat, Bruce’s annoyance was bubbling over.

“Steph, you’re not seeing any of this. Look at these olive trees? They’re amazing. Get off the phone. We’re on vacation.”

Smiling and holding up her finger at Bruce, indicating she’d be off in a minute, Stephanie wasn’t paying attention to anything outside of her phone.

As the bus drove deeper and deeper into the wine region, Bruce shook his head at her again and gazed out his window, marveling at the beautiful untouched scenery in his view.

An hour later, the bus stopped at the vineyard and everyone was greeted by the current owner, Carla, a bohemian looking Spanish lady with her somewhat graying hair pulled back in a ponytail and flowy clothing billowing in the warm soft breeze.

“Welcome to Serenity Vineyards. Please join me on the veranda for some wine and tapas.”

Stephanie, Bruce and the other eight people in their small tour group sat on the open veranda with views of grapevines as far as the eye could see. In front of them was a table full of wine, grapes, olives, bread, cheese and small cups of terra cotta colored soup called Gazpacho.

As the other eight drank and asked Carla questions, Stephanie kept looking at her phone. There was no service.

Carla smiled at Stephanie noticing her anxious reaction to the lack of bars on her phone.

“I’m sorry, but we get no cell service out here.”

Embarrassed, Stephanie quickly put her phone in her bag, but then stared at Carla, puzzled.

“How can you run a business if you have no service?” Stephanie asked.

Carla chuckled and sipped her glass of wine.

“I have a fax machine and of course a computer with email. And in a necessity, I have a landline.”

Stephanie smiled but shook her head in gentle defiance.

“I couldn’t do that. I’d be out of business in two minutes without my phone.”

Carla handed her another glass of wine and smirked.

“I was once like you. I didn’t think I could ever get by without my cell phone implanted into my ear. I was a successful financial planner when my brother asked me to come and help with the family business. And I never looked back. Looking around and breathing this fresh air every day. This is true peace, serenity.”

Stephanie gazed at her in surprise, then looked out at the vast landscape all around her, grinning.

“It really is astonishing here. I just don’t know how you can unplug like that.”

Carla poured her some more wine.

“I understand. But then someone told me something that I couldn’t shake. He told me I was living to work and that I should consider working to live. That one statement changed my life.”

Carla poured wine for her other guests, leaving Stephanie sitting drinking the wine and wondering.

Was she right? Had work taken over her entire life? Bruce thought so, anyway.

She glanced over at Bruce laughing and talking to the other group members. Maybe he’s right, she thought.

For the rest of the tour, Carla’s words haunted Stephanie… work to live or live to work. And for the first time on the tour she gazed out the window and saw olive trees, grapevines and a picturesque land that enveloped her senses.

Then her phone rang. Both she and Bruce glared at her bag and then each other. But Stephanie turned off her phone and smiled at Bruce.

“We’re on vacation. It can wait.”

A Dream is a Wish your Heart Makes

Episode 6 – Tales from the Backseat

California here we are. After three weeks navigating most of the lower half of the US and a bit of Mexico, we finally made it to the golden west coast. And as any red-blooded American family, the first place we went was DISNEYLAND.

It was the mecca of small children and parents wanting to please their small children. I’m not saying we were raised in a “Disney” world, but their universe was hard to avoid. We saw their movies, The Apple Dumpling Gang and Herbie, the Love Bug in their mostly live-action era. And we were veterans of two trips to Walt Disney World since its 1971 opening. So, we were interested to see what differences the original 1955 flagship Disneyland had to offer.

At first glance, MainStreet USA was a carbon copy of the Florida version. And at the end of the turn of the century replica town, there was a castle. This one was a gleaming white Sleeping Beauty castle instead of the pale blue Cinderella version.

Initially, there were a few different rides, a bumper boat ride in a big pond and some place called New Orleans Square where the haunted mansion was a white southern plantation. Those I liked.

In this mansion, you walked the hallways and the paintings changed. My kid sister was scared and clung to my mom for dear life, but to me, finally there was some excitement. Although beyond that, it was another duplication.

Needless to say, I was unimpressed. Ride after ride, I audibly sighed, rolled my eyes and folded my arms across my chest while trudging through the lines with as much pre-teenage angst as I could muster.

I got the feeling my parents ignored a lot of my outward and annoying less than silent protests at being dragged through“kiddie world.” Finally, my dad had enough and gently redirected me to the side, while my brother and sister shopped for Mickey Mouse-eared hats.

“What’s the problem? Aren’t you having a good time?” He asked me with some frustration.

“It’s all kiddie stuff. I want exciting thrill rides. And it’s like we’ve been here before. Why did we come all the way to California for this?”

My dad paused for a moment and momentarily looked around. In that moment, I think he saw what I saw.

“OK. I get it.”

No more was said, but I appreciated that he understood my position.

When my mom, brother and sister came back from the store clad in Mickey Mouse ears, I rolled my eyes.

“We didn’t get you anything,” my little sister snidely remarked, as if verbally sticking her tongue out at me.

But my Dad was on my side.

“Let’s find a roller coaster. Didn’t the brochure say there was a roller coaster around here?”

My mom pulled out the guidebook and flipped through the pages.

“Yes. The Matterhorn,” she said, pointing to the imitation snow-covered mountain in the distance.

“Why don’t I take the older kids on that and you can go on the carousel?”

It was the perfect solution. Fun roller coaster for the pre-teens and mind-numbing horses turning to repetitively maddening calliope music for the little one.

As we approached the coaster, it became larger and larger in our scope. According to the guidebook, the Matterhorn was fifteen stories high where you and your careening bobsled experienced a series of fast-speed hairpin turns to eventually splash into a stream water at the end.

I could barely contain my excitement. Finally, a real ride.

Waiting in line, we were joking and having a good time. I was amazed at how enthused my dad was to ride this roller coaster. Through the long serpentine cue, he raved about all the fun times he had as a kid on the thrill rides in this amusement park near where he grew up in Chicago called Riverview.

My dad was a born storyteller. When he was enthusiastic about something, he’d weave interesting tales that would vie the movies Walt Disney made. While many times we were uncertain of his relationship with the truth, he’d spin tales and laugh at them, drawing us into his narrative. In the end, we didn’t care if they were true or false. They were stories, after all.

The closer we got to the front of the line, the screams from the riders and anticipation of the sheer thrill enhanced. And at the moment, I glimpsed a bit of the coaster track, I climbed up on the railing and wriggled to get a better view. I could see the bobsleds twisting and turning at such a high pace, I thought I could hear a whooshing sound as they went by. I couldn’t wait.

But when I tried to get down, I found my knee was stuck in the railing. I wiggled and pulled while huffing and puffing in distress with my already heightened adrenaline level off the chart.

“I’m stuck!” I shouted to my Dad in perilous panic.

Confused at first, he came over and tried to lift me up and pull me out of the railing. But nothing worked.

By now, quite a commotion developed among those in line, rubber-necking and gawking at the white-knee sock wearingyoung girl who was stuck like Winnie-the-Pooh in the honeypot.

Someone told the ride operators who called the Disney cops. Soon they ran through the line to my aid as a fervor raised to the level of high interest with bystanders, much to my horror and embarrassment.

The Disney cops were perplexed, as they stood there whispering to themselves about how to proceed.

My Dad, who was never at a loss for words, decided to lighten the mood with a joke.

“Well, officers, we could always cut it off,” he laughed.

My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. I knew he was kidding, but when the gathering crowd laughed too, I was mortified… and scared. How were they going to get me free?

By now, I was sweating bullets everywhere from fatigue and fright, as my other leg was still straddling the narrow rail.

“I’m sure her leg swelled a little from trying to get it out.” One officer, I’d say, Captain Obvious stated as if he were giving the Gettysburg address, but saying nothing helpful.

Then the other officer had an epiphany.

“Do you think we could pull her knee sock up over her knee enough to ease the friction and she could slide out?”

Smiling and nodding at the brilliant idea, the officers and my dad got to work. My Dad held me up on his shoulder while the two officers shimmied and yanked on my cotton knee sock to get it up. Finally, eureka! I was free.

Everyone cheered and applauded as my misshapen knee sockrevealed my redened knee, a little worse for the wear, but finally unshackled.

Still heaving my breath from the stress and pain, my dad, ever the salesman, asked the officers.

“What do you think fellas? Has she earned a trip to the head of the line?”

The officers smiled and escorted us through the line to the front where the ride operators ushered us into our own bobsled.

The ride was fantastic, just as advertised. Our heads bobbed as the force of speed shifted us up, down and side to side with the movement of the coaster to the end, when we plunged into the water rooster tailing on either side of us.

Laughing as we walked down the ramp at the ride’s exit, I saw my mother and sister waiting for us and a feeling of panic filled my body. My mother would be likely be mad and maybe never let me out of her sight again. Something a preteen did not relish.

“How was the ride kids?” my mother innocently asked.

But before we could answer, my Dad interjected.

“It was a fun ride. Like the ones we used to go on in Riverview. Right kids?”

My brother and I mindlessly nodded our heads quickly like bobbleheads and I pulled up both of my knee socks to hide the stretchiness of the one and cover my knee until the redness subsided.

And for the rest of our day in the park, I patiently waited in lines and rode the endless theme rides without the hint of complaint. Truth be told, it was a nice break… I’d had enough excitement for one day.

The Solution

Walking always clears my head. Maybe it’s something about the fresh air or the freedom of moving in any direction I want. I love the dense warm summer air as a myriad of sensations hang in the thick atmosphere.

The city has its own rhythm. The melody of sounds is deafening and chaotic, but when I’m walking, I hear an orchestra of car horns, people talking and laughing, clinking glasses and plates. Even the cadence of many diverse footsteps on the pavement is a synchronized symphony making music to my ears. No matter what time of day or night, it’s so alive.

I watch a couple walking down the street holding hands and yet spy another fighting with pointed fingers, glaring fire in each other’s direction.

Someone on a park bench reading gives me wonder what they’re thinking. Are they reading for pleasure, school or maybe just intellectual curiosity.

Even the smells of the different restaurants capture my senses. Barbeque, Italian, Mexican, they all have such distinct and individual odors, yet they blend to create an enveloping nose bouquet. But just the aroma is making me hungry.

I need to focus. People think solving crimes is easy. It’s not. X never marks the spot. And no criminal voluntarily confesses, “It is I. I did it” That nonsense is for cheap movies, dumb plays and dime novels.

When my back is up against the wall, thinking through the case always helps me. My pop used to say I live inside my brain, like a think tank of experts debating everything. I guess that’s why walking clears my head. Even among the hectic city streets, it’s the calming background I need to center the disorder of my mind.

So Whodunnit? And how? Those words resonate with me, echoing in my head.

Serves me right for my arrogance. I thought I wove such a masterful crime web of intricate clues and suspects, the solution would just come to me. But it has eluded me like a veiled mistress of the dark, keeping the key in the shadows, just beyond my reach.

I have to think. It is I? Could it be that simple? Or am I just looking for an easy answer.

I’ve got it! No that won’t work. What about? No, it’s trite. This is crazy, nothing’s working.

Maybe I need to go back to the drawing board. Or wait! That’s it. I’ll have a glass of wine. Sometimes that can clear the cobwebs.

And if that doesn’t work? I hear children’s books are fun to write.

Author’s Note: Sometimes writer’s block momentary raises its head. RRR. I’m working on the next installment in the Beck’s Mysteries Series. It will come to me.