SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

The Phone Number

Cleaning out someone’s house after they pass is filled with memories, regrets and sometimes surprises. After their mother’s passing at the ripe old age of 99, Carolyn and Mike agreed to stay in his childhood house and help his sister Erin and her husband Steve sort through the house before the sale closing.

“It’s really sad to reduce a person’s lifetime into piles of yours, mine, sell and donate,” Carolyn said as they sifted through the kitchen cabinets.

“Yeah. I’m just hoping to avoid as much drama as possible, so whatever Erin wants, just let her have it. I don’t want this to devolve into squabbles over who gets this momento, the good china or the silver. She’s so emotional, I get the feeling she’s teetering on the edge,” Mike whispered.

Erin was the baby of the family and the only girl. But even at 65, she was still prone to passive aggressive huffs and sighs, sprinkled with sniffles and tsunami bursts of tears without warning, dampening the air with disagreement and disappointment. It made the daunting task even more difficult.

“What pile does the around the world spoon collection go in?” Carolyn asked.

“As far as I’m concerned, it can go in the junk pile with my dad’s Roy Rogers wagon wheel coffee table in the den. But I think we’re going to have to sneak some things out. She doesn’t wanna put anything in the donate or throw away piles. Every time I ask her, she cries,” Mike muttered in frustration.

“I don’t know if even charity will take some of these things,” Carolyn laughs just as Erin enters the room and hearing the joke, immediately cries and hastily runs out. Steve shrugs at them with his hands up and follows her.

“I feel bad for her, but between her outbursts and stubbornness, nothing’s getting done,” Carolyn said in a soft voice and Mike nodded.

“I know I feel like we’re walking on eggshells all the time. I don’t think she believed the house would sell so fast. She probably thought she had more time,” Mike whispered.

“I even took Steve aside to see if he wanted to just rent a storage unit so she can have as much time as she wants, but he looked at me with dagger eyes. So I guess that’s out,” Carolyn said.

“She already has two storage units full of stuff. She has a real hard time letting go of things. Let’s go into the den and go through the desk and file cabinet. We should be OK with a bunch of old papers,” Mike answered and moved to the other room.

They started stacking papers from the file cabinet on the wagon wheel coffee table, looking for important papers.

“Looks like Erin may have learned keeping things from your mom. Here’s a receipt for a dinner from 50 years ago. All it has is a phone number on it,” Carolyn chuckled.

“A phone number? Let me see that.” Mike reached for the faded receipt, looked at it with disbelief and laughed.

“I thought she was making this up the whole time,” Mike shook his head and Carolyn gazed at him confused. “When we were little, my mother always told us that she had the number of a hitman in her drawer. Anytime anybody crossed her, she threatened to make one phone call and that would be it. I always thought she was kidding,”

“Where do you think she got it?” Caroline asked curiously.

“I don’t know, she said it was given to her by someone in the mafia who she did a favor for,” he answered.

“Wow what was the favor?” Carolyn leaned forward with interest.

“It’s so ridiculous. She said that she gave a ganster the last piece of apple pie in a diner one day and he gave her the number. I never believed it. It’s like something from the Godfather. One day I will call on you for a favor,” he stood up with his lip over his top teeth mimicking Marlon Brando.

“I thought she made it up so if we were bad, we’d be scared she would use it.” He laughed and put the paper down.

Caroline smiled with a Cheshire grin. “Let’s call the number.”

“That’s silly. She made it up. It’s probably the number for her butcher,” Mike laughed and started sorting through the papers again.

Carolyn shrugged and put the receipt in the middle of the wagon wheel and picked up another pile of papers. But every time she looked down, her eyes darted to the number. It was like it was calling to her.

“This is crazy,” she shouted and then chuckled. “Can’t we just call it? I have to know.”

“What? That’s crazy. Even if someone was there 50 years ago, no one’s there now. What do you think a hitman has an answering service? Dial one for assassinations, dial two for breaking body parts. I’m getting some water,” he snickered and left the room. Carolyn picked up the receipt and went to the chair to get her phone out of her purse.

“I know this is stupid, but I can’t help myself.” She said aloud to herself and dialed the number just as Mike came in the door.

“Are you seriously calling that number?” Mike rolled his eyes.

“Yes, now shush, it’s ringing.”

Carolyn put the phone on speaker and the two stood over the phone in anticipation, while the phone kept ringing. Five rings. seven rings.

“See nobody’s there. It’s just gonna keep ringing,” Mike sighed.

“If it wasn’t a real number anymore, it would’ve gone directly to an error message from the phone company. It’s ringing. This is still someone’s number!” she said excited.

After 10 rings, Carolyn looked disappointed, but just as she was about to press the end button, someone answered.

“Hello?” a man’s voice said.

“Oh, my God!” Carolyn giggled and quickly hit the end button, hanging up.

“Why did you do that?” Mike asked frustrated.

“I don’t know,” she grinned. “I wanted to see if it was real, but I guess I didn’t want to know whose on the other end of the phone. But just in case, I’m keeping it,” she said and stuffed the receipt in her purse.

“Oh great. Now I have this number hanging over my head, again,” Mike said.

“Well, just so you know I have it. And you better behave yourself,” Carolyn laughed.

“Hey let’s tell my sister the number is real and they told us we need to donate everything… or else,” Mike said and they both laughed.

Valentine’s Day in Wartime

Author’s Note: This is an excerpt from The Sailor and The Songbird: A Timeless American Historical Romance. THIS WEEK .99 KINDLE.

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February 2, 1944

Dear Julie:

How is my little Sis? Valentine’s Day is coming up. I bet you’re looking forward to the school dance. Do you have a date? With your pretty long blonde hair and bright smile, you probably have boys asking you all the time. They will probably decorate the gymnasium with red and pink balloons and streamers, just like always. I really wish I was there to see it. Make sure to write and tell me everything.

I’m doing a lot of dancing these days, too. Don’t tell Mommy and Daddy, but Kate, Janie and I are dancing with men for a dime a dance. I told them we were waiting tables. I didn’t think they would approve of us dancing with men for money.

It’s not too bad. My feet get stepped on a lot. Sometimes we get some servicemen, but they are almost all at the USO. We get a lot of older men. Some men are smelly and some don’t even speak English. That’s difficult. And they’re all sweaty, even though it’s cold and snowing outside. It’s hot in there with all the people. It’s so unpleasant. I have to take a shower every night and scrub just to get the odor of smoke and sweat out of my hair. Thank goodness there’s a bouncer named Bruce who makes sure they don’t get fresh.

Well, got to go—almost time to go to work. I dread it. I hate wearing this heavy blue eye makeup, mascara and extra rouge. You wouldn’t even recognize me. But Eddie says it makes us look older and prettier, like sophisticated city women and not Midwestern farm girls. We told him we’re not farm girls—we don’t live on farms. But if you’re a New Yorker, you think everyone from the Midwest is a farm girl.

At least we get to sing a song or two each night before the main act goes on. That is, when anyone can hear us. The sound in the steakhouse is horrible and people are eating and making a lot of clatter with the plates and silverware. It’s not like the concerts we saw at the ice cream socials at home where everyone appreciated the singers. They don’t even listen to us most of the time. I keep hoping one day someone will come in who will recognize our talent.

Please tell Mommy and Daddy I love them and you too. Just keep these things between us girls. I don’t want Mommy and Daddy to worry. I’m fine.

Luv, your big Sis

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

For Valentine’s Day, they tried to transform the steakhouse into a palace for Cupid and his arrow to draw in lonely men without sweethearts. They hung red streamers and big red and silver glitter hearts and banners all over the room that said “Be My Valentine.”

“Come on, girls, we’re going to have a big crowd of men for Valentine’s Day,” Eddie said. “Let’s get this place looking cute. I want to see hearts and a lot of red.”

“Yes, red rouge, red dresses, red lips and red feet from getting stepped on by these oafs,” Kate chided, while they decorated the steakhouse. “This is like putting red lipstick on a pig. This place is still a sty.”

“It’s not all bad,” Janie added. “We’re making some lonely sad guys happy today by being their Valentine,” she laughed and put her head through one of the big paper hearts.

“Your face is going to stick that way, Janie, and then no boys will want to dance with you,” Kate joked.

“There’s hope,” Suzy said. “Maybe we’ll get a great crowd for our set today.”

A few hours later, the room went from laughing girls to billows of cigar smoke with sweaty hacking and cackling men. The place was full of men looking for solace and company on the saddest holiday of the year for someone who’s alone.

“The lonelier they are, the homelier they seem to look,” Janie said. “Looking out from our set, they seemed dazed. The pickings are slim today, girls.”

“Get out there and mingle, girls…” Eddie barked. “There are men out there waiting to have their Valentine dream come and dance with them.”

“Dream or nightmare… you be the judge.” Suzy smiled. “Depends on where you’re standing.”

The girls danced for hours with many men, who were all having a good time, but at the end of the evening, the crowd was a little drunk on the Valentine’s Day champagne special and got rowdy.

“That’s it.” Kate slapped a tall, dark man and stormed into the employee room at the back of the steakhouse. “I’ve had it with this stuff. I’m not going to take it anymore.”

Bruce, the bouncer, saw the guy grab Kate’s backside and hurried the guy outside. Eddie didn’t want anyone to harm or manhandle the girls, but he didn’t want anyone to disrupt the paying customers, either.

Bruce was good at his job. He was very large, very Italian and very nice. The rumor was that he worked for the mob, but who knew. They were all glad he was there to watch over them.

The girls tried to calm Kate down, but couldn’t stop her from confronting Eddie. “We’re singers, not pin cushions for every pinching Tom, Dick and Harry. You know we’re better than your main act. We packed the place. We want at least three songs a night or we walk.”

“Are you crazy?” Janie and Suzy asked when she came back into the room. “This is our only way to pay Mrs. Arnold for our room and board. We need this job, no matter what.”

Match Up

Note: Here is an abridged excerpt from my collection of love stories. For Valentine’s Day … share love through romantic tales.

After my divorce and a year of listlessness and whining, my friend Mary signed me up for an online matchmaking service…as a valentine’s day present.

At first, I didn’t want a faceless, heartless computer deciding who was right for me. But Mary finally wore me down and I agreed to look at the profiles and go on one date. How bad could that be?

After a few emails came in, Mary and I… and two bottles of wine, spent our Valentine’s Day trying to find me a date.

I admit I went into it with a bad attitude, and the choices didn’t prove me wrong. Man #1467 had this cheesy 70s mustache and stood in front of a flashy red car with a creepy grin that made me cringe.

“I think I saw this guy on a VHS cover in the back section of the video store,” I said, laughing.

“What were you doing at the back of the video store?” Mary joked.

Then there were the boring twins, #5981 and #3465. One was an accountant who was “obsessed with puzzles of all kinds” and the other was a tax lawyer who wanted to spend all day birdwatching. Delete and delete.

Some were just plain scary. #9636 said his hobbies were guns and taxidermy. He actually posed with a bunch of positioned stuffed dead animals and two AK-47s.

“Yikes. That says ‘killed in a horror movie’ all over it,” Mary said and quickly deleted his message.

And #2579 believed his mother was his best friend. He included that caption under his profile picture of him and his mother smiling cheek to cheek.

“Norman Bates much?” I said and laughed.

“Delete!” Mary agreed.

At this point, the second bottle of wine was emptying and as the silly laughter got louder; the picks got worse. Even Mary was losing faith. That’s when we opened the last invite, #3421.

“This says he’s widowed; that’s good. That means he’s not the problem,” Mary said.

“Sure, he probably killed his wife, chopped her up into little pieces and put her out with the garbage,” I said, discouraged, and plopped on the couch.

“No, it says he owns a vineyard,” Mary continued.

“A vineyard? In Illinois? I bet he owns the moon and the Golden Gate Bridge too,” I said, giggling sarcastically. The wine was definitely talking.

“Just come here and look at this one,” Mary insisted.

So I poured the last drops of wine and dragged my glass with me over to the computer and braced myself.

“Give me a break. How fake can you get? A widower who owns a vineyard? Even the picture looks phony. And it’s thirty miles away. Seriously? I’m done. Experiment failed,” I said and buried my head in the couch.

BUY NOW

“No, really—look. Here’s the website. He’s not going to create a bogus website just for a date,” Mary said. “I’m emailing him. You promised me one date and this is it.”

“Even if he is for real, that’s almost an hour with traffic. Completely unrealistic,” I strongly objected, but she already sent the reply.

A few days went by and I completely forgot about it. Then I got a reply.

“I would be happy to meet you. You live about an hour away from me, so I’ll come to you. Please choose a restaurant you like and we can meet there,” the message read.

To be honest, I nearly deleted it, but I did promise Mary, so I agreed to meet him. I chose a restaurant near my house, so at least I’d get home fast.

It was raining cats and dogs, and I was ten minutes late. But when I got there, he wasn’t there. I sat at the bar so I could see the entrance and ordered a full glass of wine…for courage.

By the time I finished the glass, I realized I had been stood up. I was almost relieved I didn’t have to go through with the pretense of talking to someone and feigning interest until the check came. But I was upset that he didn’t want to meet me enough to just show up.

As I was getting my coat on, a man entered, soaking wet and covered in mud. He staggered over to the bar.

“Was there a woman here tonight looking for me?” he asked.

The bartender nodded and pointed in my direction.

He dripped over to me and apologized abundantly.

“I’m Jay and so sorry I’m late. You must think I’m a horrible guy, but my truck got a flat tire and I had to change it in the rain. Please stay,” he explained.

The rain soaked him to the skin and he still wanted to talk to me? How could I say no?

He told me his unfortunate tale of pulling over on a back road with no lights, swishing and sloshing through the mud and puddles, falling down a few times and then the jack slowly sinking into the mud.

Every word captured me, like a book I couldn’t put down. He told the story so well, it almost seemed made up. But as he sat in front of me with pieces of mud hardening on him like a ruined piece of pottery on a wheel, I knew it was real. And so was he.

When I got home, I reported back to Mary that the date was a success, but anything more was doomed to failure. He couldn’t move away from his vineyard, and I couldn’t move that far from work. It was impossible.

But Jay was persuasive. He agreed to come to my area for dates. And the more I saw him, the more I liked him—really liked him. If only the geographic gap wasn’t like the Continental Divide.

Then he asked me to come to the vineyard, so he could cook for me. Curiosity got the best of me about the vineyard…and his cooking…so I agreed.

A small meandering drive led me to a charming river rock stone and redwood two-story ranch home with a giant wrap-around veranda. The sign said Oak Valley Vineyard established 1921. It was real.

Jay smiled and greeted me with a glass of wine. We sat on the veranda in silence, gazing at the sunset. It was a beautiful painting of yellows, oranges and pink hues.

Just as the sun set, glittering twinkle lights illuminated the area and Jay served a wonderful meal.

After dinner, we walked hand in hand onto the flagstone path covered by a wooden pergola with flowered vines all over it. It was magical.

Then he leaned over and kissed me. The kiss tasted just like the wine, especially the sweetness. I even felt a little spark, almost like static electricity. He was a good kisser and I was captivated. Everything about the place, and Jay, enveloped me with a feeling of home all around me, and I wanted that to last forever. And it did. We were married a year later on Valentine’s Day in the vineyard. Turns out the computer did know more than I did.

Queens of Cruisin’

It was 1 AM at night, but the sun was still out. At least it was in my mind. That night, the sun,
moon and stars converged and reflected in the shine of my silver metallic 1978 Camaro
Berlinetta while I was cruisin’.
The first time I went cruisin’, I thought it was stupid. All night teens drove up and down a half
mile stretch of road in the more populated next town over, stopping at pre-determined locations,
the McDonald’s and the grocery store parking lots. That is, until the police came and kicked
everyone out at one spot, only for the hordes of teens in used cars to travel like nomads to the
next point. It was a strange ritual. Most people got out of their cars and spent the night walking
around talking to others, flirting and posturing to see who was the coolest, while admiring each
other’s ride.
After all, growing up in a small suburban area in the shadow of the city of Chicago, since the
mall and the arcade we’re closed, night out options for adolescent underage teenagers were
twofold… a movie or eating at some fast food establishment, nursing the same Coke for two
hours and sharing some french fries or ice cream with friends. But both of those events required
dipping into hard-earned dollars and spending less money on clothes and shoes. Cruisin’ was
free.
But despite my initial disinterest in this tame and strange rite of passage, my perspective
changed drastically when I got my first car. It was a slightly used, as my dad joked, driven only
by an old lady who drove her to church on Sundays. While I sincerely doubted that an old lady
would drive a hot Camaro coupe with low bucket seats, I didn’t care. In an area without public
transportation where you must drive everywhere, wheels were freedom and mine was
particularly pretty. It was metallic silver, with a tiny red pinstripe along each side and around the
windows, sporting whitish gray bucket seats. I loved that car and couldn’t resist taking the
opportunity to show her off cruisin’ in West Jeff.
So my girlfriends, and I piled into Bernie, as I called her, and joined our peers. New cars were
like fresh meat, and we made the most of every minute of it, driving up and down with the
windows open, strutting like peacocks, flouncing our feathers. And when it was time to park, we
stayed in the car thinking we were too cool to go to anybody else… they would come to us. And
they did, like moths to the flame. The boys would saunter up, eyeing the car and looking inside
to see a bunch of girls mustering our best bravado poses, seeming like we didn’t care.
Knowing nothing about cars I figured I had to be on my game so I read the manual cover to
cover for the first and only time in my life and memorized every mechanical specification of the
car, ready to effortlessly answer any questions like a pro.
I would boast, “It has a V8 405 engine with 185 horsepower at 4,000 rpm’s and a top speed of
125 mph, which I did verify in a drag strip on another occasion.”
When they inevitably asked whose car it was, I happily and succinctly said it was mine, with a
sharp matter-of-fact earnestness.
The boys thought it was cool and by mere relationship, maybe I was too. My friends loved the
attention by every boy in school. And gaggles of girls ran up to us, admiring the car as a
breakthrough of the glass ceiling. Girls could own cool cars too.
We felt like rock stars all night, driving back-and-forth, the focus of every rumor, innuendo,
question and desire that evening. It was awesome and I thoroughly enjoyed it enough to repeat the exercise every Saturday night that summer. But the first night was the best for that night,
Bernie, I and my friends ruled as the queens of cruisin’.

Life is a Salad Bar

The salad bar is the quintessential object lesson for life. Seems weird, but follow me on this.

Life is full of choices. This or that. Do I stay or should I go. Each decision impacts other options made both before and after.

Maybe you like rabbit food and always belly up to the salad bar and imbibe generously, carefully avoiding and shunning any of the sweet perpetrators that lure people under the guise of balanced diets and rewards. Heathy eating is never gluttonous, right? But can it be borderline obsessive?

Or you take the things that are good for you even if you don’t like them. Lesson: Responsibility?

But admittedly, you often indulge or overindulge the Jell-O and the pudding. After all, you did eat a healthy salad and deserve a treat. Lesson: Moderation?

There are different kinds of cheeses, beans, sometimes even multiple varieties of lettuce and vegetables all equally presented on the salad bar open for all who pay the price of admission. And no overlord stands there and dictates that you can’t take both kidney beans and pinto beans or not to mix the cheddar cheese with the mozzarella, despite the cringe of your onlooking neighbor. Lesson: Freedom?

People may gag at the different stroke of blending the blue cheese dressing with the thousand island dressing, it’s a matter of personal taste. Lesson: Tolerance?

For vegetarians and vegans, it’s the bastion of the holy food land. Instead of constantly improvising on limited menus, picking, and settling for what they they can have, often everything is finally within reach without restriction. Lesson: Equality?

But while you may freely go back to your table and regale your group with the faux pas tale of the person who mixed the two dressings, you are free to laugh, but they are free to enjoy it.

And the conduct at the salad bar can offer unspoken behavior rules of the road. You don’t cross your reach in front of anyone or push and shove people out of the way, no matter if you wasted most of your lunch hour waiting at the Apple store or how close it is to your movie time or theater curtain. You politely wait your turn. Lesson: Manners?

Proper decorum dictates use of the utensils provided, instead of plunging your grubby hands into the food. After all no one would break a social norm and risk, making others sick for their own indulgence. Lesson: Respect?

But just in case you get careless or have an accident, there is a sneeze guard installed by the management to prevent you from spewing the contents of your nasal passages all over the heathy food. Lesson: Avoidance of lawsuits?

Oh, and there’s often soup. That’s just warm comfort food. Maybe it’s all a lesson that life is full of everything you need an want for yourself and others, if you just look.

The Chump

“You were supposed to be dead,” a bystander screams glaring at my formerly lifeless body resurrect from the ground.

“I feel like it,” I mumble, patting my hands over my chest taking stock of my body.

I think I’m ok. But how? When someone shoots you in the chest, you’re usually not ok.

I look for something in my breast coat pockets that could’ve stopped a bullet, like you see in the movies. But there’s nothing.

Sitting there amongst the now busy city streets I realize, I wasn’t shot at all. But it wasn’t my imagination that knocked me down. It was a force. Maybe it was a warning or a horrible mistake.

It all started a few nights ago. It was a regular Friday night at the bar, until she came in.

She was put together in all the right places, as if someone drew her on a canvas or erected her as a skyscraper. She was built.

Even though my stool didn’t spin around, my head did a quick 180 when she walked through the door.

And did she walk. Not just putting one foot in front of the other, she glided like an angel on gossamer wings. I was captivated.

She sat down next to me and asked me for a light. I was happy to oblige and shot her my best come hither smile. She returned the favor.

A couple hours later, we talked about everything under the sun, including the kitchen sink. I’m not subject to romantical flights of fancy, but in those moments with her, my head pictured a little Whitney color house with a picket fence and a new Ford in the garage. It was the perfect dream.

She asked me for a ride home. I was happy to get a chance at a good night kiss. Or maybe something else, who knew. But something else is what I got.

I realize now, I was a chump. A stooge that fake femme fatal easily wrapped around her little finger and led right into the gates of hell. She was good alright.

She spun a tale worthy of a golden man named Oscar and I fell for it hook line and sinker. I was a willing piece of putty in her manicured hands.

She said her former boyfriend was stalking her and wouldn’t let up. I have no problem understanding why he wouldn’t let her go.

She was afraid to go home unaccompanied and asked me if I was packing. That should’ve been my first clue, but again, my dumb imagination conjured a steely knight on a cream horse. I should rap myself in the jaw for being so gullible.

She went in for a kiss to thank me and the next thing I know, I wake up to a screaming broad in the street outside her apartment building. Boy was I a patsy.

I must’ve just been knocked out…and good. But I could’ve sworn I heard a gunshot.

Then I see two cops in my scope.

“Officers, I’m OK. No permanent harm done,” I say getting to my feet.

“That’ll be for the judge to decide. You’re coming downtown with us,” they order as the handcuff and throw me in the paddy wagon.

Now I’m in the soup for sure. I have no memory of what happened. And even worse, I don’t know her name. What a sap.

They put me under the glaring bulb and tell me I murdered a man in cold blood and left the gun with my fingerprints next to the body. That was news to me. They say it’s an open and shut case. I could fry and I don’t know why. They’ll never believe my story. Even I don’t. No one could be such a stooge to be fooled by a beautiful dame. But I was. Now my goose is cooked.

Author’s Note: This story is written in noir style of 1930s to 1950s urban slang. I enjoy these movies and this type of storytelling.

Out With the Old; In With the New

Traditions abound in the small town of Hope. Over the years, the town has been through many struggles, including opening and closing of factories, hard financial times, and personal losses, but nothing reduces the spirit of their community.

Every Sunday people gather after church for ice cream socials.

On the Fourth of July, the volunteer band muddles through the Star-Spangled Banner and Yankee Doodle Dandy until no one could take it anymore. Luckily, people sing so loud they drown out the tinny sound.

At Christmas, they sing carols and decorate the tree around the town square.

And every Easter, the Hopians have a parade showing everyone in their finest dress.

But the biggest annual celebration is on New Year’s Eve. The stores of Main Street line the streetscape with glowing white balls of bright lights, drawing a path to the town square, where they erect a giant disco ball to drop at the stroke of midnight.

Despite the cold sleet or snow, everyone in town congregates in the downtown area, drinking hot chocolate and spiced apple cider while listening to the high school band and dance troops display their talents. With the glow of every storefront, the streets are as luminescent as day.

But the most wonderful tradition of all is the ringing ceremony. Everyone in town lines up along the street ringing bells one by one. Then each person deposits papers in two different buckets, with the best and worst things that happened in the year. When full, the mayor lights the bucket of the worst of the year ablaze.

“May we leave the worst behind us and ring in the new year with love and laughter and celebrate a new beginning for all to share,” he says.

Then everyone in town goes up to the best bucket and grabs a wish for the new year from the best experienced by others. And once they have their wishes, each throws it into the air and a confetti gun explodes as the ball ascends to usher in the new year sprinkling wonderful wishes of joy and happiness.

Because no matter what each year brings, the hope of the future shines on everyone for the promise of tomorrow.

Exclusive Santa Sighting

Like Superman and Clark Kent, my father and Santa Claus were never seen on Christmas Eve at the same time.

Every year the drill was the same. At our annual Christmas Eve extended family gathering, my dad would announce to all that he ran out of film and needed to go the store.

About 20 minutes later there was a rumbling on the roof and my uncle would loudly declare Santa’s reindeer up there. Then my mother would herd all the kids to peer out the window to see Santa’s sleigh. A minute or two later, the sound of jingling bells, along with a hearty “HoHoHo,” enveloped the room and the kids excitedly scurried to the man in the red suit.

Everyone sat on his lap as he asked what each wanted for Christmas and offered a candy cane as a deposit, promising he would be back later the same night with their wish.
Then he told us to look out the window and watch for Santa’s reindeer again as he mysteriously slipped out of the room.

Twenty or so minutes later, my dad would come back and my uncle will tell him he just missed Santa. He would loudly exclaim his disappointment, and everyone resumed the festivities.

The clever ruse was complete. It was masterful, but there were clues left behind. After running out of film one year, wouldn’t he be prepared the next? And if he was going out for film, why did he never have a bag or the film when he returned?

Luckily kids are not Sherlock Holmes. We were grateful for the candy cane and the exclusive opportunity to ensure our wish list was fulfilled. But one year as I ventured into middle grades, I wondered why Santa was visiting individual holiday parties prior to his big delivery event and posed that and the other questions to my uncomfortable mother.

So, when Christmas Eve came around again, to throw me off the scent, suddenly it was my uncle who ran out of film, and all the roles were reversed. My doubts were quashed, until the next year when I learned in the oracle of all information, the school bus, that Santa was not real. Shortly after reporting this information to my mother, she confessed, while asking me not to ruin it for the little kids.

The next Christmas I was in on the secret. I smirked satisfied at my grown-up deception, playing a leading part in the charade by participating in the distraction to conceal Santa’s entrance and exit. I watched the hoax unfold, amazed at the obvious clues I previously missed.

Years later, various people substituted when suspicions arose. And eventually the film had to be changed out to another last-minute purchase.

When my children were small, my father donned the cap once again for his grandchildren, until my very clever five-year-old son immediately recognized his voice and quickly unmasked him. The next generation must be smarter, as he could not be fooled.

Although until this day, I’ll never know how they made the rumbling sound on the roof. Some secrets are best left unsolved.

You’re My Density

As a movie buff, I’ve always been enchanted by the meet-cute, that’s filmspeak for when two star-crossed lovers meet for the first time. The formulas are tried-and-true giving romance movie lovers a treasure trove of meaningful hopes and dreams wrapped up in a bow.

In one instance, the couple find themselves in an unusual circumstance and sometimes don’t like each other, but later kiss and fall in love. Like The Backup Plan, when a would-be duo fight over a cab, she calls him a stupid head and the will they, won’t they romance tango begins. Or the meet cute ride to New York in When Harry Met Sally where he tells her men and women can never be friends because the idea of sex always gets in the way. They eventually fall in love, decades later.

Then there’s the meet-cute where one or both of them see each other across a crowded room, lock eyes and immediately know they will fall in love. In Serendipity, they both grab for the same gloves, electricity ignites and each take one glove for a future fateful meeting. And in the heartwarming scene in Sleepless in Seattle, corresponding lovers finally meet and instantly sparks arise with knowing eyes and glowing smiles.

And don’t forget the hook line, where one of them gathers courage and captivates the other with the best or worst line in history.

In Working Girl, she states “I’ve got a head for business and a bod for sin,” empowering many single women to come from the societal male-dominant shadows and approach men first. While the cheesiest introduction line ever uttered “You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling,” from Top Gun, made some women in the 80s swoon and others gag when throngs of men tried to re-create the movie pick up in bars for months after its debut.

The worst lines evoke awkward encounters when someone horribly stumbles over their words, leaving you feel very sorry for them and waiting with bated breath in the hopes that they don’t get shut down, crash and burn. In Bridget Jones’ Diary she tells the object of her affection, “You like me just the way I am.” And the most pitiful line spoken by anyone in any movie, “You are my density” from Back to the Future makes us cringe at the verbal diarrhea start. But in each case, it worked and they fall in love in the end.

Movie meet-cutes are sappy, but reliable. And for many that’s a welcome opposition to the real world where very little is certain.

Sometimes I think the fantasy of movie romance gives a false representation and unrealistic expectations of love, allowing some hopefuls to look for their meet cute every day. But life isn’t a movie and love doesn’t go from nothing to something in 90 minutes.

Yet people fall in love all the time and sometimes life does reflect art. So, despite the odds, the true romantics cling to the faith that their love destiny is only one special moment away.

And despite the warning in Moonstruck when he professes his love, and she replies “Snap out of it,” those seeking love will keep anticipating a life-changing “density” event just around the corner.

FOR MORE MEET-CUTE ROMANCE STORIES ABOUT LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT…. click the cover. Now available on Amazon paperback, Kindle and Kindle Unlimited

Friendsgiving

As much as the native Americans and pilgrims came together to peacefully feast, the modern Thanksgiving table often becomes the dividing line in every family between political and generational feuds and sometimes great food wars. Sore points of who’s turkey or stuffing was too dry or who wants cranberry from a can or a stovetop, often engender bruised feelings and egos from passive-aggressive kitchen comments. And the endless debate over the superiority of pies from scratch or store bought that will never be surrendered.

But when you live more than 1,000 miles away from family, choosing holidays to spend together becomes a much less impactful Sophie’s choice decision between two holidays that are only four weeks apart. We chose Christmas to spend as a family and that leaves the question of what do you do for Thanksgiving…and Friendsgiving was born.

A few years ago, several of our Florida friends, who equally opt for Christmas gatherings elected to get together with each other. It was a happy revelation and could be a blueprint for others.

Instead of fights, criticism and debates, the holiday was refreshingly jovial and entirely pleasant. Everyone contributed a dish, which produced a wonderful smorgasbord of different Thanksgiving delicacies from traditionalists, regionalists and some who followed an eclectic path.

Of course, they was still football and wine, a lot of wine, but there were also friendly discussions and games. This year, someone recommended a dinner party game while eating. There was, of course, the tongue-in-cheek suggestion of playing “never have I ever” which almost gained traction until someone else proposed another game called “who would play me in the movie”.

You play by going around the table and everyone weighs in on what actor, living or dead, could play you in the movie of your life. Ideas are thrown out for each person and discussion ensues, based on what characteristics, personality, likeness and prior roles would garner that actor the job. Then each person gets to decide which actor they prefer, or by popular vote…majority wins.

It’s an interesting test of how different people view their counterparts and what makes a good biopic. Of course, there are cases for similarity in likenesses of the same facial structure, eyes, nose, etc. And, of course, with a group of seniors, the likeness test sometimes would degrade to… “You look like this Ryan Gosling, if he was older or you could be Drew Barrymore, but with blond hair and if you were thinner with a shorter, nose,” leaving the question of why they thought that actor resembled them in the first place.

Other people made arguments for comparable personalities or like a similar character they played in a movie, which reminds them of you. In some cases, each perception of personality had the same response as likeness. “You would be like Rodney Dangerfield, if you were funnier. Or maybe Meryl Streep, or if you were smarter or more serious. Which begs the question…if you have to change everything, why did you pick this person in the first place?

It’s a fun game, though can be an odd way to peer through the looking glass at yourself, through a friend’s eyes. What other people see sometimes is not the way you view yourself.

But I found the most fascinating proposal was one without any reason. For each person at the table, one friend said they wanted a particular actor to play them… just because. He would not defend his selections and they all seemed to have no rhyme or reason. No one looked like the other person and personalities or even age weren’t the same.

Their choices were eliminated immediately by the group. So, after the game ended with a lot of laughs and a few revelations, I asked this person…

“Why did you pick those people?”

“Because in my mind, that’s who I want them to be,” he said.

And that’s the perfect encapsulation of the entire Thanksgiving table. Who thinks they can convert their crazy uncle to embrace their lifestyle or even hairstyle over one meal? Your aunts will never ever agree on the exact temperature of turkey or moisture level of stuffing. And the homemade group will never concede that store-bought is just as good. So is the table an arena to air grievances or a place where we can hope those sitting across from us are all we want them to be?