First Place

The Privacy Curtain

By Karen Blakeney – Gulfport, MS

Within hours of being removed from the ventilator, Nathan was deemed well enough to transfer to a regular hospital room.  There was a young couple with their own small heart patient in the front bed when we all pattered in—MeMaw and Paw Paw and Bryan, and then me, shushin’ our other four kids as if it’s possible to deliver a polite invasion.  I really tried, though. 

We were relegated to the back portion of the room.  A nurse pulled a dividing track curtain between the beds to provide a semblance of privacy as we settled in. We kept the curtain in place and maintained a low-key presence, mindful that our larger numbers could disturb the original occupiers of the room.

That was two nights ago.  Can’t believe I wasted fret over their peace and tranquility at this point.  But that’s neither here nor there.  Right now, I’m sure we’re the three-ring distraction.  Dear God—get us through this.

A team of nurses has arrived to remove Nathan’s chest tubes.  As they prepare his chest, an antiseptic odor fills my nasal passages and seems to initiate a stinging fear in my face, but I know this is just a fluke of timing—that the apprehension was not chemically-induced. 

Speaking with pleasant, controlled candor, one nurse explains to Nathan her purpose.  He looks at me for reassurance, then to Bryan, but his confidence deteriorates, and he begins to talk nervously as he gets his first look at the tubes extruding from his lower chest. He’s full-fledged alarmed now, and when his eyes move from the tubes to me, I look away ashamed, his gaze too penetrating, too questioning, too caustic.

“Mom, this is a nightmare!” he cries through frightened eyes.

“It’s going to be just fine, Nathan,” Bryan says.  “You can do this.  And you’re going to feel so much better when you get those tubes out.”

Bryan continues to coach, but I have to turn away toward the blank divider curtain as my face is contracting beyond my control into an ugly anguish that would scare Nathan if he saw it.  I can feel my nose dripping, and my eyes threatening to burst.  One of the observing nurses is in view of me, and her expression, though sympathetic, attests that she has witnessed this before.  She has full expectation that I’m about to bolt from the room.  I’ll bet that’s exactly what she thinks I’m going to do.

“This is excwuciating,” Nathan yells in terror as the process begins.

That nurse doesn’t know me well.  I pep talk and suck it in.  The divider curtain is inches from my face; I grimace at it and breathe in so deeply I can feel my nostrils flair.  When I turn back to Nathan, I am unshakable, unflappable.

“Did he just say ‘excruciating?’” an assisting nurse asks, noticing his twenty-dollar word.

“Oh, yes,” I say.  “Nathan is a very smart boy.  Aren’t you Nathan?”

“Y-yes,” he answers with fearful, begging eyes.

“In fact, he’s been reading since he was two, and the smarty-pants has made a couple of unauthorized purchases on eBay, too.”  I am bragging a blue streak right now, and this is working for me.  By God, I think it’s working for Nathan, too.

“Are you kidding?” the nurse asks, cleaning the first chest tube wound, and preparing a bandage.

“I kid you not.  Tell them about the last thing you bought on eBay, buddy.”

“It was the Shark Pwofessional Cordless Sweeper,” he says.  All of the nurses laugh, and he smiles a little, despite his wet, teary face.

“Bought it on eBay?” an observing nurse exclaims.  “I don’t even know how to use eBay.”

“Oh, it’s welatively simple,” Nathan says to his wide-eyed audience, as the nurse prepares to remove the second tube.  “You just put fings on da watch list, and you bid on dem.”

“Oh my goodness, how old are you?” the nurse asks as she begins to pull the tube out.  “I can’t believe how smart you are.”  I could kiss her for playing along, engaging him in conversational distraction.  He winces as the tube comes out.  “It’s okay, it’s over, it’s all out.”

“Well, you see, I had my birfday on Apwil twenny-six and I am five years old,” he says, seemingly recovered from his ordeal.

“Only five years old?  And what did you do with a Shark Professional Sweeper?”

“I cleaned da floor, of course.”

“That was his favorite toy for a whole month,” I tell his laughing fans.  “He ran all over my house cleaning the floors.”

Nathan pulls up a piece of bed sheet to wipe his wet face and says, “It has wall-hugging technology, you know.”

 The hospital room situation is disappointing.  It’s a nice enough place; it’s just difficult having to share it with another family.  The infant in the bed next to us is frequently left alone during the day, but her teen parents return at night to eat a cafeteria provided meal, and watch television well past midnight.  I requested privately, that one of the nurses please ask them to turn the TV off at a reasonable time.  She could scapegoat this onto higher-ups—I don’t make the

rules; I just enforce them.  Apparently, someone is uncomfortable doing their job.  I’m a little testy, I suppose.  Exhaustion does that to a person.

At least, Nathan doesn’t seem to notice.  This is his third night.  He sleeps most of the time, as expected, given the strong pain medication he receives intravenously.  At bedtime, we ask him in moments of lucidity, which of us he wants to sleep next to him, and he consistently says “Mommy.”  So I have the honor and misfortune of trying to sleep on the short, vinyl sofa under the window.  I fit okay with bent knees, and the pillow and blanket are comfortable enough, but God help me, I can’t tune out our neighbors’ constant talking and their MTV tripe hour after hour.

I suppose it’s possible that I’ve become a fuddy-duddy in my middle years.  Subtract twenty-five years from me, and maybe I would be abandoning my heart patient child all day, poppin’ in at night to groove to the Doobie Brothers and kick it with my boyfriend. 

Nope—not two cents worth of truth in that.  I had better sense than these guys at ten-years-old.  I’m sorry, but right now I am not humble, I am not tolerant, and I can’t think nice thoughts.  The most virtuous deed I can claim at the moment is that I did manage to pray that God would watch over the poor baby born to brainless parents.

It is 2am, and I am still bug-eyed—seems my slumbering roommates find the low drone of music videos conducive to sleep.  Contemporary lullabies, I suppose.

“Hey, Mom,” Nathan says in a feeble voice.  “Whatcha’ doin’?”

“Hey, buddy, you awake?” Duh, yeah.  It’s dark except for the glow of the rogue TV.  At first, I hesitate to turn on a light because it may disturb the sleeping teens, but then—what the hell—they can sleep through anything I suppose.  I pull the chain over his bed, inflicting a

fluorescent buzz into the room’s rhythm.  You’d think I’d be unfazed, but there it is—guilt.  Reflexive, I guess.

“You feelin’ okay?” I ask, combing his disheveled hair with my fingers.

“Not really, Mom,” he says weakly.

“What’s the matter, fella’?” I ask, looking at the heart monitor.  His numbers look to be in the good ranges—the numbers Bryan told me were good.

Suddenly, he heaves, and intermittent gushes of throw-up spill over his chin, down his sheets and hospital gown.  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I say pressing the nurse’s button, and grabbing a towel from the end of the bed to try to prevent the mess from breeching his chest bandage.

He cries, and calls for me in his fear, “Mom!”  Instantly, another wave of nausea hits.  The towel, drenched in vomit, is now useless.

A young nurse, who I have not met previously, arrives and helps me to remove him from the saturated bedding.  We carefully guide the assortment of wires and IV tubing around the bed rails to prevent them from pulling out.  As we stand Nathan on the floor to strip him, my heart aches for him.  He is so frail, so sick.  His long, skinny legs are shivering; he is barely able to hold himself up.  Fearing he may fall, I support him by his armpits as the nurse wipes him clean.  As she strips the bed, I try to talk the trembling away:  “I’ve gotcha, baby.  You’ll be okay.  We’ll get you all cleaned up, and you’ll feel much better.”

“I want to go home, Mom,” he sobs.

The teen couple appears to have had enough.  They grab a few things and leave.

         “He just woke up.  He’s asking for you, baby.”

I told Bryan to call me on my cell phone if Nathan wants me.  My craving for sleep had just about brought me to my knees.  While Bryan and the girls kept watch, I caught a few hours back at the Med Inn.  Still wearing yesterday’s jeans and shirt, I pull on a fresh top, slip into my Birkenstocks, and zip down the halls.  I feel semi-revived.  I can do this, I tell myself as I round the corner to Nathan’s ward.  I can function.

“See, I told you Mommy would be here soon,” Bryan says as I enter.

“You look so much better today, Nathan,” I say, loud as I please.  Not that our night owl roomies are here to experience my rebellion—if they were, I would still be this loud.  Actually, probably not—still too much magnolia pollen up my nose, I guess.  But, hey!  What a difference a day makes!  My baby looks so good!  “What are you watching?”

“Hey, Mom, this is Power Wangers Dino Funder, Day of the Dino, wif a bonus episode, Wanger Down.”  He’s back.  The boy I know is back.

“Don’t you have some news for Mommy?” Natalie asks.

“Tell her what the doctor said,” Michelle adds.

“Oh, of course,” he answers, sounding like Little Lord Fauntleroy.  “I get to go home tomorwoe.”

“Well, sort of,” Bryan corrects.  “You’ll be discharged from the hospital tomorrow, but our flight isn’t until the next day, so we’ll need to stay one more night at the hotel.”

“That’s great news, buddy!” I say, feeling like I could just burst.  Michigan has probably saved Nathan’s life, but Mississippi, battered and broken—no matter—that’s home.  I turn to Bryan and ask, “What are we going to do tomorrow?”

“I’ll bet I’ve got an idea that Nathan will like…”

 We are looking for a Toys R Us that is supposed to be somewhere on Washtenaw Avenue.  Nathan went into mourning over the loss of the one in Biloxi—every bit a loss to him as the beachfront losses have been to the rest of us.  I am cautiously excited for him.  Is it possible that our storms are finally over? 

A happy occasion is what we hope to create, but I am sweat-bullets nervous.  We transitioned into his release utilizing a wheelchair to get him to the Med Inn.  We no longer have that convenience.  He’s too weak to shop on foot, and because of his chest wound, I can’t envision a safe way to lift him into a shopping cart—I’m terrified that I could rip him open.  And even if I could lift him safely, he’s really become too leggy to fit in a cart.

“Mom!  Dad!  There’s Toys R Us!” Nathan exclaims, pointing out from the rental van’s window. 

“We found it, buddy,” Bryan says, turning into the parking lot.

“Bryan, we need a game plan here,” I say, sensing he’s about to go bounding in there, clueless to the potential peril.  “You go in first while we stay in the van, and head to the back of the store to see if you can find one of those umbrella strollers.  He’s not going to be able to walk that whole store.”

“Don’t you think I should just carry him?”

“No, hon,” I say.  Bryan is under the delusion that he is the same young father he was for the other kids.  “For one thing, he’s going to wind up wanting me to tote him.”  I, on the other hand, am under no such delusion about myself.  “And I don’t think my back can handle that.” 

Have I subtly reminded him of his own aging back?  “Also, think about the airport tomorrow.  I know he did some of the airport-walking on the trip up, but he’s not going to be able to do that on the way home.  Think of the distances we walked—we can’t carry him that far.  Both of us will be in back trouble.”

“Okay, let me see what I can find.”  The light bulb is finally floating over his head.

As he leaves, Nathan’s brothers and sisters pepper him with questions about what he’s going to buy.  He’s a little subdued because of the liquid hydrocodone he’s taking, but his familiar sparkle is back.

A few minutes later, Bryan walks out of the store toting a lightweight umbrella stroller, solid red except for the a set of Elmo eyes, nose, and mouth on the canvas back.  Nathan is excited as we help him in, and roll into the toy store.

“I want a Power Wangers Megazord and a morpher,” he says.  Today, we are the Make-A-Wish Foundation for Nathan.

“Here’s your shopping cart, Nathan,” Bryan says, pushing it alongside me as I stroll our boy in.  “Fill it up!”

It’s over.  The storm is finally over.

Second Place

Well Worn Couture

By Mimi Greenwood Knight – Folsom, LA

The first time I saw Dottie, she was a mess—an ever-loving mess. She tottered along hugging herself like she was holding her body parts together. Her make-up looked slept in. Her clothes, which had been the height of fashion at one time, were long out of date, un-ironed, and didn’t look clean. She was puffy and sallow—a do-it-yourself bag lady kit.

          I didn’t want anything to do with that wacky old lady, even less when I heard her story. Although, I have to admit, I was intrigued. I’d grown up in a little Catholic cocoon. My mother and her friends went to church every morning, minded their dozens of children, made cakes for the PTA bake sale, collected Green Stamps, cooked, and cleaned and sang songs about Jesus.

This Dorothy woman had lived a wild life. She’d been what they called in her day a swinger. Raised the daughter of a wealthy doctor, she’d married a couple times—both to affluent men—but always messed around on the side. Apparently a lot. Her last husband had left her for her best friend. Her daddy’s money had run out and, for the first time, she found herself penniless.

Life without country clubs and jaunts to Europe was more than she could stand, so she’d attempted to overdose on sleeping pills. She didn’t die but suffered paralysis on one side of her face. Her speech was slurred and she was perpetually zoned out. That’s why she’d come to work at the dress shop I managed. She was a charity case of her old friend, June, who owned the shop. Dottie was in dire straights and needed a job, so June gave her one, then made her self scarce so she wouldn’t have to deal with her. I was stuck with this lump of former woman and I planned to keep my distance. Little did I know how fond I’d become of her.

Each day, Dottie toddled in funkier than the day before and flopped down on a stool, twitching and mumbling to herself. Sometimes she’d approach a customer, and all but drool on them trying to talk. What could June have been thinking?

Where my mom and her friends wore light makeup in subdued shades, Dottie wore hot pink lipstick and nail polish. Her hair was died tangerine. Her eyeliner swept upward like some kind of exotic dancer—when it wasn’t smeared down one cheek. She wore flashy jewelry and rings on most of her puffy fingers.

While my mom spent her nights sewing clothes for her twelve children, Dottie had danced and partied and run around with any number of men. Some would say she deserved to be where she landed, that she’d made her own bed and now she had to lie in it. I was certainly leaning that way.

It was Jen who took to Dottie first. I was in my early twenties then and finishing up college at night; Jen had just graduated high school and was a freshman at the university. She worked odd hours at the shop between classes and started getting to know Dottie. I’d see the two of them chatting between customers then Jen would relate to me later what the old nut job had told her—much of which was scandalous.

Dottie, we would learn, loved to shock us almost as much as we loved being shocked. The first time the three of us went somewhere together—to see a movie—we drove alongside a large lake. Dottie pointed out the window and said, “Buzzy and I used to drop the kids at the Lake Theater to see a movie then make love out in the water.” Jen and I kicked each other black and blue under the seat. Another time, she pointed out the place where she and her husband had taken dance lessons and told us how she’d made love to the dance instructor in his car, after her husband left at night. We were appalled—and enthralled.

As our friendship developed, Dottie slowly recovered from the effects of her overdose. What a strange threesome we must have made—two college-age girls and a spent old lady being asked to leave a coffee shop because we wouldn’t stop throwing sugar packets at each other or engaging in a spontaneous water fight in a fountain in the middle of the mall.

The thing I loved most about Dottie was she didn’t care what anybody else thought. At the ripe old age of twenty, I cared too much. She let me have it once about my self-consciousness saying, “How conceited are you? Do you really think anybody cares what you wear—or do—or say? Do you think they think about you at all? They’re too busy thinking about themselves. Forget what other people think and enjoy life.” She certainly did.

Her language was peppered with four-letter words which, I was surprised to learn, were not an invention of my generation, like I thought, but had been around for decades. That’s how long Dottie had been using them. She was delightfully irreverent and not afraid of anything.

Dot loved to dance and one night took us to a bar where a dance band was playing. After a few minutes, a handsome business man in a suit approached and invited me onto the dance floor. As I got up to dance, Dottie told me—so loud I was certain the man could hear—“While you’re dancing, whisper in his ear, Did you bring your jammies?”

We took to calling her “Ye Ole Dot,” which she loved, and she even referred to herself that way. I can’t count the times she told us, “You girls saved my life. I’ll never know why you bothered with an old woman like me.” She swore we brought out the kid in her when, in fact, it was the other way around.

She had a succession of elderly beaus whom she kept around as dance partners. She used to tell us, “Girls, it’s one thing to grow old with a man you love. It’s another to fall in love with an old man.”

Dottie never held her tongue—not for anyone. Once when we were out on the town, a policeman stopped her and she read him the riot act. She could ball a person out in such a loving way that they didn’t take it personally. When she was done with that poor man, he skulked back to his patrol car and shot Dottie a sheepish look like he was a five-year-old she’d caught stealing from a cookie jar. Dot offered him a forgiving nod, got in the car and drove away.

The only time I ever saw her down was one night when the three of us went to see a movie. After chasing each other through the dark mall parking lot, hiding behind corners and jumping out to scare each other, we found our way to the cinema where we decided to see On Golden Pond, not sure what it was about. The movie was spectacular and Jen and I got back in the car chattering about this scene and that, how great the acting was and the scenery. We were so keyed up we didn’t realize that Dot wasn’t talking.

After a long silence, she said, “I know you girls enjoyed that movie, and you can because you’re young. But, when you’re as old as me, it’s not fun to watch a story about old people dying.”

Dot? Old?

Our friendship continued for a couple more years. Then Jen went off to seek her fortune in the big city. I got married and started a family. And Dottie went to live with her daughter, four states away. Weekly phone calls and letters became monthly then not much at all. The next time we saw each other was at June’s funeral. Jen had the sheen of the big city on her and I had pictures of my babies.

Dottie hadn’t change—same bald-faced honesty, same irreverent sense of humor, same bon von vivant outlook, same well-worn couture decades out of style. She told us again how we’d saved her life, how she’d had nothing to live for and “these two crazy college kids” gave her a reason to hang around.

I’m a church lady now like my mama. I garden and drive carpools, teach Sunday school and cook for pot luck dinners. Jen’s still climbing corporate ladders and Dot is looking at her last years on earth. We seldom get together. But those carefree days with Dottie left an indelible mark on me. I’m a bit more cheeky, a bit less self-conscious than I might have been. Our unlikely friendship taught me that first impressions don’t mean squat. That person you think isn’t worth your time might add dimension to your world you simply can’t imagine.

Third Place

Seven Days to Chase

By Vicki Hensley – Ocean Springs, MS

Chaser-man, I thought you left me the second that gun misfired. And I knew you hadn't left them. I have pondered why you acted as you did for months. I had already placed the phone call to Mandy, telling her you were hurt. She was on her way to see you. Mandy had made the beginning leg of the trip from Las Vegas to Houston. It was during those early morning hours of the first day, while she was in the air from Houston to Gulfport, that you decided to show up. You stood there quietly and told her, “I have to go.”

She was shocked to see you, but nodded yes to your message. She asked in the middle of that plane, with tears streaming down her face, “What do you need me to do?”

With a resigned sigh you replied, “You have to help them through this, because they are going to take it very hard.”

Still not being able to speak, she nodded “Yes.”

I want you to know she kept her word. Her inner strength was stoical. It was that strength I leaned on when I couldn't cope any longer. It was that strength I relied on rocking in her arms when the depth of my grief had no end. Your beautiful sister rarely left your side. We continued to ask her through those dark hours to take a break. She said, “No” and in a very quiet voice murmured, “He would have done the same for me.”

The third morning you went to see Abby. That makes perfect sense to me, for she is the light of your life. You and Abby talked. What you don't know is Katie heard the conversation. Katie came to me later that morning. She was crying. She told me that when Abby wakes up in the morning, she can hear her through the intercom. She plays in her crib for a while and talks to her stuffed animals. When she is tired of doing that and ready to get out of bed, Katie can hear her saying, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, where you?”

This particular morning she woke to the sound of Abby asking, “Daddy, Daddy, what you doing? Hi Daddy!”

Katie walked into her bedroom and Abby was pointing to a spot in the corner, smiling, and saying, “Daddy!”

She was thrilled you were there and I know she would be one of the last people you would have wanted to see. In your eyes, Abby is your greatest accomplishment.

Katie and I sat on the couch, in that stark hospital waiting room, and cried for the lost time, the bitterness we felt and the hurtful feelings we had towards one another. We realized it had all been a terrible use of time. It was then I explained to her that we never hated her, the custody battle had brought the worst out in all of us. That wasn't our goal. All we wanted to do was love Abby. As we sat together that morning we cried, we hugged, and we apologized to one another. We decided on that third day to let the past go and focus our attention on serving Abby's best interests. Abby didn't have to choose, she could love us all. I want you to know we have kept that agreement.

The fourth night you went to your dad. He arrived at the hospital early the next morning and pulled me outside. He tried to speak. His breakdown shook me to the core. I have never seen him react like that to anything, and I have known your father for twenty-eight years. It took me fifteen minutes to calm him down so I could understand what he was trying to tell me. What he finally managed to relay was you had shown up the night before and you were angry. You were yelling at him, “Dad, what the fuck are you doing? Let me go!”

That would be you Chaser, the language and anger to get your point across. We had a decision to make, the toughest decision a parent ever has to make. You helped us make it. I will tell you, it's not the choice I wanted. I was prepared to take you any way I could have you. But that was me being selfish. Somewhere I had to find the courage to put my desires aside and ask what you wanted. You made it very clear to your dad you wanted to go. If you had come to me, I probably would have argued with you. I think you knew that.

Now that I think back you told me what you wanted two weeks earlier. Did you know? Do you remember? We were having dinner at Mingon's. You were preparing to deploy to Iraq and you mentioned something about making a pact with the guys in your squadron. You were okay coming home with a missing limb, but if you were anything less than the man I had before me, your squadron had all agreed to put the fallen soldier out their misery. You were very matter-of-fact about strapping a grenade to the downed soldier's chest. I was mortified you would be having that kind of conversation with your buddies. I found out later from your father that's pretty normal in the military. You had to face the possibility of your own death. It was not something I wanted you to be thinking about, but I learned that night the National Guard had definitely influenced your way of thinking. You made it clear to me then how you wanted to live your life. Facing it in reality is a different matter.

You came to Mandy again on the sixth day. She was by your bedside when you appeared. You stood on the other side of the bed, smiling at her. You were perfect. No tubes, no life support system, no morphine.

My one question to her was, “Is he happy?”

She answered, “Yes.”

We conversed with the doctors on the sixth day Chase, and they told us there was little hope. You would never have any movement on the right side. All brain activity on that side was gone. Your right eye was blind. The bullet destroyed that. You would never be able to make a sentence or pick up your daughter. You would never be able to feed yourself and never get out of that bed. Your muscles would atrophy. You would always be hooked up to machines. They didn't think you would ever come out of the coma.

I do think you knew I was there. Mine was the only voice you responded to. You would lay quietly until I entered the room. As soon as I spoke you would start moving. There were times when it was just a small movement and there were times when you thrashed so violently, I would have to leave the room. I just wanted you to rest. Sometimes you would squeeze my hand as if to tell me, “I know you are here.” I was living for those moments.

We made the decision every parent dreads and took you off life support in the early hours of the seventh day. I stayed with you until about half an hour before the doctors removed the equipment. You were never alone. Your dad, Mandy, Uncle Dave, Aunt Debbie, and three nurses who had come to know you through us were holding onto you. I couldn't be there and I think you were okay with that.

I believe your uneasy movements was your way of telling me to go. It would be in your nature to protect me. I don't think taking you last breath was something you wanted me to see.

You died on the seventh day. We did what you asked and let you go. I lost part of my soul that morning.

I will never understand the agreement you had with God for leaving so soon. But I accept the fact it is not my purpose to know. And I have learned that death does not frighten me any longer, for you will be the first person to greet me. I have peace in that knowledge.

I want to thank you my darling baby for giving us those seven days to come to grips with what we had to do. I want to thank you for bringing the family together and having one purpose for your daughter. You showed us through your friends what an amazing young man you were. You taught us all how to give of one's life and ask for nothing in return. I think you were working very hard to accomplish your goals before you left. I want you to know you left nothing undone.

And I realize now you were with me the entire way. You came through the people you knew I would heed, to take the steps I needed to take. You surrounded me with the love of family and friends when I needed support. You gently guided my every action so I was led down the path you wanted to go. I have been wrong Chaser, you never left me for a moment.

I will always carry you with me. I will always love you. And when you feel the time is right, come to me and let me know you are okay. I will be waiting.

Love,

Mom

Honorable Mention

Learning Responsibility

By Judy Davies – Gautier, MS

I was 8-years-old; my brother, Jimmy, was six.  For my eighth birthday mother bought me a shiny, wind-up clock of my very own.  It had a large bell on top and a button that pulled up to make the alarm sound at the proper time.  Mother said the clock was to help teach me to become responsible.  I used it every day to get myself and Jimmy up and ready for school.

I used to set the alarm to get up an extra half hour early so I could get dressed for school before I woke Jimmy.  After I woke Jimmy, I would make my bed and then head for the kitchen.  Usually I fixed cereal with milk for us, but occasionally I would make toast and top the slices with wonderful, brown swirls of creamy peanut butter.  I hurried to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes before we brushed our teeth and rushed off to school.  Mother didn’t like a mess.

Mother wasn’t very interested in getting up in the morning.  Most of the time Jimmy and I found her at the kitchen table sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes in her robe when we returned from school each afternoon.  I am sure she was tired after entertaining many men each evening.  We never knew who they were, but she seemed to entertain a lot.

Afternoon was our best time with mother.  Some days we would have cookies and milk together while she looked at our papers from school or we would sing her the new song we’d learned in music class.  Other days she might play a game of “Old Maid” or “Go Fish” with us.

Sometimes mother’s sister came to visit.  She usually didn’t stay long, but Aunt Ida always smelled so good, like sweet perfume; and now and then she brought a bar of chocolate for Jimmy and me to share.  Mother told her she shouldn’t spoil us, but Aunt Ida said an occasional bar of chocolate wouldn’t hurt.  We would usually be sent outside while Aunt Ida and mother visited.  It was our time to run in the back yard or climb a nearby tree.  Sometimes we peered under the porch watching intently to see if we could spot a fat toad in the mud.  Springtime was our favorite.  The trees were beginning to bud and there was usually a light breeze.  The mud in the yard was still cool and just a little mushy, but warm enough for bare feet.  I had to be sure Jimmy and I got all the mud off our feet before we came inside.  Mother didn’t like mud tracked into the house.

Once in a while mother would cook up a nice supper for us, maybe some chicken or stew from a can.  Usually, however, supper was soup or hot dogs.  She taught me how to make a grilled cheese sandwich.  I paid careful attention to her so I could do it just right.  First I put a little butter on the bread, then a slice of cheese, then topped it with another slice of bread and buttered that.  I used the small frying pan just like mother did.  I did them carefully, one at a time, turning each sandwich over gently so the other side could brown.  Mother didn’t like mistakes in the kitchen.  After dinner I carefully washed the plates and silverware, standing them in the dish drainer to dry.  As soon as the frying pan was cool, I washed it, too.

When it grew dark outside, I made sure Jimmy had his bath while mother put on one of her best dresses and got ready to “entertain” for the evening.  Sometimes she

would let me help her choose which dress she would wear.  Mother had an eye for pretty dresses.  Once she took me shopping with her when it was time to buy new ones.

Mother wanted the living room clean and pretty for her guests, so after supper I’d dust the tables and then fluff the pillows on the couch.  Once we visited Aunt Ida’s house.  She had rugs in every room.  We only had one and it was in mother’s bedroom.  Mother said we just didn’t need all that fanciness. 

Jimmy and I had to be in our room before the guests arrived.  We shared the room just past the bathroom and mother’s room was across the hall from ours.  We had an old deck of cards, a bag of marbles and three books, so we had plenty to keep us busy.  I watched my clock for it to settle on 8:00 and then Jimmy and I crawled into our beds for the night.  We wanted to go out to the living room to say goodnight to mother, but by our bedtime her guests had arrived, so we knew it best to stay in our room.  Mother didn’t like to be disturbed when she was entertaining.

One day we returned home from school and mother wasn’t sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee.  I peeked into her room and she was still in bed.  I called to her, but she didn’t answer.  I took Jimmy and we went to the store at the corner and had the lady there telephone Aunt Ida. 

Aunt Ida came a short time later.  She stepped into mother’s room but quickly returned.  She hustled Jimmy and me into her car and we went to the corner store again.  Aunt Ida made a phone call and before long the ambulance came and took mother away.  Aunt Ida explained that mother was very sick. 

         We went back to our house and Aunt Ida helped us gather our clothes and school things together.  She said we could bring our cards and marbles and all three books, too.  She took us with her to stay in the house with rugs in every room.  It was a big house and Aunt Ida said Jimmy and I could each have our own room.  We didn’t see mother again until the following week when Aunt Ida took us to church, and there we said good-bye to mother. 

After the church service Aunt Ida told us that we would live with her from now on.  I was even allowed to bring my clock.  She said that we were very good children and she thought I had become very responsible.  I think mother would have been pleased.