FATED FIRE

FIRE!  His subconscious screamed it first!  FIRE!  Dreams of licking flames, unbearable heat, and airless smog quickly vanished as he became aware of the crackles of flames eating the timbers.  Remnants of the dream saturated his lungs as the lack of oxygen sent arrows of knowledge to his brain.

But the smell stabbed at his head, that unmistakable smell of burning wood, and stench of charred hair, his own.  It startled him completely awake.  FIRE! The word screamed through his body!  And his muscles jerked and his joints came to life, he just about met a worse fate as he half-leapt to exit the circle of flames.

Just as the spikes of fire flickered, he got a quick view of the north.  NOTHING!

Turning his eyes west, NOTHING!  Stumbling a bit more towards the south, NOTHING!  Nothing but blue skies and deep blue seas.   That sorry watery sound was slapping against the boards under his feet.  Then in a glimpse of hope his eyes spied land.  There!  Just to the east.  

And the flames went higher.

With obscured view, what was he to do when the tides were pulling and pushing, tugging and shoving, and sending him out to sea?

His mind wanted to visit and examine the preface to his predicament.  But his self-preservation shrieked for quick action.  Move!  Get out!

They'd put him here, The Others!

They'd thought him immoral.

He wasn't.

They'd declared him guilty.

He wasn't.

They'd pronounced him dead.

He wasn't.

He should've been a swimmer.

He wasn't.

The whole thing seemed a myth!  If only the sea gods, Neptune, Hydrus, Samudra, or Poseidon, could help him now, he wouldn't care which. 

But being a Christian, unlike The Others on shore, he bowed to his God.  Fervently and heatedly he prayed.  Then the answer came.  

"Click-click, click," and there smiling up out of his soon to be watery grave was a gun-metal blue-gray sea creature with a rounded friendly snout.  

A dolphin had come to help him out.

But wait.  There were two.  No, wait.  There were three!

The first offered up the end of a rope.

The second wore a life saver.

The third came in and out of focus, like a dying man's vision.

He laid back down on his pyre of fire and let his hands sag into the salted waters, into the hands of fate.  

VINTAGE OR ANTIQUE? HORSE OR MUSTANG?

In your computer's address bar type in "antique", and believe you me, we're at the age where "vintage" doesn't work, suddenly we have to use ANTIQUE to get the desired results!  

Sure, I know the difference.  Antique collectors everywhere know an item has to be 100 years old to be considered antique.  

Even my great aunt who reached the grand age of 96 couldn't be considered antique.   She was 4 years too young, LOL.  Lately, she'd seen the days of cell phones playing like a radio, showing movies like a television, and alarming you like a pre-set clock.  She'd seen days when a small closet became a bathroom, wall-to-wall carpeting got installed over hardwood, and televisions became the rage. Early in life she'd seen the days of horse & buggies when cars were uncommon, and water hand-pumped into a kitchen's shallow sink.   Now, that's antique!

Anyway, I digress.  On my laptop, I wanted to bring up pictures of old Valentine's.  You probably know the ones, they have a clever saying and a baby faced child, such as a boy on a hobby horse, captioned, "Howdy Pardner, Be My Valentine!"

The word vintage didn't work.  But, boy howdy, type in antique and you get a plethora of Valentine card images.  They're oh, so cute!  

They nod to a gentler and more clever time period.  Even the ones promoting Whitman Samplers and Russell Stover chocolates were mind tingling and taste bud stirring.  And there they were, picture proof examples -- heart shaped boxes with ruffles and flat smashed bows.  

I didn't know the heart-shaped boxes stored in my closet were antique, sheesh!  When did I go from vintage to antique?!   

"Horsin' 'round town, Valentine, please be mine!"  said the next Valentine card.

It's enough to give you an ancient urge to mount a horse rather then rev up a trendy Mustang.

Crack! Gun Shot At The Movies

Crack!  Gun Shot At The Movies

I have to tell you about the "Cra-ack!", the gun shot in the movie theater.  No, it had nothing to do with the gun store down the road called Crack Shot, nor a mass killing.  This was an explosion at the Mounds Mall Movie Theater.  

No sense in even trying to remember the name of the movie.  It’s clean left my mind.  There were several of us; we were between the ages of 15 to 22, and we were with cousin D.K.  D.K. was in a wheelchair and it was her choice to go to the movies.  But she can't take ANY of the blame. I call her D.K. here to protect the innocent.  She was innocent of all showtime tomfoolry.  It was ME! 

 

In those days, our family couldn’t afford the theater’s popcorn and soda pop, so we brought in our own snacks.  And…in those days soda pop only came in glass bottles.  After we’d selected our seats, arranged and rearranged ourselves to sit down, we began passing out the snacks and drinks.  Keep in mind, this was a no-no.  You did NOT bring in your own refreshments!

 

And I probably shouldn’t have.

 

This bottle of 16 oz. diet Pepsi was tucked under my left armpit under my coat.

Well, it slipped.  I couldn’t grab it fast enough.  

It slipped from my armpit right out of my coat.  It fell between the seat and the armrest.  It crashed to the floor.  It hit that cement floor like the sound of a shotgun in a closely confined metal shed!  

KA-BANG!  Shatter!  Splat!  

Liquid and glass, everywhere!

 

And us?  We sat there stiff as mannequins; stiff as mannequins in double-starched clothes, hoping to high heaven know one knew it was us.  We weren’t moving.  We weren’t speaking.  And we weren’t looking at each other.  

And to this day, I don’t know how we didn’t give ourselves away by our laughter as we were exiting.  We couldn't snicker or giggle, no, nothing as quiet as that, we couldn't keep it in.  With hands over our mouths, and heads bent down, we laughed out loud.  

How did the ushers not know where that awful, ringing-from-the rafters sound came from!

KA-BANG!  SHATTER!  SPLAT!

 

But what a memory!  

I Just Saw An Angel!

I JUST SAW AN ANGEL!

As we turned the corner, my son pointed it out.  It was golden, it was 5 feet tall, and it was overhead looking down at us.

My son directed my eyes upwards to where it was sitting atop a shelf, looking down, but what I saw was...two little rounded gold cheeks...butt cheeks!  

We had to go around another corner in the antique store to come upon the angel's front side.  With bow and arrow, cupid couldn't have been more impressive!

MOTHER'S ANGELS?  NOT!

The ending?  Bus driver said, "I'm checking for shoe laces.  Whoever doesn't have any is getting reported to their mother!"

The story?  The bus driver kept seeing something in his rearview mirror outside the bus, first to the left,  then it'd disappear, then to the right.  Upon investigation, three boys in the back of the bus had tied their shoe laces all together into one long rope.  Then they tied one end around the neck of Barbie!   She used to be a little girl's angel, but this poor Barbie doll suffered road rash; it took out the left boob!  

COULD IT BE...ANGEL'S FEET?

Current new restrictions on the bus due to the Coronavirus Flu include 1 child per seat unless related, and everyone wears a face mask.  Old restrictions still in force include no yelling, stay in your seat and stay seated.  The children were rowdy, so bus driver John, my own dear hubby, picked up the mic, "Sit on your back pockets, please, and feet on the floor!"

Next time he looked up, into his large rectangular rearview mirror, about six of them had their feet up on the backs of the green seats in front of them.  His view was of shoe bottoms.  But...the kids were giggling.  He took another look.  Feet were on the ground...but, they had taken off their shoes and put them on their hands!  

ANOTHER ANGEL IN CHURCH!

Miss Lilly came up the stairs at church to go to her pew with her family, and the whole congregation, full of smiles, turned to look, and they laughed out loud.  

Before she reached the top step to the sanctuary with a white stuffed animal, light fury dragon's tail swinging from her hand, she proclaimed in a very loud voice, so innocently and so fully happy, "Here I am, everybody!" 

Ah, a Lil' Angel!

Knock 'em Dead!

Applause, applause, applause!  

Here she comes, the female comedian we've paid money to see.  She's strutting out on stage all animated, heels and bling, flounces and frills, and she comes right up to the microphone.  We're clapping and clapping as she takes the mic from the stand and carries the stand off stage right.  Coming back center stage, she's grinning, and waving, and nodding hello, eyes all aglow -- we just know she's going to entertain us.  We're going to leave happy tonight.   We're just waiting for her first words.

Surprisingly, not at all feminine, but in a low guttural growl-like voice, she says, 

"Hi.  I'm Batman."

Laugher erupts!

As it's dying down, she looks around, particularly at the women, "That's how my husband, the Batman, greets me after running around all night, believe that? After running around all night and coming home in the early morning hours, he says, "Hi.  I'm Batman!"  Does yours?  Does yours say...and she lowers her voice again, 

"Hi.  I'm Batman."

Then she says, "I'm looking at this stud with his hands on his hips and flexing his pecs, and I chuckle.  He's so full of confidence on a victorious high.  Why, he vanquished the enemy last night, a Gotham City foe!"

She gazes at the audience with a chuckle, "You should hear what he's nicknamed them - Riddler!  Joker!  Penguin!" 

"Oh, My!  What's next, Catwoman?"

The crowd laughs.

She continues, with mic to lips,  "As I said, this morning he's feeling puffed up --  proud, and full of himself.  But I've got to do it. (she shakes her head in mild regret) I've just got to do it.  I look him dead in the eyes, after I step up on a footstool of course, then I look him dead in the eyes and give him the punch....."

 And thus began the show -- with uproarious laughter -- 'cause she said, 

"Hi. I'm RAID!  I knock 'em dead!"  

  

WITH A LITTLE KICK

The First Kick

Popping into Dollar Tree at Hamilton Town Centers I was struck by the dirty floor.  When I asked if they sold saline solution for contacts, the cashier directed me to the manager who was focused on his cell phone and seemed to be pacing.  

He briefly gave me eye contact, then pointed and led the way.

As I was leaving, I noticed a Help Wanted sign which explained the dirty floor, and picked up an application.

On a lark, I went to the car, filled it out to the best of my memory, leaving some things blank.

When I presented it to him, he asked, "When are you available?"  I replied, "Tomorrow!  I'm a stay-at-home mom."

Next day, I worked my first shift.  He came up to say, "Can you come back this afternoon?  Go home, take a nap and come back."  Wow!  I worked a double my first day!   To be fair, they were desperate for help.

Well, it wasn't long before I figured out who was who, including a little sprite of a lady that was my manager on the evening shift.  We were the only employees at closing and she was reconciling my drawer.

Then she got nervous, then she started pacing, then she got on the phone and continued pacing.  She said my drawer was 87 dollars short.  

NO WAY!  I've been a cashier at Wal-Mart, and have 3 yard sales every summer.  I know how to take cash and give change!  I wouldn't be happy at being off by a penny!

Well, after much searching all over the cash register area, where we put money in a secret drawer, under the change drawer, and even the trash can, we never found it.  She called the boss.  Much secret talking took place, and then she confessed -- she added it up all wrong!  Of course she did!

The Second Kick

Christmas rush at Dollar Tree found us running 4 registers and I was going as fast as I could trying to keep up with the beep-beep-beeping of the scanners of the other more experienced cashiers.  One short dark-haired female customer complained as I looked up to tell her her total.  I looked expectantly for her to hand me either cash, card, or check.  She said, "You are the rudest cashier I've ever met.  I'll not come here ever again!"  

Wow, was I stunned!  I'd just been doing my job, too focused, I guess.  Jen, my shift manager, came over, smoothed ruffled feathers and told me not to worry about it.  "Keep going", she instructed, "she was probably having a bad day."

The Third Kick

I'd put in bold plain writing on my application that I would not/could not work Sundays.  The boss said I'd have to.  I said I couldn't, that it was on my application when he hired me.  He said, "You and I will have to do some more DEEP thinking on this!"  Well, he called headquarters and I don't know what was said, but I was never scheduled for another Sunday.

The Fourth Kick

The boss invariably scheduled me to open.  As he bustled from the office to the back to unload freight, I was told to quickly fill helium balloons enough to fill the ceiling corral, refill all the reading glasses display, sweep the front door area, fill the WOW (first) table with specialty product, and put 2 boxes of broom handles and broom heads together.  His answer was "All of them!" when I asked in surprise, "Which one do you want me to do first?"  

He was gone.  

My goal was always to beat him - to get all the tasks done before he and the fellows got the freight unloaded.  I would win.

With A Little Kick

Finally, I got a name tag.  White plastic, it was, with green stripe on top, green stripe on bottom, I.D. number in Sharpie on the corner, and my name in the middle.  The L in Pamela wasn't aligned.  It leaned a little to the left, the lower stroke aimed upward.  The boss apologized for not applying it correctly.  I laughed, thought of the little quirks in my employment and said, "That's all right.  Pamela, an L with a little KICK, huh?"  As his eyes met mine, they crinkled at the corners, he smiled and said, "Exactly!"  

I stayed on for another year.

STORYTELLERS, GRANDKIDS ARE STORYTELLERS

Okay, you've read the title and you're agreeing -- kids are storytellers.  You've raised 2 year olds, 5 year olds, 4 year olds and 1 year olds, and maybe even some teenagers, so you know they tell stories for different reasons, but I'll bet you're not gonna guess this one.

A five year old doesn't want to disappoint you, "I know how to zip my coat myself" while struggling to get the ends inserted.   A one year doesn't know the difference, especially if he's still in the ma-ma da-da grunting stage.  A 4 year old doesn't want disciplined for running over bubby's toes.  And a 2 year old thinks if she says she didn't do it, you'll just believe her because she believes it her self.

They just dream it up! 

And that's where we're at.  They dreamed it up.

It started with flashlights.  Yes, there are many flashlights in this house -- penlight, household, minature, mag lites --we have 'em.  

When Jacob carries his black and yellow trimmed one around and drops it, it comes apart in 6 pieces --including the 2 batteries.  When Alayna says, "Tooh heav-ee", we exchange her mag lite for a regular household silver one.

Now, these are grandkids, so as their grandma I have no clue where the idea comes from for them to set the stage by turning on their flashlights.  They pressed them to their chins to light up their faces like creepers at a window!  The flashlight lights up their nostrils, gives them black circles around their eyes, and makes their eyes look thin like slits over black orbs.  Creepy.

After a long couple hours where they have gone from one interesting toy to another, you'd think with wings on their feet for extra speed, John and I are glad to sit and listen to these little storytellers.  

Earlier at the supper table Alayna told us "When Jay was a baby-baby, a little baby, him crawl, him walk" and she goes back to slurping spaghetti noodles.  (BTW, Jay's five and going to Kindergarten.). 

Jay, not to be left out, "When I was three and a baby, to count I said, "Goo-goo, goo, goo, goo."  

I'm sure he did!

As storytelling goes, the 3 year old girl, climbs 3 steps up the stairs, swings her arms 3 times, swi-ing, swi-ing, swi-ing, jumps off the step, lands on all fours, then when she pops up, she tells a big one, "It doesn't hurt."

We had a good half hour or so of playing hide and seek.  THEY CAN'T HIDE WITHOUT GIGGLING!  If we didn't fudge a little bit ourselves, there'd never be time spent on hunting toddlers, they're too, too easy to find!  I instructed them several times, "No sounds, no gasping breaths, no giggles.  Sit still; your clothes are making sounds.  Don't push the couch out, grandpa will hear the scraping legs.  Shhhhh."

But Jay couldn't stand it, he tells all, and loudly,  "We're hiding in the living room!"

Back in the family room, grandparents taking a sit-down rest, grandkids excited and cross-talking with their flashlights poised, Jay begins.

"Once upon a time, I had to see what's up there. (Jay points to the stairwell.)  It comes out in the night.  Everybody has to go out.  Out into the night.  Catch Bigfoot!  He boo-ed at me.  He ate the others.  We went running and he caught ME.  And he pulled me down.  And I shined a flashlight in his eyes.  I save people."

He pauses ever so briefly, "Being brave was so good.  The end."

LOL, being brave is good, very good!  Even if to feel brave, you have to be a storyteller.