Pastel Still Life

GRIETJE, DEAR…WERE YOU REALLY A PROSTITUTE?

What an interesting ancestor I have found for myself. An early colonist in New Amsterdam before it was taken over by the British. Married to the son of a PIRATE whose father was Dutch and whose mother was likely a Moor and his Moroccan concubine. And then, check this out…the ancestor colonist, Grietje Reiniers (also spelled Reyniers), was tried as a prostitute!! Her husband, Anthony Janszoon van Salee was the first known Muslim in the colonies and was wealthy to boot probably as a result of his pirate father’s plunder. Quite a story, right?

Besides me, she is the ancestor of such eminent and interesting folks as Jackie Bouvier Kennedy, Cornelius Vanderbilt, and Humphrey Bogart. According to my current research, this fascinating woman would be my 10th great grandmother. Yeah, that’s a long ways back but I got really excited about the prospect anyway until I realized there’s a significant portion of these connections which have nary a shred of documentation verifying the links. There isn’t even any documentation to build a case connecting me to them based on the preponderance of evidence. So, I’m beginning a journey to see if I can find the evidence to make the connections and I’ll keep you in the loop as I go along. I would love it if, as I’m digging into the past, I learn of someone who’s already done much of the work.

Here’s a link to a PBS Frontline article about the pirate, his son and the alleged prostitute, if you are interested.

And below I will post the unproven connections from me to her.

Janelle Tapscott (me)
Shirley Snyder (mom)
Maysia Arends (grandmother)
Asia May Johnson (great grandmother)
James Johnson (great great grandfather)
Elizabeth Hamilton (3rd great grandmother)
James Hamilton (4th great grandfather)

Connections get a little muddier with this guy, James, and by Grietje, everything could be suspect. 

Sarah Westfall (5th great grandmother 1751-1785)
Catherine Emmons (or Emans) (6th great grandmother 1730 to 1787)
John Emans (7th great grandfather 1694 to 1732)
Abraham Emans (8th great grandfather 1670 to 1756)
Sarah A Van Salee (9th great grandmother 1635 to 1720)
Grietje Reiniers (10th great grandmother 1602 to 1666)

If It’s Raining, You Must Be In Seattle

Here in the Pacific Northwest we have basked in the most unusual summer this year (2013). It has been sunny and the sunshine has lasted months! Everyone used sunscreen but still some people got sunburned. Some people bought shorts. Everyone wore sunglasses and looked like anonymous rock stars (at least they thought they did). Meeting and greeting someone always involved amazement and sheer disbelief that Seattle would ever experience such a continuously wondrous and golden time. Day after day after day, the sun smiled upon us. It was unsettling. Some people blamed the Democrats and some people blamed the Republicans. Some people thought the end of the world had arrived. Nobody believed it would last forever and in fact…

The rains have returned. The soft grey sky, behind which we always knew the sun lived but we rarely saw, that sky once again covers our light and rapidly fading tans, cloaks and nurtures us with familiarity and drops blips of moisture upon our heads. Weird, huh? Life is becoming normal again. We don’t have to postpone something urgent indoors because the sun is shining. (And for the record, we NEVER postpone anything just because it’s raining!) We can tuck away the colorful clothes and return to our usual drab adornments that match the dull sky or the ground. We can read and knit and watch football (on tv) and quit trying to master barbecuing. We can go to museums and galleries and coffee shops. We can plan trips to sunny spots for January, February or March when the grey skies no longer seem like a cushy blanket but like a straight jacket.

It really is kind of that way in Seattle. You’re born here and don’t know any different. You move here and get used to it…or you move away. For us “rain-hards”, rain isn’t just rain, though. Like there are many shades of green, so there are many kinds of rain. I wish every kind of rain had descriptive names and I think it would be a valuable service for some philanthropist to offer a prize for the most creative new words for different types of rain. (For instance, I couldn’t find a word for the sideways rain that accompanies hard or gusty winds, but we get that all the time.) Lacking more, here’s a run-down of a few “standard “ types of rain.

1. Drizzle is a light liquid precipitation consisting of liquid water drops smaller than those of rain - generally smaller than 0.02 in diameter. Now, this definition comes from Wikipedia and they got it from the some meteorological dictionary and it surprised me to read it because to me, a drizzle is like a constant drip with no beginning and no ending. I envision it as the “string theory” come to life. Clearly, officially, I am wrong, but the word…say it…DRIZZLE…to me it’s like continuously runny snot from a person with a cold or apply that to rain…continuously dripping precipitation.

2. Mist is a “phenomenon” (the person couldn’t mean mist is a “marvel” because in Seattle it is pretty common and therefore, not such a marvel) caused by small droplets of water suspended in air. It can occur as part of natural weather and is common in cold air above warmer water. Despite being common, mist is mysterious. Taking a walk in mist means coming home as wet as if you’d gone swimming and not bothered to dry off. AND if mist is accompanied with FOG…well, suspense novelists use this form of precipitation to allow a murderer to disappear despite an entire police force out looking for the killer.

3. Other terms involve where and how extensive rain is include, sprinkles, showers, off and on, deluge, monsoon, and soaker. There are no official definitions of these terms.

4. Finally, back to more official descriptions of rainfall intensity based on the rate of precipitation and again from Wikipedia and the U.S. meteorological people: • Light rain — when the precipitation rate is < 0.098 inches per hour • Moderate rain — when the precipitation rate is between 0.098 inche - 0.30 inches or 0.39 inches per hour • Heavy rain — when the precipitation rate is > 0.30 inches per hour, or between 0.39 inches and 2.0 inches per hour • Violent rain — when the precipitation rate is > 2.0 inches per hour

And so, the day after the vernal equinox, that is the first official day of fall, Seattle quit pretending to be something it’s not and returned to doing what it does best—smile though the rain is falling (or was that though your heart is breaking?) Whatever. Just go “Singin’ in the Rain,” ok?

40 Years? Shadle Park High School Reunion

By 11 o’clock Friday night I had no doubt my physical body and mental alertness were 58 years old. But the point of the evening’s celebrations was to honor the 18-year-old buried deep within, right? Recalling that “girl,” persisting just a few moments longer, was exhilarating and I didn’t want to give it up quite yet. The clock hadn’t struck midnight, the coach hadn’t reverted to a pumpkin, the DJ music played on, the food was delectable, I pried my eyes open by sheer will and then “La Bamba” or George Thorogood or “Light My Fire” played and we all jumped (hobbled?) up to dance.

Just hours before I was wondering who would be there? And would I be able to recognize anyone? Forty years is a long time and people age. I’ve been coloring my hair for so long I don’t know what color it really is now. (After reading Nora Ephron’s book, I Feel Bad About My Neck, I figure I’ve got another 20 years of hair coloring to look forward to, which should suggest a long term investment strategy for purchase of stocks if anyone is interested.) Still, my skin is not “plump” with natural collagens, the lips are less defined, the circles under the eyes a little darker or bigger or both, and as they say, aging is not for sissies. (Those 5 women who have obviously made a Faustian-like deal with the devil and look like they are just turning 21, they don’t count.)

So, the routine went like this: Walk up to someone, stare deeply into his or her face to discern any recognizable feature, dig way back in the memory for a name, glance down (as surreptitiously as possible) at the name tag, and go back to the rolodex in the brain to connect the name to a factoid. I swear it was tiring. If the nametag didn’t have a little Highland symbol, I knew he or she was a spouse and I couldn’t POSSIBLY have known anything about them, and that was a relief. And if all my efforts produced not a shred of recognition or recollection, the same thing was happening to the person in question and we both said simultaneously, “Well, with 737 people in our graduating class, how could we possibly know everyone” whereupon we’d shake hands, introduce ourselves and meet a new friend. How else could it go, I ask you?

I don’t think anyone threw out his/her back dancing. I personally got a little winded, but since it was mostly group dancing, I could sit down whenever. Somehow, sadly, I missed the conga-line. That really looked like fun.

The food was, in a word, delicious. It seemed like every hour we were being offered new, tasty morsels. Fortunately, I’d suspended my Weight Watchers membership for the week and allowed myself the luxury of tasting everything…until it came to the beans, which looked wonderful and I love beans, but, … and the ribs. Denying myself the beans was one thing, but I really love bar-b-qued ribs, so I decided if I could find a toothpick before the meal began, or if I could get access to one, I would have a rib. I promise you, at 18 years old that would not have crossed my mind, but then my teeth weren’t so problematic. Fortunately, a Highlander with a heart and a similar problem came to my rescue and I enjoyed the ribs.

At 8 o’clock the facility was packed. By 9:30 after the food had been served the space seemed slightly less crowded. By 10:30 the crowd was definitely thinning out, though a number of people remained. I, myself, was reminded by the internal clock that messes me up whenever I travel to a different time zone that I should be in bed because 10:00 is bedtime, but I was able to shut off that reverse alarm or at least push the pause button for a while. A little more water, another sweet desert, then, a tasty taco, more conversation (I’d given up dancing by then), and it was 12:30. A new day, another fond memory, but definitely time to call it good.

Back in Seattle, it’s Monday morning. We just had 2 deafening claps of thunder and now a rainstorm of grand proportions. I hope everyone returned home safely; that all people reconnected with that amazing “tartan” thread of the past that keeps us grounded; that we are all nestled into the present and continue down the path of life that is good and true. See you in 10?

THANKS TO ALL THE SPHS 1971 REUNION COMMITTEE and Mitch for his generosity, and Kerry for her organizational skills, and Pat for making nametags big enough for us to read and the toothpick and everyone else for set-up, clean up, the In Memoriam film…love to all.

FRIEDA

Frieda
By Janelle Kingsley and Sergeant David Johnson
Copyright 2007

Since Ben’s death, Frieda sometimes experienced the world as a fragmenting digital image—those disconcerting moments when the DVD stops and then seems to break apart in Lego shaped chunks only to return to action and wholeness a second later. That’s what happens when your child dies before you do, she would think. Sometimes she would cry inconsolably, always alone, because she didn’t want people to see her, but since that, too, was unpredictable, Frieda spent more and more time alone.
___________

“Bryan sent us an e-mail,” Wes told her. “I left the computer on.”

Frieda padded quietly into their office, once Ben’s bedroom. Would we have left his room untouched, she wondered, if we had known he wouldn’t return? The computer screen still alive with the message, their link to Bryan, said: “Hi Mom and Dad, Things are fine here. Winter snows finally moved in. Upstate New York sucks. I’ll call this weekend. Love, Bryan”

Bryan is such a good son. Just like Ben. Then the inevitable thought…one mistake and Ben’s life stopped.
So many whys. Why did Ben drink and drive that night? It was never clear to her whether he had fought with his girlfriend, Colleen, and that had caused him to make a single deadly choice. He was smarter than that. He had such potential. Colleen had said something that caused her to think a simple spat might have been the reason. She’d said, “If only I hadn’t gone out with my friends that night.” Was that what she said? That didn’t seem right. Another one of those times when defragging the brain’s memory would be a good thing. Thoughts that loop continuously— just no good.

Frieda left the bedroom returning to the kitchen where Wes sat at the table. “Short note.”

“Yeah, he says things are fine.” Wes sipped his coffee, decaf now that it was early evening.

__________

When Ben died all the credit union employees had pitched in to support Frieda and Wes. They had a meal chart and every night like magic a delicious home cooked dinner appeared. Sometimes it was just a pizza delivered, that’s true, but still, it was warm and Frieda hadn’t lifted a finger. People had said Ben would have gone places, destined for great things. Bryan had come home from Iraq then, too, because they let you come home for bereavement of a nuclear family member. Sometimes Frieda laughed thinking about how President Bush would say “nucular” family member. Well, Bryan had come home and Ben’s body was now ashes in a box and her coworkers had brought lots of food.

Bryan had come home; his tour of duty was almost over when Ben died, but after the funeral he had stayed for just two weeks (generous of them) returning to Iraq for a final agonizing month. Frieda had taken a full month off herself before returning to work. Wes had gone back to work after just a week at home. Insurance sales never stopped.
__________

Sometimes, when thoughts seemed to spiral out of control, Frieda would try to practice progressive relaxation. It was something she’d learned from her mother when she was a young child and couldn’t go to sleep. “Start with your feet, your toes, Frieda. Think about a warm wave of sunlight on your toes, penetrating all through your toes. Your toes become as light as the sunlight passing through them. So light that they are like helium balloons. Now, that warm wave of sunlight spreads upward onto and into the soles and arches of your feet.” She could hear her mother’s voice reciting the relaxation mantra, but her mind would not be tamed so easily nor would her body relax. Instead she’d slip into a mental photo album to watch an endless series of images showing her the life of Ben from birth to high school. Her baby. Her little boy.
Bryan, her older son was left, but he was physically far away in upstate New York at Fort Drum. When her thoughts turned to Bryan a quickness of breath, a thumping of her heart resulted. She hadn’t been able to protect Ben though he had lived in the same state. Bryan, so far away and with a full year of his enlistment to go…

In the news she heard that the military was instituting a “Stop-Loss” program. While Frieda hadn’t examined its full ramifications, she knew it wasn’t good.
__________

Moses Lake is practically the center of Washington State— sort of like Kansas to the United States. Like Kansas, Moses Lake is “Heartland”. Of course the Spanish-speaking population had always lived in the area at least seasonally, and like the rest of the U.S. that number was increasing significantly. As Heartland and small town, the people support more conservative values. They go to church and they take note of who doesn’t attend any house of worship. Not attending church, especially if one were a newcomer to Moses Lake, might make a person suspect. Frieda figured that didn’t apply to Mexicans, because everyone knew they were all Catholics and would “monitor” their own. But, when Frieda stopped going to church, Pastor Dave, that pinnacle of faith, hope, and charity came to Frieda to ask if he could be of assistance.

“Have you prayed for the peace that Jesus can give?” Pastor Dave inquired. “Have you asked forgiveness for your sins and God’s grace to fall upon you?” These were the kinds of questions Pastor Dave asked.

At first Frieda was polite, offering him coffee but not really listening to what he said. Later, as his words penetrated her fog of despair, she began to have questions of her own. “What is God doing on earth? Why would my son be killed in a car accident?” But it wasn’t until much later that she began to accuse God of betraying his creation—if indeed we were his creation—if indeed there was a God.
__________

After one month of mourning, Frieda went back to work. Qualifying customers for loans (or not, as the case may be) immediately occupied her thoughts, but once a loan had been processed her mind wandered.

What was Wes thinking, she wondered. Sometimes Wes had a look of anguish on his face. Sometimes. But he didn’t talk about Ben, so if that was the cause of anguish she didn’t know. After Bryan joined the military, when Ben was the only child at home, father and son went camping a couple of times. They seemed to have shared that activity happily. Moses Lake didn’t have a big sporting goods store, so they did their shopping for equipment on-line. The Pasayten Wilderness provided rich hiking and camping spots. Maybe they were in some way empathizing with Bryan training for or in Iraq; though camping in the Washington Cascades could not be anything like Iraq. Ben and Wes, father and son. Now it was simply father.

Frieda’s thoughts flitted from subject to subject, and then shattered into pixels. They reformed with a slightly different perspective. Co-workers often had to call her name several times to get her attention.
__________

“Frieda, the show’s starting,” Wes called from the TV room.

What were they watching? She remembered making sort of a “date” with Wes to watch a TV show. They would sit in the TV room, watch the show, and avoid conversation. Part of her wanted to talk, to know what Wes was experiencing. Was it the same thing she felt? Was he empty, angry, helpless?

After she sat down she stole a glance at Wes. Attractive, middle-aged, in pretty good shape. What did he think about her? Did he think about her?

The show was something medical—a new version of ER, which was a new version of St. Elsewhere, which was a new version of Marcus Welby, MD, which was a new version of Dr. Kildaire. This one was called Grey’s Anatomy and it starred young, high-energy actors. They watched it because it was set in Seattle. Shows set in Seattle, like Frasier, were fun because they’d been to some of the places. But really, the shows were filmed in California for the most part. Still…
__________

Susan, one of her closest friends, called. “Do you want to go shopping? I was thinking about driving to Spokane tomorrow.”

Did she want to go shopping? Not particularly. But she should probably get out of town for a brief while. What could she buy? Something for Bryan? It was awhile since she’d heard from Bryan. It felt like there was something he wasn’t telling her. How much longer was his enlistment? Six months. He’d enlisted in August, 2004 for 3 years. August, 2005 he’d gone to Iraq. June, 2006, he’d come back when Ben died. Finally, August, 2006 he returned to the states, but he still had a year of training and whatever soldiers did when they were stationed at their fort. Bryan should be coming home in 4 months.

“Do you want to go shopping?” Susan asked again.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry, my connection was cutting out there.” That was a common statement Frieda made these days.

Later she told Wes that the next day she’d be going to Spokane with Susan. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

“Maybe. Let me think about it.”

“What would you like to do for dinner?” Frieda didn’t really want to cook, but she would if Wes wanted something.

“Let’s go get a drink and some food at the resort,” Wes suggested.

“Well, that’s the best idea you’ve had for awhile. I’ll go freshen up.”

Funny idea, freshening up. What did that entail? Brushing her hair, maybe; using the curling iron if it were flat or straight. Splashing water on her face and reapplying make-up where it had faded away. A new blouse—something more like evening wear.

When they got to the resort even though it was early still, the lounge was fairly crowded. Start of the weekend. Happy hour. Wes ordered a martini; Frieda ordered a Manhattan. They decided on an appetizer of stuffed mushroom caps and artichoke dip with sourdough baguette slices.

At first they just looked around at the people in the bar. Wes recognized someone and said Hi. Selling insurance meant acknowledging people all the time. They sipped their drinks.

Finally with true interest, Frieda asked him, “So how are you?” She thought they’d been playing it safe long enough. They weren’t in front of the TV; they’d had some booze.

“What do you mean?” Wes asked evasively.

“Well, we just haven’t really talked for awhile.” How honest did she want to be? The gin was warming her insides, making her feel safe and reckless. “More than awhile. Since Ben died.” She looked up from her glass but Wes was looking at his lap.

Wes didn’t respond immediately. Then, she could see him retreat. He wasn’t going to say anything. “I’m ok. Work’s ok. Implementing some new sales incentives.” As an afterthought he asked, “How are you?”

Such a letdown. Frieda had wanted a connection, a link. She yearned deeply to remove this feeling of aloneness, this life in the bottom of a well. But Wes had closed the door she’d tried to open. Maybe another time.

“Yeah, I’m ok, too. Work’s fine. Interest rates creeping up, but it so far it hasn’t had much affect on loan applications.” She took another sip. “Have you thought of anything you’d like me to get in Spokane tomorrow?”

“Well, if you get to Aunties, I’d like the book The Lay of the Land, the new one by Richard Ford. I suppose I could order it from Amazon, but if they have it that would be quicker.”

“Ok, I’ll look for it.” They retreated into their own thoughts. After more superficial conversation and food, they returned home.
__________

The dream of a phone ringing—or the reality of a phone ringing. Frieda woke up, looked at the clock. 3:30 a.m. Too early to get up. Don’t want to wake Wes. Lying in bed was also a repellant thought. It would be too much thinking, that horrible circular thinking that reminded her of a purgatory terrace in Dante’s Inferno.

Everything in the news lately disturbed her. The relief efforts by the federal government to help the victims of Katrina, for instance, were so pathetic. Miles Granger, a long-time family friend, had taken his vacation and traveled to New Orleans to provide what aid he could. That happened about the time of Ben’s death. Frieda hadn’t got to tell him what a great kindness she thought that was.

And all the dire environmental predictions. You didn’t have to be a scientist to notice a significant weather change that was resulting in increased floods and unpredictable animal behavior.

Looming over everything was the Iraq War. Frieda would end this war without a thought. She would bring home all the American soldiers to their wives and mothers. She would organize a charity to help the mothers and wives of Iraqis who had died because of the war. Though some Americans failed to distinguish between Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, Frieda wasn’t one of them. She could never figure out how we got involved in a war in Iraq when we hadn’t completed the efforts in Afghanistan. Whenever she thought about the war she thought about Bryan. Four months, he should be home, or out of the army anyway.

The phone rang. So it hadn’t been a dream. Why hadn’t Wes heard the phone? Frieda grabbed the receiver from the nightstand.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Bryan, hi. How are you? I was just lying in bed thinking about you.”

“I can’t talk long. We’re getting ready to go to Louisiana for specialized training. We’ll be leaving in about an hour and I won’t get to talk with you for a few weeks.” Bryan’s voice was steady, unemotional.

“Why are you doing that? What’s the point? You’ll be coming home soon, so why give you any specialized training?” A sense of dread wrapped Frieda, completely, a cocoon shroud that did not allow movement or breath.

“My enlistment time has been extended, Mom. I’ll be going back to Iraq for 15 months after we finish this training.”

“Bryan, you can’t be serious. This can’t be happening. You didn’t re-up or whatever they call it did you?”

“No, mom, I didn’t. But they have me. They own me. They’ve got me for up to 8 years and I’m not too happy about it.”

“I can’t believe this. Will you be able to come home at all?”

“Yeah, I’ll get to come home before I go. Listen Mom, I’ve gotta hang up now. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. I love you.”

“Ok, ok, I love you too, Bryan. I just don’t get it.” But the phone had gone dead.

A cold chill ran through her. What is going on? What kind of insanity is this? Bryan’s been to Iraq. Bryan’s done his thing. This isn’t like WWII where every enlisted man signed up for the duration. Then, Frieda realized Wes wasn’t in bed. Where was he? What was going on?

She climbed out of bed to locate Wes. He must be somewhere in the house. The living room lamp was on. Wes sat in a chair, his head hanging down, supported by his hand on his chin.

“Wes,” she began tentatively so as not to startle him. He looked up; eyes red. “Wes, Bryan just called.”
He didn’t respond. Frieda continued, “He’s being deployed to Iraq again.” Because this wasn’t yet reality for Frieda, she could say the words without emotion.

After what seemed an hour, Wes replied, “Yes. I talked to him before you did. I was in here unable to sleep and answered this phone. I told him I couldn’t tell you and that he should call back. I wouldn’t answer the phone, but you would.”

“But Wes, this is insane. This is crazy. Bryan just signed up for one tour of duty, one year to risk his life for America, one year to help the Iraqis. Why is this happening?”

“I don’t have an answer, Frieda. I don’t have an answer.” Then, he buried his face. “I’ve lost a son and now my other son is being placed in great danger for a second time. Somehow this all must be my fault.”
__________

Morning arrived, but Wes and Frieda didn’t notice. They hadn’t slept. It became clear to Frieda that all their non-communication resulted from Wes’s inability to articulate his own inner landscape concerning Ben and Bryan. Even through these long hours till morning Wes didn’t speak much. Frieda, however, was beginning to understand her feelings and the need for some action.

Late for work, but what did that matter, really? That became the question she was compelled to answer. What did matter, really? The disorientation, the digital chunks were gone replaced with a sense of urgency to discover some solution, some action that she must take to prevent Bryan from returning to Iraq. That was what mattered. It had to be possible to stop him from being sent there again. It had to be.

Bryan was unable to call from this training camp in Louisiana. Wes, what could Wes do? He was struggling with his own feelings at this point. It was up to Frieda to find an answer.
__________

The journey of discovery was made much easier by the internet. Frieda began by searching “opposition to Iraq War”. This yielded a number of articles including something on Wikipedia, a site called Global Policy Forum, polls by CNN and Christian Science Monitor stating that more than 60% of the population feels the war in Iraq is making us less safe, not safer. Information on these sites only strengthened Frieda’s resolve; most nations of the world, it seems, were against our actions in Iraq. Many key politicians, nearly all Democrats, had reservations, but they weren’t willing to say “Get out now!” like she thought we should.

Frieda encountered the passion of Cindy Sheehan on the internet, but much to her dismay discovered that Sheehan was pulling out of her anti-war activities because she’d lost everything: her husband, her house, many friends and relatives who did not condone her actions. So, having lost a son to the war was not a sufficient sacrifice. Cindy, though, had developed a plan. She had camped out across from the President Bush’s Texas ranch hoping for an opportunity to tell him that her son’s death was rapidly becoming insignificant because we are remaining in the country after the “goal” has been accomplished. What a terrible shame that such a great soul should be shut down. Frieda felt such a kinship with Cindy. But she didn’t want the kinship to be so strong that Bryan’s death was the link.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Frieda googled every term she could think of which related to opposition to the war. She discovered Women in Black, an international group of women who protest war, violence, rape, all manner of horrible acts of mankind, by dressing completely in black and standing silently while holding posters stating NO WAR or NO WAR IN MY NAME. Though she felt this was an admirable movement, creating a “dark presence” in Moses Lake to increase awareness of the horrible crimes of humanity, her need was much more urgent.

Code Pink’s grassroots mission was stated, “With efforts in social and political activism and direct action, we are geared toward creating a national and global community absent of war and crimes toward humanity.” This, too, was appealing, but for the future. Not for now.

Frieda put her efforts into letter writing to her Senators and House Representative.

Another plan involved Bryan heading for Canada, in fact, she’d drive him. By 2005, two years before, over 5,500 soldiers had gone AWOL. What must the number be now? A sort of “underground railroad” had formed like that which helped slaves escape from the South to the North. Some lawyers were even assisting soldiers in their attempts to get out legally or illegally.

Frieda learned of a soldier, who home from Iraq on leave, had gone AWOL,. This guy, a National Guardsman, had returned home because of a problem with his non-resident legal alien status, but refused to return to Iraq and decided to make his decision public. Apparently, 40,000 U.S. soldiers while not U.S. citizens, served the country to expedite naturalization!

While watching the news, Frieda was astonished to hear that the various military branches had granted 100,000 waivers to soldier applicants because of criminal backgrounds or some other disqualifying criteria. They accepted recruits up to the age of 42 now, instead of the previous 35, and they had lowered the testing score requirements. Pondering the implications of this, Frieda could imagine Bryan in a situation in which he needed a soldier to think fast to get them to safety, but the soldier couldn’t manage it because of some deficit in ability. This realization really frightened Frieda. Bryan was truly in danger! His own country had put him in danger. Despite the lowered requirements for qualification, the U.S. Army continued with its stop-loss program. By 2006 over 80,000 soldiers had been stop-lossed.

One idea introduced itself to Frieda, a dark idea from some deep place she didn’t know existed, but she hesitated to fully explore it, preferring the belief that Bryan would agree to go AWOL. That is what she would do, had she found herself in Bryan’s situation. Of course that would result in a less than honorable discharge. All of this was new territory.

Dishonorable, less than honorable, general discharge…all had meaning and future significance, but to what degree? Some gray area called “general” could occur under honorable conditions or other than honorable conditions. What did that mean? And then there was a bad conduct discharge. She thought that one came about because of a court martial that resulted from criminal behavior. Where did the “crime” of going AWOL fit? The reason for discharge could possibly have a huge impact. It might interfere with college or future jobs. Bryan had been an excellent soldier to this point. He would probably not want to sully his reputation with a bad discharge. But then Frieda’s rational brain would scream…what if he gets killed in this miserable war. Then he has NO future.

What to do? What to do? If she acted on her desperate idea, what would those consequences be? She would have to act alone. Over and over she pushed the idea from her mind, but it crept back hiding behind some innocent thought.
If he were in Britain a soldier could buy his way out of the military. Why wasn’t that option available here? Instead of coming home after serving his 3 years in the military Bryan was going to be deployed yet again to Iraq!
__________

The days sped by as Frieda researched. At work, every spare moment she used for investigating a new angle. Nearly three weeks had passed since Bryan’s call. She had confided in Wes that she was trying to find a way out of the military for Bryan. Wes didn’t seem hopeful. He didn’t have much spirit in anything. One day he didn’t even get out of bed, but on other days he came home from work early only to sit in the living room not reading or watching TV. Frieda knew she should be concerned about Wes’s mental health, but she was too preoccupied.

No immediate answer seemed to present itself to Frieda. The situation was urgent but the solutions were all distant. Except that one possibility. Except that one.
__________

“Hi Mom.”

“Bryan, wow, are you back from Louisiana?”

“Yes. We got back last night. It was pretty grueling.”

“What exactly were you doing?” Frieda never knew if she should ask him about what was going on or not. Did he want to talk about things or just hear about life in Moses Lake?

“We were practicing various urban warfare tactics. It’s boring, really. What’s going on there?” Bryan sounded tired.

“The weather’s warming up and we’ve been thinking about going to the beach park. Your favorite place, you know?”

“Yeah, well maybe when I come home we can go there.”

“Absolutely! When are you coming home? Soon?”

“Our leave begins on July 15, and I’ll have about two weeks.”

“Great!” Frieda could barely contain her joy. “Great! That’s in just three weeks. We’ll be able to talk. I can’t wait.”

“Me either, Mom. I can’t wait either.” Frieda noted a hint of sarcasm or sadness or cynicism in his voice.
“Are you ok? I mean really?” He’ll be just like Wes, unable to tell me what the problem is.

“I’m ok, but I’m not ok. We’re going back to Iraq the middle of August. It’ll be hot and I’ll see desperation and know I’m part of it. Listen, Mom. I’m tired. I need to get going. I just wanted you to know we were back from Louisiana and I’d be home on leave in July.”

“Your dad isn’t here, Bryan. Can he call you back? I know he’ll want to talk with you.”

“I’ve got to clean and organize my gear for check off. Depends. He can try.”

“Ok. Well, I love you, honey.”

“Love you too, Mom. Bye.”
__________
With only three weeks till Bryan arrived Frieda had to think and work diligently on a plan. Congress was slowly turning toward “consideration” of a U.S. pull-out, but too slowly. At the most, it would reduce Bryan’s tour from 15 months to 12 or 9, but even that was unlikely.

Sometimes she wondered about other mothers or wives or sisters of soldiers being deployed for a second time. Were they like she? Did they feel desperate? Did they feel powerless?

That one thought returned unbidden and with intense power hinted confidently that if she carried it out, if she were successful, Bryan wouldn’t have to return to Iraq. On the other hand, Bryan may misunderstand her actions. It could cause an insurmountable rift, but, she thought it would be worth it to have him only maimed, but alive. He could just as likely be injured in Iraq…perhaps unable to get help…disfigured, or much worse.

Could she do it?
__________

Frieda knew something about guns because her father had been a hunter. When she was growing up, most eastern Washington men hunted. Her dad had owned two shotguns and a rifle, for bird and deer hunting, respectively. Actually, he had another rifle, a relic that had belonged to his grandfather, so it was over 100 years old, used for bear, but it hadn’t been shot in years.

Her plan, however, wouldn’t involve a shotgun or a rifle. A pistol would have to do. Wes only had one pistol, a small Ruger .22 caliber. It had been at least a year since anyone had shot it, but Wes had taken Ben shooting not long before he died. Wes kept it in the bottom drawer of his chest of drawers in a box with a lock. The key to the lock was in the top drawer of his nightstand. Frieda knew this because Wes had felt it important she be able to protect herself in case of an emergency. The bullets, however, were kept on the top shelf of their closet, in a box with each bullet standing sentry tall in a plastic frame; the box at the back behind a hat.

She climbed on the utility ladder to find the bullets. How many were there? She needed enough to practice with, for accuracy. Ten bullets, just ten. Well, she could have a trial run using some of them.
__________

Sleep was hard to come by. The knot in her stomach kept her unable to eat much. She paced. The world did not break apart into pixels; instead, it was hard to identify common objects. Needing a black pen, for instance, she could look at one and not be able to identify it as a black pen. Everything took on the qualities of negative space. The question of the rightness or wrongness of her plan hung in the negative space. It was looming like an object in front of her. A plan had come together, but she didn’t know if she could carry it out.

If she examined the plan and its consequences—particularly its consequences—she might decide it was too risky. Better not to know what might happen. Besides, Frieda needed no defense. Reason, logic, the illegality of this war, these would be her defense. Bryan’s safety was her defense. A mother’s love was her defense.
__________

Frieda knew she was emotionally pretty tight. Most days she went to work, but remembered little of her activities. It would have been shocking, had she thought about it much, to realize how many loan applications she’d accepted during this time.

Two days, both Mondays, she stayed home. She needed the house empty while she held the gun, became acquainted with its weight, fingered its trigger—unloaded, of course. She drove out of town, out of town where no one could hear. The first Monday she practiced without any bullets. She wore the clothes she planned to wear. A bulky top, lightweight, because it was summer, after all, but “blousey” and billowy to hide the gun. It was important that the gun be hidden but not get caught in the fabric. She drew it out of her pant waistband, a slightly elastic band. She practiced over and over, like the gunfighters in the old westerns she used to watch with her dad. Over and over. Then, an aim at the ground about two feet to her right, a squeeze of the trigger, a click, and Bryan’s future was altered.

Mothers protect their children. It’s nature. In elementary school, Frieda and all the kids her age watched Disney’s Bear Country. She remembered the mother bear charging any creature that might threaten her cubs. That film taught her about the ferocity of a mother’s love in the natural world. Well, wasn’t she simply doing what mothers in the natural world do?

Her questions about the right and wrong of the plan were slowly dissolving. It was right.

The second Monday Frieda used the bullets. She took a bag of large baking potatoes with her to “stand in” for Bryan’s foot. “Stand in” made her laugh. A crazy black humor sort of laugh. Setting the stage, at least as she hoped it would manifest itself, she drew the gun, aimed quickly, and fired. The potato had a hole right through the center of it. The second potato she shot she aimed to the left causing it to split unevenly. She tried a few more, each with different results, but at least she didn’t miss.

Of course, she considered the fact that instead of the consistent solidness of a potato the bones in the feet could shatter, or could deflect the bullet in another direction with a totally different result. But she had no control over that.
__________

And then Bryan arrived. He flew into the Spokane airport, rented a car so he’d have some “wheels” and drove the 90 some miles home. He arrived and Frieda hugged him tightly.

He looked trim and muscular. On the first day back he was rather reserved, quiet, but interested in everything that had happened in Moses Lake since he was last there. He went into Ben’s room, but it was an office now. He asked where they’d put both his and Ben’s “stuff”. Wes showed him the remodeled basement set up with the intention of being an “apartment” for both Ben and Bryan when they came home for a visit.

On the second day he told them interesting stories about the people he worked with—people who came from all over the country and spoke with different accents. He called old friends from high school. Some of them still lived in the area and came to visit. He went to the lake and water-skied. Bryan was always a terrific water skier. Frieda wondered how her plan would affect that. But it didn’t matter in the long run.
Another day Wes and Bryan spent the day together. They took the fishing gear and rented a boat at Sun Lakes which had recently been stocked with trout. They were gone all day and in a great mood when they returned.

One day, Frieda and Wes took Bryan to Spokane where they went shopping, watched a movie, ate a great meal. Time was going so fast. Frieda wanted to hang onto it, slow it down.

Fixing his favorite breakfast Frieda had the chance to really probe Bryan’s feelings about the deployment.
“How are you really doing about this second tour of duty?” she asked hesitantly.

He looked at his plate for a long time, not answering. At 21 he had lived a life she’d never dreamed of for him.
“Mom, there are so many things wrong with this. Most of the soldiers are ok guys, you know. A few of them are gung ho about going back, but the rest of us just want to get it over with and get out. The military as an organization has let us down. I can’t even think about it. The reasons I joined up, they vanished when the Stop-Loss decision was made. You don’t treat soldiers this way. And the private contractors, well, some of them are just mercenaries and that’s plain wrong.”

“I agree. I’ve done lots of research on this, Bryan, and on so many levels it’s abusive to the patriotic young men like you who signed up in an honest belief they were doing something positive for America.” Frieda wanted to broach the idea of going to Canada, and this seemed like the time. “Did you know that over 5,000 soldiers have gone to Canada?”
Bryan didn’t say anything for awhile, but then replied, “I don’t blame them, but I can’t do that. We’ve had some guys go AWOL in my own company, and no one is holding it against them. I mean, I’ve thought about it, mom, I really have, and this whole thing is really interfering with all the plans I’ve made for the rest of my life. I’m not real keen on getting blown up by an IED this time, either. But, I also can’t go AWOL.” Bryan spoke with such earnestness.

Then he added, “You know Mr. Hayden, my high school history teacher?”

Frieda nodded her head.

“Mr. Hayden must be so disappointed in this country.”
__________

The Sunday before Bryan was to return to Fort Drum was also the day before he had to leave. They had planned a large picnic at the beach. Frieda initially thought she might prepare the food, but then, realizing it would take too much time, decided to have it catered. They invited long time friends and business colleagues. Frieda’s sister and her family were going to come. Bryan’s former school chums, those that were around, were invited.

Frieda was most concerned that an acquaintance, Jared Martin, be there because he was a newspaper reporter. What she was going to do, it shouldn’t, it couldn’t, be an isolated incident. Her conversation with Bryan convinced her that she had to act and that her action must be reported in the media. Hopefully, she would be able to express herself in such a way as to persuade others that this war has to end and no more soldiers should be sent to Iraq.

Carefully she’d stowed the gun in the trunk of the car. At some point, she’d have to read the signs of activity and people’s attention, she’d get the gun, hide it under her blouse and then carry out her plan. She seemed strangely calm.

Five picnic tables had been arranged in close proximity; food lay out on two of them. People had brought folding chairs, too. Trees provided shade on the grassy portion of the park while those who wanted to tan lay on the sunny, sandy beach.

Frieda noted the lack of really young children, a good thing, but also an odd thing. They were at an age where their children and their friend’s children were all adults but did not have children of their own. Well, that would spare an innocent the potentially frightening sight of blood.

Bryan was clearly enjoying himself. Many of his friends, even those who had moved to Spokane and one from Seattle had come for the party. Jared Martin was also there.

When most of the food was gone and she sensed that some people might begin picking up their belongings and heading for home, she knew the time had come. Only then did her heart begin to pound. Only then did she wonder if she could shoot straight to hit her mark. Shaking such thoughts from her head, Frieda solitarily collected the loaded gun from the trunk of the car, tucked it into the waistband, pulled the blouse over it and headed back to the large knot of people by the picnic tables.

Bryan was talking with an old high school friend, Steve Lang. They were laughing about something. Where was Wes? She spied him at a picnic table talking with their next-door neighbor. And Jared? Standing not too far away. People couldn’t have been positioned better if she’d been a theater director and this were a play’s first performance.

Frieda walked to her spot on the stage. She mentally ticked off a list of instructions and pertinent points. Flip the safety. The pistol is locked and loaded. The bullet in the chamber is ready to propel forward when I pull the trigger. Keep my hand steady. Hold the gun with both hands. Stand two feet to the left of Bryan. Don’t look at Bryan’s face…Don’t look at Bryan’s face…

But it was too late. As she brought her eyes up to face his, she saw his grateful smile.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said.

Realizing what she had to do, she closed her mind to his words and the smile on his face.
Look at the target…look at his left foot. It’s a baking potato. It’s just a baking potato. It’s time. It’s time.
Grabbing the pistol from her waistband, with her right hand she quickly extended her arm, steadied the gun with both hands, aimed, took one breath, and said, “I’m sorry, Bryan. This is for you.”

The Ruger fired brilliantly. The shot found its mark. Bryan crumpled in agony and looking up at his Mom screamed, “Why?”

NYC Midnight Madness Short Story Contest

The first round submissions in the New York City Midnight Madness Short Story Contest were last weekend. This year, my genre was SUSPENSE and the subject was private property. Allow me to share with you my entry.

AND THE WINNER IS…

Mary Ann picked up the newspaper from the front porch and brought it into the house. She had a mind to check the paper to see what numbers had won the lottery the night before. When the state lottery was first introduced nearly 30 years ago, the random selection of numbered balls—what were they, ping pong balls?—was broadcast on television. She was just a young kid then, but she could remember every Wednesday at 6:18 p.m. her mother would pull out the single lottery ticket she allowed herself to purchase, the one dollar investment in their future, and they would watch with anticipation as each number popped out of the hopper, into the chute and out the tube’s end where the representative placed it in the transparent holder with the number facing the camera for everyone to see. At the end of each broadcast there was always an announcement that the results weren’t final until verified by some official accounting firm. Wednesdays were days of hope and possibility; Mary Ann and her stepsister, Angie, watched the TV with Mom talking about what they’d buy if they won. Of course, they never won-won, you know, big, like the million or two million dollar jackpots. That’s about as big as they got in those days, but now, heck now, they were in the tens of millions, even hundreds of millions if you played that powerball game which covered several states. Occasionally, her mom would win $50 or $100 bucks and they’d splurge on a dinner out or a new outfit. Hank, her stepfather, worked nights, so he wasn’t in on the deal. He might have bought lottery tickets, too, or bet on the horses, Mary Ann didn’t know, but he wasn’t part of the Wednesday night lottery.

Mary Ann still lived in the house she and Angie, had grown up in, but there wasn’t a TV broadcast of winning lottery numbers anymore. It had all become so blasé that even though she bought tickets now, sometimes she’d forget to check which numbers had won. You could find out in the newspaper or on line, but even that wasn’t necessary because wherever lottery tickets were sold they also had barcode machines to read the tickets to see if yours was a winner. The hope and possibility as well as the ritual of Wednesday lottery nights were gone.

Her mom and Hank were gone, too. Killed in a car accident on a rainy weekend night seven years ago. Mary Ann and Angie inherited the little bungalow, but it still had a mortgage. Hank’s scant life insurance barely buried them and gave Angie some bucks to boot. Mary Ann had used her mother Joyce’s small savings to buy out Angie’s interest in the house. Then she’d refinanced her mortgage reducing the payments and interest. Still, it would be 25 or more years before she ever owned this place she’d called home her whole life.

Gary, her boyfriend, lived with her. She wasn’t sure where their relationship was headed. A talented guitar songwriter, Gary ran hot and cold. Sometimes he made her feel like they were meant for each other for ever and always, but other times it seemed like he could walk out the door without a “So long” or “Fare ye well”. He had this sexy way about him, maybe his voice or the way his looked in a pair of jeans, but if she noticed so did every other woman. Mary Ann wasn’t the jealous type, but at 32 she was thinking that settling down; having a kid of her own wouldn’t be a bad thing. But Gary, well, she didn’t know exactly how hard or how long he intended to pursue a music career. He might pack up tomorrow, though he never said such a thing. It was just a feeling Mary Ann got. This morning Gary was working. His part time job as a Harley mechanic earned him enough so he could spend the rest of his time writing songs, playing music and trying to pedal his creations.

The coffee was already made (one kindness Gary did on the mornings he left home early) and Mary Ann placed the newspaper on the kitchen table while she went into the bedroom to get her lottery ticket. She always kept hers in a porcelain music box that her mom had kept—for luck. “Hey, Mom, send me the winner, “ Mary Ann would voiced aloud religiously as she looked up at the ceiling as if heaven were in the attic. Lifting the lid to retrieve the ticket, strains of “Dance of the Hours” tinkled away. Glancing over on Gary’s nightstand she saw what looked like another lottery ticket. She walked around the bed to see, and sure enough, he’d bought one, so she grabbed his being careful to distinguish his from hers.

Sitting down at the table, Mary Ann placed her ticket on the right side and Gary’s on the left. Then she opened the paper to the section where the winning lottery numbers were located. Planning to take one ticket at a time to compare against the winning numbers, she began with Gary’s first. Six numbers, just six numbers were needed to win and each ticket provided two chances. The first set of six on his ticket were 24-27-33-38-44 and 49. She thought there was little chance this was a jackpot winner with the first number 24. Sure enough, those numbers didn’t even win a lowly $2.00. On to the second number of Gary’s ticket: 12, yes, 12 matched; 18, yes 18 matched; 26, yes, 26 matched. “Three matching. Well, at least Gary’ll get something,” she said out loud. Then 34, and yes, 34 was a match. Looking better all the time. Next 42—“Are you kidding me?” she said.“42’s a match.” Finally, 46. She screamed and stood up. She sat back down, then stood up again. “Oh my God. I’ve got the winning ticket in my hand!! Gary bought the winning ticket.”

Her heart seemed to stop. She couldn’t breathe. What was the jackpot worth this time? At least a million, that was the very least it could be, but sometimes it was more. Where could she find out? The computer, she could look on the computer. Of course there might be more than one winner. Then she looked at her ticket. Yes, there could be…maybe she… But, when she compared her ticket’s two sets of numbers against the winning numbers, she had a pair, good enough for $2.00 and nothing more.

Before turning the computer on, Mary Ann thought she really should call Gary and tell him they were winners, so she went in search of her cell phone, but stopped after a few steps turning her head slightly upward as she thought, or tried to think about the consequences. Before retrieving the phone she went back to her seat at the kitchen table.

“Ok, ok. Let me think this through. This is a really big deal.” She spoke aloud to herself for the reassurance of hearing a voice. “What if Gary says the ticket belongs to him alone, like it’s his private property or something? What then? We aren’t married. He could take it and move to LA or Nashville or New York City to further his music career.” Chewing on her lip she tried to think of her options.

“I suppose I should find out how much money we’re talking here. If it’s really a lot of money then he probably would give me some regardless of what he decided to do. I mean, I’d share it with him if I had the winning ticket.”

A second time she pushed away from the table and went to the computer. Turning it on, the screen lit up quickly and she navigated rapidly to the state’s lottery page. Besides the winning numbers, the jackpot amount was listed and how many winning tickets had been sold. $2,500,000!!! But, there had been two winning tickets, so the jackpot would be split down the middle to begin with. “Christ, where’s my calculator?” She found it beneath some papers on the desk and began figuring what they might expect after taxes. Around $750,000. Wow. She’d divided the total by 2 and multiplied by .60 figuring that 40% would be taxes and she got $750,000!

Continuing to talk to herself as if to a friend or her mother or Angie, she voiced her thoughts. “Funny how $750,000 doesn’t seem like so much these days. Well, what am I going to do?” Mary Ann found her phone and slipped it in her pocket so she’d have it with her. She sat back down at the kitchen table. “I’ll write my options down, just so I’d have them to look at. No, no, that might become incriminating evidence.” She didn’t say anything more for awhile.

“Ok, I could act like Gary’s ticket was my original ticket and that I’d won the money. If I put my ticket back right where I found Gary’s how would he ever know? And I’d give him half the money. That’d be $375,000 for him if he should decide to take off and I could pay off my mortgage and go back to school. I would give some money to charity, too, maybe $15 or $20 thousand because that would be the right thing to do.” She thought some more.

“The right thing to do would be to call Gary and tell him he won the lottery.” Shaking her head side to side, Mary Ann continued, “I just don’t trust him, though. How long have we been together? Like almost 2 years. Two years isn’t much when you’re talking this kind of money. Maybe he knows some sweet younger thing who’s prettier than me who’s turned his eye and he’ll give me the brush off in a heartbeat.”

She got up from the table and began to pace around the kitchen. “Who can I talk to? There’s something wrong with our relationship if I don’t feel like I can talk this over with Gary. I can’t really trust anybody. Maybe a priest, but even a priest would want me to turn over 10% to the church and I don’t know if I believe that God stuff anyway. “

“Maybe I’ll do some kind of karma-like thing. I’ll put both tickets in a baseball cap and stir ‘em around so I can’t see what I’m doing and then I’ll pick one out for me and one for Gary. If I get the winning ticket, then I’ll keep it and if I don’t get the winning ticket, I’ll do the right thing and put it back on Gary’s nightstand.” She got a baseball cap out of the hall closet and put both tickets inside. Then she raised the cap above her line of vision, stuck her hand in and stirred the tickets around. Closing her eyes she pulled one of the tickets out. “This one is Gary’s” she said without looking at it and placed it on the table. “And this one’s mine.” She put the cap down and looked at the ticket in her hand. “Shit. I got my own damn ticket again. Well, maybe I’ll do the best two out of three. What about that?”

She repeated the same procedure again, with the same results. “Ok, two out of three has been decided, so I’d have to go best three out of five and I just don’t feel like doing that. I need to figure something else out.”

Mary Ann put both tickets under the tray in the silverware drawer and went to change out of her pajamas. “I’ll take a walk and things will seem clearer. That’s what I’ll do.” After she dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, she brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair all the while thinking about Gary. If she only knew what he would do. The lottery ticket did belong to him. He bought it. What if their positions were reversed?

Aloud she said, “I’d realize that the ticket belonged to us, not just to me.” She walked to the kitchen, ready to go out the back door. Before she left she hastily opened the silverware drawer and checked to see that both tickets were there. Then she closed the drawer and opened the back door. Instead of walking out the door, though, she went back to the drawer, took both tickets out and put them in her right front pocket. Then she closed the drawer yet again and walked out the door.

The sun was beginning to warm the earth. Spring was late in arriving this year, but today was beautiful with shrubs showing new sweet green growth. The neighbor’s weeping willow tree, planted long before she and her mom had moved into the house, was already forming the green tent she had enjoyed hiding in as a child. She thought about the lottery tickets secure in her pocket.

I might return to college and finally get my teaching certificate. Since I have a bachelor’s I think all I’d have to do is take education courses. Is that what I’d like to do? Maybe travel, well, I know I’d like to travel, and there are so many places I’ve always wanted to go. Being a phlebotomist has been ok, but it’s not very challenging. I suppose it’s better than some jobs. But now I really have opportunities. As she turned over the possibilities in her mind she realized her dreams depended on her being in control of the ticket and the only way to do that was to swap it with Gary’s, act like she didn’t know it was a winner, and when he came home, together they would discover this fact.

“That’s how it has to be. I need the ticket.” She said this aloud. “It’s mine. Gary never bought lotto tickets until he met me. I have been his inspiration, taking care of him, cooking his meals, doing his laundry. It’s time for me to think about myself.”
By this time Mary Ann had walked a few blocks rather absentmindedly. Without looking she stepped into the street as if to cross, a route she had taken every school day for years when she attended the neighborhood elementary school. A car screeched its brakes just in time to avoid hitting her. Mary Ann looked up. The driver got out of the car, flustered, and apologetic. Mary Ann said, “No, it’s my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Don’t think a thing about it.”

She turned around and began to walk home. I feel like Frodo, she thought, with that damnable ring around his neck. It was gaining possession of his soul. This lottery ticket’s doing the same thing to me.

“I’m in control,” Mary Ann said forcefully. When she got back to her house, she picked up the phone and dialed Gary’s cell phone number.

Mississippi Found

We arrived and Bobbie Gentry got it right when she wrote about “the muddy waters off the Tallahatchie Bridge”, but not just the Tallahatchie River--every river and body of water seems to be muddy. Despite that, (though I don’t know where the drinking water comes from and that bothers me) Mississippi is a beautiful state. It is green, lush and floral with pretty blue skies.

Y’all knew it was hot and humid, so I won’t reiterate that, what’s 95° here is at least 105° everywhere else.

Friendly? Hospitable? Y’all can’t imagine. As we were packing up our motorcycle Monday morning to drive the final 188 miles to Jackson from Southaven, Mississippi, a nice man started talking to us. He was interested in watching us get “all those bags on the bike.” When he found out we were from Seattle he got this funny smile on his face, then asked more questions and finally said, “Well, it shore is differnt here than in Seattle.” He introduced himself as Skeeter Miller from Wiggins, Mississippi down near Gulf Port. When we got on the bike he was returning to the motel and hollered out, “If you have any problems on your way down I-55 I’ll be coming behind you shortly.” Turns out he came behind us and soon passed us by, but waved as he zoomed away. That was our first introduction to the friendly people of Mississippi. Since then we haven’t really met anyone without at least a 3 minute chat, but often the chats are up to 10 minutes. This applies from motel clerks to passersby to assistant manager of the bank and more.

Some quick observations about Mississippi...
After driving through the Bible belt with a church on every corner and a religious billboard between the corners, Mississippi has fewer religious billboards. They still have lots of churches, though they aren’t so obvious.
The plains from South Dakota through Iowa the parts of Illinois, Missouri and Tennessee that we saw along I-55 were devoid of evergreen trees, but once we got into Mississippi about 40 miles we began seeing pines and other evergreens.
Mississippi has more hills than we expected (though they aren’t very high).
We ate at a Chinese Buffet and Grill which had both Chinese and Japanese food as well as salads. They served sushi with cream cheese and imitation crab filling and another variety with either cheese whiz or velveta (I couldn’t tell which).
Jackson seems to be growing by leaps and bounds--or at least the Jackson area. The next census will tell the tale.