Chapter one

There is just something about having to spend the early afternoon sitting in the new doctor’s office that makes you feel like forms are only to complete so you don’t realize how much time has passed since your scheduled appointment. This new doctor, I had heard, was top notch, a real go getter fresh out of school and it made me wonder just how dry the ink was on the medical license if there still was a such a thing.

The office had great sunlight, plants, and with Enya turned down low on the ceiling speakers, I could not help but feel a little drowsy as I sat and pondered the questions that paraded before my eyes as I held the pen and wondered why I could not have completed all of this online in the comfort of my den and my boxers.

Mid thirties, a balding spot on the back of my head that I refused to acknowledge and about ten…well, twenty pounds over weight, I knew I needed to have my “manly” checkup, if nothing else but to get my mom off of my back. But the rumor of a finger being introduced by a stranger was not setting too well with me. I smiled as I thought about my buddies poking fun at me if they found out that I had my physical and asking if the doc had bought me dinner first.

The forms were asking all the general questions, but when it got to mother and father’s history, I flinched a little when it got to father’s history. I put the pen up under the clipboard clasp. I knew it meant my biological parent, but the question started rolling over in my mind as to what I did and did not know about the answer to the asked question… father’s health.

I thought about the men in my life, the men that my mother had chosen to entrust the shaping of my life and how all of that had led up to the person I now know as me. Maybe it was the warmth of the sun causing the photosynthesis of the plants, or maybe it was Enya softly whispering in my ears, but I started thinking. Thinking about how I should ever, if asked, list the men in my life. Chronically? Importance? Maybe by the amount of love and guidance I was given. All three options would have a different order. Maybe I had been to the buffet of influencers and had come away with a balanced tray. Yes, that was the case I thought. I was a square meal of mentality, as I sat there in the sun, with my balding spot and my ten, no twenty pounds of extra stomach.

My fathers. My forefathers. My four fathers. I took the pen from the clipboard clasp and thought as I completed the forms. I had to write when I got home. I had to do some self analysis in the form of writing some sort of a letter to each. I knew three were no longer with us, but they still were getting a letter. Four letters that may never be mailed, but the return address on each was mine, because I was the result of the four, the good, the bad, the baggage and the respect, all had been poured into me like secret ingredients of a family recipe.

Thanks for the music…Enya…

Chapter two

Chronologically, the first, and I guess the giver of life, was a man my mother married at the ripe old age of eighteen. Christopher Stanton was his name and he was my father for about two years. It was two short years my mother told me because he was in some sort of military position right out of school when they met, fell in love and married. They were happy, living the dream of her going to college while he played government. She really did not know what his job title was, nor did she know of the danger he met as he went on “assignments” out of town. All she knew was, she came home from school one day to an empty apartment with all traces of him removed and a letter from the government stating she would be receiving money for the rest of her life for his involvement on a job that saved others lives, except his.

His bravery replaced the man that was to be my father almost nine months later. My mother never got to tell him about me because at the time, she did not know I existed. I remember her telling me that he would have made the best dad. This unknown man that I only knew from a courthouse snapshot wedding photo because all the rest of his memory was erased from public view. I still have the faded picture in my desk somewhere. I guess I need to find it when I get home. It might inspire me when I write the first letter to Mr. Christopher Stanton. One not to be mailed since I would have no clue if it would even make it out of the post office if I did have an address.

My plate would now have something of substance on it that I got from Christopher. I got his genes I guess, but I would like to think that I got his sense of responsibility, maturity and valor, but deep down inside, I resented him a little for leaving me and my mother, although I know it was for a purpose, I guess, but still, the fact that my “Father Knows Best” dad was really never a part of me.

Thanks for your service…dad….

Chapter three

John Tarlic was the neighbors son, and a few years older than my mother. She had moved back home to have me and so my grandparents could help while she was in school trying to complete her degree. She had always wanted to be a somebody in the eyes of the world, but knew with the hand she had been dealt, a degree in teaching suited her much better. I never understood why she could not see that she was a somebody in my eyes. Her self esteem was lowered by society that had labeled her as almost an unwed mother, even though Christopher was real, people didn’t understand the reason of his disappearance from our lives.

John was “let go” from college. Kicked off the football team and lost his scholarship for breaking the no alcohol clause in the scholarship rule book. He did not seem to mind and I guess his family didn’t mind as well, they were glad to have their little boy back home as if he had been to war, not off partying at the campus houses.

John and my mother started dating, she told me, after he ran into her on the front stoop of the row of houses along Jackson Street. The houses were all built close together and looked very much alike. Mother was coming home from school and John was coming home from a bender the night before and had passed out on a friend’s couch. I just did not see what my mother saw in him as I look back on the stories she told me before I could remember my own memories of John.

I guess my first real memory was the day I fell off my tricycle and cut my chin on the metal fender. I was screaming and bleeding and scared and John, he just said be a man and buck up. My mother took me to the emergency room where I got some stitches and a tetanus shot. John was still drinking when we got home. He wanted to know where his dinner was instead of asking how I was or trying to make sure I was OK. I can still remember the way he looked at me as if I were a priority above him and his dinner.

John was around until I was about eleven years old. The day that started the journey that John was about to take, was August seventh and I remember it was hot. The doors of the house were open and the fans were trying to cool us off as much as a box fan could do against a hot, irritable Mother Nature.

John had planted himself on the couch most of the day drinking his Pabst Blue Ribbon beer when around two o’clock, he announced he was going to the store to get more to keep him cooled off. My mother asked him to please not, that he had been drinking too much and did not need to drive. John just looked at her, turned and walked away, got in the car and left. I was playing with my trucks in the dirt on the shaded side of the house when he left. I could see and hear their conversation on the front stoop. The neighborhood knew John was a drinker and that was a fact that no one ever tried to hide from people.

Now it was years later that I was told the real story of what transpired to John and his trip to the store. But at that time, and me being only eleven, John just did not come back home and I was glad. My mother seemed a little sad at first, but I think she got over it with the help of her friends at school and the fact that she was teaching made it seem possible for just the two of us to possibly make it on our own with the help of my grandparents that still played a big part in my life.

Now you may be thinking, what really did happen to John. And I bet you think he was drunk and driving and caused an accident. Well, no, John did go to the store, and he did get some more PBR beer that he and a buddy sat out in front of the store and drank. But due to the heat, the beer, and a late Trailways Bus that turned the corner just at the time John was stumbling to his car, well, let’s just say John’s casket was closed at his poorly attended service.

I guess from John, my plate now held knowledge of how things could change the real you into to a person induced by alcohol or any other altering influence that would make you cold and heartless to those that you were supposed to love and cherish.

I also learned that being self centered only served self, not others. John could not play by the rule book, at school, at being a husband and stepfather, or at life. So another of my letters would never to be sent because of lack of address.

Thanks for taking the bus…John…

Chapter four

The recently widowed teacher, Mrs, Tarlic, my mother, was called into the principal’s office about three months after John went on his bus ride. It was late in the day, right before the last bell for dismissal rang to let the kids out of school, when the speaker on the wall above the blackboard statically summoned my mother to the office. Knowing she had tenure and had only missed a few days for bereavement, as some called it, she gathered her things for home. She locked the classroom door and made the trip down the now deserted halls where other teachers were locking their doors and calling good night to those that were lucky enough to be able to go home, those that did not have the after class activities for all the clubs and meetings. My mother counted the grey and beige colored, one foot square tiles as she clicked off the steps to her destination of the office.

It was there where she found Mr. Rossini, the principal she had known for a couple of years waiting for her. He was sitting in the secretary’s office, I guess so they would not be alone. My mother was offered a seat and Mr. Rossini asked how she was doing in class and at home and wondered if there was anything she needed now that life was dealing her a new hand of cards. My words, not his. I have the liberty of doing that since this is my story.

Long story short, Mr. Rossini was trying to get to know my mother and to see if it was appropriate to maybe ask her out. He did not want to upset or embarrass her, he just wanted to see when and if the time was right to ask.

It was.

They dated for over a year, and chaperoned dances, school functions and were the perfect school couple. Me? I learned to play ball from him. He taught me to fish. Took us to movies. And one night, after we had gone to a ballgame, we were sitting in his car, eating “after the game” hotdogs at the Dairy Queen, when he just popped the question to my mother. I don’t know who answered first, me or her, but we both said yes to his proposal of becoming her husband and my new dad. We were all so happy that none of us minded that we got ketchup all over his car seats and laughed about it the next day as we cleaned up his, our car.

I loved this man. It was about this time that I started calling my mother mom, just so I could call him dad. Mom and dad. It just had a nice ring to it. It was a Sunday night “left overs” dinner the first time I slipped and called him dad. He was kidding me about girlfriends at school and I told him “Dad, you know I don’t have a girlfriend, you’re the principal..” I froze in my chair once I realized what I had said. No sound at the table. I looked up as my eyes turned to him. He said not a word as a tear ran down his cheek. He got up and came to my chair. The hug he gave me made the little boy in me feel safe and wanted and loved and ever since that night, I received maybe a million such hugs from him.

My mom tells me he made her feel just the same. He made her feel like she mattered and was seen. He loved my mom and was not ashamed to show her in public her worth to him as a woman, wife and mother. He made her forget John and just how bad she had been treated.

Principal Sam Rossini adopted me. We were the family that went from tragedy to triumph in my opinion, all because of Sam. We had many years of happiness. He taught me to shave. Told me about girls. Shared his aftershave. Taught me to tie a tie. Taught me how to not only be a man, but taught me to be me, in whatever form that might take and how to be happy about it.

We were happy for many years until Sam got sick. My mom found out that he had been sick for a while but he did not want to worry her and definitely did not want me to know. I have no clue why people always want to shield me from life. I had to learn some way and being guarded only made things seem harder when they did come along. As with Sam. Sam was very sick only for a short time. My mom and grandparents, and yes they were still around, took care of Sam. Me, I was right there as a good son would be. This man, Sam, had been my savior in this world. He held me when I needed it and I held him the day he passed.

I cried until I was empty.

From Sam, my plate was full. I had learned how it felt to be loved and was taught how to show love. I learned compassion, respect, how to laugh at life, how to give a hug and how live life to the fullest. And, that ketchup will wash off a car seat!

Thanks for holding me…Sam…

Chapter five

Before I came to be and even before my mom came to be, there was the most perfect set of parents this world has ever known. And yes I may be prejudice in this assumption because they are my grandparents. Sarah and Kurt Spaulding, better known to me as Grammie and Popi.

Grammie and Popi had always been around, it seems, since time began. I can never remember a time when they were not here to help feed, babysit, nurse the sick, be a listening ear and never giving anything but good advice. They were a neighborhood staple for as long as they lived. Friends and neighbors always knew they could depend on Grammie and Popi, and I learned from an early age that they were a constant in my life.

They were there when Christopher vanished to pick up the pieces for my mom. They were there when I was born and came home to their house where I was raised for a little bit of time. They were there during the John tribulations and especially there for Sam.

My Popi and I had always been close ever since John came into the picture and even during the time I had with Sam, my Popi was there, right along side of us, joking and kidding me about growing up so fast and having tissue paper on my shaving cuts when I was learning to use the old Wilkerson silver razor that Sam let me use. He was there for my first prom, my first broken heart and he could hug almost as good as Sam.

Now my Grammie started slowing down due to her having a slight heart condition which we all blamed on her fried foods and delicious cooking with bacon grease and salt. She had the pressure pills, the cholesterol pills and the sugar pills, but still cooked every day like she was feeding an army. Most of the time, food went to the sick or the family down on their luck, or just wherever she felt lead to send it. I think the good Lord gave Grammie the gift of food and knowing who needed it. Preacher said at her funeral that Grammie had a special calling that no preacher ever got and that was the gift of knowing.

But I jumped ahead a little. My Grammie and Popi were inseparable in life except when Popi was working at the yarn mill. She would be up before dawn cooking breakfast and getting him off to work on a full stomach and then she would have supper waiting on him when he got off work. Popi would just have to walk in and sit down at the table, say the blessing and eat, every night.

Grammie and Popi went to bed one night in June and that morning when Popi woke to go to work, the smell of bacon and coffee from the kitchen was missing. He went down stairs and found Grammie, sitting in her chair at the table, had her bible out like she always did before she started the day, but this time her eyes were closed not in prayer, but in contentment that she had live the best life she could and now was with the Lord at the pearly gates.

I went and stayed with Popi for a while, just so we could get things in order around the house and to make sure he was going to be OK by himself. But mostly, I wanted to stay with him because since Sam had passed, I knew being alone was not Popi’s way. My mom was doing well and did a little traveling to visit kin folks in different states like she had always wanted to do, so me and Popi hung out. Ballgames, movies, cards, and especially dominos! Popi and I hosted some mean domino parties for the “dead pecker bunch” he called the older men of the neighborhood. Although dominos were played at these parties, most of the time was spent gossiping about old sister so-and-so and who made the best casseroles when a wife died. I swear these old men carried on like nobody’s business, but they kept a watch on each other and made sure they all kept their doctor’s appointments and ‘scriptions refilled. Me and Popi, we always seemed to have a party up in the house as he would say.

My Popi was the one to listen to me and make me talk about my life. He knew I had been through some rough times because he was right there with me. It was him that finally talked me into seeing a therapist. He and I would sit on the front stoop at dusk and discuss life over a bottle of Dr. Pepper, his guilty pleasure. We solved many a problem while seeing who could belch the loudest.

He picked up where Sam left off, although he was always there in the background, Popi was my final mentor, my substitute dad, my best friend and confidant. One day, while sitting on the stoop, he turns to me with a proud look on his face and announced that I was done. I had completed my “son” course, but there would be no graduation ceremony, just a pat on the back and now do the best you can do. I guess this was my graduation speech. I thought about all of my teachers that had tried to teach me how to be a man. All four had been different in the ways they taught me. Some taught me good things and some taught me that doing the opposite of what I saw was the best lesson.

And finally my Popi. Tonight, he thinks we are having a domino party, but in reality, we will be taking a little trip to the beach. We have always talked about have deep conversations at sunrise and sunset on the beach. I have rented a small cottage on a month to month basis and we can stay as long as we like. Thanks to the money we still get from Christopher’s service, I have been able to save quite a lot just for this. To give back to my men the best way I know how, by being the son they would have been proud to show off to the neighbors with a smile. And taking care of Popi in his last days is just what I want to do.

What started with Christopher had now ended with Popi and I guess maybe Popi’s could be the only letter that might be mailed, since he is still around, like always! My plate that was full of lessons on life, I guess Popi was supplying the dessert. The dessert of learning consistency, of always being there, of listening and giving advice.

Thanks for the Dr. Pepper…Popi…

Chapter six

Doctor’s visit now complete for a year and guess what? There are other ways to check down there besides the finger method! Who knew?

On the way home, I seriously thought of how I was going to sit down and put all my dads down on paper. And, as I did sit down at my desk with my iPad, I had a conversation with three of them while clicking the letters and seeing the movies of my memories in my head both real and made up. Christopher and me, we hung around in that make believe world for a while. The world where he took my mom to the hospital and was there when I was born and tossed me in the air on my early birthdays, took the training wheels off of my first bike and then kissed the boo boos on my knees after I fell, but smiled like he had won the lottery when I didn’t. He saluted me when our time was done.

John and me talked about what made him so unhappy in life and why he took to the bottle to ease the pain of some sort of hurt he held onto inside. I could come up with all sorts of reasons thanks to my therapist, but none of them stuck, so I just decided to say, he had issues. He did laugh when I told him that I had this extreme fear of buses thanks to him. But he did wave goodbye when it was his time to go, so maybe I had cut John some slack as I got older because I knew about holding on to things.

I cried with a hurt heart as Sam’s memory reel played. I don’t think I had to make up anything for Sam’s letter. Sam was just special to me and everyone his life touched. I wish every person could have a Sam in their lives at one time or another. He came into our lives just at the right time, he did his job and I guess he had completed his mission when he clocked out. He had lead the school as the principal, he had lead my family as a dad, and now that I think about it, I hope he is still leading me, giving me gentle pushes to make the right choices because Lord knows I still hear his voice in my head. Sam looked at me as his time of memory ended and gave me the same look as he did that Sunday night at the dinner table when I slipped and called him dad. Amazingly, I felt his hug from somewhere across time.

I don’t have to make ending memories for Popi since he is still with me, but as I load the car, with the help of Christopher, John, Sam, and Popi trying not to get in the way, I think about my plate. How each put things on it that made me special. I find myself to be respectful, giving, loving, a listener, and so many more attributes and yes, maybe a few that may not be so good, but you have to have a little bad to make the good stand out my Popi would say.

So my four letters have turned into a story about four men, my forefathers. We don’t get to pick our heritage, but we can make the best of what we learn from them. All of them.

So Christopher, John, Sam, Popi, ketchup, Dr. Pepper, and even Enya, I thank you all for allowing me to be. And to be, is to knowing yourself enough to see where you have come from so you can plot your journey forward. And who knows, I may end up in someone’s story one day, and if I do, I hope it is one of love, life and good memories…

Thanks for listening…me…

Chapter one

It was not just happenstance that I turned the corner and went into my favorite coffee shop, slash pastry pushing facility on the corner of 49th and Clover Lane that spring morning. It was part of my routine as I walked to work.

Choices had been the “go to” establishment for years if you wanted a good cup of coffee or to sit quietly and either people watch, or to read a newspaper for those that still chose to touch paper and ink, or to drag out the old laptop and use the free Wi-Fi.

This place had it all. The 1950’s tile on the floor, the plaster walls painted a subtle shade of green for that calming effect. Tin tile on the ceiling and lighting that had that warm glow so you had the feel of warmth in your soul, even on a hot summer day. The metal swinging door that led to the kitchen had seen years of use and had seen years of stories, but yet, still silently swayed as if it were hung yesterday. Pastry cases, coffee machines, nice background music, yes this place had everything a man could want in a coffee paradise. Well, everything but one important thing. A person sitting across the small table from me having a witty conversation about absolutely nothing.

When my mother named me, some twenty eight years ago, I was knighted with the name of Alexander. Alexander Wellington lll to be exact and thus I go by Alex to this day. Tall, twenty pounds more on the scales showing than I would like, but I was OK with that. Gym bodies were not natural and I was sure to never fall into that category. A small spare on my “dad body” was good as long as it did not get over inflated.

Hair, good. Face, I thought was average, and IQ that could hold up my end of most any conversation. And this is on a good day, so judge me as you see me, because I tend to sometimes downplay myself as to not come off as more than I really am. I like to leave that observation to others.

Now that you may feel like you know me and where I may have my backside placed in a chair, sipping some delicious hot brew, maybe I should begin to let you in on as to why you might be following me on this journey.

My twenties had not been so kind to me. Loves, likes, friends, familiars, all seemed to slide off me like some expensive Teflon cookware. It’s not that I didn’t try to have all of the above, it’s just that I could not seem to want to put in the effort to have these things stay in my life. Maybe it was immaturity on my part, but I really think it was how I was raised by a single mother, not a mom, who loved society more than she did me…unless I was the lure that put her in the social spotlight and then she turned into the perfect mom, the June Cleaver of Mid Town.

My father, or I guess you could say the man that supplied a fertility ritual for my mother, never appeared again after he learned that what had transpired had responsibility attached and that was something he wanted no part of as he shut the door and walked away into the night and out of our lives. My mother did not talk about him much and told me one day she would set me straight on the real person that he was and not just the perfect little boy dream of the perfect father that I had developed in my young mind. My fantastic fantasy father, who was whatever I wanted or needed him to be as I grew up.

I remember getting the call from our family doctor late that night my mother passed away. I remember him saying he was so sorry to have to tell me she died suddenly of an aneurism and that he was there if I needed anything. All I needed was a stiff drink. Sad to look back and realize, I could not even shed a tear for her although I should I guess, she was my mother. But it helped me to understand that maybe we just did not have that kind of bond between us, and you know, that was OK.

Arrangements made, social obligations completed, mourners passed with fake condolences, all the usual that comes from her type of society she loved. Now, all that was left was the getting on with my life, which I thought I had been doing for the last twenty something years. Then the letter came. Special delivery from her lawyer. He said I was not to have it until she was gone. Scotch in one hand and the unopened letter in the other as I sat in my leather chair in my apartment. I remember it was snowing outside and quiet, the fire in the fireplace was burning low and I just sat there. I swallowed my drink down, placed the letter on the table, wrapped up in a small blanket and slept like a baby in my chair. I would endure her last pitch of mothering tomorrow.

Chapter two

I woke with a dry mouth from the alcohol consumed while I was feeling sorry for myself last night. The fire had gone out and the room was cold even though I had a blanket wrapped around me. My glass has slipped out of my hand but landed upright on the rug under the chair. Thank God for small favors. My body was waking and not liking that fact that I had slept in a chair most of the night. Eyes closed as I tried to remember that last memory of the past evening. Then it hit. The letter.

I reached over to the table and obtained the letter as if it were a grenade with the pin pulled. I was not sure I could handle my mother from beyond the grave any more than I could when she was alive. My finger slipped under the sealed flap and I opened Pandora’s box.

“Dear Son, I am writing this to you because we had said we would talk about things one day, and I knew we never would as long as I was alive, so if you have this, then I have ceased to be in your life more than when I was breathing.

I think it is time to educate you on your father. There are things you need to know, things you may want to know, and things you may want to forget once you hear them.

Your father and I met after college at a mixer at the club. I was the girl fresh from college and your father was, well, your father was a waiter serving me more alcohol than I should have been drinking. My parents had the idea that I was to be whored off to a good family like I was a prized possession, to mix families for business or social climbing, or just so a wedding could be in the making so all the magazines would do articles and newspapers would send the columnists to do stories of the fairytale life of a socialite.

But I was to have none of it. I was a girl with my own mind and ideas as how to live my life the way I had planned it. My parents had other ideas. I would play by their rules. And when I found out who they had offered me up to, I said no. This brought a slap to my face from my mother as she said I was an ungrateful child and that she and my father knew what was best for me, when in actuality, it was what was best for them since I later found out they were broke and needed new backing for their lifestyle and the marriage would ensure they could continue on living the lie they loved. But enough of that.

My revenge brought me another whisky sour to my table. The name on his tag said “Bart”, but I saw him as gift from the universe as I plotted a new plan. As he reached over to place my drink in front of me, I placed my hand on his wrist. He looked up and I smiled at him. His cheeks blushed a touch as I did not let go of him. He asked if there was something else I wanted from the bar, I told him yes, but only he could provide it. I rose and grasp his hand and led him off to a room at the club I knew was rarely used. There we each became a life preserver for the other and we held on for all it was worth, like our ship had just sank. A period of time I was allowed to forget my life and he, his first time he told me later, he would remember forever. I’m sorry this may sound a little more risqué than you would expect, coming from your mother, but you needed to know and said you wanted to know, so now, you do know.

We kept seeing each other just to further embarrass my parents and hopefully null the pending marriage. I thought I had won this battle, but I was so wrong. I never imagined the visit I received from Bart about two weeks later. I knew from the minute I opened the door, his face told me why he was there without even saying a word.”

Chapter three

My day started with a phone call. Miriam’s mom on the other end and sounded so sweet and kind, it made me wonder at once what was up. I knew Miriam’s family thought I was beneath them. I knew we had to quietly remove ourselves from their lives due to not fitting the concept of what a proper husband was for their daughter.

Meet for coffee? Sure, I could do that, so here I sit at the corner table, waiting for my future to unfold from a point of view that I am sure was going to be different than mine.

Miriam’s mom, breezed in like she was a fresh wave of lightly scented perfume that to this day makes me have a lump in the pit of my stomach. That mix of uneasy and fear we all know or have felt at some point of our lives. She sat across the table from me and waved towards the barista for an espresso, as if she was trying to build her courage to deliver her state of the union speech.

Delivered, she took a sip and began…

Miriam had told her only this morning of news that apparently was not meant for me to know. My Miriam was pregnant. I was idled for several reasons. Why had she not told me? Why had she confided in her mother? How long had she known? Why was she not here now so this could be discussed and planned?

Then the envelope was slid across the table. It was not fat and full, it was thin and unpromising and filled with a check with enough zeros to confuse the issue even further. The instruction’s were simple. I was to disappear and never return, or lay any claim or show any responsibility to Miriam or our treasure that lay beneath the surface. It was explained how the new development would play out. A marriage to another family, a quick pregnancy to deliver early, a name to add to hers that meant something in the social circles besides shame and whispers.

I was appalled at first until Miriam’s mother started playing out the future of two paths. One placed me as a partner and the life story it told, and the other where someone else played my role as father that could give my child more. More than I ever could. After some thought, I came to realize that love was not just enough except in fairytales, and in my mind the fairytale was playing at a speed that caused both a tear in my eye, and a realization that I saw I had no choice but to slide my hand across the table and touch the envelope. The envelope that caused my heart to grow a little colder, that plans were going forward where I was not the hero, the man, the dad I had always wanted to be.

Did I blame Miriam? No, she had very little choice or say in the matter. She, too, had a couple of paths options to consider and I guess she chose as well as she could for the future was an unknown, but for all the players concerned, the most important one was decided.

I said not a word, slid the envelope into my pocket, stood and looked Miriam’s mother in the eye. I saw sadness as I really think she and I were for once on the same emotional plain. We both knew it was for the best. I turned and left Choices that day, never to return.

Weeks turned to years. And the little boy I watched from afar grew to become quiet the man of promise. A writer, a newspaper columnist, an author. He seemed lonely at times even when in a crowd, never “with” anyone. He would sit and watch and write. He would see deep inside people, not just the shallowness of their personas, but the internal strife that hid just beneath the surface.

I had read everything written by him and felt I knew him as well as could be from my distant perch of observation that I was allowed by my circumstances. Until the day I received the letter through Miriam’s lawyer.

“Dear Bart”, it said as callous as could be. Miriam’s instructions were clear and to the point. “He knows”.

I had made a decision years before that I would not undo what had been done at birth for him. There was no reason other than selfishness on my part to ride in like a hero and make all of life neat and tidy in my book, but my book was not the most important one on the shelf. I had him to consider and Miriam’s choice to defend and my decision to carry out.

But life and karma has choices to be made, and so I made my choice to set up an appointment for the explanation of questions asked. Choices was just in the next block… and my heart wanted to take the easy way out and run.

Chapter four

I sat at the table. Three letters lay in front of me. One from Miriam, one from a lawyer and one from someone named Bart.

I had almost memorized my mother’s letter, understood the lawyer’s letter but the one from this “Bart” was the most confusing one. It had been delivered to my house and had almost been tossed as it lay on the kitchen side table for about a week before I realized it was not just junk mail.

I opened it one Thursday evening along with others letters, but the simple message was profound and clear. “Meet with me”. Choices on Friday. I had almost missed the appointment. Intrigued, I mentally put the meeting on my calendar of debatable excursions for tomorrow.

So now, here, at the table, coffee in hand, I waited. I watched as person after person came through the door, wondering if this was the Bart I was to meet.

A man and young boy came in, energetic and already bouncing as if caffeine had been a player in this scene. Two older gentlemen came and sat at a table close to mine. I watched and made up the story in my head of why they were here on a Friday. I did this to usually pass the time and to amuse myself while compiling story plots.

An older man with a sad and weathered look, came in and ordered a coffee. Movements were slow and precise as if he was measuring the atmosphere of Choices. Coffee in hand he walked to my table and stood, just looking. I did not feel uneasy as this stranger had invaded my circle of consciousness. I looked up and saw him exhale just a little like he had been holding his breath as to not interrupt my journey of the scenario playing out before us.

Bart? A nod. Sit, I said. He did.

Words did not come easy. Although he seemed like he was delivering a prepared speech at first, became something so heartfelt, I was stunned. This was my dad. This was my story, and his, and hers. Our story.

I learned more about choices that day than I ever could imagine. I learned why they are made and how hard they have to be at times. How choices shape, mold and color our lives and loves.

That Friday, I gained knowledge of a mother turned mom. A father turned benefactor. A stranger turned into a dad and a man turned from existing to becoming a son.

As time passed and stories were told, bounding was to be in the cards of the future, he stood and shook my hand and announced it was a pleasure to finally meet the man I had become. The man he had watched from afar. He took a few steps, then turned around to face me. Back to the table he came, hand slipped inside of his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.

Yours, he said. Slipped it across the table, turned and left, knowing I would see him again. I held the envelope, a little aged and worn with the name Bart on it. I opened the flap with a single finger.

In front of me was the check, with all the zeros still intact, with my name endorsed. He had never cashed it. He had held it as a father would. His hero cape unfurled in my mind. The man was tossing me up in the air and catching me with love in his eyes as only a dad knows how to do.

He had made his choice a long time ago. A choice I was proud of which to be a part.

I was someone’s choice… and it felt damn good.

“Well, Rudolph, another year of deliveries and not a single mishap” Santa said, with a smile on his face as he was unhitching his team from the sleigh. “I sure hope Mrs. Clause has dinner ready. I could use some pizza and a good long soak in the Jacuzzi. These old bones just don’t take all the weather change while traveling around the world like they used to.” Santa turned to look at Rudolph. “What’s the matter old friend, your nose is lit up like something is wrong?… I said your nose is lit up like something is wrong?…Rudolph!”

“Cut!” yelled the director. ” You would think with a budget as large as we have that the special effects people could get a fake nose with a light bulb in it to light up on cue!” “Everybody take lunch and be back in an hour and we will re-shoot this scene once again, everyone except the effects person. I want that light issue fixed…pronto!”

Well great! My first real job as a special effects artist on a movie and I can’t even get the simplest task completed. Mashing the button that connected the battery to the bulb was simple enough, but the fact that my mind was on the drone, flying overhead shooting the scene, was about to fly into the sound boom had my mind elsewhere, or so I thought. Actually, it was the drone operator/camera-person that had my concentration all in a whirl. If only she would spend as much time with me as she did getting all the drone shots, I would be one happy man!

I had met Carol when I was hired as one of the special effects artist on this production of a “B” class Christmas movie being made for children. Rudolph’s Merry Christmas was to be a Public Broadcasting presentation for next years Christmas movie season and I was excited to be getting in on the ground floor of what could be a successful career in the movie business. I had always been interested and tinkered with special effects in high school and college but to actually be involved in a production was mid boggling. But not as mind boggling as having the opportunity to meet the effervescent and beautiful Carol Smithers!

Carol and I had hit it off from the very beginning of the first production meeting. We sat across the table from each other and became fast friends. But one of the two of us wanted to be a little bit more than fast friends.

“So Daniel, I hear this is your first break into the great world of movie making.” Carol had broken the ice after the meeting. My tongue and my mind did not want to work together to form a complete sentence so I just said…. “yep.”

“Great Daniel” I told myself. “Now she will think I am some big goof!” Which was correct as far as I was concerned. I had never been one to sweep a lady off her feet with small talk, much less to try and impress this vision that stood before me.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Carol asked with a slight smile on her face. “That’s OK, I was the new kid once so I understand.” she said softly as if she understood my predicament. “Not that I think you are a kid, by any means, just a term I use…” Her face was turning a little red. Maybe she was the one that was now a little shaken. Dear Santa, let it be, because I wanted her to like me!

But back to the light, the battery, the drone and the boom. Lunch was over and the director was eyeing me to make sure I had made all the corrections. I pressed the button and Rudolph’s nose lit like a bonfire! I smiled as I looked at the director, but I smiled even bigger as I looked at Carol, who dropped her eyes to her drone control.

“Places” yelled the director, and we started the scene once again.

“Well, Rudolph, another year of deliveries and not a single mishap” Santa says, with a smile on his face as he was unhitching his team from the sleigh for the second time. “I sure hope Mrs. Clause has dinner ready. I could use some pizza and a good long soak in the Jacuzzi. These old bones just don’t take all the weather change while traveling around the world like they used to.” Santa turns to look at Rudolph. “What’s the matter old friend, your nose is lit up like something is wrong? Rudolph’s nose lit up on cue, and my confidence started to come back to me.

“Cut and scene! That’s a wrap everyone. Let’s call it a day.”  The crew and actors were thinning out and I was in the process of packing up my effects equipment when I heard a slight whirring sound hover above my head. I looked up and saw a drone lower in front of me and land at my foot. Attached was a note.

“Now that we have the shot on film, how about you and I go and have some coffee. Maybe we both can get our nerves in check and actually have a conversation… about tomorrows shoot, or maybe just talk about ourselves.”

I grinned and looked over at Carol and gave her a wink. “Give me twenty minutes and I will meet you outside.” I turned back around and gave Rudolph a pat on his head. “Wish me luck my friend.” I turned and started to walk out the door but I could have sworn I saw his nose light up… 

I have come to realize that when I tell a person I was born and raised in the South, their minds eye automatically turns to Tara, magnolias, large columns on the family home and sweet tea. Now I suppose that could be the case of some, but for me, it couldn’t be more wrong. No, I was not raised with that silver spoon in my mouth, mine was more of a plastic spoon, one that was used, then washed, then used again because we had to make things last. 

Welcome to 1957, the year that brought us the Soviet Union launching Sputnik, Elvis Presley buying Graceland, and I was born. Not sure as to why “1957” has never been a Jeopardy category but that was the year, in Alabama, Anniston to be exact, that a baby boy was born to a little lower than middle class family that would eventually include one dad, one mom and four little one that I called my family.

Seems that every family in those days, usually had a set or two of grandparents. And, yes, there were some families that had more than two, but we were not allowed to talk about those circumstances because it usually meant the unspoken word, the word that had to be spelled in a whisper, d-i-v-o-r-c-e, was involved. Some families had lost a grandparent or two, but when I was young, I had all four. Grandmother and Papa, and Grannie and Papa, were the names we were taught. Grandmother and Papa were maternal and Grannie and Papa were paternal. 

Grandmother was great and fulfilled all the qualifications of her role, but then everyone has a Grannie. That one special person that loves and hugs and fixes scraped knees, dries the tears in our eyes and just makes life livable as a child.

My Grannie’s house was the exact opposite of the southern plantation. It was a four room box with no basement and no attic…two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room with a fireplace. At the time I remember, there were five people living in the house with no closets or a bath. They just made do. I guess back then, you just made do the best you could and went on about your business because you had no “Jones” to try and beat or impress. The most I ever saw of anyone back in the day, trying to impress, was at the county fair where someone’s cooking or canning or prized calf won a first place blue ribbon.

*****

But since I started writing this story, a lot of things have changed since the days of my Grannie, and youth, and childhood dreams that are now just that, childhood dreams. Those were the days of wonder and hope. Now, I am lucky to be surviving. 

You see, this story started out as a writing assignment for a class using the following three words in a story – Grandma, attic and disgust. Having started the story a couple of weeks back, I left it simmering on the back burner of my life due to construction in my home and the election. Now going on the second week of construction and the election is over, I felt, for a while, that maybe I should just turn the stove off and let this story get cold. But after a few days of doing some soul searching and mind processing of issues that deeply troubled me, I picked my butt up off the couch and turned the stove back on. 

Why, you may be asking yourself? Because I was disgusted with people. I was questioning myself, my values, my friends, my faith, all because I was letting the little people win over my mental health. And now, I refuse to allow that to happen to me. I am not responsible for the world, I am responsible for me and I had let myself get into such a shape that I wanted no one in my bubble except a chosen few. And still today, I am the same except that my bubble has increased in size.

My councilor says that writing things down can sometimes give a person self help, which I totally agree. I have gone from a recluse to a more, and I hate to say because one day my mother may read this, an adult in my way of thinking. I feel like I have been tested and tried, gone through a little fire, and have been disappointed in many. But on the other side of that fire, I came out stronger and maybe even a little wiser on my outlook of “everything is coming up roses,” especially when the world is full of poison ivy. But at least I know how to tell the difference!

Maybe I am at the place my Grannie was when I was a child. Maybe my grand kiddos will tell a similar story about their Pops one day about how wise he was when they were a kid. Maybe I have cleaned out the attic of my mind, see, I used one of the words there, and tossed out the garbage that cluttered such a small space.

Well, that is all the words used now…Grandma (Grannie), attic and disgust, but you may be wondering about the cat head biscuits. In case you have never had a cat head biscuit made with love from a Grannie, you have never tasted heaven because as Grannie makes those biscuits from scratch and flours and rolls out the dough by hand, all the while thinking about her little Keith, there is no describing just how love tastes!

So, here’s to Grannie, cat head biscuits… and me.

“So tell me kiddo, how’s your sister doing? I bet she is keeping all the boys on their toes at college, right?”

“No, Pops, she is, well, she’s doing fine.” I lied. Like every time he asked the same question, over and over and over…

Growing old is not for the faint of heart I have always been told. I personally would not know, due to my age of thirty three, but watching my father each week for the last two years has taught me this lesson well. And, I can tell you that watching a person grow old, is not a walk in the park. It has crossed my mind a lot lately as why I was always the one kid that acted more mature than the rest of my siblings. Maybe it was because I was the only one that had understood that dad was changing, forgetting the little things, misplacing keys, the remote, the things we joke about as absent mindedness finally makes sense now that the diagnosis had been confirmed. Yet, here I am, visiting all alone with no support from a brother or a sister, just me, the responsible one, here to check in on my dad, mentally tossing a coin hoping it would come up on “good day.”

I paused before I twisted the doorknob to enter his room at The PineWoods, which was “the” place for people having little issues in the latter part of their lives. Trouble was, this was never a place you planned to go, it was always a place that someone else planned for you. No one wakes one morning and says to themselves, let’s go to The PineWoods for a visit. No, it was usually the more responsible child that has that awakening moment thrust upon them.

The room was a light shade of green. Calming, serene, and looked like a scene right out of a commercial where the announcer says in a welcoming, warm voice. “Come and visit us at The PineWoods, the place where you can get the rest and care you need. Call us today for a free tour for you or your loved ones.”

I scanned the room and there was Pops, sitting in his recliner, facing the window as the sun was filtering in on him…I could see the dust particles floating in the air. He must have not heard me come in because as I touched his hand and said “Pops,” he suddenly sat up straight and a small gasp told me he had been in another world. Another world…I wondered where that world was and how far back in the past it lived. Maybe it was a gift that he could accomplish time travel in is mind.

“So tell me kiddo, how’s your sister doing? I bet she is keeping all the boys on their toes at college, right?”

“No Pops.”

“Have you been eating OK? Made any new friends since I was here last? The doctor said you are doing great and all the nurses say you seem to be fitting in well.” The usual list of questions I asked each week. I was told that asking familiar questions and doing things repetitave had a tendency to not get people like Pops upset and keeping him calm kept his mind as clear as possible.

We talked for a few minutes and I could tell, this was going to be a good visit. We sat side by side and looked out the window into the sun filled garden. The butterflies were hovering around the butterfly bush and the singing of the birds lead me to believe that no one could possibly have a difficult time in finding the beauty and peacefulness here at The PineWoods!

“So tell me kiddo, how’s your sister doing? I bet she is keeping all the boys on their toes at college, right?”

“No Pops.”

I could not tell him that he knew she had passed two years ago. I could not tell him how her accident had torn our lives apart and that her passing could be one of the reason that sped up his “forgetfulness…” No, I felt I had to lie to him, no, to spare him of the memory, of living it all over again. No, he was better off thinking she was still young and at college. Hell, most of the time I wish I was still in college, being carefree and no worries. But here I sat, with my Pops, guarding myself as to not cause any disturbance in the galaxy of what I call my family unit.

The nurse came by with the morning’s medications. Pops looked up at her and smiled as he took his meds, a swig of water then opened his mouth so she could see he had swallowed them. She flirted with him a little. “Mr. Taylor, you know I trust you to take your meds. You are nothing like that ornery Mr. Talbot over on the east side wing.” “He’s ornery because he never gets to see the sunshine like I do!” Pops flirted back. She laughed and turned to leave but before she could get out the door, Pops said “She’d make you a good wife you know.” I looked up at her and our eyes both held smiles. Each week, Pops tries to play matchmaker with me and his nurse, who, by the way, is about thirty years older than me. We both chuckle to ourselves, knowing we should just run off and live happily ever after in wedded bliss, just to make my Pops happy.

“So tell me kiddo, how’s your sister doing? I bet she is keeping all the boys on their toes at college, right?”

“No Pops.”

After about an hour, I start to sort my story of why I have to leave and not take him with me. But this week, as I start to tell my planned tale that breaks my heart, he says to me, “Kiddo, I know you need to be leaving soon and I know I cannot go with you like I wish I could, but I want you to know something.”

I was caught off guard. I looked into his eyes and they were clear as a bell and as blue as ever. “What Pops? You need something?”

“I just want you to know that I have always been so proud of you and how you have looked after all of us and especially me when I got to where I could not do my job as a dad and take care of you all. Its not a fun thing when a parent knows they have now become the child. I guess I just want to say…I love you son… before I forget who you are. I never want you to look back and wonder. I want you to know.”

A tear found its way to my cheek. I stood and hugged this man I call Pops. “I love you too…dad…” hoping he would always remember, knowing he would forget.

I took hold of his hand and gave him a smile. He looked at me and said…

“So tell me kiddo, how’s your sister doing? I bet she is keeping all the boys on their toes at college, right?

I slapped the alarm clock as it screamed at me to arise and face the day. I opened my eyes to darkness, or maybe I had not really opened my eyes at all. No, I remembered that I had set the alarm for the predawn excursion to be at the front of the line so when the store opened, I would be the first to lay my hands on that elusive prize that my kids had been wanting all year. And now this store, had become my savior, my place of worship, if I could only be there first to claim it!

I rolled out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor and the thought of returning to sleep took over my mind. No, I would not succumb to the fleshly desires of much needed sleep. The image of that wish from my kids kept creeping through and was just enough of a carrot on a string to get me going. Well, that and a thermos of coffee and maybe a bologna biscuit.

The car seat had become a throne of ice as i sat myself down behind the wheel of my car. Yep, I was definitely crazy to be doing this at my age. It was a good thing I had quilted my sister into joining me on this excursion. I was afraid I would have either been ran over by the mass of people crashing the store’s door, or maybe slid off the road on some black ice, left in a ditch and not found till the spring thaw…all kinds of scenarios had ran rampant through my mind. So now at least I would not be alone and another human would be there to either rescue me or keep me from freezing alone in a ditch.

Pulling into her drive, she was bouncing with excitement… literally bouncing at the end of her sidewalk. She had the door open and was jumping in before I had even stopped the car.

“Excited much!” I asked her with a small smile on my face. It was good to be doing this with her especially since we had always been close growing up, but as the years were passing us by, we had grown a little distant. But not today! She and I were back to our childish camaraderie that our mother had tried so hard to squash because we would deal her havoc when we would all three go shopping when younger. Yes, the dynamic duo was back!

Christmas music played from the radio. We both felt the nostalgic memories that seemed to be hovering in both our minds. We looked at each other and the words “I have missed this” came from both our mouths at the same time. That sibling bond still linked us together, even after all of these years. I drove on, the car becoming warmer from the heater and my heart growing warmer from having her with me.

“So what made you come up with this idea?” she asked as she sipped on her coffee. “I have never known you to be an early riser, much less be the one that did the special things for your kids like this.” She was right, I had never been the one to go outside the box when it came to the holidays, or the kids, or even my wife. I had always played it safe or did just enough to get by, but reaching a certain age, a man’s thinking becomes a little more focused on the things that really matter to him and to his family. I was now well on my way to becoming a holiday nut that went overboard for those I love. And a couple of those young kiddos that I love wanted the very item I was heading to get come hell or high water!
My sister smiled with one of those smiles that made it all the way up to her eyes. She knew I had reached the stage in my life when work took a backseat to family. She had told me for years there would come a day when my priorities would change and that time was now bearing down on me.

Onward we drove towards the city, heading to the place where the lights shown on the horizon in the sky. My quest, in my valiant car, armed with my thermos of coffee and my faithful companion of a sister, I was ready to do battle with whatever the fates would toss at me. I would prevail in my task. I would beat the dragons of crowds that I knew were doing the exact same as me, only I wished they were doing it a little later in the day!

Suddenly, up ahead… there it was… I held my breath. The parking lot was almost empty. The lot sweeper was still there removing the previous day’s trash of Starbucks cups and assorted articles that careless people had just tossed aside. Maybe, just maybe, I had pulled it off and would be at the front of the line of like shoppers that were fighting the odds of getting their hands on my present. Rumor was, there were only ten per store so I knew I just had to be one of the ten to obtain the one present that my kiddos would treasure forever.

I turned the corner of the lot and squealed the tires as I slid into a parking spot, my sister, holding on for dear life as the car came to a stop. I reached for the door handle, slammed it behind me a hit the auto lock button on the key fob. The familiar “beep beep” from the car eased my mind that my car was, indeed, locked. With my sister by my side, we raced toward the store with the red balls and bullseye in front. The place that held my kiddos future happiness. The place that we were number one and two in line!

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Clause. Because that year, not only the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes that day, my heart grew and grew with the love of my sister, the love of my kiddos, the love of my life that I had regained all because I had set my alarm early!

To all the angels of the night and the dreamers of the day, I salute your survival instincts.
I wish for you peace, love, a full stomach and a warm place to belong!

Contents
1 As told by Daniel
2 As told by Jessica
3 As told by Paulie
4 As told by Miss Ginger
5 As told by me
6 Epilogue

Foreword
The people in this book are fictionally true or truly fictional, take your pick. Down south, we do things different. We use paper plates and napkins, cheap razors, and lighters and all of this we just toss in the garbage when we have used them up. They are not needed any more or their purpose has been served. Disposable is what we call it, and when a child down south has a certain kind of family, they, too, can find themselves disposable if they don’t fit the family mold, or come across as different.

This book is about some of those disposable children that have grown up to become angels of the night or dreamers of the day. The ones tossed out like a soggy paper plate after a summer barbecue, to fend for themselves the best way they can. To maybe find a grandparent to take them in or some relative down the line that may not have quite the same mold as their family. And then, yes, some are not so lucky and wind up on the streets, roaming the dumpsters, the flop houses, checking all the ashtrays, bumming money for food. And then there are the ones that think they can make it the easy way by lowering their morals to find a kind stranger of their dreams to take them in and love them, but only to find someone that will take them in and use them.

These are our angels of the night and our dreamers of the day. These are the ones we should heap love on their issues and hug their pain away. Get them assistance and off the streets or a place for counseling and guidance to help them find a new journey to take. A journey where they can respect themselves, like themselves, and even one day, love themselves again.

Disposable people are all around us. They try to blend in, to hide so not to bring attention to themselves. You haven’t seen them? Then you haven’t looked. They are the sad eyed roamers walking, the eyes are cast down as to not look at anyone but are constantly panning the field of vision for a person that looks like a possible hand out. A giver of food or money. Some really try and help, while others just turn their heads because they don’t want to be an enabler.

These are our sons, our daughters, our children of the south that didn’t cut the mustard…

Preface
I am a writer. I am a fixer. I am seeing more and more angels and dreamers. I am a talker and a storyteller.

Following are interviews and stories I have learned from my angels and dreamers, the ones that would talk to me. Some trust me to tell their stories with care. Some tell me to be as harsh as life has been harsh to them. Some have unbelievable tales while most just broke my heart. I have cried many times trying to understand life. The unfairness of it and how it dishes out the punishment to the ones that are not molded correctly or just doesn’t fit the family.

As told by Daniel
My name is Daniel and I am thirty years old, be thirty one next month. I’ve been on the streets since I was kicked out of my family’s home five years ago. You see, it all started back in high school when I was outed by some friends cause I like this boy. Now, I liked girls as well as boys, but at this time in my life, there was this boy. I had feelings and urges that felt different from when I was with a girl. He and I became friends in more ways than one. But life had a way of kicking me in the head. Looking back and trying to justify it now, maybe it was a punishment from God because I was sinning and I knew better cause I was church raised.

My family and me, well, we were at the church every time the door was unlocked. My daddy said being at church made us stronger in the eyes of God. See, down south, daddies ruled the house and mine, well he ruled with the “because I said so” rule. All of us kids, and I know my Mamma was not blind to the fact, knew that my daddy was not the perfect man he claimed to be at church. As we would approach church, he became more righteous the closer we got. I never understood why he thought he had to be perfect in the church. Wasn’t that where you went cause you were not perfect? Well, it was to me anyway. So being the perfect family was important to him and when he found out my secret, well, that perfect family image was shattered.

It was during class that my friend and I were caught by a teacher that was patrolling the school property. We were escorted through the halls of school as the bell for class change rang out and students poured from each classroom into the hall and there we were, being escorted to the principal’s office so everyone knew something was up. Later, after a stern talking to by the principal, our parents were called and we were sent home for three days.

Now Jesus stayed dead for three days and he arose triumphantly, but it was a little different when I returned to school. For one, my friend was swept away to a different school, cause I guess I was a bad influence or something. The other thing was, everybody knew my secret. Not sure if that statement was just in my head, but in my mind all eyes were on me and judging. My life both at home and at school changed with one experimental escapade which made me rethink lots of things. Was I being punished because I was attracted to girls and boys? Was I now an outcast to my friends and my family? Was I the reason my daddy could not face going back to church the next Sunday? Was I the reason that voices lowered when I walked by? This was a lot for a teenager to handle with no one to talk to or ask for advise. So I got angry.

My anger started out at just myself because I could not handle the changes bombarding my mind. I was not prepared so I got more angry and aimed it at others since I could not bottle up the anger inside anymore. I started lashing out at school, then my brothers and sisters, then my mother. But never my daddy. I had no reason to lash out at him because I knew he had secrets of his own that he was dealing with. Did this make me love him less? Can’t say directly, but maybe I just never knew if I really loved him at all. I mean he was my daddy and all, but he did not show me love like my mamma did.

Well, things were changing at home and school was about to end. I held it together and finished school which was a smart thing on my part, I guess, but at home things were getting violent. I had started running with some people trying to be cool and fit in wherever I could to feel normal again. But the people I was running with introduced me to things that would help ease my mental pain. Weed and alcohol was an easy start. And that was easy to hide as I would slip into the house late at night. Or so I thought until one night my mamma was waiting up for me. She was crying and asked me where I had been and what had I been doing. I lashed out. Just hanging with friends. Have you been drinking? Maybe a beer or two. Are you on anything? No mamma, I know better than that. Go to bed, we’ll talk tomorrow.

But I couldn’t do that. I knew she didn’t believe me plus I was afraid she would tell my daddy and I knew how that would work out. So I packed as much of my things as I could get in a backpack and a duffel bag, got the grocery money off the top of the fridge and I started walking. I called my friends and they picked me up about a mile from my house.

This was the start of my ending. I bounced from house to house, couch to couch and slowly, my friends were leaving me behind because I was not contributing anymore and I was not the fun guy at the parties where we smoked weed and passed out on alcohol. I had no job and no money and was finally put out of the last house that would take me in. My friends, became my strangers and my family was no more, because my daddy said I left. He said when I left, I cut all ties with them and he forbid any of his kids or my mamma to have contact with me.

After a couple of weeks of being out in the world alone, being hungry and cold and sleeping wherever I felt safe, I called my mamma and asked her could I come home. She started to cry and told me that if she let that happen that my daddy would probably call the police and tell them that I stole money out of the house. He also told my mamma that he would beat her if he found out that she had talked to me.

That was the last time I talked to my mamma.

I started hitching out of town and that’s how I ended up here at the Salvation Army. You know when I was all up in church, I learned that Jesus said, I was hungry and you fed me. I was naked and you clothed me I was homeless and you took me in. Well, I prayed to Jesus to keep the bad people of this world away from me. To not ever get so hungry that I did things or allowed things to happen to me that I would feel less of a person and so far I have held up my part of the bargain.

The Salvation Army came through for me. I am thirty yeas old and have a job with them. I am sober but an alcoholic because I always will be one. I am clean from drugs and heck, I can even pass a drug screen now! They came through for me even when I thought I was just using them to get some food and a place to sleep. They showed me I was worth something, that I mattered even if it was only to me.

I still haven’t seen or heard from my family, but that’s OK cause now I have learned that I get to choose my own family. One that loves me warts and all.

So I bet when you asked what was my story you didn’t think you would get all of that huh? But I got a story to tell and maybe it will help somebody else that may be on the same road as me…or was…cause you see, I ain’t that person anymore.

As told by Jessica
What’s my story? You want to know what is my story? What makes you think I got one? You just roll up in here thinking because I may be looking a little dirty or maybe my makeup might be a little smeared means I got a story? Hell, mister, maybe my water got turned off and I ain’t had time for a shower or maybe I’m just tired of all of the bullshit that I have to put up with, and then you have the nerve to ask me whats my story? Just who the hell are you anyway?

OK, just sit your ass down and I’ll tell you my story. And if I get to be too much for you, just calm your ass down or don’t get all misty eyed cause my story, well, it ain’t no movie out of Hollywood or it ain’t gonna be pretty like a Hallmark movie.

I was twelve year old when my mother’s brother came to live with us. He had no job and I don’t know what all he was messed up in but all I do know is that he could not keep his hands off of me. He would come in my room in the night while the house was asleep and start rubbing on me. I did not know what he was doing but when I told him to stop and he didn’t, I told him I was gonna tell my mother. Well, it stopped for a while until one afternoon I came home from school and nobody was home but him. He had this look on his face like he was up to something. I figured it was not anything good so I went to my room, thinking he would leave me alone since somebody could come home at any time. But no, he comes in my room and tries to kiss me. Me! A twelve year old girl whose tits had not even started to come in, but it didn’t seem to matter to him. He was drunk and the smell of whatever he had been drinking was making me sick. He grabbed my face and shoved his tongue into my mouth and I gagged and vomited all over myself, but he didn’t seem to mind cause he done it anyway as I cried and screamed.

I guess I blacked out cause when I woke, I was hurting down there. I got up and went in the kitchen where my mother and him was. He looked at me and when my mother left the room, he grabbed my arm and said he would kill me if I told anyone.
I had thought that maybe he was done with me now. But that night… he was drunk again…and I cried again.

I told my mother the next morning what had happened and she told me to stop telling lies to get attention. She looked nervous as she told me. I could not believe she didn’t believe me. But later that night, when all was asleep, my bedroom door opened and I was immediately afraid it was my uncle, drunk again. But no, it was my mother. She was crying as she came in and shut the door and sat at the foot of my bed. She started to tell me of a girl that she knew that had stories to tell. She said that girl had a father that would come in her room at night. It started out as just a little rubbing, then he got bolder until he got up the nerve to do what he intended to do all along. I looked in her eyes as she talked. I could tell my mother probably was that girl.

I asked her what did that girl do and my mother, instead of standing up to protect me, she said that girl stayed there and until her father passed, she just took it and clinched her eyes tight and did the best she could.

I asked my mother if she believed me then, and she never answered. All she said was if I was going to make it stop that the best thing I could do was to leave cause if this got out, the family scandal would kill her and her family would be the shame of the town. Then my mother did something that still puzzles me. She hugged me and kissed my forehead. She said I love you. Then as she was leaving my room and closing my door, she looked at me and told me bye….

So I got my suitcase and tossed in what clothes and stuff I thought I could manage and I left in the middle of the night. I went to the bus station and got me a ticket to Birmingham. I had family there I was told and I hoped I could find some to take me in.

And now ten years later, I am here, doing the best I can to stay alive. Yes, I might live on the streets, but I don’t do drugs and I don’t drink. Now I ain’t saying I ain’t done other things to survive cause that would be a lie. Maybe I been lucky to get where I am today cause I ain’t got no education or smarts, but I got the kind of smarts that matter. I know when they be good people talking to me and I know when to leave some people alone. Sometimes I find me a man out here that just needs some companionship and I use him for protection cause a single girl roaming around will get killed. Me and Benny, we been together about two years. We ain’t got nothing but we got each other. Benny, he gets some work when he can. He don’t do drugs but he does drink a little when he can get it but he knows not to come around when he’s been drinking cause I don’t like it. It reminds me of my uncle.

So you ask me about my story…. I sit here, telling you all of this shit that has happened to me and how I got to the place I am today and I think to myself, am I better off having left my home and family or would I have been better off staying and not knowing what might happen one night when I had had enough of my uncle. Hell, I might have had some mixed up babies by now, who the hell knows. But I guess I made the best decision I could at the time. Hell, Mister, I don’t wish my tale on nobody and all of us out here that don’t fit anywhere, well, we get by. And one day…one day, we gonna get what we all were told when we was little… we’re gonna be loved and cared for like our mother’s told us when we was kids.
And mothers don’t lie to their kids….

As told by Paulie
OK, I’ll talk to you if you’ll let me bum a cigarette. And you got anything to drink on you? No, well maybe you can go and get me something? Maybe after I talk to you? I can do lots of things for you if you want, but you gotta get me some smokes and some liqueur.

They call me Paulie, but my real name is Paulson Anthony Wellington III if you must know and yes I am a son of “those” Wellingtons. And with a name like that you can sure bet I was picked on on school and bullied for a lot of reasons. One, because my family was rich and they wanted me to go to a public school because they thought it would toughen me up. Second, I was bullied because I was short and my weight was more than my height would allow on paper and yes, I am saying I was over weight. And third, and this was probably the main reason I was picked on and bullied is because I am queer. Yep, queer as a three dollar bill, my daddy used to say. And he would not say it with pride like people say today. Back in the sixties when I was a teenager, us prissy boys, being light in the loafers, a little swishy , you know all the phrases, hell, you probably have said some yourself, didn’t have it easy.

It was hard being a teenage queer. I had to hide my emotions, and hide anything that might let people know the real me. And beings I was a Wellington, well that did not sit well with my daddy. He was not having a sissy boy so he let me get beat up. My black eyes were a badge of masculinity to him when we were in public.

It was my senior year and my urges were out of control. But that was the year I found out that the new kid that had transferred to my school and was on the baseball team, well, lets say he caught my eye. We became friends real fast. He didn’t seem to mind that people talked about me. After school we would head to my house where my daddy would swell with pride that I had a friend that played sports and maybe some of that sporty stuff would rub off on me. How wrong he was.

Something did rub off on me, but it wasn’t sporty. I learned real fast the reason this new kid was in a new school was because he got kicked out of his last school for “unbecoming behavior” they said. I also learned that the unbecoming behavior was him being queer. I was in heaven! There was two of us! I had a boyfriend, but only in my mind because back then you didn’t say you had a boyfriend. Hell, even I was not that stupid.

My senior year was turning out to be pretty good. That is until he and I got caught in the locker room doing what boyfriends do, well, maybe not in public, but we got caught by the coach, and was marched through the halls to the principal’s office still putting our clothes back on.

The whole school knew, our family knew, hell the whole damn town knew about the two queers that got caught at school… having “unbecoming behavior” I will just say. My daddy had a spell with his heart, I was locked in my room and told I would not be going back to school. I thought my life was over. There was no way I could see my friend, we were not allowed to talk on the phone and I heard he was not allowed to leave his house either. I had done just what my daddy had said I would do. I had shamed our family. Our rich, pious in the community and in church family name was ruined. I was the blemish on their perfect lives. I guess I really did feel bad, but being a teenage in love, I just thought all would blow over and things would get back to normal. But I was wrong….

Two days later, my mamma brought me some food to my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed where I sat. She had a look on her face that I didn’t know how to decipher.
She told me that she had gotten a phone call from my friends mother. Seems he could not stand the pressure again for his unbecoming behavior. His mother had been to his room and found him with a belt around his neck hanging from the ceiling. Seems he had taken the light fixture down, and from the ceiling beam he made a noose. And well, you can make up the rest however you want to for your story or whatever it is that you are writing.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken. I am guessing the best thing I did was to leave town. I am sure my family thought good riddance since I had dragged the family name through the mud. You know the Wellingtons and their queer son. And now, all these years have gone by, I am sure I have been forgotten.

But Me? I keep up with them. I heard tell that there are at least five queer kids running around with Wellington blood in their veins. So who got the last laugh? I could go back home I guess, but I think it best not to. You see, in the eighties I got into a lot of situations I’ll call it, and got that disease that queers get. Our punishment from God for being sinful I was told. Going back home would not be a good thing, and besides, home is where the heart is and my heart died that day with his belt around his neck.

So my friend, that is my story. Now what do you want me to do for those smokes and that liquor? You name it, I’ll do it. There is not a thing I haven’t done in all of these years, but I am sure an old man like me can at least make you fell good.

Well, OK, maybe next time, but if you’re ever around here again I got some other people you might want to talk to. We all got stories son, we all got stories.

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

Wait, you came back. These are for me no strings attached? A carton of smokes and some liquor? And I don’t have to…. thank you son, thank you. If our paths cross again one day, could you do me just one thing? Could you just give me a little wave, like you know me? It would mean the world to me to think I had someone that cared about me……

As told by Miss Ginger
Honey please, I gots a story that will curl your hair better than a Toni Home Perm! All of this you see before you was not all as fabulous as you see it now. Gurl, I was born up in north Alabama in a little town called Florence and my name back then was Gary. See, little Gary was a little different from his brother and sisters and there was nine of us, all fighting and scratching for our mamma’s attention. All of us had nappy hair and ugly as sin cause we all had a different daddy. Mamma was the rolling stone in our neighborhood and wherever she laid her hat we got a new baby in da house.

All my brothers and sisters knew we had to depend on welfare or get out and get a job to survive. But we also knew that if we stayed there, we would have to give all our working money to our mamma cause that’s the kind of house she ran.

I learned when I was about seven that I like the boys. When my brothers would be out playing in the streets, I would be a watching them basketball shorts to see if I could see any wiggle and you know they were shirtless…. just every boys dream, well, those little boys like me anyway. My brothers never seemed to mind that I was always there, watching, cause they knew at least I was staying out of trouble.

My trouble didn’t start until I met Miss Dee that lived on the next block over from my house. Now Miss Dee was what you would call a colorful soul. She had people in and out of her house at all times of the day and night. Seems I was walking down the street one summer afternoon and Miss Dee was sitting on her porch and she hollard at me. I went over to see what she wanted and we started talking. And we talked and talked and talked because I guess nobody have ever taken the time to just sit and talk to me like I was somebody that was important. I talked and Miss Dee, she listened. She got quite for a minute and looked me straight in the eyes and asked me how long had I known I was liking boys. Miss Dee was the first person to ever ask me that. I planned to keep that all bottled up inside me but Miss Dee, she said child, you is like a hot soda pop and someday you gonna bust all over the place if you keep yourself all bottled up. I reckon Miss Dee was right cause lord knows over the next few months, this caterpillar blossomed into the butterfly you see now!

I took off Gary and put on Ginger and I been Miss Ginger ever since. I sashayed down the streets of Florence back then and gurl, I sashay the streets of Birmingham now and I will continue to sashay until I die.

My family don’t care enough about me to even wonder where I am, well, all except my mamma does send me a Christmas card every year to my post office box I keep in case I win the publishers clearing house or something. But me, I just walk the streets and do my best Donna Summer Bad Girls thang and hope I get enough to eat and pay my part of the rent. See, me and some more girls have this tiny apartment we share cause we are our own little family. We be pretty tight and maybe that’s because we picked each other to be family instead of being with them that don’t really want us.

So let me get on out of here. Gurl, I got money to earn and since you ain’t gonna pay me for talking, I gotta fly. But Mister, if you ever get up to Florence Alabama….tell Miss Dee that Miss Ginger is still snappin…

(note-as she snapped her fingers, she caught my eye and with a slight tear in one corner of her eye, she flipped her head around and walked off, like she was thinking about Miss Dee and how someone had listened to her.)

As told by me
I was five, my sister had received a bride doll from my aunt and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen! I wanted to play with it. I wanted to brush it’s hair. But my daddy said boys don’t play with dolls, so I got some scissors and cut the bride dolls hair off along with its fingers. I have no clue as to why I cut the fingers, all I knew is I wanted to make it ugly because when it was beautiful I wanted it. Now I had made it ugly so it was not a temptation. It was now not beautiful.

I was seven and I was watching a Tarzan movie on television. I felt hot and tingly as he ran through the jungle with Jane. I did not know why. But he was beautiful. His hair was beautiful. He was almost naked and he was beautiful.

I was a teenager and I was praying to God daily to make me not have the urges that I knew would send me to hell because I was told that in church. It was not beautiful.

I was in my twenties and discovered theater. I lost my virginity to a girl in a play. It was beautiful! I also lost my virginity to a boy in a play. It was also beautiful! Theater became my life because I could be someone else for two hours and not have to deal with the me that only me knows. For ten years, I chased the dream of being an actor so I could be…beautiful.

I was thirty and decided the theater was not going to fulfill my dreams of normality. I was taught that society wanted me to be a man and get married and have kids and a job and be happy. So I found a girl and got married and made my parents happy. We had two wonderful kids and they are beautiful. I have four wonderful grand kids and they are beautiful.

I am sixty and I traded in a wife for a husband and he is beautiful. My kids and grand kids love him which is beautiful.

I am sixty but I don’t have to walk the streets or hustle to eat or have a warm place to sleep, but there are many that do. They are the outcasts, the unwanted, the overlooked, the different, the shameful, they are our children of the south that no one wants… but me. I want them all to feel love, to have a full stomach, to be able to pull the covers up over themselves at night, but most of all, I want them to feel safe and a part of this thing we call the human race…which is beautiful!

Epilogue
Please remember most all of the people interviewed in the previous chapters are purely mental people from my mind. Bits and pieces are from real people or from watching people walk the streets and living under bridges and thinking that each has a story, a tale, if you will, that lead them to where they are at this moment. But being from the south myself, and seeing how we dispose of real people because they have issues that we or our family do not want to endure, we toss them in institutions, or hospitals or just out in the street. Like tissues, we blow our nose then toss in the trash. But for what all it’s worth, each story seemed to have a central character that was mentioned…the mamma, the mother. And maybe it’s because the mamma is the one that is able to show love the most. Daddies are not to show love in the south…or so we were taught, but that is changing.

The next time you are out riding around in your fancy car, pay attention to the lost souls that keep their eyes downward, that stay back in the shadows, those that check the ashtrays for butts to smoke later, those that hang around the libraries because it’s a safe place. If nothing else, share a smile with them. Assist them by helping shelters and soup kitchens and coat and blanket drives. Get your church involved with a mission program to help with clothing or water or shelter. These are people just like you and me. It may be circumstance, it may be bad choices, it may be absolutely no ones fault as to the why. But we have got to love them…these angels of the night and these dreamers of the day….

Why had I never taken time off from my job before? Because I was a workaholic. No, because I always thought I was needed too much. No, because my co workers would take over my job while I was gone. No, actually none of these were true because I was the boss. I owned my own company and was doing a pretty good job of increasing business each month to the point that I was now about to board a plane for a vacation/business trip to New Orleans to meet with an interested new investor that wanted to possibly merge our companies to become something even better and more advanced than what I was doing now. Taking my business to the next level my accountant had told me. I could be in the big leagues soon if I played my cards right she said.

So here I am pulling my new suitcase from Target, not my luggage for some hoity toity store because I was a small business owner and I did Target, not Neiman Marcus. Me and my pink Barbie suitcase I had so loving named Barbs,were heading to New Orleans to a meeting. I could not believe what a deal I had gotten on the Barbie markdown. I thought the movie had done better than that!

Boarding pass in one hand and the handle to Barbs in the other, we came face to face with the longest escalators I have ever encountered. This monstrosity had to be three story’s long and I wasn’t talking about the “once-upon-a-time” ones either. This thing went on for miles! We stepped on the first step and were whooshed off, ascending upwards at a speed that made my head so woozy that I found myself slumped over to the side of the traveling staircase of doom and poor Barb’s right wheel was grinding against the side, wearing away to a nub. My newest best girlfriend was now getting non-voluntary liposuction of one of her wheels and she did not look exactly please about it and I could only imagine what she would have been saying if she could!

As the escalator came to an end, Barbs and I stepped off and started to proceed to our gate. I looked down to see what the galumph, galumph, galumph, was and realized my new best friend, my Barbs, now limped as she rolled due to her wheel evisceration on the escalator. I felt sorry for her so I gently picked her up and carried her to the gate as if she were a small child tired of walking.

Now I knew, when I booked my flight that there could be some changes in the airlines and planes and ticket processes and such, but what I thought was going to be a middle of the plane seat, turned out to be the last seat on the plane…right next to the busiest area onboard of the illustrious puddle jumper of a plane, the restroom. I am not sure which was worse, the seats location or the lack of leg room as my knees rested firmly against the back of the seat before me. Plus the fact that the person in front of me kept flipping their hair over the back of the seat. And, I am not saying that the hair was not beautiful and wonderfully shaded, but when that person got up to visit the little room behind me! I was amazed that I was totally wrong about the gender of the person that was hidden under the tresses. It was a man! And one of the most gorgeous men I have ever seen outside of one of my romance novels!

I began to panic as he passed by me for several reasons. One was how did I look? Was I looking as frazzled as I thought? Was my makeup smeared from my journey to the gate? Oh my sweet baby Jesus, my hair was still piled up on top of my head like a squirrels nest! I quickly pulled the scrunchy from my hair and let it fall down as I shook it out as much as possible in my small area of a seat they lovingly call 53A. Second, Would I be able to hear him in the that little room directly behind me? I would die of embarrassment if I did. And lastly, why was my heart pounding like a school girl crushing on the quarterback at the senior prom?

I heard the lock being turned and I held my breath. With a smile on my lips, I looked up as he passed and turned to sit back in his seat in front of me. Our eyes met. He gave me a little smile as he said “your hair looks great down.” He then sat and off we flew through the sky.

After a short hour flight, we stood in a line to deplane. One hundred and seven people, he then I slowly stepped off the plane and headed to the luggage carousel. Should I speak to him? Should I make a joke? But it was when Barbs came around the carousel that I remembered my broken wheel and the walk of shame I would have to do if I brought more attention to myself. So, nothing was said as I reached over and pulled Barbs from the circle of luggage.

As I was walking through the terminal, Barbs doing her galumph, galumph, galumph, I kept my eyes lowered to the floor, trying not to think of the ordeal I had encountered on this day. This was my life. Always had been and always will be.

But what was that noise I heard behind me? It sounded like Barbs had met a friend. I heard the sound of a ca-lick, ca-lick, ca-lick and turned around to see Mr. Gorgeous from the seat in front of me pulling a piece of Transformer luggage and it, too, was having wheel issues. He looked at me and smiled the perfect smile and said “looks like Target must have been having a sale on luggage in your area as well! The escalator ate one of my wheels!”

We both started to laugh, and after a quick chat realized we were both headed for the same hotel so we shared a cab, Mr. Gorgeous, myself, Mr. Transformer and Barbs. Like four strangers that had washed up on a deserted island. How little did I know that we would all be great friends before this adventure was over!

For you see, the next day as I walked into my meeting with the new possible investor that my accountant had set me up with, there, sitting in that chair at the end of the conference room table was none other than Mr. Gorgeous himself! And now that a year has come and gone, I was once again boarding a plane, but this time I was holding the hand of my new husband as we headed off for our honeymoon/business trip to Las Vegas, where our new combined company was now being sought after by companies all over the world. Me, Mr. Gorgeous, Mr. Transformer, Barbs and a bunch of little luggage we loving call our Target Babies!

All because I was the girl in seat 53A!

Down south in Alabama, there is a place called Phenix City just on the eastern side of the state, so close to the edge that it mostly falls into the state of Georgia. So close that it is in the eastern time zone since most people that have the pleasure of living there work across the state line, so they elected to be on eastern time. Phenix City, has had its share of scandals and dark secrets throughout the years and the one that happened in 1953 was no exception.

Now this was a little before my time, but my mother has told me numerous times about the year that her sister, Mable, came to stay with us the summer of 1953. Why she was there was really never explained to me as a kid, but as I grew older, I put two and two together. Well actually it had been one and one because there was a rumor of a third coming in eight to nine months. 

The day Mable drove up in a taxi from Tuscaloosa, I remember the Coca-Cola thermometer on the porch said it was a sweltering 101 degrees and the humidity was so heavy that the sheets on the line had no chance to dry for a week. One thing about Mable, which I was told I absolutely could not call “Aunt Mable” because it made her feel old, was her blonde hair was her pride and joy. Mable was beautiful as I could see in all the old photographs that people had taken of her and her friends that seemed to always be around, especially on the weekends when Fort Benning, which was only 11 miles away, let the boys out for some leave. Her blonde hair and her “assets” made her a popular attraction to Phenix City. My mother said as long as Mable was around, we always had a supply of Coca-Colas in the fridge and cigarettes that my father would enjoy bumming off of the boys from the fort. 

It was about the third week in July that things started to change according to my Mamma. Mable woke in the middle of the night and lost her dinner in the bathroom. She was sickly the entire week and no matter how much she was persuaded to eat or drink something, she just could not keep anything down. My Mamma had her suspicions but did not let on, she said, because Mable was her younger sister and had told her plenty of times before, that she had to live her own life and she knew she had to live it to the fullest.

Now that was about the time that the number of Coca-Colas in the fridge began to shrink and my father decided it was time to cut back on the smoking. Seems the amount of friends that came to visit Mable from the fort began to taper off, well, all except one, that my Mamma said she just didn’t care for. But Mable wanted him around as much as possible. His name was William Edward Anderson, which after doing some investigation about him, I thought was a pretty distinguished name for someone to just chop it off to “Bill” 

Bill came around most every weekend, my Mamma said, and he and Mable would sit on the porch in the swing and talk for hours. The heat of summer seemed to take its toll on Mable. She was irritable, and as summer began to cool off in hopes of a cooler fall, Bill came by on Friday and announced that he was being sent to Korea to fight. Mable cried all weekend, and the weekend turned into a week and finally one day she stopped her tears. Just stopped and started living again, but she seemed to have a different “air” about her. 

Mamma told me that Mable started volunteering for the Red Cross and any other war related thing she could find to do to occupy her time until Bill came home. Mamma failed to let me know, but I could tell by the pictures that Mable was getting a lot fuller in figure than she once was and I thought when I was younger that maybe she just ate more cause she was worried about Bill. But I later learned she was getting fuller in figure because of Bill. Mable was “in that way” my Mamma told me. Looking back now, I smile because the word pregnant could not be said out loud. 

Now there were no Coca-Colas in the fridge and my father had all but stopped smoking. We had no visitors from Fort Bening anymore. Well, not until the day my Mamma opened the door when she heard a knock. Two officers from the fort came in the house looking grim. Mable just stood there as they delivered the news about Bill. It seemed William Edward Anderson, chopped down to “just Bill” was not coming to see Mable again. They turned and left after offering condolences and three people just stood there staring. My Mamma, my father and Mable.

Mamma finally decided to tell me everything after I had started to do some investigation into our family tree for a masters project. After I graduated from high school, I decided to go to the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa where I stayed with my Aunt Mable. Yes, I called her that as years came and went. We became close the years I lived there. I always felt a special connection to her and after she passed, my Mamma decided to own up to the truth. 

Times were hard in 1953, especially for a single young mother and my Mamma and father, and Mable, decided that she could not raise a child alone especially when she lived where there was no family around. So Mamma took the baby and Mable left. She never came around much, my Mamma said, because it was hard for her to see her baby boy, knowing that she had done the best she could do. 

So here I stand beside her tombstone, my Mamma and me and father. I have tears in my eyes as I realize how lucky I was having two Mamma’s, one standing beside me and one watching over me, probably sipping a Coca-Cola in heaven. This was my summer of 1953…

Marvin~

“Red Rover, Red Rover, send Carley right over!” we cried as Carley turned loose of her classmates and ran like the devil himself was after her as she tried to break through our linked hands that were squished tightly together to try and keep her from breaking through and taking one of our team back to her side. My hands were sweaty and she headed right towards me! Dang! She grabbed my shirt and pulled me over to her side of the playground. I really didn’t mind since I was a little sweet on Carley and I think maybe she was a little sweet on me. But there was no way I would let my buddies find out that I had a girlfriend. They thought that stuff was all icky! So the nearest thing I could do was to hold Carley’s hand in the game of Red Rover…and dream and hope.

Jennifer~

She just thought she was SO smart and pretty with her red hair bobbing and waving as she ran towards Marvin. I hated Carley! I loved Marvin… well, I think I do, anyway. My mamma reads those romance books and leaves them laying around the house and I slip them into my room and ready them, or try to. Some of the words are hard and some of the thing they talk about, I really don’t understand. But all I know is my face gets red when Marvin looks at me and I just want him to kiss me. But Carley will not leave him alone and I am just too bashful to let him know my bosom heaves for him as my Mamma’s book says, whatever that means. So I’ll just let them play Red Rover as I look for someone to see saw with me. Not the fat kid, Willie, he would bump me over the see saw like he does every kid on the playground.

Max~

“What do you mean you are too scared to try and wrap your swing around the top by swinging high?” Paul was such a cry baby. Me? If there was only a way I could get my swing to wrap around and around the bar, it would be so awesome! But until I find a way to do that, I will just have to settle for swinging high and jumping out and hope I don’t get caught by teacher. Me and Paul were twins but you’d never know it. He was a scaredy cat, but me, I was the brave one of the family. I was always the one with scrapes and cuts and bruises. Paul, he was always clean and reading a book. Me and Willie were the kings of the playground, me because I was smart and Willie, because he was big and the other kids were afraid of him. That’s why I keep him as a friend, he was like my guard. Together, we rule the swings, the see saws and the monkey bars! 

Carley~

Marvin was the boy my daddy had been when he was young according to the stories he would tell me about when he was young. The best runner. The smartest in class. Just the best in everything he did, just like my daddy. I got my red hair from my daddy he tells me every day as he brushes it for me before school. Its one of my most favorite times of the day as I sit still in front of the mirror and he brushes my hair ever since my mom died. It’s just me and my daddy, and one day maybe Marvin will be my husband and he can live with us too. Marvin and me, we have a secret handshake so the other kids will not know how we like each other because they would tease us and sing “Carley and Marvin sitting in a tree” and I would just die of embarrassment. So me and Marvin, we’ll just keep on with our secret handshakes until the day we get married and he lives with me and daddy.

Willie~

I am sad. I am lonely. I am fat so no one wants me to play with them or picks me for their team, or be the other end of the see saw. My only friend is Max, but I’m not so sure he is really a friend. I think he just uses me cause I am big and the other kids are scared that I’ll hurt them. But I will take that cause I am all alone. I have been held back in school for two years. My teacher says its because I do not apply myself. Well, I don’t because then I would have to step out of the shadow of my self and I never want to get the attention. The fat kid that everyone watches. No, I’ll just be me and stay behind in school and probably in life as my grandma says almost daily. My ma and pa died when I was little and my grandma and me, well, we get by with the help from the Methodist Church Ladies Guild. Christmas and birthdays, I could always count on a little “something” from the guild. But that’s OK because one day, I’ll run away and join the circus and then my grandma will be better off not having to put up with me…cause I’m fat.

Teacher~

“Lord, where has the time gone?” I asked myself as I looked at my watch. Recess nearly over for another day and here I sit watching all these kids with their innocent dreams and hopes running and playing with not a care in the world. Just wait until they get to be adults and have to deal with a job and a family and bills and just life in general. That thought kills my spirit almost every waking moment of my day. Life, who needs it. You know Willie confided in me once that he planned to run away and join the circus. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if I joined him in the three rings of make believe. “Kids, it’s time to go in!” I bellowed after I blew the whistle I had been given when I became the teacher last year. “Ah, it’s too soon, just a little longer…” I heard as they began to line up to go back inside. We marched single file back towards the class. As I looked back to see if they were all there, I just happened to notice the playground. Swings still swinging in the breeze, see saws coming to a rest and what was once noisy from the kids was now soundless except for a faint sound of an owl…. “whooooo?”….. it seemed to be asking. I looked at my kids and thought to myself…“Us” as we faded away until recess tomorrow…

Alabama’s Maple Hill Cemetery in Huntsville has a children’s playground off in the trees of the final resting place of many a story no longer with us. People say that some of the stories may not be completely finished since it appears that recess may be held daily between the hours of 10 PM AND 3 AM when swings may sway and children’s laughter may be heard. If you listen closely, you may hear “Red Rover” whispered in the wind or the smell of circus peanuts where Willie made it to the circus…

J KEITH OWENS

Copyright © 2024 by J Keith Owens

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy thisbook, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

J Keith Owens asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

J Keith Owens has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

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For seven special people that share magical hearts-

Emmie – Carter – Addison – Anna – James – Hope – Rory

Always keep love in your hearts and remember, everyone is special!

Chapter 1

The Village

Once there was a place far, far away, but actually a lot closer than one would think. In the land of Tennessee, there once, and still is, the village of Ferndale.

It is said Ferndale was a destination one would not plan to visit, no train, no bus, no plane would ever have a ticket marked Ferndale… because this was a magical place that most people had no knowledge existed. A place on no map and most people would think you might be a little disillusioned if you talked about a place named Ferndale.

To find Ferndale, could be a once in a lifetime adventure, one a person would never forget. For Ferndale exists in the misty mountains of Tennessee, off the beaten path of normal, and only appears to people that have a great love in their hearts!

Yes, only special people could find Ferndale, and they usually are not really looking for it. Most people stumble upon the village while walking in the woods. I have heard, but do not know if it is true, one of the first signs you may be close to Ferndale is the faintsound of tinkling chimes. If you listen and follow the sound, I am told the next thing would be the smell of fresh baked bread. The village of Ferndale is known for baking the most delicious bread. So a person would just follow the sounds and the smells, and the next thing you knew, you are standing in Ferndale!

Now I must tell you, I have never been able to find the place myself, but my friend that told me about his adventures in Ferndale said I must never tell people about the place unless they might be the kind of person with special love in their hearts and would understandand believe in such a magical place. So I guess if you are reading or hearing this book, you may be special of the heart like my friend, and I am trusting you to tell of the adventures of the village only to other people with special hearts!

The people of Ferndale are many, and each has a special job that helps the village to exist. In the next chapter, I’ll tell you about the Mayor of Ferndale. Mayor Manville…who was much loved, but very lonely….

Chapter 2

Mayor Manville

The village of Ferndale was just like any other village you may have visited, except there were no grouchy people, which made the village even more of a special place to live! Everyone woke as the sun rose and bedtime was always as the sun sets behind the Tennessee Mountain tops. Everyone lived and worked happily all the day which was the law of the land. And this law was made by everyone’s friend and Mayor, Mayor Manville.

Mayor Mannie Manville had been the Mayor of Ferndale for as long as anyone could remember, and that was a very long time since the people in the village lived to be hundreds of years old. Mayor Mannie, which was what all of his friends called him, lived allalone in his humble Mayor’s cottage on the outskirts of the village. He liked his little cottage because living alone, he did not need a lot of space, plus that also meant he did not have to clean very much, which Mayor Mannie liked. He would rather spend his time makingsure all of Ferndale was safe instead of sweeping the floor or washing the windows.

It had become the talk of the town that maybe Mayor Mannie was lonely. He had always lived alone, had dinner alone, except for the parties given in the village on special occasions, and so the fine folk of Ferndale decided that Mayor Mannie needed a companion.Someone to help around the cottage with the chores, maybe sit and have long chats, or a dinner friend was always a nice thing to have.

Now as I heard it, the villagers talked among themselves and decided to have a big party in the village square. Food, fun, dancing, games…it would be just like the county fair except instead of awarding blue ribbons to the best cakes and pies, the prize would be theperfect companion for Mayor Mannie!

Somehow, word got back to the Mayor about what was being planned and it made him a little sad that his villagers thought that being alone was a bad thing. He had been alone ever since… well, he had always been alone so he did not know how it felt to have a person to live in his house. He thought and thought and pondered and pondered if it was a good idea or a bad idea to even wish for a such a friend.

That night as he slept, he had a dream… and in his dream he saw himself at the big party and all the townspeople from Ferndale were having such fun! As he joined in the fun with his friends, he forgot about the real reason for the big party.

Soon, someone rang the village bell in the tower that an-nounced the special event was about to take place. Mayor Mannie was about to meet the villager’s choice for him. The person to help the Mayor not be lonely and sad and not to have dinner alone anymore!

The first person on the list turned out to be someone that had terrible manners and never said “please” or “thank you” so their name was crossed off the list. The second was so shy, they hid behind a tree as Mayor Mannie came by. The second name was marked off the list. The third did not like to keep thing nice and tidy, the forth ate everyone’s food on the table, the fifth was grouchy, so they had to leave the village.

By the end of the party, all the names had been crossed off the list, which made the villagers sad because they wanted Mayor Mannie to be happy.

As the sun rose and Mayor Mannie remembered his dream, he made a decision and called for a meeting of all the people in Ferndale at noon. He was pleased about what the people had wanted to do and understood.

The noontime bell rang and all the villagers gathered in the town square. Mayor Mannie stood on the edge of the fountain so he could be seen and heard by everyone. All eyes and ears were on the Mayor.

“People of Ferndale, I had a dream last night and I wanted to tell you about it. You see, I know of your plan to help find someone for me so I will not be lonely or sad. But please hear what I have to say. I am not sad. I am not lonely, because I have all of you in mylife. I like to dine alone so if I need to burp, I do not have to say “excuse me” or have great table manners. But when I dine with my friends, I know how to show my table manners. My fellow Ferndale friends, I have decided that I like to be alone. When I do feel alittle lonely, I just think about all of you and I smile, because I have you all in my life. So this makes me the most un-alone, the most un-sad person in Ferndale!”

The villagers were silent for a minute as they pondered Mayor Mannie’s words. He was happy. They had always knew he seemed to be happy, but now they knew just how happy he was…which made them happy! The villagers learned that day that not everyone has to have someone in their life to make them happy, or not alone, and sometimes dining alone is kind of nice, especially when you have to burp!

Next, I shall tell you the story of the town baker. The town baker made the best bread around and there was a rumor that he had a “special ingredient” that he used to make his bread magically delicious!

Chapter 3

Bartholomew B. Biscotti

Now every village has to have something that makes them famous throughout the land and Ferndale was no exception! Most all the villages in Tennessee

knew, or had eaten bread from the Ferndale Bakery at least once in their lives. And, once you had bread from there, you never forgot it because it was magically delicious, just like the sign on the door said.

It wasn’t by chance that this bread was so special and delicious because, although it was made the ordinary way, it was rumored that the bread had a secret ingredient that only the bread baker himself, knew of it’s existence. So sit back and let me tell you a little bit about Bartholomew B. Biscotti…Master Baker!

Bartholomew B. Biscotti… HATED his name! It could have been because when he was learning to read and write, he felt like he was using every letter in the alphabet just to spell his name. Or it could have been that after writing his name, it made his hands hurt. Butthe real reason he hated his name was, it was just too long! So after much pondering, he decided that when he grew up, he would be called Bart.

Bart’s family had always been in the baking business. His father, his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father had always baked. So Bart decided he wanted to be a baker too!

When Bart grew up and completed his classes at the Ferndale “School of Cooking-Baking and Other Specialties”, he decided that he and his wife and three children would remain in Ferndale in hopes of becoming the official baker of the village. Since there wereonly one other baker in the town left, and he was getting pretty close to retiring his baker’s apron, it was certain that Bart would become the official village baker!

One day, Bart was talking to his wife, Banta, while having a cup of hot coco, about becoming the village baker and how he could make his breads so special that people from miles around would come to buy his bread. He thought…and pondered…and finally he came up with a special “secret” ingredient to add to his bread so people would be sure to love it as much as his family did. His three children, Connie, Corrine and Coriander loved his bread and ate it up each and every meal. They loved his bread as much as they loved their Dad!

So, Bart began to make his bread, with the special ingredient and before long, his bread was known all over the village. And the next village over, and the next and the next…and soon, he became known for making the magically delicious bread with the magical ingredient!

People would come from far and near to, hopefully, watch Bart make his bread to see if they could figure out what the “magical ingredient” was. They would peep in the windows as he mixed his bread. They would ask Banta, his wife, if she knew what was the secret. Even Connie, Corrine and Coriander was asked if they knew….but no one knew the secret!

Years went by and sure enough, Bart and his bread became famous. All parts of the Tennessee Mountain Villages knew about and bought their bread from Bart’s Bakery. And as the years went by, people began to stop asking about the special “magical ingredient”. Noone had ever guessed what it was… they just knew it was delicious!

The children grew and Bart and Banta were happy when the children decided they wanted to become bakers like their dad! To have extra help making all of that bread was just what Bart needed, now that he was getting older.

I heard that it was on a Tuesday afternoon that all three children, Connie, Corrine and Coriander came to Bart and asked to have a chat with him. Bart knew what they were wanting to chat about. What was the “secret magical ingredient” that he added to his bread so they could keep making it for many, many years.

“My children, this village and all the people in it are special to me and our family, and when you bake for people that are special and you have love in your heart for them, you take a little bit of that love and mix it in the dough, because baking for people is a way toshow you love them.”

Bart and Banta smiled as they watched the now grown children’s faces shine in the understanding as he told them that the special ingredient was love. They learned that day that anything done for someone you love, you always add the special ingredient of love,because love makes everything better!

And this is the way I heard the story of Bartholomew B. Biscotti. I don’t know if its true, but I would like to think it is… but now, I am hungry for some delicious bread!

Chapter 4

End Of The Beginning

So now, you have learned a little about the mystical town of Ferndale and just some of the people that live there.

The Mayor and the Baker are only a few of the villagers that live, work and play in this magical place that I can only hope that you may wander across one day. Listen for the tinkling bells or the smell of the bread…or, just listen to your special heart!