The electronic apple

 

 

 

Back at the beginning of time there were two; Adam and Eve. 

The story goes (obviously written down by a man) like this:  Eve was beguiled by a beautiful snake.  The creature glistened in the sun light, slithered sensuously around her and hissed its message in her ear.

 

“Eat of the Tree of Life and you shall know the truth.  You will have the knowledge of good and evil, you will know all the things that God does not want you to know.  Eat….eat,” the snake whispered.

 

 

Now Eve, being the curious creature she was designed to be, is reported to have fallen for this.  I have a suspicion she may have been the worlds first blonde.  Anyway, she ate the apple and the veil of innocence fell from her eyes.  Realizing she was completely naked, and not in the best shape, she grabbed some leaves and strategically placed them for cover.  Then she set out to find her mate…..and you know the rest of that story.

 

Last night I sat watching the news.  It's something I do infrequently because, no matter what channel I watch, I am aware it is biased and self-serving to the ownership.  The truth is there is very little truth in news….get over it.

Sitting there I had an epiphany; TV is the modern day version of that snake in the Garden of Eden.  'Eat from this fruit and you will know the truth'.  The unblinking eye is jam packed with all the things a kind and caring deity would not want you subjected to.  Not because you should live in ignorance, but because some things are just better left alone or taken in very small doses. 

Each broadcast is a display case for human misery, ignorance and insanity.  The formula is simple.  Lead with the bloodiest, follow up with the saddest, end with a chuckle about the local sports team.  It is predictable, insensitive and lucrative.   How many times do we need to see a microphone shoved into the face of a grieving parent or a hurricane survivor? 

The coverage of the latest mass murder has raised the killer to cult worship status.  To fill airtime this event will be broadcast year after year on the anniversary of the tragedy; thus giving every nut-case a time frame to construct his/her own nightmare.

The worst thing that ever happened to television is the 24 hour news channel, because you have to fill 24 hours with something.   Over and over the horror of these events is driven home with the ratings jackhammer.

You’re probably thinking, “Yes, but if we didn’t know about things like the tsunami how could we raise money for aid?”  Good question…and my rebuttal is, “How much money did you send to tsunami victims and how many hours, days, weeks of the death and destruction and horror did you see?”  In truth I think watching hours and hours of this kind of coverage may be making us immune to the pain and suffering of others.   Perhaps it is easier to step around a homeless beggar when you’ve seen a whole country suffering.

I am fully aware that I will sound out of touch to a lot of people.  I'm not promoting ignorance, and I am aware people need to know what is going on.  But you must remember that television is a business.   Because networks are dedicated to winning ratings wars we must have enough common sense to turn it off at some point. I am simply suggesting we should all be as particular about what we watch (and how much we watch) on television as we are about anything else that takes up time in our lives.

We can dress it up and call it anything we want but the truth is at best every sitcom, every news cast and every talk show is simply an advertising delivery system.  The programming is ‘flavoring’ to make the message go down more easily.  Since human beings realized the crowd would throw coins at dancers in the town square, or hand pennies to the town crier, money has been the motivating factor in entertainment and news.

                                                     Do not be beguiled by the snake…

                                                                Life is Good

 

The Night Before Christmas

Here we are on another Christmas Eve.  The gifts are wrapped, the food prepared and waiting for tomorrow’s big dinner with the family.  I’m on the grownup end of the holidays; but I still love Christmas.   

This was always a magical night when I was a child; I remember my grandfather holding me as we watched out the window for a shadow that might mean Santa was passing overhead.   Then it was off to bed to try and sleep; Santa doesn’t really come till he knows you’re sleeping.

As an adult it seems I can no longer achieve that peaceful sleep I knew as a child; that was a time before I knew about sickness, the homeless, death, the hungry and the broken.   Now celebration is tempered with the understanding of other people’s pain; the real definition of growing up.

So many of the presents I received as a child have disappeared into the blackness of my memory; the gifts received as a by-product of growing older will stay with me forever.  I'd like to share a few of those gifts with you: 

      Never wait for the misfortune of others to make you appreciate what you have right now.

            Never pass up a chance to be kind…it is much more important than being right.

                                        Take nothing for granted….nothing.

Look for the beauty around you to fill the spaces that can just as easily be inhabited by ugliness.

                         Be grateful for everything; the world owes you nothing.

                          Nothing lasts forever....nothing good and nothing bad.

 

                Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!!!!

                                                                    Life is Good

Looking for Christmas Cheer

I think there is a very good chance that I may be an ill-mannered Neanderthal.   I say that as a person who was born before ‘political correctness’ came into vogue…and refuses to bend to this tyrannical trend. 

While joining the throng trying to exit a store this week an elderly woman held the door for me as I followed her.  I stepped up my pace so she wouldn’t have to just stand there and, as I cleared the door, I said, “Thank you and Merry Christmas to you.”    With no facial expression whatsoever she looked at me and said, “We don’t celebrate Christmas.”

That stopped me in my tracks; as we hesitated for a moment in front of the store I said to her, “My wish to you came from a happy heart.  You do not have to observe Christmas to receive my well wishes for a joyous season, no matter what you do or do not celebrate.”

The woman was as short and grey as her hair-do.  She chewed the inside of her cheek, looked up at the overcast sky, then at me, and finally said, “Okay, I get that.”

As she stomped away I questioned my response and wondered from whence it had come.   Eventually I realized that Christmas combines all my happy childhood memories, the love for my family and just a general gratitude about being alive.  If it is rude to share that with a complete stranger I make no apologies.

And so, if you should encounter someone who seems to be offended by your well wishes, so be it.                                           Frankly I will accept all the happy feelings you might be able to spare.   In today’s world we all need all the help we can get.

                                                      Merry Christmas

                                                          Life is Good  

Don't Make Eye Contact With the Animals

For years now I’ve listened to my internal dialogue becoming more and more judgmental.  I honestly struggle to keep my mind open and my opinions to myself but I fail a minimum of ten times every single day.  Now I fear I’ve completely lost all interest in being “fair and balanced”….all because of a late lunch.

Larry picked me up at the office last week to sign some papers and enjoy a late lunch together.  When we’re operating on a tight timeline we often hit a buffet; easy to get in and out and no waiting for food.  My favorite food is Chinese; he tolerates it well, and so we stopped for lunch.

We were sitting in a booth talking when our attention was drawn to the table across the aisle from us.  A group of eight was being seated.  They were loud and boisterous and (here I go) looked as if they’d come from central casting for the movie Easy Rider.  Wrapped heads, tattoos and large purple sucker bites seemed to be their dress code.  They took their seats and managed to hold the attention of everyone in the place as they loudly decided who was going to hit the food bar first.

As I sat watching this group of unkempt exhibitionists I was glad we were finishing up because I sensed the entertainment factor with this bunch was going to tank quickly.  After filling plates they returned to their seats to hurl four letter words and insults at one another as they stuffed food into their mouths.   It might have been their version of good natured banter…but it could just as easily have been the set up for a knife fight.

One extremely obnoxious fellow wearing a cowboy hat summoned a waitress by snapping his fingers and calling loudly, “Hey you, girl!  Over here, now!”   

Just as we finished our desserts one of the men laughed and loudly called out “fart fight”!  This was followed by a loud noise that led me to understand he was not joking.  Their entire table erupted in laughter, hoots and clapping of hands.  Then a second man loudly announced, “You ain’t heard nothing yet,” and he proudly became the obvious trophy winner.  

We grabbed our bill and headed out.  I didn’t take time to look around and see if anyone else was leaving to escape this bunch of louts.  I really felt sorry for the servers who had to deal with them until they decided they had offended enough people and moved on to a fresh audience.

I have never witnessed such dreadful behavior in a restaurant in my life.  In an effort to avoid that, I will not set foot in that particular restaurant again for fear that bunch might be regulars.  The thought of following one of those people through a food line makes me cringe.

It’s hard enough to understand how some people leave home looking like an unmade bed; it is another thing to figure out what they say to themselves to make this kind of behavior acceptable.

My internal dialogue tells me it’s not right to judge people; my common sense tells me some people make that nearly impossible with their behavior. 

                                                            Life is Good

Nothing to wear....

From the start little girls want to imitate their mothers.  I remember watching my own Mom putting on make-up, fixing her hair, choosing what she would wear.  I simply could not wait to grow up so I could wear high heels and primp in the bathroom mirror.

This past weekend my husband and I got (what is for us) an early start on our Christmas shopping.  My history as a working woman has been to do the shopping at the last minute; I’ve spent many a Christmas Eve racing through my local Walgreens, frantically searching for something that even remotely resembles a gift.  I confess to standing in the “as seen on TV” aisle trying to come up with an idea….wondering if a years’ supply of fiber wafers might brand me as an uncaring friend. Now that I work a more leisurely schedule I will have gifts on time…..it’s an idea whose time has come.

Our shopping day eventually took us to a popular store for young girls; two of our granddaughters are big fans of this particular shop.  And so it was that Larry and I found ourselves standing in the middle of a store that looked to be a cross between a Las Vegas showgirl’s dressing room and a biker bar.   Denim meets marabou feathers and beyond.

Looking through the racks of “sophisticated” clothes the sizes seem to range from five year old girls to ten years old girls, or thereabouts. A long line of little girls seemed headed to the back of the store to try on sparkling shirts and jeans; one little gal who looked to be about seven or eight stumbled toward a dressing room with an armload of clothes…her three inch sequined heels impeding her progress.

Mesh tops, sequined sweaters, jeans with strategically placed holes?  Where are the patent leather shoes, the little plaid jumpers and the tights with ruffled fannies hiding?  I don’t have the heart to buy my granddaughters an outfit that looks as if RuPaul designed it for the opening scenes of Drag Race!

As a nation our little girls are mimicking Miley Cyrus, in love with Justin Bieber and listening to the lyrics of music that could make a (1960’s) sailor blush.   How do we get off this merry go round? I think one way is to pay more attention to how our kids dress.  You can’t expect a little girl to act like a seven year old if you allow her to dress like a stripper.  TV, music, movies…many parents pay attention to those things; but take a careful look at your daughter and ask yourself if what she’s wearing is really age appropriate. That may sound simplistic, but we have to start somewhere, right?

Technically bowing to the wishes of my young ones I bought the most modest, the least offensive shirts and jeans I could find.  I hope my little dolls are still too young to realize I didn’t buy the feather boa that went with ‘just everything’. 

                                  Let’s not let our little girls grow old before they grow up.

                                                                   Life is Good

Live with it.....

Getting used to living in an older body is very much like walking around in an unaltered suit….it just doesn’t fit properly.

All my life I’ve fought insomnia and, for the most part, lost the battle.    It’s always been a toss-up whether or not assuming the position and gently turning off my mind would summon sleep for at least five or six hours. It only makes you appreciate a good night’s sleep even more when it happens. 

It seems much longer, but just a year ago I was going down the three steps into our family room when I stepped on something and lost my balance; my left shoulder stopped me from falling by coming into hard contact with the solid oak mantle.  Needless to say, oak being stronger than shoulder, I came out on the losing end of that little exchange.  I thought at the time I’d bruised it and was happy I hadn’t ended up ‘arse over applecart’ down the steps.   I was wrong.

 If I were twenty I’d have bounced off that oak mantle and considered my clumsy flailing around as a possible new dance step.  At this age the fact that I can no longer raise that arm over my head is something I must get used to living with.  One thing I’ve learned: as you get older there is always something you need to learn to live with or learn to live without.  And so it is that the left shoulder of this old suit doesn’t seem to fit any more…and now the domino effect is in motion.

If I could look back in time and peek into my crib I bet anything I would see a baby sleeping in this position:

 

This “left arm up, legs in a human swastika position” is the way I’ve slept all my life.  I have no memory of waking in any other position from a restful night of unconsciousness.   Now I find myself trying to find another comfortable position in which to sleep because my left arm no longer seems to be a team player….impossible. 

My nightly routine doesn't vary much; I toss, I turn….I tuck some of the nine pillows on our bed around me to form a comforting cocoon and snuggle there waiting for sleep to find me.  Evidently restful sleep doesn’t recognize me in this ill-fitting suit of old age and this unexpected position because it finds me less and less frequently.

To accommodate my wakefulness we have a clock that projects the time on the ceiling of our bedroom.  That means I can watch the bright red, pulsing dots between the numbers as the seconds become minutes, then hours.  Time marches on, even as I force myself to be still.

This morning, like most, I’m up early waiting for the caffeine to kick in as I wait for the sunrise.  Somehow by the third cup of coffee the scattered minutes of sleep seem to meld together….a mental defrag if you will….and I am ready to take on the day.  

As the sky lightens I am grateful for another morning.   I guess as ‘old suits’ go this body isn’t really all that bad.   For the most part it still works….but it is still rather badly wrinkled.

 

                                                             Life is good

 

Quietly thankful

There is something about the night before a big holiday like Thanksgiving that is timeless. I've experienced this "time bubble" many years now. Like so many holiday eves before, this evening the oyster dressing is all done, ready to pop into the oven. The turkey is washed and seasoned and ready for the roaster oven at five am tomorrow. The house is in pretty good order. I've put all the leaves in the dining room table, giving it the appearance of an oak airport runway; it waits surrounded by every chair in the house. Other things that could be done ahead are waiting to be thawed or heated or both....and now I enjoy a glass of wine, some music and the quiet that will be gone tomorrow for just a little while.

Over the years our family has evolved and changed the way most families do. Marriages, divorces, deaths and births change the cast of characters from time to time. I know tomorrow, as I look around me, I will wish I could freeze time and keep everything the way it is....but I also know that isn't possible. 


I have so very much to be thankful for. I thank God for hearing prayers....answered and unanswed. I realize in quiet moments like these how little control I have had over my life.  As difficult as it is at times I still choose to believe that someone with more wisdom than I calls the shots.   I will enjoy this quiet time, poised on the edge of yet another holiday season.

                                                                     
                                                                   Life is Good

Shopping Yin and Yang

 

 

 

It may sound like a contradiction in terms to you; it makes perfect sense to me.  I love shopping….I hate shopping!

Perhaps I should explain.   I like leisurely shopping; looking for nothing in particular and enjoying the hunt.  If the perfect pair of shoes or household item turns up….so be it.   That’s the kind of shopping I look forward to.  Now, let’s get to the shopping I do not enjoy.  The shopping-with-your-husband-for-the-holidays type of shopping. 

Each year at this time my husband says, “Let’s make a list”.  Those words alone can leech all the fun out of a shopping trip.  When you realize that men think the list is to be followed to the letter, it’s even worse.

My idea of a “list” is the name of each person for whom we need to buy a gift.  Larry’s idea of a list is the name, the gift, the location of said gift, the amount of time to be spent in that particular store and the location of the best restaurant for lunch in the middle of the shopping safari.  Much too detailed for a person like me.

I know it’s just an extension of our personalities.  He is more pragmatic, more detail oriented.  I am more abstract, I let the details fall where they may.  I am the wings; he is the anchor, which probably explains why the marriage has lasted.

I am a “shopper”.  If we can’t find what we want here in town (and I haven’t a clue what that might be) let’s go to the outlet malls, or spend the weekend in Cincinnati, or a day in Cleveland!

He is a “buyer”.  Let’s decide we want a blue sweatshirt, come up with two places that carry blue sweat shirts, go there and buy a blue sweat shirt…..period.

Quite often over the years he’s chosen to settle the problem with the phrase he uses to escape from what he considers to be a shopping nightmare…..”Call Jone”.     Often my partner in shopping crime, Jone and I can spend the day looking for nothing and come home with something….a match made in girlfriend heaven.

And so it is that we enter this painful time of year...the shopping season.  Just as surely as day follows night this season is accompanied by a full day “wrap-o-rama” where we pull out all the holiday bags, wrappings, ribbon and bows that this “shopper” found after the holidays last year.  I wrap, he supplies an index finger for bow making and paper holding….and we get the job done.

All kidding aside I’m really looking forward to the holidays this year…shopping and all…and for us they begin this weekend and roll right on through New Year’s Day.  I will celebrate Thanks Giving with an especially grateful heart this year.  Christmas gives me the privilege of having my house full of family, grandchildren and friends; the New Year holds the promise of doing it all over again. 

In looking back over the year I’ve not lost every material thing to a hurricane, or said goodbye to a family member or a close friend.  My own health issues have turned out better than expected and I am lucky to be watching Heart of Ohio Magazine grow and develop.  When you have all these important things to celebrate, what’s a little shopping between friends?

We’re all facing the “my heart is full even if my check book is empty” time of year.  Let’s make the best of it and start enjoying some Christmas cheer right out of the chute.  I’m going to get ready for the shopping festivities by calling Jone……

                                                                Life is Good

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN……….

As Marco pulled himself onto the heavy chest of drawers a police officer pulled into the driveway of the house on Brainard Road.  Marco was oblivious to anything but getting his hands around Carolyn’s throat.  His fingers twitched with the need to punish her for the betrayal that was fueling his rage.   He had done everything for her, but she hadn’t paid attention.  She had turned out to be just like the others; now she was going to die for that.

The upstairs of the house was ablaze in lights, and it looked like there was a lot of activity for five fifteen in the morning.  

Officer Brad Jensen opened the door of his cruiser, a feeling of uneasiness washing over him as he reached for his flashlight.  He tapped the two-way on his shoulder to let the dispatcher know he was on sight, “Officer Jensen, at the address.  The house is lit up like Christmas morning, but it's quiet; too quiet.   I’m gonna look around”.

Checking the front and sides of the house he saw nothing out of order, but that uneasy feeling crawled across his scalp once again.   He unsnapped his holster as he walked to the front door; standing in the quiet cold morning air, he rang the doorbell.

Just as Marco stood on the highboy, bent at the waist and braced to push the attic door up with his back and shoulders, the doorbell rang.   Carolyn heard it too as the second set of chimes in the upstairs hallway sounded, and she began to scream, “Help me!   Help me, he’s going to kill me……Help!”

With a mighty effort, Marco straighted, pushing the door up with such force that Carolyn staggered back.   As the door swung up, Marco came up through the floor of the attic, his head and shoulders first, then two muscular arms that braced him and were positioned to raise him up into the attic.

The wild eyed stranger was screaming obscenities as he struggled to push himself up.   Carolyn braced herself and brought the bat half way to her shoulder. 

Time slowed to a crawl as Marco put his right arm up to shield his head and grab the bat from the screaming woman.   It was a mistake, because Carolyn took two steps to his left, and instead of coming down on his head as he had anticipated, she did as her nephew had instructed and swung across the ball.

The aluminum bat connected solidly with the left side of Marco’s head, the impact and the sickening thud made Carolyn scream even louder.    He pulled back through the hole in the attic floor; unable to keep his balance on the high boy, he fell to the closet floor.   

Blood streamed from the wound as he clutched his head, rolling from side to side and screaming with pain.  His head began to swell immediately, his left eye slamming shut as his head ballooned.  Blood blinded his right eye and filled his mouth as he continued to scream in pain.   Finally, as if in surrender,  he rolled onto his belly and lay still.

As she stood looking down through the opening Carolyn’s panic would not allow her to remain in the attic even though she knew what might be waiting for her.  All she could see of her tormentor was a bloody head and shoulders face down in the doorway of the closet.  

 She dropped onto the highboy and once again used the wooden shelves as a ladder to reach the floor.   As she stepped off the last shelf Marco let out a moan, then grabbed her ankle with a bloody hand as she tried to step around him.  Raising his ruined face he let out an angry roar, then pulled her leg out from under her. 

Carolyn fell hard, half out of the closet.  Screaming and kicking with her other foot she managed to break his grasp.   She struggled to get to her feet, but he was now standing, and his black boot connected with her rib cage, sending a blinding pain through her body.  Rolling onto her back she looked up to see him standing over her, screaming something unintelligible as blood poured from his mouth and his head wound.  She tried desperately to roll away but once again he delivered a vicious kick, this time to her stomach.   

Doubled over on the floor, unable to defend herself, she was being lifted.  He shook her like a rag doll, punching her face, and then his big hands closed around her throat.  Her body convulsed, her fingers tearing at his hands as she desperately tried to get air into her lungs.   Marco only loosened his grip to throw her to the floor.   Bending over her he clenched his hands around her throat, then started banging her head into the hardwood.

She had no conscious thought, only the sensation of gently pulling out of her pain wracked body just as bright red stars behind her eye lids faded to grey static in her head.   Seconds became hours, hours became days and then time was nothing at all.  It did not register that the crushing pressure on her throat was gone.  

She seemed to have a choice to make, but before she could figure out what it was, Carolyn felt herself yanked back into the body on the floor as it drew one unbelievably deep breath.  Suddenly she was sucked into a blackness that promised to be much more comfortable than the space she now occupied. 

           CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT……

As Carolyn slowly regained consciousness pain was her first visitor.  Every breath felt as if her lungs were full of razor blades; her head throbbed.   Squinting through her right eye, her left eye tightly swollen shut, she saw Jeff sitting beside her bed and realized she was in a hospital.  “Gaaaag”, she managed to croak.

Jeff was immediately on his feet, leaning over her he gently took her right hand.  “Ohhhhhh”, she groaned.  He gently put her hand down and ran to find a nurse.  Before he could get back to her she slipped down into the comforting blackness again. 

 Carolyn didn’t wake again for nearly twenty four hours.  This time her right eye opened completely and she saw day light through the left eye.  Jeff sat slumped in the chair by her bed. Disheveled and exhausted he had fallen asleep with his hand on her hospital bed.  She managed to say his name, but it came out sounding like “Chief” because her lips were so swollen.  

Jeff was immediately awake, “KO, Oh God, baby you’re going to be alright.   You’re pretty banged up, but you’ll be just fine.   I love you sweetheart, and I am so sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.”  He put his forehead against the bars on her hospital bed and cried as his frustration and fear finally boiled over.

“Sssokay”, she said. “Sssssokay”.  Carolyn put her hand on his head as he sobbed, and it hit her that she was alive.   She had survived; now she wanted to know exactly what the hell it was that she had survived.


CHAPTER TWENTY NINE......

Four days later, with Jeff pushing her wheel chair, Carolyn was released from the hospital. The couple would go to a hotel until their house was ready to live in once again. The master bedroom, both bathrooms, and Carolyn’s walk in closet had to have walls repaired, repainted, and refurnished. No physical signs of Carolyn’s ordeal would remain when and if they returned to the house.

Just that morning before her release Carolyn finally met the man who had saved her life. After he rang the doorbell that night, Officer Brad Jensen stood at the front door with his senses tingling. Although his written report said he had, he would never know for sure if he actually heard Carolyn screaming in the attic. In truth he believed the feeling that something was wrong became so strong he had no choice but to use his flashlight to break out the glass beside the front door and go into the house.

Once inside there was no doubt someone was in real trouble. Brad heard a man screaming obscenities, and the sound of a violent struggle. Taking the stairs two at a time he made it to the bedroom doorway in time to see Marco throw the bleeding woman to the floor. His head streaming blood, the man straddled her and continued to choke the life from her. He repeatedly banged the woman’s head into the hardwood floor to punctuate his senseless ranting.

“Police! Stand up and back away….” the officer shouted. It had no effect on the man as he shook the woman violently. “Police!”Brad yelled once again.

The man paid no attention, and with only a split second to make a decision, Officer Jensen knew what he had to do to save the woman’s life.

He fired, and as a bright flower of blood bloomed on the front of Marco’s shirt, he released Carolyn’s throat. He paused for just a second, a look of surprise crossed his grotesque face, then he fell on top her and lay completely still.

Even in death it seemed Marco was trying to hold on to Carolyn. The officer could barely see the woman as he quickly crossed the room and pulled the man’s lifeless body from her. The gasping woman fought to pull air into her tortured body, then sank into unconsciousness.

Forty five minutes later Jeff arrived home and found it impossible to get into his driveway. Police cars, reporters and gawkers filled the driveway and spilled out on to Brainard Road.

Jeff stopped his car in the road and ran for the driveway; in his panic he struggled with a police officer who stopped him as he tried to get to the house. He finally convinced the officer who he was, but even then no one seemed to be in the mood to take the time to answer his questions as they walked toward the house.

Just as Jeff and the cop made it across the deep front lawn paramedics brought two gurneys out the front door.

One was completely sheet covered, and Jeff felt a wave of dizziness hit him that almost brought him to his knees. That gurney was loaded into the back of a coroners van parked to the right of an ambulance.

The second gurney was being placed in the ambulance when the police officer who still held tightly to his arm said, “Mr. Breightner, would you like to go in the ambulance with your wife?” He knew he had never wanted anything more in his life.

CHAPTER THIRTY........

Twelve weeks later Jeff and Carolyn were once again living in the house on Brainard Road.   It was a beautiful Sunday morning;  a mug of hot coffee steamed from each bedside table and the newspaper littered the blankets.  As they enjoyed their Sunday morning ritual they tried to reconstruct the pattern of little things they had dismissed over the last four years.

“Do you remember the flowers that seemed to last forever?”Carolyn asked  “I’m pretty sure now that he changed the water and kept replacing the flowers as they died.”

“Yeah, and now I bet you feel bad about all the grief you gave me over drinking too much beer”, Jeff laughed and dodged the pillow she threw at him.

They both recounted missing food and clothing, the television shows that were recorded that neither of them cared to watch. “It gives me the willies to know that he was here almost every day, going through our things, moving stuff around,” Jeff said.

Like most married couples there were things that were misplaced; one or the other of them would rummage for the item for a while then quickly forget about it. Now there seemed to be a mountain of little things they had ignored; as they talked they came up with more and more .

“The cops are looking into the deaths of the people who lived in this house before us,” Jeff said. We’re not the first people this nut thought he had to get out of “his” house. The difference is this time he wanted my wife to go with it.”   The thought made Carolyn shiver, and she snuggled deeper under the blankets.

The last night of his life Marco left the panel in the basement wall open after he freshened up to join Carolyn upstairs. The police found his journal in a bag, and although it read like the ravings of a mad man they had a better idea of what had been going on in his mind.

In his journal Marco talked about killing the former owners of the house and outlined his plan to get rid of Jeff so he and Carolyn could live happily ever after. It was a chilling account of the man’s decent into complete madness.  

His detailed account of stalking Carolyn made her afraid to be alone and terrified of leaving the house.  A picture of Marco showed an attractive man Carolyn had never seen before.  How could he have been watching and following her for four years without her ever seeing that face? 

Carolyn Breightner knew there were things she had to sort out and put into the proper cubby holes in her mind.  She absolutely refused to let this ruin her marriage and her life; summoning the same strength that had helped her survive that night she returned to work just five weeks after the attack.   She still bore some bruises, but she had already taken the steps toward complete physical and mental recovery. 

                                                                        ####

Many times over the last weeks Jeff worried that the house might hold too many bad memories for Carolyn; at times she had seemed quiet and withdrawn. Now, as they held each other, he said “Does it bother you to be here after what happened? If it does we can sell this place and start over; it’s just a house, KO. Wherever we’re together is home.”

Thinking for just a moment, she put her head on his shoulder and snuggled against him as she said, “No. The house had nothing to do with what happened, and the man that did is gone forever. So…the way I see it, if it’s true lightening never strikes twice in the same place this house should be the safest place in the world to raise our baby.” Carolyn looked up into Jeff’s eyes as they filled with a question.

"That's right, my love," her smile was pure sunshine,   "We have a new  beginning on the way."
                                                      
                                                                   The Beginning

The Innocence Award

                                                                

Today’s world is a different as it can possibly be from the world I grew up in. I talk about this with friends all the time. 

Growing up in the fifties and sixties we lived under the bell jar of innocence. On TV the characters were as bland and sexually anonymous as the censors could possibly make them, and my girlfriends and I didn’t discuss sex because we knew so little about it.

 My first and only discussion with my mother occurred when someone painted a four letter word on our neighbor’s house.  The three foot high red letters stood out sharply on the front of the white house.   Several eleven year olds stood looking at the house; since none of us knew the meaning of the word I volunteered to go home and ask my Mom.   I remember being completely horrified as she explained it to me….end of discussion.  We never got back to having “the talk” because I avoided it like the plague.  From that day forward any information about sex came from girlfriends who were as totally misinformed as I.   

Finally I was old enough to get a part time job; I went to work at Montgomery Ward for $1.20 an hour.  It was a princely sum when you consider my first job; babysitting for a couple with five rambunctious children. The parents of this brood paid me twenty five cents an hour to keep their ‘baby mob’ from killing each another.  I knew two hours of this abuse bought me a forty nine cent record at the music store.  Four hours bought me a record and a Tangee lipstick; now I would be rich.

I was prepared to love my new job at Montgomery Ward!  I could see myself selling dresses, or working in the bridal department; helping women select shoes and handbags or (best of all) jewelry.   My first day on the job someone burst my bubble by planting me in the boy/men’s department.    Instead of showing costume jewelry I was counting little boys Husky jeans for inventory reports.  In place of bridal gowns I was unpacking men’s work pants.  Life wasn’t fair….but it still paid me $1.20 an hour.

By the end of thirty days I had proven myself to be a prompt and reasonably capable clerk; I received a five cent an hour raise.   Now I was making $1.25 an hour, be still my money grubbing little heart.

In order to pick up extra hours I was asked to work in different departments from time to time.   That’s how I found myself working in the sporting goods department one evening.  No one was ever more under qualified than I was to work in a sporting goods department, but the allure of extra hours overcame any misgivings I might have had. 

The department manager had gone into the back room to do bookwork; I was on the floor all alone when a young man made his way to the register. 

“May I help you?” I chirped.

“Uh….yeah.  Is there a guy here?” he mumbled.

“What guy?”

“Any guy….I need some help finding something,” the young man said self-consciously.

“I’d be happy to help you,” I said assertively.  “What are you looking for?”

“Well….uh….I need an athletic cup,” the young man mumbled.  He was obviously uncomfortable to be talking to a female about his own age.

Being the helpful, but not very well informed, sixteen year old girl that I was I said, “Follow me”.

I led the young man to a glass case that stood against the wall by the partly opened door leading to the back room where my supervisor sat working.

Pointing at the case I said, “Here are the athletic cups we have, but I can order things from the catalog if this isn’t what you want.”

The case was full of gleaming trophies; cups and figures in all shapes and sizes attached to faux marble bases with brass plaques sat ready for engraving.

“Uh….that’s, uh…..no, I mean…you know....I want an athletic cup!” he stammered.

“This silver one with the two handles is nice,” I said.  “Would you like your athletic cup engraved?”

At this point the sound of uncontrolled laughter erupted from the door to the back room.  My supervisor, a big man named Bruce, emerged from his office laughing helplessly. 

I stood there totally confused; the young man stood looking down at his feet, his face crimson.   Fighting waves of laughter Bruce managed to tell me I could go back to the register; he would see if he could help this young man.

And so, my second conversation dealing with the differences between the sexes was with my supervisor, Bruce.   It was no less mortifying than the conversation I’d had with my Mom years before.   The big difference between the two discussions was that Bruce never let me forget it.   Many times over the years I would run into him in various places and he always dissolved into good natured laughter at the sight of me.

Perhaps growing up during a more innocent time in our country’s history is the reason I sometimes  feel like an alien when I see the ugliness that passes for entertainment on TV, or listen to the frightening lyrics of what some people consider to be music. 

                                     I wouldn’t trade my memories…..would YOU?

                                                                 Life is Good 

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE............

After she and Jeff said goodnight Carolyn curled up in the middle of the bed with JuJu.   The little dog was pitifully glad to be snuggled with her, and Carolyn stroked her as she talked to her. 

Her thoughts drifted to the preliminary work she had promised to have on Wally’s desk on Monday.  That meant some work this weekend, but the majority of it was already done.  She and Jeff would have some quality time together, and she could put the rest of the report together on Sunday evening and Monday morning.  Yep…it would be a good weekend.  She pulled the corner of the spread over her; leaving the bed side lamp on she fell into a dreamless sleep. 

For some unknown reason she woke with a start about four a.m.   She lay there listening, but she heard nothing unusual.  It was probably part of her bad case of the “jumpies” from the night before; as she straightened her body out of a fetal position she realized it could also be because she was fully dressed.  She hadn’t even taken her boots off.  JuJu did a full body doggy stretch as Carolyn rolled off the bed and headed to her bathroom.

“You could at least have taken my shoes off for me,” she said to the little dog.  Flipping on the switch, Carolyn’s bathroom instantly flooded with light. As she pulled the pumpkin colored cashmere sweater over her head static electricity snapped through her hair.   She unzipped her slacks, and then sat on the closed toilet to take off her boots.  

Running her tongue over her teeth she muttered, “Oh, yeah….the army marched through there.”  She turned to the cabinet over the toilet, took out her toothbrush and tooth paste, placing them on the vanity as she moved to turn the water on in the sink.

Carolyn grimaced as she looked at herself in the mirror.  The impression of a decorative pillow was still visible on one cheek, and as she leaned in to check it out something caught her eye.  I LOVE YOU was written in lipstick at the bottom left hand corner of the mirror. 

Fear ran an icy finger up Carolyn’s spine, and her heart began to pound in her ears.  She knew the mirror had been spotless when she left for work this morning, now as she felt her fear growing, something told her to lift the lid on the toilet.  The unflushed toilet escalated her fear into near panic.  

She forced herself to take a deep breath as she walked back to sit on the edge of the bed.  JuJu stood at the bedroom door with an expectant look on her face, but there was no way Carolyn was going downstairs.   From some distance away a wailing siren worked its way closer in the night, and it reminded her that 911 was just a phone call away.

Carolyn was reaching for the cordless phone when her cell phone rang in her purse.  She grabbed her bag and pulled the cell from it, “Hello….hello!”   There was no answer, but as she listened she began to hear the wail of the emergency vehicle in stereo.  Putting a finger in her left ear to separate the sounds, Carolyn concentrated on the sound of the cell phone.  The siren grew louder in the cell phone, and for the first time she knew real terror because she understood the call was coming from inside her house.  The siren changed from a wail to a whoop-whoop sound, and just as she closed her cell phone she heard a soft footstep on the oak hallway floor outside her bedroom door.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR..................

 Carolyn knew JuJu had heard the noise too, because the dog trotted over and tried to push her nose under the door.   Sniffing, scratching and whining, she looked up expectantly and waited for Carolyn to open it. 

Carolyn grabbed the cordless phone from beside her bed and dialed 911.  It took a few seconds to register that the phone was dead. 

Standing up she buttoned her slacks and moved to the bathroom for her sweater and boots. Heading back to the bed she pulled the sweater over her head and sat on the edge of the bed; she pushed her feet back into her leather boots.  The steps in the hall way grew louder, as if someone was pacing in front of the door.

 This time Carolyn fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone and dialed 911 again.  JuJu watched her master’s strange actions as Carolyn closed herself into her walk in closet to talk to the dispatcher. 

“911, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher sounded robotic.

“There is someone in my house”, Carolyn said in a loud whisper. 

The dispatcher queried, “Have you seen the intruder, Mam?”

 “No….but I hear him outside the bedroom door!   Hurry, I’m locked in my bedroom and he’s out there!”

From the closet Carolyn now heard the bedroom door being rattled, and when that didn’t work a soft tap on the door.  “Please….he’s here.   Send someone…please!” 

“What is your location?” the dispatcher queried.

Carolyn gave her the address, and she told the dispatcher, “He’s trying to get in the door.   What can I do?  What should I do?”

“Stay calm and stay on the line with me.   I have an officer on the way, so stay on the phone until he gets there,” the woman said. 

Carolyn opened the closet door just a crack and she heard the tapping on the door become a full-fledged knock.  Then a man’s voice said, “Carolyn, open up!   It’s me sweetheart….we need to talk about this.” 

He kept up a steady stream of talk, first begging then demanding she open the door; all the more frightening because this was a voice she had never heard before.  Carolyn now shook so hard her teeth chattered. 

“Carolyn, this is how it is supposed to be.   I want to explain things to you, now open the door,” the man was becoming agitated.  “Flowers….I have flowers and wine for you.   Now open the damned door.”  He was obviously using his shoulder on the door as he spoke.

“He’s going to get in,” Carolyn’s voice was shrill with fear.   “God…please hurry!”

“An officer is on his way, mam.  Does the man have a weapon?” Her heart thundered in her ears making it difficult to hear what the dispatcher was saying.

“How the hell would I know, I’m trying to stay away from him,” her voice was louder as her fear meter pegged.  Panic closed her throat as Carolyn pushed herself deep into the corner and looked frantically around the closet for a weapon.  Looking up she saw what looked like an empty picture frame on the ceiling, then remembered the attic entrance was in this closet.  By climbing the built in shelves she thought she might be able to get up there. 

The dispatcher was asking her more questions; she didn’t wait for a response when she said, “I’ve got to hang up.” She snapped the phone closed and shoved it deep into her pocket.

By moving two plastic bins into position and holding on to the shelves Carolyn managed to climb to the top shelf of the closet.  Pushing folded t-shirts and sweaters to the floor she positioned herself on the top shelf, pushing the square entrance to the attic up with one hand while she steadied herself with the other.   A familiar “sproing” sound told her the door spring was helping her raise the door.  Now, scraping her ribs on the frame, she wriggled herself up into the inky black attic.   It was airless and cold, but it put another level of protection between her and the crazy man who was now bellowing on the other side of her bedroom door. 

 A light bulb hung from a rafter, its string brushed Carolyn’s face causing her to cry out.  When she realized what it was she pulled the string; a watery light filled the immediate area where she crouched. Now on her hands and knees she backed away from the opening, pushing the wooden door back down to the attic floor.  Frantically looking around the small space Carolyn was grateful he had ignored her request when she was nagging Jeff clean it out just the month before.   Eventually her eye settled on a pile of Jeff’s old sports equipment.  An aluminum bat protruded from the pile, shining dully in the yellow light. She made her way to the pile, feeling something akin to relief as she clutched the bat in her hand.  Crawling back to the trapdoor, she took up a position sitting cross legged on top of it in the hope that her weight would keep the man from opening it.  

 Carolyn sat waiting with the cold aluminum bat in her hands.  As she grasped it with both hands she heard her nephew’s voice coaching her as she got up to bat at last summer’s family reunion, “Swing across the ball and don’t hit like a girl, Aunt Carolyn.  You’ll never get a run if you hit like a girl.”


 CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE…………

Marco threw himself against the door again and again, but it got him nowhere. As his rage completely gripped him he stepped back to plant a black booted kick to the middle of the door. Even though it was solid wood, the door frame cracked from the impact. One more hard kick and the frame gave way; he was in the bedroom.

JuJu sat on the bed, her tail wagging in the innocent anticipation of a dog treat. When her friend ignored her and it wasn’t forthcoming, she darted out the door and down the steps to the kitchen. Once there she reclaimed one of her reserve treats from under her pillow, then curled up in her pink bed for a nap.

Marco tore through the bedroom looking for Carolyn. “Get out here and talk to me, you dumb bitch!” he roared. “I thought you were different, I thought I knew all about you, but evidently I missed the fact that you are a user just like every other woman I’ve ever met.”

From her perch in the attic Carolyn could hear things crashing as the man searched for her. She could almost feel his anger escalating; knowing by the time he realized she was up in the attic he would be in a full blown frenzy. She was too frightened to wonder who he was or why he was doing this; her only thoughts were of staying alive till the police arrived.

“I want you out of my house,” Marco screamed. “No, no, no, no….that’s not good enough. I want you dead for what you’ve done to me! I gave you everything and this is what I get? You can’t even face me you stupid cow.”

Below her the huge bathroom mirror crashed, and Carolyn heard the glassed in shower shatter. Marco wielded her dressing table bench to break anything he could, first in Carolyn’s bathroom and then in Jeff’s.

“Bitch! You…lying…cheating…bitch!” Marco screamed. He was bent double with the effort of his rage; spittle flew as he continued to bellow; using every ounce of his strength to destroy everything in sight.

Now nothing stood as it had been in the room except the bed. Exhausted from his frenzy of destruction Marco fell face down on the bed, his breath sobbing in his throat. He continued to scream obscenities into the mattress, but in the attic Carolyn only heard quiet.

Eventually Marco was able to catch his breath….and to think. Forcing himself to be quiet, he took slow, deep breaths. Now he was calmer. As his mind seemed to clear he realized the door had been locked from the inside; she had to be in here somewhere. Still taking deep, cleansing breaths he rolled off the bed, dropping to the floor to check underneath. He was surprised when he didn’t find her cowering there, but from that position on his hands and knees he spotted the closed door of the walk in closet.

Quietly he got up and walked to the far side of the room. He slowly opened the louvered door to Carolyn’s closet and saw piles of clothing on the floor. Kicking through the pile of garments he growled like an animal. He noticed the shelves were completely empty, and the stacked garment bins made him think to look up. That’s when he saw the frame around the door to the attic. He felt light headed, and he grabbed at the door frame to keep from falling. He had forgotten about the attic.

It was at that very moment that the clearest thought he had ever had came to him. His head throbbed with the sudden realization that his hatred would give him more satisfaction than his love for her ever could. Marco smiled.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX…….

Carolyn was jarred by the sudden push on the attic door. She kept her seat, but she realized this guy was probably strong enough to push the door up even with her sitting on it. The thought of having him in this small, black space with her made her heart pound even harder. She regained her balance, sitting Indian style in the middle of the door and waiting for what would come next. She knew it wouldn’t be long.

As she viewed her surroundings she knew she couldn’t keep him out, but she also knew there was only one way he could get to her. She wanted to meet him standing, and she needed enough room to swing the bat, her only defense. Without moving from the door she picked up things closest to her and threw them out of the way, deep into the corners of the attic. He pushed again, and she almost toppled over, fear gripped her chest and she felt tears sting her eyes.

“I will not cry, damn you, I will not cry! I’m going to die dry eyed if I have to die,”she thought as she continued to clear the floor space around the door. She would be facing him and to his left when the door came up, and she worked toward clearing the space to accommodate her frantic but clear mental picture of how this should play out.

Below her Marco realized after the first push that she was in the attic sitting on the door; the second push was just to frighten her and keep her off balance. Now he went from room to room, turning on lights and looking for something tall enough to push into the closet. He needed to get close to the ceiling so he could push with his shoulders.

Carolyn listened to the silence, wanting to know what the creep was doing but still not wanting to know. Finally the area around the door was clear, and she could stand without ducking in the center of the attic right where the door was positioned. She was as ready as she would ever be. She took her place slightly to the left of the attic trap door, staying close to the door to keep one foot on it. She wanted him to think at first that she was still sitting, helpless, on the door.

The scraping and grunting sounds told her that the guy was pushing a big chest of drawers into the closet. Soon the game would be on, and sweat trickled down her back as she stood in position and waited.